His Hour

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."