On the day when the peasants decided to stop in Ruvno Ian had a visitor.
It was none other than the narrow-eyed Colonel who was in the same house
at the beginning of the war, when Rennenkampf came and Roman with him;
when Father Constantine had vainly interceded that Roman might not be
obliged to shoot his own brother.
The family, even to the Countess, was busy in field and barn. For the
first time in her life she had taken to manual labor. But the peasant
proprietors were hurrying to get in their own crops; Ian's men had been
sadly thinned and he was therefore short-handed. One idea possessed them
all: to gather in what they could before some enraged soldiers passed
and took next year's food from them.
Well, the Colonel drove up to the house, made a great noise with his
motor and was finally answered by Father Constantine, who appeared on
the scene, rake in hand.
"I want to see the Count," said the Russian, saluting.
"He is with the others, at the home-farm. If you will go there." He
recognized the man, but saw that his memory was better than the
visitor's.
"I must see him alone. Please tell him so."
In due course Ian arrived. He was in his shirtsleeves and had on an old
pair of white flannel trousers, formerly worn for tennis. He had been
stacking hay. Father Constantine very much afraid that Roman's name
would come up, had followed. The Colonel came to the point without
delay.
"The sooner you and your peasants leave this the better," he said
gruffly. "We can't hold it any longer. The enemy may be here at any
moment."
"The peasants have made up their minds to stay," said Ian.
"And you?"
"I never thought of leaving."
The soldier's narrow eyes hardened. He was of those who thought it
every civilian's duty to follow in his retreat. He drew himself up and
spoke rather sharply. But he was still civil, knowing well that the
master of Ruvno was no squireen, to be treated with contempt. Ian, for
his part, was slightly hostile. He knew the man for his anti-Polish
feelings, kept in check when things were going well, but ready to leap
out into action now that misfortune was upon them all. Besides, Ian had
seen those fugitives, and no man could look upon them without thinking
that the army, even in retreat, might have done something to alleviate
their sufferings, even if it were but to leave them their corn.
"Count, you don't understand. I repeat: the Prussians are coming.
Surely you are not going to wait to welcome the Czar's enemies."
"Nobody hates the Prussians more than I," he rejoined. "If I leave
Ruvno I shall be a beggar. Besides, it's my home."
"Russia is wide."
"And the road long. No, Colonel. We have lived here, peasant and
master, father and son, through many wars, many invasions. For me and
my mother there can be no choice, so long as a roof remains for us here.
As to my peasants, I left them free to choose, said not a word for or
against. But they have seen those crowds--" he pointed towards the
road, where the weary stream of homeless humanity struggled on towards
the unknown. "The old and sick left to die alone, children hungry,
mothers exhausted. They made up their minds that it is better to die
here than in ditches between this and Moscow."
"You accuse us of neglecting the refugees," cried the Colonel, red to
his hair-roots.
"No. This is war. The weak and poor and aged suffer most. But I claim
the right to choose between two kinds of suffering."
"Do as you please. But you'll all starve. I'm giving orders to burn
the crops."
Ian turned white at this. For months he had been fighting against
starvation. Every waking thought had been connected with the problem of
how to feed those dependent on him for the ensuing year. Even his
dreams had been of crops and storms and war agriculture. He had risen
with the dawn to plow and till and sow. No landless peasant, hiring
himself by the day, had worked harder than the lord of Ruvno. And now,
when the fruit of his labors was ripening in these fields so thinned by
rapine, trenches and mines; when, by dint of untold effort and
determination he had overcome difficulties none dreamed of a year ago,
this soldier threatened to fire the little that remained to fill his
garners. Controlling himself with an effort, he said:
"And how will you feed us all?"
"In Warsaw."
"You're leaving Warsaw to its fate," retorted Ian. "And you know it."
The man looked perfectly furious at this, and would have burst out, but
Ian went on, that tone of authority that Father Constantine knew well in
his voice. He said:
"Listen. I had the Grand Duke's promise, last week, that Ruvno will be
left intact so long as it or its village is inhabited. You know as well
as I do that, where Nicolai Nicolaievitch has been, no villages or crops
are ruined wantonly by his retreating army, and no peasants driven to
the road against their will. If you tamper with my house or my people,
who are half-starved even now, I swear to you that not only the Grand
Duke, but the Czar himself shall hear of it."
The Colonel bit his lip and stalked off, fuming with suppressed passion.
He knew that the Grand Duke was friendly here. He must have known, too,
that Poland's old foes, the Russian bureaucrats, were responsible for
driving people off their land by sheer force and doing nothing to help
them on their exile into the most distant parts of the Russian Empire.
