Lost Lenore Part 34

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 G.o.d!" 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. G.o.d 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.

Pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion can never have existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a storm of strong pa.s.sions 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 a.n.a.lyse 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 pa.s.sed, since parting with my relatives a boy, and that I had met them again, and was a boy no longer!