Mascha's confession had more deeply shocked Nita than she thought. So
much touching, childish simplicity spoke from every sad word. Another
would have excused herself, would have ascribed her sin to
circumstances, to her seducer. This poor little sinner took all upon
herself. It had happened, she did not know how; she had lost her head
from anxiety and remorse on his account.
Especially the conclusion of the confession had gone to Nita's heart.
"Do you see," Maschenka had whispered still more softly than before,
"formerly I knew nothing of all this; I had no suspicion; I was
quite--quite stupid. But since then I have listened when the 'big
people'"--she is still so childish that she speaks of adults as big
people---"spoke, and I have read the newspapers and all sorts of books
in the endless nights in which I could not sleep. And now I know that I
am what people call--an abandoned woman." And as Nita, with consoling
caresses, assured her:
"He will do his duty to you--he will--he must!" Mascha had only sobbed
more violently, and murmured:
"What duty has one to a girl who runs after one, who throws herself at
his head? He was so kind to me--I thought it was love, and I thought
love was something so grand, beautiful. It was no love with him; it was
only pity at first, and then it was scorn. Why was I so foolish? It is
past. Let me put my life out of the world, and everything go on in its
usual course. It was fearfully hard for me to jump into the water that
time; how long ago is it? Yesterday--really yesterday! I was so afraid
of death, and life seemed so beautiful to me in spite of everything.
Now that is over too; I no longer understand life."
Nita must promise her not to betray Baerenburg's name to her father. "Of
what use? He saved Colia's life. Colia is weaponless against him; but
father--he--he would kill him. I do not wish him to be harmed; why
should I? Ah, Nita, you dear, good angel! if I had only found you at
home that time!"
Thus closed the little confession.
Nita has long forgotten that at first Mascha's case had caused her
disgust. She no longer thinks of Lensky's horrible behavior; her whole
heart is filled with pity and the strong, urgent desire to help.
She must go to London, speak with Karl, that is certain. But how to do
it? It needs some pondering, but before she retires that evening her
plan is ready. She knows that if Mascha's good name is to be restored
at all as she plans, the work must proceed as quietly as possible, and
no one must suspect the levers which set it in motion. She must travel
alone, without her maid. The thought disturbs her not a little.
Strange!
She is ready to go through fire for Mascha, to enter into the most
painful explanation with her cousin; but to pass a night in a London
hotel without sufficient protection, she is not ready.
At last she finds a way. She begs Miss Wilmot to telegraph her arrival
to the former's sister-in-law in London, and to claim shelter in her
house for her. She knows that she can count on Mrs. Wilmot's
hospitality, all the more as Nita had entertained her for a fortnight
the past autumn.
The telegram will arrive three or four hours before her; that is
sufficient. Then she makes her little travelling preparations, goes to
bed, and sleeps as soundly as we sleep when we are wearied by a great
moral shock.
About six in the morning she rises, fresh and courageous, with a
hopeful heart. Sonia, somewhat pale and tearful, but calm and obliging
as usual, gives her her tea, and with great care packs sandwiches in
her travelling bag.
"Shall you come back to me when you have had enough of Vichy--you and
your father?" Nita asks her friend in the course of conversation.
"In any case I will visit you, to take leave of you, dear; but our dear
comrade-life I must, alas! give up," replies Sonia. "Papa is tired of
his bachelor-life, and wishes to have a home. I must naturally do as he
wishes. It is hard, but what can I do?" She sighs, and at the same time
carefully ties up her package of sandwiches.
"And your art?" asks Nita, smiling.
"Ah, my art," repeats Sophie. "That is the most indifferent part of the
matter for me. I have not worked by your side for a year in vain, my
heart. Less time would have sufficed to teach me how great is the
difference between my mediocre skill and your truly great talent. That
is over, Nita; I will miss my art a little, but the being with you very
painfully."
"I shall also miss you very much, faithless one, but your room shall be
ready for you at any time. Another shall never take your place, that I
promise you; and when you wish to pass a few weeks in Paris, you know
who will receive you with open arms."
"Oh, you dear love! How often I shall remember you. The time I have
spent with you will always be the most beautiful part of my life!"
sighs Sonia.
"So! Do you think so? We will hope not; I foresee very much happiness
for you." And stroking Sophie's hand, Nita adds in a softer tone: "It
will all turn out as you wish and as you deserve, you brave little
thing, you!"
Meanwhile the carriage was announced.
"I may, at least, accompany you to the station?" begs Sophie. On the
steps of the coupe, with the last embrace, she murmurs to her friend,
who has concealed the true reason of her sudden departure under a
trivial pretext: "I know why you are going to England; I have guessed.
God bless you and your undertaking. Farewell!"
* * * * *
As soon as Nita has arrived in London, and going to the light, roomy,
comfortable chamber prepared for her, has removed some of the dust of
travel, she writes the following note to Baerenburg:
"Dear Karl:--I beg you to have the kindness to call upon me in the
course of the morning at Oakley Lodge, No. 7 Holland Lane. I have
something important to speak to you about. If you cannot come in the
morning, be so good as to fix an hour at which I can expect you with
certainty.
"Your old cousin,
"Nita."