_NICOL PATOFF._
I had half hoped Nicol might be with Michel, but he was alone, and came
eagerly forward to meet us, seeing to our tickets and passports and
comfort generally, and taking particular care of the supposed Alex, at
whom the officials looked suspiciously.
“Madame’s maid,” he explained, and then they looked more surprised, as
if questioning my taste; but my “serving woman” was not molested, and my
heart beat more freely when at last the train moved off, and we were
leaving St Petersburg. Altogether, it was a big farce, and a risky one,
for the police were eagle-eyed, and I was glad when we crossed the
frontier and were on German soil. With Mrs. Whitney present, I could not
question Michel of Nicol until we stood for a moment alone on the
platform; then I said to him: “What of Nicol? Where is he? I hoped I
might see him.”
“Wait till we get to Paris, and you shall hear the whole story. Be
content to know that he is safe and well,” he replied.
After this there was nothing to do but wait until Paris was reached,
where I went to the Bellevue, after depositing Ivan with his sister,
where he was to stay until we decided in what guise he was to cross the
ocean, as he was resolved to go with us, if he went as steerage. The
second evening after our arrival Mrs. Whitney, who retired early, had
gone to her room, when Michel, who was stopping at the Grand, was
announced. He had seen a famous oculist, and been assured there was help
for his eyes, and was very cheerful and happy.
“I have seen Ivan, too,” he said, “and he has come out quite a swell
from his tailor’s hands. He couldn’t wait to throw off that disguise,
which had made him feel so humiliated. I assure you, there is no
danger,” he continued, as he saw the pallor on my face.
“Ivan!” I exclaimed. “How did you know it was he?”
“I knew it all the time!” and he laughed immoderately. “The Scholaskies
have given the police a world of trouble, especially Ivan, who, I
believe, could deceive his own mother. As Sophie, he was magnificent;
but I knew it was Ivan that night I came and found you there. I was sure
of it, but I could not arrest him in your presence. I think that boy
would have torn my eyes out, and you would never have forgiven me, so I
left it for Paul Strigoff, and tried, even then, to prevent it, for that
night, at least. You remember the note I sent you, asking you not to go
on the ice?”
I bowed, and he went on: “I wished to spare you, if possible, but
failed. Ivan was arrested and sent to Siberia, and escaped, no one knows
how but himself. As old Alex, he passed a year in St. Petersburg, and no
one suspected him until I got a clew, no matter how, and went to Mrs.
Browne’s. The moment I saw him I guessed I had my man, and, the more I
saw of him, the more certain I became. But I would not arrest him before
you. I would wait, I said, and, when I heard he was going to America, I
made up my mind to let the poor fellow go, and I kept Paul Strigoff from
the scent, and I’ve got him across the frontier and into Paris, where he
is safe. You should have seen his face when he first saw me at his
sister’s, and a few minutes after. when I told him the truth. I think he
would have gone on his knees to me, if I had let him. As it was, he
cried. It is dreadful to see a strong man cry, and he is a manly fellow,
and has endured so much, that the reaction brought the tears in showers,
while his sister kept company with him. He will come and see you
to-morrow night. Don’t cry. I have seen tears enough,” he continued, as
I began to sob hysterically.
“Let me cry!” I said. “You have been so kind to me, since the first time
I saw you, that I cannot help it; but there is one favor more I must
ask. What of Nicol?”
He did not speak for a minute; then, taking my hand in his, he said,
very low: “Lucy! Lucy!”
I nearly fainted, in my surprise. The name, and the voice in which it
was spoken, carried me back to a time when Nicol had said “Lucy” just as
this man said it. Incident after incident crowded upon me, until the
chain was complete, and I said: “_You are Nicol Patoff!_”
“Of course. Who should I be?” he answered, laughingly. “I am the
so-called Nicol Patoff, once your teacher and always your lover.”
“Oh, what is it? How is it?” I asked, looking to see if I could
recognize any likeness to Nicol. I should have known his eyes, but they
were half closed, and his beard covered so much of his face that he was
nearly as well disguised as Ivan had been as Alex.
“It is a long story, but I will make it as brief as possible,” he said,
still holding my hand. “The Patoffs once lived in our house, and they
had a son, Nicol, a friend of mine, through whom I imbibed nihilistic
sympathies. I attended their meetings. I became convinced that they were
right in many respects, but did not join them, thanks to my mother, who
heard of my intention, and kept me locked up till my zeal abated
somewhat. The Patoffs went to Constantinople, where Nicol died, and I
became a little tired of the nihilist tyranny—and it is a terrible
tyranny.
“I was suspected of being in a plot of which I never heard. But it made
no difference. I was a suspect, and I conceived the idea of going to
America until the storm blew over. Why I took Nicol’s name I hardly
know, unless it was to escape being followed, if the officials got on my
track. I think they were more severe then than they are now. Nicol was
still alive, but dying from consumption. I wrote him I was going to take
his name, and why, and he replied, ‘All right. Use me any way you like.
I shall soon be gone.’
