"He ill-treats you?"
"No, no! All roughness is foreign to his nature. I have never had to complain of a harsh word from him since we were married; yes, he is even very tender to me." She pauses. "I am not disagreeable to him--" Then she continues, slowly, with more evident bitterness at every word: "But--but he is ashamed of me."
She rises, and pulls at the lamp-shade. Her father confusedly strokes her hand, then suddenly springing up, he cries out: "You poor child!" and clasps her to his breast. She bursts into fierce, not to be quieted sobs, and yet is happy as she had not been for years. What a feeling of warm security in these strong arms! What happiness to thus lean on a man whose caresses are not embittered for us by their compassionate graciousness, who loves us without criticism, blindly.
"Mascha, it is not to be borne that you torment yourself so," says he. "I will not consent. Leave him, and come to me."
But then she slips out of his arms, and says, firmly: "No, father; I will stay at my post."
She smooths her hair mechanically. After a short pause, she continues: "I often felt urged to tell you what makes my life so sad. Ah! how I longed for your compassion! And I wrote long letters to you, in which I confessed all, and then tore them up again, because, in the last moment, fear of saddening you conquered everything. But now, as you have guessed it, I will once--once--complain of my grief. What I have suffered in my married life, I cannot describe to you. I thought at first it would be better if I had a child. When Harry came I was glad that my husband was proud of him, but I felt that I was not necessary to the child. Sometimes I told myself that I was in my husband's way, that my death would bring about a reconciliation between him and his parents. And once I was so restless and inconsolable that I was within a hair's breadth of running away from him. I would even have left him the boy. But--it was not the moment to run away, and when baby came I knew that I must bear it, that no one could guard my treasure as I. No one can replace a mother to her daughter, and even if Karl left her to me, a separated wife is still only a discredited mother--a mother without authority. And what is the position of the daughter of a separated wife?--and a separated wife in my circumstances? I would rather bear all the bitterness in the world than risk the future of my child."
For a moment he is silent; then he takes her hand and draws it to his lips. "You are right, Mascha!" said he. "Bear your cross patiently. Nothing weighs more heavily upon one than the consciousness to have forfeited the happiness of those whom one loves. All else is only a trifle--all!"
Now he was in his room, the room which Mascha had prepared for him with such loving care. For the first time in years he was in a home. Everything about him was simple but home-like; a few flowers, a few tasteful ornaments, several photographs in pretty little frames. Every article of furniture had a physiognomy which bade him welcome. A feeling of home-like warmth and satisfaction overcame him. He looked about him with emotion. She had taken such pains, poor Mascha! There stood a picture of Colia as a four-year-old boy; there she was herself, as a baby, with bare little arms; and there, everywhere, pictures of Natalie. She had collected everything that could please him. He could have felt so happy if--if--ah! He held his hand before his eyes. How beautiful it might have been, and how horrible it all was! His son he had not seen since that fearful farewell evening in the Hôtel Westminster; all tenderness had vanished from their relations. At regular intervals he received stiff, formal letters from Nikolai, in which the young diplomat related the most important events of his life--that was all. Lensky knew that Nikolai advanced rapidly and brilliantly in his career; he guessed that his son, in spite of all, felt dissatisfied, and his heart remained closed to his father.
Mascha? That was quite different; she had never found anything to criticise in him, her love had ever remained the same. But she was unhappy, miserably unhappy--she, his darling, his idol. And whose fault was it, then?