Books: His Hour
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Elinor Glyn >> His Hour
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"I suppose you are staying for lunch?" she said in the same monotonous
voice. "Can I go now?--do you want to say any more?"
"Tamara!" he exclaimed, with entreaty in his tone, and then with quick
repression he bowed gravely and once more touched her hand with his
lips--ere he held open the door for her.
"I will be here when you return--I will await your pleasure."
So she left the room quietly. And when she was gone he walked wildly up
and down for a moment--then he bent and passionately kissed the cushion
she had leant on.
Tamara would learn what his love meant--when the day should come.
CHAPTER XX
The lunch passed off with quiet reserve--there was no one present but
Stephen Strong. Tamara endeavored to behave naturally and answered
Gritzko whenever he spoke to her. He, too, played his part, but the
tone of things did not impose upon Stephen Strong.
As they were leaving the diningroom, on the plea of finding something,
Tamara went to her room, and Gritzko took his leave.
"I will fetch you for the French plays tonight, Tantine," he said, "and
probably will come back to tea--tell Tamara," and so he left, and the
two old friends were alone.
They stirred their coffee and then lit cigarettes--there was an awkward
silence for a moment, and then the Princess said:
"Stephen, I count upon you to help us all over this. I do not, and will
not, even guess what has happened, but of course something has. Only
tell me, do you think he loves her? I cannot bear the idea of Tamara's
being unhappy."
The old Englishman puffed rings of smoke.
"If she is prepared never to cross his will, but let him be absolute
master of her body and soul, while he makes continuous love to her, I
should think she will be the happiest woman in the world. She is madly
infatuated with him. She has been ever since we came from Egypt--I saw
the beginning on the boat--and I warned you, as you know, when I
thought he was only fooling."
"In Egypt!--they had met before then!" the Princess exclaimed,
surprised; "how like Gritzko to pretend he did not know her,--and be
introduced all over again! They had already quarreled, I suppose, and
that accounts for the cat and dog like tone there has always been
between them."
"Probably," said Stephen Strong; but now I think we can leave it to
chance. You may be certain that to marry her is what he wishes most to
do,--or he would not have asked her."
"Not even if--he thought he ought to?"
"No--dear friend. No! I believe I know Gritzko even better than you do.
If there was a sense of obligation, and no desire in the case, he
would simply shoot her and himself, rather than submit to a fate
against his inclination. You may rest in peace about that. Whatever
strain there is between them, it is not of that sort. I believe he
adores her in his odd sort of way, just let them alone now and all will
be well."
And greatly comforted the Princess was able to go out calling.
The news was received with every sort of emotion,--surprise, chagrin,
joy, excitement, speculation, and there were even those among them who
averred they had predicted this marriage all along.
"Fortunately we like her," Countess Olga said. "She is a good sort, and
perhaps she will keep Gritzko quiet, and he may be faithful to her."
But this idea was laughed to scorn, until Valonne joined in with his
understanding smile.
"I will make you a bet," he said; "in five years' time they will still
be love-birds. She will be the only one among this party who won't have
been divorced and have moved on to another husband."
"You horribly spiteful cat!" Princess Sonia laughed. "But I am sure we
all hope they will be happy."
Meanwhile Jack Courtray had come in at once to see Tamara.
"Well, upon my word! fancy you marrying a foreigner, old girl!" he
said; "but you have got just about the best chap I have ever met, and I
believe you'll be jolly happy."
And Tamara bent down so that he should not see the tears which gathered
in her eyes, while she answered softly, "Thank you very much, Jack; but
no one is ever sure of being happy."
And even though Lord Courtray's perceptions were rather thick he
wondered at her speech--it upset him.
"Look here, Tamara," he said, "don't you do it then if it is a chancy
sort of thing. Don't go and tie yourself up if you aren't sure you love
him."
Love him!--good God!--
Pent-up feeling overcame Tamara. She answered in a voice her old
playmate had never dreamed she possessed--so concentrated and full of
passion. In their English lives they were so accustomed to controlling
every feeling into a level commonplace that if they had had time to
think, both would have considered this outburst melodramatic.
"Jack," Tamara said, "you don't know what love is. I tell you I know
now--I love Gritzko so that I would rather be unhappy with him than
happy with any one else on earth. And if they ask you at home, say I
would not care if he were a Greek, or a Turk, or an African nigger, I
would follow him to perdition.--There!"--and she suddenly burst into
tears and buried her face in her hands.
