The Tsar's Window/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BLACK WINTER.
Petersburg, March 6.
WE bade a reluctant farewell to Moscow, taking our last look at the wall of the Kremlin and the colored domes which rise out of it, by the light of a full moon, which glorified everything, and gave a weird, white beauty to the scene. Soon we shall pack our trunks and go away; and our places will be filled by others, and no one will miss us or care. For a little while Alice will be conscious of regret; but all her interests are here, she has her husband and child, and she will get on very well without us. This thought should not have power to sadden me, but it has.
"When I get home," Judith says, "I shall never come back to Europe."
I feel a strange reluctance to look beyond the present moment. I never picture myself returning to my country and friends. I only wish I could stay forever just as I am, and that change might never come to any of us. When I said something like this to Judith, she laughed softly. "You would soon grow tired of it," she insisted.
Such a climate as this is now! One must be of a wonderfully cheerful nature not to be depressed by the constant gloom of this "Black Winter." Not possessing the requisite amount of elasticity, I am a very dismal object. Tom looks at me often, and shakes his head disapprovingly. "Too many balls," he says. "You were born for a quiet life, Dorris."
March 14.
Only a few more days and my brief respite will be over, and Mr. Thurber will return. In fact, he should be here to-day. As the time draws near, I shrink more and more from the necessary decision. Why is it that I cannot make up my mind? George could hardly assert that I set myself up on a pedestal now. I look upon myself as one of the weakest young women I have ever met, and I even plead guilty to a grain of coquetry. I am almost sure I shall feel sorry for it afterwards if I do not accept Chilton Thurber; and I know George will be painfully disappointed in me. It is not as if he expected to win me himself. That idea seems never to have occurred to him, though I did my best to make it dawn upon his mind when we were in Moscow.
He is strangely obtuse on that point. Having recovered from the severe attack of jealousy which I have recorded, he seems quite reconciled to looking upon me as Mr. Thurber's promised wife, and loses no opportunity of showing that he regards me in that light.
After all, why should I marry Mr. Thurber? I have been very happy as a single woman, while perhaps I should be less so if I married. It is not that I am afraid of being an old maid, for that prospect has never had any terrors for me. But I have a strange reluctance to leave Europe, which I cannot understand. I fear that deep down in my heart is the desire to avoid George's disapprobation. Also, I am really fond of Chilton Thurber. I see that I am reasoning in a circle, so I will cease.
Life is not all sunshine, even for those who have royal blood in their veins. One of the young nephews of the Emperor is dead. Mourning comes alike to all of us.
Grace had a desire to see the funeral procession passing across the river from the palace to the fortress, and I consented to go with her, feeling that nothing could make my spirits any lower. We ordered the carriage and started.
The snow was thawing, and the streets were full of a dirty slush. Instead of the rain alternating with snow, which has fallen persistently for the last two weeks, the air was impregnated with a gray mist, which settled on the river where we stood, and permitted us only to distinguish the faint outlines of the lofty palaces on the bank. We waited for several minutes before we heard, through the fog, which seemed to muffle the sound, the weird music which betokened the approach of the procession.
Gradually they drew nearer. Through the lines of soldiers which bordered the road came a regiment of lancers, the arms and flag of the house, the pages and servants, each bearing a lighted candle. A crowd of priests, numbering not less than one hundred, followed with lamps. The hearse was drawn by six horses, with black blankets and plumes, and the coffin was covered with cloth-of-gold lined with ermine. The Emperor and grand dukes rode directly behind it, on horseback. Mourning coaches and more soldiers followed.
We drove away from the sad scene in sympathetic silence, made our way through the dreary streets, and were glad to reach our own door again.
I wonder why Mr. Thurber does not come. I wonder if he will come. It would seem rather hard on me if, after overcoming my reluctance, and making up my mind to accept him, he should not make his appearance. What an embarrassing situation that would be!
March 21.
To-morrow we start for Warsaw, on our way to Vienna. Judith is happy, for we are to stay a week in the Austrian capital, and there she will see Roger. She goes about the house with a smile on her face, and breaks out now and then into song; while I, to mark the contrast, grow daily more dismal.
Mr. Thurber has not come, neither have we received any word from him. I know that my friends attribute my melancholy to his non-appearance, and are pitying me in secret. Perhaps, after all, they are not so wrong; for while at first I felt a deep relief as day after day passed, and he did not appear, yet now I begin to be slightly chagrined, and to wonder if his heart has failed him, or if he has discovered that he does not care for me, as he supposed.
