Part 5 (2/2)

Some minutes pa.s.sed. Ian read and reread the news, unbelievingly at first, then with growing conviction. In the late-news column was a telegram from London, saying that England would probably declare war on Germany.

”There must be something in it,” he said. ”If England is going to war, Belgium has been invaded.” He jumped into the car and they drove up to the house.

His mother and the two girls he found in the Countess' sitting-room.

Zosia, the housekeeper, was standing there, sobbing bitterly and cursing the Prussians through her tears. In the large French window, which stood open, was a ragged, dusty, fear-stricken Jew, of the poorest description, one of the dark ma.s.ses who live by running errands for their wealthier brethren; the hewers of wood and drawers of water of their own race; happy to lend a stray rouble in usury to some agricultural laborer who has fallen on evil days.

From this miserable man's trembling lips he heard much the same story as Bartek had learned at the station. But in addition the Jew brought news that Zosia's sister, who lived in Kalisz, married to a prosperous cartwright, had been murdered by the Prussians.

Ian never forgot the impression this made upon him. Later on, he grew more callous, saw and heard so many horrors, proved the Kaiser's army capable of anything. But the thought that Zosia's sister, a girl who had grown up at Ruvno and served his mother as maid before her marriage, had been a.s.sa.s.sinated in cold blood made his own boil. He was not a man to use many words. He made no effort to express the thoughts and feelings that rose in him. He did not speak for some time. Then he turned to his mother.

”You women must go to Moscow at once,” he said. ”G.o.d knows, they may soon be here at the rate they are coming on.”

He spoke in a tone of authority he rarely used with her. She went to the window and looked into her beloved rose garden, soon to be cut into trenches and trampled by soldiers' feet. But on that morning it was a beautiful spot, fair with the work and art of many generations of skilled gardeners and gentle mistresses. A peac.o.c.k spread his tail in the sun; Ian's two favorite dogs whined to him to go out to them; the air was very sweet with the odor of roses and pine needles. A big red b.u.t.terfly floated past her into the room. She could scarcely believe that only a few miles away war raged; and yet, here was Zosia sobbing her heart out, here stood the Jewish messenger, who had come to say that the dead woman's husband and children were on their way to Ruvno as refugees, leaving all they possessed behind them, traveling on foot, with unspeakable bitterness and grief in their hearts.

She turned to her son, smiling a little. They lived very near to one another and she loved him better than anything in the world, better than she had loved his father, for whom she suffered such pain.

”And you?” she asked.

”I shall volunteer,” he answered simply.

He had not consciously thought about it before. The words came without his knowing exactly why. He knew that Russia had plenty of men without him; he bore that country no love, having had to suffer many humiliations from her since his babyhood. Every day he had to fight Russian malevolence in some shape or form. But he knew that the troops now speeding to stop the Prussian advance were on the right side. He remembered Roman's words: ”The only deuced thing that matters is to stop Prussianism from spreading.”

His mother gave him a frightened look, bit her lip, and said nothing.

”You're right, my child,” said Father Constantine, who, dust-cloak and all, was sitting in a chair several times too big for him. In his hand he held one of the many packets Zosia had prepared for his journey. He had forgotten about them. His old heart was filled with a terrible, helpless anger against the human beasts who had brought such death into the country.

The Countess put her hands on Ian's shoulder and kissed him, standing on tip-toe to reach his honest, sunburnt face.

”And I,” she said, ”will stop here with our people.”

He tried to dissuade her, reminding her of what was happening a few miles away. But she was firm. I don't believe he thought she would give in. He did his duty in trying to make her move; but his own instinct was to stick to Ruvno till it was burned over their heads.

”If we leave the place goodness knows what would happen,” she went on.

”If we are sh.e.l.led we can live in the cellars. That's what they were built for. If Ruvno goes, I may as well go with it.”

”It is the simplest way, and the simplest is generally the best way,”

said Vanda. She had not spoken since Zosia burst into the room with her terrible story. Ian looked at her face, which had grown pale. He had forgotten her for the moment. Now he remembered that the man she was to marry had gone home and must fight on the other side, or be shot for a deserter. Their eyes met: they understood each other; both had the same thought. And it flew round the room to the others, for they all looked at her, wondering what she felt about it. She covered her face with her hands. Anxious to draw attention away from her, he turned to Minnie Burton.

”And you,” he said, ”must come with me to Warsaw, at once. I will see your Consul and send you home the quickest way.”

Minnie gave a little laugh. She was a fair, fresh-colored girl, with steady brown eyes and a frank manner. She expected them to talk of sending her home and had already made up her mind not to leave Ruvno whilst they remained. Three years ago, her soldier brother brought Ian home for a week-end. They were renting a little place in Leicesters.h.i.+re for the winter, and he hunted with them. She liked him at once. He was the first foreigner she had met who did not overwhelm her with silly compliments. He was more interesting than most of her brother's friends, who developed their muscles, but neglected their minds. And he liked the things she liked, the country, violent exercise, horses; appeared much pleased with English country life and arranged for her to meet his mother and Vanda. So the two families became very friendly.

Then old General Burton died, the home was broken up and Minnie left more or less alone in the world, for both brothers were abroad, one, a sailor, and the other with his regiment in India. She had been foolishly happy at Ruvno, she reflected, and allowed friends.h.i.+p with Ian to ripen into one-sided love. She was not one of those women who will renounce a husband rather than marry a foreigner, and prefer to bear no children rather than see them grow up to citizens of another state than England. She longed to ”settle down,” though she never admitted it and gave acquaintances to understand that she thoroughly enjoyed her present way of living. Ian was free; he liked her. She saw no reason why he should not one day love her as she loved him. Though the Countess had not dropped a word about her own thoughts in the matter, Minnie felt sure she would not object to her son's marrying a comely young Englishwoman with a tidy fortune and good connections. There was one great barrier--the difference in their faith; but Minnie had not thought about that seriously. Her mind dwelt more on Ian the possible spouse than on Ian the Roman Catholic. In his company she had enjoyed many a canter across country, many a chat and not a few friendly discussions.

And her heart had succ.u.mbed. True, there were times when she suspected him of being a little cold by nature; a little prosaic, even for her, who would have been annoyed with a lover of Roman Skarbek's type. She did not guess he felt so comfortable as a bachelor that he thought of matrimony as an unpleasant plunge, to be taken as late as could be. All this seems calculating and unmaidenlike put on paper; but it was not nearly so clear in her brain; till this fateful morning of bad news from Kalisz her plans had been vague; her heart alone busy. She would have been well content to live in Ruvno forever. And here was sudden danger of her leaving. Ian might marry another girl before they could meet again. Though no husband-angler and too proud to set her cap at any man she felt that she must stop under his roof, or her romance would be ruined. Rapidly, she reviewed heart and conscience. The first spoke all too plainly; as to the second, she had no near family beyond her two brothers, one on the high seas, the other, presumably, to fight in Belgium. Her only duties, if she went home all the way through Russia or Roumania or Greece, would be to help refugees and do her unskilled best with wounded. But here were both to succor. She was nearer that kind of suffering than she could be at home. And even though Ian joined the army--she glanced at his st.u.r.dy figure and reflected on his thirty-four summers with the comforting doubt as to whether Russia wanted him--she would be in touch with him at Ruvno, and of use to his mother, whom she liked sincerely.

She did not answer him, but turned to the Countess.

”I'll stop here with you,” she said with flaming cheeks.

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