{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4347/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4347","id":"gutenberg_4347","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4347","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Domestic fiction","England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction","English fiction -- 19th century","Hercules (Roman mythology) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMY YOUNG ALCIDES\n\nA FADED PHOTOGRAPH\n\n\nby\n\nCharlotte M. Yonge\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nIdeas have a tyrannous power of insisting on being worked out, even\nwhen one fears they may be leading in a track already worthily\npreoccupied.\n\nBut the Hercules myth did not seem to me to be like one of the fairy\ntales that we have seen so gracefully and quaintly modernised; and at\nthe risk of seeming to travestie the Farnese statue in a shooting-coat\nand wide-awake, I could not help going on, as the notion grew deeper\nand more engrossing.\n\nFor, whether the origin of the myth be, or be not, founded on solar\nphenomena, the yearning Greek mind formed on it an unconscious allegory\nof the course of the Victor, of whom the Sun, rejoicing as a giant to\nrun his course, is another type, like Samson of old, since the facts of\nnature and of history are Divine parables.\n\nAnd as each one's conquest is, in the track of his Leader, the only\ntrue Conqueror, so Hercules, in spite of all the grotesque adjuncts\nthat the lower inventions of the heathen hung round him, is a far\ncloser likeness of manhood--as, indeed, the proverbial use of some of\nhis tasks testifies--and of repentant man conquering himself.  The\ngreat crime, after which his life was a bondage of expiation; the\nchoice between Virtue and Vice; the slain passion; the hundred-headed\nsin for ever cropping up again; the winning of the sacred emblem of\npurity;--then the subduing of greed; the cleansing of long-neglected\nuncleanness; the silencing of foul tongues; the remarkable contest with\nthe creature which had become a foe, because, after being devoted for\nsacrifice, it was spared; the obtaining the girdle of strength; the\nrecovery of the spoil from the three-fold enemy; the gaining of the\nfruit of life; immediately followed by the victory over the hell-hound\nof death; and lastly, the attainment of immortality--all seem no\nfortuitous imagination, but one of those when \"thoughts beyond their\nthoughts to those old bards were given.\"\n\nI have not followed all these meanings, for this is not an allegory,\nbut a mere distant following rather of the spirit than the letter of\nthe old Greek tale of the Twelve Tasks.  Neither have I adhered to\nevery incident of Hercules' life; and the most touching and beautiful\nof all--the rescue of Alcestis, would hardly bear to come in merely as\nan episode, in this weak and presumptuous endeavour to show that the\nhalf-divine, patient conqueror is not merely a classic invention, but\nthat he and his labours belong in some form or other to all times and\nall surroundings.\n\n                                                C. M. YONGE.\nNov. 8, 1875.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER I. THE ARGHOUSE INHERITANCE\n\nCHAPTER II. THE LION OF NEME HEATH\n\nCHAPTER III. THE \"DRAGON'S HEAD\"\n\nCHAPTER IV. THE WRATH OF DIANA\n\nCHAPTER V. THE CAPTURE IN THE SNOW\n\nCHAPTER VI. OGDEN'S BUILDINGS\n\nCHAPTER VII. THE BIRDS OF ILL OMEN\n\nCHAPTER VIII. BULLOCK'S CHASTISEMENT\n\nCHAPTER IX. THE CHAMPION'S BELT\n\nCHAPTER X. DERMOT'S MARK\n\nCHAPTER XI. THE RED VALLEY CATTLE STEALERS\n\nCHAPTER XII. THE GOLDEN FRUIT\n\nCHAPTER XIII. THE BLOODHOUND\n\nCHAPTER XIV. SUNSET GOLD AND PURPLE\n\nCHAPTER XV. THE FATAL TOKEN\n\nCHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION\n\n\n\n\n\nMY YOUNG ALCIDES\n\nA FADED PHOTOGRAPH\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE ARGHOUSE INHERITANCE.\n\n\nOne of the children brought me a photograph album, long ago finished\nand closed, and showed me a faded and blurred figure over which there\nhad been a little dispute.  Was it Hercules with club and lion-skin, or\nwas it a gentleman I had known?\n\nAh me! how soon a man's place knoweth him no more!  What fresh\nrecollections that majestic form awoke in me--the massive features,\nwith the steadfast eye, and low, square brow, curled over with short\nrings of hair; the mouth, that, through the thick, short beard, still\ninvited trust and reliance, even while there was a look of fire and\ndetermination that inspired dread.\n\nThe thing seemed to us hideous and absurd when it was taken by Miss\nHorsman.  I hated it, and hid it away as a caricature.  But now those\npale, vanishing tints bring the very presence before me; and before the\nremembrance can become equally obscure in my own mind, let me record\nfor others the years that I spent with my young Alcides as he now\nstands before me in memory.\n\nOur family history is a strange one.  I, Lucy Alison, never even saw my\ntwin brothers--nor, indeed, knew of their existence--during my\nchildhood.  I had one brother a year younger than myself, and as long\nas he lived he was treated as the eldest son, and neither he nor I ever\ndreamed that my father had had a first wife and two sons.  He was a\nfeeble, broken man, who seemed to my young fancy so old that in after\ntimes it was always a shock to me to read on his tablet, \"Percy Alison,\naged fifty-seven;\" and I was but seven years old when he died under the\nfinal blow of the loss of my little brother Percy from measles.\n\nThe dear old place--house with five gables on the garden front, black\ntimbered, and with white plaster between, and oh! such flowers in the\ngarden--was left to my mother for her life; and she was a great deal\nyounger than my father, so we went on living there, and it was only\nwhen I was almost a woman that I came to the knowledge that the\nproperty would never be mine, but would go in the male line to the son\nof one of my disinherited convict brothers.\n\nThe story, as my mother knew it, was this: Their names were Ambrose and\nEustace: there was very little interval between their births, and there\nhad been some confusion between them during the first few hours of\ntheir lives, so that the question of seniority was never entirely\nclear, though Ambrose was so completely the leader and master that he\nwas always looked upon as the elder.\n\nIn their early youth they were led away by a man of Polish extraction,\nthough a British subject, one Count Prometesky, who had thrown himself\ninto every revolutionary movement on the Continent, had fought under\nKosciusko in Poland, joined the Carbonari in Italy, and at last\nescaped, with health damaged by a wound, to teach languages and\nmilitary drawing in England, and, unhappily, to spread his principles\namong his pupils, during the excitement connected with the Reform Bill.\nUnder his teaching my poor brothers became such democrats that they\nactually married the two daughters of a man from Cumberland named\nLewthwayte, whom Lord Erymanth had turned out of one of his farms for\nhis insolence and radicalism; and not long after they were engaged in\nthe agricultural riots, drilling the peasants, making inflammatory\nspeeches, and doing all they could to bring on a revolution.  Dreadful\nharm was done on the Erymanth estate, and the farm from which\nLewthwayte had been expelled suffered especially, the whole of the\nricks and buildings being burnt down, though the family of the occupant\nwas saved, partly by Prometesky's exertions.\n\nWhen the troops came, both he and my brothers were taken with arms in\ntheir hands; they were tried by the special commission and sentenced to\ndeath.  Lewthwayte and his son were actually hung; but there was great\ninterest made for Ambrose and Eustace, and in consideration of their\nearly youth (they were not twenty-two) their sentence was commuted to\ntransportation for life, and so was Prometesky's, because he was half a\nforeigner, and because he was proved to have saved life.\n\nMy father would not see them again, but he offered their wives a\npassage out to join them, and wanted to have had their two babies left\nwith him, but the two young women refused to part with them; and it was\nafter that that he married again, meaning to cast them off for ever,\nthough, as long as their time of servitude lasted, he sent the wives an\nallowance, and as soon as his sons could hold property, he gave them a\nhandsome sum with which to set themselves up in a large farm in the\nBush.\n\nAnd when little Percy died, he wanted again to have his eldest grandson\nsent home to him, and was very much wounded by the refusal which came\nonly just before his death.  His will had left the estate to the\ngrandson, as the right heir.  Everyone looked on it as a bad prospect,\nbut no one thought of the \"convict boy\" as in the immediate future, as\nmy mother was still quite a young woman.\n\nBut when I was just three-and-twenty, an attack of diphtheria broke\nout; my mother and I both caught it; and, alas! I alone recovered. The\nillness was very long with me, partly from my desolateness and grief,\nfor, tender as my kind old servants were, and good as were my friends\nand neighbours, they could only make me feel what they were _not_.\n\nOur old lawyer, Mr. Prosser, had written to my nephew, for we knew that\nboth the poor brothers were dead; but he assured me that I might safely\nstay on at the old place, for it would be eight months before his\nletter could be answered, and the heir could not come for a long time\nafter.\n\nI was very glad to linger on, for I clung to the home, and looked at\nevery bush and flower, blossoming for the last time, almost as if I\nwere dying, and leaving them to a sort of fiend.  My mother's old\nfriends, Lady Diana Tracy and Lord Erymanth, her brother, used to\nbemoan with me the coming of this lad, born of a plebeian mother, bred\nup in a penal colony, and, no doubt, uneducated except in its coarsest\nvices.  Lord Erymanth told at endless length all the advice he had\ngiven my father in vain, and bewailed the sense of justice that had\nbequeathed the property to such a male heir as could not fail to be a\nscourge to the country.  Everyone had some story to tell of Ambrose's\nfiery speeches and insubordinate actions, viewing Eustace as not so bad\nbecause his mere satellite--and what must not their sons be?\n\nThe only person who had any feeling of pity or affection for them was\nold Miss Woolmer.  She was the daughter of a former clergyman of\nMycening, the little town which is almost at our park-gates.  She was\nalways confined to the house by rheumatic-gout.  She had grown up with\nmy brothers.  I sometimes wondered if she had not had a little\ntenderness for one of them, but I believe it was almost elder-sisterly.\nShe told me much in their excuse.  My father had never been the fond,\nindulgent father to them that I remembered him, but a strict, stern\nauthority when he was at home, and when he was absent leaving them far\ntoo much to their own devices; while Prometesky was a very attractive\nperson, brilliant, accomplished, full of fire and of faith in his\ntheories of universal benevolence and emancipation.\n\nShe thought, if the times had not been such as to bring them into\naction, Ambrose would have outgrown and modified all that was dangerous\nin his theories, and that they would have remained mere talk, the\nebullition of his form of knight-errantry; for it was generous\nindignation and ardour that chiefly led him astray, and Eustace was\nalways his double: but there were some incidents at the time which\nroused him to fury.  Lewthwayte was a Cumberland man, who had inherited\nthe stock and the last years of a lease of a farm on Lord Erymanth's\nproperty; he had done a good deal for it, and expended money on the\nunderstanding that he should have the lease renewed, but he was a man\nof bold, independent northern tongue, and gave great offence to his\nlordship, who was used to be listened to with a sort of feudal\ndeference.  He was of the fierce old Norse blood, and his daughters\nwere tall, fair, magnificent young women, not at all uneducated nor\nvulgar, and it was the finding that my brothers were becoming intimate\nat his farm that made Lord Erymanth refuse to renew the lease and turn\nthe family out so harshly, and with as little notice as possible.\n\nThe cruelty, as they thought it, was, Miss Woolmer said, most\nill-judged, and precipitated the very thing that was dreaded.  The\nyouths rushed into the marriage with the daughters, and cast in their\nlot with all that could overturn the existing order of things, but Miss\nWoolmer did not believe they had had anything to do with the\nrick-burning or machine-breaking.  All that was taken out of their\nhands by more brutal, ignorant demagogues.  They were mere visionaries\nand enthusiasts according to her, and she said the two wives were very\nnoble-looking, high-spirited young women.  She had gone to see them\nseveral times when their husbands were in prison, and had been much\nstruck with Alice, Ambrose's wife, who held up most bravely; though\nDorothy, poor thing, was prostrated, and indeed her child was born in\nthe height of the distress, when his father had just been tried for his\nlife, and sentenced to death.\n\nIt was their birth and education that caused them to be treated so\nseverely; besides, there was no doubt of their having harangued the\npeople, and stirred them up, and they were seen, as well as Prometesky,\nat the fire at what had been Lewthwayte's farm; at least, so it was\ndeclared by men who turned King's evidence, and the proof to the\ncontrary broke down, because it depended on the wives, whose evidence\nwas not admissible; indeed that--as the law then stood--was not the\nquestion.  Those who had raised the storm were responsible for all that\nwas done in it, and it was very barely that their lives were spared.\n\nThat was the comfort Miss Woolmer gave.  No one else could see any at\nall, except a few old women in the parish, who spoke tenderly of poor\nMr. Ambrose and Mr. Eustace; but then they had sons or brothers who had\nbeen out with the rioters, and after these twenty-six years no one\nremembered the outrages and terrors of the time with anything but\nhorror; and the coming of the wild lad from the Bush was looked on as\nthe end of all comfort.\n\nI meant, as soon as I heard he was on the way, to leave Arghouse, make\nvisits among friends, and decide on my future home, for, alas! there\nwas no one who wanted me.  I was quite alone in the world; my mother's\ncousins were not near, and I hardly knew them; and my only relations\nwere the bushrangers, as Lady Diana Tracy called them.\n\nShe was sister to Lord Erymanth, and widow to an Irish gentleman, and\nhad settled in the next parish to us, with her children, on the death\nof her husband.\n\nHer little daughter, Viola, had been spending the day with me, and it\nwas a lovely spring evening, when we sat on the lawn, wondering whether\nI should ever care for anything so much as for those long shadows from\nthe fir woods upon the sloping field, with the long grass rippling in\nthe wind, and the border of primroses round the edge of the wood.\n\nWe heard wheels and thought it was the carriage come for Viola, much\ntoo soon, when out ran one of the maids, crying, \"Oh! Miss Alison, he\nis come.  There's ever so many of them!\"\n\nI believe we caught hold of one another in our fright, and were almost\nsurprised when, outstripping lame old Richardson, as he announced \"Mr.\nAlison!\" there came only three persons.  They were the two tallest men\nI had ever seen, and a little girl of eight years old.  I found my hand\nin a very large one, and with the words \"Are you my aunt Lucy?\"  I was,\nas it were, gathered up and kissed.  The voice, somehow, carried a\ncomfortable feeling in the kindness of its power and depth; and though\nit was a mouth bristly with yellow bristles, such as had never touched\nme before, the honest friendly eyes gave me an indescribable feeling of\nbelonging to somebody, and of having ceased to be alone in the world.\n\n\"Here is Eustace,\" he said, \"and little Dora,\" putting the child\nforward as she backed against him, most unwilling to let me kiss her.\n\"And, I did not know I had another aunt.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, starting between, for what would Lady Diana's feelings\nhave been if Viola had carried home an Australian kiss?  \"This is Miss\nTracy.\"\n\nViola's carriage was now actually coming, and as I went into the house\nwith her, she held me, whispering to me to come home at once with her,\nbut I told her I could not leave them in that way, and they were really\nmy nephews.\n\n\"You are not afraid?\" she said.\n\n\"What do you think he could do to me?\" I asked, laughing.\n\n\"He is so big,\" said Viola.  \"I never saw any one so big, but I think\nhe is like Coeur de Lion.  Ah!\"  We both shrieked, for a most uncanny\nmonster was rearing up in front of us, hopping about the hall, as far\nas was allowed by the chain that fastened it to the leg of a table.\n\n\"Mr. Alison brought it, ma'am,\" said Richardson, in a tone of disgust\nand horror.  \"Will you have the carriage out, Miss Alison, and go down\nto the Wyvern?  Shuh! you brute!  He shan't hurt you, my dear ladies.\nI'll stand between.\"\n\nWe had recovered our senses, however, enough to see that it was only a\nharmless kangaroo; and Dora came running out, followed by Harold,\ncaressing the beast, calling it poor Nanny, and asking where he should\nshut it up for the night.\n\nI suggested an outhouse, and we conducted the creature thither in\nprocession, hearing by the way that the kangaroo's mother had been\nshot, and that the animal itself, then very young, and no bigger than a\ncat, had taken Harold's open shirt front for her pouch and leaped into\nhis bosom, and that it had been brought up to its present stature tame\nat Boola Boola.  Viola went with us, fed the kangaroo, and was so much\ninterested and delighted, that she could hardly go away, Eustace making\nher a most elaborate and rather absurd bow, being evidently much\nimpressed by the carriage and liveried servants who were waiting for\nher.\n\n\"Like the Governor's lady!\" he said.  \"And I know, for I've been to a\nball at Government House.\"\n\nHe plainly cared much more for appearances than did Harold.  He was not\nso tall, much slighter, with darker hair, rather too shiny, and a\nneatly turned up moustache, a gorgeous tie and watch chain, a brilliant\nbreast pin, a more brilliant ring, and a general air that made me\nconclude that he regarded himself as a Sydney beau.  But Harold, in his\nloose, rough grey suit, was very different.  His height was\nextraordinary, his breadth of chest and shoulder equally gigantic,\nthough well proportioned, and with a look of easy strength, and, as\nViola had said, his head was very much what one knows as the Lion\nHeart's, not Marochetti's trim carpet knight, but Vertue's rugged\nportrait from the monument at Fontevrand.  There was the same massive\nbreadth of feature, large yet not heavy, being relieved by the\nexceeding keenness and quickness of the light but very blue eyes, which\nseemed to see everywhere round in a moment, as men do in wild\ncountries.  The short thick yellow curly beard and moustache veiled the\nlower part of the face; but the general expression, when still, was\ndecidedly a sad one, though a word or a trick of Dora's would call up a\nsmile all over the browned cheeks and bright eyes.  His form and\ncolouring must have come from the Cumberland statesman, but people said\nhis voice and expression had much of his father in them; and no one\ncould think him ungentlemanly, though he was not like any English\ngentleman.  He wore no gaieties like Eustace, the handkerchief loosely\nknotted round his neck sailor fashion was plain black, and he had a\ngold ring on his little finger.\n\nDora had the same yellow curly hair, in tight, frizzly rings all over\nher head, like a boy's, a light complexion, and blue eyes, in a round,\npug-nosed face; and she hung so entirely on Harold that I never doubted\nthat she was his sister till, as we were sitting down to eat, I said,\n\"Can't you come a little way from your brother?\"\n\nEustace gave his odd little giggle, and said, \"There, Dora!\"\n\n\"I'm not his sister--I'm his wife!\"\n\n\"There!\" and Eustace giggled again and ordered her away; but I saw\nHarold's brow knit with pain, and as she began to reiterate her\nassertion and resist Eustace, he gently sat her down on the chair near\nat hand, and silently made her understand that she was to stay there;\nbut Eustace rather teasingly said:\n\n\"Aunt Lucy will teach you manners, Dora.  She is my sister, and we have\nbrought her home to send her to school.\"\n\n\"I won't go to school,\" said Dora; \"Harold would not.\"\n\n\"You won't get away like him,\" returned Eustace, in the same tone.\n\n\"Yes, I shall.  I'll lick all the girls,\" she returned, clenching a\npair of red mottled fists that looked very capable.\n\n\"For shame, Dora!\" said the low voice.\n\n\"Harold did,\" said she, looking up at me triumphantly; \"he beat all the\nboys, and had to come back again to Boola Boola.\"\n\nI longed to understand more, but I was ashamed to betray my ignorance\nof my near relations, for I did not even know whether their mothers\nwere alive; but I saw that if I only listened, Eustace would soon tell\neverything.  He had a runaway chin, and his mouth had a look at times\nthat made me doubt whether there were not some slight want in his\nintellect, or at least weakness of character.  However, I was relieved\nfrom the fear of the vice with which the neighbourhood had threatened\nus, for neither of them would touch wine or beer, but begged for tea,\nand drank oceans of it.\n\nWe had not long finished, when Richardson brought me a note from Lady\nDiana Tracy, saying she had sent the carriage for me that I might at\nonce take refuge from this unforeseen invasion.\n\nI felt it out of all possibility that I should thus run away, and yet I\nknew I owed an apology for Harold's finding me and the old servants in\npossession, so I began to say that my old friend had sent the carriage\nfor me.--I had been taken by surprise, their journey (one of the first\nacross the Isthmus) had been so much quicker than I had expected, or I\nshould have left the house free for them.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Harold.  And when I answered that the place was his and I\nhad no business there, he did not seem to see it.  \"It is your home,\"\nhe said; \"you have always lived here.\"\n\nI began explaining that this was no reason at all; but he would not\nhear of my going away, and declared that it was I who belonged to the\nplace, so that I confessed that I should be very thankful to stay a\nlittle while.\n\n\"Not only a little while,\" he said; \"it is your home as much as ever,\nand the best thing in the world for us.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" responded Eustace; \"we kept on wondering what Aunt Lucy\nwould be like, and never thought she could be such a nice _young_ lady.\"\n\n\"Not realising that your aunt is younger than yourselves,\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" said Eustace, \"the old folk never would talk of home--my father\ndid not like it, you see--and Aunt Alice had moved off to New Zealand,\nso that we could not go and talk about it to her.  Mr. Smith has got a\nschool in Auckland, you know.\"\n\nI did not know, but I found that a year or two after the death of my\nbrother Ambrose, his widow had become the second wife of the master of\na boarding-school at Sydney, and that it was there that Harold, at ten\nyears old, had fought all the boys, including the step-children, and\nhad been so audacious and uncontrollable, that she had been forced to\nreturn him to his uncle and aunt in the \"Bush.\"  Eustace had been with\nthe Smiths at Sydney until her move to Auckland, he had even been\npresented, and had been to a ball at Government House, and thus was\nviewed as the polished member of the family, though, if he had come as\nmaster, I should never have been drawn, as I was by Harold's free,\nkindly simplicity, into writing my thanks to Lady Diana, and saying\nthat I could not leave my nephews so abruptly, especially as they had\nbrought a little sister.\n\nIt was gratifying to see that Harold was uneasy till the note was sent\noff and the carriage dismissed. \"You are not going?\" he said, as\npersuasively as if he were speaking to Dora, and I strove to make a\nwise and prudent answer, about remaining for the next few days, and\nsettling the rest when he had made his plans.\n\nThen I proposed to take Dora up to bed, but though manifestly very\nweary, the child refused, and when her brother tried to order her, she\nran between Harold's knees, and there tossed her head and glared at me.\nHe lifted her on his lap, and she drew his arm round her in defence.\nEustace said he spoilt her, but he still held her, and, as she dropped\nasleep against his breast, Eustace related, almost in a tone of\ncomplaint, that she had cared for no one else ever since the time she\nhad been lost in the Bush, and Harold had found her, after three days,\nin the last stage of exhaustion, since which time she had had neither\neyes, ears, nor allegiance for any other creature, but that she must be\ntaught something, and made into a lady.\n\nHarold gazed down on her with his strange, soft, melancholy smile,\nsomehow seeming to vex Eustace, who accused him of not caring how rough\nand uncultivated she was, nor himself either.\n\n\"We leave the polish to you,\" said Harold.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Eustace, simpering, \"my uncle Smith gave me the first\nadvantages in Sydney, and everyone knew my father was 'a gentleman.'\"\n\nHarold bit the hair that hung over his lip, and I guessed, what I\nafterwards found to be the truth, that his stepfather was no small\ntrial to him; being, in fact, an unprosperous tutor and hanger-on on\nsome nobleman's family, finally sent out by his patrons in despair, to\nkeep school in Sydney.\n\nPoor Ambrose had died of lock-jaw from a cut from an axe very soon\nafter his emancipation, just as his energy was getting the farm into\norder, and making things look well with the family, and, after a year\nor two, Alice, deceived by the man's air and manners, and hoping to\nsecure education for her son, had married, and the effect had been\nthat, while Harold was provoked into fierce insubordination, Eustace\nbecame imbued with a tuft-hunting spirit, a great contrast to what\nmight have been expected from his antecedents.\n\nI cannot tell whether I found this out the first evening, or only\ngradually discovered it, with much besides.  I only remember that when\nat last Harold carried Dora upstairs fast asleep, and my maid Colman\nand I had undressed her and put her into a little bed in a room opening\nout of mine, I went to rest, feeling rejoiced that the suspense was\nover and I knew the worst.  I felt rather as if I had a magnificent\nwild beast in the house; and yet there was a wonderful attraction,\npartly from the drawing of kindred blood, and partly from the strength\nand sweetness of Harold's own face, and, aunt-like, I could not help\nfeeling proud, of having such a grand creature belonging to me, though\nthere might be a little dread of what he would do next.\n\nIn the morning all seemed like a dream, for Dora had vanished, leaving\nno trace but her black bag; but while I was dressing a tremendous\ncackling among my bantams caused me to look out, when I beheld them\nscurrying right and left at sight of the kangaroo leaping after the\nthree strangers, and my cat on the top of the garden wall on tiptoe,\nwith arched back, bristling tail, and glassy eyes, viewing the beast as\nthe vengeful apotheosis of all the rats and mice she had slaughtered in\nher time.\n\nFrom the stairs I heard Dora scouting her brother's orders to tidy\nherself for breakfast, adding that Harry never did, to which he merely\nreplied, \"I shall now.  Come.\"\n\nThere was a sound of hoisting, that gave me warning rather fortunately,\nfor he came striding upstairs with that great well-grown girl of eight\nperched on his shoulder as if she had been a baby, and would have run\nme down if I had not avoided into the nook on the landing.\n\nAll that day and the next those three were out; I never saw them but at\nmeals, when they came in full of eager questions and comments on their\ndiscoveries in farming and other matters.  These were the early bright\ndays of spring, and they were out till after dark, only returning to\neat and go to bed.  I found the fascination of Harold's presence was on\nall the servants and dependents, except perhaps our bailiff Bullock,\nwho disliked him from the first.  All the others declared that they had\nno doubt about staying on, now that they saw what the young squire\nreally was.  It made a great impression on them that, when in some\nfarmyard arrangements there was a moment's danger of a faggot pile\nfalling, he put his shoulder against it and propped the whole weight\nwithout effort.  His manhood, strength, and knowledge of work delighted\nthem, and they declared already that he would be a good friend to the\npoor.\n\nI confess that here lay what alarmed me.  He was always given to few\nwords, but I could see that he was shocked at the contrast between our\npoor and the Australian settlers, where food and space were plenty and\nthe wages high.  I was somewhat hurt at his way of viewing what had\nalways seemed to me perfection, at least all that could be reasonably\nexpected for the poor--our pet school, our old women, our civil\ndependents in tidy cottages, our picturesque lodges; and I did not half\nlike his trenchant questions, which seemed to imply censure on all that\nI had hitherto thought unquestionable, and perhaps I told him somewhat\nimpatiently that, when he had been a little longer here, he would\nunderstand our ways and fall naturally into them.\n\n\"That's just what I don't want,\" he said.\n\n\"Not want?\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes; I want to see clearly before I get used to things.\"\n\nAnd as, perhaps, I seemed to wonder at this way of beginning, he opened\na little, and said, \"It is my father.  He told me that if ever I came\nhere I was to mind and do his work.\"\n\n\"What kind of work?\" I asked, anxiously.\n\n\"Doing what he meant to have done,\" returned Harold, \"for the poor. He\nsaid I should find out about it.\"\n\n\"You must have been too young to understand much of what he meant\nthen,\" I said.  \"Did he not regret anything?\"\n\n\"Yes, he said he had begun at the wrong end, when they were not ripe\nfor it, and that the failure had ruined him for trying again.\"\n\n\"Then he did see things differently at last?\" I said, hoping to find\nthat the sentiments I had always heard condemned had not been\nperpetuated.\n\n\"Oh yes!\" cried Eustace.  \"They were just brutes, you know, that nobody\ncould do any good to, and were only bent on destroying, and had no\ngratitude nor sense; and that was the ruin of him and of my father too.\"\n\n\"They were ignorant, and easily maddened,\" said Harold, gravely. \"He\ndid not know how little they could be controlled.  I must find out the\ntrue state of things.  Prometesky said I must read it up.\"\n\n\"Prometesky!\" I cried in despair.  \"Oh, Harold, you have not been\ninfluenced by that old firebrand?\"\n\n\"He taught me almost all I know,\" was the answer, still much to my\ndismay; but I showed Harold to the library, and directed him to some\nold books of my father's, which I fancied might enlighten him on the\nsubjects on which he needed information, though I feared they might be\nrather out of date; and whenever he was not out of doors, he was\nreading them, sometimes running his fingers through his yellow hair, or\npulling his beard, and growling to himself when he was puzzled or met\nwith what he did not like.  Eustace's favourite study, meanwhile, was\n\"Burke's Peerage,\" and his questions nearly drove me wild by their\nabsurdity; and Dora rolled on the floor with my Spitz dog, for she\nloathed the doll I gave her, and made me more afraid of her than of\neither of the others.\n\nHarold was all might and gentleness; Eustace viewed me as a glass of\nfashion and directory of English life and manners; but I saw they both\nlooked to me not only to make their home, but to tame their little wild\ncat of a child; and that was enough to make her hate and distrust me.\nMoreover, she had a gleam of jealousy not far from fierce in her wild\nblue eyes if she saw Harold turn affectionately to me, and she always\nprotested sullenly against the \"next week,\" when I was to begin her\neducation.\n\nShe could only read words of four letters, and could not, or would not,\nwork a stitch.  Harold had done all her mending.  On the second day I\npassed by the open door of his room, and saw him at work on a great\nrectangular rent in her frock.  I could not help stopping to suggest\nthat Colman or I might save him that trouble, whereupon Dora slammed\nthe door in my face.\n\nHarold opened it again at once, saying, \"You ought to beg Aunt Lucy's\npardon;\" and when no apology could be extracted from her, and with\nthanks he handed over the little dress to me, she gave a shriek of\nanger (she hardly ever shed tears) and snatched it from me again.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Harold, patting her curly head; \"I'll finish this\ntime, but not again, Dora.  Next time, Aunt Lucy will be so good as to\nsee to it.  After old Betty's eyes grew bad we had to do our own\nneedling.\"\n\nI confess it was a wonderful performance--quite as neat as Colman could\nhave made it; and I suspect that Harold did not refrain from producing\nneedle and thread from his fat miscellaneous pocket-book, and repairing\nher many disasters before they reached the domestic eye; for there was\na chronic feud between Dora and Colman, and the attempts of the latter\nto make the child more like a young lady were passionately repelled,\nthough she would better endure those of a rough little under-housemaid,\nwhose civilisation was, I suppose, not quite so far removed from her\nown.\n\nOn Sunday, she and Harold disappeared as soon as breakfast was over,\nand only Eustace remained, spruce beyond all imagination, and giving\nhimself childlike credit for not being with them; but when at church I\ncan't say much for his behaviour.  He stared unblushingly, whispered\nremarks and inquiries, could not find the places in his book, and\nappeared incapable of kneeling.  Our little church at Arghouse was then\na chapelry, with merely Sunday morning service by a curate from\nMycening, and the congregation a village one, to the disgust of\nEustace, who had expected to review his neighbours, and thought his\nget-up thrown away.\n\n\"No one at all to see,\" he observed with discontent over our luncheon,\nHarold and Dora having returned from roaming over Kalydon Moor.\n\n\"I go to afternoon service at Mycening, Harold,\" I said.  \"Will not you\ncome with me?\"\n\n\"There will be somebody there?\" asked Eustace; to which I replied in\nthe affirmative, but with some protest against his view of the object,\nand inviting the others again, but Dora defiantly answered that Harold\nwas going to swing her on the ash tree.\n\n\"You ought to appear at church, Harry,\" said Eustace.  \"It is expected\nof an English squire.  You see everybody, and everybody sees you.\"\n\n\"Well, then, go,\" said Harold.\n\n\"And won't you?\" I entreated.\n\n\"I've promised to swing Dora,\" he answered, strolling out of the room,\nmuch to my concern; and though Eustace did accompany me, it was so\nevidently for the sake of staring that there was little comfort in\nthat; and it was only by very severe looks that I could keep him from\nasking everyone's name.  I hoped to make every one understand that he\nwas not the squire, but no one came across us as we went out of church,\nand I had to reply to his torrent of inquiries all the way home.\n\nIt was a wet evening, and we all stayed in the house.  Harold brought\nin one of his political economy studies from the library, and I tried\nto wile Dora to look at the pictures in a curious big old Dutch\nScripture history, the Sunday delight of our youth.\n\nEustace came too, as if he wanted the amusement and yet was ashamed to\ntake it, when he exclaimed, \"I say, Harry; isn't this the book father\nused to tell us about--that they used to look over?\"\n\nHarold came, and stood towering above us with his hands in his pockets;\nbut when we came to the Temptation of Eve, Dora broke out into an\nexclamation that excited my curiosity too much not to be pursued,\nthough it was hardly edifying.\n\n\"Was that such a snake as Harold killed?\"\n\n\"I have killed a good many snakes,\" he answered.\n\n\"Yes, but I meant the ones you killed when you were a little tiny boy.\"\n\n\"I don't remember,\" he said, as if to stop the subject, hating, as he\nalways did, to talk about himself.\n\n\"No, I know you don't,\" said Dora; \"but it is quite true, isn't it,\nEustace?\"\n\n\"Hardly true that Harold ever was a little tiny boy,\" I could not help\nsaying.\n\n\"No, he never was _little_,\" said Eustace.  \"But it is quite true about\nthe snakes.  I seem to remember it now, and I've often heard my mother\nand my Aunt Alice tell of it.  It was at the first place where we were\nin New South Wales.  I came running out screaming, I believe--I was old\nenough to know the danger--and when they went in there was Harry\nsitting on the floor, holding a snake tight by the neck and enjoying\nits contortions like a new toy.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Harold, \"if it were poisonous, which I doubt, the\ndanger would have been when I let go.  My mother quietly bade me hold\nhim tight, which I suppose I had just sense enough to do, and in\nanother moment she had snatched up the bill-hook they had been cutting\nwood with, and had his head off.  She had the pluck.\"\n\nI could but gasp with horror, and ask how old he was.  About two! That\nwas clear to their minds from the place where it happened which Harold\ncould not recollect, though Eustace could.\n\n\"But, Harold, you surely are the eldest,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh no; I am six months the eldest,\" said Eustace, proud of his\nadvantage.\n\nWe were to hear more of that by-and-by.\n\nMonday afternoon brought Mr. Prosser, who was closeted with Harold,\nwhile Eustace and I devoted our faculties to pacifying Dora under her\nexclusion, and preventing her from climbing up to the window-sill to\ngaze into the library from without.  She scorned submission to either\nof us, so Eustace kept guard by lying on the grass below, and I coaxed\nher by gathering primroses, sowing seeds, and using all inducements I\ncould think of, but my resources were nearly exhausted when Harold's\nhead appeared at the window, and he called, \"Eustace! Lucy! here!\"\n\nWe came at once, Dora before us.\n\n\"Come in,\" said Harold, admitting us at the glass door.  \"It is all a\nmistake.  I am not the man.  It is Eustace.  Eu, I wish you joy, old\nchap--\"\n\nMr. Prosser was at the table with a great will lying spread out on it.\n\"I am afraid Mr. Alison is right, Miss Alison,\" he said.  \"The property\nis bequeathed to the eldest of the late Mr. Alison's grandsons born\nhere, not specifying by which father.  If I had copied the terms of the\nwill I might have prevented disappointment, but I had no conception of\nwhat he tells me.\"\n\n\"But Ambrose was Harold's father,\" I exclaimed in bewilderment, \"and he\nwas the eldest.\"\n\n\"The seniority was not considered as certain,\" said Mr. Prosser, \"and\ntherefore the late Mr. Alison left the property to the eldest child\nborn at home.  'Let us at least have an English-born heir,' I remember\nhe said to me.\"\n\n\"And that is just what I am not,\" said Harold.\n\n\"I cannot understand!  I have heard Miss Woolmer talk of poor Ambrose's\nbeautiful child, several months older than Eustace's, and his name was\nHarold.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Harold, \"but that one died on the voyage out, an hour or\ntwo before I was born.  He was Harold Stanislas.  I have no second\nname.\"\n\n\"And I always was the eldest,\" reiterated Eustace, hardly yet\nunderstanding what it involved.\n\nAll the needful documents had been preserved and brought home.  There\nwas the extract from the captain's log recording the burial at sea of\nHarold Stanislas Alison, aged fifteen months, and the certificate of\nbaptism by a colonial clergyman of Harold, son of Ambrose and Alice\nAlison, while Eustace was entered in the Northchester register, having\nbeen born in lodgings, as Mr. Prosser well recollected, while his poor\nyoung father lay under sentence of death.\n\nIt burst on him at last.  \"Do you mean that I have got it, and not you?\"\n\n\"That's about it,\" said Harold.  \"Never mind, Eu, it will all come to\nthe same thing in the end.\"\n\n\"You have none of it!\"\n\n\"Not an acre.  It all goes together; but don't look at me in that way.\nThere's Boola Boola, you know.\"\n\n\"You're not going back there to leave me?\" exclaimed Eustace, with a\nreal sound of dismay, laying hold of his arm.\n\n\"Not just yet, at any rate,\" said Harold.\n\n\"No, no; nor at all,\" reiterated Eustace, and then, satisfied by the\nabsence of contradiction, which did, in fact, mean a good deal from the\nsilent Harold, he began to discover his own accession of dignity. \"Then\nit all belongs to me.  I am master.  I am squire--Eustace Alison,\nEsquire, of Arghouse.  How well it sounds.  Doesn't it, Harry, doesn't\nit, Lucy?  Uncle Smith always said I was the one cut out for high life.\nBesides, I've been presented, and have been to a ball at Government\nHouse.\"\n\nI saw that Mr. Prosser was a little overcome with amusement, and I\nwanted to make my retreat and carry off Dora, but she had perched on\nher favourite post--Harold's knee--and I was also needed to witness\nEustace's signatures, as well as on some matters connected with my own\nproperty.  So I stayed, and saw that he did indeed seem lost without\nhis cousin's help.  Neither knew anything about business of this kind,\nbut Harold readily understood what made Eustace so confused, that he\nwas quite helpless without Harold's explanations, and rather rough\ndirections what he was to do.  How like themselves their writing was!\nEustace's neat and clerkly, but weak and illegible; and Harold's as\ndistinct, and almost as large, as a schoolboy's copy, but with\nsquare-turned joints and strength of limb unlike any boy's writing.\n\nThe dressing-bell broke up the council, and Harold snatched up his hat\nto rush out and stretch his legs, but I could not help detaining him to\nsay:\n\n\"Oh, Harry, I am so sorry!\"\n\n\"Why?\" he said.\n\n\"What does it leave you, Harry?\"\n\n\"Half the capital stock farm, twelve thousand sheep, and a tidy sum in\nthe Sydney bank,\" said Harold readily.\n\n\"Then I am afraid we shall lose you.\"\n\n\"That depends.  I shall set Eustace in the way of doing what our\nfathers meant; and there's Prometesky--I shall not go till I have done\nhis business.\"\n\nI hardly knew what this meant, and could not keep Harold, whose long\nlegs were eager for a rush in the fresh air; and the next person I met\nwas Eustace.\n\n\"Aunt Lucy,\" he said, \"that old fellow says you are going away.  You\ncan't be?\"\n\nI answered, truly enough, that I had not thought what to do, and he\npersisted that I had promised to stay.\n\n\"But that was with Harry,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't see why you should not stay as much with me,\" he said. \"I'm\nyour nephew all the same, and Dora is your niece; and she must be made\na proper sister for me, who have been, &c.\"\n\nI don't know that this form of invitation was exactly the thing that\nwould have kept me; but I had a general feeling that to leave these\nyoung men and my old home would be utter banishment, that there was\nnothing I so cared for as seeing how they got on, and that it was worth\nanything to me to be wanted anywhere and by anyone; so I gave Eustace\nto understand that I meant to stay.  I rather wished Harold to have\npressed me; but I believe the dear good fellow honestly thought\neveryone must prefer Eustace to himself; and it was good to see the pat\nhe gave his cousin's shoulder when that young gentleman, nothing loath,\nexultingly settled down in the master's place.\n\nBefore long I found out what Harold meant about Prometesky's business;\nfor we had scarcely begun dinner before he began to consult Mr. Prosser\nabout the ways and means of obtaining a pardon for Prometesky.  This\nconsiderably startled Mr. Prosser.  Some cabinets, he said, were very\nlenient to past political offences, but Prometesky seemed to him to\nhave exceeded all bounds of mercy.\n\n\"You never knew the true facts, then?\" said Harold.\n\n\"I know the facts that satisfied the jury.\"\n\n\"You never saw my father's statement?\"\n\nNo, Mr. Prosser had been elsewhere, and had not been employed in my\nbrother's trial; he had only inherited the connection with our family\naffairs when the matter had passed into comparative oblivion.\n\nMy brothers had never ceased to affirm that he had only started for the\nfarm that had been Lewthwayte's on hearing that an attack was to be\nmade on it, in hopes of preventing it, and that the witness, borne\nagainst him on the trial by a fellow who had turned king's evidence,\nhad been false; but they had been unheeded, or rather Prometesky was\nregarded as the most truly mischievous of all, as perhaps he really had\nbeen, since he had certainly drawn them into the affair, and his life\nhad barely been saved in consideration of his having rescued a child\nfrom the fire at great personal peril.\n\nAmbrose had written again and again about him to my father, but as soon\nas the name occurred the letter had been torn up.  On their liberation\nfrom actual servitude they had sent up their statement to the\nGovernment of New South Wales; but in the meantime Prometesky had fared\nmuch worse than they had.  They had been placed in hands where their\neducation, superiority, and good conduct had gained them trust and\nrespect, and they had quickly obtained a remission of the severer part\nof their sentence and become their own masters; indeed, if Ambrose had\nlived, he would soon have risen to eminence in the colony.  But\nPrometesky had fallen to the lot of a harsh, rude master, who hated him\nas a foreigner, and treated him in a manner that roused the proud\nspirit of the noble.  The master had sworn that the convict had\nthreatened his life, and years of working in chains on the roads had\nbeen the consequence.\n\nIt was no time for entertaining a petition on his account, and before\nthe expiration of this additional sentence Ambrose was dead.\n\nBy that time Eustace, now a rich and prosperous man, would gladly have\ntaken his old tutor to his home, but Prometesky was still too proud,\nand all that he would do was to build a little hut under a rock on the\nBoola Boola grounds, where he lived upon the proceeds of such joiner's\nand watchmaker's work as was needed by the settlers on a large area,\nwhen things were much rougher than even when my nephews came home.  No\none cared for education enough to make his gifts available in that\ndirection, except as concerned Harold, who had, in fact, learnt of him\nalmost all he knew in an irregular, voluntary sort of fashion, and who\nloved him heartily.\n\nHis health was failing now, and to bring him home was one of Harold's\nprime objects, since London advice might yet restore him.  Harold had\nmade one attempt in his cause at Sydney, sending in a copy of his\nfather's dying statement, also signed by his uncle; but though he was\ntold that it had been received, he had no encouragement to hope it\nwould be forwarded, and had been told that to apply direct to the\nSecretary of State, backed by persons from our own neighbourhood, would\nbe the best chance, and on this he consulted Mr. Prosser, but without\nmeeting much sympathy.  Mr. Prosser said many people's minds had\nchanged with regard to English or Irish demagogues, and that the Alison\nBrothers themselves might very probably have been pardoned, but\neveryone was tired of Poles, and popular tradition viewed Prometesky as\nthe ogre of the past.  Mr. Prosser did not seem as if he would even\nvery willingly assist in the drawing up in due form a petition in the\nPole's favour, and declared that without some influential person to\nintroduce it, it would be perfectly useless.\n\nEustace turned round with, \"There, you see, Harold, nothing can be\ndone.\"\n\n\"I do not see that,\" said Harold, in his quiet way.\n\n\"You do not mean to do anything?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"But what--what?  What can you do?\"\n\n\"I do not yet know.\"\n\n\"You see it is of no use.  We shall only get into a scrape with all the\ngentlemen of the county.\"\n\n\"Never mind now, Eustace,\" said Harold, briefly.  But I knew the\nexpression of his face by this time quite well enough to be certain\nthat nothing would make him abandon the cause of his father's old\nfriend; and that his silence was full of the strongest determination. I\nthink it fascinated me, and though in my cooler senses I reverted to my\nold notion of Prometesky as a dangerous firebrand, I could not help\nfeeling for and with the youth whose soul was set on delivering his\nfriend from exile.\n\nMy turn came the next morning, before Mr. Prosser went away.  He had\nmuch to say against my making Arghouse my home, telling me that I had a\nfull independence and could live where I pleased; but that I knew\nalready, and had decided on the amount I ought to pay towards the\nhousekeeping.\n\nThen he wanted me to understand how the young men were looked upon, and\nthe dread all the neighbourhood had of them.  I said I had shared this\ndread, but on better acquaintance I found it quite undeserved, and this\nbeing the case it was incumbent on their only relation to stand by\nthem, and not shun them as if they had brought the leprosy.\n\nThis he allowed, calling it a generous feeling, if they were worthy of\nit.  But what greatly amazed me was his rejoicing that Eustace had\nproved to be the heir, since nothing was known against him, and when\nthe other young man was gone there was hope that any little distrusts\nmight be allayed, and that he might ultimately take his place in the\ncounty.\n\nThe other young man!  Why should there be any distrust of Harold?  I\ngrew hot and indignant, and insisted on knowing what was meant; but Mr.\nProsser declared that he knew nothing, only there were vague reports\nwhich made him rejoice that Mr. Harold Alison was not called to be the\nmanager of the property, and would make him question whether a young\nlady would find it expedient to be long an inmate of the same house.\n\nWhat reports could he mean?  No--I could get no more out of him; he was\ntoo cautious to commit himself, and seemed to be satisfied by observing\nthat if I changed my mind, I could at any time leave my nephews.\n\n\"Her nephews,\" I heard him mutter to himself; \"yes, her nephews. No one\nhas any right to object, and she can but judge for herself--there's no\nharm done.\"\n\nI shall always believe, however, that he set on my friends to\nremonstrate, for letters began coming in, in all the senses of the\nimperative mood, commanding and entreating me to leave Arghouse. There\nwas one such as only Lord Erymanth could write.  He was an old man, and\nnever could make short work of anything.  They say that his chief\npolitical value was to be set on when anyone was wanted to speak\nagainst time.  I know he was very dreadful at all the platforms in the\ncounty; but he was very good and conscientious, and everyone looked up\nto him as a sort of father of the country.\n\nBut oh! that letter!  Such a battery of heavy arguments against my\nunprecedented step in taking up my residence with these unfortunate\nyoung men, who, though they had not themselves openly transgressed the\nlaw of the land, yet were the offspring of unhallowed unions with the\nchildren of a felon.  I cannot go through it all, but it hinted that\nbesides their origin, there was some terrible stain on Harold, and that\nsociety could not admit them; so that if I persisted in casting in my\nlot with them, I should share the ban.  Indeed, he would have thought\nmy own good sense and love of decorum would have taught me that the\nabode of two such youths would be no fit place for the daughter of such\nrespected parents, and there was a good deal more that I could not\nunderstand about interceding with his sister, and her overlooking my\noffence in consideration of my inexperience and impulsiveness.\n\nOn my first impulse I wrote to thank my old friend, but to say I could\nsee no harm in an aunt's being with her nephews, and that I was sure he\nhad only to know them to lay aside all doubts of their being thorough\ngentlemen and associates for anybody.  My little niece required my\ncare, and I should stay and give it to her till some other arrangement\nwas made.  If Lady Diana were displeased with me, I was very sorry, but\nI could see no reason for it.\n\nWhen I looked over the old Earl's letter, before closing mine, some\nexpressions wound out of the mist that made me uncomfortable,\nespecially when I recollected that though it was a week since their\narrival, no one had attempted to call but Mr. Crosse, the vicar of\nMycening, a very \"good man in the pulpit,\" as the servants said, and\nactive in the parish, but underbred and no companion.\n\nOur neighbourhood was what is called very clannish.  There were two\nfamilies, the Horsmans and the Stympsons, who seemed to make up all the\nsociety.  The sons either had the good livings, or had retired from\ntheir professions into cottages round and about, and the first question\nafter any party was, how many of each.  The outsiders, not decidedly of\ninferior rank, were almost driven into making a little clique--if so it\nmight be called--of their own, and hanging together the more closely.\nLord Erymanth of course predominated; but he was a widower of many\nyears' standing, and his heir lived in a distant county.  His sister,\nLady Diana, had been married to an Irish Mr. Tracy, who had been\nmurdered after a few years by his tenants, upon which she had come with\nher three children to live at Arked House. I never could guess how she\ncame to marry an Irish landlord, and I always thought she must have\nexasperated his people.  She was viewed as the perfection of a Lady\nBountiful and pattern of excellence; but, I confess, that I always\nthought of her when I heard of the devout and honourable women who were\nstirred up against St. Paul.  She was a person who was admired more\nthan she was liked, and who was greatly praised and honoured, but\nsomehow did not proportionably endear herself on closer acquaintance,\ndoing a great deal of good, but all to large masses rather than\nindividuals.  However, all the neighbourhood had a pride in her, and it\nwas a distinction to be considered a fit companion for Diana and Viola\nTracy.  I never cared for Di, who was her mother over again, and used\nto set us to rights with all her might; but she had married early, a\nvery rich man--and Viola and I had always been exceedingly fond of one\nanother, so that I could not bear to be cut off from her, however I\nmight be disposed to defy her mother.\n\nThe upshot of my perplexities was that I set off to Mycening to lay\nthem before Miss Woolmer, another of the few belonging to neither clan,\nto know what all this meant, as well as to be interested in my nephews.\n\nMycening is one of the prettiest country towns I know, at least it was\ntwenty years ago.  There is a very wide street, unpaved, but with a\nbroad smooth gravelled way, slightly sloping down towards the little\nclean stone-edged gutters that border the carriage road along the\ncentre, which is planted on each side with limes cut into arches. The\nhouses are of all sorts, some old timbered gable-ended ones with\nprojecting upper stories, like our own, others of the handsome old\nQueen Anne type with big sash windows, and others quite modern.  Some\nhave their gardens in front, some stand flush with the road, and the\nbetter sort are mixed with the shops and cottages.\n\nMiss Woolmer lived in a tiny low one, close to the road, where, from\nher upstairs floor, she saw all that came and went, and, intellectual\nwoman as she certainly was, she thoroughly enjoyed watching her\nneighbours, as by judiciously-arranged looking-glasses, she could do\nall up and down the street.  I believe she had been a pretty woman,\nthough on a small scale, and now she had bright eyes, and a very sweet\nbright look, though in complexion she had faded into the worn pallor\nthat belongs to permanent ill health.  She dressed nicely, and if she\nhad been well, might, at her age, scarcely above forty, have been as\nmuch a young lady as Philippa Horsman; but I fancy the great crush of\nher life had taken away her girlhood and left her no spring of\nconstitution to resist illness, so that she had sunk into a regular\ncrippled invalid before I could remember, though her mind was full of\nactivity.\n\n\"You are come to tell me about them, my dear,\" was her greeting. \"I've\nseen them.  No, I don't mean that they have been to see me. You'll\nbring them some day, won't you?  I'm sure Ambrose's boy would come to\nsee a sick woman.  I watched one of them yesterday pick up old Molly's\noranges for her in the street, when her basket got upset by a cart, and\nhe then paid her for them, and gave them among the children round.  It\ndid my heart good, I'd not seen such a sight since the boys were sent\naway.\"\n\n\"Harold would do anything kind,\" I said, \"or to see an old friend of\nhis father.  The worst of it is that there seem to be so few who wish\nto see him, or can even forgive me for staying with him.\"\n\nI showed her Lord Erymanth's letter, and told her of the others, asking\nher what it meant.  \"Oh, as to Lady Diana,\" she said, \"there is no\ndoubt about that.  She was greatly offended at your having sent away\nher carriage and not having taken her advice, and she goes about saying\nshe is disappointed in you.\"\n\nFor my mother's sake, and my little Viola, and Auld Lang Syne besides,\nI was much hurt, and defended myself in a tone of pique which made Miss\nWoolmer smile and say she was far from blaming me, but that she thought\nI ought to count the cost of my remaining at Arghouse.  And then she\ntold me that the whole county was up in arms against the new comers,\nnot only from old association of their name with revolutionary notions,\nbut because the old Miss Stympsons, of Lake Side, who had connections\nin New South Wales, had set it abroad that the poor boys were ruffians,\ncompanions of the double-dyed villain Prometesky, and that Harold in\nespecial was a marked man, who had caused the death of his own wife in\na frenzy of intoxication.\n\nAt this I fairly laughed.  Harold, at his age, who never touched\nliquor, and had lived a sort of hermit life in the Bush, to be saddled\nwith a wife only to have destroyed her!  The story contradicted itself\nby its own absurdity; and those two Miss Stympsons were well-known\nscandal-mongers.  Miss Woolmer never believed a story of theirs without\nsifting, but she had been in a manner commissioned to let me know that\nsociety was determined not to accept Eustace and Harold Alison, and was\nirate at my doing so. Mothers declared that they should be very sorry\nto give poor Lucy Alison up, but that they could not have their\nchildren brought into contact with young men little better than\nconvicts, and whom they would, besides, call my cousins, instead of my\nnephews.  \"I began to suspect it,\" I said, \"when nobody left cards but\nMr. Lawless and Peter Parsons.\"\n\n\"And that is the society they are to be left to?\"\n\n\"But I shall not leave them,\" I cried.  \"Why should I, to please Miss\nStympson and Lord Erymanth?  I shall stand by my own brothers' sons\nagainst all the world.\"\n\n\"And if they be worthy, Lucy, your doing so is the best chance of their\nweathering the storm.  See! is not that one of them?  The grand-looking\ngiant one, who moves like a king of men.  He is Ambrose's son, is he\nnot?  What a pity he is not the squire!\"\n\nHarold was, in effect, issuing from the toy-shop, carrying an immense\nkite on his arm, like a shield, while Dora frisked round in admiration,\nand a train of humbler admirers flocked in the rear.\n\nI hurried down into the street to tell Harold of my old friend's wish\nto see them, and he followed me at once, with that manner which was not\ncourtesy, because, without being polished, it was so much more. Dora\nwas much displeased, being ardent on the kite's tail, and followed with\nsullen looks, while Harold had to stoop low to get into the room, and\nbrushed the low ceiling with his curly hair as he stood upright, Miss\nWoolmer gazing up to the very top of him.  I think she was rather\ndisappointed that he had not taken more after his father; and she told\nhim that he was like his uncle Lewthwayte, looking keenly to see\nwhether he shrunk from the comparison to a man who had died a felon's\ndeath; but he merely answered, \"So I have been told.\"\n\nThen she asked for his mother, and he briefly replied that she was well\nand in New Zealand.  There was an attempt at noticing Dora, to which\nshe responded like the wild opossum that she was, and her fidgeting\ncarried the day.  Harold only made answer to one or two more\nobservations, and then could not but take leave, promising on the\nentreaty of the old lady, to come and see her again.  I outstayed them,\nbeing curious to hear her opinion.\n\n\"A superb being,\" she said, with a long breath; \"there's the easy\nstrength of a Greek demi-god in every tread.\"\n\n\"He seems to me more like Thor in Nifelheim,\" I said, \"being, no doubt,\nhalf a Viking to begin with.\"\n\n\"They are all the same, as people tell us now,\" she said, smiling. \"Any\nway, he looks as if he was a waif from the heroic age.  But, my dear,\ndid not I hear him call you Lucy?\"\n\n\"They generally do.\"\n\n\"I would not let them.  Cling to your auntship; it explains your being\nwith them.  A grand creature!  I feel like the people who had had a\nvisit from the gods of old.\"\n\n\"And you understand how impossible it would be to run away,\" I said.\n\nShe smiled, but added, \"Lucy, my dear, that looked very like a\nwedding-ring!\"\n\nI could not think it possible.  Why, he was scarcely five-and-twenty!\nAnd yet the suggestion haunted me, whenever my eyes fell on his\ncountenance in repose, and noted the habitual sadness of expression\nwhich certainly did not match with the fine open face that seemed\nfitted to express the joy of strength.  It came on me too when, at the\nlodge, a child who had been left alone too long and had fallen into an\nunmitigated agony of screaming, Harry had actually, instead of fleeing\nfrom the sound, gone in, taken the screamer in his arms, and so hushed\nand pacified it, that on the mother's return she found it at perfect\nrest.\n\n\"One would think the gentleman was a father himself, ma'am,\" she had\nsaid to me; and thereupon Harold had coloured, and turned hastily\naside, so that the woman fancied she had offended him and apologised,\nso that he had been forced to look back again and say, \"Never mind,\"\nand \"No harm done,\" with a half laugh, which, as it now struck me, had\na ring of pain in it, and was not merely the laugh of a shy young man\nunder an impossible imputation.  True, I knew he was not a religious\nman, but to believe actual ill of him seemed to me impossible.\n\nHe had set himself to survey the Arghouse estate, so as to see how\nthose dying wishes of his father could best be carried out, and he was\nmaking himself thoroughly acquainted with every man, woman, child, and\nbuilding, to the intense jealousy of Bullock, who had been agent all\nthrough my mother's time, and had it all his own way.  He could not\nthink why \"Mr. Harold\" should be always hovering about the farms and\ncottages, sometimes using his own ready colonial hand to repair\ndeficiencies, and sometimes his purse, and making the people take\nfancies into their heads that were never there before, and which would\nmake Mr. Alison lose hundreds a year if they were attended to. And as\nMr. Alison always did attend to his cousin, and gave orders\naccordingly, the much-aggrieved Bullock had no choice but in delaying\ntheir execution and demonstrating their impracticability, whereas, of\ncourse, Harold did not believe in impossibilities.\n\nIt was quite true, as he had once said, that though he could not bring\nabout improvements as readily as if he had been landlord, yet he could\nget at the people much better, and learn their own point of view of\nwhat was good for them.  They were beginning to idolise him; for,\nindeed, there was a fascination about him which no one could resist.  I\nsometimes wondered what it was, considering that he was so slow of\nspeech, and had so little sunshine of mirth about him.\n\nI never did enforce my title of Aunt, in spite of Miss Woolmer's\nadvice.  It sounded too ridiculous, and would have hindered the\nsisterly feeling that held us together.\n\nEustace was restless and vexed at not being called upon, and anxious to\nshow himself on any occasion, and I was almost equally anxious to keep\nhim back, out of reach of mortification.  Both he and Harold went to\nLondon on business, leaving Dora with me.  The charge was less severe\nthan I expected.  My first attempts at teaching her had been frustrated\nby her scorn of me, and by Harold's baffling indulgence; but one day,\nwhen they had been visiting one of the farms, the children had been\nmade to exhibit their acquirements, which were quite sufficient to\nmanifest Dora's ignorance.  Eustace had long declared that if she would\nnot learn of me she must either have a governess or go to school, and I\nknew she was fit for neither. Harold, I believe, now enforced the\nthreat, and when he went away, left her a black silk necktie to be\nhemmed for him, and a toy book with flaming illustrations, with an\nassurance that on her reading it to him on his return, depended his\ngiving her a toy steam-engine.\n\nDora knew that Harold kept his word, even with her.  I think she had a\ngreat mind to get no one's assistance but the kitchenmaid's, but this\nfriendship was abruptly terminated by Dora's arraying the kangaroo in\nSarah's best bonnet and cloak, and launching it upon a stolen interview\nbetween her and her sweetheart.  The screams brought all the house\ntogether, and, as the hero was an undesirable party who had been\nforbidden the house, Sarah viewed it as treachery on Miss Dora's part,\nand sulked enough to alienate her.\n\nDora could make out more to herself in a book than she could read\naloud, and one day I saw her spelling over the table of degrees of\nmarriage in a great folio Prayer-Book, which she had taken down in\nquest of pictures.  Some time later in the day, she said, \"Lucy, are\nyou Harry's father's sister?\" and when I said yes, she added, with a\nlook of discovery, \"A man cannot marry his father's sister.\"\n\nIt was no time to protest against the marriage of first cousins.  I was\nglad enough that from that time the strange child laid aside her\njealousy of me; and that thenceforth her resistance was simply the\nrepugnance of a wild creature to be taught and tamed.  Ultimately she\nlet me into the recesses of that passionate heart, and, as I think,\nloved me better than anybody else, except Harold; but even so, at an\ninfinite distance from that which seemed the chief part of her whole\nbeing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE LION OF NEME HEATH.\n\n\nThe work was done.  The sixteen pages of large-type story book were\nstumbled through; and there was a triumphant exhibition when the\ncousins came home--Eustace delighted; Harold, half-stifled by London,\ninsisting on walking home from the station to stretch his legs, and\ngoing all the way round over Kalydon Moor for a whiff of air!\n\nIf we had not had a few moors and heaths where he could breathe, I\ndon't know whether he could have stayed in England; and as for London,\nthe din, the dinginess, the squalor of houses and people, sat like a\nweight on his heart.\n\n\"They told me a great deal had been done for England.  It is just\nnothing,\" he said, and hardly anything else that whole evening; while\nEustace, accoutred point-device by a London tailor, poured forth\nvolumes of what he had seen and done.  Mr. Prosser made up a dinner\nparty for them, and had taken them to an evening party or two--at\nleast, Eustace; for after the first Harold had declined, and had spent\nhis time in wandering about London by gas-light, and standing on the\nbridges, or trying how far it was on each side to green fields, and how\nmuch misery lay between.\n\nEustace had evidently been made much of, and had enjoyed himself\ngreatly.  It grieved me that his first entrance into society should be\nunder no better auspices than those of the family solicitor; but he did\nnot yet perceive this, and was much elated.  \"I flatter myself it was\nrather a success,\" was the phrase he had brought home, apropos to\neverything he had worn or done, from his tie to his shoe-buckles. He\ntold me the price of everything, all the discussions with his\ntradesmen, and all the gazes fixed on him, with such simplicity that I\ncould not help caring, and there sat Harold in his corner, apparently\nasleep, but his eye now and then showing that he was thinking deeply.