II

Roman tumbled into the car the moment it was ready and insisted on

taking the wheel. Ian gave in, though he knew his cousin for a wild

driver at the best of times.

They went off at breakneck speed. The road was clear, for it happened

to be Friday night, when Jews are at rest, so that factors, omnibuses

and other vehicles which belong to the children of Israel east of the

Vistula did not get in the way. On they rushed through the cool, dark

night, past fields of whispering corn, ready for cutting; skirting

forests of tall trees, racing through little villages where savage dogs,

let loose for the night, chased them, barking like the wolves with whom

they shared parentage, till lack of breath held them in; past flat

country, rich in soil well tilled, past rare towns where no lights shone

except for here and there a candle-decked table where Jews hailed the

Sabbath in squalid tenements; past a rare wagon of non-Jewish ownership,

with the driver fast asleep, his team in the middle of the highway, deaf

to hooting and shouting; past, in short, the various sights and sounds

of the Polish country-side, where life is simpler than in England and

men stick closer to mother earth. Ian loved it all; even the Jews he

accepted as part of the picture, though his race was divided from theirs

by a deep gulf; he loved the chilly breeze, the stately pine forests,

the night birds' cry, the smell of rich earth, all the promise of

revolving seasons; the very monotony of the life was dear to him.

Near Sohaczev they dashed into a drove of cattle, on its way to the

capital. There was much shouting; the drovers swore by all they could

think of that half their fortune was gone. However, after being able to

check these statements by the help of lanterns, Ian decided that ten

roubles more than covered the damage. Roman's flow of language left the

others speechless; he had not opened his mouth since leaving Ruvno, and

certainly made up for it when he did. They started off again. The

swift, uneven motion over the ill-kept road soothed Ian. He had come

partly out of sympathy for Roman, partly to avoid searching eyes at

home. He must get accustomed to the new state of things, let the smart

of Vanda's engagement wear off, prepare himself to meet Joseph without

picking a quarrel with him. Neither could he have faced the usual

evening confab with his mother without betraying himself; and he hated

the idea of confession, even to her. He pondered about many things,

business, politics, crops and the chase; but he always came back to

Vanda. His memory rediscovered charms he had long ceased to note--her

soft eyes, the dimples that came into her cheeks when she laughed, her

cheerfulness, her nice ways with his mother, her good heart for the

poor, her adaptability to _his_ house and _his_ ways. What a good wife

Joseph had won! Then he remembered she was portionless. Her parents

had been ruined by a combination of adverse circumstances, so that she

had come to Ruvno with little more than the baby clothes she wore and a

box full of toys.

He burnt with the thought of Joseph's feelings of self-righteousness at

marrying a portionless maid. But he should not get the chance to crow.

She should have an outfit to make her new neighbors open their eyes;

jewels, sables and linen fit for Ruvno. He meant to insist on this,

foresaw mild objections from his mother, who knew all about Joseph's

investments. But thank God he could afford to set the girl up in such a

way that her groom could not boast. And the wedding should be in

keeping; the Archbishop of Warsaw, Metropolitan of Poland, must marry

them; Ruvno must entertain the guests royally. More: Joseph should

never be able to say he had married a penniless girl. Vanda should have

a generous dowry. Here he foresaw more opposition from his mother. But

he was not going to let Joe puff himself out over every check he wrote

for his bride. For such was Joe's nature; he would do it with a certain

refinement; but would drive the truth home all the same. Vanda did not

know this, or had forgotten it, being in love. But she would suffer

from it later on; and he was determined she should bear as little pain

as possible.

Ian's landed property represented a rough sum of twenty million roubles;

he had another million invested in sugar refineries, and in a hardware

factory, recently started in Warsaw, which was already paying well. His

father's debts had been legion. But he had a minority of twenty years

and good guardians, and found Ruvno almost clear when he took it over.

