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."

x.x.xI.

In the Jeliagins' little sandy garden behind the house sits Lensky with his daughter. It is Sunday afternoon. Upon his gentle, loving persuasion, she has left her bed for the first time. As the maid had left the house with the Jeliagins, the kitchen maid, with her red, swollen, awkward, but kind hands, has dressed her, slowly, as one dresses an invalid who will not or cannot help herself. When she was ready, they could not at first induce her to leave the room. With little steps, trembling and tottering, she dragged herself to the door, leaning on her father's arm; but then she suddenly turned round, and clinging with a wild gesture to the bed-posts, she declared with rigid obstinacy: "No--no--no!" until she at length, half exhausted by opposition, half calmed by her father's tender a.s.surances that she would certainly see no one, with her head hidden on his shoulder, let him carry her down-stairs.

The sight of every object which reminded her of her past life, of the outer world, is indescribably painful to her.

Now they sit together on a hard green bench in the warm summer afternoon. The little garden is quite filled with transparent gray shadows. It is very quiet--Sunday quiet. Lensky's eyes fasten on his child. He uneasily seeks something which he may tell her without humiliating her, without paining her.

"Maschenka!"

"Papa!"

"Listen! do you hear how prettily that bird sings? I would not have thought that a city bird could have such a sweet voice."

She looks up. "Yes, papa," murmurs she, and bows her head anew.

Compa.s.sionately his eyes follow every movement of the poor child. They have put a white morning dress on her. She is sallow, her cheeks are sunken. Still her little face is unspeakably, touchingly attractive.

"As soon as you are better, we will play a great deal together," he begins, after awhile.

Mascha does not answer. He repeats his words. Then she looks up, confused, distracted. "What did you say? I--I did not hear," murmured she.

"Of what are you thinking, then, Mascha?"

"Of what? I--I only thought how all will be now," stammered she, and stares at the ground.

Yes, how will it be? He also thinks of that. He does not believe in the success of Nita's undertaking; he would not have let himself be forced to marry in such a case. And what then? Suppose he marries Mascha to some philosopher who surrenders himself for her few groschen? The present would at least be covered thus, but what of the future?

Humiliation--ill treatment! No, he will not give his child to that--no, no! He alone will care for her, be all in all to her, recompense her for everything with his love. His pride will not permit him to return to his fatherland with his dishonored child, but he will make a home for her in the most beautiful place in the world, in Sorrento, or somewhere in southern France. He will keep her like a princess, distract her by his art, read with her, teach her, surround her with lovely flowers, with all beautiful objects before which she need not lower her eyes.

With fearful bitterness, he suddenly breaks off this air-castle building. That is all nonsense--sentimental dotage. A moment will yet come when longing for companions will overcome her. Those with whom his daughter should a.s.sociate will not have anything to do with her; but others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute crowd, without every moral restraint, will a.s.semble round the child.

And then--Mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy amus.e.m.e.nt, without good examples in her a.s.sociates, without any urgent reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her temperament. He will see her sink--she, his darling, his white lamb--sink, sink!

All at once she shudders, springs up. "What is it, Mascha?" he asks, lovingly, holding her back by the hand.

"I heard a window open--there in the house in the rear; people see me from there. I--I want to go back to the house. I cannot bear it, father," whimpers she. She wishes to free herself from him by force.

Then there is a ring of the door-bell. Mascha stands still. Who is it?

Is not that Nita who asks for her?

Yes! The door leading into the garden opens; Nita enters, pale, weary, but with beaming eyes. She catches the child in her arms. "Maschenka,"

whispers she, "all is well. I have only come before to prepare you; in a few minutes he is here and begs you for forgiveness."

Maschenka's eyes grow staring. She clutches her temples with both hands.

"Do not faint, my darling; there is no time now for that," whispers Nita, anxiously.

"No--no." Mascha looks shamefacedly at her white wrapper.

Nita unties a black lace fichu from her neck, and binds it round the child's neck; then she smooths her hair.

The house-door opens; a cry, the old, soft bird-cry which Lensky loved so, only stronger than formerly, full of piercing, painful sweetness, with wide, outstretched arms, Mascha rushes past Nita, past her father, into the house.

Nita wishes to go. Lensky holds her back. "You have done that--you--for me," said he, "and you will not even give me time to thank you?"

"I do not deserve any thanks--it all arranged itself!" murmurs she.

"So!" he smiled bitterly. "I know how it would have arranged itself without you."

His voice is warmer, but she steps back from him.

"I understand you," he murmurs. "Go!"

She goes a few steps toward the door; then she suddenly turns, goes up to him, and reaches him her hand.

He looks her full in the eyes. "May I?" he asks.

As she nods affirmatively, he presses her hand, but not to his lips, but lets it sink. He kneels down before the young girl, and kisses the hem of her dress. A wonderfully relieved feeling has come over him. It seems to him that he is freed from a burden--a burden of oppressive scorn of mankind, which, with a breath of relief, he has laid down at the feet of this young, pure, warm-hearted being.

"You are a saint," he murmured. "G.o.d pay you my debt!"

Thus they part.

The rescue is accomplished; Mascha is saved.

For a while Lensky remains alone in the garden, then he goes in the house. Fear of disturbing his daughter in her happiness, longing to rejoice in the sight of this happiness, alike agitate him.

From the drawing-room sound voices--very softly, interrupted with long pauses.

The drawing-room door is not tightly closed; Lensky looks through the crack.

Happiness? Where is the happiness? They sit near each other, hand in hand; he embarra.s.sed; she humiliated, shy.

"That cannot remain thus; it is not possible that it should remain thus," Lensky's warm, wild heart cries out. "Take her in your arms," he would like to call to the young man; "bury her shame in your tenderness, raise her broken self-respect by your love!"

It must still happen thus, he must clasp her to his breast, kiss and console her.

Lensky waits, waits breathlessly, fairly spying for a change of affairs; but nothing changes. And suppressing a deep sigh, he turns away.

"That is a rehabilitation, but no happiness!"