Chapter 7

And Wanda could divine the words easily enough from her brother's attitude and gestures. It ought to have surprised her that Cartoner yielded, for it was unlike him. He was so much stronger than Martin--so determined, so unyielding. And yet she felt no surprise when he turned and came towards her with Martin's hand still within his arm. She knew that it was written that he must come; divined vaguely that he had something to say to her which it was safer to say than to leave to be silently understood and perhaps misunderstood. She gave an impatient sigh. She had always ruled her father and brother and the Palace Bukaty, and this sense of powerlessness was new to her.

While they approached, Martin continued to talk in his eager, laughing way, and Cartoner smiled slowly as he listened.

“I saw you,” he said to Wanda, as he took off his hat, “and went the other way to avoid you.”

And, having made this plain statement, he stood silently looking at her. He looked into her eyes, and she met his odd, direct gaze without embarrassment.

“Cartoner and I,” Prince Martin hastened to explain, “travelled from Berlin together, and we agreed then that, much as we might desire it, it would be inconvenient for me to show him that attention which one would naturally want to show to an Englishman travelling in Poland. That is why he went the other way when he saw you.”

Wanda looked at Cartoner with her quick, shrewd smile. It would have been the obvious thing to have confirmed this explanation. But Cartoner kept silent. He had acquired, it seemed, the fatal habit--very rare among men and almost unknown in women--of thinking before he spoke. Which habit is deadly for that which is called conversation, because if one decides not to give speech to the obvious and the unnecessary and the futile there is in daily intercourse hardly anything left.

“You see,” said Martin, who always had plenty to say for himself, “in this province of Russia we are not even allowed to choose our own friends.”

“Even in a free country one does not pick one's friends out, like the best strawberries from a basket,” said Wanda.

“Not a question to be arranged beforehand,” put in Cartoner.

“Not even by the governor-general of Poland?” asked Wanda, looking thoughtfully at the falling leaves which a sudden gust of wind had showered round them.

“Not even by the Czar.”

“Who, I am told, means well!” said Martin, ironically, and with a gay laugh, for irony and laughter may be assimilated by the young. “Poor man! It must be terrible to know that people are saying behind one's back that one means well! I hope no one will ever say that of me.”

Wanda had sat down again, and was stirring the dead leaves with her walking-stick.

“Martin and I are going for a tramp,” she said. “We like to get away from the noise and the dust--and the uniforms.”

But Martin sat down beside her and made room for Cartoner.

“We attract less attention than if we stand,” he explained. And Cartoner took the seat offered. “Such hospitality as our circumstances allow us to offer you,” commented the young prince, gayly, “a clean stone seat on the sunny side of a public garden.”

“But let us understand each other,” put in Wanda, in her practical way, and looked from one man to the other with those gay, blue eyes that saw so much, “since we are conspirators.”

“The better we understand each other the better conspirators we shall be,” said Cartoner.

“I notice you don't ask, 'What is the plot?'” said Wanda.

“The plot is simple enough,” answered Martin, for Cartoner said nothing, and looked straight in front of him. He did not address one more than the other, but explained the situation, as it were, for the benefit of all whom it might concern. He had lighted a cigarette--a little Russian affair, all gold lettering and mouthpiece, and as he spoke he jerked the ash from time to time so that it should not fly and incommode his sister.

“Rightly or wrongly, we are suspected of being malcontents. The Bukatys have in the past been known to foster that spirit of Polish nationality which it has been the endeavor of three great countries to suppress for nearly a century. Despite Russia, Prussia, and Austria there is still a Polish language and a Polish spirit; despite the Romanoffs, the Hapsburgs, and the Hohenzollerns there are still a few old Lithuanian and Ruthenian families extant. And rightly or wrongly, those in authority are kind enough to blame, among others, the Bukatys for these survivals. Weeds, it seems, are hard to kill. Whether we are really to blame or not is of no consequence. It does not matter to the dog whether he deserves his bad name or not--after he is hanged. But it is not good to be a Bukaty and live in Poland just now, though some of us manage to have a good time despite them all--eh, Wanda?”

