Part 13

Why can she not forget? She has emerged blameless from the trial. How can the affair further concern her? Another would have simply shaken off the remembrance of this unpleasant experience. But she was not like others. From childhood she had occupied one of those strange positions which cause in all young people left to themselves a tendency to strongly exaggerated feelings.

Her father died young. Her mother never ceased to mourn him, and after his death completely withdrew from the world. Except a few summer months which she regularly passed with her eldest brother, Karl Baerenburg's father, she lived year in and year out in a picturesque villa an hour's journey from Vienna.

Nita grew up solitary, under the influence of such a mother and the instruction of Miss Wilmot. The great passion of her youth was music. She secretly cherished the wish to become an artiste and astonish the world with her performances. Sunk in an enthusiastic study of the art, and reading all that is poetic and unworldly, she grew up without girl friends, without all childish amusements. The great wealth of her stormy young heart remained untouched.

The legendary fame of the devil's violinist penetrated even to her. She saw a picture of him--the strange face that was not handsome, and which one could never forget if one had once seen it, made a deep impression on her young mind. From that time she worshipped the strange musician, whom she had never heard and never seen; thought of him, dreamed of him, wrote enthusiastic childish letters to him--which she never sent--and sang his songs. Her mother, who was still more given to exaggeration than her daughter, and just as little worldly wise, smiled at this enthusiasm and gave Nita Lensky's picture for a birthday gift. Nita placed it on her writing-table and daily garlanded it with fresh flowers as long as she could find one out-doors.

She knew that he was married, and was proud for him that his wife was a princess, and a great beauty, and that she loved him idolatrously. Then she heard other things about him: that his distinguished wife had left him; that he wandered about the world, without rest or peace, bitter and desperate. A warm, deep compassion mingled with her enthusiasm.

Her whole family called her Senta, and did not ascribe the slightest importance to the matter.

Then it was announced that Lensky would give three concerts in Vienna, which he had avoided for some years. A true fever of excitement took possession of Nita. The Baroness Sankjewitch did her utmost to fulfil her daughter's wish, to take her to one of the concerts. To go to Vienna and return by railroad was out of the question, as the concert took place late in the evening. She decided, therefore, to pass the night with Nita at a hotel.

At last came the concert. He appeared. He had never been handsome, and was no longer young. His hair was gray, and his fifty years were written plainly enough in deep furrows on his face. But he looked different from other men. There was something powerful and attractive in his personality, and a mysterious magnetism which could not be described or explained. Was Nita disappointed? No. She was more interested in him than ever. Only intensely musical natures could sympathize with the rapture amounting to pain with which she listened to the magic tones of his violin.

The next morning they were to return home. But on the same evening, after the concert, in the reading-room of the hotel, they made Madame Njikitjin's acquaintance. She was a still handsome elderly lady, with correct bearing and very charming manners. She won the Baroness' heart at once, and a few acquaintances gave her the best reports of the family of the stranger.

She laughed at Nita's enthusiasm, flattered the young girl, flattered the mother, and finally promised to take Nita with her to Lensky's two other concerts, for which no places were to be bad. The Baroness was boundlessly inexperienced. The day after the concert she left Vienna, leaving Nita under the Njikitjin's protection, who had promised to personally escort the young girl back to her mother.

The same day, Nita learned to know her great man at Madame Njikitjin's, who laughingly described to him the young girl's enthusiasm, and called her nothing but Senta. And Nita only looked at him with her clear, childish eyes, and could not say a word. He must have been of stone not to be touched by this pure and deep enthusiasm. He was not of stone. She pleased him--pleased him unusually. No one could be so charming as he if he wished.

With other great men, we have a stiff neck from looking up to their unapproachable loftiness. But nothing of the kind with him. The timidity which had at first oppressed her wholly vanished before the winning heartiness of his manner. How pleasantly he listened to her gay little anecdotes! Sometimes he leaned a little forward in the course of conversation, gazed into her eyes, then suddenly kissed her hand and laughed--laughed without her having the slightest suspicion of what had been so droll in her story. At coming and going he kissed her on the forehead; when he talked with her, he sometimes took her hand in his and stroked it kindly, paternally. She was proud of every little distinction. And while she felt a kind of reverence for him, Lensky's surrounders began to mock and laugh at her enthusiasm. She did not notice it at that time, but later, every significant look came back to her memory, and for a year sent the blood to her face.

When the day of farewell came, she was unspeakably sad and did not conceal it. Instead of calming her with a pleasant word, he smiled uneasily, constrainedly, at her emotion.

He promised to see her that evening at Njikitjin's, in the hotel. When he came, the Russian was not at home. It did not occur to Nita to ask herself if she should receive him under the circumstances. He was different from usual. He fell into brooding silence; now suddenly seized her hand, then freed it. He sprang up and walked uneasily about the room. Suddenly he sat down near her and took both her hands in his. Something in his face startled her and she drew them away. He seized them and kissed them. Then--then he said something which admitted of but one interpretation. He--to her!

Beside herself, she sprang up to leave the room. But before she had reached the door, he came up to her. Was that really he--the man with the red face and shining eyes? Even to-day the desperate cry of fear which she gave rings in her ears. Steps approached from without; he let her go.

Yes, that was the end of all the touching kindness, of all the heaven-aspiring enthusiasm.

The next day the Njikitjin was to have taken her back to her mother. She did not wait for that. By the earliest train, she secretly hurried from Vienna. A few hours later she lay in bed with a violent fever. When, six weeks later, still very weak, and holding to the furniture for support, she entered her little boudoir, dust lay everywhere thick and gray, even on his picture, so that it was quite unrecognizable. She took the picture and wished to burn it. She could not. As she held it over the coals, it seemed to her as if she would throw something living into the fire--and she only hid it and did nothing further.

For a full year after her recovery she could bear no music. She had liked to draw from childhood, without thinking much of this talent with her passion for music, but in her great depression it served to distract her thoughts. At her urgent request, her mother left Austria and settled in Paris with her daughter, who now devoted herself to painting.

When her mother died, the despair which Nita felt at this loss for the first time completely pushed the old recollection in the background. She had scarcely thought of it until the day when for love of Sonia she had let herself be persuaded to attend Lensky's concert. When she heard him play, when at those wonderful tones the old intoxication overpowered her, then also awoke a horror of the fascination which this man had for her, and with this horror the great hatred which she had felt for years, a boundless loathing. She wished him ill with all her heart; she, who formerly would not have hurt a hair of any one's head, could not think of anything that would be painful enough to sufficiently wound him.

She is revenged; the blow has fallen! But what is that? She looks back, the recollection of the fearful scene makes no impression on her, shrinks together, grows dim--it is gone. She seeks her hatred in her heart, and cannot find it.

XXVIII.

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!"

XXIX.

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."

XXX.

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.