Front matter (continued 2)

Ian and the old priest dug the hole and lined it with cement, taking advantage of the bright moon to do it. Then the jewels were put in. They had a discussion about putting pearls there, but could not ask an expert, being cut off from Warsaw again. Ian said the damp might spoil them; his mother that she would rather the damp had them than think they were round the fat neck of some German frau; so they made the bag as thick as possible and put the most valuable pearls into a small thermos flask which Ian found among his hunting tackle. You must remember that the nearest jeweler's shop was twenty versts from Ruvno and might have been a thousand for all the good it was, since the Germans were there and the Russian troops between it and them. So they had to manage with the primitive things they found at home. Besides, as Father Constantine said, their object was to have the stones packed in as small a compass as possible, because if they wanted them at all during the war it would be to escape with.

Whilst preparing one hole they decided it would be better to divide the treasure into two parts, so that if for some reason or other they could not safely get to one they would have some chance with the other. So Ian and Father Constantine set to work on another hole, on the road to the east of the house, whereas the first was on the west, for so goes the road from Warsaw to Plovk, and thence follows the river Vistula into Prussia. They had to work quickly, for the moon was on the wane, and they could not be seen digging by the wayside at night. Even as it was, they were often interrupted by troops and supplies passing. One night, just as they were about to cement the second hole, a sotnia of Cossacks took it into their heads to bivouac near the secret spot, so they hastily covered it up and slunk home again, carrying the little sack of cement on their backs. They looked back and saw two Cossacks searching on the very spot where they had been working. This showed how careful they must be. At last, however, the two holes were filled with straw and moss, then the bags with the jewels, with earth beaten down, potatoes, sausages and more loose rubbish. The jewels were well at the bottom and several layers away from the food. This done, the women were taken--after dark--to the spots until they knew exactly where to find the treasure; and each learned by heart how many paces one hole was from the ditch and the other from the bend in the road that came a few hundred yards after you passed the windmill. That has been shot down long ago; but they had all passed the place and visited the spot so often that they could find the treasure blindfolded. The two men covered up the tops so well that none could tell the ground had been disturbed twenty-four hours after they had finished.

So much for the jewels. They now had to find a place for the little plan that would enable them to get food supplies. There was not so much secrecy about this, there could not be, for both the butler and housekeeper had to know where to get things. By this time they had heard quite enough about the soldiers to be sure that if they were hungry and thought there was food about they would try to get it. But the Grand Duke Nicolai Nicolawitch had his troops well in hand; only the Prussians ordered their men to loot as much as they pleased; and who could tell how soon they might come?

Ian had ordered a good stock of foodstuffs to be left in the huge storeroom, to satisfy any looters that that was all they had. If that went, they could fall back on bricked-up supplies; if it were let alone, so much the better. But the stores in the cellar had been bricked up in six different parts; the place underneath the house was a labyrinth of passages and small cellars. Ian was for destroying the written list when they had learnt the geography of the food, and knew the Prussians were upon them. Till then, it might be kept in the chapel; for they knew that the Russians, even the most savage of the Cossacks, would respect holy ground. Vanda said nothing, but learnt the contents off by heart, going down into the cellars with Zosia and Martin, plan in hand, till they all three soon knew where everything was bricked up. This set Minnie to work, for Vanda, who seemed to her childish in far-off days of peace, had developed nowadays. Little by little she, too, learned the mystery of the cellars; so another detail, and a most important one, as things turned out, was mastered. In the storeroom were lists of the food put there, nailed inside the huge cupboards and headed: "Complete List of Foodstuffs in Hand." This little trick was an idea of Ian's. Later on, when it seemed certain they could not escape a visit from William's troops, he had the old Tokay unbricked and put in one of the open cellars. Minnie asked him why he was going to give them such good wine.

"Because they know it is here," he answered. "I don't want them to set about looking for it. Some old German professor called once with introductions and asked if he might see the cellar-book. Like an ass, I let him. His essay came out in some German review with extracts from my cellar-book."

Meanwhile, all the able-bodied men, except only sons and supporters of widows, had been called to the colors. Before going off, the men trooped into the hall, kissed the Countess' hand and had her blessing and her promise that neither wife nor child should want so long as Ruvno could help them. And Father Constantine, who had taught them all their catechism and their prayers, said a prayer. And then they marched away, singing hymns which have been heard on every battlefield in which Poles took part since Christianity came into Poland, and swinging their sturdy arms; for so the Russians teach their soldiers to march....

They went down the shady avenue and along the hot, dusty road to the dépôt, five miles off. And at their head rode Ian and Father Constantine, to give them a send-off. Long after they were out of sight the three women could hear their voices, the men singing in unison, and the wives or sweethearts, who could keep up with them by running alongside, chiming in with their shrill tones; and Minnie thanked God that Ian, if he was to die, would die with her in his beloved Ruvno....

And as she watched them disappear into the fields of death and glory a great sadness came over her; for she knew that between yesterday and all the days to come in her life lay a deep abyss; that life itself would never be the same again; that a scale of pleasant illusions had fallen from her eyes and she must now face hard, unwelcome facts and live a fuller, sterner life than she had ever dreamed of; and the thought that the old order had left them all, on this great battlefield, forever, made her feel that she had lost somebody very very dear to her; and so the tears came into her eyes, though she tried very hard to swallow them.

As the voices died in the distance, they heard a long, dull roar. She looked at the Countess, who was fighting her tears, too.

"Heavy guns," she remarked. "In the Kalisz direction."

Their new life had begun.

V

Father Constantine had never much of an opinion about the Kaiser and his eldest son. A couple of years before the war he was obliged to take a cure for his old bones in a little town on the Baltic, where the humble folk are still Poles and Catholics. He looked upon the Crown Prince's face many times, for the Kaiser had banished him to the little town, where he swaggered in his blue and silver uniform, leering at the pretty women and sneering at the old ones. And he noted that those eyes were full of evil, though he little dreamed it was God's will to give his wicked passions play in Belgium and France. All the Prussians in that town used to cringe to him; but Father Constantine took no notice, so that at last a Prussian subaltern, in a gorgeous uniform like his master's stopped him in the street and said he would be punished if he continued to ignore the Crown Prince when he passed him. But the old man never did salute the Crown Prince, because he knew how he and his father persecuted little Polish children, having them flogged for not saying their prayers in German, and dragging them from the steps of the altar at their first communion, to prison. He told this to the gaudy officer, whose Teutonic blue eyes blazed with rage. He quite expected to be arrested or at least taken back to the Russian frontier by a couple of German policemen. But nothing happened: they left him alone. But Father Constantine thought they might meet again, for war brings people together in a curious way; and if the Crown Prince should come to Ruvno he was ready to tell him what he thought of his evil actions, even if he were hanged for it. Once in his life, at least, said Father Constantine, he should hear the truth about himself, for he was always surrounded by parasites and sycophants, who praised everything he did.

Father Constantine not only talked about these things but set them in his diary; his old head could not keep its thoughts on one thing, even on paper, and he found how hard it was to pick out the most important things he had seen in two months' war, having learned the habit of wandering on in his diary about all kinds of matters. But he felt lonely without it; and hoped, too, that one day he might be the humble means of telling the world what happened in a country house in Poland during the Great War. Besides, he argued, when some foreigner realizes what Poland bears, he, whether he were French, English or American, would understand that Poland, having endured so much, must be saved, because it is against the laws of God and man to tear a country into three parts and put each under foreign domination, making father fight against son, brother against brother.

Ever since Ian and he had left the Ruvno men at the Kutno dépôt, he had heard the ceaseless roar of heavy guns day and night. By night he saw them flash around when walking out by the windmill for a little fresh air after leaving the wards. He saw the come and go of large armies and small detachments, of baggage trains, artillery, field hospitals, of war accessories whose very names he ignored but which he declared Beelzebub alone could have conceived. The Countess had given rest, shelter and food to Cossacks of the Urals, who think horse flesh better than capon, and to wild Siberians, who look as shaggy as their little horses and who are infidels, but whom no hardships can dishearten. They slept outside, or in the farm stables. And a pretty mess they made. Poor Ian used strong words when he saw what the first batch had done; but he grew used to it. In the house they had fops of the Imperial Bodyguard, who threw away the soft life of Petrograd, a very wicked city, so the priest said, to sleep in ditches and eat tinned meat. And they were quite cheerful about it, for some came back wounded, and the old priest talked to them. It shocked him to rub shoulders with all these Russians at first. But they were friendly and would vow with strange oaths that Poland must regain her liberty after the war. Sometimes he wondered if he would be there to see that glorious day, or if Ruvno would be standing by then. Even now, poor Ian was half ruined, after only two months of war. His forests, once the pride of Ruvno, had either been cut down for military purposes or burned by shell fire. So far, those near the house were spared; but they were not of great value; it broke his heart to see the stumps and scorched trunks for versts around, and the priest's, too. He had watched some of these forests being planted, years before Ian was born or thought of. They had been tended with great care and grew into the best timber in that part of Poland. Even the Tsar's forests, which began near Ruvno's boundary, were no better. One morning, an old Jewish factor who used to do errands for the house when there was a town they could send to, came up--God knows how these Jews got about--and told them that the Prussians had cut down two hundred square versts of the Tsar's forest land north of Plock and sent the lumber down the Vistula into Prussia. Ian expected they would do the same with his property when they had the chance.

