Fardorougha, The Miser: The Works of William Carleton, Volume OneCarleton, William
General
Fardorougha, The Miser: The Works of William Carleton, Volume One
Carleton, William
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
The son at this period would have awoke him, but he became more
composed, for a time, and enjoyed apparently a refreshing sleep. Still,
it soon was evident that he dreamt, and as clear that a change had come
o'er the spirit of his dream.
“Who'll prevent me!” he exclaimed. “Isn't he my son--our only child? Let
me alone--I must, I must--what's my life?--take it, an' let him live.”
The tears started in Connor's eyes, and he pressed his father to his
heart.
“Don't hould me,” he proceeded. “O God! here, I'll give all I'm worth,
an' save him! O, let me, thin--let me but kiss him once before he dies;
it was I, it was myself that murdhered him--all might 'a been well; ay,
it was I that murdhered you, Connor, my brave hoy, an' have I you in
my arms? O, aviek agus asthore machree, it was I that murdhered you, by
my--but they're takin' him--they're bearin' him away to--”
He started, and awoke; but so terrific had been his dream, that on
opening his eyes he clasped Connor in his arms, and exclaimed,--
“No no, I'll hould him till you cut my grip; Connor, avick machree,
hould to me!”
“Father, father, for God's sake, think a minute, you wor only dreaming.”
“Eh--what--where am I? Oh, Connor, darling, if you knew the dhrames I
had--I thought you wor on the scaffie; but thanks be to the Saver, it
was only a dhrame!”
“Nothing more, father, nothing more; but for God's sake, keep your mind
aisy. Trust in God, father, everything's in _His_ hands; if; it's His
will to make us suffer, we ought to submit; and if it's not His will,
He surely can bring us out of all our throubles. That's the greatest
comfort I have.”
Fardorougha once more became calm, but still there was on his
countenance, which was mournful and full of something else than simple
sorrow, some deeply fixed determination, such as it was difficult to
develop.
“Connor, achora,” said he, “I must lave you, for there's little time
to be lost. What attorney would you wish me to employ? I'll go home and
sell oats and a cow or two. I've done you harm enough--more than you
know--but now I'll spare no cost to get you out of this business.
Connor, the tears that I saw awhile agone run down your cheeks cut me to
the heart.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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