George's one effort has been to persuade me that Mr. Thurber is not ill or in trouble; and he looks at me gravely when he thinks I am not observing him. His sympathy I repulse, and his attempts at consolation meet with no response from me. I have not been kind to him lately; in fact, I have not been kind to any one,—least of all to myself.
To-day will be spent in farewells; and to-morrow we shall bid good-by to Russia and the Russians forever.
Evening.
As I wrote those words, a familiar voice in the next room set my heart to beating furiously. I closed my journal, rose to my feet, but for a minute could not move.
He had come at last. He was in the next room, talking to Grace! I summoned all my self-control to my aid, and went in.
In my desire not to show too much emotion, I felt that I was giving him a cold reception; but Tom made up for it by his boisterous greetings. He began to ask questions.
"We certainly thought you must have shot yourself or been eaten by a bear. What have you been doing? Why did you stay so long?"
As I surveyed Mr. Thurber's tall figure, standing in our midst, it seemed to me that he had grown more unbending than ever. He looked pleased, however, and slightly excited.
"We were hunting," he explained, "and were overtaken by a storm. It was a week before it was possible to get back to the village: we missed our connections with the trains, and the roads were in such a condition that fast travelling was out of the question."
"I am mighty glad to see you, Thurber. Upon my word, I am," reiterated Tom. "You are just in time to see us off. We leave to-morrow."
"So soon!" exclaimed the other. "Which way do you go?"
"Through Warsaw. I want to stay there a day or two, to remind me of the days when I read 'Thaddeus of Warsaw.' Then we are going to Vienna, for a week. Grace has never been there. After that, I suppose we shall take a peep at Italy; but we have not decided upon anything beyond Vienna."
"I have," said Grace. "We are going to Florence."
"I did not intend to remain in Russia so late as this," said Mr. Thurber. "I should like to join your party, if you permit."
"Really! Will you?" cried Tom eagerly and in a few minutes it was arranged that he should start to-morrow with us.
He then took leave, saying he had farewell calls to make; and we resumed our packing.
To-night we are all tired. We dined together for the last time with Alice. There were no strangers present, it being intended for a cheerful farewell meal. We were in better spirits than seemed quite natural, considering that it was, in all probability, the last time we should all meet together in that room.
I was in a fever of anxiety lest I should break down, and made every effort to be merry. The others did likewise, but none of us were calm: our laughter had a thrill of nervousness in it. It was only George who seemed perfectly natural: his voice was no louder than usual, and his face was very quiet.
The dinner was not long, and the gentlemen did not linger in the smoking-room. I ran away to the nursery to see the baby, making my escape unobserved; and, having kissed the soft little face many times, with a strange pain in my heart, I started to return to the others.
On my way, I thought I would take a peep at the library. It is my favorite room, and I had a fancy to take a last look at it by myself.
So, pushing the portière aside, I entered. The light from the dining-room shone in, and made a bar of flickering yellow on the thick rug. In the fireplace were a few live coals in a bed of ashes. George stood by the chimney, his elbows on the mantel, and his face buried in his hands.
My entry had been so noiseless that it had failed to disturb him. My first impulse was to retreat without speaking; then I thought better of it, and resolved that this should be our good-by, for I knew I should have no other opportunity of seeing him alone.
I made my way quietly to his side. Still he did not move. Putting out my hand, I touched his arm.
He started violently, and turned his face towards me without otherwise changing his position. He looked as if tortured by some physical pain; his face was so haggard and drawn that involuntarily I tightened my grasp on his arm.
His eyes gazed into mine for a moment with a wistful expression which hurt me, then dropped to my hand. Slowly he put out his hand and took mine into its clasp, turned away from the mantel, and made a movement with his lips as if he would have spoken. Seeing how impossible it was for him, I took the initiative, and said, in a voice which I hardly recognized as my own,—
"I came—to—to—see how the—room—the room would look."
This profound remark met with no response. Being senseless, however, it was harmless, and broke the spell which silence had cast upon us.
George held my hand in his, and looked at it tenderly, almost reverently, for a moment. Then he quietly let it drop, and I held it in front of me, and surveyed it stupidly myself, as if to discover some new line in it.
Finally he spoke, in a deep, earnest tone.
"Have you arranged it with Thurber?"
"No," I answered, turning my face up to his; "there has been no opportunity."
"You will let me hear it in some way when it is decided?"
"Yes," I said in a half whisper.
"I shall see you at the station to-morrow, and then you will go away with him," George continued thoughtfully.
