It was early in December. For several days Ruvno had seen neither
soldiers nor officers and received news of no kind. This had happened
before. Szmul and other Jews in the village circulated the little gossip
there was. After the Russians retook Kosczielna Szmul went back to his
hovel, whence he had fled when the shells were whistling around, to find
food and shelter for himself and his brood under Ian's roof. Then,
being frightened to death, he was loud in expression of gratitude,
vowing by all the vows Jews make, swearing by his progeny to the fifth
and sixth generation that he would never forget how the Count had given
hospitality to a poor Jewish factor. If you know much about Hebraic
flowers of speech you can imagine what he said; if not, you miss
nothing. Having settled himself in the village again, he picked up the
gossip of both armies encamped in the neighborhood, for a Jew will get
anywhere and talk to everybody, whether Teuton or Slav, man or maid. He
knew that the Prussians were within a few versts of Ruvno before Ian or
the Countess suspected they had crossed the river in one place, thereby
cutting Ruvno off from the Russian lines and putting it at the mercy of
the barbarians.
On this particular afternoon, after the _Ave Maria_, Father Constantine
was locking up the chapel when Szmul hurried up. The priest knew he had
tidings by the way he flapped his skinny arms. As usual he smelt
horribly of herrings and garlic, and poked his dark thin face against
the old man's.
"What is it?" asked Father Constantine, backing away.
"The Prussians," he answered, grinning from ear to ear, showing four
yellow teeth which were all that the village barber had saved, for he
suffered much from toothache.
"Coming here?"
"Yes--on this side of the river. They have crossed and fought their way
through. Oh, such fine horses and such wonderful shining helmets! Each
of their chargers cost a thousand roubles at least, some even..."
"Nonsense. The army pays----"
"The Russian army pays miserably," retorted Szmul with scorn. "The
Kaiser's with their wonderful----"
"Hold your tongue! Now you think they are coming you pander to them and
lick the dust off their boots," cried the priest, angry, not only
because he knew that the Russian cavalry had then the best horses in the
world, but because this news of the Prussians being over the river made
him fear for the immediate future. Szmul giggled.
"Think! I _know_ they're coming. Listen!"
Father Constantine heard the tramp of horses and a squadron of cavalry
swept round the bend in the avenue. They were Prussians right enough.
Night was coming on apace, but the day had been fine and frosty; he
could see the spikes of their helmets and the hard, red faces of the
foremost men.
His heart sank; there were more than twenty of them. For weeks Ruvno
had heard false alarms. Once they were so near that Ian could see their
helmets through his field-glasses. But the Grand Duke beat them back
every time and the household had grown to trust that tall, gray-haired
Romanov to spare them a visit from their enemies.
"Who's the owner of this place?" shouted their young officer, pulling up
in front of the priest. His face was arrogant and coarse, with choleric
eyes.
"I don't know."
He turned to Szmul, who was sweeping the ground with his greasy fur cap,
anxious to make a good impression.
"Jew! Find the owner and bring him here!"
"At once, _Herr General_! At once!" He ran off to the house as fast as
his spindle legs would carry him. Whilst he was gone the subaltern
hurled questions at the priest, in German. How big was Ruvno? How many
inmates? Their sex? Ages? He was answered laconically and in Polish.
Once or twice the Prussian looked ready to lay his whip about the bent
shoulders, but refrained. Szmul was a long time gone. When he came
back, he had invented a new title for the German cub.
"Excellency. The Count is in the palace. He begs your Excellency to do
him the honor and step inside."
It took him a long time to say this for he was out of breath with haste
and excitement. Afterwards, Father Constantine asked Ian what message
he had sent; and it was: "If a _boche_ wants me he can come and find
me." As you see, there was a difference; but Szmul did not stick at
exaggerations when he wanted to please a powerful man.
The Prussian grumbled something about wasting time and all Poles being
servants created to wait upon Teuton pleasure. But he gave a curt order
to his troopers and made for the house, Szmul running by his stirrup.
Judging by the way he cringed, Father Constantine sadly assessed the
Prussian force around Ruvno at thirty thousand men.
The old man followed them, not that he could help Ian, but because he
had a fond notion that when his dear ones were in danger they would
suffer less if he kept near them. He tried to check this idea, but in
vain.
Arrived at the large entry, the subaltern dismounted, clanked into the
hall and looked round with the air of expecting to see Ruvno's master.
But there was only Martin, the faithful butler who had nursed Ian on his
knee. He led the way to his master's office. Half way there, he
noticed Szmul.
"You're not wanted," he said.
"I--your old friend----"
The Teuton understood Polish right enough, for he wheeled round with:
"This man comes with me."
Szmul giggled in triumph, and Father Constantine grew suspicious. These
two had met before.
