Chapter II The Return of Nicholas
Returning he proclaims by many a grace,
By shrugs and strange contortions of the face,
How such a dunce that has been sent to roam,
Excels the dunce that has been kept at home.
—Cowper: Progress of Error.
It was on the evening of November 17, 19—, that Nicholas returned. I recall the date distinctly because it was the opening night of the Philadelphia Opera House. I was standing against the wall in the red carpeted promenade, marvelling at the magnificent display of gowns and the wonderful beauty of the women, both of which were a revelation to me, native born though I am, when I saw Nick sauntering through the crowd.
Older, a trifle heavier and more matured, I thought, than when I last saw him, but in all else the same old Nicholas. He was attired in the perfection of evening dress, for perfection was usual with him, and, although I least expected to find him here, I knew I could not be mistaken. There was the same mass of dark waving hair, soft, sleepy brown eyes and smooth olive skin; the same well-built athletic figure—proud heritage of the American college man—the same generous full rounded mouth and even white teeth enhanced by contrast with the darkness of his skin.
Waiting long enough to assure myself that he was alone, I made my way through the crowd, none too gently I fear, trampling on many beautiful, slow-moving trains in my eagerness to reach him.
“Lassie!” I called.
“Rude person,” said the angry owner of a ruined dress; but I maintained my reputation for rudeness by ignoring the pouting beauty in my frantic effort to keep Nick in sight.
At the sound of the college name, which he had not heard for years, Nick turned and examined face after face within range of his vision until, over the undulating sea of the hair dresser’s art—and artifice—our smiling eyes met and he recognized me. So effusive was our meeting, and so genuine the display of affection, that we became the centre of an interested circle of bare-shouldered observers who, mayhap, imagined that we were fighting. And not without reason, for we were alternately shaking hands and punching each other forcibly, but affectionately, upon our white shirt bosoms. As the lights were dimmed for the next act our audience scattered as silently as possible to recover their places in boxes and pit.
“Are you alone?” asked Nick.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you will spend the remainder of the evening with me, now that I have found you.”
The blare of the orchestra drowned further talk until we emerged from the opera house, leaving the cigarette girl, Carmen, and her Spanish lovers to their fate.
A huge dark green automobile with some sort of a foreign monogram on the door, and a small Japanese boy enveloped in a great fur coat at the wheel, drew silently up at the curb. Nicholas pushed through the aisles of waiting carriages and the crowd of spectators that lined the street and sidewalk on that famous opening night.
“To the Bellevue?” I asked noting the direction.
“I would rather take you home. We can have more quiet in your back office, Dale. I want to hear you talk. The sound of your voice is the best music I have heard since I returned to old Philadelphia.”
“Have you seen mother?”
“Yes; I got in just after you had gone to the opera. She told me where to find you.”
When we arrived home the Jap boy put the car in a neighbouring garage and I got out my Scotch and seltzer in the back office. Nick fled upstairs and brought down a mandarin’s coat of many colours which he had picked up in Japan for me. It was indeed a beauty and I was proud of it as I strutted around viewing myself in the mirrors. Nick made himself comfortable in my old smoking jacket, and threw himself into a chair, his glance wandering about the room.
“Just to think of it,” he said; “all these years have gone by and everything here is unchanged. Not a piece of furniture, not an ornament has been moved. In the midst of it you sit, the very personification of immovability, working away, doing the same thing yesterday, to-day and for ever. While I have looked upon a new scene with every changing hour, have seen cities rise and fall, have watched men die by the hundreds. Doesn’t the wanderlust ever grip you, Dale; don’t you ever want to get out and see something of the world?”
“Some persons have to earn their living, you young gadabout,” I said, smiling; “and, after all, what have you accomplished with the fleeing years?”
“Humph,” said he, “nothing worth talking about. What have you done?”
“I have been practising my profession, distributing with a free hand my pills and physic to the residents of Philadelphia; I have written a medical book or two and I have extended the lives of a few men and women, bringing joy into the homes of their loved ones. That is more than you can say, perhaps.”
“True,” said Nick, “I have done nothing. Are you married, Dale?”
“No.”
“Going to be?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Nor I, either; but I never stayed long enough in one place. Why haven’t you?”
“Been too busy with my work to think about it, I suppose. Besides, there’s mother, you know. Nick, I wish you would write to me oftener; your letters were so few and far between that I sometimes felt you had forgotten me.”
