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A Hungarian Nabob: A Romance, a novel by Maurus Jokai |
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Chapter 14. Martyrdom |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. MARTYRDOM After this event Lady Karpathy was very seriously ill; for a long time her life was even despaired of. Karpathy summoned the most famous doctors in the world to attend to her, and they consulted and prescribed for her, but none of them could tell what was the matter. It is a great pity that nobody knows how to prescribe for the heart. For a long time she was delirious, and talked a lot of nonsense, as sick people generally do whose fevered brains are full of phantoms. A soft smooth hand stroked her burning forehead from time to time. It was the hand of Flora, who watched by the sick-bed night and day, denying herself sleep, denying herself even the sight of her husband, despite the terrifying suggestions of Dame Marion, who maintained that Madame Karpathy was sickening for small-pox. If that had been all the poor woman was suffering from, how little it would have been! At last Nature triumphed. A young constitution usually struggles more severely with Death than an old one, and throws him off more quickly. Fanny was delivered from death. When first she was able to look around her with an unclouded mind, she perceived two persons sitting by her side; one was Flora, the other--Teresa. Though nothing in the world would have induced Teresa to call upon Fanny as a visitor, the very first rumour of her severe illness brought her to her side. She arrived on the very day when a change for the better had set in, and relieved Flora by taking her turn in the nursing. Nevertheless, Lady Szentirmay would not depart till she knew for certain that her friend was out of danger, and therefore resolved to wait a few days longer. So Fanny regained life and consciousness; she no longer chattered oddly and unintelligibly, but lay very still and quiet. She was cured, the doctors said. And now she could coldly review the whole course of her life. What was he, what had she become now, and what would become of her in the future? She was the scion of a wretched and shameful family, from whose fate she had only been snatched by hands which, wont to lift themselves in prayer to God, had shielded and defended her against every danger, and prepared for her a peaceful and quiet refuge, where she might have lived like a bird of the forest in its hidden nest. This refuge she had been forced to quit, in order to take her place in the great world--that great world which had so much in it that was terrifying to her. Then she had sought a woman's heart that could understand her, and a manly face that might serve her for an ideal. And she had found them both--the noble-hearted friend, who had been so good, so kind to her, far better and kinder than she had dared to hope; and the idolized youth, of whose heart and mind the world itself had even grander and finer things to say than she herself had ever lavished upon him. And this woman, and this idol of a man were spouses--and he happiest of spouses too! What must her portion be now? She must be the dumb witness of that very bliss which she pictured to herself so vividly. Every day she must see the happy face of her friend, and listen to the sweet secrets of her rapture. She must listen while _his_ name is magnified by another; she must look upon the majestic countenance of the youth whom she may not worship--nay, she must not even dare to speak of him, lest her blushes and the tremor of her voice should betray what no man must ever know! How happy she would have been now, had she never learnt to know this passion, if she had never allowed her soul to fly away after unattainable desires! If only she had listened to that honest old woman she would now be sitting at home in her quiet peaceful cottage among the meadows, with nothing to think of but her flowers! That was all, all over now! She was no longer able to go either backwards or forwards. Only to live on, live on, one day after another, and, as every day came round, to sigh, as she got up to face it: "Yet another day!" But her husband, that good old fellow, what of him? Only now did Karpathy feel how much he loved his wife! Perhaps if she had died he would not have survived her. Sometimes the doctors would allow him to see his wife, and at such times he would stand with streaming eyes at the foot of the sick woman's bed, kissing her hand, and weeping like a child. At last his wife was out of danger. On her departure, Lady Szentirmay impressed upon Karpathy the necessity of taking great care of Fanny, of not letting her get up too soon and take cold, of rigorously carrying out the doctor's directions, of not letting her read too long at a time, of allowing her, in a week's time or so, to go out for a drive, if the weather was fine, and she was well wrapped up, and much more to the same effect. Women understand these things so much better than men. Karpathy called down endless blessings on the head of his kind neighbour as he bade her adieu, and promised to come and see her as soon as possible. "It is now your turn to come and see us," said she. "In a month's time, I hope Fanny will be able to redeem the promise she made