Chapter 8

“Don't see the worst of 'em here,” muttered Mr. Mangles, dismally. “It isn't round about the grand-stand that young men come to grief--on the turf. That contingent is waiting to be called up into the boxes, and reformed--by the young women.”

Netty looked gently distressed. At times she almost thought Uncle Joseph inclined to be coarse. She looked across the lawn with a rather wistful expression, eminently suited to dark blue eyes. The young men below were still glancing up in her direction, but she did not seem to see them. At this moment Wanda and Martin returned to their box. Wanda was preoccupied, and sat down without noticing the new-comers. Several ladies leaned over the low partitions and asked questions, which were unintelligible to Netty, and the news was spread from mouth to mouth that the Prince Bukaty was not hurt.

Joseph P. Mangles looked at the brother and sister beneath his heavy brows. He knew quite well who they were, but did not consider himself called upon to transmit the information.

“Even the best people seem to lend their countenance to this,” said Miss Mangles, in an undertone.

“You are right, Jooly.”

But Miss Mangles did not hear. She was engaged in bowing to Paul Deulin, who was coming up the steps. She was rather glad to see him, for the feeling had come over her that she was quite unknown to all these people. This is a feeling to which even the greatest are liable, and it is most unpleasant. For the heart of the celebrated is apt to hunger for the nudge of recognition and the surreptitious sidelong glance which convey the gratifying fact that one has been recognized. Paul Deulin would serve to enlighten these benighted people, and some little good might yet be done by a distinct and dignified attitude of disapproval towards the turf.

“One would scarcely expect to see you here, Mr. Deulin,” she said, shaking hands, with a playful shake of the head.

“Since you are here,” he answered, “there can be no harm. It is only a garden-party, after all.”

And he bowed over Netty's head with an empressement which would have conveyed to any one more versed in the ways of men the reason why he had come.

“Do you bet, Mr. Deulin?” inquired Jooly.

“Never, unless I am quite sure,” he answered.

“There is,” observed Miss Mangles, who was inclined to be gracious--“there is perhaps less harm in that.”

“And less risk,” explained Deulin gravely. “But surely,” he said, in a lower tone, turning to Netty, “you know the Princess Wanda? Did you not meet her at Lady Orlay's?”

Netty had already displayed some interest in Martin Bukaty, which was perhaps indiscreet. For a young man's vanity is singularly alert, and he was quite ready to return the interest with interest, so to speak.

“Yes,” she replied, “we met her at Lady Orlay's. But I think she does not remember--though she seemed to recollect Mr. Cartoner, whom she met at the same time.”

Deulin looked at her with his quick smile as he nodded a little, comprehending nod, and Netty's eyes looked into his innocently.

“Be assured,” he answered, “that she has not seen you, or she would not fail to remember you. You are sitting back to back, you observe. The princess is rather distrait with thoughts of her father, who has just had a slight mishap.”

He bent forward as he spoke and touched Wanda on the shoulder.

“Wanda,” he said, “this young lady remembers meeting you in London.”

Wanda turned and, rising, held her hand over the low barrier that divided the two boxes.

“Of course,” she said, “Miss Cahere. You must excuse my sitting down so near to you without seeing you. I was thinking of something else.”

“I hardly expect you to recollect me,” Netty hastened to say. “You must have met so many people in London. Is it not odd that so many who were at Lady Orlay's that night should be in Warsaw to-day?”

“Yes,” answered Wanda, rather absently. “Are there many?”

“Why, yes. Mr. Deulin was there, and yourself and the prince and we three and--Mr. Cartoner.”

She looked round as she spoke for Cartoner, but only met Martin Bukaty's eyes fixed upon her with open admiration. When speaking she had much animation, and her eyes were bright.

“I am sure you are here with your brother. The likeness is unmistakable. I hope the prince is not hurt?” she said, in her little, friendly, confidential way to Wanda.

“No, he is not hurt, thank you. Yes, that is my brother. May I introduce him? Martin. Miss Cahere--my brother.”

