“I don't know, Peggy,” she replied, “unless it was settin' my father's commands, and my mother's at defiance; I disobeyed them both, and they died without blessin' either me or mine. But oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “how can one poor wake woman's heart stand all this—a double death—husband and son—son and husband—and I'm but one woman, one poor, feeble, weak woman—but sure,” she added, dropping on her knees, “the Lord will support me. I am punished, and I hope forgiven, and he will now support me.”
She then briefly, but distractedly, entreated the divine support, and rose once more with a heart, the fibres of which were pulled asunder, as it were, between husband and son, each of whose lips she kissed, having wiped the blood from those of her husband, with a singular blending together of tenderness, distraction and despair. She went from the one to the other, wringing her hands in dry agony, feeling for life in their hearts and pulses, and kissing their lips with an expression of hopelessness so pitiable and mournful, that the grief of the servants was occasioned more by her sufferings than by the double catastrophe that had occurred.
The doctor's house, as it happened, was not far from theirs, and in a very brief period he arrived.
“Heavens! Mrs. Maguire, what has happened?” said he, looking on the two apparently inanimate bodies with alarm.
“His father,” she said, pointing to the boy, “being in a state of drink, threw a little beech chair at the apprentice here, he stepped aside, as was natural, and the blow struck my treasure there,” she said, holding her hand over the spot where he was struck, but not on it; “but, doctor, look at his father, the blood is trickling out of his mouth.”
The doctor, after examining into the state of both, told her not to despair—
“Your husband,” said he, “who is only in a fit, has broken a blood-vessel, I think some small blood-vessel is broken; but as for the boy, I can as yet pronounce no certain opinion upon him. It will be a satisfaction to you, however, to know that he is not dead, but only in a heavy stupor occasioned by the blow.”
It was now that her tears began to flow, and copiously and bitterly they did flow; but as there was still hope, her grief, though bitter, was not that of despair. Ere many minutes, the doctor's opinion respecting one of them, at least, was verified. Art opened his eyes, looked wildly about him, and the doctor instantly signed to his wife to calm the violence of her sorrow, and she was calm.
“Margaret,” said he, “where's Atty? bring him to me—bring him to me!”
“Your son was hurt,” replied the doctor, “and has just gone to sleep.”