A large clipper ship was about to sail for Liverpool; and I paid it a
visit--in order to inspect the accommodations it might afford for a
passenger.
I made up my mind to go by this vessel; and selected a berth in the
second cabin. Before leaving the clipper, I came in contact with her
steward; and was surprised at finding in him an old acquaintance.
I was agreeably surprised: for it was Mason--the man who had been
steward of the ship Lenore--already known to the reader, as one of the
men, who had assisted in setting me right with Mrs Hyland and her
daughter. Mason was pleased to meet me again; and we had a talk over
old times.
He told me, that since leaving Liverpool he had heard of Adkins; that he
was the first officer of an American ship; and had won the reputation of
being a great bully.
I told the steward in return that I had heard of Adkins myself at a
later date--that I had in fact, seen him, in California, where I had
been a witness to his death, and that he had been killed for indulging
in the very propensity spoken of.
Mason and Adkins had never been friends, when sailing together; and I
knew that this bit of information would not be received by the old
steward in any very unpleasant manner. Nor was I mistaken.
"You remember Mrs Hyland, and her daughter?" said Mason, as we
continued to talk. "What am I thinking of? Of course you do: since in
Liverpool the captain's house was almost your home."
"Certainly," I answered; "I can never forget _them_."
On saying this, I spoke the words of truth.
"Mrs Hyland is now living in London," the steward continued. "She is
residing with her daughter, who is married."
"What!" I exclaimed, "Lenore Hyland--married?"
"Yes. Have you not heard of it? She married the captain of a ship in
the Australia trade, who, after the marriage, took her and her mother to
London."
"Are you sure--that--that--you cannot be mistaken?" I asked, gasping
for breath.
"Yes, quite sure," replied Mason. "What's the matter? you don't appear
to be pleased at it?"
"Oh nothing--nothing. But what reason have you for thinking she is
married?" I asked, trying to appear indifferent.
"Only that I heard so. Besides, I saw her at the Captain's house in
London where I called on business. I had some notion of going a voyage
with him."
"But are you sure the person you saw was Lenore--the daughter of Captain
Hyland?"
"Certainly. How could I be mistaken? You know I was at Captain
Hyland's house several times, and saw her there--to say nothing of that
scene we had with Adkins, when we were all in Liverpool together. I
could not be mistaken: for I spoke to her the time I was at her house in
London. She was married about two years before to the captain of the
Australian ship--a man old enough to be her father."
What reason had I to doubt Mason's word? None.
I went ashore with a soul-sickening sensation, that caused me to wish
myself as free from the cares of this life, as the mother I had lately
lowered into her grave.
How dark seemed the world!
The sun seemed no longer shining, to give light; but only to warm my
woe.
The beacon that had been guiding my actions so brightly and well, had
become suddenly extinguished; and I was left in a night of sorrow, as
dark, as I should have deserved, had my great love been for crime
instead of Lenore!
What had I done to be cursed with this, the greatest, misfortune Fate
can bestow?
Where was my reward for the wear of body and soul, through long years of
toil, and with that conscientious and steadfast spirit, the wise tell
us, must surely win? What had _I_ won? Only an immortal woe!
Thenceforth was I to be in truth, a "Rolling Stone," for the only
attraction that could have bound me to one place, or to anything--even
to life itself--had for ever departed from my soul.
The world before me seemed not the one through which I had been hitherto
straying. I seemed to have fallen from some bright field of manly
strife, down, far down, into a dark and dreary land--there to wander
friendless, unheeded and unloved, vainly seeking for something, I knew
not what, and without the hope, or even the desire of finding it!
I could not blame Lenore. She had broken no faith with me: none had
been plighted between us. I had not even talked to her of love.
Had she promised to await my return--had she ever confessed any
affection for me--some indignation, or contempt for her perfidy, might
have arisen to rescue me from my fearful reflections.
But I was denied even this slight source of consolation. There was
nothing for which I could blame her--nothing to aid me in conquering the
hopeless passion, that still burned within my soul.
I had been a fool to build such a vast superstructure of hope on a
foundation so flimsy and fanciful.
It had fallen; and every faculty of my mind seemed crushed amid the
ruins.
In one way only was I fortunate. I was in a land where gold fields of
extraordinary richness, had been discovered; and I knew, that there is
no occupation followed by man--calculated to so much concentrate his
thoughts upon the present, and abstract them from the past--as that of
gold hunting.
Join a new rush to the gold fields, all ye who are weary in soul, and
sorrow-laden, and the past will soon sink unheeded under the excitement
of the present.
I knew that this was the very thing I now required; and, from the moment
of receiving the unwelcome tidings communicated by Mason, I relinquished
all thought of returning to Liverpool.
I did not tell my sister Martha of this sudden change in my designs;
but, requesting her not to write, until she should first hear from me, I
bade her farewell--leaving her in great grief, at my departure.
Twenty-four hours after, I was passing out of the harbour of Sydney--in
a steamer bound for the city of Melbourne.
Volume Two, Chapter XX.