Volume One—Chapter Seven.
Choosing a Horse.
The reader may justly say that I have dwelt too long on the incidents of my early years. As my excuse for having done so, I can only urge, that the first parts we play on the stage of life appear of more importance to us than what they really are; and are consequently remembered more distinctly and with greater interest than those of later occurrence.
I will try not to offend in the same way again; and, as some compensation for having been too tedious, I shall pass over nearly three years of my existence—without occupying much space in describing the incidents that transpired during this period. Circumstances aid me in doing so, for these three years were spent in a tranquil, happy manner. They produced no change in my situation: for I remained in the same employment—in the service of Captain Hyland.
The ship “Lenore,” owned and commanded by him, was a regular trader between Liverpool and New Orleans.
In our voyages, the captain took as much trouble in trying to teach me navigation—and all other things connected with the profession of the sea—as he could have done had I been his own son.
I appreciated his kindness; and had the gratification to know that my efforts to deserve it met with his warmest approbation.
At every return to Liverpool, and during our sojourn there, his house was my home. At each visit, my friendship for Mrs Hyland, and her beautiful daughter Lenore, became stronger. It was mutual too; and I came to be regarded almost as one of the family.
When in Liverpool, I had frequent opportunities of going to Dublin to see my mother, and with shame I confess that I did not make use of them. The attractions of my home in Liverpool proved too great for me to leave it—even for a short interval.
I often thought of going to Dublin; and reflected with pride on the fact that I was getting to be a man, and would be able to protect my relatives from any ill-treatment they might have received at the hands of Mr Leary. With all this, I did not go.
Aboard of the ship, I had one enemy, who, for some reason not fully understood, seemed to hate me as heartily, as one man could hate another. This was the first mate, who had been with Captain Hyland for several years.
He had witnessed with much disfavour the interest the captain took in my welfare, from the time of my first joining the ship; and jealousy of my influence over the latter might have had much to do in causing the mate’s antipathy towards myself.
The steward, sailmaker, and one or two others, who were permanently attached to the vessel, were all friends to the “Rolling Stone,” the name by which I was generally known; but the hostility of the first mate could not be removed by any efforts I made towards that end.
After a time, I gradually lost the nickname of the “Rolling Stone,” and was called by my proper name, Rowland. I suppose the reason was, that my actions having proved me willing and able to remain for some time in one situation, it was thought that I deserved to be called a “Rolling Stone” no longer.
I had been nearly three years with Captain Hyland, and we were in New Orleans—where the ship, lying at the wharf, was left under my charge. The captain himself had gone to stay at a hotel in the city; and I had not seen him for several days.
The first mate was at this time neglecting his duty, and frequently remained over twenty-four hours absent from the ship. On one occasion, just as the latter came aboard to resume his duties, I received intelligence, that the captain was very ill, and wished to see me ashore.
Notwithstanding this message from the captain himself—the mate, whose name was Edward Adkins—refused to allow me to leave the ship.
The season was summer; and I knew that many people were dying in the city—which was scourged at the time with yellow fever.
The captain had undoubtedly been taken ill of that disease; and, disregarding the commands of the mate, I went ashore with all haste to see him.
I found him, as I had anticipated, suffering from yellow fever. He had just sufficient consciousness to recognise, and bid me an eternal farewell, with a slight pressure of his hand.
He died a few minutes after; and a sensation came over me similar to that I had experienced a few years before—when bending over the cold inanimate form of my father.
Mr Adkins became the captain of the “Lenore,” and at once gave me a discharge. My box was sent ashore; and I was not afterwards allowed to set foot on board of the ship!
I appealed to the English Consul; but could obtain no satisfaction from him. I could not blame the official: for the mate was entitled to the command, and consequently had the right of choosing his crew.
My wages were paid me—besides some trifling compensation, for being discharged in a foreign port.
Again the new world was before me; and the question once more came up: “What am I to do?”
I wished to return to Liverpool to see Mrs Hyland and Lenore. They were to me as a mother and sister. Who should carry to them the sad news of their great misfortune? Who but myself?
The beautiful Lenore, I must see her again. I had been fancying myself in love with her for some time; but, now that her father was dead I reflected more sensibly on the subject, and arrived at the conclusion that I was a fool. I was but seventeen, and she only thirteen years of age! Why should I return to Liverpool? I had a fortune to make; and why should I return to Liverpool?
I thought of my mother, brother, and sister. They were under the ill-treatment of a man I had every reason to hate. They might need my protection. It was my duty to return to them. Should I go?
This question troubled me for some time; but in the end it was settled. I did not go.
Many will say that I neglected a sacred duty; but perhaps they have never been placed in circumstances similar to mine. They have never been in a foreign country, at the age of seventeen, in a city like New Orleans.
There was at this time a great commotion in the place. The fife and drum were continually heard in the streets; and flags were flying from houses in different parts of the city—indicating the localities of “recruiting stations.”
The United States had declared war against Mexico; and volunteers were invited to join the army.
Among other idlers, I enrolled myself.