The autumn crops, especially potatoes, suffered terribly from the movements of so many troops, though Ian had to own that the Grand Duke saw that they were spared as much as possible. But even he could not be everywhere at once, nor think of an acre of sugar beet when he wanted to drive back the Prussians. Father Constantine dreaded the Cossacks. He saw them at work in 1863, though he had no record of it in his diary, because they burned down his home and all it contained in the spring of 1864. However, these were old doings, and many Russians who passed through Ruvno told him they regretted what happened then as deeply as he did. Ian managed to gather in a good deal of the Ruvno grain, but the peasants in most of the villages round had not enough potatoes to keep body and soul together during the winter.

One afternoon late in September, the priest was in the home-forest burying a Polish sapper who had died of wounds the night before. He had just planted the wooden Cross in the sapper's grave when he saw a big, dirty Cossack coming towards him. This man had a reddish beard, his shaggy cap and high boots smelt of earth, pitch and a rough life. He had seen many like him and knew the look of a man who has been fighting from that of one who is only going to fight. He could not define the difference, but it was there, stamped in their faces. Mud stuck to him, though it was not the mud which said this Cossack had come from the battle line. What with dirt and sunburn he was as black as the pieces of oak Ian had pulled from the river, where it lay for centuries, to make house wainscot of.

"Good-day, priest," he began. Father Constantine noted that he had the good manners to speak Polish.

"Good-day, my son." His merry eyes belied his savage-looking red beard. There was something familiar about him, too. "I've seen you before; but where?"

"Ah--where?" he guffawed, and sat on the grave, thereby smoothing the parts that lazy Vitold had left all knobbed. Father Constantine felt for his glasses, remembered that he had left them on the window-sill in the sacristy, and peered at the new-comer helplessly. If any man had told him three months earlier, that he would be quietly watching a Cossack seated on a Catholic's grave and splitting his sides, Father Constantine would have called that man a liar. But war, as he admitted, changes even an old man's point of view, especially if he happen to be in the thick of it.

"If you have something to laugh at, tell it me," he said, tired of seeing the stranger enjoy a joke he knew nothing of.

"Laugh!" he cried. "Why, I could laugh for a week, just to see Ruvno again. And you not knowing me, after all the wallopings you've given me, too."

This made Father Constantine think. He did thrash a Cossack once, but it was in 1863, and this man was young.

"Not in 1863?" he asked doubtfully.

"No--more like '93," and the Cossack laughed again.

"I've only walloped village boys lately. And we'd no Cossacks in these parts before the war."

"How about Ian?" he asked.

"Count Ian, you mean," said the Father with dignity. He hated these democratic ways the Russian soldiers had of saying "thee" and "thou" to everybody.

"And Roman Skarbek," he went on, unabashed.

"Skarbek?"

"Don't you remember how you walloped us when we ate up all the cherries Aunt Natalie's housekeeper had thrown out of the vodka bottle? Lord, how drunk we were!" and he grinned, being tired of laughing, I suppose.

Then the priest remembered the story and recognized him. It was Roman Skarbek himself, the young man who won a fortune at Monte Carlo but could not win Vanda.

"What do you mean, coming here dressed like a savage?" he asked angrily, for it annoyed him that the trick had succeeded, all through his having left his glasses in the sacristy. "Don't you know what's due to a Pole and a Christian?"

"Aren't Cossacks Christians?" retorted Roman in that pleasant way which always made the Father forgive his boyish deviltries sooner that he ought. "Come, Father, be just."

"Well," he admitted, "some of them are. But why be a Cossack when you can help it?"

"Can't help it. Being a volunteer, they made me a Cossack."

"Before this war I detested the very sight of their tall caps and with good reason," said the Father. "But such is the power of Prussian brutality that Poles now fight side by side with wild children of the steppes to drive the soldier of the anti-Christ out of our country. Where have you been?"

"In Masuria," and Roman told him some of his experiences, adding that he had come to Ruvno with Rennenkampf, for a few hours.

"Well, I'm glad you've killed a few Germans. But you had better cut off that red beard before you go to the Countess."

As he got on his feet the priest was glad to see he had finished Vitold's work with the sods. He liked the graves to look neat.

"Aunt won't mind the beard. Let's go to her."

He whistled to his horse, which was browsing near by, and walked towards the house. He asked about Vanda, whether she was anxious for Joseph, how she looked, what she was doing. The priest answered truthfully, though it made him sorry to see the shadow come into Roman's face when he realized that she thought still of Joseph with great love.

"And yet, she hates the Prussians, and he is fighting with them, I suppose," he remarked, hotly.

The Father, almost as hotly, explained that, as he knew, several thousands more Poles were with the Prussian armies, through no fault of their own but because they had the bad fortune to be German and Austrian subjects. Roman agreed that many could not cut away from Germany, but Joseph had gone back when ordered.

"Like one of the herd all Germans are," he added.

As they passed the windmill, that stood just before you turn into the high road on the way to Ruvno from the forest, Szmul, a Jewish factor, stopped them. His cunning eyes shone with excitement.

"Oh, have you heard that great things are happening in Ruvno?" he cried, spreading out his hands in the way Jews have and twisting his mouth about.

"What things?" asked the priest. "Have they driven the Prussians out of Kalisz?"

"No, the Prussians are still at Kalisz. But the great General Rennenkampf has deigned to come to Ruvno."

"We know that."

He looked disappointed, because he took pride in carrying gossip from one village to another. And the Jews always knew the latest news and spread it like wildfire.

"Anything more?" asked Roman.

Szmul made him a deep reverence. You would have thought this dirty-looking man in Cossack uniform was the Grand Duke at least; but that was Szmul's way.

"Oh--yes, General," Szmul knew he was only a lieutenant. "And I'm sure neither of you know it." He threw his arms about, so Father Constantine told him they were in a hurry.

"Well, look over there." He pointed westwards, where the blackened stumps of a forest bordered one of Ian's fish-ponds.

"Well, there's nothing new there. Be quick and tell your news if you have any, for we're off to the house."

"Out there, by the fish-pond, they've caught a spy," he said importantly. "He refuses to say who he is. He was caught cutting wires, and burning the toes of Jewish children."

"He may have been cutting wires but he wasn't burning Jewish children's toes," said Father Constantine sternly. "The Prussians have sins enough on their heads without you inventing more. You know as well as I do that there are no children, Jew or Catholic, within two versts of those fish-ponds."

"But," he protested, "they have caught a spy, and if he wasn't roasting the toes of Jewish children it's only because he hadn't the chance. I saw him being taken into the big house, and they say His Excellency General Rennenkampf is going to shoot him with his own hands to-morrow morning. He'd be shot now, only they hope to find out more about the enemy if they keep him a bit."

"Rennenkampf won't shoot him, but I hope to," said Roman as they passed on.

He and the priest parted outside the gates, one to vespers, the other to seek the Countess and Ian. Father Constantine excused himself from the Countess' table that evening; he preferred to eat in his room when Great Russians were in the house. Besides, he had much to do and knew the General liked to sit over his meals. On his way to the Countess' boudoir, which was used as an office in connection with the little hospital, he met Roman again.

"That Jew was right, Father," he threw over his shoulder. "The spy is here, and my men are to have the shooting of him to-morrow at daybreak."

Father Constantine had a busy hour with Ian's agent, a surgeon and some refugees who came in from a village ten versts off. All these people now walked in and out of the Countess' boudoir, once a sacred spot, as if it were a mill. He and the agent had disposed of the last fugitive and he was going up to the wards when a Russian corporal blundered in.

"What do you want in here?" he asked sharply. It annoyed him to see these louts use his patroness' room as a passage.

He said something in Russian; Father Constantine had made a point, all his life, not to speak that language, but he understood that an officer upstairs had asked for a priest.

"Tell him I'll see him to-morrow."

The man saluted, grinned and said:

"He will be dead to-morrow."

Then the priest remembered the spy they had caught: it was he. The wards would have to wait. He sent a message up to Vanda and told the soldier to take him to the condemned man.

They made their way through the broad passages and landings which were blocked with wounded waiting for treatment, and up a winding stair which led to the turret. It was silent as the tomb till they disturbed an owl and some rats, and almost as dark. Father Constantine had not been up there since Ian was a boy and kept pets which could not stop outside in the winter. He remembered one winter when Roman and Joseph kept a young dog fox up there in the hopes of taming it. But it was never even friendly and when the first signs of spring came through the chinks of its prison, it gnawed the staple from its chain and made off into the fields. He felt glad that this Prussian prisoner would not get away so easily.

Two sentries stood at the top. They unlocked the door at a sign from the corporal and let him into the turret chamber.

