Chapter VIII: Part 8

At the time of his departure, he had not a friend amongst the passengers of the "Ceres." There was not one on that occasion to speak a word in his favour. But now, as soon as he set foot on the island, he was hailed with three hearty cheers, and there was a struggle among the crowd who surrounded him: as to who should be the first to show their gratitude by a grasp of the hand!

Volume Two, Chapter XIII.

A HUNGRY PASSAGE.

The ship thus brought to our rescue was a New England whaler, that had been cruising about in pursuit of the sperm whale. The captain asked six hundred dollars for taking our whole community to New Zealand.

The demand was by no means extortionate. Indeed, it was a moderate sum--considering the trouble and expense he would have to incur: since he had already lost a good deal of time on his way to the island.

The voyage to New Zealand might occupy several weeks--during which time we would be consuming no small quantity of his stores.

But although this price was not too much for the Yankee skipper to ask, it was more than the Dutch skipper was able to pay: since the latter had not got the money.

The passengers were called upon to subscribe the amount. Most of them objected. They had paid a passage once, they said, and would not pay it over again.

To this the captain of the whaler made a very reasonable rejoinder. If there were just grounds for believing that the money could not be obtained, he would have to take us without it: for he could never leave so many men on so small an island, where they might perish for want of food and water. But as we did not claim to be out of funds, the fault would be our own if he departed without us, which he would certainly do, unless the passage-money was paid. He also gave us warning, that we might expect to put up with many inconveniences upon his ship. She was not a passenger-vessel, nor was he supplied with provisions for so many people.

It was clear that the six hundred dollars must be raised some way or other; and a movement was immediately set on foot to collect it.

Many of the passengers declared that they had no money. Some of them spoke the truth; but the difficulty was to learn who did, and who did not.

Amongst others, who solemnly declared that they had no money, was a ruffian, who had been selling tobacco at the rate of forty dollars per pound. This fact was communicated by the individual, who had repurchased, and paid so dearly, for his own weed.

The fellow was now emphatically informed, that unless he paid his share of the passage-money, he would be left behind upon the island.

This threat had the desired effect. He succeeded in finding the required cash; and after much wrangling, the sum of six hundred dollars was at length made up.

Next day we were taken aboard the whaler; and sailed away from the island in a direct course for the port of Auckland.

I never made a more disagreeable voyage than on board that whaler. There were several reasons that rendered the passage unpleasant. One was, that all on board were in an ill-conditioned frame of mind; and, consequently, had no relish for being either civil or sociable. The diggers had been detained several weeks--on their way to a land they were anxious to reach in the shortest possible time--and they now were to be landed at Auckland instead of Sydney. Another voyage would have to be made, before they could arrive at the gold fields of Australia--of which they had been hearing such attractive tales.

We were not even favoured with a fair breeze. On the contrary, the wind blew most of the way against us; and the ship had to make about three hundred miles, while carrying us only fifty in the right direction.

The whaler, moreover, was an old tub--good enough for her proper purpose, but ill adapted for carrying impatient passengers on their way to a new gold field.

She was kept as much into the wind as possible; but withal made so much lee-way, that her course was side-ways--in the same manner as a pig would go into a battle.

There were no accommodations either for sleeping, or eating the little food we were allowed; and we were compelled to rough it in the most literal sense of the phrase.

By the time we should have reached Auckland, we were not half the distance; and both the provisions and water of the ship were well nigh consumed.

Between seventy and eighty hungry and thirsty men--added to the original crew of the whaler--had made a greater destruction of his ship's stores than the captain had calculated upon; and the third week, after leaving the island, we were put on an allowance of one quart of water per diem to each individual. Meat was no longer served out to us; and simple, though not very sweet, biscuits became our food. We were also allowed rice; but this, without garnishing, was still more insipid than the biscuits.

We thought it hard fare, and complained accordingly, although we had but little reason for doing so. We could only blame our fate, or our fortune; and so the captain of the whaler was accustomed to tell us.

"I warned you," he would say, "that you might expect to have a hard time of it. I'm sure I did not advertise for you to take passage in my vessel, and you have no reason to complain. I do the best for you I can. You are growling about having to eat rice. Millions of people live on it for years, while working hard. You have only to live on it for a few days, and do nothing. I hope, for both our sakes, it won't last long."

It was just, because they were _doing nothing_ that the grumblers were so loud in their complaints.

In justice to many of the passengers, I should state, that those who complained the most were the very men who had paid nothing towards remunerating the captain for his services. They were some of the worst characters aboard; and, without making any allowance for the circumstances under which we were placed, found fault with everything on the whaler. I believe, they did so for the simple reason that she was an American ship.

Luckily we reached Auckland at last, though not a day too soon: for by the time we sighted land the patience of the passengers with each other, and their temper towards the captain, were well nigh exhausted. Had we remained at sea a few hours longer, some strange scenes would have taken place on the whaler, which all aboard of her would not have survived to describe.