It was probably a very unwise act; but many thousands have done the same thing; and I claim an equal right with others to act foolishly, if so inclined. We are all guilty of wise and foolish actions, or more properly speaking, of good and bad ones; and often, when desirous of doing the one, it ends by our committing the other.
After being “mustered into the service,” we were sent into the country to a rendezvous, where the corps to which I belonged, which was to form part of a cavalry regiment, received its allotted number of horses.
To have pointed out a particular horse to a particular man, and have said “that is yours,” would have given occasion for many to declare that partiality had been shown. For this reason, an arrangement was made by which each man was allowed to choose his own horse.
The animals were ranged in a line, by being tied to a rail fence; and then we were all mustered in rank, about two hundred and fifty yards to the rear. It was then made known, that on a signal being given, each one of us might take the horse that suited him best.
The word of command was at length given; and a more interesting foot race was perhaps never witnessed, than came off on that occasion.
I was good at running; but unfortunately but a poor judge of horse flesh.
Only three or four of the company reached the fence before me; and I had nearly all the horses from which to make my choice.
I selected one, with a short neck and long flowing tail. He was of coal-black colour; and, in my opinion, the best looking horse of the lot. It was an intellectual animal—a horse of character—if ever a horse had any mental peculiarities entitling him to such distinction.
It was the first steed I ever had the chance of bestriding; and the movement by which I established myself on his back must have been either very cleverly, or very awkwardly executed: since it greatly excited the mirth of my companions.
The horse had a knack of dispensing with any disagreeable encumbrance; and having been so long a “Rolling Stone,” I had not yet acquired the skill of staying where I was not wanted.
When I placed the steed between my legs, he immediately gave me a hint to leave. I know not whether the hint was a strong one or not; but I do know that it produced the result the horse desired: since he and I instantly parted company.
I was informed that the animal came from Kentucky; and I have not the least doubt about this having been the case, for after dealing me a sommersault, it started off in the direction of the “dark and bloody ground,” and was only stopped on its journey by a six foot fence.
Those who were dissatisfied with the result of their choice, had permission to exchange horses with any other with whom they could make an arrangement.
In the corps to which I belonged was a young man from the State of Ohio, named Dayton. When the scamper towards the horses took place, instead of running with the rest, Dayton walked leisurely along; and arrived where the horses were tied, after every other individual in the company had appropriated a steed. The only horse left for Dayton had also a character—one that can only be described by calling him a sedate and serious animal.
This horse had a sublime contempt for either whip or spurs; and generally exercised his own judgment, as to the pace at which he should move. That judgment equally forbade him to indulge in eccentric actions.
Dayton proposed that we should exchange steeds—an offer that I gladly accepted. When my absconding horse was brought back to the camp, I made him over to Dayton, by whom he was at once mounted.
The animal tried the same movements with Dayton that had proved so successful with me; but they failed. He was a good rider, and stuck to his horse, as one of the men declared, “like death to a dead nigger.”
The creature was conquered, and afterwards turned out one of the best horses in the troop.
Volume One—Chapter Eight.
An Episode of Soldier-Life.
American authors have written so much about the Mexican war, that I shall state nothing concerning it, except what is absolutely necessary in giving a brief account of my own adventures—which, considering the time and the place, were neither numerous nor in any way remarkable.
While in the service of the United States during that campaign, I was the constant companion of Dayton. On the march and in the field of strife, we rode side by side with each other.
We shared many hardships and dangers, and such circumstances usually produce firm friendships. It was so in our case.
Dayton was a young man who won many friends, and made almost as many enemies, for he took but little care to conceal his opinions of others, whether they were favourable or not. Although but a private, he had more influence among his comrades than any other man in the company. The respect of some, and the fear of others, gave him a power that no officer could command.
I did not see much of the war: as I was only in two actions—those of Buena Vista and Cerro Gordo.
I know that some of the people of Europe have but a very poor opinion of the fighting qualities of the Mexicans, and may not dignify the actions of Buena Vista and Cerro Gordo by the name of battles. These people are mistaken. The Mexicans fought well at Buena Vista, notwithstanding that they were defeated by men, said to be undisciplined.
It has been stated in a London paper that the Mexicans are more contemptible, as an enemy, than the same number of Chinamen. The author of that statement probably knew nothing of either of the people he wrote about; and he was thus undervaluing the Mexicans for no other reason, than that of disparaging the small but brave army to which I belonged.
The Mexicans are not cowards. An individual Mexican has as much moral and physical courage as a man of any other country. As a general thing they have as little fear of losing life or limb as any other people. “Why then,” some may ask, “were they beaten by a few thousand American volunteers?”
Without attempting to answer this question, I still claim that the Mexicans are not cowards.
In the battle of Buena Vista I lost the horse obtained by exchange from Dayton. The animal had been my constant care and companion, ever since I became possessed of him; and had exhibited so much character and intellect, that I thought almost as much of him, as I did of Dayton, my dearest friend.