They trooped into the office which stood at the end of a passage,
connecting it with the back of the house in such a way that people could
go in and out without passing the hall or the living-rooms. Never in
his life had Szmul entered from the large hall; but his elation was not
due to that. Four troopers escorted their officer and mounted guard
behind him, stiff and pompous as at a review.
Ian stood in the middle of the room, a large place, lined with shelves
and cupboards where accounts and reports were kept. He looked very like
his mother, the priest thought, well bred, dignified, king of himself.
The four troopers clinked their heels and went through the contortions
common to saluting Prussians; even the surly subaltern put hand to
helmet. Szmul hugged the shadow of the door. Father Constantine went
beside his old pupil, that fond notion of his uppermost.
Ian returned the visitor's greeting with a bow; then he saw Szmul.
"I'll send for you if I want you," he said in the dry tones he used when
giving orders.
"That Jew is with me," blurted the Prussian.
Ian's gray eyes met his with such cool determination that the other
shifted uneasily.
"He is my servant." This in frozen tones; then, to Szmul: "You heard
me?"
Szmul looked appealingly at the officer, won no support by word or
glance and slunk out. Ian's gaze returned to the Prussian.
"Your business?"
"You have food supplies stored here." This angrily, in accusation.
"I have. To feed my household and the starving peasants."
"I hear you have enough to gorge them till the end of the war. Is that
so?"
"I don't know how long the war will last."
The Prussian, angry before, became infuriated at this. He stamped his
foot and bellowed as if he were drilling recruits.
"You're bandying words, _Herr Graf_," he shouted. "I know you're
concealing supplies. I'll have them of you, _mein Gott_, I will!"
"Your authority?"
Ian's eyes were ablaze with suppressed passion; but he controlled
himself. His outward calm maddened the subaltern, who danced in his
rage. Indeed, if not for the circumstances behind his visit, he would
have been quite funny.
"Authority!" he bawled. "I _am_ Authority. I am the representative of
victorious Prussia! My word is law in this house! Surrender your
supplies or I'll burn it down!"
Ian went over to the safe, unlocked it with the key which hung by a
leather strap he kept in his pocket, and swung back the heavy door.
The subaltern whipped out his revolver, strode after him and peered in.
The safe was almost empty except for keys.
"Your plate?" he asked, putting his revolver close to Ian's head. And
anxious though he was, Father Constantine could not help thinking the
man must be a fool to imagine the safe big enough to hold Ruvno plate.
"In Warsaw." Ian lied; it was in Moscow. But Father Constantine would
gladly have absolved him from murder, were his victim this subaltern.
"Whereabouts in Warsaw?"
"The Commercial Bank."
The looter turned to one of his men:
"Make a note of that," he commanded. The man obeyed, producing paper
and pencil from a pocket.
"Where are your family jewels?" proceeded the subaltern.
"At the Commercial Bank." Their eyes met again. Ian's mirrored a soul
too proud to lie. And yet they say that eyes cannot hide the truth.
"What are they worth?"
Ian did not answer and murder shone from the Prussian's evil face. The
old priest's heart stood still. What, oh, what could he do to help? The
sergeant scribbled hard, finished, licked his pencil and awaited further
orders. The subaltern put his revolver a shade nearer Ian's head.
Father Constantine knew he was playing to put the looters off the scent.
For if he lost the jewels there would be nothing left to live upon. Ian
thought of the moonlight labor on the Plock road, of Szmul's prying
eyes, and feared greatly.
"What are they worth?" repeated the Prussian.
"I don't know. They have not been valued for fifty years."
"But those emeralds ... you must know what they are worth."
"They are priceless," said Father Constantine.
The man turned to him.
"Hold your tongue," he said rudely. "You weren't so ready to talk
outside." Then to Ian:
"Give me the banker's receipt for the jewels and plate."
"My lawyers have them."
"Who are they? But no matter..." He laughed roughly. "Next week we
shall be in Warsaw, and if I find you've been lying, you'll be shot."
He withdrew his revolver. Ian gave a slight breath of relief. "Now for
the food," said the Teuton.
Ian took a bunch of keys from the safe, locked it and rang the bell.
Martin appeared, white as a sheet. He had heard what was going on.
"Take this officer to the store-room; open the cupboards," said his
master.
"You must come," put in the looter. Ian gave him a cold look.
"My servant will show you where to find the things."
The Prussians stalked out and Martin with them. Szmul was still in the
passage.
Ian did not speak till the sound of their footsteps died away. Then he
made sure there were no eaves-droppers, and shut the door, his soul
filled with rage, worry and mortification. For a few minutes he gave
way and called the looters by names it did the old priest good to hear,
for the soutane put a limit on his own language.
"If not for the women I'd have strangled him at the safe," Ian cried.
"But the day may come when I'll have to shoot them, to save them from
dishonor."
"Mother of God!" Father Constantine gasped. "Are they going to make
Poland another Belgium?"
