"Heavens!"/Chapter 8
VIII.
The love drama—for such we may call it—of Jenny and the baron seemed at first to make very slow progress; soon, however, it received an impetus which caused it to develope much more rapidly.
About three weeks after the companion had returned the baron’s letter, an accident happened at Labutín, which had very nearly extinguished all the future hopes and pride of the Poc̓ernický family. Even the old baroness, whose nerves—as the doctor, by the way, had once observed—were as tough as the strings of a bass viol, was greatly shaken by the event. Like all practical people, she only measured occurrences by what had actually taken place. What might have happened, she gladly left to the lively imaginations of journalists and people in general, who only talk for talk’s sake, or for their own advantage. But on this occasion even her strong mind lost its composure, and overflowed its usual normal bounds; the thoughts of what might have been ccupied and depressed her more than what had really taken place, and for a considerable time she felt much agitated and shaken by the storm which had suddenly burst upon her.
The eye of a good painter is sure to discover something charming in almost any landscape, or at least something interesting; but at Labutín he would hardly find anywhere an inviting subject for his pencil. There was nothing picturesque about the castle or park; they seemed to be placed there as a necessity, and the surroundings were only a flat, extensive plain, where one field followed another in straight uniform lines. The most pleasing part of all was the so-called avenue, with its double row of old, wide-spreading lime trees, which branched off at right angles from the west wall of the park, and extended for about half a mile in a perfectly straight line. According to the family records, this avenue had been planted by the grandfather of the late baron the year he was married—in those golden days, when the flogging-bench and the thong had to set right the obstinate heads and perverse wills of rustic dependents, and when it was considered a matter of no consequence to let a piece of fertile ground lie barren for the amusement and pleasure of the noble. From the park, only a small gate for foot-passengers led to the avenue; and the road, over which the lime trees joined their branches, forming a beautiful shady dome, had been neglected for years, and was in many places overgrown with grass.
The old baroness, even in her husband’s lifetime, wanted to have the avenue done away with, calculating that the lime trees would realize a good deal of money, and the ground taken up by it would give several roods of fertile land; but the avenue, being as it were a part of the family history, had therefore a certain right to existence which she did not like to destroy. She felt, indeed, that this was rather a weakness on her part, but thought at the same time it was one she could afford to indulge. At the other end of the avenue there was a pond, the only one in the whole estate; but the lime trees did not reach quite so far. Between the last two of them and the pond there was an open space, slightly elevated, and large enough to admit of a carriage turning there. Beyond this, at the other side of the avenue, was the pond-sluice with several water-gates, and across the sluice six parallel beams were laid rather aslant, by way of a bridge. It was impossible, therefore, to drive with a carriage or cart into the fields at the other side—a fact which resulted in turning the avenue and the open place near the pond into an agreeable solitude. A short way beyond the sluice the bank of the pond formed a low semicircular slope, covered with an underwood of oak, that was cut down and sold every few years, and which shut out the view to the front. At the foot of this slope, quite close to the pond, there was a footpath, which made a very pleasant walk, especially on summer evenings.
Lastly, the elevation between the last two lime trees and the sluice jutted, on the side of the latter, into the pond in a three-cornered projection, and was covered on its sloping banks with wild syringas down to the water’s edge.
In the middle of a large space there stood an ancient walnut tree, surrounded by a rustic seat, and, at a sufficient height from the ground, a weather-beaten, six-cornered roof of shingle was fastened round the stem, and supported by six wooden props.
To this pleasant shady bower, in summer, sometimes in the morning, but oftener in the afternoon, Baroness Sály and her companion were fond of resorting. Here they spent many a leisure hour, either reading, working or talking, or, when they were tired of these occupations, looking at the pond, where some lively fish or sprightly waterfowl broke the monotony of the surface. If therr was nothing else, even the rustling of the waving reed gave them something to think of, reminding them of stories of the drowned, or of fairy tales about supernatural beings, whose home is in the watery depths, and so inviting their fancies to make excursions into the ever beauteous regions of poetry.