Now, there was not a rouble's worth of debt on the place. He never spent

his entire income. Whenever the chance came, he used to buy up land

around Ruvno, adding to its acres and its efficiency. Neighbors

wondered that the son was so different from the sire, and declared he

would be one of the wealthiest men in those parts before he reached

middle age. Not that he cared especially for money. His one aim was to

add to Ruvno and keep up its name for good farming and good horses, to

entertain generously without ostentation, to have prize cattle and

modern machinery. His tastes were simple; a certain fastidiousness saved

him from such "affaires" as were constantly getting Roman into trouble,

and from pleasures which had ruined his father. Yes: he could afford to

give Vanda a handsome dowry, and the thought was like balsam.

Arriving in the capital, Roman drew up before the "_Oaza_" a place where

people drank champagne at exorbitant prices and listened to dubious

songs and patter, not bereft of wit, but suited for neither the young

nor the squeamish. It stood at the corner of the Theatre Square, where

the Opera House is, and the Vierzbova, that narrow street which runs

thence from the Saxon Square. Ian seldom went to the haunt; but Roman

knew every woman in it. One, with little on but a feather boa and a

gigantic hat, was screaming a new song at the top of her voice. The

audience was meager enough, for the races were over, the heat had set

in, and people of pleasure had gone to their country homes, or abroad to

drink the waters at Carlsbad and other places where those who live too

well hope to patch up battered constitutions for future pleasures.

There were a few Russian officers, who made a great deal of noise, a

couple of Polish squires, sunburnt and opulent, some of the inevitable

Children of Israel, of those who no longer keep the Sabbath nor believe

in anybody's God; and many sirens in marvelous hats and plentiful paint.

Roman ordered the supper and drank freely of champagne. He took not the

least notice of the entertainment, which went on just above their table,

on a small raised platform. Ian wondered why he insisted on being so

near it; but to-night he was prepared to give in about everything, as to

a spoilt child who has broken its favorite toy. Roman drank, ate and

talked, smoking cigarettes all the time.

"What does she see in him? Tell me what she sees in him?" he asked,

elbows on the table, cigarette between his lips, glaring with his dark

bright eyes at his cousin. "Now--if it had been you..."

Ian became ruddier than ever and bent over his plate. He said nothing.

"I thought of _you_ as my rival," pursued the disappointed lover. "A

dangerous one, too."

"You needn't have," mumbled Ian, his mouth full of lobster mayonnaise.

"I see that now. But I feared it. You've always been together. It

seemed the obvious thing for you to make a match of it. Why, there were

bets on you at the club here."

"The devil there were!" cried Ian indignantly.

"Well, we all do that sort of thing. Their gossip worried me. I can't

think how you managed not to fall in love with her. I'd have been in

love with any woman under the circumstances, let alone her ... why,

she's an angel, an..."

He broke off and fumed in silence for some time. Ian finished his

lobster and attacked some cold meat. Roman looked as if he expected some

remark, so he gave it, huskily:

"The obvious never happens."

"But Joe never came into my head. You could have knocked me down with a

feather when she owned it."

"Me, too," admitted Ian, with more sincerity than he had yet commanded.

"I don't wonder. Of course, I'm a rip. Not worse than most of my

fellows. I don't count you.... Can't make you out. You must be a

fish." He cast a glance round the room, nodded to a couple of women,

signed that he did not want them at his table, ordered a bottle of

champagne to be taken over to them, shifted his chair so that his back

was towards them, and went on:

"Who isn't? I've had my fling. I was quite ready to settle down. This

sort of game disgusts me. I've had enough of it."

"I don't wonder."

"I suppose you people at Ruvno think Joe's a steady old horse," retorted

Roman vehemently. "He enjoys life, too. Only he's more careful of

appearance than I am."

"Prig!" said Ian savagely.

Roman laughed at the tone. His dark eyes were very bright. These, with

his fine head, broad shoulders and open hand, suggested other, less

prosaic days, when men gave fuller play to their emotions, and were not

ashamed of their feelings. He produced a hundred-rouble note from one

of his fat pocket-books and sent it across to the little orchestra.

"Tell them to play my favorites," he told the waiter.

"Don't be a fool," admonished his more careful cousin. "You'll be glad

enough of your money before you've done with the Jews." He knew Roman's

reckless ways; and disapproved of them. A man nearing thirty had no

right to lead the sort of life that concentrated at the _Oaza_ between

midnight and sunrise. The place was stuffy and gaudy and depressing. He

began to feel sorry he had come.