It was small and dirty. A straw mattress lay upon the unswept floor; and some broken food. An old packing-case served as table. A candle, thrust into the neck of an empty champagne bottle, gave a feeble light and aft air of sordid debauchery, out of keeping with the place and circumstances. The prisoner sat on one end of the packing-case, his back to the door. He was writing the last letter of his life, and so intent that he took no notice of their entrance.

The priest dismissed his guide with a nod. He saluted, went out, and shut the door noisily after him: and still the man did not turn round. This was all very well, but Father Constantine was wanted below, in the wards, where others were under sentence of death, though not at the hands of Rennenkampf.

"You asked for a priest," he began in his mother tongue, though he knew German, too.

The prisoner rose and faced him. As the old man looked upon him his heart stood still in fear and his knees shook.

"Mother of God! Joseph Skarbek!" he gasped.

And he must die as a spy!

And his own brother was to shoot him!

These thoughts rushed across his brain. They stood looking at each other, both speechless. Joseph Skarbek, whom he had taught and scolded and loved with Ian and Roman, who was to marry Vanda, had come to Ruvno, not to claim his bride, but to spy. When he found tongue it was for reproach.

"How dare you come here like this?" he cried angrily, because great fear always made him furious, and he was aghast at the tragedy which had thus fallen upon his dear ones. His next thought was that none of them, neither Roman, the Countess, Ian nor Vanda must know this hideous secret, up in the turret chamber. He must find Rennenkampf, tell him the tale, plead with him that this prisoner be shot, if die he must, by another man's orders, and not Roman's. There was no time to be lost.

"Wait," he said. "I'll be back soon."

Joseph grasped his arm as he made for the door, and he saw how haggard his face was and how wild his eyes. Calm, self-contained Joseph had vanished; he was the incarnation of tragedy.

"For the love of God don't tell them," he muttered huskily.

"I'm not mad."

"Then where are you going?"

"To the chapel--for the Sacred Vessels."

He hastily prayed God to forgive him for using His Vessels to hide the truth; but could not tell the boy the real reason for his sudden departure. Outside, he had to explain to the sentries, who said they supposed it would be all right, only he must bring a permit if he wanted to go into the room again.

It took him some time to find an officer, who said that Rennenkampf had left Ruvno half an hour ago.

"But somebody must be in charge," he said, for the place swarmed with troops.

"I am," he snapped. He was a hard-faced, battered-looking man, hated the Poles and believed every Catholic priest a Jesuit, bent on his neighbor's destruction for the benefit of his Order. Father Constantine stated his case, after he had promised to respect the confidence. He yawned through most of the story; but when he heard that Roman Skarbek had been ordered to shoot his own brother, his narrow eyes flashed with rage.

"A Pole has no business to fight against us!" he cried.

"Colonel, there are several million Poles in Germany and Austria not through any fault of..."

He stamped his feet.

"Don't argue, priest! I won't have it. This Polish Count could have blown his brains out when they told him to fight us--and spy on us. I'll make an example of him. Eh, God, I will!"

"You gave me your word of honor to respect my secret," said the other, looking into the depths of his narrow eyes till he had to drop them. He thought for a moment.

"True," he growled. "I did give you my honorable word. But I will not cancel General Rennenkampf's order. This young volunteer will take his men out to shoot his traitor brother. It will be a lesson to him, and to all Poles."

And all eloquence was without avail, though Father Constantine pleaded earnestly with him. But war had turned this already hard man into adamant.

"No and no, and yet once more no!" he said with a calm that was worse than his rage. He even grumbled at a request for a pass to show the two guards; but gave it at last.

As the priest left he met the Countess and she kept him some time. Then he had to go to the chapel. As he felt his way up the turret stairs, determined to stop with Joseph till the end, he heard steps behind. Somebody was coming up with an electric torch; he waited, rather than bruise his shins in the dark.

"Who's there?" His heart sank; it was Roman's voice.

"Go back!" he ordered. "I forbid you to come up here."

But he came up, put his arm around the old man and helped him up the stairs. "I know all," he said.

"All about what?"--this hoping against hope that Roman meant something else.

"About Joe, up in there."

"That narrow-eyed Muscovite told you. I suppose he scrupled not to break word to a priest."

The only thing left was to try and comfort these poor brothers. Whilst in the chapel, he had nursed hopes of saving Roman from the agony of seeing Joseph die. Now, all was lost; his brain was in a whirl and he felt, for the hundredth time since August, that old age is a terrible thing when you want to help the young and strong.

Roman went into the turret chamber first. He did not rush to his brother and weep; what he said was:

"You're writing to Her."

Joseph looked up at the familiar voice.

"Roman!" was all he said; but his haggard face flushed from ear to ear.

"Yes." He touched his Cossack's clothes. "I am on the other side." And it seemed to the priest that this impulsive and turbulent young man had put Poland's greatest sorrow into those few simple words--brother fighting against brother, flesh against flesh, not of free will, but because a wicked old cynic called Frederick and an ambitious German wanton who usurped the Russian throne divided Poland between them more than a century ago.

"On the other side," repeated Joseph bitterly. He, too, was suffering.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, showing them a square of dirty white doth sewn on to the front of his tunic.

"No."

"The Prussian way of branding Polish conscripts. Easier to shoot us if we try to desert."

"Such is the way of Prussians," said Father Constantine. They stood there looking at one another as though they were three strangers at a loss for something to say. Father Constantine put the Sacred Vessels on the floor and waited. Joseph, he reflected, had all night in which to make his peace with God, Who understands these tribulations, and why they are laid upon us. As for himself, he felt very old and of small account by the side of these stalwart boys, each worth ten of a worn-out priest too infirm to fight, and fit only to watch the young and the stalwart die before their time. Joseph spoke first; his thoughts still ran upon Vanda.

"You'll be able to marry her now," he remarked hoarsely. "Make her happy."

"I'll do my best," said Roman.

At the time Father Constantine knew not what he meant, for years dull the mind as well as the eye. He looked so peaceful despite the overhanging sorrow, that he began to wonder if the boy thought the prize of winning Vanda was worth all this.

Joseph took up his sheet of paper and tried to dry the ink at the candle flame. The priest noticed there was a fresh wound on his wrist.

"Let me see your hand," he said.

"It doesn't matter--now." He smiled nervously. Then: "Do they know I'm here?"

"No," answered Roman. "They must never know."

"Never." Another pause: the candle scorched his raw wound, and he muttered something.

"How did you know?" he asked Roman.

"Never mind how." He went near his brother, much reproach in his voice. "Oh, why did you do it, Joe? What in the world induced you to put on this?" He tugged angrily at the Prussian uniform.

"Because there, in Germany, we were a herd ... and I little thought what this war was going to be." Then he turned to the priest, lowering his voice. "And I know, too, in the bottom of my heart, that I went with the herd because it seemed better to die fighting than to be shot for not going on. Oh, the misery of it all!"

"My child, God is merciful."

"I have explained what I could, as clearly as I can, here," he went on, more quietly. "To Vanda."

"But explain it now, to me," his brother insisted.

Joseph sighed. "It is too long and too late. See that she gets this without knowing I have been here." He swallowed a lump in his throat and went on: "I did what I thought best." He looked round the little room, and his voice broke. "To spend my last night here, a prisoner, in Ian's house, so near her and yet so..." His voice refused to come.

Roman was pacing the floor in that impatient way he had. Suddenly he stopped, and said with decision:

"There's not a moment to lose!"

"I have the night before me," remarked Joseph, looking first at the Sacred Vessels, then at the priest "We must wait till midnight, in any case."

"I don't mean that," said Roman. "You must escape." He had lowered his voice: they talked in whispers now. Joseph's eyes were alight with sudden hope.

"Yes, but how?" asked Father Constantine.

"We change clothes," answered Roman, and he began to undress. "You and the Father leave the room together, Joe dressed in my things. In the dark the men won't know it isn't me. Go down to the chapel together." He handed his high Russian boots to Joseph, who was taking off his own, somewhat reluctantly.

"Well, but how about you?" he objected.

"Never mind me. Father Constantine will hide you in the chapel."

"I know of a place where nobody will think to look for him," said the priest.

"But what are you going to do?" asked Joseph, still at his first boot.

"Wait till the men outside have fallen asleep. Then I take off that Prussian uniform you've got on and sneak past them. I know every corner of this place, which they don't."

Joseph was not satisfied. "You'll be locked in," he objected. Roman pulled out some nippers.

"I've got these. The lock is old. So hurry up, or we'll have the men in, wondering why Father Constantine is still here. I wouldn't plan this if it wasn't safe."

Joseph obeyed.

"How long am I to keep him in the chapel?" asked the priest.

"Till the rest of the Russians leave. We're off at dawn to-morrow. Ian can keep him quiet in one of the cellars for a day or two till the spy affair blows over, then you must go and fight for us. Promise?"

"I promise," answered Joseph. Roman did not seem satisfied.

"Swear it," he insisted, holding up his fingers.

