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My Young Alcides: A Faded Photograph

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Title: My Young Alcides: A Faded Photograph

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge


        
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4347]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.


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Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.









MY YOUNG ALCIDES

A FADED PHOTOGRAPH


by

Charlotte M. Yonge




PREFACE


Ideas have a tyrannous power of insisting on being worked out, even
when one fears they may be leading in a track already worthily
preoccupied.

But the Hercules myth did not seem to me to be like one of the fairy
tales that we have seen so gracefully and quaintly modernised; and at
the risk of seeming to travestie the Farnese statue in a shooting-coat
and wide-awake, I could not help going on, as the notion grew deeper
and more engrossing.

For, whether the origin of the myth be, or be not, founded on solar
phenomena, the yearning Greek mind formed on it an unconscious allegory
of the course of the Victor, of whom the Sun, rejoicing as a giant to
run his course, is another type, like Samson of old, since the facts of
nature and of history are Divine parables.

And as each one's conquest is, in the track of his Leader, the only
true Conqueror, so Hercules, in spite of all the grotesque adjuncts
that the lower inventions of the heathen hung round him, is a far
closer likeness of manhood--as, indeed, the proverbial use of some of
his tasks testifies--and of repentant man conquering himself.  The
great crime, after which his life was a bondage of expiation; the
choice between Virtue and Vice; the slain passion; the hundred-headed
sin for ever cropping up again; the winning of the sacred emblem of
purity;--then the subduing of greed; the cleansing of long-neglected
uncleanness; the silencing of foul tongues; the remarkable contest with
the creature which had become a foe, because, after being devoted for
sacrifice, it was spared; the obtaining the girdle of strength; the
recovery of the spoil from the three-fold enemy; the gaining of the
fruit of life; immediately followed by the victory over the hell-hound
of death; and lastly, the attainment of immortality--all seem no
fortuitous imagination, but one of those when "thoughts beyond their
thoughts to those old bards were given."

I have not followed all these meanings, for this is not an allegory,
but a mere distant following rather of the spirit than the letter of
the old Greek tale of the Twelve Tasks.  Neither have I adhered to
every incident of Hercules' life; and the most touching and beautiful
of all--the rescue of Alcestis, would hardly bear to come in merely as
an episode, in this weak and presumptuous endeavour to show that the
half-divine, patient conqueror is not merely a classic invention, but
that he and his labours belong in some form or other to all times and
all surroundings.

                                                C. M. YONGE.
Nov. 8, 1875.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I. THE ARGHOUSE INHERITANCE

CHAPTER II. THE LION OF NEME HEATH

CHAPTER III. THE "DRAGON'S HEAD"

CHAPTER IV. THE WRATH OF DIANA

CHAPTER V. THE CAPTURE IN THE SNOW

CHAPTER VI. OGDEN'S BUILDINGS

CHAPTER VII. THE BIRDS OF ILL OMEN

CHAPTER VIII. BULLOCK'S CHASTISEMENT

CHAPTER IX. THE CHAMPION'S BELT

CHAPTER X. DERMOT'S MARK

CHAPTER XI. THE RED VALLEY CATTLE STEALERS

CHAPTER XII. THE GOLDEN FRUIT

CHAPTER XIII. THE BLOODHOUND

CHAPTER XIV. SUNSET GOLD AND PURPLE

CHAPTER XV. THE FATAL TOKEN

CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION





MY YOUNG ALCIDES

A FADED PHOTOGRAPH




CHAPTER I.

THE ARGHOUSE INHERITANCE.


One of the children brought me a photograph album, long ago finished
and closed, and showed me a faded and blurred figure over which there
had been a little dispute.  Was it Hercules with club and lion-skin, or
was it a gentleman I had known?

Ah me! how soon a man's place knoweth him no more!  What fresh
recollections that majestic form awoke in me--the massive features,
with the steadfast eye, and low, square brow, curled over with short
rings of hair; the mouth, that, through the thick, short beard, still
invited trust and reliance, even while there was a look of fire and
determination that inspired dread.

The thing seemed to us hideous and absurd when it was taken by Miss
Horsman.  I hated it, and hid it away as a caricature.  But now those
pale, vanishing tints bring the very presence before me; and before the
remembrance can become equally obscure in my own mind, let me record
for others the years that I spent with my young Alcides as he now
stands before me in memory.

Our family history is a strange one.  I, Lucy Alison, never even saw my
twin brothers--nor, indeed, knew of their existence--during my
childhood.  I had one brother a year younger than myself, and as long
as he lived he was treated as the eldest son, and neither he nor I ever
dreamed that my father had had a first wife and two sons.  He was a
feeble, broken man, who seemed to my young fancy so old that in after
times it was always a shock to me to read on his tablet, "Percy Alison,
aged fifty-seven;" and I was but seven years old when he died under the
final blow of the loss of my little brother Percy from measles.

The dear old place--house with five gables on the garden front, black
timbered, and with white plaster between, and oh! such flowers in the
garden--was left to my mother for her life; and she was a great deal
younger than my father, so we went on living there, and it was only
when I was almost a woman that I came to the knowledge that the
property would never be mine, but would go in the male line to the son
of one of my disinherited convict brothers.

The story, as my mother knew it, was this: Their names were Ambrose and
Eustace: there was very little interval between their births, and there
had been some confusion between them during the first few hours of
their lives, so that the question of seniority was never entirely
clear, though Ambrose was so completely the leader and master that he
was always looked upon as the elder.

In their early youth they were led away by a man of Polish extraction,
though a British subject, one Count Prometesky, who had thrown himself
into every revolutionary movement on the Continent, had fought under
Kosciusko in Poland, joined the Carbonari in Italy, and at last
escaped, with health damaged by a wound, to teach languages and
military drawing in England, and, unhappily, to spread his principles
among his pupils, during the excitement connected with the Reform Bill.
Under his teaching my poor brothers became such democrats that they
actually married the two daughters of a man from Cumberland named
Lewthwayte, whom Lord Erymanth had turned out of one of his farms for
his insolence and radicalism; and not long after they were engaged in
the agricultural riots, drilling the peasants, making inflammatory
speeches, and doing all they could to bring on a revolution.  Dreadful
harm was done on the Erymanth estate, and the farm from which
Lewthwayte had been expelled suffered especially, the whole of the
ricks and buildings being burnt down, though the family of the occupant
was saved, partly by Prometesky's exertions.

When the troops came, both he and my brothers were taken with arms in
their hands; they were tried by the special commission and sentenced to
death.  Lewthwayte and his son were actually hung; but there was great
interest made for Ambrose and Eustace, and in consideration of their
early youth (they were not twenty-two) their sentence was commuted to
transportation for life, and so was Prometesky's, because he was half a
foreigner, and because he was proved to have saved life.

My father would not see them again, but he offered their wives a
passage out to join them, and wanted to have had their two babies left
with him, but the two young women refused to part with them; and it was
after that that he married again, meaning to cast them off for ever,
though, as long as their time of servitude lasted, he sent the wives an
allowance, and as soon as his sons could hold property, he gave them a
handsome sum with which to set themselves up in a large farm in the
Bush.

And when little Percy died, he wanted again to have his eldest grandson
sent home to him, and was very much wounded by the refusal which came
only just before his death.  His will had left the estate to the
grandson, as the right heir.  Everyone looked on it as a bad prospect,
but no one thought of the "convict boy" as in the immediate future, as
my mother was still quite a young woman.

But when I was just three-and-twenty, an attack of diphtheria broke
out; my mother and I both caught it; and, alas! I alone recovered. The
illness was very long with me, partly from my desolateness and grief,
for, tender as my kind old servants were, and good as were my friends
and neighbours, they could only make me feel what they were _not_.

Our old lawyer, Mr. Prosser, had written to my nephew, for we knew that
both the poor brothers were dead; but he assured me that I might safely
stay on at the old place, for it would be eight months before his
letter could be answered, and the heir could not come for a long time
after.

I was very glad to linger on, for I clung to the home, and looked at
every bush and flower, blossoming for the last time, almost as if I
were dying, and leaving them to a sort of fiend.  My mother's old
friends, Lady Diana Tracy and Lord Erymanth, her brother, used to
bemoan with me the coming of this lad, born of a plebeian mother, bred
up in a penal colony, and, no doubt, uneducated except in its coarsest
vices.  Lord Erymanth told at endless length all the advice he had
given my father in vain, and bewailed the sense of justice that had
bequeathed the property to such a male heir as could not fail to be a
scourge to the country.  Everyone had some story to tell of Ambrose's
fiery speeches and insubordinate actions, viewing Eustace as not so bad
because his mere satellite--and what must not their sons be?

The only person who had any feeling of pity or affection for them was
old Miss Woolmer.  She was the daughter of a former clergyman of
Mycening, the little town which is almost at our park-gates.  She was
always confined to the house by rheumatic-gout.  She had grown up with
my brothers.  I sometimes wondered if she had not had a little
tenderness for one of them, but I believe it was almost elder-sisterly.
She told me much in their excuse.  My father had never been the fond,
indulgent father to them that I remembered him, but a strict, stern
authority when he was at home, and when he was absent leaving them far
too much to their own devices; while Prometesky was a very attractive
person, brilliant, accomplished, full of fire and of faith in his
theories of universal benevolence and emancipation.

