XIOne spring morning the Countess came into the office where Ian was working, an open letter in her hand. He saw by her eyes that she had unpleasant news."A letter from Joseph," she announced, sitting down by his desk, where he was busy with accounts. He looked up, his clear eyes hardened."What does he want?""He has a week's leave. He says that the six months are over, and wants----""Wants his wedding," said Ian. "Then he must have it."She laid her slim hand on his. He raised it to his lips; but did not meet her fond gaze."He says he has written to Vanda, to come here, to meet him."Ian gave a grunt. He thought it just like Joe's impudence to order people in and out of his house. But he said nothing. His mother went on:"Vanda, it appears, wants the wedding to take place in Warsaw.""She's right," he returned promptly. "A wedding in this muddle!" He looked out of the window, to the garden cut in trenches, and the barbed wire, rusty with spring rains, blotting what was once a peaceful vista of sedate comfort. "I'd write to the Europe about rooms, and to the Archbishop.""But, Ianek, think of the expense, nowadays," she protested gently."It wouldn't be much. You need only invite the family. No lunch or anything, just a glass of champagne when you get back from church. A war wedding.""Then you won't come, dear?""No. The work here ... you know how pressed I am for men." He lowered his voice: "It's easier that way."She gave him one of her long, adoring looks, her hand on his shoulder."Courage," she whispered, "these things pass."He nodded. "There have been so many other things, and yet, when you came in with your news, I wished him dead.""Ianek!" she cried, shocked by the pain in his voice as much as his words. "I'd been hoping you had forgotten. You were more cheerful these last few weeks, and so busy."He gave a little laugh. "So did I. Then this letter brought it ... showed it's still there." He got up and paced the long room. "Oh, I don't want it here. Manage that for me; find out from somebody where Joe is, send a messenger that we can't have it in this ruin, that I insist, as head of the family, on its being in Warsaw. Telegraph to Vanda--I can't spare a messenger or I'd send a note to her by hand. But telegraph her that she's to stop where she is, that you're coming for the wedding. Tell her to let him know; he may be in Warsaw."She glanced at the letter."No address, of course, just the military censor's stamp.""But she may know where he is," he rejoined eagerly. "Take Minnie with you. The change'll do her good. Women love a wedding. Stop a few days yourself. I'll write the telegrams myself, they must be in Russian, I'd forgotten that." Then, seeing the alarm in her face, he added: "Don't worry, Mother, it's only ... it'll pass. But start for Warsaw the minute you can, before either of them gets here.""At once," she said, rising.He wrote a telegram to Joseph, another to Vanda and a third to the Archbishop of Warsaw. He wanted that man of high courage and well-tried patriotism to bless her union. These he sent to the station, the nearest telegraph office; at some inconvenience, because there was a great deal of work to be done in the fields and he was short of labor. So he took the place of the boy he sent plowing for him till all hands struck work at midday. Things had changed since last spring; when the squire rode over his well-cultivated property and merely gave orders to his manager. Now he was his own manager and his own bailiff, and sometimes his own hind as well. Plowing, he congratulated himself that he had at least saved the situation, as far as witnessing Joseph's happiness went; and the hard exercise relieved his feelings.Here Destiny stepped in. He was crossing the hall to wash his hands for their frugal lunch when he heard the clatter of a quick-stepping horse through the open door. A tall figure, slim and smart in its brown Cossack uniform, swung from the saddle and stood in the sunlit entry. It was Joseph. They stood looking at one another in silence for a moment."Hullo!" cried the new-comer, "It is you ... couldn't see after having the sun in my eyes." And he strode over, spurs clanking, to hug the squire in an old-fashioned Polish embrace with a warmth that belonged, in the old days, to Roman, never to his brother.Ian was forced to admit that war had changed his cousin. He was handsome as ever; but less a prig, more a man. Rubbing shoulders with the primitive aspects of life and death had done him good, widened his sympathies, rubbed off the crust of self-complacency which Ian has always hated in him, even before love came between them."I just wired to you," he said, releasing himself. "No idea you were so near.""Near! The general's headquarters are in a railway truck at Kosczielna. I've got a week's leave. Has Vanda come?""No. Mother is packing to go to Warsaw.""Anything wrong?" he asked in alarm. "Out with it, tell me the worst.""Nothing wrong. Only...." He pointed towards the devastated garden, the gap where the tower had once been, and the rusty entanglements. "We can't have a wedding here."Joseph laughed, not from lack of sympathy, but for relief that Vanda was not ill?"My God! There are weddings on rubbish heaps nowadays. I call Ruvno a quiet spot for a honeymoon. I've no time to go to Warsaw. Vanda wanted it there, too, but it'll take too long. We're going to make an advance soon, and goodness knows when I'll get another chance like this. A week's leave! Not to be despised, I can tell you. I've got all the papers and things. We can get married the moment Vanda comes. Hard work getting them, but they've made things easier in war-time. I saw that old Canon of yours. Dragged him out of bed at six o'clock this morning. I say, anything to drink? I've the thirst of the devil on me!""Of course." He led the way to the dining-room, noted Joseph's long pull at the beer set before him--he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a bottle of wine to be fetched and opened--watched, listened and wondered. And this was Joseph, the fastidious, pomaded, manicured, supercilious fop of six months ago. His face reddened by snow, sun and wind; his chin unshaven, his right hand disfigured by the scar of the wound he got in the Carpathians, his nails broken and begrimed with dirt that no washing would remove, his fair hair, once so sleek and trim, tousled from his high fur cap, which he pulled off and flung on to a chair. He looked the picture of robust health, happiness and sincerity, but never like Joseph Skarbek. Soldiering with men whose education and upbringing was ruder than his had rubbed the artificiality off him, leaving the old type of virile, keen, sincere Skarbeks who had fought their way through the country's history. Ian began almost to like him.But he was not a second Roman, had none of his brother's fatalism, devil-may-care philosophy, odd glimpses into the truth of life's foundations. His was more the ingenuity of a big schoolboy, but such a schoolboy as he had never been when in his 'teens. One of his first questions was for Roman. He grew grave when they told him there was no news."I counted on your hearing from him. He wouldn't be likely to write to me, because of Vanda. But he must have got over that. It wasn't his first love-affair --nor his second. He can't be a prisoner. He'd never let the Prussians take him. He told me that. Besides, I know it myself." He gave a short laugh. "Crucifixion would be too good for us both if they catch us. And he's not on the list of dead or wounded either, for I got a man at Petersburg--I mean Petrograd--to bring me them.""Up to date?" asked Ian anxiously."Yes. The latest. They came this morning, just before I started. Of course, it's just like Roman never to send a line, and then hell turn up all of a sudden and be surprised that we were anxious."As he sat and listened to the story of the Carpathian campaign, told with simple directness, with that ignorance of main facts which characterises all such stories, where a man knows only what goes on around him, yet with that charm of the intelligent eye-witness, Ian felt suddenly very middle-aged and out of things. Here he was, doing daily drudgery on a ruined estate, always in the same place, always seeing the same people, in the dull monotony of a long winter, without any shooting, without visits to Warsaw and the opera, whilst this cousin of his, whom he had always despised for a coxcomb and an armchair agriculturist, had been running half over Europe, chasing the Austrians over snow-bound mountains, learning the sensation of fighting hand to hand, of being wounded, of getting a decoration, of thinking himself dead once, of being near death many times; not the death of rats-in-a-hole that Ruvno knew, but death with glory; when he heard tales of these things, told by a now unfamiliar Joseph, and compared his own humdrum life, he reflected bitterly that if Vanda had loved this man before she would worship him now. He opened the demijohn that his mind had reserved for Roman's coming, and they drank the health of everybody they liked who was alive and to the other Skarbek's speedy return. During the evening they discussed business."Aunt Natalie," began the bridegroom, "I expect you think I'm mad to get married just now, with nothing to live upon and not even knowing if I'll be alive this time next week.""Vanda will never want while we are able to give her a crust," she said warmly. This new Joseph pleased her, too; if not for her boy she would have taken him to her heart as she had taken Roman long ago."Thank you, Aunt. I used to think, there on the Carpathians, what a selfish beast I was to keep her to our engagement after I'd joined the right side and lost my property. But when I was in Kieff old Uncle Stephen came to see me.""Old Uncle Stephen," was of the branch of Skarbeks who had estates in Russian territory and were Russian subjects."They say he's made a lot of money over the war," remarked Ian."At any rate he's not lost any. He was so pleased to hear that I'd joined against the Prussians that he made over a hundred thousand roubles to me. He's a wise old bird; had it invested in several things, I'll tell you the details afterwards. I've got the figures on paper. Anyway, Vanda will have enough to live upon. And on the strength of it I thought we'd better get married. Everybody doesn't get killed in the war. I don't see why I should be worse off than other men."Later on he reverted again to his marriage; this time to Ian."Vanda has been working too hard in Warsaw," he said. "I can see that from her letters. She's not her old self. I want you to let her stop here till I can take care of her myself."Ian did not answer for a moment; when he spoke it was with an effort."This is her home as long as she likes," he said. "But you mustn't forget that the Russians have been here twice and may come again. You wouldn't want her here then.""I've thought of that. But they won't come so fast. And I'll let you know in time to get her out before they do. She wants a rest from that nursing business. It's wearing her out."Ian's quick ears had detected the sound of wheels coming up the drive. He went to the window and looked out. A hired trap was making its way up to the house with that gallop for the avenue characteristic of hackney drivers in Eastern Europe. The garden was flooded with moonlight, which lighted up those on the trap. As it swung round by the front door, he saw two women sitting behind the driver. One was evidently a peasant, and beside her sat a slim, upright figure dressed in dark clothes. He shut the window and turned to his cousin:"She has come," he said.XIINext morning, Ian was up at daybreak, hurrying to his morning tasks, to get them over a little earlier than usual and have time for a chat with Vanda before breakfast. The Canon was coming at twelve, and would marry them immediately. Between breakfast and midday he had a great deal to do and could not expect to get five minutes alone with her.Crossing to the farm, he met Joseph."You're up early," he remarked."Can't sleep. I'm so excited!" He laughed gaily."I hope Vanda is asleep. She looked awfully tired last night.""Oh, she'll be all right in a little while. She's had too much hard work. The Princess ought not to have allowed it. She promised to get up in good time, too; I want every minute with her."Ian glanced at him. So the old Joseph had not gone altogether. Ian would not have disturbed her so early if they were to part that day. She needed rest more than anything."Don't you think she has changed?" he asked. "It seemed to me last night she was different.""Oh, nonsense! You know how devoted she is to me. And I to her, of course. Why, I love her a thousand times more than I did before I went to the Carpathians. You're getting a crusty old bachelor, full of odd ideas.Au revoir, I'm off to get a shave."And he turned towards the house. Ian went into one of the fields which were being plowed. How sure Joseph was of his luck! Even if he heard from Vanda's own lips that she did not care for him he would refuse to believe it, put it down to fatigue, insist on their marriage all the same.Ian was late for breakfast. The Countess alone lingered at the table, so that he should not have a solitary meal. They did not mention Vanda's name, but he asked if she had ordered the best luncheon possible, considered the menu, suggested one or two alterations. The best champagne in the cellars must be brought up--and some of the old Hungarian wine for dessert, as is the Polish custom. She fondly thought that it was just like her boy to remember such details for other people's pleasure in the midst of his own pain. He spoke about a dowry, too, but here she was firm in her disapproval."It's absurd," she said. "Stephen is looking after Joseph. He is far better off now than we are or ever shall be again. And you know he always meant to leave everything to Joe and Roman. Keep your money. We shall want it badly enough before the war is over."He said no more about it, but returned to the lunch."It would have been a better one if I'd known sooner," he remarked as they left the table. "However, the wine is all right. And they'll be too happy to notice what they are eating.""Oh, Ianek, I do wish you hadn't promised him to keep her here," she exclaimed.He took her face in his hands and kissed her white hair, laughing a little at her concern."Never mind, Mother. You've no idea how good plowing is for the sentiments."This was another grievance. She exclaimed indignantly:"To think you have to work like a peasant!""I want my crops. And when I've no manager, overseer or bailiff, and very few laborers, what can I do? It's good for me, I'm fit as a fiddle." And he made her feel the muscles on his arms, which were like iron."We seem to have become yeoman farmers," she said. "Oh, I'm not complaining for myself.""Then don't worry about me," he rejoined cheerfully. "After all, we're a lot better off than most of our neighbors."The wedding was over very quickly. Ian gave Vanda away because there was nobody else to do it. She wore a white frock which, oddly enough, he