No doubt the Yankee captain saw us go over the side of his ship with much heart-felt satisfaction, though certainly this feeling was not all to himself. His late passengers, one and all, equally participated in it.

I saw but very little of Auckland, or rather of the country around it; but, from that little, I formed a very favourable opinion of its natural resources and abilities; and I believe that colony to be a good home for English emigrants.

Being myself a Rolling Stone, I did not regard it with the eyes of a settler; and therefore I might be doing injustice either to the colony itself, or to intending emigrants, by saying much about it.

Guided by recent experiences, there is one thing I can allege in favour of New Zealand as a colony, which, in my opinion, makes it superior to any other; that is, that a home can be there had _farther away from London_, than in any other colonial settlement with which I am acquainted.

From Auckland to reach any part of Australia required a further outlay of six pounds sterling.

The gold-diggers thought this rather hard--alleging that they had already paid their passage twice; but they were forced to submit to circumstances.

For myself, after remaining in Auckland a few days, I obtained a passage in a small vessel sailing for Sydney, which port we reached, after a short and pleasant run of nine days' duration.

I had been exactly five months in getting from San Francisco to Sydney-- a voyage that, under ordinary circumstances, might have been made in fifty days!

Volume Two, Chapter XIV.

THE GUARDIANS OF THE ORPHAN.

I had at length reached the place where, in all probability, I should find my long-lost mother.

A few days might find me happy, with my relatives restored to me, and all of us on our way to Liverpool--where I should see Lenore!

I felt a very singular sort of pleasure, in the anticipation of an interview with my mother and sister. They would not know me: for I was but a boy, when I parted from them in Dublin. They would scarce believe that the fair-skinned, curly-haired, little "Rolling Stone," could have become changed to a large bearded man--with a brow tanned by the South Sea gales, and the hot tropical beams of a Californian sun.

Before leaving San Francisco I had obtained the address of the grandparents of Mr Leary's child; and also of several other people in Sydney--who would be likely to have known something of Leary himself residing there.

From some of these persons I hoped to obtain information, that would guide me in the search after my relatives.

Mr Davis--the father of the unfortunate girl who had eloped with Leary--was a respectable shopkeeper in the grocery line.

As there could be no great difficulty in finding his shop, I resolved to make my first call upon the grocer.

Notwithstanding my hatred to Leary, I felt some interest in the child he had helped to make an orphan. I wished to ascertain, whether it had been safely delivered into the charge of its grandparents--as also the gold, which the Californian miners had so liberally contributed towards its support.

The next day after landing in Sydney, I made my call upon Mr Davis.

I found his shop without any difficulty; and in it himself--an honest-looking man, apparently about fifty years of age.

His business appeared to be in a flourishing condition: for the establishment was a large one, and to all appearance well-stocked with the articles required in a retail grocery.

There were two young men behind the counter, besides Mr Davis himself, who, as I entered, was in the act of serving a customer.

On the old gentleman being told, that if he was not too much engaged, I should like a few minutes' conversation with him, he handed the customer over to one of his assistants; and conducted me into a sitting-room that adjoined the shop.

After complying with his request to be seated, I told him, I had lately arrived from California, where I had heard of him, and that I had now called to see him, on a business to me of some importance. I added, that the communication I had to make might awaken some unpleasant thoughts; but that I deemed it better to make it, rather than run the risk of incurring his displeasure, by not communicating with him at all.

Mr Davis then civilly demanded to know the nature of my business, though from his tone I could tell, that he already half comprehended it.

"If I am not mistaken," said I, "you have a child here, that has been sent you from California?"

"Yes," answered he, "one was brought to me from there, about four months ago. I was told that it was my grandchild; and I received it as such."

"And have you also received a sum of money, that was to have been intrusted to your care, for its benefit?" I asked.

"I have; and that was some proof to me that the child was really my grandchild."

To this sage observation of the grocer, I replied, by making to him a full disclosure of my object in visiting Sydney; and that I had called on himself to learn, if possible, something concerning my own mother.

"You could not have come to a better place to obtain that information," said he; "a woman calling herself Mrs Leary, and claiming to be the wife of the man who had been known here by the name of Mathews, calls here almost every day. If she be your mother, you will have no difficulty in finding her: she is a dress-maker, and my wife can tell you where she resides."

My task had proved much easier than I had any reason to expect; and I was now only impatient to obtain the address; and hasten to embrace my long-lost mother.

"Do not be too fast," said the cautious Mr Davis. "Wait until you have learnt something more. Let me ask you two or three questions. Do you know how the man Mathews died?"

"Yes: I saw him die."

"Then you know for what reason he was put to death?"

"I do," was my answer. "And you--?"

