“There is, or was, in the neighborhood of Widinitz—I speak of the capital of the Bavarian Principality of that name,” went on Miss Smithwick, “a House of Mercy—under the management of nuns of the Carmelite Order, whose Convent adjoins the Hospital—now closed in consequence of the withdrawal from its Endowment Fund of a sum so large that the charitable institution was ruined by its loss.”
Hector knew well who had brought about the ruin. He sat listening, and kept his eyes upon the carpet, lest the fierce wrath and scathing contempt that burned in them should discompose the Marshal’s faithful partisan.
“One day in the autumn of 1820,” said Miss Smithwick—“the Prince having ridden out early with all his Court and retinue to hunt—a gentleman was brought to the Widinitz House of Mercy on a woodman’s cart. He had been struck upon the forehead and thrown from his saddle by an overhanging branch as he rode at full speed down a forest road. The Hunt swept on after the boar-hounds—the insensible man was found by two peasants and conveyed to the Hospital, as I have said. The nun in charge of the Lesser Ward—chiefly reserved for the treatment of accidents, my dear, for there were many among the peasants and woodcutters, and quarrymen, and miners—and to meet their great need the House of Mercy, had been founded by a former Prioress of the Convent—the nun in charge was Sister Térèse de Saint Francois....”
“My mother. Yes?...”
Dunoisse had spoken in a whisper. His eyes shunned gentle Smithwick’s. He sat in his old, boyish attitude leaning forwards in his chair, his clasped hands thrust downwards between his knees; and those hands were so desperately knotted in the young man’s fierce, secret agony of shame and anger, that the knuckles started, lividly white in color, against the rich red skin.
“There is no more to tell, my dear!” said Miss Smithwick. “You can conceive the rest?”
“Easily!” said Dunoisse. “Easily! And, knowing what followed, one is tempted to make paraphrase of the Scripture story. Had the Samaritans passed by and left the wounded man to what you have called Fate and Destiny, the cruses of oil and wine would not have been drained and broken, the House of Mercy would not have been ransacked and gutted; its virgin despoiled—its doors barred in the faces of the dying poor.” He laughed, and the jarring sound of his mirth made his meek hearer tremble. “It is a creditable story!” he said, “a capital story for one to hear who bears the name he so willingly makes stink in the nostrils of honorable men. For if I have Carmel in my blood—to quote his favorite gibe—I have also his. And it is a terrible inheritance!”
“Oh! hush, my dear! Remember that he is your father!” pleaded poor Smithwick.
“I cannot forget it,” said Dunoisse, smiling with stiff, pale lips. “It is a relationship that will be constantly brought home. When I see you lying here, and know what privations you must have endured before the charitable owners of this house opened its doors to you, and realize that his were shut because you strove to open his eyes to the precipice of shame towards which his greed and ambition were hurrying him, blindly, I ask myself whether, with such Judas-blood running in my own veins, and such a heritage of gross desires and selfish sensuality as it must bring with it!—whether it be possible for me, his son, to live a life of cleanliness and honor? And the answer is——”
“Oh! yes, my dear!” cried the poor creature tearfully. “With the good help of God! And have you not been honorable and brave, Hector, in refusing any portion of—that money?” She added, meeting Dunoisse’s look of surprise: “Do you wonder how it is I know? Your father wrote and told me—it is now years ago—I hope you will not blame him!—though the letter was couched in terms of reproach that wounded me cruelly at the time....” Smithwick felt under her pillow for her handkerchief and dried her overflowing eyes.