In my opinion, it is not right to take horses on to the field of battle. I never thought this, until I had my steed shot under me—when the sight of the noble animal struggling in the agonies of death, caused me to make a mental vow never again to go on horseback into a battle.
This resolve, however, I was soon compelled to break. Another horse was furnished me the next day—on which I had to take my place in the ranks of my corps.
One day the company to which I belonged had a skirmish with a party of guerilleros.
We were charging them—our animals urged to their greatest speed—when Dayton’s horse received a shot, and fell. I could not stop to learn the fate of the rider, as I was obliged to keep on with the others.
We pursued the Mexicans for about five miles; and killed over half of their number.
On returning to camp, I traced back the trail over which we had pursued the enemy—in order to find Dayton. After much trouble I succeeded; and I believe no person ever saw me with more pleasure than did Dayton on that occasion.
The dead horse was lying on one of his legs, which had been broken. He had been in this situation for nearly three hours; and with all his exertions had been unable to extricate himself.
After getting him from under the terrible incubus, and making him as comfortable as possible, I sought the assistance of some of my companions. These I fortunately found without much trouble, and we conveyed our wounded comrade to the camp. Dayton was afterwards removed to a hospital; and this was the last I saw of him during the Mexican war.
I had but very little active service after this: for my company was left behind the main army; and formed a part of the force required for keeping open a communication between Vera Cruz, and the capital of Mexico.
The rest of the time I remained in the army, was only remarkable for its want of excitement and tediousness; and all in the company were much dissatisfied at not being allowed to go on to the Halls of Montezuma. The duty at which we were kept, was only exciting for its hardships; and American soldiers very soon become weary of excitement of this kind. We were only too delighted, on receiving orders to embark for New Orleans.
On the Sunday before sailing out of the port of Vera Cruz, I went in search of some amusement; and commenced strolling through town in hopes of finding it. In my walk, I came across a man seated under an awning, which he had erected in the street, where he was dealing “Faro.” A number of people were betting against his “bank,” and I lingered awhile to watch the game.
Amongst others who were betting, was a drunken mule-driver, who had been so far unfortunate as to lose all his money—amounting to about one hundred dollars.
The “MD”—as the mule-drivers were sometimes styled—either justly, or not, accused the gambler of having cheated him. He made so much disturbance, that he was at length forced away from the table by others standing around it—who, no doubt, were interested in the game.
The “MD” went into a public-house near by; and soon after came out again, carrying a loaded rifle.
Advancing within about twenty paces of the table where the gambler was engaged, he called out to the crowd to stand aside, and let him have a shot at the “skunk,” who had cheated him.
“Yes,” said the gambler, placing his hand on a revolver, “stand aside, gentlemen, if you please, and let him have a chance!”
Those between them, obeyed the injunction in double quick time; and, as soon as the space was clear enough to give a line for his bullet, the gambler fired—before the “MD” had raised the rifle to his shoulder.
The mule-driver was shot through the heart; and the game went on!
We had an interesting voyage from Vera Cruz to New Orleans. The hardships of the march and camp were over. Some were returning to home and friends; and all were noisy—some with high animal spirits, and some with strong ardent spirits, known under the name of rum.
There was much gambling on the ship, and many rows to enliven the passage; but I must not tarry to describe all the scenes I have met, or the narrative of the Life of a Rolling Stone will be drawn out too long for the patience of my readers.
We landed in New Orleans, were paid what money was due to us, and disbanded—each receiving a bounty warrant for one hundred and sixty acres of land.
In the company to which I belonged, were some of my countrymen, who had been in the English army; and I often conversed with them, as to the comparative treatment of the soldiers of the English and American armies. I shall give the conclusion we came to upon this subject.
A majority of English soldiers have relatives whom they visit and with whom they correspond. The reader will easily understand that when such is the case, thousands of families in the United Kingdom have more than a national interest in the welfare of the army, and the manner its soldiers are treated. The sympathies of the people are with them; and a soldier, who may be ill-used, has the whole nation to advocate his cause.
The majority of American regular soldiers are isolated beings—so far as home and friends are concerned—and about the only interest the nation at large takes in their welfare is, that they do their duty, and earn their pay.
This difference is understood by the soldiers of both armies; and it has its effect on their character.
In England, the army is regarded as an important part of the nation.
In the United States, it is not; but only as a certain assemblage of men, employed by the people to do a certain work—for which they receive good wages, and plenty of food: for in these respects, the American soldier has an advantage over the English, almost in the ratio of two to one!
Volume One—Chapter Nine.
A Fruitless Search.
There were speculators in New Orleans, engaged in buying land warrants from the returning volunteers. I sold mine to one of them, for one hundred and ten dollars. Besides this amount, I had about fifty dollars saved from my pay.
I shall now have the pleasure of recording the fact that I made one move in the right direction. I set sail for my childhood’s home.
Conscience had long troubled me, for having neglected to look after the welfare of my relatives; and I embarked for Dublin with a mind gratified by the reflection that I was once more on the path of duty.