She thought, if the times had not been such as to bring them into
action, Ambrose would have outgrown and modified all that was dangerous
in his theories, and that they would have remained mere talk, the
ebullition of his form of knight-errantry; for it was generous
indignation and ardour that chiefly led him astray, and Eustace was
always his double: but there were some incidents at the time which
roused him to fury.  Lewthwayte was a Cumberland man, who had inherited
the stock and the last years of a lease of a farm on Lord Erymanth's
property; he had done a good deal for it, and expended money on the
understanding that he should have the lease renewed, but he was a man
of bold, independent northern tongue, and gave great offence to his
lordship, who was used to be listened to with a sort of feudal
deference.  He was of the fierce old Norse blood, and his daughters
were tall, fair, magnificent young women, not at all uneducated nor
vulgar, and it was the finding that my brothers were becoming intimate
at his farm that made Lord Erymanth refuse to renew the lease and turn
the family out so harshly, and with as little notice as possible.

The cruelty, as they thought it, was, Miss Woolmer said, most
ill-judged, and precipitated the very thing that was dreaded.  The
youths rushed into the marriage with the daughters, and cast in their
lot with all that could overturn the existing order of things, but Miss
Woolmer did not believe they had had anything to do with the
rick-burning or machine-breaking.  All that was taken out of their
hands by more brutal, ignorant demagogues.  They were mere visionaries
and enthusiasts according to her, and she said the two wives were very
noble-looking, high-spirited young women.  She had gone to see them
several times when their husbands were in prison, and had been much
struck with Alice, Ambrose's wife, who held up most bravely; though
Dorothy, poor thing, was prostrated, and indeed her child was born in
the height of the distress, when his father had just been tried for his
life, and sentenced to death.

It was their birth and education that caused them to be treated so
severely; besides, there was no doubt of their having harangued the
people, and stirred them up, and they were seen, as well as Prometesky,
at the fire at what had been Lewthwayte's farm; at least, so it was
declared by men who turned King's evidence, and the proof to the
contrary broke down, because it depended on the wives, whose evidence
was not admissible; indeed that--as the law then stood--was not the
question.  Those who had raised the storm were responsible for all that
was done in it, and it was very barely that their lives were spared.

That was the comfort Miss Woolmer gave.  No one else could see any at
all, except a few old women in the parish, who spoke tenderly of poor
Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Eustace; but then they had sons or brothers who had
been out with the rioters, and after these twenty-six years no one
remembered the outrages and terrors of the time with anything but
horror; and the coming of the wild lad from the Bush was looked on as
the end of all comfort.

I meant, as soon as I heard he was on the way, to leave Arghouse, make
visits among friends, and decide on my future home, for, alas! there
was no one who wanted me.  I was quite alone in the world; my mother's
cousins were not near, and I hardly knew them; and my only relations
were the bushrangers, as Lady Diana Tracy called them.

She was sister to Lord Erymanth, and widow to an Irish gentleman, and
had settled in the next parish to us, with her children, on the death
of her husband.

Her little daughter, Viola, had been spending the day with me, and it
was a lovely spring evening, when we sat on the lawn, wondering whether
I should ever care for anything so much as for those long shadows from
the fir woods upon the sloping field, with the long grass rippling in
the wind, and the border of primroses round the edge of the wood.

We heard wheels and thought it was the carriage come for Viola, much
too soon, when out ran one of the maids, crying, "Oh! Miss Alison, he
is come.  There's ever so many of them!"

I believe we caught hold of one another in our fright, and were almost
surprised when, outstripping lame old Richardson, as he announced "Mr.
Alison!" there came only three persons.  They were the two tallest men
I had ever seen, and a little girl of eight years old.  I found my hand
in a very large one, and with the words "Are you my aunt Lucy?"  I was,
as it were, gathered up and kissed.  The voice, somehow, carried a
comfortable feeling in the kindness of its power and depth; and though
it was a mouth bristly with yellow bristles, such as had never touched
me before, the honest friendly eyes gave me an indescribable feeling of
belonging to somebody, and of having ceased to be alone in the world.

"Here is Eustace," he said, "and little Dora," putting the child
forward as she backed against him, most unwilling to let me kiss her.
"And, I did not know I had another aunt."

"No," I said, starting between, for what would Lady Diana's feelings
have been if Viola had carried home an Australian kiss?  "This is Miss
Tracy."

Viola's carriage was now actually coming, and as I went into the house
with her, she held me, whispering to me to come home at once with her,
but I told her I could not leave them in that way, and they were really
my nephews.

"You are not afraid?" she said.

"What do you think he could do to me?" I asked, laughing.

"He is so big," said Viola.  "I never saw any one so big, but I think
he is like Coeur de Lion.  Ah!"  We both shrieked, for a most uncanny
monster was rearing up in front of us, hopping about the hall, as far
as was allowed by the chain that fastened it to the leg of a table.

"Mr. Alison brought it, ma'am," said Richardson, in a tone of disgust
and horror.  "Will you have the carriage out, Miss Alison, and go down
to the Wyvern?  Shuh! you brute!  He shan't hurt you, my dear ladies.
I'll stand between."

We had recovered our senses, however, enough to see that it was only a
harmless kangaroo; and Dora came running out, followed by Harold,
caressing the beast, calling it poor Nanny, and asking where he should
shut it up for the night.

I suggested an outhouse, and we conducted the creature thither in
procession, hearing by the way that the kangaroo's mother had been
shot, and that the animal itself, then very young, and no bigger than a
cat, had taken Harold's open shirt front for her pouch and leaped into
his bosom, and that it had been brought up to its present stature tame
at Boola Boola.  Viola went with us, fed the kangaroo, and was so much
interested and delighted, that she could hardly go away, Eustace making
her a most elaborate and rather absurd bow, being evidently much
impressed by the carriage and liveried servants who were waiting for
her.

"Like the Governor's lady!" he said.  "And I know, for I've been to a
ball at Government House."

He plainly cared much more for appearances than did Harold.  He was not
so tall, much slighter, with darker hair, rather too shiny, and a
neatly turned up moustache, a gorgeous tie and watch chain, a brilliant
breast pin, a more brilliant ring, and a general air that made me
conclude that he regarded himself as a Sydney beau.  But Harold, in his
loose, rough grey suit, was very different.  His height was
extraordinary, his breadth of chest and shoulder equally gigantic,
though well proportioned, and with a look of easy strength, and, as
Viola had said, his head was very much what one knows as the Lion
Heart's, not Marochetti's trim carpet knight, but Vertue's rugged
portrait from the monument at Fontevrand.  There was the same massive
breadth of feature, large yet not heavy, being relieved by the
exceeding keenness and quickness of the light but very blue eyes, which
seemed to see everywhere round in a moment, as men do in wild
countries.  The short thick yellow curly beard and moustache veiled the
lower part of the face; but the general expression, when still, was
decidedly a sad one, though a word or a trick of Dora's would call up a
smile all over the browned cheeks and bright eyes.  His form and
colouring must have come from the Cumberland statesman, but people said
his voice and expression had much of his father in them; and no one
could think him ungentlemanly, though he was not like any English
gentleman.  He wore no gaieties like Eustace, the handkerchief loosely
knotted round his neck sailor fashion was plain black, and he had a
gold ring on his little finger.

Dora had the same yellow curly hair, in tight, frizzly rings all over
her head, like a boy's, a light complexion, and blue eyes, in a round,
pug-nosed face; and she hung so entirely on Harold that I never doubted
that she was his sister till, as we were sitting down to eat, I said,
"Can't you come a little way from your brother?"

Eustace gave his odd little giggle, and said, "There, Dora!"

"I'm not his sister--I'm his wife!"

"There!" and Eustace giggled again and ordered her away; but I saw
Harold's brow knit with pain, and as she began to reiterate her
assertion and resist Eustace, he gently sat her down on the chair near
at hand, and silently made her understand that she was to stay there;
but Eustace rather teasingly said:

"Aunt Lucy will teach you manners, Dora.  She is my sister, and we have
brought her home to send her to school."

"I won't go to school," said Dora; "Harold would not."

"You won't get away like him," returned Eustace, in the same tone.

"Yes, I shall.  I'll lick all the girls," she returned, clenching a
pair of red mottled fists that looked very capable.

"For shame, Dora!" said the low voice.

"Harold did," said she, looking up at me triumphantly; "he beat all the
boys, and had to come back again to Boola Boola."

I longed to understand more, but I was ashamed to betray my ignorance
of my near relations, for I did not even know whether their mothers
were alive; but I saw that if I only listened, Eustace would soon tell
everything.  He had a runaway chin, and his mouth had a look at times
that made me doubt whether there were not some slight want in his
intellect, or at least weakness of character.  However, I was relieved
from the fear of the vice with which the neighbourhood had threatened
us, for neither of them would touch wine or beer, but begged for tea,
and drank oceans of it.

We had not long finished, when Richardson brought me a note from Lady
Diana Tracy, saying she had sent the carriage for me that I might at
once take refuge from this unforeseen invasion.

I felt it out of all possibility that I should thus run away, and yet I
knew I owed an apology for Harold's finding me and the old servants in
possession, so I began to say that my old friend had sent the carriage
for me.--I had been taken by surprise, their journey (one of the first
across the Isthmus) had been so much quicker than I had expected, or I
should have left the house free for them.

"Why?" asked Harold.  And when I answered that the place was his and I
had no business there, he did not seem to see it.  "It is your home,"
he said; "you have always lived here."

I began explaining that this was no reason at all; but he would not
hear of my going away, and declared that it was I who belonged to the
place, so that I confessed that I should be very thankful to stay a
little while.

