Chapter XI

One spring morning the Countess came into the office where Ian was working, an open letter in her hand. He saw by her eyes that she had unpleasant news.

"A letter from Joseph," she announced, sitting down by his desk, where he was busy with accounts. He looked up, his clear eyes hardened.

"What does he want?"

"He has a week's leave. He says that the six months are over, and wants----"

"Wants his wedding," said Ian. "Then he must have it."

She laid her slim hand on his. He raised it to his lips; but did not meet her fond gaze.

"He says he has written to Vanda, to come here, to meet him."

Ian gave a grunt. He thought it just like Joe's impudence to order people in and out of his house. But he said nothing. His mother went on:

"Vanda, it appears, wants the wedding to take place in Warsaw."

"She's right," he returned promptly. "A wedding in this muddle!" He looked out of the window, to the garden cut in trenches, and the barbed wire, rusty with spring rains, blotting what was once a peaceful vista of sedate comfort. "I'd write to the Europe about rooms, and to the Archbishop."

"But, Ianek, think of the expense, nowadays," she protested gently.

"It wouldn't be much. You need only invite the family. No lunch or anything, just a glass of champagne when you get back from church. A war wedding."

"Then you won't come, dear?"

"No. The work here ... you know how pressed I am for men." He lowered his voice: "It's easier that way."

She gave him one of her long, adoring looks, her hand on his shoulder.

"Courage," she whispered, "these things pass."

He nodded. "There have been so many other things, and yet, when you came in with your news, I wished him dead."

"Ianek!" she cried, shocked by the pain in his voice as much as his words. "I'd been hoping you had forgotten. You were more cheerful these last few weeks, and so busy."

He gave a little laugh. "So did I. Then this letter brought it ... showed it's still there." He got up and paced the long room. "Oh, I don't want it here. Manage that for me; find out from somebody where Joe is, send a messenger that we can't have it in this ruin, that I insist, as head of the family, on its being in Warsaw. Telegraph to Vanda--I can't spare a messenger or I'd send a note to her by hand. But telegraph her that she's to stop where she is, that you're coming for the wedding. Tell her to let him know; he may be in Warsaw."

She glanced at the letter.

"No address, of course, just the military censor's stamp."

"But she may know where he is," he rejoined eagerly. "Take Minnie with you. The change'll do her good. Women love a wedding. Stop a few days yourself. I'll write the telegrams myself, they must be in Russian, I'd forgotten that." Then, seeing the alarm in her face, he added: "Don't worry, Mother, it's only ... it'll pass. But start for Warsaw the minute you can, before either of them gets here."

"At once," she said, rising.

He wrote a telegram to Joseph, another to Vanda and a third to the Archbishop of Warsaw. He wanted that man of high courage and well-tried patriotism to bless her union. These he sent to the station, the nearest telegraph office; at some inconvenience, because there was a great deal of work to be done in the fields and he was short of labor. So he took the place of the boy he sent plowing for him till all hands struck work at midday. Things had changed since last spring; when the squire rode over his well-cultivated property and merely gave orders to his manager. Now he was his own manager and his own bailiff, and sometimes his own hind as well. Plowing, he congratulated himself that he had at least saved the situation, as far as witnessing Joseph's happiness went; and the hard exercise relieved his feelings.

Here Destiny stepped in. He was crossing the hall to wash his hands for their frugal lunch when he heard the clatter of a quick-stepping horse through the open door. A tall figure, slim and smart in its brown Cossack uniform, swung from the saddle and stood in the sunlit entry. It was Joseph. They stood looking at one another in silence for a moment.

"Hullo!" cried the new-comer, "It is you ... couldn't see after having the sun in my eyes." And he strode over, spurs clanking, to hug the squire in an old-fashioned Polish embrace with a warmth that belonged, in the old days, to Roman, never to his brother.

Ian was forced to admit that war had changed his cousin. He was handsome as ever; but less a prig, more a man. Rubbing shoulders with the primitive aspects of life and death had done him good, widened his sympathies, rubbed off the crust of self-complacency which Ian has always hated in him, even before love came between them.

"I just wired to you," he said, releasing himself. "No idea you were so near."

"Near! The general's headquarters are in a railway truck at Kosczielna. I've got a week's leave. Has Vanda come?"

"No. Mother is packing to go to Warsaw."

"Anything wrong?" he asked in alarm. "Out with it, tell me the worst."

"Nothing wrong. Only...." He pointed towards the devastated garden, the gap where the tower had once been, and the rusty entanglements. "We can't have a wedding here."

Joseph laughed, not from lack of sympathy, but for relief that Vanda was not ill?

"My God! There are weddings on rubbish heaps nowadays. I call Ruvno a quiet spot for a honeymoon. I've no time to go to Warsaw. Vanda wanted it there, too, but it'll take too long. We're going to make an advance soon, and goodness knows when I'll get another chance like this. A week's leave! Not to be despised, I can tell you. I've got all the papers and things. We can get married the moment Vanda comes. Hard work getting them, but they've made things easier in war-time. I saw that old Canon of yours. Dragged him out of bed at six o'clock this morning. I say, anything to drink? I've the thirst of the devil on me!"

