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 mantelpiece 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 crystallizing 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.

"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.