"Not only a little while," he said; "it is your home as much as ever,
and the best thing in the world for us."

"Yes, yes," responded Eustace; "we kept on wondering what Aunt Lucy
would be like, and never thought she could be such a nice _young_ lady."

"Not realising that your aunt is younger than yourselves," I said.

"No," said Eustace, "the old folk never would talk of home--my father
did not like it, you see--and Aunt Alice had moved off to New Zealand,
so that we could not go and talk about it to her.  Mr. Smith has got a
school in Auckland, you know."

I did not know, but I found that a year or two after the death of my
brother Ambrose, his widow had become the second wife of the master of
a boarding-school at Sydney, and that it was there that Harold, at ten
years old, had fought all the boys, including the step-children, and
had been so audacious and uncontrollable, that she had been forced to
return him to his uncle and aunt in the "Bush."  Eustace had been with
the Smiths at Sydney until her move to Auckland, he had even been
presented, and had been to a ball at Government House, and thus was
viewed as the polished member of the family, though, if he had come as
master, I should never have been drawn, as I was by Harold's free,
kindly simplicity, into writing my thanks to Lady Diana, and saying
that I could not leave my nephews so abruptly, especially as they had
brought a little sister.

It was gratifying to see that Harold was uneasy till the note was sent
off and the carriage dismissed. "You are not going?" he said, as
persuasively as if he were speaking to Dora, and I strove to make a
wise and prudent answer, about remaining for the next few days, and
settling the rest when he had made his plans.

Then I proposed to take Dora up to bed, but though manifestly very
weary, the child refused, and when her brother tried to order her, she
ran between Harold's knees, and there tossed her head and glared at me.
He lifted her on his lap, and she drew his arm round her in defence.
Eustace said he spoilt her, but he still held her, and, as she dropped
asleep against his breast, Eustace related, almost in a tone of
complaint, that she had cared for no one else ever since the time she
had been lost in the Bush, and Harold had found her, after three days,
in the last stage of exhaustion, since which time she had had neither
eyes, ears, nor allegiance for any other creature, but that she must be
taught something, and made into a lady.

Harold gazed down on her with his strange, soft, melancholy smile,
somehow seeming to vex Eustace, who accused him of not caring how rough
and uncultivated she was, nor himself either.

"We leave the polish to you," said Harold.

"Why, yes," said Eustace, simpering, "my uncle Smith gave me the first
advantages in Sydney, and everyone knew my father was 'a gentleman.'"

Harold bit the hair that hung over his lip, and I guessed, what I
afterwards found to be the truth, that his stepfather was no small
trial to him; being, in fact, an unprosperous tutor and hanger-on on
some nobleman's family, finally sent out by his patrons in despair, to
keep school in Sydney.

Poor Ambrose had died of lock-jaw from a cut from an axe very soon
after his emancipation, just as his energy was getting the farm into
order, and making things look well with the family, and, after a year
or two, Alice, deceived by the man's air and manners, and hoping to
secure education for her son, had married, and the effect had been
that, while Harold was provoked into fierce insubordination, Eustace
became imbued with a tuft-hunting spirit, a great contrast to what
might have been expected from his antecedents.

I cannot tell whether I found this out the first evening, or only
gradually discovered it, with much besides.  I only remember that when
at last Harold carried Dora upstairs fast asleep, and my maid Colman
and I had undressed her and put her into a little bed in a room opening
out of mine, I went to rest, feeling rejoiced that the suspense was
over and I knew the worst.  I felt rather as if I had a magnificent
wild beast in the house; and yet there was a wonderful attraction,
partly from the drawing of kindred blood, and partly from the strength
and sweetness of Harold's own face, and, aunt-like, I could not help
feeling proud, of having such a grand creature belonging to me, though
there might be a little dread of what he would do next.

In the morning all seemed like a dream, for Dora had vanished, leaving
no trace but her black bag; but while I was dressing a tremendous
cackling among my bantams caused me to look out, when I beheld them
scurrying right and left at sight of the kangaroo leaping after the
three strangers, and my cat on the top of the garden wall on tiptoe,
with arched back, bristling tail, and glassy eyes, viewing the beast as
the vengeful apotheosis of all the rats and mice she had slaughtered in
her time.

From the stairs I heard Dora scouting her brother's orders to tidy
herself for breakfast, adding that Harry never did, to which he merely
replied, "I shall now.  Come."

There was a sound of hoisting, that gave me warning rather fortunately,
for he came striding upstairs with that great well-grown girl of eight
perched on his shoulder as if she had been a baby, and would have run
me down if I had not avoided into the nook on the landing.

All that day and the next those three were out; I never saw them but at
meals, when they came in full of eager questions and comments on their
discoveries in farming and other matters.  These were the early bright
days of spring, and they were out till after dark, only returning to
eat and go to bed.  I found the fascination of Harold's presence was on
all the servants and dependents, except perhaps our bailiff Bullock,
who disliked him from the first.  All the others declared that they had
no doubt about staying on, now that they saw what the young squire
really was.  It made a great impression on them that, when in some
farmyard arrangements there was a moment's danger of a faggot pile
falling, he put his shoulder against it and propped the whole weight
without effort.  His manhood, strength, and knowledge of work delighted
them, and they declared already that he would be a good friend to the
poor.

I confess that here lay what alarmed me.  He was always given to few
words, but I could see that he was shocked at the contrast between our
poor and the Australian settlers, where food and space were plenty and
the wages high.  I was somewhat hurt at his way of viewing what had
always seemed to me perfection, at least all that could be reasonably
expected for the poor--our pet school, our old women, our civil
dependents in tidy cottages, our picturesque lodges; and I did not half
like his trenchant questions, which seemed to imply censure on all that
I had hitherto thought unquestionable, and perhaps I told him somewhat
impatiently that, when he had been a little longer here, he would
understand our ways and fall naturally into them.

"That's just what I don't want," he said.

"Not want?" I exclaimed.

"Yes; I want to see clearly before I get used to things."

And as, perhaps, I seemed to wonder at this way of beginning, he opened
a little, and said, "It is my father.  He told me that if ever I came
here I was to mind and do his work."

"What kind of work?" I asked, anxiously.

"Doing what he meant to have done," returned Harold, "for the poor. He
said I should find out about it."

"You must have been too young to understand much of what he meant
then," I said.  "Did he not regret anything?"

"Yes, he said he had begun at the wrong end, when they were not ripe
for it, and that the failure had ruined him for trying again."

"Then he did see things differently at last?" I said, hoping to find
that the sentiments I had always heard condemned had not been
perpetuated.

"Oh yes!" cried Eustace.  "They were just brutes, you know, that nobody
could do any good to, and were only bent on destroying, and had no
gratitude nor sense; and that was the ruin of him and of my father too."

"They were ignorant, and easily maddened," said Harold, gravely. "He
did not know how little they could be controlled.  I must find out the
true state of things.  Prometesky said I must read it up."

"Prometesky!" I cried in despair.  "Oh, Harold, you have not been
influenced by that old firebrand?"

"He taught me almost all I know," was the answer, still much to my
dismay; but I showed Harold to the library, and directed him to some
old books of my father's, which I fancied might enlighten him on the
subjects on which he needed information, though I feared they might be
rather out of date; and whenever he was not out of doors, he was
reading them, sometimes running his fingers through his yellow hair, or
pulling his beard, and growling to himself when he was puzzled or met
with what he did not like.  Eustace's favourite study, meanwhile, was
"Burke's Peerage," and his questions nearly drove me wild by their
absurdity; and Dora rolled on the floor with my Spitz dog, for she
loathed the doll I gave her, and made me more afraid of her than of
either of the others.

Harold was all might and gentleness; Eustace viewed me as a glass of
fashion and directory of English life and manners; but I saw they both
looked to me not only to make their home, but to tame their little wild
cat of a child; and that was enough to make her hate and distrust me.
Moreover, she had a gleam of jealousy not far from fierce in her wild
blue eyes if she saw Harold turn affectionately to me, and she always
protested sullenly against the "next week," when I was to begin her
education.

She could only read words of four letters, and could not, or would not,
work a stitch.  Harold had done all her mending.  On the second day I
passed by the open door of his room, and saw him at work on a great
rectangular rent in her frock.  I could not help stopping to suggest
that Colman or I might save him that trouble, whereupon Dora slammed
the door in my face.

Harold opened it again at once, saying, "You ought to beg Aunt Lucy's
pardon;" and when no apology could be extracted from her, and with
thanks he handed over the little dress to me, she gave a shriek of
anger (she hardly ever shed tears) and snatched it from me again.

"Well, well," said Harold, patting her curly head; "I'll finish this
time, but not again, Dora.  Next time, Aunt Lucy will be so good as to
see to it.  After old Betty's eyes grew bad we had to do our own
needling."

I confess it was a wonderful performance--quite as neat as Colman could
have made it; and I suspect that Harold did not refrain from producing
needle and thread from his fat miscellaneous pocket-book, and repairing
her many disasters before they reached the domestic eye; for there was
a chronic feud between Dora and Colman, and the attempts of the latter
to make the child more like a young lady were passionately repelled,
though she would better endure those of a rough little under-housemaid,
whose civilisation was, I suppose, not quite so far removed from her
own.

