ZOLTÁN KÁRPÁTHY.
What Abellino had cause to tremble at had really happened. Madame John
Kárpáthy had become a mother. A son was born to her.
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 Kárpáthy 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 _fêted_ hero of all great and noble ideas, he might say, "I first
heard of these things from that good old fellow, John Kárpáthy."
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 Kárpáthy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be
Zoltán--Zoltán Kárpáthy--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 Kárpáthy, 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 Kárpáthy 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."
Kárpáthy 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!