CHAPTER XLIX.--BETROTHED.

She seemed absorbed in thought as I drew near her, and did not

perceive my approach. She was leaning on the carved balustrade of the

terrace, and gazing at the sea and the scenery that lay below it,

steeped in the brilliance of a clear and frosty moonlight. The snow

had entirely departed from the vicinity of Yalta, though its white

mantle still covered all the peaks of the Yaila range of mountains.

About a mile distant on one side lay the town, its glaring

white-walled houses gleaming coldly in the moonshine. A beach was

there, with most civilised-looking bathing-machines upon it; for prior

to the war, Yalta had been the fashionable watering-place for the

ladies of Sebastopol, Bagtcheserai, and Odessa, who were wont there to

disport themselves in fantastic costumes, and take headers in the

Euxinus Pontus. On the other side were lovely valleys and hills,

covered with timber--pine-groves dark and huge as those that overhang

the fjords of Norway.

In the distance lay the Black Sea--so called from the dark fogs that

so often cover it--sleeping in silver light, its waves in shining

ripples rolling far away round the points of Orianda and Maragatsch;

and Valerie, absorbed in thought, and her dark eyes fixed apparently

on that point where the starry horizon met the distant sea.

She wore an ample jacket or pelisse of snow-white ermine lined with

rose-coloured silk, and clasped at the tender throat by a brooch which

was a cluster of bright amethysts. A kind of loose silken hood, such

as ladies when in full dress may wear in a carriage, was hastily

thrown over the masses of her golden hair, which formed a kind of soft

framework for her delicately-cut and warmly-tinted face, for the cold

air had brought an unwonted colour into her usually pale complexion.

Her eyes wore an expression of languor and anxiety. Heaven knows what

the girl was thinking of; but as she watched the shining sea I could

see her full pink nervous lips curling and quivering, as if with the

thoughts that ran through her impulsive mind. And this bright creature

might be mine! I had but to ask her, perhaps, and I had not so faint a

heart as to lose one so fair for the mere dread of asking her. Yet, as

I drew near, the reflection flashed upon my mind that for three days

at least she had purposely avoided me. Why was this? Had my love for

her been too apparent to others? had I underdone or overdone anything?

what had I omitted, or how committed myself?

"Valerie!" said I, softly.

She uttered a slight exclamation, as if startled, and then placing her

firm, cool, and velvet-like hands confidingly in mine, glanced

nervously round her, and more particularly up at the windows of the

house.

"I would speak with you," said she, in a half whisper.

"And I with you, Valerie. O, how I have longed for a moment such as

this, when I might again be with you alone!"

"But we must not be seen together; and I have but that moment you have

so wished for to spare. Come this way--this way, quick; those

cypresses in the tubs will shield us from any curious eyes that may

lurk at yonder windows."

"O, Valerie!" I sighed with happiness, and as I passed a hand

caressingly over her jacket of ermine I thought vengefully of

Tolstoft's dark hint about hunting that small quadruped in Siberia;

and then as I gazed tenderly into her dark and glittering eyes, I

could perceive that their long tremulous lashes were matted.

"Tears--why tears, Valerie?"

She spoke hurriedly. "I have most earnestly to apologise to you for

much that I heard the Pulkovnick say during dinner; it was indeed

horrid--all!"

"Much that you have not heard was more horrid still."

"It is unbearable! His wounds or bruises must have exasperated his

temper. Yet I cannot speak to him of that which I did not hear, as to

do so would appear too much as if you and I had some secret

confidences, and Madame Tolstoff, I fear, has hinted at something of

this kind already."

"I asked you to marry me, dearest Valerie."

"Yes--vainly," said she, with a half-smile on her partly-averted face.

"Vainly--why?"

"Do not press me to say why."

"Could you love me, Valerie?"

"I might."

"Might, Valerie?" (I was never weary of repeating her sweet name; and

what meant this admission, if she declined me?) "You do not doubt my

love for you?" I urged.

"No, though I fear it is but a passing fancy, born of idleness and the

ennui of Yalta."

"Think you, Valerie, that any man could see, and only love you thus? O

no, no! But say that you will be mine--that you will come with me to

England, where your brother is, or soon shall be--to England, where

women are treated with a courtesy and tenderness all unknown in

Russia, and where the girl a man loves is indeed as an empress to him,

and has his fate in life in her own hands."

"I don't quite understand all this--nor should I listen to it," said

she, looking me fully in the face, with calm confidence and something

of sadness; too.

Her right hand was still clasped in mine, and as I pressed it against

my heart, I placed my left arm round her waist, modestly, tenderly,

and with a somewhat faltering manner; for she looked so stately, and

in her white ermine seemed taller and more ample than usual, a beauty

on a large scale and with "a presence." But starting back, she quickly

freed herself from my half-embrace, and said, "Captain Hardinge, you

forget yourself!"

"Can it be that you receive my tenderness thus?" said I,

reproachfully, and feeling alike disappointed and crestfallen. "I love

you most dearly, Valerie, and implore you to tell me of my future, for

on your answer depends my happiness or misery."

"I hope that I am the holder of neither. I did not ask you to love me;

and O, I would to Heaven that you had never come to Yalta--that we had

never, never met!"

"Why--O, why?" I asked, imploringly.

"Because I am on the very eve of being _married_."

"Married!" I repeated, breathlessly; and then added passionately and

hoarsely, "To whom?"

"Colonel Tolstoff, to whom I was betrothed in form by the Bishop of

Odessa."

Her refusal was really a double-shotted one, and for a moment I was

stupefied. Then I said, in a voice I could scarcely have recognised as

my own,

"It was to this tie, and not to a convent, that Volhonski alluded,

when hinting that you were set apart from the world?"

"Yes. I thank you from my soul for the love you offer me, though it

fills me with distress. I pity you; but can do no more. Alas! you have

been here only too long."

"Too long, indeed!" said I, sadly, while bending my lips to her hand;

and then hurrying into the house by the picture-gallery, she left

me--left me to my own miserable and crushing thoughts, with the

additional mortification of knowing that Madame Tolstoff, watchful as

a lynx, had overseen and overheard our interview from another angle of

the terrace, though she could not understand its nature; but of course

she suspected much, and was all aflame for the interests of her suave

and amiable son.

However, this was not to be my last moment of tenderness with Valerie.

But I was left little time for reflection, as events were now to

succeed each other with a degree of speed and brevity equalled only by

the transitions and discoveries of a drama on the stage.