Joseph swore; then they embraced, in the Polish way.

"That's right," said Roman, smiling and happy again. "I thought we'd find some way out of this muddle." He glanced at Father Constantine. It took some time to persuade Joseph that Roman would get out all right. Indeed, the priest, too, had fears about it; guards, he said, sleep with their eyes open. But Roman was so enthusiastic and hopeful, so thoroughly master of the situation that he inspired the others with his optimism. Besides, the priest knew he was thinking of to-morrow morning; and the power of the secret they shared overcame his objections.

They changed clothes at last, Joseph putting the Cossack's cap well over his eyes. Then they embraced again. Joseph began to talk of gratitude; but Roman cut him short.

"I'll see you soon, I hope. Meanwhile, marry Vanda and fight for us."

"I will. Oh, Roman, you're heaping coals of fire on my head."

"Fiddlesticks! Now, be off, and show a brazen face."

Roman had put on the Prussian clothes far quicker than Joseph had taken them off, and before the others left, threw himself on the straw mattress, his back to the door. The brothers were much the same height and build, and Roman had shaved his red beard before sitting down to supper with the Countess and Rennenkampf that night. His face was darker than Joseph's, though he had washed; but the light was so bad and the guards so indifferent and unsuspecting that Father Constantine felt almost easy in his mind when a sentry looked in as he let them out.

"He's got his passport," he remarked, nodding towards the mattress. "German swine."

He saluted Joseph, who strode downstairs, clanking his spurs and carrying himself as straight as you please. In one of the corridors they passed a cornet, who called out to him; but he strode on, muttering something between his teeth. Father Constantine noticed that the subaltern was going up to the turret. After his visit the sentries would probably doze. Roman knew what he was doing, anyway.

It was nearly three when, at last, the priest threw himself into a chair in the sacristy. He could not leave the chapel precincts while Joseph lay hiding there. Not that he hoped to be any good, supposing that the Russians took it into their heads to look there for their quarry; but he felt he would be in a fever of apprehension if he went to his rooms. With some trouble and many precautions he had managed to hide Joseph under the altar of a side chapel, dedicated to the Mother of God of Czenstochova. The altar was there temporarily, the Countess having ordered a marble one last time she was in Rome; the war had stopped its arrival, and only the other day she had said how sorry she was not to get it sooner. And now, it looked as if the wooden altar was to save Joseph's life. Its back was hollow, and there he hid.

The priest could not sleep, tired though he felt. His mind was full of trouble. Suddenly, he remembered that the narrow-eyed Muscovite knew the story of Joseph's arrest and would suspect him when he heard of the escape, would search the chapel. But then he comforted himself with the thought that even he would not order his men to pull out an altar. He was not a Prussian. After that, he began to worry about Roman. How could he get past those guards? The more he thought about it the clearer it seemed that he had run his head into certain danger. Not only would he be caught, but all his dear ones would be dragged into the trouble; that Muscovite would punish every inmate of Ruvno in his rage. Such were his thoughts as night gradually left the sacristy.

At last he fell into a troubled doze. He was awakened by the sound of musket shots coming through the open window. With vague fears he hurried into the garden. A young subaltern was enjoying the last of the Countess' roses; all was quiet.

"Reminds me of Monte Carlo," he remarked.

"What were those shots?"

He turned his head towards a tall pine, where smoke, blue in the air, still lingered.

"Only a German." He plucked a large red rose, heavy with dew, saluted and walked off, whistling.

With shaking knees the old man staggered to the stretch of sward upon which Prince Mniszek killed Ian's father, years ago. Under the pine lay a huddled form. Somebody had thrown a blanket over it. He drew it aside and knelt before the body. The film of death had covered his eyes. His wounds were horrible. But it was Roman, dressed in the Prussian uniform, the one white patch of cloth stained with blood....

Had he been caught? Did he, when he sent Joseph down, know that this was the only way to save him? Or did the thought of Vanda's happiness urge his sacrifice? The priest remembered his anxiety that Joseph should promise to fight against Prussia, his insistence for a solemn oath. Did he think that, since one of them must die, better he, rather than the man Vanda loved? Who shall look into his heart, one of the bravest and truest that ever beat? Father Constantine puzzled his brains many times, but found no answer. And he could not ask anybody to help, because he alone knew that Roman Skarbek, and no Prussian spy, lay under the pine tree in the rose garden.

He never even found that subaltern, who must have gone off while he was weeping over Roman's remains. A couple of soldiers came up to take them away. He could not bear the thought of their burying him in a ditch, wanted him to lie amongst the trees and the other soldiers, where he had been the day before, laughing and joyous because he found Ruvno safe in the midst of the storm.

"Leave him to me. He was a Catholic," he pleaded. They looked at each other.

"We've orders to bury him."

"Then take him over there," he pointed to the home forest.

"Too far," said one. "We're off this minute."

As they dug a hasty grave for him he went for Holy Water, and gave him Christian burial. And much later, when he could control his face, he told the Countess that the German who had been shot in the Garden was a Catholic; so they put up one of the wooden Crosses such as you can see by the thousand in Poland to-day. And when there was nobody about he used to pray for his soul. And sometimes, in the very early morning, he would take the portable altar out there, and say a Mass for Roman Skarbek.

And because the burden of his secret was worse than his heart could bear, he sat up all night when the household thought him asleep and set it down in his diary.

VI

Ian, on waking that morning, found that all the Cossacks had left. He went in to breakfast, feeling a little hurt with his cousin, Roman. He might at least have shouted a farewell through the window.

"Has anybody seen Roman this morning?" he asked the rest of the family as they met for the morning meal.

"He came in last night for a moment, after supper," said the Countess. "But I was going to the wards and we did not talk. He said some officer had sent for him."

"He was going to shoot a spy at daybreak," said Minnie. Vanda was silent. She had not seen him at all, had kept away from the supper-table, on purpose to avoid him.

At that moment Father Constantine came in. His face was ashen gray and distorted with emotion.

"What's the matter?" they all asked.

"Nothing. That is..." He could not speak. Ian made him sit down and went to a sideboard for brandy, which he waved aside.

"Joseph Skarbek is here," he stammered.

"Roman, you mean?" suggested Ian.

He shook his head and said with sudden vigor:

"No--not Roman. He..." Then, with another effort, painful to see, he added: "Roman went away this morning."

They thought he was going to faint. Ian loosened his neckband, the Countess dipped her napkin in water and dabbed his wrinkled face; Vanda made him drink something. Minnie stood near, watching and listening. He had enough people taking care of him; besides, it took all her time to follow what was said. They talked Polish; a habit of theirs whenever they got excited or related thrilling experiences, so that she had to concentrate all her energies upon listening to them. They were pained and puzzled over Father Constantine, speculating as to what had happened to upset him like this.

"He is overworked," was Vanda's verdict, "I'm sure he's not been to bed last night. Look how rumpled he is."

He lay back in the chair, his eyes closed, his thin hands, puckered with age and none too clean, closing and unclosing on the chair arms.

"Worn out," said Ian, whilst his mother watched her faithful chaplain with deep concern. "I'll take him into my room. It's quiet there." He proceeded to do this; but the patient suddenly sat upright and said peremptorily:

"Leave me alone!"

"But you must rest," explained the Countess, soothingly.

"Nonsense.... I was never better in my life." They exchanged glances; the poor old man was out of his mind; never, in all the years he had been at Ruvno, had he spoken to her like that. Before they had recovered from their astonishment he got up and walked across the room, tottering a little, but more sure of his step every minute. They watched him in silence and Ian, at least, stood spellbound. This little old man, with his creased alpaca soutane, muddy shoes and unshaven chin, dominated the room.

He reached the door, which was a long way off, just as one of the servants came in with coffee.

"Give me that! And go away!" he ordered, taking the tray from its astounded bearer.

"Do as the Father says," said Ian, hurrying to take the heavy tray.

"Be off with you, quick!" repeated Father Constantine. The man obeyed, filled with curiosity. He locked the door, and turned to Vanda, whispering angrily:

"I tell you, Joseph Skarbek is in the chapel."

"Yes, yes," she agreed soothingly. Her tone only irritated him the more. He stamped his foot.

"Not yes, yes--but give me something to eat for him. He's starving."

"But where is he?"

"In the chapel. Behind the altar of the Mother of God of Czestochova."

"Hiding?" She was white as a sheet

"Of course." He drew them in a circle, and went on, very low: "Listen. Yesterday, the Russians took him prisoner."

"And he escaped?" asked Vanda.

"Rennenkampf said he must be shot...."

"What for?" she faltered.

"Mother of God, how should I know? Don't keep on interrupting." He looked apprehensively at the door, motioned to them to move further away from it and the windows, and went on: now, he spoke French, not for Minnie's benefit, but for secrecy.

"They were to shoot him this morning----"

Minnie, still watchful, saw Ian put his arm round Vanda, who looked ready to faint; she felt a pang of resentment. How dare he, seeing Vanda was betrothed to Joseph! He said something encouraging to her, but Minnie could not make out what it was.

