The next morning, I was forbidden by the physician to come into my
mother's presence.
He said, that her life depended on her being kept tranquil; and he had
learnt enough to know, that nothing would be more certain to injure her
than the sight of myself. He feared that she would have an attack of
brain fever, which would probably have a fatal termination.
I saw Martha; and conversed with her for a few minutes. My poor sister
had also passed a sleepless night; and, like myself, was in great
distress 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, he
pronounced his patient to be under a dangerous attack of brain fever--a
disease 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 years
had I been anticipating an exquisite pleasure--in sometime finding my
relatives and providing them with a good home. I had found my mother at
last, 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 have
shaped it in a different fashion. I should have told how all my
long-cherished anticipations had been happily realised. In dealing with
fiction, we can command, even fate, to fulfil our desires; but in a
narrative of real adventures, we must deal with fate as it has presented
itself, however much it may be opposed to our ideas of dramatic justice.
There are moments, generally met in affliction, when the most
incredulous man may become the slave of superstition. Such was the case
with myself, at that crisis, when sorrow for the loss of my mother, was
strong upon me. I began to fancy that my presence boded death to every
acquaintance 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 unfortunate
Richard Guinane.
My truest friend, Stormy Jack, had met a violent death, soon after
coming 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 we
should do. I was still desirous of returning to Liverpool; and, of
course, taking my sister along with me. I proposed that we should
start, without further loss of time.
"I am sorry you are not pleased with the colony," said she. "I know you
would be, if you were to stay here a little longer. Then you would
never wish to return."
"Do not think me so foolish," I answered, "as to believe that I have
come to this place with the intention of remaining; and wish to leave
it, without giving it a fair trial. I came here on business, that is
now accomplished; and why should I stay longer, when business calls me
elsewhere?"
"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, I
wish you to go along with me. I am not a penniless adventurer now; and
would not ask you to accompany me to Liverpool, if I were not able to
provide you with a home there, I offer you that, sister. Will you
accept 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 desert
me."
"Silence, Martha," said I. "Do not answer me again in that manner; or
we 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 me
not to desert you. Say you are willing to go with me; or let me know
the reason why you are not!"
"I do not wish to go to Liverpool," replied she; "I do not wish to leave
Sydney. I have lived here several years. It is my home: and I don't
like to leave it--I _cannot_ leave it, Rowland!"
Though far from a satisfactory answer, I saw it was all I was likely to
get, and that I should have to be contented with it. I asked no further
questions--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 go
with me. In all likelihood, my poor sister had some Mr Leary for whom
she was waiting; and for whom she was suffering a similar infatuation?
It was an unpleasant reflection; and aroused all the selfishness of my
nature. I asked myself: why I should not seek my own happiness in
preference to looking after that of others, and meeting with worse than
disappointment?
Perhaps it was selfishness that had caused me to cross the Pacific in
search of my relations? I am inclined to think it was: for I certainly
did fancy, that, the way to secure my own happiness was to find them and
endeavour to make them happy. As my efforts had resulted in
disappointment, why should I follow the pursuit any longer--at least, in
the same fashion?
My sister was of age. She was entitled to be left to herself--in
whatever way she wished to seek her own welfare. She had a right to
remain in the colony, if she chose to do so.
I could see the absurdity of her trying to keep me from Lenore: and
could therefore concede to her the right of remaining in the colony.
Her motive for remaining in Sydney, might be as strong as mine was for
returning to Liverpool?
I had the full affection of a brother for Martha; and yet I could be
persuaded to leave her behind. Should I succeed in overcoming her
objections--or in any manner force her to accompany me--perhaps
misfortune might be the result: and then the fault would be mine.
At this time, there were many inducements for my remaining in the
colonies. Astounding discoveries of gold were being daily made in
Victoria; and the diggings of New South Wales were richly rewarding all
those who toiled in them.
Moreover, I had been somewhat fascinated by the free, romantic life of
the gold-hunter; and was strongly tempted once more to try my fortune
upon the gold fields.
Still there was a greater attraction in Liverpool. I had been too long
absent 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 her
future welfare. I did not even require her to tell me the true reasons
why she was not willing to leave Sydney: for I was determined we should
part in friendship. I merely remarked that, we must no more be lost to
each other's knowledge; but that we should correspond regularly. I
impressed upon her at parting--ever to remember that she had a brother
to whom she could apply, in case her unexplained conduct should ever
bring regret.
My sister seemed much affected by my parting words; and I could tell
that her motive for remaining behind was one of no ordinary strength. I
resolved, before leaving her, to place her beyond the danger of
immediate want.
A woman, apparently respectable, wished some one with a little money to
join her in the same business, in which my mother and Martha had been
engaged.
I was able to give my sister what money the woman required; and, before
leaving, I had the satisfaction to see her established in the business,
and settled in a comfortable home.
There was nothing farther to detain me in Sydney--nothing, as I fondly
fancied, but the sea between myself and Lenore!
Volume Two, Chapter XIX.