“He had a son, hadn’t he?” asked Harry.
“He had, Sir. I never saw him, but they tell me he was a fine boy, and when he was only ten years old, got a broken arm fighting with a seal in one of the caves on the shore; and, what’s more, he didn’t like to own it, because the seal got away from him.”
“What became of him?”
“He was lost at sea, Sir. I believe he turned pirate or slaver himself, and it was no great matter what became of him. They were all unlucky men and women. No one ever heard of a Luttrell coming to good yet.”
“That’s a hard sentence.”
“You’d not think so, Sir, if you knew them; at least, so the men tell me about here. They liked the man that was here last well enough, but they said that nothing he could do would ever prosper.”
“And who owns it now?”
“Kitty O’Hara that was—Neal O’Hara’s daughter—he that was transported long ago—she’s now the mistress of the whole island, and her name—she took it by his will—is Luttrell—Luttrell of Arran!”
“Do the people like her?”
“Why wouldn’t they like her? Isn’t she working and slaving for them all day long, nursing them at the hospital, visiting them in their cabins, teaching them in the school, getting them seed potatoes from Belmullet, and hasn’t she set up a store there on the shore, where they can buy pitch, and hemp, and sailcloth, and all kinds of cordage, for less than half what it costs at Castlebar?” “How has she money to do all this?”