\n\n\"Lucy,\" he said, as we bade one another good-night, \"is nothing being\ndone?\"\n\n\"About what?\" I asked.\n\n\"For all that wretchedness.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, there are all sorts of attempts,\" and I told him of model\ncottages, ragged schools, and the like, and promised to find him the\naccounts; but he gave one of his low growls, as if this were but a\nmockery of the direful need.\n\nHe had got his statement of Prometesky's case properly drawn up, and\nhad sent up a copy, but in vain; and had again been told that some\ninfluential person must push it to give it any chance.  Mr. Prosser's\nacquaintance lay in no such line; or, at least, were most unlikely to\npromote the pardon of an old incendiary.\n\n\"What will you do?\" I asked.  \"Must you give it up?\"\n\n\"Never!  I will make a way at last.\"\n\nMeantime, he was necessary to Eustace in accomplishing all the details\nof taking possession.  Horses were wanted by both, used to riding as\nthey had always been, and there was an old-fashioned fair on Neme\nHeath, just beyond Mycening, rather famous for its good show of horses,\nwhere there was a chance of finding even so rare an article as a hunter\nup to Harold's weight, also a pony for Dora.\n\nAn excellent show of wild beasts was also there.  Harold had been on\nthe heath when it was being arranged in the earliest morning hours, and\nhad fraternised with the keepers, and came home loquacious far more\nthan usual on the wonders he had seen.  I remember that, instead of\nbeing disappointed in the size of the lions and tigers, he dwelt with\nspecial admiration on their supple and terrible strength of spine and\npaw.\n\nHe wanted to take Dora at once to the menagerie, but I represented the\ninexpedience of their taking her about with them to the horse-fair\nafterwards, and made Eustace perceive that it would not do for Miss\nAlison; and as Harold backed my authority, she did not look like\nthunder for more than ten minutes when she found we were to drive to\nNeme Heath, and that she was to go home with me after seeing the\nanimals.  Eustace was uncertain about his dignity, and hesitated about\nnot caring and not intending, and not liking me to go alone, but made\nup his mind that since he had to be at the fair, he would drive us.\n\nSo we had out the barouche, and Eustace held the reins with infinite\nelation, while Harold endured the interior to reconcile Dora to it, and\nwas as much diverted as she was at the humours of the scene, exclaiming\nat every stall of gilt gingerbread, every see-saw, and merry-go-round,\nthat lined the suburbs of Mycening, and I strongly suspect meditating a\nprivate expedition to partake of their delights. Harold was thoroughly\nthe great child nature meant him for, while poor Eustace sat aloft\nenfolded in his dignity, not daring to look right or left, or utter a\nword of surprise, lest he should compromise himself in the eyes of the\ncoachman by his side.\n\nThe fair was upon the heath, out to which the new part of the town was\nstretching itself, and long streets of white booths extended themselves\nin their regular order.  We drove on noiselessly over the much-trodden\nturf, until we were checked by the backward rush of a frightened crowd,\nand breathless voices called out to Eustace, \"Stop, sir; turn, for\nHeaven's sake.  The lion!  He's loose!\"\n\nTurning was impossible, for the crowd was rushing back on us, blocking\nus up; and Eustace dropped the reins, turning round with a cry of\n\"Harry! Harry! I see him.  Take us away!\"\n\nHarold sprang on the back seat as the coachman jumped down to run to\nthe horses' heads.  He saw over the people's heads, and after that\nglance made one bound out of the carriage.  I saw then what I shall\nnever forget, across the wide open space round which the principal\nshows were arranged, and which was now entirely bare of people.  On the\nother side, between the shafts of a waggon, too low for him to creep\nunder, lay the great yellow lion, waving the tufted end of his tail as\na cat does, when otherwise still, showing the glassy glare of his eyes\nnow and then, growling with a horrible display of fangs, and holding\nbetween those huge paws a senseless boy as a sort of hostage. From all\nthe lanes between the booths the people were looking in terror, ready\nfor a rush on the beast's least movement, shrieking calls to someone to\nsave the boy, fetch a gun, bring the keeper, &c.\n\nThat moment, with the great thick carriage-rug on his arm, Harold\ndarted forward, knocking down a gun which some foolish person had\nbrought from a shooting-gallery, and shouting, \"Don't!  It will only\nmake him kill the boy!\" he gathered himself up for a rush; while I\nbelieve we all called to him to stop: I am sure of Eustace's \"Harry!\ndon't!  What shall I do?\"\n\nBefore the words were spoken, Harold had darted to the side of the\nterrible creature, and, with a bound, vaulted across its neck as it\nlay, dealing it a tremendous blow over the nose with that sledge-hammer\nfist, and throwing the rug over its head.  Horrible roaring growls,\nlike snarling thunder, were heard for a second or two, and one man\ndashed out of the frightened throng, rifle in hand, just in time to\nreceive the child, whom Harold flung to him, snatched from the lion's\ngrasp; and again we saw a wrestling, struggling, heaving mass, Harry\nstill uppermost, pinning the beast down with his weight and the mighty\nstrength against which it struggled furiously.  Having got free of the\nboy, his one ally was again aiming his rifle at the lion's ear, when\ntwo keepers, with nets and an iron bar, came on the scene, one shouting\nnot to shoot, and the other holding up the bar and using some word of\ncommand, at which the lion cowered and crouched.  The people broke into\na loud cheer after their breathless silence, and it roused the already\nhalf-subdued lion.  There was another fierce and desperate struggle,\nlasting only a moment, and ended by the report of the rifle.\n\nIn fact, the whole passed almost like a flash of lightning from the\nmoment of our first halt, till the crowd closed in, so that I could\nonly see one bare yellow head, towering above the hats, and finally\ncleaving a way towards us, closely followed by Dermot Tracy, carrying\nthe rifle and almost beside himself with enthusiasm and excitement.\n\"Lucy--is it you?  What, he is your cousin?  I never saw anything like\nit!  He mastered it alone, quite alone!\"\n\nAnd then we heard Harry bidding those around not touch him, and Dora\nscreamed with dismay, and I saw he had wrapped both hands in his\nhandkerchief.  To my frightened question, whether he was hurt, he\nanswered, \"Only my hands, but I fancy the brute has done for some of my\nfingers.  If those fellows could but have held their tongues!\"\n\nHe climbed into the carriage to rid himself of the crowd, who were\noffering all sorts of aid, commiseration, and advice, and Dermot begged\nto come too, \"in case he should be faint,\" which made Harry smile,\nthough he was in much pain, frowning and biting his lip while the\ncoachman took the reins, and turned us round amid the deafening cheers\nof the people, for Eustace was quite unnerved, and Dora broke into sobs\nas she saw the blood soaking through the handkerchiefs--all that we\ncould contribute.  He called her a little goose, and said it was\nnothing; but the great drops stood on his brow, he panted and moved\nrestlessly, as if sitting still were unbearable, and he could hardly\nhelp stamping out the bottom of the carriage.  He shouted to Eustace to\nlet him walk, but Dermot showed him how he would thus have the crowd\nabout him in a moment.  It was the last struggle that had done the\nmischief, when the lion, startled by the shout of the crowd, had turned\non him again, and there had been a most narrow escape of a dying bite,\nsuch as would probably have crushed his hand itself beyond all remedy;\nand, as it was, one could not but fear he was dreadfully hurt, when the\npain came in accesses of violence several times in the short distance\nto Dr. Kingston's door.\n\nNo, Dr. Kingston was not at home; nor would be in for some time; but\nwhile we were thinking what to do, a young man came hastily up, saying\n\"I am Dr. Kingston's partner; can I do anything?\"\n\nHarold sprang out on this, forbidding Eustace to follow him, but\npermitting Dermot; and Mrs. Kingston, an old acquaintance of mine, came\nand invited us all to her drawing-room, lamenting greatly her husband's\nabsence, and hoping that Mr. Yolland, his new partner, would be able to\nsupply his place.  The young man had very high testimonials and an\nexcellent education.  She was evidently exercised between her own\ndistrust of the assistant and fear of disparaging him.  Seeing how much\nshaken we were, she sent for wine, and I was surprised to see Eustace\ntake some almost furtively, but his little sister, though still\nsobbing, glared out from behind the knuckles she was rubbing into her\neyes, and exclaimed, \"Eustace, I shall tell Harry.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue,\" said Eustace, petulantly; \"Harry has nothing to do\nwith it.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston looked amazed.  I set to work to talk them both down, and\nmust have given a very wild, nervous account of the disaster. At last\nDermot opened the door for Harry, who came in, looking very pale, with\none hand entirely covered and in a sling, the other bound up all but\nthe thumb and forefinger.  To our anxious inquiries, he replied that\nthe pain was much better now, and he should soon be all right; and\nthen, on being further pressed, admitted that the little finger had\nbeen so much crushed that it had been taken off from the first joint,\nthe other three fingers had been broken and were in splints, and the\nright hand was only torn and scratched.  Mrs. Kingston exclaimed at\nthis that Mr. Yolland should have waited for the doctor to venture on\nsuch an operation, but both Dermot and Harold assured her that he could\nnot have waited, and also that it could not have been more skilfully\ndone, both of which assurances she must have heard with doubts as to\nthe competence of the judges, and she much regretted that she could not\npromise a visit from her doctor that evening, as he was likely to be\ndetained all night.\n\nDermot came downstairs with us, and we found Mr. Yolland waiting at the\ndoor to extract a final promise that Harold would go to bed at once on\ncoming home.  It seemed that he had laughed at the recommendation, so\nthat the young surgeon felt bound to enforce it before all of us,\nadding that it was a kind of hurt that no one could safely neglect.\nThere was something in his frank, brusque manner that pleased Harold,\nand he promised with half a smile, thanking the doctor hastily as he\ndid so, while Dermot Tracy whispered to me, \"Good luck getting him;\ntwice as ready as the old one;\" and then vehemently shaking all our\nhands, to make up for Harold's not being fit to touch, he promised to\ncome and see him on the morrow.  The moment we were all in the\ncarriage--Eustace still too much shaken to drive home--his first\nquestion was, who _that_ was?\n\n\"Mr. Tracy,\" I answered; and Eustace added, \"I thought you called him\nDermont?\"\n\n\"Dermot--Dermot Tracy.  I have known him all our lives.\"\n\n\"I saw he was a gentleman by his boots,\" quoth Eustace with\ndeliberation, holding out his own foot as a standard.  \"I saw they were\nLondon made.\"\n\n\"How fortunate that you had not on your Sydney ones,\" I could not help\nsaying in mischief.\n\n\"I took care of that,\" was the complacent answer.  \"I told Richardson\nto take them all away.\"\n\nI don't think Harold saw the fun.  They had neither of them any humour;\neven Harold was much too simple and serious.\n\nEustace next treated us to a piece of his well-conned manual, and\ndemonstrated that Dermot St. Glear Tracy, Esquire, of Killy Marey,\nCounty Cavan, Ireland, was grandson to an English peer, great grandson\nto an Irish peer, and nephew to the existing Edward St. Glear, 6th Earl\nof Erymanth.  \"And a very fashionable young man,\" he went on,\n\"distinguished in the sporting world.\"\n\n\"An excellent good fellow, with plenty of pluck,\" said Harold warmly.\n\"Is he not brother to the pretty little girl who was with you when we\ncame?\"\n\nI answered as briefly as I could; I did not want to talk of the Tracys.\nMy heart was very sore about them, and I was almost relieved when Dora\nbroke in with a grave accusing tone: \"Harry, Eustace drank a glass of\nwine, and I said I would tell you!\"\n\n\"Eustace has no reason to prevent him,\" was Harold's quiet answer.\n\n\"And, really, I think, in my position, it is ridiculous, you see,\"\nEustace began stammering, but was wearily cut short by Harold with, \"As\nyou please.\"\n\nEustace could never be silent long, and broke forth again: \"Harold,\nyour ring.\"\n\nBy way of answer Harold, with his available thumb and finger, showed\nthe ring for a moment from his waistcoat pocket.  Instantly Dora sprang\nat it, snatched it from his finger before he was aware, and with all\nher might flung it into the river, for we were crossing the bridge.\n\nThere was strength in that thumb and finger to give her a sharp fierce\nshake, and the low voice that said \"Dora\" was like the lion's growl.\n\n\"It's Meg's ring, and I hate her!\" she cried.\n\n\"For shame, Dorothy.\"\n\nThe child burst into a flood of tears and sobbed piteously, but it was\nsome minutes before he would relent and look towards her. Eustace\nscolded her for making such a noise, and vexing Harold when he was\nhurt, but that only made her cry the more.  I told her to say she was\nsorry, and perhaps Harold would forgive her; but she shook her head\nviolently at this.\n\nHarold relented, unable to bear the sight of distress.  \"Don't tease\nher,\" he said, shortly, to us both.  \"Hush, Dora; there's an end of it.\"\n\nThis seemed to be an amnesty, for she leant against his knee again.\n\n\"Dora, how could you?\" I said, when we were out of the carriage, and\nthe two young men had gone upstairs together.\n\n\"It was Meg's ring, and I hate her,\" answered Dora, with the fierce\nwild gleam in her eyes.\n\n\"You should not hate anyone,\" was, of course, my answer.\n\n\"But she's dead!\" said Dora, triumphantly as a little tigress.\n\n\"So much the worse it is to hate her.  Who was she?\"\n\n\"His wife,\" said Dora.\n\nI durst not ask the child any more questions.\n\n\"Eustace, who is Meg?\"\n\nI could not but ask that question as we sat tete-a-tete after dinner,\nDora having gone to carry Harold some fruit, and being sure to stay\nwith him as long as he permitted.\n\nEustace looked round with a startled, cautious eye, as if afraid of\nbeing overheard, and said, as Dora had done, \"His wife.\"\n\n\"Not alive?\"\n\n\"Oh, no--thank goodness.\"\n\n\"At his age!\"\n\n\"He was but twenty when he married her.  A bad business!  I knew it\ncould not be otherwise.  She was a storekeeper's daughter.\"\n\nThen I learnt, in Eustace's incoherent style, the sad story I\nunderstood better afterwards.\n\nThis miserable marriage had been the outcome of the desolate state of\nthe family after the loss of all the higher spirits of the elder\ngeneration.  For the first few years after my brothers had won their\nliberation, and could hold property, they had been very happy, and the\nfoundations of their prosperity at Boola Boola had been laid. Had\nAmbrose lived he would, no doubt, have become a leading man in the\ncolony, where he had heartily embraced his lot and shaped his career.\n\nPoor Eustace was, however, meant by nature for a quiet, refined English\ngentleman, living in his affections.  He would never have transgressed\nordinary bounds save for his brother's overmastering influence.  He\ndrooped from the time of Ambrose's untimely death, suffered much from\nthe loss of several children, and gradually became a prey to heart\ncomplaint.  But his wife was full of sense and energy, and Ambrose's\nplans were efficiently carried on, so that all went well till Alice's\nmarriage; and, a year or two later on, Dorothy's death, in giving birth\nto her little girl, no woman was left at the farm but a rough though\nkind-hearted old convict, who did her best for the motherless child.\n\nHarold, then sixteen, and master of his father's half of the property,\nwas already its chief manager.  He was, of course, utterly\nunrestrained, doing all kinds of daring and desperate things in the\nexuberance of his growing strength, and, though kind to his feeble\nuncle, under no authority, and a thorough young barbarian of the woods;\nthe foremost of all the young men in every kind of exploit, as\nmarksman, rider, hunter, and what-not, and wanting also to be foremost\nin the good graces of Meg Cree, the handsome daughter of the keeper of\nthe wayside store on the road to Sydney, where young stock-farmers were\nwont to meet, with the price of their wool fresh in their hands.  It\nwas the rendezvous for all that was collectively done in the district;\nand many were the orgies and revelries in which Harold had shared when\na mere boy in all but strength and stature, and ungovernable in\nproportion to the growing forces within him.\n\nOf course she accepted him, with his grand physical advantages and his\ngood property.  There was rivalry enough to excite him, her beauty was\nsufficient to fire his boyish fancy; and opposition only maddened his\nheadstrong will.  A loud, boisterous, self-willed boy, with already\nstrength, courage, and power beyond those of most grown men; his\ninclination light and unformed, as the attachments of his age usually\nare, was so backed that he succeeded where failure would have been a\nblessing.\n\nMy poor brother Eustace! what must not Harold's marriage have been to\nhim!  Into the common home, hitherto peaceful if mournful, was brought\nthis coarse, violent, uneducated woman, jealous of him and his family,\nunmeasured in rudeness, contemning all the refinements to which he\nclung, and which even then were second nature to the youths, boasting\nover him for being a convict, whereas her father was a free settler,\nand furious at any act of kindness or respect to him from her husband.\n\nShe must have had a sort of animal jealousy, for the birth of her first\nchild rendered her so savagely intolerant of poor Dora's fondness for\nHarold, that the offer of a clergyman's wife to take charge of the\nlittle girl was thankfully accepted by her father, though it separated\nhim from his darling by more than fifty miles.\n\nThe woman's plan seemed to be to persecute the two Eustaces out of her\nhouse, since she could not persuade Harold that it was not as much\ntheirs as his own.  They clung on, as weak men do, for want of energy\nto make a change, and Eustace said his father would never complain; but\nHarold never guessed how much she made him suffer. Home had become a\nwretched place to all, and Harold was more alienated from it, making\nlong expeditions, staying out as long and as late as he could whenever\nbusiness or pleasure called him away, and becoming, alas, more headlong\nand reckless in the pursuit of amusement.  There were fierce hot words\nwhen he came home, and though a tender respect for his uncle was the\none thing in which he never failed, the whole grand creature was being\nwrecked and ruined by the wild courses to which home misery was driving\nhim.\n\nAfter about three years of this kind of life, Meg, much against his\nwill, went to her father's station for the birth of her second child;\nlingered in the congenial atmosphere there far longer than was\nnecessary after her recovery, and roused Harold's jealousy to a violent\npitch by her demeanour towards a fellow of her own rank, whom she\nprobably would have married but for Harold's unfortunate advantages,\nand whom she now most perilously preferred.\n\nThe jollification after the poor child's long-deferred christening\nended in furious language on both sides, Meg insisting that she would\nnot go home while \"the old man\" remained at Boola Boola, Harold\nswearing that she should come at once, and finally forcing her into his\nbuggy, silencing by sheer terror her parents' endeavours to keep them\nat least till morning, rather than drive in his half-intoxicated\ncondition across the uncleared country in the moonlight.\n\nIn the early morning Harold stood at their door dazed and bleeding,\nwith his eldest child crushed and moaning in his arms.  Almost without\na word he gave it to the grandmother, and then guided the men at hand,\nstriding on silently before them, to the precipitous bank of a deep\ngulley some twelve miles off.  In the bottom lay the carriage broken to\npieces, and beside it, where Harold had dragged them out, Meg and her\nbaby both quite dead--where he had driven headlong down in the darkness.\n\nThe sun was burning hot when they brought her back in the cart, Harold\nwalking behind with the little one in his arms, and when he had laid it\ndown at home, the elder one waited till he took it.  It was a fine boy\nof two years old, the thing he loved best in the world; but with a\nbroken spine there was no hope for it, and for a whole day and night he\nheld it, pacing the room, and calling it, speaking to and noticing no\none else, and touching no food, only slaking his thirst with the liquor\nthat stood at hand, until the poor little thing died in convulsions.\n\nUnhappily, he had scarcely laid it down beside its mother and brother,\nwhen he saw his rival in the outer room of the store, and with one\ndeadly imprecation, and a face which Eustace could not think of without\nhorror, challenged him to fight, and in a second or two had struck him\ndown, with a fractured skull.  But the deed was done in undoubted brain\nfever.  That was quite established, and for ten days after he was\ndesperately ill and in the wildest delirium, probably from some injury\nto the head in the fall, aggravated by all that followed.\n\nNeiher magistrate nor doctor was called in, but Prometesky came to\ntheir help, and when he grew calmer, brought him home, where his\nstrength rallied, but his mind was for some time astray.  For weeks he\nalternated between moods of speechless apathy and hours of frenzy,\nwhich, from his great strength, must have been fatal to someone if he\nhad not always known his gentle, feeble old uncle, and obeyed his\nentreaties, even when Prometesky lost power with him.\n\nIn this remote part of the country no one interfered; the Crees, whose\npresence maddened him, were afraid to approach, and only Prometesky\nsustained the hopes of the two Eustaces by his conviction that this was\nnot permanent insanity, but a passing effect of the injury; and they\nweathered that dreadful time till the frantic fits ceased, and there\nwas only the dull, silent, stoniness of look and manner, lasting on\nafter his health had entirely returned, and he had begun mechanically\nto attend to the farm and stock, and give orders to the men.\n\nThe final cure was the message that Dora was lost in the Bush. Harold\nhad the keen sagacity of a black fellow, and he followed up the track\nwith his unwearied strength until, on the third day, he found her,\nrevived her with the food he had brought with him, and carried her\nhome.  There was only just nourishment enough to support her, and he\ntook none himself, so that when he laid her down beside her father, he\nwas so spent that, after a mouthful or two, he slept for twenty hours\nwithout moving, as he had never rested since the accident; and when he\nwoke, and Dora ran up and stroked his face, it was the first time he\nhad been seen to smile.  Ever since he had been himself again, though\nchanged from the boy of exuberant spirits, and the youth of\nungovernable inclinations, into a grave, silent man, happier apparently\nin Dora's vehement affection than in anything else, and, at any rate,\nsolaced, and soothed by the child's fondness and dependence upon him.\nThis was two years ago, and no token of mental malady had since shown\nitself.\n\nMy poor brother Eustace!  My heart yearned to have been able to comfort\nhim.  His tender nature had been all along the victim of others, and he\nwas entirely shattered by these last miseries; an old man when little\nmore than forty, and with heart disease so much accelerated by distress\nand agitation, that he did not live a month after Dora's adventure; but\nat least he had the comfort of seeing Harold's restoration, and being\nable to commit the other two to his charge, being no doubt aware that\nhis son was at the best a poor weak being, and that Harold's nature\nwould rise under responsibility which would call out its generosity.\n\nHarold had never touched liquor since the day of his child's death, nor\nspoken of it; but when his dying uncle begged him to watch over his\nyoung cousins, he took up the Bible that lay on the bed, and,\nunsolicited, took a solemn oath to taste nothing of the kind for the\nrest of his life.\n\nAfterwards the three had lived on together at Boola Boola.  Then had\ncome the tidings of the inheritance supposed to be Harold's, and with\nthe relief of one glad to make a new beginning, to have a work to do,\nand leave old things behind, he had taken both the others with him.\n\nSo it was true!  My noble-looking Harold had those dark lines in his\nspectrum.  Wild ungovernable strength had whirled him in mere boyhood\nat the beck of his passions, and when most men are entering freshly\nupon life, he was already saddened and sobered by sin and suffering.\nThe stories whispered of him were more than true.  I remember I cried\nover them as I sat alone that evening.  Eustace had not told all with\nthe extenuations that I discovered gradually, some even then by\ncross-questioning, and much by the tuition of that sisterly affection\nthat had gone out from me to Harold, and fastened on him as the one\nwho, to me, represented family ties.\n\nI never thought of breaking with him.  No, if I had been told he might\nbe insane that very night, it would have bound me to him the more.  And\nwhen I went to bid him \"Good-night\" and take away Dora, and saw the\nmassive features in their stillness light up into a good-natured smile\nof thanks at my inquiries, I could believe it all the less.  He was\nlying cornerwise across the bed, with a stool beyond for his feet to\nrest on, and laughed a little as he said he always had to contrive\nthus, he never found a bed long enough; and our merriment over this\nseemed to render what Eustace had told me even more incongruous in one\nso scrupulously gentle.\n\nThat gentleness was perhaps reactionary in one who had had such lessons\nin keeping back his strength.  He had evidently come forth a changed\nman.  But that vow of his--was it the binding of a worse lion than that\nhe had fought with to-day?  Yet could such things be done in the might\nof a merely human will?  And what token was there of the higher aid\nbeing invoked?  My poor Harold!  I could only pray for him!  Alas! did\nhe pray for himself?\n\nI was waked in early morning by Dora's vociferous despair at the\ndisappearance of her big patient, and then Eustace's peremptory fretful\ntone was heard silencing her by explaining that Harold's hurts had\nbecome so painful that he had walked off to Mycening to have the\nbandages loosened.\n\nIndeed, when we met at breakfast, Eustace seemed to think himself\ninjured by the interruption of his slumbers by Harold's coming to him\nfor assistance in putting on his clothes, and stared at my dismay at\nhis having permitted such an exertion.  Before long, however, we saw an\nunmistakable doctor's gig approaching, and from it emerged Harold and\nMr. Yolland.  I saw now that he was a sturdy, hard-working-looking\nyoung man of seven or eight and twenty, with sandy hair, and an honest,\nopen, weather-beaten face.  He had a rather abrupt manner, but much\nmore gentleman-like than that of the usual style of young Union\ndoctors, who are divided between fine words and affectation and\nSawbones roughness.\n\nHe said he had come in to enforce on us what he could not get his\npatient to believe--that it was madness to take such liberties with\nhimself, while such serious wounds were so fresh; and certainly Harold\ndid not seem to suppose a two mile walk more of an exertion than a turn\non the terrace; indeed, but for Mr. Yolland, he would have set off\nagain after breakfast for the interrupted quest of horses at the fair.\nThis, however, was forbidden, with a hint about even the strongest\nconstitution not being able to defy tetanus.  This made us all look\ngrave, and submission being promised, the young doctor took his leave,\nsaying he would come in the evening and dress the hands again for the\nnight.\n\n\"Why _did_ you go to that fellow?\" asked Eustace.  \"It is the old\ndoctor who attends _gentlemen_; he is only the partner.\"\n\n\"He is good enough for me,\" said Harold.  \"I was right glad to meet\nhim.\"\n\nThen it appeared that as Harold was striding into town, half distracted\nwith the pain of his hands, in the sunrise of that April morning, he\nhad had the good fortune to meet Mr. Yolland just coming from the\ncottage where the poor little boy lay who had been injured by the lion.\nThe fright and shock had nearly killed the mother, and the young doctor\nhad been up all night, trying to save her, while on the floor, in a\ndrunken sleep, lay the father, a navvy, who had expended the money\nlavished on the child by the spectators of the accident, in a revel at\nthe public house.  If any were left, it was all in the brute's pocket,\nand the only hope of peace was when he should have drunk it up.\n\nEustace went off to the fair to look at horses, Harold impressing on\nhim to do nothing final in haste; and I could see that, while proud of\ndoing anything on his own account, he was almost afraid of the venture\nalone.  Tired by his sleepless night and morning walk, Harold, when we\nwent into the hall for Dora's lessons, lay down on the white bear-skin,\nlet us build a pile of cushions for his head, and thanked us with\n\"That's nice.\"  I suppose he had never been waited on before, he smiled\nwith such a grateful look, almost of surprise.\n\nHave I not said that ours was a black oak-panelled hall, with a wide\nfireplace, a gallery and oriel window, matted, and so fitted up as to\nbe a pleasant resort for summer days.  Our lessons took place there,\nbecause I had found that my old schoolroom, out of sight and sound of\neverything, was such an intolerable prison to my little wild Bush girl,\nthat she really could not learn there, since her very limited attention\ncould only be secured, under the certainty that Harold did not leave\nthe house without her.\n\nHe bade her let him hear how well she could read, but he was very soon\nfast asleep, and I was persuading her that the multiplication table\ncould not disturb his slumbers, when, at the sound of horses' feet, she\ndarted from my side, like an arrow from a bow, to the open front door,\nand there waved her hand in command, calling to the rider in a hushed\nvoice, \"He is asleep.\"\n\nI followed, expecting to see Eustace; but the rider was instead Dermot\nTracy, who in unfeigned alarm asked if he were seriously ill; and when\nI laughed and explained, he gave his horse, to the groom, and came\nquietly enough, to satisfy Dora, into the hall with us.\n\nThere he stood transfixed, gazing at the great sleeping figure with a\npassion of enthusiasm in his dark-grey eyes.  \"Glorious!\" he said.\n\"Splendid fellow!  Worthy of the deed, Lucy!  It was the most plucky\nthing I ever saw!\"\n\n\"You distinguished yourself too,\" I said.\n\n\"I?  Why, I had a rifle.  I galloped down to Grice's for mine at the\nfirst, when I saw the menagerie people were cowed.  What's that to\ngoing at him alone, and mastering him too, as he had done before those\nidiots thought proper to yell?\"\n\nBeing talked about, of course, awoke Harold; his eyes opened, and he\nanswered for himself, greeting Dermot heartily.  Only then did we\nunderstand the full history of what had happened.  The lion-tamer,\nwhose part it was to exhibit the liberty he could take with the\nanimals, was ill, and his assistant, after much bravado as to his equal\npower, had felt his courage quail, and tried to renew it with drink.\nThus he was in no state to perceive that he had only shot-to the bolt\nof the door of the cage; and his behaviour had so irritated the beast\nthat, after so dealing with him that he lay in a most dangerous state,\nhe had dashed out at the door in rage and terror, and, after seizing\nthe hindmost of the flying crowd, had lain down between the shafts of\nthe waggon, as we had seen him.\n\nThe keepers had lost their heads in the panic, and no one durst go near\nhim.  The lion-tamer had to be called from his bed, in lodgings in the\ntown, and only came on the scene just as Dermot's rifle had finished\nthe struggle.  The master had quite seen the necessity, but was in\ngreat despair at the loss of so valuable an animal.\n\n\"I'll share in making it good to him,\" said Harold.\n\n\"You?  You are the last to do so.  If you had only been let alone, the\nbeast would have been captured unhurt.  No, no!  I settled all that, as\nit was I who meddled in the matter when, I believe, you could have\nsettled him yourself.\"\n\n\"I don't know that,\" said Harold.  \"I was glad enough to see your rifle\nat his ear.  But I should like to have his skin, if they would sell it.\"\n\nDermot explained that he had been bargaining for the skin, and hoped\nMr. Alison would accept it from him, but here Harold's resolution won\nthe day, much as Dermot evidently longed to lay the trophy at his feet.\nPoor Dermot, I could see hero-worship growing in his eyes, as they\ntalked about horses, endlessly as men can and do talk of them, and\ndiligent inquiries elicited from Harold what things he had done with\nthe unbroken animal in Australia.\n\nI went off the scene at once, but when I returned to luncheon they were\nat it still.  And Eustace's return with two steeds for Harold's\njudgment renewed the subject with double vigour.  Dermot gave his\ncounsel, and did not leave Arghouse without reiterating an invitation\nto the cousins to come to-morrow to his cottage at Biston, to be\nintroduced to his stables, let doctors say what they might, and Eustace\nwas in raptures at the distinguished acquaintance he fancied he had\nmade for himself.  He had learnt something of Mr. Tracy's sporting\nrenown, and saw himself introduced to all the hunting world of the\ncounty, not to say of England.\n\nIt gave me a great deal to consider, knowing, as I did full well, that\npoor Dermot's acquaintance was not likely to bring him into favour with\nsociety, even if it were not dangerous in itself.  And my poor mother\nwould not have been delighted at my day, a thing I had totally\nforgotten in the pleasantness of having someone to talk to; for it was\nsix weeks since I had spoken to anyone beyond the family, except Miss\nWoolmer.  Besides, it was Dermot!  And that was enough to move me in\nitself.\n\nI think I have said that his father was an Irish landlord, who was shot\nat his own hall-door in his children's infancy.  Lady Diana brought\nthem back to her old neighbourhood, and there reigned over one of her\nbrother's villages, with the greatest respect and admiration from all,\nand viewed as a pattern matron, widow, and parent.  My mother was, I\nfancy, a little bit afraid of her, and never entirely at ease with her.\nI know I was not, but she was so \"particular\" about her children, that\nit was a great distinction to be allowed to be intimate with them, and\nmy mother was proud of my being their licensed playfellow, when\nHorsmans and Stympsons were held aloof.  But even in those days, when I\nheard the little Tracys spoken of as pattern children, I used to have\nan odd feeling of what it was to be behind the scenes, and know how\nmuch of their fame rested on Di.  I gloried in the knowledge how much\nmore charming the other two were than anyone guessed, who thought them\nmodels of propriety.\n\nIn truth, Dermot did not keep that reputation much longer than his\npetticoats.  Ere long he was a pickle of the first order, equalling the\nsublime naughtiness of Holiday House, and was continually being sent\nhome by private tutors, who could not manage him.  All the time I had a\nsecret conviction that, if he had been my own mother's son, she could\nhave managed him, and he would never have even wished to do what she\ndisapproved; but Lady Diana had no sympathy or warmth in her, and while\nshe loved her children she fretted them, and never thawed nor unbent;\nand when she called in her brother's support, Dermot's nerves were\ndriven frantic by the long harangues, and his relief was in antics\nwhich of course redoubled his offence.  After he had put crackers into\nhis uncle's boots, peppered the coachman's wig, inserted a live toad in\nthe centre of a fortification of clear jelly at a great luncheon, and\nhad one Christmas painted the two stone wild boars that guard the iron\ngates of Erymanth Castle into startling resemblance of the porkers as\ndisplayed in butchers' shops, with a little tin pail at the snout of\neach, labelling each sevenpence-ha'penny per pound, his uncle had\nlittle more hope of him.\n\nDreading his father's fate for him, Lady Diana put him into the Guards,\nto prevent him from living in Ireland, and there he fell into all the\nusual temptations of his kind, so that everybody came to look on him as\na black sheep, and all the time I knew that, if any one had taken him\nin the right way, he might have been kept out of it.  Why there was one\ntalk that he and I had at a picnic on Kalydon Moor, which showed me how\nhopeless he was of ever really pleasing or satisfying his mother\nwithout being, what he could never be, like his uncle in his youth, and\nhow knowing that I cared really might make a difference to him.  But\nmamma and Lady Diana were both very much vexed about that talk; mamma\nwas angry with me; and when Dermot, in a poetical game a little after,\nsent me some verses--well, with a little more blarney and tenderness\nthan the case required--there was a real uproar about them.  Di showed\nthem to her mother, who apologised in her lofty way for my having been\ninsulted.  Oh! how angry it did make me; and mamma absolutely cried\nabout it.  It seems foolish to say so, but if they would have let us\nalone I could have done something towards inducing him to keep\nstraight, whereas the way he was treated by his mother and Di only made\nhim worse.  Poor mamma! I don't wonder at her, when even his own mother\nand uncle would not stand up for him; but I knew, whenever we met\nafterwards at ball or party, that it was pain and grief to her for me\nto speak a word to him, and that she thought me wrong to exchange\nanything beyond bare civility.  He was vexed, too, and did not try; and\nwe heard worse and worse of him, especially when he went over to his\nplace in Ireland.\n\nThen came the Crimean war, and all the chances of showing what I knew\nhe really was; but at the Alma he was wounded, not very dangerously,\nbut just touching his lungs, and after a long illness in London, the\ndoctors said he must not go back to Sebastopol, for to serve in the\ntrenches would be certain death to him.  He wanted to go back all the\nsame, and had an instinct that it would be better for him, but his\nmother and uncle prevented him and made him sell out, and after that,\nwhen he had nothing to do--oh! there's no need to think of it.\n\nIn the course of this last year he had taken the shooting of Kalydon\nMoor, and a house with it, with immense stables, which one of the\nHorsmans had made for his hunters, and had ruined himself and died. He\nhad not quarrelled with his mother--indeed nobody could quarrel with\nDermot--and he used to go over to see her, but he would not live at\nhome, and since he had been at Biston I had never once met him till I\nsaw him run up to attack the lion, the only man in all the fair except\nHarold who had courage to do so!  I could not help my heart bounding at\nthe thought, and afterwards enjoying the talk with him that I could not\nhelp.  But then it made me feel undutiful to my dear mother, and then\nthere was the further difficulty to be faced. It would have been all\nvery well to live with my nephews if we had been in a desert island,\nbut I could not expect them not to make friends of their own; and if\nmine chose to drop me, how would it be for me, at my age, all alone in\nthe house?\n\nHarold was forced to confess that he had done too much that first day.\nHis hand was inflamed, and pain and weariness forbade all thought of\nspending a long day from home; and, besides, there arrived letters by\nthe morning's post which left grave lines on his brow.\n\nSo Eustace drove off alone, a good deal elated at such an expedition,\nand I took Harold to my own little sitting-room, so despised by Dora,\nfor the convenience of bathing the flesh wounds on the right hand,\nwhich, though really the least injured, was a much greater torment than\nthe broken fingers, and had allowed him very little sleep.\n\nIt was the first time he had been in the room, and on the chimney-piece\nstood open a miniature-case containing a portrait, by Thorburn, of my\nlittle brother Percy, in loose brown holland.  Harold started as he\ncame in, and exclaimed, \"Where did that come from?\"  I told him, and he\nexclaimed, \"Shut it up, please,\" and sat down with his back to it,\nresigning his hand to me, and thanking me warmly when the fomentation\nbrought some relief, and when I asked if I could do any more for him he\nseemed undecided, extracted some letters from his pocket with his\ntwo-fifths of a hand, and sent Dora to his room for his writing-case.\nI offered to write anything for him, but he said, \"Let me try,\" and\nthen endeavoured; but he found that not only did the effort hurt him\nunbearably, but that he could not guide the pen for more than a word or\ntwo; so he consented to make use of me, saying, however, \"Dora, it is\nno use your staying in; you had better go out.\"\n\nDora, of course, wanted to stay; but I devised that she should go,\nunder the escort of one of the maids, to carry some broth to the\nwounded boy, an expedition which would last her some time, and which\nHarold enforced with all his might as a personal favour, till she\ncomplied.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Harold; \"you see this must be done at once, or we\nshall have them coming over here.\"\n\nHe gave me the sheet he had begun with \"Dear Mother,\" and went on\ndictating.  It was not at all after Julius Caesar's fashion of\ndictating.  He sat with his eyes on his own letter, and uttered one\nbrief but ponderous sentence after another, each complete in all its\nparts, and quite unhesitating, though slowly uttered.  I gathered it\nup, wrote it down, said \"Well,\" and waited for more in silence, till,\nafter I had looked at him once or twice to see whether he were asleep\nor in a reverie, another such sentence followed, and I began to know\nhim very much better.\n\nAfter saying \"My hands have been lamed for a few days, and my aunt is\nso good as to write for me,\" he went on to say, in forcible and not\nvery affectionate terms, that \"Smith must not think of coming home;\nEustace could do nothing for him there, but as long as the family\nremained at Nelson their allowance should be increased by one hundred\npounds a year.\"  I filled up an order, which he signed on a Sydney bank\nfor the first quarter.  \"It must not be more,\" he said, as he told me\nthe sum, \"or they will be taking their passage with it.\"\n\n\"No more?\" I asked, when he prepared to conclude this short letter.\n\n\"No.  Smith reads all her letters.\"\n\n\"That is very hard on you.\"\n\n\"She meant to do well for me, but it was a great mistake.  If Smith\ncomes home to prey upon Eustace, it will be a bad business.\"\n\n\"But he has no claim on Eustace, whatever he may think he has on you.\"\n\n\"He is more likely to come now.  He knows he can get nothing out of\nme--\" Then, as I looked at the order, he added, \"Beyond my mother's\nrights.  Poor mother!\"\n\nI found that the schoolmaster had been induced to marry Alice Alison in\nthe expectation that her share in the proceeds of Boola Boola would be\nmuch larger than it proved to be.  He had fawned on the two Eustaces,\nand obtained all he could from the elder, but, going too far at last,\nhad been detected by the Sydney bank in what amounted to an\nembezzlement.  Prosecution was waived, and he was assisted to leave\nAustralia and make a fresh start in New Zealand, whence he had never\nceased to endeavour to gain whatever he could from Boola Boola. He\ncould twist Eustace round his finger, and Harold, though loathing and\ndespising him, would do anything for his mother, but was resolved, for\nEustace's sake, to keep them at a distance, as could only be done by\nnever allowing them a sufficient sum at once to obtain a passage home,\nand he knew the habits of Smith and his sons too well to expect them to\nsave it.  In fact, the letter before him, which he ended by giving me\nto read, had been written by the poor woman at her husband's dictation,\nin the belief that Harold was the heir, to demand their passage-money\nfrom him, and that there was a sad little postscript put in afterwards,\nunknown to her tyrant.  \"My boy, don't do it.  It will be much better\nfor you not;\" and, brave woman as she was, she added no entreaty that\nhis refusal might be softened.  I asked if she had had any more\nchildren.  \"No, happily,\" was Harold's answer.  \"If I might only wring\nthat fellow's neck, I could take care of her.\"  In fact, I should\nthink, when he wanted to come within Harold's grasp, he hardly knew\nwhat he asked.\n\nThis finished, it appeared that Harold wanted to have a letter finished\nto Prometesky which he had begun some days before.  This astonished me\nmore, both by the questions Prometesky had been asking, and the answers\nHarold was returning, as to the state of the country and the condition\nof the people.  They did much to relieve my mind of the fears I had\nsometimes entertained of Harold's being a ferocious demagogue incited\nthereto by his friend.\n\nWho would have thought there was so much depth in his brain?  He ended\nby saying, \"Eustace takes kindly to his new position, and is gone today\nto see Mr. Tracy, nephew to Lord Erymanth, but who does not appear\ndisposed to carry on the same hostility to us.\"\n\nI exclaimed at his having said nothing of the lion either to his mother\nor his friend, and asked leave to add it, which he did not refuse,\nthough saying there was no use in it, and that he wanted me to do one\nthing more for him--namely, to write to his agent in Sydney an order\nwhich he signed for the transmission of some money to England.  He had\nlearnt from Mr. Yolland that morning that the \"Dragon's Head\" and some\nadjoining houses at Mycening were for sale, and that the purchaser\ncould have immediate possession.\n\n\"What are you going to do with it?\"\n\n\"Shut it up.\"\n\n\"You can't do much good by shutting up one public-house.\"\n\n\"Eustace will do the same with those on his property.\"\n\n\"I am very much afraid your crusade will not succeed, unless you can\nput something better into people's minds.\"\n\n\"I shall see about that,\" he answered, thinking, I believe, that I was\ngoing to suggest religion, from all mention of which he shrank, as if\nit touched a wound.  \"Smith talked of religion,\" he once said, with a\nshudder.  Besides, he was a creature in the superabundance of all human\nfaculties to whom their exercise seemed for a time all-sufficient, and\nthe dark shade of horror and remorse in the depths of his heart made\nhim unwilling to look back or think.  At any rate, he silenced me on\nthat head; but, thinking, perhaps, that he had been unkindly blunt, he\nresumed, \"There is no risk for Eustace in this acquaintance?\"\n\nIn spite of the pang that smote me, I felt that this was the only time\nI might have for that word of warning which seemed incumbent on me.  \"I\ndo not think there is danger in his going to-day, but it does seem\nright to tell you that poor Dermot Tracy is said to be very\nextravagant, and to lead a wild life.  And Harold, though I have known\nhim all my life, I have been thinking that it will not do for me to be\nhere, if this should become a resort of the set of people he has made\nfriends of.\"\n\nHarold answered in his steady, grave way, \"I see.  But, Lucy, I suppose\nnone of them have been so bad as I have been?\"--rather as if he were\nwondering over the matter.\n\n\"But you belong to me,\" I answered, and I saw a look of real pleasure\nmeet my smile.\n\n\"I wish I knew what was best for Eustace,\" he said, after a few more\nmoments' thought.  \"Is it doing him harm for me to be here?  I could go\nback to New South Wales at once, only in some ways I don't think the\nold fellow could get on without me, till he is more used to it all, and\nin safe hands.\"\n\nI had no hesitation in answering that Eustace would be much worse off\nwithout his cousin, and that the treatment we were receiving was\nchiefly on account of the fathers of both, not personal to Harold.\n\n\"Then you think it would not help him for me to leave him?\"\n\n\"I think he is far more likely to live it down with you to help him.\"\n\n\"But, Lucy, are you being given up by all your friends for our sakes?\nWe did not know it meant that when we asked you to stay with us!\"\n\n\"No more did I.  But don't be uneasy about that, Harold dear.  Don't\nyou think one's own flesh and blood is more than all such friends?\"\n\n\"I should not have thought two fellows like us could have been worth\nmuch to you,\" said Harold, gravely pondering.  \"That pretty little\nthing who was with you the night we came; she has never been here\nagain.  Don't you miss her?\"\n\n\"It is not her fault,\" I said.  \"Besides, nothing is like the tie of\nblood.\"\n\nI shall never forget the look that was in Harold's eyes.  I was\nstanding over him, putting some fresh warm water on his hand.  He put\nback his head and looked up earnestly in my face, as if to see whether\nI meant it, then said, \"We are very thankful to you for thinking so.\"\n\nI could not help bending and touching his forehead with my lips.  His\neyes glistened and twinkled, but he said nothing for a little space,\nand then it was, \"If any one like you had been out there--\"\n\nI don't think I ever had a compliment that gave me more pleasure, for\nthere was somehow an infinite sense of meaning in whatever Harold said,\nhowever short it might be, as if his words had as much force in them as\nhis muscles.\n\nAfter a good deal more of silent sponging and some knitting of his\nbrows, either from thought or from pain, he said, \"Then, as I\nunderstand, you cast in your lot with us, and give us the blessing of\nyour presence and care of poor little Dora, to help to set Eustace in\nhis proper place in society.  I see then that it is your due that we\nshould bring no one here of whom you do not fully approve.\"\n\n\"It is not only a matter of approval,\" I explained.  \"There are many\nwith whom I could freely associate in general society, or if I had any\nlady with me, whom I ought not to have constantly here with only you\ntwo.\"\n\n\"England is different from the Bush,\" he answered, and meditated for\nten minutes more, for no doubt it was the Australian practice to offer\nfree quarters to all comers without Mrs. Grundy, who had hardly yet had\nher free passage.  My heart smote me lest I were acting unkindly for\nher sake, but then surely I was saving my allegiance to my dead mother,\nand while I was still thinking it over, Harold said:\n\n\"You are more to us than any one could be; Eustace shall see the thing\nrightly, and while you are good enough to make this our home, I promise\nyou that no one shall be invited here but as you like.\"\n\nIt was a bold promise, especially as it turned out that Eustace had\nbeen making large invitations to the Arghouse fishing to Dermot Tracy\nand some officer friends whom he had found at Biston, and who seemed to\nhave made themselves very pleasant.  I bade Harold never mind about\nthat sort of invitation, as it need not affect Dora or me, since we\ncould keep out of the way of it, being unconcerned with gentlemen's\nparties.  Miss Woolmer said I had done right, and gave us a general\ninvitation to spend the evening with her if Eustace wished to entertain\nhis friends, though she hinted, \"Don't be too ready to leave the coast\nclear.  Remember that you are a wholesome check.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE \"DRAGON'S HEAD.\"\n\n\nHarold's right hand healed quickly, and was free in a few days, but the\nleft had to be kept for some time in a sling, and be daily attended to,\nthough he heeded it but little, walking miles to look at horses and to\ntry them, for he could manage them perfectly with one hand, and in this\nway he saw a good deal of Dermot Tracy, who exerted himself to find a\nhorse to carry the mighty frame.\n\nThe catastrophe at the fair had gained him two friends, entirely unlike\none another--Dermot, who thenceforward viewed him with unvarying\nhero-worship, and accepted Eustace as his appendage; and George\nYolland, the very reverse of all Dermot's high-bred form of Irishism,\nand careless, easy self-indulgence.\n\nA rough-hewn, rugged young man, intensely in earnest, and therefore\nneither popular nor successful was that young partner of Dr. Kingston.\nHad Harold been squire, the resignation of the patient into his hands\nwould have been less facile; but as a mere Australian visitor, he was\nno prize, and might follow his own taste if he preferred the\npractitioner to whom club, cottage, and union patients were abandoned.\n\nBy him Harold was let into those secrets of the lower stratum of\nsociety he had longed to understand.  Attention to the poor boy who had\nbeen torn by the lion brought him into the great village of workmen's\nhuts, that had risen up round the Hydriot clay works on the Lerne.\n\nThese had been set up by a company about eighteen years before, much\nagainst all our wills.  With Lord Erymanth at our head, we had opposed\nwith all our might the breaking up of the beautiful moorland that ran\nright down into Mycening, and the defilement of our pure and rapid\nLerne; but modern progress had been too strong for us.  Huge brick\ninclosures with unpleasant smoky chimneys had arisen, and around them a\nwhole colony of bare, ugly little houses, filled with squalid women and\nchildren, little the better for the men's wages when they were high,\nand now that the Company was in a languishing state, miserable beyond\ndescription.  We county people had simply viewed ourselves as the\ninjured parties by this importation, bemoaned the ugliness of the\nerections, were furious at the interruptions to our country walks,\nprophesied the total collapse of the Company, and never suspected that\nwe had any duties towards the potters.  The works were lingering on,\nonly just not perishing; the wages that the men did get, such as they\nwere, went in drink; the town in that quarter was really unsafe in the\nevening; and the most ardent hope of all the neighbourhood was, that\nthe total ruin constantly expected would lead to the migration of all\nthe wretched population.\n\nMr. Yolland, who attended most of their sicknesses, used to tell\nfearful things of the misery, vice, and hardness, and did acts of\nalmost heroic kindness among them, which did not seem consistent with\nwhat, to my grief and dismay, was reported of this chosen companion of\nHarold--that physical science had conducted him into materialism. The\nchief comfort I had was that Miss Woolmer liked him and opened her\nhouse to him.  She was one of the large-hearted women who can see the\ngood through the evil, and was interested by contact with all phases of\nthought; and, moreover, the lad should not be lost for want of the\nentree to something like a home, because the upper crust of Mycening\nconsidered him as \"only Dr. Kingston's partner,\" and the Kingstons\nthemselves had the sort of sense that he was too much for them which\nmakes a spider dislike to have a bluebottle in his web.\n\nShe was interested, too, rather sadly in the crusade without the cross\nthat the two young men were trying to undertake against the\nwretchedness of those potters.\n\nIt was much in their favour that the landlord, who was also the owner\nof the \"Dragon's Head,\" was invited to join a brother in America\nwithout loss of time, and was ready to sell and give immediate\npossession; so that Harry actually owned it in a fortnight from first\nhearing of the offer, having, of course, given a heavy price for it.\n\nThe evening it came into his possession he went down, and, standing at\nthe door, tried to explain why he had closed it, and why he could not\nbear to see its frequenters spending their wages on degrading\nthemselves and making their homes miserable.  In no mood for a\ntemperance harangue, the men drowned, or would have drowned aught but\nhis short incisive sentences, in clamours for their beer, and one big\nbully pushed forward to attack him.  His left hand was still in the\nsling, but with the other he caught hold of the fellow by the collar,\nand swung him over the side of the stone steps as helpless as a puppy\ndog, shaking him till his teeth chattered ere setting him on his feet.\n\"If you wish for any more,\" he said, \"we'll have it out as soon as this\nhand is well.\"\n\nThat made them cheer him, and the fellow slunk away; while Harold,\nhaving gained a hearing, told them that he meant to make the former\n\"Dragon's Head\" a place where they might smoke, read the papers, play\ngames, and have any refreshment such as coffee, tea, or ginger-beer, at\nwhich they hissed, and only one or two observed, \"I am sure you wishes\nus well, sir.\"\n\nIt was a good-sized house, and he meant to put in a steady couple to\nkeep it, giving up two upper rooms to make a laboratory for Mr.\nYolland, whose soul was much set on experiments for which his lodgings\ngave him no space; but the very day when Harold opened his\ncoffee-rooms, as he went down the street, an \"Original Dragon's Head\"\nand a \"Genuine Dragon's Head\" grinned defiance at him, in the full\nglory of teeth, fiery breath, and gilded scales, on the other side of\nthe way.  I believe they had been beershops before; but, be that as it\nmay, they devoured quite as many as their predecessor, and though\nnewspapers and draught-boards lay all about the place, they attracted\nonly two clients!\n\nAnd the intended closing of all the beer-houses on the Arghouse\nproperty, except the time-honoured \"Blue Boar\" on the village green,\nseemed likely to have the same effect; for the notices to their\nholders, grimly resisted by Bullock, seemed only to cause dozens of\nhouseholders to represent the absolute need of such houses whenever\nthey did not belong to us.\n\n\"To destroy one is to produce two,\" sighed Harold.\n\n\"There's nothing to be done but to strike at the root,\" I said.\n\n\"What's that?\" said Harold.\n\n\"Man's evil propensities,\" I said.\n\n\"Humph,\" said Harold.  \"If I could manage the works now!  They say the\nshares are to be had for an old song.\"\n\n\"Oh, Harry, don't have anything to do with them,\" I entreated.  \"They\nhave ruined every creature who has meddled with them, and done\nunmitigated mischief.\"\n\nHarold made no answer, but the next day he was greatly stimulated by a\nletter from Prometesky, part of which he read to me, in its perfect\nEnglish, yet foreign idiom.\n\n\"I long to hear of the field of combat we had to quit, because one\nparty was too stolid, the other too ardent.  I see it all before me\nwith the two new champions freshly girded for the strife, but a\npeaceful strife, my friend.  Let our experience be at least profitable\nto you, and let it be a peaceful contention of emulation such as is\nalone suited to that insular nation which finds its strongest stimulus\nin domestic comfort and wealth.  Apropos, has some one pursued a small\ndiscovery of mine, that, had I not been a stranger of a proscribed\nnation, and had not your English earl and the esquires been hostile to\nall save the hereditary plough, might have found employment for\nthousands and prevented the history of your fathers and of myself?\nThat bed of argillaceous deposit around the course of your Lerne, which\nI found to be of the same quality as the porcelain clay of Meissen,\ndoes it still merely bear a few scanty blades of corn, or is its value\nappreciated, and is it occupying hundreds of those who starved and were\ndiscontented, to the great surprise of their respectable landlords?  I\nwonder whether a few little figures that I modelled in the clay for\nspecimens, and baked in my hostess's oven, are still in existence.  The\nforms of clay were there.  Alas!  I asked in vain of your English\nmagnates for the fire from heaven to animate the earth, or rather I\nwould have brought it, and I suffered.\"\n\nIt was amusing to see how much delighted honest Harold was with this\nletter, and how much honoured he seemed by his dear old Prometesky\nhaving spent so much time and thought upon writing to him.  It fired\nhim with doubled ardour to investigate the Hydriot Company, and he\ncould hardly wait till a reasonable hour the next day.  Then he took\nEustace down with him and returned quite talkative (for him) with the\ndiscoveries he had made, from one of the oldest workmen who had become\ndisabled from the damp of working in the clay.\n\nThe Company had been set up by a clever speculating young attorney, but\nthe old man remembered that \"that there foreign gentleman, the same as\nwas sent to foreign parts with the poor young squires,\" was \"always\na-puddling about in it; and they did say as how he tried to get my\nlord, and Squire Horsman, and Squire Stympson to see to setting up\nsummut there; but they wasn't never for 'speriments, and there was no\nmore talk of it not till that there young Crabbe got hold, they say, of\nsome little images as he had made, and never rested till he had got up\nthe Company, and begun the works, having drawn in by his enthusiasm\nhalf the tradesmen and a few of the gentlemen of the place.\"\n\nThree years of success; then came a bad manager; young Crabbe struggled\nin vain to set things right, broke down, and died of the struggle; and\never since the unhappy affair had lingered on, starving its workmen,\nand just keeping alive by making common garden pots and pans and\ndrain-tiles.  Most people who could had sold out of it, thanking the\nLimited Liabilities for its doing them no further harm; and the small\nremnant only hung on because no one could be found to give them even\nthe absurdly small amount that was still said to be the value of their\nshares.\n\nThat they would find now Harold had fallen in with young Yolland, who\nhad been singing the old song, first of Prometesky, then of Crabbe, and\nhad made him listen to it.  Five pounds would now buy a share that used\nto be worth a hundred, and that with thanks from the seller that he got\nanything from what had long ceased to pay the ghost of a dividend.  And\nloose cash was not scarce with Harold; he was able to buy up an amount\nwhich perfectly terrified me, and made me augur that the Hydriot would\nswallow all Boola Boola, and more too; and as to Mr. Yolland's promises\nof improvements, no one, after past experience, could believe in them.\n\n\"Now, Harold, you know nothing of all this intricate business; and as\nto these chemical agencies, I am sure you know nothing about them.\"\n\n\"I shall learn.\"\n\n\"You will only be taken in,\" I went on in my character as good aunt,\n\"and utterly ruined.\"\n\n\"No matter if I am.\"\n\n\"Only please, at least, don't drag in Eustace and Arghouse.\"\n\n\"Eustace will only have five shares standing in his name to enable him\nto be chairman.\"\n\n\"Five too many!  Harold!  I cannot see why you involve yourself in all\nthis.  You are well off!  You don't care for these foolish hopes of\ngain.\"\n\n\"I can't see things go so stupidly to wrack.\"\n\nThe truth was that he saw in it a continuation of Prometesky's work and\nhis father's, so expostulations were vain.  He had been thoroughly\nbitten, and was the more excited at finding that Dermot and Viola Tracy\nwere both shareholders.  Their father had been a believer in Crabbe,\nand had taken a good many shares, and these had been divided between\nthem at his death.  They could not be sold till they were of age, and\nby the time Dermot was twenty-one, no one would buy them; and now, when\nthey were recalled to his mind, he would gladly have made Harold a\npresent of them, but Harold would not even buy them; he declared that\nhe wanted Dermot's vote, as a shareholder, to help in the majority;\nand, in fact, the effective male shareholders on the spot were only\njust sufficient to furnish directors.  Mr. Yolland bought two shares\nthat he might have a voice; Eustace was voted into the chair, and the\nminority was left to consist of the greatly-soured representative of\nthe original Crabbe, and one other tradesman, who held on for the sake,\nas it seemed, of maintaining adherence to the red pots and pans, as, at\nany rate, risking nothing.\n\nOf course I hated and dreaded it all, and it was only by that power\nwhich made it so hard to say nay to Harold, that he got me down to look\nat the very lair of the Hydriot Company.  It was a melancholy place;\nthe buildings were so much larger, and the apparatus so much more\nelaborate than there was any use for; and there were so few workmen,\nand those so unhealthy and sinister-looking.\n\nI remember the great red central chimney with underground furnaces all\nround, which opened like the fiery graves where Dante placed the bad\nPopes; and how dreadfully afraid I was that Dora would tumble into one\nof them, so that I was glad to see her held fast by the fascination of\nthe never-superseded potter and his wheel fashioning the clay, while\nMr. Yolland discoursed and Harold muttered assents to some wonderful\nscheme that was to economise fuel--the rock on which this furnace had\nsplit.\n\nIt has been explained to me over and over again, and I never did more\nthan understand it for one moment, and if I did recollect all about it,\nlike a scientific dialogue, nobody would thank me for putting it in\nhere, so it will be enough to say that it sounded to me very\nbewildering and horribly dangerous, not so much to the body as to the\npocket, and I thought the Hydriot bade fair to devour Boola Boola and\nHarold, if not Arghouse and Eustace into the bargain.\n\nThey meant to have a Staffordshire man down to act as foreman and put\nthings on a better footing.\n\n\"I'll write to my brother to send one,\" said Mr. Yolland.  \"He's a\ncurate in the potteries; has a wonderful turn for this sort of thing.\"\n\n\"Have you a brother a clergyman?\" I said, rather surprised, and to fill\nup Harold's silence.\n\n\"Yes, my brother Ben.  It's his first curacy, and his two years are all\nbut up.  I don't know if he will stay on.  He's a right down jolly good\nfellow is Ben, and I wish he would come down here.\"\n\nNeither of us echoed the wish.  Harold had no turn for clergymen after\nthe specimen of Mr. Smith; and Mr. Yolland, though I could specify\nnothing against him but that he was rough and easy, had offended me by\njoining us, when I wanted Harold all to myself. Besides, was he not\ndeluding my nephews into this horrid Hydriot Company, of which they\nwould be the certain victims?\n\nThe Staffordshire man came, and the former workmen looked very bitter\non him.  After a meeting, in which the minority made many vehement\nobjections, Eustace addressed the workmen in the yards--that is to say,\nhe thought he did; but Harold and Mr. Yolland made his meaning more\napparent.  A venture in finer workmanship, imitating Etruscan ware, was\nto be made, and, if successful, would much increase trade and profits,\nand a rise in wages was offered to such as could undertake the\nworkmanship.  Moreover, it was held out to them that they might become\nthe purchasers of shares or half shares at the market price, and thus\nhave an interest in the concern, whereat they sneered as at some new\ndodge of the Company for taking them in.  It did not seem to me that\nmuch was done, save making Harry pore over books and accounts, and run\nhis hands through his hair, till his thick curls stood up in all\ndirections.\n\nAnd Miss Woolmer herself was sorry.  She remembered the old story--nay,\nshe had one of Prometesky's own figures modelled in terra cotta,\ndefective, of course, as a work of art, but with that fire that genius\ncan breathe into the imperfect.  She believed it had been meant for the\nHope of Poland.  Alas! the very name reminded one of the old word for\ndespair, \"Wanhope.\"  But Harold admired it greatly, and both he and\nGeorge Yolland seemed to find inspiration in it.\n\nBut one summer evening, when the young men were walking up and down the\ngarden, smoking, we heard something that caused us to look round for a\nthunder-cloud, though none could be seen in the clear sky, and some\nquarter of an hour after, Richardson hurried out to us with the\ntidings, \"I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a person come up to say\nthere has been an explosion at the Hydriot works.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" said Harold.  \"There's nothing to explode!\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir, but it is Mr. Yolland they say has blowed\nhimself up with his experiments, and all the old 'Dragon's Head' in\nLerne Street, and he is buried under the ruins.  It is all one mass of\nruin, sir, and he under it.\"\n\nHarold rushed off, without further word or query, and Eustace after\nhim, and I had almost to fight to hold back Dora, and should hardly\nhave succeeded if the two had not disappeared so swiftly that she could\nnot hope to come up with them.