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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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.

G.o.d 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 Barenburg:

"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."

x.x.x.

Twenty-four hours have pa.s.sed 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.

Barenburg 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 pa.s.ses; 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 Barenburg'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 a.s.sistance 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?"