“I have my orders,” said Mangles, rather grimly, “and I must stay here till I am moved on. But the orders say nothing about you or Netty. Go to Nice if you like.”
And Julie seemed half inclined to go southward. But for one reason or another—reasons, it may be, put forward by Netty in private conversation with her aunt—the ladies lingered on.
“The place is dull for you,” said Mangles, “now that Cartoner seems to have left us for good. His gay and sparkling conversation would enliven any circle.”
And beneath his shaggy brows he glanced at Netty, whose smooth cheek did not change color, while her eyes met his with an affectionate smile.
“You seemed to have plenty to say to each other coming across the Atlantic,” she said. “I always found you with your heads close together whenever I came on deck.”
“Don't think we sparkled much,” said Joseph, with his under lip well forward.
“It is very kind of Uncle Joseph,” said Netty, afterwards, to Miss Mangles, “to suggest that we should go south, and, of course, it would be lovely to feel the sunshine again, but we could not leave him, could we? You must not think of me, auntie; I am quite happy here, and should not enjoy the Riviera at all if we left uncle all alone here.”
Julie had a strict sense of duty, which, perhaps, Netty was cognizant of; and the subject was never really brought under discussion. During a particularly bad spell of weather Mr. Mangles again and again suggested that he should be left at Warsaw, but on each occasion Netty came forward with that complete unselfishness and sweet forethought for others which all who knew her learned to look for in her every action.
Warsaw, she admitted, was dull, and the surrounding country simply impossible. But the winter could not last forever, she urged, with a little shiver. And it really was quite easy to keep warm if one went for a brisk walk in the morning. To prove this she put on the new furs which Joseph had bought her, and which were very becoming to her delicate coloring, and set out full of energy. She usually went to the Saski Gardens, the avenues of which were daily swept and kept clear of snow; and as often as not, she accidentally met Prince Martin Bukaty there. Sometimes she crossed the bridge to Praga, and occasionally turned her steps down the Bednarska to the side of the river which was blocked by ice now, wintry and desolate2. The sand-workers were still laboring3, though navigation was, of course, at a stand-still.
Netty never saw Kosmaroff, however, who had gone as suddenly as he came—had gone out of her life as abruptly4 as he burst into it, leaving only the memory of that high-water mark of emotion to which he had raised her. Leaving also that blankest of all blanks in the feminine heart, an unsatisfied curiosity. She could not understand Kosmaroff, any more than she could understand Cartoner. And it was natural that she should, in consequence, give much thought to them both. There was, she felt, something in both alike which she had not got at, and she naturally wanted to get at it. It might be a sorrow, and her kind heart drew her attention to any hidden thought that might be a sorrow. She might be able to alleviate5 it. At any rate, being a woman, she, no doubt, wanted to stir it up, as it were, and see what the result would be.
Prince Martin was quite different. He was comparatively easy to understand. She knew the symptoms well. She was so unfortunate. So many people had fallen in love with her, through no fault of her own. Indeed, no one could regret it more than she did. She did not, of course, say these things to her aunt, Julie, or to that dear old blind stupid, her uncle, who never saw or understood anything, and was entirely6 absorbed in his cigars and his newspapers. She said them to herself—and, no doubt, found herself quite easy to convince—as other people do.
Prince Martin was very gay and light-hearted, too. If he was in love, he was gayly, frankly7, openly in love, and she hoped that it would be all right—whatever that might mean. In the mean time, of course, she could not help it if she was always meeting him when she went for her walk in the Saski Gardens. There was nowhere else to walk, and it was to be supposed that he was passing that way by accident. Or if he had found out her hours and came there on purpose she really could not help it.
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.”
“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 etiquette9 allowed, she called at the Bukaty Palace. She made an excuse in some illustrated10 English and American magazines which might interest the Princess Wanda. But there was no one at home. She understood from the servant, who spoke11 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 expectancy12; 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 lighter14 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 admiration15 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 discreet16. 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 frail17, and dependent at that moment, and all the chivalry18 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 infinitely19 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 concealment20 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 vowed21 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 persistently23 and repeatedly break their word in one respect. For they will vow22 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 writ13 in water.
Netty tried to stop him. She was very much distressed24. 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.”
“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 outlaw26. 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.
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1
mangles
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| n.轧布机，轧板机，碾压机（mangle的复数形式）vt.乱砍（mangle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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2
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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3
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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4
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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5
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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6
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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7
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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8
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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9
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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13
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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14
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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15
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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16
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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17
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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18
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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19
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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20
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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21
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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22
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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23
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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24
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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26
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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