Twenty-four hours have passed since her arrival in London. A sleepless
night in which she has with difficulty prepared what she will say to
her cousin, and never could find the right words, lies behind her.
Breakfast is over--lunch. Afternoon begins to lose itself in evening.
Baerenburg has not appeared. That he might stay away, might not notice
her letter, had never occurred to her.
She had always stood on the best footing with her cousin. From youth he
had had a weakness for his charming, talented, only, alas! so
"deplorably eccentric, cousin." Never had he refused her any favor she
had asked him, and if she had sent for him, he had always come sooner
than she expected him. No, never for an instant had she doubted that he
would come. If she had felt excited and anxious the whole morning, it
was only from dislike of the unpleasant explanation with him. Now she
knew very well what she would say to him. She need only describe
Mascha's grief to him, her touching fear of exposing him, her eagerness
for death.
Hour by hour passes; he does not appear. Then there is a knock at her
door. "A letter for you, m'm," says the maid, and hands her a little
note. She recognizes Baerenburg's writing; hastily she unfolds it and
reads:
"Dear Nita:--I am very sorry that I could not come today. I will do my
utmost to visit you to-morrow. I cannot, alas! say positively, as I
leave London to-morrow afternoon, and before then have a fearful amount
of business.
"With the truest regret,
"Your faithful cousin,
"Karl."
The note falls from her hands.
He has guessed what it is--he evades her. That is plain from every
stiff, awkward line of this forced note. How he could guess it she does
not know, but she knows that it has all been lost by her hesitating,
prudish delay. She should have appeared before him unexpectedly, before
he had had time to steel himself against her.
His fear of meeting her already betrays his irresoluteness. She knows
that he is idle, pleasure-loving, and selfish, but yet kind-hearted,
easily moved to pity, almost morbidly sensitive. She knows that as long
as he can he will avoid an unpleasant situation, but she also knows
that he is as--yes, more susceptible to good influences than bad. But
all will fail from her pitiful smallness.
Half mad with rage at herself, she would now be ready to defy all
prejudices to attain her aim. But one thought holds her back from going
to his hotel. At this hour she probably will not find him home, and if
she does, as he is evidently suspicious, he will deny himself. She
seats herself at her writing-table. The words which she had in vain
sought yesterday crowd upon her now--burning, impressive words with
which she describes Mascha's position, the inexcusable conduct of the
Jeliagins, who, instead of allaying gossip and concealing the affair,
cost what it might, rather confirm the worst rumors by their flight;
touching words in which she speaks of Mascha's generosity, her fear
lest he should be harmed. "This fear of the poor child is the reason
that I have turned to you," she concludes. "That the part I take is
unpleasant, you have certainly guessed. At first it was not only
unpleasant but tormenting. But I will carry it out, and I will attain
my aim. I have not only the unfortunate girl's grief, I have your
conscience on my side. I know that you are in a hard position. I pity
you with all my heart; but together with Mascha's life, all the inward
peace of your future existence is at stake. Is it possible that you
have no heart for this poor, weak, touching being? I can never forget
how, her charming little face hidden in the folds of my dress, she
sobbed out her painful confession to me. Her weak, weary, tormented,
childish voice will not leave my ears!"
After she had addressed the letter, from fear that the post might not
deliver it quickly enough, she gave it to a messenger with the order to
deliver it immediately.
The following night she did not close her eyes. She was dressed
at six o'clock. She still hoped that he would come, but it struck
eleven--twelve. He did not come.
Then suddenly an idea occurred to her. Lady Banbury! If any one could
help her it was she. She might be back in London, although her last
letter was dated from Mortimar Castle. Nita dons hat and gloves and
hurries out on the street, while she takes the first hansom she sees.
"Manchester Square, No. 34, and make haste!" she cries. She knows Lady
Banbury's strong character, knows she can count on her in case she is
in London.
The hansom stops; with beating heart Nita asks the servant who opens
the door: "Lady Banbury at home?"
The servant answers he does not know, he will see. Nita scratches a few
words on her card, and he vanishes.
A few moments she waits, and then he returns and conducts her up-stairs
into a large, comfortable room. Here sits Lady Banbury. At Nita's
entrance she rises and goes to meet the girl with open arms. "My dear
child, what a surprise! How glad I am! What brings you to London--yes,
what is it? You are deathly pale. You are struggling against tears."
"Ah, dear Lady Banbury," says Nita, "I come to you in a desperate
emergency in which your assistance alone can avail. Please--do not
refuse me!"
"Tell me--but first come to yourself, dear child!"
Nita sits down. A load has fallen from her heart. There in the
Rembrandt half-light of the old lady's pretty boudoir she unburdens her
overflowing heart to Lady Banbury. At first hesitatingly, then more
fluently and impressively, she tells the old lady Mascha's story, does
what she can to win her for the poor little girl, forgets none of the
many little features which are proofs of Mascha's incomparable goodness
of heart, and of the blind innocence which led her to her misfortune.
Then, as she suddenly, in her enthusiasm, looks up at Lady Banbury, and
perceives that her face has grown stiff and stern, in her great despair
she throws herself down on the carpet before her, and clasping her
knees, she cries: "Oh, I beg you, do not look so severe. I know that it
is all horrible. I am no more lenient than you; but one must be sorry
for Mascha. I have not found the right words to describe it to you, or
else----"
"You misunderstand me," says Lady Banbury, very earnestly. "My severity
is not for the child. I am older than you. I know how easily, with such
neglect as the poor daughter of my friend Natalie experienced, the like
can occur. One has such a crowd of theories--that innocence is the best
protection, etc. One lets girls of the best families run about the
streets alone, and at the same time they are not permitted to read a
modern novel. My hair stands on end when I hear of such insensateness.
I am heartily sorry for the poor child. I saw her last winter;
she was a charming little thing. Lensky is inexcusable--he and his
sister-in-law."
"Yes, certainly," says, shyly, Nita, who has slowly risen. "But that
does not alter Maschenka's unhappiness. Do you think that it is still
possible to save her?"
Lady Banbury shrugs her shoulders.
"Is there no hope?" sobs Nita.
"I will do what I can to arrange it," says Lady Banbury, "but it is a
very unfortunate affair. Men are curious beings; they pardon most
hardly the sins which one has committed for their sake."