them.
My brother had made London his home. It was the wish of his wife--backed by that of her mother--that he should do so. This resolution onhis part, produced in my mind some unmanly envy; and perhaps a littlediscontent.
Why could fortune not have been equally kind to me, and linked my fatewith Lenore. I had wandered widely over the world, and wished to wanderno more. Had fate been kind, I might have found a happy home, even inLondon. But it was not to be; and I might seek for such in vain--inLondon, as elsewhere.
Might I not be mistaken? Might I not follow the counsel of Cannon withprofit? By once more looking upon Lenore, might I not see something tolessen my misery?
The experiment was worth the trial. It was necessary for me to dosomething to vary the monotony of existence. Why not pay a visit toLenore?
Why not once more look upon her; and, perhaps as Cannon had said, "getdisenchanted." By so doing, I might still save Jessie, and along withher myself.
Why was the presence of Jessie less attractive than the memory ofLenore? She was not less beautiful. She was, perhaps, even more gentleand truthful; and I believed no one could love me more. Why then shouldI not follow Cannon's advice? Ah! such struggles of thought availed menothing. They could not affect my resolution of returning to Australia.The more I reasoned, the more did I become convinced, that I loved onlyone--only Lenore!
Volume Three, Chapter XXVIII.
A "BLESSED BABY."
I am afflicted by a mental peculiarity, which seems to be hereditary inmy family. It is my fate to form attachments, that will not yield tocircumstances, and cannot be subdued by any act of volition;attachments, in short, that are terminated only by death. Among theindividuals of our family, this peculiarity has sometimes proved ablessing--at other times a misfortune. Such an infatuation for MrLeary existed in the mind of my mother. It had been cured only by herdeath. My sister and brother had experienced a similar regard for therespective objects of their affection. In the case of both it appearedto have led to a blessing. I had been less fortunate than they; andperhaps not more so than my departed mother: for the memories of a younggirl, met in early life, had blighted all my hopes, and chilled theaspirations of my youthful manhood.
It may seem strange that a young man who had seen something of theworld--and gathered gold enough to enable him to meet the demands ofevery day life--should find any difficulty in choosing a wife. PerhapsI may be understood, when I state that I was unable to act as most menwould have done in a similar situation. The idea of my being united toany other than Lenore, seemed to me something like sacrilege--a crime, Icould neither contemplate nor commit.
This condition of mind was, in all probability, mere foolishness on mypart; but I could neither help, nor control it. A man may havesomething to do in the shaping of his thoughts; but in general they arefree from any act of volition; and my inability to conquer the affectionI had formed for Lenore Hyland--from whatever source it proceeded--hadbeen proved by long years of unsuccessful trying. My will had beenpowerless to effect this object.
I had once been astonished at the conduct of my mother. Her long-feltaffection for Mr Leary had appeared to me the climax of human folly.After all, was it any greater than my own? I was a young man,possessing many advantages for a life of happiness. Thousands mighthave envied my chances. Yet I was not happy; and never likely to be. Iwas afflicted with an attachment that produced only misery--ashopelessly afflicted, as ever my poor mother had been; and that, too,for one whom it was wrong in me to love, since she was now the wife ofanother.
In one thing, it might be supposed, that I had the advantage of myunfortunate mother. I had the satisfaction of knowing, that my love hadbeen bestowed upon a worthy object. For all this, my happiness was aseffectually ruined--as had been my mother's, by an affection for themost worthless of men!
I believed myself to have been very unfortunate in life. The reader maynot think so; but I can assure him, that the person who imagines himselfunhappy, really is so--whether there be a true cause for it, or not.Call it by what name you will, folly, or misfortune--neither or both--mygreatest pleasure was in permitting my thoughts to stray back to thehappy hours I once spent in the society of Lenore; and my greatestsorrow was to reflect, that she was lost to me for ever!
My determination to return to Australia became fixed at length; andthere seemed nothing to prevent me from at once carrying it into effect.Something whispered me, however, that before going to the other side ofthe world, I should once again look upon Lenore.
