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.”
“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.”