remembered quite well. Less than a year ago he had taken her and the Countess up to Warsaw for some racing, before she went to stay in the Grand Duchy. They had their usual rooms at the Europe, on the quiet side, away from the main street. There was a large sitting-room, with a balcony. The dress had come home at the last moment, whilst the car waited downstairs to take them to the course at Mokotov. She had put it on hastily and called him in from the balcony to look at it. He supposed that was why he remembered it so well. He would have given her a new one for the wedding, had he known she was coming so quickly. She looked very sweet in the old one, though. But his thoughts flew back to the sumptuous outfit he had planned for her, sables he had priced in Warsaw, whither he never returned, except to volunteer for the army; the guests he was to invite, entertaining them as Ruvno could entertain--once. And it had all turned out so differently. There were no guests, no presents, no sables; not even an entire house. Nothing but ruined acres and dead hopes, and a pain in his heart such as he had never felt before.He could not see her face as the ring was slipped on to her finger. He did not want to. He longed for the whole thing to be over and done with, the blessing bestowed, the healths drunk, the meal at an end, that he could go out into the sun and fresh air, working until bodily fatigue had numbed every other feeling.Almost immediately after the marriage they sat down to table. He played his part decorously, without betraying himself, with a secret anger at the pain in his soul and determination to kill it. Even Minnie, who watched him closely, could find no fault. He was the lively host of peace days, but the champagne helped him there.The Canon was in great form. He told all sorts of stories about the time when Rennankampf was lodged in his house and did his duty by food and drink as well. Then he rose to propose a toast. It was in verse. He had used it at every marriage feast he went to for the past twenty years. Even Vanda, youngest of the party, knew it off by heart; for all the author ever did was to change the names of bride and bridegroom; the body of the verses remained the same. No sooner was he on his feet, however, than they applauded him. Even Father Constantine, rather sleepy after his early rising and the old Tokay, woke up and said: "Bravo!""Ladies and gentlemen!" began the Canon, folding his hands over his well-filled soutane and beaming on them all: "Let us now drink to the health of the beautiful bride and gallant bridegroom, who----"He never got any further. At that moment, Martin approached Joseph and whispered in his ear. The Canon stopped, for he saw a new expression on the bridegroom's face."Anything wrong, Count?" he asked anxiously.Joseph turned to Martin."Are you sure?""Quite. He is waiting at the door.""I'm sorry..." He rose. "I'll be back in a moment."But they all followed him to the door. A Cossack orderly stood there, his horse covered with sweat and he with dust. He saluted Joseph and said in Russian:"I was to give you this personally----"And he produced a sealed envelope from one of his high boots.Joseph tore it open, read the few words typed on a slip of paper inside, and turned white."To Hell with the war!" he cried savagely."What is it?" they all cried."I must go--at once.""Oh--not a German advance?" asked Vanda apprehensively.He crushed the paper in his hand and returned huskily, despair on his face:"God knows. The orders are to report at Headquarters immediately. Oh, Vanda, it's Destiny. First the Germans, now the Russians take me from you.""But you had a week's leave," said the Countess, whilst Vanda and her lover stood side by side, looking at each other in sorrow. "He can't go back on his word.""It's imperative," said Joseph. Then to the soldier: "What's the news at Headquarters?""We're off at once. Galicia, they say." He swung into his saddle. "I'll get your horse, sir. Time presses." And with a salute which took in them all he went off to the stables.In less than ten minutes Joseph was off, trotting down the avenue on his fleet horse, the soldier behind him. Farewells, admonitions, promises and good wishes were crowded into that short space of time. Ian could not forgive himself for his silence in the morning. They were not married an hour before Joseph left. He could have put it off for months, forever perhaps, had he only followed his better sense, instead of letting things slide, with true Slavonic fatalism, he told himself angrily.But there was no use repining. He left the three women with the priests and returned to his work. He did not attempt to console Vanda, who stood on the steps where her husband had left her, watching him hurry away, waving her hands as he swung out into the road and was lost in the dust and the distance. He noticed that she was very pale, bewildered by the morning's rapid events and emotions, with tears in her eyes. He tried to read her thoughts, but could not.So life once more returned to its old monotony. Vanda wore her wedding ring. But that was the only outward sign that she was no longer under Ian's guardianship. Letters came to her from Joseph, who wrote of getting leave in the summer. She helped Minnie with the few wounded civilians still left in the house and slipped into her old place again. Ian seldom spoke to her, avoided her eyes at table where he kept up a general conversation in English, for Minnie's benefit. As spring advanced he found more work to keep mind and body occupied. By dint of getting the most out of himself and the labor still left at his disposal he managed to put enough land under crops to feed Ruvno and its population for two years, and perhaps sell some grain as well. And this gave him as much satisfaction as it would have given any small farmer. And it made him feel young again to see the land regain some measure of its old prosperous aspect, though many a broad acre was cut up into trenches. Peasants who had escaped to Warsaw during the December campaign now returned, vowing that nothing would induce them to leave home again. True, most of them were obliged to live in trenches or in the open, for their villages existed only in name; but as the warm weather came on this was no great hardship and they felt so glad to get back to the soil that they forgot past troubles and set out to cultivate their fields with the indomitable courage of their race.XIIIThe inmates of Ruvno thought they had witnessed all the wrack and vicissitudes of war; of advancing armies, entrenched armies, foraging armies, looting armies; of wounds, pollution and death. They had yet to see a retreating army.By July the Russians were in full retreat.Day and night they went by. Cursing, sweating, bleeding, limping; hungry, thirsty, weary, their eyes aglow with the smouldering fires of rage, disappointment and all the bitterness of recession; without haste, without hope they tramped past, to fall back upon the Nieman, the Pripet and the Dnieper, leaving Poland to the Prussian Antichrist.At times, some of them stood to give fight, covering the retreat of the armies' bulk. Then, though these battles of despair were far from Ruvno, the ground shook under them, a very earthquake; the few trees left were stript of their leaves till it looked as though winter and not August, were upon them. The Russians had no ammunition; the rumbling and shaking came from their enemies. And this is why there were smouldering fires in the tired soldiers' eyes; it was a nightmare to try and beat off a modern army with lances, rifle-butts and sticks. One morning a lot of soldiers halted in the village. Having exhausted what water there was, for a drought had been added to the peasants' troubles, some sought the house. Ian went out to them. One, a giant with blue eyes, fever-bright and dry, was holding forth to the servants in a frenzy of impotent rage. His uniform was in tatters, his boots a mass of torn leather, held together God knows how. His dirty blouse was open to the chest, where the blood had clotted on a stale wound. In his hand was a stout oaken club, which he waved about as he shouted and swore."What could I do with this? Tell me, what could I do? A stick to beat off the German swine. Son of a dog, what could I do? Never a rifle since we left the Lakes. My knife gone, too." He meant his bayonet. "Mother of God, to think of it! Not a hundred rounds to the whole regiment! But I killed three dog's sons with it!" He wildly struck the air; all fell back in terror of their lives. "See! like this. One! Two! Three! Smashing in their skulls like I hammer the horseshoes on the anvil at home. Look at their dog's blood on it--look ye, and tremble!"Father Constantine, who had come out, insisted on dressing his wound, and found two others, only half healed. But he was built like Hercules, this blacksmith from a village of Tula; they could tell he was in a high fever; some men march a couple of days and more in such a state, the kit on their backs, and none the worse for it in the end. For these sons of Rus are hardened from their birth and as strong as the beasts they tend at home. He was indignant with the old priest for bringing out some simple remedies."What are you doing,Pop?" he shouted. "The surgeon dressed it last night, or last week, I forget when. I tore it off me. How can I bear the feel of rags in this nightmare? I'll go naked to the day of Judgment, by God I will."And he proceeded to strip, flinging his ragged garments to right and left, as the wild Cossacks do when they have had too muchvodkaand dancing. The maids rushed off in horror; but another giant, his comrade, managed to calm him and cover his huge, brawny body, where the muscles stood out as hard as iron under skin white as a woman's; for the Russians of his part are fair. Father Constantine gave him a cooling draught and did what he could for his wounds, which must have smarted terribly under the iodine; but he never groaned. He was lying on his back now, breathing heavily, eyes closed, hands clasping the club with all the strength of fever."He'll kill us if he keeps it," observed his comrade, whose head was encased in dirty bandages. "He has been mad with fever since last sunset ... but we can't find room in an ambulance for him and he lays out whenever we try to take it away.""I'll lay out at all the ministers when I get to Petrograd!" bawled the patient, springing up and upsetting the Father. Worse than that, he sent over the bottle of iodine, too, and they were very short of it. "Son of a dog, I'll have them all, crush their skulls like walnuts. The war minister first, for sending us sticks instead of guns ... and then the intendant, for these boots." Here he flung one across the yard, where it stuck on to the well-handle. "I'll murder every dog's son of them--by God, I will, till we clean Russia of thieves and swine."And so he went on, raving at everybody and everything, till he had shouted himself tired. Then he lay down in the shade of the stables and slept uneasily. Ian wanted to send him to bed, which was the only fit place for him. The officer in charge demurred, said he did not think the man was ill enough to risk being found here by the enemy, who could not be kept off more than a few days. He had orders to retreat with as few losses as possible. When Ian finally gained his point, promising to send him on by the first ambulance that passed, the man himself refused to stop behind. He wasn't going to leave his comrades; he didn't trust priests ... this one had burned him with poison and tried to take away his only weapon, so that he would not even be able to crack German skulls when they came up.They watched them march off; the giant, quieter now, staggered between two limping comrades who helped him along, though they had all their work cut out to put one sore foot before the other. When they reached the bend in the road they began to sing, in unison, as Russians do. And Father Constantine's heart went out to those brave, simple souls, and he prayed that they might reach the Nieman in safety.At first this was the only army Ruvno saw--a host of men, way-worn but strong. But soon came the vanguard of another legion, a ghastly, straggling horde of old men, women and children, fleeing before the invaders. Some of them carried a kettle--all that remained of their worldly goods; others had harnessed skinny, starving nags to their long, narrow carts, piled with bedding, a quilt or two, a table or a stool. Here and there could be seen a sack of potatoes or buckwheat between the wooden bars; but this was rare indeed, because these unhappy people had nothing left in barn or cellar. And the women. They trailed on with their little ones; with children who could walk or toddle, with infants in arms, with babes at the breast, with babes yet unborn, destined to see the first light of a tempestuous world from the roadside, whilst jostling humanity passed indifferently by, benumbed with a surfeit of ordeal and pain. The household could do little for these poor wretches.In one group of misery they saw a priest--a young man he was. Father Constantine chided him."Why did you let them leave their homes?" he asked. "Can't you see half of them are doomed to die in the ditch?"He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his questioner with the dull eyes of a man steeped in despair."What could I do?" was his wail. "The Russians drove us out of house and home.""The Prussians, you mean," corrected Ian."I mean what I say. The Cossacks burnt the grain in the fields. Then they set fire to the village." He cursed them with unpriestly words, but even Father Constantine had not the will to stop him."If there had been one cottage left, one sack of buckwheat, I could have persuaded them to stop," he concluded. "But the sight of the burning fields and the charred walls of their homes filled them with panic. All our younger men are in the army, and we had only the scorched earth left. If we ever reach Warsaw we shall get somewhere to lay our heads and a sup to put in our mouths."Ian gave them some food for their journey, for that other retreating army paid these unfortunates no attention. They had two young mothers in the house. One Vanda found in the ditch outside the paddock. Ian cut down the household rations for these fugitives, because his stock had run low, and the horde came on unceasingly. He had ordered fresh supplies from Warsaw nearly a month back; but there was no hope of getting them now. His new grain was ready to cut, and he set about it in haste, lest bad luck befall it.Two days later, the stream of humanity still passed by. Many halted to beg for food, water. Ian gave both, though he could only afford the water, for his generosity of the last few days diminished the stores in an alarming way. So he had to harden his heart and give far less. The country for versts round was being laid waste. Every group of refugees told the same tale of destruction and ruin. On this particular morning passed some peasants of Stara Viesz. They told a ghastly story. They were cutting the crops