The thought of what his Countess and the other women in the house would
have to suffer filled him with horror. To shoot her! He could not bear
it. Ian tried to comfort him.
"Cheer up, Father. It hasn't come to that yet." Then angry again: "That
swine Szmul has betrayed us."
"What are you going to say about the cellars?"
"Swear I've nothing more. We've no list."
"But they'll tear down the walls?"
"It'll take time. Oh, if only I could get in touch with some Russians!
We should have these devils entrapped."
"There must be thousands of Germans about. Szmul knows it, or he would
not have risked telling about the emeralds and stores," said the priest.
"I'll punish him when this is over," cried Ian. "After I've sheltered
him, too."
Here the Countess came in. She had heard all.
"Give them everything, rather than they should shoot you," she pleaded.
"They won't shoot me, Mother, not till they've tried the Commercial
Bank. Where is Minnie?"
"Up in the secret room."
"Thank God!" He looked relieved. "And now, you go there, too."
Martin came in. He was shaking with rage and fear.
"That Jewish pig has betrayed us," he cried. "They're in the cellar
now."
They looked at each other in consternation. Martin turned to his
mistress.
"My Lady Countess, it will be well for you to go upstairs ... they are
very coarse."
"Yes, Mother, I insist."
"But perhaps I can do something----"
The question was settled by the subaltern, who stalked into the room,
followed by two of his henchmen. He was afraid to go about alone. He
had already found some of Ian's wine, his face was flushed, and both
troopers smelt of it. He did not even salute the Countess, who glared
at him in silent rage.
"Nobody to leave this room!" he bellowed. Then to Ian: "Where are your
supplies?"
"It appears you have them," was the cool answer. "I hear you have
already emptied my stores."
"But the cellar, dolt!" roared the Prussian. "The Jew says you have
bricked up corn and potatoes to feed an army."
"My cellar holds wine," put in the Countess. "Judging from your
behavior, you have found it without our help."
She devoured him with her scornful, angry eyes, and he had the grace to
look a little confused. He saluted and lowered his tone.
"I give you three minutes"--he looked at his watch--"to come down and
show me where to find your supplies. If you refuse, I'll not leave one
stone upon another in your cellar, but destroy it as soon as my men have
removed the stores and wine. You'll be without food, for, if you
persist in your obstinate refusal, I will not leave you a week's
rations; and you will no longer have a refuge in case of bombardment.
You will have no choice then but to leave this place."
"Never!" This from the Countess.
"As you please. We will begin the three minutes."
There was silence. He eyed his watch, the Countess looked straight
before her; Ian's face was like granite, the priest's eye on the clock
in the corner. He almost wished Ian would come to terms with the
looter, because perhaps then they would leave enough till Ian could buy
more. Then he remembered they were probably cut off from Warsaw, and
therefore from grain, and changed his mind.
"Time is up." He looked at Ian.
"I repeat," he said very distinctly, though the sweat stood on his upper
lip, "I repeat, once and for all, that I have no stores in my cellars."
"Then you choose to have your cellars destroyed?" growled his tormentor.
"You will find nothing but wine. If the loan of my cellar-book can
shorten your visit..."
The Prussian swung out of the room without waiting for more. Ian rushed
to the door, shut it, hurriedly took two acetylene carriage lamps from a
cupboard and demanded matches.
Knowing what he used those lamps for, Father Constantine tried to
dissuade him from signaling to the Russians, for, should the Prussians
catch him, his life would not be worth a handful of corn, and there were
surely more foes than friends abroad that night. But he only gave a
short laugh. He did not believe there were many Prussians about or they
would not have sent a subaltern to seize emeralds. Such a prize as
Szmul must have promised would have attracted a field-marshal at least.
This, he thought, was a chance visit. Any way, better to die of a
bullet than see his people die of starvation.
"If there were guns to arm a dozen men from the village, I could entrap
them and hold them down in the cellar," he explained, preparing the
lamps. "I thought it out when he gave me his precious three minutes. I
could never manage. It's ten minutes to the village, ten to muster
them, ten to bring them back. I've only six sporting rifles. They are
thirty strong."
"But the tower is down," objected the priest
"There's the village church. Mother, do you go and tell Martin to
follow me. Father Constantine, get me a sheepskin."
He was off in a trice. The priest told his mother it was a wild-goose
chase.
"But six armed men against thirty, and only Ian a good shot," she
objected. "They would be butchered. After all, they may not find the
stores. I hope they will all get drunk first."
They tried to get into the cellar, to see how things went. Two
Prussians guarded the head of the stairs, two stood lower down, and two
at the bottom of the first flight. Ian was right. It would be madness
to send six men with sporting rifles against those hardened warriors.
They would not let the Countess pass. She took whispered counsel with
her chaplain in the kitchen, where some frightened maids were huddled
together.
"Try the other way," he suggested. "I don't suppose they know about
it."