And the introduction was effected, which was perhaps what Netty wanted. She did not take much notice of Martin, but continued to talk to Wanda.

“It must be so interesting,” she said, “to live in Warsaw and to be able to help the poor people who are so down-trodden.”

“But I do nothing of that sort,” replied Wanda. “It is only in books that women can do anything for the people of their country. All I can do for Poland is to see that one old Polish gentleman gets what he likes for dinner, and to housekeep generally--just as you do when you are at home, no doubt.”

“Oh,” protested Netty, “but I am not so useful as that. That is what distresses me. I seem to be of no use to anybody. And I am sure I could never housekeep.”

And some faint line of thought, suggested perhaps by the last remark, made her glance in passing at Martin. It was so quick that only Martin saw it. At all events, Paul Deulin appeared to be looking rather vacantly in another direction.

“I suppose Miss Mangles does all that when you are at home?” said Wanda, glancing towards the great woman, who was just out of ear-shot.

“My dear Wanda,” put in Deulin, in a voice of gravest protest, “you surely do not expect that of a lady who housekeeps for all humanity. Miss Mangles is one of our leaders of thought. I saw her so described in a prominent journal of Smithville, Ohio. Miss Mangles, in her care for the world, has no time to think of an individual household.”

“Besides,” said Netty, “we have no settled home in America. We live differently. We have not the comfort of European life.”

And she gave a little sigh, looking wistfully across the plain. Martin noticed that she had a pretty profile, and the tenderest little droop of the lips.

At this moment a race, the last on the card, put a stop to further conversation, and Netty refused, very properly, to deprive Martin of the use of his field-glasses.

“I can see,” she said, in her confidential way, “well enough for myself with my own eyes.”

And Martin looked into the eyes, so vaunted, with much interest.

“I am sure,” she said to Wanda, when the race was over, “that I saw Mr. Cartoner a short time ago. Has he gone?”

“I fancy he has,” was the reply.

“He did not see us. And we quite forgot to tell him the number of our box. I only hope he was not offended. We saw a great deal of him on board. We crossed the Atlantic in the same ship, you know.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. And one becomes so intimate on a voyage. It is quite ridiculous.”

Deulin, leaning against the pillar at the back of the box, was thoughtfully twisting his grizzled mustache as he watched Netty. There was in his attitude some faint suggestion of an engineer who has set a machine in motion and is watching the result with a contemplative satisfaction.

Martin was reluctantly making a move. One or two carriages were allowed to come to the gate of the lawn, and of these one was Prince Bukaty's.

“Come, Wanda,” said Martin. “We must not keep him waiting. I can see him, with his two sticks, coming out of the club enclosure.”

“I will go with you to make sure that he is none the worse,” said Deulin, “and then return to the assistance of these ladies.”

He did not speak as they moved slowly through the crowd. Nor did he explain to Wanda why he had reintroduced Miss Cahere. He stood watching the carriages after they had gone.

“The gods forbid,” he said, piously, to himself, “that I should attempt to interfere in the projects of Providence! But it is well that Wanda should know who are her friends and who her enemies. And I think she knows now, my shrewd princess.”

And he bowed, bareheaded, in response to a gay wave of the hand from Wanda as the carriage turned the corner and disappeared. He turned on his heel, to find himself cut off from the grand-stand by a dense throng of people moving rather confusedly towards the exit. The sky was black, and a shower was impending.

“Ah, well!” he muttered, philosophically, “they are capable of taking care of themselves.”

And he joined the throng making for the gates. It appeared, however, that he gave more credit than was merited; for Netty was carried along by a stream of people whose aim was a gate to the left of the great gate, and though she saw the hat of her uncle above the hats of the other men, she could not make her way towards it. Mr. Mangles and his sister passed out of the large gateway, and waited in the first available space beyond it. Netty was carried by the gentle pressure of the crowd to the smaller gate, and having passed it, decided to wait till her uncle, who undoubtedly must have seen her, should come in search of her. She was not uneasy. All through her life she had always found people, especially men, ready, nay, anxious, to be kind to her. She was looking round for Mr. Mangles when a man came towards her. He was only a workman in his best suit of working clothes. He had a narrow, sunburned face, and there was in his whole being a not unpleasant suggestion of the seafaring life.

