Books: His Hour
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Elinor Glyn >> His Hour
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"Gritzko--oh, Gritzko! please--please don't!" she cried, almost
suffocated.
But she knew as she looked at him that he was beyond all hearing.
His splendid eyes blazed with the passion of a wild beast. She knew if
she resisted him he would kill her. Well, better death than this
hideous disgrace.
He held her from him for a second, and then lifted her in his arms.
But with the strength of terrified madness she grasped his wounded arm,
and in the second in which he made a sudden wince, she gave an eel-like
twist and slipped from his grasp, and as she did so she seized the
pistol in his belt and stood erect while she placed the muzzle to her
own white forehead.
"Touch me again, and I will shoot!" she gasped, and sank down on the
bench almost exhausted behind the rough wooden table.
He made a step forward, but she lifted the pistol again to her head
and leant her arm on the board to steady herself. And thus they glared
at one another, the hunter and the hunted.
"This is very clever of you, Madame," he said; "but do you think it
will avail you anything? You can sit like that all night, if you wish,
but before dawn I will take you."
Tamara did not answer.
Then he flung himself on the couch and lit a cigarette, and all that
was savage and cruel in him flamed from his eyes.
"My God! what do you think it has been like since the beginning?" he
said. "Your silly prudish fears and airs. And still I loved you--madly
loved you. And since the night when I kissed your sweet lips you have
made me go through hell--cold and provoking and disdainful, and last
night when you defied me, then I determined you should belong to me by
force; and now it is only a question of time. No power in heaven or
earth can save you--Ah! if you had been different, how happy we might
have been! But it is too late; the devil has won, and soon I will do
what I please."
Tamara never stirred, and the strain of keeping the pistol to her head
made her wrist ache.
For a long time there was silence, and the great heat caused a mist to
swim before her eyes, and an overpowering drowsiness--Oh, heaven!--if
unconsciousness should come upon her!
Then the daylight faded quite, and the Prince got up and lit a small
oil lamp and set it on the shelf. He opened the stove and let the glow
from the door flood through the room.
Then he sat down again.
A benumbing agony crept over Tamara; her brain grew confused in the
hot, airless room. It seemed as if everything swam round her. All she
saw clearly were Gritzko's eyes.
There was a deathly silence, but for an occasional moan of the wind in
the pine trees. The drift of snow without showed white as it gradually
blocked the window.
Were they buried here--under the snow? Ah! she must fight against this
horrible lethargy.
It was a strange picture. The rough hut room with its skins and
antlers; the fair, civilized woman, delicate and dainty in her soft
silk blouse, sitting there with the grim Cossack pistol at her
head--and opposite her, still as marble, the conquering savage man,
handsome and splendid in his picturesque uniform; and just the dull
glow of the stove and the one oil lamp, and outside the moaning wind
and the snow.
Presently Tamara's elbow slipped and the pistol jerked forward. In a
second the Prince had sprung into an alert position, but she
straightened herself, and put it back in its place, and he relaxed the
tension, and once more reclined on the couch.
And now there floated through Tamara's confused brain the thought that
perhaps it would be better to shoot in any case--shoot and have done
with it. But the instinct of her youth stopped her--suicide was a sin,
and while she did not reason, the habit of this belief kept its hold
upon her.
So an hour passed in silence, then the agonizing certainty came upon
her that there must be an end. Her arm had grown numb.
Strange lights seemed to flash before her eyes--Yes,--surely--that was
Gritzko coming toward her--!
She gave a gasping cry and tried to pull the trigger, but it was
stiff, her fingers had gone to sleep and refused to obey her. The
pistol dropped from her nerveless grasp.
So this was the end! He would win.
She gave one moan--and fell forward unconscious upon the table.
With a bound Gritzko leaped up, and seizing her in his arms carried her
into the middle of the room. Then he paused a moment to exult in his
triumph.
Her little head, with its soft brown hair from which the fur cap had
fallen, lay helpless on his breast. The pathetic white face, with its
childish curves and long eyelashes, resting on her cheek, made no
movement. The faint, sweet scent of a great bunch of violets crushed in
her belt came up to him.
And as he fiercely bent to kiss her white, unconscious lips, suddenly
he drew back and all the savage exultation went out of him.
He gazed at her for a moment, and then carried her tenderly to the
couch and laid her down. She never stirred. Was she dead? Oh, God!
