by Edith Nesbit
‘Does no one else know of it at all?’
‘Only two men in St Petersburg, and one in London.’
‘And he is?’
‘Hirsch, whom you’ve seen, I think.’
‘Why the devil didn’t he tell every one then?’
‘Because I asked him not to, and he considers himself under some sort of obligation to me.’
‘Like everyone else you come across. But how came he to know it?’
‘ — He had to be told when I came here. There was certain work I had to do; I can tell you about it another time, and he was the only man who could put me in the way of it. Now Count Litvinoff, the tea is ready.’
The other stopped in his walk.
‘Curse it!’ he said passionately. ‘Call me a villain or a forger, or any other pretty name you like; I can stand that, but not your lips calling me by your name. It’s a cruel revenge.’
‘Ah, we owe too much to our enemies for there to be any thought of revenge between friends, and I must teach myself to call you that. Besides, what is there to revenge? You have only used the name I did not need.’
‘No, I forged your name as well as stole it. You don’t know all.’
‘Yes, I do, or pretty nearly all. As far as your taking my name goes, that has done no harm; rather good; and as for the money, that would have gone to you. You know, if I had had the giving of it, it would have gone to you. And I know you would never have touched it if you had not thought I was dead.’
‘ — I wish I had never left you, though I did think it, and at the mercy of those curs. If only I had died by you!”
‘You know well enough our rule is that none should be sacrificed without reason. Why should you have given those hounds two lives instead of one?’
‘I wish I had died that night under the orange trees at Monte Carlo. You did yourself a bad turn when you saved my life. I have done no good with it. I have only weighted myself with unpardonable sins.’
‘As far as I am concerned,’ Petrovitch said, ‘if there is anything to forgive, it is freely forgiven — freely and fully; and now let us shake hands after your English fashion, and of forgiveness let us talk no more. We are friends, and between such it is no question of pardon. And there are many other things we must speak of.’
He held his hand out, and the younger man grasped it. There was a moment’s pause. Then, —
‘Let me give you some fresh tea — that is cold,’ said Petrovitch cheerfully, pouring out another cup; ‘don’t you want to hear what happened to me after I was killed?’
‘I can hardly realise yet that you are not killed.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you about it. The officer of that troop added medicine to his other accomplishments, besides which he was a distant relation of my mother’s, and he insisted on seeing whether I could not be conjured back to life. I believe I gave them a good deal of trouble, but I seem to be a diehard. My capture was kept very quiet, thanks to my family name, for the Government didn’t care about having it known that the head of the Litvinoffs had tried to atone for the crimes of his family by taking the side of the people. My wound was a bad one, and even now troubles me sometimes. I used sometimes almost to wish it had settled me. ‘Fancy being in prison, and a Russian prison, with a wound like that.’
‘ — But how did you get away?’
For answer Petrovitch told him the story of his escape as he had told it to Hirsch and to his other friends, intentionally making the recital a long one, so that his companion might have time to get used to the new situation before they began to talk of the future.
‘And now,’ he said, when he had ended, ‘tell me how it fared with the Secretary.’
‘ — I hate to think of it,’ said the man who had borne the Litvinoff name for three years, and who, it seemed, was to bear it a little while longer. ‘Whenever I think of that night, I see nothing but your face — dead, as I thought — turned up from the snow in the hateful dawn. Oh, my friend!’ his voice faltered, and he held his hand out to Petrovitch again. After a pause, he resumed, ‘ I tried all I knew to revive you, but you were as cold as ice, and your heart did not beat. I stayed by you a long, long time. It did not occur to me to leave you, but at last, in a flash, I realised that you were gone — that I was there in the snow alone. And then I thought of escape. I said good-bye to your body. I felt as if your self was far away somewhere, and then I sprang up and dashed off in the direction we had been taking. It was broad daylight then, but I saw nothing of the soldiers, though I knew afterwards they must have found you, because when we sent, your body was gone. I must have kept pretty straight, for I came to a house at last, and I went straight up to it. I thought it must be Teliaboff’s, and if it wasn’t I felt I didn’t much care. I went right in, asked for the master of the house, and when he came to me I told him all. It was Teliaboff. He was very good to me, and kept me there nearly a fortnight. We could hear nothing of you — nothing at all. By the way, it was he who first, unconsciously, gave me the idea of personating you, for when I entered his house on that horrible morning he greeted me by your name. I undeceived him at once, but the idea took root and bore fruit later. He was kindness itself, and his little daughter — she was only twelve, I think — took a fancy to me. I believe that child’s companionship saved me from going mad.