And he laid his hand momentarily on his sister's arm. But she did not answer. She desired before all things that clear understanding which was part of her creed of life, and she glanced quickly from side to side for fear some interruption should approach.

“Mr. Cartoner, on the other hand,” he continued, in his airy way, “is a most respectable man--in the employ of his country. That is what damns Mr. Cartoner. He is in the employ of his country. And he has a great reputation, to which I take off my hat.”

And he saluted gayly Cartoner's reputation.

“It would never do,” continued Martin, “for us, the suspects, to be avowedly the friend of the man who is understood to be an envoy in some capacity of his government. Whether he is really such or not is of no consequence. It matters little to the dog, you remember.”

“But what are we to do?” asked Wanda, practically. “Let us have a clear understanding. Are we to pass each other in the streets?”

“No,” answered Cartoner, speaking at length, without hesitation and without haste--a man who knew his own mind, and went straight to the heart of the question. “We must not meet in the streets.”

“That may not be as easy as it sounds,” said Wanda, “in a small city like Warsaw. Are you so long-sighted that you can always make sure of avoiding us?”

“I can, at all events, try,” answered Cartoner, simply. After a pause (the pauses always occurred when it happened, so to say, to be Cartoner's turn to speak) he rose from the stone seat, which was all that the Bukatys could offer him in Warsaw. “I can begin at once,” he said, gravely. And he took off his hat and went away.

It was done so quickly and quietly that Wanda and Martin were left in silence on the seat, watching him depart. He went the way he had come, down the broad walk towards the colonnade, and disappeared between the pillars of that building.

“A man of action, and not of words,” commented Martin, who spoke first. “I like him. Come, let us go for our walk.”

And Wanda said nothing. They rose and went away without speaking, though they usually had plenty to say to each other. It almost seemed that Cartoner's silence was contagious.

He, for his part, went into the Faubourg and crossed to the river side of that wide street. It thus happened that he missed seeing Mr. Joseph Mangles, sunning himself upon the more frequented pavement, and smoking a contemplative cigar. Mr. Mangles would have stopped him had they met. Paul Deulin was not far behind Mr. Mangles, idling past the shops, which could scarcely have had much interest for the Parisian.

“Ah!” said the Frenchman to himself, “there is our friend Reginald. He is in one of his silent humors. I can see that from this distance.”

He turned on the pavement and watched Cartoner, who was walking rather slowly.

“If any woman ever marries that man,” the Frenchman said to himself, “she will have to allow a great deal to go without saying. But, then, women are good at that.”

And he continued his leisurely contemplation of the dull shop-windows.

Cartoner walked on to his rooms in the Jasna, where he found letters awaiting him. He read them, and then sat down to write one which was not an answer to any that he had received. He wrote it carefully and thoughtfully, and when it was written sealed it. For in Warsaw it is well to seal such letters as are not intended to be read at the post-office. And if one expects letters of importance, it is wiser not to have them sent to Poland at all, for the post-office authorities are kind enough to exercise a parental censorship over the travellers' correspondence.

Cartoner's letter was addressed to an English gentleman at his country house in Sussex, and it asked for an immediate recall from Poland. It was a confession, for the first time, that the mission entrusted to him was more than he could undertake.

XII

CARTONER _VERSUS_ FATE

It has been said that on the turf, and under it, all men are equal. It is, moreover, whispered that the crooked policy of Russia forwards the cause of horseracing at Warsaw by every means within its power, on the theory that even warring nationalities may find themselves reconciled by a common sport. And this dream of peace, pursued by the successor of that Czar who said to Poland: “Gentlemen--no dreams,” seems in part justified by the undeniable fact that Russians and Poles find themselves brought nearer together on the race-course than in any other social function in Warsaw.

“Come,” cried Paul Deulin, breaking in on the solitude of Cartoner's rooms after lunch one day towards the end of October. “Come, and let us bury the hatchet, and smoke the cigarette of peace before the grand-stand at the Mokotow. Everybody will be there. All Poland and his wife, all the authorities and their wives, and these ladies will peep sideways at each other, and turn up their noses at each other's toilets. To such has descended the great strife in eastern Europe.”

