"Heavens!"/Chapter 10
X.
Nearly two years have passed since the events of the last chapter.
Rambousek turned out to be right in his opinion: Baron Mundy recovered—slowly at first, to be sure, but in the end completely; and the love-drama between him and Jenny Kučerová developed after its own particular fashion. That this was a very particular and unusual fashion, you may judge from the fact that although all the threads of the plot were spun in the castle, under the very eyes of the old baroness, she neither saw nor suspected anything of what was going on.
It certainly seems strange and hardly possible, knowing as we do her sharp, suspicious nature, and the watchfulness of her spies. Still, in the thickets of life so much unlikely and yet real truth is sometimes found to grow that even the most experienced botanist does not know often what to think, in spite of all his science.
Not to expose ourselves to the reproach of incompleteness, we may as well mention here, that the old Baroness Salomena rewarded Jenny munificently for saving by her efforts, on that eventful day in the avenue, the life of her only son, the last scion of the ancient and renowned family of the Poc̓ernickýs of Poc̓ernic. Instead of the dress which had been spoiled by the baron’s blood, she bought her a new silk one, and seasoned her gift with a very wise piece of advice—worth, at least, three new dresses. But that was not all. Miss Jenny’s name was aIso mentioned even in the family records; for the old Baroness deposited the dress, stained with the noble blood of the Poc̓ernickýs, in the family archives for an eternal remembrance. The new dress was so much valued by Jenny, that whenever she put it on, she did not so much as cast a glance at herself in the looking glass—which is no small thing to say concerning a young lady not altogether unconscious of her own charms.
In every other respect the same freezing tone of intercourse prevailed at Labutín Castle as before, and Jenny heard as few really kind words addressed to her as she had been accustomed to from the beginning.
We should have to fill volumes with erotic rhapsodies were we to describe what went on for those two years between Baron Mundy and Jenny. We therefore leave to your imagination to fancy how this part of the plot was enacted behind the scenes. You must now please to step with us upon the open scene, where a very important climax of the drama has been reached, which will quite satisfactorily enlighten us, and explain what we have skipped over.
The scene is the priest’s house at Záluz̓í; the time—a fragrant evening in May; the dramatis personæ—friend Cvok, spinster Naninka, and the foundling; the clue—“The moment Cvok read the address on the letter, he fell helplessly on the chair near him, and dropped his head and arms. Naninka did not utter a word.”
After a while Cvok scratched his left arm above the elbow, and fastened his eyes once more on the address of the letter. The cultivated female hand of the writer was, alas! well known to him. He read to himself: “To the Reverend Father Cvok, a truly Christian and humane man, in Záluz̓í.”
The priest repeated the process of scratching his elbow—as his habit was when disturbed in mind—stood up and stepped once more to the lamp. Then he took the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. It was a whole foolscap sheet, written closely, but only on the first page. The date—“Prague, 16th of May, 1868;” the signature—“Jenny Kučerová.”
All doubt was at an end now. The certainty strengthened his mind. He began to peruse the contents, and read slowly, word for word, to himself as follows:—
“I confide to you, my respected friend, a treasure I value more than my own life. I know quite well that in placing it in your honest embrace, it only goes from a mother’s arms into real, true fatherly ones. My little son—my own dear, innocent, golden boy!
“Alas! how much I would have to write, dear friend, were you to know all that presses upon my mind like a mountain of lead! Do not expect me to describe what is indescribable—my bitter experience, my pain and anger, my remorse, forlornness. His father—no, he is not worthy of he name of father; my husband, yet not my husband; a man, and not a man; that puppet in human form—yes, this is perhaps the fittest expression for him,—that puppet, bearing the name of Edmund, I have justly and deservedly thrown off; thrown off for ever, dear friend. He wanted for a time to appease me with gold, but I threw his gold at his feet. I turned him out of my poor dwelling; I did not allow him to desecrate jy child with even a look. I am strong enough to empty the bitter cup of suffering I have brought upon myself. I deserve it, I can endure it all myself. If it must be, I am ready to expire enduring; I do not want anybody in all God’s world but you, my dear and only friend, that you may for a time—I do not know if it will be long or short—take care, fatherly, loving care, of my little son.
“I know I am not deceiving myself; I know that is just as surely as the sun abounds in warmth, so does your heart overflow with Christian charity—that charity which judges human faults and merits fairly and without prejudice.