when the Cossacks came up and began firing the grain as it stood in the fields. The reapers turned upon them with their scythes; a fierce fight followed. The Cossacks, having spent all their ammunition on the Germans, had but their spears left--and the peasants got the best of it, beating off the destroyingsotnia, who left dead and wounded amongst the corn. But much of the grain was burnt and some of the cottages caught fire, for a strong east wind was blowing. The villagers who now passed had nothing left. Those lucky enough to save field or hut remained behind."If we can only reach Warsaw we shall be saved," said their spokesman. They had one cart left, for four families. Three had been abandoned because the horses dropped dead upon the road.They all looked to Warsaw as a haven of rest and plenty. And an officer told Ian the Grand Duke had decided not to defend that city, but to evacuate it and leave it to the Prussians. This news was so bad that he had not the courage to tell it them. After all, they would not go back to their ruined homes. Ian and the priest used all their eloquence in trying to persuade them to it. But they refused. Terror was upon them. Perhaps they were right; why go back to starvation?"Why don't the Russians give us food? They made us leave our homes," was the cry on everybody's lips. Ian could not answer them. So helpless did he feel that the temptation came to shut himself up in the top story rather than see suffering which he could not relieve. And he, too, asked himself why the Russians drove these peasants from their homes. What was the good of it? Those who did not die on the road would only swell the beggar population of Moscow and Petrograd; for they were destitute, though war found them prosperous men, with land and savings, too. These sad, ragged, homeless crowds would only stir up discontent in Russia. And the farms and holdings they had been forced to leave would give the Prussians room to put their own colonists. He was relieved to see that very few priests were among the refugees. When he or Father Constantine asked a panic-stricken group where their priest was the answer always came:"He would not leave those who stopped behind."Again anxiety haunted the House. There was Joseph. He had given no sign for a month. He had been so emphatic in his last letters about sending word when Vanda ought to leave that they almost gave him up as dead. But though there was no longer any doubt that the Germans would be in Ruvno before long she refused to leave. Neither Ian nor the Countess insisted. The retreat had come so unexpectedly that they found themselves cut off from Warsaw, the only road to Russia left open, without a day's notice. There were no trains but for the army, and few enough for that. Ian had not a pair of horses left capable of taking her twelve versts, let alone to Warsaw; and he doubted if she could get away from there. Minnie was kept by the same reasons, that is, devotion to Ruvno and fear of sharing the fate of those fugitives they saw pass night and day. Then there was Roman. So many Cossacks went by but Ian vainly sought his face amongst them. Some remembered Roman well; but they had not seen him for months, they said. One thought he had been taken prisoner in Masuria; another, who seemed to have known him better than the rest, said he was reported missing as far back as last October. Ian questioned Father Constantine when he heard this, asking exactly what happened that night when Joseph escaped to the chapel. The old man repeated his story and said:"Ian, I can tell you no more. Our little family is broken up. God knows when it will be reunited. Perhaps not till death binds us together."Then, perhaps more pressing than all, was anxiety about the crops. It was quite possible the Cossacks would fire them before they left. Some were cut; but most of them still stood, not ready for harvest. And Ian, watching the Cossacks' lack of fodder for their horses, trembled for the fate of his haystacks and barns, where there was hay. The retreating army grew fiercer, more and more antagonistic towards the civil population of the country it had to abandon. The officers could keep in their men when they liked; but the officers themselves were often at little pains to hide their hostility, though the majority treated Ian and his property with consideration. But a retreating army is rougher and more turbulent than an advancing, or entrenched army. God forgive them! They knew all the wretchedness of failure. Rage and disappointment had hold of them. Some Cossacks stopped in Ruvno; they were those who remembered Roman Skarbek. They kept mostly to the village, but Ian wished they would go. One night their commander told him that the Prussians would be there very soon, and it was time to make up his mind as to what he was going to do. Ian told him he had long ago made up his mind to stay. But he called up the chief men from the village, a deputation chosen by the rest. The message he sent was for service in the chapel; though he did have the service, the real purpose was to discuss the situation; but the Cossacks looked askance at him when they heard he had decided to stay in Ruvno, so he had to be careful. They kept watch day and night from the church tower in the village, either to direct the Russian fire on the Prussians or else to watch for their coming. Several times they warned the villagers to leave before their homes were razed to the ground. Some peasants were for taking their advice and going to Warsaw. Hence the meeting."The time has come for you to make up your minds," he said when he had them all in the little sacristy. "Are you going to leave your land and follow the retreating army, or to stop here and stick to your fields?""What is the House going to do?" asked thesoltys, or head of the village community."We stop here so long as there is a roof over us."A murmur of approval greeted this. Ian went on:"But I don't want you to be guided by what I and the Lady Countess are doing. You know what is going on as well as I do.""Ay. All the devils have taken the Muscovites," said a voice."Thousands of peasants, once rich, like yourselves, pass on their way to Warsaw," said Ian."Please, my lord Count," put in thesoltys, "it's Siberia and not Warsaw they are going to. The Cossacks down in the village are talking a lot about it. The Russian government is offering the fugitives land in Siberia and work in the mines. It's not fair. This has been our land for centuries, long before the Russians came here at all. And I, for one, and my three young sons, are for stopping here. They can but burn our crops and cottages. Haven't the Cossacks done that?"A low growl of anger filled the room. The old man went on:"But when they've burnt the crops and our huts and stacks they've done their worst. They can't take away the land, even if they bring all the carts they've got. The land remains. And I remain. For I'd rather starve through another winter on my own soil than have the biggest farm they can give me in Siberia."They talked a lot, arguing and disputing, as peasants do. But you cannot hurry them, so Ian and the priest waited for them in the chapel. After an hour, when each had had his say, Baranski came out."Well, what have you decided?" Ian asked with secret anxiety. It is no joke to be left in a big place like Ruvno without any peasants."Sir," answered thesoltys, who had followed Baranski, "we have decided that each man may take his choice, and that the man who takes his family from Ruvno, to join that poor starving mob on the road outside, is stupid and a fool. If God wills that we shall die, we can die here. We have two months yet of warm weather, and the crops, thank God, are not so bad, considering the trenches we've had put upon us. We can mend up our cottages and prepare for the winter. The Muscovites are retreating as hard as they can. So I don't see that there'll be any more battles in this part for some time. We can plow and sow in the autumn as usual. That's how most of us think. The others can go, if they like."Next day Ian heard that the majority had decided to stop. The sight of those refugees haunted them.XIVOn the day when the peasants decided to stop in Ruvno Ian had a visitor. It was none other than the narrow-eyed Colonel who was in the same house at the beginning of the war, when Rennenkampf came and Roman with him; when Father Constantine had vainly interceded that Roman might not be obliged to shoot his own brother.The family, even to the Countess, was busy in field and barn. For the first time in her life she had taken to manual labor. But the peasant proprietors were hurrying to get in their own crops; Ian's men had been sadly thinned and he was therefore short-handed. One idea possessed them all: to gather in what they could before some enraged soldiers passed and took next year's food from them.Well, the Colonel drove up to the house, made a great noise with his motor and was finally answered by Father Constantine, who appeared on the scene, rake in hand."I want to see the Count," said the Russian, saluting."He is with the others, at the home-farm. If you will go there." He recognized the man, but saw that his memory was better than the visitor's."I must see him alone. Please tell him so."In due course Ian arrived. He was in his shirtsleeves and had on an old pair of white flannel trousers, formerly worn for tennis. He had been stacking hay. Father Constantine very much afraid that Roman's name would come up, had followed. The Colonel came to the point without delay."The sooner you and your peasants leave this the better," he said gruffly. "We can't hold it any longer. The enemy may be here at any moment.""The peasants have made up their minds to stay," said Ian."And you?""I never thought of leaving."The soldier's narrow eyes hardened. He was of those who thought it every civilian's duty to follow in his retreat. He drew himself up and spoke rather sharply. But he was still civil, knowing well that the master of Ruvno was no squireen, to be treated with contempt. Ian, for his part, was slightly hostile. He knew the man for his anti-Polish feelings, kept in check when things were going well, but ready to leap out into action now that misfortune was upon them all. Besides, Ian had seen those fugitives, and no man could look upon them without thinking that the army, even in retreat, might have done something to alleviate their sufferings, even if it were but to leave them their corn."Count, you don't understand. I repeat: the Prussians are coming. Surely you are not going to wait to welcome the Czar's enemies.""Nobody hates the Prussians more than I," he rejoined. "If I leave Ruvno I shall be a beggar. Besides, it's my home.""Russia is wide.""And the road long. No, Colonel. We have lived here, peasant and master, father and son, through many wars, many invasions. For me and my mother there can be no choice, so long as a roof remains for us here. As to my peasants, I left them free to choose, said not a word for or against. But they have seen those crowds--" he pointed towards the road, where the weary stream of homeless humanity struggled on towards the unknown. "The old and sick left to die alone, children hungry, mothers exhausted. They made up their minds that it is better to die here than in ditches between this and Moscow.""You accuse us of neglecting the refugees," cried the Colonel, red to his hair-roots."No. This is war. The weak and poor and aged suffer most. But I claim the right to choose between two kinds of suffering.""Do as you please. But you'll all starve. I'm giving orders to burn the crops."Ian turned white at this. For months he had been fighting against starvation. Every waking thought had been connected with the problem of how to feed those dependent on him for the ensuing year. Even his dreams had been of crops and storms and war agriculture. He had risen with the dawn to plow and till and sow. No landless peasant, hiring himself by the day, had worked harder than the lord of Ruvno. And now, when the fruit of his labors was ripening in these fields so thinned by rapine, trenches and mines; when, by dint of untold effort and determination he had overcome difficulties none dreamed of a year ago, this soldier threatened to fire the little that remained to fill his garners. Controlling himself with an effort, he said:"And how will you feed us all?""In Warsaw.""You're leaving Warsaw to its fate," retorted Ian. "And you know it."The man looked perfectly furious at this, and would have burst out, but Ian went on, that tone of authority that Father Constantine knew well in his voice. He said:"Listen. I had the Grand Duke's promise, last week, that Ruvno will be left intact so long as it or its village is inhabited. You know as well as I do that, where Nicolai Nicolaievitch has been, no villages or crops are ruined wantonly by his retreating army, and no peasants driven to the road against their will. If you tamper with my house or my people, who are half-starved even now, I swear to you that not only the Grand Duke, but the Czar himself shall hear of it."The Colonel bit his lip and stalked off, fuming with suppressed passion. He knew that the Grand Duke was friendly here. He must have known, too, that Poland's old foes, the Russian bureaucrats, were responsible for driving people off their land by sheer force and doing nothing to help them on their exile into the most distant parts of the Russian Empire. In silence Ian and his chaplain watched him motor up to the nearest fields and inspect them. They were meager enough, God knows, cut as they were by trenches. As to the potatoes, they would not be ready for a couple of months, and last year's had gone long ago. They watched him anxiously. Was he going to fire the corn or not? He wanted to, it was plain, if only to show a ruined Polish nobleman that his word was law. He prowled round and then went back to the high-road, stopping some of the refugees and talking to them. Even after they heard his hooter from the village their eyes still clung to the yellow fields, fearing to see smoke. He went off at sundown without so much as a salute. But he evidently thought it risky to quarrel with Ian, and did not fire the crops. With a sigh of relief Ian glanced across at Father Constantine. They had finished the stack and were going in to supper."Thank God!" he muttered. "But don't say anything to the others.""Of course not. But look, what is that?"On the horizon they saw columns of smoke and a dull red glare; others had not been so fortunate.The old priest had been trembling with fear all the time lest the Colonel should remember Joseph, and make him an excuse for burning the place. But he had evidently forgotten all about the incident last autumn. So much the better.Next morning Ian, Vanda and Minnie, with a couple of maids, started out with the reaping machine. Ian, of course, was in charge, and the girls, willing but inexperienced, were to work under him. Since the Colonel's visit he had been in a perfect fever of haste to cut whatever corn was ripe. He left his mother and Father Constantine