\n\nI let her put on her things and come down with me to the lodge-gate to\nwatch.  I was afraid to go any farther, and there we waited, without\neven the relief of a report, till we had heard the great clock strike\nquarter after quarter, and were expecting it to strike eleven, when\nsteps came near at last, and Eustace opened the gate. We threw\nourselves upon him, and he cried out with surprise, then said, \"He is\nalive!\"\n\n\"Who! Harold?\"\n\n\"Harold!  Nonsense.  What should be the matter with Harold?  But he is\ngoing to stay with him--Yolland I mean--for the night!  It was all his\nconfounded experiments.  It was very well that I went down--nothing was\nbeing done without a head to direct, but they always know what to be at\nwhen _I_ come among them.\"\n\nNo one there knew the cause of the accident, except that it had taken\nplace in Mr. Yolland's laboratory, where he had been trying\nexperiments.  The house itself had been violently shattered, and those\nnearest had suffered considerably.  Happily, it stood in a yard of its\nown, so that none adjoined it, and though the fronts of the two\nopposite \"Dragon's Heads\" had broken windows and torn doors, no person\nwithin them had been more than stunned and bruised.  But the former\n\"Dragon's Head\" itself had become a mere pile of stones, bricks, and\ntimbers.  The old couple in charge had happily been out, and stood in\ndismay over the heap, which Harold and a few of the men were trying to\nremove, in the dismal search for Mr. Yolland and the boy he employed to\nassist him.  The boy was found first, fearfully burnt about the face\nand hands, but protected from being crushed by the boards which had\nfallen slantwise over him.  And under another beam, which guarded his\nhead, but rested on his leg, lay young Yolland.\n\nHarold's strength had raised the beam, and he was drawn out.  He\nrevived as the night air blew on his face, looked up as Harold lifted\nhim, said, \"I have it,\" and fainted the next moment.  They had taken\nhim to his lodgings, where Dr. Kingston had set the broken leg and\nbound the damaged rib, but could not yet pronounce on the other\ninjuries, and Harold had taken on himself the watch for the night.\n\nThe explanation that we all held by was, that the damage was caused by\nan officious act of the assistant, who, perceiving that it was growing\ndark, fired a match, and began to light the gas at the critical moment\nof the experiment, by which the means of obtaining the utmost heat at\nthe smallest expense of fuel was to be attained. It was one of those\nsenseless acts that no one would have thought of forbidding; and though\nthe boy, on recovering his senses, owned that the last thing he\nremembered was getting the matches and Mr. Yolland shouting to stop\nhim, there were many who never would believe anything but that it was\nblundering of his, and that he was a dangerous and mischievous person\nto have in the town.\n\nHarold came home for a little while just as we were having breakfast,\nto bring a report that his patient had had a much quieter night than he\nexpected, and to say that he had telegraphed for the brother and wanted\nEustace to meet him at the station.  The landlady was sitting with the\npatient now, and Harold had come home for ice, strawberries, and, above\nall, to ask for help in nursing, for the landlady could not, and would\nnot, do much.  I mentioned a motherly woman as, perhaps, likely to be\nuseful, but Harold said, \"I could do best with Dora.\"\n\nHe had so far learnt that it was not the Bush as not to expect me to\noffer, and was quite unprepared for the fire that Eustace and I opened\non him as to the impossibility of his request.  \"Miss Alison, _my_\nsister,\" as Eustace said, \"going down to a little, common, general\npractitioner to wait on him;\" while I confined myself to \"It won't do\nat all, Harold,\" and promised to hunt up the woman and to send her to\nhis aid.  But when I had seen her, arranged my housekeeping affairs,\nand called Dora to lessons, she was nowhere to be found.\n\n\"Then she has gone after Harold!\" indignantly exclaimed Eustace.  \"It\nis too bad!  I declare I will put a stop to it!  To have _my_ sister\ndemeaning herself to put herself in such a situation for a little Union\ndoctor!\"\n\nI laughed, and observed that no great harm was done with so small a\nperson, only I could not think what use Harold could make of her; at\nwhich Eustace was no less surprised, for a girl of eight or nine was of\nno small value in the Bush, and he said Dora had been most helpful in\nthe care of her father.  But his dignity was so much outraged that he\ntalked big of going to bring her home--only he did not go.  I was a\nlittle wounded at Harold having taken her in the face of my opposition,\nbut I found that that had not been the case, for Eustace had walked to\nthe lodge with him, and she had rushed after and joined him after he\nwas in the town.  And at luncheon Eustace fell on me with entreaties\nthat I would come with him and help him meet \"this parson,\" whom he\nseemed to dread unreasonably, as, in fact, he always did shrink from\ndoing anything alone when he could get a helper.  I thought this would\nbe, at least, as queer as Dora's nursing of the other brother; but it\nseemed so hard for the poor man, coming down in his anxiety, to be met\nby Eustace either in his vague or his supercilious mood, that I\nconsented at last, so that he might have someone of common sense, and\nwalked down with him.\n\nWe could not doubt which was the right passenger, when a young\nclergyman, almost as rough-looking as his brother, and as much bearded,\nbut black where he was yellow, sprang out of a second-class with\nanxious looks.  It was I who said at one breath, \"There he is! Speak to\nhim, Eustace!  Mr. Yolland--he is better--he will do well--\"\n\n\"Thank--thank you--\" And the hat was pushed back, with a long breath;\nthen, as he only had a little black bag to look after, we all walked\ntogether to the lodgings, while the poor man looked bewildered and\nunrealising under Eustace's incoherent history of the accident--a far\nmore conjectural and confused story than it became afterwards.\n\nI waited till Harold came down with Dora; and to my \"How could you?\"\nand Eustace's more severe and angry blame, she replied, \"He wanted me;\nso of course I went.\"\n\nHarold said not a word in defence of her or of himself; but when I\nasked whether she had been of any use, he said, smiling affectionately\nat her, \"Wasn't she?\"\n\nThen we went and looked at the shattered houses, and Harold showed us\nwhere he had drawn out his poor friend, answering the aggrieved owners\nopposite that there would be an inquiry, and means would be found for\ncompensation.\n\nAnd when I said, \"It is a bad beginning for the Hydriot plans!\" he\nanswered, \"I don't know that,\" and stood looking at the ruins of his\n\"Dragon's Head\" in a sort of brown study, till we grew impatient, and\ndragged him home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE WRATH OF DIANA.\n\n\nHarold did not like clergymen.  \"Smith was a clergyman,\" he said, with\nan expressive look; and while George Yolland had his brother and the\nnurse I had sent, he merely made daily inquiries, and sometimes sat an\nhour with his friend.\n\nMr. Crosse's curate had kindred in Staffordshire, and offered to\nexchange a couple of Sundays with Mr. Benjamin Yolland, and this\nresulted in the visitor being discovered to have a fine voice and a\ngreat power of preaching, and as he was just leaving his present\nparish, this ended in Mr. Crosse begging him to remain permanently, not\nmuch to Harold's gratification; but the two brothers were all left of\ntheir family, and, different as their opinions were, they were all in\nall to each other.\n\nThe agreement with Mr. Crosse would hardly have been made, had the\nbrothers known all that was coming.  George Yolland was in a strange\nstupefied state for the first day or two, owing, it was thought, to the\neffects of the gas; but he revived into the irritable state of\ncrankiness which could not submit in prudent patience to Dr. Kingston's\ndicta, but argued, and insisted on his own treatment of himself, and\nhis own theory of the accident, till he as good as told the doctor that\nhe was an old woman.  Whether it were in consequence or not, I don't\nknow, but as soon as Dr. Kingston could persuade himself that a shock\nwould do no harm, he wrote a polite letter explaining that the\nunfortunate occurrence from which Mr. Yolland was suffering had so\ndestroyed the confidence of his patients, that he felt it due to them\nto take steps to dissolve the partnership.\n\nPerhaps it was no wonder.  Such things were told and believed, that\nthose who had never yet been attended by George Yolland believed him a\nwild and destructive theorist.  Miss Avice Stympson asked Miss Woolmer\nhow she could sleep in her bed when she knew he was in the town, and\nthe most astonishing stories of his practice were current, of which I\nthink the mildest was, that he had pulled out all a poor girl's teeth\nfor the sake of selling them to a London dentist, and that, when in a\nstate of intoxication, he had cut off a man's hand, because he had a\nsplinter in his finger.\n\nHowever, the effect was, that Harold summoned a special meeting of the\nshareholders, the same being nearly identical with the Directors of the\nHydriot Company, and these contrived to get George Yolland, Esquire,\nappointed chemist and manager of the works, with a salary of 70 pounds\nper annum, to be increased by a percentage on the sales! Crabbe\nobjected vehemently, but was in the minority.  The greater number were\nthoroughly believers in the discovery made on that unlucky night, or\nelse were led away by that force of Harold's, which was almost as\nirresistible by mind, as by matter.  But the tidings were received with\nhorror by the town.  Three nervous old ladies who lived near the Lerne\ngave notice to quit, and many declared that it was an indictable\noffence.\n\nSmall as the salary was, it was more than young Yolland was clearing by\nhis connection with Dr. Kingston; and as he would have to spare himself\nduring the next few months, and could not without danger undertake the\nexertions of a wide field of Union practice, the offer was quite worth\nhis acceptance.  Moreover, he had the enthusiasm of a practical\nchemist, and would willingly have starved to see his invention carried\nout, so he received the appointment with the gruff gratitude that best\nsuited Harold; and he and his brother were to have rooms in the late\n\"Dragon's Head,\" so soon as it should have been rebuilt on improved\nprinciples, with a workman's hall below, and a great court for the\nchildren to play in by day and the lads in the evening.\n\nOf the clerical Yolland we saw and heard very little.  Harold was much\nrelieved to find that even before his brother could move beyond the\nsofa, he was always out all day, for though he had never spoken a word\nthat sounded official, Harold had an irrational antipathy to his black\nattire.  Nor did I hear him preach, except by accident, for Arghouse\nchapelry was in the beat of the other curate, and in the afternoon,\nwhen I went to Mycening old church, he had persuaded Mr. Crosse to let\nhim begin what was then a great innovation--a children's service, with\nopen doors, in the National School-room. Miss Woolmer advised me to try\nthe effect of this upon Dora, whose Sundays were a constant perplexity\nand reproach to me, since she always ran away into the plantations or\nwent with Harold to see the horses; and if we did succeed in dragging\nher to church, there behaved in the most unedifying manner.\n\n\"I don't like the principle of cutting religion down for children,\"\nsaid my old friend.  \"They ought to be taught to think it a favour to\nbe admitted to grown-up people's services, and learn to follow them,\ninstead of having everything made to please them.  It is the sugar-plum\nsystem, and so I told Mr. Ben, but he says you must catch wild heathens\nwith sugar; and as I am afraid your poor child is not much better, you\nhad better try the experiment.\"\n\nI did try it, and the metrical litany and the hymns happily took Dora's\nfancy, so that she submitted to accompany me whenever Harold was to sit\nwith George Yolland, and would not take her.\n\nOne afternoon, when I was not well, I was going to send her with\nColman, and Harold coming in upon her tempest of resistance, and trying\nto hush it, she declared that she would only go if he did, and to my\namazement he yielded and she led him off in her chains.\n\nHe made no comment, but on the next Sunday I found him pocketing an\nimmense parcel of sweets.  He walked into the town with us, and when I\nexpected him to turn off to his friend's lodging, he said, \"Lucy, if\nyou prefer the old church, I'll take Dora to the school.  I like the\nlittle monkeys.\"\n\nHe went, and he went again and again, towering among the pigmies in the\ngreat room, kneeling when they knelt, adding his deep bass to the\ncurate's in their songs, responding with them, picking up the sleepy\nand fretful to sit on his knee during the little discourse and the\ncatechising; and then, outside the door, solacing himself and them with\na grand distribution of ginger-bread and all other dainty cakes,\nespecially presenting solid plum buns, and even mutton pies, where\nthere were pinched looks and pale faces.\n\nIt was delightful, I have been told, to see him sitting on the low wall\nwith as many children as possible scrambling over him, or sometimes\nstanding up, holding a prize above his head, to be scrambled for by the\nlesser urchins.  It had the effect of rendering this a highly popular\nservice, and the curate was wise enough not to interfere with this\nanomalous conclusion to the service, but to perceive that it might both\nbless him that gave and those that took.\n\nIn the early part of the autumn, one of the little members of the\ncongregation died, and was buried just after the school service. Harold\ndid not know of it, or I do not think he would have been present, for\nhe shrank from whatever renewed the terrible agony of that dark time in\nAustralia.\n\nBut the devotions in the school were full of the thought, the metrical\nlitany was one specially adapted to the occasion, so was the brief\naddress, which dwelt vividly, in what some might have called too\nrealising a strain, upon the glories and the joys of innocents in\nParadise.  And, above all, the hymns had been chosen with special\npurpose, to tell of those who--\n\n          For ever and for ever\n          Are clad in robes of white.\n\nI knew nothing of all this, but when I came home from my own church,\nand went to my own sitting-room, I was startled to find Harold there,\nleaning over the table, with that miniature of little Percy, which, two\nmonths before, he had bidden me shut up, open before him, and the tears\nstreaming down his face.\n\nIn great confusion he muttered, \"I beg your pardon,\" and fled away,\ndashing his handkerchief over his face.  I asked Dora about it, but she\nwould tell nothing; I believe she was half ashamed, half jealous, but\nit came round through Miss Woolmer, how throughout the address Harold\nhad sat with his eyes fixed on the preacher, and one tear after another\ngathering in his eyes.  And when the concluding hymn was sung--one\nspecially on the joys of Paradise--he leant his forehead against the\nwall, and could hardly suppress his sobs.  When all was over, he handed\nhis bag of sweets to one of the Sunday-school teachers, muttering \"Give\nthem,\" and strode home.\n\nFrom that time I believe there never was a day that he did not come to\nmy sitting-room to gaze at little Percy.  He chose the time when I was\nleast likely to be there, and I knew it well enough to take care that\nthe coast should be left clear for him.  I do believe that, ill-taught\nand unheeding as the poor dear fellow had been, that service was the\nfirst thing that had borne in upon him any sense that his children were\nactually existing, and in joy and bliss; and that when he had once thus\nhearkened to the idea, that load of anguish, which made him wince at\nthe least recollection of them, was taken off.  It was not his nature\nto speak in the freshness of emotion, and, after a time, there was a\nseal upon his feelings; but there was an intermediate period when he\nsometimes came for sympathy, but that was so new a thing to him that he\ndid not quite know how to seek it.\n\nIt was the next Sunday evening that I came into my room at a time I did\nnot expect him to be there, just as it was getting dark, that he seemed\nto feel some explanation due.  \"This picture,\" he said, \"it is so like\nmy poor little chap.\"\n\nThen he asked me how old Percy had been when it was taken; and then I\nfound myself listening, as he leant against the mantelpiece, to a\nminute description of poor little Ambrose, all the words he could say,\nhis baby plays, and his ways of welcoming and clinging to his father,\neven to the very last, when he moaned if anyone tried to take him out\nof Harold's arms.  It seemed as though the dark shadow and the keen\nsting had somehow been taken away by the assurance that the child might\nbe thought of full of enjoyment; and certainly, from that time, the\npeculiar sadness of Harold's countenance diminished.  It was always\ngrave, but the air of oppression went away.\n\nI said something about meeting the child again, to which Harold\nreplied, \"You will, may be.\"\n\n\"And you, Harold.\"  And as he shook his head, and said something about\ngood people, I added, \"It would break my heart to think you would not.\"\n\nThat made him half smile in his strange, sad way, and say, \"Thank you,\nLucy;\" then add, \"But it's no use thinking about it; I'm not that sort.\"\n\n\"But you are, but you are, Harold!\" I remember crying out with tears.\n\"God has made you to be nobler, and greater, and better than any of us,\nif you only would--\"\n\n\"Too late,\" he said.  \"After all I have been, and all I have done--\"\n\n\"Too late!  Harry--with a whole lifetime before you to do God real,\nstrong service in?\"\n\n\"It won't ever cancel that--\"\n\nI tried to tell him what had cancelled all; but perhaps I did not do it\nwell enough, for he did not seem to enter into it.  It was a terrible\ndisadvantage in all this that I had been so lightly taught. I had been\na fairly good girl, I believe, and my dear mother had her sweet, quiet,\ndevotional habits; but religion had always sat, as it were, outside my\ndaily life.  I should have talked of \"performing my religious duties\"\nas if they were a sort of toll or custom to be paid to God, not as if\none's whole life ought to be one religious duty. That sudden loss,\nwhich left me alone in the world, made me, as it were, realise who and\nwhat my Heavenly Father was to me; and I had in my loneliness thought\nmore of these things, and was learning more every day as I taught Dora;\nbut it was dreadfully shallow, untried knowledge, and, unfortunately, I\nwas the only person to whom Harold would talk.  Mr. Smith's having been\na clergyman had given him a distaste and mistrust of all clergy; nor do\nI think he was quite kindly treated by those around us, for they held\naloof, and treated him as a formidable stranger with an unknown ill\nrepute, whose very efforts in the cause of good were untrustworthy.\n\nI thought of that mighty man of Israel whom God had endowed with\nstrength to save His people, and how all was made of little avail\nbecause his heart was not whole with God, and his doings were\nself-pleasing and fitful.  Oh! that it might not be thus with my\nHarold? Might not that little child, who had for a moment opened the\ngates to him, yet draw him upwards where naught else would have availed?\n\nAs to talking to me, he did it very seldom, but he had a fashion of\nlingering to hear me teach Dora, and I found that, if he were absent,\nhe always made her tell him what she had learnt; nor did he shun the\nmeeting me over Percy's picture in my sitting-room in the twilight\nSunday hour.  Now and then he asked me to find him some passage in the\nBible which had struck him in the brief instruction to the children at\nthe service, but what was going on in his mind was entirely out of my\nreach or scope; but that great strength and alertness, and keen, vivid\ninterest in the world around, still made the present everything to him.\nI think his powerfulness, and habit of doing impossible things, made\nthe thought of prayer and dependence--nay, even of redemption--more\nalien to him, as if weakness were involved in it; and though to a\ncertain extent he had, with Prometesky beside him, made his choice\nbetween virtue and vice beside his uncle's death-bed; yet it was as yet\nbut the Stoic virtue of the old Polish patriot that he had embraced.\n\nAnd yet he was not the Stoic.  He had far more of the little child, the\nChristian model in his simplicity, his truth, his tender heart, and\nthat grand modesty of character which, though natural, is the step to\nChristian humility.  How one longed for the voice to say to him, \"The\nLord is with thee, thou mighty man of valour.\"\n\nAnd so time went on, and we were still in solitude.  People came and\nwent, had their season in London and returned, but it made no\ndifference to us.  Dermot Tracy shot grouse, came home and shot\npartridges, and Eustace and Harold shared their sport with him, though\nHarold found it dull cramped work, and thought English gentlemen in sad\nlack of amusement to call that sport.  Lady Diana and Viola went to the\nseaside, and came back, and what would have been so much to me once was\nnothing now.  Pheasant shooting had begun and I had much ado to prevent\nDora from joining the shooting parties, not only when her brother and\ncousin were alone, but when they were going to meet Mr. Tracy and some\nof the officers to whom he had introduced them.\n\nOn one of these October days, when I was trying to satisfy my\ndiscontented Dora by a game at ball upon the steps, to my extreme\nastonishment I beheld a white pony, led by Harold, and seated on the\nsame pony, no other than my dear little friend, unseen for four months,\nViola Tracy!\n\nI rushed, thinking some accident had happened, but Harold called out in\na tone of exultation, \"Here she is!  Now you are to keep her an hour,\"\nand she held out her arms with \"Lucy, Lucy, dear old Lucy!\" and jumped\ndown into mine.\n\n\"But Viola, your mother--\"\n\n\"I could not help it,\" she said with a laughing light in her eyes. \"No,\nindeed, I could not.  I was riding along the lane by Lade Wood, on my\nwhite palfrey, when in the great dark glade there stood one, two, three\ngreat men with guns, and when one took hold of the damsel's bridle and\ntold her to come with him, what could she do?\"\n\nI think I said something feeble about \"Harold, how could you?\" but he\nfirst shook his head, and led off the pony to the stable, observing,\n\"I'll come for you in an hour,\" and Dora rushing after him.\n\nAnd when I would have declared that it was very wrong, and that Lady\nDiana would be very angry, the child stopped my mouth with, \"Never\nmind, I've got my darling Lucy for an hour, and I can't have it spoilt.\"\n\nHave I never described my Viola?  She was not tall, but she had a way\nof looking so, and she was not pretty, yet she always looked prettier\nthan the prettiest person I ever saw.  It was partly the way in which\nshe held her head and long neck, just like a deer, especially when she\nwas surprised, and looked out of those great dark eyes, whose colour\nwas like that of the lakes of which each drop is clear and limpid, and\nyet, when you look down into the water, it is of a wonderful clear deep\ngrey.\n\nThose eyes were her most remarkable feature; her hair was light, her\nface went off suddenly into rather too short a chin, her cheeks wanted\nfulness, and were generally rather pale.  So people said, but plump\ncheeks would have spoilt my Viola's air, of a wild, half-tamed fawn,\nand lessened the wonderful play of her lips, which used often to\nexpress far more than ever came out of them in words.  Lady Diana had\ndone her utmost to suppress demonstrativeness, but unless she could\nhave made those eyes less transparent, the corners of that mouth less\nflexible, and hindered the colour from mantling in those cheeks, she\ncould not have kept Viola's feelings from being patent to all who knew\nher.\n\nAnd now the child was really lovely, with the sweet carnation in her\ncheeks, and eyes dancing with the fear and pretence at alarm, and the\ndelight of a stolen interview with me.\n\n\"Forth stepped the giant!  Fee! fo! fum!\" said she; \"took me by the\nbridle, and said, 'Why haven't you been to see my Aunt Lucy?'\"\n\n\"I must not,\" she said.\n\n\"And I say you must,\" he answered.  \"Do you know she is wearying to see\nyou?\"\n\nThen I fancy how Viola's tears would swim in her eyes as she said,\n\"It's not me; it's mamma.\"\n\nAnd he answered, \"Now, it is not you, but I, that is taking you to see\nher.\"\n\n\"Should auld acquaintance be forgot!\" was whistled out of the wood; and\nthe whistle Viola knew quite well enough to disarm me when I came to\nthe argument what was to become of her if she let such things be done\nwith her; and she had quite enough of Dermot's composition in her to\ndelight in a \"little bit of naughtiness that wasn't too bad,\" and when\nonce she had resigned herself into the hands of her captor she enjoyed\nit, and twittered like a little bird; and I believe Harold really did\nit, just as he would have caught a rare bird or wild fawn, to please me.\n\n\"Then you were not frightened?\" I said.\n\n\"Frightened?  No.  It was such fun!  Besides, we heard how he mastered\nthe lion to save that poor little boy, and how he has looked after him\never since, and is going to bind him apprentice.  Oh, mind you show me\nhis skin--the lion's, I mean.  Don't be tiresome, Lucy. And how he goes\non after the children's service with the dear little things.  I should\nthink him the last person to be afraid of.\"\n\n\"I wish your mother saw it so.\"\n\nViola put on a comically wise look, and shook her head, as she said,\n\"You didn't go the right way to work.  If you had come back in the\ncarriage, and consulted her, and said it was a mission--yes, a\nmission--for you to stand, with a lily in your hand, and reform your\ntwo bush-ranger nephews, and that you wanted her consent and advice,\nthen she would have let you go back and be good aunt, and what-not. Oh,\nI wish you had, Lucy!  That was the way Dermot managed about getting\nthe lodge at Biston.  He says he could consult her into going out\nhunting.\"\n\n\"For shame, Viola!  O fie!  O Vi!\" said I, according to an old formula\nof reproof.\n\n\"Really, I wanted to tell you.  It might not be too late if you took to\nconsulting her now; and I can't bear being shut up from you. Everything\nis grown so stupid.  When one goes to a garden-party there are nothing\nbut Horsmans and Stympsons, and they all get into sets of themselves\nand each other, and now and then coalesce, especially the Stympsons, to\npity poor Miss Alison, wonder at her not taking mamma's advice, and say\nhow horrid it is of her to live with her cousins. I've corrected that\nso often that I take about with me the word 'nephews' written in large\ntext, to confute them, and I've actually taught Cocky to say, 'Nephews\naren't Cousins.'  Dermot is the only rational person in the\nneighbourhood.  I'm always trying to get him to tell me about you, but\nhe says he can't come up here much without giving a handle to the\nharpies.\"\n\nI had scarcely said how good it was in Dermot, when he sauntered in.\n\"There you are, Vi; I'm come to your rescue, you know,\" he said, in his\nlazy way, and disposed himself on the bear-skin as we sat on the sofa.\nI tried again to utter a protest.  \"Oh Dermot, it was all your doing.\"\n\n\"That's rather too bad.  As if I could control your domestic\nlion-tamer.\"\n\n\"You abetted him.  You could have prevented him.\"\n\n\"Such being your wish.\"\n\n\"I am thinking of your mother.\"\n\n\"Eh, Viola, is the meeting worth the reckoning?\"\n\n\"You should not teach her your own bad ways,\" said I, resisting her\nembrace.\n\n\"Come, we had better be off, Dermot,\" she said, pouting; \"we did not\ncome here to be scolded.\"\n\n\"I thought you did not come of your own free will at all,\" I said, and\nthen I found I had hurt her, and I had to explain that it was the\ndisobedience that troubled me; whereupon they both argued seriously\nthat people were not bound to submit to a cruel and unreasonable\nprejudice, which had set the country in arms against us. \"Monstrous,\"\nDermot said, \"that two fellows should suffer for their fathers' sins,\nand such fellows, and you too for not being unnatural to your own flesh\nand blood.\"\n\n\"But that does not make it right for Viola to disobey her mother.\"\n\n\"And how is it to be, Lucy?\" asked Viola.  \"Are we always to go on in\nthis dreadful way?\"\n\nBy this time Eustace could no longer be withheld from paying his\nrespects to the lady guest, and Harold and Dora came with him, bringing\nthe kangaroo, for which Viola had entreated; and she also made him\nfetch the lion-skin, which had been dressed and lined and made into a\nbeautiful carriage-rug; and to Dora she owed the exhibition of the\ngreat scar across Harold's left palm, which, though now no\ninconvenience, he would carry through life.  It was but for a moment,\nfor as soon as he perceived that Dora meant anything more than her\nusual play with his fingers, he coloured and thrust his hand into his\npocket.\n\nWe all walked through the grounds with Viola, and when we parted she\nhung about my neck and assured me that now she had seen me she should\nnot grieve half so much, and, let mamma say what she would, she could\nnot be sorry; and I had no time to fight over the battle of the sorrow\nbeing for wrongdoing, not for reproof, for the pony would bear no more\nlast words.\n\nEustace had behaved all along with much politeness; in fact, he was\nalways seen to most advantage with strangers, for his manners had some\ntraining, and a little constraint was good for him by repressing some\nof his sayings.  His first remark, when the brother and sister were out\nof hearing, was, \"A very sweet, lively young lady.  I never saw her\nsurpassed in Sydney!\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" said Harold.\n\n\"Well, you know I have been presented and have been to a ball at\nGovernment House.  There's an air, a tournure about her, such as uncle\nSmith says belongs to the real aristocracy; and you saw she was quite\nat her ease with me.  We understand each other in the higher orders.\nDon't be afraid, Lucy, we shall yet bring back your friend to you.\"\n\n\"I'm glad she is gone,\" said Dora, true to her jealousy.  \"I like\nDermot; he's got some sense in him, but she's not half so nice and\npretty as Lucy.\"\n\nAt which we all laughed, for I had never had any attempt at beauty,\nexcept, I believe, good hair and teeth, and a habit of looking\ngood-humoured.\n\n\"She's a tip-topper,\" pronounced Eustace, \"and no wonder, considering\nwho she is.  Has she been presented, Lucy?\"\n\nThough she had not yet had that inestimable advantage, Eustace showed\nhimself so much struck with her that, when next Harold found himself\nalone with me, he built a very remarkable castle in the air--namely, a\nwedding between Eustace and Viola Tracy.  \"If I saw him with such\nhappiness as that,\" said Harold, \"it would be all right.  I should have\nno fears at all for him.  Don't you think it might be, Lucy?\"\n\n\"I don't think you took the way to recommend the family to Lady Diana,\"\nI said, laughing.\n\n\"I had not thought of it then,\" said Harold; \"I'm always doing\nsomething wrong.  I wonder if I had better go back and keep out of his\nway?\"\n\nHe guessed what I should answer, I believe, for I was sure that Eustace\nwould fail without Harold, and I told him that his cousin must not be\nleft to himself till he had a good wife.  To which Harold replied, \"Are\nall English ladies like that?\"\n\nHe had an odd sort of answer the next day, when we were all riding\ntogether, and met another riding party--namely, the head of the Horsman\nfamily and his two sisters, who had been on the Continent when my\nnephews arrived.  Mamma did not like them, and we had never been great\nfriends; but they hailed me quite demonstratively with their eager,\nringing voices: \"Lucy!  Lucy Alison!  So glad to see you!  Here we are\nagain.  Introduce us, pray.\"\n\nSo I did.  Mr. Horsman, Miss Hippolyta, and Miss Philippa Horsman--Baby\nJack, Hippo, and Pippa, as they were commonly termed--and we all rode\ntogether as long as we were on the Roman road, while they conveyed,\nrather loudly, information about the Dolomites.\n\nThey were five or six years older than I, and the recollection of\nchildish tyranny and compulsion still made me a little afraid of them.\nThey excelled in all kinds of sports in which we younger ones had not\nhad nearly so much practice, and did not much concern themselves\nwhether the sport were masculine or feminine, to the distress of the\nquiet elder half-sister, who stayed at home, like a hen with ducklings\nto manage.\n\nThey spoke of calling, and while I could not help being grateful, I\nknew how fallen my poor mother would think me to welcome the notice of\nPippa and Hippo.\n\nMost enthusiastic was the latter as she rode behind with me, looking at\nthe proportions of Harry and his horse, some little way on before, with\nDora on one side, and Pippa rattling on the other.\n\n\"Splendid!  Splendiferous!  More than I was prepared for, though I\nheard all about the lion--and that he has been a regular stunner in\nAustralia--eh, Lucy, just like a hero of Whyte-Melville's, eh?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"And, to complete it all, what has he been doing to little Viola Tracy?\nOh, what fun!  Carrying her off bodily to see you, wasn't it? Lady\nDiana is in such a rage as never was--says Dermot is never to be\ntrusted with his sister again, and won't let her go beyond the garden\nwithout her.  Oh, the fun of it!  I would have gone anywhere to see old\nLady Di's face!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE CAPTURE IN THE SNOW.\n\n\nI do not recollect anything happening for a good while.  Our chief\nevent was the perfect success of Mr. Yolland's concentrated fuel, which\ndid not blow up anything or anybody, and the production of some lovely\nEtruscan vases and tiles, for which I copied the designs out of a book\nI happily discovered in the library.  They were sent up to the\nporcelain shops in London, and orders began to come in, to the great\nexultation of Harold and Co., an exultation which I could not help\npartaking, even while it seemed to me to be plunging him deeper and\ndeeper in the dangerous speculation.\n\nWe put the vases into a shop in the town and wondered they did not\nsell; but happily people at a distance were kinder, and native genius\nwas discovered in a youth, who soon made beautiful designs.  But I do\nnot think the revived activity of the unpopular pottery did us at that\ntime any good with our neighbours.\n\nHarold and Eustace sent in their subscriptions to the hunt and were not\nrefused, but there were rumours that some of the Stympsons had\nthreatened to withdraw.\n\nI had half a mind to ride with them to the meet, but I could not tell\nwho would cut me, and I knew the mortification would be so keen to them\nthat I could not tell how they would behave, and I was afraid Eustace's\npride in his scarlet coat might be as manifest to others as to us, and\nmake me blush for him.  So I kept Dora and myself at home.\n\nI found that by the management of Dermot Tracy and his friends, the\nslight had been less apparent than had been intended, when all the\nother gentlemen had been asked in to Mr. Stympson's to breakfast, and\nthey had been left out with the farmers; Dermot had so resented this\nthat he had declined going into the house, and ridden to the village\ninn with them.\n\nTo my surprise, Eustace chose to go on hunting, because it asserted his\nrights and showed he did not care; and, besides, the hard riding was\nalmost a necessity to both the young men, and the Foling hounds, beyond\nBiston, were less exclusive, and they were welcomed there.  I believe\ntheir horsemanship extorted admiration from the whole field, and that\nthey were gathering acquaintance, though not among those who were most\ndesirable.  The hunting that was esteemed hard exercise here was\nnothing to them.  They felt cramped and confined even when they had had\nthe longest runs, and disdained the inclosures they were forced to\nrespect.  I really don't know what Harold would have done but for\nKalydon Moor, where he had a range without inclosures of some twelve\nmiles.  I think he rushed up there almost every day, and thus kept\nhimself in health, and able to endure the confinement of our civilised\nlife.\n\nA very hard winter set in unusually early, and with a great deal of\nsnow in December.  It was a great novelty to our Australians, and was\nnot much relished by Eustace, who did not enjoy the snow-balling and\nsnow fortification in which Harold and Dora revelled in front of the\nhouse all the forenoon.  After luncheon, when the snowstorm had come on\ntoo thickly for Dora to go out again, Harold insisted on going to see\nhow the world looked from the moor.  I entreated him not to go far,\ntelling him how easy it was to lose the way when all outlines were\nchanged in a way that would baffle even a black fellow; but he listened\nwith a smile, took a plaid and a cap and sallied forth.  I played at\nshuttle-cock for a good while with Dora, and then at billiards with\nEustace; and when evening had closed darkly in, and the whole outside\nworld was blotted out with the flakes and their mist, I began to grow a\nlittle anxious.\n\nThe hall was draughty, but there was a huge wood fire in it, and it\nseemed the best place to watch in, so there we sat together, and\nEustace abused the climate and I told stories--dismal ones, I\nfear--about sheep and shepherds, dogs and snowdrifts, to the tune of\nthat peculiar howl that the wind always makes when the blast is\nsnow-laden; and dinner time came, and I could not make up my mind to go\nand dress so as to be out of reach of--I don't know what I expected to\nhappen.  Certainly what did happen was far from anything I had pictured\nto myself.\n\nBattling with the elements and plunging in the snow, and seeing,\nwhenever it slackened, so strange and new a world, was a sort of sport\nto Harold, and he strode on, making his goal the highest point of the\nmoor, whence, if it cleared a little, he would be able to see to a vast\ndistance.  He was curious, too, to look down into the railway cutting.\nThis was a sort of twig from a branch of the main line, chiefly due to\nLord Erymanth, who, after fighting off the railway from all points\nadjacent to his estate, had found it so inconvenient to be without a\nstation within reasonable distance, that a single line had at last been\nmade from Mycening for the benefit of the places in this direction, but\nnot many trains ran on it, for it was not much frequented.\n\nHarold came to the brow of the cutting, and there beheld the funnel of\na locomotive engine, locomotive no more, but firmly embedded in the\nsnowdrift into which it had run, with a poor little train of three or\nfour carriages behind it, already half buried.  Not a person was to be\nseen, as Harold scrambled and slid down the descent and lighted on the\ntop of one of the carriages; for, as it proved, the engineer, stoker,\nand two or three passengers had left the train an hour before, and were\nstruggling along the line to the nearest station.  Harold got down on\nthe farther side, which was free of snow, and looked into all the\ncarriages.  No one was there, till, in a first-class one, he beheld an\nold gentleman, well wrapped up indeed, but numb, stiff, and dazed with\nthe sleep out of which he was roused.\n\n\"Tickets, eh?\" he said, and he dreamily held one out to Harold and\ntried to get up, but he stumbled, and hardly seemed to understand when\nHarold told him it was not the station, but that they had run into the\nsnowdrift; he only muttered something about being met, staggered\nforward, and fell into Harold's arms.  There was a carriage-bag on the\nseat, but Harold looked in vain there for a flask.  The poor old man\nwas hardly sensible.  Ours was the nearest house, and Harold saw that\nthe only chance for the poor old gentleman's life was to carry him home\nat once.  Even for him it was no small effort, for his burthen was a\nsturdy man with the solidity of years, and nearly helpless, save that\nthe warmth of Harold's body did give him just life and instinct to hold\non, and let himself be bound to him with the long plaid so as least to\nimpede his movements; but only one possessed of Harold's almost giant\nstrength could have thus clambered the cutting at the nearest point to\nArghouse and plodded through the snow.  The only wonder is that they\nwere not both lost.  Their track was marked as long as that snow lasted\nby mighty holes.\n\nIt was at about a quarter-past seven that all the dogs barked, a\nfumbling was heard at the door, and a muffled voice, \"Let me in.\"\n\nThen in stumbled a heap of snow, panting, and amid Spitz's frantic\nbarks, we saw it was Harold, bent nearly double by the figure tied to\nhim.  He sank on his knee, so as to place his burthen on the great\ncouch, gasping, \"Untie me,\" and as I undid the knot, he rose to his\nfeet, panting heavily, and, in spite of the cold, bathed in\nperspiration.\n\n\"Get something hot for him directly,\" he said, falling back into an\narm-chair, while we broke out in exclamations.  \"Who--where did you\nfind him?  Some poor old beggar.  Not too near the fire--call\nRichardson--hot brandy-and-water--bed.  He's some poor old beggar,\" and\nsuch outcries for a moment or two, till Harold, recovering himself in a\nsecond, explained, \"Snowed up in the train.  Here, Lucy, Eustace, rub\nhis hands.  Dora, ask Richardson for something hot.  Are you better\nnow, sir?\" beginning to pull off the boots that he might rub his feet;\nbut this measure roused the traveller, who resisted, crying out,\n\"Don't, don't, my good man, I'll reward you handsomely. I'm a justice\nof the peace.\"\n\nThick and stifled as it was, the voice was familiar.  I looked again,\nand screamed out, \"Lord Erymanth, is it you?\"\n\nThat roused him, and as I took hold of both hands and bent over him, he\nlooked up, dazzled and muttering, \"Lucy, Lucy Alison!  Arghouse! How\ncame I here?\" and then as the hot cordial came at last, in the hand of\nRichardson, who had once been in his service, he swallowed it, and then\nleant back and gazed at me as I went on rubbing his hands.  \"Thank you,\nmy dear.  Is it you?  I thought I was snowed up, and I have never\nsigned that codicil about little Viola, or I could die easily.  It is\nnot such a severe mode, after all.\"\n\n\"But you're not dying, you're only dreaming.  You are at Arghouse.\nHarold here found you and brought you to us.\"\n\nAnd then we agreed that he had better be put to bed at once in\nEustace's room, as there was already a fire there, and any other would\ntake long in being warmed.\n\nHarold and Eustace got him upstairs between them, and Richardson\nfollowed, while I looked out with dismay at the drifting snow, and\nwondered how to send either for a doctor or for Lady Diana in case of\nneed.  He had been a childless widower for many years, and had no one\nnearer belonging to him.  Dora expressed her amazement that I did not\ngo to help, but I knew this would have shocked him dreadfully, and I\nonly sent Colman to see whether she could be of any use.\n\nHarold came out first, and on his way to get rid of his snow-soaked\ngarments, paused to tell me that the old gentleman had pretty well come\nround, and was being fed with hot soup and wine, while he seemed half\nasleep.  \"He is not frost-bitten,\" added Harold; \"but if he is likely\nto want the doctor, I'd better go on to Mycening at once, before I\nchange my things.\"\n\nBut I knew Lord Erymanth to be a hale, strong man of his years, little\ngiven to doctors, and as I heard he had said \"No, no,\" when Eustace\nproposed to send for one, I was glad to negative the proposal from a\nman already wet through and tired--\"well, just a little.\"\n\nOur patient dropped asleep almost as soon as he had had his meal, in\nthe very middle of a ceremonious speech of thanks, which sent Eustace\ndown to dinner more than ever sure that there was nothing like the\naristocracy, who all understood one another; and we left Richardson to\nwatch over him, and sleep in the dressing-room in case of such a\ncatastrophe as a rheumatic waking in the night.\n\nWe were standing about the fire in the hall, our usual morning\nwaiting-place before breakfast, and had just received Richardson's\nreport that his lordship had had a good night, seemed none the worse,\nand would presently appear, but that he desired we would not wait\nbreakfast, when there was a hasty ring at the door, and no sooner was\nit opened than Dermot Tracy, battered and worn, in a sou'-wester\nsprinkled with snow and with boots up to his thighs, burst into the\nhall.\n\n\"Alison, you there?  All right, I want you,\" shaking hands in an\nagitated way all round, and speaking very fast with much emotion. \"I\nwant you to come and search for my poor uncle.  He was certainly in the\ntrain from Mycening that ran into a drift.  Men went to get help;\ncouldn't get back for three hours.  He wasn't there--never arrived at\nhome.   My mother is in a dreadful state.  Hogg is setting all the men\nto dig at the Erymanth end.  I've got a lot to begin in the Kalydon\ncutting; but you'll come, Alison, you'll be worth a dozen of them.  He\nmight be alive still, you see.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Dermot, I am happy to say that such is the case,\" said a\nvoice from the oak staircase, and down it was slowly proceeding Lord\nErymanth, as trim, and portly, and well brushed-up as if he had arrived\nbehind his two long-tailed bays.\n\nDermot, with his eyes full of tears, which he was squeezing and winking\naway, and his rapid, broken voice, had seen and heard nothing in our\nfaces or exclamations to prepare him.  He started violently and sprang\nforward, meeting Lord Erymanth at the foot of the stairs, and wringing\nboth his hands--nay, I almost thought he would have kissed him, as he\nbroke out into some incoherent cry of scarcely-believing joy, which\nperhaps surprised and touched the old man. \"There, there, Dermot, my\nboy, your solicitude is--is honourable to you; but restrain--restrain\nit, my dear boy--we are not alone.\"  And he advanced, a little\nrheumatically, to us, holding out his hand with morning greetings.\n\n\"I must send to my mother.  Joe is here with the sleigh,\" said Dermot.\n\"Uncle, how did you come here?\" he added, as reflection only made his\namazement profounder.\n\n\"It is true, as you said just now, that Mr. Harold Alison is equal to a\ndozen men.  I owe my preservation, under Providence, to him,\" said Lord\nErymanth, who, though not a small man, had to look far up as Harold\nstood towering above us all.  \"My most earnest acknowledgments are due\nto him,\" he added, solemnly holding out his hand.\n\n\"I might have expected that!\" ejaculated Dermot, while Harold took the\noffered hand with a smile, and a mutter in his beard of \"I am very\nglad.\"\n\n\"I'll just send a line to satisfy my mother,\" said Dermot, taking a pen\nfrom the inkstand on the hall-table.  \"Joe's here with the sleigh, and\nwe must telegraph to George St. Glear.\"\n\nLord Erymanth repeated the name in some amazement, for he was not\nparticularly fond of his heir.\n\n\"Hogg telegraphed to him this morning,\" and as the uncle observed,\n\"Somewhat premature,\" he went on: \"Poor Hogg was beside himself; he\ncame to Arked at ten o'clock last night to look for you, and, luckily,\nI was there, so we've been hallooing half the night along the line, and\nthen getting men together in readiness for the search as soon as it was\nlight.  I must be off to stop them at once.  I came in to get the\nAlisons' help--never dreamt of such a thing as finding you here.  And,\nafter all, I don't understand--how did you come?\"\n\n\"I cannot give you a detailed account,\" said his lordship.  \"Mr. Harold\nAlison roused me from a drowsiness which might soon, very probably,\nhave been fatal, and brought me here.  I have no very distinct\nrecollection of the mode, and I fear I must have been a somewhat\nhelpless and encumbering burthen.\"\n\nDora put in her oar.  \"Harry can carry anything,\" she said; \"he brought\nyou in so nicely on his back--just as I used to ride.\"\n\n\"On his back!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dora, who was fond of Mr. Tracy, and glad to impart her\ninformation, \"on his back, with his boots sticking out on each side, so\nfunnily!\"\n\nLord Erymanth endeavoured to swallow the information suavely by the\nhelp of a classical precedent, and said, with a gracious smile, \"Then I\nperceive we must have played the part of AEneas and Anchises--\" But\nbefore he had got so far, the idea had been quite too much for Dermot,\nwho cried out, \"Pick-a-back!  With his boots sticking out on both\nsides!  Thank you, Dora.  Oh! my uncle, pick-a-back!\" and went off in\nan increasing, uncontrollable roar of laughter, while Harold, with a\ngreat tug to his moustache, observed apologetically to Lord Erymanth,\n\"It was the only way I could do it,\" which speech had the effect of so\nprolonging poor Dermot's mirth, that all the good effect of the feeling\nhe had previously displayed for his uncle was lost, and Lord Erymanth\nobserved, in his most dry and solemn manner, \"There are some people who\ncan see nothing but food for senseless ridicule in the dangers of their\nfriends.\"\n\n\"My dear Lord Erymanth,\" I said, almost wild, \"do just consider Dermot\nhas been up all night, and has had nothing to eat, and is immensely\nrelieved to find you all safe.  He can't be expected to quite know what\nhe is about when he is so shaken.  Come to breakfast, and we shall all\nbe better.\"\n\n\"That might be a very sufficient excuse for you or for Viola, my dear\nLucy,\" returned Lord Erymanth, taking, however, the arm I offered.\n\"Young _ladies_ may be very amiably hysterical, but a young man, in my\nday, who had not trifled away his manliness, would be ashamed of such\nan excuse.\"\n\nThere was a certain truth in what he said.  Dermot was not then so\nstrong, nor had he the self-command he would have had, if his life had\nbeen more regular; but he must always have had a much more sensitive\nand emotional nature than his uncle could ever understand. The\nreproach, however, sobered him in a moment, and he followed us gravely\ninto the dining-room, without uttering a word for the next quarter of\nan hour; neither did Harold, who was genuinely vexed at having made the\nold man feel himself ridiculous, and was sorry for the displeasure with\nhis friend.  Nobody did say much except Eustace, who was delighted at\nhaving to play host to such distinguished guests, and Lord Erymanth\nhimself, who was so gracious and sententious as quite to restore\nDermot's usual self by the time breakfast was over, and he saw his\nservant bringing back his sleigh, in which he offered to convey his\nuncle either home or to Arked.  But it was still fitfully snowing, and\nLord Erymanth was evidently not without touches of rheumatism, which\nmade him lend a willing ear to our entreaties to him not to expose\nhimself.  Harold then undertook to go in search of his portmanteau\neither to the scene of the catastrophe or the Hall.\n\n\"My dear sir, I could not think of exposing you to a repetition of such\ninclement weather as you have already encountered.  I am well supplied\nhere, my young friend--I think I may use the term, considering that two\ngenerations ago, at least, a mutual friendship existed between the\nhouses, which, however obscured for a time--hum--hum--hum--may be said\nstill to exist towards my dear friend's very amiable young daughter;\nand although I may have regretted as hasty and premature a decision\nthat, as her oldest and most experienced--I may say paternal--friend, I\nventured to question--you will excuse my plain speaking; I am always\naccustomed to utter my sentiments freely--yet on better\nacquaintance--brought about as it was in a manner which, however\npeculiar, and, I may say, unpleasant--cannot do otherwise than command\nmy perpetual gratitude--I am induced to revoke a verdict, uttered,\nperhaps, rather with a view to the antecedents than to the individuals,\nand to express a hope that the ancient family ties may again assert\nthemselves, and that I may again address as such Mr. Alison of\nArghouse.\"\n\nThat speech absolutely cleared the field of Harold and Dermot both. One\nstrode, the other backed, to the door, Dermot hastily said, \"Good-bye\nthen, uncle, I shall look you up to-morrow, but I must go and stop\nGeorge St. Glear,\" and Harold made no further ceremony, but departed\nunder his cover.\n\nProbably, Richardson had spoken a word or two in our favour to his\nformer master, for, when Lord Erymanth was relieved from his nephew's\ntrying presence, he was most gracious, and his harangues, much as they\nhad once fretted me, had now a familiar sound, as proving that we were\nno longer \"at the back of the north wind,\" while Eustace listened with\nrapt attention, both to the long words and to anything coming from one\nwhose name was enrolled in his favourite volume; who likewise\ndiscovered in him likenesses to generations past of Alisons, and seemed\nready to admit him to all the privileges for which he had been six\nmonths pining.\n\nAt the first opportunity, Lord Erymanth began to me, \"My dear Lucy, it\nis a confession that to some natures may seem humiliating, but I have\nso sedulously cultivated candour for my whole term of existence, that I\nhope I may flatter myself that I am not a novice in the great art of\nretracting a conclusion arrived at under premises which, though\nprobable, have proved to be illusory.  I therefore freely confess that\nI have allowed probability to weigh too much with me in my estimation\nof these young men.\"  I almost jumped for joy as I cried out that I\nknew he would think so when he came to know them.\n\n\"Yes, I am grateful to the accident that has given me the opportunity\nof judging for myself,\" quoth Lord Erymanth, and with a magnanimity\nwhich I was then too inexperienced to perceive, he added, \"I can better\nestimate the motives which made you decide on fixing your residence\nwith your nephews, and I have no reluctance in declaring them natural\nand praiseworthy.\"  I showed my satisfaction in my old friend's\nforgiveness, but he still went on: \"Still, my dear, you must allow me\nto represent that your residence here, though it is self-innocent,\nexposes you to unpleasant complications.  I cannot think it well that a\nyoung lady of your age should live entirely with two youths without\nfemale society, and be constantly associating with such friends as they\nmay collect round them.\"\n\nI remember now how the unshed tears burnt in my eyes as I said the\nfemale society had left me to myself, and begged to know with whom I\nhad associated.  In return I heard something that filled me with\nindignation about his nephew, Dermot Tracy, not being exactly the\ncompanion for an unchaperoned young lady, far less his sporting\nfriends, or that young man who had been Dr. Kingston's partner.  He was\nvery sorry for me, as he saw my cheeks flaming, but he felt it right\nthat I should be aware.  I told him how I had guarded myself--never\nonce come across the sportsmen, and only seen Mr. Yolland\nprofessionally when he showed me how to dress Harold's hand, besides\nthe time when he went over the pottery with us.  Nay, Dermot himself\nhad only twice come into my company--once about his sister, and once to\ninquire after Harold after the adventure with the lion.\n\nThere I found I had alluded to what made Lord Erymanth doubly convinced\nthat I must be blinded; my sight must be amiably obscured, as to the\nunfitness--he might say, the impropriety of such companions for me.  He\nregretted all the more where his nephew was concerned, but it was due\nto me to warn, to admonish, me of the true facts of the case.\n\nI did not see how I could want any admonition of the true facts I had\nseen with my own eyes.\n\nHe was intensely astonished, and did not know how to believe that I had\nactually seen the lion overpowered; whereupon I begged to know what he\nhad heard.  He was very unwilling to tell me, but it came out at last\nthat Dermot and Harold--being, he feared, in an improperly excited\ncondition--had insisted on going to the den with the keeper, and had\nirritated the animal by wanton mischief, and he was convinced that this\ncould not have taken place in my presence.\n\nI was indignant beyond measure.  Had not Dermot told him the true\nstory?  He shook his head, and was much concerned at having to say so,\nbut he had so entirely ceased to put any confidence in Dermot's\nstatements that he preferred not listening to them.  And I knew it was\nvain to try to show him the difference between deliberate falsehood,\nwhich was abhorrent to Dermot, and the exaggerations and mystifications\nto which his uncle's solemnity always prompted him.  I appealed to the\ncounty paper; but he had been abroad at the time, and had, moreover,\nbeen told that the facts had been hushed up.\n\nHappily, he had some trust in my veracity, and let me prove my perfect\nalibi for Harold as well as for Dermot.  When I represented how those\ntwo were the only men among some hundreds who had shown either courage\nor coolness, he granted it with the words, \"True, true.  Of course, of\ncourse.  That's the way good blood shows itself. Hereditary qualities\nare sure to manifest themselves.\"\n\nThen he let me exonerate Harold from the charge of intemperance,\npointing out that not even after the injury and operation, nor after\nyesterday's cold and fatigue, had he touched any liquor; but I don't\nthink the notion of teetotalism was gratifying, even when I called it a\nprivate, individual vow.  Nor could I make out whether his Australian\nlife was known, and I was afraid to speak of it, lest I should be\nbetraying what need never be mentioned.  Of Viola's adventure, to my\nsurprise, her uncle did not make much, but he had heard of that from\nthe fountain-head, unpolluted by Stympson gossip; and, moreover, Lady\nDiana had been so disproportionately angry as to produce a reaction in\nhim.  Viola was his darling, and he had taken her part when he had\nfound that she knew her brother was at hand.  He allowed, too, that she\nmight fairly be inspired with confidence by the voice and countenance\nof her captor, whom he seemed to view as a good-natured giant.  But\neven this was an advance on \"the prize-fighter,\" as Lady Diana and the\nStympsons called him.\n\nIt was an amusing thing to hear the old earl moralising on the\nfortunate conjunction of circumstances, which had brought the property,\ncontrary to all expectation, to the most suitable individual.  Much did\nI long for Harold to return and show what he was, but only his\nlordship's servant, letters, and portmanteau came on an improvised\nsleigh.  He had an immense political, county, and benevolent\ncorrespondence, and was busied with it all the rest of the day.\nEustace hovered about reverentially and obligingly, and secured the\ngood opinion which had been already partly gained by the statement of\nthe police at the Quarter Sessions, whence Lord Erymanth had been\nreturning, that they never had had so few cases from the Hydriot\npotteries as during this last quarter.  Who could be complimented upon\nthis happy state of things save the chairman?  And who could\nappropriate the compliment more readily or with greater delight?  Even\nI felt that it would be cruel high treason to demonstrate which was the\nmere chess king.\n\nPoor Eustace!  Harold had infected me enough with care for him to like\nto see him in such glory, though somewhat restless as to the\nappearances of this first state dinner of ours, and at Harold's\nabsence; but, happily, the well-known step was in the hall before our\nguest came downstairs, and Eustace dashed out to superintend the\ntoilette that was to be as worthy of meeting with an earl as nature and\ngarments would permit.  \"Fit to be seen?\" I heard Harold growl. \"Of\ncourse I do when I dine with Lucy, and this is only an old man.\"\n\nEustace and Richardson had disinterred and brushed up Harold's only\nblack suit (ordered as mourning for his wife, and never worn but at his\nuncle's funeral); but three years' expansion of chest and shoulder had\nmade it pinion him so as to lessen the air of perfect ease which,\nwithout being what is called grace, was goodly to look upon.  Eustace's\nstuds were in his shirt, and the unnatural shine on his tawny hair too\nplainly revealed the perfumeries that crowded the young squire's\ndressing-table.  With the purest intentions of kindness Eustace had\ndone his best to disguise a demigod as a lout.\n\nWe had a diner a la Russe, to satisfy Eustace's aspirations as to the\nsuitable.  I had been seeking resources for it all the afternoon and\nbuilding up erections with Richardson and Colman; and when poor Harold,\nwho had been out in the snow with nothing to eat since breakfast,\nbeheld it, he exclaimed, \"Lucy, why did you not tell me? I could have\ngone over to Mycening and brought you home a leg of mutton.\"\n\n\"Don't expose what a cub you are!\" muttered the despairing Eustace. \"It\nis a deena a la Roos.\"\n\n\"I thought the Russians ate blubber,\" observed Harold, somewhat\nunfeelingly, though I don't think he saw the joke; but I managed to\nreassure him, sotto voce, as to there being something solid in the\nbackground.  He was really ravenous, and it was a little comedy to see\nthe despairing contempt with which he regarded the dainty little\nmouthfuls that the cook viewed with triumph, and Eustace in equal\nmisery at his savage appetite; while Lord Erymanth, far too real a\ngentleman to be shocked at a man's eating when he was hungry, was quite\ninsensible of the by-play until Harold, reduced to extremity at sight\nof one delicate shaving of turkey's breast, burst out, \"I say,\nRichardson, I must have some food.  Cut me its leg, please, at once!\"\n\n\"Harry,\" faintly groaned Eustace, while Lord Erymanth observed, \"Ah!\nthere is no such receipt for an appetite as shooting in the snow. I\nremember when a turkey's leg would have been nothing to me, after being\nout duck-shooting in Kalydon Bog.  Have you been there to-day? There\nwould be good sport.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Harold, contented at last with the great leg, which seemed\nin the same proportion to him as a chicken's to other men.  \"I have\nbeen getting sheep out of the snow.\"\n\nI elicited from him that he had, in making his way to Erymanth, heard\nthe barking of a dog, and found that a shepherd and his flock had taken\nrefuge in a hollow of the moor, which had partly protected them from\nthe snow, but whence they could not escape.  The shepherd, a drover who\ndid not know the locality, had tried with morning light to find his way\nto help, but, spent and exhausted, would soon have perished, had not\nHarold been attracted by the dog.  After dragging him to the nearest\nfarm, Harold left the man to be restored by food and fire, while\nperforming his own commission at the castle, and then returned to spend\nthe remainder of the daylight hours in helping to extricate the sheep,\nand convey them to the farmyard, so that only five had been lost.\n\n\"An excellent, not to say a noble, manner of spending a winter's day,\"\nquoth the earl.\n\n\"I am a sheep farmer myself,\" was the reply.\n\nLord Erymanth really wanted to draw him out, and began to ask about\nAustralian stock-farming, but Harold's slowness of speech left Eustace\nto reply to everything, and when once the rage of hunger was appeased,\nthe harangues in a warm room after twenty miles' walk in the snow, and\nthe carrying some hundreds of sheep one by one in his arms, produced\ncertain nods and snores which were no favourable contrast with\nEustace's rapt attention.\n\nFor, honestly, Eustace thought these speeches the finest things he had\never heard, and though he seldom presumed to understand them, he\nlistened earnestly, and even imitated them in a sort of disjointed way.\nNow Lord Erymanth, if one could manage to follow him, was always\ncoherent.  His sentences would parse, and went on uniform\nprinciples--namely, the repeating every phrase in finer words, with all\npossible qualifications; whereas Eustace never accomplished more than\ncatching up some sonorous period; but as his manners were at their best\nwhen he was overawed, and nine months in England had so far improved\nhis taste that he did not once refer to his presentation at Government\nHouse, he made such an excellent impression that Lord Erymanth\nannounced that he was going to give a ball to introduce his niece, Miss\nTracy, on her seventeenth birthday, in January, and invited us all\nthereto.\n\nEustace's ecstacy was unbounded.  He tried to wake Harold to share it,\nbut only produced some murmurs about half-inch bullets: only when the\n\"Good-night\" came did Harold rouse up, and then, of course, he was wide\nawake; and while Eustace was escorting the distinguished guest to his\napartment, we stood over the hall fire, enjoying his delight, and the\nprospect of his being righted with the county.\n\n\"And you will have your friends again, Lucy,\" added Harold.\n\n\"Yes, I don't suppose Lady Diana will hold out against him.  He will\nprepare the way.\"\n\n\"And,\" said Eustace, coming downstairs, \"it is absolutely necessary\nthat you go and be measured for a dress suit, Harry.\"\n\n\"I will certainly never get into this again,\" he said, with a thwarted\nsigh; \"it's all I can do to help splitting it down the back. You must\nget it off as you got it on.\"\n\n\"Not here!\" entreated Eustace, alarmed at his gesture.  \"Remember the\nservant.  Oh Harold, if you could but be more the gentleman!  Why\ncannot you take example by me, instead of overthrowing all the\nadvantageous impressions that such--such a service has created?  I\nreally think there's nothing he would not do for me.  Don't you think\nso, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Could he do anything for Prometesky?\" asked Harold.\n\n\"He could, more than anyone,\" I said; \"but I don't know if he would.\"\n\n\"I'll see about that.\"\n\n\"Now, Harold,\" cried Eustace in dismay, \"don't spoil everything by\noffending him.  Just suppose he should not send us the invitation!\"\n\n\"No great harm done.\"\n\nEustace was incoherent in his wrath and horror, and Harold, too much\nused to his childish  selfishness to feel the annoyance, answered, \"I\nam not you.\"\n\n\"But if you offend him?\"\n\n\"Never fear, Eu, I'll take care you don't fare the worse.\"\n\nAnd as he lighted his candle he added to poor Eustace's discomfiture by\nthe shocking utterance under his beard:\n\n\"You are welcome to him for me, if you can stand such an old bore.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nOGDEN'S BUILDINGS.\n\n\nWhen I came downstairs the next morning, I found Lord Erymanth at the\nhall window, watching the advance of a great waggon of coal which had\nstuck fast in the snow half way up the hill on which the house stood.\nHarold, a much more comfortable figure in his natural costume than he\nhad been when made up by Eustace, was truly putting his shoulder to the\nwheel, with a great lever, so that every effort aided the struggling\nhorses, and brought the whole nearer to its destination.\n\n\"A grand exhibition of strength,\" said his lordship, as the waggon was\nat last over its difficulties, and Harold disappeared with it into the\nback-yard; \"a magnificent physical development.  I never before saw\nextraordinary height with proportionate size and strength.\"\n\nI asked if he had ever seen anyone as tall.\n\n\"I have seen one or two men who looked equally tall, but they stooped\nand were not well-proportioned, whereas your nephew has a wonderfully\nfine natural carriage.  What is his measure?\" he added, turning to\nEustace.\n\n\"Well, really, my lord, I cannot tell; mine is six feet two and\nfive-sixteenths, and I much prefer it to anything so out of the way as\nhis, poor fellow.\"\n\nThe danger that he would go on to repeat his tailor's verdict \"that it\nwas distinguished without being excessive,\" was averted by Harold's\nentrance, and Dora interrupted the greetings by the query to her\ncousin, how high he really stood; but he could not tell, and when she\nunfraternally pressed to know whether it was not nice to be so much\ntaller than Eustace, he replied, \"Not on board ship,\" and then he gave\nthe intelligence that it seemed about to thaw.\n\nLord Erymanth said that if so, he should try to make his way to\nMycening, and he then paid his renewed compliments on the freedom of\nthe calendar at the Quarter Sessions from the usual proportion of evils\nat Mycening.  He understood that Mr. Alison was making most\npraiseworthy efforts to impede the fatal habits of intoxication that\nwere only too prevalent.\n\n\"I shall close five beer-houses at Christmas,\" said Eustace.  \"I look\non it as my duty, as landlord and man of property.\"\n\n\"Quite right.  I am glad you see the matter in its right light.