In silence Ian and his chaplain watched him motor up to the nearest
fields and inspect them. They were meager enough, God knows, cut as
they were by trenches. As to the potatoes, they would not be ready for
a couple of months, and last year's had gone long ago. They watched him
anxiously. Was he going to fire the corn or not? He wanted to, it was
plain, if only to show a ruined Polish nobleman that his word was law.
He prowled round and then went back to the high-road, stopping some of
the refugees and talking to them. Even after they heard his hooter from
the village their eyes still clung to the yellow fields, fearing to see
smoke. He went off at sundown without so much as a salute. But he
evidently thought it risky to quarrel with Ian, and did not fire the
crops. With a sigh of relief Ian glanced across at Father Constantine.
They had finished the stack and were going in to supper.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "But don't say anything to the others."
"Of course not. But look, what is that?"
On the horizon they saw columns of smoke and a dull red glare; others
had not been so fortunate.
The old priest had been trembling with fear all the time lest the
Colonel should remember Joseph, and make him an excuse for burning the
place. But he had evidently forgotten all about the incident last
autumn. So much the better.
Next morning Ian, Vanda and Minnie, with a couple of maids, started out
with the reaping machine. Ian, of course, was in charge, and the girls,
willing but inexperienced, were to work under him. Since the Colonel's
visit he had been in a perfect fever of haste to cut whatever corn was
ripe. He left his mother and Father Constantine at the home farm, with
admonitions that neither of them must overwork. These two old friends
were in the farmyard when some of the Cossacks who had been so busy
about the village and amidst the remains of the home forest, came
clattering up on their little horses. A young officer was with them.
He saluted the Countess, and said civily, in broken Polish:
"Lady--I must ask you for that reaping machine I saw here yesterday."
"Oh--are you going to reap our fields for us?" she returned gaily.
"That would be very nice of you."
The youth looked sheepishly at her, but said nothing.
"Well--what do you want it for?" she insisted.
"Lady--I'm sorry. But your reaping machine contains steel and other
metals; and we have orders to take every ounce of steel and iron and
copper away."
The Countess looked at her chaplain in silent consternation. The old
man, ever ready to help her, sharply told the officer to be off. The
Cossack was not so civil to him.
"No nonsense," he said. "Where is it?"
"But I protest against having my place looted," cried the Countess.
"Lady, I'm sorry. I would not take a nail from Ruvno. But orders are
orders. See here," and he pulled a slip of paper from his boot,
dismounted and took it to her.
She waved it aside.
"It's Greek to me--I don't understand this taking everything."
"No. I--Lady Countess, I say again, I'm very sorry. But I'm only a
poor Cossack, to obey orders. Where is the machine? We have to be
off--or the Germans will take us--and the metals."
"My son has gone out with it," she said shortly. "You'd take the shoes
from our feet if you'd the time."
"No--I would take nothing. Whereabouts is your son with his machine?"
She pointed angrily southwards. The direction was vague. The man
looked at the sun, which was getting high.
"He'll be back at midday?"
"I doubt it. He has much to do."
He turned to his men.
"Children! Hasten. Do you go and fetch the bells."
"What bells?" cried the priest in alarm. But nobody answered. The
Cossacks left the yard and trotted towards the chapel. Father
Constantine hastened after them, the Countess after him. But as the way
was rather long and their feet older than they thought, they arrived
before the chapel just in time to see the Cossack's take down the three
bells and put them on as many horses. One had been cast four hundred
years before by an Italian who did much work in the neighborhood. The
other two were modern, but of good workmanship.
"And they've taken the bell that used to hang up in the home farmyard,"
said the Countess ruefully, as a Cossack they had not noticed before
came up with it.
Father Constantine had not recovered from the shock of seeing his
beloved bells slung across the Cossack saddles, when she gave another
cry of anger. Several more Cossacks had come up. Their horses were
laden with the copper pots and pans from the kitchen.
"It's as bad as if the Prussians were here," she exclaimed. "What do
they imagine we're to cook with?"
The young officer, who had been to the kitchen, now went up to her. His
face was crimson.
"Lady Countess, I regret this as much as you do--" he began.
"I doubt it," she retorted.
"... And church bells," put in Father Constantine.
"I wanted," said the youth earnestly, "God knows I wanted to leave
Ruvno, where we have had so much kindness, as we found it. But the
orders are explicit. We are not to leave any metal at all--which may
serve the Prussians."
"It seems to me that between our friends and foes we shall have nothing
left but the bare ground," she said.