"Last night," continued the priest, "a soldier came for me to see a prisoner. He takes me up to the turret. Imagine my horror, Countess, when I saw it was Joseph."

"Oh--but he's safe?" sobbed Vanda.

"Yes. He's safe."

"But how?" asked Minnie.

"Whilst I was talking to him in the turret, in comes Roman."

"Roman?" they echoed.

"Yes." He eyed Vanda. "Roman is the best man who ever lived. He--he helped Joseph escape." He stopped, brushed away some tears with the back of his hand, and sighed.

"But where is Roman now?" asked the Countess anxiously.

"With his Master."

"With the General?" Ian asked.

Father Constantine nodded, blew his nose with vigor, put his handkerchief away and went on more calmly:

"Roman planned it all. He changed clothes with Joseph, who passed the door with me. We reached the chapel without seeing anybody but a young subaltern who ... who saluted him. I put him behind the altar in the chapel of the Mother of God of Czestochova. Roman said he must stop there till the General and all his soldiers leave Ruvno. Then, Joseph must volunteer for our side. That is what Roman said."

"They've all left!" said Vanda, breaking from Ian and going over to the sideboard, where she hastily piled food upon a plate, smiling and crying in turns and taking no further interest in what the priest said. The others were more interested in Roman.

"But how did Roman get out of the turret?" Ian asked. "Where is he?"

"I told you. With the General."

"You're sure?" insisted the Countess, anxiously.

"Quite. He picked the lock when the guards went to sleep." He turned to Ian. "You remember that lock, how weak it was?"

"But how did he get past the guards?" asked Ian, to whom Roman's non-arrival of the evening before was explained.

"I don't know. But he managed it. He is not a child." Father Constantine spoke peevishly.

"You've seen him since?" asked the Countess.

"Yes, Countess, I've seen him since."

"After he was free?"

"As free as air." He leaned against the paneled wall and put his hand to his head. "I am very tired ... had no sleep ... and no food.... I am getting old."

"You must come and rest now." Ian put his arm round the stooping shoulders. The old man made no further resistance. He was dead-beat.

"But you must help me give him this," said Vanda, holding up her plate of food. Her face was radiant. Joseph was safe, above all he would never fight with Prussia again.

"Let Father take a mouthful first," said her aunt reprovingly. "Can't you see his condition?"

Vanda's heart smote her; she blushed and took some food to the priest, who, however, could eat but little. All he needed was rest.

"The shock," he explained, seeing their anxious faces. "Joseph Skarbek ... up there..."

They would not let him go back to the chapel, but Ian and Vanda, with infinite precaution, took the food to Joseph. Meanwhile, Minnie went to see the turret chamber, which she knew only from the outside. The dark stairway was littered with rubbish left by the soldiers. The chamber door stood open, as if the guards had rushed out of it in vain pursuit of their prisoner. She went in.

There were some dirty plates, and a straw pallet. Her eyes searched the door and the blood rushed to her face. The lock was intact! She examined it. Far from being old and weak, it was quite strong; indeed, it had been put on when Rennenkampf sent Joseph up to await his death. Roman had not escaped that way: she was certain of it, the old priest had hidden the truth. She turned to the window, which was only a slit in the wall, protected by a grating of iron bars. They, too, were firm and strong in the stone work. She looked out and saw a sheer drop of eighty feet, into the moat below. There was nothing Roman could have held, even supposing he had accomplished the impossible and squeezed himself between those bars.

She thought it out rapidly. The others, including Ian, would be curious to see Joseph Skarbek's prison; he would probably come up here himself. As she failed to see how Roman had escaped, since there was no other exit, not even a chimney, she supposed that they, too, would be as puzzled. The priest, she felt sure, knew exactly what had happened; but he was not going to tell. Why should she betray his secret?

She went down to Martin, the old butler, and borrowed some tools he kept in his pantry, then sneaked up again and took off the lock and bolt. The bolt was rusty enough and looked as old as the room itself; but it gave some trouble and she chipped her hands. No prisoner could have taken them off the door without waking the guards, because the bolt was on the outside. She only realized this when she had half finished, for her nerves were upset. Then she put the bolt on again and threw the lock on to the pallet.

On her way back she saw the Countess, Vanda and Ian on the large staircase. They said they were off to see how Roman had escaped, and would she go, too. The tools were under her white nursing apron, and she was in no mood to discuss Joseph's adventure, so she muttered an excuse and went to her room.

Why had she connived at keeping Father Constantine's secret? she asked herself. Did she want to spare all the family the pain of knowing that the door had been opened from the outside, or only Ian? What had Vanda to do with her impulsive action? During that morning, whilst working in the wards, she searched her heart and found the answer. She had been jealous of Vanda for some time past. She felt, without knowing why, that Ian's coldness to herself was connected in some way with Vanda's presence in the house. He had never been the same since that day when the Jew brought news of the Kalisz atrocities and she had refused to go home. Where was Vanda to blame? Ian apparently had no more to say to his cousin than to his visitor; and yet, she did blame the girl. The sooner she married her precious Joseph and went away, the better. Perhaps she would stop on at Ruvno, since Joseph, it appeared, was to fight; but she would be married, and that would make a difference.

Thus she explained to herself the lock-picking of the morning; told herself she would have refused to have anything more to do with Joseph under the circumstances. First, he fights for Prussia: then he risks his brother's life, gives his brother's life, to save his own skin. And now as Vanda did not know that Roman had given his life in exchange, offered it for her happiness, she would marry Joseph. And that is what Minnie wanted her to do, with as little delay as possible.

Ian, too, examined the door, and the lock that Roman, so he thought, had picked and put on the dirty pallet. His mother asked what he made of the business.

"Roman is worth a thousand Josephs," he answered hotly. "Think of the risk! If the soldiers had shot the bolt, he would have been lost."

"But he saved Joseph so that he might fight for the right side," put in Vanda.

Their eyes met. He had his own thoughts on the matter, and his face was stern. Instead of speaking, he went out of the room.

He felt irritable. Though work waited him below he made for the old priest's room; he wanted to hear how Roman had persuaded his brother to accept the exchange. His contempt for Joseph grew at every step. How was he to know the trick would succeed? Yes: Joseph had left his brother in a trap, from which he escaped by the skin of his teeth, because the guards were too lazy to shoot the bolt. And Roman had done it for Vanda's sake. He believed love meant sacrifice and lived up to his belief. How could Vanda care for Joseph? Ian was disappointed in her, thought she had a juster sense of values. How blind love made women!

Father Constantine was asleep, and he had no opportunity that day of talking about the adventure with him. And later on, even, Father Constantine was very reticent about the scene in the turret chamber. When questioned about it, he would shut his bright, bird-like eyes, fold his thin hands together and say, in a voice shaking with emotion:

"It was the most terrible evening of my life. Let us not talk of it."

"Roman will tell me," said Ian, loth to disturb the old chaplain any more. "He may be here any day."

But it was some time before any Cossacks stopped at Ruvno, and when the first contingent rested there for a few hours, they told Ian they knew nothing of Roman's regiment, but thought it was fighting in Galicia.

But Joseph's escape caused changes in the family, all the same.

VII

The Ruvno family had finished supper. There were no servants in the room. Father Constantine was in bed, worn out with the excitement of the night before; and Joseph was still lying low. Martin, the old butler, waited on him; none of the other servants knew he was in the house. All they heard was that a Cossack officer who wished to be quiet had been given the blue guest-room. He had a nasty wound in his hand; but Father Constantine, who was something of a surgeon, said he could treat it without calling in the Russian Red Cross doctor who looked after the wounded. So the four, the Countess, Ian, Vanda and Minnie, were all alone in the room.

Ian had been unusually taciturn during the simple evening meal which replaced the elaborate dinners of peaceful days, and after several attempts to make him talk the others let him alone. Somebody had brought a batch of papers from Warsaw and he seemed to be absorbed in them. Minnie, whose intentions were good, though unfortunate, began the trouble by saying she supposed there would be a wedding soon.

Ian looked up at once. He had been listening all the time. Minnie scented trouble, because of a gleam in his eyes, and was sorry she had spoken. But it was too late now.

"Whose wedding?" he asked.

"Why, mine, of course," put in Vanda.

He thrust aside the paper and took a cigarette from a large box at his mother's elbow, set it alight and began to walk up and down the large room. He remained in shadow for several seconds; there was no electric light in Ruvno and they were obliged to economize in oil in these difficult times. He passed and repassed under the one lamp and they noticed that each time he emerged out of the shadows he looked graver, more determined to perform some unpleasant task. Vanda had grown as pale as when the priest told her Joseph was sentenced to death. Minnie, ever watchful, thought she had changed greatly of late; she used to think her commonplace and dull; but not now. She, too, followed Ian with her eyes.

At last he spoke. And there was all the authority of the head of the house in look, tone and manner.

"Vanda, you cannot marry him, now."

"Why?"

