"Heavens!"/Chapter 17
XVII.
In the afternoon of the next day young Kozman brought a note from Cvok to Suchdol to Ledecký’s house.
Friend Cvok wished very much to hear what had been said and done at the castle the day before, and begged Ledecký to let him know the result of his interview with the baroness.
Ledecký answered plainly in a few words that he was not at liberty to tell him what he wished to know, as he had been obliged to pledge his word to the baroness not to repeat the conversation which had taken place between them to any one. Cvok got this answer just before dinner, and was so disturbed by it that he lost his appetite altogether, though Miss Naninka had prepared his favourite dish for him—peas with cucumber salad. There was, in fact, no standing him since yesterday, his housekeeper thought; and if he had gone to Suchdol that morning with a darkened brow, he came back from it in the evening as cross as he could be. Miss Naninka could not get a sensible word out of him, though she was tingling all over with curiosity, and all sorts of fears were flying about in her mind like gnats in the sunshine. They had avery uneasy, disturbed night at the priest’s house. He could not sleep himself, and Miss Naninka never closed her eyes. Only little Pepíc̓ek slept as if he ad been given poppy-seed. The next morning Naninka lost all patience; she could not hold out any longer, and, taking Cvok to account, she asked him what this was all about that he kept secret from her. In a few minutes she knew as much as he did himself.
“I shall take Pepíček away at once,” she declared; then let whoever likes come for him.”
“Why take him away?” said the priest. “We won’t give him up, even if the bishop himself came to fetch him! And I won’t put him out of my house either. I am answerable for him, and I will answer for him.”
“And yet you said yesterday morning that we should very likely be obliged to put him out of the house.”
“I was too hasty when I said it—too hasty with heartache and anxiety. Heavens! I am so fond of that child, that I would let my heart be cut to pieces for him. Don’t be afraid, Naninka; nothing will happen, especially now that the baron acknowledges the child to be his.”
“I wonder how it will all end? But, goodness gracious! what do I see?”
Cvok jumped up and ran to the window, where Naninka stood looking out quite terrified.
“The carriage from the castle! Here they are already!” whimpered Naninka, wringing her hands. “For the Lord’s sake and His bitter sufferings, what shall we do?”
“Where is my Pepíc̓ek?” cried Cvok, trembling with anxiety.
“He’s in the kitchen; I’m going to him. Don’t let them come near him, or something dreadful will surely happen.”
And before the priest could answer, Naninka was gone.
It was the carriage from the castle, sure enough! In it sat the baroness; opposite to her the overseer’s wife; and on the box beside the coachman Mr. Ferdinand was enthroned in all his glory.
The baroness had spent a very bad and restless night. Having given up the plan in which Ledecký was to have acted as a sort of screen, she racked her brains to find another more suitable to the circumstances. At last she made out a line of action for herself, and determined to carry it into execution the very next day.
In the morning she went through all her business as usual; it even seemed to Mundy that she was especially cheerful. She passed a couple of hours with him beside her, and listened with attention and interest to some episodes of his late travels; even made here and there a funny remark, which with her was a very rare thing, and only happened when she was in her very best humour.
After twelve o’clock she ordered the carriage to be brought round, pretending she would go to one of the farms to look at the crops. She asked neither Mundy nor her daughter to accompany her. But there was nothing strange in this, as she generally drove out by herself; and the baron had not the least idea that this particular drive might turn out perhaps fatally for him.
She drove to the farm spoken of, and took the overseer’s wife away with her. This gave Mr. Ferdinand something to think of. The woman had a baby at her breast; did the baroness perhaps He gave way to adventurous fancies on his box.
The baroness ordered the coachman to drive in the direction of Suchdol, but to go round the village. Some way beyond Suchdol she told him to turn to Záluz̓í. Mr. Ferdinand laughed in his sleeve; now he knew already how matters stood.
There was a loud knock at the priest’s gate. Cvok himself staggered out to open it. The gracious patroness entered his dwelling as proudly as a beauty enters a ball-room, and at the same time with the majestic coldness of a queen. Mr. Ferdinand remained at the gate as a guard of honour, but also with the intention of keeping his ears open.