“I build and rely on this in sending you my child. I know I ought to have written first to ask your permission; but God knows I was not able. I felt that, if I was to do the deed at all, I must, as it were, throw my child suddenly into your kind arms; for, had I acted slowly and deliberately, I should never have found strength or resolution to part from him, and we might both, in all probability, have been lost. But by my taking this step we may perhaps be spared, by God’s mercy and your charity.
“My little one was born in Prague, this year, on the 1st of March, just at midnight, and was baptized on the 3rd, with the name of Joseph, the name of my late honest father, who was taken from us just at the time of my worst suffering, after having laboured all his life for the well-being of his family.
“I beg Miss Naninka, with clasped hands, to take motherly care of my child—not to let him want for anything; to love him, and to have holy patience with him. If I am never able to do so, perhaps he will one day have it in his power to repay her for all her trouble and kindness; and, in any case, the good God in heaven above will surely reward her for the good work done to the helpless child of a deserted and unfortunate mother.”
Here all the letter was stained and blotted with tears at the sight of which friend Cvok’s own eyes filled. Only after a while was he able to read on.
“Miss Naninka is a good woman. She will understand me, perhaps, better than you can, and will surely try to lessen your care of little Pepí̓ek. I had him examined by a physician, who told me he was quite a sound, healthy child; so there is every hope that you will be able to rear him well.
“I am still in Prague; am recovered—at least bodily—and intend to earn my bread honestly. I have almost secured a situation in a good burgher’s family. As soon as it is all settled I shall write again, and then you will kindly tell me everything about Pepíc̓ek.
“What I had saved from my salary while in the baroness’s house kept me in everything necessary; and, as I know that your charity to all who are in need often leaves you with an empty purse, I enclose a banknote of fifty florins for little Pepíček’s wants. I cannot spare more just at present, but you may depend upon my not forgetting my duty, and sending you from time to time whatever I can spare. In the parcel you will find all the necessary baby-linen. Only some little bed-things will have to be bought. The new gold piece rolled up in silver paper is for Naninka as a keepsake.
“I beg of you, my dear, faithful friend, to keep Pepíc̓ek’s parentage from the knowledge of every one with the exception, perhaps, of Miss Naninka, should you think well to inform her of it. People will, of course, talk enough about it at first, but everything in the world loses its freshness, and when the novelty of the matter is over, the talk will subside; and nobody, I think, can shame you for taking up a helpless, deserted child. I pray to the good God to protect you from all annoyance and trouble on this account. Once more, dear friend, I entreat you to be a good, loving father to my little Pepíc̓ek, and I shall be grateful to you till the day of my death.
“P.S.—If any intrigues should threaten him from Labutín, shield the helpless innocent to the utmost, and come between him and all harm. Naninka must make his panada very thin, so that he may digest it asily.”
Father Cvok finished reading the letter, and took the fifty-florin note from the inside fold of it.
“There was a banknote in the letter?” inquired Naninka.
“Yes, one for fifty florins, Naninka.”
“Didn’t I know it? The child is from some gentle nest. Wasn’t I right?” exclaimed the housekeeper.
Father Cvok approached her seriously, and said, ‘Naninka, give me your hand and word, that whatever I shall read to you from this letter will never pass your lips, but that you will keep every syllable of it a profound secret. You are even mentioned in it yourself.”
The housekeeper gave him her hand, and promised faithfully never to divulge a word. He then began to read aloud. Spinster Naninka listened eagerly, and soon tear after tear dropped from her eyes. When the letter was read to the end she wiped her eyes with her apron, covered the tiny hand of the infant with kisses and said—
“What do I want with a gold piece? Whenever it is wanted it will be changed for Pepíc̓ek;” and subduing an emotion which, by the way, Father Cvok did not quite understand, she added, “And now let us look at the baby-linen.”
In the parcel there were neatly folded little shifts, jackets, caps, swathing bands, napkins, towels—in short everything needful for a baby’s toilet; nothing had been forgotten. Naninka spread them all over the bed and the table.
“That’s something to look at!” she said, very much pleased; and when they came upon the gold piece, she could not help sighing. “It’s a fine piece of money—that’s what it is, and no mistake! If there were some scores of them together, it would be a grand sight! Well, if it isn’t just wanted exactly, why, maybe I will keep it after all.”
“It isn’t likely it will have to be changed so soon. We have the banknote, don’t you see?”
“Oh, indeed, ’tis easy to say we’ve a fifty-florin banknote; but babies eat up no end of money! Where’s the cradle?—where’s the bedding for it? Where is the sugar, flour, etc., etc., for the panada? And if anything happened to go wrong with him, where’s the money for a doctor or a nurse? Believe me, your reverence, the florins fly away like butterflies in midsummer. And then, when he grows a little bigger, what won’t there be wanted then! Little coats, kilts, boots—every minute something or other.”
