the saxon gardens are in the heart of warsaw, and, in london, would be called a park. at certain hours the fashionable world promenades beneath the trees, and at all times there is a thoroughfare across from one quarter of the town to another.
wanda often sat there in the morning or walked slowly with her father at such times as the doctor's instructions to take exercise were still fresh upon his memory. there are seats beneath the trees, overlooking the green turf and the flowers so dear to the slavonian soul. later in the morning these seats are occupied by nurses and children, as in any other park in any other city. but from nine to ten wanda had the alleys mostly to herself.
the early autumn had already laid its touch upon the trees, and the leaves were brown. the flowers, laboriously tended all through the brief, uncertain summer, had that forlorn look which makes autumn in northern latitudes a period of damp depression. wanda had gone out early, and was sitting at the sunny side of the broad alley that divides the gardens in two from end to end. she was waiting for martin, who had been called back at the door of the palace and had promised to follow in a few minutes. he had a hundred engagements during the day, a hundred friends among those unfortunate scions of noble houses who will not wear the russian uniform, who cannot by the laws of their caste engage in any form of commerce, and must not accept a government office—who are therefore idle, without the natural southern sloth that enables italians and spaniards to do nothing gracefully all day long. wanda was wiser than martin. girls generally are infinitely wiser than young men. but the wisdom ceases to grow later in life, and old men are wiser than old women. wanda was, in a sense, martin's adviser, mentor, and friend. she had, as he himself acknowledged, already saved him from dangers into which his natural heedlessness and impetuosity would have led him. as to the discontent in which all poland was steeped, which led the princes and their friends into many perils, wanda had been brought up to it, just as some families are brought up to consumption and the anticipation of an early death.
in her eminently practical, feminine way of looking at things, wanda was much more afraid of martin running into debt than into danger. debt and impecuniosity would be so inconvenient at this time, when her father daily needed some new comfort, and daily depended for his happiness more and more upon his port wine and that ease which is only to be enjoyed by an easy mind.
wanda was thinking of these things in the saski gardens, and hardly heeded the passers-by, though—for the feminine instincts were strong in her—she looked with softer eyes on the children than she did on the jew who hurried past, with bent back and a bowed head, from the richer quarter of the town to his own mysterious purlieus of the franoiszkanska. the latter, perhaps, recalled the thoughts of martin and his heedlessness; the former made her think of—she knew not what.
she was looking towards the colonnade that marks the site of the king of saxony's palace, when cartoner came through the archway into the garden. she recognized him even at this distance, for his walk was unlike that of the nervous, quick-moving pole or the lurking jew. it was more like the gait of a russian; but all the russians in warsaw wear a uniform. that is why they are there. there was a suggestion of determination in the walk of this englishman.
he came down the wide alley towards her, and then suddenly perceived her. she saw this without actually looking at him, and knew the precise moment when he first caught sight of her. it was presumably upon experience that wanda based her theory that women see twice as much as men. she saw him turn, without hesitation, away from her down a narrower alley leading to the right. it was his intention to avoid her. but the only turning he could take was that leading to the corner of kotzebue street, and martin was at the other end of it, coming towards him. cartoner was thus caught in the narrow alley. wanda sat still and watched the two men. she suddenly knew in advance what would happen, as it is often vouchsafed to the human understanding to know at a moment's notice what is coming; and she had a strange, discomforting sense that these minutes were preordained—that martin and cartoner and herself were mere puppets in the hands of fate, and must say and do that which has been assigned to them in an unalterable scheme of succeeding events.
she watched the two men meet and shake hands, in the english fashion, without raising their hats. she could see cartoner's movements to continue his way, and martin's detaining hand slipped within the englishman's arm.
“what does it matter?” martin was saying. “there is no one to see us here, at this hour in the morning. we are quite safe. there is wanda, sitting on the seat, waiting for me. come back with me.”
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.