For answer he put his hand into the pocket of the mandarin coat I was wearing and handed me a leather case. I opened it and recognized the meerschaum pipe I had given him as a graduation present. Pure white it was then, but now it was stained a beautiful reddish black, showing the years of comfort it had given him since that time. Nicholas never wasted words and I knew by this silent action in handing me the relic of our old, happy days, that he was telling me in his characteristic way how often he had thought of me. I was much pleased.
He took back the meerschaum, filled and lit before he replied.
“I know you have never forgiven me, Dale, for giving up the practice of medicine. I wish I could make you understand that it was not entirely my fault, and that there is no place for the medical profession in my country.”
“I never could understand that, Nick, for it always seemed to me that a young man could make his best start where he was known.”
“It is difficult to make you Americans understand that tout le monde, as the French say, is not American. In the first place there is no city, town or hamlet near my home place; and in the second the people—although I say it who love them well—are not progressive. They still live under the laws of the middle ages and the wonders of modern medicine would appear as witchcraft in their eyes.”
“Your country must be most peculiar,” I said. Such was the rapport between us that Nick took my reply as I meant it, a gentle suggestion that he tell me more about his mysterious native land. Deep down in my heart I always resented his secrecy in the matter, and could never understand his reason for keeping anything from one who loved him like a brother.
A frown gathered upon his brow as he studied the carpet.
“If you still want to make a mystery of yourself,” I said when he remained silent, “you need tell me nothing and I shall not be offended.”
“When I first came to you, old friend,” he said, “I kept my own counsel for various reasons. One was because I desired you, and all who knew me, to like me because I was just Nick Fremsted and not the descendant of an old and illustrious family. Another was because you Americans are inclined to smile at anything smaller than your own country and my Fatherland is not any larger than the state of Delaware.”
“Let it pass,” I replied, “and instead tell me what you have done since last we met.”
“All right,” said he. “Where shall I begin?”
“The last time you were here your father had died and you had arranged your estate and continued your travelling. You went to St. Petersburg on secret business for your government—the Turks were pressing you hard and you needed assistance from your guardian angel, the Bear of the North. After that you spent a month with me and then came the Russo-Japanese war. Tell me about that.”
He took up the account from the day he left Philadelphia and held me spellbound with the tale of his experiences and the dangers he had escaped until I felt that my own quiet existence was a mean little life after all. The entrance of Teju Okio, returned from the garage, led the story in his direction.
“I found the Jap boy in front of Port Arthur,” said Nick. “He was one of the little brown men who captured it. But, a month before they caused us to surrender, I captured him. It happened in this way. I was in command of one of the numerous defences which had to be taken before the city fell. The Japs, like little moles, burrowed in the ground, driving trenches toward us until they could win a position from which they could drive us out. We made frequent charges on their works, captured and put to death many of their soldiers pick and shovel in hand.
“One night, as I was accompanying an attacking party, the ground caved in beneath my feet and I fell on my back into a tunnel filled with Japanese within a hundred feet of the foundations of our redoubt. Before I could arise they recovered from their surprise and attacked me. I put up the best fight I could for my life but they were too numerous.
“The only light in the hole was a smoking oil torch which was soon kicked over, giving me the advantage of darkness. They were afraid to strike in the dark for fear of hitting friends, but I had no such compunctions. I fought my way to my feet, using both fists and feet, and escaped the crowd, leaving them fighting together.
“I knew that the open end of the tunnel must be opposite from the fort, so I went in that direction only to encounter more Japanese, running with lights to learn the cause of the disturbance. The top of the tunnel was so low that I had to stoop and there was no room to use my sword. I dashed the leader of the relief party back upon his comrades; three or four of them fell and the rest blocked up the passageway. Before I could fight my way through, the first party came up in the rear and I was knocked down by a blow on the head with a shovel.
“They tied me hand and foot and held a council of war. Most of them were naked to the waist, and, as they gathered around the torch, with the sweat running from them in streams, they looked like little demons to me. Most of them were for killing me at once and be done with it, and I suppose I should have died then and there with a pick in my brain if one of their number, little Lieutenant Teju Okio, the only officer among them, had not interceded for me. He stood over me with a revolver in each hand and ordered them back to work. And they went reluctantly.