Baron Edmund, too, was fond of passing by on horse back, generally taking the bridge of beams across the sluice, and then, turning to the right, followed the foot path under the slope towards the fields. But the ride over the bridge was always dangerous, and he had to take care not to mention it before his mother, if he wished to escape a scolding; but he depended on his horses and on his own skill in horsemanship, of which he was rather proud. He had only two horses, though he would have liked to possess at least ten; however, his lady-moth did not allow of more than two. His bay, Armida, and his brown, Raoul, were of no particular breed, but they were handsome animals to look at, of faultless build, and well trained. Armida was as gentle as a lamb; but Raoul sometimes took whims in his head, and was altogether more fiery, self-willed, and daring. He submitted pretty well to his master; but if the groom took him out for an airing, the ride often ended with a chastisement—not, of course, when the baron was by, for he was partial to Raoul. Otherwise, except when he was taken with one of his freaks of temper, even Raoul was a very well behaved horse for weeks together.
It was on a Friday towards the end of June, about two o’clock in the afternoon. The weather was as lovely as we are fond of fancying it, when, standing ruefully at our window on a wintry day, watching the cold wind blowing sleet and snow against the pane, we call up before us the almy days of the summer that is past. It had rained for a couple of hours the night before, and therefore the air was so soft and fragrant, scented with the breath of the wild flowers and growing crops, that body and mind felt somehow lifted up from the earth and elevated into an ideal sphere of summer warmth and beauty. In the green shade of the lime avenue the birds were holding such a concert, that one could not go more than few steps without stopping and listening. Theirs were not the oversweetened airs of Italian operas, but nature’s own melodies of endless harmony.
In the bower under the walnut tree Baroness Sály sat with Jenny. The young baroness had the last number of a fashionable ladies’ paper on her lap, which had come with the mid-day post, and both girls looked at and criticized the fashions pictured there. One figure in particular attracted their attention for a considerable time, and they returned to it again and again. They differed slightly about the sort of material which would be most suitable for the dress in question, and in the discussion that ensued the companion’s refined taste evidently gained the upper hand of the baroness. Though Jenny used only the gentlest weapons, it was plain that the baroness did not like it; and feeling piqued at the undeniable victory of her companion and lady’s maid, she threw away the paper, asked her to give her the book she had been reading out of her little work-basket, and pretended to fix her attention on its contents. Jenny took this for a hint that she wished to be alone for some time, so she got up and strolled to the avenue, not even taking her hat or parasol.
She was particularly charming that day. Her dress was of some light muslin fabric, cut out square in the front, in the Mary Stuart style, which was the latest fashion, and fitting perfectly her slight, graceful figure. In the left corner she had a bouquet of fresh wild flowers, and on her bare neck a little gold cross fastened to a black velvet ribbon.
Both girls had taken particular pains with their toilet that day. The old baroness had gone in her carriage to a place some distance away at nine o’clock in the morning, and was only to come back late in the evening. So Jenny, being free from all fear of the old lady’s criticism, dressed according to her own taste and fancy, and on beholding herself in her looking-glass was particularly satisfied with the result. Could she have seen herself as she was going just now to the avenue, she would have been more satisfied still, for the lovely blush that mantled her cheeks, and which had probably been heightened by the long walk from the castle to the pond in the summer warmth, as well as by her little argument with the young baroness, presented a lovelier sight than the rosy bloom of the most beautiful apple or peach.
She went a little way into the avenue, and sat down on a landmark stone under one of the trees on the left side. Suddenly she heard, from the direction of the park, the quick, violent gallop of a horse. It drew nearer and nearer with unusual quickness. Jenny jumped to her feet and looked up the avenue. It surely could be no one but the baron himself. He came at a tremendous pace. She recognized Raoul; he was covered with foam, and was snorting violently. Baron Mundy was bare-headed and as pale as death. Jenny saw at once that he had lost all control over the animal.
At that moment, not more than twenty or thirty steps from her, Raoul stumbled and fell. The baron was thrown right over his neck, and hurled with a terrible crash against a tree. He fell lifeless to the ground. Jenny gave a scream; the horse galloped on to the pond, and from Baron Mundy’s temple a stream of blood rushed forth.
The young girl stood transfixed with horror; she could not stir one step from her place, and felt as if a lightning-flash had pierced her very heart. At that moment she became conscious that she indeed loved Edmund, and—he was lying before her in his blood, helpless, lifeless, dead!
But the next moment she roused herself, shook off the paralyzing feeling which at first overpowered her, and summoning up all her courage, she flew to the unhappy rider, placed him in an easier position on the ground, and, sitting down close to him, endeavoured with all the strength she had to raise the upper part of his body, so hat his head might rest on her lap. The look she then fastened on his face was one that might almost have called back the dead to life again.