In frightful anguish he put his ear to her heart; it did not seem to
beat.
In wild fear he tore open her blouse and wrenched apart her fine
underclothing, the better to listen. Yes, now through only the bare
soft skin he heard a faint sound. Ah! saints in heaven! she was not
dead.
Then he took off her boots and rubbed her cold little silk-stockinged
feet, and her cold damp hands, and presently as he watched, it seemed
as if some color came back to her cheeks, and at last she gave a sigh
and moved her head without opening her eyes--and then he saw that she
was not unconscious now, but sleeping.
Then the bounds of all his mad passion burst, and as he knelt beside
the couch, great tears suffused his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
"My Doushka! my love!" he whispered, brokenly. "Oh, God! and I would
have hurt you!"
He rose quickly, and going to the window opened the ventilator at the
top, picked up the pistol from the table and replaced it in his belt,
and then he knelt once more beside Tamara, and with deepest reverence
bent down and kissed her feet.
"Sleep, sleep, my sweet Princess," he said softly, and then crept
stealthily from the room.
CHAPTER XVIII
The light was gray when Tamara awoke, though the lamp still burned--
more than three parts of the window was darkened by snow--only a peep
of daylight flickered in at the top.
Where was she! What had happened? Something ghastly--but what?
Then she perceived her torn blouse, and with a terrible pang
remembrance came back to her.
She started up, and as she did so realized she was only in her
stockinged feet.
For a moment she staggered a little and then fell back on the couch.
The awful certainty--or so it seemed to her--of what had occurred came
upon her, Gritzko had won--she was utterly disgraced.
The whole training of her youth thundered at her. Of all sins, none had
been thought so great as this which had happened to her.
She was an outcast. She was no better than poor Mary Gibson whom Aunt
Clara had with harshness turned from her house.
She--a lady!--a proud English lady! She covered her face with her
hands. What had her anguish of mind been before, when compared with
this! She had suffered hurt to her pride the day after he had kissed
her, but now that seemed as nothing balanced with such hideous
disgrace.
She moaned and rocked herself to and fro. Wild thoughts came--where was
the pistol? She would end her life.
She looked everywhere, but it was gone.
Presently she crouched down in a corner like a cowed dog, too utterly
overcome with shame and despair to move.
And there she still was when Gritzko entered the room.
She looked up at him piteously, and with unconscious instinct tried to
pull together her torn blouse.
In a flash he saw what she thought, and one of those strange shades in
his character made him come to a resolve. Not until she should lie
willingly in his arms--herself given by love--should he tell her her
belief was false.
He advanced up the room with a grave quiet face. His expression was
inscrutable. She could read nothing from his look. Her sick imagination
told her he was thus serene because he had won, and she covered her
face with her hands, while her cheeks flamed, and she sobbed.
Her weeping hurt him--he nearly relented--but
as he came near she looked up.
No! Not in this mood would he win her! and his resolve held.
She did not make him any reproaches; she just sat there, a crumpled,
pitiful figure in a corner on the floor.
"The snowstorm is over," he said in a restrained voice; "we can get on
now. Some of my Moujiks got here this morning, and I have been able to
send word to the Princess that she should not be alarmed."
Then, as Tamara did not move, he put out his hand and helped her up.
She shuddered when he touched her, and her tears burst out afresh.
Where was all her pride gone--it lay trampled in the dust.
"You are tired and hungry, Madame," he said, "and here is a looking-glass
and a comb and brush," and he opened a door of the tall cupboard
which filled the corner opposite the stove, and took the things out for
her. "Perhaps you might like to arrange yourself while I bring you some
food."
"How can I face the others,--with this blouse!" she exclaimed
miserably, and then her cheeks crimsoned again, and she looked down.
He did not make any explanation of how it had got torn--the moment was
a wonderful one between them.
Over Tamara crept some strange emotion, and he walked to the door
quickly to prevent himself from clasping her in his arms, and kissing
away her fears.
When she was alone the cunning of all Eve's daughters filled her. Above
all things she must now use her ingenuity to efface these startling
proofs. She darted to the cupboard and searched among the things there,
and eventually found a rough housewife, and chose out a needle and
coarse thread. It was better than nothing, so she hurriedly drew off
the blouse, then she saw her torn underthings--and another convulsive
pang went through her--but she set to work. She knew that however she
might make even the blouse look to the casual eyes of her godmother,
she could never deceive her maid. Then the thought came that
fortunately Johnson was in Petersburg, and all these things could be
left behind at Moscow. Yes, no one need ever know.