"The devil take my debts," said Roman. "The Jews can wait now." Then

he went back to Vanda.

"Do you imagine that Joe's in love with her?" he exclaimed. "Not a bit.

He wants to settle down, doesn't need money and thinks her _suitable_.

I loathe that word. It sums up all the hypocrisy of our lives." He

gulped champagne, wiped his mustache, threw the napkin on the table, and

pursued:

"He thinks she'll look well at the head of his table. And it saves

trouble to marry her because he's known her all his life. He hasn't got

to waste time paying her attention and risk the publicity of a refusal.

You can't go near a girl at the races or a dance but everybody knows it.

That's not old Joe's plan. He's too safe."

Ian bent over his plate again. Roman had too much insight; he was

attributing to Joe the very thoughts that had passed through his own

mind that morning. But the words gave him comfort. If Joe was not in

love with Vanda, neither was he. Their symptoms were alike. Men in

love talked like Roman, acted like him. So he was saved. His precious

armor of male vanity was intact. Thank God, he could face himself and

his little world again.

"If I thought she'd be really happy, I'd not care so much," remarked

Roman after a short silence.

His cousin looked up in alarm.

"If I doubted it I'd never let him marry her," he muttered.

"What can you do? She's set her heart on him. I don't mean he's going

to ill-treat her. He'll be so proud of her that he'll hang on to her

till she'll long to be left alone a bit. But she'll find him a bore

after a time. She's not used to bores. God! If I had to live with old

Joe I'd blow my brains out."

And he talked on; he had the philosophy of life at his tongue's tip; and

yet what a muddle he made of his own! He reminded Ian of agricultural

experts he knew, drawn from the ranks of ruined landed proprietors, yet

ready to give advice to those who prosper on their acres. Gradually, he

ceased to pay heed to the flow of words. He was an early riser and his

bedtime hour had long passed. And he followed his own train of thought,

nodding occasionally at his cousin's eloquence, and trying to get him

out of the place.

"The essence of real love," remarked the oracle, as they left for the

Hotel Europe at last, "is sacrifice. A man who's not ready for that is

no lover."

And again Ian felt comforted.

He stopped two days in town, saw his lawyer anent Vanda's dowry, looked

at sables, bought her a diamond pendant, and prepared to leave his

cousin. This last much against his will. With his old impetuosity, he

was playing heavily at his club, where a few gamblers lingered, detained

for lack of funds to take them abroad. They hailed Skarbek's coming

with joy, knew all about his fantastic winnings, and set about fleecing

him.

"You'd be far happier if you settled down," said Ian as they finished

lunch on the day of his departure. He could not understand any

full-grown man caring to live from day to day. For him, happiness lay

in the even road, a steady income, regular employment and an entire

absence of excitement.

"Settle down?" echoed the other. "On what?"

"You've that money you won at Monte Carlo. Bank it and let me tackle

your Jews."

Roman laughed bitterly.

"Ten thousand roubles of that money is in other men's pockets," and he

named two who lived upon their earnings at the green table. "They're

off to Ostend this evening."

"You're a damned fool," was his cousin's verdict.

"I know it. But who would gain by my being wise?"

Ian looked him straight in the eyes. Roman noticed how clear and honest

they were, with their tale of outdoor life, their gaze of the man who

has found himself and keeps his house in order. Yet there was nothing

priggish about him. He enjoyed life thoroughly. It was not the life of

champagne suppers and high stakes; but he took his pint of Veuve

Clicquot and played his game, conformed to the customs of his class.

The difference was that such pleasures were incidents for him; for Roman

they had become necessities.

"You know perfectly well that your Prussian government and my Russian

one like to see us Poles squander our lives and money," retorted the

squire.

"They do," agreed the gambler.

Ian saw his chance and followed it up, speaking earnestly, his habitual

shyness undermost for the moment.

"They like to get us off the land because that is the rock bottom of

national existence," he said. "Lots of people forget it. England is

forgetting it. Every time I go there I see it clearer. But Prussia

hasn't forgotten it for a moment these last hundred years. And she's

taught the Russians something about it, too."

