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!
Volume One, Chapter XII.