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A Hungarian Nabob: A Romance, a novel by Maurus Jokai |
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Chapter 19. Zoltan Karpathy |
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_ CHAPTER XIX. ZOLTAN KARPATHY
Early one morning the family doctor invaded the sanctum of the Nabob with the joyful intelligence--"Your wife has borne you a son!" Who can describe the joy of Squire John thereat? What he had hitherto only ventured to hope, to imagine, his hardiest, most ardent desire was gratified: his wife had a son! A son who would be his heir and perpetuate his name! who was born in happier times, who would make good the faults of his father, and by means of his youthful virtues fulfil the obligations which the Karpathy family owed to its country and to humanity. If only he might live long enough to hear the child speak, to read a meaning in his sweet babblings, to speak words to him that he might understand and never forget, so that in the days to come, when he was the _feted_ hero of all great and noble ideas, he might say, "I first heard of these things from that good old fellow, John Karpathy." What should be the child's name? It should be the name of one of those princes who drank out of the same wine-cup with the primal ancestor of the House of Karpathy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be Zoltan--Zoltan Karpathy--how beautifully that would sound! Presently they brought to him this new citizen of the world, and he held him in his arms and kissed and embraced him. He could scarce see him for the tears of joy that streamed from his eyes, and yet how greatly he longed to see him! With twinkling eyes he regarded the child, and a fine, vigorous little lad it was, like a little rosy-cheeked angel; his little hands and neck were regularly wrinkled everywhere from very plumpness, his mouth was hardly larger than a strawberry, but his sparkling eyes, than which no precious stone was ever of a purer azure, were all the larger by contrast, and whenever he drooped them the long lashes lay conspicuous on his chubby cheeks. He did not cry, he was quite serious, just as if he knew that it would be a great shame to be weak now, and when Squire John, in his rapture, raised him to a level with his lips and kissed his little red face again and again with his stiff, bristly moustache, he began to smile and utter a merry little gurgle, which those who were standing round Squire John were quite positive was an attempt to speak. "Talk away, my darling little soul," stammered Squire John, perceiving that the child was screwing up his little round lips all sorts of ways, as if he knew very well what he wanted to say but could not find the right words, "talk away, talk away! Don't be afraid, we understand you. Say it again." But the doctor and the nurses thought well to interpret the little suckling's discourse as a desire to go back to his mother. Enough of caresses then, for the present, they said, and, taking him out of Squire John's arms, they brought him back to his mother, whereupon the good gentleman could not but steal softly into the adjoining room and listen whether the child was crying, and every time anybody came out he would ask what was going on or what had happened since, and every time anybody went in he sent a message along with him. Towards the afternoon the doctor emerged again, and asked him to retire with him to another room. "Why? I prefer being here; at least I can hear what they are talking about." "Yes; but I don't want you to hear what they are talking about in there." John stared at him. He began to feel bad as he met the doctor's cold look; and he followed him mechanically into the adjoining room. "Well, sir, what is it you wish to say to me that others may not hear?" "Your worship, a great joy has this day befallen your house." "I know it. I understand it. God be praised!" "God has indeed blessed your worship with a great joy, but it has also seemed good to Him to prove you with affliction." "What do you mean by that?" thundered the terrified Karpathy, and his face turned blue. "Look now, your worship, this is just what I feared, and that is why I called you aside into an adjoining room; show yourself a Christian, and learn to bear the hand of God." "Don't torture me; say exactly what has happened." "Your honour's wife will die." After hearing this Karpathy stood there without uttering a word. "If there was any help for her in this world," continued the doctor, "I would say there is hope, but it is my duty to tell you that her hours, her moments, are numbered, therefore your honour must play the man, and go to her and bid her good-bye, for ere long she will be unable to speak." Karpathy allowed himself to be led into the dying woman's chamber. The whole world was blurred before him, he saw nobody, he heard nothing; he saw _her_ only lying there pale, faded, with the sweat of death upon her glorious face, with the pallor of death around her dear lips, with the refracted gleam of death in her beautiful inspired eyes. There he stood, beside the bed, unable to speak a word. His eyes were tearless. The room was full of serving-maids and nurses. Here and there a stifled sob was to be heard. He neither saw nor heard anything. He only gazed dumbly, stonily, at the dying woman. On each side of the bed a familiar form was kneeling--Flora and Teresa. The good old aunt, with clasped hands, was praying, her face concealed among the pillows. Flora held the little boy in her arms; he was sleeping with his head upon her bosom. The sick woman raised her breaking eyes towards her husband, stretched out her trembling, fevered hand, and, grasping the hand of her husband, drew it towards her panting lips, and gasped, in a scarcely audible voice, "Remember me!" Squire John did not hear, he did not understand what she said to him, he only held his wife's hand in both his own as if he believed that he could thereby draw her away from Death. After an hour's heavy struggle, the feverish delirium of the sick woman began to subside, her blood circulated less fiercely, her hands were no longer so burning hot, her breathing grew easier. She began to look about her calmly and recognize every one. She spoke to those about her in a quiet, gentle voice; the tormenting sweat had vanished from her face. "My husband, my dear husband!" she said, casting a look full of feeling upon Squire John. Her husband rejoiced within himself, thinking it a sign of amendment; but the doctor shook his head, he knew it was a sign of death. Next, the sick woman turned towards Flora. Her friend guessed the meaning of her inquiring look, and held the little child nestling on her bosom to the sick woman's lips. Fanny tenderly strained it to her heaving breast, and kissed the face of the sleeping child, who at every kiss opened its dark-blue eyes, and then drooped them and went on sleeping again. The mother put it back on Flora's breast, and, pressing the lady's hand, whispered to her-- "Be a mother to my child." Flora could not reply, but she nodded her head. Not a sound would come to her lips, and she turned her head aside, lest the dying woman should see the tears in her eyes. Then Fanny folded her hands together on her breast, and murmured the single prayer which she had been taught to say in her childhood-- "O God, my God, be merciful to me, poor sinful girl, now and for evermore. Amen." Then she cast down her eyes gently, and fell asleep. "She has gone to sleep," murmured the husband, softly. "She is dead," faltered the doctor, with a look of pity. And the good old Nabob fell down on his knees beside the bed, and, burying his head in the dead woman's pillows, sobbed bitterly, oh, so bitterly! _ |
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