\nBeer-shops were a well-meaning experiment started some twenty years\nago.  I well remember the debate, &c.\"\n\nHarold tried with all his might to listen, though I saw his chest heave\nwith many a suppressed yawn, and his hand under his beard, tweaking it\nhard; but substance could be sifted out of what Lord Erymanth said, for\nhe had real experience, and his own parish was in admirable order.\n\nWhere there was no power of expulsion, as he said, there would always\nbe some degraded beings whose sole amusement was intoxication; but good\ndwelling-houses capable of being made cheerful, gardens, innocent\nrecreations, and instruction had, he could testify from experience, no\nsmall effect in preventing such habits from being formed in the younger\npopulation, backed, as he was sure (good old man) that he need not tell\nhis young friends, by an active and efficient clergyman, who would\nplace the motives for good conduct on the truest and highest footing,\nwithout which all reformation would only be surface work.  I was glad\nHarold should hear this from the lips of a layman, but I am afraid he\nshirked it as a bit of prosing, and went back to the cottages.\n\n\"They are in a shameful state,\" he said.\n\n\"They are to be improved,\" exclaimed Eustace, eagerly.  \"As I told\nBullock, I am quite determined that mine shall be a model parish.  I am\nready to make any sacrifices to do my duty as a landlord, though\nBullock says that no outlay on cottages ever pays, and that the test of\ntheir being habitable is their being let, and that the people are so\nungrateful that they do not deserve to have anything done for them.\"\n\n\"You are not led away by such selfish arguments?\" said Lord Erymanth.\n\n\"No, assuredly not,\" said Eustace, decidedly; \"though I do wish Harold\nwould not disagree so much with Bullock.  He is a very civil man, and\nmuch in earnest in promoting my interests.\"\n\n\"That's not all,\" put in Harold.\n\n\"And I can't bear Bullock,\" I said.  \"'Our interest' has been always\nhis cry, whenever the least thing has been proposed for the cottage\npeople; and I know how much worse he let things get than we ever\nsupposed.\"\n\nOn which Lord Erymanth spoke out his distinct advice to get rid of\nBullock, telling us how he had been a servant's orphan whom my father\nhad intended to apprentice, but, being placed with our old bailiff for\na time, had made himself necessary, and ingratiated himself with my\nfather so as to succeed to the situation; and it had been the universal\nbelief, ever since my mother's widowhood, that he had taken advantage\nof her seclusion and want of knowledge of business to deal harshly by\nthe tenants, especially the poor, and to feather his own nest.\n\nIt was only what Harold had already found out for himself, but it\ndisposed of his scruples about old adherents, and it was well for\nEustace to hear it from such oracular lips as might neutralise the\neffect of Bullock's flattery, for it had become quite plain to my\nopened eyes that he was trying to gain the squire's ear, and was very\njealous of Harold.\n\nI knew, too, that to listen to his advice was the way to Lord\nErymanth's heart, and rejoiced to hear Harold begging for the names of\nrecent books on drainage, and consulting our friend upon the means of\ndealing with a certain small farm in a tiny inclosed valley, on an\noutlying part of the property, where the yard and outhouses were in a\npermanent state of horrors; but interference was alike resented by\nBullock and the farmer, though the wife and family were piteous\nspectacles of ague and rheumatism, and low fever smouldered every\nautumn in the hamlet.\n\nVery sound advice was given and accepted with pertinent questions, such\nas I thought must convince anyone of Harold's superiority, when he must\nneeds produce a long blue envelope, and beg Lord Erymanth to look at it\nand tell him how to get it presented to the Secretary of State.\n\nIt was graciously received, but no sooner did the name of Stanislas\nPrometesky strike the earl's eyes than he exclaimed, \"That rascally old\ndemagogue!  The author of all the mischief.  It was the greatest error\nand weakness not to have had him executed.\"\n\n\"You have not seen my father's statement?\"\n\n\"Statement, sir!  I read statements till I was sick of them, absolutely\ndisgusted with their reiteration, and what could they say but that he\nwas a Pole?   A Pole!\" (the word uttered with infinite loathing).  \"As\nif the very name were not a sufficient conviction of whatever is\nseditious and treasonable, only that people are sentimental about it,\nforsooth!\"\n\nCertainly it was droll to suspect sentiment in the great broad giant,\nwho indignantly made reply, \"The Poles have been infamously treated.\"\n\n\"No more than they deserved,\" said Lord Erymanth, startled for once\ninto brevity.  \"A nation who could never govern themselves decently,\nand since they have been broken up, as they richly deserved, though I\ndo not justify the manner--ever since, I say, have been acting the\nincendiary in every country where they have set foot.  I would as soon\nhear of an infernal machine in the country as a Pole!\"\n\n\"Poles deserve justice as well as other men,\" said Harold, perhaps the\nmore doggedly because Eustace laid a restraining hand on his arm.\n\n\"Do you mean to tell me, sir, that every man has not received justice\nat the tribunal of this country?\" exclaimed Lord Erymanth.\n\nPerhaps he recollected that he was speaking to the son of a convict,\nfor there was a moment's pause, into which I launched myself.  \"Dear\nLord Erymanth,\" I said, \"we all know that my poor brothers did offend\nagainst the laws and were sentenced according to them.  They said so\nthemselves, and that they were mistaken, did they not, Harold?\"\n\nHarold bent his head.\n\n\"And owing to whom?\" demanded Lord Elymanth.  \"I never thought of\nblaming those two poor lads as I did that fellow who led them astray. I\ndid all I could to save their lives; if they were alive this moment I\nwould wish nothing better than to bring them home, but as to asking me\nto forward a petition in favour of the hoary old rebel that perverted\nthem, I should think it a crime.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"if you would only read this, you would see that what\nthey wanted to explain was that the man who turned king's evidence did\nnot show how Count Prometesky tried to withhold them.\"\n\n\"Count, indeed!  Just like all women.  All those Poles are Counts! All\nThaddeuses of Warsaw!\"\n\n\"That's hard,\" I said.  \"I only called him Count because it would have\nshocked you if I had given him no prefix.  Will you not see what poor\nAmbrose wanted to say for him?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Lord Erymanth, after a pause, in which he had really glanced\nover the paper.  \"Poor boys!  It goes to my heart to think what fine\nfellows were lost there, but compassion for them cannot soften me\ntowards the man who practised on their generous, unsuspecting youth.  I\nam quite aware that Prometesky saved life at the fire, and his\npunishment was commuted on that account, contrary to my judgment, for\nit is a well-known axiom, that the author of a riot is responsible for\nall the outrages committed in it, and it is undeniable that the whole\ninsurrection was his work.  I am quite aware that the man had amiable,\neven fascinating qualities, and great enthusiasm, but here lay the\ngreat danger and seduction to young minds, and though I can perfectly\nunderstand the warm sympathy and generous sentiment that actuates my\nyoung friends, and though I much regret the being obliged to deny the\nfirst request of one to whom, I may say, I owe my life, I must\ndistinctly refuse to take any part in relieving Count Stanislas\nPrometesky from the penalty he has incurred.\"\n\nHarold's countenance had become very gloomy during this peroration. He\nmade no attempt at reply, but gathered up his papers, and, gnawing his\nfringe of moustache, walked out of  the room, while Eustace provoked me\nby volunteering explanations that Prometesky was no friend of his, only\nof Harold's.  His lordship declared himself satisfied, provided no\ndangerous opinions had been imbibed, and truly Eustace might honestly\nacquit himself of having any opinions at all.\n\nThat afternoon he drove Lord Erymanth to Mycening, whence the railway\nwas now open.  Harold could nowhere be found, and kind messages were\nleft for him, for which he was scarcely grateful when he came in late\nin the evening, calling Lord Erymanth intolerably vindictive, to bear\nmalice for five-and-twenty years.\n\nI could not get him to see that it was entirely judicial indignation,\nand desire for the good of the country, not in the least personal\nfeeling; but Harold had not yet the perception of the legislative\nsentiment that actuates men of station in England.  His strong\ninclination was not to go near the old man or his house again, but this\nwas no small distress to Eustace, who, in spite of all his vaunting,\ndreaded new scenes without a protector, and I set myself to persuade\nhim that it was due to his cousin not to hide himself, and avoid\nsociety so as to give a colour to evil report.\n\n\"It might be best to separate myself from him altogether and go back.\"\nOn this, Eustace cried out with horror and dismay, and Harold answered,\n\"Never fear, old chap; I'm not going yet.  Not till I have seen you in\ngood hands.\"\n\n\"And you'll accept the invitation,\" said Eustace, taking up one of the\ncoroneted notes that invited us each for two nights to the castle.\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"And you'll come up to town, and have a proper suit.\"\n\n\"As you please.\"\n\nEustace went off to the library to find some crested paper and\nenvelopes worthy to bear the acceptance, and Harold stood musing.  \"A\ngood agent and a good wife would set him on his feet to go alone,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Meantime he cannot do without you.\"\n\n\"Not in some ways.\"\n\n\"And even this acquaintance is your achievement, not his.\"\n\n\"Such as it is.\"\n\nI pointed out that though Lord Erymanth refused to assist Prometesky,\nhis introduction might lead to those who might do so, while isolation\nwas a sort of helplessness.  To this he agreed, saying, \"I must free\nhim before I go back.\"\n\n\"And do you really want to go back?\" said I, fearing he was growing\nrestless.\n\nHis face worked, and he said, \"When I feel like a stone round Eustace's\nneck.\"\n\n\"Why should you feel so?  You are a lever to lift him.\"\n\n\"Am I?  The longer I live with you, the more true it seems to me that I\nhad no business to come into a world with such people in it as you and\nMiss Tracy.\"\n\nEustace came back, fidgeting to get a pen mended, an operation beyond\nhim, but patiently performed by the stronger fingers.  We said no more,\nbut I had had a glimpse which made me hope that the pilgrim was\nbeginning to feel the burthen on his back.\n\nNot that he had much time for thought.  He was out all day, looking\nafter the potteries, where orders were coming in fast, and workmen\nincreasing, and likewise toiling in the fields at Ogden's farm, making\nmeasurements and experiments on the substrata and the waterfall, on\nwhich to base his plans for drainage according to the books Lord\nErymanth had lent him.\n\nAfter the second day he came home half-laughing.  Farmer Ogden had\nwarned him off and refused to listen to any explanation, though he must\nhave known whom he was expelling--yes, like a very village Hampden, he\nhad thrust the unwelcome surveyor out at his gate with such a\ntrembling, testy, rheumatic arm, that Harold had felt obliged to obey\nit.\n\nEustace, angered at the treatment of his cousin, volunteered to come\nand \"tell the ass, Ogden, to mind what he was about,\" and Harold added,\n\"If you would come, Lucy, you might help to make his wife understand.\"\n\nI came, as I was desired, where I had never been before, for we had\nalways rested in the belief that the Alfy Valley was a nasty, damp,\nunhealthy place, with \"something always about,\" and had contented\nourselves with sending broth to the cottages whenever we heard of any\nunusual amount of disease.  If we had ever been there!\n\nWe rode the two miles, as I do not think Dora and I would ever have\nfloundered through the mud and torrents that ran down the lanes.  It\nwas just as if the farm had been built in the lower circle, and the\ncottages in Malebolge itself, where the poor little Alfy, so pure when\nit started from Kalydon Moor, brought down to them all the leakage of\nthat farmyard.  Oh! that yard, I never beheld, imagined, or made my way\nthrough the like, though there was a little causeway near the boundary\nwall, where it was possible to creep along on the stones, rousing up a\nsleeping pig or a dreamy donkey here and there, and barked at in\nvolleys by dogs stationed on all the higher islets in the unsavoury\nlake.  If Dora had not been a colonial child, and if I could have\nfeared for myself with Harold by my side, I don't think we should ever\nhave arrived, but Farmer Ogden and his son came out, and a man and boy\nor two; and when Eustace was recognised, they made what way they could\nfor us, and we were landed at last in a scrupulously clean kitchen with\npeat fire and a limeash floor, where, alas! we were not suffered to\nremain, but were taken into a horrid little parlour, with a\nnewly-lighted, smoking fire, a big Bible, and a ploughing-cup.  Mrs.\nOgden was a dissenter, so we had really no acquaintance, and, poor\nthing, had long been unable to go anywhere. She was a pale trembling\ncreature, most neat and clean, but with the dreadful sallow complexion\ngiven by perpetual ague.  She was very civil, and gave us cake and\nwine, to the former of which Dora did ample justice, but oh! the\nimpracticability of those people!\n\nThe men had it all out of doors, but when I tried my eloquence on Mrs.\nOgden I found her firmly persuaded not only that her own ill health and\nthe sickness in the hamlet were \"the will of the Lord,\" but in her\nreligious fatalism, that it was absolutely profane to think that\ncleansing and drainage would amend them; and she adduced texts which\npoor uninstructed I was unable to answer, even while I knew they were a\nperversion; and, provoked as I was, I felt that her meek patience and\nresignation might be higher virtues than any to which I had yet\nattained.\n\nHer husband, who, I should explain, was but one remove above a\nsmock-frock farmer, took a different line.  He had unsavoury proverbs\nin which he put deep faith.  \"Muck was the mother of money,\" and also\n\"Muck was the farmer's nosegay.\"  He viewed it as an absolute\neffeminacy to object to its odorous savours; and as to the poor people,\n\"they were an ungrateful lot, and had a great deal too much done for\nthem,\" the small farmer's usual creed.  Mr. Alison could do as he\nliked, of course, but his lease had five years yet to run, and he would\nnot consent to pay no more rent, not for what he didn't ask for, nor\ndidn't want, and Mr. Bullock didn't approve of--that he would not, not\nif Mr. Alison took the law of him.\n\nHis landlord do it at his own expense?  That made him look knowing. He\nwas evidently certain that it was a trick for raising the rent at the\nend of the lease, if not before, upon him, whose fathers had been\ntenants of Alfy Vale even before the Alisons came to Arghouse; and,\nwith the rude obstinacy of his race, he was as uncivil to Harold as he\ndurst in Eustace's presence.  \"He had no mind to have his fields cut up\njust to sell the young gentleman's drain-pipes, as wouldn't go off at\nthem potteries.\"\n\n\"Well, but all this stuff would be doing much more good upon your\nfields than here,\" Eustace said.  \"I--I really must insist on this\nfarmyard being cleansed.\"\n\n\"You'll not find that in the covenant, sir,\" said the farmer with a\ngrin.\n\n\"But, father,\" began the son, a more intelligent-looking man, though\nwith the prevailing sickly tint.\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Phil,\" said Ogden.  \"It's easy to talk of cleaning\nout the yard; I'd like to see the gentleman set about it, or you\neither, for that matter.\"\n\n\"Would you?\" said Harold.  \"Then you shall.\"\n\nFarmer Ogden gaped.  \"I won't have no strange labourers about the\nplace.\"\n\n\"No more you shall,\" said Harold.  \"If your son and I clean out this\nplace with our own hands in the course of a couple of days, putting the\nmanure in any field you may appoint, will you let the drainage plans be\ncarried out without opposition?\"\n\n\"It ain't a bet?\" said the farmer; \"for my missus's conscience is\nagainst bets.\"\n\n\"No, certainly not.\"\n\n\"Nor a trick?\" he said, looking from one to another.\n\n\"No.  It is to be honest work.  I am a farmer, and know what work is,\nand have done it too.\"\n\nFarmer Ogden, to a certain extent, gave in, and we departed.  His son\nheld the gate open for us, with a keen look at Harold, full of wonder\nand inquiry.\n\n\"You'll stand by me?\" said Harold, lingering with him.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Phil Ogden; \"but I doubt if we can do it.  Father says\nit is a week's work for five men, if you could get them to do it.\"\n\n\"Never fear,\" said Harold.  \"We'll save your mother's life yet against\nher will, and make you all as healthy as if you'd been born in New\nSouth Wales.\"\n\nThis was Friday, and Phil had an engagement on the Monday, so that\nTuesday was fixed, much to Eustace's displeasure, for he did not like\nHarold's condescending to work which labourers would hardly undertake;\nand besides, he would make his hands, if not himself, absolutely unfit\nfor the entertainment on Thursday.  On which Harold asked if there were\nno such thing as water.  Eustace implored him to give it up and send\nhalf-a-dozen unemployed men, but to this he answered, \"I should be\nashamed.\"\n\nAnd when we went home he rode on into Mycening, to see about his\nequipment, he said, setting Eustace despairing, lest he, after all,\nmeant to avoid the London tailor, and to patronise Mycening; but the\nequipment turned out to be a great smock-frock.  And something very\ndifferent came home with him--namely, a little dainty flower-pot and\npan, with an Etruscan pattern, the very best things that had been\nturned out of the pottery, adorned with a design in black and white,\nrepresenting a charming little Greek nymph watering her flowers.\n\n\"Don't you think, Lucy, Miss Tracy being a shareholder, and it being\nher birthday, the chairman might present this?\" he inquired.\n\nI agreed heartily, but Eustace, with a twist of his cat's-whisker\nmoustache, opined that they were scarcely elegant enough for Miss\nTracy; and on the Monday, when he did drag Harold up to the tailor's,\nhe brought down a fragile little bouquet of porcelain violets, very\nParisian, and in the latest fashion, which he flattered himself was the\nnewest thing extant, and a much more appropriate offering.  The violets\ncould be made by a pinch below to squirt out perfume!\n\n\"Never mind, Harold,\" I said, \"you can give your flower-pot all the\nsame.\"\n\n\"You may,\" said Harold.\n\n\"Why should not you?\"\n\nHe shook his head.  \"I've no business,\" he said; \"Eustace is chairman.\"\n\nI said no more, and I hardly saw Harold the two following days, for he\nwas gone in the twilight of the January morning and worked as long as\nlight would allow, and fortunately the moon was in a favourable\nquarter; and Phil, to whom the lighter part of the task was allotted,\nconfided to his companion that he had been wishing to get father to see\nthings in this light for a long time, but he was that slow to move; and\nsince Harold had been looking about, Mr. Bullock had advised him not to\ngive in, for it would be sure to end in the raising of his rent, and\nyoung gentlemen had new-fangled notions that only led to expense and\nnonsense, and it was safest in the long run to trust to the agent.\n\nHowever, the sight of genuine, unflinching toil, with nothing of the\namateur about it, had an eloquence of its own.  Farmer Ogden looked on\ngrimly and ironically for the first two hours, having only been\nsurprised into consent in the belief that any man, let alone a\ngentleman, must find out the impracticability of the undertaking, and\nbe absolutely sickened.  Then he brought out some bread and cheese and\ncider, and was inclined to be huffy when Harold declined the latter,\nand looked satirical when he repaired to wash his hands at the pump\nbefore touching the former.  When he saw two more hours go by in work\nof which he could judge, his furrowed old brow grew less puckered, and\nhe came out again to request Mr. Harold to partake of the mid-day meal.\nI fancy Harold's going up to Phil's room, to make himself respectable\nfor Mrs. Ogden's society, was as strange to the farmer as were to the\nAustralian the good wife's excuses for making him sit down with the\nfamily in the kitchen; but I believe that during the meal he showed\nhimself practical farmer enough to win their respect; and when he\nworked harder than ever all the afternoon, even till the last moment it\nwas possible to see, and came back with the light the next morning, he\nhad won his cause; above all, when the hunt swept by without disturbing\nthe labour.\n\nThe farmer not only turned in his scanty supply of men to help to\nfinish off the labour, and seconded contrivances which the day before\nhe would have scouted, but he gave his own bowed back to the work.  A\npavement of the court which had not seen the day for forty years was\nbrought to light; and by a series of drain tiles, for which a messenger\nwas dispatched to the pottery, streams were conducted from the river to\nwash these up; and at last, when Harold appeared, after Eustace had\ninsisted on waiting no longer for dinner, he replied to our eager\nquestions, \"Yes, it is done.\"\n\n\"And Ogden?\"\n\n\"He thanked me, shook hands with me, and said I was a man.\"\n\nWhich we knew meant infinitely more than a gentleman.\n\nHarold wanted to spend Thursday in banking up the pond in the centre of\nthe yard, but the idea seemed to drive Eustace to distraction. Such\nwork before going to that sublime region at Erymanth!  He laid hold of\nHarold's hands--shapely hands, and with that look of latent strength\none sees in some animals, but scarred with many a seam, and horny\nwithin the fingers--and compared them with those he had nursed into\ndainty delicacy of whiteness, till Harold could not help saying, \"I\nwouldn't have a lady's fingers.\"\n\n\"I would not have a clown's,\" said Eustace.\n\n\"Keep your gloves on, Harold, and do not make them any worse.  If you\ngo out to that place to-day, they won't even be as presentable as they\nare.\"\n\n\"I shall wash them.\"\n\n\"Wash!  As if oceans of Eau-de-Cologne would make them fit for\nsociety!\" said Eustace, with infinite disgust, only equalled by the\n\"Faugh!\" with which Harold heard of the perfume.  In fact, Eustace was\ndreadfully afraid the other hunters had seen and recognised those\nshoulders, even under the smock-frock, as plainly as he did, and he had\nbeen wretched about it ever since.\n\n\"You talk of not wanting to do me harm,\" he said, \"and then you go and\ngrub in such work as any decent labourer would despise.\"\n\nSo miserable was he, that Harold, who never saw the foolery in Eustace\nthat he would have derided in others, yielded to him so far as only to\ngive directions to Bullock for sending down the materials wanted for\nthe pond, and likewise for mending the roof of a cottage where a\nrheumatic old woman was habitually obliged to sleep under a crazy\numbrella.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE BIRDS OF ILL OMEN.\n\n\nNothing stands out to me more distinctly, with its pleasures and pains,\nthan the visit to Erymanth Castle--from our arrival in the dark--the\nlighted hall--the servants meeting us--the Australians' bewilderment at\nbeing ushered up to our rooms without a greeting from the host--my\nlingering to give a last injunction in Eustace's ear, \"Now, Eustace, _I\nwon't_ have Harold's hair greased; and put as little stuff as you can\npersuade yourself to do on your pocket-handkerchief\"--orders I had kept\nto the last to make them more emphatic; then dashing after the\nhousekeeper, leaving them to work--my great room, where it was a\nperfect journey from the fire to the toilet-table--my black lace dress,\nand the silver ornaments those dear nephews had brought me from\nLondon--and in the midst of my hair-doing dear little Viola's running\nin to me in one of her ecstacies, hugging me, to the detriment of\nColman's fabric and her own, and then dancing round and round me in her\npretty white cloudy tulle, looped up with snowdrops.  The one thing\nthat had been wanting to her was that her dear, darling, delightful\nLucy should be at her own ball--her birthday ball; and just as she had\ndespaired, it had all come right, owing to that glorious old giant of\nours; and she went off into a series of rapturous little laughs over\nDermot's account of her uncle's arrival pick-a-back.  It was of no use\nto look cautious, and sign at Colman; Viola had no notion of restraint;\nand I was thankful when my dress was complete, and we were left alone,\nso that I could listen without compunction to the story of Lord\nErymanth's arrival at Arked House, and solemn assurance that he had\nbeen most hospitably received, and that his own observation and inquiry\nhad convinced him that Mr. Alison was a highly estimable young man, in\nspite of all disadvantages, unassuming, well-mannered, and grateful for\ngood advice.  Dermot had shown his discernment in making him his\nfriend, and Lucy had, in truth, acted with much courage, as well as\ngood judgment, in remaining with him; \"and that so horrified mamma,\"\nsaid Viola, \"that she turned me out of the room, so I don't know how\nthey fought it out; but mamma must have given in at last, though she\nhas never said one word to me about it, not even that you were all to\nbe here.  What a good thing it is to have a brother!  I should never\nhave known but for Dermot.  And, do you know, he says that my uncle's\npet is the cousin, after all--the deferential fool of a cousin, he\nsays.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, Viola!\"\n\n\"I didn't say so--it was Dermot!\" said the naughty child, with a little\narch pout; \"he says it is just like my uncle to be taken with a little\nworship from--well, he is your nephew, Lucy, so I will be politer than\nDermot, who does rage because he says Mr. Alison has not even sense to\nsee that he is dressed in his cousin's plumes.\"\n\n\"He is very fond of Harold, Viola, and they both of them do it in\nsimplicity; Harold does the things for Eustace, and never even sees\nthat the credit is taken from him.  It is what he does it for.\"\n\n\"Then he is a regular stupid old jolly giant,\" said Viola. \"Oh, Lucy,\nwhat delicious thing _is_ this?\"\n\nIt was the little flower-pot, in which I had planted a spray of\nlemon-scented verbena, which Viola had long coveted.  I explained how\nHarold had presided over it as an offering from the Hydriot Company to\nits youngest shareholder, and her delight was extreme.  She said she\nwould keep it for ever in her own room; it was just what she wanted,\nthe prettiest thing she had had--so kind of him; but those great, grand\ngiants never thought anything too little for them.  And then she went\ninto one of her despairs.  She had prepared a number of Christmas\npresents for the people about the castle to whom she had always been\nlike the child of the house, and her maid had forgotten to bring the\nbox she had packed, nor was there any means of getting them, unless she\ncould persuade her brother to send early the next morning.\n\n\"Is Dermot staying here?\"\n\n\"Oh yes--all night; and nobody else, except ourselves and Piggy. Poor\nPiggy, he moves about in more awful awe of my uncle than ever--and so\nstiff!  I am always expecting to see him bristle!\"\n\nThere came a message that my lady was ready, and was asking for Miss\nTracy to go down with her.  Viola fluttered away, and I waited till\nthey should have had time to descend before making my own appearance,\nfinding all the rooms in the cleared state incidental to ball\npreparations--all the chairs and tables shrunk up to the walls; and\neven the drawing-room, where the chaperons were to sit, looking some\ndegrees more desolate than the drawing-room of a ladyless house\ngenerally does look.\n\nFull in the midst of an immense blue damask sofa sat Lady Diana, in\ngrey brocade.  She was rather a small woman in reality, but dignity\nmade a great deal more of her.  Eustace, with a splendid red camellia\nin his coat, was standing by her, blushing, and she was graciously\npermitting the presentation of the squirting violet.  \"Since it was a\nbirthday, and it was a kind attention,\" &c., but I could see that she\ndid not much like it; and Viola, sitting on the end of the sofa with\nher eyes downcast, was very evidently much less delighted than\nencumbered with the fragile china thing.\n\nLord Erymanth met me, and led me up to his sister, who gave me a cold\nkiss, and we had a little commonplace talk, during which I could see\nViola spring up to Harold, who was standing beside her brother, and the\ncolour rising in his bronzed face at her eager acknowledgments of the\nflower-pot; after which she applied herself to begging her brother to\nlet his horse and groom go over early the next morning for the\nChristmas gifts she had left behind, but Dermot did not seem\npropitious, not liking to trust the man he had with him with the\nprecious Jack o'Lantern over hills slippery with frost; and Viola, as\none properly instructed in the precariousness of equine knees, subsided\ndisappointed; while I had leisure to look up at the two gentlemen\nstanding there, and I must say that Harold looked one of Nature's\nnobles even beside Dermot, and Dermot a fine, manly fellow even beside\nHarold, though only reaching to his shoulder.\n\nI was the greatest stranger, and went in to the dining-room with his\nlordship, which spared me the sight of Eustace's supreme satisfaction\nin presenting his arm to Lady Diana, after she had carefully paired off\nViola with her cousin Piggy--i.e., Pigou St. Glear, the eldest son of\nthe heir-presumptive, a stiff, shy youth in the Erymanth atmosphere,\nwhatever he might be out of it, and not at all happy with Viola, who\nwas wont to tease and laugh at him.\n\nIt was a save-trouble dinner, as informal as the St. Glear nature and\nservants permitted.  Lord Erymanth carved, and took care that Harold\nshould not starve, and he was evidently trying to turn the talk into\nsuch a direction as to show his sister what his guests were; but\nEustace's tongue was, of course, the ready one, and answered glibly\nabout closed beershops, projected cottages, and the complete drainage\nof the Alfy--nay, that as to Bullock and Ogden hearing reason, he had\nonly to go over in person and the thing was done; the farmyard was\nactually set to rights, and no difficulty at all was made as to the\nfurther improvements now that the landlord had once shown himself\nconcerned.  That was all that was wanting.  And the funny part of it\nwas that he actually believed it.\n\nDermot could not help saying to Harold, \"Didn't I see you applying a\nfew practical arguments?\"\n\nHarold made a sign with his head, with a deprecatory twinkle in his\neye, recollecting how infra dig Eustace thought his exploit.  The party\nwas too small for more than one conversation, so that when the earl\nbegan to relate his experiences of the difficulties of dealing with\nfarmers and cottagers, all had to listen in silence, and I saw the\nmisery of restless sleepiness produced by the continuous sound of his\nvoice setting in upon Harold, and under it I had to leave him, on my\ndeparture with Lady Diana and her daughter, quaking in my satin shoes\nat the splendid graciousness I saw in preparation for me; but I was\nkept all the time on the outer surface; Lady Diana did not choose to be\nintimate enough even to give good advice, so that I was very glad when\nthe carriages were heard and the gentlemen joined us, Harold hastily\nhanding to Viola the squirting violets which she had left behind her on\nthe dining-table, and which he had carefully concealed from Eustace,\nbut, alas! only to have them forgotten again, or, maybe, with a little\nmalice, deposited in the keeping of the brazen satyr on the ante-room\nchimney-piece.\n\nDermot had already claimed my first dance, causing a strange thrill of\npain, as I missed the glance which always used to regret without\nforbidding my becoming his partner.  Viola was asked in due form by\nEustace, and accepted him with alacrity, which he did not know to be\ndue to her desire to escape from Piggy.  Most solicitously did our good\nold host present Eustace to every one, and it was curious to watch the\ndemeanour of the different classes--the Horsmans mostly cordial, Hippa\nand Pippa demonstratively so; but the Stympsons held aloof with the\nstiffest of bows, not one of them but good-natured Captain George\nStympson would shake hands even with me, and Miss Avice Stympson, of\nLake House, made as if Harold were an object invisible to the naked\neye, while the kind old earl was doing his best that he should not feel\nneglected.  Eustace had learnt dancing for that noted ball at\nGovernment House, but Harold had disavowed the possibility.  He had\nonly danced once in his life, he said, when Dermot pressed him, \"and\nthat counted for nothing.\"  To me the pain on the bent brow made it\nplain that it had been at the poor fellow's wedding.\n\nHowever, he stood watching, and when at the end of our quadrille Dermot\nsaid, \"Here lies the hulk of the Great Harry,\" there was an amused air\nabout him, and at the further question, \"Come, Alison, what do you\nthink of our big corroborees?\" he deliberately replied, \"I never saw\nsuch a pretty sight!\"  And on some leading exclamation from one of us,\n\"It beats the cockatoos on a cornfield; besides, one has got to kill\nthem!\"\n\n\"Mr. Alison looks at our little diversion in the benevolent spirit of\nthe giant whose daughter brought home ploughman, oxen, and all in her\napron for playthings,\" said Viola, who with Eustace had found her way\nto us, but we were all divided again, Viola being carried off by some\ngrandee, Eustace having to search for some noble damsel to whom he had\nbeen introduced, and I falling to the lot of young Mr. Horsman, a nice\nperson in himself, but unable to surmount the overcrowing of the elder\nsisters, who called him Baby Jack, and publicly ordered him about.\nEven at the end of our dance, at the sound of Hippa's authoritative\nsummons, he dropped me suddenly, and I found myself gravitating towards\nHarold like a sort of chaperon.  I was amazed by his observing, \"I\nthink I could do it now.  Would you try me, Lucy?\"\n\nAfter all, he was but five-and-twenty, and could hardly look on\nanything requiring agility or dexterity without attempting it, so I\nconsented, with a renewal of the sensations I remembered when, as a\nchild, I had danced with grown-up men, only with alarm at the\nresponsibility of what Dermot called \"the steerage of the Great Harry,\"\nsince collision with such momentum as ours might soon be would be\nserious; but I soon found my anxiety groundless; he was too well made\nand elastic to be clumsy, and had perfect power over his own weight and\nstrength, so that he could dance as lightly and safely as Dermot with\nhis Irish litheness.\n\n\"Do you think I might ask Miss Tracy?\" he said, in return for my\ncompliments.\n\n\"Of course; why not?\"\n\nWhen he did ask, her reply was, \"Oh, will you indeed?  Thank you.\"\nWhich naivete actually raised her mother's colour with annoyance. But\nif she had a rod laid up, Viola did not feel it then; she looked\nradiant, and though I don't believe three words passed between the\npartners, that waltz was the glory of the evening to her.\n\nShe must have made him take her to the tea-room for some ice, and there\nit was that, while I was standing with my partner a little way off, we\nheard Miss Avice Stympson's peculiarly penetrating attempt at a\nwhisper, observing, \"Yes, it is melancholy!  I thought we were safe\nhere, or I never should have brought my dear little Birdie.... What,\ndon't you know?  There's no doubt of it--the glaze on the pottery is\ndead men's bones.  They have an arrangement with the hospitals in\nLondon, you understand.  I can't think how Lord Erymanth can be so\ndeceived.  But you see the trick was a perfect success.  Yes, the\nblocking up the railway.  A mercy no lives were lost; but that would\nhave been nothing to him after the way he has gone on in\nAustralia.--Oh, Lord Erymanth, I did not know you were there.\"\n\n\"And as I could not avoid overhearing you,\" said that old gentleman,\n\"let me remind you that I regard courtesy to the guest as due respect\nto the host, and that I have good reason to expect that my visitors\nshould have some confidence in my discrimination of the persons I\ninvite them to meet.\"\n\nTherewith both he and Miss Stympson had become aware of the head that\nwas above them all, and the crimson that dyed the cheeks and brow;\nwhile Viola, trembling with passion, and both hands clasped over\nHarold's arm, exclaimed, in a panting whisper, \"Tell them it is a\nwicked falsehood--tell them it is no such thing!\"\n\n\"I will speak to your uncle to-morrow.  I am obliged to him.\"\n\nEverybody heard that, and all who had either feeling or manners knew\nthat no more ought to be said.  Only Lord Erymanth made his way to\nHarold to say, \"I am very sorry this has happened.\"\n\nHarold bent his head with a murmur of thanks, and was moving out of the\nsupper-room, when Dermot hastily laid a hand on him with, \"Keep the\nfield, Harry; don't go.\"\n\n\"I'm not going.\"\n\n\"That's right.  Face it out before the hags.  Whom shall I introduce\nyou--There's Birdie Stympson--come.\"\n\n\"No, no; I don't mean to dance again.\"\n\n\"Why not?  Beard the harpies like a man.  Dancing would refute them\nall.\"\n\n\"Would it?\" gravely said Harold.\n\nNor could he be persuaded, save once at his host's bidding, but showed\nno signs of being abashed or distressed, and most of the male Stympsons\ncame and spoke to him.  The whole broke up at three, and we repaired to\nour rooms, conscious that family prayers would take place as the clock\nstruck nine as punctually as if nothing had happened, and that our\ncharacters depended on our punctuality.  Viola was in time, and so was\nEustace; I sneaked in late and ashamed; and the moment the servants had\nfiled out Viola sprang to Eustace with vehement acknowledgments; and it\nappeared that just before she came down her missing box of gifts had\nbeen brought to her room, and she was told that Mr. Alison had sent for\nthem.  Eustace smirked, and Lady Diana apologised for her little\ndaughter's giddy, exaggerated expressions, by which she had given far\nmore trouble than she ever intended.\n\n\"No trouble,\" said Eustace.  \"Harold always wants to work off his\nsteam.\"\n\n\"What, it was he?\" said Viola.\n\n\"Yes, of course; he always does those things,\" said Eustace, speaking\nwith a tone of proprietorship, as if Harold had been a splendid\nself-acting steam-engine.  \"I am very glad to have gratified you, Miss\nTracy--\"\n\n\"Only he did, and not you,\" said Viola, boldly, luckily without being\nheard by her mother, while Eustace murmured out, rather bewildered, \"It\nis all the same.\"\n\nViola evidently did not think so when Harold came in with beads of wet\nfringing his whiskers, though he had divested himself of the chief\nevidences of the rivers of muddy lane through which he had walked to\nArked House, full four miles off.\n\nViola's profuse thanks were crossed by Lady Diana's curt apologies; and\nas poor Piggy, who had genuinely overslept himself, entered with his\napologies--poor fellow--in a voice very much as if he was trying to say\n\"Grumph, grumph,\" while he could only say \"Wee, wee,\" they were\nreceived solemnly by his uncle with, \"The antipodes are a rebuke to\nyou, Pigou.  I am afraid the young men of this hemisphere have no\ndisposition to emulate either such chivalrous attentions or exertions\nas have been Mr. Harold Alison's excuse.\"\n\nWhen so much was said about it, Harold probably wished he had let the\nwhole matter alone, and was thankful to be allowed to sit down in peace\nto his well-earned breakfast, which was finished before Dermot lounged\nin--not waited for by his uncle, who offered an exhibition of his\nmodel-farm-buildings, machines, cattle, &c.  Fain would Viola and I\nhave gone in the train of the gentlemen, but the weather, though not\nbad enough to daunt a tolerably hardy man, was too damp for me, and we\nhad to sit down to our work in the drawing-room, while Piggy, always\nhappier without his great-uncle, meandered about until Lady Diana\nordered off Viola to play at billiards with him, but kept me, for, as I\nperceived, the awful moment was come, and the only consolation was that\nit might be an opportunity of pleading Harold's cause.\n\nWith great censure of the Stympsons' ill-breeding and discourtesy to\nher brother (which seemed to affect her far more than the direct injury\nto Harold), and strong disclaimers of belief in them, still my mother's\nold friend must inquire into the character of these young men and my\nposition with regard to them.  If she had been tender instead of\ninquisitorial, I should have answered far more freely, and most likely\nthe air of defiance and defence into which she nettled me had a\npartisan look; but it was impossible not to remember that Miss Woolmer\nhad always said that, however she might censure the scandal of the\nStympsons, they only required to dish it up with sauce piquant to make\nher enjoy it heartily.\n\nAnd really and truly it did seem as if there was nothing in the whole\nlives of those poor youths on which those women had not contrived to\ncast some horrid stain; working backwards from the dead men's bones in\nthe pottery (Dermot had told her they used nothing but live men's\nbones), through imputations on Mr. George Yolland's character, and the\ncause of the catastrophe at the \"Dragon's Head;\" stories of my\nassociating with all the low, undesirable friends they picked up at\nMycening, or in the hunting-field; and as to the Australian part of the\nhistory, she would hardly mention to me all she had heard, even to have\nit confuted.\n\nI was not sure how far she did believe my assurances, or thought me\ndeceived, when I strenuously denied all evil intent from Harold towards\nhis poor wife, and explained that he had merely driven over a precipice\nin the dark, and had a brain fever afterwards; all I could see was\nthat, though not perfectly satisfied or convinced, she found that her\nbrother would not allow the separation to be kept up, and therefore she\nresumed her favourite office of adviser.  She examined me on the\nreligious habits of my nephews and niece, impressing on me that it was\nfor the sake of the latter that my presence at Arghouse was excusable;\nbut insisting that it was incumbent on me to provide her with an\nelderly governess, both for her sake and my own.  I was much afraid of\nhaving the governess at once thrust upon me; but, luckily, she did not\nhappen to have one of a chaperon kind of age on her list, so she\ncontented herself with much advice on what I was teaching Dora, so that\nperhaps I grew restive and was disposed to think it no concern of hers,\nnor did I tell her that much of the direction of Dora's lessons was\nwith a view to Harold; but she could not have been wholly displeased,\nsince she ended by telling me that mine was a vast opportunity, and\nthat the propriety of my residence at Arghouse entirely depended on the\ninfluence I exerted, since any acquiescence in lax and irreligious\nhabits would render my stay hurtful to all parties.  She worried me\ninto an inclination to drop all my poor little endeavours, since\ncertainly to have tried to follow out all the details of her counsel\nwould have alienated all three at once.\n\nNever was I more glad than when the luncheon-bell put a stop to the\nconversation, and the sun struggling out dispensed me from further\nendurance, and set me free to go with Viola to bestow her gifts,\ndisposing on the way of the overflow of talk that had been pent up for\nmonths past.  In the twilight, near the lodge of a favourite old nurse\nof Dermot's, we encountered all the younger gentlemen, and not only did\nViola drag her brother in but Harold also, to show to whom was owing\nthe arrival of her wonderful tea-pot cozy.\n\nThe good woman was just going to make her tea.  Viola insisted on\nshowing the use of her cozy, and making everybody stay to nurse's\nimpromptu kettledrum, and herself put in the pinches of tea.  Dermot\nchaffed all and sundry; Viola bustled about; Harold sat on the dresser,\nwith his blue eyes gleaming in the firelight with silent amusement and\nperfect satisfaction, the cat sitting on his shoulder; and nurse, who\nwas firmly persuaded that he had rescued her dear Master Dermot from\nthe fangs of the lion, was delighted to do her best for his\nentertainment.  Viola insisted on displaying all the curiosities--the\npuzzle-cup that could not be used, the horrid frog that sprang to your\nlips in the tankard, the rolling-pin covered with sentimental poetry,\nand her extraordinary French pictures on the walls.  Dermot kept us\nfull of merriment, and we laughed on till the sound of the\ndressing-bell sent us racing up to the castle in joyous guilt.  That\nkettledrum at the lodge is one of the brightest spots in my memory.\n\nWe were very merry all the evening in a suppressed way over the piano,\nViola, Dermot, and I singing, Harold looking on, and Eustace being left\na willing victim to the good counsel lavished by my lord and my lady,\nwho advised him nearly out of his senses and into their own best graces.\n\nBut we had not yet done with the amenities of the Stympsons.  The\nmorning's post brought letters to Lady Diana and Lord Erymanth, which\nwere swallowed by the lady with only a flush on her brow, but which\nprovoked from the gentleman a sharp interjection.\n\n\"Scandalous, libellous hags!\"\n\n\"The rara Avis?\" inquired Dermot.\n\nAnd in spite of Lady Diana's warning, \"Not now,\" Lord Erymanth\ndeclared, \"Avice, yes!  A bird whose quills are quills of iron dipped\nin venom, and her beak a brazen one, distilling  gall on all around. I\nshall inform her that she has made herself liable to an action for\nlibel.  A very fit lesson to her.\"\n\n\"What steps shall I take, my lord?\" said Eustace, with much importance.\n\"I shall be most happy to be guided by you.\"\n\n\"It is not you,\" said Lord Erymanth.\n\n\"Oh! if it is only _he_, it does not signify so much.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" observed Dermot.  \"What sinks some floats others.\"\n\nLady Diana here succeeded in hushing up the subject, Harold having said\nnothing all the time; but, after we broke up from breakfast, I had a\nprivate view of Lady Diana's letter, which was spiteful beyond\ndescription as far as we were concerned; making all manner of\naccusations on the authority of the Australian relations; the old\nstories exaggerated into horrible blackness, besides others for which I\ncould by no means account.  Gambling among the gold-diggers, horrid\nfrays in Victoria, and even cattle-stealing, were so impossible in a\nman who had always been a rich sheep farmer, that I laughed; yet they\nwere told by the cousins with strange circumstantiality.  Then came\nlater tales--about our ways at Arghouse--all as a warning against\npermitting any intercourse of the sweet child's, which might be abused.\nLady Diana was angered and vexed, but she was not a woman who rose\nabove the opinion of the world.  Her daughter, Di Enderby, was a friend\nof Birdie Stympson, and would be shocked; and she actually told me that\nI must perceive that, while such things were said, it was not\npossible--for her own Viola's sake--to keep up the intimacy she would\nhave wished.\n\nFor my part it seemed to me that, in Lady Diana's position, unjust\naccusations against a poor young girl were the very reason for\nbefriending her openly; but her ladyship spoke in a grand,\nauthoritative, regretful way, and habitual submission prevented me from\nmaking any protest beyond saying coldly, \"I am very sorry, but I cannot\ngive up my nephews.\"\n\nViola was not present.  It was supposed to be so shocking that she\ncould know nothing about it, but she flew into my room and raged like a\nlittle fury at the cruel wickedness of the Stympsons in trying to turn\neveryone's friends against them, and trumping up stories, and mamma\ngiving up as if she believed them.  She wished she was Dermot--she\nwished she was uncle Erymanth--she wished she was anybody, to stand up\nand do battle with those horrid women!--anybody but a poor little girl,\nwho must obey orders and be separated from her friends. And she cried,\nand made such violent assurances that I had to soothe and silence her,\nand remind her of her first duty, &c.\n\nLord Erymanth was a nobler being than his sister, and had reached up to\nclap Harold on the shoulder, while declaring that these assertions made\nno difference to him, and that he did not care the value of a straw for\nwhat Avice Stympson might say, though Harold had no defence but his own\ndenial of half the stories, and was forced to own that there was truth\nin some of the others.  He was deeply wounded.  \"Why cannot the women\nlet us keep our friends?\" he said, as I found him in the great hall.\n\n\"It is very hard,\" I said, with grief and anger.\n\n\"Very hard on the innocent,\" he answered.\n\nThen I saw he was preparing to set off to walk home, twelve miles, and\nremonstrated, since Lake Valley would probably be flooded.\n\n\"I must,\" he said; \"I must work it out with myself, whether I do\nEustace most harm or good by staying here.\"\n\nAnd off he went, with the long swift stride that was his way of walking\noff vexation.  I did not see him again till I was going up to dress,\nwhen I found him just inside the front door, struggling to get off his\nboots, which were perfectly sodden; while his whole dress, nay, even\nhis hair and beard, was soaked and drenched, so that I taxed him with\nhaving been in the water.\n\n\"Yes, I went in after a dog,\" he said, and as he gave a shiver, and had\njust pulled off his second boot, I asked no more questions, but hunted\nhim upstairs to put on dry clothes without loss of time; and when we\nmet at dinner, Eustace was so full of our doings at the castle, and\nDora of hers with Miss Woolmer, that his bath was entirely driven out\nof my head.\n\nBut the next day, as I was preparing for my afternoon's walk, the\nunwonted sound of our door-bell was heard. \"Is our introduction working\nalready?\" thought I, little expecting the announcement--\"The Misses\nStympson.\"\n\nHowever, there were Stympsons and Stympsons, so that even this did not\nprepare me for being rushed at by all three from Lake House--two aunts\nand one niece--Avice, Henny, and Birdie, with \"How is he?\" \"Where is\nhe?  He would not take anything.  I hope he went to bed and had\nsomething hot.\"  \"Is he in the house?  No cold, I hope.  We have\nbrought the poor dear fellow for him to see.  He seems in pain to-day;\nwe thought he would see him.\"\n\nAt last I got in a question edgeways as to the antecedents, as the trio\nkept on answering one another in chorus, \"Poor dear Nep--your\ncousin--nephew, I mean--the bravest--\"\n\nThen it flashed on me.  \"Do you mean that it was for your dog that\nHarold went into the water yesterday!\"\n\n\"Oh, the bravest, most generous, the most forgiving.  So tender-handed!\nIt must be all a calumny.  I wish we had never believed it. He could\nnever lift a hand against anyone.  We will contradict all rumours.\nReport is so scandalous.  Is he within?\"\n\nHarold had been at the Hydriot works ever since breakfast, but on my\nfirst question the chorus struck up again, and I might well quail at\nthe story.  \"Lake Mill; you know the place, Miss Alison?\"\n\nIndeed I did.  The lake, otherwise quiet to sluggishness, here was fed\nby the rapid little stream, and at the junction was a great mill, into\nwhich the water was guided by a sharp descent, which made it sweep down\nwith tremendous force, and, as I had seen from the train, the river was\nswelled by the thaw and spread far beyond its banks. \"The mill-race!\" I\ncried in horror.\n\n\"Just observe.  Dear Nep has such a passion for the water, and Birdie\nthoughtlessly threw a stick some way above the weir.  I never shall\nforget what I felt when I saw him carried along.  He struggled with his\nwhite paws, and moaned to us, but we could do nothing, and we thought\nto have seen him dashed to pieces before our eyes, when, somehow, his\nown struggles I fancy--he is so sagacious--brought him up in a lot of\nweeds and stuff against the post of the flood-gates, and that checked\nhim.  But we saw it could not last, and his strength was exhausted.\nPoor Birdie rushed down to beg them to stop the mill, but that could\nnever have been done in time, and the dear dog was on the point of\nbeing sucked in by the ruthless stream, moaning and looking appealingly\nto us for help, when, behold! that superb figure, like some divinity\ndescending, was with us, and with one brief inquiry he was in the\nwater.   We called out to him that the current was frightfully\nstrong--we knew a man's life ought not to be perilled; but he just\nsmiled, took up the great pole that lay near, and waded in.   I cannot\ndescribe the horror of seeing him breasting that stream, expecting, as\nwe did, to see him borne down by it into the wheel.  The miller shouted\nto him that it was madness, but he kept his footing like a rock.  He\nreached the place where the poor dog was, and the fury of the stream\nwas a little broken by the post, took up poor Nep and put him over his\nshoulder.  Nep was so good--lay like a lamb--while Mr. Alison fought\nhis way back, and it was harder still, being upwards.  The miller and\nhis men came out and cheered, thinking at least he would come out spent\nand want help; but no, he came out only panting a little, put down the\ndog, and when it moaned and seemed hurt he felt it all over so\ntenderly, found its leg was broken, took it into the miller's kitchen,\nand set it like any surgeon.  He would take nothing but a cup of tea,\nwhatever they said, and would not change his clothes--indeed, the\nmiller is a small man, so I don't see how he could--but I hope he took\nno harm.  He walked away before we could thank him.  But, oh dear! what\na wicked thing scandal is!  I will never believe anything report says\nagain.\"\n\nTo the end of their days the Misses Stympson believed that it was the\nconvenient impersonal rumour which had maligned Harold--not themselves.\n\nI was just parting with them when Harold appeared, and they surrounded\nhim, with an inextricable confusion of thanks--hopes that he had not\ncaught cold, and entreaties that he would look at his patient, whom\nthey had brought on the back seat of the barouche to have his leg\nexamined.  Harold said that his was self-taught surgery, but was\nassured that the dog would bear it better from him than any one, and\ncould not but consent.\n\nI noticed, however, that when he had to touch the great black\nNewfoundland dog, a strong shudder ran through his whole frame, and he\nhad to put a strong force on himself, though he spoke to it kindly, and\nit wagged its tail, and showed all the grateful, wistful affection of\nits kind, as he attended to it with a tender skill in which his former\ndistaste was lost; and the party drove away entreating him to come and\nrenew the treatment on the Monday, and asking us all to luncheon, but\nnot receiving a distinct answer in Eustace's absence, for he was very\ntenacious of his rights as master of the house.\n\nI was quite touched with the dog's parting caress to his preserver. \"So\nyou have conquered the birds with iron quills!\" I cried, triumphantly.\n\n\"Who were they?\" asked Harold, astonished.\n\n\"Surely you know them?  I never thought of introducing you.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that they were those women?\"\n\n\"Of course they were.  I thought you knew you were performing an act of\nheroic forgiveness.\"\n\nHarold's unfailing politeness towards me hindered him from saying\n\"heroic fiddlesticks,\" but he could not suppress a \"Faugh!\" which meant\nas much, and that mortified me considerably.\n\n\"Come now, Harry,\" I said, \"you don't mean that you would not have done\nit if you had known?\"\n\n\"I should not have let the poor beast drown because his mistresses were\nspiteful hags.\"  And there was a look on his face that made me cry out\nin pain, \"Don't, Harry!\"\n\n\"Don't what?\"\n\n\"Don't be unforgiving.  Say you forgive them.\"\n\n\"I can't.  I could as soon pardon Smith.\"\n\n\"But you ought to pardon both.  It would be generous.  It would be\nChristian.\"\n\nI was sorry I had said that, for he looked contemptuously and said, \"So\nthey teach you.  I call it weakness.\"\n\n\"Oh, Harry! dear Harry, no!  The highest strength!\"\n\n\"I don't understand that kind of talk,\" he said.  \"You don't know what\nthat Smith is to my poor mother!\"\n\n\"We won't talk of him; but, indeed, the Misses Stympson are grateful to\nyou, and are sorry.  Won't you go to them on Monday?\"\n\n\"No!  I don't like scandal-mongers.\"\n\n\"But you have quite conquered them.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?  If we are the brutes they tell those who would have\nbeen our friends, we are not less so because I pulled a dog out of the\nriver.\"\n\nThe hard look was on his face, and to my faint plea, \"The poor dog!\"\n\n\"The dog will do very well.\"  He went decisively out of the way of\nfurther persuasions, and when a formal note of invitation arrived, he\nsaid Eustace and I might go, but he should not.  He had something to do\nat the potteries; and as to the dog, the less it was meddled with the\nbetter.\n\n\"I know you hate black dogs,\" said Eustace; \"I only wonder you ever\ntouched it.\"\n\nHarold's brow lowered at this, and afterwards I asked Eustace to\naccount for the strange dislike.  He told me that the dogs at the store\nhad run yelping after the buggy on that fatal drive, and this and the\nmelancholy howl of the dingoes had always been supposed to be the cause\nof the special form of delirious fancy that had haunted Harold during\nthe illness following--that he was pursued and dragged down by a pack\nof black hounds, and that the idea had so far followed him that he\nstill had a sort of alienation from dogs, though he subdued it with a\nhigh hand.\n\nHe would still not go with us to Lake House, for go we did.  An\ninvitation was stimulating to Eustace, and though I much disliked the\nwomen, I knew we could not afford to reject an advance if we were not\nto continue out of humanity's reach.\n\nSo I went, and we were made much of in spite of the disappointment.\n\nHad not Mr. Harold Alison been so kind as to come over both Sunday and\nMonday morning and see to poor Nep in his kennel before they were down?\nOh, yes, they had heard of it from the stable-boy, and had charged him\nto take care the gentleman came in to breakfast, but he could not\npersuade him.  Such a pity he was too busy to come to-day!\n\nEustace gave learned and elaborate opinions on Nep, and gained the\nhearts of the ladies, who thenceforth proclaimed that Mr. Alison was a\nwonderfully finished gentleman, considering his opportunities; but Mr.\nHarold was at the best a rough diamond, so that once more his conquest\nhad been for Eustace rather than for himself.  They showed me, in\nself-justification, letters from their relations in Melbourne, speaking\nof the notorious Harry Alison as a huge bearded ruffian, and telling\nhorrid stories of his excesses in no measured terms.  Of course we\ndenied them, and represented that some other man must have borne the\nsame name, and gratitude made them agree; but the imputation lay there,\nready to revive at any time.  And there had been something in the whole\naffair that had not a happy effect on Harold.  He was more blunt, more\ngruff, less tolerant or ready to be pleased; Eustace's folly was no\nlonger incapable of provoking him; and even his gentleness towards Dora\nand me was with a greater effort, and he was plainly in an irritable\nstate of suppressed suffering of mind or temper, which only the strong\nforce he put upon himself kept in check.  My poor Harold, would he see\nthat there were moral achievements higher than his physical ones, and\nwould he learn that even his strength was not equal to them, unaided?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nBULLOCK'S CHASTISEMENT.\n\n\nThe next frosty day Dora and I set forth for a visit to the double\ncottage, where, on one side, dwelt a family with a newly-arrived baby;\non the other was Dame Jennings', with the dilapidated roof and chimney.\nI was glad to see Dora so happily and eagerly interested over the baby\nas to be more girl-like than I had yet seen her, though, comparing her\nto what she had been on her arrival, she was certainly a good deal\nsoftened and tamed.  \"Domesticated\" would really not have been so\ninappropriate a word in her case as it is in advertisements of\ncompanions.\n\nWe had come to the door, only divided from Mrs. Jennings's by a low\nfence and a few bushes, when voices struck on our ears, and we saw\nBullock's big, sturdy, John Bull form planted in a defiant attitude in\nthe garden-path before the door, where the old woman stood courtesying,\nand mingling entreating protestations against an additional sixpence a\nweek on her rent with petitions that at least the chimney might be made\nsound and the roof water-tight.\n\nThere is no denying that I did stand within the doorway to listen, for\nnot only did I not wish to encounter Bullock, but it seemed quite\njustifiable to ascertain whether the current whispers of his dealings\nwith the poor were true; indeed, there was no time to move before he\nreplied with a volley of such abuse, as I never heard before or since,\nat her impudence in making such a demand.\n\nI was so much shocked that I stood transfixed, forgetting even to draw\nDora away from the sound, while the old woman pleaded that \"Mr. Herod\"\nhad made the promise, and said nothing of increasing her rent. Probably\nBullock had been irritated by the works set on foot at Ogden's farm,\nfor he brought out another torrent of horrid imprecations upon \"the\nmeddling convict fellow,\" the least intolerable of the names he used,\nand of her for currying favour, threatening her with instant expulsion\nif she uttered a word of complaint, or mentioned the increase of her\nrent, and on her hesitation actually lifting his large heavy stick.\n\nWe both cried out and sprang forward, though I scarcely suppose that he\nwould have actually struck her.  But much more efficient help was at\nhand.  Bullock's broad back was to the gate, and he little knew that at\nthe moment he raised his stick Harold, attracted by his loud railing\nvoice, leaped over the gate, and with one bound was upon the fellow,\nwresting the stick from his hand and laying it about his shoulders with\nfurious energy.  We all screamed out.  Dora, it was suspected, bade him\ngo on and give it to him well, and perhaps my wrath with the man made\nme simply shriek; but the sense of our presence did (whatever we\nwished) check Harold's violence so far that he ceased his blows,\nthrowing the man from him with such force that he fell prone into the\npoor dame's gooseberry-bush, and had to pick himself up through\nnumerous scratches, just as we had hurried round through the garden.\n\nHe had regained his feet, and was slinking up to the gate as we met\nhim, and passionately exclaimed: \"Miss Alison, you have seen this; I\nshall call on you as my witness.\"\n\nDora called out something so vituperative that my energies went in\nsilencing her, nor do I think I answered Bullock, though at least it\nwas a relief to see that, having a great sou'-wester over all his other\nclothes, the force of the blows had been so broken that he could not\nhave any really serious injury to complain of.  It was not unfortunate,\nhowever, that he was so shaken and battered that he went first to\nexhibit himself to Dr. Kingston's new partner, and obtain a formidable\nscientific account of his sprains and bruises; so that Eustace had\nheard an account of the affray in the first place, and Dora, with a\nchild's innate satisfaction in repeating personalities, had not spared\nthe epithets with which Bullock had mentioned the \"fool of a squire.\"\nThe said squire, touched to the quick, went out invulnerable to his\ninterview, declaring that the agent had been rightly served, only\nwishing he had had more, and indignantly refusing Bullock's offer to\nabstain from prosecuting Mr. Harold Alison on receiving a handsome\ncompensation, and a promise never to be interfered with again.  Eustace\nreplied--too much, I fear, in his own coin--with orders to send in his\naccounts immediately and to consider himself dismissed from his agency\nfrom that hour; and then came back to us like a conquering hero,\nexulting in his own magnanimous firmness, which \"had shown he was not\nto be trifled with.\"\n\nBut he did not like it at all when Richardson came in trying to look\nquite impassive, and said to Harold, \"Some one wants to speak to you\nsir.\"\n\nHarold went, and returned without a word, except, \"You are wanted too,\nLucy,\" and I was not equally silent when I found it was to serve on me\nan order to appear as witness before the magistrates the next day, as\nto the assault upon Bullock.\n\nEustace was very much annoyed, and said it was disgraceful, and that\nHarold was always getting into scrapes, and would ruin him with all the\ncounty people, just as he was beginning to make way with them--a\npetulant kind of ingratitude which we had all learnt to tolerate as\n\"old Eu's way,\" and Dora announced that if he was put in prison, she\nshould go too.\n\nIt was only a Petty Sessions case, heard in the justice-room at\nMycening, and on the way the prisoner was chiefly occupied in assuring\nthe witness that there was nothing to be nervous about; and the squire,\nthat it would hurt nobody but himself; and, for his part, fine him as\nthey would, he would willingly pay twenty times as much to rid the\nplace of Bullock.\n\nThe bench--who sat at the upper end of a table--were three or four\nHorsmans and Stympsons, with Lord Erymanth in the chair par excellence,\nfor they all sat on chairs, and they gave the like to Eustace and me\nwhile we waited, poor Harold having put himself, in the custody of a\npoliceman, behind the rail which served as bar.\n\nWhen our turn came, Harold pleaded \"Guilty\" at once, not only for\ntruth's sake, but as meaning to spare me the interrogation; and Crabbe,\nwho was there on Bullock's behalf, looked greatly baffled and\ndisappointed; but the magistrates did not let it rest there, since the\namount of the fine of course would depend on the degree of violence,\n&c., so both Mrs. Jennings and I, and the doctor, were examined as\nwitnesses.\n\nI came first; and at first I did not find the inquiries half so\nalarming as I expected, since my neighbours spoke to me quite in a\nnatural way, and it was soon clear that my account of the matter was\nthe best possible defence of Harold in their eyes.  The unpleasant part\nwas when Crabbe not only insisted on my declaring on oath that I did\nnot think Bullock meant to strike the old woman, but on my actually\nrepeating the very words he had said, which he probably thought I\nshould flinch from doing; but he thereby made it the worse for himself.\nNo doubt he and Crabbe had reckoned on our general unpopularity, and\nhad not judged it so as to discover the reaction that had set in.  An\nendeavour to show that we were acting as spies on the trustworthy old\nservant, in order to undermine him with his master, totally failed,\nand, at last, the heavy fine of one shilling was imposed upon\nHarold--as near an equivalent as possible to dismissing the case\naltogether.  Lord Erymanth himself observed to Eustace, \"that he felt,\nif he might say so, to a certain degree implicated, since he had\nadvised the dismissal of Bullock, but scarcely after this fashion.\"\nHowever, he said he hoped to have Eustace among them soon in another\ncapacity, and this elevated him immensely.\n\nThe case had taken wind among the workmen at the potteries; and as we\ncame out at their dinner-hour, there was a great assemblage, loudly\ncheering, \"Alison, the poor man's friend!\"\n\nEustace stood smiling and fingering his hat, till Captain Stympson, who\ncame out with us, hinted, as he stood between the two young men, that\nit had better be stopped as soon as possible.  \"One may soon have too\nmuch of such things,\" and then Eustace turned round on Harold, and\ndeclared it was \"just his way to bring all the Mycening mob after\nthem.\"  Whereat Harold, without further answer, observed, \"You'll see\nLucy home then,\" and plunged down among the men, who, as if nothing had\nbeen wanting to give them a fellow-feeling for him but his having been\nup before the magistrates, stretched out hands to shake; and as he\nmarched down between a lane of them, turned and followed the lofty\nstandard of his head towards their precincts.\n\nBullock, in great wrath and indignation, sent in his accounts that\nnight with a heavy balance due to him from Eustace, which Harold saw\nstrong cause to dispute.  