“In the meanwhile the Russian attacking party went on without noticing my absence. As luck would have it, they stumbled upon the very ditch which communicated with the tunnel, found the opening and came through it, cautiously firing in front of them and feeling their way. Okio heard them coming and knew that his men were caught in their own trap. At his command the Japs attacked the side walls with their picks and shovels and blocked up the passage with soil. Then he retreated with his men, leaving me alone and bound beside the barrier. He had forgotten to gag me and, when my companions came to what they imagined was the end of the works, I shouted my orders to them to dig through. Willing hands fell upon that hastily constructed barrier and in five minutes I saw a Russian hand come through, followed by the face of one of my own lieutenants, who paused in surprise when he saw me lying on the ground with a torch burning beside me.
“‘Heaven help me, captain,’ he cried, ‘what does this mean?’
“‘Cut me loose. Hurry. They are in the far end of the tunnel. Get your men through and capture them.’
“Man after man crawled through the hole until we were in sufficient force to advance with assurance of success. I led the way at double quick, but, when we came to the end of the work, there was only one man there and that one was Teju Okio. He was squatting before his miner’s lamp calmly lighting a cigarette, his uniform and hands covered with mud, as if an army had walked over him, his little chest heaving like a victorious runner’s after a gruelling race, a smile of satisfaction upon his face. He knew it was not our habit to give or ask quarter, yet there the brave little fellow sat smiling into the eyes of death.
“But I had not forgotten what he had done for me and I repaid my debt of gratitude by interposing my body between his enemies, just as he, a short time before, had done for me.
“‘Leave this man to me,’ I cried; ‘get the rest. They are not far away.’
“But, search as we would, we could not find them. Neither was there another tunnel and the one we were in ended right there. I was mystified and turned to my prisoner for the explanation. He was furtively watching the ceiling above his head. Looking in that direction I saw the starry sky twinkling down through the hole in the roof of the tunnel which I had made in falling. The heroism of Teju Okio was apparent. Obeying his instructions, every one of his unarmed companions had mounted Okio’s shoulders and escaped through the opening, leaving him to face the fury of the Russians alone.
“But I saw to it that they did not harm him, making him my own personal prisoner. We retreated that night before the Japs finished their tunnel and blew up the fort and, when Port Arthur fell, Teju Okio got his freedom and I was taken with the rest of the survivors to Japan. Hostilities concluded, I resigned my commission and stayed in Japan to study the language. Teju Okio was only a poor farmer’s boy and he gladly came with me as my servant.
“I wrote you from the Philippines and California,” he concluded, “didn’t you get my letters?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, “every one of them.”
“Well, to bring it up to date, I arrived in New York last Saturday, a week ago to-day; I left there this morning and motored over here. So there, my friend, you have the record of my meagre years wherein you observe I have been seeking amusement all over the earth. Sometimes I found it and sometimes I was bored to death.”
“Going to stay long, Nick?”
“As far as I now know I shall remain with you for some time.”
My expressions of happiness were interrupted by the ringing of the front doorbell.
“Somebody requires a pill,” said Nick, as I answered it in person. “My, what a practice we have built up!”
But the visitor was not one of my patients. He was a man of about five and fifty with snow white hair which he wore rather long. His heavy moustache, also white, was tightly waxed and turned up at the ends after the manner of the German Emperor. His eyebrows, in contradistinction to his hair and moustache, were black. They were heavy and overhung a fine pair of alert, far-seeing black eyes, giving to his face a distinction which made it cling to the most casual memory. His skin, like that of Fremsted, was dark and showed the effect of an outdoor life. He seemed to be a bluff, hearty old gentleman with whom Nature had dealt kindly. On the whole there was something most pleasing about him.
“I wish to see Nicholas Fremsted,” he said.
I hesitated, wondering who he might be and how he knew of Nick’s presence in my house. It was then nearly two o’clock in the morning, an unseemly hour for a call whether of business or pleasure.
“Tell him General Palmora is here,” he continued, and the ring of command in his voice left me no alternative but to obey.
With some misgivings I ushered him into the reception room and called Nick, feeling somehow that Nick’s promised visit with me was at an end before it was begun.
The General was evidently an old friend of Nick’s, for when the two men saw each other they embraced, kissing each other on the cheek like foreigners and mingling their cries of delight. When their effusive greeting was over, Nick led the old man to a chair and they began a spirited conversation in a strange tongue, while I for the moment was forgotten.