Mundy looked ghastly, all stained and disfigured with blood. He was completely senseless, and did not show the least sign of life. As Jenny gazed at him, two hot tears dropped from her eyes on his face. All this took place in less than a minute.
Pushing the hair from her brow, Jenny then rose slowly, laid the baron gently on the soft grass, and ran down to the sluice, where she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in the water. On her way back she saw that the young baroness had come up to the spot, and was almost out of her senses at the dreadful sight of her brother lying before her, to all appearance lifeless. She seemed ready to faint with terror. Jenny caught her just in time to prevent her from falling to the ground, bathed her temples, and when she had come a little to herself, put her down on the grass, leaning against a tree. She then ran back to the baron, laid his head on her lap again, and bathed his forehead as well as she could with the wet handkerchief. The baroness stared at her like one dazed for a while, then, standing up with difficulty, she went to her brother, and kneeling down beside him, whispered, her teeth chattering all the time, “Is he killed?”
“I fear so,” said Jenny.
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t say so!” cried his sister. “What shall we do?—oh, what shall we do?”
“Go to the pond and dip pocket-handkerchiefs in the water; we cannot do anything else for him.”
The baroness did what she was told, silently and quickly, and Jenny kept on bathing and wiping his wounded temple and his forehead, without moving or taking her eyes off his face.
Some long, anxious minutes passed; the deadly swoon did not relax; but still the observant girl thought she saw some faint signs that life was slowly returning. His lips quivered, his right hand just stirred. Jenny exulted inwardly, and spoke to him in a low tone.
“Edmund, come to yourself; for God’s sake, come back!”
The baron moved his head slightly, and heaved a deep sigh.
“Oh! is there any hope? Is he alive?” asked Sály.
“He is not dead, but he has not come to himself yet. We must have water—more water, baroness.”
The baron moved his head again, and his left arm. A spasm of pain contracted his features. The glazed look of his eyes slowly changed into a more conscious, life-like expression. He fixed them on Jenny, and began to breathe regularly.
“Where do you feel hurt?” asked Jenny , in the sweetest tone of sympathy.
The baron did not answer, but moved his right hand, as if groping for something. Jenny took that hand in hers and pressed it. The painful expression of his face changed for a moment into a happy smile, but came back again and remained fixed there.
“Where are you hurt?” asked Jenny the second time.
The baron saw that his sister was near, and kept silent. Only when she moved a few steps away, he said in a voice that was hardly audible, “In my heart!”
Jenny made no answer, but did not turn her eyes away from his. They met, and in that look their souls went out to each other; their hearts were interchanged!
“Did he speak?” asked the baroness.
“Yes, he did. But his mind is wandering; he is not in his senses.”
The baroness went once more to the sluice.
As soon as she was out of hearing he said, “I am not out of my senses; I did not speak in delirium. What I said, is true—only too true!”
Jenny did not answer immediately, but when the baroness came back she said—
“One of us must go to the village for the doctor, and or a carriage”—the baron pressed her hand—“shall I go so, or would you rather go yourself, baroness?”
The baroness shivered all over. To be alone for half an hour with a man who seemed almost dead, even though he was her own brother, appeared dreadful to her. Her sisterly love and sympathy were weaker than the dread of a painful situation. She therefore made up the mind without deliberating long, and said decidedly—
“I’ll go myself; and you, Jenny, take good care of my brother in the mean time. Mamma and all our family will never forget it to you.”
These words sobered Jenny at once from the intoxication of happy feelings she had given way to—the happiest she had ever experienced in her life.
She thought at that moment of her aunt Knír̓ová, and answered the baroness coldly and politely.
“Then go, if you will, and please be as quick as possible. But be careful of yourself at the same time and do not cause the lady-baroness more anxiety. She will have enough trouble already from this unfortunate accident. I shall do what I can for the baron in your absence.”
Sály paused at this speech. It was not so much the words themselves, as the tone in which they had been spoken, that she did not quite relish; but she said nothing, and went to fetch her hat and parasol. When she came back with them, she said, passing by Jenny and her brother, “I shall send help as soon as possible.” And she went off at a much quicker pace than was her usual habit, in the direction of Labutín.