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.

They did not know how long they stood thus because people lose count of

time when on the brink of eternity. But gradually the earth ceased to

quiver, the tempest of bursting shells died down to an occasional boom.

And they knew that the Almighty had seen fit to spare them through

another night. Ian was the first to speak.

"They have brought down the house," he said to his mother. She nodded,

but said nothing.

"Oh, woe unto Israel! Woe is me," wailed Szmul, squatting on his hams

and moaning as the hired mourners at a Jewish funeral. Father

Constantine told him to control himself or leave the chapel; and the

calmer ones managed to comfort the others. Many peasants who had not

cellars large enough for shelter were living down there with them.

Szmul, whose hovel had no cellar at all, brought his numerous family. On

the whole, they behaved splendidly during this night of anxiety and

fear, when it seemed as if every stone in Ruvno had been brought about

their ears.

The bombardment went on for hours; there was nothing to do but wait till

it died down; only then could they go up and see what had happened. In

days of ordinary activity the shells fell heaviest between seven at

night and eight in the morning; then came a quiet hour when they managed

to get some air, clean the cellars and examine damage done to house and

village during the night. Between nine and ten, the "orchestra," as

they called it, began again and went on till noon, when both Prussians

and Russians paused for a meal. If the household was careful to dodge

chance shells they had another two hours of liberty; if the Russians

meant to begin before their regular time they let them know by a signal,

to which Ian held the secret. The Russians' dinner-hour was Ruvno's

busy time. Those peasants who had nothing left to eat came for rations;

Ian had every detail of the daily round in clock-work order. The

management of a large property like Ruvno, with its twenty farms and

sixty square versts of forest land, was good training for him. Each man

and woman living in the cellars had an appointed task, and Ian, the

Countess, Minnie and Father Constantine saw that it was done. Their

great trouble was to keep the cellar refuge in a moderately sanitary

condition, because the peasants, none too clean in their houses, had no

idea of the danger they ran from infectious diseases. Here, Minnie was

invaluable. They escaped fevers; one child died of bronchitis, which

was very bad when they took her to the cellar, her parents' cottage and

shop having been razed to the ground by a shell. Things were in a worse

state down in the village, where Father Constantine and the two ladies

had daily fights with filth and ignorance whilst the heavy guns were

resting. They could not make the peasants see that they were packed so

much closer together, and subject to greater privations, they had to be

far more careful than in better days. By one o'clock the rooms and park

became dangerous, though they could dodge the shells between the house

and the village till dusk, if they remembered the dead angles. But

night fell early, and the rule was for all to answer roll-call in the

passage between the two main cellars at half-past two. Ian called the

names unless busy outside, or in the house; and then the old priest

replaced him.

After that the weariness began. Though the family did what they could

to keep the fifty refugees--peasants, children and Jews--amused, time

hung heavy on their hands. They took down all the furniture they could,

and kept their feet warm with carpets. But they used straw for the

peasants and Jews because they could burn it when dirty. Father

Constantine always said Szmul and his family were the filthiest people

he ever saw; it was a trial to have them; but they put up with it, and

had to own that the Jew, with his wretched Polish and his funny stories,

kept the others amused.

Ian could not give them work that needed a good light, because he had to

be careful with oil and sit in semi-darkness most of the evening. But

he and the Countess read to them and told them stories; they also sang

hymns and Polish patriotic songs, of which they never tired. One or

two, who escaped from the massacres at Kalisz, told their experiences,

and the villagers never tired of listening to that, either. Like

children, they loved to hear a story repeated over and over again.

Father Constantine managed to write up his diary, though candles were so

precious. As they always kept one small lamp in the chapel he wrote

there. It was colder than near the stove, but he had both his fur coats

on, besides a pair of felt boots in which he used to hunt when younger.

When his fingers got numbed he blew on them and rubbed them till the

blood circulated. Many of the people went there to say their prayers

and he would do what he could for them before they left again.

When the Russians and Prussians stopped for breakfast after that

dreadful night they all spent in the chapel, Ian called up as many men

as there were picks and shovels, took a pick himself and led the way up

to the house. He demurred about Father Constantine's going; but he soon

settled that. During the night they had decided that they must dig a

way into the air through the ruins of the house.

They left the Countess in great anxiety about Ruvno, which had grown

gray and mellow in sheltering brave men and beautiful women; and Father

Constantine, who was not born there, loved it so dearly that to lose it

meant to lose heart and courage. He felt that, going up the steps. And

the peasants who followed Ian up were heavy-hearted, too; he and his

forebears had always been good masters, generous in the days of serfdom,

fair and square with the soccage, and living on their land ten months a

year, unless they went to fight for their country.

They reached the stone entry which led from pantry to cellar and looked

round. A wintry sun came through a hole in one wall, but the others

were unhurt. With a shout of joy Ian threw down his pick and bolted

over the debris, through the hole, which had swallowed up the door as

well. Father Constantine followed as fast as his joints allowed, helped

by Baranski, the village carpenter. They were both beyond the climbing

age; so, by the time they reached the courtyard, the others had

disappeared. So far, Ruvno looked as though it stood; but they noticed

several new holes.

