I once believed that she had a will of her own, with the courage to show it—an opinion that had been formed from observations made during the life of my father, but since her marriage with Mr Leary, she seemed afraid of giving utterance to a word, that might express independence, and allowed him, not only to speak but think for her.
I knew that she had much affection for all of us, her children—and her regret at thus sending me, at so early an age to encounter the hardships of a long voyage must have been deep and sincere.
I know that her heart was nearly breaking at that moment. The expression of her features, and the manner in which she wrung my hand, told me so; and yet the passion of my grief was not equal in power to that of her fear for the frowns of Mr Leary.
My amiable step-father accompanied me to the ship, which was lying in Dublin Bay; and on our way thither, he became much excited with drink. He was so elated with whiskey, and with the idea that I was going away, that he did not speak to me in his usual unpleasant tone. On the contrary, he seemed all kindness, until we had got aboard the ship.
“Now my little ‘Rolling Stone,’” said he, when about to take leave of me, “you are going to have plenty of rolling now, and may you roll so far away, as never to roll across my path again.”
He appeared to think this was very witty, for he was much amused at what he had said, and laughed long and loudly.
I made no reply, until he was in the boat, which was about to shove off from the ship, when, looking over the bulwarks, I called after him.
“Mr Leary! if you ill-use my mother, brother, or sister, in my absence, I will certainly kill you when I come back.”
Mr Leary made no reply, further than to answer me with a smile, that a hyena might have envied.