"I too--alas! too certainly," rejoined Mr Davis in a sorrowful tone. "But stay!" he continued, "I have something more to say to you, before you see the woman who calls herself his wife, and whom you believe to be your mother. She does not know that Mathews is dead. I did not wish it to go abroad, that my daughter had been murdered, and that the man with whom she eloped had been hanged for the deed. Her running away with him was sorrow and shame enough, without our acquaintances knowing any more. They think that my daughter died in a natural way; and that the man Mathews, has merely sent the child back to us, that we might bring it up for him. The woman, you think is your mother, believes this also; and that Mathews is still alive, and will soon return. She seems to love him, more than she does her own life. I have informed you of this, so that you may know how to act. She comes here often to see the child-- because her husband was its father. She is a strange woman: for she seems to love the little creature as though it was her own; and I have no doubt would willingly take sole charge of it on herself, were we to allow her."

All this was strange information, and such as gave me exceeding pain. It was evident that my unfortunate mother had profited nothing by the experience of the past. She was as much infatuated with Leary as ever-- notwithstanding that he had again deserted her, after she had made a voyage of sixteen thousand miles to rejoin him!

I saw Mrs Davis and the young Leary. It was an interesting child--a boy, and bore no resemblance to the father, that I could perceive. Had it done so, I should have hated it; and so did I declare myself in the presence of its grandmother. In reply to this avowal, the old lady informed me that Mrs Leary and I held a different opinion upon the point of the child's resemblance: for she thought it a perfect image of its father, and that was the reason why she was so dotingly fond of it!

"Thank God!" said the grandmother, "that I myself think as you do. No. The child has no resemblance to its unworthy father. I am happy in thinking, that in every feature of its face it is like its mother--my own unfortunate child. I could not love it were it not for that; but now I don't know what I should do without it. God has surely sent us this little creature, as some compensation for the loss we sustained by being deprived of our dear daughter!"

The grief of the bereaved mother could not be witnessed without pain; and leaving her with the child in her arms, I withdrew.

Volume Two, Chapter XV.

A MEETING WITH A LONG-LOST MOTHER.

From Mrs Davis I had obtained my mother's address; and I went at once in search of the place.

Passing along the street, to which I had been directed, I saw a small, but neat-looking shop, with the words "_Mrs Leary, Milliner and Dress-Maker_" painted over the door. I had journeyed far in search of my mother; I had just arrived from a long voyage--which it had taken three ships to enable me to complete. The weariness of spirit, and impatience caused by the delay, had been a source of much misery to me; but now that the object of my search was found--and there was nothing further to do than enter the house and greet my long-lost relatives-- strange enough, I felt as if there was no more need for haste! Instead of at once stepping into the house, I passed nearly an hour in the street--pacing up and down it, altogether undetermined how to act.

During that hour my thoughts were busy, both with the past and future: for I knew that in the interview I was about to hold with my mother, topics must come into our conversation of a peculiar kind, and such as required the most serious reflection on my part, before making myself known to her.

Should I make her acquainted with the ignominious termination of Mr Leary's career; and by that means endeavour to put an end to her strange infatuation for him? If what Mrs Davis had told me regarding her should turn out to be true, I almost felt as if I could no longer regard her as a mother. Indeed, when I reflected on her affection for such a wretch as Leary, I could not help some risings of regret, that I should have lost so much time, and endured so many hardships, in search of a relative who could be guilty of such incurable folly.

Notwithstanding the time spent in pacing through the street, I could determine on no definite course of action; and, at length, resolving to be guided by circumstances, I stepped up to the house, and knocked at the door.

It was opened by a young woman, about nineteen years of age.

I should not have known who she was, had I not expected to meet relatives; but the girl was beautiful, and just such as I should have expected to find my sister Martha. My thoughts had so often dwelt upon my little sister; that I had drawn in my mind an imaginary portrait of her. Her blue eyes and bright hair, as well as the cast of her countenance, and form of her features, had ever remained fresh and perfect in my memory. I had only to gaze on the young girl before me, refer to my mental picture of little Martha, remember that eleven years had passed since last I saw her, and be certain that I had found my sister.

I knew it was she; but I said nothing to make the recognition mutual. I simply asked for Mrs Leary.

I was invited in; and requested to take a seat.

The apartment, into which I was conducted, seemed to be used as a sitting-room as well as a shop; and from its general appearance I could tell that my mother and sister were not doing a very flourishing business. There was enough, however, to satisfy me, that they were earning their living in a respectable manner.

To prevent being misunderstood, I will state, that, by a respectable manner, I mean that they, to all appearance, were supporting themselves by honest industry; and in my opinion there can be no greater evidence, that they were living a life that should command respect.

The young girl, without a suspicion of the character of her visitor, left me to summon the person for whom I had made inquiry; and in a few minutes time, Mrs Leary herself entered from an adjoining room. I saw at a glance that she was the woman I remembered as _mother_!

The face appeared older and more careworn; but the features were the same, that had lived so long in my memory.