at the home farm, with admonitions that neither of them must overwork. These two old friends were in the farmyard when some of the Cossacks who had been so busy about the village and amidst the remains of the home forest, came clattering up on their little horses. A young officer was with them. He saluted the Countess, and said civily, in broken Polish:"Lady--I must ask you for that reaping machine I saw here yesterday.""Oh--are you going to reap our fields for us?" she returned gaily. "That would be very nice of you."The youth looked sheepishly at her, but said nothing."Well--what do you want it for?" she insisted."Lady--I'm sorry. But your reaping machine contains steel and other metals; and we have orders to take every ounce of steel and iron and copper away."The Countess looked at her chaplain in silent consternation. The old man, ever ready to help her, sharply told the officer to be off. The Cossack was not so civil to him."No nonsense," he said. "Where is it?""But I protest against having my place looted," cried the Countess."Lady, I'm sorry. I would not take a nail from Ruvno. But orders are orders. See here," and he pulled a slip of paper from his boot, dismounted and took it to her.She waved it aside."It's Greek to me--I don't understand this taking everything.""No. I--Lady Countess, I say again, I'm very sorry. But I'm only a poor Cossack, to obey orders. Where is the machine? We have to be off--or the Germans will take us--and the metals.""My son has gone out with it," she said shortly. "You'd take the shoes from our feet if you'd the time.""No--I would take nothing. Whereabouts is your son with his machine?"She pointed angrily southwards. The direction was vague. The man looked at the sun, which was getting high."He'll be back at midday?""I doubt it. He has much to do."He turned to his men."Children! Hasten. Do you go and fetch the bells.""What bells?" cried the priest in alarm. But nobody answered. The Cossacks left the yard and trotted towards the chapel. Father Constantine hastened after them, the Countess after him. But as the way was rather long and their feet older than they thought, they arrived before the chapel just in time to see the Cossack's take down the three bells and put them on as many horses. One had been cast four hundred years before by an Italian who did much work in the neighborhood. The other two were modern, but of good workmanship."And they've taken the bell that used to hang up in the home farmyard," said the Countess ruefully, as a Cossack they had not noticed before came up with it.Father Constantine had not recovered from the shock of seeing his beloved bells slung across the Cossack saddles, when she gave another cry of anger. Several more Cossacks had come up. Their horses were laden with the copper pots and pans from the kitchen."It's as bad as if the Prussians were here," she exclaimed. "What do they imagine we're to cook with?"The young officer, who had been to the kitchen, now went up to her. His face was crimson."Lady Countess, I regret this as much as you do--" he began."I doubt it," she retorted."... And church bells," put in Father Constantine."I wanted," said the youth earnestly, "God knows I wanted to leave Ruvno, where we have had so much kindness, as we found it. But the orders are explicit. We are not to leave any metal at all--which may serve the Prussians.""It seems to me that between our friends and foes we shall have nothing left but the bare ground," she said.But she protested no more. What was the good? She and the Father watched them pack up all the rest of the pots and pans in rueful silence. Before starting the young officer approached her again, his cap in hand, his long, shaggy locks all loose and dangling in his eyes."My Lady Countess," he said earnestly, "won't you please come with us? I have a spare horse or two and will see you don't put foot to soil till we reach Sohaczer. The Germans will not treat you well. We can pick up your son and the young ladies on our way.""It seems to me that you have left nothing for the Germans to take," she remarked, but not angrily this time. There comes a point where civilians, in the war zone, cease to protest. It is not so much dumb despair, as a knowledge that their words are vain when the "military" come along. They are but spectators of their own ruin."Russia is wide," he said simply. "I am a wealthy Cossack at home. If you will come with us I'll see that you reach my farm in safety. My old mother will look after you, and you'll lack nothing, till the war is over."This touched her. She answered warmly:"Ah--that is good of you--but I cannot leave my land. Thank you all the same."He waited a moment after this, saw she meant what she said, and pressed her no more, but wished them both good-bye and good luck, kissing her hand and saluting the priest."I am sorry you won't come," he said, mounting his horse. "The Germans won't be good to you."And he left them reluctantly, followed by his men. The Countess laughed at the odd figures they cut, with her bells and saucepans tied to their saddles; but there were tears in her eyes all the same. When they were out of sight she and the Father returned to their work in the farmyard. They were still there, two hours later, when Martin came running into the barn."My lady," he panted, more from emotion than fatigue; "the Prussian brutes are here. One of their officers, who gives his name as Graf von Senborn, wants to speak to my Lord the Count.""The Count is in the fields. Tell this officer I will see him. Bring him here," said the Countess.She had on a cotton apron and a kerchief such as peasant women wear. She and the priest looked at one another with uneasiness; they had hoped against hope that the Prussians would keep off till their crops were in a safe place; they had hoped that the invaders would not care to put up at Ruvno, almost denuded of wine and as desolate as could be after nearly a year's war, comforting themselves with the thought that there were places, nearer Warsaw, likely to attract them better. The clank of spurs sounded on the stones; a moment later an officer, whose face was vaguely familiar to the priest, swaggered into the huge barn. Some girls were working at the far end, and stopped to look at him. He saluted and said:"Where are the Cossacks?""They left an hour ago," said Father Constantine, racking his brains to remember where they had met before."Is that so?" he asked the Countess."Yes. They took the chapel bells and the copper things out of my kitchen. For the rest, you can search the place."He eyed her with a certain interest. I suppose he had never seen a grand lady stacking before, except, perhaps, for the fun of it. And she was not very quick at the work, for even stacking is hard to learn when you are no longer young. He looked lean, hard, well-bred; a very different type from the man who so nearly carried off their stores last winter. He spoke French fluently, though with true German gutturalness. The others went on with their work."That is hard work,Madame," he said after a bit."These are hard times,Monsieur," she returned gravely. "The war has left us little but our health and our determination to make the best of things.""I always heard that Polish ladies have high courage," he went on, with a stiff Teutonic bow. "And now I see it for myself.""Courage is one of the few things war does not destroy," put in the priest.The Prussian gave him a glance, as if he were trying to think where they had met before. His face was a worry to the Father. Where, oh where had he seen the man?"Madame," he resumed, when he had stared at Father Constantine a second time. "Allow me to put some of my men to this stacking. They are rough peasants and will get it done in no time."She hesitated, then accepted his offer, which the priest was glad of. She had been working hard since the early morning, and looked very tired. He called some troopers and set them to work with short, dry words of command, which they obeyed with alacrity. Then he went with the Countess and her chaplain into the house, asking all sorts of questions about it. Of course he had heard of Ruvno and its now ruined glories. And when the Countess left them to rest, he questioned Father Constantine about the plate, jewels, and especially the emeralds. The priest answered him as best he could, and they gradually lapsed into silence. He sat in one of Ian's easy chairs smoking a cigar. Suddenly he got up and said:"Take me to the Countess' wardrobe."Father Constantine stared at him in amazement. Hitherto his manners had been such an improvement on those of preceding Prussians that he could scarce believe his ears."Do you hear? To her wardrobe," he repeated, with a shade of sternness."What for?"He laughed."She has no need for old laces and sables, now she works on the farm," he answered."I shall do nothing of the sort," said Father Constantine angrily.The Graf's face flushed; he broke into German."I'm master here. And I command you to take me up to the Countess' wardrobe. You'll find, if you persist in your refusal, that my men can do other things besides stacking."And now that he was in a rage and had fallen back to his native tongue, the priest recognized him. And his own wrath grew."So, Graf von Senborn," he cried, "you're a true follower of the Crown Prince, your master. He loots in Belgium; you in Poland. How many Polish children have you tormented since I met you at Zoppot?""Ah--you're the little priest who refused to salute His Imperial Highness," he retorted, forgetting furs and laces for the moment. "It's a pity I didn't chuck you into the Baltic, I should have saved myself the trouble of having your miserable body hanged up on a tree now."He made towards the old man, who stood firm, because he did not care if he were hanged. But he did want to speak his mind first."I wish your evil-faced Crown Prince were here, too," he said, as fast as he could, lest the Prussian strike him down before he spoke his mind. "I'll tell that son of the Anti-Christ what none of his sycophants dare speak of----""Some of your Polish plots again?""No plots, but the vengeance of the Almighty. Hell-fires await him and his friends for all the deviltries you----"Strong hands were round the thin throat; Father Constantine felt his last moment had come. But there arose a great noise and shouting outside. Von Senborn threw down his victim, as you would cast off a cat whose claws have been cut, and rushed into the garden. He suspected treachery. Father Constantine picked himself up and followed. There were things he wanted to tell him yet, things which had lain heavy on his soul for many a long day.He was in the garden, surrounded by bawling troopers, who were very excited. Four of them held two Cossacks. Two of them held Ian. Vanda was there, too; she rushed up to the priest; she was in tears."Oh, Father, they've arrested him ... and he knows nothing about it.""About what?""These Cossacks. They were hiding in one of the lofts. They had matches. He says"--she indicated von Senborn--"they were going to burn the troopers as they slept.""Found any more?" von Senborn asked some men who came up now."Not one."The officer turned to Ian."You're to blame for this.""I know nothing about it.""Do you know what we do to people who hide the enemy?" von Senborn pursued. "We shoot them.""He knows nothing about it," put in one of the Cossacks, and got a kick for his pains."Nothing," said Ian. Was this the last moment of his life? He spoke up; but his words were of no avail."Oh, please listen to me," cried Vanda, in agony. "He knows nothing about it. We have been harvesting since six in the morning ... away over there." She pointed towards the south. "Everybody says the Cossacks left at eleven.""Nobody knew of our hiding but our ataman," said another Cossack. "Shoot us you can. But the Count is innocent."They did not even trouble to kick this one, who protested and defended Ian in vain. Ian defended himself, too, but he felt all along how useless his words were. What was about to happen to him had happened thousands of times since last July. He remembered Zosia's sister in Kalisz. Father Constantine felt his poor old head swimming with the agony of the thought. Nothing more terrible than this could have occurred. He, too, saw that von Senborn had made up his mind."You were found near the Cossacks," the latter argued. "You're guilty." Then he turned to Vanda: "Go into the house. Keep the Countess there and away from the windows. When I've shot him I'll tell her myself.""I hid them! Shoot me!" cried Vanda, throwing herself at his feet "For the love of God, spare him. He went out at six. The Cossacks left at eleven. How could he know? Take me instead! He is wanted more than I!""Vanda! Vanda!" cried Ian, struggling to get away from those who held him. "Don't believe her!" he cried to von Senborn. "She's as innocent as I am. If you must shoot somebody, shoot me."Von Senborn looked from one to the other; but his face did not soften."You're wasting time," he said to her. "Go into the house."She went up to Ian. They gazed at each other, reading the secret each had guarded too long. Her eyes were full of love as well as misery; his face, under its sunburn, was white as hers."Can nothing be done?" she wailed."Go to Mother. Don't let her see."As her eyes lingered on his face his heart ached; many bitter thoughts and feelings rose within his soul. He wrenched an arm from one of his captors."Leave me!" he ordered. "I'll not run away."At a sign from their officer the two troopers loosened their hold and stepped back a couple of paces, leaving the cousins together. They said little; for at such moments human lips have not much to say. Hearts are too full of words; words too poor to be heart's mouthpiece. He knew now, when it was too late, that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that Joseph was but an incident, mostly of his making; that he loved her, that the happiest hours of their joint lives had been spent together in his old home, in his large, cool forests, by the frozen river, under the broad grayness of a northern sky; over the crisp snow and flower-decked meadows; on his sleek, fleet horses, in his swift-running sleighs, whose bells made jangled music in the frosted air; in every season of God's good year, in every phase of his pleasant, long-dead life, he and she had been all in all, she the key to his happiness, the gate to that earthly paradise which he had shunned till Joseph closed it to him. And he, in his blindness and procrastination, learnt about it too late."Oh--what we have lost!" he murmured, locking her in a long embrace."Ian--Ian--my darling!" she sobbed.
XI
One spring morning the Countess came into the office where Ian was working, an open letter in her hand. He saw by her eyes that she had unpleasant news.
"A letter from Joseph," she announced, sitting down by his desk, where he was busy with accounts. He looked up, his clear eyes hardened.
"What does he want?"
"He has a week's leave. He says that the six months are over, and wants----"
"Wants his wedding," said Ian. "Then he must have it."