Yes, it was true. In spite of shame and disgrace, and fear, she loved
him--passionately loved him.
Of course Jack, who was the kindest-hearted creature, at once put his
arm around her and took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes, while
he said soothingly:
"I say, my child--there! there!--this will never do," and he continued
to pet and try to comfort her, but all she could reply was to ask him
to go, and to promise her not to say anything about her outburst of
tears to any one.
And, horribly distressed, Jack did what she wished, running against
Gritzko in the passage as he went out; but they had met before that
day, so he did not stop, but, nodding in his friendly way, passed down
the stairs.
Tamara sat where he had left her, the tears still trickling over her
cheeks, while she stared into the fire. The vision she saw there of her
future did not console her.
To be married to a man whom she knew she would daily grow to love
more--every moment of her time conscious that the tie was one of
sufferance, her pride and self respect in the dust--it was a miserable
picture.
Gritzko came in so quietly through the anteroom that, lost in her
troubled thoughts, she did not hear him until he was quite close. She
gave a little startled exclamation and then looked at him defiantly--
she was angry that he saw her tears.
His face went white and his voice grew hoarse with overmastering
emotion.
"What has happened between you and your friend, Madame? Tell me the
truth. No man should see you cry! Tell me everything, or I will kill
him."
And he stood there his eyes blazing.
Then Tamara rose and drew herself to her full height, while a flash of
her vanished pride returned to her mien, and with great haughtiness she
answered in a cold voice:
"I beg you to understand one thing, Prince, I will not be insulted by
suspicions and threats against my friends. Lord Courtray and I have
been brought up as brother and sister. We spoke of my home, which I may
never see again, and I told him what he was to say to them there when
they asked about me. If I have cried I am ashamed of my tears, and when
you speak and act as you have just done, it makes me ashamed of the
feeling which caused them."
He took a step nearer, he admired her courage.
"What was the feeling which caused them? Tell me, I must know,--" he
said; but as he spoke he chanced to notice she had replaced her wedding
ring, it shone below his glittering ruby.
"That I will not bear!" he exclaimed, and with almost violence he
seized her wrist and forcibly drew both rings from her finger, and then
replaced his own.
"There shall be no token of another! No gold band there but mine, and
until then, no jewel but this ruby!"
Then he dropped her hand and turning, threw the wedding ring with
passion in the fire!
Tamara made a step forward in protest, and then she stood petrified
while her eyes flashed with anger.
"Indeed, yes, I am ashamed I cried!" she said at last between her
teeth.
He made some restless paces, he was very much moved.
"I must know--" he began. But at that moment the servants came in with
the tea, and Tamara seized the opportunity while they were settling the
tray to get nearer the door, and then fled from the room, leaving
Gritzko extremely disturbed.
What could she mean? He knew in his calmer moments he had not the least
cause to be jealous of Jack. What was the inference in her words? Two
weeks seemed a long time to wait before he could have all clouds
dispersed, all things explained--as she lay in his arms. And this
thought--to hold her in his arms--drove him wild. He felt inclined to
rush after her, to ask her to forgive him for his anger, to kiss and
caress her, to tell her he loved her madly and was jealous of even the
air she breathed until he should hear her say she loved him.
He went as far as to write a note.
"Madame," he began--He determined to keep to the severest formality or
he knew he would never be able to play his part until the end.--"I
regret my passion just now. The situation seemed peculiar as I came in.
I understand there was nothing for me to have been angry about,--please
forgive me. Rest now. I will come and fetch you at quarter to eight.
"Gritzko."
And as he went away he had it sent to her room.
And when Tamara read it the first gleam of comfort she had known since
the night at the hut illumined her thoughts. If he should love her--
after all!--But no, this could not be so; his behavior was not the
behavior of love. But in spite of the abiding undercurrent of
humiliation and shame, the situation was intensely exciting. She
feverishly looked forward to the evening. Her tears seemed to have
unlocked her heart--she was no longer numb. She was perfectly aware
that no matter what he had done she wildly loved him. He had taken
everything from her, dragged her down from her pedestal, but that last
remnant of self-respect she would keep. He should not know of this
crowning humiliation--that she still loved him. So her manner was like
ice when he came into the room, and the chill of it communicated itself
to him. They hardly spoke on the way to the Théâtre Michel, and when
they entered the box she pretended great interest in the stage, while,
between the acts, all their friends came in to give their
congratulations.
