long in my memory.
It would be impossible to describe the strange emotions that crowdedinto my soul on once more beholding my long-lost, unfortunate mother. Iknow not why I should have been so strongly affected. Some may arguethat a weak intellect is easily excited by trifles. They may becorrect; but there is another phenomenon. A great passion can neverhave existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a stormof strong passions was raging within mine.
I tried to speak, but could not. Language was not made for the thoughtsthat at that moment stirred within me.
It was not until I had been twice asked by my mother, what was mybusiness, 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 thatcrisis, I did not happen to have any sense of this quality about me. Mythoughts were wandering from the days of childhood up to that hour; theywere in as much confusion, as though my brains had been stirred aboutwith a wooden spoon.
I contrived to stammer out something at last; and I believe the wordswere, "I have come to see you."
"If that is your only business," said my mother, "now that you have seenme, you may go again."
How familiar was the sound of her voice! It seemed to have beenechoing, 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 curtlygranted; but continued gazing at the two--my eyes alternately turningfrom mother to daughter--in a manner that must have appeared rudeenough.
"Do you hear me?" said the old lady. "If you have no business here, whydon'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 hadever stirred it before. I know not whether they were of pleasure or ofpain: for I could not analyse them then, and have never felt them beforeor since.
My actions were involuntary: for my thoughts were too much occupied toguide them.
A sofa stood near; and, throwing myself upon it, I tried to realise thefact that eleven years had passed, since parting with my relatives aboy, 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 continuedher gaze, without heeding the command thus addressed to her.
"Mother," rejoined she, after an interval, "we have seen this manbefore; 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 seenyou there."
There was something so very absurd in this remark, that I could not helpnoticing it--even in my abstracted state of mind; and this veryabsurdity had the effect of awakening me from my reverie.
It then suddenly occurred to the young girl, that she had not been inDublin since she was a child herself; and, at the time she left thatcity, a young man of my appearance could not have been much more than aboy.
"Perhaps, I am right after all?" said she. "I do believe that I've seenyou in Dublin. Mother!" she added, turning to the old lady; "He knowswho we are."
Martha's first remark--about having seen me in Dublin--brought upon methe earnest gaze of my mother. She had often told me that when a man Iwould look like my father; and perhaps my features awakened within hersome recollections of the past.
She came up to me; and, speaking in a low, earnest voice, said: "Tell mewho you are!"
I arose to my feet, trembling in every limb.
"Tell me who you are! What is your name?" she exclaimed--becomingnearly 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 andsuffocated by the embraces of my mother and sister--so demonstrativewere they in their expressions of surprise and joy!
As soon as our excitement had, to some extent, subsided; and we wereable to converse a rational manner, I inquired after my brother William.
"I left him apprenticed to a harness-maker in Liverpool," answered mymother.
"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 himsince."
I requested to be informed what efforts had been made to find him. Iwas then told that my mother had written two or three times to theharness-maker; and from him had learnt that he had used every exertion,to discover the whereabouts of his runaway apprentice, but withoutsuccess.
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 inLiverpool.
I consoled her, by saying that I had plenty of money, that Williamshould be advertised for, and found; and that we should all again livehappily together--as we had in years long gone by.
In all my life I was never more happy than on that evening. The futurewas full of hope.
It was true that much had yet to be done before my purposes could befully 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 thatmight 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 weshould do in the future.
It resulted in my proposing, that we should return immediately toLiverpool.
"No! no!" protested she, with an eagerness that astonished me; "I cannotthink 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 tobelieve that he will soon be back."
"Now that you have spoken of _him_," said I, "please to tell me allabout 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 butwhat he will do well, and come back with plenty of money."
"But I was told in Dublin that he deserted you there," said I. "Wasthat 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 forit 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 againdeserted you here, and ran away to California with another woman. Isthat true?"
"He did go to California," answered my foolish mother, "and I supposethat Miss Davis went with him; but I blame her more than him: for I'msure 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 thathe will again return to you?"
"Because _I know that he loves me_! He was always so kind andaffectionate. The woman, who led him astray, is no longer alive tomisguide 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 amongthem. It is true, he is a little wild for his years; but he will notalways be so. He will return to his wife; and we shall be once morehappy."
"Mother! Am I to understand that you refu
se to accompany me toEngland?"
"Rowland, my son," said she, in a reproachful tone, "how can you ask meto go away from here, when I tell you that I am every day expecting myhusband to return? Wait awhile, till he comes; and then we will all gotogether."
Certainly to have said anything more to her on the subject would havebeen folly. It would be no use in trying to reason with her, after thatproposal. 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 theland of the living--was too incongruous to be entertained and at thesame time preserve tranquillity of spirit.
I was tempted to tell her, that Mr Leary had met the reward of his longcareer of crime--or, at least, a part of it--but, when I reflected onher extreme delusions