I wandered about the room making a pretence of examining my own pictures and keeping my eye on the proceedings, but I could make little out of them. The General did most of the talking. He handed Nick an official looking document engrossed with a red seal from which was suspended blue and gold ribbons. Nick held it under the hanging lamp, and the black and the gray hair mingled as the two bent their heads together over it. The General frequently tapped the paper with his slender fingers and talked rapidly, combating every argument which Nicholas seemed to advance. Finally he produced from his overcoat pocket a chamois bag which he deposited upon the table. Judging from the jingle I concluded that it contained gold coins. The argument ended when the General won some sort of a promise from Nicholas. Then, having effected his purpose, he rose abruptly, bowed low over Nick’s hand and made his way to the door, which I opened for him. He bade me “good night” politely in English, and went down the steps.
When I returned to the reception room, Nick was deeply absorbed in re-reading the parchment with the red seal. His face wore a troubled look. As I went around to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder, he started like a man suddenly awakened from a deep sleep. The message before him was written in a foreign language with peculiar characters the like of which I had never seen. They might have been Russian or Hebrew. From the arrangement of the seal I imagined the screed was intended to be read from right to left.
“Can you make anything of it?” asked Nick, noting my glance.
“All Greek to me,” I replied; “Has it something to do with your country?”
“Yes. It is an official command to Grand Duke—that is, I should say it is a summons to Nicholas Fremsted “to be present at the Cathedral in Nischon on New Year’s Day, January 1, 19—, to bear witness and attest to the legality of the coronation of Prince Raoul as King of Bharbazonia,” said Nick, reading the scroll. “It is signed by Oloff Gregory, the present king, who is eighty-two years old, and desires to abdicate.”
At last the secret of Nick’s nationality was out, but I was not concerned with that so much as I was with the fear that I was to lose him so soon.
“Of course you are going?” I asked.
“Yes; I gave my word to the General.”
“I have never heard of this country of Bharbazonia; where is it, Nick?”
“No, of course not,” said he. “It is one of the many small provinces of southeastern Europe which is generally summed up and dismissed with the expression—one of the Balkan states. My country threw off the yoke of the Turks about the same time Bulgaria obtained her freedom at the Battle of Shipka Pass, thanks to Russian intervention and their great fighting chief Grand Duke Alexoff. During that struggle Bharbazonia sent her best fighting men and all her money to Bulgaria’s aid and many of the fiercest battles for the extermination of the red fez were waged in the mountains which surround the Fatherland. When the treaty was signed Bulgaria and Bharbazonia were free. Gregory was made king and the nobles, banished by the Turks, returned from exile in friendly Russia and resumed control of the land of their forefathers.”
“Was the General’s news the first you had of the proposed abdication?”
“No, I knew of it; but did not feel called upon to be present. He convinced me that it was my duty.”
“Who is General Palmora?”
“He is one of the first men of Bharbazonia, commander-in-chief of her army. Upon his shoulders fell the brunt of the fighting which resulted in our freedom. My father and he were like brothers; a friendship like ours existed between them, Dale, and, now that father is dead, Palmora loves me like a son. All my affairs are in his hands at home. He was visiting America on business of state. Bharbazonia’s interests are in charge of the Bulgarian consul in Philadelphia and, since I always leave my address with him, General Palmora experienced no difficulty in locating me.”
“When do you sail?”
“I must return with the General on the Koenig Albert from Hoboken next Tuesday.”
“Just one week from to-day?”
“Yes. We will be in Naples, if all goes well, a week from the following Tuesday. There the General’s yacht will meet us.”
“What a beautiful trip you will have,” I exclaimed, something of the wanderlust engendered by Nick’s story getting into my blood. “How I should like to go with you.”
“I wish you would, Dale. We could be back in a month or so, and you will see one of the prettiest little countries in the world. The coronation services, too, are well worth the journey. Come now, make up your mind and say you will go.”
The more I thought about it the more feasible it became. I had arranged to take a month in Florida, my first extended vacation in eight years, and it would not be a difficult matter to rearrange the trip and go with Nick.
And so it was agreed that he should book passage for me. Had I been able to look into the future and see what was to befall in the Kingdom of Bharbazonia, and that Nick would never come back with me, I might not have taken my decision so lightly, nor have looked forward to the trip with so much pleasure.
And here is where the story really begins.