He put his hands behind him, and leaned against the mantel.
"Ah, well!" he cried, with a forced laugh, "in a month I shall wonder at myself for this infatuation; and you, you will have dropped me completely out of your life!"
"Don't laugh in that way!" I cried impetuously, putting out my hand. "Don't!"
He looked at me searchingly.
"Poor little Dorris!" said he tenderly. "You are sorry for me. You show it in your sad eyes and your quivering mouth. You are very good and patient with me. I have brought only sadness into your life," he added dismally, still looking at me as if he meant to impress every feature on his mind.
Sorry for him! He little knew what it was that was filling my small soul with agony. This demon which was pulling at my heart-strings was love,—love for him. Like a flash of lightning the knowledge burst upon me. I had been blind before, but it was written before me in letters of fire at that instant, and I could not choose but read it. Sorry for him! Yes,—overwhelmed with anguish for him and for myself. Oh, for courage to tell him that I loved him, that my promise counted for nothing in my own heart, and that I should die if he sent me away!
But I could not say it. He had not dreamed of such a thing, and I could not confess it.
Presently he put his hand gently up, and touched my cheek.
"I have made you cry again," he said, in the same low, sad voice. "I wish you would not cry."
My only answer was a long-drawn, quivering sob.
"Oh, hush, my darling, hush!" he whispered, turning his head away from me. "You break my heart."
As I look back now, I could kill myself for being such a coward. Why did I not confess the truth? What foolish pride was it which sealed my lips?
The silence which fell upon us seemed to last for hours; but in reality it could only have been a few minutes before George turned to me and said quietly,—
"You had better go now. They will miss you."
"But this is good-by," I cried brokenly, the tears falling like rain from my eyes as I lifted them imploringly to him. "Must I go away from you like this?"
He looked at me strangely for an instant; then, with an infinite tenderness, he put his arms round me and drew me to his heart. Very quietly he lifted my face to his, and kissed me twice on the lips. It would have been easy for me to tell him the truth then. My eyes sought his, to find there some encouragement for the confession which I was about to make, but all his calmness suddenly vanished; he turned away from me, crying,—
"Leave me, child! I can bear no more!"
I waited in silence for him to speak to me again. In vain: he stood by the chimney in the same position in which I had found him, and no marble statue could have been more quiet.
While I still hesitated, my cheeks burning and my heart beating tumultuously, a voice called, "Dorris!"
Other voices followed. I lingered for an instant, but George did not stir. Grace continued to call me, and at last I walked slowly out of the room.
Now that I am alone, and can think it over calmly, I have no words strong enough to express my disgust at my own folly. To think that I, Dorris Romilly, should be in love! Worse still, desperately in love,—in love as I never dreamed was possible for me. And then that I should have been such an arrant coward as to lose my opportunity, and ruin all my chances of happiness. For, of course, I cannot go calmly to Count Piloff, and tell him that I would like to marry him; nor can I write it to him. I shall never see him alone again, and he will always think I care for Chilton Thurber. I see nothing bright in any direction, and if it were not foolish and useless, I should wish myself dead.
In the Train, Saturday Night.
It is a relief to have said good-by, and not to feel that it is still a black cloud in the future. The saying of it, and the actual departure, were not so painful as the two days which preceded, when I could think of nothing else.
If it were not for Mr. Thurber's presence, which constantly reminds me of the explanation I must have with him, I could find it in my heart to be almost cheerful. Tom unconsciously brightened us this morning by his mishaps. In the first place, he got very much excited over the loss of his umbrella. Then, when he entered the car, he gave his head a smart knock against the side of the door, in his attempts to get out of the way of a fat gentleman with a quantity of bags. Tom's hat was utterly demolished. He was such a comical object that we were obliged to laugh every time we looked at him; so our departure was less melancholy than it might have been.
As our train moved away, Alice, Nicolas, and George, all stood on the platform, smiling; and I hardly realized that I was taking my last look at them for many years.
Tom said, almost before we were out of the city,—
"What a relief to get out of that climate! For three weeks I have walked knee-deep in mud; and I have not seen the sun for so long that I believe I should be dazzled if he were to appear."
"Yes," assented Judith; "and the earth, sky, and buildings have all been such a dull color."
I listened in silence, looking out of the window to hide the desolation which I feared my eyes would betray.
They were all glad to get away! Mr. Thurber said nothing, for which I felt grateful to him.