‘Then he got me a passport, and gave me money enough to get to Vienna. When I got there I was penniless, and I knew you had had money there. I did not feel somehow that I was robbing you when I forged your name — Heaven knows that was easily done, I knew your signature so well — and went on to Paris with your money as Count Michael Litvinoff. When I took your money I meant honestly to spend it all in the cause you had worked for, and for a time I did. But — I don’t know how to explain it — I suppose the Revolution had not really taken hold of me. It was you I had cared for, and your creed I had held, not for itself, but because it was yours. And when your personal influence was not near me I grew careless and idle, and worked for Liberty only by fits and starts. It used to seem too much trouble to do things for the cause. It had been your approval I cared for, I think. You are so strong, I can’t expect you to understand the imbecilities of such a weak fool as I am. From the moment when I ceased to spend all my time and all your money on your work, I seemed utterly degraded in my own eyes, and it did not seem to matter what I did, so I have gone on from bad to worse, and the principles you would die for, have only been will-o’-the-wisp lights to lead me into direr troubles than I should ever have known without them. I have not kept Michael Litvinoff’s name clean. And the evil I have done is nothing to what I have tried to do. I sent Teliaboff his money back, but I have never heard from him. Have you? Do you know whether he is all right?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Petrovitch asked gravely.
‘Heard? No! What? Anything wrong?’
‘Hanged,’ was the brief reply.
‘ — Hanged!’
‘Yes, and his little daughter — she was fourteen, then, I think — was hanged with him.’
‘For — for helping me?’ gasped Litvinoff.
‘No, for having “The Prophetic Vision” in her room.’
‘My God!’ cried Litvinoff, springing up. ‘How long will men bear it? Let us go back this very day, and kill and kill and kill these fiends as long as we have an arm to strike or a finger to pull a trigger.’
‘We are going back,’ Petrovitch said quietly. ‘As for that deed, it is avenged. The man who was responsible for that murder got his sentence of death and his notice of it two days later. He lived through three months of terror, and then shot himself, to escape execution at the hands of some of us. Don’t talk more of him.’
The two men sat silent for a little while, but Litvinoff’s eyes still blazed with excitement. Petrovitch smoked quietly.
‘How was it,’ Litvinoff asked presently, turning from the other subject with evident effort, ‘that you did not let me know directly you came over?’
‘I did not see any good
to be gained by it,’ answered Petrovitch, who did not choose to tell his friend that he had waited to see with what grace the Prophet’s Mantle was worn. ‘I heard you speak at the Agora. I read your writings. You seemed to be doing good. Besides, it made concealment of my purposes more easy not to be known as Litvinoff.’
‘Then what made you decide to tell me now?’ was the very natural question.
Petrovitch hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he said, —
‘Frankly, because I thought you were meditating an action that would afterwards cause you more regret than anything else you have done, and I wished to prevent it.’
‘And that action was?’
‘Taking another wife while your first wife still lived and still loved you.’
Petrovitch spoke slowly and distinctly.
Litvinoff leaned forward in his chair and looked at him amazedly.
‘ — By Heaven!’ he said, leaning back with a sort of sigh, ‘you seem to know everything.’
‘I have made it my business to know.’