It would be impossible to describe the strange emotions that crowded into my soul on once more beholding my long-lost, unfortunate mother. I know not why I should have been so strongly affected. Some may argue that a weak intellect is easily excited by trifles. They may be correct; but there is another phenomenon. A great passion can never have existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a storm of strong passions was raging within mine.

I tried to speak, but could not. Language was not made for the thoughts that at that moment stirred within me.

It was not until I had been twice asked by my mother, what was my business, that I perceived the necessity of saying something.

But what was I to say? Tell her that I was her son?

This was what common sense would have dictated; but, just at that crisis, I did not happen to have any sense of this quality about me. My thoughts were wandering from the days of childhood up to that hour; they were in as much confusion, as though my brains had been stirred about with a wooden spoon.

I contrived to stammer out something at last; and I believe the words were, "I have come to see you."

"If that is your only business," said my mother, "now that you have seen me, you may go again."

How familiar was the sound of her voice! It seemed to have been echoing, for years, from wall to wall in the mansion of my memory.

I made no effort to avail myself of the permission she had so curtly granted; but continued gazing at the two--my eyes alternately turning from mother to daughter--in a manner that must have appeared rude enough.

"Do you hear me?" said the old lady. "If you have no business here, why don't you go away?"

There was an energy in her tone that touched another chord of memory. "It is certainly my mother," thought I, "and I am at home once more."

My soul was overwhelmed with a thousand emotions--more strong than had ever stirred it before. I know not whether they were of pleasure or of pain: for I could not analyse them then, and have never felt them before or since.

My actions were involuntary: for my thoughts were too much occupied to guide them.

A sofa stood near; and, throwing myself upon it, I tried to realise the fact that eleven years had passed, since parting with my relatives a boy, and that I had met them again, and was a boy no longer!

"Martha!" cried my mother, "go and bring a policeman!"

The young girl had been gazing at me, long and earnestly. She continued her gaze, without heeding the command thus addressed to her.

"Mother," rejoined she, after an interval, "we have seen this man before; I'm sure I have."

"Did you not once live in Dublin, sir?" she asked, turning to me.

"Yes, I once lived there--when a boy," I answered.

"Then I must be mistaken," said she; "but I really thought I had seen you there."

There was something so very absurd in this remark, that I could not help noticing it--even in my abstracted state of mind; and this very absurdity had the effect of awakening me from my reverie.

It then suddenly occurred to the young girl, that she had not been in Dublin since she was a child herself; and, at the time she left that city, a young man of my appearance could not have been much more than a boy.

"Perhaps, I am right after all?" said she. "I do believe that I've seen you in Dublin. Mother!" she added, turning to the old lady; "He knows who we are."

Martha's first remark--about having seen me in Dublin--brought upon me the earnest gaze of my mother. She had often told me that when a man I would look like my father; and perhaps my features awakened within her some recollections of the past.

She came up to me; and, speaking in a low, earnest voice, said: "Tell me who you are!"

I arose to my feet, trembling in every limb.

"Tell me who you are! What is your name?" she exclaimed--becoming nearly as much excited as myself.

I could no longer refrain from declaring myself; and I made answer:--

"I am the Rolling Stone."

Had I been a small and weak man, I should have been crushed and suffocated by the embraces of my mother and sister--so demonstrative were they in their expressions of surprise and joy!

As soon as our excitement had, to some extent, subsided; and we were able to converse a rational manner, I inquired after my brother William.

"I left him apprenticed to a harness-maker in Liverpool," answered my mother.

"But where is he now?" I asked; "that was long ago."

My mother began to weep; and Martha made answer for her.

"William ran away from his master; and we have never heard of him since."

I requested to be informed what efforts had been made to find him. I was then told that my mother had written two or three times to the harness-maker; and from him had learnt that he had used every exertion, to discover the whereabouts of his runaway apprentice, but without success.

It appeared that my mother never liked to hear any one speak of William: for she had some unpleasant regrets at having left him behind her in Liverpool.

I consoled her, by saying that I had plenty of money, that William should be advertised for, and found; and that we should all again live happily together--as we had in years long gone by.

In all my life I was never more happy than on that evening. The future was full of hope.

It was true that much had yet to be done before my purposes could be fully accomplished. But a man with nothing to do, cannot be contented. We must ever have something to attain, or life is not worth the having.

I had yet something to live for. I had still a task to perform that might require much time and toil. I had yet to win Lenore!

Volume Two, Chapter XVI.

MYSTIFIED BY MARTHA.

The next day I had a long conversation with my mother--as to what we should do in the future.

It resulted in my proposing, that we should return immediately to Liverpool.

"No! no!" protested she, with an eagerness that astonished me; "I cannot think of that. I must wait for the return of my husband."

"Your husband!"

"Yes! yes! Mr Leary. He has gone to California; but I have reason to believe that he will soon be back."

"Now that you have spoken of _him_," said I, "please to tell me all about him; and how he has used you since I left home."