The interminable marshy waste, which was all our eyes had to dwell upon, seems to encompass St. Petersburg for hundreds of miles. It is inexpressibly dreary. Judith is in excellent spirits, and no one appears to notice me. Mr. Thurber, however, watches me stealthily. The consciousness of this helps me to exercise my self-control.
Warsaw, Monday.
We arrived last night, in a pouring rain. I went to bed as soon as we reached the hotel; therefore, all I know of the city is that the pavements are passable, and the buildings large.
We drove from the station in two carriages. Judith and Tom took all the bags, and started before us at a rattling pace, looking triumphantly back at us as we plodded on more soberly.
Presently we overtook our friends, with only three wheels on their carriage, and Tom climbing ignominiously out of the upper door! They reached the hotel in a very muddy state, some time after us. Nothing could put either of them out of temper, however, and Judith only sighed as she examined the injuries her hat had received.
This morning dawned doubtfully, but soon decided to be showery. It seems to be an impossibility for the sun to shine in Russia at this season. If I could get a glimpse of God's clear blue sky, I am sure that this dull weight, which has lain on my heart for so long, would be lifted.
"I am going out," Tom announced, "and if you wish to see the town, you had better all come with me."
"Will you wait until after breakfast?" I suggested mildly.
Tom looked at me critically.
"Dorris, you are ill! Why don't you confess it, and give up?"
All eyes were upon me by this time, and I endeavored to laugh as I said that I was well enough.
"Only," I added, "these Polish beds are peculiar, and probably I did not sleep as well as you did."
Tom forgot me for an instant, as his thoughts turned to his favorite grievance.
"I hardly slept a wink last night," he insisted.
"You do look ill, Dorris," interrupted Grace. "I advise you to stay in the house and rest."
Staying in, I feared, meant a tête-à-tête with Chilton Thurber, which I did not feel strong enough to undergo, so I insisted upon accompanying Tom. He apparently expected to meet some of the descendants of that Thaddeus about whom he used to read, and as his expectations were not realized, he pronounced Warsaw a failure.
"Certainly, the glory has departed from Poland," Mr. Thurber remarked, as we passed some of the forts, which were manned by Russian soldiers. "Even the old palace of the kings is inhabited by the Russian governor-general."
We went into some shops. They pretended not to understand Mr. Thurber's Russian, although that is the language in which everything is taught in the schools, instruction being given in Polish as a foreign tongue.
The town is shabby. We wondered what part of it was inhabited by the élite.
"The Polish aristocracy," Mr. Thurber informed us, "has disappeared. No one knows exactly what has become of the old families. Many of them have emigrated. The fashionable foreigners who have taken up their residence here live on the Champs Elysées, through which we are about to drive."
It proved to be a very beautiful avenue, with one road in it for driving, one for equestrians, and two for foot passengers, shaded by magnificent trees.
Thence we went to what was once the summer palace of the kings, but is now used by the governor-general for a residence during part of the year. There is a charming little out-of-door theatre connected with this palace. The stage is on the shore of a lovely lake, and seats for the audience are on the opposite shore.
Altogether the day has been a busy one. Now night has come, and I am sitting alone in the dingy parlor, which looks out on the muddy street.
The others have gone to the theatre. I pleaded fatigue, and induced them to leave me. The two flickering candles cast but a pale light on my page, and I shall be obliged to give up writing. Then there will be nothing for me to do but to think.
Tuesday Morning.
A faint streak of sunlight makes its way in at my window, and there is a blinding glow in my heart. What have I done to deserve all this?
Last night, as I closed my journal, and sat in that comfortless room, waiting for something, I knew not what, there was a knock at the door. Following my permission to enter, the door opened, and Chilton Thurber appeared.
My heart sank, for I thought he had come for my answer; but I spoke with a brave voice, which did not betray my fluttering heart.
"How is this? I thought you were at the theatre."
"So I was," he responded, drawing one of the hard, uncomfortable chairs nearer the table, and throwing himself into it opposite me. "I told them I would come home and see how you were; for we were talking of you, and of our fears that you were more ill than you would confess."
"That was kind of you," I said absently.
"I had something to say to you, also," he continued,—"a statement to make, for which I have been watching my opportunity."
"Yes," I said faintly, "I know."
"I fancy that you do not know. You have quite a different idea from mine."
I looked at him inquiringly; but his face was as impassive as a block of wood, and instead of a pair of eyes I encountered an eyeglass which contorted one side of the face, and on which the light made bewildering reflections.