‘Not quite everything in this case, though,’ Litvinoff added, correcting himself, ‘for I have no wife.’
Petrovitch’s eyes flashed angrily.
‘I was not speaking in the phrase of your London society. I did not suppose that you were going to commit an illegal act. I merely imagined that you had intended to commit a crime. I am not mistaken in supposing that you always led the woman in question to believe that you looked upon her as your wife?’
‘You are not mistaken — you are right. I did contemplate a crime,’ he said, walking over to the bookcase, and standing so that his face was not to be seen. ‘I have no defence to offer; but at the time I first contemplated it I deceived myself with the idea that I had. But my wife left me. I did not leave her. I never could have left her; and if she had not left me that vile idea of marrying another woman would never have entered my head. However, that’s all at an end now, I’m thankful to say, and I mean to find my wife’ — there was no hesitation in his voice this time—’and legalise her position with bell, book, and candle, and any other rites that may seem to her desirable.’
‘Regardless of principles?’ said Petrovich, with the faintest possible sneer.
‘Damn principles!’ Litvinoff cried, turning round, stung by the tone. ‘I would have sacrificed them for a woman I merely admired, and they sha’n’t stand between me and the woman I love.’
‘ — How do you propose to find her?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea. Do you know where she is?’ he added sharply.
‘ — Do you remember giving £10 to a man named Hirsch in the autumn?’ was the counter-question.
‘I do?’ with an inquiring look.
‘That was for your wife!’
Litvinoff drew a long breath. ‘Go on!’ he said, simply.
Then Petrovitch told him all that he knew of Alice, and Litvinoff listened intently. When Petrovitch spoke of the night on Blackfriars’ Bridge, he leaned forward breathing heavily, then rose suddenly, and, crossing to a couch, flung himself, face downwards, on it. Petrovitch paused.
‘Go on! Go on! Go on!’ said an impatient, stifled voice from the couch.
So Petrovitch resumed.
When the tale was told, Litvinoff rose. He was very pale, his lips trembled a little, and his dark eyes were shining and wet.
‘When can I see you to-morrow? I am going to Chislehurst now. I don’t thank you; it would be absurd. Thanks are idiotic under some circumstances. You saved my life — which I didn’t care about — and now it seems you’ve saved what I do care for, as much as such a scamp as I can care for anything. But you don’t need my words. I believe you understand me — if any one does.’
Petrovitch rose and laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘Do not go to-night,’ he said. ‘She is not strong yet, and you are too excited to meet her calmly. Wait till to-morrow. You may trust her safely where she is for another night. Besides, there is very, very much to be said between us — both of the past and future.’
‘Well, you have a right to command me,’ Litvinoff answered, frowning and a little stiffly, and then was silent a moment. Then he said suddenly, flinging himself into his chair with the frown quite gone, ‘You’re right — you always are, and there is much to be said. I wish to God there could be some way of wiping out the past, or rather of atoning for it. Do you know, it seems to me that I shall have a chance of seeing my way to doing something worth doing now you have come back. I could almost swear at this moment that I believed as heartily as ever in liberty, humanity, progress, and all the other things you taught me to swear by, but in my soul I know it is you I believe in — always have believed in I’ve never believed in anything but you for more than three months at a time. Peculiar, isn’t it?’
‘You haven’t altered in the least,’ said Petrovitch smiling.
‘ — You were never sure of your beliefs except when you were fighting for them. You should be back in Russia. Persecution is a splendid antidote to religious doubt. Men like you ought not to live in England. There is too much freedom in the air and it doesn’t agree with you. You get to think there is nothing worth fighting for here. There is, though, and some Englishmen are beginning to find it out’
‘You are going back to Russia?’ Litvinoff said, interrogatively.
‘Yes.’
‘Let me come with you,’ he cried, impulsively. ‘Give your Secretary another chance.’
‘Ah, my days of quiet writing are over now’. The battle grows hot. I don’t want a Secretary, I want a comrade in arms. Will you go to Servia for me?’