"I never had any land," protested Roman. "Joe got it, and has kept it.

I'll say that for him."

"You can buy land."

"Not under Prussian law."

"Become a Russian subject."

"Easier said than done."

"I'll help you," Ian said eagerly. "Do you remember Kuklin?"

"That little place near Ruvno?"

"Yes. It's for sale." He did not add that the owner had ruined himself

in places like the _Oaza_. "The land's first class. The house is a

hovel. But it's only five versts from us and you can stop at Ruvno till

you've built something fit to live in. I'll give you the materials and

help you with the labor. The chief outbuildings are brick and in good

condition. The squire is a good farmer when he remembers to stop at

home. It's a bargain."

Roman was interested.

"I suppose the Jews will buy it."

"Not if I know it. I was going to buy it myself. But you take it. I'll

let you have the money. Come, Roman, here's your chance."

"You mean you'd advance me the cash? Without security?"

"I'll make you a present of Kuklin."

Roman's handsome face filled with astonishment. Though not a mean man,

Ian had the reputation of being exceedingly careful. He gave freely to

causes which he thought furthered the prosperity of his country; but was

wary of giving for the sake of giving, or for the popularity that comes

to the open-handed. Roman knew him well; he realized that this offer

meant more than cousinship; it meant affection and a firm belief that he

would settle down and "make good." He was touched, and said so in his

ardent way.

"So you're willing? That's right. I'll go to Kuklin tomorrow and wire

when you can see it." The other's face clouded, so he added hastily:

"You needn't come to Ruvno. I'll meet you at the station, the owner

will give us something to eat and I'll motor you back here. We'll have

to settle with the Jews before you actually buy, or you'll get no terms

from them. I'll go to Posen with you."

"Old man, you're the best friend I ever had," cried Roman, wringing his

hand. "I can't tell you how I feel about it. But..."

"What 'but'?"

"I don't believe I could bury myself in the country--now. With Vanda it

would have been different. Can't you understand?"

"No, I can't." He was disappointed. He had never felt lonely in his

life, never knew the yearning after hot, brightly lighted restaurants

filled with men and women on excitement bent.

"You won't want to come to Warsaw," he argued. "You don't know how land

draws you. You'll have to drag yourself here when you've some special

business and hurry back as quick as can be."

Roman doubted it, but gave up the argument. They parted on the

understanding that he should telegraph when he had made up his mind.

Though he found Joseph still at Ruvno Ian showed a cheerful face and

calm exterior. He felt completely master of himself again and talked

freely of the coming marriage. The Countess was full of it.

"I can't understand what Vanda sees in him," she remarked during their

evening chat "He's more selfish than ever. He never does a thing she

wants unless he happens to want it, too. I suppose that's why she is so

devoted."

Ian observed, and found that his mother was right. Not that he saw much

of the happy pair. He only met them at meals, and delegated his mother

to sound Joseph about the marriage settlement. He won his argument with

her about that, too. But the thing had yet to be discussed and he put

it off, not wanting to see Joseph alone if he could help it. There was

time for that. Meanwhile, the estate kept him busy. But the marriage

date was settled for three months hence. That was his work. He would

have had it earlier, but the Countess thought it looked too hasty.

Joseph was quite satisfied to wait. He wanted to do up his country

house, and furnishing took time. He did not consult Vanda about the

furniture. He had ideas of his own and meant to carry them out. Yet he

seemed proud of the girl and pleased to have won her; the rest of the

family admitted that. What annoyed them was his boundless

self-satisfaction. She would be his in the same way as his beautiful

estate in Eastern Prussia, as his horses, or his sound investments.

"She is his chattel," was Ian's verdict one evening when alone with his

mother. She gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing for the moment.

Later on she mooted matrimony to him.

"It is high time you settled down," she said. "It is a great mistake

for people to put off marriage too long. They lose courage as they grow

older."

"Give me another year of liberty," he pleaded, laughing. "I'm not

thirty-five yet. By next year I'll have the new farm buildings finished

and the new forest planted. Then you shall find me a wife."