So much pleasure did this give me, that I resolved ever after to follow the guiding of reason, as to my future course in life. The right course is seldom more difficult to pursue than the wrong one, while the wear and tear of spirit in pursuing it is much easier.
How many strange thoughts rushed into my brain—how many interrogations offered themselves to my mind, as we dropped anchor in Dublin Bay. Should I find my mother living? Should I know my brother William and my sister Martha? What had become of Mr Leary? Should I have to kill him?
Such questions, with many others of a similar nature, coursed through my soul while proceeding towards the city.
I hurried through the streets, without allowing anything to distract my thoughts from these themes. I reached the house that had been the home of my childhood.
At the door, I paused to recover from an unusual amount of excitement; but did not succeed in quelling the tumultuous emotions that thrilled my spirit with an intensity I had never experienced before.
I looked cautiously into the shop. It was no longer a saddle and harness-maker’s, but a dingy depot for vending potatoes, cabbages, and coals!
I thought a great change must suddenly have taken place in the whole city of Dublin.
It did not occur to me, that six years was a sufficient period of time for turning a saddler’s shop into a greengrocer’s—without any reason for being surprised at the transformation.
I stepped inside; and inquired of a stout, red-haired woman the whereabouts of a Mrs Stone, who formerly occupied the premises. The woman had never heard of such a person!
It suddenly occurred to me—and I heaved a sigh at the recollection—that my mother’s name was not Stone, but that she was Mrs Leary.
I renewed my inquiry, substituting the latter name.
“Mistress Leary?” said the vulgar-looking hag before me, “lift here five year ago.”
The vendor of cabbages did not know where Mrs Leary had gone. Neither did I; and this knowledge, or rather absence of knowledge, produced within me a train of reflections that were new and peculiar.
I turned out of the house, and walked mechanically up the street. A familiar name met my half-vacant gaze. It was painted on a sign, over the door of a cheese-monger’s shop—Michael Brady.
I remembered that Mrs Brady, the wife of the man whose name I saw, was the intimate acquaintance and friend of my mother. Perhaps, I might learn something from her; but what, I almost feared to ascertain.
I went into the shop, and found Mrs Brady seated among her cheeses. She did not look a day older than when I last saw her. When asked, if she remembered ever having seen me before, she gazed at me for some time, and made answer in the negative.
I was not astonished at her reply. I could easily understand her stupidity; my appearance must have greatly altered since she had seen me last.
“Do you remember the name of Rowland Stone?” I asked.
“What! the little Rolling Stone?” she exclaimed, gazing at me again. “I do believe you are,” said she, “Now when I look at you, I can see it is. How you have changed!”
“What has become of my mother?” I cried out, too impatient to listen longer to her exclamatory reflections.
“Poor woman!” answered Mrs Brady, “that’s what I have wished to know for many years.”
I was called upon to exercise the virtue of patience—while trying to obtain from Mrs Brady what information she could give concerning my family. With much time spent and many questions put, I obtained from her the following particulars:
After my departure, Mr Leary became very dissipated, and used to get drunk every day. Whenever he sold anything out of the shop, he would go to a public-house, and stay there until the money obtained for the article was spent. He would then return, abuse my mother, beat the children, take something else out of the shop; and pawn it for more money to spend in drink or dissipation. This game he had continued, until there was nothing left in the establishment that Mr Leary could sell for a shilling.
The neighbours remonstrated with my mother for allowing him to proceed in this manner; but the deluded woman seemed to think that everything done by her husband was right; and was even offended with her friends for interfering. No arguments could persuade her that Mr Leary was conducting himself in an improper manner. She appeared to think that the drunken blackguard was one of the best men that ever lived; and that she had been exceedingly fortunate in obtaining him for a husband!
When Mr Leary had disposed of everything in the shop, and had spent the proceeds in drink, he absconded—leaving my mother, brother and sister to suffer for the necessaries of life.
Instead of being gratified at getting clear of the scoundrel, my mother was nearly heart-broken to think he had deserted her!
Her first thought was to find out where he had gone. He had served his apprenticeship in Liverpool; and my mother had reasons to believe that he had betaken himself thither. The house in which she resided, had been leased by my father for a long term. At the time Mr Leary deserted her, the lease had several years to run. Since the time when it had been taken, rents in the neighbourhood had greatly risen in value; and my mother was able to sell the lease for ninety pounds. Obtaining this sum in cash, she left Dublin with her children; and proceeded to Liverpool to find Mr Leary, as Mrs Brady said, that she might give him the money to spend in drink!
My mother’s friends had advised her to remain in Dublin; and told her that she should be thankful her husband had deserted her; but their advice was either unheeded, or scornfully rejected. In spite of all remonstrance, she took her departure for Liverpool; and Mrs Brady had never heard of her again.
I was intensely interested in what was told me by Mrs Brady. For awhile, I believed that my poor beguiled parent deserved her fate, however bad it may have been; and I was half inclined to search for her no more. But when I came to reflect that nearly five years had elapsed since she left Dublin, I fancied that, if unfortunately successful in finding Mr Leary, she might by this time have recovered from her strange infatuation concerning him. Though for her folly, she deserved almost any fate Mr Leary might bring upon her, I believed it to be my duty to see her once more. Besides, I had a strong desire to renew the rudely broken links of affection, that had existed between myself and my sister and brother.