“I am afraid,” he said, in perfect English, as he raised his cap, “that you have lost the rest of your party. You are also in the wrong course, so to speak. We are the commoner people here, you see. Can I help you to find your father?”

“Thank you,” answered Netty, without concealing her surprise. “I think my uncle went out of the larger gate, and it seems impossible to get at him. Perhaps--”

“Yes,” answered Kosmaroff, “I will show you another way with pleasure. Then that tall gentleman is not your father?”

“No. Mr. Mangles is my uncle,” replied Netty, following her companion.

“Ah, that is Mr. Mangles! An American, is he not?”

“Yes. We are Americans.”

“A diplomatist?”

“Yes, my uncle is in the service.”

“And you are at the Europe. Yes, I have heard of Mr. Mangles. This way; we can pass through this alley and come to the large gate.”

“But you--you are not a Pole? It is so kind of you to help me,” said Netty, looking at him with some interest. And Kosmaroff, perceiving this interest, slightly changed his manner.

“Ah! you are looking at my clothes,” he said, rather less formally. “In Poland things are not always what they seem, mademoiselle. Yes, I am a Pole. I am a boatman, and keep my boat at the foot of Bednarska Street, just above the bridge. If you ever want to go on the river, it is pleasant in the evening, you and your party, you will perhaps do me the great honor of selecting my poor boat, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, I will remember,” answered Netty, who did not seem to notice that his glance was, as it were, less distant than his speech.

“I knew at once--at once,” he said, “that you were English or American.”

“Ah! Then there is a difference--” said Netty, looking round for her uncle.

“There is a difference--yes, assuredly.”

“What is it?” asked Netty, with a subtle tone of expectancy in her voice.

“Your mirror will answer that question,” replied Kosmaroff, with his odd, one-sided smile, “more plainly than I should ever dare to do. There is your uncle, mademoiselle, and I must go.”

Mr. Mangles, perceiving the situation, was coming forward with his hand in his pocket, when Kosmaroff took off his cap and hurried away.

“No,” said Netty, laying her hand on Mr. Mangle's arm, “do not give him anything. He was rather a superior man, and spoke a little English.”

XIV

SENTENCED

Like the majority of Englishmen, Cartoner had that fever of the horizon which makes a man desire to get out of a place as soon as he is in it. The average Englishman is not content to see a city; he must walk out of it, through its suburbs and beyond them, just to see how the city lies.

Before he had been long in Warsaw, Cartoner hired a horse and took leisurely rides out of the town in all directions. He found suburbs more or less depressing, and dusty roads innocent of all art, half-paved, growing wider with the lapse of years, as in self-defence the foot-passengers encroached on the fields on either side in search of a cleaner thoroughfare. To the north he found that the great fort which a Russian emperor built for Warsaw's good, and which in case of emergency could batter the city down in a few hours, but could not defend it from any foe whatever. Across the river he rode through Praga, of grimmest memory, into closely cultivated plains. But mostly he rode by the riverbanks, where there are more trees and where the country is less uniform. He rode more often than elsewhere southward by the Vistula, and knew the various roads and paths that led to Wilanow.

One evening, when clouds had been gathering all day and the twilight was shorter than usual, he was benighted in the low lands that lie parallel with the Saska Island. He knew his whereabouts, however, and soon struck that long and lonely river-side road, the Czerniakowska, which leads into the manufacturing districts where the sugar-refineries and the iron-foundries are. It was inches deep in dust, and he rode in silence on the silent way. Before him loomed the chimney of the large iron-works, which clang and rattle all day in the ears of the idlers in the Lazienki Park.

Before he reached the high wall that surrounds these works on the land side he got out of the saddle and carefully tried the four shoes of his horse. One of them was loose. He loosened it further, working at it patiently with the handle of his whip. Then he led the horse forward and found that it limped, which seemed to satisfy him. As he walked on, with the bridle over his arm, he consulted his watch. There was just light enough to show him that it was nearly six.