Father Cvok stammered out a polite welcome to his gracious patroness, and offered her a seat. She did not accept it; cast a glance about the room, looked askant at the priest, and then began in a curt, cold manner, like a speaking automaton.
“You, sir priest, keep here in your house, as I am informed, a strange child, whose parentage is unknown and mysterious. I must request you to let me read its baptismal certificate.”
Father Cvok grew red and pale alternately. What with astonishment, embarrassment, and anxiety, he did not know what to say or how to begin.
“Show me the baptismal certificate,” repeated the baroness, still more emphatically. Heavens scratched his left arm; his self-possession and judgment were coming back to him.
“The child was not baptized here in Záluz̓í,” he answered.
“I know that,” the baroness went on dryly; ”but you cannot have undertaken the care of the child without some baptismal document.”
“My housekeeper has undertaken the charge.”
“With that fable you may feed rustic minds; you won’t put me off with it.”
“I cannot serve your ladyship with anything else.”
“I can assure you that you shall and must serve me. Have you such a document or not?”
”I have not; but even if I had, it would depend entirely on myself whether I chose to show it to you or not.”
The baroness’s cheek grew scarlet with rage. She saw that she must stun this rustic priest with a heavier blow, and not allow him to brace himself up for a more energetic resistance.
“I am the patroness of this living,” she went on, her voice growing sharper with every word, “and I will never allow the seed of sin and vice to be scattered from this place—where as yet always well-conducted priests have led a godly life—on a field from which it is your duty, your sacred duty, to weed out every root of evil and depravity. For this purpose I am come here to-day, to prevent the disease from spreading like a vicious ulcer among the faithful. Where is the child? I shall take it away with me!”
During this threatening speech Cvok had turned all colours. Then he drew himself up, measured the baroness with a severe look, and said with calm, firm dignity—
“Madam! I have a right to request you to speak to me in my own house in terms suitable to my clerical office.”
“I have spoken to you in more than suitable terms.”
“You have spoken to me in a most unsuitable and unwarrantable manner, and I can only wonder that you, being a gentlewoman, should so far forget yourself!”
The baroness turned livid at these words, and tried in vain to find an answer.
Cvok continued: “Against all your affronts I calmly oppose the shield of my good conscience. Your blows have struck only empty air. I am a priest; I forgive your error—your weakness. The gist of the whole matter is this: you want me to deliver up my charge to you. What went before, I treat as mere empty rodomontade; now let us come to the core of the business. What if I do not deliver up the child to you?”
“Then you must take the consequences that will follow upon yourself.”
“I think I shall be well able to bear them.”
“Take care lest you turn out to be mistaken. My connections reach high, and will have weight with those to whose authority you are subject in your priestly capacity. You know me, that I do not stop till I carry out whatever I have once determined upon. You must therefore choose one or other of these two things: either you deliver up the child to me, or I shall take care to provide a place for you at St. George’s. I hope you understand that clearly.”
“Well, then, in God’s name set about providing St. George for me as soon as you like.”
“We have done speaking to each other.”
As the baroness said this, she made a pretence of going away, but before reaching the door she stopped, and without turning to the priest, said more temperately—
“Where is the child?”
“With his nurse.”
“I should like to look at it.”
“I believe you!”
Do you hear? I should like to look at it!” she repeated, in a tone half commanding, half entreating. This touched our friend more agreeably. He remembered that his dear Pepíc̓ek was her grandchild, and he thought it would be almost sinning against nature if he did not even show the infant to her. Besides, it occurred to him that, after what had happened to-day, he might not be able to keep the baby in his house, and in that case, who could tell if the old baroness would ever set eyes upon her grandchild? So, listening to the voice of humanity within, he thought he would neither impair his own dignity nor injure little Pepíc̓ek by letting her have her wish.
“If Miss Naninka allows it, I have no objection to your seeing the child. Be kind enough to wait a moment; I will speak to her.”
And he went to the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.
“That is Mundy’s child,” said the baroness to herself; “there is no doubt about it.” And her heart felt as if held in a vice.
