Part 2

Near Sohaczev they dashed into a drove of cattle, on its way to the capital. There was much shouting; the drovers swore by all they could think of that half their fortune was gone. However, after being able to check these statements by the help of lanterns, Ian decided that ten roubles more than covered the damage. Roman's flow of language left the others speechless; he had not opened his mouth since leaving Ruvno, and certainly made up for it when he did. They started off again. The swift, uneven motion over the ill-kept road soothed Ian. He had come partly out of sympathy for Roman, partly to avoid searching eyes at home. He must get accustomed to the new state of things, let the smart of Vanda's engagement wear off, prepare himself to meet Joseph without picking a quarrel with him. Neither could he have faced the usual evening confab with his mother without betraying himself; and he hated the idea of confession, even to her. He pondered about many things, business, politics, crops and the chase; but he always came back to Vanda. His memory rediscovered charms he had long ceased to note--her soft eyes, the dimples that came into her cheeks when she laughed, her cheerfulness, her nice ways with his mother, her good heart for the poor, her adaptability to _his_ house and _his_ ways. What a good wife Joseph had won! Then he remembered she was portionless. Her parents had been ruined by a combination of adverse circumstances, so that she had come to Ruvno with little more than the baby clothes she wore and a box full of toys.

He burnt with the thought of Joseph's feelings of self-righteousness at marrying a portionless maid. But he should not get the chance to crow. She should have an outfit to make her new neighbors open their eyes; jewels, sables and linen fit for Ruvno. He meant to insist on this, foresaw mild objections from his mother, who knew all about Joseph's investments. But thank God he could afford to set the girl up in such a way that her groom could not boast. And the wedding should be in keeping; the Archbishop of Warsaw, Metropolitan of Poland, must marry them; Ruvno must entertain the guests royally. More: Joseph should never be able to say he had married a penniless girl. Vanda should have a generous dowry. Here he foresaw more opposition from his mother. But he was not going to let Joe puff himself out over every check he wrote for his bride. For such was Joe's nature; he would do it with a certain refinement; but would drive the truth home all the same. Vanda did not know this, or had forgotten it, being in love. But she would suffer from it later on; and he was determined she should bear as little pain as possible.

Ian's landed property represented a rough sum of twenty million roubles; he had another million invested in sugar refineries, and in a hardware factory, recently started in Warsaw, which was already paying well. His father's debts had been legion. But he had a minority of twenty years and good guardians, and found Ruvno almost clear when he took it over. Now, there was not a rouble's worth of debt on the place. He never spent his entire income. Whenever the chance came, he used to buy up land around Ruvno, adding to its acres and its efficiency. Neighbors wondered that the son was so different from the sire, and declared he would be one of the wealthiest men in those parts before he reached middle age. Not that he cared especially for money. His one aim was to add to Ruvno and keep up its name for good farming and good horses, to entertain generously without ostentation, to have prize cattle and modern machinery. His tastes were simple; a certain fastidiousness saved him from such "affaires" as were constantly getting Roman into trouble, and from pleasures which had ruined his father. Yes: he could afford to give Vanda a handsome dowry, and the thought was like balsam.

Arriving in the capital, Roman drew up before the "_Oaza_" a place where people drank champagne at exorbitant prices and listened to dubious songs and patter, not bereft of wit, but suited for neither the young nor the squeamish. It stood at the corner of the Theatre Square, where the Opera House is, and the Vierzbova, that narrow street which runs thence from the Saxon Square. Ian seldom went to the haunt; but Roman knew every woman in it. One, with little on but a feather boa and a gigantic hat, was screaming a new song at the top of her voice. The audience was meager enough, for the races were over, the heat had set in, and people of pleasure had gone to their country homes, or abroad to drink the waters at Carlsbad and other places where those who live too well hope to patch up battered constitutions for future pleasures. There were a few Russian officers, who made a great deal of noise, a couple of Polish squires, sunburnt and opulent, some of the inevitable Children of Israel, of those who no longer keep the Sabbath nor believe in anybody's God; and many sirens in marvelous hats and plentiful paint.