"Of course." He led the way to the dining-room, noted Joseph's long pull at the beer set before him--he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a bottle of wine to be fetched and opened--watched, listened and wondered. And this was Joseph, the fastidious, pomaded, manicured, supercilious fop of six months ago. His face reddened by snow, sun and wind; his chin unshaven, his right hand disfigured by the scar of the wound he got in the Carpathians, his nails broken and begrimed with dirt that no washing would remove, his fair hair, once so sleek and trim, tousled from his high fur cap, which he pulled off and flung on to a chair. He looked the picture of robust health, happiness and sincerity, but never like Joseph Skarbek. Soldiering with men whose education and upbringing was ruder than his had rubbed the artificiality off him, leaving the old type of virile, keen, sincere Skarbeks who had fought their way through the country's history. Ian began almost to like him.

But he was not a second Roman, had none of his brother's fatalism, devil-may-care philosophy, odd glimpses into the truth of life's foundations. His was more the ingenuity of a big schoolboy, but such a schoolboy as he had never been when in his 'teens. One of his first questions was for Roman. He grew grave when they told him there was no news.

"I counted on your hearing from him. He wouldn't be likely to write to me, because of Vanda. But he must have got over that. It wasn't his first love-affair --nor his second. He can't be a prisoner. He'd never let the Prussians take him. He told me that. Besides, I know it myself." He gave a short laugh. "Crucifixion would be too good for us both if they catch us. And he's not on the list of dead or wounded either, for I got a man at Petersburg--I mean Petrograd--to bring me them."

"Up to date?" asked Ian anxiously.

"Yes. The latest. They came this morning, just before I started. Of course, it's just like Roman never to send a line, and then hell turn up all of a sudden and be surprised that we were anxious."

As he sat and listened to the story of the Carpathian campaign, told with simple directness, with that ignorance of main facts which characterises all such stories, where a man knows only what goes on around him, yet with that charm of the intelligent eye-witness, Ian felt suddenly very middle-aged and out of things. Here he was, doing daily drudgery on a ruined estate, always in the same place, always seeing the same people, in the dull monotony of a long winter, without any shooting, without visits to Warsaw and the opera, whilst this cousin of his, whom he had always despised for a coxcomb and an armchair agriculturist, had been running half over Europe, chasing the Austrians over snow-bound mountains, learning the sensation of fighting hand to hand, of being wounded, of getting a decoration, of thinking himself dead once, of being near death many times; not the death of rats-in-a-hole that Ruvno knew, but death with glory; when he heard tales of these things, told by a now unfamiliar Joseph, and compared his own humdrum life, he reflected bitterly that if Vanda had loved this man before she would worship him now. He opened the demijohn that his mind had reserved for Roman's coming, and they drank the health of everybody they liked who was alive and to the other Skarbek's speedy return. During the evening they discussed business.

"Aunt Natalie," began the bridegroom, "I expect you think I'm mad to get married just now, with nothing to live upon and not even knowing if I'll be alive this time next week."

"Vanda will never want while we are able to give her a crust," she said warmly. This new Joseph pleased her, too; if not for her boy she would have taken him to her heart as she had taken Roman long ago.

"Thank you, Aunt. I used to think, there on the Carpathians, what a selfish beast I was to keep her to our engagement after I'd joined the right side and lost my property. But when I was in Kieff old Uncle Stephen came to see me."

"Old Uncle Stephen," was of the branch of Skarbeks who had estates in Russian territory and were Russian subjects.

"They say he's made a lot of money over the war," remarked Ian.

"At any rate he's not lost any. He was so pleased to hear that I'd joined against the Prussians that he made over a hundred thousand roubles to me. He's a wise old bird; had it invested in several things, I'll tell you the details afterwards. I've got the figures on paper. Anyway, Vanda will have enough to live upon. And on the strength of it I thought we'd better get married. Everybody doesn't get killed in the war. I don't see why I should be worse off than other men."

Later on he reverted again to his marriage; this time to Ian.

"Vanda has been working too hard in Warsaw," he said. "I can see that from her letters. She's not her old self. I want you to let her stop here till I can take care of her myself."

Ian did not answer for a moment; when he spoke it was with an effort.

"This is her home as long as she likes," he said. "But you mustn't forget that the Russians have been here twice and may come again. You wouldn't want her here then."

"I've thought of that. But they won't come so fast. And I'll let you know in time to get her out before they do. She wants a rest from that nursing business. It's wearing her out."

Ian's quick ears had detected the sound of wheels coming up the drive. He went to the window and looked out. A hired trap was making its way up to the house with that gallop for the avenue characteristic of hackney drivers in Eastern Europe. The garden was flooded with moonlight, which lighted up those on the trap. As it swung round by the front door, he saw two women sitting behind the driver. One was evidently a peasant, and beside her sat a slim, upright figure dressed in dark clothes. He shut the window and turned to his cousin:

"She has come," he said.