But that battle, in which, of course, Crabbe\nwas Bullock's adviser, and did all he could to annoy us, was a matter\nof many months, and did not affect our life very closely. Harold was in\neffect Eustace's agent, and being a very good accountant, as well as\nhaving the confidence of the tenants, all was put in good train in that\nquarter, and Mr. Alison was in the way to be respected as an excellent\nlandlord and improver.  People were calling on us, and we were\nevidently being taken into our proper place.  Lady Diana no longer\nwithheld her countenance, and though she only called on me in state she\nallowed Viola to write plenty of notes to me.\n\nBut I must go on to that day when Harold and Eustace were to have a\nhunting day with the Foling hounds, and dine afterwards with some of\nthe members of the hunt at the Fox Hotel at Foling, a favourite meet.\nThey were to sleep at Biston, and I saw nothing of them the next day\ntill Eustace came home alone, only just in time for a late dinner, and\ngrowled out rather crossly that Harold had chosen to walk home, and not\nto be waited for.  Eustace himself was out of sorts and tired, eating\nlittle and hardly vouchsafing a word, except to grumble at us and the\nfood, and though we heard Harold come in about nine o'clock, he did not\ncome in, but went up to his room.\n\nEustace was himself again the next morning, but Harold was gone out.\nHowever, as, since he had been agent, he had often been out and busy\nlong before breakfast, this would not have been remarkable, but that\nEustace was ill at ease, and at last said, \"The fact is, Lucy, he has\nbeen 'screwed' again, and has not got over it.\"\n\nI was so innocent that only Dora's passion with her brother revealed to\nme his meaning, and then I was inexpressibly horrified and angry, for I\ndid not think Harold could have broken his own word or the faith on\nwhich I had taken up my abode with them, and the disappointment in him,\nembittered, I fear, by the sense of personal injury, was almost\nunbearable.\n\nEustace muttered something in excuse which I could not understand, and\nI thought was only laxity on his part.  I told him that, if such things\nwere to happen, his house was no home for me.  And he began, \"Come now,\nLucy, I say, that's hard, when 'twas Harold, and not me, and all those\nfellows--\"\n\n\"What fellows?\"\n\n\"Oh, Malvoisin and Nessy Horsman, you know.\"\n\nI knew they were the evil geniuses of Dermot's life.  Lord Malvoisin\nhad been his first tempter as boys at their tutor's, and again in the\nGuards; and Ernest, or Nessy, Horsman was the mauvais sujet of the\nfamily, who never was heard of without some disgraceful story.   And\nDermot had led my boys among these.  All that had brightened life so\nmuch to me had suddenly vanished.\n\nIt was Ash Wednesday, and I am afraid I went through my Lenten services\nin the spirit of the elder son, nursing my virtuous indignation, and\ndwelling chiefly on what would become of me if Arghouse were to be made\nuninhabitable, as I foresaw.\n\nI was ashamed to consult Miss Woolmer, and spent the afternoon in\nrestless attempts to settle to something, but feeling as if nothing\nwere worth while, not even attending to Dora, since my faith in Harold\nhad given way, and he had broken his word and returned to his vice.\n\nShould I go to church again, and spare myself the meeting him at\ndinner?  I was just considering, when Mr. George Yolland came limping\nup the drive, and the sight was the first shock to the selfish side of\nmy grief.  \"Is anything the matter?\" I asked, trying to speak sternly,\nbut my heart thumping terribly.\n\n\"No--yes--not exactly,\" he said hastily; \"but can you come, Miss\nAlison?  I believe you are the only person who can be of use.\"\n\n\"Then is he ill?\" I asked, still coldly, not being quite sure whether I\nought to forgive.\n\n\"Not bodily, but his despair over what has taken place is beyond us\nall.  He sits silent over the accounts in his room at the office; will\ntalk to none of us.  Mr. Alison has tried--I have--Ben and all of us.\nHe never looks up but to call for soda-water.  If he yields again, it\nwill soon be acute dipsomania, and then--\" he shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"But what do you mean?  What can I do?\" said I, walking on by his side\nall the time.\n\n\"Take him home.  Give him hope and motive.  Get him away, at any rate,\nbefore those fellows come.  Mr. Tracy was over at Mycening this\nmorning, and said they talked of coming to sleep at the 'Boar,' for the\nmeet to-morrow, and looking him up.\"\n\n\"Lord Malvoisin?\" I asked.\n\nAnd as I walked on, Mr. Yolland told me what I had not understood from\nEustace, that there had been an outcry among the more reckless of the\nFoling Hunt that so good a fellow should be a teetotaller. Dermot Tracy\nhad been defied into betting upon the resolute abstinence of his\nhero--nay, perhaps the truth was that these men had felt that their\nvictim was being attracted from their grasp, and a Satanic instinct\nmade them strive to degrade his idol in his eyes.\n\nSo advantage was taken of the Australian's ignorance of the names of\nliqueurs.  Perhaps the wine in the soup had already caused some\nexcitement in the head--unaccustomed to any stimulant ever since the\naccident and illness which had rendered it inflammable to a degree no\none suspected.  When once the first glass was swallowed, the dreadful\nwork was easy, resolution and judgment were obscured, and the old\nhabits and cravings of the days when poor Harold had been a hard\ndrinker had been revived in full force.  Uproarious mirth and wild\nfeats of strength seemed to have been the consequence, ending by\nprovoking the interference of the police, who had locked up till the\nmorning such of the party as could not escape.  Happily, the stupefied\nstage had so far set in that Harold had made it no worse by offering\nresistance, and Dermot had managed to get the matter hushed up by the\nauthorities at Foling.  This was what he had come to say, but Harold\nhad been very brief and harsh with him; though he was thoroughly\nangered and disgusted at the conduct of his friends, and repeated,\nhotly, that he had been treated with treachery such as he could never\nforgive.\n\nSo we came to the former \"Dragon's Head,\" where Harold had fitted up a\nsort of office for himself.  Mr. Yolland bade me go up alone, and\npersuade him to come home with me.  I was in the greater fright,\nbecause of the selfishness which had mingled with the morning's\nindignation, but I had just presence of mind enough for an inarticulate\nprayer through the throbbings of my heart ere knocking, and at once\nentering the room where, under a jet of gas, Harold sat at a desk,\nloaded with papers and ledgers, on which he had laid down his head.  I\nwent up to him, and laid my hand as near his brow as his position would\nlet me.  Oh, how it burnt!\n\nHe looked up with a face half haggard, half sullen with misery, and\nhoarsely said, \"Lucy, how came you here?\"\n\n\"I came in to get you to walk home with me.\"\n\n\"I'll get a fly for you.\"\n\n(This would be going to the \"Boar,\" the very place to meet these men.)\n\n\"Oh no! please don't.  I should like the walk with you.\"\n\n\"I can't go home yet.  I have something to do.  I must make up these\nbooks.\"\n\n\"But why?  There can't be any haste.\"\n\n\"Yes.  I shall put them into Yolland's hands and go by the next mail.\"\n\n\"Harold!  You promised to stay till Eustace was in good hands.\"\n\nHe laughed harshly.  \"You have learnt what my promise is worth!\"\n\n\"Oh Harold! don't.  You were cheated and betrayed.  They took a wicked\nadvantage of you.\"\n\n\"I knew what I was about,\" he said, with the same grim laugh at my\nfolly. \"What is a man worth who has lost his self-command?\"\n\n\"He may regain it,\" I gasped out, for his look and manner frightened me\ndreadfully.\n\nHe made an inarticulate sound of scorn, but, seeing perhaps the\ndistress in my face, he added more gently, \"No, Lucy, this is really\nbest; I am not fit to be with you.  I have broken my word of honour,\nand lost all that these months had gained.  I should only drag Eustace\ndown if I stayed.\"\n\n\"Why?  Oh, why?  It was through their deceit.  Oh, Harry! there is not\nsuch harm done that you cannot retrieve.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, emphatically.  \"Understand what you are asking.  My\nsafeguard of an unbroken word is gone!  The longing for that\nstuff--accursed though I know it--is awakened.  Nothing but shame at\ngiving way before these poor fellows that I have preached temperance to\nwithholds me at this very moment.\"\n\n\"But it does withhold you!  Oh, Harold!  You know you can be strong.\nYou know God gives strength, if you would only try.\"\n\n\"I know you say so.\"\n\n\"Because I know it.  Oh, Harold! try my way.  Do ask God to give you\nwhat you want to stand up against this.\"\n\n\"If I did, it would not undo the past.\"\n\n\"Something else can do that.\"\n\nHe did not answer, but reached his hat, saying something again about\ntime, and the fly.  I must make another effort.  \"Oh, Harold! give up\nthis!  Do not be so cruel to Dora and to me.  Have you made us love you\nbetter than anybody, only to go away from us in this dreadful way,\nknowing it is to give yourself up to destruction?  Do you want to break\nour hearts?\"\n\n\"Me!\" he said, in a dreamy way.  \"You don't really care for me?\"\n\n\"I?  Oh, Harry, when you have grown to be my brother, when you are all\nthat I have in this world to lean on and help me, will you take\nyourself away?\"\n\n\"It might be better for you,\" he said.\n\n\"But it _will_ not,\" I said; \"you will stay and go on, and God will\nmake your strength perfect to conquer this dreadful thing too.\"\n\n\"You shall try it then,\" he said, and he began to sweep those accounts\ninto a drawer as if he had done with them for the night, and as he\nbrought his head within my reach, I could not but kiss his forehead as\nI said, \"Thank you, my Harry.\"\n\nHe screwed his lips together, with a strange half-smile very near\ntears, emptied the rest of a bottle of soda-water into a tumbler,\ngulped it down, opened the door, turned down the gas, and came down\nwith me.  Mr. Yolland was watching, I well knew, but he discreetly kept\nout of sight, and we came out into a very cold raw street, with the\nstars twinkling overhead, smiling at us with joy I thought, and the\nbells were ringing for evening service.\n\nBut our dangers were not over.  We had just emerged into the main\nstreet when a dog-cart came dashing up, the two cigars in it looming\nred.  It was pulled up.  Harold's outline could be recognised in any\nlight, but I was entirely hidden in his great shadow, and a voice\ncalled out:\n\n\"Halloo, Alison, how do?  A chop and claret at the 'Boar'--eh?  Come\nalong.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Harold, \"but I am walking home with Miss Alison--\"\n\nThe two gentlemen bowed, and I bowed, and oh! how I gripped Harold's\narm as I heard the reply; not openly derisive to a lady, but with a\nsneer in the voice, \"Oh! ah! yes!  But you'll come when you've seen her\nhome.  We'll send on the dog-cart for you.\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said Harold.  His voice sounded firm, but I felt the\nthrill all through the arm I clung to.  \"Good night.\"\n\nHe attempted no excuse, but strode on--I had to run to keep up with\nhim--and they drove on by our side, and Nessy Horsman said, \"A prior\nengagement, eh?  And Miss Alison will not release you?  Ladies' claims\nare sacred, we all know.\"\n\nWhat possessed me I don't know, nor how I did it, but it was in the\ndark and I was wrought up, and I answered, \"And yours can scarcely be\nso!  So we will go on, Harold.\"\n\n\"A fair hit, Nessy,\" and there was a laugh and flourish of the whip. I\nwas trembling, and a dark cloud had drifted up with a bitter blast, and\nthe first hailstones were falling.  The door of the church was opened\nfor a moment, showing bright light from within; the bells had ceased.\n\n\"My dear Lucy,\" said Harold, \"you had better go in here for shelter.\"\n\n\"Not if you leave me!  You must come with me,\" I said, still dreading\nthat he would leave me in church, send a fly, and fall a victim at the\n\"Boar;\" and, indeed, I was shaking so, that he would not withdraw his\narm, and said, soothingly, \"I'm coming.\"\n\nOh! that blessed hailstorm that drove us in!  I drew Harold into a seat\nby the door, keeping between him and that, that he might not escape.\nBut I need not have feared.\n\nBen Yolland's voice was just beginning the Confession.  It had so\nrarely been heard by Harold that repetition had not blunted his ears to\nthe sound, and presently I heard a short, low, sobbing gasp, and looked\nround.  Harold was on his knees, his hands over his face, and his\nbreath coming short and thick as those old words spoke out that very\ndumb inarticulate shame, grief, and agony, that had been swelling and\nbursting in his heart without utterance or form--\"We have erred and\nstrayed--there is no health in us--\"\n\nWe were far behind everyone else--almost in the dark.  I don't think\nanyone knew we were there, and Harold did not stand up throughout the\nwhole service, but kept his hands locked over his brow, and knelt on.\nPerhaps he heard little more, from the ringing of those words in his\nears, for he moved no more, nor looked up, through prayers or psalms,\nor anything else, until the brief ceremony was entirely over, and I\ntouched him; and then he looked up, and his eyes were swimming and\nstreaming with tears.\n\nWe came to the door as if he was in a dream, and there a bitterly cold\nblast met us, though the rain had ceased.  I was not clad for a night\nwalk.  Harold again proposed fetching a carriage from the \"Boar,\" but I\ncried out against that--\"I would much, much rather walk with him.  It\nwas fine now.\"\n\nSo we went the length of the street, and just then down came the blast\non us; oh! such a hurricane, bringing another hailstorm on its wings,\nand sweeping along, so that I could hardly have stood but for Harold's\narm; and after a minute or two of labouring on, he lifted me up in his\narms, and bore me along as if I had been a baby.  Oh! I remember\nnothing so comfortable as that sensation after the breathless encounter\nwith the storm.  It always comes back to me when I hear the words, \"A\nman shall be as a hiding-place from the tempest, a covert from the\nwind.\"\n\nHe did not set me down till we were at the front door.  We were both\nwet through, cold, and spent, and it was past nine, so long as it had\ntaken him to labour on in the tempest.  Eustace came out grumbling in\nhis petulant way at our absence from dinner.  I don't think either of\nus could bear it just then: Harold went up to his room without a word;\nI stayed to tell that he had seen me home from church, and say a little\nabout the fearful weather, and then ran up myself, to give orders, as\nMr. Yolland had advised me, that some strong hot coffee should be taken\nat once to Harold's room.\n\nI thought it would be besetting him to go and see after him myself, but\nI let Dora knock at his door, and heard he had gone to bed.  To me it\nwas a long night of tossing and half-sleep, hearing the wild stormy\nwind, and dreaming of strange things, praying all the time that the\nnoble soul might be won for God at last, and almost feeling, like the\nIcelander during the conversion of his country, the struggle between\nthe dark spirits and the white.\n\nI had caught a heavy cold, and should have stayed in bed had I not been\nfar too anxious; and I am glad I did not, for I had not been many\nminutes in my sitting-room before there was a knock at the door, and\nHarold came in, and what he said was, \"Lucy, how does one pray?\"\n\nPoor boys!  Their mothers, in the revulsion from all that had seemed\nlike a system of bondage, had held lightly by their faith, and in the\ncares and troubles of their life had heeded little of their children's\ndevotions, so that the practical heathenism of their home at Boola\nBoola had been unrelieved save by Eustace the elder, when his piety was\nreckoned as part of his weak, gentlemanly refinement. The dull hopeless\nwretchedness was no longer in Harold's face, but there was a wistful,\ngentle weariness, and yet rest in it, which was very touching, as he\ncame to me with his strange sad question, \"How does one pray?\"\n\nI don't know exactly how I answered it.  I hardly could speak for\ncrying, as I told him the very same things one tells the little\nchildren, and tried to find him some book to help; but my books no more\nsuited him than my clothes would have done, till he said, \"I want what\nthey said in church yesterday.\"\n\nAnd as we knelt together, and I said it, the 51st Psalm came to my\nmind, and I went through it, oh! how differently from when I had said\nit the day before.  \"Ah!\" he said at the end, \"thank you.\"\n\nAnd then he stood and looked at the picture which was as his child's to\nhim, turned and said, \"Well for him that he is out of all this!\"\n\nPresently, when I had marked a Prayer Book for him, he said, \"And may I\nask that the--the craving I told you of may not come on so intolerably?\"\n\n\"'Ask, and it shall be given,'\" I said.  \"It may not go at once, dear\nHarold.  Temptation does come, but only to be conquered; and you will\nconquer now.\"\n\nWe went down to breakfast, where Eustace appeared in full hunting trim,\nbut Harold in the rough coat and long gaiters that meant farming work;\nand to Eustace's invitations to the run, he replied by saying he heard\nthat Phil Ogden had been to ask him about some difficulty in the\ntrenching work, and he was going to see to it.  So he spent the\ndaylight hours in one of those digging and toiling tasks of his \"that\nthree day-labourers could not end.\"  I saw him coming home at six\no'clock, clay up to the eyes, and having achieved wholesome hunger and\nwholesome sleepiness.\n\nEustace had come in cross.  He had been chaffed about Harold's\nshirking, and being a dutiful nephew, and he did not like it at all. He\nthought Harold ought to have come out for his sake, and to show they\ndid not care.  \"I do care,\" said Harold.  And when Eustace, with his\nusual taste, mentioned that they had laughed at the poor fellow led\nmeekly home by his aunt, Harold laid a kind hand on mine, which spoke\nmore than words.  I had reason to think that his struggle lasted some\ntime longer, and that the enemy he had reawakened was slow of being\nlaid to rest, so that he was for weeks undergoing the dire conflict;\nbut he gave as little sign as possible, and he certainly conquered.\n\nAnd from that time there certainly was a change.  He was not a man\nwithout God any longer.  He had learnt that he could not keep himself\nstraight, and had enough of the childlike nature to believe there was\nOne who could.  I don't mean that he came at once to be all I could\nhave wished or figured to myself as a religious man.  He went to church\non Sunday morning now, chiefly, I do believe, for love of the\nConfession, which was the one voice for his needs; and partly, too,\nbecause I had pressed for that outward token, thinking that it would\nlead him on to more; but it generally seemed more weariness than\nprofit, and he never could sit still five minutes without falling\nasleep, so that he missed even those sermons of Mr. Ben Yolland's that\nI thought must do him good.\n\nI tried once, when, feeling how small my powers were beside his, to get\nhim to talk to this same Mr. Yolland, whose work among the pottery\npeople he tried to second, but he recoiled with a tone half scorn, half\nreserve, which showed that he would bear no pressure in that direction.\nOnly he came to my sitting-room every morning, as if kneeling with me a\nfew moments, and reading a few short verses, were to be his safeguard\nfor the day, and sometimes he would ask me a question.  Much did I long\nfor counsel in dealing with him, but I durst seek none, except once,\nwhen something Mr. Ben Yolland said about his having expressed strong\naffection for me, made me say, \"If only I were fitter to deal with\nhim,\" the answer was, \"Go on as you are doing; that is better for him\nas yet than anything else.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE CHAMPION'S BELT.\n\n\nAfter all, the fates sent us a chaperon.  A letter came addressed to my\nmother, and proved to be from the clergyman of a village in the\nremotest corner of Devonshire, where a cousin of my father had once\nbeen vicar.  His widow, the daughter of his predecessor, had lived on\nthere, but, owing to the misdoings of her son and the failure of a\nbank, she was in much distress.  All intercourse with the family had\ndropped since my father's death, but the present vicar, casting about\nfor means of helping her, had elicited that the Arghouse family were\nthe only relations she knew of, and had written to ask assistance for\nher.\n\n\"I will go and see about her,\" said Harold.  So he shouldered his bag,\nwalked into Mycening, and started in the tender, the only place where\nhe could endure railway travelling.  Four days later came this note:\n\n\n                                             \"Thursday.\n\n\"My Dear Lucy,--Send the carriage to meet Mrs. Alison at 4.40 on\nSaturday.  Your affectionate\n\n                                                \"H. A.\"\n\n\nI handed the note to Eustace in amazement, but I perceived that he,\nlike his cousin, thought it quite simple that the home of the head of\nthe family should be a refuge for all its waifs and strays, and as I\nwas one myself, I felt rebuked.\n\nI went to Mycening in the carriage, and beheld Harold emerge from a\nfirst-class, extracting therefrom one basket after another, two\nbird-cages, a bundle, an umbrella, a parcel, a cloak, and, finally, a\nlittle panting apple-cheeked old lady.  \"Here's Lucy! that's right.\"\nAnd as both his hands were full, he honoured me with a hasty kiss on\nthe forehead.  \"She'll take care of you, while I get the rest of it.\"\n\n\"But, oh!--my dear man--my pussy--and--and your wadded cloak--and,\noh--my sable muff--your poor papa's present, I would not lose it for a\nthousand pounds!\"\n\nI found the muff, which could not easily be overlooked, for it was as\nbig as a portmanteau, and stuffed full of sundries.  \"Oh dear yes, my\ndear, thank you, so it is; but the cat--my poor pussy.  No, my dear,\nthat's the bantams--very choice.  My poor little Henry had them given\nto him when he was six years old--the old ones I mean--and I've never\nparted with them.  'Take them all,' he said--so good; but, oh dear.\nTit!  Tit!  Tittie!  He was playing with her just now.  Has anyone seen\na tabby cat?  Bless me, there it goes!  So dreadful!  It takes one's\nbreath away, and all my things.  Oh! where is he?\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Harold.  \"There are your boxes, and here's your cat,\"\nshowing a striped head under his coat.  \"Now say what you want\nto-night, and I'll send for the rest.\"\n\nShe looked wildly about, uttering an incoherent inventory, which Harold\ncut short by handing over articles to the porter according to his own\njudgment, and sweeping her into the carriage, returning as I was\npicking up the odds and ends that had been shed on the way.  \"You have\nhad a considerable charge,\" said I, between amusement and dismay.\n\n\"Poor old thing, comfort her!  She never saw a train before, and is\nregularly overset.\"\n\nHe put me into the carriage, emptied his pockets of the cat and other\ntrifles, and vanished in the twilight, the old lady gaspingly calling\nafter him, and I soothing her by explaining that he always liked\nwalking home to stretch his legs, while she hoped I was sure, and that\nit was not want of room.  Truly a man of his size could not well have\nbeen squeezed in with her paraphernalia, but I did my best to console\nthe old lady for the absence of her protector, and I began at last to\nlearn, as best I could from her bewildered and entangled speech, how he\nhad arrived, taken the whole management of her affairs, and insisted on\ncarrying her off; but her gratitude was strangely confused with her new\nrailway experiences and her anxieties about her parcels.  I felt as if\nI had drifted a little bit farther from old times, when we held our\nheads rather fastidiously high above \"odd people.\"\n\nBut old Mrs. Samuel Alison _was_ a lady, as even Lady Diana allowed;\nbut of a kind nearly extinct.  She had only visited London and Bath\nonce, on her wedding tour, in the days of stage-coaches; there was\nprovincialism in her speech, and the little she had ever been taught\nshe had forgotten, and she was the most puzzle-headed woman I ever\nencountered.  I do not think she ever realised that it was at Harold's\nown expense that her rent and other little accounts had been paid up,\nnor that Eustace was maintaining her.  She thought herself only on a\nlong visit, and trusted the assurances that Harold was settling\neverything for ever.  The L30 income which remained to her out of one\nof L200 served for her pocket-money, and all else was provided for her,\nwithout her precisely understanding how; nor did she seem equal to the\ncomplications of her new home.  She knew our history in a certain sort\nof way, but she spoke of one of us to the other as \"your brother,\" or\n\"your sister,\" and the late Mr. Sam always figured as \"your poor papa.\"\nWe tried at first to correct her, but never got her farther than \"your\npoor uncle,\" and at last we all acquiesced except Eustace, who tried\nexplanations with greater perseverance than effect.  Her excuse always\nwas that Harold was so exactly like her poor dear little Henry, except\nfor his beard, that she could almost think she was speaking to him!\nShe was somewhat deaf, and did not like to avow it, which accounted for\nsome of her blunders.  One thing she could never understand, namely,\nwhy Harold and Eustace had never met her \"poor little Henry\" in\nAustralia, which she always seemed to think about as big as the Isle of\nWight.  He had been last heard of at Melbourne; and we might tell her a\nhundred times that she might as well wonder we had not met a man at\nEdinburgh; she always recurred to \"I do so wish you had seen my poor\ndear little Henry!\" till Harold arrived at a promise to seek out the\nsaid Henry, who, by all appearances, was an unmitigated scamp, whenever\nhe should return to Australia.\n\nOn the whole, her presence was very good for us, if only by infusing\nthe element of age.  She liked to potter about in the morning,\nattending to her birds and bantams, and talking to the gardening men,\nweeding women, and all the people in the adjacent hamlet; and,\nafterwards, the fireside, with her knitting and a newspaper, sufficed\nher.  Not the daily papers--they were far too much for her; but the\nweekly paper from her own town, which lasted her till a new one came,\nas she spelled it through, and communicated the facts and facetiae as\nshe thought them suited to our capacity.  She was a better walker than\nI, and would seldom come out in the carriage, for she always caught\ncold when she did so.  A long nap after dinner ended in her resuming\nher knitting quite contentedly in silence.  She wanted no more, though\nshe was pleased if any one said a few kindly words to her.  Nothing\ncould be more inoffensive, and she gave us a centre and something\nneeding consideration.  I feared Dora might be saucy to her, but\nperhaps motherliness was what the wild child needed, for she drew\ntowards her, and was softened, and even submitted to learn to knit, for\nthe sake of the mighty labour of making a pair of socks for Harold.\n\nThe respectability her presence gave in our pew, and by our hearth, was\na great comfort to our friends of all degrees.  She was a very pretty\nold lady, with dark eyes, cheeks still rosy, lovely loose waves of\nshort snowy curls, and a neat, active little figure, which looked well\nin the good black silks in which I contrived to invest her.\n\nGood old woman, she thought us all shockingly full of worldliness,\nlittle guessing how much gaiety was due to her meek presence among us.\nWe even gave dinner-parties in state, and what Richardson and I\nunderwent from Eustace in preparation, no tongue can tell, nor\nEustace's complacence in handing down Lady Diana!\n\nThe embargo on intercourse with Arked House was over before Viola was\ntaken to London to be introduced.  Eustace wanted much to follow them,\nbe at the levee, and spend the season in town.  Had he not been\npresented at Government House, and was it not due to the Queen?  Dora\nmore practically offered to follow the example of the Siberian exile,\nand lay a petition for Prometesky's release at her Majesty's feet, but\nHarold uttered his ponderous \"No\" alike to both, proving, in his\ncapacity as agent, that Eustace had nothing like the amount this year\nwhich could enable him to spend two or three months even as a single\nman in London society.  The requisite amount, which he had ascertained,\nwas startling, even had Eustace been likely to be frugal; nor could\nthis year's income justify it, in spite of Boola Boola.  The expense of\ncoming into the estate, together with all the repairs and improvements,\nhad been such that the Australian property had been needed to\nsupplement the new.  Eustace was very angry and disappointed, and\ngrumbled vehemently.  It was all Harry's fault for making him spend\nhundreds on his own maggots, that nobody wanted and nobody cared about,\nand would be the ruin of him.  Poor Bullock would have raised the sum\nfast enough, and thought nothing of it.\n\nHarry never said how much of his own funds from Boola Boola had\nsupplemented Eustace's outlay; he did not even say how much better it\nwas to be a good landlord than a man about town; all he did was to\ngrowl forth to his spoilt child, \"There'll be more forthcoming next\nyear.\"\n\nEustace protested that he did not believe it, and Harold replied, \"No\nlegacy duty--no stock to purchase--Hydriots' dividend--\"\n\nIt did not check the murmur, and Eustace sulked all the rest of the\nday; indeed, this has always seemed to me to have been the first little\nrift in his adherence to his cousin, but at that time his dependence\nwas so absolute, and his power of separate action so small, that he\nsubmitted to the decree even while he grumbled; and when he found that\nLord Erymanth viewed it as very undesirable for a young man to come up\nto London without either home or business, or political views, took to\nhimself great credit for the wise decision.\n\nIndeed, Lord Erymanth did invite us all for a fortnight to his great\nold mansion in Piccadilly to see the Exhibition, and, as he solemnly\ntold me, \"to observe enough of our institutions as may prepare my young\nfriends for future life.\"  Even Dora was asked, by special entreaty\nfrom Viola, who undertook to look after her--rather too boldly,\nconsidering that Di--i.e. Mrs. Enderby--was mistress of Viola's\nmovements, and did not leave her much time to waste upon us.\n\nIn fact, Mrs. Enderby, though perfectly civil, was evidently hostile to\nus, and tried to keep her sister out of our way as much as she could,\nthickening engagements upon her, at which Viola made all the comical\nmurmurs her Irish blood could prompt, but of course in vain. Eustace's\ngreat ambition was to follow her to her parties, and Lady Diana\nfavoured him when she could; but Harold would have nothing to do with\nsuch penances.  He never missed a chance of seeing Viola come down\nattired for them, but, as he once said, \"that was enough for him.\"  He\ndid not want to see her handed about and grimaced at by a lot of fine\ngentlemen who did not seem to think anything worth the trouble; and as\nto the crowd and the stifling, they made him feel ready to strike out\nand knock everyone down.\n\nSo much Eustace and I elicited in short sentences one day, when we were\nrather foolishly urging on him to let himself be taken with us to an\nevening party.  No, he went his own way and took Dora with him, and I\nwas quite sure that they were safe together, and that after his year's\nexperience he was to be trusted to know where it was fitting to take\nher.  They saw a good deal that was more entertaining than we could\nventure on; and, moreover, Harold improved his mind considerably in the\nmatters of pottery, porcelain, and model lodging-houses.\n\nDermot was in London too, not staying with uncle or sister, for both of\nwhom he was much too erratic, though he generally presented himself at\nsuch times as were fittest for ascertaining our movements for the day,\nwhen it generally ended in his attaching himself to some of us, for\nHarold seemed to have passed an act of oblivion on the doings of that\nlast unhappy meeting, and allowed himself to be taken once or twice\nwith Eustace into Dermot's own world; but not only was he on his guard\nthere, but he could not be roused to interest even where horseflesh was\nconcerned.  Some one said he was too great a barbarian, and so he was.\nHis sports and revelries had been on a wilder, ruder, more violent\nscale, such as made these seem tame.  He did not understand mere\ntrifling for amusement's sake, still less how money could be thrown\naway for it and for fashion, when it was so cruelly wanted by real\nneeds; and even Dermot was made uncomfortable by his thorough\nearnestness.  \"It won't do in 'the village' in the nineteenth century,\"\nsaid he to me.  \"It is like--who was that old fellow it was said of--a\nlion stalking about in a sheepfold.\"\n\n\"Sheep!\" said I, indignantly.  \"I am afraid some are wolves in sheep's\nclothing.\"\n\nDermot shrugged his shoulders and said, \"How is one to help oneself if\none has been born some two thousand years too late, or not in the new\nhalf-baked hemisphere where demigods still walk the earth in their\nsimplicity?\"\n\n\"I want you not to spoil the demigod when he has walked in among you.\"\n\n\"I envy him too much to do that,\" said Dermot with a sigh.\n\n\"I believe you, Dermot, but don't take him among those who want to do\nso.\"\n\n\"That's your faith in your demigod,\" said Dermot, not able to resist a\nlittle teasing; but seeing I was really pained, he added: \"No, Lucy,\nI'll never take him again to meet Malvoisin and Nessy Horsman. In the\nfirst place, I don't know how he might treat them; and in the next, I\nwould die sooner than give them another chance, even if he would.  I\nthought the men would have been struck with him as I was; but no, it is\nnot in them to be struck with anyone.  All they think of is how to make\nhim like themselves.\"\n\n\"Comus' crew!\" said I.  \"Oh! Dermot, how can you see it and be one of\nthem?\"\n\n\"I'm not happy enough to be an outer barbarian,\" he said, and went his\nway.\n\nThere was a loan exhibition of curious old objects in plate and\njewellery, to which Lady Diana took me, and where, among other things,\nwe found a long belt crusted thickly with scales of gold, and with a\nsort of medal at the clasp.\n\n\"Just look here, mamma,\" said Viola; \"I do believe this is the archery\nprize.\"\n\nAnd sure enough on the ticket was, \"Belt, supposed to be of Peruvian\nworkmanship.  Taken in the Spanish Armada, 1588.  Champion belt at the\nNorthchester Archery Club.  Lent by Miss Hippolyta Horsman.\"\n\nLady Diana came to look with some interest.  She had never had an\nopportunity of examining it closely before, and she now said, \"I am\nmuch inclined to believe that this is the belt that used to be an\nheirloom in the Jerfield family, and which ought to be in yours, Lucy.\"\n\nMy father's first wife had been the last of the Jerfields, and I asked\neager questions.  Lady Diana believed that \"those unhappy young men\"\nhad made away with all their mother's jewels, but she could tell no\nmore, as our catastrophe had taken place while she was living at Killy\nMarey.  Her brother, she said, could tell us more; and so he did,\nenough to set Eustace on fire.\n\nYes, the belt had been well known.  It was not taken in the Armada, but\nin a galleon of the Peruvian plunder by an old Jerfield, who had been\none of the race of Westward Ho! heroes.  The Jerfields had not been\nprosperous, and curious family jewels had been nearly all the portion\nof the lady who had married my father.  The sons had claimed them, and\nthey were divided between them, and given to the two wives; and in the\ntime of distress, when far too proud to accept aid from the father, as\nwell as rather pleased at mortifying him by disposing of his family\ntreasures, Alice and Dorothy Alison had gradually sold them off.  And,\nonce in the hands of local jewellers, it was easy for the belt to pass\ninto becoming the prize held by the winner in the Archery Club every\nyear.  Lord Erymanth would go with Eustace the next morning to identify\nit; but what would be the use of that? Eustace at first fancied he\ncould claim it, but soon he saw that his proposal was viewed as so\nfoolish that he devoured it, and talked of giving an equivalent; but,\nas Lord Erymanth observed, it would be very difficult to arrange this\nwith an article of family and antiquarian value, in the hands of an\narchery club--an impersonal body.\n\n\"The thing would be to win it,\" said Viola.  \"Could not some of us?\"\n\n\"Well done, little Miss Tell,\" returned Dermot.  \"Hippo has won that\nsame belt these four years, to my certain knowledge, except once, when\nLaurie Stympson scored two more.\"\n\n\"I'll practise every day; won't you, Lucy?  And then, between us, there\nwill be two chances.\"\n\n\"I am sure I am very much nattered by Miss Tracy's kindness,\" put in\nEustace; \"but is the match solely between ladies?\"\n\nNo, for the last two years, after a match between ladies and between\ngentlemen, there had a final one taken place between the two winners,\nmale and female, in which Hippo had hitherto always carried off the\nglory and the belt.  So Eustace intimated his full intention of trying\nfor himself, endeavouring to be very polite to Viola and me, but\nimplying that he thought himself a far surer card, boasting of his\nfeats as a marksman in the Bush, until Dora broke in, \"Why, Eustace,\nthat was Harry; wasn't it, Harry?\"\n\n\"Comme a l'ordinaire,\" muttered Dermot.  Eustace made a little\nstammering about the thing being so near that no one could tell, and\nDora referred again to Harold, who put her down with a muttered \"Never\nmind\" under his beard.\n\nWhat was to be done with it if it were won?  \"Get a fac-simile made,\nand an appropriate inscription,\" recommended Lord Erymanth. \"Probably\nthey would take that willingly.\"\n\n\"But what would you do with it?\" asked Harold.  \"You can't wear it.\"\n\n\"I tell you it is an heirloom,\" quoth Eustace.  \"Have you no feeling\nfor an heirloom?  I am sure it was your mother who sold it away from\nme.\"\n\nThe sight of the belt, with Lord Erymanth's lecture on it, inflamed\nEustace's ardour all the more, and we made extensive purchases of bows\nand arrows; that is to say, Eustace and I did, for Lady Diana would not\npermit Viola to join in the contest.  She did not like the archery set,\ndisapproved of public matches for young ladies, and did not choose her\ndaughter to come forward in the cause.  I did not fancy the matches\neither, and was certain that my mere home pastime had no chance with\nHippo and Pippa, who had studied archery scientifically for years, and\naimed at being the best lady shots in England; but Eustace would never\nhave forgiven me if I had not done my best.  So we subscribed to the\nArchery Club as soon as we went home; and Eustace would have had me\npractise with him morning, noon, and night, till I rebelled, and\ndeclared that if he knocked me up my prowess would be in vain, and that\nI neither could nor would shoot more than an hour and a half a day.\n\nHis ardour, however, soon turned into vituperations of the stupid\nsport.  How could mortal man endure it?  If it had been pistol or\nrifle-shooting now, it would have been tolerable, and he should have\nbeen sure to excel; but a great long, senseless, useless thing like an\narrow was only fit for women or black fellows; the string hurt one's\nfingers too--always slipping off the tabs.\n\n\"No wonder, as you hold it,\" said Harold, who had just turned aside to\nwatch on his way down to the potteries, and came in time to see an\narrow fly into the bank a yard from the target.  \"Don't you see how\nLucy takes it?\"\n\nI had already tried to show him, but he had pronounced mine to be the\nladies' way, and preferred to act by the light of nature.  Harry\nlooked, asked a question or two, took the bow in his own hands, and\nwith \"This way, Eustace; don't you see?\" had an arrow in the outer\nwhite.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Eustace, \"of course, stupid thing, anybody can do it\nwithout any trouble.\"\n\n\"It is pretty work,\" said Harry, taking up the third arrow, and sending\nit into the inner white.\n\n\"Much too easy for men,\" was Eustace's opinion, and he continued to\ndespise it until, being capable of perseverance of a certain kind, and\nbeing tutored by Harold, he began to succeed in occasionally piercing\nthe target, upon which his mind changed, and he was continually singing\nthe praises of archery in the tone (whispered Viola) of the sparrow who\nkilled Cock Robin with his bow and arrow!\n\nWe used to practise for an hour every afternoon, and the fascination of\nthe sport gained upon Harold so much that he sent for a bow and arrows,\nand shot with us whenever he was not too busy, as, between the agency\nand the potteries, he often was.  He did not join the club, nor come to\nthe weekly meetings at Northchester with Eustace and me, until, after\nhaving seen a little of the shooting there, I privately hinted to him\nthat there was not the smallest chance of the champion belt changing\nhands unless he took up the family cause. Whereupon, rather than that\nEustace should be disappointed, he did ask to be admitted, and came\nonce with us to the meeting, when, to tell the truth, he did not shoot\nas well as usual, for--as afterwards appeared--in riding into\nNorthchester he had stopped to help to lift up a great tree that was\ninsecure on its timber waggon, and even his hands shook a little from\nthe exertion.  Besides, Eustace had discovered that Harold's new bow\nshot better than his, and had insisted on changing, and Harold had not\nso proved the powers of Eustace's as to cure it of its inferiority.\n\nEustace really came to shooting so tolerably as to make him look on the\nsport with complacency, and like the people he met there.  All this\nhardly seems worth telling, but events we little thought of sprang from\nthose archery practices.  For the present we found them a great means\nof getting acquainted with the neighbours.  I bowed now to many more\npeople than ever I had done before, and we had come into great favour\nsince the Hydriots had astonished the county by announcing a dividend.\nIt was only three per cent., but that was an immense advance upon\nnothing, and the promise of the future was great; the shares had gone\nup nearly to their original value in the most sanguine days; and the\nworkmen--between prosperity, good management, the lecture-room at the\n\"Dragon's Head,\" and the work among them done by the clerical, as well\nas the secular, Yolland--were, not models by any means, but far from\nthe disorderly set they had been.  They did take some pride in decent\nhouses and well-dressed children, and Harold's plans for the\nimprovement of their condition were accepted as they never would have\nbeen from one whose kindly sympathy and strength of will did not take\nthem, as it were, captive. \"Among those workmen you feel that he is a\nborn king of men,\" said Ben Yolland.\n\nAnd as Bullock had been bailiff as well as agent, Harry had all the\nhome-farming matters on his hands, and attended to them like any\nfarmer, so that it was no wonder that he gave little time to the\nmeetings for archery practice, which involved the five miles\nexpedition, and even to our own domestic practice, answering\ncarelessly, when Eustace scolded him about letting a chance go by, and\nhis heedlessness of the honour of the family, \"Oh, I take a shot or two\nevery morning as I go out, to keep my hand in.\"\n\n\"You'll get your arrows spoilt in the dew,\" said Eustace.\n\n\"They don't go into the dew,\" said Harold.  And as he was always out\nwith the lark, even Dora seldom saw this practice; but there were\nalways new holes very near the centre of the target, which Eustace said\nproved how true was his own aim.\n\nHarvest came, and in the middle of it the great archery match of the\nyear, which was held in the beautiful grounds of Mr. Vernon, the member\nfor Northchester, a little way from the town.\n\n\"I suppose Harry may as well go,\" said Eustace; \"but he has not\npractised at all, so it will be of little avail.  Now if I had not\ngrazed my hand, I should have scored quite as much as Miss Horsman last\nweek.  It all lies in caring about it.\"\n\nAnd severe was his lecture to Harold against foolishly walking in and\nmaking his hand unsteady.  Yet, after all, when the carriage came to\nthe door, Harold was not to be found, though his bow and arrows were\nlaid ready with ours to be taken.  He endured no other apparatus. The\ninside of his fingers was like leather, and he declared that tabs and\nguard only hampered him.  Lady Diana had yielded to her daughter's\nentreaties, and brought her to see the contest, though only as a\nspectator.  As I stood shy and far from sanguine among the lady\narchers, I felt out of my natural place, and glad she was under her\nmother's wing, she looked so fair and innocent in her delicate blue and\nwhite, and was free for such sweet ardour in our cause, all the\nprettier and more arch because its demonstrations were kept down with\nthe strong hand of her mother.\n\nHippolyta and Philippa Horsman were in tightly-made short-skirted\ndresses, pork-pie hats, and strong boots, all black picked out with\nscarlet, like Hippo's own complexion.  She was tall, with a good active\nfigure, and handsome, but she had reached the age when the colouring\nloses its pure incarnadine and becomes hard and fixed, and she had a\ncertain likeness to all those creatures whose names are compounded of\ntiger.  But she was a good-natured being, and of late I had begun to\nunderstand better her aspirations towards doing and becoming something\nmore than the mere domestic furniture kind of young lady.\n\nHer aberrations against good taste and reticence were, I began to\nunderstand, misdirected outbreaks of the desire to be up and doing.\nEven now, as we ladies drew for our turn, she was saying, half sadly,\n\"I'm tired of it all.  What good comes of getting this belt over and\nover again?  If it were rifle or pistol shooting it might be of use,\nbut one could hardly organise a regiment of volunteers with the long\nbows when the invasion comes off.\"\n\nWit about the Amazonian regiment with the long bow was current all the\ntime we ladies were shooting, and Eustace was worrying me to such a\ndegree, that nervousness made me perform ten degrees worse than usual,\nbut that mattered little, for Hippolyta, with another of her cui bono\nsighs, carried off the Roman mosaic that was the ladies' prize, telling\nPippa that it should be hers when the belt was won.\n\n\"Don't be too sure.\"\n\n\"Bosh!  There's no one here who can handle a bow but Charlie Stympson.\nOne Alison is a spoon, and the other is a giant made to be conquered.\nWhen he shot before, his arrows went right over the grounds, and stuck\ninto a jackdaw's nest on the church tower!  I can't think why he came.\"\n\n\"To make a feather in your cap.\"\n\n\"What a substantial one!\"\n\nThere I escaped to a seat by Lady Diana, where Viola could expend her\nenthusiasm in clutches and squeezes of my hand.  Eustace was by this\ntime wrought up to such a state that he hardly knew what he was doing,\nand his first arrow wavered and went feebly aside.  Two or three more\nshot, and then the tall figure came to the front; one moment, and the\ncry was \"Gold,\" while Viola's clap of the hands brought on her a frown\nfrom her mother, who thought demonstrativeness improper.  She had to\ncontent herself with pinching my fingers every time one of those shafts\nwent home to the heart of the target, and Harold stood, only too facile\nprinceps, while Eustace sauntered up to us with the old story about the\nsun or the damp, I forget which, only it was something that had spoilt\nhis archery.\n\nHippolyta was undaunted.  The small target and longer range had thrown\nout many a competitor before now, and her not very low-pitched tone was\nheard observing that no dumb giant should beat her at her own tools.\n\nWhatever had been her weariness of her successes before, it was gone\nnow, and she shot splendidly.  Never had such shooting been known in\nthe annals of the club, and scarcely a word passed as the two went\npacing between the two little targets, Harold with his calm, easy\nmovement, business-like but without effort, and Hippolyta with\nexcitement beginning to tell on her.  Each time she passed us we saw\nher step more impetuous, the glow on her cheeks deeper, and at last\nthat her eyes were full of tears; and after that, one arrow went into\nthe outer white, and the last even into the green; while Harry's final\nshot was into that one great confluent hole that the centre of the\ntarget had become.\n\n\n          \"Heard ye the arrow hurtle through the sky?\n           Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry?\"\n\nwhispered Viola. \"Mamma won't let me cheer, and I must have it out\nsomehow.\"\n\nAnd as I sprang up and hurried to Harold, she came with me, taking care\nto cast no look behind, for fear of detaining glances; and she put out\nboth hands to shake his, as he stood with the smile lighting up his\nface as he saw the pleasure he had given; though Eustace never came\nforward, unable to rejoice where he had been so palpably and publicly\nexcelled.\n\nHippolyta behaved well.  She came up holding out her hand, and saying,\n\"Well, Mr. Alison, if one is to fall, it is a pleasure to have so\nmighty a victor.  But why did you never let me see before what a\nPalnatoke (if I must not say Tell) I had to deal with?\"\n\n\"I had no time for the practices,\" said Harold, puzzled as to who\nPalnatoke was.\n\n\"Worse and worse!  You don't mean that you shoot like this without\npractice?\"\n\n\"Lucy taught me a little.\"\n\n\"Well, if heaven-born archers come down on one, there's nothing for it\nbut submitting.  Robin Hood must prevail,\" said Hippolyta, as the belt\nwas handed over to Harold, with a sigh that made him say in excuse, \"I\nwould not have done it, but that Eustace wanted to have it in his\nhands, for family reasons.\"\n\n\"Then let him look to it; I mean to get it again next year.  And, I\nsay, Mr. Alison, I have a right to some compensation.  All you archers\nare coming to lunch at Therford on Thursday, if the sun shines, to be\nphotographed, you know.  Now you must come to breakfast, and bring your\nlion's skin and your bow--to be done alone. It is all the consolation I\nask.  Make him, Lucy.  Bring him.\"\n\nThere was no refusing; and that was the way the photograph came to be\ntaken.  We were reminded by a note after we went home, including in the\ninvitation Eustace, who, after being a little sulky, had made up his\nmind that a long range was easier to shoot at than a short one, and so\nthat he should have won the prize if he had had the chance; and the\nnotion of being photographed was, of course, delightful to him.\n\n\"In what character shall you take me?\" he asked of Miss Horsman, when\nwe were going out on the lawn, and it dawned on him that Harry was to\nbe a Hercules.\n\n\"Oh! as Adonis, of course,\" said Hippo.\n\n\"Or Eurystheus,\" whispered her sister.\n\nEustace did not understand, and looked pleased, saying something about\na truly classical get up; but Harold muttered to me, \"Aren't they\nmaking game of him?\"\n\n\"They will take care not to vex him,\" I said.\n\nBut Harold could not overlook it, and took a dislike to the Horsmans on\nthe spot, which all Hippolyta's genuine admiration of him could not\novercome.  She knew what the work of his eighteen months in England had\nbeen, and revered him with such enthusiasm for what she called his\nmagnificent manhood and beneficence, as was ready on the least\nencouragement to have become something a good deal warmer; but whatever\nshe did served to make her distasteful to him.  First, she hastily\nshuffled over Eustace's portrait, because, as she allowed us to hear,\n\"he would give her no peace till he was disposed of.\"  And then she not\nonly tormented her passive victim a good deal in trying to arrange him\nas Hercules, but she forgot the woman in the artist, and tried to make\nhim bare his neck and shoulder in a way that made him blush while he\nuttered his emphatic \"No, no!\" and Baby Jack supported him by telling\nher she \"would only make a prize-fighter of him.\"  Moreover, he would\nhave stood more at ease if the whole of Therford had not been overrun\nwith dogs.  He scorned to complain, and I knew him too well to do so\nfor him; but it was a strain on his self-command to have them all\nsmelling about his legs, and wanting to mumble the lion skin,\nespecially Hippo's great bloodhound, Kirby, as big as a calf, who did\nonce make him start by thrusting his long cold nose into his hand.\nHippo laughed, but Harold could do nothing but force out a smile.\n\nAnd I always saw the disgusted and bored expression most prominently in\nher performance, which at the best could never have given the grandeur\nof the pose she made him take, with the lion skin over his shoulder,\nand the arrows and bow in his hand.  He muttered that a rifle would be\nmore rational, and that he could hold it better, but withdrew the\nprotest when he found that Hippo was ready to implore him to teach her\nto shoot with pistol, rifle--anything.\n\n\"Your brother can show you.  You've only to fire at a mark,\" was all\nthat could be got out of him.\n\nNor would he be entrapped into a beneficent talk.  His great talent for\nsilence served him well, and though I told him afterwards that he had\nnot done Hippo justice--for she honestly wanted an opening for being\nuseful--he was not mollified.  \"I don't like tongue,\" was all he\nfurther said of her.\n\nBut whatever Hippo was, or whatever she did, I shall always be grateful\nto her for that photograph.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nDERMOT'S MARE.\n\n\nAll this time Dermot Tracy had been from home.  He had not come back\nafter the season, but had been staying with friends and going to\nvarious races, in which, as usual, he had heavy stakes.  He persuaded\nmy two nephews to meet him at Doncaster, where he ran one of the horses\nbred on his Irish estate, and afterwards to go and make him a visit at\nKilly Marey, County Kildare, where he used to stay about once a year,\nshooting or hunting, as the season might be, and always looking after\nhis horses and entertaining all the squires and squireens of the\nneighbourhood, and many of the officers from the Curragh.  The benefit\nof those visits was very doubtful both as to morals and purses, and\nLord Erymanth pointedly said he was sorry when he heard that Harold and\nEustace were of the party.\n\nI do not know whether Lady Diana viewed them as bad companions for her\nson, or her son as a bad companion for them; but she was very severe\nabout it, and when I thought of the hunt dinner at Foling, my heart\nsank, even while I was indignant at any notion of distrusting Harold;\nand it did indeed seem to me that he had learnt where to look for\nstrength and self-command, and that he had a real hatred and contempt\nof evil.  Yet I should have been more entirely happy about him if he\nhad not still held aloof from all those innermost ordinances, of which\nhe somehow did not feel the need, or understand the full drift.  Nor\nwould he bow himself to give to any man the confidence or the influence\nover him he had given to an incapable girl like me.  And if I should\nhave feared for the best brought up, most religious of young men, in\nsuch scenes as I was told were apt to take place at Killy Marey, how\ncould I not be anxious for my nephews? But nothing ever turns out as\none expects.\n\nI was at Arked one day, and Lady Diana was telling me of the great\nrambling house at Killy Marey, and how, when she arrived as a bride,\nnone of the doors would shut except two that would not open, behind one\nof which lived the family ghost; how the paper hung in festoons on the\nwalls, and the chairs were of the loveliest primrose-coloured brocade;\nand how the green of the meadows was so wonderful, that she was always\nremembering it was the Emerald Isle; but how hopeless and impossible it\nwas to get anything properly done, and how no good could be done where\nthe Romish priests had interfered.  All the old story of course.  In\nthe midst, a telegraph paper was brought to her; she turned deadly\nwhite, and bade me open it, for she could not.  I knew she thought her\nson had met his father's fate, and expected to astonish her with the\ntidings that he was coming home by the next steamer, or that he had\nsent some game, or the like.  Alas! no; the mother's foreboding had\nbeen too near the truth.  The telegram was from Eustace: \"Tracy has had\na bad horse accident.  The doctor wishes for you.\"\n\nThere was nothing for it but to speed the mother and daughter on their\nhurried start to catch the Holyhead packet and cross that night.  I\nwent home to await in terror and trembling the despatch I might\nreceive, and to be enlivened by Mrs. Sam Alison's cheering accounts of\nall the accidents she could recollect.  \"Horses are dangerous creatures\nto meddle with, and your poor papa never would let me take the reins\nwhen we kept a gig--which was when he was living, you know, my dear.\n'You never can trust their heels,' he used to say; and it was only last\nweek little Cocker was kicked off, but that was a donkey, and they were\nusing him shamefully,\" &c. &c. &c.  I felt as if a swarm of bees were\nhumming in my ears, and walked about to make the suspense more\ntolerable, but I absolutely had no news at all till Viola's letter\ncame.  It was a long one, for she could be of no service as yet, and to\nwrite letters was at once her use and her solace.\n\nAmong the horses which Dermot's Irish agent had been buying for\ntraining purposes was a mare, own sister to Harold's hunter--a splendid\ncreature of three years old, of wonderful beauty, power, and speed, but\nwith the like indomitable temper.  She would suffer no living thing to\napproach her but one little stable-boy, and her own peculiar cat, which\nslept on her back, and took all sorts of liberties with her.  Her value\nwould be great if she could be trained, but the training was the\nproblem.  Harold, who, partly from early familiarity, partly from the\ngentleness of fearless strength, had a matchless power over horses, had\nmade acquaintance with her one evening, had been suffered in her box,\nhad fed her, caressed her cat, and led her round the stable-yard as a\nfirst stage in the conquest of horse by man.\n\nIn the early morning, Dermot, quite as fearless, and unwilling that\nanyone should do or dare more than himself, had gone alone to make the\nsame attempt, but no sooner did the mare find him beside her, than she\nseized him by the shoulder with her teeth, threw him down, and kicked\nand trampled on him.  None of the grooms could succeed in rescuing him,\nand it was only when Eustace's cry had summoned Harold, that, grasping\nthe mare's halter and forcing her back with his arm of iron, he made it\npossible for Eustace and a groom to drag out poor Dermot's senseless\nform, in a state that at first appeared to be death itself.  For\nseveral days his condition was so extremely precarious, that Harold\nnever once left him till his mother arrived, and even after that was\nhis most effective nurse.  He sent me a message, in Viola's letter,\nthat he had not had a moment to write, and hoped I had not been too\nanxious.\n\nAfter this, Viola wrote every day, and told of gradual improvement in\nher brother, and at last how he had been lifted to the sofa, and mamma\nhoped in a fortnight or three weeks he might be able to be taken home.\nBy the next post came a note from Harold, saying he could be spared,\nand was coming home, and that very evening he walked into the house,\nand was welcomed by Dora with shrieks of ecstatic joy.\n\nHe said Dermot was better, but he looked worn, and had the indefinable\nexpression of pain which made me sure that something had gone wrong,\nand presently I found out that the bite in the shoulder was a very bad\nbusiness, still causing much suffering, but that the most serious\nmatter was, that a kick in the side had renewed the damage left by the\nold Alma bullet, and that great care would be needed all the winter.\nBut Harold seemed more reluctant to open his mouth than ever, and only,\nby most diligent pumping, did Mrs. Alison get out of him what doctors\nthey had called in, and whether they had used all the recipes for\nwounds and bruises that she had entrusted to me to be sent, and which\nhad for the most part remained in my blotting-book.\n\nThe next morning, to my grief and distress, he did not come to my room,\nbut I found he had been up and out long before it was light, and he\nmade his appearance at eleven o'clock, saying he had promised to go and\ngive Lord Erymanth an account of his nephew, and wanted me to come with\nhim \"to do the talking, or he should never stand it.\" If I did not\nobject to the dog-cart and Daniel O'Rourke immediately, we should be\nthere by luncheon time.  I objected to nothing that Harry drove, but\nall the way to Erymanth not ten words passed, and those were matters of\nnecessity.  I had come to the perception that when he did not want to\nspeak it was better to let him take his own time.\n\nLord Erymanth was anxious, not only about Dermot's health, and his\nsister's strength and spirits, but he wanted to hear what Harold\nthought of the place and of the tone of the country; and, after our\nmeal, when he grew more confidential, he elicited short plain answers\nfull of information in short compass, and not very palatable.  The\nestate was \"not going on well.\"  \"Did Harold think well of the agent?\"\n\"He had been spoilt.\"  \"How?\"  \"By calls for supplies.\" \"Were the\npeople attached to Dermot?\"  \"To a certain degree.\"  \"Would it be safe\nfor him to live there?\"  \"He ought.\"\n\nLord Erymanth entirely assented to this, and we found that he had all\nalong held that his sister had been in error for not having remained at\nKilly Marey, and brought up her son to his duties as a landlord,\nwhatever the danger; though of course she, poor thing, could hardly be\nexpected to see it in that light.  He evidently viewed this absenteeism\nas the cause of the wreck of Dermot's youth, and those desultory habits\nof self-indulgence and dissipation which were overcoming that which was\ngood and noble in him; and the good old man showed that he blamed\nhimself for what he had conceded to his sister in the first shock of\nher misfortune.  Harold had told him of the warm feeling shown by the\ntenantry when Dermot was lying in danger of his life, and their\nrejoicing when he turned the corner and began to recover, and he asked\nanxiously whether all this affection might not awaken a responsive\nchord, and draw him to \"what was undoubtedly his proper sphere.\"\n\n\"It will,\" said Harold.\n\n\"You think so?  And there is little doubt but that your cousin's\ninfluence at such a critical period may have great effect in turning\nthe scale?\"\n\nHarold nodded.\n\n\"More especially as, from the intelligence I have received, I have\nlittle doubt that the connection will be drawn a good deal closer\nbefore long,\" said Lord Erymanth with a benignant smile at us both. \"I\nsuppose we must not begin to congratulate one another yet, for I may\nconclude that nothing had actually taken place when you came away.\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"When my sister became conscious of the condition of affairs and wrote\nto consult me, I had no hesitation in replying that, though Viola's\nconnections might warrant greater expectations in a worldly point of\nview, yet I thought that there was every reason for promoting an\nattachment to a gentleman of family equal to her own on one side at\nleast, and whose noble exertions during the past two years for the\nwelfare of all concerned with him, not only obliterate all recollection\nof past disadvantages, but in every way promise honour and happiness to\nall connected with him.\"\n\nI was not a little excited, but one of the worst fits of restlessness\nunder Lord Erymanth's harangues had come upon Harold.  He only sat it\nout by pulling so many hairs out of his beard that they made an audible\nfrizzle in the fire when he brushed them off his knee, and stood up,\nsaying gruffly, \"You are very good; he deserves it.  But I must get\nLucy home in good time.  May I go and speak to your coachman?  Tracy\ngave me a message for him.\"\n\nHarold was off, and Lord Erymanth observed, \"A very fine young man\nthat.  It is much to be regretted that he did not employ the advantages\nhe enjoyed at Sydney as his cousin Eustace did, and left himself so\nrugged and unpolished.\"\n\n\"You must learn to like him, dear Lord Erymanth,\" I said.  \"He is all a\nvery dear brother could be to me.\"\n\nAnd allegiance to him kept back every word of that infinite\nsuperiority, which was never more shown than by the opinion of Eustace,\nwhich his great unselfish devotion continued, without the least deceit,\nto impress on most people.  Lord Erymanth rejoiced, and we agreed that\nit was very lucky for me that I preferred Harold, since I should have\nhad to yield up my possession of Eustace.  The old gentleman was most\nkind and genial, and much delighted that the old breach with the\nAlisons should be healed, and that his niece should make a marriage\nwhich he greatly preferred to her sister's, and together we sung the\npraises of our dear Viola, where we had no difference of opinion.\n\nHarold only came back when the carriage came round, and no sooner had\nwe driven off than I broke out--\"Harry, I had no notion matters had\ngone so far.  Fancy, Lady Diana consulting her brother!  It must be\nvery near a crisis.  I can't think why you did not stay to see it.\"\n\n\"Because I am a fool.\"\n\nThe horse flew on till we were nearly out at the park-gates, and a\nbewildered sense of his meaning was coming before me.  \"You wished it,\"\nsaid I rather foolishly.\n\n\"I did.  I do.  Only I don't want to see it.\"\n\n\"My poor dear Harold!\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\"--the sound was like a wild beast's, and made the horse\nplunge--\"I shall get over it.\"\n\nThen, presently, in a more natural voice, \"I must go out again in the\nspring.  There are things to be looked to at Boola Boola for both of\nus.  I shall only wait till Tracy is well enough to go with me.\"\n\n\"He!  Dermot Tracy?\"\n\n\"Yes.  It will be the best way to break out of the old lines.\"\n\n\"I can fancy that.  Oh, Harold! are you going to save him?  That will\nbe the most blessed work of all!\" I cried, for somehow a feeling like\nan air of hope and joy came over me.\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" said he, in a smothered tone; but it was\ngetting dark enough to loose his tongue, and when I asked, \"Was it his\nillness that made him wish it?\" he answered, \"It was coming before.\nLucy, those horses have done worse for him than that wound in his\nshoulder.  They had almost eaten the very heart out of him!\"\n\n\"His substance I know they have,\" I said; \"but not his good warm heart.\"\n\n\"You would say so if you saw the poor wretches on his property,\" said\nHarold.  \"The hovels in the Alfy Valley were palaces compared with the\ncabins.  Such misery I never saw.  They say it is better since the\nfamine.  What must it have been then?  And he thinking only how much\nhis agent could squeeze from them!\"\n\nI could only say he had been bred up in neglect of them, and to think\nthem impracticable, priest-ridden traitors and murderers.  Yes, Lady\nDiana had said some of this to Harold already, It was true that they\nhad shot Mr. Tracy, but Harold had learnt that after a wild, reckless,\nspendthrift youth, he had become a Protestant and a violent Orangeman\nin the hottest days of party strife, so that he had incurred a special\nhatred, which, as far as Harold could see, was not extended to the son,\nlittle as he did for his tenants but show them his careless, gracious\ncountenance from time to time.\n\nYet peril for the sake of duty would, as all saw now, have been far\nbetter for Dermot than the alienation from all such calls in which his\nmother had brought him up.  When her religious influence failed with\nhim, there was no other restraint.  Since he had left the army, he had\nbeen drawn, by those evil geniuses of his, deep into speculations in\ntraining horses for the turf, and his affairs had come into a frightful\nstate of entanglement, his venture at Doncaster had been unsuccessful,\nand plunged him deeper into his difficulties, and then (as I came to\nknow) Harold's absolute startled amazement how any living man could\nscrew and starve men, women, and children for the sake of horseflesh,\nand his utter contempt for such diversions as he had been shown at the\nraces, compared with the pleasure of making human beings happy and\nimproving one's land, had opened Dermot's eyes with very few words.