But she protested no more. What was the good? She and the Father
watched them pack up all the rest of the pots and pans in rueful
silence. Before starting the young officer approached her again, his
cap in hand, his long, shaggy locks all loose and dangling in his eyes.
"My Lady Countess," he said earnestly, "won't you please come with us?
I have a spare horse or two and will see you don't put foot to soil till
we reach Sohaczer. The Germans will not treat you well. We can pick up
your son and the young ladies on our way."
"It seems to me that you have left nothing for the Germans to take," she
remarked, but not angrily this time. There comes a point where
civilians, in the war zone, cease to protest. It is not so much dumb
despair, as a knowledge that their words are vain when the "military"
come along. They are but spectators of their own ruin.
"Russia is wide," he said simply. "I am a wealthy Cossack at home. If
you will come with us I'll see that you reach my farm in safety. My old
mother will look after you, and you'll lack nothing, till the war is
over."
This touched her. She answered warmly:
"Ah--that is good of you--but I cannot leave my land. Thank you all the
same."
He waited a moment after this, saw she meant what she said, and pressed
her no more, but wished them both good-bye and good luck, kissing her
hand and saluting the priest.
"I am sorry you won't come," he said, mounting his horse. "The Germans
won't be good to you."
And he left them reluctantly, followed by his men. The Countess laughed
at the odd figures they cut, with her bells and saucepans tied to their
saddles; but there were tears in her eyes all the same. When they were
out of sight she and the Father returned to their work in the farmyard.
They were still there, two hours later, when Martin came running into
the barn.
"My lady," he panted, more from emotion than fatigue; "the Prussian
brutes are here. One of their officers, who gives his name as Graf von
Senborn, wants to speak to my Lord the Count."
"The Count is in the fields. Tell this officer I will see him. Bring
him here," said the Countess.
She had on a cotton apron and a kerchief such as peasant women wear.
She and the priest looked at one another with uneasiness; they had hoped
against hope that the Prussians would keep off till their crops were in
a safe place; they had hoped that the invaders would not care to put up
at Ruvno, almost denuded of wine and as desolate as could be after
nearly a year's war, comforting themselves with the thought that there
were places, nearer Warsaw, likely to attract them better. The clank of
spurs sounded on the stones; a moment later an officer, whose face was
vaguely familiar to the priest, swaggered into the huge barn. Some
girls were working at the far end, and stopped to look at him. He
saluted and said:
"Where are the Cossacks?"
"They left an hour ago," said Father Constantine, racking his brains to
remember where they had met before.
"Is that so?" he asked the Countess.
"Yes. They took the chapel bells and the copper things out of my
kitchen. For the rest, you can search the place."
He eyed her with a certain interest. I suppose he had never seen a
grand lady stacking before, except, perhaps, for the fun of it. And she
was not very quick at the work, for even stacking is hard to learn when
you are no longer young. He looked lean, hard, well-bred; a very
different type from the man who so nearly carried off their stores last
winter. He spoke French fluently, though with true German gutturalness.
The others went on with their work.
"That is hard work, _Madame_," he said after a bit.
"These are hard times, _Monsieur_," she returned gravely. "The war has
left us little but our health and our determination to make the best of
things."
"I always heard that Polish ladies have high courage," he went on, with
a stiff Teutonic bow. "And now I see it for myself."
"Courage is one of the few things war does not destroy," put in the
priest.
The Prussian gave him a glance, as if he were trying to think where they
had met before. His face was a worry to the Father. Where, oh where
had he seen the man?
"_Madame_," he resumed, when he had stared at Father Constantine a
second time. "Allow me to put some of my men to this stacking. They
are rough peasants and will get it done in no time."
She hesitated, then accepted his offer, which the priest was glad of.
She had been working hard since the early morning, and looked very
tired. He called some troopers and set them to work with short, dry
words of command, which they obeyed with alacrity. Then he went with the
Countess and her chaplain into the house, asking all sorts of questions
about it. Of course he had heard of Ruvno and its now ruined glories.
And when the Countess left them to rest, he questioned Father
Constantine about the plate, jewels, and especially the emeralds. The
priest answered him as best he could, and they gradually lapsed into
silence. He sat in one of Ian's easy chairs smoking a cigar. Suddenly
he got up and said:
"Take me to the Countess' wardrobe."
Father Constantine stared at him in amazement. Hitherto his manners had
been such an improvement on those of preceding Prussians that he could
scarce believe his ears.
"Do you hear? To her wardrobe," he repeated, with a shade of sternness.
"What for?"
He laughed.
"She has no need for old laces and sables, now she works on the farm,"
he answered.
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Father Constantine angrily.