"I've one for you already," she said, caressing his face with her fine

hazel eyes.

"What a matchmaker! Tell me the worst. Who is it."

She hesitated before saying: "Minnie Burton," and watched him closely.

"Minnie?" This in surprise. He had never thought of her. Then: "But

she is a foreigner."

"But she is fond of Poland and of us. She's well bred, well connected,

good-looking."

"A heretic."

"That might be changed."

He took alarm at this. There was nothing more hateful to his thoughts,

just then, than marriage with anybody--but Vanda. And she had deserted

him.

"I hope you've not been 'sounding' her, as you call it," he cried in

alarm.

"No. Don't be afraid. But bear her in mind. She's a dear girl.

She'll come back to us next year. I'd like to chaperon her to Nice in

the winter."

"I'm not going to lose my shooting," he said firmly.

"You could run over there for a week or so. However, there's no hurry.

Let's get Vanda safely settled first." And wisely, she dropped the

subject. She knew all about his disappointment, and meant to tell him

so one day. Meanwhile she would throw him and Minnie together as much

as possible. But there was plenty of time.

The following evening they were finishing dinner when a servant handed

Joseph a telegram. Thinking it one of many that had arrived since his

engagement, he opened it carelessly.

"Who is it this time?" asked Vanda.

He did not answer, but read the missive twice, his face changing. She

took alarm.

"It's bad news?"

He took no notice. She peered over his shoulder. Everybody was waiting

for him to speak.

"It's in German," she announced to the expectant table. "Do tell us,

Joe."

She put out her hand for the telegram, but he gave it to Ian instead.

She sat down again, looking snubbed.

"Read that," he said. Ian obeyed, aloud, for Vanda's sake, and in

English, for Minnie's.

"'The Head of this Military District orders your immediate return, that

you may report at headquarters.'" He looked up, puzzled. "It's signed

by your manager. What does it mean?"

"Mobilization," answered the Countess promptly. They looked at her in

surprise. She was the only member of the household who had read the

last batch of papers from Warsaw.

Frowning, Ian reread the telegram. There was silence round the table.

Joseph, like Roman, was a German subject. Eastern Prussia, where he

lived, belonged to Poland till Frederick the Great snatched it from the

Polish Republic, weakened by internal strife. And ever since that sad

day the Prussians have done all they know to hound the Poles off their

land. But the owners stood firm from the first, helping one another to

keep every acre they possessed from the German colonists, who have their

government's backing in money and legislation. It is considered a

disgrace for a Pole to sell his land in Prussia or the Grand Duchy of

Poland, because Prussian law forbids a Pole to buy it. But a Polish

squire or peasant in financial difficulties can always get a more

fortunate compatriot to help him, so that he need not sell.

"I've got to go," remarked Joseph gloomily.

Ian's thoughts ran ahead. Joseph would be away for some time; perhaps

for months. The wedding would have to be postponed. Meanwhile, he and

Vanda would be meeting hourly as in the old days, yet with the

difference that she was no longer free. At this moment he did not

imagine that Prussia's mobilization could affect his life. The thought

that tempted him was that he could undo Joseph's wooing, win her in his

absence. Then honor's voice intervened and he put temptation from him.

Another thought came to his aid. He would get his mother to send her to

England with Minnie Burton. When Joseph was ready to wed, she could

come back. Not till then.

He looked at her. Her face was no longer bright, she gave her lover a

long, sad gaze. Then he glanced at Joe over the broad table, handsome

with plate and flowers, covered with the remains of a well-served,

well-cooked meal. There was nothing supercilious about him now. He was

frankly downcast.

"It's for Roman, too," he observed.

"I'll tell him," said Ian. The idea of Roman's going back to Prussia

annoyed him. He would not be able to finish the Kuklin business. And

he had set his heart on having his wayward, impulsive cousin near by.

They had always been great friends; but since the affair with Vanda he

found something very comforting in his company.

Everybody began to talk about the telegram and its probable import.