"He has always been very kind to me," she answered, "very kind indeed. He has gone to the diggings in California, where I have no doubt but what he will do well, and come back with plenty of money."

"But I was told in Dublin that he deserted you there," said I. "Was that very kind indeed?"

"It is true; he did leave me there; but the business was doing badly, and he couldn't help going. I have no doubt but what he was sorry for it afterwards."

"Then you followed him here, and lived with him again?"

"Yes; and we were very happy."

"But I have been told by Mr Davis--whom you know--that he again deserted you here, and ran away to California with another woman. Is that true?"

"He did go to California," answered my foolish mother, "and I suppose that Miss Davis went with him; but I blame her more than him: for I'm sure she led him astray, or he would not have gone with her. However, I'll not say much against her: for I hear she is dead now, poor thing!"

"Knowing that she has deserted you twice, what leads you to think that he will again return to you?"

"Because _I know that he loves me_! He was always so kind and affectionate. The woman, who led him astray, is no longer alive to misguide him; and I know he will comeback to me."

"My poor deceived, trusting, foolish mother!"

I only muttered the words--she did not hear them.

"Besides," continued she, "gold is now being found here in Australia. Many of the miners are coming home again. I'm sure he will be among them. It is true, he is a little wild for his years; but he will not always be so. He will return to his wife; and we shall be once more happy."

"Mother! Am I to understand that you refuse to accompany me to England?"

"Rowland, my son," said she, in a reproachful tone, "how can you ask me to go away from here, when I tell you that I am every day expecting my husband to return? Wait awhile, till he comes; and then we will all go together."

Certainly to have said anything more to her on the subject would have been folly. It would be no use in trying to reason with her, after that proposal. The idea of my going aboard of a ship, on a long voyage, accompanied by Mr Leary--even supposing the man to have been in the land of the living--was too incongruous to be entertained and at the same time preserve tranquillity of spirit.

I was tempted to tell her, that Mr Leary had met the reward of his long career of crime--or, at least, a part of it--but, when I reflected on her extreme delusions concerning the man, I feared that such a communication might be dangerous to her mind.

From Martha I learnt what was indeed already known to me: that our mother had been all along willing and ready to sacrifice not only her own happiness, but that of her children, for the sake of this vile caitiff. My sister told me, that when they reached Liverpool, and found that Mr Leary had gone to Sydney, my mother determined to follow him immediately; and that William had been left behind in Liverpool, because she thought that coming without him she would be better received by the wretch whom she called her husband.

On reaching Sydney, they had found Mr Leary passing under the name of Mathews. He was at first disposed to have nothing to do with his Dublin wife; but having come to the knowledge that she was in possession of about fifteen pounds of the money received for her lease, he changed his mind; and lived with her, until he had spent every penny of it in drink and dissipation.

"Until he sailed for California," said Martha, "he used to come every day, and stay awhile with mother--whenever he thought that he could obtain a shilling by doing so; and then we saw him no more. Ah, Rowland! I have had much suffering since we were together. Many days have I gone without eating a morsel--in order that money might be saved for Mr Leary. Oh! I hope we shall never see him again!"

"You never will see him again," said I; "he is gone, where our poor mother will be troubled with him no more: he is dead."

Martha was an impulsive creature; and in her excitement at hearing the news, exclaimed--

"Thank God for it! No! no!" she continued, as if repenting what she had said, "I don't mean that; but if he is dead, it will be well for mother; he will never trouble her again."

I made known to my sister all the particulars of Leary's death. She agreed with me in the idea I had already entertained: that the intelligence could not with safety be communicated to our mother.

"I don't believe," said Martha, "that any woman in this world ever loved a man so much as mother does Mr Leary. I am sure, Rowland, it would kill her, to hear what you have just told me."

"But we must bring her to know it in some way," said I; "She must be told of his death: for I can see that she will not consent to leave Sydney, so long as she believes him to be alive. We cannot return to England, and leave her here; and it is evident she won't go with us, while she thinks there is the slightest chance of his coming back. We must tell her that he is dead, and take chance of the consequences."

My sister made no rejoinder to my proposal; and, while speaking, I fancied that my words, instead of being welcome, were having an unpleasant effect upon her!

Judging by the expression upon her features, I did not think it was fear for the result of any communication I might make to our mother, though what caused it, I could not guess.

Whenever I had spoken about returning to Europe, I observed that my sister did not appear at all gratified with my proposal, but the contrary!

I could not comprehend, why she should object to an arrangement, that was intended for the happiness of all. There was some mystery about her behaviour, that was soon to receive an elucidation--to me as unexpected, as it was painful.

Volume Two, Chapter XVII.

MY MOTHER MAD!

