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.