They made for the library. It was deserted. Szmul had forgotten to
tell them of its small door, leading to a passage, at the bottom of
which steps led down to the cellars. For generations this entrance was
unused, being narrow, steep and dark as the grave. But during their
sojourn underground it served as a private access for the family, whilst
the refugees and household used the larger staircase.
There were two main cellars, connected by a labyrinth of narrow, vaulted
passages with smaller ones. Many of these passages, however, were blind
alleys, terminating in stout brick walls. Some were solid and five feet
thick; others hollow, with a good brick crust on either side. In these
recesses, old Hungarian wine was bricked up till some great family event
justified its being drunk. In the recesses which were empty at the
beginning of the war, Ian bricked up his food, taking out the wine from
others and storing it in the large cellars.
Once at the bottom of the narrow steps the two had but a few yards to
the part Father Constantine had fitted up as an underground chapel. To
screen it off he had put a curtain across the narrow passage. The wall
of a recess still supported the little altar. They hid behind the
curtain. They could hear voices.
"They are in the big cellar," whispered the Countess.
"Now Jew, where is this grain? Be quick." It was the subaltern's
voice.
"Oh, Excellency," began Szmul, and his voice was of honey. The Prussian
cut him short.
"No nonsense--speak out."
"I was down here one day, when they all thought I had gone out for air,
and I heard the Count talking to the silly old priest who----"
"Go _on_!"
"And they were in the chapel, which they have fitted up because they
stood in deadly fear of the Prussian shells. And they wondered between
themselves if it would not be better to break into the cellar stores in
the lower part on account of the damp and use that store as rations for
the peasants in the other village, not the village belonging to the
Count but the peasants' village, for there are----"
There was a thud, as of hard matter against soft, and then a shrill
Hebrew squeal.
"Go on!" roared the subaltern. "If you waste time I'll have you
flogged."
"It's near the second big cellar," he said promptly. "I heard that."
The Countess clutched her chaplain's arm. "They'll find it," she
whispered. "Oh, that traitor. And to think we put up with him and his
dirty family."
"Show the way."
It did not take them long to find out which of the two blind alleys off
the big cellar was hollow. The listeners heard the officer order his
men to begin. Ian's bricklayers were good workmen, though, and gave
them plenty to do. The subaltern swore at the thickness of the wall.
At last they gave a whoop of delight.
"Potatoes," cried a voice in German. "Trust them to know a good potato
when they see it.
"Take them all out, every sack. Let the Polish swine starve. I'll make
that lying Count smart for this."
"Will you?" said the Countess, and so loud that the priest feared they
would hear her.
There was much running to and fro as they took up their booty.
"Oh, for ten armed men," whispered the Countess. "I'd teach them to loot
us."
Father Constantine begged her to keep quiet, but she went on muttering
against them. After some minutes a soldier's voice reported all the
potatoes upstairs, on a cart. They had taken one of Ian's.
"And the wine?"
"Three dozen bottles." Father Constantine squirmed to think of that
good wine going down German throats.
"Get up the rest," ordered the subaltern. "And send me that Jew."
Szmul had been wall-tapping on his own account. He appeared breathless.
"Oh, Excellency ... there is a hollow wall just over there. And it's
wider than the others."
"Lead the way." Their steps died in the distance.
"Did you hear what he said about Ian?" she asked.
"Yes. I'll run over and warn him not to come till they go."
"We have plenty of time," she said bitterly. "They have a dozen places
yet. Oh, if I were a man!"
"What would you do?"
"I'd shoot him," and her voice was deadly calm.
Suddenly they heard picks behind the little altar, and sprang up in
consternation. Szmul had found Ian's largest grain store.
"Let us go," she said. There was something in her voice the priest had
never heard before.
They returned to the library. She shut and locked the door and without
another word went to Ian's bedroom. Father Constantine followed, afraid
of the look on her face. She took her boy's revolver from a table by
the bed.
"What are you going to do?"
She looked him full in the face, white to the lips but her eyes blazing
with the passion of protecting motherhood.
"Shoot him--before he gets Ian."
"But you're mad," cried the priest, vainly trying to wrest the weapon
from her. "The troopers will avenge themselves on you and on Miss."
But she was in no mood to listen. She made sure the revolver was loaded
and went to the door. Her chaplain managed to reach it first.
"You'll shoot me before you leave this room," he cried.
They stood glaring at one another and saying many bitter things--they
who had been friends for half a century. Then they felt ashamed and
were silent, though each was bent on victory. This lull in the quarrel
was broken by the sound of horses' hoofs upon the frozen ground.
"They're off," she cried, and running to the window had opened and
cleared it before the priest could get there. And in peace time she
walked with a stick!