I was anxious at once to set sail for Liverpool--taking my mother and sister along with me. Of the money I had brought from San Francisco, there was still left a sufficient sum to accomplish this purpose; but should I remain much longer in Sydney, it would not be enough. I had determined not to leave my relatives in the colony; and the next day a long consultation took place, between myself and Martha, as to how we should induce our mother to return to England. My idea was, to let her know that Leary was dead--then tell her plainly of the crime he had committed, as also the manner of his death. Surely, on knowing these things, she would no longer remain blind to his wickedness; but would see the folly of her own conduct, and try to forget the past, in a future, to be happily spent in the society of her children?

So fancied I. To my surprise, Martha seemed opposed to this plan of action, though without assigning any very definite reasons for opposing it.

"Why not be contented, and live here, Rowland?" said she; "Australia is a fine country; and thousands are every year coming to it from England. If we were there, we would probably wish to be back here. Then why not remain where we are?"

My sister may have thought this argument very rational, and likely to affect me. It did; but in a different way from that intended. Perhaps my desire to return to Lenore hindered me from appreciating the truth it contained.

I left Martha, undetermined how to act, and a good deal dissatisfied with the result of our interview. It had produced within me a vague sense of pain. I could not imagine why my sister was so unwilling to leave the colony, which she evidently was.

I was desirous to do everything in my power, to make my new-found relatives happy. I could not think of leaving them, once more unprotected and in poverty; and yet I could not, even for them, resign the only hope I had of again seeing Lenore.

I returned to the hotel, where I was staying. My thoughts were far from being pleasant companions; and I took up a newspaper, in hopes of finding some relief from the reflections that harassed my spirit. Almost the first paragraph that came under my eye was the following:--

Another Atrocity in California.--Murder of an English Subject.--We
have just received reliable information of another outrage having been
committed in California, on one of those who have been so unfortunate
as to leave these shores for that land of bloodshed and crime. It
appears, from the intelligence we have received, that a woman was, or
was supposed to have been, murdered, at the diggings near Sonora. The
American population of the place, inspired by their prejudices against
English colonists from Australia, and by their love for what, to them,
seems a favourite amusement--Lynch Law--seized the first man from the
colonies they could find; and hung him upon the nearest tree!

We understand the unfortunate victim of this outrage is Mr Mathews--a
highly respectable person from this city. We call upon the Government
of the Mother Country to protect Her Majesty's subjects from these
constantly recurring outrages of lawless American mobs. Let it demand
of the United States Government, that the perpetrators of this crime
shall be brought to punishment. That so many of Her Majesty's loyal
subjects have been murdered, by blind infuriated mobs of Yankees, is
enough to make any true Englishman blush with shame for the Government
that permits it.

There is one circumstance connected with the above outrage, which
illustrates American character; and which every Englishman will read
with disgust. When the rope was placed around the neck of the
unfortunate victim, a young man stepped forward, and claimed him as
his father! This same ruffian gave the word to the mob, to pull the
rope that hoisted their unfortunate victim into eternity! So
characteristic a piece of American wit was, of course, received by a
yell of laughter from the senseless mob. Comment on this case is
unnecessary.

Regarding this article as a literary curiosity, I purchased a copy of the paper containing it, by preserving which, I have been enabled here to reproduce it _in extenso_.

On reading the precious statement, one thing became very plain, that my mother could not remain much longer ignorant of Mr Leary's death; and, therefore, the sooner it should be communicated to her, in some delicate manner, the better it might be. It must be done, either by Martha or myself and at once.

I returned forthwith to the house--in time to witness a scene of great excitement. My mother had just read in the Sydney paper, the article above quoted; and the only description I can give, of the condition into which it had thrown her, would be to say, that she was mad--a raving lunatic!

Some women, on the receipt of similar news, would have fainted. A little cold water, or hartshorn, would have restored them to consciousness; and their sorrows would in time have become subdued. My mother's grief was not of this evanescent kind. Affection for Mathew Leary absorbed her whole soul, which had received a mortal wound, on learning the fate that had unexpectedly, but justly, befallen the wretch.

"Rowland!" she screamed out, as I entered the house! "He is dead! He is murdered. He has been hung innocently, by a mob of wretches in California."

I resolved to do what is sometimes called "taking the bull by the horns."

"Yes, you are right, mother," said I. "If you mean Mr Leary, he _was hung innocently_; for the men who did the deed were guilty of no wrong. Mathew Leary deserved the fate that has befallen him."

My mother's intellect appeared to have been sharpened by her affliction, for she seemed to remember every word of the article she had read.

"Rowland!" she screamed, "you have come from California. You aided in murdering him. Ha! It was you who insulted him in the hour of death, by calling him father. O God! it was you."

The idea of my insulting Mathew Leary, by calling him father, seemed to me the most wonderful and original conception, that ever emanated from the human mind.

"Ha!" continued my mother, hissing cut the words. "It was you that gave the word to the others--the word that brought him to death? You are a murderer! You are not my son! I curse you! Take my curse and begone! No, don't go yet! Wait 'till I've done with you!"

As she said this, she made a rush at me; and, before I could get beyond her reach, a handful of hair was plucked from my head!

