The Jeliagins' trunks have already gone with the maid to the railway
station. The carriage which is to take the two ladies already stands
waiting. In vain has Barbara represented to her daughter how this
precipitate flight will make Mascha's position much worse, how it will
be almost impossible to conceal the misfortune.
Not an hour longer than was necessary to arrange her affairs would Anna
consent to remain, and, as always, the mother had obeyed her daughter's
command. But at the last moment, when she and Anna stood in the
vestibule, she, so to speak, broke loose from the chain. "I--I have
forgotten something--I must get something." With these words she rushes
up the stairs, stumbling, treading on her dress at every step, and
knocks at Mascha's door.
"What do you want?" calls out Lensky, harshly, while he comes out to
her.
"I would like to see Mascha. I--I would like to give her a kiss before
I go," murmured the old woman, and tears are on her wrinkled cheeks.
"She was a good child--always very good to me. Please--please let me in
to her."
He steps back, lets her in. She bends over the bed, over the girl
glowing and trembling with fever. "Maschenka, good-by, my little soul.
I love you. I will always love you," murmured she, and stroked the
child and wished to kiss her; but Maschenka hid her face in the
pillows, and half mad with shame, repulsed her aunt with an impatient
shrug of her shoulders, and suppressed weeping.
"God keep you, Maschenka!" murmured the old woman.
"What shall he keep?" cried out Lensky, pointing to the bed, with
horrible bitterness. Then, seizing her roughly by her thin arm, he
pushed her out of the room.
Now she has gone; the house has been empty for an hour. He sits near
Mascha's bed as he has sat there since yesterday, and she lies there
silently, with her face to the wall. It is eight o'clock. The front
door bell rings--rings again. It is so long before the door is opened.
Who may it be? The kitchen maid knocks at the door.
"What is it?"
"A lady desires to speak with monsieur."
"No one can see me."
"I told her that, but she would not be denied; she desires to see
monsieur. It is about something very important, she said."
"Did she, at least, give her name?"
"No, she would not; but she is certainly a distinguished lady."
"So! And she would not be denied." He draws down his mouth, scornfully.
"Where is she waiting?"
"In the drawing-room."
"Well, stay here until I come back. Do not leave the room an instant!
Do you hear? I will be back immediately."
With that he goes down-stairs.
With an angry, repellent word on his lips, he enters the drawing-room,
where the chairs are disarranged and the dust lies untouched on the
furniture.
A tall, slender figure comes to meet him, quickly, and at the same time
hesitatingly, evidently urged forward by hearty compassion, and yet
held back by that oppressing timidity and reverence with which noble
natures approach a great pain. Now he sees her more distinctly, starts.
"You here?" he cries out. "What do you wish?"
"To help you," says she, simply.
"You?" He looks at her, astonished. At first he would like to deny the
affair, to bring forward the fable of contagious illness which Kasin
has promised to spread as the cause of the Jeliagins' flight. But
Nita's face teaches him that here no deception can avail. "You know?"
he murmurs, scarcely audibly, without looking at her.
"Yes."
"And you wish to help me--you?"
The blood rushes to her cheeks. The situation is unbearable for a girl
of delicate feelings; but who would be influenced by foolish prudery
when it is a question of caring for a sick one whom no one else will
care for?
"Has Mascha confessed to you?" she asks, softly.
"No."
"Is she perfectly conscious?"
"I do not know. She has not spoken a word since yesterday; she lies
there with her face to the wall. She has a strong fever, but the doctor
says it is of no importance; she will recover in two or three days.
_And I have not the courage to give her an opiate_." He says all this
in an unnatural, choked voice. "You wish to help me? How will you help
me?" he groans defiantly and bitterly.
"Let me speak with her," begs Nita. "We have always loved each other,
she and I."
"Yes, you were very good to her, I know; she has spoken to me of you;
but you will only needlessly torment her--she will not speak. And of
what use is it? Nothing can be done--nothing." He stamps his foot.
"Let me go to her--I have a suspicion, a clew. It sounds trite and
foolish to say so, but if any one can help you, it is I."
For a moment he hesitates; then turning to go, he cries out: "Well,
come then."
She follows him across the hall, up the mud-covered stairs, to Mascha's
room.
"Leave me alone with her," she begs.
And he leaves her alone; meanwhile walks up and down the corridor.
Sometimes he stops and listens. At first he hears nothing but a soft,
coaxing, persuasive voice; then a sharp, involuntary cry--another----
"She will not speak, why torture her so?" he says to himself. He turns
the knob of the door. Then he hears violent weeping, opens the door,
sees Nita sitting on the low bed and holding the head of the sobbing
child in her lap. She motions to him to withdraw; he does it. He stands
before the door and listens as one listens for the heart-beats of a
person to convince one's self whether he still lives. He can hear
nothing plainly, but still he listens. At first he hears nothing but
the same pitiful sobs, hears a calm, caressing voice, soft, sad,
compassionate. Now she is silent; he hears hoarse, unrecognizable
sounds. Is that Mascha's voice? How long she speaks--at first in short,
broken sentences, then fluently; if he could only understand a word of
what she says! He still listens--nothing more. Now it is Nita again who
speaks, then follows a long pause, a hearty kiss, and Nita comes out in
the corridor to him, very tearful, very pale.
"Well, did she confess to you?" asks Lensky, anxiously.
"Yes, but I must swear to her not to betray anything to you. Do not
ask, do not torment the child. To-day is Wednesday; next Monday you
shall hear from me. Until then she has promised me to make no new
attempt to take her life. She will keep her word."
Herewith Nita turns to go. Suddenly she hesitates, turns once more to
him: "I will only tell you it was a misfortune, it was very little her
fault. I am astonished at the magnanimity which is betrayed in every
word of her confession."
"It is very noble of you to think of telling me that," murmured he. "I
know it was not her fault, it is only I who am to blame. That does not
make the affair better."
"I hope for a good result," murmured Nita embarrassedly.
"I do not," said he, harshly; then detaining her, he adds: "But it was
good in you to come. The others have run away, all, as if the pest had
broken out in the house; and you, you have come--you! I thank you!"