An' sure that's no more than all the
counthry's wishin' him, whether or not--not to mintion the curses that's
risin' out o' the grave agin him, loud an' piercin'!"
"God knows it's not slavin' yourself on sich a day as this you'd be,
only for him. Had we kep our farm, you'd be now well an in your larnin'
for a priest--an' there 'ud be one o' the family sure to be a gintleman,
anyhow; but that's gone too, agra. Look at the smoke, how comfortable
it rises from Jack Sullivan's, where the priest has a Station to-day.
'Tisn't fishin' for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this. But
it can't be helped; an' God's will be done! Not himself!--faix, it's
he that'll get the height of good thratement, an' can ride home, well
lined, both inside an' outside. Much good may it do him!--'tis but his
right."
The lad now paused in his turn, looked down on Jack Sullivan's
comfortable house, sheltered by a clump of trees, and certainly saw
such a smoke tossed up from the chimney, as gave unequivocal evidence of
preparation for a good dinner. He next looked "behind the wind," with
a visage made more blank and meagre by the contrast; after which he
reflected for a few minutes, as if working up his mind to some sudden
determination. The deliberation, however, was short; he struck his open
hand upon the head of the spade with much animation, and instantly took
it in both hands, exclaiming:
"Here, father, here goes; to the divil once an' for ever I pitch
slavery," and as he spoke, the spade was sent as far from him as he had
strength to throw it.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25