“He is dead,” said Art, “he is dead, he will never waken from that sleep—and it was I that killed him!”
“Don't disturb yourself,” said the doctor, “as you value your own life and his; you yourself have broken a blood-vessel, and there is nothing for you now but quiet and ease.”
“He is dead,” said his father, “he is dead, and it was I that killed him; or, if he's not dead, I must hear it from his mother's lips.”
“Art, darlin', he is not dead, but he is very much hurted,” she replied; “Art, as you love him, and me, and us all, be guided by the doctor.”
“He is not dead,” said the doctor; “severely hurt he is, but not dead. Of that you may rest assured.”
So far as regarded Art, the doctor was right; he had broken only a small blood vessel, and the moment the consequences of his fit had passed away, he was able to get up, and walk about with very little diminution of his strength.
To prevent him from seeing his son, or to conceal the boy's state from him, was impossible. He no sooner rose than with trembling hands, a frightful terror of what was before him, he went to the little bed on which the being dearest to him on earth lay. He stood for a moment, and looked down upon the boy's beautiful, but motionless face; he first stooped, and putting his mouth to the child's ear said—
“Atty, Atty”—he then shook his head; “you see,” he added, addressing those who stood about him, “that he doesn't hear me—no, he doesn't hear me—that ear was never deaf to me before, but it's deaf now;” he then seized his hand, and raised it, but it was insensible to his touch, and would have fallen on the bed had he let it go. “You see,” he proceeded, “that his hand doesn't know mine any longer! Oh, no, why should it? this is the hand that laid our flower low, so why should he acknowledge it? yet surely he would forgive his father, if he knew it—oh, he would forgive that father, that ever and always loved him—loved him—loved him, oh, that's a wake word, a poor wake word. Well,” he went on, “I will kiss his lips, his blessed lips—oh, many an' many a kiss, many a sweet and innocent kiss—did I get from them lips, Atty dear, with those little arms, that are now so helpless, clasped about my neck.” He then kissed him again and again, but the blessed child's lips did not return the embrace that had never been refused before. “Now,” said he, “you all see that—you all see that he won't kiss me again, and that is bekaise he can't do it; Atty, Atty,” he said, “won't you speak to me? it's I, Atty, sure it's I, Atty dear, your lovin' father, that's callin' you to spake to him. Atty dear, won't you spake to me—do you hear my voice, asthore machree—do you hear your father's voice, that's callin' on you to forgive him?” He paused for a short time, but the child lay insensible and still.
At this moment there was no dry eye present; the very doctor wept. Margaret's grief was loud; she felt every source of love and tenderness for their only boy opened in her unhappy and breaking heart, and was inconsolable: but then compassion for her husband was strong as her grief. She ran to Art, she flung her arms about his neck, and exclaimed—
“Oh, Art dear, Art dear, be consoled: take consolation if you can, or you will break my heart. Forgive you asthore! you, you that would shed your blood for him! don't you know he would forgive you? Sure, I forgive you—his mother, his poor, distracted, heart-broken mother forgives you—in his name I forgive you.” She then threw herself beside the body of their child, and shouted out—“Atty, our blessed treasure, I have forgiven your father for you—in your blessed name, and in the name of the merciful God that you are now with, I have forgiven your unhappy find heart-broken father—as you would do, if you could, our lost treasure, as you would do.”