He followed her as best he could, but alas! when he reached the ground
she had disappeared. The place was deserted, the night dark. He ran
hither and thither looking for her, his one thought to snatch away the
revolver. He remembered all the terrible things they had done to women
in France and Belgium for less than killing a Prussian officer. And she
was a good shot. He had seen her hit the bull'seye over and over again,
in the little shooting-range behind the shrubbery.
A shot rang through the air--it came from the kitchen side. He was too
late! He could no longer save her from herself! Ah, they were already
on her, for he could hear hoarse German oaths and a woman's screams.
Yes, that was her voice. Oh, my God, that he should come to this! They
were torturing her, subjecting her to unspeakable martyrdom, wreaking
vengeance for the death of their chief.
In the kitchen entry he stumbled over a Prussian helmet. Its owner lay
near by, on his face ... he hurried on...
The huge room resounded with the clash of steel, women's screams, men's
oaths. There was a struggling mass of humanity in the gloom. Ian, his
face bleeding, was fighting for his life with a trooper. Father
Constantine butted at them, to catch the German in his big paunch. But
something sharp and cold hit his head and he knew no more.
When he recovered his senses he was lying in a cold, dark place. His
head ached greatly. Somebody was bathing it with water.
"The Countess? The Countess?" He tried to rise, but could not.
"She is safe. Please lie still, Father Constantine." This in English.
It was Minnie.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
"And Ian?"
"A flesh wound. He'll be well in a week; but you----"
"And that Prussian?"
"Dead."
"She killed him?"
"No. The Russians came up just in time. Cavalry. Caught them with
their booty at the top of the cellar steps. Ian killed two. They
fought like devils, but were entrapped. Two others got killed, then the
officer. When the rest saw him down, they surrendered. We've one
wounded prisoner here. He says Szmul offered to bring them here if they
would spare him and some money he had buried."
"And Szmul?"
She laughed bitterly.
"Got clean off. Trust him. Now, you must rest. I'm going to be very
strict."
"But one thing more ... the signals saved us?"
"Yes."
"How many Prussians crossed the river that Szmul----"
"You must not talk."
"Please, just that."
"The Russians say only a few. The rest were cut off as they landed on
this side. But the prisoner, when I went to him just now--he is wounded
in the leg--says several hundred got over and his lot believed they were
in touch with the rest. Then they met Szmul who told them what booty
there was to be had in Ruvno--emeralds, and grain and wine. He says the
Germans will think Szmul got them here to entrap them, and will hang him
to the nearest tree."
"Serve him right!" cried the priest. "That skunk! Why, when he came up
to me last night----"
"Be quiet, Father Constantine," she said severely, "or I sha'n't let you
see anybody for a week."
And he obeyed.
X
Ian became vaguely aware of Minnie's feelings towards him on the night
of that fight with the Prussians in the kitchen. She saw the end of
that adventure despite his precautions. From the "secret room," which
was the name the household gave to a small paneled chamber that had only
a bull's-eye window and access from a bedroom by means of a small door
cut in the paneled wall, she espied his signaling on the church tower.
He had used this way of communicating before. She ran down there to
help. On the tower she found Martin, whose ancient arms were pretty
well exhausted. Ian, busy on the other side, did not know she was there
till she shouted that she saw a red light. It was thrown up by some
Russian cavalry and not far off. They arrived just in time. The
Countess showed them the way to the cellars through the library, so that
most of the Prussians were caught like rats in a trap. Some broke
through the other way into the kitchen and fought hard, but were
defeated and surrendered to the Cossacks, who marched off with all the
survivors except one, who was wounded in the leg.
He was not ungrateful for her help on the tower, though he agreed with
Martin that it had not been necessary. He told her that she had no
business to leave the secret room whilst Germans were about; then seeing
her disappointment at this cool recognition of her services, he told the
Grand Duke, in her presence, that she deserved a decoration. But he
determined to send her home at the first opportunity. The events of the
preceding evening proved how women hampered him when the enemy came. He
would have sent his mother, too, to join Vanda in Warsaw, but she was so
firm in her refusal to leave Ruvno that he gave up trying to persuade
her.
For several days after the kitchen fight nothing happened. Ian was busy
bricking up his rescued stores, which the Prussians had almost got away
with. Father Constantine was still in bed, his head wrapped in bandages;
the wounded Prussian had been moved to a hospital at Kosczielna, because
his leg was getting better so fast that they feared he would run away.
Then Major Healy arrived. He was a great big good-natured American,
doing his best to relieve the suffering in Poland with the means at his
disposal. He was, too, intensely interested in learning all he could
about the country, its customs and people. Ruvno was a revelation to
him. So far, the work had taken him and his interpreter amongst the
peasants, burrowing like rats below ground, and the Jews, for whom he
felt more pity than admiration. He was delighted to find that Ian spoke
English. They got on very well together. It was a long time since Ian
had talked to a man of his own age who was not a soldier. The Russians
he saw were infinitely more interested in turning his ground into
trenches and battlefields than in suggesting the best means of keeping
those dependent on him from starvation till the next harvest. Major
Healy had worked in Belgium and France and was able to give him a good
many hints for economy. Poland had always enjoyed such liberal food
supplies that Ian had overestimated his war rations and was astounded to
hear how people lived in Belgium. He cut down his ration system
slightly, and results proved that the change did no immediate harm,
whilst making a good deal of difference in the output of supplies.
