The apartment, into which I was conducted, seemed to be used as a
sitting-room as well as a shop; and from its general appearance I could
tell that my mother and sister were not doing a very flourishing
business. There was enough, however, to satisfy me, that they were
earning their living in a respectable manner.
To prevent being misunderstood, I will state, that, by a respectable
manner, I mean that they, to all appearance, were supporting themselves
by honest industry; and in my opinion there can be no greater evidence,
that they were living a life that should command respect.
The young girl, without a suspicion of the character of her visitor,
left me to summon the person for whom I had made inquiry; and in a few
minutes time, Mrs Leary herself entered from an adjoining room. I saw
at a glance that she was the woman I remembered as _mother_!
The face appeared older and more careworn; but the features were the
same, that had lived so long in my memory.
It would be impossible to describe the strange emotions that crowded
into my soul on once more beholding my long-lost, unfortunate mother. I
know not why I should have been so strongly affected. Some may argue
that a weak intellect is easily excited by trifles. They may be
correct; but there is another phenomenon. A great passion can never
have existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a storm
of strong passions was raging within mine.
I tried to speak, but could not. Language was not made for the thoughts
that at that moment stirred within me.
It was not until I had been twice asked by my mother, what was my
business, 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 that
crisis, I did not happen to have any sense of this quality about me. My
thoughts were wandering from the days of childhood up to that hour; they
were in as much confusion, as though my brains had been stirred about
with a wooden spoon.
I contrived to stammer out something at last; and I believe the words
were, "I have come to see you."
"If that is your only business," said my mother, "now that you have seen
me, you may go again."
How familiar was the sound of her voice! It seemed to have been
echoing, 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 curtly
granted; but continued gazing at the two--my eyes alternately turning
from mother to daughter--in a manner that must have appeared rude
enough.
"Do you hear me?" said the old lady. "If you have no business here, why
don'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 had
ever stirred it before. I know not whether they were of pleasure or of
pain: for I could not analyse them then, and have never felt them before
or since.
My actions were involuntary: for my thoughts were too much occupied to
guide them.
A sofa stood near; and, throwing myself upon it, I tried to realise the
fact that eleven years had passed, since parting with my relatives a
boy, 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 continued
her gaze, without heeding the command thus addressed to her.
"Mother," rejoined she, after an interval, "we have seen this man
before; 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 seen
you there."
There was something so very absurd in this remark, that I could not help
noticing it--even in my abstracted state of mind; and this very
absurdity had the effect of awakening me from my reverie.
It then suddenly occurred to the young girl, that she had not been in
Dublin since she was a child herself; and, at the time she left that
city, a young man of my appearance could not have been much more than a
boy.
"Perhaps, I am right after all?" said she. "I do believe that I've seen
you in Dublin. Mother!" she added, turning to the old lady; "He knows
who we are."
Martha's first remark--about having seen me in Dublin--brought upon me
the earnest gaze of my mother. She had often told me that when a man I
would look like my father; and perhaps my features awakened within her
some recollections of the past.
She came up to me; and, speaking in a low, earnest voice, said: "Tell me
who you are!"