"Heavens!"/Chapter 18
XVIII.
As she drove very slowly, the baroness had time enough on the way home to think over her situation once more. A somewhat quieter spirit pervaded her thoughts now, and soothed her troubled mind.
The likeness of the child to Mundy might have been only accidental; even the mole near the left ear was perhaps nothing but a freak of nature, which is sometimes fitful. And even if the child was Mundy’s after all, was not such a thing a common everyday occurrence in aristocratic families, even in the highest of them? Why had she troubled and excited herself so much as even to endanger her most valuable treasure, her own health, about a common matter that was, after all, not of such great importance? The baroness knew very well that this was mere sophistry, yet from the nature of her character she could not act otherwise.
The worst thing of all was, that she had chiefly to blame herself for the way matters had turned out. If she had not been such a domineering spirit herself, she might have got Mundy married long ago. It also stung her very painfully to think that, with all her sharpness and watchfulness, she had let herself be so deceived by Mundy and Jenny. But what was done could not be undone, and the best thing would be to throw the whole disagreeable affair to the winds.
Thus the baroness quieted herself for the moment; but as she neared Labutín, care weighed her down again with renewed force. Why did Mundy keep his child in the immediate neighbourhood of Labutín? Evidently his love for Jenny must have deeper and stronger roots than in most cases of similar extravagancies amongst young noblemen. Perhaps he even intends to make this person his lawful wife in time; perhaps he is only waiting for the happy moment when his mother will expire, and not be any more in his way?
How was she to solve this mystery? What could she do to unravel this tangled knot? There was nothing for it but to find a bride for him, and get him properly married as soon as possible.
The baroness had had her eye upon several suitable young ladies for a long time; but none of them combined all the good qualities she wished her son’s future wife to have. Still, where was the use of being fastidious now? I would be foolish under the present circumstances.
She decided, therefore, to set about the delicate task without delay, and with all her energy. Of course, too great haste might also do harm in this matter; but the greatest harm of that sort would still be less than what might arise if Mundy remained single now, and married Jenny later.
Yet again new doubts arose in her mind about such proceeding. What if she were still mistaken after all; the infant at Záluz̓í was not Mundy’s child? How, how could she obtain undoubted certainty in the matter? To ask Mundy directly might fail; he might dissimulate shrewdly. Then—and here a thought flashed through the baroness’s mind so sure and infallible that all her being exulted over it. Now she knew how to get the better of Mundy; and then, let it cost what it might, only then it would be proper and timely to make him marry. That her intended plan might prove fatal to herself, did not come into her head. With a firm, steady step she got out of the carriage at Labutín Castle, and went up the stairs to her rooms as quickly and lightly as twenty years ago.
In the evening, about nine o’clock, she had Mundy called into her business-room. When he came, she conferred with him about some farming concerns for half an hour or so, just to keep him in his everyday frame of mind, and not to arouse any suspicion, intending then to take him unawares and to surprise him more effectually.
This part of her plan succeeded perfectly. Mundy discussed everything with her that she wished—sometimes taking the same view as she did, sometimes holding a different opinion, but in the end agreeing with his mother on all important points.
Suddenly the baroness began to touch upon another string.
“I must ask you, dear Mundy, to do me another little service,” she said, to all appearance carelessly, but inwardly all ablaze with emotion, which made her feel as if a swarm of ants was creeping down her back and limbs.
“Command me, mother. I shall be glad to do anything you want,” answered the baron.
“I want to have a letter written, which is in some degree rather an important one. Sit down at my writing-table and I shall dictate to you. Take a sheet of fools cap.”
The baron did as he was desired, and looked at his mother, waiting for her to begin.
“Are you ready? Well, then, write—
“‘Your Grace, Very Reverend Sir’”
“Oh! this is an unusual letter, I see—to the bishop himself. It is written. Go on.”
“‘Your most humble servant takes the liberty of applying to you for help and direction in a very delicate matter, convinced that she will be heard, and that your apostolic kindness and justice will provide for her the necessary satisfaction, although, in addressing herself directly to your Grace, she passes over, from serious reasons, the first ecclesiastical court—the episcopal vicariate. The matter concerns a parish priest under my patronage—Father Václav Cvok, in Záluz̓í.’”
The baron’s hand began to tremble as he wrote this. His mother noticed it well, and a new pallor overspread her features. Mundy did not lift his eyes from the paper, though the baroness was silent for a good while after he had finished.
“Is that much written?” she asked.
“It is,” answered Mundy, in a low voice.
“Then go on. ‘This same priest forgot himself so far as to live with the late companion of my daughter—a young woman of the name of Jenny Kuc̓erová—in a sinful and scandalous connection; which has not been without consequences’”
All Baron Mundy’s blood rushed to his head; the pen fell from his hand upon the paper, and he cried imploringly, “For God’s sake stop!”
“And why should I stop?”
“Because—you are writing a lie!”
“A lie! Are you perhaps better informed about this dirty affair in Záluz̓í than I am, who have been there this very day?”
The baron began to walk up and down the room vehemently, trying in vain to quiet down the violent storm of emotions that shook him all over. The baroness never took her eyes off him the whole time.
“You wrong Cvok; he is a most noble-minded man,” he succeeded at last in saying.
“I wrong him! Is he, then, not the father of that bas?”
“Mother, stop!” cried Mundy, almost beside himself.
“Who, then, is its father?” cried the baroness in her turn.
“As you insist upon knowing it, hear, then. That child is my son!”
“Your s!” shrieked the baroness, but did not finish the word. She gave a heart-rending scream, and fell backward on the floor, a livid, senseless corpse. Her face became contracted, the muscles at one side relaxed, and her mouth was drawn in a horrible grimace, while her eyes were fixed in a ghastly stare—a dreadful object to behold! No sign of life or consciousness appeared in her, except her laboured breathing, which came irregularly, with a rattling noise, inflating her livid cheeks with every expiration.
The baron was terrified out of his senses. Finding that all his calling and trying to rouse her was in vain, he laid her on the floor, and rang with such violence that he nearly tore off the bell-handle. After he had given this alarm, all the servants came running, Baroness Sály and her companion after them, and the usually quiet business-room was filled with laments and useless cries. Only Ferdinand understood the situation at once, and, without saying a word, ran for the doctor, with whom he returned in about a quarter of an hour.
The physician ordered silence in the first place, then felt the patient’s pulse, and, laying his ear on her heart, listened a good while. He then bled her, ordered her to be put into bed, and to have ice kept constantly on her head. He and the baron remained at last alone with the sick lady.
“Is there any hope?” asked Baron Mundy.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “A partial anæmia of the brain,” he said. “The right side of the body is paralyzed. She may come to herself soon—perhaps not for some hours; perhaps a general paralysis will take place, and then she will not return to consciousness again. In any case, sir baron, it is impossible that her former health and strength can ever return.”
Mundy bent his head sadly. He knelt down at his mother’s bedside and kissed her hand. A tear dropped from his eyes upon it.