Newspapers were opened and consulted, only to be thrown aside in

disgust. They said so little. Father Constantine and the Countess

argued things out according to their ideas of the political situation,

whilst Joseph and Vanda had a final talk together. Ian saw his duty was

to amuse Minnie Burton, and he did it with thoughts elsewhere. Joseph

left the house at two in the morning to catch the night express from

Warsaw to Posen. They all waited up with him; their farewells were

cheerful. He would soon be back. Meanwhile, he could set the workmen

at his house. Ian watched Vanda as they parted. She was sad, but held

herself bravely. He liked that. He noticed, too, that Joseph was

unusually demonstrative. He knew he ought to be glad of it, for her

sake. But it angered him all the same. In a group at the open door

they watched the car go down the straight avenue and turn into the road.

On the way Joseph would have to knock up a local petty official and get

his passport vised. But he saw no difficulties; nobody dreamed of war

just then, not outside the German Empire. When he had gone they went to

bed, sleepy and unconcerned.

Ian motored to Warsaw for lunch. The streets were as deserted as usual

at that time of year, except for a sprinkling of troops. But everybody

was discussing the possibility of Russia's fighting to help Serbia. How

could the big Slav brother leave the weak one to be strangled? He found

Roman at the Europe, eating iced soup, and delivered his message.

"What did old Joe do?" he asked. The other told him.

"Went off like a lamb? I thought as much," and he laughed scornfully.

"And you?"

"I'm no friend of the Kaiser's."

"But he may win," and Ian lowered his voice, for a party of Russian

officers sat at the next table. "He'll make it pretty awkward for

Polish deserters if he does."

At this stage Ian had no more dislike for the Kaiser's army than for the

Tsar's. They were both the hereditary enemies of his race. He was glad

to think that he, at any rate, could keep aloof from the quarrel. Russia

has enough men without taking only sons and had never called him to

serve. He was no more obtuse that bright July day than thousands of men

in the British Empire, in France, or in Belgium. Perhaps he had a

greater respect for Prussia's efficiency and fighting spirit; but this

vaguely, as of a fact that could not touch him.

Not so Roman Skarbek. With that odd insight you sometimes find in men

who never get the practical hang of life he peered into the future as

few, alas, peered then. Ian remembered his words long afterwards, in

the warm, humming room, his eyes dim and dreamy with thought.

"He won't win," he said. "At least, not in the end. But he will at

first, and let Hell loose on Europe. He'll apply all the Prussian

methods of persecution on other nations that he and his cursed breed

have tried on us Poles for the past century. That will send the world

against him. _We_ know what Prussianism means; the world doesn't. But

it will before he's beaten. What he'll do to me for deserting won't

matter. The only deuced thing that matters is to stop Prussianism from

spreading all over the world."

"You'll find it awkward here with a German passport, if Russia does go

to war."

"I've not haunted the _Oaza_ and the club for nothing. I expect I know

more influential Russians than you do."

"I wish you would become a Russian subject," said the other, thinking of

Kuklin. "I'd help you."

"Thanks awfully. I'll ask you to, if I can't manage it myself."

"Oh, the whole thing will blow over. Why, there's always a scare about

this time. The papers made it to have something to write about." And

they talked of other things, and of Vanda. Roman asked a dozen

questions about her; and he perforce must answer.

He took home the gossip of the town; they talked politics all the

evening. Minnie, who had been in St. Petersburg with her elder brother

when he was Military Attache to the British Embassy, told them with

confidence born of little knowledge that _if_ the Germans were mad

enough to fight, the Russians would be in Berlin by Christmas. Her

host, knowing Russian ways better than she, doubted her. Hence came

animated talk. Yet none of them seriously thought the storm was near.

Least of all Ian, who tried to cheer Vanda for the temporary loss of her

lover by planning a new paddock which must be ready before the wedding.

Never did he feel more secure in his quiet life and snug possession than

when, bound for bed, he crossed the large hall, with its vaulted roof

painted in Gothic blue with faded gilt stars, and its antler-covered

walls. True, there was still a vestige of that uneasy feeling which he

unwillingly put down to Vanda. But he had plenty to occupy him till Joe

came back; then for a speedy marriage--and oblivion.