"Where's the tower gone?" cried Ian, pointing westwards. True enough,

the tower had vanished; from where they stood it looked clean cut off,

but on going nearer they saw that the front floor and part of the

stairway remained, a dejected ruin. The falling masonry had struck the

west wing. The cellar chapel was right underneath, which accounted for

the fearful noise they heard in the night.

"The tower can be rebuilt--but the west wing is done for," he said

ruefully.

When Father Constantine saw the tears gather in those clear eyes his own

grew dim. The bombardment had destroyed the oldest part of the house,

built when the first lord of Ruvno came home from the Crusades; it, and

the moat, were all that the centuries had left of the original building.

The rest was added on at various times. But the west wing was Ruvno's

pride. Weakened by age, it could not stand the weight of the falling

tower, and now lay in hopeless ruins. It housed many relics, too heavy

to remove to Warsaw; and they had perished with it.

Everybody had come up from below, some vainly trying to rescue a few of

the relics from the ruins, when Szmul rushed up in great excitement. He

had quite recovered from last night's experience, and boasted to all who

would listen that he had not turned a hair, but slept all night.

"The Grand Duke is coming--make way for the Grand Duke," and he took off

his cap, so as to be all ready for the important visitor.

The others looked up. A motor car was coming up the drive. It was easy

to recognize the tall, spare figure, which towered over the other

officers. The Countess dried her eyes and walked towards the entry. Ian

left the pile of rubbish; Minnie followed him. Father Constantine stood

a little apart; it did not amuse him to talk to important people; he

preferred to watch, and listen.

"Bon jour, Comtesse," the Grand Duke said, and kissed her hand. Then he

shook hands with Ian, saluted Minnie, and smiled at the priest. "I have

good news for you at last. We have retaken Kosczielna after a heavy

bombardment and a bayonet attack. The Germans have fallen back on

Kutno."

Kosczielna practically belonged to the Countess, the little town being

part of her dowry and, though her husband did his best to give it away

to the Jews, she managed to save it. She looked at her ruined west wing

and sighed.

"I would rather have lost the town," she remarked.

"I can believe you," he agreed. "The town is full of Jews--and that was

the most beautiful part of your house. Never mind, Countess, we will

drive them over the frontier one of these days and you can build up

again."

"Is the fight over?" asked Minnie.

"Yes. In any case it has gone over there." He pointed westwards.

"Ruvno is safe now."

"There," she said triumphantly, looking at the Countess. "What did I

tell you?"

"I must be off," said the Grand Duke. "I thought you would like to know

you can come above ground once more." He turned to the little group of

peasants who had come up. "And you, my children, can go back to the

village again." Then, to Ian, in French: "I will let you know when

there is fresh danger." And he went off as suddenly as he came.

The news cheered them all greatly. For Father Constantine, there was a

little cloud on the horizon; he meant to talk it over with the Countess

and hear what she could advise. So, when they had settled in the rooms

that were still without holes, he sought her out. He knew they would be

able to talk undisturbed. Ian was looking after some men he had told

off to fill up the gaps in an outer wall; and Minnie was looking after

Ian.

"Countess," he began, "don't you think it would be safer if that English

Miss went away?"

Though this was his first reference to the pursuit of Ian, she knew what

he meant.

"Yes; but she won't go."

"There is an American Relief man about," he said. "He is sure to hear

about the distress in the Vola, and he can't reach that without passing

here. Naturally, seeing the damage done to the house, he would call."

Her hazel eyes, still beautiful in shade and expression, twinkled

merrily.

"But we don't want relief yet," she said.

"True, but when he sees the damage done and hears that there is an

English girl living here he will be willing to take her to Warsaw ... or

to England. I think I would not mention Warsaw to him. He probably has

never heard of it. So he can take her further off."

"Minnie won't listen ... she is brave."

"Brave! She stops here for Ian."

She was silent for a moment. Father Constantine knew she had fallen

under the girl's charm. He admitted the charm; but did not want a

foreigner to rule in Ruvno.

"She is a good girl ... and her people are of an old family. Her

mother..."

"She is a heretic," he said firmly. "Ruvno has never had such a thing."

"She might consent to enter the True Church." The Countess was an

incurable optimist.

"And a foreigner."

She laughed. "Why, Father, Minnie would love the sort of life we live

in times of peace ... she would not always be wanting to gad about to

Paris and Monte Carlo, like so many young women."

"Do you mean to say that you will encourage her?" he asked in horror.

"How about the little Princess whose father would be only too----"

"I don't mean to say anything, or encourage anybody," she replied. "But

I can't turn Minnie out of doors now that the Grand Duke says Ruvno is

safe."

"The ruined tower looked such a good pretext," he said ruefully.

"And it failed."

"I would not consent to Ian's marrying a heretic," she went on.

"Besides, he would not want to."

"He would not. I know him better than that..." The Poles have suffered

so much for their faith that they put it side by side with their

country. With them to say a man is Catholic means that he is neither

Russian nor Jew, but a Pole.

"I don't see that Ian is very keen about her anyway," she said after a

pause.

"In the cellar----"

"We have done with the cellar for the moment. It is no good meeting

trouble half way. Cellar or no cellar, I should only be drawing his

attention to her if I warned him. Men are blind till you open their

eyes. And then they are mules."

Father Constantine knew her tone; it was final. So he took his leave,

and ordered all the Jews in the village to keep their ears open for news

of the American Relief man and report when he came to the neighborhood.