Tamara asked to be excused from going on to supper and the ball which
was taking place. And she kept close to her godmother while going out,
and so contrived that she did not say a word alone with Gritzko. It was
because he acquiesced fully in this line of conduct that she was able
to carry it through, otherwise he would not have permitted it for a
moment.
He realized from this night that the situation could only be made
possible if he saw her rarely and before people--alone with her, human
nature would be too strong. So with the most frigid courtesy and
ceremony between them the days wore on, and toward the beginning of the
following week Gritzko went off with Jack Courtray on the bear-hunt. He
could stand no more.
But after he was gone Tamara loathed the moments. She was overwrought
and overstrung. Harassed by the wailing and expostulations of her
family for what they termed her "rash act," worried by dressmakers and
dozens of letters to write, troubled always with the one dominating
fear, at last she collapsed and for two days lay really ill in a
darkened room.
Then Gritzko returned, and there were only five days before the
wedding. He had sent her flowers each morning as a lover should, and he
had loaded her with presents,--all of which she received in the same
crushed spirit. With the fixed idea in her brain that he was only
marrying her because as a gentleman he must, none of his gifts gave her
any pleasure. And he, with immense control of passion had played his
part, only his time of probation was illumined by the knowledge of
coming joy. Whereas poor Tamara, as the time wore on, lost all hope,
and grew daily paler and more fragile-looking.
Her father had a bad attack of the gout, and could not possibly move;
but her brother Tom and her sister, Lady Newbridge, and Millicent
Hardcastle were to arrive three days before the wedding.
CHAPTER XXI
The night of the bear-hunter's return there was to be a small dinner at
the Ardácheff house. The Princess had arranged that there should be a
party of six; so that while the four played bridge the fiancés might
talk to one another. She was growing almost nervous, and indeed it had
required all Stephen Strong's assurance that things eventually would
come right to prevent her from being actually unhappy.
"Let 'em alone!" the old man said. "Take no notice! you won't regret
it."
Tamara had only got up from her bed that afternoon and was very pale
and feeble. She wore a white clinging dress and seemed a mere slip of a
girl. The great string of beautiful pearls, Gritzko's latest gift,
which had arrived that morning, was round her neck, and her sweet eyes
glanced up sadly from the blue shadows which encircled them.
Gritzko was already there when the Princess and Tamara reached the
first salon, and his eyes swam with passionate concern when he saw how
Tamara had been suffering. He could not restrain the feeling in his
voice as he exclaimed:
"You have been ill!--my sweet lady! Oh! Tantine, why did you not send
for me? How could you let her suffer?"
And a sudden wave of happiness came over Tamara when he kissed her
hand. She was so weak the least thing could have made her cry.
But her happiness was short-lived, for Gritzko--afraid yet of showing
what was in his heart--seemed now colder than ever; though he was
exulting within himself at the thought that the moment would come soon
when all this pretence should end.
Tamara, knowing nothing of these things, felt a new sinking depression.
In five days she would be his wife, and then when he had paid the
honorable price--how would he treat her?--
He was looking wildly attractive tonight, his voice had a thousand
tones in it when he addressed the others, he was merry and witty and
gay--and almost made love to the Princess--only to his fiancée did he
seem reserved.
The food appeared impossible to swallow. She almost felt at last as
though she were going to faint. The hopeless anguish of the situation
weighed upon her more than ever; for alas! she felt she loved him now
beyond any pride, every barrier was broken down. She had no more anger
or resentment for the night at the hut. All his many sins were forgiven.
Dinner was an impossible penance, and with a feverish excitement she
waited for the time when they should be alone.
It seemed an eternity before coffee was finished and the four retired
to their bridge. Then the two passed out of the room and on into the
blue salon.
It was extremely difficult for both of them. The Prince could scarcely
control his mad longing to caress her. Only that strange turn in his
character held him. Also the knowledge that once he were to grant
himself an inch he could never restrain the whole of his wild passion,
and there were yet five days before she should be really his--.
