"Heavens!"/Chapter 20
XX.
The fourth day after this event the remains of the old baroness were brought in a pompous procession to Rades̓ín, and laid by the side of her husband in the family vault, to take her last long sleep. The funeral was very grand, as became the rank and station of the departed, but not sad; for, except her own two children, nobody shed a tear. No end of people came from far and near to see the sight; but their attention was not so much taken up by the melancholy ceremony as by another circumstance. At the head of the funeral procession went, not the priest of Rades̓ín, the oldest and therefore the first representative of the clergy on the estate, but father Cvok of Záluz̓í. This was done by the express wish of the baron himself; and though our friend, from his natural modesty, opposed this arrangement, he was yet obliged to undertake the task; because his other colleagues, out of deference to their patron, made way for him, with apparent willingness, but not without some secret envy. There were as many whisperings and remarks upon the matter as there are leaves in a wood.
Spinster Regina was so excited by it that she was not able to pray one single Paternoster. “Fine order there will be on the estate now!” she said snappishly to the wife of the corn-clerk, by whose side she found herself in the procession. “Mark my words, the consistory itself will be obliged to interfere before long!”
“Oh yes, ’tis a fine warm day; there could not have been a better one for the funeral,” answered the little woman diplomatically, pretending not to have understood her aright.
Father Cvok looked a little odd at the head of his clerical brethren. The heavy, gold-embroidered, costly pluviale—the like of which he never had had on his back in all his life before—seemed to weigh him down to the ground, and, to tell the truth, he was not able to draw one breath of relief till he came home again to his Pepíc̓ek.
In the mean time harvest had come round again, and the people had so much to do, and their heads were so hot with work, that they soon forgot the old baroness and her funeral, as well as Father Heavens and his little charge at Záluz̓í.
But the baron did not forget.
Now he was his own master, and fully determined to carry out his own plans and wishes. He knew before-hand that what he intended to do would meet with great opposition from his relations and acquaintances—would doubtless be the cause of many disagreeables at first and might perhaps even make enemies for him; but he did not for all that recoil from trying to bring about a complete reconciliation with Jenny, and making her the offer of his hand and name, as an honourable man certainly ought to do. As soon, therefore, as the legal proceedings caused by his mother’s death had been attended to, and the most pressing business of the estate looked after, he resolved on arranging his own personal affairs and bringing them to a satisfactory settlement.
The breach between him and Jenny was all his fault, and had been caused entirely by his cowardly conduct; and yet, from the wavering nature of his own character, he could not believe it to be altogether irreparable. He thought the one person to bridge it over was Father Cvok of Záluz̓í, with whom he felt daily more and more sympathy for his noble-minded, self-sacrificing treatment of his little son. The castle carriage was now often seen going between Labutín and Záluz̓í, and at last the scales fell completely from people’s eyes. They saw now that not Cvok, but the baron himself, was the father of the child in question.
“Well,” they would say to each other round the domestic hearth, “Heavens has won a prize in the lottery, after all! Who would ever have thought that he was such a shrewd fellow, and so well up in the castle intrigues? One thing is sure—if the old baroness lived he would get small thanks for his pains.”
“True, he did not live on the fat of the land in Záluz̓í,” a clerical brother would say here and there; but rather than try to better one’s self in such a manner, man in holy orders ought to be satisfied with potatoes.”
Our good friend Cvok was certainly not particularly fit to wear the swallow-tailed coat of a diplomatist, but he had to put it on for all that, in spite of himself, not only for the baron’s sake, but also for his dear Pepíc̓ek, ior whom he felt it his duty to provide a splendid future, He also thought that one must strike while the iron is hot, and not allow it to cool by procrastination and delay.
And so he entered upon his diplomatic career by taking up his pen and writing a long letter to Jenny, in which he gave her a thorough account of all the change that had taken place at Labutín, and made use of all his philosophy and eloquence to soften Jenny’s heart towards the baron, who, he declared, loved her as dearly as ever he had done before the breach had taken place between them.