He stopped before her, the table between them, the light shining on his large, well-shaped head. He was calm, his voice low; yet great emotion lay beneath.

"Why did Rennenkampf sentence him to death?"

You could have heard a pin drop in that vast room. All knew the answer, but none had the courage to give it, least of all Vanda, white to the lips, shaking with nervous excitement.

"Think of it," said Ian, almost in a whisper. "And on Ruvno soil."

Quivering in every nerve, she sprang to her feet, her face transformed by passion, indignation, a desire to defend her absent lover.

"It is false!" she whispered hoarsely. "I swear it is false! He never came to spy! He came because they were near; he wanted to see me. His regiment was ordered to France. He could not bear to leave without seeing me, without explaining. He meant to wait by the lake till nightfall, then creep nearer. But some Jews saw him and told a company of sappers, who caught him. How could he tell why he was there, how could he get us in ill report with Rennenkampf? Oh! it is so plain I wonder you haven't all guessed it long ago. And if you don't believe me go and ask him."

"I believe you believe that," he admitted. "But others won't."

She turned to her aunt, asking for championship. The Countess caressed her, but her hazel eyes were firm as Ian's.

"Joseph must clear himself," she said.

"But he has!"

"To you ... but not to those who know he went back to fight for Germany."

Vanda urged no more, but sat down again, her elbows on the white cloth, the picture of dejection. In England, grown-up sons and daughters do much as they please. But here, things were different. Even Minnie knew that Vanda would not marry against Ian's will, because he was the head of her family and the family has an overwhelming moral power in Poland. Each family, whether that of a prince or a peasant, is a little community in itself, with laws and traditions which no member can break without incurring the opposition and anger of the whole. This spirit of family discipline, which has largely disappeared in politically free countries, is, if anything, stronger amongst the Poles since they lost their political freedom, more than a century ago. The reason is simple. Each family is a little unit of social and political resistance, which for generations has been fighting for religion, language and national customs ... and in unity is strength.

Minnie sat quiet as a mouse. They had forgotten her. A servant came to clear the table, handed tea, and disappeared.

Ian sat down again, between Vanda and his mother. Minnie had moved to a shadowy end of the long table. None of them gave her a thought from the moment she mooted Vanda's marriage till the end of their discussion. She had started it; but there her part ended. They were all three under the big lamp, and every line, every change of expression showed clearly. She kept eyes and ears open.

Ian lighted another cigarette. He was nervous; drank some tea and began playing with his spoon, squeezing the slice of lemon left at the bottom of the cup.

As he glanced up at the clock there was a pained look in his face. Honor told Minnie she ought to leave the room. But curiosity held her. This love affair of another woman was partly hers as well.

"I want to see him before he goes to sleep," Vanda said. "Have you anything to say?"

He pulled himself together and began:

"When Joseph obeyed that call to go home I approved. I even warned Roman against the possible consequences of disobedience."

"Well?"

"That was before I knew what this war meant, before Kalisz, Liège, Louvain."

"Joseph loathes all those atrocities as much as any of us..." she broke in.

"Yes. That is a double reason why he ought never to have gone on wearing a Prussian uniform."

"The German soldiers don't know what really happens----" she began, then stopped, knowing the argument would not hold. Joseph was no ignorant peasant.

"I understand his confusion of mind in the beginning," pursued Ian. "We all had it. But afterwards----"

"He would have been shot," she cried. "It's all very well to talk like that when we're in Ruvno. But when your superior officer gives an order, and you disobey, what happens? We're not all heroes, ready to die for an idea in cold blood. Battle is different."

"But we must all try to be honest--with ourselves," he said, and with sincerity; for he found honesty hard that night.

Her bright eyes challenged him and she opened her lips to speak; but he silenced her with a gesture.

"He disapproved the Prussians. Yet he stopped with them."

"He has left them," she retorted.

"Yes. But before he can be honest with himself, or with the family, he must work out the promise he made when Roman helped him to escape."

"The Russians have not been any too good to us in the past," she objected.

"You know it is not a question of Russian, but of right. He can go to France. But I'll have nobody in my family who ends his fighting record in a Prussian uniform."

Vanda sprang up and faced him.

"You talk a lot about honesty to-night," she cried scornfully. "And now I'll begin. I would not say one word against this decision if I thought you were honest, too. I hated to think of Joseph with the Prussians as much as anybody. But that is not the honest reason why you won't let Father Constantine marry us to-morrow, here in Ruvno. That is only a pretext."

"Vanda!" protested the Countess.

"A pretext," she repeated firmly. "Look at him! Look how nervous and insincere he has been all the evening! Do you know why, Aunt Natalie? I will tell you. Because he is the dog in the manger."

"Vanda!" repeated her horrified aunt.

None of them had thought the girl capable of such words. For a moment she looked the incarnation of passion.

"Let him deny it!" she retorted.

He looked up, his face flushed; but he was less nervous than a few minutes earlier.

She turned to her aunt.

"You see," she said. "He says nothing. He can't deny it."

"I don't wish to," he said quietly.

Minnie knew she ought to have tiptoed from the room. But the scene held her. It was not the novelty of seeing Vanda in a rage, nor the novelty of hearing Ian's avowal of love. It was because she felt her own sentence lay in their hot words.

"I don't understand," said the Countess, much troubled. "Surely you can deny your lack of honesty?"

"Yes, I can deny that."

There was a pause. Then he went on: "Just now I asked myself if I was being entirely honest"--he looked at Vanda--"with you. All day I have been asking myself, I was afraid I could not be. But after searching myself I think that, whatever my feelings about you--you personally----"

He stopped. There was no mistaking the nature of his feelings towards her. They were written on his face, shone from his eyes.

"I--I have been honest in this," he concluded.

"We are seldom honest with ourselves," she put in.

"I have tried to be. I believe I have succeeded. And Vanda, on my honor, I believe that, even if I--even had I never given you more than a cousinly thought since--since it was too late, I'd be against your marrying Joseph till he has redeemed his promise to fight on the right side."

She leaned towards him, forgetful even of her aunt now, full of thoughts for Joseph, of him alone.

"Do you know," she said in low, passionate tones, "that there were years, yes, long years, when I loved you, would have died for you; would have followed you barefooted to Siberia rather than be parted from you? And you took no more account of me than of this table. What was I? The little orphan cousin. A bit of furniture in your house. Nothing more."

"Vanda! How unjust!" cried his mother.

She took no notice; I don't think she heard.

"You talk about honesty," she went on. "Take it; bare, ugly truth that few people can tell one another with impunity. Whilst I was giving you every thought, you guessed my devotion, accepted it, put it on a mental shelf to leave or to take down and use, according to how life worked out for you...."

"Oh--what injustice!" said his mother again. This time she heard the reproach; all she said was:

"Let me speak, Auntie." Then, to him: "Yes, as things suited you ... you looked on my devotion, my foolish, dumb devotion, as something to fall back upon, if, when the time came for you to marry, you found nobody you liked better. Oh--I knew you so well.... And through you, I know men. I have not watched your face all these years, day by day, meal by meal across this table, in vain. Here, in Ruvno, buried in the country, I have studied life, in your face, through your words, through the change which has come over you when you knew that both Joseph and Roman wanted me."

"But why bring----" began his mother. Vanda silenced her.

"Because we are out for honesty." Then to him: "Why do you come to me now, when I have learned to forget you, to look at you with indifference, killed the love I had for you after many silent struggles? Why do you try to make Joseph so honest to himself when I want him more than anything else in the world? Why do you step in now?"

Her voice broke; she stopped. As for Ian, the scales had at length fallen from his eyes; he saw his past folly clearly enough; and it was too late. In her "now" lay much meaning.

"You're unjust. I'm not so mean as you think ... or so selfish," he said gently.

She wiped her eyes, damp with unshed tears, but said no more. It seemed that her passion had worn itself out in those burning words she flung at him a moment before. Once again she was the quiet, unobtrusive Vanda, who did many things for other people's comfort and did not always get appreciation.

He took up an illustrated paper, turned over its pages without seeing them, furtively glanced at his mother, who gave him a look of deep sympathy, then left the room.

He did not blame her for this outburst; bore her no bitterness. The indictment belonged to him and he admitted it. But in a way it soothed him to think that she had cared for him once. And it had taken him all this time, all the events of the past few weeks, to teach him what love meant, that passion he had almost dreaded, never cultivated, because he liked a quiet even life, free from emotion. When her hot words fell on his ears they opened up visions to which he had been blind so long. Yes; he cared no longer to deceive himself. He did love her; not as Roman loved women, but in his own way, shyly, hesitatingly, with affection of slow growth that had taken deep root. At last he was honest with himself, admitted the fullness of his folly. It maddened him to think that all the time, whilst he let things drift because he was too comfortable to plunge into the depths of emotion yet untasted; whilst he, in his blindness, let chances drift by, enjoying to the full that pleasant, uneventful life which had been swept away in war's hurricane forever, whilst he could have given her all the comforts and joys of his wealth; whilst he, ignorant of his own heart, not heartless as she said, but selfish, procrastinating, basked in the sunshine of peace and security--all that time her proud bruised heart had fought against the love he held of no account but longed for now with an intensity which left him sore, wondering, almost indignant at his new capacity for passion.