With feverish haste she cobbled up the holes, glancing nervously every
few moments to the door in case Gritzko should come in. Then she put
the garment on again--refastened her brooch and brushed and recoiled
her hair. What she saw in the small looking-glass helped to restore her
nerve. Except that her eyes were red, and she was very pale, she was
tidy and properly clothed.
She sat down by the table and tried to think. These outside things
could still look right, but nothing could restore her untarnished
pride.
How could she ever take her blameless place in the world again.
Once more it hurt Gritzko terribly to see the woebegone, humbled,
hopeless look on her face as he came in and put some food on the table.
He cut up some tempting bits and put them on her plate, while he told
her she must eat--and she obeyed mechanically. Then he poured out a
tumbler of champagne and made her drink it down. It revived her, and
she said she was ready to start. But as she stood he noticed that all
her proud carriage of head was gone.
"My God! what should I feel like now?" he said to himself, "if it were
really true!"
He wrapped her in her furs with cold politeness, his manner had resumed
the stiffness of their yesterday's drive.
Suddenly she felt it was not possible there could be this frightful
secret between them. It must surely be all a dreadful dream.
She began to speak, and he waited gravely for what she would say; but
the words froze on her lips when she saw the pistol in his belt--that
brought back the reality. She shuddered convulsively and clenched her
hands. He put on his furs quietly and then opened the door.
He lifted her into the troika which was waiting outside. Stépan's face,
as he stood holding the reins, was as stolid as though nothing unusual
had occurred.
So they started.
"I told the messenger to tell Tantine that we were caught in the snow,"
he said, "and had to take shelter at the farm.--There is a farm a verst
to the right after one passes the forest. It contains a comfortable
farmer's wife and large family, and though you found it too
confoundedly warm in their kitchen you passed a possible night.
"Very well," said Tamara with grim meekness.
Then there was silence.
Her thoughts became a little confused with the intense cold and the
effect of the champagne, and once or twice she dozed off; and when he
saw this he drew her close to him and let her sleep with her head
against his arm, while he wrapped the furs round her so that she felt
no cold. Then he kept watch over her tenderly, fondest love in his
eyes. She would wake sometimes with a start and draw herself away, but
soon fell off again, and in this fashion, neither speaking, the hours
passed and they gradually drew near Moscow.
Then she woke completely with a shudder and sat up straight, and so
they came to the hotel and found the Princess and the others anxiously
waiting for them.
"What an unfortunate contretemps, Tamara, dear child," her godmother
said, "that wicked storm! We only just arrived safely, and poor Olga
and your friend fared no better than you! Imagine! they, too, had to
take shelter in that second village in a most horrible hovel, which
they shared with the cows. It has been too miserable for you all four I
am afraid."
But Gritzko was obliged to turn quickly away to hide the irrepressible
smile in his eyes--really, sometimes, fate seemed very kind.
So there was no scandal, only commiseration, and both Countess Olga and
Tamara were petted and spoilt--while, if there was a roguish note in
Valonne's sympathetic condolences, none of them appeared to notice it.
However, no petting seemed to revive Tamara.
"You have caught a thorough chill, I fear, dearest,"
the Princess said; and as they had missed their sleeping berths engaged
for the night before, and were unable to get accommodation on the train
again for the night, they were forced to remain in Moscow until the
next day, so the Princess insisted upon her godchild going immediately
to bed, while the rest of the party settled down to bridge.
"It is a jolly thing, a snowstorm!" Lord Courtray said to Gritzko.
"Isn't it? 'Pon my soul I have never enjoyed the smell of cows and hay
so much in my life!"
But upstairs in the stiff hotel bedroom Tamara sobbed herself to sleep.
CHAPTER XIX
The journey back to Petersburg passed in a numb, hopeless dream for
Tamara. She did her best to be natural and gay, but her white face,
pinched and drawn, caused her godmother to feel anxious about her.
Gritzko had bidden them goodbye at the train--he was going back to
Milasláv to arrange for his and Jack's bear-hunt--and would not be in
the capital for two more days. That would be the Tuesday, and Tamara
was to leave on Wednesday evening by the Nord Express.