“The next day he died, and I started for America, and finally drifted to
Ridgefield, and turned teacher of languages—the only thing for which I
was fitted. You were my favorite pupil from the first, and I came to
love you as men like me love but once. I could not tell you of my love.
You were too young, and that cloud of nihilism was over me. You have
seen my mother, but you do not know half how strong a character she was.
She had influence, and finally arranged that, if I renounced my
connection entirely with the nihilists, I could return in safety. I did
so, but carried a thought of you with me always.
“I am a restless character. If I could not be a nihilist—and I confess
to you that my sympathy has, in a way, always been on that side—I would
be a gendarme, and that would insure me against suspicion of any kind,
and after my return I was looked at askance by my old friends who had
known of my principles before I left the country. As a gendarme I was
safe, but always felt myself a coward and hypocrite.
“My mother was furious, and was never reconciled to my position. But I
know I have done some good to the poor, cowering wretches who have been
arrested and sent to Siberia, where, if I had kept on my way, I might
have gone.
“I could not marry while my mother lived. She would have made both
myself and my wife unhappy. So I gave up thoughts of matrimony, but not
thoughts of you.
“Years passed on, and I stood high in my calling as a detective. The day
you came on the boat the authorities were expecting a famous anarchist,
and I was sent to arrest him. He was not there, but you were, and I knew
you in a moment, although you could not recognize me.
“When you confronted me with Nicol Patoff, my heart gave a bound, for I
had not heard the name in years, and no one except my mother knew I had
ever taken that name. I could not explain to you on the boat, and a
sudden temptation came over me to mystify you, as I did, without
dreaming you would take matters with so high a hand. I would explain
later, I thought, but I began to enjoy the mystery, and I liked to hear
what you had to say of Nicol Patoff, and your eager defense when you
thought him in danger.”
“But you deceived me shamefully!” I said, indignantly; and he replied:
“I know I did, and felt like a monster and liar, and still I never
really lied but once, and then to save you, I told that Massachusetts
friend of yours, whose tongue was like a mill wheel, that the lock of
hair I had was black instead of red. You remember it?”
I bowed, and he went on: “I have no good excuse which you can fully
understand. Several times I was on the point of declaring myself, but
you always upset my plans. You told me you did not love Nicol, and that
you could never live with him, or anyone else, in his house, or in
Russia. If you did not care for him enough to live with him, I had no
reason to think you would care for me.
“And, then, my mother was an obstacle in the way. She would never have
received you, or treated you well. She disliked Americans on general
principles. But she is dead, and I am free, so far as she is concerned.
Providence has thrown you in my way three times. I believe there is luck
in the third time, and I ask you now to be my wife.”
At first I could not speak. I did not like the thought of having been
deceived so long, and of having expended so much sympathy on something
which did not exist, and I said so, pretty hotly. He laughed, and,
laying his hand on my head, said: “Your hair hasn’t lost all its red
yet, has it?”
“No, and never will, where deceit is concerned. It was a wicked, foolish
farce, and I don’t like it,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he answered, with his hand still on my hair. “It was
unworthy of me, but I rather enjoyed it, after all, for I liked to hear
you talk of Nicol, knowing I was he. And now, can you forgive the past,
and think of me as you used to do? I will try to make you very happy—not
in Russia,” he said, quickly, as he saw me about to speak. “Whether you
marry me or not, I shall leave the country and go to America. Many
predict trouble for Russia in the future. There is unrest everywhere,
and treachery. You don’t know whom to trust. Every servant of mine is a
nihilist, and Zaidee the worst of all. But mother never suspected it. If
she had, she would have flayed them alive, if she could. I am tired of
it, and shall go to a free country, where, as Carl Zimosky once said,
one can sneeze without being made to tell why he did so. And, if I come
to Ridgefield some day, will you be my wife?”
Every word he said was telling upon me, for there was a wonderful
magnetism about him, and I felt much as I did when he came to me under
the maple tree to say good-by. That was years ago, when I was young, and
it seemed ridiculous that people of our age should be making love, and I
said so.
“Why not?” he answered. “I am fifty, and you are forty, and look thirty.
You see, I have kept your age, and I know no reason why middle-aged
people should not be in love as well as young ones, especially when the
germs have been maturing for years, as mine have for you. Can I come to
Ridgefield? Will you be my wife?”
He was very persistent, and repeated his question till I answered: “You
can come to Ridgefield, and I will think of it, and, like Zaidee, see if
it will do.”
“Then you are mine,” he said, kissing my hands passionately. “I’ll not
kiss your face,” he added, “till some of my beard is off, and I am more
like the Nicol you knew.”
It was late when he left, and two or three times he turned back from the
door to kiss my hands and say good-night.
The next evening the cards of Mr. and Miss Scholaskie were brought to
me, and, after a few moments, a young man, faultlessly attired, was
offering me his hand and asking if I knew him. I should never have
recognized him as the girl I had seen arrested, or the old woman who had
cleaned my hearth and dusted my chairs. He was in high spirits, and said
he shouted aloud when he dropped off Alex’s disguise and felt he was a
man again.