Roman ordered the supper and drank freely of champagne. He took not the least notice of the entertainment, which went on just above their table, on a small raised platform. Ian wondered why he insisted on being so near it; but to-night he was prepared to give in about everything, as to a spoilt child who has broken its favorite toy. Roman drank, ate and talked, smoking cigarettes all the time.

"What does she see in him? Tell me what she sees in him?" he asked, elbows on the table, cigarette between his lips, glaring with his dark bright eyes at his cousin. "Now--if it had been you..."

Ian became ruddier than ever and bent over his plate. He said nothing.

"I thought of _you_ as my rival," pursued the disappointed lover. "A dangerous one, too."

"You needn't have," mumbled Ian, his mouth full of lobster mayonnaise.

"I see that now. But I feared it. You've always been together. It seemed the obvious thing for you to make a match of it. Why, there were bets on you at the club here."

"The devil there were!" cried Ian indignantly.

"Well, we all do that sort of thing. Their gossip worried me. I can't think how you managed not to fall in love with her. I'd have been in love with any woman under the circumstances, let alone her ... why, she's an angel, an..."

He broke off and fumed in silence for some time. Ian finished his lobster and attacked some cold meat. Roman looked as if he expected some remark, so he gave it, huskily:

"The obvious never happens."

"But Joe never came into my head. You could have knocked me down with a feather when she owned it."

"Me, too," admitted Ian, with more sincerity than he had yet commanded.

"I don't wonder. Of course, I'm a rip. Not worse than most of my fellows. I don't count you.... Can't make you out. You must be a fish." He cast a glance round the room, nodded to a couple of women, signed that he did not want them at his table, ordered a bottle of champagne to be taken over to them, shifted his chair so that his back was towards them, and went on:

"Who isn't? I've had my fling. I was quite ready to settle down. This sort of game disgusts me. I've had enough of it."

"I don't wonder."

"I suppose you people at Ruvno think Joe's a steady old horse," retorted Roman vehemently. "He enjoys life, too. Only he's more careful of appearance than I am."

"Prig!" said Ian savagely.

Roman laughed at the tone. His dark eyes were very bright. These, with his fine head, broad shoulders and open hand, suggested other, less prosaic days, when men gave fuller play to their emotions, and were not ashamed of their feelings. He produced a hundred-rouble note from one of his fat pocket-books and sent it across to the little orchestra.

"Tell them to play my favorites," he told the waiter.

"Don't be a fool," admonished his more careful cousin. "You'll be glad enough of your money before you've done with the Jews." He knew Roman's reckless ways; and disapproved of them. A man nearing thirty had no right to lead the sort of life that concentrated at the _Oaza_ between midnight and sunrise. The place was stuffy and gaudy and depressing. He began to feel sorry he had come.

"The devil take my debts," said Roman. "The Jews can wait now." Then he went back to Vanda.

"Do you imagine that Joe's in love with her?" he exclaimed. "Not a bit. He wants to settle down, doesn't need money and thinks her _suitable_. I loathe that word. It sums up all the hypocrisy of our lives." He gulped champagne, wiped his mustache, threw the napkin on the table, and pursued:

"He thinks she'll look well at the head of his table. And it saves trouble to marry her because he's known her all his life. He hasn't got to waste time paying her attention and risk the publicity of a refusal. You can't go near a girl at the races or a dance but everybody knows it. That's not old Joe's plan. He's too safe."

Ian bent over his plate again. Roman had too much insight; he was attributing to Joe the very thoughts that had passed through his own mind that morning. But the words gave him comfort. If Joe was not in love with Vanda, neither was he. Their symptoms were alike. Men in love talked like Roman, acted like him. So he was saved. His precious armor of male vanity was intact. Thank God, he could face himself and his little world again.

"If I thought she'd be really happy, I'd not care so much," remarked Roman after a short silence.

His cousin looked up in alarm.

"If I doubted it I'd never let him marry her," he muttered.

