CHAPTER LIV.
IN WHICH MISS MAGNOLIA MACNAMARA AND DR. TOOLE, IN DIFFERENT SCENES, PROVE THEMSELVES GOOD SAMARITANS; AND THE GREAT DOCTOR PELL MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.
So pulse or no pulse, dead or alive, they got Sturk into his bed.
Poor, cowed, quiet little Mrs. Sturk, went quite wild at the bedside.
'Oh! my Barney—my Barney—my noble Barney,' she kept crying. 'He's
gone—he'll never speak again. Do you think he hears? Oh, Barney, my
darling—Barney, it's your own poor little Letty—oh—Barney, darling, don't you hear. It's your own poor, foolish Letty.'
But it was the same stern face, and ears of stone. There was no answer
and no sign.
And she sent a pitiful entreaty to Doctor Toole, who came very
good-naturedly—and indeed he was prowling about the doorway of his
domicile in expectation of the summons. And he shook her very cordially
by the hand, and quite 'filled-up,' at her woebegone appeal, and told
her she must not despair yet.
And this time he pronounced most positively that Sturk was still living.
'Yes, my dear Madam, so sure as you and I are. There's no mistaking.'
And as the warmth of the bed began to tell, the signs of life showed
themselves more and more unequivocally. But Toole knew that his patient
was in a state of coma, from which he had no hope of his emerging.
So poor little Mrs. Sturk—as white as the plaster on the wall—who kept
her imploring eyes fixed on the doctor's ruddy countenance, during his
moments of deliberation, burst out into a flood of tears, and
thanksgivings, and benedictions.
'He'll recover—something tells me he'll recover. Oh! my
Barney—darling—you will—you will.'
'While there's life—you know—my dear Ma'am,', said Toole, doing his
best. 'But then—you see—he's been very badly abused about the head; and the brain you know—is the great centre—the—the—but, as I said, while there's life, there's hope.'
'And he's so strong—he shakes off an illness so easily; he has such
courage.'
'So much the better, Ma'am.'
'And I can't but think, as he did not die outright, and has shown such
wonderful endurance. Oh! my darling, he'll get on.'
'Well, well, Ma'am, there certainly have been wonderful recoveries.'
'And he's so much better already, you see, and I know so well how he
gets through an illness, 'tis wonderful, and he certainly is mightily
improved since we got him to bed. Why, I can see him breathe now, and
you know it must be a good sign; and then there's a merciful God over
us—and all the poor little children—what would become of us?' And then
she wiped her eyes quickly. 'The promise, you know, of length of
days—it often comforted me before—to those that honour father and
mother; and I believe there never was so good a son. Oh! my noble
Barney, never; 'tis my want of reliance and trust in the Almighty's
goodness.'
And so, holding Toole by the cuff of his coat, and looking piteously
into his face as they stood together in the doorway, the poor little
woman argued thus with inexorable death.
Fools, and blind; when amidst our agonies of supplication the blow
descends, our faith in prayer is staggered, as if it reached not the ear
of the Allwise, and moved not His sublime compassion. Are we quite sure
that we comprehend the awful and far-sighted game that is being played
for us and others so well that we can sit by and safely dictate its
moves?
How will Messrs. Morphy or Staunton, on whose calculations, I will
suppose, you have staked £100, brook your insane solicitations to spare
this pawn or withdraw that knight from prise, on the board which is but
the toy type of that dread field where all the powers of eternal
intellect, the wisdom from above and the wisdom from beneath—the
stupendous intelligence that made, and the stupendous sagacity that
would undo us, are pitted one against the other in a death-combat, which
admits of no reconciliation and no compromise?