Deulin came and went during the winter. He seemed to have business now at Cracow, now at St. Petersburg. He was a bad correspondent, and talked much about himself, without ever saying much; which is quite a different thing. He had the happy gift of imparting a wealth of useless information. When in Warsaw he busied himself on behalf of the ladies, and went so far as to take Miss Mangles for a drive in his sleigh. To Netty he showed a hundred attentions.
"I cannot understand," she said, "why everybody is so kind to me."
"It is because you are so kind to everybody," he answered, with that air of appearing to mean more than he said, which he seemed to reserve for Netty.
"I do not understand Mr. Deulin," said Netty to her uncle one day. "Why does he stay here? What is he doing here?"
And Joseph P. Mangles merely stuck his chin forward, and said in his deepest tones:
"You had better ask him!"
"But he would not tell me."
"No."
"And Mr. Cartoner," continued Netty, "I understood he was coming back, but he does not seem to come. No one seems to know. It is so difficult to get information about the merest trifles. Not that I care, of course, who comes and who goes."
"Course not," said Mangles.
After a pause, Netty looked up again from her work.
"Uncle," she said, "I was wondering if there was anything wrong in Warsaw."
"What made you wonder that?"
"I do not know. It feels, sometimes, as if there were something wrong.
Mr. Cartoner went away so suddenly. The people in the streets are so odd and quiet. And down stairs in the restaurant, at dinner, I see them exchange glances when the Russian officers come into the room. I distrust the quietness of the people, and--uncle--Mr. Deulin"s gayety--I distrust that, too. And then, you; you so often ask us to go away and leave you here alone."
Mangles laughed, curtly, and folded his newspaper.
"Because it is a dull hole," he said, "that is why I want you to go away. It has got on your nerves. It is because you have not lived in a conquered country before. All conquered countries are like that."
Which was a very long explanation for Joseph Mangles to make. And he never again proposed that Netty and her aunt should go to Nice. But Netty"s curiosity was not satisfied, and she knew that Deulin would answer no question seriously. Why did not Kosmaroff come back? Why did Cartoner stay away? As soon as etiquette allowed, she called at the Bukaty Palace. She made an excuse in some ill.u.s.trated English and American magazines which might interest the Princess Wanda. But there was no one at home. She understood from the servant, who spoke a little German, that they had gone to their country house, a few miles from Warsaw.
The next morning Netty went for a walk in the Saski Gardens. The weather had changed suddenly. It was quite mild and springlike. At last the grip of winter seemed to be slackening. There were others in the gardens who held their faces up to the sky, and breathed in the softer air with a sort of expectancy; who seemed to wonder if the winter had really broken, or if this should only be a false hope. It was one of the first days in March--a month wherein all nature slowly stirs after her long sleep, and men pull themselves together to new endeavor. The majority of great events in the world"s history have taken place in the spring months. Is not the Ides of March written large in the story of this planet?
Netty had not been many minutes in the gardens when Prince Martin came to her. He had laid aside his fur coat for a lighter cloak of English make, which made him look thinner. His face, too, was thin and spare, like the face of a man who is working hard at work or sport. But he was gay and light-hearted as ever. Neither did he make any disguise of his admiration for Netty.
"It is three days," he said, "since I have seen you. And it seems like three years."
Which is the sort of remark that can only be ignored by the discreet.
Besides, Prince Martin did not go so far as to state why the three days had been so tedious. It might be for some other reason altogether.
"My uncle has been pressing us to go away," said Netty, "to the south of France, to Nice, but----"
"But what?"
"Well," answered Netty, after a pause, "you see for yourself--we have not gone."
"It is a very selfish hope--but I hope you will stay," said Prince Martin. He looked down at her, and the thought of her possible departure caught him like a vise. He was a person of impulse, and (which is not usual) his impulse was as often towards good as towards evil. She looked, besides looking pretty, rather small and frail, and dependent at that moment, and all the chivalry of his nature was aroused. It was only natural that he should think that she had all the qualities he knew Wanda to possess, and, of course, in an infinitely higher degree. Which is the difference between one"s own sister and another person"s. She was good, and frank, and open. The idea of concealment between himself and her was to be treated with scorn.
"I will tell you," he said, "if at any time there is any reason why you cannot stay."
"But why should there be any reason--" she began, and a quick movement that he made to look round and see who was in sight, who might be within hearing, made her stop.
"Oh! I do not want you to tell me anything. I do not want to know," she said hurriedly. Which was the absolute truth; for politics bored her horribly.
He looked at her with a laugh, and only loved her all the more, for persisting in her ignorance of those matters which are always better left to men.
"I almost missed," he said gayly, "an excellent opportunity of holding my tongue."
"Only----" began Netty, as if in continuation of her protest against being told anything.
"Only what?"
"Only--be careful," she said, with downcast eyes. And, of course, that brought him, figuratively, to her feet. He vowed he would be careful, if it was for her sake. If she would only say that it was for her sake. And at the moment he really meant it. He was as honest as the day. But he did not know, perhaps, that the best sort of men are those who persistently and repeatedly break their word in one respect. For they will vow to a woman never to run into danger, to be careful, to be cowards. And when the danger is there, and the woman is not--their vow is writ in water.
Netty tried to stop him. She was very much distressed. She almost had tears in her eyes, but not quite. She put her gloved hands over her ears to stop them, but did not quite succeed in shutting out his voice. The gloves were backed with a dark, fine fur, which made her cheeks look delicate and soft as a peach.
"I will not hear you," she said. "I will not. I will not."
Then he seemed to recollect something, and he stopped short.
"No," he said; "you are quite right. I have no business to ask you to hear me. I have nothing to offer you. I am poor. At any moment I may be an outlaw. But at any moment I may have more to offer you. Things may go well, and then I should be in a very different position."
Netty looked away from him, and seemed to be trying to think. Or, perhaps, she was only putting together recollections which had all been thought out before. She could be a princess. She remembered that. She had only been in Europe six months, and here was a prince at her feet.
But there were terrible drawbacks. Warsaw was one of them, and poverty, that greatest of all drawbacks, was the other.
"I can tell you nothing now," he said. "But soon, before the summer, there may be great changes in Poland."
Then his own natural instinct told him that position, or poverty, wealth or success, had nothing to do with the cause he was pleading. He did not even know whether Netty was rich or poor, and he certainly did not care.
"What did you mean," he asked, "when you said "Be careful"? What did you mean--tell me?"
His gay, blue eyes were serious enough now. They were alight with an honest and good love. Never of a cold and calculating habit, he was reckless of observation. He did not care who saw. He would have taken her hands and forced her to face him had she not held them behind her back. She was singularly calm and self-possessed. People who appear nervous often rise to the occasion.
"I do not know what I meant," she said; "I do not know. You must not ask me. It slipped out when I was not thinking. Oh! please be generous, and do not ask me."
By some instinct she had leaped to the right mark. She had asked a Bukaty to be generous.
"Some day," he said, "I will ask you."
And he walked with her to the gate of the gardens in silence.
XXVII