The iron-foundries were quiet now. They had been closed at five. From the distant streets the sound of the traffic came to his ears in a long, low roar, like the breaking of surf upon shingle far away.

Cartoner led his horse to the high double door that gave access to the iron-foundry. He turned the horse very exactly and carefully, so that the animal's shoulder pressed against that half of the door which opened first. Then he rang the bell, of which the chain swung gently in the wind. It gave a solitary clang inside the deserted works. After a few moments there was the sound of rusted bolts being slowly withdrawn, and at the right moment Cartoner touched the horse with his whip, so that it started forward against the door and thrust it open, despite the efforts of the gate-keeper, who staggered back into the dimly lighted yard.

Cartoner looked quickly round him. All was darkness except an open doorway, from which a shaft of light poured out, dimly illuminating cranes and carts and piles of iron girders. The gate-keeper was hurriedly bolting the gate. Cartoner led his horse towards the open door, but before he reached it a number of men ran out and fell on him like hounds upon a fox. He leaped back, abandoning his horse, and striking the first-comer full in the chest with his fist. He charged the next and knocked him over; but from the third he retreated, leaping quickly to one side.

“Bukaty!” he cried; “don't you know me?”

“You, Cartoner!” replied Martin. He spread out his arms, and the men behind him ran against them. He turned and said something to them in Polish, which Cartoner did not catch. “You here!” he said. And there was a ring in the gay, rather light voice, which the Englishman had never heard there before. But he had heard it in other voices, and knew the meaning of it. For his work had brought him into contact with refined men in moments when their refinement only serves to harden that grimmer side of human nature of which half humanity is in happy ignorance, which deals in battle and sudden death.

“It is too risky,” said some one, almost in Martin's ear, in Polish, but Cartoner heard it. “We must kill him and be done with it.”

There was an odd silence for a moment, only broken by the stealthy feet of the gate-keeper coming forward to join the group. Then Cartoner spoke, quietly and collectedly. His nerve was so steady that he had taken time to reflect as to which tongue to make use of. For all had disadvantages, but silence meant death.

“This near fore-shoe,” he said in French, turning to his horse, “is nearly off. It has been loose all the way from Wilanow. This is a foundry, is it not? There must be a hammer and some nails about.”

Martin gave a sort of gasp of relief. For a moment he had thought there was no loop-hole.

Cartoner looked towards the door, and the light fell full upon his patient, thoughtful face. The faces of the men standing in a half-circle in front of him were in the dark.

“Good! He's a brave man!” muttered the man who had spoken in Martin's ear. It was Kosmaroff. And he stepped back a pace.

“Yes,” said Martin, hastily, “this is a foundry. I can get you a hammer.”

His right hand was opening and shutting convulsively. Cartoner glanced at it, and Martin put it behind his back. He was rather breathless, and he was angrily wishing that he had the Englishman's nerve.

“You might tell these men,” he said, in French, “of my mishap; perhaps one of them can put it right, and I can get along home. I am desperately hungry. The journey had been so slow from Wilanow.”

He had already perceived that Kosmaroff understood both English and French, and that it was of him that Martin was afraid. He spoke slowly, so as to give Martin time to pull himself together. Kosmaroff stepped forward to the horse and examined the shoe indicated. It was nearly off.

Martin turned, and explained in Polish that the gentleman had come for a hammer and some nails--that his horse had nearly lost a shoe. Cartoner had simply forced him to become his ally, and had even indicated the line of conduct he was to pursue.

“Get a hammer--one of you,” said Kosmaroff, over his shoulder, and Martin bit his lip with a sudden desire to speak--to say more than was discreet. He took his cue in some way from Cartoner, without knowing that wise men cease persuading the moment they have gained consent. Never comment on your own victory.