"What can you do? She's set her heart on him. I don't mean he's going to ill-treat her. He'll be so proud of her that he'll hang on to her till she'll long to be left alone a bit. But she'll find him a bore after a time. She's not used to bores. God! If I had to live with old Joe I'd blow my brains out."

And he talked on; he had the philosophy of life at his tongue's tip; and yet what a muddle he made of his own! He reminded Ian of agricultural experts he knew, drawn from the ranks of ruined landed proprietors, yet ready to give advice to those who prosper on their acres. Gradually, he ceased to pay heed to the flow of words. He was an early riser and his bedtime hour had long passed. And he followed his own train of thought, nodding occasionally at his cousin's eloquence, and trying to get him out of the place.

"The essence of real love," remarked the oracle, as they left for the Hotel Europe at last, "is sacrifice. A man who's not ready for that is no lover."

And again Ian felt comforted.

He stopped two days in town, saw his lawyer anent Vanda's dowry, looked at sables, bought her a diamond pendant, and prepared to leave his cousin. This last much against his will. With his old impetuosity, he was playing heavily at his club, where a few gamblers lingered, detained for lack of funds to take them abroad. They hailed Skarbek's coming with joy, knew all about his fantastic winnings, and set about fleecing him.

"You'd be far happier if you settled down," said Ian as they finished lunch on the day of his departure. He could not understand any full-grown man caring to live from day to day. For him, happiness lay in the even road, a steady income, regular employment and an entire absence of excitement.

"Settle down?" echoed the other. "On what?"

"You've that money you won at Monte Carlo. Bank it and let me tackle your Jews."

Roman laughed bitterly.

"Ten thousand roubles of that money is in other men's pockets," and he named two who lived upon their earnings at the green table. "They're off to Ostend this evening."

"You're a damned fool," was his cousin's verdict.

"I know it. But who would gain by my being wise?"

Ian looked him straight in the eyes. Roman noticed how clear and honest they were, with their tale of outdoor life, their gaze of the man who has found himself and keeps his house in order. Yet there was nothing priggish about him. He enjoyed life thoroughly. It was not the life of champagne suppers and high stakes; but he took his pint of Veuve Clicquot and played his game, conformed to the customs of his class. The difference was that such pleasures were incidents for him; for Roman they had become necessities.

"You know perfectly well that your Prussian government and my Russian one like to see us Poles squander our lives and money," retorted the squire.

"They do," agreed the gambler.

Ian saw his chance and followed it up, speaking earnestly, his habitual shyness undermost for the moment.

"They like to get us off the land because that is the rock bottom of national existence," he said. "Lots of people forget it. England is forgetting it. Every time I go there I see it clearer. But Prussia hasn't forgotten it for a moment these last hundred years. And she's taught the Russians something about it, too."

"I never had any land," protested Roman. "Joe got it, and has kept it. I'll say that for him."

"You can buy land."

"Not under Prussian law."

"Become a Russian subject."

"Easier said than done."

"I'll help you," Ian said eagerly. "Do you remember Kuklin?"

"That little place near Ruvno?"

"Yes. It's for sale." He did not add that the owner had ruined himself in places like the _Oaza_. "The land's first class. The house is a hovel. But it's only five versts from us and you can stop at Ruvno till you've built something fit to live in. I'll give you the materials and help you with the labor. The chief outbuildings are brick and in good condition. The squire is a good farmer when he remembers to stop at home. It's a bargain."

Roman was interested.

"I suppose the Jews will buy it."

"Not if I know it. I was going to buy it myself. But you take it. I'll let you have the money. Come, Roman, here's your chance."

"You mean you'd advance me the cash? Without security?"

"I'll make you a present of Kuklin."

Roman's handsome face filled with astonishment. Though not a mean man, Ian had the reputation of being exceedingly careful. He gave freely to causes which he thought furthered the prosperity of his country; but was wary of giving for the sake of giving, or for the popularity that comes to the open-handed. Roman knew him well; he realized that this offer meant more than cousinship; it meant affection and a firm belief that he would settle down and "make good." He was touched, and said so in his ardent way.