She laid her slim hand on his. He raised it to his lips; but did not meet her fond gaze.
"He says he has written to Vanda, to come here, to meet him."
Ian gave a grunt. He thought it just like Joe's impudence to order people in and out of his house. But he said nothing. His mother went on:
"Vanda, it appears, wants the wedding to take place in Warsaw."
"She's right," he returned promptly. "A wedding in this muddle!" He looked out of the window, to the garden cut in trenches, and the barbed wire, rusty with spring rains, blotting what was once a peaceful vista of sedate comfort. "I'd write to the Europe about rooms, and to the Archbishop."
"But, Ianek, think of the expense, nowadays," she protested gently.
"It wouldn't be much. You need only invite the family. No lunch or anything, just a glass of champagne when you get back from church. A war wedding."
"Then you won't come, dear?"
"No. The work here ... you know how pressed I am for men." He lowered his voice: "It's easier that way."
She gave him one of her long, adoring looks, her hand on his shoulder.
"Courage," she whispered, "these things pass."
He nodded. "There have been so many other things, and yet, when you came in with your news, I wished him dead."
"Ianek!" she cried, shocked by the pain in his voice as much as his words. "I'd been hoping you had forgotten. You were more cheerful these last few weeks, and so busy."
He gave a little laugh. "So did I. Then this letter brought it ... showed it's still there." He got up and paced the long room. "Oh, I don't want it here. Manage that for me; find out from somebody where Joe is, send a messenger that we can't have it in this ruin, that I insist, as head of the family, on its being in Warsaw. Telegraph to Vanda--I can't spare a messenger or I'd send a note to her by hand. But telegraph her that she's to stop where she is, that you're coming for the wedding. Tell her to let him know; he may be in Warsaw."
She glanced at the letter.
"No address, of course, just the military censor's stamp."
"But she may know where he is," he rejoined eagerly. "Take Minnie with you. The change'll do her good. Women love a wedding. Stop a few days yourself. I'll write the telegrams myself, they must be in Russian, I'd forgotten that." Then, seeing the alarm in her face, he added: "Don't worry, Mother, it's only ... it'll pass. But start for Warsaw the minute you can, before either of them gets here."
"At once," she said, rising.
He wrote a telegram to Joseph, another to Vanda and a third to the Archbishop of Warsaw. He wanted that man of high courage and well-tried patriotism to bless her union. These he sent to the station, the nearest telegraph office; at some inconvenience, because there was a great deal of work to be done in the fields and he was short of labor. So he took the place of the boy he sent plowing for him till all hands struck work at midday. Things had changed since last spring; when the squire rode over his well-cultivated property and merely gave orders to his manager. Now he was his own manager and his own bailiff, and sometimes his own hind as well. Plowing, he congratulated himself that he had at least saved the situation, as far as witnessing Joseph's happiness went; and the hard exercise relieved his feelings.
Here Destiny stepped in. He was crossing the hall to wash his hands for their frugal lunch when he heard the clatter of a quick-stepping horse through the open door. A tall figure, slim and smart in its brown Cossack uniform, swung from the saddle and stood in the sunlit entry. It was Joseph. They stood looking at one another in silence for a moment.
"Hullo!" cried the new-comer, "It is you ... couldn't see after having the sun in my eyes." And he strode over, spurs clanking, to hug the squire in an old-fashioned Polish embrace with a warmth that belonged, in the old days, to Roman, never to his brother.
Ian was forced to admit that war had changed his cousin. He was handsome as ever; but less a prig, more a man. Rubbing shoulders with the primitive aspects of life and death had done him good, widened his sympathies, rubbed off the crust of self-complacency which Ian has always hated in him, even before love came between them.
"I just wired to you," he said, releasing himself. "No idea you were so near."
"Near! The general's headquarters are in a railway truck at Kosczielna. I've got a week's leave. Has Vanda come?"
"No. Mother is packing to go to Warsaw."
"Anything wrong?" he asked in alarm. "Out with it, tell me the worst."
"Nothing wrong. Only...." He pointed towards the devastated garden, the gap where the tower had once been, and the rusty entanglements. "We can't have a wedding here."
Joseph laughed, not from lack of sympathy, but for relief that Vanda was not ill?
"My God! There are weddings on rubbish heaps nowadays. I call Ruvno a quiet spot for a honeymoon. I've no time to go to Warsaw. Vanda wanted it there, too, but it'll take too long. We're going to make an advance soon, and goodness knows when I'll get another chance like this. A week's leave! Not to be despised, I can tell you. I've got all the papers and things. We can get married the moment Vanda comes. Hard work getting them, but they've made things easier in war-time. I saw that old Canon of yours. Dragged him out of bed at six o'clock this morning. I say, anything to drink? I've the thirst of the devil on me!"
"Of course." He led the way to the dining-room, noted Joseph's long pull at the beer set before him--he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a bottle of wine to be fetched and opened--watched, listened and wondered. And this was Joseph, the fastidious, pomaded, manicured, supercilious fop of six months ago. His face reddened by snow, sun and wind; his chin unshaven, his right hand disfigured by the scar of the wound he got in the Carpathians, his nails broken and begrimed with dirt that no washing would remove, his fair hair, once so sleek and trim, tousled from his high fur cap, which he pulled off and flung on to a chair. He looked the picture of robust health, happiness and sincerity, but never like Joseph Skarbek. Soldiering with men whose education and upbringing was ruder than his had rubbed the artificiality off him, leaving the old type of virile, keen, sincere Skarbeks who had fought their way through the country's history. Ian began almost to like him.
But he was not a second Roman, had none of his brother's fatalism, devil-may-care philosophy, odd glimpses into the truth of life's foundations. His was more the ingenuity of a big schoolboy, but such a schoolboy as he had never been when in his 'teens. One of his first questions was for Roman. He grew grave when they told him there was no news.
"I counted on your hearing from him. He wouldn't be likely to write to me, because of Vanda. But he must have got over that. It wasn't his first love-affair --nor his second. He can't be a prisoner. He'd never let the Prussians take him. He told me that. Besides, I know it myself." He gave a short laugh. "Crucifixion would be too good for us both if they catch us. And he's not on the list of dead or wounded either, for I got a man at Petersburg--I mean Petrograd--to bring me them."
"Up to date?" asked Ian anxiously.
"Yes. The latest. They came this morning, just before I started. Of course, it's just like Roman never to send a line, and then hell turn up all of a sudden and be surprised that we were anxious."
As he sat and listened to the story of the Carpathian campaign, told with simple directness, with that ignorance of main facts which characterises all such stories, where a man knows only what goes on around him, yet with that charm of the intelligent eye-witness, Ian felt suddenly very middle-aged and out of things. Here he was, doing daily drudgery on a ruined estate, always in the same place, always seeing the same people, in the dull monotony of a long winter, without any shooting, without visits to Warsaw and the opera, whilst this cousin of his, whom he had always despised for a coxcomb and an armchair agriculturist, had been running half over Europe, chasing the Austrians over snow-bound mountains, learning the sensation of fighting hand to hand, of being wounded, of getting a decoration, of thinking himself dead once, of being near death many times; not the death of rats-in-a-hole that Ruvno knew, but death with glory; when he heard tales of these things, told by a now unfamiliar Joseph, and compared his own humdrum life, he reflected bitterly that if Vanda had loved this man before she would worship him now. He opened the demijohn that his mind had reserved for Roman's coming, and they drank the health of everybody they liked who was alive and to the other Skarbek's speedy return. During the evening they discussed business.
"Aunt Natalie," began the bridegroom, "I expect you think I'm mad to get married just now, with nothing to live upon and not even knowing if I'll be alive this time next week."
"Vanda will never want while we are able to give her a crust," she said warmly. This new Joseph pleased her, too; if not for her boy she would have taken him to her heart as she had taken Roman long ago.
"Thank you, Aunt. I used to think, there on the Carpathians, what a selfish beast I was to keep her to our engagement after I'd joined the right side and lost my property. But when I was in Kieff old Uncle Stephen came to see me."
"Old Uncle Stephen," was of the branch of Skarbeks who had estates in Russian territory and were Russian subjects.
"They say he's made a lot of money over the war," remarked Ian.
"At any rate he's not lost any. He was so pleased to hear that I'd joined against the Prussians that he made over a hundred thousand roubles to me. He's a wise old bird; had it invested in several things, I'll tell you the details afterwards. I've got the figures on paper. Anyway, Vanda will have enough to live upon. And on the strength of it I thought we'd better get married. Everybody doesn't get killed in the war. I don't see why I should be worse off than other men."
Later on he reverted again to his marriage; this time to Ian.
"Vanda has been working too hard in Warsaw," he said. "I can see that from her letters. She's not her old self. I want you to let her stop here till I can take care of her myself."
Ian did not answer for a moment; when he spoke it was with an effort.
"This is her home as long as she likes," he said. "But you mustn't forget that the Russians have been here twice and may come again. You wouldn't want her here then."
"I've thought of that. But they won't come so fast. And I'll let you know in time to get her out before they do. She wants a rest from that nursing business. It's wearing her out."
Ian's quick ears had detected the sound of wheels coming up the drive. He went to the window and looked out. A hired trap was making its way up to the house with that gallop for the avenue characteristic of hackney drivers in Eastern Europe. The garden was flooded with moonlight, which lighted up those on the trap. As it swung round by the front door, he saw two women sitting behind the driver. One was evidently a peasant, and beside her sat a slim, upright figure dressed in dark clothes. He shut the window and turned to his cousin:
"She has come," he said.
XII
Next morning, Ian was up at daybreak, hurrying to his morning tasks, to get them over a little earlier than usual and have time for a chat with Vanda before breakfast. The Canon was coming at twelve, and would marry them immediately. Between breakfast and midday he had a great deal to do and could not expect to get five minutes alone with her.
Crossing to the farm, he met Joseph.
"You're up early," he remarked.
"Can't sleep. I'm so excited!" He laughed gaily.
"I hope Vanda is asleep. She looked awfully tired last night."
"Oh, she'll be all right in a little while. She's had too much hard work. The Princess ought not to have allowed it. She promised to get up in good time, too; I want every minute with her."
Ian glanced at him. So the old Joseph had not gone altogether. Ian would not have disturbed her so early if they were to part that day. She needed rest more than anything.
"Don't you think she has changed?" he asked. "It seemed to me last night she was different."
"Oh, nonsense! You know how devoted she is to me. And I to her, of course. Why, I love her a thousand times more than I did before I went to the Carpathians. You're getting a crusty old bachelor, full of odd ideas.Au revoir, I'm off to get a shave."
And he turned towards the house. Ian went into one of the fields which were being plowed. How sure Joseph was of his luck! Even if he heard from Vanda's own lips that she did not care for him he would refuse to believe it, put it down to fatigue, insist on their marriage all the same.
Ian was late for breakfast. The Countess alone lingered at the table, so that he should not have a solitary meal. They did not mention Vanda's name, but he asked if she had ordered the best luncheon possible, considered the menu, suggested one or two alterations. The best champagne in the cellars must be brought up--and some of the old Hungarian wine for dessert, as is the Polish custom. She fondly thought that it was just like her boy to remember such details for other people's pleasure in the midst of his own pain. He spoke about a dowry, too, but here she was firm in her disapproval.
"It's absurd," she said. "Stephen is looking after Joseph. He is far better off now than we are or ever shall be again. And you know he always meant to leave everything to Joe and Roman. Keep your money. We shall want it badly enough before the war is over."
He said no more about it, but returned to the lunch.
"It would have been a better one if I'd known sooner," he remarked as they left the table. "However, the wine is all right. And they'll be too happy to notice what they are eating."
"Oh, Ianek, I do wish you hadn't promised him to keep her here," she exclaimed.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her white hair, laughing a little at her concern.
"Never mind, Mother. You've no idea how good plowing is for the sentiments."
This was another grievance. She exclaimed indignantly:
"To think you have to work like a peasant!"
"I want my crops. And when I've no manager, overseer or bailiff, and very few laborers, what can I do? It's good for me, I'm fit as a fiddle." And he made her feel the muscles on his arms, which were like iron.
"We seem to have become yeoman farmers," she said. "Oh, I'm not complaining for myself."
"Then don't worry about me," he rejoined cheerfully. "After all, we're a lot better off than most of our neighbors."