“You think so.”

“Yes, I think so, or I pretend to think so, which comes to the same thing, and makes it a more amusing world for those who have no stake in it. Come with me, and I will show you this little world of Warsaw, where the Russians walk on one side and the Poles pass by on the other; where these fine Russian officers glance longingly across the way, only too ready to take their hearts there and lose them--but the Czar forbids it. And, let me tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than a pair of Polish eyes.”

He broke off suddenly; for Cartoner was looking at him with a speculative glance, and turned away to the window.

“Come,” he said. “It is a fine day--St. Martin's summer. It is Sunday, but no matter. All you Englishmen think that there is no recording angel on the Continent. You leave him behind at Dover.”

“Oh, I have no principles,” said Cartoner, rising from his chair, and looking round absent-mindedly for his hat.

“You would be no friend of mine if you had. There is no moderation in principles. If a man has any at all, he always has some to spare for his neighbors. And who wants to act up to another man's principles? By-the-way, are you doing any good here, Cartoner?”

“None.”

“Nor I,” pursued Deulin; “and I am bored. That is why I want you to come to the races with me. Besides, it would be more marked to stay away than to go--especially for an Englishman and a Frenchman, who lead the world in racing.”

“That is why I am going,” said Cartoner.

“Then you don't like racing?”

“Yes, I am very fond of it,” answered the Englishman, in the same absent voice, as he led the way towards the door.

In the Jasna they found a drosky, where there is always one to be found at the corner of the square, and they did not speak during the drive up the broad Marszalkowska to the rather barren suburb of the Mokotow (where bricks and mortar are still engaged in emphasizing the nakedness of the land), for the simple reason that speech is impossible while driving through the streets of the worst-paved city in Europe. Which is a grudge that the traveller may bear against Russia, for if Poland had been a kingdom she would assuredly have paved the streets of her capital.

The race-course is not more than fifteen minutes' drive from the heart of the town, and all Warsaw was going thither this sunny afternoon. At the entrance a crowd was slowly working its way through the turnstiles, and Deulin and Cartoner passed in with it. They had the trick, so rare among travellers, of doing this in any country without attracting undue attention.

It was a motley enough throng. There were Polish ladies and gentlemen in the garb of their caste, which is to-day the same all the world over, though in some parts of Ruthenia and Lithuania one may still come across a Polish gentleman of the old school in his frogged coat and top-boots. German tradesmen and their families formed here and there one of those domesticated and homely groups which the Fatherland sends out into the world's trading centres. And moving amid these, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, the Russian officers, who virtually had the management of the course--tall, fair, clean men, with sunburned faces and white skins--energetic, refined, and strong. They were mostly in white tunics with gold shoulder-straps, blue breeches, and much gold lace. Here and there a Cossack officer moved with long, free strides in his dressing-gown of a coat, heavily ornamented with silver, carrying high his astrakhan cap, and looking round him with dark eyes that had a gleam of something wild and untamed in them. It was a meeting-ground of many races, one of the market-places where men may greet each other who come from different hemispheres and yet owe allegiance to one flag: are sons of the empire which to-day gathers within one ring-fence the north, the south, the east, and the west.

“France amuses me, England commands my respect, but Russia takes my breath away,” said Deulin, elbowing his way through the medley of many races. On all sides one heard different languages--German, the sing-song Russian--the odd, exclamatory tongue which three emperors cannot kill.

“And Germany?” inquired Cartoner, in his low, curt voice.

“Bores me, my friend.”

He was pushing his way gently through into the paddock, where a number of men were congregated, but no ladies.

“The Fatherland,” he added, “the heavy Fatherland! I killed a German once, when I was in the army of the Loire--a most painful business.”

He was still shaking his head over this reminiscence when they reached the gateway of the paddock. He was passing through it when, without turning towards him, he grasped Cartoner's arm.

“Look!” he said, “look!”

