Lost Lenore Part 36

"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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.signing 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 hara.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.es 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 amus.e.m.e.nt--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 circ.u.mstance connected with the above outrage, which ill.u.s.trates 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 G.o.d! 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 a.s.sailing 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 pa.s.sed 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.