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 clubhouse when you come back.”
So Cartoner went to the grandstand 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 earshot 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 grandstand together in a rather formal silence. The next race was about to start, and the lawn, with its forlorn, autumnal flowerbeds, 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 grandstand,” 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