Pacing his office, he remembered that he could not even give her the generous dowry he had planned a few weeks ago. For the moment he had forgotten his financial troubles. Hastily he opened the big safe which stood in the room, took out account books and deed boxes, made rough calculations. He could give her the paltry sum of twenty thousand roubles, unless the Prussians advanced more rapidly than he expected and seized the remainder of his invested wealth. It was a fifth of what he had planned for her when he took that rapid ride to Warsaw, with Roman at the wheel.

He put back his papers, locked the safe and sought the blue guest-room.

He found Joseph sitting by a round table on which a lamp burned. Martin had put away the Cossack uniform and given him one of Ian's dressing-gowns. His hand was bandaged; but except for that he bore no trace of having passed through the experience of war since he last used that room. Yet Ian's feelings towards him had greatly changed. Before, he deemed him rather a prig, but a successful man, a distant relative who would never give him any trouble but in whom he felt no particular interest; not one he would have chosen for friend; but a man he tolerated as a cousin, with whom he had played, quarreled, learnt, and taken punishment in the long years of childhood.

But now, he hated him; hated him for Vanda's sake, for Roman's, for his coming to Ruvno in Prussian uniform, for his letting Roman risk life to save him from a death which, after all, was the consequence of his own conduct. But he determined to master his feelings and get over the meeting without an open quarrel.

Joseph welcomed him with unusual warmth, and this, too, he resented, as he resented his handsome nose and white, even teeth.

"I was hoping you would come," he said. "Tell me all that's happened since this awful war started."

"I won't sit. I've work downstairs."

Joseph gave him a keen look; the tone was ominous.

"You want to know what I was doing on Ruvno soil yesterday."

"Vanda told me your explanation."

"Explanation! It was the truth."

Ian's gray eyes were bright with hostility as he said:

"She has just told me you want to get married at once. I don't approve."

"Indeed!" this sarcastically. "Why?"

Ian paused for a moment. It was getting harder and harder for him to say what he wanted without saying too much, without betraying himself. He took up the open book that lay on the table, glanced at its title, laid it down again. Joseph made no attempt to help him out. The air was full of tension. The least unguarded word would start a quarrel. And neither of them wanted that.

"For one reason," he began at length, "I don't like her to leave home without a rag to her back." He remembered the sables and fine linen he had seen at Warsaw for her, and Joseph wondered why he frowned.

"The date was fixed for the end of this month," the bridegroom reminded him.

"I know. If not for the war, mother would have had the things ready for her. But you know what sort of life we've been leading since you were here last."

Joseph nodded. He noticed for the first time that his cousin had aged in those few weeks; there were lines on his face and gray hairs round the temples that ought not to have been there.

"And then there's her dowry," he went on. "Mother talked it over with you, before."

"She said something about it. I said I wanted nothing. She gave me to understand that you insisted."

"I did. I had planned for sixty thousand roubles ... then. I haven't got it, now."

He took up a paper-knife, inspected it, balanced it on the palm of his hand, put it down again, and sought his words. It had been so easy and so comforting to talk to Roman last night, to tell details of his losses, discuss possibilities, hopes and fears for the future. And to Roman's brother he could scarcely open his lips for bare business. Not only did his animosity grow with every thought; but all the while he was cursing his folly, and Vanda's words of an hour ago, her: "Why do you step in now?" rang in his ears. He was burning to mar this marriage, had one pretext, at least, on his side. Yet, he must be fair, honest with himself and with them. Joseph noticed his embarrassment and misinterpreted it. He thought: "He was always a bit close-fisted, now he's mad with the grief of losing his forest and crops." Joseph, too, had his troubles. Last night, when death had been near, he promised to fight against Prussia with a light heart. He did not regret it. He was prepared to do his duty, to atone for blind obedience to the Kaiser's call of two months back. He had been miserable ever since the scales fell from his eyes, showing him the real issues of the war. But this step meant beggary. Everything he possessed was invested within the limits of the German Empire. Prussia would very soon hear of him, would set a price upon his head, seize his estates and his money. After the war, he would perhaps get them back. That depended on how things went, on which side won. During the evening, thinking over his position, he remembered his aunt's talk of Vanda's dowry with relief. At the time, he had pooh-poohed the idea of taking anything from Ruvno. It had pleased his vanity to marry a portionless maid and give her all. But things were different now. He had counted on Vanda having enough to live upon until the war ended. He knew broadly what Ruvno was worth in peace time, and Ian's news shocked him.

"My dear Ian, I'd no idea you'd suffered so heavily. From the little I saw of Ruvno yesterday things looked pretty bad, especially the forests. But I comforted myself that you could fall back on your investments," he said warmly.

"The Vulcan Sugar Refinery, where I was heavily involved, went the first week of the war," Ian explained stiffly. He wanted none of this man's sympathy. "It was in the Kalisz Province, and you know what happened there. I've a certain amount in a hardware factory in Warsaw, now making field kitchens for the Russian Government. It's paying fifteen per cent. I can't sell out or make over all that stock, much as I'd like to for Vanda's sake. There's Mother to think of, if we have to bolt, and food to buy if we don't. I've a lot of starving peasants on my hands."

"Of course, of course," Joseph rejoined, "I shouldn't think of letting you do any such thing."

"I can manage fifteen thousand roubles. It would have seemed nothing, for Vanda, two months back. It means two thousand, seven hundred and fifty roubles a year. But it would keep the wolf from the door if--if anything happened to either of us. But if the Prussians get to Warsaw, that goes, too."

"Sell out in time."

"I'd lose half the capital--and where to invest the remainder? The rouble is dropping, foreign investments are out of the question."

Joseph was silent. Ian went on:

"But nowadays we've got to take chances. And Vanda will never want for what I--I mean Mother and I can share with her. But there's the other reason against your marriage, now."

"What's that?" His handsome face grew cold again. Ian did not answer at once; the old struggle between honesty and hatred was going on within his heart. He decided to let his foe decide.

"Put yourself in my place," he began huskily. "You come here, a prisoner, in a German uniform. You're all but shot as a spy. Let's not go into the whys and wherefores. But would you, in my place, let Vanda marry Roman, if the things happened that have happened to you, till he had redeemed his promise to fight on the right side?"

Joseph got up and faced his cousin.

"You're the head of the family, I'll not go against your decision," he said quietly.

"I don't want to decide."

"But why?"

"I'd rather not say."

Joseph gave a little laugh. "We may as well be frank with each other and have it out."

Ian made a gesture of dissent.

"Frankness is brutal," he said hastily. "It leaves rancor ... and I want to be fair."

"I suppose you despise me for letting Roman take my place, last night," said Joseph bitterly.

Ian was silent. The other watched his face, but could read little there; his own had flushed.

"It's easy to talk here." He glanced round the comfortable room. "But it was infernally hard to die, like that, and so easy for Roman to get past. He had brought tools with him."

"Yes," said Ian. "He unpicked the lock.... But there was..."

"There was what?"

"Oh, nothing." A sudden wave of passion was coming over him. He could trust himself no longer. He felt that, unless he escaped from the room he would hurl all the bitterness of his soul against Joseph, expose his deep wound to that cold gaze. He made for the door.

"Stop!" said the other peremptorily. He looked back, his hand on the door.

"Sleep on it," he muttered and would have passed out, but Joseph was beside him, his sound hand grasping his shoulder.

"I have made up my mind."

"Ah--and what----?"

"You're right. After the war--if I'm alive."

"No need for that. In six months."

"Then in six months we'll get married. I'll tell Vanda." He put out his hand. Ian wrung it and left the room without another word.

VIII

Ian had no morbid intention of brooding over his troubles, sentimental or material. He was going to fight the one as he was already fighting the other, as he struggled against the starvation and disease which threatened the neighborhood, or against the difficulties of plowing and sowing within range of German guns.

He went into his mother's dressing-room that night with the firm intention of forgetting the evening's events as soon as possible, and her greeting helped him.

"What do you think?" she said. "Vanda wants to go to Warsaw and nurse, instead of stopping with us."

He looked at her with tired eyes.

"If she wants to, let her. I expect she's right."

Then he told her the gist of his talk with Joseph. She listened with disapproval. She would never forgive Joseph's successful wooing.

"I think he ought to wait till after the war," was her verdict. "What is the use of their marrying when he has nowhere to live and nothing to live on? Let us hope they will both think better of it once they settle down again."

And there the matter ended, so far as talk went. She had great hopes that her boy would "take to" Minnie. England would be a very good port in the ever growing storm for him. Of herself she did not think at all. What was left for her if Ruvno went? She busied herself about getting Vanda off, wrote to friends in Warsaw who found a vacancy for her in one of the hospitals which Polish women had started for the Russian wounded. She would be at least as safe there as in Ruvno and Ian would be all the better when she was away. Her own dreams had once been bent on a match between them. But things had changed since then and she wanted Ian to forget that which he could not win.