\n\nThe thought was not new when the danger of death made him look back on\nthose wasted years; and resolution began with the dawning of\nconvalescence, that if he could only free himself from his\nentanglements--and terrible complications they were--he would begin a\nnew life, worthy of having been given back to him.  In many a midnight\nwatch he had spoken of these things, and Harold had soothed him by a\npromise to use that accountant's head of his in seeing how to free him\nas soon as he was well enough.  Biston and the horses would be sold,\nand he could turn his mind to his Irish tenants, who, as he already\nsaw, loved him far better than he deserved.  He caught eagerly at the\nidea of going out to Australia with Harold, and it did indeed seem that\nmy brave-hearted nephew was effecting a far greater deliverance for him\nthan that from the teeth and hoofs of wicked Sheelah.\n\n\"But you will not stay, Harold?  You will come home?\" I said.\n\n\"I mean it,\" he answered.\n\n\"Then I don't so much mind,\" said I, with infinite relief; and he\nadded, thinking that I wanted further reassurance, that he should never\ngive up trying to get Prometesky's pardon; and that this was only a\njourney for supplies, and to see his old friend, and perhaps to try\nwhether anything could be done about that other unhappy Harry. I\npressed him to promise me that he would return and settle here, but\nthough he said he would come back, to settling at home he answered,\n\"That depends;\" and though I could not see, I knew he was biting his\nmoustache, and guessed, poor dear fellow, that it depended on how far\nhe should be able to endure the sight of Eustace and Viola married. I\nsaw now that I had been blind not to perceive before that his heart had\nbeen going out to Viola all this time, while he thought he was courting\nher for Eustace, and I also had my thoughts about Viola, which made it\nno very great surprise to me, when, in a few days more, intelligence\ncame that Eustace might be expected at home, and he made his appearance\nin a petulant though still conceited mood, that made me suspect his\nwooing had not been prosperous, though I knew nothing till Harold told\nme that he was not out of heart, though Viola had cut him short and\nrefused to listen to him, for her mother said she was a mere child who\nwas taken by surprise, and that if he were patient and returned to the\ncharge she would know her own mind better.\n\nHarold was certainly more exhilarated than he chose to avow to himself\non this discovery, and the next week came a letter from Lady Diana, and\na short note from Dermot himself, both saying he had not been so well,\nand begging Harold to come and assist in the removal, since Dermot\nprotested that otherwise he could not bear the journey, and his mother\ndeclared that she should be afraid to think of it for him.\n\nViola's hitherto constant correspondence had ceased; I drew my own\nauguries, but I had to keep them to myself, for Harold started off the\nnext day in renewed spirits, and I had Eustace on my hands in a very\nstrange state, not choosing or deigning to suppose himself rejected,\nand yet exceedingly, angry with all young ladies for their silliness\nand caprices, while he lauded Lady Diana up to the skies, and abused\nDermot, who, I think, had laughed at him visibly enough to be at least\nsuspected by himself.  And, oddly enough, Dora was equally cross, and\nhad a fit of untowardness unequalled since the combats at her first\narrival, till I was almost provoked into acquiescence in Eustace's\nthreat of sending her to school.\n\nThe journey was at last accomplished; Harold only parted with the\nTracys at Arked House, after having helped to carry Dermot to the room\nthat had been prepared for him on the ground-floor.\n\nI rode over the next afternoon to inquire, and was delighted to meet\nViola close within the gate.  We sent away my horse, and she drew me\ninto her favourite path while answering my questions that Dermot had\nhad a good night and was getting up; I should find him in the\ndrawing-room if I waited a little while.  She could have me all to\nherself, for mamma was closeted with Uncle Ery, talking over\nthings--and on some word or sound of mine betraying that I guessed what\nthings, it broke out.\n\n\"How could you let him do it, Lucy?  You, at least, must have known\nbetter.\"\n\n\"My dear, how could I have stopped him, with all St. George's Channel\nbetween us?\"\n\n\"Well, at any rate, you might persuade them all to have a little sense,\nand not treat me as if I was one of the elegant females in 'Pride and\nPrejudice,' who only refuse for fun!  Is not that enough to drive one\nfrantic, Lucy?  Can't you at least persuade the man himself?\"\n\n\"Only one person can do that, Viola.\"\n\n\"But I can't!  That's the horrid part of it.  I can't get rid of it.\nMamma says I am a foolish child.  I could tell her of other people more\nfoolish than I am.  I can see the difference between sham and reality,\nif they can't.\"\n\n\"I don't think he means to be sham,\"  I rambled into defence of Eustace.\n\n\"Means it!  No, he hasn't the sense.  I believe he really thinks it was\nhe who saved Dermot's life as entirely as mamma does.\"\n\n\"No.  Now do they really?\"\n\n\"Of course, as they do with everything.  It's always 'The page slew the\nboar, the peer had the gloire.'\"\n\n\"It's the page's own fault,\" I said.  \"He only wants the peer to have\nthe gloire.\"\n\n\"And very disagreeable and deceitful it is of him,\" cried Viola; \"only\nhe hasn't got a scrap of deceit in him, and that's the reason he does\nit so naturally.  No, you may tell them that borrowed plumes won't\nalways serve, and there are things that can't be done by deputy.\"\n\nAnd therewith Viola, perhaps perceiving what she had betrayed, turned\nmore crimson than ever, and hid her face against me with a sob in her\nbreath, and then I was quite sure of what I did not dare to express,\nfurther than by saying, while I caressed her, \"I believe they honestly\nthink it is all the same.\"\n\n\"But it isn't,\" said Viola, recovering, and trying to talk and laugh\noff her confusion.  \"I don't think so, and poor Dermot did not find it\nso when the wrong one was left to lift him, and just ran his great\nstupid arm into the tenderest place in his side, and always stepped on\nall the boards that creak, and upset the table of physic bottles, and\nthen said it was Harold's way of propping them up!  And that's the\ncreature they expect me to believe in!\"\n\nWe turned at the moment and saw a handkerchief beckoning to us from the\nwindow; and going in, found Dermot established on a couch under it, and\nHarold packing him up in rugs, a sight that amazed both of us; but\nDermot said, \"Yes, he treats me like Miss Stympson's dog, you see.\nComes over by stealth when I want him.\"\n\nDermot did look very ill and pain-worn, and his left arm lay useless\nacross him, but there was a kind of light about his eyes that I had not\nseen for a long time, as he made Harold set a chair for me close to\nhim, and he and Viola told the adventures of their journey, with mirth\nin their own style, and Harold stood leaning against the shutter with\nhis look of perfect present content, as if basking in sunshine while it\nlasted.\n\nWhen the mother and uncle came in, it was manifestly time for us to\nconvey ourselves away.  Harold had come on foot from Mycening, but I\nwas only too glad to walk my pony along the lanes, and have his company\nin the gathering winter twilight.\n\n\"You have spoken to her?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.  Harold, it is of no use.  She will never have him.\"\n\n\"Her mother thinks she will.\"\n\n\"Her mother knows what is in Viola no more than she knows what is in\nthat star.  Has Dermot never said anything--\"\n\n\"Lady Diana made everyone promise not to say a word to him.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"But, Lucy, what hinders it?  There's nothing else in the way, is\nthere?\"\n\nI did not speak the word, but made a gesture of assent.\n\n\"May I know who it is,\" said Harold in a voice of pain.  \"Our poor\nfellow shall never hear.\"\n\n\"Harold,\" said I, \"are you really so ridiculous as to think any girl\ncould care for Eustace  while you are by?\"\n\n\"Don't!\" cried Harold, with a sound as of far more pain than gladness.\n\n\"But why not, Harry?  You asked me.\"\n\n\"Don't light up what I have been struggling to quench ever since I knew\nit.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I went on.  \"You need not hold back on Eustace's account. I am\nquite sure nothing would make her accept him, and I am equally\nconvinced--\"\n\n\"Hush, Lucy!\" he said in a scarcely audible voice.  \"It is profanation.\nRemember--\"\n\n\"But all that is over,\" I said. \"Things that happened when you were a\nmere boy, and knew no better, do not seem to belong to you now.\"\n\n\"Sometimes they do not,\" he said sadly; \"but--\"\n\n\"What is repented,\" I began, but he interrupted.\n\n\"The fact is not changed.  It is not fit that the purest, gentlest,\nbrightest creature made by Heaven should be named in the same day with\none stained with blood--aye, and deeds I could not speak of to you.\"\n\nI could not keep from crying as I said, \"If I love you the more, Harry,\nwould not she?\"\n\n\"See here, Lucy,\" said Harry, standing still with his hand on my rein;\n\"you don't know what you do in trying to inflame what I can hardly keep\ndown.  The sweet little thing may have a fancy for me because I'm the\nbiggest fellow she knows, and have done a thing or two; but what I am\nshe knows less than even you do; and would it not be a wicked shame\neither to gain the tender heart in ignorance, or to thrust on it the\nknowledge and the pain of such a past as mine?\"  And his groan was very\nheavy, so that I cried out:\n\n\"Oh, Harry! this is dreadful.  Do you give up all hope and joy for ever\nbecause of what you did as an ungovernable boy left to yourself?\"\n\nWe went on for some time in silence; then he said in an indescribable\ntone, between wonder, disgust, and pity, \"And I thought I loved Meg\nCree!\"\n\n\"You knew no one else,\" I said, feeling as if, when Dora threw away\nthat ring, the wild, passionate animal man had been exorcised; but all\nthe answer I had was another groan, as from the burthened breast, as if\nhe felt it almost an outrage to one whom he so reverenced to transfer\nto her the heart that had once beat for Meg Cree.  There was no more\nspeech for a long time, during which I feared that I had merely made\nhim unhappy by communicating my conjecture, but just as we were\nreaching our own grounds he said, \"You will say nothing, Lucy?\"\n\n\"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"I thought it was all over, and for ever,\" he said, pausing; \"it ought\nto have been.  But the gates of a new world were opened to me when I\nsaw her and you walking in the garden!  If it had only been five or six\nyears sooner!\"\n\nHe could not say any more, for Dora, who had been watching, here burst\non us with cries of welcome, and it was long before there was any\nrenewal of the conversation, so that I could not tell whether he really\npersuaded himself that he had no hopes, or was waiting to see how\nmatters should turn out.\n\nIt was never easy to detect expressions of feeling or spirits on his\nmassive face, and he could hardly be more silent than usual; but it was\nnoticeable that he never fell asleep after his former wont when sitting\nstill.  Indeed, he seldom was still, for he had a great deal of\nbusiness both for the estate and the potteries on his hands, and stayed\nup late at night over them; and not only over them, for my room was\nnext to his, and I heard the regular tramp, tramp of his feet, and the\nturn at the end of the room, as he walked up and down for at least an\nhour when the rest of the house were asleep, or the closing of the door\nwhen he returned from wandering on the moor at night.  And in the early\nmorning, long before light, he always walked or rode over to Arked\nHouse, bestowed on Dermot's hurts the cares which both had come to look\non as essential, and stayed with him till the family were nearly ready\nto appear at their nine o'clock breakfast, not seeing Viola at all,\nunless any special cause led to a meeting later in the day, and then\nhis eyes glowed, and he would do her devoted, unobserved service--no,\nnot unobserved by her, whom it made blush and sparkle--and utter little\nwords of thanks, not so gay as of old, but deeper, as if for a great\nhonour and delight.  And then he would bow his head, colour, and draw\ninto the background, where, with folded arms, he could watch her.\n\nOnce, when Dora, in her old way, claimed to be his wife, Harold told\nher with some impatience that she was growing too old for that\nnonsense.  The child looked at him with bent brows and questioning eyes\nfor a moment, then turned and fled.  An hour later, after a long\nsearch, I found her crouched up in the corner of the kangaroo's stall\namong the straw, having cried herself to sleep, with her head on the\ncreature's soft back.\n\nAs soon as Dermot was able to bear any strain on mind or attention, he\ngave his keys to Harold.  All his long and unhappy accumulation of\nbills and bonds were routed out from their receptacles at Biston, and\nbrought over by Harold to his office, where he sorted them, and made\nthem intelligible, before harassing his friend with the questions he\nalone could explain.  An hour a day was then spent over them--hours\nthat cost poor Dermot more than he was equal to; but his mind was made\nup, as he told me, \"to face anything rather than go on in the old\nmiserable way.\"  It was much that he had learnt to think it miserable.\n\nLady Diana was not much obliged to Harold.  She could not think why her\npatient was so often left out of spirits, and with a headache after\nthose visits, while he was in a feverish state of anxiety about them,\nthat made it worse to put them off than to go through with them; and\nthen, when she had found out the cause, the family pride much disliked\nletting an outsider into his involvments, and she thought their\nsolicitor would have done the thing much better.\n\nPoor woman, it was hard that, when she thought illness was bringing her\nson back to her, she found his confidence absorbed by the\n\"bush-ranger,\" whom she never liked nor trusted, and his reformation,\nif reformation it were to prove, not at all conducted on her views of\nvisible repentance and conversion.  Dermot was responsive to her\nawakened tenderness, but he was perversely reticent as to whether\nrepentance or expedience prompted him.  She required so much religious\ndemonstration, that she made him shrink from manifesting his real\nfeelings as \"humbug,\" and Viola knew far more that his repentance was\nreal than she did.  Those proofs of true repentance--confession and\nrestitution--I am sure he gave, and that most bravely, when, after\nweeks of weary and sorrowful work on Harold's part and his, the whole\nwas sufficiently disentangled to make a lucid statement of his affairs.\n\nHe made up his mind to make an arrangement with his creditors, giving\nup Biston, all his horses--everything, in fact, but Killy Marey, which\nwas entailed on his Tracy cousins.  And this second year of George\nYolland's management had made the shares in the Hydriot Company of so\nmuch value, that the sale of them would complete the clearance of his\nobligations.  The full schedule of his debts, without reserve, and the\nestimate of his means of paying them off, was then given by Dermot to\nhis mother, and sent to his uncle, who went over them with his\nsolicitor.\n\nLady Diana writhed under the notion of selling Biston.  It seemed to\nher to be the means of keeping her son from the place in Ireland, which\nshe disliked more than ever, and she hoped her brother would advance\nenough to prevent this from being needful; but for this Lord Erymanth\nwas far too wise.  He said, as Dermot felt, that Biston had never been\nanything but an unjustifiable and pernicious luxury and temptation; but\nhe did voluntarily, since it joined his property, propose to purchase\nit himself, and at such a sum as secured the possibility of a real\npayment of the debts when the other sales should have been effected.\n\nAnd they were carried out.  It was well for Dermot that, as a\nconvalescent in his mother's house, he was sheltered from all counter\ninfluences, such as his easy good nature might not have withstood; and\nunder that shelter it was his purpose to abide until the voyage which\nwould take him out of reach for a time, and bring him home ready for\nhis fresh start.\n\nOf course Lady Diana hated the notion of the voyage, and though her\nbrother advised her not to oppose it, yet to the last I think she\nentertained hopes that it would end in Harold's going alone.\n\nWhen Harold came in and told me that Dermot Tracy's horses, English and\nIrish, were all sold, and named the sum that they had realised, my\nspirits leaped up, and I was certain, after such a voluntary sacrifice,\nthe dear old companion of my childhood would be a joy and exultation to\nus all, instead of a sorrow and a grief.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE RED VALLEY CATTLE STEALERS.\n\n\nIn the Easter recess our Northchester member had his house full, and\namong his guests was one of the most influential men of the day, who,\nthough not a cabinet minister himself, was known to have immense\ninfluence with Government and in Parliament, from his great weight and\ncharacter.\n\nEustace and I were invited to meet him, also Lady Diana and her\ndaughter and son, who was called well now, though far from strong. When\nthe gentlemen came out of the dining-room, Eustace and Dermot came up\nto us, the former much excited, and saying, \"Lucy, you must make\npreparations.  They are all coming to luncheon to-morrow at Arghouse.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir James (the great man himself), and Mr. Vernon, and the\nGeneral, and all the party.  I asked them all.  Sir James has heard of\nthe potteries, and of my system, and of the reformation I have\neffected, and there being no strikes, and no nothing\ndeleterious--undesirable I mean--and the mechanics having an interest,\nhe wants to see for himself--to inspect personally--that he may name it\nin Parliament in illustration of a scheme he is about to propose.  So\nMr. Vernon will bring him over to see the Hydriot works to-morrow, and\nI have asked them to luncheon.  Only think--named in Parliament! Don't\nyou think now it might lead to a baronetcy, Tracy?\"\n\n\"Or a peerage,\" quoth naughty Viola, out of reach of mother or Harold.\n\"My Lord Hardbake would be a sweet title.\"\n\n\"I should revive the old honours of the family,\" said Eustace, not\ncatching the bit of wickedness.  \"Calldron of Arghouse was an old\nbarony.  Lord Calldron of Arghouse!  Should you object, Miss Tracy?\"\n\n\"Earthen pot or copper kettle?  Which?\" laughed Viola.  \"Ah! there's\nMiss Vernon going to sing.  I want to hear her,\" and she jumped up.\n\n\"Sit down, Dermot, in my place; you are not to stand.\"\n\nShe threaded her way to the piano, followed by Eustace, who still\nviewed himself as her suitor.\n\n\"Poor little Vi!\" said Dermot, who by this time was aware of the\ncourtship, and regarded it with little favour.\n\n\"She will rub him off more easily among numbers,\" I said, as he settled\ndown by me.  \"But is this really so, Dermot?\"\n\n\"What, is she to be my Lady Calldron?  I am afraid my hopes of that\nelevation are not high.   But as to the luncheon, you will really have\nto slaughter your turkeys, and declare war on your surviving cocks and\nhens.  He has been inviting right and left.  And tell Harold from me\nthat if he votes the thing a bore, and keeps out of the way for fear of\nhaving to open his mouth, he'll be doing serious damage.  If respect to\nthe future baronetcy makes him get into the background, tell him, with\nmy compliments, the whole thing will be a muddle, and I'll never speak\na good word for him again.\"\n\n\"Then you have been speaking good words?\"\n\n\"When Sir James began to inquire about the Hydriots, Mr. Alison was\ncalled on to answer him, and you are aware that, except to certain\nconstitutions of intellect, as my uncle would say, certain animals\ncannot open their mouths without proclaiming themselves.  The most\nsensible thing he said was the invite to come and see.  Really, he made\nsuch mulls with the details that even I had to set him right, and that\nled to Sir James talking it out with me, when I had the opportunity of\nmentioning that a certain person, not the smallest of mankind, had been\nentirely overlooked.  Yes I did, Lucy.  I up and told him how our\nfriend came over as heir; and when he was done out of it, set to work\nas agent and manager and improver-general, without a notion of jealousy\nor anything but being a backbone to this cousin of his, and I could not\nsay what besides to all that came in his way; but I flatter myself\nthere's one man in the room who has some notion of the difference there\nis between the greater and the less.\"\n\n\"Harold would not thank you,\" I said.\n\n\"Not he.  So much the more reason that you should take care he comes to\nthe front.\"\n\nDermot did Eustace a little injustice in fancying he wanted to suppress\nHarold.  He never did.  He was far too well satisfied with his own\ngreat personality to think that anyone could interfere with it; and\nhaving asked everyone in the room, ladies and all, to the inspection\nand the luncheon, discoursed to me about it all the way home, and would\nalmost have made me and all the servants stay up all night to prepare.\nHarold, who was still up when we came home, received the tidings\nequably, only saying he would go down to Yolland the first thing in the\nmorning and get things made tidy.  \"And don't bother Lucy,\" he added,\nas we went upstairs.\n\nWell, the supplies were contrived, and the table laid without anyone\nbeing quite distracted.  From Richardson downwards, we all had learnt\nto take our own way, while the master talked, and Mrs. Alison was\nreally very happy, making delicate biscuits after a receipt of her own.\nThings came to a point where I was sure they would finish themselves\noff more happily without either of us, and though one idle female more\nmight not be desirable, I thought at least I might prevent Harold's\neffacement, and went down to Mycening with Eustace to receive the\nguests.\n\nSure enough, Harold was not in the entrance yard, nor the\nsuperintendent's office.  Mr. Yolland was there, looking grim and\nbored, and on inquiry being made, said that Mr. Harold had insisted on\nhis being on the spot, but was himself helping the men to clear the\nspace whence it would be easiest to see the action of the machinery.  I\nmade a rush after him, and found him all over dust, dragging a huge\ncrate into a corner, and to my entreaty he merely replied, pushing back\nhis straw hat, \"I must see to this, or we shall have everything\nsmashed.\"\n\nThe carriages were coming, and I could only pick my way back by the\nshortest route, through stacks of drain-tiles and columns of\ngarden-pots, to Eustace, who, becoming afraid it would seem as if he\nwere keeping shop, was squeezing down the fingers of his left-hand\nglove, while impressing on Mr. Yolland and me that everyone must\nunderstand he was only there as chairman of the directors.\n\nThe people came, and were conducted round, and peeped about and made\nall sorts of remarks, wise and foolish.  Eustace was somewhat perplexed\nbetween the needful attentions to Mrs. Vernon and to Sir James, who,\nbeing much more interested in the men than the manufacture, was\nexamining Mr. Yolland on their welfare, spirit, content, &c.; and\nGeorge Yolland might be trusted for making Mr. Harold Alison the\nprominent figure in his replies, till at last he could say, \"But here\nis Mr. Harold Alison, Sir James.  He can reply better than I.\"  (Which\nwas not strictly true, for George Yolland had by far the readiest\ntongue.)  But he had managed to catch Harold in the great court, moving\nback one of his biggest barrels of heavy ingredients, with face some\ndegrees redder and garments some degrees dustier than when I had seen\nhim ten minutes before.  It really was not on purpose, or from any wish\nto hide, but the place needed clearing, there was little time, and his\nstrength could not be spared.\n\nI am sorry to say that a chattering young lady, who stood close to\nEustace, exclaimed, \"Dear me, what a handsome young foreman!\" making\nEustace blush to the eyes, and say, \"It is my cousin--he is so very\neccentric--you'll excuse him.\"\n\nSir James, meantime, had heartily shaken the hand which, though\nbegrimed at the moment, Harold held out to him, and plunged into\ninquiries at once, not letting him go again; for Harold, with the\nintuition that nothing was idly asked, and that each observation told,\nanswered to the point as no man could do better, or in fewer words.\nWhen the round was over, and Eustace was prepared with the carriage to\ndrive the grandees the mile up to Arghouse, Sir James returned his\nthanks, but he was going to walk up with Mr. Harold Alison, who was\ngoing to show him his workmen's reading-room, cottages, &c.  Eustace\nlooked about for someone to whom to resign the reins, but in vain, and\nwe all had to set off, my housewifely mind regretting that time and\nEustace had combined to make the luncheon a hot instead of a cold one.\n\nWe found the Tracys when we arrived at home.  Dermot was not equal to\nstanding about at the pottery, but Lady Diana had promised to come and\nhelp me entertain the party, and very kindly she did so during the very\ntrying hungry hour to which we had to submit, inasmuch as, when Sir\nJames at last appeared, it turned out that he never ate luncheon, and\nwas in perfect ignorance that we were waiting for him.\n\nHe offered me his arm and we went to the long-deferred luncheon. I\nlistened to his great satisfaction with what he had seen, and the\nmarvel he thought it; and meanwhile I looked for Harold, and saw him\npresently come in, in exactly that condition of dress, as he considered\ndue to me, and with the long blue envelope I knew full well in one\nhand, in the other the little figure of the Hope of Poland which Miss\nWoolmer had given him; and oh! what a gladness there was in his eyes.\nHe put them both down beside Sir James, and then retreated to a side\ntable, where Dora had been set to entertain a stray school-boy or two.\n\nI longed to hear Sir James's observations, but his provoking opposite\nneighbour began to talk, and I got nothing more to myself, and I had to\nspend the next half-hour in showing our grounds to Mrs. Vernon, who\nadmired as if she were electioneering, and hindered me from knowing\nwhat anybody was about, till the people had had their cups of coffee\nand their carriages had come.\n\nWe three found ourselves in the porch together when Eustace had handed\nin Mrs. Vernon, and Sir James, turning for a last shake of Harold's\nhand, said, \"I shall expect you this day week.\"  Then, with most polite\nthanks to the master of the house, he was driven off, while Harold,\nbeaming down on us, exclaimed, \"It is as good as done. I am to go up\nand see the Secretary of State about it next week.\"\n\nI had no doubt what it was, and cried out joyfully to ask how he had\ndone it.  \"I told him who first discovered the capabilities of the\nclay, and laid the state of the case before him.  He was very much\ntouched, said it was just such a matter as needed severity at the time,\nbut was sure to be pardoned now.\"\n\n\"Pardoned!  What do you mean?\" exclaimed Eustace.  \"You don't mean that\nyou have not done with that wretched old Prometesky yet?  I thought at\nleast, when you took up Sir James all to yourself, spoiling the\nluncheon and keeping everyone waiting, you were doing something for the\nbenefit of the family.\"\n\nAs Harold seemed dumb with amazement, I asked what he could possibly\nhave been expected to do for the good of the family, and Eustace\nmumbled out something about that supposed Calldron barony, which seemed\nto have turned his head, and I answered sharply that Sir James had\nnothing at all to do with reviving peerages; besides, if this one had\never existed, it would have been Harold's.  I had much better have held\nmy tongue.  Eustace never recovered that allegation.  That day, too,\nwas the very first in which it had been impossible for Harold to avoid\nreceiving marked preference, and the jealousy hitherto averted by\nEustace's incredible vanity had begun to awaken. Moreover, that there\nhad been some marked rebuff from Viola was also plain, for, as the\nArked carriage was seen coming round, and I said we must go in to the\nTracys, Eustace muttered, \"Nasty little stuck-up thing; catch me making\nup to her again!\"\n\nIt was just as well that Harold did not hear, having, at sight of the\ncarriage, gone off to fetch a favourite cup, the mending of which he\nhad contrived for Viola at the potteries.  When we came into the\ndrawing-room, I found Lady Diana and Mrs. Alison with their heads very\nclose together over some samples of Welsh wool, and Dermot lying on the\nsofa, his hands clasped behind his head, and his sister hanging over\nhim, with her cheeks of the colour that made her beautiful.\n\nThe two elder ladies closed on Eustace directly to congratulate him on\nthe success of his arrangements, and Dermot jumped up from the sofa,\nwhile Viola caught hold of my hand, and we all made for the window\nwhich opened on the terrace.  \"Tell her,\" said Viola to her brother, as\nwe stood outside.\n\nDermot smiled, saying, \"Only that Sir James thinks he has to-day seen\none of the most remarkable men he ever met in his life.\"\n\n\"And he has promised to help him to Prometesky's pardon,\" I said; while\nViola, instead of speaking, leaped up and kissed me for joy. \"He is to\ngo to London about it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Dermot said.  \"Sir James wants him to meet some friends, who\nwill be glad to pick his brains about New South Wales.  Hallo, Harry! I\ncongratulate you.  You've achieved greatness.\"\n\n\"You've achieved a better thing,\" said Viola, with her eyes beaming\nupon him.\n\n\"I hope so,\" he said in an under tone.\n\n\"I am so glad,\" with a whole heart in the four words.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said.  \"This was all that was wanting.\"\n\nThe words must have come out in spite of himself, for he coloured up to\nthe roots of his hair as they ended.  And Viola not only coloured too,\nbut the moisture sprang into her fawn-like eyes.  Dermot and I looked\nat each other, both knowing what it meant.\n\nThat instant Lady Diana called, and Dermot, the first of all, stooped\nunder the window to give his sister time, and in the little bustle to\nwhich he amiably submitted about wraps and a glass of wine, Lady Diana\nfailed to look at her daughter's cheeks and eyes.  Viola never even\nthanked Harold for the cup, which he put into her lap after she was\nseated beside Dermot's feet on the back seat of the carriage. She only\nbent her head under her broad hat, and there was a clasp of the two\nhands.\n\nI turned to go up to my sitting-room.  Harold came after me and shut\nthe door.\n\n\"Lucy,\" he said, \"may one give thanks for such things?\"\n\nThe words of the 107th Psalm came to my lips: \"Oh that men would\ntherefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and declare the wonders\nthat He doeth for the children of men.\"\n\nHe put his hands over his face, and said presently, in a smothered\nvoice, \"I had just begun to pray for the old man.\"\n\nI could not say any more for happy tears, less for \"the captive exile\"\nthan for my own Harry.\n\nSoon he looked up again, and said with a smile, \"I shan't fight against\nit any longer.\"\n\n\"I don't think it is of any use,\" was my answer, as if pretending to\ncondole; and where another man would have uttered a fervent rhapsody,\nhe exclaimed, \"Lovely little darling!\"\n\nBut after another interval he said, \"I don't mean to speak of it till I\ncome back.\"  And on my question, \"From London?\"  \"No, from Boola Boola.\"\n\nHe had evidently debated the whole matter during his midnight tramps,\nand had made up his mind, as he explained, that it would be cruel to\nViola to touch the chord which would disclose her feelings to herself.\nShe was a mere child, and if her fancy were touched, as he scarcely\nallowed himself to believe, it was hard to lay fully before her those\ndark pages in his history which she must know before she could be\nallowed to give herself to him.  Besides, her mother and uncle would,\neven if there were nothing else amiss, be sure to oppose a match with\none who had nothing in England but his cousin's agency and a few shares\nin the potteries; and though Harold had plenty of wealth at Boola\nBoola, it was certain that he should not have a moment's audience from\nthe elders unless he could show its amount in property in England.  If\nthings went well, he would buy a piece of Neme Heath, reclaim it, and\nbuild a house on it; or, perhaps, an estate in Ireland, near Killy\nMarey, where the people had gained his heart.  Till, however, he could\nshow that he had handsome means in a form tangible to Lady Diana, to\nexpress his affection would only be exposing Viola to displeasure and\npersecution.  Moreover, he added, his character was not cleared up as\nmuch as was even possible.  He had told Lord Erymanth the entire truth,\nand had been believed, but it was quite probable that even that truth\nmight divide for ever between him and Viola, and those other stories of\nthe Stympsons both cousins had, of course, flatly denied, but had never\nbeen able otherwise to confute.\n\nI asked whether it had ever struck him that it was possible that the\ndeeds of Henry Alison might have been charged on his head.  \"Yes,\" he\nsaid, and he thought that if he could trace this out, with Dermot as a\nwitness, the authorities might be satisfied so far as to take him for\nwhat he was, instead of for what he had never been.  But the perception\nof the storm of opposition which speaking at present would provoke,\nmade me allow that he was as wise as generous in sparing Viola till his\nreturn, since I knew her too well to fear that her heart would be given\naway in the meantime.  Still I did hint, \"Might not she feel your going\naway without saying anything?\"\n\n\"Not at all likely,\" said Harold.  \"Besides, she would probably be a\nhappier woman if she forgot all about me.\"\n\nIn which, of course, there was no agreeing; but he had made up his\nmind, and it was plain it was the nobler part--nay, the only honest\npart, since it was plainly of no use to speak openly.  I wondered a\nlittle that his love was so self-restrained.  It was an intense glow,\nbut not an outbreak; but I think that having gone through all the\nwhirlwind of tempestuous passion for a mere animal like poor Meg made\nhim the more delicately reverent and considerate for the real love of\nthe higher nature which had now developed in him.  He said himself that\nthe allowing himself to hope, and ceasing to crush his feelings, was so\ngreat a change as to be happiness enough for him; and I guarded\ncarefully against being forced into any promise of silence, being quite\ndetermined that, if I saw Viola unhappy, or fancying herself forgotten,\nI would, whether it could be called wise or foolish, give her a hint of\nthe true state of things.\n\nNothing was to be said to Eustace.  He would have the field to himself,\nand it was better that he should convince himself and Lady Diana that\nthere was no hope for him.  Harold thought he could safely be commended\nto George Yolland and me for his affairs and his home life; and, to our\nsurprise, he did not seem half so reluctant to part with his cousin as\nwe had expected.  He had gone his own way a good deal more this winter\nand spring, as Harold seldom had time to hunt, and did not often drive\nout, and he had grown much more independent. His share of Boola Boola\nwas likewise to be sold, for neither cousin felt any desire to keep up\nthe connection with the country where they had never had a happy home;\nand he gave Harold full authority to transact the sale.\n\nPerhaps we all had shared more or less in Dora's expectation that\nHarold would come home from London with Prometesky's pardon in his\npocket; though I laughed at her, and Eustace was furious when we found\nshe thought he was to kneel before the Queen, present his petition, and\nnot only receive the pardon, but rise up Sir Harold Alison!  It did\nfall flat when he came back, having had very satisfactory interviews,\nbut only with the Secretaries of State, and having been assured that\nPrometesky would be certainly pardoned, but that, as a matter of form,\nsome certificates of conduct and recommendations must be obtained from\nNew South Wales before the pardon could be issued.\n\nThis precipitated Harold's departure.  Dermot was just well enough to\nbe likely to be the better for a voyage, and the first week in May was\nfixed for their setting forth.  A great box appeared in my\nsitting-room, where Harold began to stow all manner of presents of\nvarious descriptions for friends and their children, but chiefly for\nthe shepherds' families at Boola Boola; and in the midst, Mrs. Alison,\npoor thing, brought a whole box of beautifully-knitted worsted\nstockings, which she implored Harold to carry to her dear Henry; and he\nactually let her pack them up, and promised that, if he ever found\nHenry, they should be given.  \"And this little Bible,\" said the good\nold lady; \"maybe he has lost his own.  Tell him it is his poor papa's,\nand I know he will bring it back to me.\"\n\n\"He shall if I can make him,\" said Harold.\n\n\"And Harold, my dear,\" said Mrs. Alison, with her hand on his shoulder,\nas he knelt by his box, \"you'll go to see your own poor mamma?\"\n\nHarold started and winced.  \"My mother is in New Zealand,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" said the old lady triumphantly; \"but that's only the\nother side of the way, for I looked in Lucy's map.\"\n\n\"And she has a husband,\" added Harold between his teeth, ignoring what\nthe other side of the way might mean.\n\n\"Yes, my dear, I know he is not a nice man, but you are her only one,\naren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And I know what that is--not that I ever married anyone but your poor\nuncle, nor ever would, not if the new rector had asked me, which many\nexpected and even paid their compliments to me on, but I always said\n'No, no.'  But you'll go and see her, my dear, and comfort her poor\nheart, which, you may depend, is longing and craving after you, my\ndear; and all the more if her new gentleman isn't quite as he should\nbe.\"\n\nHarold could not persuade himself to bring out any answer but \"I'll see\nabout it;\" and when we were alone, he said with a sigh, \"If I should be\nany comfort to her poor heart.\"\n\n\"I should think there was no doubt of that.\"\n\n\"I am afraid of committing murder,\" answered Harold, almost under his\nbreath, over the trunk.\n\n\"Oh, Harold!  Not now.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said.\n\n\"You have not seen him for ten years.  He may be altered as much as\nyou.\"\n\n\"And for the worse.  I could almost say I dare not.\"\n\n\"There's nothing you don't dare, God helping you,\" I said.\n\n\"I shall think.  If it is my duty, I suppose God will help me.\nHitherto, I have thought my rage against the brutes made it worse for\nher, and that I do best for her by keeping out of the way.\"\n\n\"I think they would respect you now too much to do anything very bad\nbefore you.\"\n\n\"She would fare the worse for it afterwards.\"\n\n\"I am of Mrs. Alison's opinion, that she would be willing for the sake\nof seeing her son, and such a son.\"\n\nHarold sighed.\n\n\"But it could not have been so dreadful when Eustace lived with them,\nand was so fond of the man.\"\n\n\"He nattered Eustace to curry favour with him and his father.  He has\nsunk much lower.  Then he lived like a decent clergyman.  He has thrown\nall that off in New Zealand, and fallen entirely under the dominion of\nthat son.  I could wish I had quite throttled that Dick when I so\nnearly did so at school.\"\n\n\"If you say such things, I shall think you ought not to trust yourself\nthere.\"\n\n\"That is it--I am afraid.  I have crimes enough already.\"\n\nIt was too great a responsibility to persuade him to put himself into\ntemptation, even now that he knew what prayer was.  I longed to have\nseen him come yet nearer, and taken the means of strengthening and\nrefreshing.  But he said, \"I cannot; I have not time to make fit\npreparation.\"  And when I pleaded that I could not bear to think of his\nencountering danger without fulfilling that to which the promise of\nEverlasting Life is attached, I struck the wrong key.  What he was not\nready to do for love, he would not do for fear, or hurry preparation\nbeyond what his conscience approved, that he might have what I was\nrepresenting as the passport of salvation.  Whether he were right or\nwrong I know not even now, but it was probably through the error of the\nvery insufficient adviser the poor fellow had chosen in me.  It may\nseem strange, but I had never thought of his irreligion as an obstacle\nwith Viola, for, first, I knew him to be a sincere learner, as far as\nhe went; and next, her sister's husband had none of the goodness that\nLady Diana's professions would have led one to expect in her chosen\nson-in-law.\n\nWe all met and parted at the railway-station, whither Viola came with\nher brother.  Dora had been only allowed to come upon solemn promises\nof quietness, and at the last our attention was more taken up with her\nthan anyone else, for she was very white, and shook from head to foot\nwith the effort at self-restraint, not speaking a word, but clinging to\nHarold with a tight grip of his hand, and, when that was not\nattainable, of his coat.  Fortunately the train was punctual, and the\nordeal did not last long.  Harold put in all his goods and Dermot's,\nand finally he lifted the poor child up in his arms, held her close,\nand then, as her hands locked convulsively round his neck, Eustace\nunclasped them, and Harold put her down on my lap as I sat down on the\nbench, left a kiss on my brow, wrung Eustace's hand, pressed Viola's,\nsaying, \"I'll take care of your brother,\" and then, with one final\nimpulse, carried the hand to his lips and kissed it, before springing\ninto the carriage, which was already in motion. Poor Dora was actually\nfaint, and never having experienced the feeling before, was frightened,\nand gasped out, \"Hasn't it killed me, Lucy?\"\n\nThe laugh that was unavoidable did us all good, and I sent Eustace for\nsome restorative from the refreshment-room.  The child had to be\ncarried to the carriage, and was thoroughly out of order for several\ndays.  Poor little girl, we neither of us knew that it was the\nbeginning of her darker days!\n\nOf Harold's doings in Australia I can tell less than of those at home.\nHe kept his promise, dear fellow, and wrote regularly.  But, alas! his\nletters are all gone, and I can only speak from memory of them, and\nfrom what Dermot told me.\n\nMaking no stay in Sydney, they pushed on to Boola Boola, avoiding a\nhalt at Cree's Station, but making at once for Prometesky's cottage, a\nwonderful hermitage, as Dermot described it, almost entirely the work\nof the old man's ingenious hands.  There he lived, like a philosopher\nof old, with the most sternly plain and scanty materials for comfort--a\nmat, a table, and a chair; but surrounded by beautiful artistic figures\nand intricate mathematical diagrams traced on his floor and wall, reams\nof essays and poems where he had tried to work out his thought;\nfragments of machines, the toys of his constructive brain, among which\nthe travellers found him sitting like a masculine version of Albert\nDurer's Melancholia, his laughing jackass adding tones of mockery to\nthe scene, perched on the bough, looking down, as his master below took\nto pieces some squatter's crazy clock.\n\nWhen Harold's greeting had aroused him, Dermot said, nothing could be\nmore touching than the meeting with Prometesky, who looked at him as a\nfather might look at a newly-recovered son, and seemed to lose the joy\nof the prospect of his own freedom in the pride and exultation of his\nown boy, his Ambrose's son, having achieved it.  The beauty of the\nplace enchanted Dermot, and his first ride round the property made him\nmarvel how man could find it in his heart to give up this free open\nlife of enterprise for the tameness of an old civilised country.  But\nHarold smiled, and said he had found better things in England.\n\nHarold found that there were serious losses in the numbers of the sheep\nof the common stock, and that all the neighbouring settlers were making\nthe like complaint.  Bushranging, properly so called, had been\nextinguished by the goldfind in Victoria, but as my brothers had\nlocated themselves as far as possible from inhabited districts, Boola\nBoola was still on the extreme border of civilisation, and there was a\nlong, wide mountain valley, called the Red Valley, beyond it, with long\ngulleys and ravines branching up in endless ramifications, where a gang\nof runaway shepherds and unsuccessful gold diggers were known to haunt,\nand were almost certainly the robbers.  The settlers and mounted police\nhad made some attempts at tracking them out, but had always become\nbewildered in the intricacies of the ravines, and the losing one's way\nin those eucalyptus forests was too awful a danger to be encountered.\n\nA fresh raid had taken place the very night before Harold arrived at\nBoola Boola, upon a flock pasturing some way off.  The shepherds were\nbadly beaten, and then bailed up, and a couple of hundred sheep were\ndriven off.\n\nNow Harold had, as a lad, explored all the recesses of these ravines,\nand was determined to put an end to the gang; and when it became known\nthat Harold Alison was at home, and would act as guide, a fully\nsufficient party of squatters, shepherds, and police rallied for the\nattack, and Dermot, in great delight, found himself about to see a\nfight in good earnest.\n\nA very sufficient guide Harold proved himself, and they came, not to\nany poetical robber's cavern, but within sight of a set of shanties,\nlooking like any ordinary station of a low character.  There a sudden\nvolley of shot from an ambush poured upon them, happily without any\nserious wounds, and a hand-to-hand battle began, for the robbers having\nthus taken the initiative, it was hardly needful to display the search\nwarrant with which the party had come armed.  And to the amazement of\nall, the gang was headed by a man who seemed the very counterpart of\nHarold, not, perhaps, quite so tall, but with much the same complexion\nand outline, though he was somewhat older, and had the wild, fierce,\nruffianly aspect of a bushranger.  This man was taking deliberate aim\nat the magistrate who acted as head of the party, when Harold flung\ndown his own loaded rifle, sprang upon him, and there was the most\ntremendous wrestling match that Dermot said he could have imagined.\nThree times Harold's antagonist touched the earth, three times he\nsprang from it again with redoubled vigour, until, at last, Harold\nclasped his arms round him, lifted him in the air, and dashed him to\nthe ground, where he lay senseless.  And then, to the general\namusement, Harold seemed astonished at his state as he lay prone,\nobserving, \"I did not want to hurt him;\" and presently told Dermot, \"I\nbelieve he is old Mrs. Sam Alison's son.\"\n\nAnd so it proved.  He was the Henry or Harry Alison of whose deeds the\nStympsons had heard.  The gang was, after all, not very extensive; two\nhad been shot in the fray, one was wounded, and one surrendered.\nAlison, though not dead, was perfectly helpless, and was carried down\nthe rocky valley on an extemporary litter, Harold taking his usual\nshare of the labour.  The sheep and cattle on whom were recognised the\nmarks of the Alisons of Boola Boola, and of sundry of their neighbours,\nwere collected, to be driven down and reclaimed by their owners, and\nthe victory was complete.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE GOLDEN FRUIT.\n\n\nWhile all this was passing on the other side the world, Eustace\nfulfilled his wish for a season in London, was presented by Lord\nErymanth, went to a court ball, showed his horses in the Park, lived at\na club, and went to Ascot and Epsom.  He fulfilled Harold's boast that\nhe might be trusted not to get into mischief, for he really had no\ntaste for vice, and when left to himself had the suspicious dislike to\nspending money which is so often found where the intellect is below the\naverage.  Vanity and self-consequence were the poor fellow's leading\nfoibles, and he did not find that they were gratified when among his\nequals and superiors in station.  Sensible men could not make him a\ncompanion, and the more dangerous stamp of men, when they could not\nfleece him, turned him into ridicule, so that he came home discontented.\n\nIt was not for my sympathy or company that he came home.  He should\nhave had it, for I had grown really fond of him, and was he not a\ncharge left me by Harold?  But he did not want me more than as lady of\nthe house when he gave a dinner-party; and after his experiences of\nclub dinners his requirements had become so distracting as to drive our\nold servants away and me nearly crazy.  Also he was constantly in a\nstate of discontent with Mr. Yolland about the management of the\nestate, always grumbling about expenses and expecting unreasonable\nreturns, and interfering with the improvements Harold had set in hand,\ntill Mr. Yolland used to come and seek private interviews with me, to\ntry to get me to instil the explanations in which he had failed.  Once\nor twice I made peace, but things grew worse and worse.  I heard\nnothing but petulant abuse of George Yolland on one side, and on the\nother I knew he would have thrown up the agency except for Harold.\n\nWhen at Michaelmas Eustace informed him that the estate should no\nlonger go on without a regular responsible agent, and that one was\nengaged who had been recommended by Mr. Horsman, I do not know whether\nhe was most hurt or relieved, though I could hardly forgive the slight\nto his cousin, far less the reply, when I urged the impropriety.\n\"Harold can't expect to domineer over everything. He has put me to\nexpense enough already with his fancies.\"\n\nIn truth Eustace had been resorting all this time to the companionship\nof the Horsmans.  Hunting, during the previous winter, had thrown him\nwith them more than we knew, and when he found me far more of a\nchampion for Harold's rights than he wished, and, I fear too, much less\ntolerant of his folly and petulance than when his cousin was present to\nmake the best of them by his loyal love, he deserted home more and more\nfor Therford Hall.  Dora and I were hardly sorry, for he was very cross\nto her, and had almost forgotten his deference to me; but I certainly\nwas not prepared for the announcement of his engagement to Hippolyta\nHorsman.\n\nFrom sheepishness and want of savoir faire, he had not even properly\nwithdrawn his suit from Viola Tracy, thus making Lady Diana and Lord\nErymanth very angry, though the damsel herself was delighted.  I had\nventured to give one little hint of how the land lay with Harold, and\nshe had glowed with a look of intense gladness as of being confirmed in\na happy belief.  I don't even now think it was wrong.  It might have\nbeen imprudent, but it made that year of her life full of a calm bright\nhope and joy that neither she nor I can ever regret.\n\nAs far as could be guessed, Hippolyta's first and strongest attraction\nhad been towards Harold; but when it had been met by distaste and\ndisregard, she had turned her attention to the squire, who could be\neasily gained by judicious flattery.  In those days, I could see no\nexcuse for Hippolyta, and ascribed no motives to her but\nfortune-hunting and despair at being a spinster so long; but I have\nsince learnt to think that she had a genuine wish to be in a position\nof usefulness rather than to continue her aimless life of rattle and\nexcitement, and that she had that impulse to take care of Eustace and\nprotect him which strong-minded women sometimes seem to feel for weak\nmen.\n\nThe courtship was conducted at archery meetings, and afterwards at\nshooting parties, out of my sight and suspicion, though the whole\nneighbourhood was talking of it, and Miss Avice Stympson had come to\nArghouse to inquire about it, and impart her great disapproval of\nHippo, long before it was officially announced to me, and Eustace at\nthe same time kindly invited Mrs. Alison and me to remain where I was\ntill after the wedding.  I understood that this had been dictated to\nhim, and was an intimation which I scarcely needed, that Arghouse would\nbe our home no longer.\n\nJust as I was thinking what proposal to make to Mrs. Alison came\nHarold's letters about his unfortunate Australian double.  His first\nletter to the poor old lady merely told her that he had found her son,\nand that he was at Sydney, laid up by a bad accident received in a fray\nwith the police.  His back was hurt, but there was no cause to fear\ndanger.  He sent his love, and Harold would write again.  Viola sent me\nDermot's letter with full particulars, but I kept silence through all\nthe mother's agitations of joy and grief.\n\nThe next mail brought me full details of the skirmish, and of what\nHarold had learnt of Henry Alison's course.  It had been a succession\nof falls lower and lower, as with each failure habits of drunkenness\nand dissipation fastened on him, and peculation and dishonesty on that\ncongenial soil grew into ruffianism.   Expelled from the gold diggings\nfor some act too mean even for that atmosphere, he had become the\nleader of a gang of runaway shepherds in the recesses of the Red\nValley, and spread increasing terror there until the attack on him in\nhis stronghold, when Harold's cousinly embrace (really intended to\nspare his life, as well as that of the magistrate) had absolutely\ninjured his spine, probably for life.  He had with great difficulty\nbeen carried to Sydney, and there placed in the hospital instead of the\njail; since, disabled as he was, no one wished to prosecute the poor\nwretch, and identification was always a difficulty.  Harold had been\ntaking daily care of him, and had found him in his weak and broken\nstate ready to soften, nay, to shed tears, at the thought of his\nmother; evincing feelings that might be of little service if he had\nrecovered, but if he were crippled for life might be the beginning of\nbetter things.  Harold had given him the Bible, and the stockings, and\nhad left him alone with them.  The Bible was as yet left untouched, as\nif he were afraid of it, but he had ever since been turning over and\nfondling the stockings, as though all the love that the poor mother had\nbeen knitting into them for years and years, apparently in vain, were\nexhaling like the heat and colours stored by the sun in ages past in\nour coals.\n\nHarold was wondering over the question whether a man in his state could\nor ought to be brought to England, or whether it could be possible to\nsend his mother out to him, when the problem was solved by his falling\nin with a gentleman whose wife was a confirmed invalid, and who was\nready to give almost any salary to a motherly, ladylike woman, beyond\ndanger of marrying, who would take care of her and attend to the\nhousehold.  He would even endure the son, and lodge him in one of the\ndependencies of his house, which had large grounds looking into\nbeautiful Sydney Bay, provided he could secure such a person.\n\nEven an escort had been arranged, as a brother of the gentleman was in\nEngland, and about to return with his wife to Australia; so that I was\nat once to communicate with them, pack her up, and consign her to them.\nTo Mrs. Alison herself Harold wrote with the offer of the situation,\nand a representation of her son's need and longing for her, telling her\nthe poor fellow's affectionate messages, and promising himself to meet\nher at Sydney on her arrival.\n\nHe must needs await the arrival of Prometesky's pardon, in answer to\nthe recommendations that had gone by this very mail, and which he had\nhad no difficulty in obtaining.  The squatters round Boola Boola would\nhave done anything for the man who had delivered them from the Red\nValley gang; and, besides, there was no one who had been long enough in\nthe country to remember anything adverse to the old hermit mechanist,\nand most of them could hardly believe that he \"had not come out at his\nown expense.\"  And at Sydney, as a visitor, highly spoken of by letters\nfrom the Colonial Secretary, and in company with an English gentleman\nconnected as was Mr. Tracy, Harold found himself in a very different\nsphere from that of the wild young sheep-farmer, coming down half for\nbusiness, half for roistering diversion.  He emulated Eustace's\ngrandeur by appearances at Government House, and might have made\nfriends with many of the superior families, if, after putting things in\ntrain for the sale of Boola Boola, he had not resolved on spending his\nwaiting time on a journey to New Zealand to see his mother.\n\nHe trusted himself the more from having visited the Crees, and having\nfound he could keep his temper when they sneered at him as a swell and\na teetotaller--nay, even wounded him more deeply by the old man's\nrejection of his offers of assistance, as if he had wanted to buy the\nfamily off from denouncing him as having been the death of their\ndaughter.  Often Harold must have felt it well for him that Dermot\nTracy knew the worst beforehand--nay, that what he learnt in New South\nWales was mild compared with the Stympson version.  Dermot himself\nwrote to his uncle the full account of what he had learnt from Cree and\nfrom Prometesky of Harold's real errors, and what Henry Alison had\nconfessed of those attributed to him, feeling that this was the best\nmode of clearing the way for those hopes which Harold had not concealed\nfrom him.  Dermot was thoroughly happy, enchanted with the new world,\nmore enthusiastic about his hero than ever, and eager to see as much as\npossible; but they renewed their promise to be in Sydney in time to\ngreet poor old Mrs. Alison.\n\nDear old body, what a state she was in, between joy and grief, love and\nterror, heart and brain.  She never wavered in her maternal eagerness\nto go to \"poor little Henry,\" but what did she not imagine as to Botany\nBay?  She began sewing up sovereigns in chamois-leather bags to be\ndispersed all over her person against the time when she should have to\nlive among the burglars; and Dora, who was desperately offended, failed\nto convince her that she might as well expect robbers at home.\nHowever, the preparations were complete at last, and I took her myself\nto the good people who were to have the charge of her.  I had no fears\nin sending her off, since Harold was sure to arrange for her\nmaintenance and comfort, in case of her situation not being a success;\nand though I had learnt to love her, and lost in her my chaperon, I was\nglad to be so far unencumbered; and to be freed from the fear that\nEustace and Hippolyta might do something harshly inconsiderate by her,\nin their selfish blindness to all save themselves.\n\nHippolyta's fortune was in a complicated state, which made her\nsettlements long in being made out; and as Eustace did not wish to turn\nme out till the wedding, I had time to wait to ascertain what Harold\nwould like me to do.  I hoped that Dora was so inconvenient an\nappendage that I should be allowed to keep her, but I found that\nHippolyta had designs on her--saying, truly enough, that she could\nneither write nor spell and knew not a word of any language.  \"Poor\nLucy Alison, what could be expected of her!\"  So Dora was to go to the\nmarried cousins in London, who, by thus taking her in, would be enabled\nto have a superior governess for their own tribe.  Poor Dora! how\nfiercely she showed her love for me all those weeks of reprieve, and\nhow hard I laboured to impress upon her that her intended system of\ndefiance to the whole Horsman family was not, by any means, such a\nproof of affection as either Harry or I should relish.\n\nMore letters from our travellers from New Zealand turned our attention\nfrom our own troubles.  They had reached Dunedin, and there found\nHarold's letter, to announce his coming, waiting at the post-office.\nThe Smith family had left the place, and Mr. Smith only came or sent\nfrom time to time when Harold's regular letters, containing\nremittances, were due.  By inquiry, they were traced to the goldfields;\nand thither Harold and Dermot repaired, through curious experiences and\nrecognitions of old army and London friends of Dermot's, now diggers or\nmounted police.  Save for one of these gentlemen, much better educated\nthan Harold, but now far rougher looking, they would never have found\nthe house where \"Parson Smith\" (a title that most supposed to be\nentirely unfounded) made a greater profit by selling the necessaries of\nlife to the diggers, than did his son by gold-digging and washing.\n\nPoor Alice, the stately farmhouse beauty of thirty years ago, was a\nstooping, haggard, broken-down wreck--not a slattern, but an overworked\ndrudge, with a face fitter for seventy than for fifty years old, and a\nghastly look of long-continued sickness.\n\nHer husband was out, and she sat, propped up in a chair behind the\nboard that served for a counter, still attending to the shop; and thus\nit was that her son beheld her when he stooped under the low doorway,\nwith the one word, \"Mother.\"\n\nDermot had waited outside, but Harold called him in the next moment.\n\"He will mind the shop, mother.  I'll carry you to your bed.  You are\nnot fit to be here a moment.\"\n\nAnd Dermot found himself selling tobacco, tin cups, and knives to very\nrough-looking customers, some of whom spoke in as refined a voice as he\ncould do, and only asked what green chum the parson could have picked\nup instead of the sickly missus.\n\nAlice Smith was indeed far gone in illness, the effect of exposure,\ndrudgery, and hard usage.  Perhaps her husband might have had mercy on\nher, but they were both cowed by the pitiless brute of a step-son,\nwhose only view was to goad her into driving their profitable traffic\nto her last gasp.  But there was no outbreak between them and Harold.\nThe father's nature was to cringe and fawn, and the son estimated those\nthews and muscles too well to gratify his hatred by open provocation,\nand was only surly and dogged, keeping himself almost entirely out of\nthe way.  Alice wanted nothing but to look at her son--\"her beautiful\nboy,\" \"her Harry come back to her at last;\" and kind and tender to her\nand loving, as he had never been since his baby days; but he would have\nmoved heaven and earth to obtain comforts and attendance for her.\nDermot rode a fabulous distance, and brought back a doctor for a\nfabulous fee, and loaded his horse with pillows and medicaments; but\nthe doctor could only declare that she had a fatal disease of long\nstanding and must die, though care and comfort might a little while\nprolong her life.  It was welcome news to poor Alice, provided she\nmight only die while her boy was still with her, shutting out all that\nhad so long made her life one ground-down course of hopeless\nwretchedness.\n\nSmith's most profitable form of employment was carrying dinners out to\nthe men at work; and for an hour or two at noon the little store was\nentirely free from customers.  The day after the doctor's visit, Dermot\ncame in at this time to speak to Harold, and as soon as Alice knew of\nhis presence (there was a mere partition of slab between her bed and\nthe shop), she eagerly and nervously bade him stay and keep watch that\nno one should come near to see or hear.  Then, when certain that she\nwas alone with her son, she produced from hiding-places about her\nperson what appeared to be three balls of worsted--her eyes gleaming,\nand her whole person starting at every sound.  She laid her skeleton\nfingers over them with a start of terror, as Harold, puzzled at first,\nwould have unwound one; but made him weigh them, parted the covering\nwith her nail, and showed for one instant a yellow gleam.  Each held a\nnugget of unusual size!  Her urgency and her terror were excessive till\nthey were out of sight in his pockets, though he protested that this\nwas but to satisfy her for the moment; he could not keep them.  She\nlaid her head so close to his that she could whisper, and told him they\nwere not meant for him.  They were payment for the L200 of which her\nhusband had defrauded the elder Eustace, and which had been a heavy\nweight ever since on her high-spirited pride.  By one of the strange\nchances that often befell in the early days of the goldfields, she,\ngoing to draw water at a little stream soon after her first arrival,\nhad seen these lying close together in the bed of the shallow\nrivulet--three lumps of gold formed by a freak of nature into the\nlikeness of the golden pippins her father used to be so proud of, and\nthe gathering of which had been the crisis of the courtship of the two\nhandsome lads from Arghouse.\n\nWith the secretiveness that tyranny had taught her, Alice hid her\ntreasure; and with the inborn honest pride which had, under Smith's\ndominion, cost her so much suffering, she swore to herself that they\nshould go to Eustace to wipe out the fraud against his father.  She had\nsought opportunities ever since, and believed that she should have to\nsend for some man in authority when she was dying, and no one could\ngainsay her, and commit them to him, little guessing that it was in her\nown son's hands that she should place them.\n\nAs little did she reckon on what Harold chose to do.  He said that for\nhim to conceal them, and take them away without her husband's\nknowledge, would be mere robbery; but that he would show them to Smith,\nand sign a receipt for them, \"for Eustace Alison,\" in payment of the\nsum of L200 due from James Smith to his father.  Mr. Tracy and his\nfriend, the policeman, should be witnesses, and the nuggets themselves\nshould be placed in charge of the police, when their weight and value\nwould be ascertained, and any overplus returned to Smith.  The poor\nwoman trembled exceedingly--Dermot heard the rustling as he stood\noutside; and he also heard Harold's voice soothing her, and assuring\nher that she should not be left to the revenge of young Dick Smith.\nNo, she feared not that; she was past the dread of Dick for herself,\nbut not for Harold.  He laughed, and said that they durst not touch him.\n\nFor his mother's relief, and for Dermot's safety, he, however, waited\nto say anything till the assistance of the gentleman of the police\nforce had been secured, so that there might be no delay to allow Dick\nSmith to gather his fellows for revenge or recovery of the gold.\n\nAnd with these precautions all went well.  Harold, in the grave,\nauthoritative way that had grown on him, reminded Mr. Smith of a heavy\ndebt due to his uncle; and when the wretched man began half to deny and\nhalf to entreat in the same breath, Harold said that he had received\nfrom his mother a deposit in payment thereof, and that he had prepared\na receipt, which he requested Mr. Smith to see him sign in presence of\nthe two witnesses now waiting.\n\nSmith's resentment and disappointment at the sight of the treasure his\nwife had hidden from him were unspeakable.  He was not an outwardly\npassionate man, and he was in mortal fear, not only of the giant who\nseemed to fill up all his little room, but also of anything that could\ncompromise him with the police.  So he suppressed his passion, aware\nthat resistance would bring out stories that could not bear the light.\nHarold signed, and the golden apples were carried away to the office,\nwhere Mr. Smith was invited to come the next day and see them weighed.\n\nThat night Harold kept watch over his mother; and Dermot, who was\nthought to be at his friend's shanty, kept watch near the door: but\nDick Smith, hating Harold's presence, had gone on an excursion lasting\nsome days, and before his father went in quest of him in the morning,\nHarold had a proposal ready--namely, to continue to pay Smith what he\nalready allowed his mother, with an addition, provided he were allowed\nto take her with him to Dunedin, and, if possible, home.\n\nSmith haggled, lamented, and pretended to hesitate, but accepted the\nterms at last, and then showed considerable haste in setting the party\noff on their journey before his son should come home, fearing, perhaps,\nsome deadly deed if Dick should discover what a prey the poor woman had\nconcealed from him, while she was within his reach; and as the worth of\nthe apples was estimated at about twenty pounds beyond the debt, Harold\npaid this to him at once, and they left him in the meek, plausible,\ntearful stage of intoxication, piteously taking leave of his wife as if\nshe were the very darling of his heart, and making fine speeches about\nhis resolution to consign her to her son for the sake of her health.\nSo contemptible had the poor creature become, that Harold found it\neasier to pity than to hate him.\n\nBesides, Harold had little thought then to spare from the eager filial\nand maternal affection that had been in abeyance all the years since\npoor Alice's unhappy marriage.  For a little while the mother and son\nwere all in all to each other.  