While reflecting, on how I might find Lenore, a happy idea came to my aid. She had lived in Liverpool—she had been married there. I was acquainted with some of Mrs Hyland’s friends, who must still be in Liverpool. Surely they would know the name and address of the young lady, who was once Lenore Hyland? It would only cost me a journey to Liverpool—with some disagreeable souvenirs, to spring up in my mind while there—but my reward would be to gaze once again upon the beauty of Lenore.
I had seen in the papers, that Captain Nowell’s vessel was to sail for Melbourne in a few days. I was pleased at this information: for I intended to take passage with him; and might anticipate a more pleasant voyage, than if I went with a stranger.
Before setting out for Liverpool, I wrote a note to Captain Nowell—informing him of my intention to go out in his ship; and requesting him to keep for me one of the best berths of his cabin. This business settled, I took the train for the metropolis of Lancashire. I was not over satisfied with myself while starting on this journey. I was troubled with a suspicion, that I was doing a very foolish thing. My conscience, however, became quieted by the reflection that it was of very little consequence, either to myself, or any one else, whether I went to Liverpool, or stayed in London. I was alone in the world—a rolling stone—and why should I not follow the guidance of my destiny?
I became better satisfied with my proceedings when I reflected that they would lead to my finding Lenore, and once more looking upon her.
I knew that by so doing my unhappiness might only be increased; but I fancied that even this would be a change from the dull aching misery, I had been so long enduring.
My railroad journey by Liverpool was not without an incident that interested me. In the carriage in which I had taken my seat, was a man—accompanied by his wife, their child, and a servant girl who nursed the “baby.” I had not been ten minutes in the company of this interesting group, before I became convinced that it was worthy of being studied, although like a Latin lesson, the study was not altogether agreeable.
The husband was a striking example, of how a sensible man may sometimes be governed by a silly woman. The child was about two years and a half old; and the fact, that it had already learnt to cry, seemed to its mother something to be surprised at!
The selfishness which causes that painful reserve, or want of sociability, observable amongst the travelling English of the middle class, was in the case of the woman in question, subdued by a silly conceit about her child—which she appeared to regard as a little lump of concentrated perfection. Before we had been in the carriage half-an-hour, she had told me its age, the number of its teeth, what it did, and did not like to eat, along with several remarkable things it had been heard to say.
“But is it not strange,” asked she, after a long speech in manifestation of its many virtues, “that a child of its age cannot walk?”
“There is nothing strange about it,” muttered the husband, “how can the child learn to walk, when it never has an opportunity of trying? It’ll never have a chance to try, as long as there is a servant girl in the United Kingdom strong enough to carry it about. I’ll answer for that.”