Part 10

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.

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."