I knew not what prompted me to this resolve, for it soon became such.Cannon's counsel might have had something to do with it; but it was notaltogether that. I was influenced by a higher motive.
I had heard that after her marriage, her husband had taken her to residein London. I presumed, therefore, that she was in London at thatmoment; but, for any chance that there would be of my finding her, shemight as well have been in the centre of the Saharan desert. I had noclue to her address--not the slightest. I did not even know the name ofthe man she had married. The steward, who at Sydney had told me thenews, did not give the name; and at the time I was too terribly affectedto think of asking it. It is true that I might have found her byadvertising in the papers; but the circumstances were such, as to forbidmy resorting to such means as that. I only desired to see her--not tospeak to her. Nothing could have tempted me to exchange a word withher. I wished but to gaze once more upon her incomparable beauty--before betaking myself to a place where the opportunity could neveroccur again.
I thought of Cannon's conversation--of his plan for becomingdisenchanted; but I had not the slightest idea, that, in my case, itwould prove successful.
While reflecting, on how I might find Lenore, a happy idea came to myaid. She had lived in Liverpool--she had been married there. I wasacquainted with some of Mrs Hyland's friends, who must still be inLiverpool. Surely they would know the name and address of the younglady, who was once Lenore Hyland? It would only cost me a journey toLiverpool--with some disagreeable souvenirs, to spring up in my mindwhile there--but my reward would be to gaze once again upon the beautyof Lenore.
I had seen in the papers, that Captain Nowell's vessel was to sail forMelbourne in a few days. I was pleased at this information: for Iintended to take passage with him; and might anticipate a more pleasantvoyage, than if I went with a stranger.
Before setting out for Liverpool, I wrote a note to Captain Nowell--informing him of my intention to go out in his ship; and requesting himto keep for me one of the best berths of his cabin. This businesssettled, I took the train for the metropolis of Lancashire. I was notover satisfied with myself while starting on this journey. I wastroubled with a suspicion, that I was doing a very foolish thing. Myconscience, however, became quieted by the reflection that it was ofvery little consequence, either to myself, or any one else, whether Iwent to Liverpool, or stayed in London. I was alone in the world--arolling stone--and why should I not follow the guidance of my destiny?
I became better satisfied with my proceedings when I reflected that theywould lead to my finding Lenore, and once more looking upon her.
I knew that by so doing my unhappiness might only be increased; but Ifancied that even this would be a change from the dull aching misery, Ihad been so long enduring.
My railroad journey by Liverpool was not without an incident thatinterested me. In the carriage in which I had taken my seat, was aman--accompanied by his wife, their child, and a servant girl who nursedthe "baby." I had not been ten minutes in the company of thisinteresting group, before I became convinced that it was worthy of beingstudied, although like a Latin lesson, the study was not altogetheragreeable.
The husband was a striking example, of how a sensible man may sometimesbe governed by a silly woman. The child was about two years and a halfold; and the fact, that it had already learnt to cry, seemed to itsmother something to be surprised at!
The selfishness which causes that painful reserve, o
r want ofsociability, observable amongst the travelling English of the middleclass, was in the case of the woman in question, subdued by a sillyconceit about her child--which she appeared to regard as a little lumpof concentrated perfection. Before we had been in the carriagehalf-an-hour, she had told me its age, the number of its teeth, what itdid, and did not like to eat, along with several remarkable things ithad been heard to say.
"But is it not strange," asked she, after a long speech in manifestationof its many virtues, "that a child of its age cannot walk?"
"There is nothing strange about it," muttered the husband, "how can thechild learn to walk, when it never has an opportunity of trying? It'llnever have a chance to try, as long as there is a servant girl in theUnited Kingdom strong enough to carry it about. I'll answer for that."
"John, dear, how can you talk so?" exclaimed the mother of the blessedbaby, "you have not the least consideration, or you would not