by Mayne Reid
most wonderful and original conception, that ever emanated fromthe human mind.
"Ha!" continued my mother, hissing cut the words. "It was you that gavethe word to the others--the word that brought him to death? You are amurderer! 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 beyondher reach, a handful of hair was plucked from my head!
When finally hindered from farther assailing me, she commenced draggingout her own hair, all the while raving like a maniac!
She became so violent at length, that it was found necessary to tie herdown; and, acting under the orders of a physician, who had been suddenlysummoned to the house, I took my departure--leaving poor Martha, weepingby the side of a frantic woman, whom we had the misfortune to callmother.
How long to me appeared the hours of that dreary night. I passed themin an agony of thought, that would have been sufficient punishment, evenfor Mr Leary--supposing him to have been possessed of a soul capable offeeling 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 askedmyself: Why was I not like him, with a soul incapable of sorrow? Whatwas there to cause me the agony I was enduring? I was young, and ingood health: why was I not happy? Because my mother had gone mad withgrief for the death of a wicked man? Surely that could be no cause forthe misery I myself suffered, or should not have been to a person ofproper sense? My mother had been guilty of folly, and was reaping itsreward. Why should I allow myself to be punished also? It could notaid her: why should I give way to it?
"But your sister is also in sorrow," whispered some demon into the earof my spirit, "and how can you be happy?"
"So are thousands of others in sorrow, and ever will be," answeredreason. "Let those be happy who can. The fool who makes himselfwretched because others are, will ever meet misery, and ever deserveit."
Selfish reason counselled in vain: for care had mounted my soul, andcould not be cast off.
Volume Two, Chapter XVIII.
A MELANCHOLY END.
The next morning, I was forbidden by the physician to come into mymother's presence.
He said, that her life depended on her being kept tranquil; and he hadlearnt enough to know, that nothing would be more certain to injure herthan the sight of myself. He feared that she would have an attack ofbrain fever, which would probably have a fatal termination.
I saw Martha; and conversed with her for a few minutes. My poor sisterhad also passed a sleepless night; and, like myself, was in greatdistress of mind.
Her affliction was even greater than mine: for she had never, like me,been separated from her mother.
The physician's fears were too soon realised. Before the day passed, hepronounced his patient to be under a dangerous attack of brain fever--adisease that, in New South Wales, does not trifle long with its victims.
That night the sufferings of my unhappy mother ceased--I hope, for ever.
For all that had passed, I felt sincere sorrow at her loss. For yearshad I been anticipating an exquisite pleasure--in sometime finding myrelatives and providing them with a good home. I had found my mother atlast, only to give me a fresh sorrow--and then behold her a corpse!
If this narrative had been a work of fiction, I should perhaps haveshaped it in a different fashion. I should have told how all mylong-cherished anticipations had been happily realised. In dealing withfiction, we can command, even fate, to fulfil our desires; but in anarrative of real adventures, we must deal with fate as it has presenteditself, however much it may be opposed to our ideas of dramatic justice.
There are moments, generally met in affliction, when the mostincredulous man may become the slave of superstition. Such was the casewith myself, at that crisis, when sorrow for the loss of my mother, wasstrong upon me. I began to fancy that my presence boded death to everyacquaintance or friend, with whom I chanced to come in contact.
Memory brought before me, the fate of Hiram, on our "prospecting"expedition in California, as also the melancholy end of the unfortunateRichard Guinane.
My truest friend, Stormy Jack, had met a violent death, soon aftercoming to reside with me; and now, immediately after finding my mother,I had to follow her remains to the grave!
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Soon after we had buried our mother, I consulted Martha, as to what weshould do. I was still desirous of returning to Liverpool; and, ofcourse, taking my sister along with me. I proposed that we shouldstart, without further loss of time.
"I am sorry you are not pleased with the colony," said she. "I know youwould be, if you were to stay here a little longer. Then you wouldnever wish to return."
"Do not think me so foolish," I answered, "as to believe that I havecome to this place with the intention of remaining; and wish to leaveit, without giving it a fair trial. I came here on business, that isnow accomplished; and why should I stay longer, when business calls meelsewhere?"
"Rowland, my brother!" cried Martha, commencing to weep. "Why will you_go_ and forsake me?"
"I do not wish to forsake you, Martha," said I. "On the contrary, Iwish you to go along with me. I am not a penniless adventurer now; andwould not ask you to accompany me to Liverpool, if I were not able toprovide you with a home there, I offer you that, sister. Will youaccept of it?"
"Rowland! Rowland!!" she exclaimed; "do not leave me! You are,perhaps, the only relative I have in the world. Oh! you will not desertme."
"Silence, Martha," said I. "Do not answer me again in that manner; orwe part immediately, and perhaps for ever. Did you not understand me?I asked you to go with me to Liverpool; and you answer, by intreating menot to desert you. Say you are willing to go with me; or let me knowthe reason why you are not!"
"I do not wish to go to Liverpool," replied she; "I do not wish to leaveSydney. I have lived here several years. It is my home: and I don'tlike to leave it--I _cannot_ leave it, Rowland!"
Though far from a satisfactory answer, I saw it was all I was likely toget, and that I should have to be contented with it. I asked no furtherquestions--the subject was too painful.
I suspected that my sister's reasons for not wishing to leave Sydney,were akin to those that had hindered my mother from consenting to gowith me. In all likelihood, my poor sister had some Mr Leary for whomshe was waiting; and for whom she was suffering a similar infatuation?
It was an unpleasant reflection; and aroused all the selfishness of mynature. I asked myself: why I should not seek my own happiness inpreference to looking after that of others, and meeting with worse thandisappointment?
Perhaps it was selfishness that had caused me to cross the Pacific insearch of my relations? I am inclined to think it was: for I certainlydid fancy, that, the way to secure my own happiness was to find them andendeavour to make them happy. As my efforts had resulted indisappointment, why should I follow the pursuit any longer--at least, inthe same fashion?
My sister was of age. She was entitled to be left to herself--inwhatever way she wished to seek her own welfare. She had a right toremain in the colony, if she chose to do so.
I could see the absurdity of her trying to keep me from Lenore: andcould therefore concede to her the right of remaining in the colony.Her motive for remaining in Sydney, might be as strong as mine was forreturning to Liverpool?
I had the full affection of a brother for Martha; and yet I could bepersuaded to leave her behind. Should I succeed in overcoming herobjections--or in any manner force her to accompany me--perhapsmisfortune might be the result: and then the fault would be mine.
At this time, there were many inducements for my remaining in thecolonies. Astounding discoveries of gold were being daily made inVictoria; and the diggings of New South Wales were richly rewarding allthose who toiled in them.
Moreov
er, I had been somewhat fascinated by the free, romantic life ofthe gold-hunter; and was strongly tempted once more to try my fortuneupon the gold fields.
Still there was a greater attraction in Liverpool. I had been too longabsent from Lenore; and must return to her. The desire of making money,or of aiding my relatives, could no longer detain me. I must learn,whether the future was worth warring for--whether my reward was to be,Lenore.
I told my sister that I should not any more urge her to accompany me--that I should go alone, and leave her, with my best wishes for herfuture welfare. I did not even require her to tell me the true reasonswhy she was not willing to leave Sydney: for I was determined we shouldpart in friendship. I merely remarked that, we must no more be lost toeach other's knowledge; but that we should correspond regularly. Iimpressed upon her at parting--ever to remember that she had a brotherto whom she could apply, in case her