to come and see me and my husband at home. I don't think, however, that I'll say good-bye to her now, for fear of disturbing her; it will be better if you will tell her of my departure." Armed with this commission, and ascertaining first of all from Teresa that Fanny was now awake, and might be seen without harm, he stole softly to her room on the tips of his toes, went up to the bed, gently smoothed down her hair, took her hand in his, and asked how she was. "Quite well," replied the invalid, and she tried to smile. The smile was but a poor success, but it did Squire John good to see the attempt, at any rate. "Lady Szentirmay sends her love; she has just gone." Fanny made no reply to this, but she drew his hand across her forehead, as if she wished to drive from thence the thought which arose within it. Karpathy fancied that his hand was cooling, perhaps, to the poor hot forehead, so he pressed it tenderly. Then Fanny seized his hand with both her own, and drew it to her lips. How happy Karpathy felt at that moment! He turned aside for a moment, lest she should see the tears in his eyes. Fanny fancied he would have gone away, and drew him still closer to her. "Don't go away," she said--"stay here; let us talk!" "You see," continued she, "that I am quite myself again now. In a short time I shall be able to get up. Don't be angry with me if I ask you to do me a favour?" "Ask not one favour, but a thousand favours!" cried Karpathy, rejoicing that his wife asked anything of him at all. "Are you not getting ready a new mansion at Pest?" asked Fanny. "You wish to live there, perhaps?" cried Karpathy, hastening to anticipate his wife's wishes. "You can take possession of it at a moment's notice, and, if you don't like it, and want something more handsome, I'll have another built for you this winter." "Thanks, but I shall be quite satisfied with the one at Pest. I have been thinking to myself what an entirely new life we'll begin to live there together." "Yes, indeed; we will have lots of company, and of the merriest,--splendid parties----" "I did not mean that. I am thinking of serious things, of charitable objects. Oh! we who are rich have so many obligations towards the suffering, towards the community, towards humanity." Poor woman! how she would have escaped from her own burning heart amidst coldly sublime ideas! "As you please. Seek your joy, then, in drying the eyes of the tearful. Be happy in the blessings which Gratitude will shower upon your name." "Then you promise me this?" "I am happy in being able to do anything that pleases you." "Nay, be not too indulgent. I warn you that will only make me more exacting." "Speak, speak! would that there were no end to your wishes! Believe me, only then am I unhappy, when I see that nothing delights you, when you are sorrowful, when there's nothing you feel a liking for--then, indeed, I am very, very unhappy! Would you like to go to a watering-place this summer? Where would you like to go? Command me, where would you feel most happy?" Fanny began reflecting. Whither away? Anywhere, if it only were far enough! Away from the neighbourhood of the Szentirmays, and never come back again! "Mehadia, I think, would be the nicest place. That is far enough away anyhow," thought she. "I'll engage for you beforehand the best quarters procurable for the coming summer: it really is a very pleasant place." "And I have something else to ask." Karpathy could scarce contain himself for joy. "But it is a greater and more serious wish than all the rest." "All the better. What is it?" "I should like you to come with me everywhere, and to be with me always, and never leave me." Ah, this was more than a human heart could bear! The foolish old man went down on his knees beside the bed of his wife, and covered her hands with his tears and kisses. "How have I deserved this happiness, this goodness from you!" he cried. The lady smiled sadly, and for a long, long time she did not release her husband's hand from her own. Karpathy spent half the day by her bedside in gentle prattle, listening to the modest wishes of his dear sick little wife, and happy beyond expression at being allowed to give her her tonics from time to time. A few days afterwards Fanny was able to leave her bed, and, leaning against her husband's shoulder, walked up and down the room. Day by day her health returned, and she grew more and more like her old self. And then she would spend whole days with her husband, and bring her embroidery or her book into his room; or she would invite him into her room, when she played the piano; or would drive about with him, in fact, she never left him. She did not wish for any other society. She directed the servants that if any of her old visitors came to see her, they were to be told she was not feeling well, and all the time she would be sitting inside with her husband, and forcing herself to make him happy and load him with joy. During these days she had very little to do even with Teresa, and very shortly her worthy kinswoman took her leave. Fanny parted from her without tears or sorrow, yet Teresa saw into her soul. When she had kissed the silent lips, and was sitting in the carriage on her way home, she sighed involuntarily, "Poor girl! poor girl!" _ |
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