Furthermore, he told her that the baron publicly acknowledged Pepíc̓ek as his child, and that if he has acted wrongly towards her, he had not done so from want of love to her, but from fear of the severity and obstinacy of his late mother.
“Act like a Christian, Jenny,” he wound up. “Forgive him, and all will be well again; and we shall enjoy our lives here together in happiness and peace.”
Ten days after Jenny’s answer arrived. She wrote heartily enough, but as far as Baron Mundy was concerned, her reply was entirely and decidedly negative. Miss Naninka, who was aware of the negotiations drew herself up triumphantly, and said, “Now, who was right? What did I tell you? Didn’t I know it? Oh, I know women. With riches, splendour, honour, and glory you may bring them to the top of a tower; but if a woman is once wounded to the heart by a man, she must have a very poor spirit indeed if she can swallow the affront and forgive—especially if she is her own mistress like Jenny, and not bound down by considerations from other people.”
“But what is to be done?”
“Let the matter rest for the present, until it is somewhat riper; then go to Jenny with the baron. The best time would be when she comes to Prague. It would be only wasting paper to write to her again about it now.”
“Perhaps we might all go together with Pepíc̓ek?”
“Yes, that would perhaps be the best plan.”
But at first the baron did not like the plan.
“Where is the use of waiting till November, reverend father?” he objected, much cast down. “Let us go to Jenny at once, and I hope we shall succeed.”
“I do not agree with you, sir baron; on the contrary, I think we should do more harm than good. It would not be generous, either. Remember what struggles Jenny went through before she found a peaceful refuge with the Opolskýs. They are in the country now, and we could not approach her secretly. A suspicion might be thrown upon her by our visit, or at least it might cause her to appear in rather a questionable light; and you know that proper, well-regulated family would never confide their children to a governess who was not as pure as crystal.”
“What questionable light? If I declare myself her husband, and claim her to be my wife?”
“True , of course. But what if she insists on her refusal? Then we should just deprive her of her means of living, because our visit would always point to some preceding intimate acquaintance with you. You see, sir baron, it would be forcing her into a dilemma, and, as honourable men , we cannot deprive her of the full use of her free will.”
“My heart does not go with your arguments,” said the baron, moodily, “but let it be so; I cannot and will not injure her in any way. Though it is much against my will, I shall wait, then, till November. Do you intend to let her know beforehand?”
“No, I do not. She wants to see Pepíc̓ek. We shall all go unannounced.”
“That is a good idea. Very well, then; we shall do as you say.”
It was the beginning of November. The days were still clear and warm, and so there was no danger in undertaking a journey with an infant. It had been settled between Jenny and Father Cvok that they should meet in Prague on the 5th, at the house of Mrs. Knír̓ová, who by a lucky accident was in the country just then for the wedding of her husband’s brother. Jenny promised to come about noon; but if her friends from Záluz̓í arrived sooner, they were only to go to the house-porter, who would admit them on showing the card which Jenny enclosed in the letter.
The evening before the appointed day, the baron, Cvok, Miss Naninka, and little Pepíc̓ek arrived in Prague, and took up their quarters in the baron’s house. The baron was unusually disturbed, and spoke little during the two hours he spent with Father Cvok in the dining-room.
Our friend of Záluz̓í, too, felt his heart almost fail him. He reproached himself for not having told the baron anything about Doubek; but though the matter was several times on the tip of his tongue during the evening, he could not bring himself to mention it. The conversation flagged continually, though each made efforts every now and then to begin afresh. After some time the servant brought in the evening papers, which helped to fill up the time a little. At last, about ten o’clock, they said “good night,”and went to their several rooms. Miss Naninka, with Pepíc̓ek, slept in the old baroness’s bedroom, in her very bed, and the faithful spinster felt not a bit less anxious and restless than the two men. Only Pepíc̓ek slept like a top after the journey. What did he care for the changes of fate or fortune, in the arms of his devoted nurse and foster-mother?