"So you're willing? That's right. I'll go to Kuklin tomorrow and wire when you can see it." The other's face clouded, so he added hastily: "You needn't come to Ruvno. I'll meet you at the station, the owner will give us something to eat and I'll motor you back here. We'll have to settle with the Jews before you actually buy, or you'll get no terms from them. I'll go to Posen with you."

"Old man, you're the best friend I ever had," cried Roman, wringing his hand. "I can't tell you how I feel about it. But..."

"What 'but'?"

"I don't believe I could bury myself in the country--now. With Vanda it would have been different. Can't you understand?"

"No, I can't." He was disappointed. He had never felt lonely in his life, never knew the yearning after hot, brightly lighted restaurants filled with men and women on excitement bent.

"You won't want to come to Warsaw," he argued. "You don't know how land draws you. You'll have to drag yourself here when you've some special business and hurry back as quick as can be."

Roman doubted it, but gave up the argument. They parted on the understanding that he should telegraph when he had made up his mind.

Though he found Joseph still at Ruvno Ian showed a cheerful face and calm exterior. He felt completely master of himself again and talked freely of the coming marriage. The Countess was full of it.

"I can't understand what Vanda sees in him," she remarked during their evening chat "He's more selfish than ever. He never does a thing she wants unless he happens to want it, too. I suppose that's why she is so devoted."

Ian observed, and found that his mother was right. Not that he saw much of the happy pair. He only met them at meals, and delegated his mother to sound Joseph about the marriage settlement. He won his argument with her about that, too. But the thing had yet to be discussed and he put it off, not wanting to see Joseph alone if he could help it. There was time for that. Meanwhile, the estate kept him busy. But the marriage date was settled for three months hence. That was his work. He would have had it earlier, but the Countess thought it looked too hasty.

Joseph was quite satisfied to wait. He wanted to do up his country house, and furnishing took time. He did not consult Vanda about the furniture. He had ideas of his own and meant to carry them out. Yet he seemed proud of the girl and pleased to have won her; the rest of the family admitted that. What annoyed them was his boundless self-satisfaction. She would be his in the same way as his beautiful estate in Eastern Prussia, as his horses, or his sound investments.

"She is his chattel," was Ian's verdict one evening when alone with his mother. She gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing for the moment. Later on she mooted matrimony to him.

"It is high time you settled down," she said. "It is a great mistake for people to put off marriage too long. They lose courage as they grow older."

"Give me another year of liberty," he pleaded, laughing. "I'm not thirty-five yet. By next year I'll have the new farm buildings finished and the new forest planted. Then you shall find me a wife."

"I've one for you already," she said, caressing his face with her fine hazel eyes.

"What a matchmaker! Tell me the worst. Who is it."

She hesitated before saying: "Minnie Burton," and watched him closely.

"Minnie?" This in surprise. He had never thought of her. Then: "But she is a foreigner."

"But she is fond of Poland and of us. She's well bred, well connected, good-looking."

"A heretic."

"That might be changed."

He took alarm at this. There was nothing more hateful to his thoughts, just then, than marriage with anybody--but Vanda. And she had deserted him.

"I hope you've not been 'sounding' her, as you call it," he cried in alarm.

"No. Don't be afraid. But bear her in mind. She's a dear girl. She'll come back to us next year. I'd like to chaperon her to Nice in the winter."

"I'm not going to lose my shooting," he said firmly.

"You could run over there for a week or so. However, there's no hurry. Let's get Vanda safely settled first." And wisely, she dropped the subject. She knew all about his disappointment, and meant to tell him so one day. Meanwhile she would throw him and Minnie together as much as possible. But there was plenty of time.

The following evening they were finishing dinner when a servant handed Joseph a telegram. Thinking it one of many that had arrived since his engagement, he opened it carelessly.

"Who is it this time?" asked Vanda.

He did not answer, but read the missive twice, his face changing. She took alarm.

"It's bad news?"

He took no notice. She peered over his shoulder. Everybody was waiting for him to speak.

