XIV THE SAMOVAR GIRL

IT was nine o’clock by his wrist-watch when Peter got out of bed that morning. From what he could see of the city through the frosted windows, it was a cold gray day, with the position of the sun above the ridge of hills marked by a yellow blotch through the scattering fog.

The room was cold and he dressed rapidly. He rang at once for a samovar, and began shaving. He had made up his mind to make definite efforts this day to trace Michael Kirsakoff, for he was now rested from his journey on the train. He thought of Rimsky. It might be wise to go in and see the graybeard again, and pick up once more the conversation and the gossip. In time Rimsky would be willing to talk more freely, Peter was sure.

The samovar girl was slower than usual in coming. Peter rang again—three times, and with as much insistence as he could put into the pressure of the button. He finished shaving, and had a mind to go out to the dreary dining room and see what could be done about getting some hot tea there. It was apparent that the stupid and slatternly girl who had been serving him could not be depended upon for prompt service—and he was beginning to suffer from the cold.

When he had decided that he should wait no longer, there came a knock at the door. He opened it—and stared! For instead of the peasant girl who had been serving him since his arrival at the hotel, there was a tall young woman with a beautiful face—a patrician face, the face of a woman of noble lineage! And he was startled, though he was too well trained in his business to reveal his amazement to her. Still, he paused for an instant, not sure that she had not mistaken the room and had not come in response to his ringing. He looked at her over the top of the big brass samovar which she bore on a tray before her, and her keenly intelligent blue eyes met his with a self-possessed and frank gaze. He half expected her to mutter some apology and go away. Instead, she stood gazing at him, waiting for him to make way for her, and the trace of a smile came into her eyes, as if she felt like saying to him, “Here is your samovar! How do you expect to get it if you stand all morning in the doorway?”

Peter bowed slightly, and said good-morning with an effort to be casual. In the second which he had stood stock still looking at her, a suspicion had crossed his mind—this well-born woman had not taken the place of his unkempt serving girl without good reason. It was quite possible, and quite in the Russian style, to send an attractive woman to serve him and spy upon him. Very well! He decided that he should play a little at that game himself.

“Good-morning, master,” Katerin replied modestly, and came through the door when Peter stepped aside to admit her. She smiled as a matter of duty, and went about her business of placing the samovar and the breakfast things on the table.

Peter went before the big mirror on the wall between the windows and pretended to be combing his hair. He wished to conceal from the new samovar girl his close observation of her, and he could watch her image in the mirror without appearing to pay any special attention to her.

Katerin wore her old black dress. Peter knew at once that it was not a cast-off garment such as might be given to a serving girl by a woman of the upper class—it was obviously her own garment, cut and made especially for her. Though the material was old, he knew it for fine stuff, probably imported. A real American might have been deceived into the belief that this woman was nothing but a servant; Peter, however, knew that such a delicate face, such fine features, such a carriage of a proud head were to be found only among the nobility of his native country. If she had been sent to watch him, he knew that whoever had sent her could not know that he was a native Russian—it was presumed that he was an American so unfamiliar with Russia as to be easily misled.

He smiled as he watched her. She handled the crude dishes as if they were of the most fragile china or of fine glass. She put down the heavy blue sugar-urn gently; she transferred the tea-glass, which was made from the bottom of a bottle, from the tray to the table with infinite care. She laid out the old brass spoon beside the heavy plate on the dingy cloth as if instead of being brass it were of the finest silver.

He noted her hands. The fingers were slender—and clean. The nails were polished. Her black hair, braided down her back and tied with a bit of velvet black ribbon, had a sheen which indicated the care which had been given to it. And the low collar of her gown revealed the fine texture of her skin.

Having arranged the dishes on the table, Katerin stood with her back to Peter, hands on hips and watching the teapot atop the samovar. This was all in startling contrast to the abrupt manner of the other girl, who had dumped the things down upon the table and departed. This new girl seemed suspiciously solicitous about the comfort of the American—and was possessed of plenty of time for lingering in the rooms of guests!

Peter walked to the table, and sat down with his back to the window. She remained standing before the samovar in thoughtful attitude, disregarding him. He saw that her face showed traces of strain—a pallor which was not natural to her skin and a gauntness about her eyes which gave her a sad and melancholy expression. Presently she picked up the blue sugar-urn as if to put it better within his reach.

“Ah!” said Peter, rubbing his hands and smiling up at her. “On cold mornings like this one the song of the samovar makes pretty music in our ears!”

It was an old saying of his father’s—and Peter spoke the Russian words with casual rapidity, for he wanted to see what she would think of him—an American who spoke Russian as only one born under the Czar could speak it.