The much-enduring woman, used to\nneglected physical suffering, bore the journey apparently well, when\nwatched over and guarded with a tender kindness recalling that of the\nhusband of her youth; and Harold wrote to me from Dunedin full of hope\nand gladness, aware that his mother could never be well again, but\ntrusting that we might yet give her such peace and rest as she had\nnever yet tasted.\n\nAgain came bitter vexation in Eustace's way of receiving the\nintelligence.  \"I hope he does not mean to bring her here.  It would be\nso extremely inconvenient--not a widow even!  It would just confirm all\nthe scandals _I_ have surmounted.\"\n\n\"I thought she had been almost as much a mother to you as your own?\"\n\n\"Oh, that was when I was at school, and they were paid for it. Besides,\nwhat a deceitful fellow Smith was, and how he defrauded me.\"\n\n\"And how she has restored it!\"\n\n\"I hope Harold will not go and get those nuggets changed into specie.\nThey would make splendid ornaments--so distingue with such a story\nattached to them.\"\n\nI could only again tell myself that my first impression had been right,\nand that he must be underwitted to be so absolutely impervious to\ngratitude.  How Harold must have bolstered him up to make him so\ntolerable as he had been.\n\nHe need not have feared.  Alice's improvement was but a last flash of\nthe expiring flame.  She grew worse the very day after Harold wrote to\nme, and did not live three weeks after he brought her into the town,\nthough surrounded by such cares as she had never known before. She\ndied, they said, more from being worn out than from the disease. She\nhad done nothing her whole lifetime but toil for others; and if\nunselfishness and silent slavery can be religion in a woman, poor Alice\nhad it.  But!\n\nHarold once asked her the saddest question that perhaps a son could\nask: \"Mother, why did you never teach me to say my prayers?\"\n\nShe stared at him with her great, sunken, uncomplaining eyes, and said,\n\"I hadn't time;\" and as he gave some involuntary groan, she said, \"You\nsee we never got religion, not Dorothy and me, while we were girls; and\nwhen our troubles came, I'm sure we'd no time for such things as that.\nWhen your father lay a-dying, he did say, 'Alice, take care the boy\ngets to know his God better than we have done;' but you were a great\nbig boy by that time, and I thought I would take care you was taught by\nmarrying a parson and a schoolmaster; but there, I ought to have\nremembered there was none so hard on us as the parsons!\"\n\nNor would she see a clergyman.  She had had enough of that sort, she\nsaid, with the only petulance she ever showed to Harold when he pressed\nit.  She did not object to his reading to her some of those passages in\nthe Bible and Prayer-Book which had become most dear to him, but she\nseemed rather to view it as one of the wonderful performances of her\nboy--a part of his having become \"as good an English gentleman as ever\nhis poor father was, and able to hold up his head with any of them.\"\nShe was too ill to be argued with; she said \"she trusted in God,\"\nwhatever she meant by that; and so she died, holding Harold's hand as\nlong as her fingers could clasp, and gazing at him as long as her eyes\ncould see.\n\nHe wrote to me all out of his overflowing heart, as he could never have\nspoken by word of mouth, on his voyage between New Zealand and\nAustralia; and on his arrival there, finding our letters just before\nthe mail went out, he added the characteristic line to the one he had\nwritten to Eustace, \"All right, old chap, I wish you joy;\" and to me he\nwrote, that since I asked what he wished, he thought I had better take\na house by the year in, or near, Mycening, and see how things would\nturn out.  He hoped I should keep Dora.  We need not write again, for\nhe should leave Sydney before our letters could arrive.\n\nI found a little house called Mount Eaton, on the Neme Heath side of\nMycening, with a green field between it and the town, and the heath\nstretching out beyond, where Harold might rush out and shake his mane\ninstead of feeling cribbed and confined.  It wanted a great deal of\npainting and papering, which I set in hand at once, but of course it\nwas a more lingering business than I expected.  All the furniture and\nbooks that had belonged to my own mother had been left to me, and it\nhad been settled by the valuation, when I knew little about it, what\nthese were; and all that remained was to face Eustace's disgust at\nfinding how many of \"the best things\" it comprised.  Hippolyta showed\nto advantage there.  I believe she was rather glad to get rid of them,\nand to have the opportunity of getting newer and more fashionable ones;\nbut, at any rate, she did it with a good grace, and made me welcome not\nonly to my own property, but to remain at Arghouse till my new abode\nshould be habitable, which I hoped would be a day or two after the\nwedding.\n\nThe great grievance was, however, that I had put myself and Dora into\nmourning, feeling it very sad that this last of the four exiles should\nbe the only one of whose death I even knew.  Eustace thought the whole\nconnection ought to be forgotten, and that, whatever I might choose to\ndo, it was intolerable that his sister, the present Miss Alison of\nArghouse, should put on mourning for the wife of a disgraced fellow, a\nrunaway parson turned sharper!\n\nI am afraid I was not as patient or tolerant as I ought to have been,\nand it ended in the time of reprieve being put an end to, and Dora\nbeing carried off by the Horsmans to her new schoolroom in London, her\nresistance, and the home-truths she told her brother, only making him\nthe more inexorable.  Poor little girl!  I do not like to think of the\nday I put her into Hippolyta's hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTHE BLOODHOUND.\n\n\nIt was a broiling evening in early June, very beautiful, but so hot\nthat I dreaded the fatigue and all the adjuncts of the morrow's\nwedding, when I was to be a bridesmaid, and should see my poor little\nDora again.  I was alone, for Eustace was sleeping at Therford\nVicarage, but I had not time for sentiment over the old home and old\ngardens.  I was turning out the old Indian cabinets, which were none of\nmine, though they had always been called so, and putting into cotton\nwool and paper all my treasures there, ready for transport, when a\nshadow fell on me from the open window.  I looked up, and there stood\nHarold!\n\nOh, how unlike it was from the way in which we had met three years\nbefore as bewildered strangers!  I do not think that sister could ever\nhave met brother with more entire feeling that home, and trust, and\nstaff, and stay were come back to her, than when I found Harold's arm\nround me, his head bending down to me.  I was off my own mind!\n\nWhen our greeting was over, Harold turned and said, \"Here he is.\"\n\nI saw a fine-looking old man, with a certain majesty of air that one\ncould not define.  He was pale, wrinkled, and had deep furrows of\nsuffering on cheek and brow, but his dark eyes, under a shaggy white\npenthouse, were full of keen fire and even ardour.  His bald forehead\nwas very fine, and his mouth--fully visible, for he was closely\nshaven--had an ineffable, melancholy sweetness about it, so that the\nwonderful power of leading all with whom he came in contact was no\nlonger a mystery to me; for, fierce patriot and desperate republican as\nhe might have been, nothing could destroy the inborn noble, and\ninstinctively I bent to him with respect as I took his hand in welcome.\n\nAfter the hasty inquiries, \"Where's Dora?\"  \"Where's Eustace?\" \"Where's\nDermot Tracy?\" had been answered, and I had learnt that this last had\ngone on to London, where his family were, Harold hurried out to see\nabout sending for the luggage, and Prometesky, turning to me, almost\ntook my breath away by saying, \"Madam, I revere you.  You have done for\nthe youth so dear to me what I could never have done, and have\ntransformed him from a noble savage to that far higher being--the\nChristian hero.\"\n\nI did not take this magnificent compliment as if I had been of the\ncourtly continental blood of him who made it: it made me hot and\nsheepish, yet even now I still feel warm at the heart when I remember\nit; for I know he really meant it, little as I deserved it, for the\ntruth was what I faltered out: \"It was all in him.\"\n\n\"It was all in him.  That is true; but it needed to be evoked, so as\nnot to be any longer stifled and perverted by the vehemence of his\nphysical nature.  When he left me, after the great catastrophe which\nchanged him from the mere exaggerated child, gratifying every passion\nwith violence, I knew it depended on what hands he would fall into,\nwhether the spiritual or the animal would have the mastery.  Madam, it\nwas into your hands that he fell, and I thank God for it, even more\nthan for the deliverance that my dear pupil has gained for me.\"\n\nHe had tears in his eyes as he took my hand and kissed it, and very\nmuch overpowered I was.  I had somewhat dreaded finding him a\nfree-thinker, but there was something in both speeches that consoled\nme, and he afterwards said to me: \"Madam, in our youth intellectual\nCatholics are apt to reject what our reason will not accept.  We love\nnot authority.  In age we gain sympathy with authority, and experience\nhas taught us that there can be a Wisdom surpassing our own.  We have\nproved for ourselves that love cannot live without faith.\"\n\nAnd Harold told me on the evening of their return, with much concern,\nthat the old man had made up his mind that, so soon as his health\nshould be sufficiently restored, he would make retreat among the monks\nof La Trappe experimentally, and should probably take the vows. \"I\ndon't see that his pardon has done much good,\" he said, and did not\ngreatly accept my representation of the marvellous difference it must\nmake to a Roman Catholic to be no longer isolated from the offices of\nreligion.  He had made up his mind to come into Sydney to die, but he\nwas too poor to have lived anywhere but under the Boola Boola rock.\n\nIt was a very quietly glad evening, as we three sat round the open\nwindow, and asked and answered questions.  Harold said he would come to\nthe wedding with me the next day; he must see old Eu married; and,\nbesides, he wanted to give up to him the three nuggets, which had been\nrather a serious charge.  Harold, Prometesky, and Dermot had each\ncarried one, in case of any disaster, that there might be three\nchances; but now they were all three laid in my lap--wonderful things,\none a little larger than the others, but all curiously apple-like in\nform, such gifts as a bride has seldom had.\n\nThere was the account of the sale of Boola Boola to be rendered up too;\nand the place had risen so much in value that it had brought in far\nmore than Harold had expected when leaving England, so that he and\nEustace were much richer men than he had reckoned on being.\n\nMrs. Sam Alison had arrived safely, but rather surprised not to find\npeople walking on their heads, as she had been told everything was\nupside down.  Her son had so far recovered that he could undertake such\nemployment in writing as it was possible to procure.  The mother and\nson were very happy together, but Harold winced as if a sore were\ntouched when he spoke of their meeting.\n\nI was anxious that he should hear of nothing to vex him that night, for\nthere was more than enough to annoy him another day, and I talked on\neagerly about the arrangements for the wedding.  Hippolyta had insisted\non making it a mingled archery and hunt-wedding.  She was to wear the\nfamous belt.  The bridegroom, her brothers, and most of the gentlemen\nwere to be in their pink; we bridesmaids had scarlet ribbons, and the\nfavours had miniature fox brushes fastened with arrows in the centre;\neven our lockets, with their elaborate cypher of E's, A's, and H's,\ndepended from the head of a fox.\n\nPrometesky looked amazed, as well he might.  \"Your ladies are changed,\"\nhe said.  \"It would formerly scarcely have been thought feminine to\nshow such ardour for the chase.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is not now,\" I said.\n\n\"Or is it in honour of the lady's name?  Hippolyta should have a\nMidsummer wedding, and 'love the musick of her hounds,'\" continued the\nold gentleman, whom I found to have Shakespeare almost by heart, as one\nof the chief companions of his solitude.\n\nAs soon as Harold heard his boxes arriving, he went to work to disinter\nthe wedding present he had provided--a pretty bracelet of New Zealand\ngreen jade set in gold.  There was a little parcel for me, too, which\nhe gave me, leading me aside.  It was also a locket, and bore a cypher,\nbut how unlike the other!  It was a simple A; and within was a lock of\nsilver hair.  There was no need to tell me whose it was.  \"She said she\nwished she had anything to send you,\" were Harold's words, \"and I cut\noff this bit of her hair;\" and when I wondered over her having taken\nthought of me, he said, \"She blessed you for your kindness to me.  If I\ncould only have brought her to you--\"\n\nI secured then, as the completion of his gift, one of his thick curls\nof yellow-brown hair.   He showed me the chain he had brought for Dora,\nand gave me one glance at a clear, pure, crystal cross, from spar found\nin New Zealand, near the gold-fields.  Would he ever be able to give\nit?  I answered the question in his eyes by telling him a certain\nEtruscan flower-pot had stood in a certain window at Arked House all\nthe winter, and was gone to London now.\n\nOur home breakfast had to be very early, to give time for the drive to\nTherford, but Harold had been already into Mycening, had exchanged\ncountless hearty greetings, roused up an unfortunate hair-cutter, to\ntrim his locks, bought a hat, and with considerable difficulty found a\npair of gloves that he could put on--not kid, but thick riding-gloves;\nwhite, at least--and so he hoped that they would pass in the crowd, and\nEustace would not feel himself disgraced.  He had not put on the red\ncoat, but had tried to make himself look as satisfactory to Eustace as\npossible in black, and (from a rather comical sense of duty) he made me\nlook him over to see if he were worthy of the occasion.  He certainly\nwas in splendid looks, his rich, profuse beard and hair were well\narranged, and his fine bronzed face had not lost its grave expression\nwhen at rest, but had acquired a certain loftiness of countenance,\nwhich gave him more than ever the air, I was going to say, of a\ndemigod; but he had now an expression no heathen Greek could give; it\nwas more like that of the heads by Michael Angelo, where Christian\nyearning is added to classic might and beauty.\n\nPrometesky preferred staying at home.  He seemed suffering and weary,\nand said that perhaps he should wander about and renew his acquaintance\nwith the country; and so Harold and I set off together on the drive,\nwhich, as I well knew, would be the most agreeable part of the day.\n\nVery lovely it was as we passed in the morning freshness of the glowing\nsummer day through lanes wreathed with dog-roses and white with May,\nlooking over grass-fields with silvery ripples in the breeze into woods\nall golden and olive-green above with young foliage, and pink below\nwith campion flowers, while the moorland beyond was in its glory of\ngorse near at hand, and purple hills closing the distance.  I remember\nthe drive especially, because Harold looked at the wealth of gay\ncolouring so lovingly, comparing it with the frequently parched\nuniformity of the Bush, regretting somewhat the limited range, but\nowning there were better things than unbounded liberty.\n\nWhen we reached Therford he would not go to the house with me, nor seek\nto see Eustace before the wedding, saying he should wait in the\nchurchyard and join us afterwards.  So in I went into the scene of\nwaiting, interspersed with bustle, that always precedes a wedding, and\nwas handed into the bed-room where the bridesmaids were secluded till\nthe bride was ready, all save Pippa and the most favoured cousin, who\nwere arraying her.  There were a dozen, and all were Horsmans except\nDora and me.  The child made one great leap at me, and squeezed me, to\nsuch detriment of our flimsy draperies that she was instantly called to\norder.  Her lip pouted, and her brow lowered; but I whispered two words\nin her ear, and with a glance in her eye, and an intent look on her\nface, she stood, a being strangely changed from the listless, sullen,\ndefiant creature she had been a minute before.\n\nTherford was one of those old places where the church is as near as\npossible to the manor house, standing on a little elevation above it,\nand with a long avenue of Lombardy poplars leading from the south\nporch, the family entrance, to the front door of the house, so this was\nthat pretty thing, a walking, instead of a carriage, wedding.  As one\nof the procession, I could not see, but the red and white must have\nmade it very pretty, and the Northchester paper was quite poetical in\nits raptures.\n\nAll this was, however, forgotten in the terrible adventure that\nimmediately followed.  The general entrance was by the west door, and\nclose to this I perceived Harold following his usual practice of\ngetting into the rear and looking over people's heads.  When the\nservice was over, and we waited for the signing of the registers, most\nof the spectators, and he among them, went out by this western door,\nand waited in the churchyard to see the procession come out.\n\nForth it came, headed by the bride and bridegroom, both looking their\nvery handsomest, and we bridesmaids in six couples behind, when, just\nas we were clear of the porch, and school-children were strewing\nflowers before the pair, there was a strange shuddering cry, and the\ngreat bloodhound, Kirby, with broken chain and foaming jaws--all the\ndreadful tokens of madness about him--came rushing up the avenue with\nthe speed of the wind, making full for his mistress, the bride. There\nwas not a moment for her to do more than give a sort of shrieking,\ndespairing command, \"Down, Kirby!\" when, just as the beast was\nspringing on her, his throat was seized by the powerful hands that\nalone could have grappled with him, and the terrible head, foaming, and\nmaking horrid choking growls, was swung round from her, and the dog\nlifted by the back of the neck in the air, struggling and kicking\nviolently.\n\nEveryone had given back; Hippolyta had thrown herself on Eustace, who\ndrew her back, crowding on us, into the porch; Harold, still holding\nthe dog at arm's length, made his voice heard in steady tones, \"Will\nsome one give me my other glove?\"\n\nOne hand, that which grasped the dog, was gloved, but the free hand was\nbare, and it was Dora who first understood, saw the glove at his feet,\nsprang to his side, and held it up to him, while he worked his hand\ninto it, and she pulled it on for him.  Then he transferred his grasp\nfrom one hand to the other, and in that moment the powerful bloodhound\nmade a desperate struggle, and managed to get one paw on the ground,\nand writhe itself round so as to fly at his face and make its teeth\nactually meet in his beard, a great mouthful of which it tore out, and\nwe saw it champing the hairs, as he again swung it up, so that it could\nonly make frantic contortions with its body and legs, while he held it\nat arm's length with the iron strength of his wrists.\n\nThis had taken hardly three seconds, and in that time Jack Horsman and\na keeper or two had been able to come up, but no one unarmed could give\nefficient aid, and Harold said, \"I'll take him to the yard.\"\n\nMr. Horsman led the way, and as the keepers followed with several of\nthe gentlemen, I was forced to let Harold vanish, carrying at arm's\nlength that immense dog, still making horrible rabid struggles.\n\nI don't clearly remember how we got back to the house.  Somebody had\nfainted, I believe, and there was much confusion; but I know nothing\nbut that there was the report of a pistol, and, almost immediately\nafter, I saw Harold coming up to the hall door with Dora lying back in\nhis arms.  Then my eyes and ears grew clear, and I flew forward to ask\nthe dreadful question.  \"No,\" he said, \"she is only a little upset.\"\nUnperceived, that child had followed him down, holding the broken chain\nin which he might have tripped, and had stood by even while he set the\npoor beast on his feet, and held it for the merciful death shot.  It\nseemed that her purpose had been to suck the wound if he had been\nbitten, and when once she heard Mr. Horsman exclaim, \"All safe, thank\nGod!\" she clung to Harold with an inarticulate gasp, in one of those\nhysterical agonies by which her womanhood from time to time asserted\nitself.  She could not breathe or speak, and he only begged for a place\nto lay her down.  Old Marianne Horsman, the quiet one of the family,\ntook us to her own den, and, with me, insisted on looking well at\nHarold's hands and face.  What might not that horrid leap have done?\nBut we convinced ourselves that those fangs had only caught his beard,\nwhere there was a visible gap, but no sign of a wound; and those\nriding-gloves had entirely guarded his hands.  How blessed the\nProvidence, for ordinarily he never touched gloves, and common white\nkid ones would have availed little.  There was scarce time to speak of\nit, for the child required all our care, and was only just becoming\ncalmer, as Harold held her, when the bride and bridegroom came in, she,\nred and eager, he, white and shaken, to summon us to the breakfast.\n\"Don't go!\" was her moan, half asleep.\n\nHarold bade me go, and as the bride declared they could not sit down\nwithout him, he answered, \"Not yet, thank you, I couldn't.\"  And I\nremembered that his prompt deed of daring had been in defiance of a\nstrong nervous antipathy.  There was a spasmodic effort in the smile he\nattempted, a twitching in the muscles of his throat; he was as pale as\nhis browned cheeks could become, and his hand was still so unsteady\nthat he was forced to resign to me the spoonful of cordial to put into\nDora's mouth.\n\nAnd at that moment Eustace turned and said, \"Have you brought the\nnuggets?\"\n\nWithout speaking Harold put his hand into his pocket, and laid them in\nEustace's hand.\n\n\"These? you said they were golden apples; I thought they would be\nbigger.\"\n\n\"They are wonderful,\" said Hippolyta; \"no one ever had such a\nwedding-gift.\"\n\n\"Not that--a debt,\" said Harold, hoarsely; but Pippa Horsman came and\nsummoned them, and I was obliged to follow, answering old Marianne's\nentreaties to say what would be good for him by begging for strong\ncoffee, which she promised and ordered, but in the skurry of the\nhousehold, it never came.\n\nThe banquet, held in a tent, was meant to be a brilliantly merry one.\nThe cake had a hunt in sugar all round it, and the appropriate motto,\n\"Hip, hip, hurrah!\" and people tried to be hilarious; but with that\nawful shock thrilling on everybody's nerves we only succeeded in being\nnoisy, though, as we were assured, there was no cause for alarm or\ngrief.  The dog had been tied up on suspicion, and had bitten nothing\nbut one cat, which it had killed.  Yet surely grave thankfulness would\nhave been better for us all, as well as more comfortable than loud\nwitticisms and excited laughter.  I looked at the two or three clerical\nmembers of the clan and wondered at them.\n\nWhen the moment for healths came, the bride called to her brother, the\nhead of the house, by his pleasing name of Baby, and sent him to fetch\nHarold, whom he brought back with him.  Dora was sound asleep, they\nsaid, and room was made for Harold in the bridal neighbourhood in time\nto hear the baronet, who had married a Horsman of the last generation,\npropose the health of the bride with all the conventional phrases, and\nof the bridegroom, as a gentleman who, from his first arrival, had made\nit his study to maintain the old character of the family, and to\ndistinguish himself by intelligent care for the welfare of his tenants,\n&c., &c.\n\nHippolyta must have longed to make the speech in return.  We could see\nher prompting her husband, and, by means of imitations of Lord\nErymanth, he got through pretty well with his gracious acceptance of\nall the praises.\n\nBaby Jack proposed the health of the bridesmaids, adding, more\nespecially, that of the absent one, as a little heroine; and, after the\nresponse, came a ponderous speech by another kinsman, full of\ncompliments to Harold's courage in a fulsome style that made me flush\nwith the vexation it must give him, and the annoyance it would be to\nreply.  I had been watching him.  As a pile of lumps of ice fortunately\nstood near him, he had, at every interval, been transferring one to his\nglass, filling it up with water, guarding it from the circling\ndecanters, and taking such a draught at every toast that I knew his\nmouth was parched, and I dreaded that sheer worry would make him utter\none of his \"young barbarian\" bluntnesses; but what he did was to stand\nup and say simply, \"It is very kind of Colonel Horsman to speak in this\nway of my share in the great mercy and deliverance we have received\nto-day.  It is a matter of the greatest thankfulness.  Let me in return\nthank the friends here assembled for their welcome, and, above all, for\ntheir appreciation of my cousin, whose position now fulfils my great\nwish.  Three years ago we were friendless strangers.  Now he has made\nhimself one with you, and I thank you heartily for it.\"\n\nI felt rather than heard Nessy Horsman muttering, \"pretty well for the\nlarge young man;\" and it seemed to occur to no one that friends,\nposition, and all had been gained for Eustace by Harold himself. He was\nrequesting permission to take Dora back with us, and it was granted\nwith some demur, because she must be with Mrs. Randal Horsman on her\nreturn to town on the Monday; a day's lessons could not be sacrificed,\nfor she was very backward, and had no application; but Harold undertook\nthat she should meet the lady at the station, and gained his point.\n\nClan Horsman knew too well what he had done to deny him anything he\nasked.  A man who had not only taken a mad dog by the throat, but had\nbrought home two hundred and twenty pounds worth of gold to lay on the\ntable, deserved something at their hands, though ice was all he\nactually received; but Eustace, when he came to us while the bride was\nchanging her dress, was in a fretful, fault-finding mood, partly it may\nbe from the desire to assert himself, as usual, above his cousin.\n\nHe was dissatisfied with the price paid for Boola-Boola.  Someone had\ntold him it would realise four times as much, and when Harold would\nhave explained that this was unreasonable, he was cut short with the\ndeclaration that the offer ought not to have been accepted without\nreference to the other party concerned.\n\nNext he informed Harold, in an off-hand way, that some of the new\nimprovements at Arghouse would not work, and that he had a new agent--a\n_responsible_ agent--who was not to be interfered with.\n\nThere was a certain growl in Harold's \"very well,\" but the climax was\nEustace's indignation when he heard of Prometesky's arrival.  He had\nworked himself, by way of doing the country squire completely, into a\ndisgust of the old exile, far out-Heroding what he had heard from Lord\nErymanth, and that \"the old incendiary\" should be in his house was a\ngreat offence.\n\n\"He shall not sleep there another night, neither will I,\" said Harold,\nin a calm voice, but with such a gleam in his eyes as I had seen when\nhe fell on Bullock.\n\nIt had at least the effect of reducing Eustace to his old habit of\nsubordination, and he fell into an agony of \"No, I did not mean that,\nand--\" stammering out something in excuse about not liking the servants\nand all to think he was harbouring a returned convict.\n\nI had taken care of that.  I knew how \"that that there Fotsky\" was the\nogre of the riots, and I had guarded against his identification by\nspeaking of our guest as the foreign gentleman who had come home with\nMr. Harold, and causing him to be called Count Stanislas; and, on\nhearing this, Eustace became so urgent in his entreaties, that Harold,\nthough much hurt, relented so far as to promise at any rate to remain\ntill Monday, so that Dora should not detect the offence.\n\nWe saw the happy pair off, among the old shoes, to spend some months\nabroad, while the old house was revivified for them, and then we had\nour own drive home, which was chiefly occupied with Dora, who, sitting\non Harold's knee, seemed to expect her full rescue from all grievances,\nand was terribly disappointed to find that he had no power to remove\nher from her durance in the London school-room, where she was plainly\nthe dunce and the black sheep, a misery to herself and all concerned,\nhating everyone and disliked by all.  To the little maiden of the Bush,\nonly half tamed as yet, the London school-room and walks in the park\nwere penance in themselves, and the company of three steady prim girls,\nin the idealess state produced by confinement to a school-room, and\nnothing but childish books, was as distasteful to her as she was\nshocking to them, and her life was one warfare with them and with their\nFraulein.  The only person she seemed able to endure was Nessy Horsman,\nwho was allowed to haunt his cousin Randal's house, and who delighted\nin shocking the decorous monotony of the trio of sisters, finding the\nvehement little Australian far more entertaining, while, whether he\nteased or stimulated her, she found him the least uncongenial being she\nmet in Paddington.  But what struck me most was the manner in which\nHarold spoke to her, not merely spoiling her, and giving her her own\nway, as if he were only a bigger child, but saying \"It will all get\nbetter, Dora, if you only try to do your best.\"\n\n\"I haven't got any best to do.\"\n\n\"Everybody has.\"\n\n\"But I don't want it to be better.  I want to be with you and Lucy.\"\n\nThen came some reasoning about impossibilities, too low for me to hear\nin the noise of the wheels, but ending with \"It is only another thing\nto conquer.  You can conquer anything if you only try, and pray to God\nto help you.\"\n\n\"I haven't said my prayers since I went away.  They ordered me, and\nsaid I was wicked; but you don't, Harold, do you?\" she cried\ntriumphantly, little expecting the groan she met in answer, \"Yes,\nindeed I do, Dora.  I only wish I had done so sooner.\"\n\n\"I thought it was no use,\" she said, crying at his tone.  \"It was so\nunkind to take me away from Lucy,\" and whereas she hardly ever shed\ntears and was now far from restored after the fright, when she once\nbegan we could hardly stop her weeping, and were thankful when she was\nsoothed into another sleep, which we durst not peril by a word.\n\nIt deepened and lasted so that Harold carried her upstairs still\nasleep, and laid her on her own little bed.  Then he came out with me\ninto my dear old sitting-room, where, without another word, he knelt in\nthe old place and said, \"_That_ psalm, please Lucy.\"\n\n\"I think we ought to give thanks in church,\" I said, presently.\n\n\"Whatever is right,\" he said fervently.\n\n\"It was the greatest escape you ever had,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, shuddering; \"at least it seemed so.  I really thought\nthe dog had bitten me when he flew in my face.  It felt just like it,\nand I was very near giving up.  I don't mean letting him go, but not\nheeding whether he touched me or not.  It kept on haunting me till I\nwas alone with Dora, and could examine at the looking-glass.\"\n\nOf course I was not content till I had likewise again convinced myself\nby searching into the beard, and then I added, \"Ah! this is worse than\nthe lion, though then you were really hurt.\"\n\n\"Yes, but there one knew the worst.  Besides,\" he said, again\novercoming a shudder, \"I know my feeling about dogs is a weakness owing\nto my sin.  'Deliver me from the power of the dog,' to me expresses all\nthe power of evil.\"\n\nThen he sat down and took a pen to write to Mr. Crosse.  \"Harold Alison\nwishes to give thanks to Almighty God for a great mercy.\"\n\nAnd after that he never alluded to the adventure again.  I told the\nstory to Prometesky in his absence, and we never mentioned it more.\n\nIndeed the next thing Harold said, as he addressed his envelope, was,\n\"It is a pity to lose this room.\"\n\n\"There is one that I can fit up like it,\" I said.  \"All the things here\nare mine.\"  And then I was glad to divert his attention by proposing to\ngo and inspect Mount Eaton, as soon as he had had some much-needed\nfood, since Prometesky was out, and we at once plunged into the\n\"flitting\" affairs, glad in them to stifle some of the pain that\nEustace had given, but on which we neither of us would dwell.\n\nWas Harold changed, or had he only gone on growing in the course he had\nbegun?  He was as simple and unconsciously powerful as ever, but there\nwas something there was not before, reminding me of the dawning of\nUndine's soul.\n\nHe was called off in the middle of our consultation as to the house,\nwhich was our common property, by a message that Mr. Crabbe would be\nglad of a few minutes with him.\n\n\"Was there any fresh annoyance about the Hydriots?\" I asked, when he\ncame back.\n\n\"Oh, no!  The rascal is come over to my side.  What do you think he\nwanted to say?  That he had been to look at my grandfather's will, and\nhe thinks you could drive a coach and horses through it; and he\nproposes to me to upset it, and come in as heir-at-law!  The scoundrel!\"\n\n\"After all,\" I said, after a pause, \"it would be very good for poor\nArghouse if you thought it right.\"\n\n\"_I_ should not be very good for Arghouse if I did such a thing as\nthat,\" returned Harold.  \"No, poor old Eu, I'm not going to disturb him\nbecause he has got out of my hands, and I think she will take care of\nthe people.  I daresay I bullied him more than was bearable.\"\n\nWould Harold have so forgiven even Eustace's ingratitude three years\nago?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nSUNSET GOLD AND PURPLE.\n\n\nWe had a happy time after that; our Sunday was a very glad and peaceful\none, with our thanksgiving in the morning, and Dora's pleasure in the\ndear old children's service in the afternoon.  Poor child, she liked\neverything that she had only submitted to when she was with us, and\nHarold took her away on the Monday in a more resigned frame of mind,\nwith a kind of promise that she would be good if the Horsmans would let\nher.\n\nThen came the removal, and I must say there was some compensation for\nthe pain of leaving my old home in that sense of snugness and liberty\nin our new plenishing, rather like the playing at doll's houses.  We\nhad stable room for Harold's horse and my pony--the kangaroo, alas! had\npined and died the winter that Harold was away; the garden was\npracticable, and the rooms were capable of being made home-like and\npleasant.\n\nThe Tracys were out of reach for the present.  Dermot was gone to\nIreland, and Lady Diana and her daughter were making a long round of\nvisits among friends, so that there was nothing for it but waiting, and\nas it was hopeful waiting, enlivened by Viola's letters to me, Harold\nendured it very happily, having indeed much to think about.\n\nThere was Prometesky's health.  It was ascertained that he must undergo\nan operation, and when we found that all the requisite skill could be\nhad near at hand, I overruled the scruples about alarming or\ndistressing me.  I knew that it would be better for him to be watched\nby George Yolland, and for Harold to be at home, and I had come to love\nthe old man very heartily.\n\nOne day of expectation, in which he was the most calm and resolute of\nus, one anxious day when they sent me to Miss Woolmer, until Harold\ncame, thankful and hopeful to fetch me, a few more of nursing accepted\nwith touching gratitude, and he was soon downstairs again, a hale old\nman, though nearly seventy, but more than ever bent on his retreat to\nLa Trappe.  It distressed us much.  He seemed so much to enjoy\nintelligent talk with Miss Woolmer and the Yollands; he so delighted in\nbooks, and took such fresh interest in all, whether mechanical or\nmoral, that was doing at the Hydriots--of which, by-the-by, as first\ninventor, the company had contrived, at Harold's suggestion, to make\nhim a shareholder to an extent that would cover all his modest needs, I\ncould not think how he would bear the change.\n\n\"My dear young lady,\" he said to me, when I tried to persuade him out\nof writing the first letter, \"you forget how much I have of sin upon\nme.  Can years of negation of faith, or the ruin of four young lives,\nand I know not of how many more, be repented of at ease in your\npleasant town, amid the amiable cares you young people are good enough\nto lavish on the old man?\"\n\nI made some foolish answer about his having meant all for good and\nnoble purposes, but he shook his head.\n\n\"Error, my dear madam, error excusable, perhaps, in one whose country\nhas been destroyed.  I see, now that I have returned, after years alone\nwith my God, that the work I tried to precipitate was one of patience.\nThe fire from heaven must first illuminate the soul, then the spirit,\nand then the bonds will be loosed of themselves; otherwise we do but\npluck them asunder to set maniacs free to rush into the gulf.  And as\nto my influence on my two pupils, your brothers, I see now that what\nbegan in filial rebellion and disobedience could never end well.  I\nbless God that I have been permitted to see, in the next generation,\nthe true hero and reformer I ought to have made of my Ambrose.  Ah!\nAmbrose, Ambrose! noble young spirit, would that any tears and penance\nof mine would expiate the shipwreck to which I led thee!\" and he burst\ninto tears.\n\nHe had, of course, seen the Roman Catholic priest several times before\nencountering the danger of the operation, and was a thoroughly devout\npenitent, but of his old Liberalism he retained the intense benevolence\nthat made the improvements at the potteries a great delight to him,\nlikewise the historical breadth of understanding that prevented his\nthinking us all un-Catholic and unsafe.\n\nIt was a great blessing that Harold was not held back but rather aided\nand stimulated by the example of the man to whom he most looked up; but\nwith his characteristic silence, it was long before I found that,\nhaving felt, beside his mother's death-bed, how far his spiritual wants\nhad outgrown me, he had carried them to Ben Yolland, though the old\nmorning habit remained unbroken, and he always came to the little room\nI had made like my old one.\n\nBen Yolland had become more entirely chaplain to the Hydriots.  Those\ntwo brothers lived together in a curious way at what we all still\ncalled the \"Dragon's Head,\" each with his own sitting-room and one in\ncommon, one fitted as a clergyman's study, the other more like a\nsurgery; for though George had given up his public practice since he\nhad been manager of the works, he still attended all the workpeople and\ntheir families, only making them pay for their medicines \"when it was\ngood for them.\"\n\nThus the care of the soul and bodies of the Hydriots was divided\nbetween the two, and they seemed to work in concert, although George\nshowed no symptom of change of opinions, never saying anything openly\nto discredit his brother's principles, nay, viewing them as wholesome\nrestraints for those who were not too scientific to accept them, and\neven going to church when he had nothing else to do, but by preference\nlooking up his patients on a Sunday.  He viewed everything, from\nreligion to vice, as the outcome of certain states of brain, nerves,\nand health; and so far from being influenced by the example of\nPrometesky, regarded him as a proof of his own theory, and talked of\nthe Slavonic temperament returning to its normal forms as the vigour of\nlife departed.\n\nNevertheless, he did not seem to do harm to the workpeople. Drunkenness\nwas at least somewhat restrained, though far from conquered, and the\ngeneral spirit of the people was wonderful, compared with those of\nother factories.  Plans were under discussion for a mission chapel, and\nthe people themselves were thoroughly anxious for it.\n\nLord Erymanth returning, kindly came to call on me in my new house, and\nas I was out of the drawing-room at the time, he had ten minutes'\nconversation with the gentleman whom he found reading at the window,\nand was so much pleased with him that when making the tour of our small\ndomain, he said, \"You did not introduce me, Lucy.  Is that an\nAustralian acquaintance of Harold Alison's? I did not expect such high\ncultivation.\"\n\n\"An Australian acquaintance, yes,\" said I, \"and also a Polish count.\"\n\n\"Prometesky!\"\n\n\"Prometesky,\" said I, to whom the name had begun to sound historical.\n\"I did not know you did not recognise him.\"\n\nI was afraid my old friend would be angry with me, but he stood still\nand said, \"I never saw him except at his trial.  I can understand now\nthe fascination he was said to have possessed.  I could not\nconscientiously assist your nephew in his recall, but I highly honour\nthe generous perseverance with which he has effected it; and I am happy\nto acknowledge that the subject is worthy of his enthusiasm. Animosity\nmay be laid aside now, and you may tell Mr. Harold Alison that I\nheartily congratulate him.\"\n\n\"And he--Count Stanislas we call him--sees now that he was mistaken,\" I\nsaid.\n\n\"Does he?  That is the best of the higher stamp of men, my dear. They\nknow when they are wrong, and own it.  In fact, that's the greatest\ndifference between men.  The feeble and self-opinionated never\nacknowledge an error, but the truly sincere can confess and retrieve\ntheir hallucinations and prejudices.  Well, I am glad to have seen\nPrometesky, and to be disabused of some ideas respecting him.\"\n\nCount Stanislas, on the other hand, received me with, \"So that is\nErymanth!  The tyrant, against whom we raged, proves a charitable,\nbenevolent, prosy old gentleman.  How many illusions a few decades\ndispel, and how much hatred one wastes!\"\n\nLord Erymanth had told me that his sister would soon be at home, and in\nSeptember I was surprised by a call from Dermot.  \"Yes, I'm at Arked,\"\nhe said, \"Killy Marey is full of Dublin workmen.  My uncle has\nundertaken to make it habitable for me, like an old brick, and, in the\nmeantime, there's not a room fit to smoke or sleep in, so I'm come home\nlike a dutiful son.\"\n\n\"Then your mother is come?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; she is come for six weeks, and then she and the St. Glears are\nto join company and winter at Rome.\"\n\n\"At Rome?\"\n\n\"Prevention, you see,\" said Dermot, with a twinkle in his eye, as if he\nwere not very uneasy.  \"The question is whether it is in time. She will\nhave Piggy's attentions at Christmas.  He is to come out for the\nvacation.\"\n\nThen he further told me that his mother had brought home with her a\nMrs. Sandford with a daughter, heiress to L60,000, and to a\nnewly-bought estate in Surrey, and newly-built house \"of the most\ndesirable description,\" he added, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"And what sort of a young lady is she?\"\n\n\"Oh, very desirable, too, I suppose.\"\n\n\"But what is she like?\"\n\n\"Like?  Oh, like other people,\" and he whistled a little, seeming\nrelieved when \"Count Stanislas\" came in, and soon after going to hunt\nup Harry at the Hydriot works.\n\nIt made me uncomfortable; it was so evidently another attempt on his\nmother's part to secure a rich home for him in England, and his tone\ndid not at all reassure me that, with his easy temper, he would not\ndrift into the arrangement without his heart in it.  \"Why should I be\nso vexed about it?  It might be very good for him,\" said I to myself.\n\nNo, his heart was not in it, for he came back with Harold, and lingered\nover our fire beyond all reasonable time, talking amusing random stuff,\ntill he had left himself only ten minutes to ride home in to dinner.\n\nThe next day Harold and I rode over to Arked together.  Dermot was the\nfirst person we saw, disporting himself with a pug-dog at the door.\n\"The fates have sped you well,\" said he, as he helped me down from my\npony.  \"My mother has taken Mrs. Sandford in state to call on Mrs.\nVernon, having arranged that Viola and I should conduct the\nsixty-thousand pounder to admire the tints in the beech woods.  The\nyoung ladies are putting on their hats.  Will it be too far for you,\nLucy, to go with us?\"\n\nWherewith he fraternally shouted for \"Vi,\" who appeared all in a rosy\nglow, and took me upstairs to equip me for walking, extracting from me\nin the meantime the main features of the story of the bloodhound, and\ntrembling while she gave exulting little nods.\n\nThen she called for Nina (were they so intimate already?) and found\nthat young lady in a point device walking dress, nursing the pug and\ntalking to Dermot, and so we set forth for the beech-woods, very soon\nbreaking our five into three and two.  Certainly Lady Diana ought to\nhave viewed Dermot's attentions to the sixty-thousand pounder as\nexemplary, for he engrossed her and me so entirely with the description\nof Harold's victory over a buck-jumper at Boola Boola, that it was full\na quarter of an hour before she looked round to exclaim, \"What is\nbecome of Viola?\"  And then we would not let her wait, and in truth we\nnever came again upon Viola and Harold till we overtook them at the\nfoot of the last hill, and they never could satisfy Miss Sandford where\nthey had been, nor what they had seen, nor how they had missed us; and\nDermot invented for the nonce a legend about a fairy in the hill, who\nmade people gyrate round it in utter oblivion of all things; thus\nsuccessfully diverting the attention of Miss Sandford, who took it all\nseriously.  Yes, she certainly was a stupid girl.\n\nEvery moment that lengthened the veritable enchantment of that autumn\nafternoon was precious beyond what we knew, and we kept Miss Sandford\nprowling about the garden on all sorts of pretexts, till the poor girl\nwas tired out, as well she might be, for we had kept her on her feet\nfor three hours and a half, and she made her escape at last to join\nViola.\n\nI always think of Harold and Viola, as I saw them at that moment, on\nthe top of the western slope of the lawn, so that there was a great\nruddy gold sky behind them, against which their silhouettes stood out\nin a sort of rich dark purple shade.\n\n\"Oh, they are looking at such a sunset!\" cried Miss Sandford, climbing\nup the hill.\n\n\"Query!\" murmured Dermot, for the faces were in profile, not turning\ntowards the sun in the sky, but to the sunbeams in one another's\neyes--sunbeams that were still there when we joined them, and, in my\nrecollection, seem to blend with the glorious haze of light that was\npouring down in a flood over the purple moorland horizon, and the wood,\nfield, and lake below.  I was forced to say something about going home,\nand Viola took me up to her room, where we had one of those embraces\nthat can never be forgotten.  The chief thing that the dear girl said\nto me was, \"Oh, Lucy.  How he has suffered!  How shall I ever make it\nup to him?\"\n\nPoor dear Viola, little did she think that she was to cause the very\nsharpest of his sufferings.\n\nNay, as little did he, when we rode home together with the still\nbrilliant sky before us.  I never see a lane ending in golden light,\nmelting into blue, and dark pine trees framing as it were the\nbrightness, with every little branch defined against it, without\nthinking of that silence of intense, almost awe-struck joy in which\nHarold went home by my side, only at long intervals uttering some brief\nphrase, such as \"This is blessedness,\" or \"Thank God, who gives women\nsuch hearts.\"\n\nHe had told her all, and it had but added a reverent, enthusiastic pity\nand fervour to that admiring love which had been growing up so long,\nand to which he had set the spark.\n\nHis old friend was admitted to share their joy, and was as happy as we\nwere, perhaps doubly so, since he had beheld with despair Harold's\nearly infatuation and its results, which had made him fear, during\nthose three wretched years, that all the lad's great and noble gifts\nwould be lost in the coarse excesses of his wild life, with barbarous\nprosperity without, and a miserable, hardening home.  That he should\nhave been delivered from it, still capable of refinement, still young\nand fresh enough for a new beginning, had been a cause of great joy,\nand now that all should be repaired by a true and worthy love, had\nseemed beyond hope.  We built our castles over the fire that evening,\nHarold had already marked out with his eye the tract of Neme Heath\nwhich he would reclaim; and the little he had already set me on doing\namong  the women and children at the potteries, had filled us with\nschemes as to what Viola was to carry out.\n\nSome misgivings there were even then.  Lady Diana was not to be\nexpected to like Harold's L1,200 a year as well as Piggy's heirship to\nthe Erymanth coronet, or any of the other chances that might befall an\nattractive girl of twenty.\n\nFor coldness and difficulties we were prepared, but not for the\nunqualified refusal with which she met Harold the next morning,\ngrounding all on the vague term, \"circumstances,\" preventing his even\nseeing Viola, and cutting short the interview in the manner of a grande\ndame whose family had received an insult.\n\nDermot, however, not only raging, but raving, on his side, assured him\nof the staunchness of his sister, and her resolve to hold by him\nthrough everything; and further, in sundry arguments with his mother,\ngot to the bottom of the \"circumstances.\"  She had put away from\nherself the objection to the convict birth and breeding, by being\nwilling to accept Eustace, to whom exactly the same objections applied;\nand when she called Eustace a man of more education and manners, her\nson laughed in her face at the comparison of \"that idiot\" with a man\nlike Harold.\n\nThen came the \"past life,\" a much more tangible objection, but Dermot\nwas ready there, declaring that whatever Harold had done, considering\nhis surroundings, was much less heinous than his own transgressions,\nafter such a bringing up as his, and would his mother say that nobody\nought to marry him?  Besides, to whom had she given Di?  They were not\narguments that Lady Diana accepted, but she weakened her own cause by\ntrying to reinforce it with all the Stympson farrago, the exaggeration\nof which Dermot, after his own meeting with Henry Alison, and with\nPrometesky to corroborate him, was fully prepared to explode, to the\nsatisfaction even of Lord Eryinanth.\n\nHarold himself was deeply sensible of the stain and burthen of his\nactual guilt, more so, indeed, than he had ever been before, both from\nthe religious influences to which he had submitted himself, and from\nthe sense of that sweet innocence of his Viola's; but his feeling had\ncome to be that if his Heavenly Father loved and forgave him, so, in a\nlesser way, Viola forgave him because she loved him. He did not wonder\nat nor complain of Lady Diana's not thinking him worthy of her good and\nlovely child.  He would be thankful to submit to any probation, five,\nseven, ten years without any engagement, if he might hope at last.\nEven Lord Erymanth, when he saw how his darling's soul was set on it,\nthought that thus much might be granted.\n\nBut Lady Diana had still another entrenchment which she had concealed,\nas it were, to the last, not wishing to shock and pain us all, she\nsaid.  Though she said she had reason to complain of not having been\ntold from the first that Harold had once been insane, nothing could\ninduce her to sanction her daughter's marriage with a man whose mind\nhad been disordered; nay, who had done mortal injury in his frenzy.  It\nwas a monstrous idea!\n\nDermot's reply to this was, that nobody, then, ought to marry who had\nhad a delirious fever; and he brought Prometesky over to Arked to\ntestify to her how far the attack had been from anything approaching to\nconstitutional insanity.  The terrible fall, of which Harold's head\nstill bore the mark, the shock, the burning sun, were a combination of\ncauses that only made it wonderful that he should have recovered the\nensuing brain fever, and the blow to his rival had been fatal by the\nmere accident of his strength.  A more ordinary man would have done no\nserious harm by such a stroke, given when not accountable.  Lady Diana\nanswered stiffly that this might be quite true, but that there had been\nanother cause for the temporary derangement which had not been\nmentioned, and that it was notorious that Mr. Alison, in consequence,\nhad been forced to avoid all liquors, and she appealed to Dermot as to\nthe effects of a very small quantity on his friend's brain.\n\nPoor Dermot! it was bitter enough for him to have that orgie at Foling\nbrought forward against his friend.  Nor could any representation\nappease Lady Diana.\n\nI thought her very cruel and unreasonable then, and I am afraid I\nbelieve that if Harold had had ten, or even five thousand a year, these\nobjections would never have been heard of; but after years and\nexperience have cooled my mind, it seems to me that on several grounds\nshe was justified in her reluctance, and that, as Viola was so young,\nand Harold's repentance had been comparatively recent, she might fairly\nhave insisted on waiting long enough to see whether he were indeed to\nbe depended upon, or if Viola's affection were strong enough to endure\nsuch risk as there might be.\n\nFor Dermot, resolute to defend his friend, and declaring that his\nsister's heart should not be broken, was the prime mover in Harold\ngoing up to consult the most eminent men of the day on mental disease,\nPrometesky going with him as having been his only attendant during his\nillness, to give an account of the symptoms, and Dermot, who so\ncomported himself in his excitement as to seem far more like the lover\nwhose hopes might have depended on the verdict on his doubtful sanity,\nthan did the grave, quiet, self-contained man, who answered all\nquestions so steadily.\n\nThe sentence was so far satisfactory that the doctor confirmed\nPrometesky's original view, that concussion of the brain, aggravated by\ncircumstances, had produced the attack, and that there was no\nreasonable ground for apprehension of its recurrence, certainly not of\nits being hereditary.  But he evidently did not like the confession of\nthe strange horror of dogs, which Harold thought it right to mention as\nhaving been brought on by the circumstances of his accident, and he\nwould not venture to say that any \"exciting cause\" might not more\neasily affect the brain than if nothing had ever been amiss.  Yet when\nDermot tarried, explaining that he was the brother of a young lady\ndeeply concerned, the doctor assured him that whereas no living man\ncould be insured from insanity, he should consider the gentleman he had\njust seen to be as secure as any one else, since there was no fear of\nany hereditary taint, and his having so entirely outgrown and cast off\nall traces of the malady was a sign of his splendid health and vigour\nof constitution.\n\nBut Lady Diana was still not satisfied.  She still absolutely refused\nall consent, and was no more moved at the end of three weeks than\nbefore.  Dear Harold said he did not wonder, and that if he had seen\nhimself in this true light, he would have loved Viola at a distance\nwithout disquieting her peace, but since he had spoken and knew she\nloved him, he could not but persevere for her sake.  We could see he\nsaid it with a steady countenance, but a burning heart.  Neither he nor\nI was allowed to see Viola, but there was Dermot as constant reporter,\nand, to my surprise, Viola was not the submissive daughter I had\nexpected.  Lady Diana had never had any real ascendancy over her\nchildren's wills or principles.  Even Viola's obedience had been that\nof duty, not of the heart, and she had from the first declared that\nmamma might forbid her to marry Harold, or to correspond with him, and\nshe should consider herself bound to obey; but that she had given him\nher promise, and that she could not and would not take it back again.\nShe would wait on for ever, if otherwise it could not be, but he had\nher troth plight, and she _would_ be faithful to it. She would not give\nup her crystal cross, and she sent Harold her love every day by her\nbrother, often in her mother's very hearing, saying she was too proud\nof him to be ashamed.  She had resolved on her own line of passive\nobedience, but of never renouncing her engagement, and her brother\nupheld her in it; while her uncle let himself be coaxed out of his\ndispleasure, and committed himself to that compromise plan of waiting\nwhich his sister viewed as fatal, since Viola would only lose all her\nbloom, and perhaps her health. Nothing, she said, was so much to be\ndeplored for a girl as a long engagement.  The accepting a reformed\nrake had been always against her principles, and she did not need even\nthe dreadful possibility of derangement, or the frightful story of his\nfirst marriage, to make her inexorable.  Viola, we were told, had made\nup her mind that it was a case for perseverance, and all this time kept\nup dauntlessly, not failing in spirits nor activity, but telling her\nbrother she had always known she should have to go through something,\nbut Harold's love was worth it, and she meant to be brave; how should\nshe not be when she knew Harold cared for her; and as to what seemed to\nbe objections in the eyes of others, did they not make her long the\nmore to compensate him?\n\n\"She has to make all her love to me, poor little woman, and very pretty\nlove it is,\" said Dermot.\n\nWhether Harold made as much love in return to their ready medium I\ncannot tell, for their conferences were almost always out of doors or\nat the office, and Harold was more reserved than ever.  He was not\ncarrying matters with the same high hand as his little love, for, as he\nalways said, he knew he had brought it all on himself.\n\nHe never complained of Lady Diana, but rather defended her to her son\nfor not thinking him fit for her daughter, only adhering to his\noriginal standpoint, that where there was so much love, surely some\nhope might be granted, since he would thankfully submit to any\nprobation.\n\nWe all expected that this would be the upshot of our suspense, and that\npatience and constancy would prevail; and by the help of immense walks\nand rides, and a good deal of interest in some new buildings at the\npotteries, and schemes for the workmen, Harold kept himself very\nequable and fairly cheerful, though his eyes were weary and anxious,\nand when he was sitting still, musing, there was something in his pose\nwhich reminded me more than ever of Michel Angelo's figures, above all,\nthe grand one on the Medicean monument.  He consorted much more now\nwith Mr. Yolland, the curate, and was making arrangements by which the\nschool chapel might expand into a Mission Church, but still I did not\nknow that he was finding the best aid through this time in the\ndevotions and heart-searchings to which the young clergyman had led\nhim, and which were the real cause of the calm and dignified humility\nwith which he waited.\n\nAt last Lady Diana, finding herself powerless with her daughter, sent a\nletter to Harold, beginning: \"I appeal to your generosity.\"  A very\ncruel letter in some ways it was, representing that he had acquiesced\nin her judgment, that there were certain unfortunate passages in his\npast life which made it her painful duty to prevent her child from\nfollowing the dictates of an inexperienced heart.  Then she put it to\nhim whether it were not a most unfortunate position for a young girl to\nbe involved in an engagement which could never be fulfilled, and which\nwas contrary to the commands of her only remaining parent, and she\nshowed how family peace, confidence, and maternal and filial affection\nmust suffer if the daughter should hold fast persistently to the\npromise by which she held herself bound.  In fact, it was an urgent\nentreaty, for Viola's own sake, that he would release her from her\npromise.  Dermot was shooting at Erymanth, and neither he nor I knew of\nthis letter till Harold had acted.  He rode at once to Arked, saw Lady\nDiana, and declared himself convinced that the engagement, having no\nchance of sanction, ought to be given up.  Rather than keep Viola in\nthe wearing state of resistance and disobedience her mother described,\nhe would resign all hopes of her.\n\nLady Diana went to her daughter with the tidings, that Mr. Alison saw\nthe hopelessness of his suit, and released her from her promise.\n\n\"You have made him do so, mamma,\" cried Viola. \"If he releases me I do\nnot release myself.\"\n\nFinally, Lady Diana, astonished to find Harold so reasonable and\namenable, perceived that the only means of dealing with her daughter\nwas to let them meet again.  Of course no one fully knows what passed\nthen.  Harold told me, the only time he spoke of it, that \"he had just\ntaken out his own heart and crushed it!\" but Viola dwelt on each\nphrase, and, long after, used to go over all with me.  He had fully\nmade up his mind that to let Viola hold to her troth would neither be\nright nor good for her, and he used his power of will and influence to\nmake her resign it.  There was no concealment nor denial of their\nmutual love.  It was Viola's comfort to remember that. \"But,\" said\nHarold, \"your mother has only too good reasons for withholding you from\nme, and there is nothing for it but to submit, and give one another up.\"\n\n\"But we do not leave off loving one another,\" said poor Viola.\n\n\"We cannot do what we cannot.\"\n\n\"And when we are old--\"\n\n\"That would be a mental reservation,\" said Harold.  \"There must be no\nmutual understanding of coming together again.  I promised your mother.\nBecause I am a guilty man, I am not to break up your life.\"\n\nHe made her at last resign her will into his, she only feeling that his\njudgment could not be other than decisive, and that she could not\nresist him, even for his own sake.  He took her for a moment into his\narms, and exchanged one long burning kiss, then, while she was almost\nfaint and quite passive with emotion, he laid her on the sofa, and\ncalled her mother.  \"Lady Diana,\" he said, \"we give up all claim to one\nanother's promise, in obedience to you.  Do we not, Viola?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she faintly said.\n\nHe gave her brow one more kiss, and was gone.\n\nHe took his horse home, and sent in a pencil note to me: \"All over;\ndon't wait, for me.--H. A.\"\n\nI was dreadfully afraid he would go off to Australia, or do something\ndesperate, but Count Stanislas reassured me that this would be unlike\nHarold's present self, since his strength had come to be used, not in\npassion, but in patience.  We dined as best we could without him,\nwaited all the evening, and sat up till eleven, when we heard him at\nthe door.  I went out and took down the chain to let him in.  It was a\nwet misty night, and he was soaked through.  I begged him to come in\nand warm himself, and have something hot, but he shook his head, as if\nhe could not speak, took his candle, and went upstairs.\n\nI made the tea, for which I had kept the kettle boiling all this time,\nand Prometesky took his great cup in to him, presently returning to\nsay, \"He is calm.  He has done wisely, he has exhausted himself so that\nhe will sleep.  He says he will see me at once to my retreat in\nNormandy.  I think it will be best for him.\"\n\nCount Stanislas was, in fact, on the eve of departure, and in a couple\nof days more Harold went away with him, having only broached the matter\nto me to make me understand that the break had been his, not Viola's;\nand that I must say no more about it.\n\nDermot had come over and raged against his mother, and even against\nHarold, declaring that if the two had \"stood out\" they would have\nprevailed, but that he did not wonder Harold was tired of it.\n\nHarold's look made him repent of that bit of passion, but he was\ncontemptuous of the \"for her sake,\" which was all Harold uttered as\nfurther defence.  \"What! tell him it was for her sake when she was\ncreeping about the house like a ghost, looking as if she had just come\nout of a great illness?\"\n\nDermot meant to escort his mother and sister to Florence, chiefly in\norder to be a comfort to the latter, but he meant to return to Ireland\nas soon as they had joined the St. Glears.  \"Taking you by the way,\" he\nsaid, \"before going to my private La Trappe.\"\n\nPrometesky took leave of me, not quite as if we were never to meet\nagain, for his experimental retreat was to be over at Christmas, and he\nwould then be able to receive letters.  He promised me that, if I then\nwrote to him that, Harold stood in need of him for a time, he would\nreturn to us instead of commencing the novitiate which would lead to\nhis becoming dead to the outer world.\n\nHarold was gone only ten days, and came back late on a Friday evening.\nHe tried to tell me about what he had done and seen, but broke off and\nsaid, \"Well, I am very stupid; I went to all the places they told me to\nsee at Rouen and everywhere else, but I can't recollect anything about\nthem.\"\n\nSo I let him gaze into the fire in peace, and all Saturday he was at\nthe potteries or at the office, very busy about all his plans and also\ntaking in hand the charge for George Yolland, for both brothers were\ngoing on Monday to take a fortnight's holiday among their relations.\nHe only came in to dinner, and after it told me very kindly that he\nmust leave me alone again, for he wanted to see Ben Yolland.  A good\nperson for him to wish to see, \"but was all this restlessness?\" thought\nthis foolish Lucy.\n\nWhen he came in, only just at bed-time, there was something more of\nrest, and less of weary sadness about his eyes than I had seen since\nthe troubles began, and as we wished one another good night he said,\n\"Lucy, God forgives while He punishes.  He is better to us than man.\nYolland says I may be with you at church early to-morrow.\"\n\nThen my cheeks flushed hot with joy, and I said how thankful I was that\nall this had not distracted his thoughts from the subject. \"When I\nwanted help more than ever?\" he said.\n\nSo in some ways that was to me at least a gladsome Sunday, though not\nhalf so much at the time as it has become in remembrance, and I could\nnot guess how much of conscious peace or joy Harold felt, as, for the\nfirst and only time, he and I knelt together on the chancel step.\n\nHe said nothing, but he had quite recovered his usual countenance and\nmanner, only looking more kind and majestic than ever, as I, his fond\naunt, thought, when we went among the children after the school\nservice, to give them the little dainties they had missed in his\nabsence; and he smiled when they came round him with their odd little\nbits of chatter.\n\nWe sat over the fire in the evening, and talked a little of surface\nthings, but that died away, and after a quarter of an hour or so, he\nlooked up at me and said, \"And what next?\"\n\n\"What are we to do, do you mean?\" I said, for I had been thinking how\nall his schemes of life had given way.  We spoke of it together. \"Old\nEu did not want him,\" as he said, and though there was much for him to\ndo at the Hydriot works and the Mission Chapel, the Reading Room, the\nAssociation for Savings, and all the rest which needed his eye, yet for\nViola's peace he thought he ought not to stay, and the same cause\nhindered the schemes he had once shared with Dermot; he had cut himself\nloose from Australia, and there seemed nothing before him.  \"There were\nthe City Missions,\" he said, wearily, for he did not love the City, and\nyet he felt more than ever the force of his dying father's commission\nto carry out his longings for the true good of the people.\n\nI said we could make a London home and see Dora sometimes, trying to\nmake him understand that he might reckon on me as his sister friend,\nbut the answer was, \"I don't count on that.\"\n\n\"You don't want to cast me off?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, but there is another to be thought of.\"\n\nThen he told me how, over my letters to him in New South Wales, there\nhad come out Dermot's account of the early liking that everyone nipped,\ntill my good-girlish submission wounded and affronted him, and he\nforgot or disliked me for years; how old feelings had revived, when we\ncame in contact once more; but how he was withheld from their\nmanifestation, by the miserable state of his affairs, as well as by my\nown coldness and indifference.\n\nI made some sound which made Harold say, \"You told me to keep him away.\"\n\n\"I knew I ought,\" I remember saying faintly.\n\n\"Oh--h--!\" a prolonged sound, that began a little triumphantly, but\nended in a sigh, and then he earnestly said, \"You do not think you\nought to discourage him now?  Your mother did not forbid it for ever.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no; it never came to that.\"\n\n\"And you know what he is now?\"\n\n\"I know he is changed,\" was all I could say.\n\n\"And you will help him forward a little when he comes back.  You and he\nwill be happy.