Tamara looked a white, frozen shape as she almost fell into the sofa
below the Falconet group. Cupid with his laughing eyes peeped down and
mocked her. Gritzko did not sit beside her. He took a chair and leant
on a table near.
"We had good sport," he said dryly. "Your friend can hit things. We got
two bears."
"Jack must have been pleased," Tamara answered dully.
"And your family--they arrive on Monday, isn't it?" he asked. "Your
brother and sister and the estimable Mrs. Hardcastle?" and he laughed
as he always did at the mention of Millicent. "They will wonder, won't
they, why you are marrying this savage! but they will not know."
"No!" said Tamara. "They must never know." Gritzko's face became
whimsical, a disconcerting, mischievous provoking smile stole into his
eyes.
"Do you know yourself?" he asked.
She looked up at him startled. It was her habit now never to meet his
eyes. Indeed, the sense of humiliation under which she lived had
changed all her fearless carriage of head.
"Why do you ask such questions? I might as well ask you why are you
marrying me. We both know that we cannot help it," and there was a
break in her voice which touched him profoundly.
"Answer for yourself please, I may have several other reasons," he said
coldly, and got up and walked across the room picking up a bibelot here
and there, and replacing it restlessly.
Tamara longed to ask him what these reasons were. She was stirred with
a faint hope, but she had not the courage, the intensity of her feeling
made her dumb.
"They--Tantine--or Sonia--have explained to you all the service, I
suppose," he said at last. "It is different to yours in your country.
It means much more--"
"And is more easily broken."
"That is so, but we shall not break ours, except by death," and he
raised his head proudly. "From Wednesday onward the rest of your life
belongs to me."
Tamara shivered. If she could only overcome this numbness which had
returned--if she could only let her frozen heart speak; this was surely
the moment, but she could not, she remained silent and white and
lifeless.
He came over to the sofa.
"Tamara," he said, and his voice vibrated with suppressed passion.
"Will you tell me the truth? Do you hate me,--or what do you feel for
me?"
She thought he meant only to torture her further; she would not answer
the question.
"Is it not enough that you have conquered me by force? Why should you
care to know what my feelings are? As you say, after Wednesday I shall
belong to you--You can strangle me at Milasláv if you wish. My body
will be yours, but my soul you shall never soil or touch, you have no
part or lot in that matter, Prince."
His eyes filled with pain.
"I will even have your soul," he said. Then, as though restraining
further emotion, he went on coldly. "I have arranged that after the
wedding we go to my house, and do not start for the South until
Saturday. There are some things I wish to show you there. Will that be
as you wish?"
"I have no wishes, it is as you please," Tamara answered monotonously.
He gave an impatient shrug, and walked up and down the room, his will
kept its mastery, but it was a tremendous strain. Her words had stung
him, her intense quiet and absence of emotion had produced a faint
doubt. What if after all he should never be able to make her love him.
For the first time in his life a hand of ice clutched his heart. He
knew in those moments of agony that she meant the whole world to him.
He glanced at her slender graceful figure so listlessly leaning against
the blue cushions, at her pale ethereal face, and then he turned
abruptly away toward the door to the other salon.
"Come," he said, "it is of no avail to talk further, we will say
goodnight." Tamara rose. The way to her room led from the opposite
side.
"Goodnight then," she said, "make my adieu to Sonia and the rest. I
shall go to bed," and she walked that way. The whole floor was between
them, as she looked back. He stood rigid by the other door.
Then with great strides he was beside her, and
had taken her in his arms.
"Ah! God!" he said, as he fiercely kissed her, and then almost flung
her from him, and strode from the room.
And Tamara went on to her own, trembling with excitement.
This was passion truly, but what if some love lurked underneath?--and
when she reached her great white bed she fell upon her knees, and
burying her face in her hands she prayed to God.
* * * * *
Now of what use to write of the days that followed--the stiff
restrained days--or of the arrival of Tom Underdown and his sister, and
Millicent Hardcastle--or of the splendid Russian ceremonies in the
church or the quieter ones at the Embassy. All that it concerns us to
know is that Gritzko and Tamara were at last alone on this their
wedding night. Alone with all their future before them. Both their
faces had been grave and solemn through all the vows and prayers, but
afterward his had shone with a wild triumph. And as they had driven to
his house on the Fontonka he had held Tamara's hand but had not spoken.
