Chapter XII

Next morning, Ian was up at daybreak, hurrying to his morning tasks, to get them over a little earlier than usual and have time for a chat with Vanda before breakfast. The Canon was coming at twelve, and would marry them immediately. Between breakfast and midday he had a great deal to do and could not expect to get five minutes alone with her.

Crossing to the farm, he met Joseph.

"You're up early," he remarked.

"Can't sleep. I'm so excited!" He laughed gaily.

"I hope Vanda is asleep. She looked awfully tired last night."

"Oh, she'll be all right in a little while. She's had too much hard work. The Princess ought not to have allowed it. She promised to get up in good time, too; I want every minute with her."

Ian glanced at him. So the old Joseph had not gone altogether. Ian would not have disturbed her so early if they were to part that day. She needed rest more than anything.

"Don't you think she has changed?" he asked. "It seemed to me last night she was different."

"Oh, nonsense! You know how devoted she is to me. And I to her, of course. Why, I love her a thousand times more than I did before I went to the Carpathians. You're getting a crusty old bachelor, full of odd ideas. _Au revoir_, I'm off to get a shave."

And he turned towards the house. Ian went into one of the fields which were being plowed. How sure Joseph was of his luck! Even if he heard from Vanda's own lips that she did not care for him he would refuse to believe it, put it down to fatigue, insist on their marriage all the same.

Ian was late for breakfast. The Countess alone lingered at the table, so that he should not have a solitary meal. They did not mention Vanda's name, but he asked if she had ordered the best luncheon possible, considered the menu, suggested one or two alterations. The best champagne in the cellars must be brought up--and some of the old Hungarian wine for dessert, as is the Polish custom. She fondly thought that it was just like her boy to remember such details for other people's pleasure in the midst of his own pain. He spoke about a dowry, too, but here she was firm in her disapproval.

"It's absurd," she said. "Stephen is looking after Joseph. He is far better off now than we are or ever shall be again. And you know he always meant to leave everything to Joe and Roman. Keep your money. We shall want it badly enough before the war is over."

He said no more about it, but returned to the lunch.

"It would have been a better one if I'd known sooner," he remarked as they left the table. "However, the wine is all right. And they'll be too happy to notice what they are eating."

"Oh, Ianek, I do wish you hadn't promised him to keep her here," she exclaimed.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her white hair, laughing a little at her concern.

"Never mind, Mother. You've no idea how good plowing is for the sentiments."

This was another grievance. She exclaimed indignantly:

"To think you have to work like a peasant!"

"I want my crops. And when I've no manager, overseer or bailiff, and very few laborers, what can I do? It's good for me, I'm fit as a fiddle." And he made her feel the muscles on his arms, which were like iron.

"We seem to have become yeoman farmers," she said. "Oh, I'm not complaining for myself."

"Then don't worry about me," he rejoined cheerfully. "After all, we're a lot better off than most of our neighbors."

The wedding was over very quickly. Ian gave Vanda away because there was nobody else to do it. She wore a white frock which, oddly enough, he remembered quite well. Less than a year ago he had taken her and the Countess up to Warsaw for some racing, before she went to stay in the Grand Duchy. They had their usual rooms at the Europe, on the quiet side, away from the main street. There was a large sitting-room, with a balcony. The dress had come home at the last moment, whilst the car waited downstairs to take them to the course at Mokotov. She had put it on hastily and called him in from the balcony to look at it. He supposed that was why he remembered it so well. He would have given her a new one for the wedding, had he known she was coming so quickly. She looked very sweet in the old one, though. But his thoughts flew back to the sumptuous outfit he had planned for her, sables he had priced in Warsaw, whither he never returned, except to volunteer for the army; the guests he was to invite, entertaining them as Ruvno could entertain--once. And it had all turned out so differently. There were no guests, no presents, no sables; not even an entire house. Nothing but ruined acres and dead hopes, and a pain in his heart such as he had never felt before.

He could not see her face as the ring was slipped on to her finger. He did not want to. He longed for the whole thing to be over and done with, the blessing bestowed, the healths drunk, the meal at an end, that he could go out into the sun and fresh air, working until bodily fatigue had numbed every other feeling.