So she hastened on the day when the girl was to leave the house for work in Warsaw. Ian must drive her to the station because he had nobody left whom he could trust with one of the young, half-broken-in horses that alone remained of his famous stables. One afternoon in November the bryczka stood ready before the front door. It was one he used to use for going round the estate, simple and light, the body of basket-work plaited close and flat, and varnished over. The shafts were longer than one sees in western Europe where roads are better than east of the Vistula; but it went safely over ruts and holes which a closer-harnessed cart would not have taken at all. It was the only vehicle he had left except a heavy closed carriage which needed at least four horses to pull; stables and coach-house had been emptied of their best by several relays of requisitioning commissions.

Vanda, a little pale, slim even in her fur coat, said good-bye to the rest of the family at the front door. The Countess hugged her in silence, not trusting her voice. Who knew what might happen before they met again! Father Constantine gave her his blessing, after much advice about the evils and pitfalls of Warsaw, though his patroness reminded him that she was going to live with an old friend and would be quite safe. Minnie kissed her and wished her good luck, half sorry, half relieved to see her rival leave the field. Joseph was upstairs. They all agreed he had better not be seen by the servants. When his hand was well enough to hold a rein he would ride to Sohaczev at night and take steps to join the Russian army.

Ian helped her to the high seat in front. Martin put her baggage into the space at the back. Off they went, down the avenue and out into the road, hardened with a sharp frost which had broken up the warm autumn weather.

It would have been hard for them to talk had they felt in the mood for it. The young horse shied a good deal and demanded all Ian's attention. He was glad of it. He Had no wish for commonplaces and could not say what was in his heart; so they went on in silence, bumping a good deal over the road, never too good, now cut up with war traffic, Vanda clinging to her seat to save herself from being pitched out when the horse grew more restive than usual, or rattled over a particularly bad stretch of road.

Their way lay through the country which war had so far spared. The heaviest losses lay to the north-west, where the Prussians were trying to break through on their way to Warsaw. A good many trenches had been made here, too, ready for the Russian troops to fall back upon; but there was not that stamp of utter desolation which already lay on the land nearer Plock. They passed very few troops or supplies; the day had been fine and transport correspondingly risky. Business on the road began at night. He had an odd fancy that they were going for one of those jaunts he and she had taken many a time before in the same little cart, when he wanted to try a young horse; that the space behind their seat carried no baggage but a sporting gun and game bag, and she wore no nurse's apron under her coat. It seemed, as she sat by him, sometimes to touch him as the cart jolted her, that recent barriers had never been, that there was neither Joseph, nor war nor ruin, that only the old free comradeship was there, mellowed into love. And he felt that they were boy and girl again, he home from school, she proud and glad to be with him, that they were driving on forever, into eternity, into the steel-blue horizon which stretched ahead of him on the straight, open road, without care or strife, always to be together, forgetful of the world, sufficient to each other, wanting nothing, asking nothing, blended into one mind and one heart, clear and limpid as the afternoon air of the northern autumn.

Never had those versts to the bare wooden station seemed so short. As they passed the slatternly town, then the long, poplar-lined avenue, he wondered of what she was thinking, if she regretted the past, would be content to put back the years and live without Joseph, only with him. But he was far to shy to share his fancy. What was the good? He did not even trust himself to search her face, lest he find there tears for his hated rival, whom she might never see again.

As he pulled up and helped her out, giving the reins to a ragged Jew who replaced the sturdy ostler of other days, he was relieved to see the Canon, who lived in the town. The good man was full of complaints, and looked to the two young people for sympathy, if not redress. Rennenkampf's men had looted his poultry yard, he said, stealing half a dozen very fine capons as well.

"They stole them for him, Count," he whispered, as they made their way through a crowd of soldiers to the waiting-room, two Jews following with the luggage. "They denied it till I threatened to excommunicate them all, including my housekeeper, who ought to have looked after the fowls better but is no good when she sees a soldier around. I excommunicated the General, too."

"What did he say?" asked Vanda.

"Well, Countess, I'm ashamed to say he roared with laughter," returned the indignant ecclesiastic. "But my housekeeper was so frightened that she spoilt the dinner, which was one good thing, for Rennenkampf had to eat it. I'm going up to Warsaw and I'll complain about it. I sha'n't have a thing left if the men go on like this. But you, Count, can help me up there. You know your way about."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not going," he said. "My cousin is. I've come to see her off."

The Canon then asked Vanda a dozen questions about her plans and kept them both busy answering him till the tickets were bought and Ian had found places in the crowded train for them, glad to give her into the priest's care, for he noticed many admiring glances shot at her by a varied collection of Russian officers in the waiting-room.

For one moment they were alone. The Canon found a friend and began to tell him about the capons; the little platform, shadowy even in peace time, with its scanty lamps, was quite dark now except for feeble spots of light that came from the railway carriages, from those candles stuck into lanterns which the railway people thought good enough to travel by. Ian took courage, and said as he kissed her hand:

"Ruvno is your home. If you don't like Warsaw come back at once."

"Oh, Ianek," she faltered. "Forgive me, for the other night. I was mad.... I didn't know what I was saying."

"There's nothing to forgive," he stammered. Then, impulse flung restraint to the winds; he caught her in his arms, kissed her face, hair, lips, clasped her to him with all his strength, in a delirium of love, longing and remorse. He knew not what words poured forth from the bottom of his soul, nor how long he held her thus: never remembered how she got into the train, how he said good-bye to the Canon and got back to his bryczka. He only knew that it was dark as his horse sped homewards, without a glance at things that had made him restive on the way out; that he found calm and strength in the familiar ebon sky, glimmering with silver stars, put this new-born madness from him, checked each recurrent thought of her, fixed his mind savagely on refugees, potatoes, corn and fuel, till the white heat of his passion had cooled.

Joseph went away a few days later; thus the last link was snapped, he thought. And they heard no more of him for a long time, except that he finally managed to get a commission in a Cossack regiment, which went to the Carpathians. Vanda wrote to the Countess and the priest, content with messages for Ian; and he did the same in return. She was nursing in the Cadets' College, turned into a military hospital, and said she liked the work. But her aunt detected homesickness in her letters.

When he let a thought dwell on her at all, Ian felt thankful she was not in Ruvno. For in the middle of November they began to live in the cellars. They were in the danger zone for a fortnight. The Prussians took Kosczielna, a few versts off, so that their shells as well as the Russians' sometimes burst near the house. Ruvno became an inferno of din and the inmates often wondered that it did not crumble about their heads. In their underground retreat they had a certain amount of coal and coke, so that their quarters though dampish, were not so bad as they might have been. A neighboring village fared worse than they did; not a cottage remained. The villagers dug themselves into the earth and lived like rabbits, elected an elder, whom they obeyed, and who ruled the little community as some of his ancestors must have ruled over as primitive a settlement many hundreds of years before. No sooner had petty officials, in the pay of the Russian government, fled before the roar of German guns than they organized their village life underground in a thoroughly sensible way. Having eaten up the little food which was left after the Prussians looted them in passing, they subsisted chiefly on roots and the scanty game yet to be had, and the sparrows and crows. Ian sent them rations every week, but could not be too liberal because he had his own villages to think of. Their worst plight was that they could hope for neither summer wheat nor potatoes of their own; they had no sooner finished the winter sowings than the Russian soldiers came and dug trenches through their land. They had no seed left, and when Ian gave them some, the rain washed most of it away. So those at Ruvno felt they were not so desperately unlucky after all.

Yet they had their troubles. One night the two armies who have made Poland their battlefield, seemed to have gone mad. For twelve hours there was a ceaseless uproar of heavy artillery, and the earth beneath them shook as if troubled by an endless earthquake. They gathered in one end of the cellars, where Father Constantine had fitted up a rough chapel, and prayed together for their own salvation and the Russians' victory. Towards morning, when they were chanting a hymn, such a thunderous noise broke over their heads that what had gone before seemed like some childish pastime. The earth rocked as if to swallow them in her entrails. They stopped singing, and waited for death. A woman shrieked, but none could hear her; only the lines of her open mouth and the horror on her face told them what she was doing. Szmul, the Jewish factor, his lank hair disheveled, his arms spread out with distended hands and fingers, rushed in and threw himself on to the ground, rolling in terror and shrieking continually. They had but one lamp for economy's sake, so that their little chapel, like those the early Christians used in Rome, was full of shadows. The Countess and Ian, after one horrified, questioning gaze at the Cross on the little altar, returned to their prayers, like the stout hearts and good Christians they were. She told her beads. Minnie, who had been standing at the back, ran towards Father Constantine with moving lips, but who could hear words when pandemonium was let loose? The peasants hugged their weeping children the closer and prayed for mercy. The priest, for one, felt sure his last hour was come, that God had summoned them as He had summoned so many thousands during the past few months. And so he said the prayers for the passing of souls, holding up the Cross, that all might see this symbol of eternal life.