On Sunday, she and Harold disappeared as soon as breakfast was over,
and only Eustace remained, spruce beyond all imagination, and giving
himself childlike credit for not being with them; but when at church I
can't say much for his behaviour.  He stared unblushingly, whispered
remarks and inquiries, could not find the places in his book, and
appeared incapable of kneeling.  Our little church at Arghouse was then
a chapelry, with merely Sunday morning service by a curate from
Mycening, and the congregation a village one, to the disgust of
Eustace, who had expected to review his neighbours, and thought his
get-up thrown away.

"No one at all to see," he observed with discontent over our luncheon,
Harold and Dora having returned from roaming over Kalydon Moor.

"I go to afternoon service at Mycening, Harold," I said.  "Will not you
come with me?"

"There will be somebody there?" asked Eustace; to which I replied in
the affirmative, but with some protest against his view of the object,
and inviting the others again, but Dora defiantly answered that Harold
was going to swing her on the ash tree.

"You ought to appear at church, Harry," said Eustace.  "It is expected
of an English squire.  You see everybody, and everybody sees you."

"Well, then, go," said Harold.

"And won't you?" I entreated.

"I've promised to swing Dora," he answered, strolling out of the room,
much to my concern; and though Eustace did accompany me, it was so
evidently for the sake of staring that there was little comfort in
that; and it was only by very severe looks that I could keep him from
asking everyone's name.  I hoped to make every one understand that he
was not the squire, but no one came across us as we went out of church,
and I had to reply to his torrent of inquiries all the way home.

It was a wet evening, and we all stayed in the house.  Harold brought
in one of his political economy studies from the library, and I tried
to wile Dora to look at the pictures in a curious big old Dutch
Scripture history, the Sunday delight of our youth.

Eustace came too, as if he wanted the amusement and yet was ashamed to
take it, when he exclaimed, "I say, Harry; isn't this the book father
used to tell us about--that they used to look over?"

Harold came, and stood towering above us with his hands in his pockets;
but when we came to the Temptation of Eve, Dora broke out into an
exclamation that excited my curiosity too much not to be pursued,
though it was hardly edifying.

"Was that such a snake as Harold killed?"

"I have killed a good many snakes," he answered.

"Yes, but I meant the ones you killed when you were a little tiny boy."

"I don't remember," he said, as if to stop the subject, hating, as he
always did, to talk about himself.

"No, I know you don't," said Dora; "but it is quite true, isn't it,
Eustace?"

"Hardly true that Harold ever was a little tiny boy," I could not help
saying.

"No, he never was _little_," said Eustace.  "But it is quite true about
the snakes.  I seem to remember it now, and I've often heard my mother
and my Aunt Alice tell of it.  It was at the first place where we were
in New South Wales.  I came running out screaming, I believe--I was old
enough to know the danger--and when they went in there was Harry
sitting on the floor, holding a snake tight by the neck and enjoying
its contortions like a new toy."

"Of course," said Harold, "if it were poisonous, which I doubt, the
danger would have been when I let go.  My mother quietly bade me hold
him tight, which I suppose I had just sense enough to do, and in
another moment she had snatched up the bill-hook they had been cutting
wood with, and had his head off.  She had the pluck."

I could but gasp with horror, and ask how old he was.  About two! That
was clear to their minds from the place where it happened which Harold
could not recollect, though Eustace could.

"But, Harold, you surely are the eldest," I said.

"Oh no; I am six months the eldest," said Eustace, proud of his
advantage.

We were to hear more of that by-and-by.

Monday afternoon brought Mr. Prosser, who was closeted with Harold,
while Eustace and I devoted our faculties to pacifying Dora under her
exclusion, and preventing her from climbing up to the window-sill to
gaze into the library from without.  She scorned submission to either
of us, so Eustace kept guard by lying on the grass below, and I coaxed
her by gathering primroses, sowing seeds, and using all inducements I
could think of, but my resources were nearly exhausted when Harold's
head appeared at the window, and he called, "Eustace! Lucy! here!"

We came at once, Dora before us.

"Come in," said Harold, admitting us at the glass door.  "It is all a
mistake.  I am not the man.  It is Eustace.  Eu, I wish you joy, old
chap--"

Mr. Prosser was at the table with a great will lying spread out on it.
"I am afraid Mr. Alison is right, Miss Alison," he said.  "The property
is bequeathed to the eldest of the late Mr. Alison's grandsons born
here, not specifying by which father.  If I had copied the terms of the
will I might have prevented disappointment, but I had no conception of
what he tells me."

"But Ambrose was Harold's father," I exclaimed in bewilderment, "and he
was the eldest."

"The seniority was not considered as certain," said Mr. Prosser, "and
therefore the late Mr. Alison left the property to the eldest child
born at home.  'Let us at least have an English-born heir,' I remember
he said to me."

"And that is just what I am not," said Harold.

"I cannot understand!  I have heard Miss Woolmer talk of poor Ambrose's
beautiful child, several months older than Eustace's, and his name was
Harold."

"Yes," said Harold, "but that one died on the voyage out, an hour or
two before I was born.  He was Harold Stanislas.  I have no second
name."

"And I always was the eldest," reiterated Eustace, hardly yet
understanding what it involved.

All the needful documents had been preserved and brought home.  There
was the extract from the captain's log recording the burial at sea of
Harold Stanislas Alison, aged fifteen months, and the certificate of
baptism by a colonial clergyman of Harold, son of Ambrose and Alice
Alison, while Eustace was entered in the Northchester register, having
been born in lodgings, as Mr. Prosser well recollected, while his poor
young father lay under sentence of death.

It burst on him at last.  "Do you mean that I have got it, and not you?"

"That's about it," said Harold.  "Never mind, Eu, it will all come to
the same thing in the end."

"You have none of it!"

"Not an acre.  It all goes together; but don't look at me in that way.
There's Boola Boola, you know."

"You're not going back there to leave me?" exclaimed Eustace, with a
real sound of dismay, laying hold of his arm.

"Not just yet, at any rate," said Harold.

"No, no; nor at all," reiterated Eustace, and then, satisfied by the
absence of contradiction, which did, in fact, mean a good deal from the
silent Harold, he began to discover his own accession of dignity. "Then
it all belongs to me.  I am master.  I am squire--Eustace Alison,
Esquire, of Arghouse.  How well it sounds.  Doesn't it, Harry, doesn't
it, Lucy?  Uncle Smith always said I was the one cut out for high life.
Besides, I've been presented, and have been to a ball at Government
House."

I saw that Mr. Prosser was a little overcome with amusement, and I
wanted to make my retreat and carry off Dora, but she had perched on
her favourite post--Harold's knee--and I was also needed to witness
Eustace's signatures, as well as on some matters connected with my own
property.  So I stayed, and saw that he did indeed seem lost without
his cousin's help.  Neither knew anything about business of this kind,
but Harold readily understood what made Eustace so confused, that he
was quite helpless without Harold's explanations, and rather rough
directions what he was to do.  How like themselves their writing was!
Eustace's neat and clerkly, but weak and illegible; and Harold's as
distinct, and almost as large, as a schoolboy's copy, but with
square-turned joints and strength of limb unlike any boy's writing.

The dressing-bell broke up the council, and Harold snatched up his hat
to rush out and stretch his legs, but I could not help detaining him to
say:

"Oh, Harry, I am so sorry!"

"Why?" he said.

"What does it leave you, Harry?"

"Half the capital stock farm, twelve thousand sheep, and a tidy sum in
the Sydney bank," said Harold readily.

"Then I am afraid we shall lose you."

"That depends.  I shall set Eustace in the way of doing what our
fathers meant; and there's Prometesky--I shall not go till I have done
his business."

I hardly knew what this meant, and could not keep Harold, whose long
legs were eager for a rush in the fresh air; and the next person I met
was Eustace.

"Aunt Lucy," he said, "that old fellow says you are going away.  You
can't be?"

I answered, truly enough, that I had not thought what to do, and he
persisted that I had promised to stay.

"But that was with Harry," I said.

"I don't see why you should not stay as much with me," he said. "I'm
your nephew all the same, and Dora is your niece; and she must be made
a proper sister for me, who have been, &c."

I don't know that this form of invitation was exactly the thing that
would have kept me; but I had a general feeling that to leave these
young men and my old home would be utter banishment, that there was
nothing I so cared for as seeing how they got on, and that it was worth
anything to me to be wanted anywhere and by anyone; so I gave Eustace
to understand that I meant to stay.  I rather wished Harold to have
pressed me; but I believe the dear good fellow honestly thought
everyone must prefer Eustace to himself; and it was good to see the pat
he gave his cousin's shoulder when that young gentleman, nothing loath,
exultingly settled down in the master's place.

Before long I found out what Harold meant about Prometesky's business;
for we had scarcely begun dinner before he began to consult Mr. Prosser
about the ways and means of obtaining a pardon for Prometesky.  This
considerably startled Mr. Prosser.  Some cabinets, he said, were very
lenient to past political offences, but Prometesky seemed to him to
have exceeded all bounds of mercy.

"You never knew the true facts, then?" said Harold.

"I know the facts that satisfied the jury."

"You never saw my father's statement?"

No, Mr. Prosser had been elsewhere, and had not been employed in my
brother's trial; he had only inherited the connection with our family
affairs when the matter had passed into comparative oblivion.

My brothers had never ceased to affirm that he had only started for the
farm that had been Lewthwayte's on hearing that an attack was to be
made on it, in hopes of preventing it, and that the witness, borne
against him on the trial by a fellow who had turned king's evidence,
had been false; but they had been unheeded, or rather Prometesky was
regarded as the most truly mischievous of all, as perhaps he really had
been, since he had certainly drawn them into the affair, and his life
had barely been saved in consideration of his having rescued a child
from the fire at great personal peril.