“Oh, we need not think of all that now—it’s a long way off. There is time enough for all that. But I am glad we have the little one.” And with that he forgot himself, and in the joy of his heart squeezed Pepíc̓ek so heartily that he woke, and began to cry so lustily that the whole house rang.
Naninka ran to him. “Oh, that will never do, your reverence,” she said; “a little baby must be touched as tenderly as foam, not to melt under your hand. Come here to me, my little dove. Hush, now, there’s a good little man!”
Pepíc̓ek was a good little fellow, and soon grew quiet again.
“We must make a sucking—bag for him,” observed Heavens, seriously.
“If we only had stale rolls! Poor Miss Jenny! I cannot get her out of my head. Poor thing! We women are unhappy creatures; our hearts are our curse. Without love we fade like a flower without water; and love, again, drives us from roses to thorns!”
“My head is still going round like a millwheel,” observed Father Cvok. “Such news, and so suddenly! But there must have been some talk going on about it, under the rose. At least, Father Ledecký hinted something about Miss Jenny to-day during our conversation. Oh! only now the light breaks in on me. That was that made him look at me so oddly.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He only asked, by the way, if I had heard anything about Miss Jenny; if she had written to me from Prague, and so on. He also spoke of her having visited me here in Záluz̓í pretty often. In short, he spoke as if I ought to know something particular about her; and only now I see that he was beating about the bush, as if he were trying to draw something out of me. He also mentioned Baron Mundy in some way–I don’t remember now in what connection. Taken all together, Ledecký must have heard some distant ringing of bells, and thought I had been at the service.”
“Well, we need not bother our heads about it. Miss Jenny was a wise girl, and if she has not been able to resist the snares of love, she has, at least, evaded gossips. Baron Mundy will certainly not post up his secret on the market cross, nor we either; and as it seems that the old baroness knows nothing at all about the affair as you, I’d bet my gold piece here, and a silver one along with it, that she never will find it out. So from those parts out there are no clouds gathering for us, and in good time we shall hear all the particulars. But there is another thing, your reverence, that is much worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why you see, it can not be hidden that we have got a baby in the house; and we must announce the fact to the village warden, at the latest, to-morrow.”
Now, this was a hard nut for the priest and his old housekeeper to crack. What were they to say to the warden? Cvok had never uttered even a “white lie” in all his life; but if he told the simple truth now, the secret would be out—Jenny’s reputation ruined, and the child exposed to all the harm and danger from which it was to have been sheltered in his house.
After a long consultation, Naninka said, “I have it. I know the way out of the maze. I’ll take the whole thing upon my shoulders. You were at Suchdol this afternoon—the whole world knows that. Now, in your absence the daughter of my sister came to me and brought me the baby. She is very badly off, and must go after her husband to Austria to look for work. The baby is in her way, and she thinks to herself, ‘My old aunt is a priest’s housekeeper; she can take much better care of the poor little worm than I can. I will ask her to keep it for me for some time.’ Now, I will not hear of keeping it till I get your leave, and so send young Kozman after you to Suchdol in a hurry. Before you came back, however, my sister’s daughter has vanished. She was afraid we would not receive the child, and took herself off when my back was turned, leaving the baby behind her. What were you to do? Were you to drive our faithful old servant out of the house along with the child, or out of charity and indulgence allow me to keep the forsaken innocent? You were not long at a loss what to do; you did what you considered your duty; you allowed the baby to stay here until its mother would be able to fetch it again.”
“But, Naninka, I hardly know you in all this!”
“Because you don’t know what a woman is capable of doing, if she is not exactly an ill-natured person; and if she can do a good turn to the forsaken child of her unfortunate niece. You must say all this to the warden, and not mention a word about anything else. If I am leading you to do wrong in this, I am ready to take all the blame on myself, and to answer for it all before God, who knows that I only do it for the best.”
“Give me Pepíc̓ek,” said Father Cvok; “and go, prepare a bed for him in the kitchen, near your own. It is time to go to bed.”
The housekeeper got up, laid the baby in her master’s arms; kissed his hand humbly and heartily, and gathered up the baby-things which were spread about on the table and bed. Then she took her candle and went to the kitchen. The good priest pressed the child to his heart, as he looked into its dear little eyes, which seemed to smile upon him with angelic purity and innocence.
“Heavens!” whispered good Father Cvok, “as long as there is breath in me you shall have a place of refuge in my heart, which neither fate nor human wickedness shall deprive you of!”