When a boy, I was very proud of having a sister like little Martha, she was so kind, affectionate, and beautiful. And William, too, I remembered him with a brother’s fondness. Although my mother had acted ever so foolishly, it was not the less my duty to look after her. Perhaps, for her unaccountable delusion, she had been by this time sufficiently punished. It was my desire to find her, if possible, and learn if such was the case. She was my mother, and I had no other wish than to act towards her as a son. I determined, therefore, to proceed to Liverpool.
I may confess that something more than duty summoned me thither—something even stronger than filial affection. It was the design of visiting Mrs Hyland—or, rather her daughter. I knew there would be danger to my happiness in again seeing Lenore; and I strove to strengthen my resolution by the belief that I was acting under a call of duty.
I had been with Captain Hyland when he died. I alone saw his eyes closed in death, and alone followed him to the grave. Why should I not visit his wife and child?
I could fancy that that pressure of the hand given me by the Captain in his dying struggle, was a silent command to me—to carry to them his last blessing.
Besides, Mrs Hyland had been very kind to myself; and during my sojourn in Liverpool, had made her home to me both welcome and pleasant. Why should I refrain from seeing her again—simply because her daughter was beautiful? I could think of no sufficient reason for denying myself the pleasure. The dread of its leading to pain was not enough to deter me; and I resolved to renew my acquaintance with Lenore.
Before leaving Dublin, I tried to get some information that would aid me in my search after Mr Leary and my relatives; but was unsuccessful. None of Mr Leary’s former acquaintances could give me any intelligence as to what part of the city of Liverpool he might be found in. I could only learn that my mother, before leaving, had some knowledge to guide her, which had probably been obtained, sometime or other, from Mr Leary himself.
In my search, therefore, I should have no other traces than such as chance might throw in my way.
Volume One—Chapter Ten.
A Chilling Reception.
I do not like Liverpool as a city; and less do I admire a majority of its citizens. Too many of them are striving to live on what they can obtain from transient sojourners. Being the greatest shipping port in the United Kingdom—and that from which most emigrants take their departure—it affords its inhabitants too easy opportunities for exercising their skill—in obtaining the greatest amount of money for the least amount of service—opportunities of which many of them are not slow to avail themselves.
My dislike to the people of Liverpool may perhaps, arise from the fact that I claim to be a sailor; and that thousands of people in that great seaport—from beggars, thieves, and the like who crowd its crooked, narrow, dirty streets in search of a living, up to merchants, agents, and ship-owners—imagine that there is no harm in taking advantage of a sailor, and, under this belief, seldom lose an opportunity of doing so.
The first thing I did after arriving in this precious seaport, was to possess myself of a city directory, and make a list of all the saddle and harness-makers in the place—putting down the address of each opposite his name.
I then wrote a note to each of them—requesting, that if they knew anything of a journeyman saddler named Matthew Leary, they would have the goodness to communicate with me; if not, no answer to my note would be required.
Having completed this interesting correspondence—which occupied me the whole of a day—I repaired to the residence of Mrs Hyland. There had been no change there. I found her still living in the same house, where years before, I had parted with her and her daughter.
I was conducted into the drawing-room; and the next instant one of the most beautiful creatures man ever beheld, stood before me.
Lenore was beautiful when a child; and time had only developed her young charms into the perfection of feminine loveliness. To me, her beauty transcended everything I had ever seen; although I had been in Dublin, New Orleans, and Mexico—three places which are not the least favoured with the light of woman’s loveliness.
Lenore was now sixteen years of age, and looked neither more nor less. The only description I can give of her is that there was nothing remarkable about her, but her beauty. I can give no particulars of how she appeared. If asked the colour of her hair and eyes, I should have been unable to tell; I only knew that she was beautiful.
I was painfully disappointed at the reception she gave me. She did not meet me with those manifestations of friendship I had anticipated. It was true that I had been a long time away; and her friendship towards me might have become cooled by my protracted absence. But this was a painful consideration. I endeavoured to dismiss it—at the same time I strove to awaken within her the memories of our old companionship.
To my chagrin, I saw that I was unsuccessful. She seemed to labour under some exciting emotion; and I could not help fancying that it was of a painful character.
Her whole behaviour was a mystery to me, because so different from what it had formerly been, or what I had hoped to find it.
I had left Lenore when she was but little more than a child, and she was now a young lady.
In the three years that had intervened, there was reason for me to expect some change in her character. With her mother, no change I presumed could have taken place. I left Mrs Hyland a woman; and such I should find her, only three years older. In her I expected to meet a friend, as I had left her. She entered the room. I was again doomed to disappointment!
She received me with even more coldness than had been exhibited by Lenore. She did not even offer me her hand; but took a seat, and with a more unpleasant expression than I had ever before observed on her face, she waited apparently with impatience for what I might have to say.