Ambrose had written again and again about him to my father, but as soon
as the name occurred the letter had been torn up.  On their liberation
from actual servitude they had sent up their statement to the
Government of New South Wales; but in the meantime Prometesky had fared
much worse than they had.  They had been placed in hands where their
education, superiority, and good conduct had gained them trust and
respect, and they had quickly obtained a remission of the severer part
of their sentence and become their own masters; indeed, if Ambrose had
lived, he would soon have risen to eminence in the colony.  But
Prometesky had fallen to the lot of a harsh, rude master, who hated him
as a foreigner, and treated him in a manner that roused the proud
spirit of the noble.  The master had sworn that the convict had
threatened his life, and years of working in chains on the roads had
been the consequence.

It was no time for entertaining a petition on his account, and before
the expiration of this additional sentence Ambrose was dead.

By that time Eustace, now a rich and prosperous man, would gladly have
taken his old tutor to his home, but Prometesky was still too proud,
and all that he would do was to build a little hut under a rock on the
Boola Boola grounds, where he lived upon the proceeds of such joiner's
and watchmaker's work as was needed by the settlers on a large area,
when things were much rougher than even when my nephews came home.  No
one cared for education enough to make his gifts available in that
direction, except as concerned Harold, who had, in fact, learnt of him
almost all he knew in an irregular, voluntary sort of fashion, and who
loved him heartily.

His health was failing now, and to bring him home was one of Harold's
prime objects, since London advice might yet restore him.  Harold had
made one attempt in his cause at Sydney, sending in a copy of his
father's dying statement, also signed by his uncle; but though he was
told that it had been received, he had no encouragement to hope it
would be forwarded, and had been told that to apply direct to the
Secretary of State, backed by persons from our own neighbourhood, would
be the best chance, and on this he consulted Mr. Prosser, but without
meeting much sympathy.  Mr. Prosser said many people's minds had
changed with regard to English or Irish demagogues, and that the Alison
Brothers themselves might very probably have been pardoned, but
everyone was tired of Poles, and popular tradition viewed Prometesky as
the ogre of the past.  Mr. Prosser did not seem as if he would even
very willingly assist in the drawing up in due form a petition in the
Pole's favour, and declared that without some influential person to
introduce it, it would be perfectly useless.

Eustace turned round with, "There, you see, Harold, nothing can be
done."

"I do not see that," said Harold, in his quiet way.

"You do not mean to do anything?"

"Yes, I do."

"But what--what?  What can you do?"

"I do not yet know."

"You see it is of no use.  We shall only get into a scrape with all the
gentlemen of the county."

"Never mind now, Eustace," said Harold, briefly.  But I knew the
expression of his face by this time quite well enough to be certain
that nothing would make him abandon the cause of his father's old
friend; and that his silence was full of the strongest determination. I
think it fascinated me, and though in my cooler senses I reverted to my
old notion of Prometesky as a dangerous firebrand, I could not help
feeling for and with the youth whose soul was set on delivering his
friend from exile.

My turn came the next morning, before Mr. Prosser went away.  He had
much to say against my making Arghouse my home, telling me that I had a
full independence and could live where I pleased; but that I knew
already, and had decided on the amount I ought to pay towards the
housekeeping.

Then he wanted me to understand how the young men were looked upon, and
the dread all the neighbourhood had of them.  I said I had shared this
dread, but on better acquaintance I found it quite undeserved, and this
being the case it was incumbent on their only relation to stand by
them, and not shun them as if they had brought the leprosy.

This he allowed, calling it a generous feeling, if they were worthy of
it.  But what greatly amazed me was his rejoicing that Eustace had
proved to be the heir, since nothing was known against him, and when
the other young man was gone there was hope that any little distrusts
might be allayed, and that he might ultimately take his place in the
county.

The other young man!  Why should there be any distrust of Harold?  I
grew hot and indignant, and insisted on knowing what was meant; but Mr.
Prosser declared that he knew nothing, only there were vague reports
which made him rejoice that Mr. Harold Alison was not called to be the
manager of the property, and would make him question whether a young
lady would find it expedient to be long an inmate of the same house.

What reports could he mean?  No--I could get no more out of him; he was
too cautious to commit himself, and seemed to be satisfied by observing
that if I changed my mind, I could at any time leave my nephews.

"Her nephews," I heard him mutter to himself; "yes, her nephews. No one
has any right to object, and she can but judge for herself--there's no
harm done."

I shall always believe, however, that he set on my friends to
remonstrate, for letters began coming in, in all the senses of the
imperative mood, commanding and entreating me to leave Arghouse. There
was one such as only Lord Erymanth could write.  He was an old man, and
never could make short work of anything.  They say that his chief
political value was to be set on when anyone was wanted to speak
against time.  I know he was very dreadful at all the platforms in the
county; but he was very good and conscientious, and everyone looked up
to him as a sort of father of the country.

But oh! that letter!  Such a battery of heavy arguments against my
unprecedented step in taking up my residence with these unfortunate
young men, who, though they had not themselves openly transgressed the
law of the land, yet were the offspring of unhallowed unions with the
children of a felon.  I cannot go through it all, but it hinted that
besides their origin, there was some terrible stain on Harold, and that
society could not admit them; so that if I persisted in casting in my
lot with them, I should share the ban.  Indeed, he would have thought
my own good sense and love of decorum would have taught me that the
abode of two such youths would be no fit place for the daughter of such
respected parents, and there was a good deal more that I could not
understand about interceding with his sister, and her overlooking my
offence in consideration of my inexperience and impulsiveness.

On my first impulse I wrote to thank my old friend, but to say I could
see no harm in an aunt's being with her nephews, and that I was sure he
had only to know them to lay aside all doubts of their being thorough
gentlemen and associates for anybody.  My little niece required my
care, and I should stay and give it to her till some other arrangement
was made.  If Lady Diana were displeased with me, I was very sorry, but
I could see no reason for it.

When I looked over the old Earl's letter, before closing mine, some
expressions wound out of the mist that made me uncomfortable,
especially when I recollected that though it was a week since their
arrival, no one had attempted to call but Mr. Crosse, the vicar of
Mycening, a very "good man in the pulpit," as the servants said, and
active in the parish, but underbred and no companion.

Our neighbourhood was what is called very clannish.  There were two
families, the Horsmans and the Stympsons, who seemed to make up all the
society.  The sons either had the good livings, or had retired from
their professions into cottages round and about, and the first question
after any party was, how many of each.  The outsiders, not decidedly of
inferior rank, were almost driven into making a little clique--if so it
might be called--of their own, and hanging together the more closely.
Lord Erymanth of course predominated; but he was a widower of many
years' standing, and his heir lived in a distant county.  His sister,
Lady Diana, had been married to an Irish Mr. Tracy, who had been
murdered after a few years by his tenants, upon which she had come with
her three children to live at Arked House. I never could guess how she
came to marry an Irish landlord, and I always thought she must have
exasperated his people.  She was viewed as the perfection of a Lady
Bountiful and pattern of excellence; but, I confess, that I always
thought of her when I heard of the devout and honourable women who were
stirred up against St. Paul.  She was a person who was admired more
than she was liked, and who was greatly praised and honoured, but
somehow did not proportionably endear herself on closer acquaintance,
doing a great deal of good, but all to large masses rather than
individuals.  However, all the neighbourhood had a pride in her, and it
was a distinction to be considered a fit companion for Diana and Viola
Tracy.  I never cared for Di, who was her mother over again, and used
to set us to rights with all her might; but she had married early, a
very rich man--and Viola and I had always been exceedingly fond of one
another, so that I could not bear to be cut off from her, however I
might be disposed to defy her mother.

The upshot of my perplexities was that I set off to Mycening to lay
them before Miss Woolmer, another of the few belonging to neither clan,
to know what all this meant, as well as to be interested in my nephews.

Mycening is one of the prettiest country towns I know, at least it was
twenty years ago.  There is a very wide street, unpaved, but with a
broad smooth gravelled way, slightly sloping down towards the little
clean stone-edged gutters that border the carriage road along the
centre, which is planted on each side with limes cut into arches. The
houses are of all sorts, some old timbered gable-ended ones with
projecting upper stories, like our own, others of the handsome old
Queen Anne type with big sash windows, and others quite modern.  Some
have their gardens in front, some stand flush with the road, and the
better sort are mixed with the shops and cottages.

Miss Woolmer lived in a tiny low one, close to the road, where, from
her upstairs floor, she saw all that came and went, and, intellectual
woman as she certainly was, she thoroughly enjoyed watching her
neighbours, as by judiciously-arranged looking-glasses, she could do
all up and down the street.  I believe she had been a pretty woman,
though on a small scale, and now she had bright eyes, and a very sweet
bright look, though in complexion she had faded into the worn pallor
that belongs to permanent ill health.  She dressed nicely, and if she
had been well, might, at her age, scarcely above forty, have been as
much a young lady as Philippa Horsman; but I fancy the great crush of
her life had taken away her girlhood and left her no spring of
constitution to resist illness, so that she had sunk into a regular
crippled invalid before I could remember, though her mind was full of
activity.