There was a sudden commotion in the well-dressed crowd in the paddock, and above the gray coats and glossy hats the tossing colors of a jockey. The head of a startled horse and two gleaming shoes appeared above the heads of men for a moment. A horse had broken away with its jockey only half in the saddle.

The throng divided, and dispersed in either direction like sheep before a dog--all except one man, who, walking with two sticks, could not move above a snail's pace.

Then, because they were both quick men, with the instincts and a long practice of action in moments calling for a rapid decision, Deulin and Cartoner ran forward. But they could not save the catastrophe which they knew was imminent. The horse advanced with long, wild strides, and knocked the crippled old man over as if he were a ninepin. He came on at a gallop now, the jockey leaning forward and trying to catch a broken bridle, his two stirrups flying, his cap off. The little man was swearing in English. And he had need to, for through the paddock gate the crowd was densely packed and he was charging into it on a maddened horse beyond control.

Deulin was nearer, and therefore the first to get to the horse; but Cartoner's greater weight came an instant later, and the horse's head was down.

“Let go! let go!” cried the jockey through his teeth, as Cartoner and Deulin, one on each side, crammed the stirrups over his feet. “Let go! I'll teach him!”

And they obeyed him, for the horse interested them less than the Prince Bukaty, lying half-stunned on the turf. They were both at his side in a moment and saw him open his eyes.

“I am unhurt,” he said. “Help me up. No! sh--h! No, nothing is broken; it is that confounded gout. No, I cannot rise yet! Leave me for a minute. Go, one of you, and tell Wanda that I am unhurt. She is in box No. 18, in the grand-stand.”

He spoke in French, to Deulin more particularly.

“Go and tell her,” said the Frenchman, over his shoulder, in English. “Some busy fool has probably started off by this time to tell her that her father is killed. You will find us in the club-house when you come back.”

So Cartoner went to the grand-stand to seek Wanda there, in the face of all Warsaw, with his promise to avoid her still fresh in his memory. As he approached he saw her in the second tier of boxes. She was dressed in black and white, as she nearly always was. It was only the Russians and the Germans who wore gay colors. He could see the surprise on her face and in Martin's eyes as he approached, and knew that there were a hundred eyes watching him, a hundred ears waiting to catch his words when he spoke.

“Princess,” he said, “the prince has had a slight accident, and has sent me to tell you that he is unhurt, in case you should hear any report to the contrary. He was unable to avoid a fractious horse, and was knocked down. Mr. Deulin is with him, and they have gone to the club pavilion.”

He spoke rather slowly in French, so that all within ear-shot could understand and repeat.

“Shall we go to him?” asked Wanda, rising.

“Only to satisfy yourself. I assure you he is unhurt, princess, and would come himself were he able to walk.”

Wanda rose, and turned to take her cloak from the back of her chair.

“Will you take us to him, monsieur?” she said.

And the three quitted the grand-stand together in a rather formal silence. The next race was about to start, and the lawn, with its forlorn, autumnal flower-beds, was less crowded now as they walked along it towards the paddock.

“It was very good of you to come and tell us,” said Martin, in English, “with the whole populace looking on. It will do you no good, you know, to do a kindness to people under a cloud. I suppose it was true what you said about the prince being unhurt?”

“Almost,” answered Cartoner. “He is rather badly shaken. I think you will find it necessary to go home, but there is no need for anxiety.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Martin. “He is a tough old fellow. You cannot come in here, you know, Wanda. It is against the Jockey Club laws, even in case of accidents.”

He stood at the gate of the club enclosure as he spoke.

“Wait here,” he said, “with Cartoner, and I will be back in a few minutes.”

So Cartoner and Wanda were left in the now deserted paddock, while the distant roar of voices announced that the start for the next race had been successfully accomplished.