‘ — I’ll go to hell, if you like,’ was the direct reply.
‘The two will soon be synonymous, if all I hear is correct. But what about your wife?’
‘It used to be one of your principles,’ Litvinoff said, using the word, as it were, reluctantly, ‘that if a man believes in anything enough to place himself in danger for it, he should not hesitate to risk all he holds precious for the same end; and my wife is not a coward, she would go -with me.’
‘Poor little woman,’ said Petrovitch; ‘but that was and is one of my principles. If you go to Servia under my name I shall have a far better chance of getting back to St Petersburg under someone else’s. And the risk to your wife is of the slightest, for it is a peaceful errand I will send you on.’
‘I hate peaceful errands.’
‘I dare say there’ll be a little excitement thrown in — but don’t rush into danger. There is no need there, and it can do no good. I know hard fighting is the easiest; but our business is to do the thing which has to be done, be it peace or be it war.’
‘Ah!’ said Litvinoff, with enthusiasm; ‘to act up to that ideal is easy enough for men like you, but you must remember that such men as you are as far above the rest of us as the Christian martyrs are above the average church-goer. You are the Saints of the New Religion.’
‘Don’t you think we’d better go and have some dinner?’ said Petrovitch, drily.
CHAPTER XXXI. ‘MY LITTLE GIRL.’
THE suggestion was a good one, and the dinner to which the two sat down had a steadying effect on the nerves of the younger man. He became calmer, and when they returned to his rooms he was able to bear his part in a long, earnest, quiet talk over events past and to come.
The talk lasted far into the night, and before they parted it was settled that Litvinoff should leave for Servia in two days, taking with him certain important papers from Petrovitch to another of the Nihilist leaders. That he should there wait instructions, and should enter Russia by the southern frontier, and rejoin the circle at St Petersburg, leaving his assumed name at Belgrade. That the following imaginative announcement should be inserted in as many English papers as possible for the special edification of the Russian Embassy.
‘Count Michael Litvinoff left London for Dover this morning, en route for Belgrade. He was accompanied by Countess Litvinoff, an English lady to whom he was secre
tly married some time ago. Count Litvinoff, so well known to many of our readers through his “Social Enigma,” his “Hopes and Fears for Liberty,” and his many revolutionary brochures, has never been a familiar figure in London society, his literary labours having compelled him to live in strict retirement. It will be remembered that he was the hero of an adventure on the Russian frontier some years ago, was wounded, captured, and sent to a Russian prison, from which he escaped to England.’ It was also settled that the money for the journey should be taken from the remainder of the Litvinoff capital.
When Litvinoff began to speak of the money he had spent and the debts he had incurred, Petrovitch stopped him with,—’I’ll see to your debts — and what is gone is gone. Don’t let us waste words over that.’
It was arranged that Petrovitch should seek out John Hatfield and his wife, and should let them know that their daughter was happily married. They judged it best not to subject Alice to an interview which could not but involve most painful explanations, and they agreed that it would be cruel both to her and to her parents to let them meet, merely to part again at once. Of Clare Stanley neither of them spoke one word.
A new day was some way into its small hours when they said good-bye.
We meet in St Petersburg, then, as soon as may be,’ Petrovitch said. ‘I shall not see you again till then.’
‘I hope by that time I shall have done something to prove to you that you have indeed brought me back to the ranks of duty and the Revolution.’
‘I don’t need proof,’ said the other with one last hand-pressure. And so they parted.
Next morning early, Litvinoff went down into the City, where he paid a disproportionate sum of money for a paper which empowered him to marry his wife at once, instead of waiting three weeks for that privilege. Then he went down to Chislehurst. The sky was clear and pale and blue, and the sun shone divinely. The trees that had been brown seemed at a little distance to be wrapped in a grey gauze veil, as they always do when the green buds first break out to new life.