"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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.s."

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 pa.s.s. 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.