When finally hindered from farther assailing me, she commenced dragging out her own hair, all the while raving like a maniac!

She became so violent at length, that it was found necessary to tie her down; and, acting under the orders of a physician, who had been suddenly summoned to the house, I took my departure--leaving poor Martha, weeping by the side of a frantic woman, whom we had the misfortune to call mother.

How long to me appeared the hours of that dreary night. I passed them in an agony of thought, that would have been sufficient punishment, even for Mr Leary--supposing him to have been possessed of a soul capable of feeling it.

I actually made such reflection while tossing upon my sleepless couch!

It had one good effect; it summoned reason to my aid; and I asked myself: Why was I not like him, with a soul incapable of sorrow? What was there to cause me the agony I was enduring? I was young, and in good health: why was I not happy? Because my mother had gone mad with grief for the death of a wicked man? Surely that could be no cause for the misery I myself suffered, or should not have been to a person of proper sense? My mother had been guilty of folly, and was reaping its reward. Why should I allow myself to be punished also? It could not aid her: why should I give way to it?

"But your sister is also in sorrow," whispered some demon into the ear of my spirit, "and how can you be happy?"

"So are thousands of others in sorrow, and ever will be," answered reason. "Let those be happy who can. The fool who makes himself wretched because others are, will ever meet misery, and ever deserve it."

Selfish reason counselled in vain: for care had mounted my soul, and could not be cast off.

Volume Two, Chapter XVIII.

A MELANCHOLY END.

The next morning, I was forbidden by the physician to come into my mother's presence.

He said, that her life depended on her being kept tranquil; and he had learnt enough to know, that nothing would be more certain to injure her than the sight of myself. He feared that she would have an attack of brain fever, which would probably have a fatal termination.

I saw Martha; and conversed with her for a few minutes. My poor sister had also passed a sleepless night; and, like myself, was in great distress of mind.

Her affliction was even greater than mine: for she had never, like me, been separated from her mother.

The physician's fears were too soon realised. Before the day passed, he pronounced his patient to be under a dangerous attack of brain fever--a disease that, in New South Wales, does not trifle long with its victims.

That night the sufferings of my unhappy mother ceased--I hope, for ever.

For all that had passed, I felt sincere sorrow at her loss. For years had I been anticipating an exquisite pleasure--in sometime finding my relatives and providing them with a good home. I had found my mother at last, only to give me a fresh sorrow--and then behold her a corpse!

If this narrative had been a work of fiction, I should perhaps have shaped it in a different fashion. I should have told how all my long-cherished anticipations had been happily realised. In dealing with fiction, we can command, even fate, to fulfil our desires; but in a narrative of real adventures, we must deal with fate as it has presented itself, however much it may be opposed to our ideas of dramatic justice.

There are moments, generally met in affliction, when the most incredulous man may become the slave of superstition. Such was the case with myself, at that crisis, when sorrow for the loss of my mother, was strong upon me. I began to fancy that my presence boded death to every acquaintance or friend, with whom I chanced to come in contact.

Memory brought before me, the fate of Hiram, on our "prospecting" expedition in California, as also the melancholy end of the unfortunate Richard Guinane.

My truest friend, Stormy Jack, had met a violent death, soon after coming to reside with me; and now, immediately after finding my mother, I had to follow her remains to the grave!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soon after we had buried our mother, I consulted Martha, as to what we should do. I was still desirous of returning to Liverpool; and, of course, taking my sister along with me. I proposed that we should start, without further loss of time.

"I am sorry you are not pleased with the colony," said she. "I know you would be, if you were to stay here a little longer. Then you would never wish to return."

"Do not think me so foolish," I answered, "as to believe that I have come to this place with the intention of remaining; and wish to leave it, without giving it a fair trial. I came here on business, that is now accomplished; and why should I stay longer, when business calls me elsewhere?"

"Rowland, my brother!" cried Martha, commencing to weep. "Why will you _go_ and forsake me?"

"I do not wish to forsake you, Martha," said I. "On the contrary, I wish you to go along with me. I am not a penniless adventurer now; and would not ask you to accompany me to Liverpool, if I were not able to provide you with a home there, I offer you that, sister. Will you accept of it?"

"Rowland! Rowland!!" she exclaimed; "do not leave me! You are, perhaps, the only relative I have in the world. Oh! you will not desert me."

"Silence, Martha," said I. "Do not answer me again in that manner; or we part immediately, and perhaps for ever. Did you not understand me? I asked you to go with me to Liverpool; and you answer, by intreating me not to desert you. Say you are willing to go with me; or let me know the reason why you are not!"

"I do not wish to go to Liverpool," replied she; "I do not wish to leave Sydney. I have lived here several years. It is my home: and I don't like to leave it--I _cannot_ leave it, Rowland!"

Though far from a satisfactory answer, I saw it was all I was likely to get, and that I should have to be contented with it. I asked no further questions--the subject was too painful.