Father Constantine, too, was interested in the visitor, though not on
account of rations. Minnie, suspecting nothing and anxious to give him
some news, told him about Healy's arrival with an interpreter and three
other men who helped to distribute relief.
"American!" he cried. "I must see him at once. I wouldn't miss him for
worlds."
Minnie explained that Major Healy would probably stop a few days, then
come back on his way home.
"Home? Do you say he is going home?" His eyes shone like a bird's
under the white bandages. "If so, the sooner I see him the better."
"Can't I give him your message?"
"Certainly not." Father Constantine could be very peremptory when he
liked. "The idea! I am quite fit to see visitors ... and anxious to
meet this American boy."
"He's forty if he's an hour."
"Well--forty or fourteen. See him I will."
Minnie put on the professional nurse's manner.
"Father," she said, "you're getting excited and you know how bad it is
for you. I won't bring up anybody till your temperature goes down."
He said no more; next time she took his temperature it had gone up two
points. He actually winked at her.
"There, my child," he said in triumph. "I told you that the sooner I
see this relief man the better. I shall not sleep a wink to-night unless
I do ... and to-morrow morning you'll find me in a raging fever."
"He is busy ... Ian is with him. I heard them say they would not finish
till supper time."
"What are they doing?"
"Checking stores for some village. The Americans have got a wonderful
system. Ian is learning it."
"You and Ian can do that whilst he is up here. I feel my temperature
has gone up another point. Give me the thermometer."
She refused that, but went for Major Healy. After all, she reflected,
he was an obstinate old man and capable of getting a high temperature
just to prove himself in the right.
The introduction over, he turned to her with one of his benignant
smiles.
"My child ... you have spent so much time with a poor old man to-day, I
am sure Major Healy will excuse you ... you might help Ian check those
potatoes."
She took the hint and went out; but not to the potatoes. I am afraid
she did a very mean thing. She burned with curiosity to hear what Father
Constantine wanted with the American major, and that instinct which
often enables a woman to steal a march on man whispered that she was
concerned in the priest's mysterious anxiety. It may be true that an
eavesdropper hears no good of herself; it is equally true that she
sometimes hears things good for herself. Therefore, argued Minnie, it
was quite a normal occupation under the circumstances.
The Father's room opened to his dressing-room, approachable from the
corridor as well. Thither she tiptoed, to find the door ajar. Slipping
in, she stood behind a curtain which hung in the doorway between
dressing and bedrooms. There was no door, so she heard very clearly.
Father Constantine was talking; she caught the sound of her own name.
"It is not safe for Miss Burton to remain here," he said in his slow,
correct English, for the Major had no other tongue. "I have told her so
more than once. So has the Countess; and also the Count. But she
refuses to listen. She knows how much we value her excellent work with
wounded and refugees. But perhaps you can persuade her. Neither the
Countess nor her son can insist; it would look as though they wanted to
get rid of her."
Major Healy was loath to interfere. He sat, like a giant in repose, by
the little chaplain's bed, listening politely, but secretly wishing
himself downstairs with the Count, whom he found more interesting every
time they talked together. Father Constantine's message had interrupted
a long argument not entirely disconnected with big-game shooting. Healy
was a keen sportsman himself, and found it very interesting to swap
stories with Ian, who did not know the Rockies, but did know the
Caucasus and even Cashmere, where he had spent a long-remembered holiday
with young Ralph Burton two years ago.
"Well," he said, in slow sonorous tones, his blue eyes watching the
snowstorm that raged outside the sealed double window. "Miss Burton
looks as if she could take care of herself. I hear that the Grand Duke
promised to give warning if the place gets unsafe."
This was not at all what Father Constantine wanted.
"Do you see my bandages?" he asked.
Major Healy said he did.
"I received the wounds they cover in a fight which took place in the
kitchen between the Grand Duke's soldiers and Prussian Hussars. Neither
the Duke nor the Kaiser sent to warn me that a fight would be in the
kitchen, which I entered by chance without any idea the Russians had
come to the rescue. It was a very good thing they did come because, as
you know, grain and potatoes are worth a dozen old men's skulls
nowadays."
"Oh--don't say that," protested the major politely.
The priest went on:
"Let us put it in this way. What would have happened if Miss Burton and
not myself had gone into the kitchen?"
"I suppose her head would have been smashed, too," murmured the
American.
"Exactly," agreed the priest. "Her pretty young head would have been
broken. And as a woman's head is softer than a priest's, it would
probably have been broken past repairing."