Almost immediately after the marriage they sat down to table. He played his part decorously, without betraying himself, with a secret anger at the pain in his soul and determination to kill it. Even Minnie, who watched him closely, could find no fault. He was the lively host of peace days, but the champagne helped him there.

The Canon was in great form. He told all sorts of stories about the time when Rennankampf was lodged in his house and did his duty by food and drink as well. Then he rose to propose a toast. It was in verse. He had used it at every marriage feast he went to for the past twenty years. Even Vanda, youngest of the party, knew it off by heart; for all the author ever did was to change the names of bride and bridegroom; the body of the verses remained the same. No sooner was he on his feet, however, than they applauded him. Even Father Constantine, rather sleepy after his early rising and the old Tokay, woke up and said: "Bravo!"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" began the Canon, folding his hands over his well-filled soutane and beaming on them all: "Let us now drink to the health of the beautiful bride and gallant bridegroom, who----"

He never got any further. At that moment, Martin approached Joseph and whispered in his ear. The Canon stopped, for he saw a new expression on the bridegroom's face.

"Anything wrong, Count?" he asked anxiously.

Joseph turned to Martin.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. He is waiting at the door."

"I'm sorry..." He rose. "I'll be back in a moment."

But they all followed him to the door. A Cossack orderly stood there, his horse covered with sweat and he with dust. He saluted Joseph and said in Russian:

"I was to give you this personally----"

And he produced a sealed envelope from one of his high boots.

Joseph tore it open, read the few words typed on a slip of paper inside, and turned white.

"To Hell with the war!" he cried savagely.

"What is it?" they all cried.

"I must go--at once."

"Oh--not a German advance?" asked Vanda apprehensively.

He crushed the paper in his hand and returned huskily, despair on his face:

"God knows. The orders are to report at Headquarters immediately. Oh, Vanda, it's Destiny. First the Germans, now the Russians take me from you."

"But you had a week's leave," said the Countess, whilst Vanda and her lover stood side by side, looking at each other in sorrow. "He can't go back on his word."

"It's imperative," said Joseph. Then to the soldier: "What's the news at Headquarters?"

"We're off at once. Galicia, they say." He swung into his saddle. "I'll get your horse, sir. Time presses." And with a salute which took in them all he went off to the stables.

In less than ten minutes Joseph was off, trotting down the avenue on his fleet horse, the soldier behind him. Farewells, admonitions, promises and good wishes were crowded into that short space of time. Ian could not forgive himself for his silence in the morning. They were not married an hour before Joseph left. He could have put it off for months, forever perhaps, had he only followed his better sense, instead of letting things slide, with true Slavonic fatalism, he told himself angrily.

But there was no use repining. He left the three women with the priests and returned to his work. He did not attempt to console Vanda, who stood on the steps where her husband had left her, watching him hurry away, waving her hands as he swung out into the road and was lost in the dust and the distance. He noticed that she was very pale, bewildered by the morning's rapid events and emotions, with tears in her eyes. He tried to read her thoughts, but could not.

So life once more returned to its old monotony. Vanda wore her wedding ring. But that was the only outward sign that she was no longer under Ian's guardianship. Letters came to her from Joseph, who wrote of getting leave in the summer. She helped Minnie with the few wounded civilians still left in the house and slipped into her old place again. Ian seldom spoke to her, avoided her eyes at table where he kept up a general conversation in English, for Minnie's benefit. As spring advanced he found more work to keep mind and body occupied. By dint of getting the most out of himself and the labor still left at his disposal he managed to put enough land under crops to feed Ruvno and its population for two years, and perhaps sell some grain as well. And this gave him as much satisfaction as it would have given any small farmer. And it made him feel young again to see the land regain some measure of its old prosperous aspect, though many a broad acre was cut up into trenches. Peasants who had escaped to Warsaw during the December campaign now returned, vowing that nothing would induce them to leave home again. True, most of them were obliged to live in trenches or in the open, for their villages existed only in name; but as the warm weather came on this was no great hardship and they felt so glad to get back to the soil that they forgot past troubles and set out to cultivate their fields with the indomitable courage of their race.