The sensitive feelings of my soul had never been so cruelly wounded. I was in an agony of anger and disappointment; and unable any longer to endure the painful excitement of my emotions, I uttered a few common-place speeches, and hastily withdrew from their presence.
What could their conduct mean? In the excited state of my thoughts, I was unable to form even a conjecture, that seemed in any way consistent with my knowledge of their previous character.
It might be that when Lenore was a child, and I was a boy, they had seen no harm in befriending and being kind to me; but now that Lenore was a young lady, and I a man—a sailor, too—they might have reasons for not having any further acquaintance with me.
Could it be that they were endued with that selfishness—in this world possessed by so many? That they had been my friends only because Captain Hyland was my protector—to fall away from me now, that his protection could be no longer extended to me?
I could hardly think this possible: for it would be so much out of keeping with all that I had ever known of the character either of Mrs Hyland or her daughter.
I had long anticipated great pleasure in revisiting them; and had thought when again in their presence I should be with friends. Never had I been so cruelly disappointed; and for awhile I fancied that I should never care to meet with old acquaintances again.
I am capable of forming strong attachments. I had done so for Mrs Hyland and her daughter, and their chill reception had the effect of causing me to pass a sleepless night.
In the morning, I was able to reflect with a little more coolness, as well as clearness. A cause, perhaps the cause, of their strange conduct suddenly suggested itself to my mind.
Adkins, the first mate of the ship Lenore, had been, and, no doubt, still was—my enemy. He had turned me out of the ship in New Orleans; and had, in all likelihood, on his arrival in Liverpool, poisoned the mind of Mrs Hyland, by some falsehood, of which I was the victim. I knew the scoundrel to be capable of doing this, or any other base action.
There was a consolation in the thought that this explanation might be the real one, and for a while it restored the tranquillity of my spirit.
I would see them again, demand an explanation; and if my suspicions proved true, I could refute any change made against me—so as once more to make them my friends.
I did not desire their friendship from any personal motives. It might not now be worth the trouble of having it restored; but in memory of their past kindness, and out of regard for my own character, I could not leave them labouring under the impression that I had been ungrateful.
Alas! there was a deeper motive for my desiring an explanation. Their friendship was worth restoring. It was of no use my endeavouring to think otherwise. The friendship of a beautiful creature like Lenore was worth every thing. The world to me would be worthless without it. I was already wretched at the thought of having lost her good opinion. I must again establish myself in it, or failing, become more wretched still.
The next day, I returned to the residence of Mrs Hyland. I saw her seated near the window, as I approached the house. I saw her arise, and retire out of sight—evidently after recognising me!
I rang the bell. The door was opened by a servant—who, without waiting to be interrogated, informed me that neither Mrs nor Miss Hyland were at home!
I pushed the door open, passed the astonished domestic, entered the hall; and stepped unceremoniously into the apartment—in the window of which I had seen Mrs Hyland.
No one was inside—excepting the servant, who had officially followed me. I turned to her, and said in a tone savouring of command:
“Tell Mrs Hyland that Mr Rowland Stone is here, and will not leave until he has seen her.”
The girl retired, and soon after Mrs Hyland entered the room. She did not speak; but waited to hear what I had to say.
“Mrs Hyland,” I began, “I am too well acquainted with you, and respect you too much, to believe that I am treated in the manner I have been, without a good cause. Conscious of having done nothing intentionally to injure you, or yours, I have returned to demand the reason why your conduct towards me has undergone such a change. You once used to receive me here as though I was your own son. What have I done to forfeit your friendship?”
“If your own conscience does not accuse you,” she answered, “it is not necessary for me to give you any explanation, for you might not understand it. But there is one thing that I hope you will understand: and that is, that your visits here are no longer either welcome or desirable.”
“I learnt that much yesterday,” said I, imitating in a slight degree the air of sneering indifference, in which Mrs Hyland addressed me. “To-day I have called for an explanation. Your own words imply that I was once welcome; and I wish to know why such is no longer the case.”
“The explanation is then, that you have proved unworthy of our friendship. There is no explanation that you can give, that will remove the impression from my mind that you have been guilty of ingratitude and dishonesty towards those who were your best friends; and I do not wish to be pained by listening to any attempt you may make at an apology.”
I became excited. Had the speaker been a man, my excitement would have assumed the shape of anger.
“I only ask,” I replied, endeavouring, as much as possible, to control my feelings, “I only ask, what justice to you, as well as myself, demands you to give. All I require is an explanation; and I will not leave the house, until I have had it. I insist upon knowing of what I am accused.”
Mrs Hyland, apparently in high displeasure at the tone I had assumed, turned suddenly away from me, and glided out of the room.
To calm my excitement, I took up a paper, and read, or attempted to read.
For nearly half an hour I continued this half involuntary occupation. At the end of that time, I stepped up to the fire-place, caught hold of the bell pull, and rang the bell.