It was a strange eventful moment when he led her up the great stairs
between the rows of bowing servants--up into the salons all decorated
with flowers. Then, still never speaking, he opened the ballroom doors,
and when they had walked its great length and came to the rooms
beyond, he merely said:
"These you must have done by that man in Paris--or how you please," as
though the matter were aloof, and did not interest him. And then
instead of turning into his own sitting-room, he opened a door on the
right, which Tamara did not know, and they entered what had been his
mother's bedroom. It was warmed and lit, but it wore that strange air
of gloom and melancholy which untenanted rooms, consecrated to the
memory of the dead, always have, in spite of blue satin and bright
gilding.
"Tamara," he said, and he took her hand, "these were my mother's rooms.
I loved her very much, and I always thought I would never let any
woman--even my wife--enter them. I have left them just as she used them
last. But now I know that is not what she would have wished."
His deep voice trembled a little with a note of feeling in it which was
new, and which touched Tamara's innermost being.
"I want you to see them now with me, and then while we are in the South
all these things shall be taken away, and they shall be left bare and
white for you to arrange them when we come back, just as you would
like. I want my mother's blessing to rest on us--which it will do--"
Then he paused, and there was a wonderful silence, and when he went on,
his tones were full of a great tenderness.
"Little one, in these rooms, some day I will make you happy."
Tamara trembled so she could hardly stand, the reaction from her misery
was so immense. She swayed a little and put out her hand to steady
herself by the back of a chair. He thought she was going to fall,
seeing her so white, and he put his arm round her as he led her through
the room and into the sitting-room, and then beyond again to a little
sanctuary. Here a lamp swung before the Ikon, and the colors were
subdued and rich, while the virgin's soft eyes looked down upon them.
There were fresh lilies, too, in a vase below, and their scent perfumed
the air. He knelt for a second and whispered a prayer, then he rose,
and they looked into each other's eyes--and their souls met--and all
shadows rolled away.
"Tamara!" he said, and he held out his arms--and with a little
inarticulate cry almost of pain Tamara fell into them--and he folded
her to his heart--while he bent and kissed her hair.
Then he held her from him and looked deep into
her eyes.
"Sweetheart--am I forgiven?" he asked, and when she could speak she
answered:
"Yes--you are forgiven."
Then he questioned again.
"Tamara, do you love me?"
But he saw the answer in her sweet face, and did not wait for her to
speak, but kissed her mouth.
Then he lifted her in his arms like a baby and carried her back through
the ghostly rooms to his warm human sitting-room, and there he laid her
tenderly down upon the couch and knelt beside her.
"Oh, my heart," he said. "What this time has been--since you promised
to marry me!--but I would not change it--I wanted you to love me beyond
everything--beyond anger with me, beyond--fear--beyond your pride. Now
tell me you do. My sweet one. Moia Doushka. I must know. I _must_ know.
You mean my life--tell me?"
And passion overcame Tamara, and she answered
him in a low voice of vibrating emotion.
"Gritzko! do you think I care for what you have done or will do! You
know very well I have always loved you!" And she put up her mouth for
him to kiss her. Then he went quite mad for a few moments with joy--he
caressed her as even on the dawn-drive she had never dreamed, and
presently he said with deep earnestness.
"Darling, we must live for one another--in the world of course for
duty; but our real life shall be alone at Milasláv for only you and me.
You must teach me to be calm and to banish impossible thoughts. You
must make yourself my center--Tamara, you must forget all your former
life, and give yourself to me, sweetheart. My country must be your
country, my body your body, and my soul your soul. I love you better
than heaven or earth--and you are mine now till death do us part."
Then the glory of paradise seemed to descend upon Tamara, as he bent
and kissed her lips.
Oh! what did anything else matter in the world since after all he
loved her! This beautiful fierce lover!
Visions of enchantment presented themselves--a complete intoxication
of joy.
He held her in his arms, and all the strange passion and mystic depths
which had fascinated her always, now dwelt in his eyes, only
intensified by delirious love.
"Do you remember, Sweetheart, how you defied and resisted me? Darling!
Heart of mine! but I have conquered you and taken you, in spite of all!
You cannot struggle any more, you are my own. Only you must tell me
that you give me, too, your soul. Ah! you said once I should have no
part or lot in that matter. Tamara, tell me that I have it?"
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