The sugar-urn slipped from Katerin’s fingers and crashed down upon the metal tray, spilling the sugar. And he heard her give a startled gasp. A look of utter astonishment came into her face and she gave him a frightened stare. The Russian words had put her into a swift panic—she was more than astonished—she was actually alarmed at hearing her own language flow so freely from the lips of a man she supposed to be an American.

“Have I frightened you?” he asked, looking at her with feigned concern, and speaking gently. “Do you fear the sound of your own language?”

“You are Russian,” she said simply, but with the faintest trace of a question in the words.

“Oh, no, I am an American,” he replied easily. “True, I am of Russian blood.” He smiled at her, and she looked away from him swiftly, renewing her efforts to save the sugar which had been spilled from being wet in the bottom of the tray. He saw her fine white skin show a sudden flush of color that rose from her throat and mounted slowly to her cheeks, tinting the pale skin under her eyes. He thought now that she was more beautiful than he had at first realized.

“Is it because I am Russian that you show fear?” he went on.

She tossed her head a trifle, as if in defiance. “I do not fear you,” she said lightly, and gave him a shy smile.

“I would be sorry if you did.”

“It is very pleasant—that we may speak to each other and understand. I was surprised—yes. Now, there is your sugar, and I must go.”

“No, please!” he objected as she turned as if to go to the door. “Everybody is surprised to hear the American officer speak real Russian, but no one stops to talk with me—and I am hungry for talk—talk in Russian. I have only just come, and the other girl would say only, ‘Yes, master’ and ‘No, master,’ and run away frightened, just as you are about to do.”

“But I am not frightened,” she said, pretending to bother with the teapot on the top of the samovar.

“But just now, at hearing your own language, you dropped the sugar dish. Is it not true?”

Peter was joking her now in an effort to get on friendly terms with her. But she still appeared a bit distrait, as if she had not yet recovered from the shock of hearing a foreigner speaking the Czar’s Russian.

“Yes, I was startled,” admitted Katerin, and now smiled at him frankly, though she gave him a searching look—the silver bars on his shoulders, the buttons of his blouse, the circle of brown tape at the cuffs of his tunic. “And you would be surprised, American, if a samovar girl should speak to you in perfect English.”

“Probably I should,” said Peter. “As it was, you surprised me this morning—I was expecting the other girl to come.”

She said nothing to that. She realized now that it would be foolish to expect him to think of her as of the servant class, and had already given up all ideas of making a pretense.

And as for Peter, he was beginning to abandon his theory that she was a spy. There was probably some other reason for her being a servant. He was chiefly concerned now with making her a friend, for the thought crossed his mind that this girl might be able to give him information about Kirsakoff, though the subject of the former Governor would have to be approached with great caution.

“The other girl could not come this morning,” she said. “But I shall not always bring your samovar—my work is on the other floors.”

“I hope you will, though it is too bad that you have to work as a samovar girl.” This was direct angling for enlightenment as to why she was serving as a samovar girl—he wanted to give her a chance to set herself right with him. If she did happen to be a spy, it would make it easy for her to improvise a history for herself and so find it easy to talk with him and deflect his suspicions—if she thought he was suspicious of her true status. He knew it was quite possible that she was a refugee who had turned “worker” for protection against the wrath of the masses toward the wealthy.

“People once rich are now poor,” said Katerin, and looked at him significantly. She was hoping that he might take this hint, and by a closer scrutiny, recognize her as Kirsakoff’s daughter. In that case, he would make it known to her that he had come from friends to find her and her father. But, as a matter of fact, Peter had forgotten that Kirsakoff had a daughter—except for a little girl.

“And it is necessary now that you work?” he asked.

“It is most necessary. I must have food and shelter by some method.”

“You are working here—as a samovar girl—for food and shelter? Is it as bad as that with you?”

“Why not I as well as others?” she asked simply, with a shrug of her shoulders. “And others have fared worse. What better could I do while I wait—for friends—to send help to me—and my people?”

Once more she gave him that steady gaze which she thought would add meaning to her words, but though his face was serious, not a glimmer of understanding did she see in his eyes. She thought it strange that if he had been sent to rescue her father and herself he could not grasp the meaning behind her words and her glances. Surely, he would have been shown a picture of her, or have a description of her from friends which would cause him to recognize the daughter of Michael Kirsakoff easily. There were not so many young women of her age, education, and appearance in Chita, she knew.

She turned her eyes from his, and colored again, embarrassed by having looked so long and steadily into the eyes of a stranger. She drew him a glass full of hot water from the samovar for a fresh glass of tea and by this means covered her sense of having appeared too bold with a strange man.