He had kissed her hand with respectful reverence as he said farewell,
and the last she saw of him was standing there in his gray overcoat and
high fur collar, a light in his eyes as they peered from beneath his
Astrakhan cap.
The Princess sent for the doctor next day--they arrived late at night
at the Ardácheff house.
"Your friend has got a chill, and seems to have had a severe shock,"
he said when he came from Tamara's room. "Make her rest in bed today,
and then distract her with cheerful society."
And the Princess pondered as she sat in the blue salon alone. A
shock--what had happened? Could fear of the storm have caused a shock?
She felt very worried.
And poor Tamara lay limp in her bed; but every now and then she would
clench her hands in anguish as some fresh aspect of things struck her.
The most ghastly moment of all came when she remembered the eventual
fate of Mary Gibson.
What if she also should have--
"No! Oh, no!" she unconsciously screamed aloud; and her godmother,
coming into the room, was really alarmed.
From this moment onward the horror of this thought took root in her
brain, and she knew no peace. But her will and her breeding came to her
rescue. She would not lie there like an invalid; she would get up and
dress and go down to tea. She would chaff with the others who would all
swarm to see her. No one should pity or speculate about her. And she
made Johnson garb her in her loveliest teagown, and then she went to
the blue salon.
And amidst the laughter and fun they had talking of their adventure, no
one but Stephen Strong remarked the feverish unrest in her eyes, or the
bright, hectic flush in her cheeks.
When night came and she was alone again, her thoughts made a hell; she
could not sleep; she paced her room. If Gritzko should not return on
Tuesday. If she should never see him again. What--what would happen--
if--she--too--like poor Mary Gibson--
Next day--the Tuesday--at about eleven o'clock, a servant in the
Milaslávski livery arrived with a letter, a stiff-looking, large,
sealed letter. She had never seen Gritzko's writing before and she
looked at it critically as she tremblingly broke it open.
It was written from Milasláv the day they had left Moscow. It was short
and to the point, and her eyes dilated as she read.
It began thus:
"To Madame Loraine,
"Madame,--I write to ask you graciously to accord me the honor of your
hand. If you will grant me this favor I will endeavor to make you
happy.
"I have the honor, Madame, to remain,
"Your humble and devoted serviteur,
"Gregoir[Footnote 1: "Gritzko" is the diminutive of "Gregoir."]
Milaslávski."
And as once before in her life Tamara's knees gave way under her, and
she sat down hurriedly on the bed--all power of thought had left her.
"The messenger waits, ma'am," her maid said, stolidly, from the door.
Then she pulled herself together and went to the writing-table. Her
hand trembled, but she steadied it, and wrote her answer.
"To Prince Milaslávski,--
"Monsieur,--I have no choice. I consent
"Yours truly,
"Tamara Loraine."
And she folded it, and placing it in the envelope, she sealed it with
her own little monogram seal, in tender blue wax, and handed it to her
maid, who left the room.
Then she stared in front of her--her arms crossed on the table--but
she could not have analyzed the emotions which were flooding her being.
Her godmother found her there still as an image when presently she came
to ask after her health.
"Tamara! dearest child. You worry me dreadfully. Confide in me, little
one. Tell me what has happened?" and she placed her kind arms around
her goddaughter's shoulders and caressed and comforted her.
Tamara shivered, and then stood up. "I am going to marry Gritzko,
Marraine," she said. "I have just sent him my answer."
And the Princess had too much tact to do more than embrace her, and
express her joy, and give her her blessing. All as if the news
contained no flaw, and had come in the most delightful manner.
Then she left her alone in her room.
Yes, this was the only thing to be done, and the sooner the ceremony
should be over the better. Lent would come on in a few short weeks;
that would be the excuse to hasten matters, and this idea was all
Tamara was conscious of as she finished dressing.
At twelve o'clock, with formal ceremony, Prince Milaslávski sent to
ask if the Princess Ardácheff could receive him--and soon after he was
shown up into the first salon, where the hostess awaited him.
He was dressed in his blue and scarlet uniform, and was groomed with
even extra care, she noticed, as he advanced with none of his habitual
easy familiarity to greet her.
"I come to ask your consent to my marriage with your goddaughter,
Tantine," he said, with grave courtesy, as he kissed her hand. "She has
graciously promised to become my wife, and I have only to secure your
consent to complete my felicity."