The wedding was over very quickly. Ian gave Vanda away because there was nobody else to do it. She wore a white frock which, oddly enough, he remembered quite well. Less than a year ago he had taken her and the Countess up to Warsaw for some racing, before she went to stay in the Grand Duchy. They had their usual rooms at the Europe, on the quiet side, away from the main street. There was a large sitting-room, with a balcony. The dress had come home at the last moment, whilst the car waited downstairs to take them to the course at Mokotov. She had put it on hastily and called him in from the balcony to look at it. He supposed that was why he remembered it so well. He would have given her a new one for the wedding, had he known she was coming so quickly. She looked very sweet in the old one, though. But his thoughts flew back to the sumptuous outfit he had planned for her, sables he had priced in Warsaw, whither he never returned, except to volunteer for the army; the guests he was to invite, entertaining them as Ruvno could entertain--once. And it had all turned out so differently. There were no guests, no presents, no sables; not even an entire house. Nothing but ruined acres and dead hopes, and a pain in his heart such as he had never felt before.
He could not see her face as the ring was slipped on to her finger. He did not want to. He longed for the whole thing to be over and done with, the blessing bestowed, the healths drunk, the meal at an end, that he could go out into the sun and fresh air, working until bodily fatigue had numbed every other feeling.
Almost immediately after the marriage they sat down to table. He played his part decorously, without betraying himself, with a secret anger at the pain in his soul and determination to kill it. Even Minnie, who watched him closely, could find no fault. He was the lively host of peace days, but the champagne helped him there.
The Canon was in great form. He told all sorts of stories about the time when Rennankampf was lodged in his house and did his duty by food and drink as well. Then he rose to propose a toast. It was in verse. He had used it at every marriage feast he went to for the past twenty years. Even Vanda, youngest of the party, knew it off by heart; for all the author ever did was to change the names of bride and bridegroom; the body of the verses remained the same. No sooner was he on his feet, however, than they applauded him. Even Father Constantine, rather sleepy after his early rising and the old Tokay, woke up and said: "Bravo!"
"Ladies and gentlemen!" began the Canon, folding his hands over his well-filled soutane and beaming on them all: "Let us now drink to the health of the beautiful bride and gallant bridegroom, who----"
He never got any further. At that moment, Martin approached Joseph and whispered in his ear. The Canon stopped, for he saw a new expression on the bridegroom's face.
"Anything wrong, Count?" he asked anxiously.
Joseph turned to Martin.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite. He is waiting at the door."
"I'm sorry..." He rose. "I'll be back in a moment."
But they all followed him to the door. A Cossack orderly stood there, his horse covered with sweat and he with dust. He saluted Joseph and said in Russian:
"I was to give you this personally----"
And he produced a sealed envelope from one of his high boots.
Joseph tore it open, read the few words typed on a slip of paper inside, and turned white.
"To Hell with the war!" he cried savagely.
"What is it?" they all cried.
"I must go--at once."
"Oh--not a German advance?" asked Vanda apprehensively.
He crushed the paper in his hand and returned huskily, despair on his face:
"God knows. The orders are to report at Headquarters immediately. Oh, Vanda, it's Destiny. First the Germans, now the Russians take me from you."
"But you had a week's leave," said the Countess, whilst Vanda and her lover stood side by side, looking at each other in sorrow. "He can't go back on his word."
"It's imperative," said Joseph. Then to the soldier: "What's the news at Headquarters?"
"We're off at once. Galicia, they say." He swung into his saddle. "I'll get your horse, sir. Time presses." And with a salute which took in them all he went off to the stables.
In less than ten minutes Joseph was off, trotting down the avenue on his fleet horse, the soldier behind him. Farewells, admonitions, promises and good wishes were crowded into that short space of time. Ian could not forgive himself for his silence in the morning. They were not married an hour before Joseph left. He could have put it off for months, forever perhaps, had he only followed his better sense, instead of letting things slide, with true Slavonic fatalism, he told himself angrily.
But there was no use repining. He left the three women with the priests and returned to his work. He did not attempt to console Vanda, who stood on the steps where her husband had left her, watching him hurry away, waving her hands as he swung out into the road and was lost in the dust and the distance. He noticed that she was very pale, bewildered by the morning's rapid events and emotions, with tears in her eyes. He tried to read her thoughts, but could not.
So life once more returned to its old monotony. Vanda wore her wedding ring. But that was the only outward sign that she was no longer under Ian's guardianship. Letters came to her from Joseph, who wrote of getting leave in the summer. She helped Minnie with the few wounded civilians still left in the house and slipped into her old place again. Ian seldom spoke to her, avoided her eyes at table where he kept up a general conversation in English, for Minnie's benefit. As spring advanced he found more work to keep mind and body occupied. By dint of getting the most out of himself and the labor still left at his disposal he managed to put enough land under crops to feed Ruvno and its population for two years, and perhaps sell some grain as well. And this gave him as much satisfaction as it would have given any small farmer. And it made him feel young again to see the land regain some measure of its old prosperous aspect, though many a broad acre was cut up into trenches. Peasants who had escaped to Warsaw during the December campaign now returned, vowing that nothing would induce them to leave home again. True, most of them were obliged to live in trenches or in the open, for their villages existed only in name; but as the warm weather came on this was no great hardship and they felt so glad to get back to the soil that they forgot past troubles and set out to cultivate their fields with the indomitable courage of their race.
XIII
The inmates of Ruvno thought they had witnessed all the wrack and vicissitudes of war; of advancing armies, entrenched armies, foraging armies, looting armies; of wounds, pollution and death. They had yet to see a retreating army.
By July the Russians were in full retreat.
Day and night they went by. Cursing, sweating, bleeding, limping; hungry, thirsty, weary, their eyes aglow with the smouldering fires of rage, disappointment and all the bitterness of recession; without haste, without hope they tramped past, to fall back upon the Nieman, the Pripet and the Dnieper, leaving Poland to the Prussian Antichrist.
At times, some of them stood to give fight, covering the retreat of the armies' bulk. Then, though these battles of despair were far from Ruvno, the ground shook under them, a very earthquake; the few trees left were stript of their leaves till it looked as though winter and not August, were upon them. The Russians had no ammunition; the rumbling and shaking came from their enemies. And this is why there were smouldering fires in the tired soldiers' eyes; it was a nightmare to try and beat off a modern army with lances, rifle-butts and sticks. One morning a lot of soldiers halted in the village. Having exhausted what water there was, for a drought had been added to the peasants' troubles, some sought the house. Ian went out to them. One, a giant with blue eyes, fever-bright and dry, was holding forth to the servants in a frenzy of impotent rage. His uniform was in tatters, his boots a mass of torn leather, held together God knows how. His dirty blouse was open to the chest, where the blood had clotted on a stale wound. In his hand was a stout oaken club, which he waved about as he shouted and swore.
"What could I do with this? Tell me, what could I do? A stick to beat off the German swine. Son of a dog, what could I do? Never a rifle since we left the Lakes. My knife gone, too." He meant his bayonet. "Mother of God, to think of it! Not a hundred rounds to the whole regiment! But I killed three dog's sons with it!" He wildly struck the air; all fell back in terror of their lives. "See! like this. One! Two! Three! Smashing in their skulls like I hammer the horseshoes on the anvil at home. Look at their dog's blood on it--look ye, and tremble!"
Father Constantine, who had come out, insisted on dressing his wound, and found two others, only half healed. But he was built like Hercules, this blacksmith from a village of Tula; they could tell he was in a high fever; some men march a couple of days and more in such a state, the kit on their backs, and none the worse for it in the end. For these sons of Rus are hardened from their birth and as strong as the beasts they tend at home. He was indignant with the old priest for bringing out some simple remedies.
"What are you doing,Pop?" he shouted. "The surgeon dressed it last night, or last week, I forget when. I tore it off me. How can I bear the feel of rags in this nightmare? I'll go naked to the day of Judgment, by God I will."
And he proceeded to strip, flinging his ragged garments to right and left, as the wild Cossacks do when they have had too muchvodkaand dancing. The maids rushed off in horror; but another giant, his comrade, managed to calm him and cover his huge, brawny body, where the muscles stood out as hard as iron under skin white as a woman's; for the Russians of his part are fair. Father Constantine gave him a cooling draught and did what he could for his wounds, which must have smarted terribly under the iodine; but he never groaned. He was lying on his back now, breathing heavily, eyes closed, hands clasping the club with all the strength of fever.
"He'll kill us if he keeps it," observed his comrade, whose head was encased in dirty bandages. "He has been mad with fever since last sunset ... but we can't find room in an ambulance for him and he lays out whenever we try to take it away."
"I'll lay out at all the ministers when I get to Petrograd!" bawled the patient, springing up and upsetting the Father. Worse than that, he sent over the bottle of iodine, too, and they were very short of it. "Son of a dog, I'll have them all, crush their skulls like walnuts. The war minister first, for sending us sticks instead of guns ... and then the intendant, for these boots." Here he flung one across the yard, where it stuck on to the well-handle. "I'll murder every dog's son of them--by God, I will, till we clean Russia of thieves and swine."
And so he went on, raving at everybody and everything, till he had shouted himself tired. Then he lay down in the shade of the stables and slept uneasily. Ian wanted to send him to bed, which was the only fit place for him. The officer in charge demurred, said he did not think the man was ill enough to risk being found here by the enemy, who could not be kept off more than a few days. He had orders to retreat with as few losses as possible. When Ian finally gained his point, promising to send him on by the first ambulance that passed, the man himself refused to stop behind. He wasn't going to leave his comrades; he didn't trust priests ... this one had burned him with poison and tried to take away his only weapon, so that he would not even be able to crack German skulls when they came up.
They watched them march off; the giant, quieter now, staggered between two limping comrades who helped him along, though they had all their work cut out to put one sore foot before the other. When they reached the bend in the road they began to sing, in unison, as Russians do. And Father Constantine's heart went out to those brave, simple souls, and he prayed that they might reach the Nieman in safety.
At first this was the only army Ruvno saw--a host of men, way-worn but strong. But soon came the vanguard of another legion, a ghastly, straggling horde of old men, women and children, fleeing before the invaders. Some of them carried a kettle--all that remained of their worldly goods; others had harnessed skinny, starving nags to their long, narrow carts, piled with bedding, a quilt or two, a table or a stool. Here and there could be seen a sack of potatoes or buckwheat between the wooden bars; but this was rare indeed, because these unhappy people had nothing left in barn or cellar. And the women. They trailed on with their little ones; with children who could walk or toddle, with infants in arms, with babes at the breast, with babes yet unborn, destined to see the first light of a tempestuous world from the roadside, whilst jostling humanity passed indifferently by, benumbed with a surfeit of ordeal and pain. The household could do little for these poor wretches.
In one group of misery they saw a priest--a young man he was. Father Constantine chided him.
"Why did you let them leave their homes?" he asked. "Can't you see half of them are doomed to die in the ditch?"
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his questioner with the dull eyes of a man steeped in despair.
"What could I do?" was his wail. "The Russians drove us out of house and home."
"The Prussians, you mean," corrected Ian.
"I mean what I say. The Cossacks burnt the grain in the fields. Then they set fire to the village." He cursed them with unpriestly words, but even Father Constantine had not the will to stop him.
"If there had been one cottage left, one sack of buckwheat, I could have persuaded them to stop," he concluded. "But the sight of the burning fields and the charred walls of their homes filled them with panic. All our younger men are in the army, and we had only the scorched earth left. If we ever reach Warsaw we shall get somewhere to lay our heads and a sup to put in our mouths."
Ian gave them some food for their journey, for that other retreating army paid these unfortunates no attention. They had two young mothers in the house. One Vanda found in the ditch outside the paddock. Ian cut down the household rations for these fugitives, because his stock had run low, and the horde came on unceasingly. He had ordered fresh supplies from Warsaw nearly a month back; but there was no hope of getting them now. His new grain was ready to cut, and he set about it in haste, lest bad luck befall it.