“So you are waiting for help to come to you, eh?” asked Peter. He pitied her—yet he was still reserving his judgment about her. It was possible that her story was only to mislead him as to her real motive in bringing the samovar to his room.

Katerin smiled sadly. “Yes, I wait for a chance to get away from the city. We have sent letters to friends in Harbin and in Vladivostok—weeks ago, months ago. We are not sure that they got the letters, for we have had no answer. Yet we hope some one will come to help us. Perhaps—they will send some one to us,” she added with special significance and looked at him again with intent eyes.

Peter was puzzled now. He saw that she was trying to make him understand something without putting it into words—it might be that she was seeking to learn for some other person what his object was in coming to Chita. Or he had been mistaken for some other person who was expected.

“Why do you not go to Vladivostok yourself?” he asked, evading saying anything that bore upon what he was thinking. “The trains are running. Is it lack of money that prevents you from going?”

“No, not money,” she said, and then with a glance at the door, she lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Do you not know about the Ataman Zorogoff who is in this city?”

“Yes, I have heard of him. I hope to know more about him. The Americans want to help the people. Perhaps you will tell me about Zorogoff.”

Peter thought that was enough for him to say about Zorogoff. He did not care to commit himself on the subject of the Ataman—did not wish to betray any antagonism toward the Mongol ruler. The Ataman was a man to be wary about, and Peter had no intention of taking this girl into his confidence as to where he might stand in any matter which involved Zorogoff.

Katerin suddenly clenched her hands. “Do the Americans think they can help us if they remain in Vladivostok?” she demanded with passion. Then she lapsed back into her easy manner as suddenly as she had blurted out her feelings, and turned as if she would go.

“Please wait!” he commanded. “This is something that it would be well for me to know.” Then dropping his voice as she paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, he went on, “You mean that the people are oppressed by the Ataman Zorogoff?”

She returned and stood before the samovar, as if settling in her mind what her answer should be.

“I think I had better not talk about the Ataman,” she said finally. “He is not a safe subject for discussion by a poor and helpless samovar girl.”

“Tell me,” he urged, bending forward and speaking confidentially, “are you in danger from the Ataman?”

She gave him that quick look again, as if she were not quite sure that he could be trusted. “It is better for me not to talk of the Ataman—but I am a samovar girl here for my own safety—till some one comes for me—and my father.”

Once more he understood that he was to get some meaning from her words. He noticed that a sudden change had come over her—there was a softer look in her eyes, as if she had abandoned all thought of using any artifice with him and was on the verge of giving him her confidence. Her eyes seemed to burn with a kindlier light for him.

Peter was right about Katerin. She was at that time strongly tempted to tell him who she was. She watched him with a quivering expectancy, waiting for him to whisper to her that he was the man who had been sent by her friends to find her and Michael Kirsakoff. But when he said nothing and observed her without any sign that he had comprehended her meaning in words or looks, she felt a fear that perhaps she had gone too far in her attempts to enlighten him as to her identity.

“Do you live here—in Chita?” he asked. It was in his mind that this was a good time to test her as to whether she might have any knowledge of Kirsakoff. He realized that if she had her home in Chita, she was of the class who would know the former Governor.

Katerin’s lips moved as if to reply, but she did not speak. She had recovered her caution. She wanted to evade the answer, for once more she had built up a mental resistance against him and was beginning to be afraid. She realized that if she pretended to be a stranger in the city she would defeat his purpose if he had really come from friends, by misleading him. If she told him that she was a stranger in the city he would be thrown entirely off the track and never suspect that she was Katerin Stephanovna Kirsakoff.

“I have been in Chita long enough to know it well,” she said. “And I have been here long enough to be willing to go, too.”

“Then you have friends here,” he said. “You must know many of the people—the wealthy people, that is.”

“They are almost all gone—or dead. Most of them are in Vladivostok, or in hiding here. But we cannot get away now—it is impossible for us to leave by ourselves. We wait for our friends—to send us help.” That should be plain enough for him, she thought.

“How would they send help?” he asked. “You mean that they would send soldiers?”

“Perhaps they would send a man who would be able to take us away from the city—they might even send a—foreigner. A man Zorogoff would not dare to hinder from going with us.”

Peter now had full understanding of her searching looks, her broad hints about help, and her surprise at finding that he spoke perfect Russian though supposed to be an American. Also, he saw her reason for coming to him as a samovar girl—unless she was really a spy delving into his object for being in the city.

“I am sorry I have been so stupid,” he said. “You must think I am a fool—but I am not a messenger sent by your friends.”