I suspected that my sister's reasons for not wishing to leave Sydney, were akin to those that had hindered my mother from consenting to go with me. In all likelihood, my poor sister had some Mr Leary for whom she was waiting; and for whom she was suffering a similar infatuation?

It was an unpleasant reflection; and aroused all the selfishness of my nature. I asked myself: why I should not seek my own happiness in preference to looking after that of others, and meeting with worse than disappointment?

Perhaps it was selfishness that had caused me to cross the Pacific in search of my relations? I am inclined to think it was: for I certainly did fancy, that, the way to secure my own happiness was to find them and endeavour to make them happy. As my efforts had resulted in disappointment, why should I follow the pursuit any longer--at least, in the same fashion?

My sister was of age. She was entitled to be left to herself--in whatever way she wished to seek her own welfare. She had a right to remain in the colony, if she chose to do so.

I could see the absurdity of her trying to keep me from Lenore: and could therefore concede to her the right of remaining in the colony. Her motive for remaining in Sydney, might be as strong as mine was for returning to Liverpool?

I had the full affection of a brother for Martha; and yet I could be persuaded to leave her behind. Should I succeed in overcoming her objections--or in any manner force her to accompany me--perhaps misfortune might be the result: and then the fault would be mine.

At this time, there were many inducements for my remaining in the colonies. Astounding discoveries of gold were being daily made in Victoria; and the diggings of New South Wales were richly rewarding all those who toiled in them.

Moreover, I had been somewhat fascinated by the free, romantic life of the gold-hunter; and was strongly tempted once more to try my fortune upon the gold fields.

Still there was a greater attraction in Liverpool. I had been too long absent from Lenore; and must return to her. The desire of making money, or of aiding my relatives, could no longer detain me. I must learn, whether the future was worth warring for--whether my reward was to be, Lenore.

I told my sister that I should not any more urge her to accompany me-- that I should go alone, and leave her, with my best wishes for her future welfare. I did not even require her to tell me the true reasons why she was not willing to leave Sydney: for I was determined we should part in friendship. I merely remarked that, we must no more be lost to each other's knowledge; but that we should correspond regularly. I impressed upon her at parting--ever to remember that she had a brother to whom she could apply, in case her unexplained conduct should ever bring regret.

My sister seemed much affected by my parting words; and I could tell that her motive for remaining behind was one of no ordinary strength. I resolved, before leaving her, to place her beyond the danger of immediate want.

A woman, apparently respectable, wished some one with a little money to join her in the same business, in which my mother and Martha had been engaged.

I was able to give my sister what money the woman required; and, before leaving, I had the satisfaction to see her established in the business, and settled in a comfortable home.

There was nothing farther to detain me in Sydney--nothing, as I fondly fancied, but the sea between myself and Lenore!

Volume Two, Chapter XIX.

NEWS FROM LENORE.

A large clipper ship was about to sail for Liverpool; and I paid it a visit--in order to inspect the accommodations it might afford for a passenger.

I made up my mind to go by this vessel; and selected a berth in the second cabin. Before leaving the clipper, I came in contact with her steward; and was surprised at finding in him an old acquaintance.

I was agreeably surprised: for it was Mason--the man who had been steward of the ship Lenore--already known to the reader, as one of the men, who had assisted in setting me right with Mrs Hyland and her daughter. Mason was pleased to meet me again; and we had a talk over old times.

He told me, that since leaving Liverpool he had heard of Adkins; that he was the first officer of an American ship; and had won the reputation of being a great bully.

I told the steward in return that I had heard of Adkins myself at a later date--that I had in fact, seen him, in California, where I had been a witness to his death, and that he had been killed for indulging in the very propensity spoken of.

Mason and Adkins had never been friends, when sailing together; and I knew that this bit of information would not be received by the old steward in any very unpleasant manner. Nor was I mistaken.

"You remember Mrs Hyland, and her daughter?" said Mason, as we continued to talk. "What am I thinking of? Of course you do: since in Liverpool the captain's house was almost your home."

"Certainly," I answered; "I can never forget _them_."

On saying this, I spoke the words of truth.

"Mrs Hyland is now living in London," the steward continued. "She is residing with her daughter, who is married."

"What!" I exclaimed, "Lenore Hyland--married?"

"Yes. Have you not heard of it? She married the captain of a ship in the Australia trade, who, after the marriage, took her and her mother to London."

"Are you sure--that--that--you cannot be mistaken?" I asked, gasping for breath.

"Yes, quite sure," replied Mason. "What's the matter? you don't appear to be pleased at it?"

"Oh nothing--nothing. But what reason have you for thinking she is married?" I asked, trying to appear indifferent.

"Only that I heard so. Besides, I saw her at the Captain's house in London where I called on business. I had some notion of going a voyage with him."

"But are you sure the person you saw was Lenore--the daughter of Captain Hyland?"