"You are come to tell me about them, my dear," was her greeting. "I've
seen them.  No, I don't mean that they have been to see me. You'll
bring them some day, won't you?  I'm sure Ambrose's boy would come to
see a sick woman.  I watched one of them yesterday pick up old Molly's
oranges for her in the street, when her basket got upset by a cart, and
he then paid her for them, and gave them among the children round.  It
did my heart good, I'd not seen such a sight since the boys were sent
away."

"Harold would do anything kind," I said, "or to see an old friend of
his father.  The worst of it is that there seem to be so few who wish
to see him, or can even forgive me for staying with him."

I showed her Lord Erymanth's letter, and told her of the others, asking
her what it meant.  "Oh, as to Lady Diana," she said, "there is no
doubt about that.  She was greatly offended at your having sent away
her carriage and not having taken her advice, and she goes about saying
she is disappointed in you."

For my mother's sake, and my little Viola, and Auld Lang Syne besides,
I was much hurt, and defended myself in a tone of pique which made Miss
Woolmer smile and say she was far from blaming me, but that she thought
I ought to count the cost of my remaining at Arghouse.  And then she
told me that the whole county was up in arms against the new comers,
not only from old association of their name with revolutionary notions,
but because the old Miss Stympsons, of Lake Side, who had connections
in New South Wales, had set it abroad that the poor boys were ruffians,
companions of the double-dyed villain Prometesky, and that Harold in
especial was a marked man, who had caused the death of his own wife in
a frenzy of intoxication.

At this I fairly laughed.  Harold, at his age, who never touched
liquor, and had lived a sort of hermit life in the Bush, to be saddled
with a wife only to have destroyed her!  The story contradicted itself
by its own absurdity; and those two Miss Stympsons were well-known
scandal-mongers.  Miss Woolmer never believed a story of theirs without
sifting, but she had been in a manner commissioned to let me know that
society was determined not to accept Eustace and Harold Alison, and was
irate at my doing so. Mothers declared that they should be very sorry
to give poor Lucy Alison up, but that they could not have their
children brought into contact with young men little better than
convicts, and whom they would, besides, call my cousins, instead of my
nephews.  "I began to suspect it," I said, "when nobody left cards but
Mr. Lawless and Peter Parsons."

"And that is the society they are to be left to?"

"But I shall not leave them," I cried.  "Why should I, to please Miss
Stympson and Lord Erymanth?  I shall stand by my own brothers' sons
against all the world."

"And if they be worthy, Lucy, your doing so is the best chance of their
weathering the storm.  See! is not that one of them?  The grand-looking
giant one, who moves like a king of men.  He is Ambrose's son, is he
not?  What a pity he is not the squire!"

Harold was, in effect, issuing from the toy-shop, carrying an immense
kite on his arm, like a shield, while Dora frisked round in admiration,
and a train of humbler admirers flocked in the rear.

I hurried down into the street to tell Harold of my old friend's wish
to see them, and he followed me at once, with that manner which was not
courtesy, because, without being polished, it was so much more. Dora
was much displeased, being ardent on the kite's tail, and followed with
sullen looks, while Harold had to stoop low to get into the room, and
brushed the low ceiling with his curly hair as he stood upright, Miss
Woolmer gazing up to the very top of him.  I think she was rather
disappointed that he had not taken more after his father; and she told
him that he was like his uncle Lewthwayte, looking keenly to see
whether he shrunk from the comparison to a man who had died a felon's
death; but he merely answered, "So I have been told."

Then she asked for his mother, and he briefly replied that she was well
and in New Zealand.  There was an attempt at noticing Dora, to which
she responded like the wild opossum that she was, and her fidgeting
carried the day.  Harold only made answer to one or two more
observations, and then could not but take leave, promising on the
entreaty of the old lady, to come and see her again.  I outstayed them,
being curious to hear her opinion.

"A superb being," she said, with a long breath; "there's the easy
strength of a Greek demi-god in every tread."

"He seems to me more like Thor in Nifelheim," I said, "being, no doubt,
half a Viking to begin with."

"They are all the same, as people tell us now," she said, smiling. "Any
way, he looks as if he was a waif from the heroic age.  But, my dear,
did not I hear him call you Lucy?"

"They generally do."

"I would not let them.  Cling to your auntship; it explains your being
with them.  A grand creature!  I feel like the people who had had a
visit from the gods of old."

"And you understand how impossible it would be to run away," I said.

She smiled, but added, "Lucy, my dear, that looked very like a
wedding-ring!"

I could not think it possible.  Why, he was scarcely five-and-twenty!
And yet the suggestion haunted me, whenever my eyes fell on his
countenance in repose, and noted the habitual sadness of expression
which certainly did not match with the fine open face that seemed
fitted to express the joy of strength.  It came on me too when, at the
lodge, a child who had been left alone too long and had fallen into an
unmitigated agony of screaming, Harry had actually, instead of fleeing
from the sound, gone in, taken the screamer in his arms, and so hushed
and pacified it, that on the mother's return she found it at perfect
rest.

"One would think the gentleman was a father himself, ma'am," she had
said to me; and thereupon Harold had coloured, and turned hastily
aside, so that the woman fancied she had offended him and apologised,
so that he had been forced to look back again and say, "Never mind,"
and "No harm done," with a half laugh, which, as it now struck me, had
a ring of pain in it, and was not merely the laugh of a shy young man
under an impossible imputation.  True, I knew he was not a religious
man, but to believe actual ill of him seemed to me impossible.

He had set himself to survey the Arghouse estate, so as to see how
those dying wishes of his father could best be carried out, and he was
making himself thoroughly acquainted with every man, woman, child, and
building, to the intense jealousy of Bullock, who had been agent all
through my mother's time, and had it all his own way.  He could not
think why "Mr. Harold" should be always hovering about the farms and
cottages, sometimes using his own ready colonial hand to repair
deficiencies, and sometimes his purse, and making the people take
fancies into their heads that were never there before, and which would
make Mr. Alison lose hundreds a year if they were attended to. And as
Mr. Alison always did attend to his cousin, and gave orders
accordingly, the much-aggrieved Bullock had no choice but in delaying
their execution and demonstrating their impracticability, whereas, of
course, Harold did not believe in impossibilities.

It was quite true, as he had once said, that though he could not bring
about improvements as readily as if he had been landlord, yet he could
get at the people much better, and learn their own point of view of
what was good for them.  They were beginning to idolise him; for,
indeed, there was a fascination about him which no one could resist.  I
sometimes wondered what it was, considering that he was so slow of
speech, and had so little sunshine of mirth about him.

I never did enforce my title of Aunt, in spite of Miss Woolmer's
advice.  It sounded too ridiculous, and would have hindered the
sisterly feeling that held us together.

Eustace was restless and vexed at not being called upon, and anxious to
show himself on any occasion, and I was almost equally anxious to keep
him back, out of reach of mortification.  Both he and Harold went to
London on business, leaving Dora with me.  The charge was less severe
than I expected.  My first attempts at teaching her had been frustrated
by her scorn of me, and by Harold's baffling indulgence; but one day,
when they had been visiting one of the farms, the children had been
made to exhibit their acquirements, which were quite sufficient to
manifest Dora's ignorance.  Eustace had long declared that if she would
not learn of me she must either have a governess or go to school, and I
knew she was fit for neither. Harold, I believe, now enforced the
threat, and when he went away, left her a black silk necktie to be
hemmed for him, and a toy book with flaming illustrations, with an
assurance that on her reading it to him on his return, depended his
giving her a toy steam-engine.

Dora knew that Harold kept his word, even with her.  I think she had a
great mind to get no one's assistance but the kitchenmaid's, but this
friendship was abruptly terminated by Dora's arraying the kangaroo in
Sarah's best bonnet and cloak, and launching it upon a stolen interview
between her and her sweetheart.  The screams brought all the house
together, and, as the hero was an undesirable party who had been
forbidden the house, Sarah viewed it as treachery on Miss Dora's part,
and sulked enough to alienate her.

Dora could make out more to herself in a book than she could read
aloud, and one day I saw her spelling over the table of degrees of
marriage in a great folio Prayer-Book, which she had taken down in
quest of pictures.  Some time later in the day, she said, "Lucy, are
you Harry's father's sister?" and when I said yes, she added, with a
look of discovery, "A man cannot marry his father's sister."

It was no time to protest against the marriage of first cousins.  I was
glad enough that from that time the strange child laid aside her
jealousy of me; and that thenceforth her resistance was simply the
repugnance of a wild creature to be taught and tamed.  Ultimately she
let me into the recesses of that passionate heart, and, as I think,
loved me better than anybody else, except Harold; but even so, at an
infinite distance from that which seemed the chief part of her whole
being.




CHAPTER II.

THE LION OF NEME HEATH.


The work was done.  The sixteen pages of large-type story book were
stumbled through; and there was a triumphant exhibition when the
cousins came home--Eustace delighted; Harold, half-stifled by London,
insisting on walking home from the station to stretch his legs, and
going all the way round over Kalydon Moor for a whiff of air!

If we had not had a few moors and heaths where he could breathe, I
don't know whether he could have stayed in England; and as for London,
the din, the dinginess, the squalor of houses and people, sat like a
weight on his heart.

"They told me a great deal had been done for England.  It is just
nothing," he said, and hardly anything else that whole evening; while
Eustace, accoutred point-device by a London tailor, poured forth
volumes of what he had seen and done.  Mr. Prosser made up a dinner
party for them, and had taken them to an evening party or two--at
least, Eustace; for after the first Harold had declined, and had spent
his time in wandering about London by gas-light, and standing on the
bridges, or trying how far it was on each side to green fields, and how
much misery lay between.

