Victor Roy, A Masonic poem | Page 5

that old aunt died at
Ayr,?And only one hundred pounds was left to Aimee, her rightful heir; Not that I married Aimee for wealth, but I thought it just as sure, That grand estate, to think of it all, and I lying here so poor. Ah, I want some brandy! I must have something to make me feel more strong. Brandy! it is money, and life, and health; what makes Aimee stay so long? Oh, here you are, make up more fire; I should think you're warm enough Walking about, let me have that shawl, to-night will be wild and rough. I must have some more spirit to keep me up, not that I heed the lie, The doctor told you this morning that before very long I must die. I expect, if I had some of the gold your old aunt used to keep, He would manage to raise me up all right--you think I had better sleep, You think me ungrateful, perhaps; reach some brandy and then you'll see How more than grateful I am, what a pattern of patience I'll be. No money, no means, the last thing's gone, and Ethel and you in need! Well, you must have managed badly enough with only two mouths to feed, For you can't count me as much, the little support I take,?A little stimulant now and then, swallowed only for your sake. Aimee, I must have some now--nothing left? what is that glittering thing? Aimee, you dear one, dispose of that; of what use is our wedding ring? Don't be cross for the sake of the child, you say, why you angel dear, Who would ever doubt you, so good, so true, you have nothing to fear. And then you're always trusting in God, and surely he would approve Of your selling your wedding ring for him that you've sworn to love? I wish that wind would stop howling, it says such queer things to me, Wake up, little Ethel, and send her before it's too dark to see If that old fraud of a pawnbroker gives her the change all right. Aimee, send quickly, I feel so strange; oh, I dread this coming night. I never murdered that man out there, away on the western plains; And yet there are spots of blood on the floor, they can't wash out the
stains.?What is it the lawyers call it? "Accessory to the fact?"?Ha! ha! old boy, I was wide awake; they could not catch me in the act, So we put that poor young fool of a lad, just out from the motherland, Made him just drunk enough to fight when we needed a helping hand; A helping hand with a bowie knife and a corpse to be stowed away, We were sober enough not to be on hand when called upon next day. Who's that? Who are you? Stop! stop! coming whispering into my ear, "There are other judges, other law courts, and I have cause to fear." How the ship struggles and reels--all right--is this the Australian shore? No, sandbars and reefs; will they never stop those confounded breaker's
roar??Aimee, what is it? Take that stuff? I will if 'twill make me sleep. I cannot rest; shall I never be quiet; hark how the wild winds sweep. No, Victor, no; you got the money, and that was enough for you. Did you think I was fool enough, man, to let you have Aimee too? Aimee, come here and whisper to me; what does the judgment mean? Judgment and conscience.--Look, look, there's Victor grinning behind the
screen!?Victor in heaven this many a year? I tell you it is no such thing. Aimee, you were dead once--were drowned--did you hear the mermaids sing? I say you were drowned one night, when the pleasure boat struck the bar, And before any help could come you had floated out deep and far. Every available thing was done that sailor or landsman could try; But you could not be found--I guess not--so of course you had to die. Hav'nt I a remarkable memory? these were the words I wrote: "Every available thing was done by sailor or landsman afloat." So Victor knows all about it--there! there he is coming again; No! no! we are'nt here, we're away on the southern Indian main. Who calls me? Who wants me? I cannot go into that wild dark land. Somebody, help! Is this death? Don't touch me with that cold hand. Aimee, don't leave me; oh say, have the officers found me at last? Tell me--I think it's the medicine I took that makes me dream of the
past--?Oh, will they believe me up there, in the clear bright rays of the sun, That shows all the by-gone years of a life, the crimes a man has done? Will nobody