"It's in German," she announced to the expectant table. "Do tell us, Joe."

She put out her hand for the telegram, but he gave it to Ian instead. She sat down again, looking snubbed.

"Read that," he said. Ian obeyed, aloud, for Vanda's sake, and in English, for Minnie's.

"'The Head of this Military District orders your immediate return, that you may report at headquarters.'" He looked up, puzzled. "It's signed by your manager. What does it mean?"

"Mobilization," answered the Countess promptly. They looked at her in surprise. She was the only member of the household who had read the last batch of papers from Warsaw.

Frowning, Ian reread the telegram. There was silence round the table. Joseph, like Roman, was a German subject. Eastern Prussia, where he lived, belonged to Poland till Frederick the Great snatched it from the Polish Republic, weakened by internal strife. And ever since that sad day the Prussians have done all they know to hound the Poles off their land. But the owners stood firm from the first, helping one another to keep every acre they possessed from the German colonists, who have their government's backing in money and legislation. It is considered a disgrace for a Pole to sell his land in Prussia or the Grand Duchy of Poland, because Prussian law forbids a Pole to buy it. But a Polish squire or peasant in financial difficulties can always get a more fortunate compatriot to help him, so that he need not sell.

"I've got to go," remarked Joseph gloomily.

Ian's thoughts ran ahead. Joseph would be away for some time; perhaps for months. The wedding would have to be postponed. Meanwhile, he and Vanda would be meeting hourly as in the old days, yet with the difference that she was no longer free. At this moment he did not imagine that Prussia's mobilization could affect his life. The thought that tempted him was that he could undo Joseph's wooing, win her in his absence. Then honor's voice intervened and he put temptation from him. Another thought came to his aid. He would get his mother to send her to England with Minnie Burton. When Joseph was ready to wed, she could come back. Not till then.

He looked at her. Her face was no longer bright, she gave her lover a long, sad gaze. Then he glanced at Joe over the broad table, handsome with plate and flowers, covered with the remains of a well-served, well-cooked meal. There was nothing supercilious about him now. He was frankly downcast.

"It's for Roman, too," he observed.

"I'll tell him," said Ian. The idea of Roman's going back to Prussia annoyed him. He would not be able to finish the Kuklin business. And he had set his heart on having his wayward, impulsive cousin near by. They had always been great friends; but since the affair with Vanda he found something very comforting in his company.

Everybody began to talk about the telegram and its probable import. Newspapers were opened and consulted, only to be thrown aside in disgust. They said so little. Father Constantine and the Countess argued things out according to their ideas of the political situation, whilst Joseph and Vanda had a final talk together. Ian saw his duty was to amuse Minnie Burton, and he did it with thoughts elsewhere. Joseph left the house at two in the morning to catch the night express from Warsaw to Posen. They all waited up with him; their farewells were cheerful. He would soon be back. Meanwhile, he could set the workmen at his house. Ian watched Vanda as they parted. She was sad, but held herself bravely. He liked that. He noticed, too, that Joseph was unusually demonstrative. He knew he ought to be glad of it, for her sake. But it angered him all the same. In a group at the open door they watched the car go down the straight avenue and turn into the road. On the way Joseph would have to knock up a local petty official and get his passport vised. But he saw no difficulties; nobody dreamed of war just then, not outside the German Empire. When he had gone they went to bed, sleepy and unconcerned.

Ian motored to Warsaw for lunch. The streets were as deserted as usual at that time of year, except for a sprinkling of troops. But everybody was discussing the possibility of Russia's fighting to help Serbia. How could the big Slav brother leave the weak one to be strangled? He found Roman at the Europe, eating iced soup, and delivered his message.

"What did old Joe do?" he asked. The other told him.

"Went off like a lamb? I thought as much," and he laughed scornfully.

"And you?"

"I'm no friend of the Kaiser's."

"But he may win," and Ian lowered his voice, for a party of Russian officers sat at the next table. "He'll make it pretty awkward for Polish deserters if he does."