Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/634

23, 1860.] left her that night wid the scowl upon his brow and the curse upon his lips.

“More nor a year passed away, and still no news uv the Carlo Zeno. The poor mother was well nigh disthracted, and as for ould Clement, he was fairly beside himself. At last, one fine day, who should come back, as if the finger uv Fate was on him, but Black Will himself, and nobody else wid the exception of Art Sullivan, a very ould man, who was carpenter of the ship; she had foundered at say—the crew escaped on a raft; but, after days of awful sufferin’, the only two that were picked off that fatal raft was himself and the carpenter.

“The measure of poor Clement Lorimer’s bitterness was now full; he had seen ships and money and everything pass away from him, and now the only being that bound him to earth, that his poor old wearied heart clung to, the fair golden-haired laughin’ boy, whose presence was like sunshine to him, and whose life was wrapt up in his own, he was gone too, and all the world was black and dreary to him. He longed for rest, the rest that knows no brakin’ ’til the last day comes, and the poor broken-hearted desolate sowl was not long findin’ it. We laid him in his last restin’-place, an’ all that remained of the once great ship-master was a narrow grave and a plain little headstone; and poor Letty was left in solitary widowhood to mourn the days that wor past—too happy to be lastin’ and too fleetin’ to be true.

“The little that was left her she spent in charity and preparin’ herself for the home where those she loved best had gone before her.

“Well, yer honer, one night Letty was tould that a dyin’ man wanted to make his peace wid the world, and that he should see her.

‘Do you know me?’ says he to her whin she wint into the wretched cabin, where he was lyin’ on a lock uv sthraw.

‘You’re Art Sullivan!’ says she, ‘a faithful servant of my poor father’s.’

‘Ay, God help me, Miss Letty!’ says he; ‘I was once honest, an’ had a clear conscience, bud for that black villain Will Gardiner!’ says he.

‘What about him? What of him?’ says she. ‘Oh! Art Sullivan, asthore machree! if you know anything of my poor lost boy—as you are now about to appear before your Judge—tell me!’

‘Listen, my poor Colleen!’ says he. ‘Listen—’twas for that I sint for you. Whin we escaped on the raft young Donald was safe and sound, and so wor’ all the crew, but we had days and nights of awful sufferin’—hunger and thirst and the killin’ heat by day soon sent most of them mad, and they jumped into the say, where the sharks made short work of them, and the rest died of fair starvation. At last, none were left but Will Gardiner, myself, and young Donald Blair. Oh! but he was a brave fine boy! he kept our spirits goin’, day by day, and bid us cheer up, although the poor darlin’s bones wor’ peepin’ thro’ his skin. That terrible man had a little store of rum and biscuit, for I kept my eye on him night an’ day, and when he knew I had discovered him, he gave me a taste now and then, but never a morsel nor a sup would he give the brave child that was dyin’ before his face. I took it, and I tried to make the little Donald swallow some; but no, he had the sperit of a lion, “No!” he used to whisper, and his little eyes would flash, “What the black rascal would not give to the poor men that’s gone shall never pass my lips!” It was a just rebuke to myself, a big man, to hear that from the lips of a child; but I was wake and feeble, and the great black thief was sthrong thro’ his own cowardly selfishness—so, what could I do? When a man is driven to death by inches, he craves for life more than ever—pride, manliness, everything is wake in him; but that boy was a hero, if ever there was one born. At last the day came that all was gone; another and another followed, and Black Will Gardiner stooped over me and whispered a horrid timptation, for, says he, “if we can only prolong life a couple of days more, we’ll be sure to fall in wid some of the homeward-bounders!” My blood curdled at his words; but as the day wore on, and no sign uv a sail, he spoke to me again; but I swore at him, and he swore at and cursed me, and called me a drivellin’ old fool to cant about mercy to a worthless brat. I wondther now he did not throw me overboard, but the coward was afraid of his conscience—he feared being alone. At last, he spoke out bold, and said the time was come we should draw lots for life, one must die to keep the others alive. The lots were drawn, and, God forgive him and me! the lots were drawn falsely, and poor little Donald—Oh! God shield that sight from my memory!—there was that arch-demon struggling wid that poor small child. I screamed; I tried to rise and help and save him; but no, I was feebler than he was, and at last the blow was struck; ay, God forgive him, that man-devil! he murdered poor little Donald—he drank of his blood and he eat of his flesh, and he forced it upon me, too, and bound me by fearful oaths never to reveal what I do now, but I could not die aisy. Oh, mercy! mercy, Miss Letty! I am goin’—I am—’ The wild cry alone answered, the spirit of the old man had fled, and with it the senses of poor Letty Blair.”

“And is it possible, Murtagh?” I exclaimed, “that nothing has ever been done about this?”

‘God“God [sic] bless yer honer!’honer!” [sic] said the old man, ‘what“what [sic] could we do?’do? [sic] Letty told me the story herself in a few odd clear moments she had after the first shock passed away, bud then she got worse than ever. Our only witness was dead, and who would take a man’s life on the word of a poor crazed woman? Bud his day will come, yer honer—sooner or later! The finger is on him, sure an’ fixed! He tried sailin’ from other ports, bud he always comes back to this. Bud tell me, yer honer,’honer,” [sic] said the old man with intense eagerness, ‘do“do [sic] you believe in the appearance of sperits from the other world? ”world?” [sic]

“Why do you ask the question?”

‘“ [sic]Because poor Letty often wandthers by the sayside, and says that she is talking to little Donald; and thin she kneels down beside old Clement’s grave, and whispers to him to be of good cheer, that little Donald is comin’ to him, and that she is comin’ too, but that she must wait for Will Gardiner; and, sure enough, when we see her doin’ this, we know he is not far off; and