Wanda looked rather anxiously towards the little square pavilion into which her brother was hurrying, and Cartoner only looked at Wanda. He waited till she should speak, and she did not appear to have anything to say at that moment. Perhaps in this one case that clear understanding of which she was such a pronounced advocate was only to be compassed by silence, and not by speech. The roar of voices behind them came nearer and nearer as the horses approached the winning-post. The members of the club stood rigid beneath the pavilion awning, some with field-glasses, others with knitted brows and glittering eyes. All eyes were turned in one direction, except Wanda's and Cartoner's.

Then, when the race was over and the roar had subsided, Martin came hurrying back, and one glance at his face told them that there was no need for anxiety.

“He is laughing in there over a glass of cognac. He refuses absolutely to go home, and he wants me to help him up the stairs. He will sit under the awning, he says. And we are to go back to the grand-stand,” Martin said, as he approached.

“See,” he added, pointing to the paddock where the crowd was hurrying to gather round the winning horse. “See, it is already a thing of the past. And he wants it to be so. He wants no fuss made about it. It is no good advertising the fact of the existence of a dog with a bad name, eh? Thank you all the same, Cartoner, for your good offices. You and Deulin, they say, averted a catastrophe. The incident is over, my dear Wanda. It is forgotten by all except us. Wait here a minute and I will come back to you.”

With a nod to Cartoner, as if to say, “I leave her to your care,” he turned and left them again.

Then at length Wanda spoke.

“You see,” she said, “you are not so strong as--”

“As what?” he asked, seeing that she sought a word.

“As Fate, I suppose,” she answered, and her eyes were grave as she looked across the mournful level land towards the west, where the sun was sinking below parallel bars of cloud to the straight line of the horizon. Sunset over a plain is one of nature's tragic moments.

“Is it Fate?” she asked, with a sudden change of manner.

“Even Fate can be hampered in its movements, princess,” answered Cartoner.

“By what?”

“By action. I have written for my recall.”

He was looking towards the pavilion. It seemed that it was he, and not his companion, who was now anxious for Martin to return. Wanda was still looking across the course towards the sinking sun.

“You have asked to be recalled from Warsaw?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Then,” she said, after a pause, “it would have been better for you if we had not met at Lady Orlay's, in London. Monsieur Deulin once said that you had never had a check in your career. This is the first check. And it has come through--knowing us.”

Cartoner made no answer, but stood watching the door of the pavilion with patient, thoughtful eyes.

“You cannot deny it,” she said.

And he did not deny it.

Then she turned her head, and looked at him with clever, speculative keenness.

“Why have you asked for your recall?” she asked, slowly.

And still Cartoner made no answer. He was without rival in the art of leaving things unsaid. Then Martin came to them, laughing and talking. And across the course, amid the tag-rag and bobtail of Warsaw, the eyes of the man called Kosmaroff watched their every movement.

XIII

THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

When Martin and Wanda returned to the grand-stand they found the next box to theirs, which had hitherto been empty, occupied by a sedate party of foreigners. Miss Mangles had come to the races, not because she cared for sport, but because she had very wisely argued in her mind that one cannot set about to elevate human nature without a knowledge of those depths to which it sometimes descends.

“And this,” she said, when she had settled herself on the chair commanding the best view, “this is the turf.”

“That,” corrected Mr. Mangles, pointing down to the lawn with his umbrella, “is the turf. This is the grand-stand.”

“The whole,” stated Miss Mangles, rather sadly, and indicating with a graceful wave of her card, which was in Russian and therefore illegible to her, the scene in general, “the whole constitutes the turf.”

Joseph P. Mangles sat corrected, and looked lugubriously at Netty, who was prettily and quietly dressed in autumnal tints, which set off her delicate and transparent complexion to perfection. Her hair was itself of an autumnal tint, and her eyes of the deep blue of October skies.

“And these young men are on it,” concluded Miss Mangles, with her usual decision. One privilege of her sex she had not laid aside--the privilege of jumping to conclusions. Netty glanced beneath her dark lashes in the direction indicated by Miss Mangles's inexorable finger; but some of the young men happening to look up, she instantly became interested in the Russian race-card which she could not read.

“It is very sad,” she said.

Miss Mangles continued to look at the young men severely, as if making up her mind how best to take them in hand.