Two days later, the stream of humanity still passed by. Many halted to beg for food, water. Ian gave both, though he could only afford the water, for his generosity of the last few days diminished the stores in an alarming way. So he had to harden his heart and give far less. The country for versts round was being laid waste. Every group of refugees told the same tale of destruction and ruin. On this particular morning passed some peasants of Stara Viesz. They told a ghastly story. They were cutting the crops when the Cossacks came up and began firing the grain as it stood in the fields. The reapers turned upon them with their scythes; a fierce fight followed. The Cossacks, having spent all their ammunition on the Germans, had but their spears left--and the peasants got the best of it, beating off the destroyingsotnia, who left dead and wounded amongst the corn. But much of the grain was burnt and some of the cottages caught fire, for a strong east wind was blowing. The villagers who now passed had nothing left. Those lucky enough to save field or hut remained behind.
"If we can only reach Warsaw we shall be saved," said their spokesman. They had one cart left, for four families. Three had been abandoned because the horses dropped dead upon the road.
They all looked to Warsaw as a haven of rest and plenty. And an officer told Ian the Grand Duke had decided not to defend that city, but to evacuate it and leave it to the Prussians. This news was so bad that he had not the courage to tell it them. After all, they would not go back to their ruined homes. Ian and the priest used all their eloquence in trying to persuade them to it. But they refused. Terror was upon them. Perhaps they were right; why go back to starvation?
"Why don't the Russians give us food? They made us leave our homes," was the cry on everybody's lips. Ian could not answer them. So helpless did he feel that the temptation came to shut himself up in the top story rather than see suffering which he could not relieve. And he, too, asked himself why the Russians drove these peasants from their homes. What was the good of it? Those who did not die on the road would only swell the beggar population of Moscow and Petrograd; for they were destitute, though war found them prosperous men, with land and savings, too. These sad, ragged, homeless crowds would only stir up discontent in Russia. And the farms and holdings they had been forced to leave would give the Prussians room to put their own colonists. He was relieved to see that very few priests were among the refugees. When he or Father Constantine asked a panic-stricken group where their priest was the answer always came:
"He would not leave those who stopped behind."
Again anxiety haunted the House. There was Joseph. He had given no sign for a month. He had been so emphatic in his last letters about sending word when Vanda ought to leave that they almost gave him up as dead. But though there was no longer any doubt that the Germans would be in Ruvno before long she refused to leave. Neither Ian nor the Countess insisted. The retreat had come so unexpectedly that they found themselves cut off from Warsaw, the only road to Russia left open, without a day's notice. There were no trains but for the army, and few enough for that. Ian had not a pair of horses left capable of taking her twelve versts, let alone to Warsaw; and he doubted if she could get away from there. Minnie was kept by the same reasons, that is, devotion to Ruvno and fear of sharing the fate of those fugitives they saw pass night and day. Then there was Roman. So many Cossacks went by but Ian vainly sought his face amongst them. Some remembered Roman well; but they had not seen him for months, they said. One thought he had been taken prisoner in Masuria; another, who seemed to have known him better than the rest, said he was reported missing as far back as last October. Ian questioned Father Constantine when he heard this, asking exactly what happened that night when Joseph escaped to the chapel. The old man repeated his story and said:
"Ian, I can tell you no more. Our little family is broken up. God knows when it will be reunited. Perhaps not till death binds us together."
Then, perhaps more pressing than all, was anxiety about the crops. It was quite possible the Cossacks would fire them before they left. Some were cut; but most of them still stood, not ready for harvest. And Ian, watching the Cossacks' lack of fodder for their horses, trembled for the fate of his haystacks and barns, where there was hay. The retreating army grew fiercer, more and more antagonistic towards the civil population of the country it had to abandon. The officers could keep in their men when they liked; but the officers themselves were often at little pains to hide their hostility, though the majority treated Ian and his property with consideration. But a retreating army is rougher and more turbulent than an advancing, or entrenched army. God forgive them! They knew all the wretchedness of failure. Rage and disappointment had hold of them. Some Cossacks stopped in Ruvno; they were those who remembered Roman Skarbek. They kept mostly to the village, but Ian wished they would go. One night their commander told him that the Prussians would be there very soon, and it was time to make up his mind as to what he was going to do. Ian told him he had long ago made up his mind to stay. But he called up the chief men from the village, a deputation chosen by the rest. The message he sent was for service in the chapel; though he did have the service, the real purpose was to discuss the situation; but the Cossacks looked askance at him when they heard he had decided to stay in Ruvno, so he had to be careful. They kept watch day and night from the church tower in the village, either to direct the Russian fire on the Prussians or else to watch for their coming. Several times they warned the villagers to leave before their homes were razed to the ground. Some peasants were for taking their advice and going to Warsaw. Hence the meeting.
"The time has come for you to make up your minds," he said when he had them all in the little sacristy. "Are you going to leave your land and follow the retreating army, or to stop here and stick to your fields?"
"What is the House going to do?" asked thesoltys, or head of the village community.
"We stop here so long as there is a roof over us."
A murmur of approval greeted this. Ian went on:
"But I don't want you to be guided by what I and the Lady Countess are doing. You know what is going on as well as I do."
"Ay. All the devils have taken the Muscovites," said a voice.
"Thousands of peasants, once rich, like yourselves, pass on their way to Warsaw," said Ian.
"Please, my lord Count," put in thesoltys, "it's Siberia and not Warsaw they are going to. The Cossacks down in the village are talking a lot about it. The Russian government is offering the fugitives land in Siberia and work in the mines. It's not fair. This has been our land for centuries, long before the Russians came here at all. And I, for one, and my three young sons, are for stopping here. They can but burn our crops and cottages. Haven't the Cossacks done that?"
A low growl of anger filled the room. The old man went on:
"But when they've burnt the crops and our huts and stacks they've done their worst. They can't take away the land, even if they bring all the carts they've got. The land remains. And I remain. For I'd rather starve through another winter on my own soil than have the biggest farm they can give me in Siberia."
They talked a lot, arguing and disputing, as peasants do. But you cannot hurry them, so Ian and the priest waited for them in the chapel. After an hour, when each had had his say, Baranski came out.
"Well, what have you decided?" Ian asked with secret anxiety. It is no joke to be left in a big place like Ruvno without any peasants.
"Sir," answered thesoltys, who had followed Baranski, "we have decided that each man may take his choice, and that the man who takes his family from Ruvno, to join that poor starving mob on the road outside, is stupid and a fool. If God wills that we shall die, we can die here. We have two months yet of warm weather, and the crops, thank God, are not so bad, considering the trenches we've had put upon us. We can mend up our cottages and prepare for the winter. The Muscovites are retreating as hard as they can. So I don't see that there'll be any more battles in this part for some time. We can plow and sow in the autumn as usual. That's how most of us think. The others can go, if they like."
Next day Ian heard that the majority had decided to stop. The sight of those refugees haunted them.
XIV
On the day when the peasants decided to stop in Ruvno Ian had a visitor. It was none other than the narrow-eyed Colonel who was in the same house at the beginning of the war, when Rennenkampf came and Roman with him; when Father Constantine had vainly interceded that Roman might not be obliged to shoot his own brother.
The family, even to the Countess, was busy in field and barn. For the first time in her life she had taken to manual labor. But the peasant proprietors were hurrying to get in their own crops; Ian's men had been sadly thinned and he was therefore short-handed. One idea possessed them all: to gather in what they could before some enraged soldiers passed and took next year's food from them.
Well, the Colonel drove up to the house, made a great noise with his motor and was finally answered by Father Constantine, who appeared on the scene, rake in hand.
"I want to see the Count," said the Russian, saluting.
"He is with the others, at the home-farm. If you will go there." He recognized the man, but saw that his memory was better than the visitor's.
"I must see him alone. Please tell him so."
In due course Ian arrived. He was in his shirtsleeves and had on an old pair of white flannel trousers, formerly worn for tennis. He had been stacking hay. Father Constantine very much afraid that Roman's name would come up, had followed. The Colonel came to the point without delay.
"The sooner you and your peasants leave this the better," he said gruffly. "We can't hold it any longer. The enemy may be here at any moment."
"The peasants have made up their minds to stay," said Ian.
"And you?"
"I never thought of leaving."
The soldier's narrow eyes hardened. He was of those who thought it every civilian's duty to follow in his retreat. He drew himself up and spoke rather sharply. But he was still civil, knowing well that the master of Ruvno was no squireen, to be treated with contempt. Ian, for his part, was slightly hostile. He knew the man for his anti-Polish feelings, kept in check when things were going well, but ready to leap out into action now that misfortune was upon them all. Besides, Ian had seen those fugitives, and no man could look upon them without thinking that the army, even in retreat, might have done something to alleviate their sufferings, even if it were but to leave them their corn.
"Count, you don't understand. I repeat: the Prussians are coming. Surely you are not going to wait to welcome the Czar's enemies."
"Nobody hates the Prussians more than I," he rejoined. "If I leave Ruvno I shall be a beggar. Besides, it's my home."
"Russia is wide."
"And the road long. No, Colonel. We have lived here, peasant and master, father and son, through many wars, many invasions. For me and my mother there can be no choice, so long as a roof remains for us here. As to my peasants, I left them free to choose, said not a word for or against. But they have seen those crowds--" he pointed towards the road, where the weary stream of homeless humanity struggled on towards the unknown. "The old and sick left to die alone, children hungry, mothers exhausted. They made up their minds that it is better to die here than in ditches between this and Moscow."
"You accuse us of neglecting the refugees," cried the Colonel, red to his hair-roots.
"No. This is war. The weak and poor and aged suffer most. But I claim the right to choose between two kinds of suffering."
"Do as you please. But you'll all starve. I'm giving orders to burn the crops."
Ian turned white at this. For months he had been fighting against starvation. Every waking thought had been connected with the problem of how to feed those dependent on him for the ensuing year. Even his dreams had been of crops and storms and war agriculture. He had risen with the dawn to plow and till and sow. No landless peasant, hiring himself by the day, had worked harder than the lord of Ruvno. And now, when the fruit of his labors was ripening in these fields so thinned by rapine, trenches and mines; when, by dint of untold effort and determination he had overcome difficulties none dreamed of a year ago, this soldier threatened to fire the little that remained to fill his garners. Controlling himself with an effort, he said:
"And how will you feed us all?"
"In Warsaw."
"You're leaving Warsaw to its fate," retorted Ian. "And you know it."
The man looked perfectly furious at this, and would have burst out, but Ian went on, that tone of authority that Father Constantine knew well in his voice. He said:
"Listen. I had the Grand Duke's promise, last week, that Ruvno will be left intact so long as it or its village is inhabited. You know as well as I do that, where Nicolai Nicolaievitch has been, no villages or crops are ruined wantonly by his retreating army, and no peasants driven to the road against their will. If you tamper with my house or my people, who are half-starved even now, I swear to you that not only the Grand Duke, but the Czar himself shall hear of it."
The Colonel bit his lip and stalked off, fuming with suppressed passion. He knew that the Grand Duke was friendly here. He must have known, too, that Poland's old foes, the Russian bureaucrats, were responsible for driving people off their land by sheer force and doing nothing to help them on their exile into the most distant parts of the Russian Empire. In silence Ian and his chaplain watched him motor up to the nearest fields and inspect them. They were meager enough, God knows, cut as they were by trenches. As to the potatoes, they would not be ready for a couple of months, and last year's had gone long ago. They watched him anxiously. Was he going to fire the corn or not? He wanted to, it was plain, if only to show a ruined Polish nobleman that his word was law. He prowled round and then went back to the high-road, stopping some of the refugees and talking to them. Even after they heard his hooter from the village their eyes still clung to the yellow fields, fearing to see smoke. He went off at sundown without so much as a salute. But he evidently thought it risky to quarrel with Ian, and did not fire the crops. With a sigh of relief Ian glanced across at Father Constantine. They had finished the stack and were going in to supper.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "But don't say anything to the others."
"Of course not. But look, what is that?"
On the horizon they saw columns of smoke and a dull red glare; others had not been so fortunate.
The old priest had been trembling with fear all the time lest the Colonel should remember Joseph, and make him an excuse for burning the place. But he had evidently forgotten all about the incident last autumn. So much the better.
Next morning Ian, Vanda and Minnie, with a couple of maids, started out with the reaping machine. Ian, of course, was in charge, and the girls, willing but inexperienced, were to work under him. Since the Colonel's visit he had been in a perfect fever of haste to cut whatever corn was ripe. He left his mother and Father Constantine at the home farm, with admonitions that neither of them must overwork. These two old friends were in the farmyard when some of the Cossacks who had been so busy about the village and amidst the remains of the home forest, came clattering up on their little horses. A young officer was with them. He saluted the Countess, and said civily, in broken Polish:
"Lady--I must ask you for that reaping machine I saw here yesterday."