"I think," he went on, "that you are in some trouble,—trouble of mind. I take strange fancies sometimes; and if I am wrong, you must set me right. But the suspicion has entered my mind that possibly your suffering comes from your reluctance to tell me that you have failed to succeed, while I have been away, in your effort to care for me. I am impelled by some strange instinct—or, call it reason, if you like—to tell you that I read the death-blow to my hopes when I had been with you ten minutes. I may say," he added thoughtfully, "that my hopes began to die the moment I saw you. You are spared the difficult task of telling me. So there is an end of it,"—leaning on the table which stood between us, and dropping his glass with a clatter, while he fixed a pair of piercing eyes on me. "You cannot love me: I must learn to get on without you; and that was the reason I joined your party. Instead of running away from you, as most men would have done, I am determined to live it down while I am with you; to see you hour by hour, and say mentally, 'She is not for me'—and some time" (there was a slight tremor in the voice, but only for a second) "some time to feel contented that it should be so. I like to be peculiar. I am rather proud, do you know, of following a course of action which most people would have shunned."
This he said in his pleasant, ordinary voice; then went on more earnestly:—
"I should not have acted on my determination, if I had had the faintest suspicion that my presence would be painful to you. I have vainly sought an opportunity of explaining this to you; for your suffering has been so apparent that I have regretted my decision more than once. It seems to me now," he added, never taking his eyes off my face, "that there must be some further cause for your sadness; else you are morbidly exaggerating the pain you would give me, or the difficulty of the task I have spared you. If my suspicions are correct, if you are in any trouble, you should know that there is no one in the world who will help you more willingly than I; and perhaps," he went on more carelessly, "there is no one who can so easily put things right."
Very impulsively I hurried around the shabby old table, and stood before my companion, with my hands tightly locked together in front of me.
"You thought all this!" I cried rapidly, my eyes growing larger, and a hot flush spreading over my face. "You really mean it? You are a man, like other men, and you—" Here I felt that I was becoming ridiculous; and I restrained the torrent of words which was ready to flow, and stood still, breathing very quickly, and trembling from head to foot.
Mr. Thurber looked slightly embarrassed, and put in his glass, with a grimace.
"I have no words to tell you," I went on more calmly, "of the dreadful state I have been in, and now by a few words you have made me so happy. Oh!" I cried, growing excited again, "is it really as you say? You are indeed the best man I ever knew. How little you realize what you are doing for me!"
He had started to his feet before; now he leaned carelessly on the back of his chair, and shook his head at me.
"You are too much excited" (in a tone of remonstrance). "You will make yourself ill."
For the first time in a week, a hearty, natural laugh broke from my lips. While the sound of it was yet in my ears, the door was quietly opened, and a third person stood before us. He glanced from one of us to the other. I dropped into a chair, for I could not stand.
George came up to us, smiling.
"You don't appear to be glad to see me."
"We are only paralyzed with astonishment," returned Mr. Thurber.
"And delight," I added, trying to speak lightly.
"How in the name of all that is surprising did you get here?"
"By train. Tom left his umbrella-case, and I started with it the next day. But where are they all?" (casting a searching glance about the room).
"At the theatre," responded Mr. Thurber, "where I ought to be; but I came back because—" He hesitated, then took up his hat, and, gazing into the crown, added thoughtfully, "I never could say that all over again, you know, so I leave you to tell him why I came back, Miss Dorris. I particularly wish him to know."
"But you are not going to run away the moment I arrive," George remonstrated.
"Sorry to do so," returned the other, "but they will think it odd if I don't come back."
"They will think it much more odd for me to be too tired to go to the theatre, and then to entertain two gentlemen at home."
George looked uncertain. Mr. Thurber started hastily for the door, saying,—
"Be sure you tell him, Miss Dorris"; and before I could reply he was gone.
There was an awkward pause, and then George said,—
"I never did such an absurd thing in my life as to follow you here. But the longing to see you was stronger than I was. I could not get your face out of my mind as you looked that night in the library. I—oh, what must you think of me!" he cried, lingering in the shadowy part of the room.
I could not trust myself to speak for a moment; then I told him, as coldly as I could, what had taken place between Mr. Thurber and me.
When I had finished, he sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
"O Dorris," he groaned, "do not mislead me! There is a ray of hope shining upon me. Don't be cruel enough to put it out!"
I knelt down by his side and drew his hand away.
"George," I said, with quivering lips, "how could you be so unkind to me as to tell me I must marry him when I loved you all the time?"
•••••••••
Judith says, with a mischievous face,—
"What, Dorris! a foreigner?"