“Free, free,” he kept repeating, until I asked if there were no danger
of his being inquired for.
Then, for a moment, a shadow darkened his face; but he soon brightened,
and replied: “I think not, and so does Seguin. He is a brick, as you
Americans say. He is going to America later on, he said.”
I felt my cheeks burn, and wondered if he knew what had passed between
Michel and myself. If he did, he gave no sign, but asked how soon we
expected to sail, and if it was from Havre. I told him, and he
continued: “I shall secure my passage to-morrow. Then I shall run over
to London to say good-by to my grandmother. You have seen the old lady,
and can judge the time I’ll have with her. She will dislike my going to
America to become a citizen nearly as much as she disliked my being a
nihilist. _Mais n’importe._ I am going, just the same.”
I did not see him again until his passage was taken and he had been to
see his grandmother.
“Pretty fine old lady, after all,” he said, in speaking of her. “Her
bark is worse than her bite. She called me a fool several times, and
said it was the Scholaskie blood that ailed me, and that, if I went to
America, the first she would hear, I would be leading an anarchist mob
in Chicago, and get shot—and serve me right, too! When I was ready to
leave, she cried a little, and told me I was not to mind all she had
said, and asked how much money I had. I told her, and she declared none
of her kin should ever go to America with so little, and, going to her
desk, she wrote a check for a thousand pounds! Think of it! ‘Alex’ with
a thousand pounds! I hugged the old lady, who pushed me off, and said:
‘No slobbering over me. I’m not made that way.’ Then, as I stood in the
hall she took both my hands and said: ‘Ivan, you are a bad boy, and your
father was bad before you, or you and he might be living in your old
home on the Nevsky, instead of one dead in Siberia, the other an escaped
prisoner going to America—after a girl, I know,’ she continued. ‘I’ve
seen her—a pretty little thing, but an American. If you marry to suit me
I shall give your wife my diamonds, and they are worth something, let me
tell you. Pin, earrings, pendant and all these.’ She held up her hands
and I counted six rings. I made her let me kiss her and told her I
should probably marry to suit myself if I could. Then I left, but she
stood in the doorway and watched me till I turned a street corner. What
do you think of that for a grandmother?”
He was wild with delight over his thousand pounds, and full of
speculation as to what he should do with it when he reached New York.
One week from that day we sailed from Havre, and Ivan was with us, happy
as a schoolboy on a vacation. The horrors of Siberia, the hiding and
dodging and masquerading—old Alex with her humpback and gray hair, and
the many other disguises he had assumed on his escape from Siberia were
behind him. Before him was a free country, and a pair of blue eyes was
beckoning him across the water. Michel went with us to Havre. I had only
seen him three times since our first interview, and then some one was
always present. He seemed nearly as happy as Ivan. There was hope for
his eyes, and he was sure of me, he said, when we stood on the ship
together for a few minutes a little apart from the crowd and with our
backs to it.
“Don’t be too sure. I have not promised,” I said, while he laughed, and
when the call came for “All ashore who are going ashore,” he stooped and
kissed me, saying: “Beard or no beard, this once; yes, twice,” and I
felt his lips on both my cheeks.
“God bless you,” he said, and hurried away, while I watched him with a
sense of loneliness I could not repress.
He was one to lean upon and trust to the death, and I missed him so
much. Ivan was very kind, but he was young and full of his freedom and
Katy, of whom he talked very freely.
Except for his face and smile he did not seem like the Sophie I had
known. He was a man, with a man’s ways and voice and manners and talk,
and I could scarcely make him seem real. What would Katy think of him? I
had told him of the letters she wrote and which he never answered. There
was a great joy in his eyes as he exclaimed: “She did write, then? I am
so glad. I looked for it days and days, or mother did. It must have come
after mother died and I was on my way to St. Petersburg, skulking like a
dog in the daytime and moving on at night. I tell you I could write a
book of my adventures, and perhaps I shall.”
I had written to Katy of Alex’s transformation and telling her that Ivan
was in Paris, but not that he was coming with us. I wished to surprise
her. With Jack she came to meet us and looked wonderingly at the young
man helping Mrs. Whitney and myself off the ship and carrying our bags
and wraps. Evidently she did not know him, but Jack did, and with a
bound he was at Ivan’s side, exclaiming “_Sophie, Alex, Ivan!_ Which are
you now? The biggest joke I ever heard of! Auntie’s waiting maid! Hello,
Katy! Where are you? This is Ivan, his own self, in coat and trousers,
instead of dresses.”
This broke the ice, but Katy was rather stiff as she went forward to
meet him, and she remained so during our drive to the hotel and the
lunch we had there. But when she and Jack were ready to leave for their
train she gave him a smile which atoned for all her coldness, and said:
“Father will be glad to see you in Washington whenever you choose to
come.”
“Father! Thunder, Katy! Why don’t you say _we_ shall be glad? You know
we shall,” Jack exclaimed.
“_We_, then,” Katy answered, with a second smile which took Ivan with
them across the ferry to their train, and we did not see him again, as
before his return we had left for Ridgefield.