"Oh--are you going to reap our fields for us?" she returned gaily. "That would be very nice of you."
The youth looked sheepishly at her, but said nothing.
"Well--what do you want it for?" she insisted.
"Lady--I'm sorry. But your reaping machine contains steel and other metals; and we have orders to take every ounce of steel and iron and copper away."
The Countess looked at her chaplain in silent consternation. The old man, ever ready to help her, sharply told the officer to be off. The Cossack was not so civil to him.
"No nonsense," he said. "Where is it?"
"But I protest against having my place looted," cried the Countess.
"Lady, I'm sorry. I would not take a nail from Ruvno. But orders are orders. See here," and he pulled a slip of paper from his boot, dismounted and took it to her.
She waved it aside.
"It's Greek to me--I don't understand this taking everything."
"No. I--Lady Countess, I say again, I'm very sorry. But I'm only a poor Cossack, to obey orders. Where is the machine? We have to be off--or the Germans will take us--and the metals."
"My son has gone out with it," she said shortly. "You'd take the shoes from our feet if you'd the time."
"No--I would take nothing. Whereabouts is your son with his machine?"
She pointed angrily southwards. The direction was vague. The man looked at the sun, which was getting high.
"He'll be back at midday?"
"I doubt it. He has much to do."
He turned to his men.
"Children! Hasten. Do you go and fetch the bells."
"What bells?" cried the priest in alarm. But nobody answered. The Cossacks left the yard and trotted towards the chapel. Father Constantine hastened after them, the Countess after him. But as the way was rather long and their feet older than they thought, they arrived before the chapel just in time to see the Cossack's take down the three bells and put them on as many horses. One had been cast four hundred years before by an Italian who did much work in the neighborhood. The other two were modern, but of good workmanship.
"And they've taken the bell that used to hang up in the home farmyard," said the Countess ruefully, as a Cossack they had not noticed before came up with it.
Father Constantine had not recovered from the shock of seeing his beloved bells slung across the Cossack saddles, when she gave another cry of anger. Several more Cossacks had come up. Their horses were laden with the copper pots and pans from the kitchen.
"It's as bad as if the Prussians were here," she exclaimed. "What do they imagine we're to cook with?"
The young officer, who had been to the kitchen, now went up to her. His face was crimson.
"Lady Countess, I regret this as much as you do--" he began.
"I doubt it," she retorted.
"... And church bells," put in Father Constantine.
"I wanted," said the youth earnestly, "God knows I wanted to leave Ruvno, where we have had so much kindness, as we found it. But the orders are explicit. We are not to leave any metal at all--which may serve the Prussians."
"It seems to me that between our friends and foes we shall have nothing left but the bare ground," she said.
But she protested no more. What was the good? She and the Father watched them pack up all the rest of the pots and pans in rueful silence. Before starting the young officer approached her again, his cap in hand, his long, shaggy locks all loose and dangling in his eyes.
"My Lady Countess," he said earnestly, "won't you please come with us? I have a spare horse or two and will see you don't put foot to soil till we reach Sohaczer. The Germans will not treat you well. We can pick up your son and the young ladies on our way."
"It seems to me that you have left nothing for the Germans to take," she remarked, but not angrily this time. There comes a point where civilians, in the war zone, cease to protest. It is not so much dumb despair, as a knowledge that their words are vain when the "military" come along. They are but spectators of their own ruin.
"Russia is wide," he said simply. "I am a wealthy Cossack at home. If you will come with us I'll see that you reach my farm in safety. My old mother will look after you, and you'll lack nothing, till the war is over."
This touched her. She answered warmly:
"Ah--that is good of you--but I cannot leave my land. Thank you all the same."
He waited a moment after this, saw she meant what she said, and pressed her no more, but wished them both good-bye and good luck, kissing her hand and saluting the priest.
"I am sorry you won't come," he said, mounting his horse. "The Germans won't be good to you."
And he left them reluctantly, followed by his men. The Countess laughed at the odd figures they cut, with her bells and saucepans tied to their saddles; but there were tears in her eyes all the same. When they were out of sight she and the Father returned to their work in the farmyard. They were still there, two hours later, when Martin came running into the barn.
"My lady," he panted, more from emotion than fatigue; "the Prussian brutes are here. One of their officers, who gives his name as Graf von Senborn, wants to speak to my Lord the Count."
"The Count is in the fields. Tell this officer I will see him. Bring him here," said the Countess.
She had on a cotton apron and a kerchief such as peasant women wear. She and the priest looked at one another with uneasiness; they had hoped against hope that the Prussians would keep off till their crops were in a safe place; they had hoped that the invaders would not care to put up at Ruvno, almost denuded of wine and as desolate as could be after nearly a year's war, comforting themselves with the thought that there were places, nearer Warsaw, likely to attract them better. The clank of spurs sounded on the stones; a moment later an officer, whose face was vaguely familiar to the priest, swaggered into the huge barn. Some girls were working at the far end, and stopped to look at him. He saluted and said:
"Where are the Cossacks?"
"They left an hour ago," said Father Constantine, racking his brains to remember where they had met before.
"Is that so?" he asked the Countess.
"Yes. They took the chapel bells and the copper things out of my kitchen. For the rest, you can search the place."
He eyed her with a certain interest. I suppose he had never seen a grand lady stacking before, except, perhaps, for the fun of it. And she was not very quick at the work, for even stacking is hard to learn when you are no longer young. He looked lean, hard, well-bred; a very different type from the man who so nearly carried off their stores last winter. He spoke French fluently, though with true German gutturalness. The others went on with their work.
"That is hard work,Madame," he said after a bit.
"These are hard times,Monsieur," she returned gravely. "The war has left us little but our health and our determination to make the best of things."
"I always heard that Polish ladies have high courage," he went on, with a stiff Teutonic bow. "And now I see it for myself."
"Courage is one of the few things war does not destroy," put in the priest.
The Prussian gave him a glance, as if he were trying to think where they had met before. His face was a worry to the Father. Where, oh where had he seen the man?
"Madame," he resumed, when he had stared at Father Constantine a second time. "Allow me to put some of my men to this stacking. They are rough peasants and will get it done in no time."
She hesitated, then accepted his offer, which the priest was glad of. She had been working hard since the early morning, and looked very tired. He called some troopers and set them to work with short, dry words of command, which they obeyed with alacrity. Then he went with the Countess and her chaplain into the house, asking all sorts of questions about it. Of course he had heard of Ruvno and its now ruined glories. And when the Countess left them to rest, he questioned Father Constantine about the plate, jewels, and especially the emeralds. The priest answered him as best he could, and they gradually lapsed into silence. He sat in one of Ian's easy chairs smoking a cigar. Suddenly he got up and said:
"Take me to the Countess' wardrobe."
Father Constantine stared at him in amazement. Hitherto his manners had been such an improvement on those of preceding Prussians that he could scarce believe his ears.
"Do you hear? To her wardrobe," he repeated, with a shade of sternness.
"What for?"
He laughed.
"She has no need for old laces and sables, now she works on the farm," he answered.
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Father Constantine angrily.
The Graf's face flushed; he broke into German.
"I'm master here. And I command you to take me up to the Countess' wardrobe. You'll find, if you persist in your refusal, that my men can do other things besides stacking."
And now that he was in a rage and had fallen back to his native tongue, the priest recognized him. And his own wrath grew.
"So, Graf von Senborn," he cried, "you're a true follower of the Crown Prince, your master. He loots in Belgium; you in Poland. How many Polish children have you tormented since I met you at Zoppot?"
"Ah--you're the little priest who refused to salute His Imperial Highness," he retorted, forgetting furs and laces for the moment. "It's a pity I didn't chuck you into the Baltic, I should have saved myself the trouble of having your miserable body hanged up on a tree now."
He made towards the old man, who stood firm, because he did not care if he were hanged. But he did want to speak his mind first.
"I wish your evil-faced Crown Prince were here, too," he said, as fast as he could, lest the Prussian strike him down before he spoke his mind. "I'll tell that son of the Anti-Christ what none of his sycophants dare speak of----"
"Some of your Polish plots again?"
"No plots, but the vengeance of the Almighty. Hell-fires await him and his friends for all the deviltries you----"
Strong hands were round the thin throat; Father Constantine felt his last moment had come. But there arose a great noise and shouting outside. Von Senborn threw down his victim, as you would cast off a cat whose claws have been cut, and rushed into the garden. He suspected treachery. Father Constantine picked himself up and followed. There were things he wanted to tell him yet, things which had lain heavy on his soul for many a long day.
He was in the garden, surrounded by bawling troopers, who were very excited. Four of them held two Cossacks. Two of them held Ian. Vanda was there, too; she rushed up to the priest; she was in tears.
"Oh, Father, they've arrested him ... and he knows nothing about it."
"About what?"
"These Cossacks. They were hiding in one of the lofts. They had matches. He says"--she indicated von Senborn--"they were going to burn the troopers as they slept."
"Found any more?" von Senborn asked some men who came up now.
"Not one."
The officer turned to Ian.
"You're to blame for this."
"I know nothing about it."
"Do you know what we do to people who hide the enemy?" von Senborn pursued. "We shoot them."
"He knows nothing about it," put in one of the Cossacks, and got a kick for his pains.
"Nothing," said Ian. Was this the last moment of his life? He spoke up; but his words were of no avail.
"Oh, please listen to me," cried Vanda, in agony. "He knows nothing about it. We have been harvesting since six in the morning ... away over there." She pointed towards the south. "Everybody says the Cossacks left at eleven."
"Nobody knew of our hiding but our ataman," said another Cossack. "Shoot us you can. But the Count is innocent."
They did not even trouble to kick this one, who protested and defended Ian in vain. Ian defended himself, too, but he felt all along how useless his words were. What was about to happen to him had happened thousands of times since last July. He remembered Zosia's sister in Kalisz. Father Constantine felt his poor old head swimming with the agony of the thought. Nothing more terrible than this could have occurred. He, too, saw that von Senborn had made up his mind.
"You were found near the Cossacks," the latter argued. "You're guilty." Then he turned to Vanda: "Go into the house. Keep the Countess there and away from the windows. When I've shot him I'll tell her myself."
"I hid them! Shoot me!" cried Vanda, throwing herself at his feet "For the love of God, spare him. He went out at six. The Cossacks left at eleven. How could he know? Take me instead! He is wanted more than I!"
"Vanda! Vanda!" cried Ian, struggling to get away from those who held him. "Don't believe her!" he cried to von Senborn. "She's as innocent as I am. If you must shoot somebody, shoot me."
Von Senborn looked from one to the other; but his face did not soften.
"You're wasting time," he said to her. "Go into the house."
She went up to Ian. They gazed at each other, reading the secret each had guarded too long. Her eyes were full of love as well as misery; his face, under its sunburn, was white as hers.
"Can nothing be done?" she wailed.
"Go to Mother. Don't let her see."
As her eyes lingered on his face his heart ached; many bitter thoughts and feelings rose within his soul. He wrenched an arm from one of his captors.
"Leave me!" he ordered. "I'll not run away."
At a sign from their officer the two troopers loosened their hold and stepped back a couple of paces, leaving the cousins together. They said little; for at such moments human lips have not much to say. Hearts are too full of words; words too poor to be heart's mouthpiece. He knew now, when it was too late, that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that Joseph was but an incident, mostly of his making; that he loved her, that the happiest hours of their joint lives had been spent together in his old home, in his large, cool forests, by the frozen river, under the broad grayness of a northern sky; over the crisp snow and flower-decked meadows; on his sleek, fleet horses, in his swift-running sleighs, whose bells made jangled music in the frosted air; in every season of God's good year, in every phase of his pleasant, long-dead life, he and she had been all in all, she the key to his happiness, the gate to that earthly paradise which he had shunned till Joseph closed it to him. And he, in his blindness and procrastination, learnt about it too late.
"Oh--what we have lost!" he murmured, locking her in a long embrace.
"Ian--Ian--my darling!" she sobbed.