“Tell Miss Lenore,” said I, when the servant made her appearance, “that I wish to see her; and that all the policemen in Liverpool cannot put me out of this house, until I have done so.”
The girl flounced back through the door; and shortly after Lenore, with half of a smile on her beautiful face, entered the room.
She appeared less reserved than on the interview of the day before; and, if possible, more lovely. I was too happy to interpret from her deportment, that she had not yet entirely forgotten the past; and that what I now wished to know, she would not hesitate to reveal.
“Lenore,” said I, as she entered, “in you I hope still to find a friend—notwithstanding the coldness with which you have treated me; and from you I demand an explanation.”
“The only explanation I can give,” said she, “is, that mamma and I have probably been deceived. There is one who has accused you of ingratitude, and other crimes as bad—perhaps worse.”
“Adkins!” I exclaimed. “It is Adkins, the first mate of the ‘Lenore!’”
“Yes, it is he who has brought the accusation; and, unfortunately, whether false or no, your conduct has been some evidence of the truth of the story he has told us. Oh! Rowland, it was hard to believe you guilty of ingratitude and crime; but your long absence, unexplained as it was, gave colour to what has been alleged against you. You have never written to us: and it will be nearly impossible for you to be again reinstated in the good opinion of my mother.”
“In yours, Lenore?”
She blushingly held down her head, without making reply.
“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” I asked.
“I will,” she answered. “And, Rowland, before I hear one word of explanation from you learn this; I cannot believe you guilty of any wrong. I have been too well acquainted with you to believe that you could possibly act, under any circumstances, as you have been accused of doing. It is not in your nature.”
“Thank you, Lenore!” said I, with a fervour I could not restrain myself from showing. “You are now as you have ever been, more beautiful than anything in the world, and wise as you are beautiful.”
“Do not talk thus, Rowland! Nothing but your own words can ever change the opinion I had formed of your character—long ago, when we were both children. I will tell you why my mother is displeased with you. There are more reasons than one. First, when my father died in New Orleans, Mr Adkins brought back the ship; and you did not return in it. We were surprised at this; and called Mr Adkins to account for not bringing you home. He did not appear willing to give us any satisfaction concerning you; but we would insist on having it; and then, with apparent reluctance, he stated that he had not wished to say anything against you—fearing that from our known friendship for you, it might be unpleasant for us to hear it. He then told us, that you had not only neglected, and proved cruel to my father—when on his death-bed—but, that, as soon as it became certain there was no hope of his recovery, you behaved as though you thought it no longer worth while to trouble yourself with a man, who could not live to repay you. He said that you had previously deserted from the ship, and left my father—notwithstanding his earnest entreaties that you should remain with him. It cannot be true. I know it cannot be true; but so long as my mother thinks there is a particle of truth in Mr Adkins’ statement, she will never forgive you. Your accuser has also stated that when you left the ship, you took with you what was not your own; but this he did not tell us until several months had elapsed, and there appeared no probability of your returning.”
“What has become of Mr Adkins now?” I asked.
“He is on a voyage to New Orleans in the ‘Lenore.’ He obtained my mother’s confidence, and is now in command of the ship. Lately he has been trying to make himself more disagreeable to myself—by professing for me—what he, perhaps, believes to be an affection. Oh! it is too unpleasant to dwell upon. My mother listens, I fear, too consentingly, to all he has to say: for she is grateful to him for his kindness to my father before he died—and for the interest he appears ever since to have taken in our welfare. His manner towards us has greatly changed of late. Indeed, he acts as if he were the head of our family, and the owner of the vessel. I believe he is expected to return to Liverpool at any time: as the time for the voyage has expired, and the ship has been due for some days.”
“I wish he were in Liverpool now” said I. “When he does arrive, I will make him prove himself a liar. Lenore! I have ever been treated with the greatest kindness by your father and mother. It is not in my nature to be either ungrateful or dishonest. Your father’s ship was my home, I did not leave that home without good reason. I was turned out of it by the very villain who has accused me. I shall stay in Liverpool until he returns; and when I have exposed him, and proved myself still worthy of your friendship, I shall again go forth upon the world with a light heart, as I can with a clear conscience.”
Requesting Lenore to tell her mother that she had been deceived—and that I should stay in Liverpool till I proved that such was the case—I arose to take my departure. I lingered only to add: that I would not again annoy them with my presence until the return of the ship—when I should challenge Adkins to appear before them, and prove him guilty of the very crimes he had charged against myself—ingratitude and dishonesty.
With this promise did I close my interview with Lenore.
Volume One—Chapter Eleven.
On the Track of Mr Leary.
After leaving Mrs Hyland’s house, I had much to occupy my thoughts. The principal subject that engaged their attention was the wonderful beauty of Lenore.
She was beautiful; and she professed to be my friend. But while I felt a consoling pride in possessing the friendship of one so lovely, there was much that was unpleasant in the thought that her mother could, even for an instant, have believed me guilty of the grave charges brought against me by Adkins.
To be thought ungrateful by one who had treated me with so much kindness, and more especially one who was the mother of Lenore, was a reflection full of bitterness.
