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?
About poor Mrs. Nutter’s illness, and the causes of it, various stories were current in Chapelizod. Some had heard it was a Blackamoor witch who had evoked the foul fiend in bodily shape from the parlour cupboard, and that he had with his cloven foot kicked her and Sally Nutter round the apartment until then screams brought in Charles Nutter, who was smoking in the garden; and that on entering, he would have fared as badly as the rest, had he not had presence of mind to pounce at once upon the great family Bible that lay on the window-sill, with which he belaboured the infernal intruder to a purpose. Others reported ’twas the ghost of old Philip Nutter, who rose through the floor, and talked I know not what awful rhodomontade. These were the confabulations of the tap-room and the kitchen; but the speculations and rumours current over the card-table and claret glasses were hardly more congruous or intelligible. In fact, nobody knew well what to make of it. Nutter certainly had disappeared, and there was an uneasy feeling about him. The sinister terms on which he and Sturk had stood were quite well known, and though nobody spoke out, every one knew pretty well what his neighbour was thinking of.
Our blooming friend, the handsome and stalworth Magnolia, having got a confidential hint from agitated Mrs. Mack, trudged up to the mills, in a fine frenzy, vowing vengeance on Mary Matchwell, for she liked poor Sally Nutter well. And when, with all her roses in her cheeks, and her saucy black eyes flashing vain lightnings across the room in pursuit of the vanished woman in sable, the Amazon with black hair and slender waist comforted and pitied poor Sally, and anathematised her cowardly foe, it must be confessed she looked plaguy handsome, wicked, and good-natured.
‘Mary Matchwell, indeed! I’ll match her well, wait a while, you’ll see if I don’t. I’ll pay her off yet, never mind, Sally, darling. Arrah! Don’t be crying, child, do you hear me. What’s that? Charles? Why, then, is it about Charles you’re crying? Charles Nutter? Phiat! woman dear! don’t you think he’s come to an age to take care of himself? I’ll hold you a crown he’s in Dublin with the sheriff, going to cart that jade to Bridewell. And why in the world didn’t you send for me, when you wanted to discourse with Mary Matchwell? Where was the good of my poor dear mother? Why, she’s as soft as butter. ’Twas a devil like me you wanted, you poor little darling. Do you think I’d a let her frighten you this way — the vixen — I’d a knocked her through the window as soon as look at her. She saw with half an eye she could frighten you both, you poor things. Oh! ho! how I wish I was here. I&rs............