The Graf's face flushed; he broke into German.
"I'm master here. And I command you to take me up to the Countess'
wardrobe. You'll find, if you persist in your refusal, that my men can
do other things besides stacking."
And now that he was in a rage and had fallen back to his native tongue,
the priest recognized him. And his own wrath grew.
"So, Graf von Senborn," he cried, "you're a true follower of the Crown
Prince, your master. He loots in Belgium; you in Poland. How many
Polish children have you tormented since I met you at Zoppot?"
"Ah--you're the little priest who refused to salute His Imperial
Highness," he retorted, forgetting furs and laces for the moment. "It's
a pity I didn't chuck you into the Baltic, I should have saved myself
the trouble of having your miserable body hanged up on a tree now."
He made towards the old man, who stood firm, because he did not care if
he were hanged. But he did want to speak his mind first.
"I wish your evil-faced Crown Prince were here, too," he said, as fast
as he could, lest the Prussian strike him down before he spoke his mind.
"I'll tell that son of the Anti-Christ what none of his sycophants dare
speak of----"
"Some of your Polish plots again?"
"No plots, but the vengeance of the Almighty. Hell-fires await him and
his friends for all the deviltries you----"
Strong hands were round the thin throat; Father Constantine felt his
last moment had come. But there arose a great noise and shouting
outside. Von Senborn threw down his victim, as you would cast off a cat
whose claws have been cut, and rushed into the garden. He suspected
treachery. Father Constantine picked himself up and followed. There
were things he wanted to tell him yet, things which had lain heavy on
his soul for many a long day.
He was in the garden, surrounded by bawling troopers, who were very
excited. Four of them held two Cossacks. Two of them held Ian. Vanda
was there, too; she rushed up to the priest; she was in tears.
"Oh, Father, they've arrested him ... and he knows nothing about it."
"About what?"
"These Cossacks. They were hiding in one of the lofts. They had
matches. He says"--she indicated von Senborn--"they were going to burn
the troopers as they slept."
"Found any more?" von Senborn asked some men who came up now.
"Not one."
The officer turned to Ian.
"You're to blame for this."
"I know nothing about it."
"Do you know what we do to people who hide the enemy?" von Senborn
pursued. "We shoot them."
"He knows nothing about it," put in one of the Cossacks, and got a kick
for his pains.
"Nothing," said Ian. Was this the last moment of his life? He spoke
up; but his words were of no avail.
"Oh, please listen to me," cried Vanda, in agony. "He knows nothing
about it. We have been harvesting since six in the morning ... away
over there." She pointed towards the south. "Everybody says the
Cossacks left at eleven."
"Nobody knew of our hiding but our ataman," said another Cossack.
"Shoot us you can. But the Count is innocent."
They did not even trouble to kick this one, who protested and defended
Ian in vain. Ian defended himself, too, but he felt all along how
useless his words were. What was about to happen to him had happened
thousands of times since last July. He remembered Zosia's sister in
Kalisz. Father Constantine felt his poor old head swimming with the
agony of the thought. Nothing more terrible than this could have
occurred. He, too, saw that von Senborn had made up his mind.
"You were found near the Cossacks," the latter argued. "You're guilty."
Then he turned to Vanda: "Go into the house. Keep the Countess there
and away from the windows. When I've shot him I'll tell her myself."
"I hid them! Shoot me!" cried Vanda, throwing herself at his feet "For
the love of God, spare him. He went out at six. The Cossacks left at
eleven. How could he know? Take me instead! He is wanted more than
I!"
"Vanda! Vanda!" cried Ian, struggling to get away from those who held
him. "Don't believe her!" he cried to von Senborn. "She's as innocent
as I am. If you must shoot somebody, shoot me."
Von Senborn looked from one to the other; but his face did not soften.
"You're wasting time," he said to her. "Go into the house."
She went up to Ian. They gazed at each other, reading the secret each
had guarded too long. Her eyes were full of love as well as misery; his
face, under its sunburn, was white as hers.
"Can nothing be done?" she wailed.
"Go to Mother. Don't let her see."
As her eyes lingered on his face his heart ached; many bitter thoughts
and feelings rose within his soul. He wrenched an arm from one of his
captors.
"Leave me!" he ordered. "I'll not run away."