\"\n\nThere might be a great surging wave of joy in my heart, but it would\nnot let me say anything but, \"And leave you alone, Harold?\"\n\n\"I must learn to be alone,\" he said.  \"I can stay here this winter, and\nsee to the things in hand, and then I suppose something will turn up.\"\n\n\"As a call?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered.  \"I told God to-day that I had nothing to do but\nHis service, and I suppose He will find it for me.\"\n\nThere was something in the steadfast, yet wistful look of his eyes,\nthat made me take down the legend of St. Christopher and read it aloud.\nReading generally sent him into a doze, but even that would be a\nrespite to the heartache he so patiently bore, and I took the chance,\nbut he sat with his chin on his hand and his eyes fixed attentively on\nmine all the time, then held out his hand for the book, and pondered,\nas was his thorough way in such matters.  At last he said, \"Well, I'll\nwait by the stream.  Some day He will send me some one to carry over.\"\n\nWe little thought what stream was very near!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE FATAL TOKEN.\n\n\nTuesday morning brought a strange little untidy packet, tied with blue\nribbon, understamped, and directed to Harold Alison, Esquire, in the\nworst form of poor Dora's always bad handwriting.  Within was a single\nknitted muffatee, and a long lock of the stiffly curling yellow hair\npeculiar to Dora's head.  In blotted, sloping roundhand was written:--\n\n\n\"My Dear Harry,--\n\n\"Good-bye, I do fele so very ill, I can't do any more.  Don't forget I\nallwaies was your wiffe.\n\n                              \"I am your affex., D. A.\"\n\n\nWe looked at each other in wonder and dismay, sure that the child must\nbe very ill, and indignant that we had not been told.  Harold talked of\ngoing up to town to find out; I was rather for going, or sending, to\nTherford for tidings, and all the time, alas! alas! he was smoothing\nand caressing the yellow tress between his fingers, pitying the child\nand fancying she was being moped to death in the school-room.\n\nWe determined on riding to Therford, and Harold had hastened to the\noffice to despatch some business first, when Mr. Horsman himself came\nin--on his way to the Petty Sessions--to explain matters.\n\nMrs. Randall Horsman had arrived with her children at Therford the day\nbefore, flying from the infection of smallpox, for which the doctor had\ndeclared Dora to be sickening.  The whole family had been spending the\nautumn months at the seaside.  Nessy Horsman had been with them and had\ntaken Dora about with him much more than had been approved.  In one of\nthese expeditions he had taken her into the shop of a village\nratcatcher, where, it had since been ascertained, two children were ill\nof smallpox.  She had been ailing ever since the party had returned to\nLondon; the doctor had been called in on Monday, and had not only\npronounced the dreadful name of the disease, but, seeking in vain for\nthe marks of vaccination on her arms, he greatly apprehended that she\nwould have it in full and unmitigated virulence.\n\nMrs. Randall Horsman had herself and her children vaccinated without\nloss of time and fled to the country.  Her husband would spend all day\nin his chambers, and only sleep at home on the ground-floor with every\nprecaution, and Dora had been left in the charge of a young\nunder-house-maid, whose marked face proved her safety, until the doctor\ncould send in a regular nurse.  It was this wretched little stupid maid\nwho was ignorant enough to assist the poor child in sending off her\nunhappy packet, all unknowing of the seeds of destruction it conveyed.\n\nI had had a slight attack of undoubted smallpox when a young child, and\nI immediately resolved on going to nurse my poor Dora, secure that she\nwould now be left to me, and unable to bear the thought of her being\namong strangers.  I went at once to the office to tell Harry, and Baby\nJack walked with me as far as our roads lay together, asking me on the\nway if it were true that Harold Alison was engaged to Miss Tracy, and\non my denial, saying that Mrs. Randall had come down full of the\nreport; that Nessy had heard of it, and, on Sunday afternoon, had\nteased Dora about it to such a degree that she had leaped up from the\nsofa and actually boxed his ears, after which she had gone into such a\nparoxysm of tears and sobs that she had been sent to bed, and in the\nmorning the family mind began to perceive she was really ill.  The poor\nchild's passionate jealousy had no doubt prompted her letter, as well\nas her desire to take leave of the object of her love; and knowing her\nstrange character as I did, I was sure the idea was adding tenfold to\nthe misery of the dreadful illness that was coming on her.\n\nI had to pursue Harold to the potteries, where one of the workmen\ndirected me to him, as he was helping to put in order some machine for\nhoisting that was out of gear.  \"Bless you, ma'am,\" said the man, \"he\nis as strong as any four of we.\"\n\nWhen I found him, his consternation was great, and he quite agreed with\nme that I had better go up that very afternoon and take charge of Dora,\nsince Baby Jack answered for it that Randall Horsman would be most\ngrateful and thankful.\n\nHarold found out the hours for the trains, and did everything to\nexpedite me.  He made it certain that poor little Dora had not been\nvaccinated.  When she was born, no doctor lived within sixty miles of\nBoola Boola, and nobody had ever thought of such a thing.\n\n\"And you, Harry?\" I asked, with a sudden thrill of alarm.\n\n\"Do you expect me to remember?\" he asked with a smile.\n\nI begged him to look for the moons upon his arm, and at any rate to\nundergo the operation again, since, even if it had been done in his\ninfancy, the effect might have worn out, and it was only too probable\nthat in the case of a child born on board a sailing vessel, without a\ndoctor, it had been forgotten.  He gave in to my solicitude so far as\nto say that he would see about it, but reminded me that it was not he\nwho was going into the infection.  Yes, I said, but there was that lock\nof hair and the worsted cuff.  Such things did carry contagion, and he\nought to burn them at once.\n\n\"Poor Dora!\" he said, rather indignantly.\n\nOh that I had seen them burnt!  Oh that I had taken him to Dr.\nKingston's for vaccination before I went away, instead of contenting\nmyself with the unmeaning, half-incredulous promise to \"see about it!\"\nby which, of course, he meant to mention it when George Yolland came\nhome.  Yet it might have made no difference, for he had been fondling\nand smoothing that fatal curl all the time we were talking over the\nletter.\n\nHe came to the station with me, gave me the kindest messages for Dora,\narranged for my telegraphing reports of her every day--took care of me\nas men will do when they seem to think their womankind incapable\nwithout them, making all the more of me because I did not venture to\ntake Colman, whom I sent to visit her home.  He insisted on Mr. Ben\nYolland, who had been detained a day behind his brother, going in a\nfirst-class carriage with me.  I leant out at the window for the\nparting kiss, and the last sight I had of my dear Harold, as the train\nsteamed out of the station, was bearing on his shoulder a fat child--a\npotter's--who had just arrived by the train, and had been screaming to\nhis mother to carry him, regardless of the younger baby and baskets in\nher arms.  It might well make my last sight of him remind me of St.\nChristopher.\n\nThat journey with the curate was comfortable in itself, and a great\ncomfort to me afterwards.  We could not but rejoice together over that\nSunday, and Ben Yolland showed himself deeply struck with the\nsimplicity and depth that had been revealed to him, the reality of\nwhatever Harold said, and his manner of taking his dire disappointment\nas the just and natural outcome of his former life. Many men would have\nbeen soured and driven back to evil by such a rejection.  Harold had\nmade it the occasion of his most difficult victory and sharpest\nstruggle; yet all the time he was unconscious how great a victory it\nwas.  And so thorough was the penitence, so great the need of\nrefreshment after the keen struggle for self-mastery, and so needful\nthe pledge of pardon, that though he had never been confirmed, there\nwas no doubt as to making him welcome at once to the Heavenly Feast.\nWell that it was so!\n\nThe \"What next\" concerned Mr. Yolland as much as it did me.  He could\nnot bear to think of relinquishing one who--all unknown to himself--did\nmore to guide and win the hearts of those Hydriots than teaching or\nsermons could ever do, and yet no one could advise Harold to remain\nafter this winter.  In the reprieve, however, we both rejoiced, and Ben\nthen added, \"For my brother's sake, especially.\"\n\n\"Do you think the example tells on him?\" I ventured on asking.\n\n\"I can hardly say it does,\" was the answer.  \"George used to point to\nHarold Alison as a specimen of a vigorous physical development so\nperfectly balanced as to be in a manner self-adjusting, without need of\nwhat he called imaginative influences.  I always thought he was a\nlittle staggered that evening that he had to summon you, Miss Alison,\nto his help; but he had some theory of sentiment to account for it, and\nmanaged, as people do, to put it aside.  Lately, however, he has been\nlooking on, he says, with curiosity--I believe with something more.\nYou see he reveres Alison for what he is, not for what he knows.\"\n\n\"Of course not; your brother must know far more than Harold.\"\n\n\"But the strength of character and will impresses him.  The bending of\nsuch a nature to faith, the acceptance of things spiritual, by one\n_real_, unimaginative and unsophisticated, and, above all, the _self_\nconquest, just where a great Greek hero would have failed, have\ncertainly told on George, so that I see more hope than I have ever done\nbefore.\"\n\nSo careful of me was Mr. Yolland, that he only parted with me at\nRandall Horsman's door, where I was gladly welcomed by the master of\nthe house, and found my poor little niece a grievous spectacle, and so\nmiserable with the horrible illness, that she only showed her pleasure\nin my coming by fretting whenever anyone else touched her.\n\nShe had it badly in the natural form, but never was in immediate\ndanger, and began in due time to recover.  I had ceased my daily\ntelegrams, and had not been alarmed by some days' intermission of\nHarold's letters, for I knew that Dermot was at Arked alone, and that\nby this time the Yollands would be returned and my nephew would have\nless time to spend on me.\n\nOne dismal wintry afternoon, however, when I was sitting in the dark,\ntelling Dora stories, a card was brought up to me by the little\nhousemaid.  The gentleman begged to see me.  \"Mr. Tracy\" was on the\ncard, and the very sight startled me with the certainty that something\nwas amiss.\n\nI left the girl in charge and hurried down to the room, where Dermot\nwas leaning over the mantel-shelf, with his head against his arms, in a\nsorrowful attitude, as if he could not bear to turn round and face me,\nI flew up to him, crying out that I knew he was come to fetch me to\nHarold; Dora was so much better that I could leave her.\n\nHe turned up to me a white haggard face, and eyes with dismay, pity,\nand grief in them, such as even now it wrings my heart to recall, and\nhoarsely said in a sunken voice, \"No, Lucy, I am not come to fetch\nyou!\" and he took my hand and grasped it convulsively.\n\n\"But he has caught it?\"  Dermot bent his head.  \"I must go to him, even\nif he bids me not.  I know he wants me.\"\n\n\"No!\" again said Dermot, as if his tongue refused to move.  \"Oh, Lucy,\nLucy, I cannot tell you!\"\n\nAnd he burst into a flood of tears, shaking, choking, even rending him.\n\nI stood, feeling as if turned to stone, and presently the words came\nout in a sob, \"Oh, Lucy, he is dead!\" and, sinking on the nearest seat,\nhis tempest of grief was for the moment more frightful than the\ntidings, which I could not take in, so impossible did the sudden\nquenching of that glorious vitality seem.  I began in some foolish way\nto try to console him, as if it were a mere fancy.  I brought him a\nglass of water from the sideboard, and implored him to compose himself,\nand tell me what made him say such terrible things, but he wrung my\nhand and leant his head against me, as he groaned, \"I tell you, it is\ntrue.  We buried him this morning.  The noblest, dearest friend that\never--\"\n\n\"And you never told me!  You never fetched me; I might have saved him,\"\nwas my cry; then, \"Oh! why did you not?\"\n\nThen he told me that there had been no time, and how useless my\npresence would have been.  We sat on the sofa, and he gasped out\nsomething of the sad story, though not by any means all that I\nafterwards learnt from himself and from the Yollands, but enough to\nmake me feel the reality of the terrible loss.  And I will tell the\nwhole here.\n\nLeft to himself, the dear fellow had no doubt forgotten all about\nvaccination, or any peril to himself, for he never mentioned it to\nDermot, who only thought him anxious about Dora.  On the Saturday they\nwere to have had a day's shooting, and then to have dined at Erymanth,\nbut Harold sent over in the morning to say he had a headache and could\nnot come, so Dermot went alone.  When the Yollands came home at nine at\nnight a message was given that Mr. Alison would like to see Mr. George\nas soon as he came in; but as the train had been an hour late, and the\nmessage had not been delivered immediately on their coming in, George\nthought it could not concern that night, so he waited till morning; but\nhe was awaked in the winter twilight by Harold at his door, saying,\n\"Doctor, I'm not quite right.  I wish you would come up presently and\nsee after me.\"\n\nHe was gone again, while he was being called to wait; and, dressing as\nfast as possible, George Yolland went out after him into the dark,\ncold, frosty, foggy morning, and overtook him, leaning on the gate of a\nfield, shivering, panting, and so dizzy, that it was with difficulty he\nwas helped to the house.  He made known that he had felt very unwell\nall the day before, and had had a miserable night, in which all the\nwarnings about infection had returned on him.  The desire to keep clear\nof all whom he might endanger, as well as a fevered--perhaps already\nhalf-delirious--longing for cool air, had sent him forth himself to\nsummon George Yolland.  And already strong shivering fits and increased\ndistress showed what fatal mischief that cold walk had done.  All he\ncared now to say was that he trusted to his doctor to keep everybody\nout of the house; that I was not to be called away from Dora, and that\nit was all his own fault.\n\nOne person could not be kept away, and that was Dermot Tracy.  He came\nover to spend the Sunday with his friend, and finding the door closed,\nand Richardson giving warning of smallpox, only made him the more\neagerly run upstairs.  George could by that time ill dispense with a\nstrong man's help, and after vaccinating him, admitted him to the room,\nwhere the checking of the eruption had already produced terrible fever\nand violent raving.\n\nIt was a very remarkable delirium, as the three faithful watchers\ndescribed it.  The mind and senses seemed astray, only not the will. It\nwas as if all the vices of his past life came in turn to assail him,\nand he was writhing and struggling under their attacks, yet not\nsurrendering himself.  When--the Sunday duties over--Ben Yolland came\nin, he found him apparently acting over some of the wild scenes of his\nearly youth, with shreds of the dreadful mirth, and evil words of\nprofane revelry; and yet, as if they struck his ears, he would catch\nhimself up and strike his fist on his mouth, and when Ben entered, he\nstretched out his arms and said, \"Don't let me.\"  Prayer soothed him\nfor a short interval, but just as they hoped that sleep might come, the\nfierce struggle with oppression brought back the old habits of violent\nlanguage, and then the distressed endeavour to check himself, and the\nclutch at the clergyman's aid.  Ben Yolland saw, standing in the room,\na great rough wooden cross which Harold had made for some decorating\nplan of mine.  He held it over him, put it into his hand, and bade him\nrepeat after him, \"Christ has conquered.  By Thy Cross and Passion; by\nThy precious Death and Burial, good Lord deliver us.\"\n\nSo it went on hour after hour, evening closing into night, the long,\nlong night brightening at last into day, and still the fever raged, and\nthe fits of delirious agony came on, as though every fiend that had\never tempted him were assailing him now.  Yet still he had the power to\ngrasp the Cross when it was held to him, and speak the words, \"Christ\nhas conquered,\" and his ears were open to the prayer, \"By Thy Cross and\nPassion, by Thine Agony and Bloody Sweat, good Lord deliver us!\"--the\nprayer that Ben prayed like Moses at Rephidim. Time came and went, the\nNorthchester physician came and said he might be saved, if the eruption\ncould only be brought out, but he feared that it had been thrown\ninwards, so that nothing would avail; but of all this Harold knew\nnothing, he was only in that seething brain, whose former injury now\nadded to the danger, living over again all his former life, as those\nwho knew it could trace in the choked and broken words.  Yet, as the\ndoctors averred, that the conscience and the will should not be\nmastered by the delirium was most unusual, and proved the extraordinary\nforce of his character and resolution, even though the conflict was\nevidently a great addition to his sufferings.\n\nWorst of all was the deadly strife, when with darkness came the old\nhorror of being pursued by hell hounds, driven on by Meg and the rival\nhe had killed--nay, once it was even by his little children. Then he\nturned even from the Cross in agony.  \"I cannot!  See there! They will\nnot let me!\" and he would have thrown himself from his bed, taking the\nhands that held him for the dogs' fangs.  And yet even then a command\nrather than a prayer from the priest reached his ears. He wrestled,\nwith choking, stifling breath, as though with a weight on his chest,\ngrappling with his hands as if the dog were at his throat; but at last\nhe uttered those words once more, \"Christ has conquered;\" then with a\ngasp, as from a freed breast, for his strength was going fast, fell\nback in a kind of swoon.  Yes, he was delivered from the power of the\ndog, for after that, when he woke, it was in a different mood.  He knew\nBen, but he thought he had little Ambrose sitting on his pillow; held\nhis arm as if his baby were in it, and talked to them smiling and\ntenderly, as if glad they had come to him, and he were enjoying their\ncaresses, their brightness, and beauty.  Nor did the peace pass away.\nHe was so quiet that all hoped except George Yolland, who knew the\nmischief had become irreparable; and though he never was actually\nsensible, the borderland was haunted no more with images of evil or of\nterror, but with the fair visions fit for \"him that overcometh.\"  Once\nthey thought he fancied he was showing his children to Viola or to me.\nOnce, when Dermot's face came before him, he recurred to some of the\nwords used in the struggle about Viola.\n\n\"I don't deserve her.  Good things are not for me.  All will be made\npure there.\"\n\nThey thought then that he was himself, and knew he was dying, but the\nnext moment some words, evidently addressed to his child, showed them\nhe was not in our world; and after that all the murmurs were about what\nhad last taken up his mind--the Bread of Heaven, the Fruit of\nEverlasting Life.\n\n\"To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the Fruit of the Tree of\nLife, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God.\"  That was what Mr.\nYolland ventured now to say over him, and it woke the last respondent\nglance of his eyes.  He had tasted of that Feast of Life on the Sunday\nhe was alone, and Ben Yolland would even then have given it to him, but\nbefore it could be arranged, he could no longer swallow, and the\naffection of the brain was fast blocking up the senses, so that\nblindness and deafness came on, and passed into that insensibility in\nwhich the last struggles of life are, as they tell us, rather agonising\nto the beholder than to the sufferer.  It was at sundown at last that\nthe mightiest and gentlest spirit I ever knew was set free.\n\nThose three durst not wait to mourn.  Their first duty was to hasten\nthe burial, so as to prevent the spread of contagion, and they went at\nonce their different ways to make the preparations.  No form of\nconventional respect could be used, but it was the three who so deeply\nloved him who laid him in the rough-made coffin, hastily put together\nthe same evening, with the cross that had served him in his conflict on\nhis breast, and three camellia buds from Viola's tree. Dermot had\nthought of her and ridden over to fetch them.  There had been no\ndisfigurement.  If there had been he might have lived, but still it was\na comfort to know that the dear face was last seen in more than its own\ncalm majesty, as of one who lay asleep after a mighty conquest.  Over\nthe coffin they placed the lion's skin.  It had been left in the room\nduring his illness, and must have been condemned, and it made his fit\npall when they took it to be buried with him.  It was before daybreak\nthat, with good old Richardson's help, they carried him down to a large\ncart belonging to the potteries, drawn by the two big horses he used to\npet, and driven by George Yolland himself.  They took him to our own\nfamily burial-place in Arghouse churchyard, where the grave had been\ndug at night.  They meant no one to be there, but behold! there was a\nmultitude of heads gathered round, two or three hundred at least, and\nwhen the faithful four seemed to need aid in carrying that great weight\nthe few steps from the gate, there was a rush forward, in spite of the\nperil, and disappointment when no help was accepted.\n\nBen Yolland read the service over the grave, and therewith there was\nthe low voice of many, many weepers, as they closed it in, and left him\nthere among his forefathers, under his lion's skin; and even at that\nmoment a great, golden, glorious sun broke out above the horizon, and\nbathed them all over with light, while going forth as a giant to run\nhis course, conquering the night mists.\n\nThen they turned back to the town, and Dermot came by the next train to\ntown to tell me.  But of all this I at first gathered but little, for\nhis words were broken and his voice faint and choked, not only with\ngrief, but with utter exhaustion; and I was so slow to realise all,\nthat I hardly knew more than the absolute fact, before a message came\nhurriedly down that Dora was worse, and I must come instantly. Dermot,\nwho had talked himself into a kind of dull composure, stood up and said\nhe would come again on the morrow, when he was a little rested, for,\nindeed, he had not lain down since Saturday, and was quite worn out.\n\nI went up, with heart quailing at the thought of letting that\npassionately loving creature guess what had befallen her, and yet how\ncould I command myself with her?  But that perplexity was spared me.\nThe tidings had, through the Horsman family, reached the house, and, in\nmy absence, that same foolish housemaid had actually told Dora of them\npoint-blank.  She said nothing, but presently the girl found her with\nher teeth locked and eyes fixed in what looked like a convulsion, but\nwas in reality such suppressed hysteria as she had had before.\n\nShe soon came out of that attack, but was exceedingly ill all that\nnight and the next day, her recovery being altogether thrown back by\nfeverishness and loss of appetite; but, strange child that she was, she\nnever named Harold, nor let me speak of him.  I think she instinctively\nshrank from her own emotion, and had a kind of dread and jealous horror\nof seeing anyone else grieve for him.\n\nDermot did not come the next day, but a note was brought me, left, the\nservant said, by the gentleman in a cab.  It told me that he felt so\nill that he thought it wisest to go at once to the smallpox hospital,\nand find out whether it were the disease, or only vaccination and\nfatigue.  It was a brave unselfish resolve, full of the spirit he had\nimbibed, and it was wise, for the illness was upon him already, the\nmore severe from his exhausted state and the shock he had undergone.\nMr. Randall Horsman, who was very kind, managed that I should hear of\nhim, and I knew he was going on fairly well, and not in any special\ndanger.\n\nBut oh! that time seems to me the most wretched that ever I passed, up\nin those great London attic nurseries, where Dora and I were\nprisoners--all winter fogginess, with the gas from below sending up its\nlight on the ceiling, and Dora never letting me sit still to grieve.\nShe could not bear the association or memory, I believe, and with the\nimperious power of recovery used to keep me reading Mayne Reid's\nstorybooks to her incessantly, or else playing at backgammon. I hate\nthe sound of dice to this hour, and when I heard that unhappy French\ncriminals, the night before their execution, are apt to send for\nFenimore Cooper's novels, it seemed to reveal Dora's state of mind.\n\nAfter two or three days, George Yolland came up to see me.  He had been\nto see Dermot, and gave me comfort as to his condition and the care\ntaken of him; but the chief cause of the visit was that they wanted my\nauthority for the needful destruction of whatever had been in that\nroom, and could not be passed through fire.  Mr. Yolland had brought me\nmy Harold's big, well-worn pocket-book, which he said must undergo the\nsame doom, for though I was contagion proof, yet harm might be laid up\nfor others, and only what was absolutely necessary must be saved.\n\nFirst of all, indeed, lay in their crumpled paper poor Dora's fatal\ngifts, treasured, no doubt, as probably her last; and there, in a deep\nleathern pocket, was another little parcel with Viola's crystal cross,\nwhich her mother had made her return.  She might have that now, it\nwould bear disinfecting; but the Irish heath-bells that told of autumn\ndays at Killey Marey must go, and that brief note to me that had been\ntreasured up--yes, and the quaint old housewife, with D. L. (his aunt's\nmaiden initials), whence his needles and thread used to come for his\nmending work.  An old, worn pencil-case kept for his mother's sake--for\nAlice was on the seal--was the only thing I could rescue; but next\nthere came an envelope with \"My will\" scrawled on it.  Mr. Yolland\nthought I ought to open it, to see who had authority to act, and it\nproved that we alone had, for he was made executor, with L1,000.  A\nfavourite rifle was bequeathed to Eustace, an annuity of L50 to Smith,\nand all the rest of the property was to be shared between Dora and me.\nIt was in the fewest words, not at all in form, but all right, and\nfully witnessed.  It was in the dear handwriting, and was dated on the\nsad lonely Saturday when he felt himself sickening.  The other things\nwere accounts and all my letters, most of which could follow the fate\nof all that he had touched in those last days.  However, the visit was\na comfort to me. George Yolland answered my questions, and told me much\nmore than poor Dermot could do in his stupefaction from grief, fatigue,\nand illness, even if I then could have understood.\n\nHe told me of the grief shown by all Mycening and Arghouse, and of the\nsobbing and weeping of mothers and children, who went in a broken\npilgrimage on Sunday afternoon to the grave at Arghouse, of the throngs\nat the church and the hush, like a sob held back, when the text was\ngiven out: \"Thanks be to Him who giveth us the victory through Jesus\nChrist our Lord.\"\n\nYet on the Saturday evening there was something more noted still. The\nmen stood about when they had come up for their wages to the office,\nwhere, but a week before, Harold had paid them, with a sore struggle to\nsee and to count aright, as some even then had observed; and at last\ntheir spokesman had explained their great desire to do something\nthemselves in memory of \"the best friend they ever had,\" as they truly\ncalled him.  Some of them had seen memorial-windows, and they wanted\nMr. Yolland to take from each a small weekly subscription throughout\nthe winter, to adorn the new chapel with windows. \"With the history of\nSamson a killin' of the lion,\" called out a gruff voice.  It was the\nvoice of the father of the boy whom Harold had rescued on Neme Heath.\n\n\"So,\" said George Yolland, as he told me, \"the poor fellows' hearty way\nwas almost more than one could bear, but I knew Alison would have me\ntry to turn it to some sort of good to themselves; so I stood up and\nsaid I'd take it on one condition only.  They knew very well what vexed\nMr. Alison most in themselves, and the example he had set--how he had\nstriven to make them give up making beasts of themselves. Wouldn't they\nthink with me it was insulting him to let a drunkard have a hand in\ndoing a thing to his memory?  So I would manage their collection on\ncondition they agreed that whoever took more than his decent pint a\nday--or whatever else sober men among them chose to fix it at--should\nhave his money returned on the spot.  Poor fellows, they cheered and\nsaid I was in the right, but whether they will keep to it is another\nthing.\"\n\nThey did keep to it.  All that winter, while the chapel was building,\nthere were only five cases in which the money had to be returned, and\ntwo of those took the pledge, pleaded hard, and were restored. Indeed,\nI believe it was only the habitually sober who ventured on the\ntolerated pint.  Of course there were some who never came into the\nthing at all, and continued in their usual course; but these were the\ndregs, sure to be found everywhere, and the main body of the Hydriot\npotters kept their word so staunchly, that the demon of intoxication\namong them was slain by those Samson windows, as Harold had never slain\nit during his life.\n\nBeautiful bright windows they are, glowing with Samson in his typical\nmight, slaying his lion, out of the strong finding sweetness, drinking\nwater after the fight, bearing away the gates, and slaying his foes in\nhis death.  But Samson is not there alone.  As the more thoughtful\nremarked, Samson was scarce a worthy likeness for one who had had grace\nto triumph.  No, Samson, whose life always seems like a great type in\nshattered fragments, must be set in juxtaposition with the great\nAntitype.  His conflict with Satan, His Last Supper, His pointing out\nthe Water of Life, His Death and His victory over death, shine forth,\ngiving their own lesson of Who hath won the victory.\n\nWe ventured to add two little windows with St. George and St.\nChristopher, to show how Christ's soldiers may follow in the conquest,\ntreading down the dragon, and bending to the yoke of the Little Child\nwho leads them out of many waters.\n\nThat winter of temperance proved the fulcrum that had been wanting to\nthe lever of improvement.  Schools of art, concerts, lectures, choir\npreparation, recreation, occupation, and interests of all sorts were\nvigorously devised by the two Yollands; and, moreover, the \"New\nDragon's Head\" and the \"Genuine Dragon's Head,\" with sundry of their\ncongeners, died a natural death by inanition; so that when the winter\nwas over, habits had been formed, and a standard of respectability set\nup, which has never entirely fallen, and a spirit which has withstood\nthe temptation of strikes.  Of course, the world has much to do with\nthe tone of many.  What amount of true and real religion there may be,\ncan only be tested by trial, and there are many who do not show any\nsigns of being influenced by anything more than public opinion, some\nwho fall below that; but, as everyone knows, the Hydriot works have\ncome to be not only noted for the beauty and excellence of their\nexecution, and the orderliness, intelligence, and sobriety of their\nartisans, but for their large congregations, ample offertories, and\nnumerous communicants.\n\nOf course all this would never have kept up but for the Yollands. The\nHydriots are wife, children, everything to him who is now called Vicar\nof St. Christopher's, Mycening.  He has refused better preferment, for\nhe has grown noted now, since the work that Harold had begun is still\nthe task he feels his charge.\n\nAnd whatever is good is led by the manager of the works, whose\ninfluence over the workmen's minds has never failed.  Even when he\ntalked to me on that day, I thought there was a change in his tone. He\nhad never sneered (at least in my hearing) nor questioned other men's\nfaith, but when he told me of Harold his manner had something of awe,\nas well as of sorrow and admiration, and I could not but think that a\nsense had dawned out that the spiritual was a reality, and an absolute\npower over the material.\n\nThe great simple nature that had gradually and truly undergone that\ninfluence had been watched and studied by him, and had had its effect.\nThe supernatural had made itself felt, and thenceforth he made it his\nstudy, in a quiet, unobtrusive manner, scarcely known even to his\nbrother, but gradually resulting in heart-whole acceptance of faith,\nand therewith in full devotion of heart and soul.\n\nDid Harold rejoice in that victory, which to him would have been one of\nthe dearest of all?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\n\nI must finish my story, though it seems hardly worth telling, since my\nnephew, my tower of strength and trust, had suddenly sunk away from me\nin the prime of his manhood.\n\nThe light seemed gone out of the whole world, and my heart felt dull\nand dead, as if I could never heed or care for anything again.  Even\nDermot's illness did not seem capable of stirring me to active anxiety\nin this crushed, stupid state, with no one to speak to of what lay\nheavy on my heart, no one even to write to; for who would venture to\nread my letters? nay, I had not energy even to write to poor Miss\nWoolmer.  We got into a way of going on day after day with Dora's\nlittle meals, the backgammon, and the Mayne Reid, till sometimes it\nfelt as if it had always been thus with us from all time, and always\nwould be; and at others it would seem as if it were a dream, and that\nif I could but wake, I should be making tea for Harold in our cheerful\nlittle drawing-room at Mount Eaton.  At last I had almost a morbid\ndread of breaking up this monotonous life, and having to think what to\ndo or where to go.  The Randall Horsmans must long for our departure,\nand my own house was in a state of purification, and uninhabitable.\n\nThe doctor said that Dora must be moved as soon as it could be managed,\nfor in that London attic she could have no impulse towards recovery;\nand while it still seemed a fearful risk, he sent us off to St.\nClement's, a little village on the south coast, where he knew of rooms\nin a great old manor-house which had sunk to farmer's use, and had a\nmaster and mistress proof against infection.\n\nWhen I brought my tired, worn-out, fretting charge in through the great\ndraughty porch, and was led up the old shallow oak stairs to a big\npanelled room, clean and scantily furnished, where the rats ran about\nbehind the wainscot, and a rain-laden branch of monthly rose went tap,\ntap against the window, and a dog howled all night long, I thought we\nhad come to a miserable place at the end of the earth. I thought so\nstill the next morning, when the mist lay in white rolls and curls\nround the house; and the sea, when we had a peep of it, was as\nlead-coloured as the sky, while the kind pity of the good wife for\nDora's weak limbs and disfigured face irritated me so that I could\nhardly be civil.\n\nDora mended from that day, devoted herself to the hideous little lambs\nthat were brought in to be nursed by the fire; ate and drank like a\nlittle cormorant, and soon began to rush about after Mr. and Mrs. Long,\nwhether in house or farm-yard, like a thing in its native element,\nwhile they were enchanted with her colonial farm experience, and could\nnot make enough of \"Little Missy.\"\n\nI had a respite from Mayne Reid, and could wander as far as I pleased\nalone on the shingle, or sit and think as I had so often longed to do;\nbut the thoughts only resulted in a sense of dreariness and of almost\nindifference as to my fate, since the one person in all the world who\nhad needed me was gone, and I had heard nothing whatever of Dermot\nTracy.  He might be gone out to his mother and sister, or back to\nIreland.  Our paths would never come together again, for he thought I\ndid not care for him.  Nay, was I even sure of his recovery?  His\nconstitution had been much tried!  He was in a strange place, among\nmere professional nurses!  Who could tell how it had been with him?\n\nEverything went from me that had loved me.  Even Dora was to leave me\nas soon as people ceased to be afraid of her.\n\nLetters had found out the married pair on their return from the\ncataracts of the Nile.  Eustace had immediately been vaccinated\nfourteen times, but he was shocked and appalled, and the spirit of his\nletter was--\n\n          O while my brother with me stayed,\n          Would I had loved him more,\n\nand I forgave him much.\n\nHippolyta likewise wrote with feeling, but it rather stung me to be\nthanked for my care of \"her poor little sister,\" as if Dora were not my\nchild before she was hers.  As soon as it was considered safe, Dora was\nto be returned to Horsman keeping, and as the Randall party declined to\nreceive her again, Philippa would convey her to a school at Baden-Baden.\n\nAnd Dora declared she was glad!  There was none of the angry resistance\nwith which she had left me in the spring; when I had done nothing for\nher compared with what I had gone through for her now; but I believe I\nwas dull company, and showed myself displeased at her hardness and wild\noutbreaks of spirits, and that the poor child longed to escape from all\nthat reminded her of the unbearable sorrow at the bottom of her heart.\nBut it was a grievance to a grievance-making temper, such as I feel\nmine was.\n\nThe most wholesome thing I received was a letter from Prometesky, to\nwhom I had written the tidings that Harold would never need his comfort\nmore.  The old man was where the personal loss was not felt, and he\nknew more deeply than anyone the pain which that strong fervent heart\nsuffered in its self-conquests, so that he did not grieve for Harold\nhimself; but he gave me that sympathy of entire appreciation of my loss\nwhich is far better than compassion.  For himself, he said his last\nlink with the world was gone, he found the peace, and the expression of\npenitence, his soul required, in the course he was about to embrace,\nand I might look on this as a voice from the grave.  I should never\nhear of him more, but I should know that, as long as life was left him,\nit would be spent in prayers for those whose souls he had wrecked in\nhis overboiling youth.  He ended with thanks to all of us, who he said\nhad sent him to his retreat with more kindly and charitable\nrecollections than he should otherwise have carried thither.  I never\ndid hear of him again; Dermot went to the convent some years later, and\ntried to ascertain if he lived, but the monks do not know each others'\nnames, and it failed.\n\nThe village of St. Clement's, a small fishing-place, was half-a-mile\noff, through lanes a foot deep in mud, and with a good old sleepy\nrector of the old school, not remarkable for his performances in\nChurch.  I was entering the little shop serving as the post-office,\nwhere I went every day in the unreasonable expectation of letters, when\nI heard a voice that made me start, \"Did you say turn to the right?\"\n\nAnd there, among the piles of cheeses, stood a figure I knew full well,\nthough it had grown very thin, and had a very red and mottled face at\nthe top.\n\nWe held out our hands to one another in silence, and walked at once out\nof hearing.  Dermot said he was well, and had been as kindly looked\nafter as possible, and now he had been let out as safe company, but his\nfamily and friends would hardly believe it, so he had come down to see\nwhether he could share our quarantine.\n\nHappily a few cottages of the better sort had accommodation for\nlodgers, and one of them--for a consideration--accepted \"the\ngentleman's\" bill of health.  He walked on by my side, both of us\nfeeling the blessing of having someone to speak to.  He, poor fellow,\nhad seen no being who had ever heard of Harold, except George Yolland,\nwho came when he was too ill to talk, and we went on with the\nconversation that had been broken off weeks before, with such comfort\nas it could give us in such a loss as ours.\n\nHe walked all the way back with me, and I was frightened to see how\ntired he looked.  I took him to Mrs. Long for the refreshment she loved\nto give, and begged for the pony for him to ride home on, and a boy to\nfetch it back.\n\nIt was wonderful how much more blue there was in the sea the next day,\nhow the evergreens glistened, and how beautiful and picturesque the old\nhouse grew; and when I went out in the morning sunshine, for once,\ninclined to admit some beauty in the staggering black-legged and\nvisaged lambs, and meditating a walk to the village, I saw Dermot\ncoming across the yard, so wearily and breathlessly, that I could only\nsay, \"How could you?\"\n\nHe looked up piteously.  \"You don't forbid me?\" he said.\n\nI almost cried as I told him it was only his fatigue that I objected\nto; and indeed he was glad enough to take Dora's now vacated place on\nthe great sofa, while we talked of Viola.  Writing to her had been, of\ncourse, impossible for him, and he had only had two short notes from\nher, so meaningless that I thought she wrote them fearing to disturb\nhim while he was ill; but he muttered an ominous line from Locksley\nHall, vituperated Piggy, and confessed that his ground for doing so was\nthat his mother reported Viola as pleased with foreign life, and happy\nwith her cousins.  I said it was his mother's way, and he replied,\n\"Exactly so; and a girl may be worried into anything.\"  A slight\ndispute on that score cheered him a little, for he showed himself\ngreatly depressed.  He was going--as soon as he had gathered a little\nstrength--back to the duties he had promised to fulfil on his own\nproperty, but he hated the thought, was down-hearted as to the chances\nof success, and distrustful of himself among discouragements, and the\nold associations he had made for himself.  \"It is a different thing\nwithout Alison to look to and keep one up,\" he said.\n\n\"There are higher motives,\" was my stupid speech.\n\n\"It is precious hard on a poor fellow to be left alone with his higher\nmotives, as you call them, before he has well begun to act on his\nlower.\"\n\nAnd then, I don't know how, he began talking drearily, almost as if I\nwas not there, of his having once begun to fancy he could do something\ncreditable enough to make me some day look on him as I used to do in\nthe good old times.  My heart gave a great bound, and remembering how\nHarold said I discouraged him, out came, \"How do you know that I don't?\"\n\nHow he sprang up!  And--no, I can't tell what we said, only we found it\nwas no new beginning, only taking up an old, old precious\nthread--something brought it all out.  He had talked it all over with\nHarold when he came back from Florence, and had taken home a little\nhope which he said had helped him through the solitary hours of his\nrecovery.  So it was Harold who, after all, gave us to one another.\n\nOutspoken Dora informed us, before the day was much older, that the\nLongs had asked whether that was her brother, or my young man.  So we\ntook them into our confidence, and even borrowed \"the trap\" for one of\nthe roughest and the sweetest drives that ever we had, through those\nsplashing lanes, dropping Dermot at his lodgings to write his letters,\nwhile the harvest moon made a path over the sea, no longer leaden, but\nfull of silvery glittering light.  There had something come back into\nthe air which made us feel that life was worth living, after all!\n\nNext morning the good people, who were much excited about our affairs,\nsent the pony for him, and he came in full force with that flattering\nIrish tongue of his, bent on persuading me that, old lovers as we were,\nwith no more to find out about one another, there was nothing to wait\nfor.  'How could he go back by himself (what a brogue he put on! yet\nthe tears were in his eyes) to his great desolate castle, with not a\nliving man in it at all at all, barring the Banshee and a ghost or two;\nand as I had nothing to do, and nowhere to go, why not be married then\nand there without more ado? If I refused, he should think it was all my\npride, and that I couldn't take that \"ornary object,\" as he had\noverheard himself described that day.  (As if I did not love him the\nbetter for that marred complexion!)  His mother?  His uncle?  They had\nlong ago repented of having come between us ten years ago, and were\nready to go down on their knees to any dacent young woman who would\ntake him, let alone a bit of an heiress, who, though not to compete\nwith the sixty-thousand pounder, could provide something better than\npraties and buttermilk for herself at Killy Marey.'\n\nI could not help thinking dear Harold might have remembered Killy\nMarey's needs when he gave me that half of his means.  And as to going\nback to Mount Eaton, ghosts of past times would meet me there, whose\npain was then too recent to have turned into the treasure these\nrecollections are to me.\n\nThere would be just time, Dermot declared, if he put up our banns the\nvery next Sunday, to go through with it before the time Pippa had\nappointed for receiving Dora, and it would save all the trouble of\nhunting up a surrogate and startling him with his lovely face.\n\nHowever, he did startle the poor old parish clergyman effectually by\ncalling on him to publish the banns of marriage between Dermot Edward\nSt. Glear Tracy and Lucy Percy Alison, both residing in this parish. He\nevidently thought we were in hiding from someone who knew of some just\ncause or impediment; but whereas we certainly did full justice to our\nages twenty-eight and twenty-six, he could only try to examine us\nindividually very politely, but betraying how uncomfortable he was.\n\nIt was most amusing to see how his face cleared up when, two days\nlater, he met us on the beach with a dignified old white-haired\ngentleman, though Dermot declared that the imposing title mentioned on\nthe introduction made him suspect us of having hired a benignant stage\nfather for the occasion.\n\nThe dear old uncle Ery had actually come down to chaperone us, and\nreally act as much as possible as a father to me; and as I had likewise\nsent for Colman and a white silk dress, the St. Clement's minds were\nfree to be pleasantly excited about us.  Lord Erymanth had intended to\nhave carried us off to be married from his castle, but we begged off,\nand when he saw Dermot, he allowed that it was not the time to make a\npublic spectacle of what (Dermot was pleased to say) would have the\npleasing pre-eminence of being \"the ugliest of weddings,\" both as to\nbridegroom and bridesmaid.  For he and Dora used to make daily fun of\ntheir respective beauties, which were much on a par, since, though she\nhad three weeks' start of him, the complaint having been unmitigated in\nher, had left much more permanent-looking traces.  Those two chose to\nkeep each other up to the most mirthful nonsense-pitch, and yet I am\nsure none of us felt so light of spirit as we must have appeared,\nthough, perhaps, the being on the edge of such a great shadow made the\nsunshine seem brighter.\n\nWe had considered of beginning with a flying visit to see how poor\nViola really was, but the Italian letters prevented this.  Lady Diana\naccepted me cordially and kindly as a daughter, and said all that was\nproper; but she actually forestalled us by desiring her son not to come\nout to her, for she thought it much better for Viola not to have\npainful recollections revived, and Viola herself wrote in a way that\ndisappointed us--loving indeed, but with a strain of something between\nlightness and bitterness, and absolutely congratulating her brother\nthat there was no one on my side to bring up bygones against him.  One\nhalf of her letter was a mere guide-book to the Roman antiquities, and\nwas broken off short for some carnival gaiety.  Lord Erymanth clearly\nliked his letters as little as we did.  In the abstract, in spite of\nthe first cousinship, I am afraid he would rather have given Viola to\nPigou St. Glear than to Harold Alison, but he had thought better of his\nniece than to think she could forget such a man so soon.\n\nHowever, the day came.  Dora slept with me, and that last night when I\ncame to bed, I found the true self had made a reassertion in one of\nthose frightful fits of dumb hysteria.  Half the night Colman and I\nwere attending to her, but still she never opened to me, more than by\nclinging frantically round my neck in the intervals.  She fell asleep\nat last, and slept till we actually pulled her out of bed to be dressed\nfor the wedding; but we agreed that we could not expose our uncle (who\nwas to escort her to Northchester station) to being left alone with her\nin one of these attacks, and, as our programme had never been quite\nfixed, we altered it so far as to pass through Northchester and see her\nsafe into Baby Horsman's hands.\n\nShe was altogether herself by day, gave no sign of emotion, and was as\nmerry as possible throughout the journey, calling out to Dermot airily\nfrom the platform that she should send him a present of sour krout from\nBaden.  Poor child, it was five years before we saw her again!\n\nWe had scarcely had time to settle in at Killy Marey before Lady Diana\nimplored us to meet her in London, without explaining what was the\nmatter.  When we came to Lord Erymanth's house, we were met by Viola,\nvery thin, but with a bright red colour on her usually pale cheeks, and\na strange gleaming light in her eyes, making them larger than ever; and\noh, how she did talk!  Chatter, chatter, about all they had seen or\ndone, and all the absurdities of the people they had met; mimicking\nthem and making fun, and all the time her mother became paler and\ngraver, looking as if she had grown ten years older. It went on so all\ndinner-time.  She talked instead of eating, and all the evening those\nbright eyes of hers seemed to be keeping jealous watch that no one\nshould exchange any words in private.\n\nNor could we till poor Lady Diana, with a fagged miserable face, came\nto my room at night, and I called Dermot in.  And then she told us how\nthe child had \"seemed to bear everything most beautifully,\" and had\nnever given way.  I believe it was from that grain of perversity in\nViola's high-spirited nature, as well as the having grown up without\nconfidence towards her mother, which forbade her to mourn visibly among\nunsympathising watchers; and when her hope was gone led her in her dull\ndespair to do as they pleased, try to distract her thoughts, let\nherself be hunted hither and thither, and laugh at and play with Pigou\nSt. Glear quite enough to pass for an encouraging flirtation, and to\nlead all around her to think their engagement immediately coming on.\nThe only thing she refused to do was to go to the Farnese Palace, where\nwas the statue to which there had more than once been comparisons made.\nAt last, one day, when they were going over the Vatican Galleries,\neveryone was startled by a strange peal of laughter, and before a\nfrieze of the Labours of Hercules stood Pigou, looking pale and\nfrightened, and trying to get Viola away, as she stood pointing to the\ncarrying home of the Erymanthian boar, and laughing in this wild forced\nway.  They got her away at last, but Piggy told his father that he\nwould have no more to do with her, even if their uncle left her half\nhis property, though he never would tell what she had said to him.\n\nSince that time she had gone on in this excited state, apparently\nscarcely eating or sleeping, talking incessantly, not irrationally, but\naltogether at random, mockingly and in contradiction to everyone;\ncaring chiefly to do the very thing her mother did not wish, never\nresting, and apparently with untiring vigour, though her cheeks and\nhands were burning, and she was wasting away from day to day.\n\nLady Diana really thought her mind was going, and by this time would\nhave given all she had in the world to have been able to call Harold\nback to her.  Diana Enderby tried reproofs for her flightiness, but\nonly made her worse; with Dermot she would only make ridiculous\nnonsense, and utter those heartrending laughs; and when I tried to\nsoothe her, and speak low and quietly, she started away from me, showed\nme her foreign purchases, or sang snatches of comic songs.\n\nDermot went at last to consult the same doctor to whom, half a year\nbefore, he had taken Harold; and it was contrived that he should see\nand hear her at a dinner-party without her knowledge.  He consoled us\nvery much by saying that her mind was not touched, and that it was a\nfever on the nerves, produced by the never having succumbed to the\nunhappiness and the shock which, when he heard in what manner she had\nlost Harold, he considered quite adequate to produce such effects.\nIndeed, he had been so much struck with Harold himself, that he was\nquite startled to hear of his death, and seemed to think an excess of\ngrief only his due.  He bade us take her to her home, give her no\nexternal excitement, and leave her as much as possible to go her own\nway, and let her feel herself unwatched, and, if we could, find her\nsome new yet calming, engrossing occupation.\n\nWe took the advice, and poor Lady Diana besought us to remain with her\nfor the present; nor, indeed, could we have left her.  Our chief care\nwas to hinder her oppressing her daughter with her anxiety; for we\nfound that Viola was so jealous of being watched that she would hardly\nhave tolerated us, but that I had real business in packing up my\nproperties at Mount Eaton.  For the first week she took up her old\noccupations in the same violent and fitful way, never sitting long to\nanything, but rushing out to dash round the garden, and taking long\nwalks in all weathers, rejecting companionship.\n\nFrom various causes, chiefly Lady Diana's wretchedness and anxiety,\nDermot and I had to wait a week before we could have the pony-chaise\nand go together to Harold's grave.  The great, massive, Irish granite\ncross was not ready then, and there was only the long, very long, green\nmound, at my mother's feet.  There lay two wreaths on it.  One was a\npoor thorn garland--for his own Hydriot children had, we heard, never\nleft it untended all the winter--the other was of a great\nwhite-flowered rhododendron that was peculiar to the Arked garden.\n\nWas it disloyal to Harry that we thought more of Viola than we did of\nhim that first time we stood by his grave?  It was an immense walk from\nArked to Arghouse Church, over four miles even by the shortest way,\nwhich lay through rough cart-tracks which we had avoided in coming, but\nnow felt we had better take.\n\nNearly half way home, under a great, old pollard ash, we saw a little\nbrown figure.  It was Viola, crouched together with her head on her\nknees, sitting on the bank.  She started up and tried to say something\npetulantly joking about our always dogging her, but she broke down in a\nflood of tears to which sheer weariness conduced. She was tired out at\nlast, footsore, and hardly able to move a limb, when Dermot almost\nlifted her into the carriage, the dreadful, hard self-control all over\nnow, when, in those long lanes, with the Maybushes meeting overhead,\nshe leant against me and sobbed with long-pent anguish, while her\nbrother walked at the pony's head.\n\nShe had quite broken down now, and her natural self was come back to\nus.  When we came home, I got her up to her own room and Dermot went to\nhis mother.  She had a long, quiet sleep, lying on her bed, and when\nshe woke it was growing dark on the May evening.  She looked at me a\nlittle while without speaking, and her eyes were soft again.\n\n\"Lucy,\" she said, \"I think I have been very naughty, but they made me\nso.\"\n\nI said, as I kissed her, that I thought \"they\" had done so.\n\n\"_He_ would not have let anybody make him so,\" she said.  \"I was the\nbad one.  I was almost unfaithful.  I told him so to-day.\"\n\n\"Not unfaithful, dearest, only harassed and miserable beyond all\nbearing.\"\n\n\"Nothing is beyond bearing.  I said so to myself over and over again.\nThat was why I would let no one see that I minded.\"\n\n\"You tried to bear it proudly, all by yourself,\" I said; \"that was what\nmade it so dreadful.\"\n\n\"He said it was God's will,\" said poor Viola, \"but I knew it was\nmamma's.  I did what he told me, Lucy; I did not get so wrong as long\nas he lived, but after that I did not care what became of me, and yet I\ndid love him as much as ever.\"\n\nShe seemed to look on me as his representative, and was now ready to\ntake any persuasion of mine as coming from him.  She admitted her\nmother, was gentle and natural with her, ate and drank at her bidding,\nand went to bed pale and worn down, but not ill.  She never gave in or\nprofessed indisposition, but for more than ten days she \"went softly,\"\nwas very tired, and equal to nothing but lying on the sofa and sitting\nin the garden; and it was in those days that sometimes with her\nbrother, sometimes with me, she went over all that we could tell her,\nor she tell us, of him who had been so dear to us all.  The first time\nshe was alone with Dermot, she kissed every remaining mark she could\nfind in his face, and said she had ached to do it every time she saw\nhim.  All those wells of deeper thought that had been so long choked by\nthe stony hardness of a proudly-borne sorrow seemed suddenly to open,\nwhen she gave herself up to the thought of Harold.  She even arrived at\nsorrow for the way she had treated her mother; when he had given up his\nown hope rather than make her disobedient.  She asked Lady Diana's\npardon.  She had never done so voluntarily in her whole life.  She was\nmet by tears and humility that softened and humiliated her in her\nsorrow more than aught else.  Her precious flower-pot was in her window\nwith its fragrant verbena, and I gave her the crystal cross again,\ntelling her where I had found it, and she held it a moment and said,\n\"Some day it will be buried with me.  But I must do something to feel\nas if I deserved it.  You know it comes to me like a token out of the\nsea of glass like unto crystal, where they stand that overcome!  I\nthink I'll only wear it at night when I think I have done something, or\nconquered a bit of my perverseness with mamma.\"\n\nA sudden idea came over me.  Mr. Benjamin Yolland was in dire want of a\nlady as reference to a parish woman for his Hydriots.  I had begun, but\nhad been called away.  Miss Woolmer had tried, but was not well enough,\nand there was no one else whom he thought capable.  I was to stay at\nArked for six weeks more; should I put Viola in the way?  It would be\nwork for him.\n\nShe caught at it.  Lady Diana bridled a little as she thought of the\ntwo young men who managed the Hydriots, but the doctor's prescription\nrecurred to her mind, and she consented.\n\nNeed I tell you how dear Aunt Viola's soul and spirit have gone forth\nwith those Hydriot people, how from going once a week to meet the\nparish woman at Miss Woolmer's, she soon came to presiding at the\nmothers' meetings, to knowing everybody, and giving more and more of\nher time, her thoughts, her very self to them and being loved by them\nenormously.  The spirit, fun, and enterprise that were in her fitted\nher, as they began to revive, for dealing with the lads, who were sure\nto be devoted to anything so pretty and refined.  When she began, the\nwhisper that she was the love of their hero, gave them a romantic\ninterest, and though with the younger generation this is only a\ntradition, yet \"our lady\" has won ground of her own, and is still fair\nand sweet enough to be looked on by those youths as a sort of flower of\nthe whole world, yet their own peculiar property.  For is she not a\nHydriot shareholder, and does she not like to know that it was to\nHarold's revival of those shares that she chiefly owes her present\nmeans?  Since her mother's death she has lived among them at the house\nthat was old Miss Woolmer's, and is tranquilly happy in finding\nhappiness for other people, and always being ready when any one needs\nher, as our dear old uncle does very often, though I think her Hydriot\nboys have the most of her.\n\nHippolyta made Eustace a good wife, and watched over him well; but\nthere was no preventing his deficiency from increasing; it became\nacknowledged disease of the brain, and he did not survive his cousin\nsix years.  Happily none of his feebleness of intellect seems to have\ndescended to Eustace the third, who is growing up a steady, sensible\nlad under his mother's management; and perhaps it is not the worse for\nArghouse to have become a Horsman dependency.\n\nIt was the year before Eustace's death that the conductress of the\nschool at Baden wrote to Mrs. Alison about Dora.  The sad state of her\nbrother had prevented her coming home or being visited, and though I\nexchanged letters with her periodically, we had not sufficient\nknowledge of one another for any freedom of expression after she had\nconquered the difficulties of writing.\n\nWhen she was a little more than sixteen, came a letter to tell that she\nwas wasting away in either atrophy or consumption, and that the doctors\nsaid the only hope for her was home and native air.  Poor child! what\nhome was there for her, with her sister-in-law absorbed in the care of\nher brother, whose imbecility was no spectacle for one in a critical\nstate of health and failing spirits?  We were at Arked at the time, and\noffered to go and fetch her (it was Dermot's kind thought), leaving the\nchildren to Viola's care.\n\nPoor dear, what a sight she was!  Tall in proportion to the giant breed\nshe came of, but thin to the most painful degree, and bending like a\nfishing-rod, or a plant brought up in the dark, which, by-the-by, she\nmost resembled, with her white face and thin yellow hair. Her\ncomplexion had recovered, but her hair never had, nor, as it proved,\nher health, for she had been more or less ailing ever since she came,\nand the regimen of the frugal Germans had not supported the\nfast-growing English girl's frame, any more than the strict and\nthorough-going round of accurate education had suited the untrained,\ndesultory intellect, unused to method or application.  Nor did the\ncompany of the good, plodding, sentimental maedchens give any pleasure\nto the vehement creature, whose playfellow from babyhood had been a\nman--and such a man!  Use did no good, but rather, as the childish\nactivity and power of play and the sense of novelty passed, the growth\nof the womanly soul made the heart-hunger and solitude worse, and\nspirit and health came yearly to a lower level.\n\nShe was too languid to be more than indifferent when she saw us, and\nthe first sign of warmth that she gave was her kiss, when I went back\nto visit her after putting her to bed at the hotel.  She looked up, put\nher arms round my neck, and said, \"This is like the old days.\"\n\nWe brought her by slow stages to London, where Hippolyta came up to see\nher for one day, and was terribly shocked.  The doctors were not\nhopeful, but said she might go where she pleased, and do what she\nliked, and as her one wish was to be with us, my dear husband laughed\nto scorn the notion that, whatever had been dear to Harold, should not\nbe his sacred charge, and so we took her back.\n\nAnd there, she did not die.  She lay on the sofa day after day, watched\nthe children at play, and listened dreamily to the family affairs,\nrested and was petted by us both, called it very comfortable, and was\npatient, but that whole winter seemed to remain where she was, neither\nbetter nor worse.  With the spring came a visit from George Yolland, a\nprosperous man, as he well deserved to be, and the foremost layman in\nall good works in the neighbourhood since dear old Lord Erymanth had\nbeen disabled.  In the forenoons, when I was teaching the children, and\nDermot was busy, he was generally in the drawing-room, talking to Dora,\nwhose blue eyes had a vivid silent intelligence, like no one but\nHarold's.  From the first day he had confirmed my conviction that, at\nany rate, she was not dying now, and she began to start into strength.\nShe sat up all the evening, she walked round the garden, she drove out,\nshe came down to breakfast.  The day after that achievement, she came\nto me sobbing for joy with something inaudible about \"his sake,\" while\nGeorge was assuring Dermot that there was only one woman in the world\nfor him!\n\nSo, on a bright summer day, we gave her to the friend Harold had gained\non the same day as Dermot, and she went to be the happy mistress of\nMount Eaton, and reign there, an abrupt woman, not universally liked,\nbut intensely kind and true, and much beloved by all who have cared to\npenetrate through her shell.\n\nThere! my work is done, though I fear it is a weaker likeness of my\nyoung Alcides than even the faded photograph by my side, but I could\nnot brook that you, my children, should grow up unknowing of the great\ncharacter to whom your father and I owe one another, and all besides\nthat is best in our lives.  There are things that must surprise you\nabout your dear father.  Remember that he insisted on my putting them\nin, and would not have them softened, because, he said, you ought to\nhave the portrait in full, and that, save at his own expense, you could\nnot know the full gratitude he feels to the man who made a new era in\nour lives.  He says he is not afraid either of the example for you, or\nthat you will respect him less, and I know you will not, for you will\nonly see his truth and generosity.\n\n                                                  L. P. T.\n\n\nAll that your mother has written is true--blessings on her!--every word\nof it, except that she never could, and I hope none of you ever will,\nunderstand the depth and blackness of the slough Harold Alison drew me\nout of, by just being the man he was; nor will she show you--for indeed\nshe is blind to it herself--that it was no other than she, with her\nquiet, upright sweetness and resolution, that was the making of him and\nof both of us.  Very odd it is that a woman should set it all down in\nblack and white, and never perceive it was all her own doing.  But if\nyou see it, young people, what you have to do is to be thankful for the\nmother you have got and try to be worthy of her, and if the drop of\nAlison blood in you should make one of you even the tenth part of what\nHarold was, then you'll be your father's pride, and much more than he\ndeserves.\n\n                                              D. E. ST. G. T.\n\n\nThank you, dear brother, for having let me see this, though I know Lucy\ndid not intend it for my eyes, or she would not have been so hard on\npoor mamma.  It shows me how naughty I must have been to let her get\nsuch a notion of our relations with one another, but an outsider can\nnever judge of such things.  For the rest, dear Lucy has done her best,\nand in many ways she did know him better than anybody else did, and he\nlooked up to her more than to anyone.  But even she cannot reach to the\ninmost depth of the sweetness out of the strong, nor fully know the\nwonderful power of tender strength that seemed to wrap one's mind round\nand bear one on with him, and that has lasted me ever since, and well\nit may, for he was the very glory of my life.\n\n                                                   V. T.\n\n\nI am glad to have read it, because it explains a great deal that I was\ntoo much of a child to understand; but I don't like it.  I don't mean\nfor putting in the fatal thing I did in my ignorant folly.  I knew\nthat, and she has softened my wilfulness.  But there's too much\nflummery, and he was a hundred times more than all that.  I had rather\nrecollect him for myself, than have such a ladylike, drawing-room\npicture; but Lucy means it well, and it is just as he smoothed and\ncombed himself down for her.  Nobody should have done it but George.\nHe would have made a man of him.\n\n                                                   D. Y.\n\n\nAs if George could have done it!  A lady must always see a man somewhat\nas a carpet knight, and ill would betide both if it were not so.  But,\nallowing for this, and the want of \"more power to her elbow,\" I am\nthankful to Mrs. Tracy for this vivid recall of the man to whom I and\nall here owe an unspeakable debt.  For my own part, I can only say that\nfrom the day when I marvelled at his fortitude under the terrible pain\nof the lion's bites, to that when I saw the almost unexampled triumph\nof his will over the promptings of a disordered brain, he stood before\nme the grandest specimen of manhood I ever met, ever a victor, and,\nabove all, over himself.\n\n                                                   G. Y.","title":"My Young Alcides: A Faded Photograph","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":100114}