Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
A Meeting with a Long-Lost Mother.
From Mrs Davis I had obtained my mother’s address; and I went at once in search of the place.
Passing along the street, to which I had been directed, I saw a small, but neat-looking shop, with the words “Mrs Leary, Milliner and Dress-Maker” painted over the door. I had journeyed far in search of my mother; I had just arrived from a long voyage—which it had taken three ships to enable me to complete. The weariness of spirit, and impatience caused by the delay, had been a source of much misery to me; but now that the object of my search was found—and there was nothing further to do than enter the house and greet my long-lost relatives—strange enough, I felt as if there was no more need for haste! Instead of at once stepping into the house, I passed nearly an hour in the street—pacing up and down it, altogether undetermined how to act.
During that hour my thoughts were busy, both with the past and future: for I knew that in the interview I was about to hold with my mother, topics must come into our conversation of a peculiar kind, and such as required the most serious reflection on my part, before making myself known to her.
Should I make her acquainted with the ignominious termination of Mr Leary’s career; and by that means endeavour to put an end to her strange infatuation for him? If what Mrs Davis had told me regarding her should turn out to be true, I almost felt as if I could no longer regard her as a mother. Indeed, when I reflected on her affection for such a wretch as Leary, I could not help some risings of regret, that I should have lost so much time, and endured so many hardships, in search of a relative who could be guilty of such incurable folly.
Notwithstanding the time spent in pacing through the street, I could determine on no definite course of action; and, at length, resolving to be guided by circumstances, I stepped up to the house, and knocked at the door.
It was opened by a young woman, about nineteen years of age.
I should not have known who she was, had I not expected to meet relatives; but the girl was beautiful, and just such as I should have expected to find my sister Martha. My thoughts had so often dwelt upon my little sister; that I had drawn in my mind an imaginary portrait of her. Her blue eyes and bright hair, as well as the cast of her countenance, and form of her features, had ever remained fresh and perfect in my memory. I had only to gaze on the young girl before me, refer to my mental picture of little Martha, remember that eleven years had passed since last I saw her, and be certain that I had found my sister.
I knew it was she; but I said nothing to make the recognition mutual. I simply asked for Mrs Leary.
I was invited in; and requested to take a seat.
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!”
I arose to my feet, trembling in every limb.
“Tell me who you are! What is your name?” she exclaimed—becoming nearly as much excited as myself.
I could no longer refrain from declaring myself; and I made answer:—
“I am the Rolling Stone.”
Had I been a small and weak man, I should have been crushed and suffocated by the embraces of my mother and sister—so demonstrative were they in their expressions of surprise and joy!
As soon as our excitement had, to some extent, subsided; and we were able to converse a rational manner, I inquired after my brother William.
“I left him apprenticed to a harness-maker in Liverpool,” answered my mother.
“But where is he now?” I asked; “that was long ago.”
My mother began to weep; and Martha made answer for her.
“William ran away from his master; and we have never heard of him since.”
I requested to be informed what efforts had been made to find him. I was then told that my mother had written two or three times to the harness-maker; and from him had learnt that he had used every exertion, to discover the whereabouts of his runaway apprentice, but without success.
It appeared that my mother never liked to hear any one speak of William: for she had some unpleasant regrets at having left him behind her in Liverpool.
I consoled her, by saying that I had plenty of money, that William should be advertised for, and found; and that we should all again live happily together—as we had in years long gone by.
In all my life I was never more happy than on that evening. The future was full of hope.
It was true that much had yet to be done before my purposes could be fully accomplished. But a man with nothing to do, cannot be contented. We must ever have something to attain, or life is not worth the having.
I had yet something to live for. I had still a task to perform that might require much time and toil. I had yet to win Lenore!