Major Healy waited for more. It came.
"And what would the American government say if an American woman had her
skull broken in a Polish kitchen?" he pursued.
"It would have written one of its darned notes."
"Oh!" said Father Constantine, disappointed at this unexpected reply.
"It would have written one of those notes? They must be very
interesting to compose, but will not mend broken heads. And England
won't even write a note. But her brothers would probably blame us for
letting her stop here. And Ruvno is one of the most dangerous houses in
Poland. You can see for yourself what the Prussians have done to the
tower and the west wing."
"That I have," agreed the major, more interested in the west wing than
the prospect of Minnie's broken skull. "I'd like to wring the Kaiser's
neck for bringing down that old bit." He was an admirer of antiquities,
you see, and Minnie was still far from being one. "No, Father, Poland
isn't safe for young girls and I'll speak to her about it."
He rose from the depths of the armchair.
"Thank you so much. It will be a great weight off our minds when we
know that this charming young lady is out of danger. When did you say
you were returning to France?"
"Not yet. I'll have to go to Moscow, and can take her to Petrograd and
find an escort for her to England."
The Countess came in then and Healy went off. Minnie was half-way across
the room on her way out when a laugh from the patient stopped her.
There was something wicked about it, out of keeping with a broken skull
and high temperature.
"What is it?" asked the Countess.
He laughed again. The visit had cheered him immensely.
"I think I've managed it."
"Managed what?"
"To persuade the American that Miss can't stop here any longer." And he
laughed again.
"But you know what the Grand Duke said."
"How about my broken head?"
"Oh--that was my fault, Father----"
"No--no." His voice was deprecating now. "This American man will
persuade her. He is the picture of American determination. Look at his
chin."
"I haven't noticed his chin. But I have noticed your lack of gratitude.
I'm ashamed of you after the way Minnie nurses you."
"I'm not ungrateful; but I've been watching her and Ian rather closely
the last few days."
"You've been in bed!"
Father Constantine coughed.
"That is why. You have no idea, Countess, how supremely indifferent a
young woman is towards a dozing patient. And I doze a good deal
nowadays. Ian, dear boy, comes to see me. And so does the Miss."
Minnie had to restrain an impulse to go in and shake her patient. She
heard footsteps outside, then Ian's voice at the old man's door.
"Is Major Healy here?" he asked.
"He is checking those American potatoes with the Miss," the priest
answered.
"Oh! I'll come for a chat later on." And off he went.
Minnie could hear the Countess and the priest giggle. They were still
enjoying their joke when came another rap. The surgeon this time.
Minnie went up to the ward, bursting with indignation at the priest's
duplicity. The idea of his "foxing" when she supposed him sound asleep!
She thought it very deceitful of him.
Healy was a conscientious man. Though very busy that evening, he found
time to redeem his promise to Father Constantine, and talk to Minnie.
She cut him short with:
"Yes. The old tower has spoilt one of the best specimens of
architecture left in Poland, and the old priest's head has been smashed
without either the Kaiser or the Grand Duke warning him. And I shall
get my head broken unless I go home at once."
He fairly gasped.
"How on earth----" he began.
"I've heard it before. I expect that Father Constantine has asked you
to help him. I shouldn't wonder if he asked you what the American
government would say if my head gets broken. Looking at you and knowing
your personal sympathies with the Allies, I suppose you think I am able
to take care of myself."
"Well, as you mention it----"
He gave her an appreciative glance. She was good-looking and he admired
her "spunk," to say nothing about her bright eyes and rosy cheeks.
Taking courage, she went on gaily:
"And the priest probably used his old joke about his head being harder
than a woman's."
"He did say----"
"Major Healy, I appreciate your kindness, but I'm not going home for any
of these arguments, which I've heard before. You may have some of your
own up your sleeve, if so----"
"I hadn't thought of any, but----"
"No, you've been so busy that you trusted to the old ones. It would
take something better to send me back to London."
"There's Moscow," he mentioned. "It's nearer and quite safe." He
rather liked the idea of having her as traveling companion. She would
be entertaining and was good to look upon.
"Nor Moscow either."
"Warsaw?"
"Not even Warsaw. I'm going to stop here, where I'm wanted."
He laughed. "I don't know but what you're right. You can always get
away when things look bad."
He returned to his blankets and potatoes, so Minnie heard no more of the
matter from him. But Father Constantine was quite nasty about it. Next
afternoon, at the hour of his siesta, he summoned his old servant and
made him read the newspaper. Then he insisted on learning how to knit.
In future, when he wanted a nap, he saw that the door was locked, saying
that visitors at that time disturbed him. He gave a pretty shrewd guess
that his room was about the only place where Minnie could talk quietly
to Ian these busy days, and meant to put a stop to the meetings. He was
by no means so simple as he looked.