Eustace had evidently been made much of, and had enjoyed himself
greatly.  It grieved me that his first entrance into society should be
under no better auspices than those of the family solicitor; but he did
not yet perceive this, and was much elated.  "I flatter myself it was
rather a success," was the phrase he had brought home, apropos to
everything he had worn or done, from his tie to his shoe-buckles. He
told me the price of everything, all the discussions with his
tradesmen, and all the gazes fixed on him, with such simplicity that I
could not help caring, and there sat Harold in his corner, apparently
asleep, but his eye now and then showing that he was thinking deeply.

"Lucy," he said, as we bade one another good-night, "is nothing being
done?"

"About what?" I asked.

"For all that wretchedness."

"Oh yes, there are all sorts of attempts," and I told him of model
cottages, ragged schools, and the like, and promised to find him the
accounts; but he gave one of his low growls, as if this were but a
mockery of the direful need.

He had got his statement of Prometesky's case properly drawn up, and
had sent up a copy, but in vain; and had again been told that some
influential person must push it to give it any chance.  Mr. Prosser's
acquaintance lay in no such line; or, at least, were most unlikely to
promote the pardon of an old incendiary.

"What will you do?" I asked.  "Must you give it up?"

"Never!  I will make a way at last."

Meantime, he was necessary to Eustace in accomplishing all the details
of taking possession.  Horses were wanted by both, used to riding as
they had always been, and there was an old-fashioned fair on Neme
Heath, just beyond Mycening, rather famous for its good show of horses,
where there was a chance of finding even so rare an article as a hunter
up to Harold's weight, also a pony for Dora.

An excellent show of wild beasts was also there.  Harold had been on
the heath when it was being arranged in the earliest morning hours, and
had fraternised with the keepers, and came home loquacious far more
than usual on the wonders he had seen.  I remember that, instead of
being disappointed in the size of the lions and tigers, he dwelt with
special admiration on their supple and terrible strength of spine and
paw.

He wanted to take Dora at once to the menagerie, but I represented the
inexpedience of their taking her about with them to the horse-fair
afterwards, and made Eustace perceive that it would not do for Miss
Alison; and as Harold backed my authority, she did not look like
thunder for more than ten minutes when she found we were to drive to
Neme Heath, and that she was to go home with me after seeing the
animals.  Eustace was uncertain about his dignity, and hesitated about
not caring and not intending, and not liking me to go alone, but made
up his mind that since he had to be at the fair, he would drive us.

So we had out the barouche, and Eustace held the reins with infinite
elation, while Harold endured the interior to reconcile Dora to it, and
was as much diverted as she was at the humours of the scene, exclaiming
at every stall of gilt gingerbread, every see-saw, and merry-go-round,
that lined the suburbs of Mycening, and I strongly suspect meditating a
private expedition to partake of their delights. Harold was thoroughly
the great child nature meant him for, while poor Eustace sat aloft
enfolded in his dignity, not daring to look right or left, or utter a
word of surprise, lest he should compromise himself in the eyes of the
coachman by his side.

The fair was upon the heath, out to which the new part of the town was
stretching itself, and long streets of white booths extended themselves
in their regular order.  We drove on noiselessly over the much-trodden
turf, until we were checked by the backward rush of a frightened crowd,
and breathless voices called out to Eustace, "Stop, sir; turn, for
Heaven's sake.  The lion!  He's loose!"

Turning was impossible, for the crowd was rushing back on us, blocking
us up; and Eustace dropped the reins, turning round with a cry of
"Harry! Harry! I see him.  Take us away!"

Harold sprang on the back seat as the coachman jumped down to run to
the horses' heads.  He saw over the people's heads, and after that
glance made one bound out of the carriage.  I saw then what I shall
never forget, across the wide open space round which the principal
shows were arranged, and which was now entirely bare of people.  On the
other side, between the shafts of a waggon, too low for him to creep
under, lay the great yellow lion, waving the tufted end of his tail as
a cat does, when otherwise still, showing the glassy glare of his eyes
now and then, growling with a horrible display of fangs, and holding
between those huge paws a senseless boy as a sort of hostage. From all
the lanes between the booths the people were looking in terror, ready
for a rush on the beast's least movement, shrieking calls to someone to
save the boy, fetch a gun, bring the keeper, &c.

That moment, with the great thick carriage-rug on his arm, Harold
darted forward, knocking down a gun which some foolish person had
brought from a shooting-gallery, and shouting, "Don't!  It will only
make him kill the boy!" he gathered himself up for a rush; while I
believe we all called to him to stop: I am sure of Eustace's "Harry!
don't!  What shall I do?"

Before the words were spoken, Harold had darted to the side of the
terrible creature, and, with a bound, vaulted across its neck as it
lay, dealing it a tremendous blow over the nose with that sledge-hammer
fist, and throwing the rug over its head.  Horrible roaring growls,
like snarling thunder, were heard for a second or two, and one man
dashed out of the frightened throng, rifle in hand, just in time to
receive the child, whom Harold flung to him, snatched from the lion's
grasp; and again we saw a wrestling, struggling, heaving mass, Harry
still uppermost, pinning the beast down with his weight and the mighty
strength against which it struggled furiously.  Having got free of the
boy, his one ally was again aiming his rifle at the lion's ear, when
two keepers, with nets and an iron bar, came on the scene, one shouting
not to shoot, and the other holding up the bar and using some word of
command, at which the lion cowered and crouched.  The people broke into
a loud cheer after their breathless silence, and it roused the already
half-subdued lion.  There was another fierce and desperate struggle,
lasting only a moment, and ended by the report of the rifle.

In fact, the whole passed almost like a flash of lightning from the
moment of our first halt, till the crowd closed in, so that I could
only see one bare yellow head, towering above the hats, and finally
cleaving a way towards us, closely followed by Dermot Tracy, carrying
the rifle and almost beside himself with enthusiasm and excitement.
"Lucy--is it you?  What, he is your cousin?  I never saw anything like
it!  He mastered it alone, quite alone!"

And then we heard Harry bidding those around not touch him, and Dora
screamed with dismay, and I saw he had wrapped both hands in his
handkerchief.  To my frightened question, whether he was hurt, he
answered, "Only my hands, but I fancy the brute has done for some of my
fingers.  If those fellows could but have held their tongues!"

He climbed into the carriage to rid himself of the crowd, who were
offering all sorts of aid, commiseration, and advice, and Dermot begged
to come too, "in case he should be faint," which made Harry smile,
though he was in much pain, frowning and biting his lip while the
coachman took the reins, and turned us round amid the deafening cheers
of the people, for Eustace was quite unnerved, and Dora broke into sobs
as she saw the blood soaking through the handkerchiefs--all that we
could contribute.  He called her a little goose, and said it was
nothing; but the great drops stood on his brow, he panted and moved
restlessly, as if sitting still were unbearable, and he could hardly
help stamping out the bottom of the carriage.  He shouted to Eustace to
let him walk, but Dermot showed him how he would thus have the crowd
about him in a moment.  It was the last struggle that had done the
mischief, when the lion, startled by the shout of the crowd, had turned
on him again, and there had been a most narrow escape of a dying bite,
such as would probably have crushed his hand itself beyond all remedy;
and, as it was, one could not but fear he was dreadfully hurt, when the
pain came in accesses of violence several times in the short distance
to Dr. Kingston's door.

No, Dr. Kingston was not at home; nor would be in for some time; but
while we were thinking what to do, a young man came hastily up, saying
"I am Dr. Kingston's partner; can I do anything?"

Harold sprang out on this, forbidding Eustace to follow him, but
permitting Dermot; and Mrs. Kingston, an old acquaintance of mine, came
and invited us all to her drawing-room, lamenting greatly her husband's
absence, and hoping that Mr. Yolland, his new partner, would be able to
supply his place.  The young man had very high testimonials and an
excellent education.  She was evidently exercised between her own
distrust of the assistant and fear of disparaging him.  Seeing how much
shaken we were, she sent for wine, and I was surprised to see Eustace
take some almost furtively, but his little sister, though still
sobbing, glared out from behind the knuckles she was rubbing into her
eyes, and exclaimed, "Eustace, I shall tell Harry."

"Hold your tongue," said Eustace, petulantly; "Harry has nothing to do
with it."

Mrs. Kingston looked amazed.  I set to work to talk them both down, and
must have given a very wild, nervous account of the disaster. At last
Dermot opened the door for Harry, who came in, looking very pale, with
one hand entirely covered and in a sling, the other bound up all but
the thumb and forefinger.  To our anxious inquiries, he replied that
the pain was much better now, and he should soon be all right; and
then, on being further pressed, admitted that the little finger had
been so much crushed that it had been taken off from the first joint,
the other three fingers had been broken and were in splints, and the
right hand was only torn and scratched.  Mrs. Kingston exclaimed at
this that Mr. Yolland should have waited for the doctor to venture on
such an operation, but both Dermot and Harold assured her that he could
not have waited, and also that it could not have been more skilfully
done, both of which assurances she must have heard with doubts as to
the competence of the judges, and she much regretted that she could not
promise a visit from her doctor that evening, as he was likely to be
detained all night.

