Volume Two—Chapter Four.
The Orphan.
Shortly after the termination of the melancholy drama, in which I had taken so prominent a part, Stormy Jack and I went to see the child—now left without either father or mother.
We found it in the keeping of a young married couple—who had lately arrived from Australia; and who had there been acquainted with its unfortunate mother.
They told us, that the murdered woman was the daughter of a respectable shopkeeper in Sydney, that she had run away with Mr Mathews—the name under which Leary had passed in Australia—and that her parents had been very unwilling she should have anything to do with him.
She was an only daughter; and had left behind a father and mother sorely grieved at her misconduct. Everybody that knew her had thought her behaviour most singular. They could not comprehend her infatuation in forsaking a good home and kind parents for such a man as Mathews—who, to say nothing of his dissipated habits, was at least twenty years older than herself.
Perhaps it was strange, though I had learnt enough to think otherwise. Experience had told me, that such occurrences are far from being uncommon, and that one might almost fancy, that scoundrels like Leary possess some peculiar charm for fascinating women—at least, those of the weaker kind.
The orphan was shown to us—a beautiful bright-eyed boy, about a year old; and bearing a marked resemblance to its mother.
“I shall take this child to its grandfather and grandmother in Sydney,” said the young woman who had charge of it; “they will think all the world of it: for it is so like their lost daughter. May be it will do something to supply her place?”
From the manner in which the young couple were behaving towards the child, I saw that it would be safe in their keeping; and added my mite, to the fund already contributed for its support.
In hopes of learning whether my mother had ever reached Sydney, I asked them if they had been acquainted with Mathews there; or knew anything of his previous history. On this point they could give me no information. They had had no personal acquaintance with Mathews in Australia; and all that they knew or had ever heard of him was unfavourable to his character. In Sydney, as elsewhere, he had been known as a dissolute, intemperate man.
Before we left the house, three men came in—bringing with them the gold that had been for the orphan.
It was weighed in the presence of the young man and his wife, and the amount was fifty ounces—in value near two hundred pounds of English money. My own contribution increased it to a still greater sum. The married couple had some scruples about taking charge of the gold, although they had none in regard to encumbering themselves with the child!
“I will go with you to an Express Office,” said the man to the deputation who brought the money, “and we will send it to Mr D—, in San Francisco. He is a wholesale merchant there, and came from Sydney. He is acquainted with the child’s grandparents; and will forward the money to them. As for the child, I expect soon to return to Sydney myself—when I can take it along with me, and give it up to those who have the right to it.”
This arrangement proving agreeable to all parties concerned, the gold was at once carried to the Express Office, and deposited there—with directions to forward it to Mr D—, the merchant.
Having passed the remainder of the day in the company of Stormy Jack, I returned to my home on the Tuolumne, but little better informed about what I desired to know, than when I left it. I had seen Mr Leary for the last time; but I was as ignorant as ever of the fate of my relatives.
Leary was now gone out of the world, and could trouble my mother no more—wherever she might be. It was some satisfaction to be certain of that.
As I walked homeward my reflections were sufficiently unpleasant: I reproached myself with having too long neglected the duty on which I had started out—the search after my relations.
Nor was I without some regret, as I suffered my mind to dwell on the spectacle just past. The criminal was my stepfather. I had, though half unconsciously, given the word, that had launched his body from the scaffold, and his soul into eternity!
My regrets could not have been very deeply felt. They were checked by the reflection, that he could have given me some information concerning my mother, and that he had died apparently happy with the thought, that he had disappointed me by withholding it!
Mr Leary had been my mother’s husband—my own stepfather—yet without shame I have recorded the fact, that he died an ignominious death. I am not responsible for his actions. I stand alone; and the man who may think any the less of me, for my unfortunate relationship with a murderer, is one whose good will I do not think worth having.