Major Healy sought her to say good-bye, on the afternoon of his
departure. He waited till she had gone up to one of the large bedrooms
she called her ward. He thought he could talk more freely there than
before his host or hostess. His ideas about Minnie had changed in these
few days, since he sat, bored and eager to get away, by the old
chaplain's bed, and listened to his talk of broken heads.
"You're doing splendid work here," he said, when she had shown him a
couple of her convalescent patients. "But I think you're too near the
firing line."
"So is the Countess," she returned gaily. He did not speak for a
moment. He had a habit of pondering beforehand that suited his big
stature and heavy build. He was interested in her. She happened to be
the first young woman he had met for weeks who spoke his own language.
Relief work in a devastated country did not allow for social intercourse
and he realized what a pleasant little break Ruvno had made for him.
"The Countess?" he echoed, looking at his cigar. "I guess the Countess
is hanging on to a piece of herself. The Count tells me her family has
been here for eight centuries. I hadn't realized what that meant till I
talked to them. It means that the family was looking at this landscape,
tilling this land and fighting for it when the Indians camped where my
home is and the Norman king reigned over _yours_. So I expect she'd as
soon die as leave it any other way."
"Yes--that's true," agreed Minnie.
"But you've only been here a few months," he went on. "It's not part of
your bones."
"I've these," she said, looking round the room, which was peopled with
peasant women and children, injured by Prussian shells or gases, whilst
working in their fields. "I can't leave them."
He lowered his voice and bent over her, though not one of those
suffering, frightened souls could understand what he said. "I've talked
things over with the Count. It's plain enough that they're not going to
leave this old house of theirs even if the Germans come for good.
That's their look-out. If I were in their shoes I'd probably do the
same thing. The Germans will have to burn them out. But you're not a
Pole--Miss Burton. If they catch you here, they'll give you a pretty
bad time of it."
Her eyes flashed.
"I'm going to stay all the same," she said firmly. "The Russians aren't
beaten yet."
He gave a slow gesture of despair.
"It's going to be a long party and the Germans 'll make another push for
Warsaw soon. You're right in their road here."
He looked at her, a little pleadingly. He hated the thought of leaving
her in the midst of this desolation, possibly a prey to German "Kultur."
He had not noticed anything to make him suspect that Ian, rather than
wounded refugees, was in her mind when she refused to leave. He had not
seen the two together. Ian was busy all day long outside the house, she
in the wards. His admiration for her grew.
"Haven't you any family?" he asked.
"One brother with the Fleet and another in Flanders."
"That's a family to be proud of," he said warmly. "D'you hear from
them?"
"Not since the Dardanelles were closed. Will you take a couple of
letters for me?"
"That I will. And I'll see you get the answers. I'm going to Petrograd
next week--then to France. I'll be back here next spring. Meanwhile,
there are other men doing the work. Tell your brothers to send through
our office in Moscow. Here's the address." He produced a card, then a
pencil. "On the back I'll write mine, in Paris, where you'll always get
me." He scribbled a couple of lines and handed her the card. "Now you
keep that and don't forget to let me know, either there, or through our
Moscow office, when you want anything."
"Thanks awfully. I'll take great care of the card and will fetch the
letters for my brothers. They are ready."
He followed her and waited in the corridor. When she came back he said,
hesitatingly:
"Excuse a personal question; but have you got any cash?"
"A certain amount."
"How much?"
"Oh, about five hundred roubles--and my cheque-book."
"The cheque-book won't do you much good." His comely, rather heavy face
flushed. "Look here I'm a banker at home----"
"Why, you're a major," she retorted.
"So I am. But peace soldiering didn't suit me and I went into my
father's business. I'm going to join up again when America fights--and
she must."
"I'm glad to hear that," she said.
"Thanks. It'll take time--but it's coming. Why, if I thought we
weren't going to help put an end to this desolation over here...."
He grew suddenly shy, and broke off. Then:
"Let me be your banker now." He put a roll of notes into her hand.
"You'll be glad of it before you're through with Poland, believe me."
She thanked him, prettily, so he thought. Her first impulse was to
refuse the money. Then she reflected that they all might be glad of it
one day. The American's kindness touched her, and she showed it; this
flattered him. He had a susceptible heart and innate chivalry,
inherited from Irish forebears.
"Oh--how am I to thank you?" she murmured, blushing redder than he had
been a moment before.
"By using it to get out of this desert as soon as you can," he returned
quickly. "I hate to leave you here--in danger."
"But there is none--yet. Look here, Major Healy, do let me give you a
cheque on my London bank for it."
He laughed.
"I told you cheques are no good in this country. We'll settle later on.
Remember to let me know if I can help. Good-bye and good luck."
He strode down the long gallery, turned at the end, regretfully, waved
his hand and was gone. Minnie went back to her patients, whom she tended
with the help of two village women, and Zosia, the housekeeper.
The Countess had wounded soldiers in another part of the house.