From Martha I learnt what was indeed already known to me: that our mother had been all along willing and ready to sacrifice not only her own happiness, but that of her children, for the sake of this vile caitiff. My sister told me, that when they reached Liverpool, and found that Mr Leary had gone to Sydney, my mother determined to follow him immediately; and that William had been left behind in Liverpool, because she thought that coming without him she would be better received by the wretch whom she called her husband.
On reaching Sydney, they had found Mr Leary passing under the name of Mathews. He was at first disposed to have nothing to do with his Dublin wife; but having come to the knowledge that she was in possession of about fifteen pounds of the money received for her lease, he changed his mind; and lived with her, until he had spent every penny of it in drink and dissipation.
“Until he sailed for California,” said Martha, “he used to come every day, and stay awhile with mother—whenever he thought that he could obtain a shilling by doing so; and then we saw him no more. Ah, Rowland! I have had much suffering since we were together. Many days have I gone without eating a morsel—in order that money might be saved for Mr Leary. Oh! I hope we shall never see him again!”
“You never will see him again,” said I; “he is gone, where our poor mother will be troubled with him no more: he is dead.”
Martha was an impulsive creature; and in her excitement at hearing the news, exclaimed—
“Thank God for it! No! no!” she continued, as if repenting what she had said, “I don’t mean that; but if he is dead, it will be well for mother; he will never trouble her again.”
I made known to my sister all the particulars of Leary’s death. She agreed with me in the idea I had already entertained: that the intelligence could not with safety be communicated to our mother.
“I don’t believe,” said Martha, “that any woman in this world ever loved a man so much as mother does Mr Leary. I am sure, Rowland, it would kill her, to hear what you have just told me.”
“But we must bring her to know it in some way,” said I; “She must be told of his death: for I can see that she will not consent to leave Sydney, so long as she believes him to be alive. We cannot return to England, and leave her here; and it is evident she won’t go with us, while she thinks there is the slightest chance of his coming back. We must tell her that he is dead, and take chance of the consequences.”
My sister made no rejoinder to my proposal; and, while speaking, I fancied that my words, instead of being welcome, were having an unpleasant effect upon her!