In the morning they met at breakfast; then they drove out to see something of the town; and about eleven o’clock they went to the house appointed. It was a simple building in a side street; and the porter, on seeing an aristocratic carriage drive up to the door, bowed and scraped most obsequiously, and brought them to Mrs. Knír̓ová’s rooms.
Pepíc̓ek grew a little restless; he even began to cry. “Isn’t that a bad sign?” said the baron, breaking the distressing silence.
“I am afraid it is,” answered Naninka. “He was as good as gold the whole way, and the whole night too.”
The baron shivered. Father Cvok said, “Perhaps Jenny will not be able to come.”
“Ah! do you mean it?” asked the baron.
“Never fear, she’ll be sure to come,” broke in Naninka, who was trying to pacify the baby.
There was again a pause, long and distressing; then a light step was heard approaching, and a quick knock at the door. The hearts of those present beat almost audibly. Jenny entered the room, closely followed by a handsome man, with a full, well-kept beard, and very elegantly dressed. The baron’s heart was drawn together, and it grew almost dark before his eyes.
Jenny started when she saw him, and a deadly pallor overspread her cheeks, which just before were flushed with joy. For a short moment she stopped thus in the middle of the room; then going quickly to Naninka, she took the baby out of her arms, clasped it to her breast, and kissed it fondly, with tears of happiness.
In the eyes of every one present tears glistened, but not in the baron’s. The sharp pangs of jealousy nearly drove him mad.
“My dear, dear good friend!” cried Jenny, holding Pepíc̓ek in her left arm, and shaking Father Cvok’s hand with the right. “My dear, dear good Miss Naninka! How can I thank you enough? how can I ever show my gratitude? My sweet, darling baby! Ah, what have I not suffered for you? And you are alive, well, merry, and beautiful. Oh, my God! my God!”
At last her eyes dwelt for a second on the baron. “And you have come too, sir baron?” she said, subduing her voice, and evidently summoning up all her strength to enable her to keep quiet.
The baron opened both his arms for her, and cried with a voice in which all his heart went out to her, “Oh, Jenny, can you wonder at that?”
Jenny’s eyes fell to the ground for a while; then she said calmly, “You are welcome also.”
After that she turned to the gentleman who had accompanied her, and said, “I must introduce the gentlemen to each other. The Baron Poc̓ernický, of Poc̓ernic, known to you from what I have told you, and Mr. Doubek, merchant, my future husband.”
“Jenny!” the baron cried, almost beside himself—“Jenny! what are you doing? You do not know what you are saying. By the eternal stars of heaven, no one but myself can be your husband! God Himself cannot suffer it to be otherwise!”
Jenny retired a few steps nearer to Doubek, and took his hand, as if seeking for support from him.
“God knows,” said Mr. Doubek, in a voice so deep and calm that it went straight to the listener’s heart—“God knows I would like to bring down the sky, if I could, were it necessary to your happiness. Your happiness is mine. And even if my heart bleeds, I dissolve the bond of our love, I dissolve it of my own free will, if you wish to return to the baron’s arms. I do not care for happiness if you are not happy. Decide yourself at this sacred moment. Whatever you resolve to do, even if you dismiss me, I shall love and honour you always, as sure as God above us hears my words.”
“I have decided already,” Jenny answered, looking with inexpressible love at Doubek. “You are a true, a noble-hearted man, Joseph. When I confessed my fall to you, you raised me up with your great heart; you have washed and cleansed me, not with compassion, not with pity, but with love—true, real, heavenly love—which cannot be won without some sacrifice, be it ever so hard to make.”
Mr. Doubek drew her to him and kissed her.
“And what will be done with Pepíc̓ek?” asked Father Cvok, moodily.
“Yes, what shall we do with our little son, Jenny?” repeated Mr. Doubek, gently.
Jenny fixed her eyes on the priest, who understood her look, and stretched out both his arms to the child.
“Yes, dear friend, as long as you wish to have him, let him be yours.”
“That is right, Miss Jenny,” said Cvok, joyfully. “I would not have given him up, either. Indeed, I have deserved him, too. Heavens! such a dear little fellow!”