"Gritzko! my dear boy!" was all the Princess could murmur. "If--if--you
are sure it is for the happiness of you both nothing of course could
give me greater joy; but--"
"It will be for our happiness," he answered, letting the hinted doubt
pass.
Then his ceremonious manner melted a little, and he again kissed his
old friend's hand. "Dear Tantine, have no fears. I promise you it shall
be for our happiness."
The Princess was deeply moved. She knew there must be something
underneath all this, but she was accustomed to believe Gritzko blindly,
and she felt that if he gave his word, things must be right. She would
ask no questions.
"Will you go and fetch my fiancée like the darling you are," he said
presently, "I want you to give her to me."
And the Princess, quite overcome with emotion, left the room.
It was not like a triumphant prospective Princess and bride that Tamara
followed her godmother, when they returned together. She looked a
slender drooping girl, in a clinging dove-colored gown, and she hardly
raised her eyes from the carpet. Her trembling hand was cold as death
when the Princess took it and placed it in Gritzko's, and as they stood
receiving her blessing she kissed them both, and then hurriedly made
her exit.
When they were alone Tamara remained limp and still, her eyes fixed on
the ground. It was he who broke the silence--as he took her left hand,
and touched it with his lips.
He drew from her finger her wedding ring and carelessly put it on a
table--while he still held her hand--then he placed his gift in the
wedding ring's place, a glittering thing of an immense diamond and
ruby.
Tamara shivered. She looked down at her hand, it seemed as if all safe
and solid things were slipping from her with the removal of that plain
gold band. She made no remark as to the beauty of the token of her
engagement, she did not thank him, she remained inert and nerveless.
"I thank you, Madame, for your consent," he said stiffly, "I will try
to make you not regret it." He used no word of love, nor did he attempt
any caresses, although if she had looked up she would have seen the
passionate tenderness brimming in his eyes, which he could not conceal.
But she did not raise her head, and it all seemed to her part of the
same thing--he knew he had sinned against her, and was making the only
reparation a gentleman could offer.
And even now with her hand in his, and the knowledge that soon she
would be his Princess, there was no triumph or joy, only the sick sense
of humiliation she felt. Passion, and its result--necessity--not love,
had brought about this situation.
So she stood there in silence. It required the whole force of Gritzko's
will to prevent him from folding her shrinking pitiful figure in his
strong arms, and raining down kisses and love words upon her. But the
stubborn twist in his nature retained its hold. No, that glorious
moment should come with a blaze of sunlight when all was won, when he
had made her love him in spite of everything.
Meanwhile nothing but reserved homage, and a settling of details.
"You will let the marriage take place before Lent, won't you?" he said,
dropping her hand.
And Tamara answered dully.
"I will marry you as soon as you wish," and she turned and sat down.
He leant on the mantlepiece and looked at her. He understood perfectly
the reason which made her consent to any date--and he smiled with some
strange powerful emotion--and yet his eye had a whimsical gleam.
"You are afraid that something can happen--isn't it?" he said. "Well,
I shall be most pleased when that day comes."
But poor Tamara could not bear this--the crystalizing of her fears!
With a stifled cry, she buried her face in the cushions. He did not
attempt to comfort her--though he could hardly control his longing to
do so. Instead of which he said gravely, "I suppose you must
communicate with your family? They will come here perhaps for the
wedding? You have not to ask any one's consent by the laws of your
country, have you?--being a widow."
Tamara with a shamed crimson face half raised her head.
"I am free to do as I choose," she said, and she looked down in crushed
wretchedness. "Yes, I suppose they will come to the wedding."
"Lent is such an excellent excuse," he went on. "And all this society
is accustomed to my doing as I please, so there will be no great wonder
over the haste--only I am sorry if it inconveniences you--such hurried
preparation."
"How long is it before Lent?" Tamara asked without interest.
"Just under a month--almost four weeks--shall the wedding take place in
about a fortnight? Then we can go south to the sun to spend our
honeymoon."
"Just as you will;" Tamara agreed in a deadly resigned voice. "I am
always confused with the dates--the difference between the English and
Russian--will you write down what it will be that I may send it to my
father?"
He picked up a calendar which lay upon the table, and made the
calculations, then he jotted it all down on a card and handed it to
her.
She took it and never looking at him rose and made a step toward the
door, and as she passed the table where he had put her wedding ring she
surreptitiously secured it.
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