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.
“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.”