Father Cvok could not get into the kitchen; the door was barred from the inside. Only when Naninka recognized his voice, she moved the trunk she had placed against it from the door. She held Pepíc̓ek tightly in her arms, and asked in a low voice, “Is she gone?”
“No, she is not gone yet; she is waiting in the parlour, and would like just to see Pepíc̓ek. You need not fear, Miss Naninka; there is no danger. Come to the parlour with him.”
“I won’t stir one step from this; let her come here if she likes.”
The priest went back to the parlour, and told the baroness what his housekeeper had stipulated.
“Well,” she said, “if there is no help for it, I must go to the kitchen.”
Cvok led the way, the baroness followed. Silently and hurriedly she hastened up to Pepíc̓ek, bent over him, and scrutinized him breathlessly, as a passionate numismatist will scrutinize some rare coin newly come to light. The usual cold expression of her face became perfectly rigid, her eyes alone moved convulsively. Certainty was now before her; those were the lineaments of the Poc̓ernický family—there was no longer any doubt about it. Her sharp eyes were fixed for a good while on one spot dear the left ear: they saw there the very same little brown mole that Mundy had in the identical spot. The baroness straightened herself, and looked round the kitchen.
“I must take the child with me!” she said in a commanding tone.
“That you shall not do!” answered the priest, manfully.
The kitchen door was ajar, and the figure of Mr. Ferdinand was seen hovering about the passage between the kitchen and the parlour.
At a slight nod from the baroness he entered the kitchen.
“Take that child away with you!” commanded his mistress.
The priest placed himself right before his housekeeper and the child; his eyes flashed fire. “Not one step further!” he thundered, stretching out his arm.
“Ferdinand,” cried the baroness, “run for the warden!”
“Not even he can dare to touch the child committed to my care,” said Cvok with energy. “Besides, you have no right to command him. I will not give up the child either to him or to any one else!”
Mr. Ferdinand made no attempt to go; that crafty old fox knew well that the priest was right. His eyes wandered undecidedly from his mistress to Father Cvok, he evidently awaited fresh orders.
But they were never given by the baroness, for she felt a faintness coming over her—the very same faintness which had tried her yesterday in the business-room after Ledecký had left her, and when the dreadful pre-sentiment darted through her mind that Mundy might be the father of the foundling at Záluz̓í. To-day the fit was much heavier, and her limbs tingled much more. She started, then uttered a penetrating scream, and would have fallen on the floor had not Ferdinand caught her. She was completely unconscious, and looked like a corpse.
She was brought to the parlour and laid upon the priest’s bed, where they tried to bring her to; but it was only with difficulty, and very slowly, that she came to herself, and even then she was so weak that the two men did not know what to do. After a while the priest remembered that he had some restorative drops in the house, and went quickly to fetch them. She took them from Ferdinand’s hand, and began to revive immediately, and her consciousness became clearer. It was to be seen in her eyes that her strong mind and will were getting the better of her bodily weakness. With Ferdinand’s help she raised herself up on the bed; her breathing became freer, but she did not speak as yet. Father Cvok stood behind her head, lest it might disturb her to see him before her. After about a quarter of an hour she broke the dreadful silence, and expressed a wish to be brought out into the fresh air. They brought her into the garden and put her sitting on a chair, and she remained there about half an hour, taking nothing but a little cold water mixed with salt. At last she declared herself strong enough to drive home, and they helped her to the carriage.
She did not say another word about the child. Nobody but Naninka seemed to remember it, for Cvok was constantly about the sick lady, trying to do what he could for her. The carriage set off at last, and drove slowly with her to Labutín.
As soon as she was gone, Cvok gave a sigh of relief, as if a great load had fallen from his mind.
The sky had become overcast in the mean time, and pleasant shower of rain came down on the parched felds and dusty roads. An agreeable cooling wind blew over the landscape, and refreshed the baroness wonderfully.
Before they reached Labutín, she had recovered so much that she looked quite as usual when she arrived at the castle. She also ordered all her three attendants strictly not to let out a word about her having been at the priest’s house in Záluz̓í, nor about what had happened there.