Adkins had now done enough to make me his deadly enemy. He had never used me well aboard ship; and would have caused me still more trouble there had he not been restrained by his fear of Captain Hyland. He had turned me out of the ship in New Orleans. He had returned to Liverpool, and accused me of the basest of crimes.
But what was still more unpleasant to dwell upon; he was endeavouring to deprive me of what was of almost equal consequence with my character—of her whom I had hoped might one day become my wife. Yes, there could be no doubt of the fact. He was trying to win Lenore.
This last I could scarce look upon as a crime on his part. To aspire to win one so lovely was no crime; and one who should do so would only be acting as Nature commanded.
But at that time, I did not view it in this light; and the idea of Edward Adkins aspiring to the hand of Lenore Hyland was proof to me that he was the vilest wretch that ever encumbered the earth.
For a while, I forgot my hatred for Mr Leary in my dislike to Mr Adkins.
Hatred with me had never before reached a thirst for revenge; but to this degree of hostility had it attained, within an hour after leaving Lenore.
But what could I do? When my enemy returned, I could confront him in presence of Lenore and her mother. I could make one statement, which he would certainly contradict by making another. I was in a country where the laws do not allow a man any chance of obtaining redress for the cruellest wrong, or insult, he may suffer.
I passed that night, as the preceding one, without sleep.
The day after that on which I had addressed my letters to the saddle and harness-makers of Liverpool, I received answers from two of them—both men who had been acquainted with Mr Leary.
I lost no time in calling upon these correspondents.
One of them frankly informed me that Mr Leary’s time, as an apprentice, had been served in his shop, that he did not think him exactly honest; and had been only too glad to get rid of him. He had not seen or heard anything of Mr Leary for seven years; and hoped never to behold that individual again. He had taken Leary, when a boy, from the work-house; and believed he had no relatives, who would know where he was to be found.
I called on the other saddler, and learnt from him that Mr Leary, after having served his time, had worked in his establishment as a journeyman, though only for a very short while. Leary had left him to go to Dublin; but had returned three or four years afterwards, and had again been employed by him for a few days. On leaving the second time, Mr Leary had engaged to go out to New South Wales, with a saddle and harness-maker from that colony, who, as the Liverpool tradesman laughingly stated, had been so foolish as to pay for Leary’s passage, in the hope of being repaid by his services after he got there.
With painful interest, I inquired, whether Mr Leary had taken along with him to Australia a wife and family.
“No,” said the saddler, “nothing of the kind. He was not able to do that: since he had to tell a thousand lies to induce the saddler to take himself. But I remember, there was a woman from Dublin inquiring for him after he had sailed; and she, poor creature, appeared well nigh heart-broken, when she learnt that he had gone without her. I suppose she must have been his wife.”
The saddler had heard nothing since from either Leary or the woman.
A part of this intelligence was very satisfactory. My mother had not found Mr Leary in Liverpool, and that wretch was now far away.
But where was my mother? Where had she and her youngest children been for the last five years? How should I learn their fate?
Surely I had plenty of work before me. My relatives were to be found; and this would be no easy task: since I had not the slightest clue to guide me in the search. I had to convince Mrs Hyland that I was still worthy of her friendship. I had to obtain revenge on my enemy Adkins; and a greater task than all would still remain. I had to win, or forget Lenore.
My last interview with her, had revived within my mind the sweet remembrances of the past, along with thoughts of the present, and dreams of the future—thoughts and dreams that would not again sleep. A mental vision of her loveliness was constantly before me.
What was I to do first? I had but little money in my pockets; and could not leave Liverpool at present to obtain more. I must stay until the return of Adkins; and it would not do to spend my last shilling in idly waiting.
Without friends I could only get such occupation, as required the severest labour to perform; but, fortunately for that, I had the will, health, and strength I feel a pride in stating, that I acted, as a man should under the circumstances. Instead of strolling about in hopeless idleness, I went to the docks, and obtained labourer’s work.
For two weeks I worked at handling cotton bales, and bags of sugar. The toil was humble, and the pay for it was proportionately small; but duty commanded me, and I worked on, cheered by hope, and without repining at my fate.
Sometimes in the evening, I would walk up and down the street in front of the residence of Mrs Hyland—with the hope of seeing Lenore, or with the knowledge of being near her, whether she might be seen or not. I found pleasure even in this.
I did not like to call on her again—until I had given her mother some proof of my innocence.
Sometimes it occurred to me to ask myself the question, why should I see her more, even after I had cleared myself? She was beautiful, dangerously beautiful; and I was friendless, homeless, and without fortune. Why should I endanger my future peace of mind, by becoming more and more infatuated with one whose heart I could scarce hope ever to possess?
Duty as well as reason told me to pursue the search for my relatives, and see Lenore Hyland no more. But where is the heart love-stricken that will listen to the call, either of reason, or duty?
Mine did not, and could not. It was deaf to such an appeal. I could think only of Lenore, yearn to see her again—to speak with her—to listen to her—to love her!