At a sign from their officer the two troopers loosened their hold and
stepped back a couple of paces, leaving the cousins together. They said
little; for at such moments human lips have not much to say. Hearts are
too full of words; words too poor to be heart's mouthpiece. He knew
now, when it was too late, that she loved him, that she had always loved
him, that Joseph was but an incident, mostly of his making; that he
loved her, that the happiest hours of their joint lives had been spent
together in his old home, in his large, cool forests, by the frozen
river, under the broad grayness of a northern sky; over the crisp snow
and flower-decked meadows; on his sleek, fleet horses, in his
swift-running sleighs, whose bells made jangled music in the frosted
air; in every season of God's good year, in every phase of his pleasant,
long-dead life, he and she had been all in all, she the key to his
happiness, the gate to that earthly paradise which he had shunned till
Joseph closed it to him. And he, in his blindness and procrastination,
learnt about it too late.
"Oh--what we have lost!" he murmured, locking her in a long embrace.
"Ian--Ian--my darling!" she sobbed.
This was all; and in broken words, choked with sobs.
The faithful old priest gently separated them at last, for he saw von
Senborn was going to do it. He took her to the long window which led
into the Countess' favorite room. She was crying bitterly, but without
sobs, forcing them down lest she make it yet harder for Ian.
They bandaged his eyes. He refused at first; but the sight of that
landscape, familiar in its desolation, dear to him yet, was more than he
could bear. Oh, to leave life thus, when others were dying like men!
And how dear was life, despite ruin and war and uncertainty! How many
things he had meant to do; how much more happiness he might have had
before this cataclysm fell upon them! Then thought turned to his
mother.
"I must speak to my chaplain," he said in the firm voice of a man
accustomed to obedience.
"You dare not murder him without shrift," he heard the priest say. He
had left Vanda in the house and was returning hurriedly. A moment later
his thin, shaking hand was on Ian's arm.
"Three minutes," said von Senborn's voice, impatient now. "Make the
most of your time."
Hastily, the priest gave his quondam pupil what comfort he could. Then
Ian whispered:
"Take the women away at once. You may yet reach Warsaw. Then with
Mother to Rome. The Cardinal is all she'll have left but Vanda. Don't
forget the jewels."
"Yes, yes. Courage, my boy. Don't worry for us."
"I have that, thank God. Good-bye, Father. Get away at once. All of
you."
Von Senborn came up, saying:
"You must leave him now, Father."
Catching a shade of regret in his voice, Father Constantine pleaded for
his dear patron's life, using all the eloquence and arguments he had.
Not unkindly, the Prussian pushed him aside.
"Can't you see you're making it harder for him?" he cried. Then he
called up his men, who ranged in front of their victim. Father
Constantine said prayers for the passing of that beloved soul across the
gulf that leads into eternity. Ian listened for his death-order, his
back to the wall, determined to show these Prussians he could meet a
dog's death like a man.
"Ready!" von Senborn's voice rang out.
"Oh, Mother!" shouted Ian. And this is not strange, because when life
is going, a man's thoughts and heart turn to her who gave it him.
The men pointed their muskets. Von Senborn's mouth was open to give the
word of command that was to send Ian to the unseen world when his name
was called loudly, a few yards away.
"Von Senborn! Quick! Quick!"
With a gesture of annoyance he turned round. The men still pointed
their arms; but they did not shoot. Ian, expecting that every
leaden-footed second would bring the fatal word, whose nerves were
strained almost beyond endurance, thanked God for Prussian discipline.
He heard footsteps, and hope arose in his heart. Perhaps the Russians
were back again. Father Constantine, through his tears, saw another
Prussian officer hurrying towards them.
"I've captured a _sotnia_ of Cossacks ... and a ton of copper," he
cried, his voice full of life and triumph. Then he saw Ian.
"What are you doing?"
Von Senborn told him.
"I know your voice," cried Ian. "You talked to me in the fields this
morning ... for God's sake tell him I'm innocent."
The two Prussians looked at one another. Ian felt sick with emotion.
Those minutes were the longest he ever lived, whilst the new-comer had
his eyes uncovered and looked at him earnestly.
"Yes," he said at last. "I talked to you in the field. You told me
your name. It was seven o'clock. The Cossacks did not leave this till
eleven. They own it themselves. Let's have their captain up."
They did. The officer who had offered the shelter of his Cossack farm
to the Countess came up. He said, in an undertone, to the priest:
"I told you to leave. I knew the men were here, hiding." Then to the
Prussians, in very bad German:
"I'm your prisoner. I've nothing to lose or gain by seeing this Polish
Count shot. He knew naught about my men hiding. He was in the fields
with a reaping machine I happened to want. He left here hours before I
hid the men."
"That's it," said the other Prussian officer. "Don't be an ass, von
Senborn."
Von Senborn turned to Ian.
"You can go."
Ian burst into a shout of joy. Father Constantine fell upon his knees
and thanked God for this miraculous escape.