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 Bärenburg'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 coupé, 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 Bärenburg:
"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."