Never had Cartoner's silent habit stood him in such good stead as during the following moments, while a skilled workman replaced the lost shoe. Never had he observed so skilled a silence, or left unsaid such dangerous words. For Kosmaroff watched him as a cat may watch a bird. Behind, were the barred gates, and in front, the semicircle of men, whose faces he could not see, while the full light glared through the open doorway upon his own countenance. Two miles from Warsaw--a dark autumn night, and eleven men to one. He counted them, in a mechanical way, as persons in face of death nearly always do count, with a cold deliberation, their chances of life. He played his miserable little cards with all the skill he possessed, and his knowledge of the racial characteristics of humanity served him. For he acted slowly, and gave his enemies leisure to see that it would be a mistake to kill him. They would see it in time; for they were not Frenchmen, nor of any other Celtic race, who would have killed him first and recognized their mistake afterwards. They were Slavs--of the most calculating race the world had produced--a little slow in their calculations. So he gave them time, just as Russia must have time; but she will reach the summit eventually, when her farsighted policy is fully evolved--long, long after reader and writer are dust.

Cartoner gave the workman half a rouble, which was accepted with a muttered word of thanks, and then he turned towards the great doors, which were barred. There was another pause, while the gate-keeper looked inquiringly at Kosmaroff.

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Cartoner to Martin, who went towards the gate as if to draw back the bolt. But at a signal from Kosmaroff the gate-keeper sprang forward and opened the heavy doors.

Martin was nearest, and instinctively held the stirrup, while Cartoner climbed into the saddle.

“Saved your life!” he said, in a whisper.

“I know,” answered Cartoner, turning in his saddle to lift his hat to the men grouped behind him. He looked over their heads into the open doorway, but could see nothing. Nevertheless, he knew where were concealed the arms brought out into the North Sea by Captain Cable in the _Minnie_.

“More than I bargained for,” he muttered to himself, as he rode away from the iron-foundry by the river. He put his horse to a trot and presently to a canter along the deserted, dusty road. The animal was astonishingly fresh and went off at a good pace, so that the man sent by Kosmaroff to follow him was soon breathless and forced to give up the chase.

Approaching the town, Cartoner rode at a more leisurely pace. That his life had hung on a thread since sunset did not seem to affect him much, and he looked about him with quiet eyes, while the hand on the bridle was steady.

He was, it seemed, one of those fortunate wayfarers who see their road clearly before them, and for whom the barriers of duty and honor, which stand on either side of every man's path, present neither gap nor gate. He had courage and patience, and was content to exercise both, without weighing the changes of reward too carefully. That he read his duty in a different sense to that understood by other men was no doubt only that which this tolerant age calls a matter of temperament.

“That Cartoner,” Deulin was in the habit of saying, “takes certain things so seriously, and other things--social things, to which I give most careful attention--he ignores. And yet we often reach the same end by different routes.”

Which was quite true. But Deulin reached the end by a happy guess, and that easy exercise of intuition which is the special gift of the Gallic race, while Cartoner worked his way towards his goal with a steady perseverance and slow, sure steps.

“In a moment of danger give me Cartoner,” Deulin had once said.

On more than one occasion Cartoner had shown quite clearly, without words, that he understood and appreciated that odd mixture of heroism and frivolity which will always puzzle the world and draw its wondering attention to France. The two men never compared notes, never helped each other, never exchanged the minutest confidence.

Joseph P. Mangles was different. He spoke quite openly of his work.

“Got a job in Russia,” he had stolidly told any one who asked him. “Cold, unhealthy place.” He seemed to enter upon his duties with the casual interest of the amateur, and, in a way, exactly embodied the attitude of his country towards Europe, of which the many wheels within wheels may spin and whir or halt and grind without in any degree affecting the great republic. America can afford to content herself with the knowledge of what has happened or is happening. Countries nearer to the field of action must know what is going to happen.

Cartoner rode placidly to the stable where he had hired his horse, and delivered the beast to its owner. He had no one in Warsaw to go to and relate his adventures. He was alone, as he had been all his life--alone with his failures and his small successes--content, it would seem, to be a good servant in a great service.