Katerin was standing at the far end of the table from him, close by the door. He saw her turn pale, either with sudden fear of him, or great disappointment that she had revealed to him that she was expecting a messenger. She was calm enough, but he saw that his admission that he was not the expected messenger, chilled her with some unaccountable terror.

It was this that had terrified Katerin: This American now denied that he was seeking her father—but where had Ilya gotten the word that an American was hunting for Michael Kirsakoff? And this American was really a Russian! Could it be that instead of being a friend, or from friends, he was in reality an enemy? What could this man want with her father? she asked herself. He could not have come from friends, else he would have easily recognized her. And if he had asked Rimsky for the whereabouts of Michael Kirsakoff and was willing that the old cigarette-seller and Ilya Andreitch the pig-killing moujik should know that he was seeking Kirsakoff, why was he not willing that she should know of his quest? She saw that he was willing to ally himself with peasants but withheld the object of his coming to the city from aristocrats. She saw that she had failed in misleading him as to her class. He gave his secrets to peasants—thus he must be an enemy to her father and herself!

She laughed suddenly, as if all that had passed between them had been a joke. She must change her tactics and get his secret. She must not arouse his suspicions as to her identity now, but baffle him in every way, for if he were not a friend he must be a new menace to her and her father.

“Of course you are not the messenger,” she said, and returning to the samovar, took down the teapot, shook it swingingly and looked into it. Her face was flushed again under the excitement of what she had discovered about him. “Come! Have another glass of tea, please—master!” She gave a joking twist to the last word, and threw back her head and laughed gayly.

“But it is too bad if you have been expecting a messenger,” said Peter.

“Oh, it is nothing. Everybody in Siberia is waiting to hear from friends! You Americans! You are too serious about everything—what does it matter if you be not the man?”

But Peter was serious. He almost wished now that he had led her to believe that he was a messenger. For he was afraid that she would go away and he would see her no more. He wanted to see her again and again, and in time bring their conversation to the subject of the former governor and get from her some information as to where he might look for Kirsakoff.

“Is it true that you are in danger?” he asked. “That you must get away from the city?”

“We are all in danger here,” she retorted. “Trust no one—the city is full of spies, and you must be careful what you say—even what you say to me.”

“But I think I could trust you,” he said conciliatingly.

“Please don’t trust me. I would rather not have any secrets. The greatest danger in this city is in having a secret which some person wants. I prefer to know nothing and be safe.”

“Perhaps I could be of help to you,” said Peter, having an idea that by offering protection he could gain her confidence and learn from her where Kirsakoff might be found. “I am an American officer, and if I should employ you for my government no one would dare threaten your safety.”

“Perhaps you could help me,” she said thoughtfully. “But I know little about you—what part of Russia are you from?”

Peter hesitated. It would not do to tell her he had been a boy in Chita for that news would start gossip, and he would be under suspicion at once if Kirsakoff were killed. He drank some tea before he answered the question.

“Oh, I have not been in Russia for years—I left Kiev when I was a boy. Come! What is your name? We must be friends if we are going to go into these matters.”

“What is your name?” she countered.

“Call me Peter—that is my name.”

“Peter! That is no name for a Russian. What are your other names?”

“Peter Petrovitch.”

She laughed at him with a touch of saucy insouciance, and lifted her shoulders as if she put small faith in the name. “What is your generic name?”

“Gordon, but I hoped you might call me Peter Petrovitch—it has been many years since I heard it thus. You make me forget that I am an American, I, who am Russian.”

She turned toward the door. “I am afraid that I must go now,” she said.

He rose from his chair and moved after her. “But you have not given me your name.”

“Call me Vashka.”

“But that is no name for a Russian,” he insisted. “The generic name, please.”

“That will do for now—it is good enough for a samovar girl.” She moved toward the door, but lingeringly, as if she had other things she would say but refrained from saying them at this time.

“Ah, but I know you are not really a samovar girl,” he said seriously. “You are a lady, and I shall be happy to help you and serve you if it is in my power. Promise that you will come back to me.”

“Perhaps I shall come,” she replied, and smiled over her shoulder at him. She felt unable to cope with him at this time, knowing that Ilya had said he sought her father. She knew that before she talked with him further she must consider the matter and consult with the sagacious Slipitsky. “You are very kind,” she said, smiled again, and went through the door.

Peter bowed as she disappeared, looking back at him from the hall as if fearful that he would run after her and see where she went. But he closed the door, and stood smiling at himself in the big mirror—smiling over his thoughts of the amazing samovar girl he had found in Chita!