Dermot came downstairs with us, and we found Mr. Yolland waiting at the
door to extract a final promise that Harold would go to bed at once on
coming home.  It seemed that he had laughed at the recommendation, so
that the young surgeon felt bound to enforce it before all of us,
adding that it was a kind of hurt that no one could safely neglect.
There was something in his frank, brusque manner that pleased Harold,
and he promised with half a smile, thanking the doctor hastily as he
did so, while Dermot Tracy whispered to me, "Good luck getting him;
twice as ready as the old one;" and then vehemently shaking all our
hands, to make up for Harold's not being fit to touch, he promised to
come and see him on the morrow.  The moment we were all in the
carriage--Eustace still too much shaken to drive home--his first
question was, who _that_ was?

"Mr. Tracy," I answered; and Eustace added, "I thought you called him
Dermont?"

"Dermot--Dermot Tracy.  I have known him all our lives."

"I saw he was a gentleman by his boots," quoth Eustace with
deliberation, holding out his own foot as a standard.  "I saw they were
London made."

"How fortunate that you had not on your Sydney ones," I could not help
saying in mischief.

"I took care of that," was the complacent answer.  "I told Richardson
to take them all away."

I don't think Harold saw the fun.  They had neither of them any humour;
even Harold was much too simple and serious.

Eustace next treated us to a piece of his well-conned manual, and
demonstrated that Dermot St. Glear Tracy, Esquire, of Killy Marey,
County Cavan, Ireland, was grandson to an English peer, great grandson
to an Irish peer, and nephew to the existing Edward St. Glear, 6th Earl
of Erymanth.  "And a very fashionable young man," he went on,
"distinguished in the sporting world."

"An excellent good fellow, with plenty of pluck," said Harold warmly.
"Is he not brother to the pretty little girl who was with you when we
came?"

I answered as briefly as I could; I did not want to talk of the Tracys.
My heart was very sore about them, and I was almost relieved when Dora
broke in with a grave accusing tone: "Harry, Eustace drank a glass of
wine, and I said I would tell you!"

"Eustace has no reason to prevent him," was Harold's quiet answer.

"And, really, I think, in my position, it is ridiculous, you see,"
Eustace began stammering, but was wearily cut short by Harold with, "As
you please."

Eustace could never be silent long, and broke forth again: "Harold,
your ring."

By way of answer Harold, with his available thumb and finger, showed
the ring for a moment from his waistcoat pocket.  Instantly Dora sprang
at it, snatched it from his finger before he was aware, and with all
her might flung it into the river, for we were crossing the bridge.

There was strength in that thumb and finger to give her a sharp fierce
shake, and the low voice that said "Dora" was like the lion's growl.

"It's Meg's ring, and I hate her!" she cried.

"For shame, Dorothy."

The child burst into a flood of tears and sobbed piteously, but it was
some minutes before he would relent and look towards her. Eustace
scolded her for making such a noise, and vexing Harold when he was
hurt, but that only made her cry the more.  I told her to say she was
sorry, and perhaps Harold would forgive her; but she shook her head
violently at this.

Harold relented, unable to bear the sight of distress.  "Don't tease
her," he said, shortly, to us both.  "Hush, Dora; there's an end of it."

This seemed to be an amnesty, for she leant against his knee again.

"Dora, how could you?" I said, when we were out of the carriage, and
the two young men had gone upstairs together.

"It was Meg's ring, and I hate her," answered Dora, with the fierce
wild gleam in her eyes.

"You should not hate anyone," was, of course, my answer.

"But she's dead!" said Dora, triumphantly as a little tigress.

"So much the worse it is to hate her.  Who was she?"

"His wife," said Dora.

I durst not ask the child any more questions.

"Eustace, who is Meg?"

I could not but ask that question as we sat tete-a-tete after dinner,
Dora having gone to carry Harold some fruit, and being sure to stay
with him as long as he permitted.

Eustace looked round with a startled, cautious eye, as if afraid of
being overheard, and said, as Dora had done, "His wife."

"Not alive?"

"Oh, no--thank goodness."

"At his age!"

"He was but twenty when he married her.  A bad business!  I knew it
could not be otherwise.  She was a storekeeper's daughter."

Then I learnt, in Eustace's incoherent style, the sad story I
understood better afterwards.

This miserable marriage had been the outcome of the desolate state of
the family after the loss of all the higher spirits of the elder
generation.  For the first few years after my brothers had won their
liberation, and could hold property, they had been very happy, and the
foundations of their prosperity at Boola Boola had been laid. Had
Ambrose lived he would, no doubt, have become a leading man in the
colony, where he had heartily embraced his lot and shaped his career.

Poor Eustace was, however, meant by nature for a quiet, refined English
gentleman, living in his affections.  He would never have transgressed
ordinary bounds save for his brother's overmastering influence.  He
drooped from the time of Ambrose's untimely death, suffered much from
the loss of several children, and gradually became a prey to heart
complaint.  But his wife was full of sense and energy, and Ambrose's
plans were efficiently carried on, so that all went well till Alice's
marriage; and, a year or two later on, Dorothy's death, in giving birth
to her little girl, no woman was left at the farm but a rough though
kind-hearted old convict, who did her best for the motherless child.

Harold, then sixteen, and master of his father's half of the property,
was already its chief manager.  He was, of course, utterly
unrestrained, doing all kinds of daring and desperate things in the
exuberance of his growing strength, and, though kind to his feeble
uncle, under no authority, and a thorough young barbarian of the woods;
the foremost of all the young men in every kind of exploit, as
marksman, rider, hunter, and what-not, and wanting also to be foremost
in the good graces of Meg Cree, the handsome daughter of the keeper of
the wayside store on the road to Sydney, where young stock-farmers were
wont to meet, with the price of their wool fresh in their hands.  It
was the rendezvous for all that was collectively done in the district;
and many were the orgies and revelries in which Harold had shared when
a mere boy in all but strength and stature, and ungovernable in
proportion to the growing forces within him.

Of course she accepted him, with his grand physical advantages and his
good property.  There was rivalry enough to excite him, her beauty was
sufficient to fire his boyish fancy; and opposition only maddened his
headstrong will.  A loud, boisterous, self-willed boy, with already
strength, courage, and power beyond those of most grown men; his
inclination light and unformed, as the attachments of his age usually
are, was so backed that he succeeded where failure would have been a
blessing.

My poor brother Eustace! what must not Harold's marriage have been to
him!  Into the common home, hitherto peaceful if mournful, was brought
this coarse, violent, uneducated woman, jealous of him and his family,
unmeasured in rudeness, contemning all the refinements to which he
clung, and which even then were second nature to the youths, boasting
over him for being a convict, whereas her father was a free settler,
and furious at any act of kindness or respect to him from her husband.

She must have had a sort of animal jealousy, for the birth of her first
child rendered her so savagely intolerant of poor Dora's fondness for
Harold, that the offer of a clergyman's wife to take charge of the
little girl was thankfully accepted by her father, though it separated
him from his darling by more than fifty miles.

The woman's plan seemed to be to persecute the two Eustaces out of her
house, since she could not persuade Harold that it was not as much
theirs as his own.  They clung on, as weak men do, for want of energy
to make a change, and Eustace said his father would never complain; but
Harold never guessed how much she made him suffer. Home had become a
wretched place to all, and Harold was more alienated from it, making
long expeditions, staying out as long and as late as he could whenever
business or pleasure called him away, and becoming, alas, more headlong
and reckless in the pursuit of amusement.  There were fierce hot words
when he came home, and though a tender respect for his uncle was the
one thing in which he never failed, the whole grand creature was being
wrecked and ruined by the wild courses to which home misery was driving
him.

After about three years of this kind of life, Meg, much against his
will, went to her father's station for the birth of her second child;
lingered in the congenial atmosphere there far longer than was
necessary after her recovery, and roused Harold's jealousy to a violent
pitch by her demeanour towards a fellow of her own rank, whom she
probably would have married but for Harold's unfortunate advantages,
and whom she now most perilously preferred.

The jollification after the poor child's long-deferred christening
ended in furious language on both sides, Meg insisting that she would
not go home while "the old man" remained at Boola Boola, Harold
swearing that she should come at once, and finally forcing her into his
buggy, silencing by sheer terror her parents' endeavours to keep them
at least till morning, rather than drive in his half-intoxicated
condition across the uncleared country in the moonlight.

In the early morning Harold stood at their door dazed and bleeding,
with his eldest child crushed and moaning in his arms.  Almost without
a word he gave it to the grandmother, and then guided the men at hand,
striding on silently before them, to the precipitous bank of a deep
gulley some twelve miles off.  In the bottom lay the carriage broken to
pieces, and beside it, where Harold had dragged them out, Meg and her
baby both quite dead--where he had driven headlong down in the darkness.

The sun was burning hot when they brought her back in the cart, Harold
walking behind with the little one in his arms, and when he had laid it
down at home, the elder one waited till he took it.  It was a fine boy
of two years old, the thing he loved best in the world; but with a
broken spine there was no hope for it, and for a whole day and night he
held it, pacing the room, and calling it, speaking to and noticing no
one else, and touching no food, only slaking his thirst with the liquor
that stood at hand, until the poor little thing died in convulsions.

Unhappily, he had scarcely laid it down beside its mother and brother,
when he saw his rival in the outer room of the store, and with one
deadly imprecation, and a face which Eustace could not think of without
horror, challenged him to fight, and in a second or two had struck him
down, with a fractured skull.  But the deed was done in undoubted brain
fever.  That was quite established, and for ten days after he was
desperately ill and in the wildest delirium, probably from some injury
to the head in the fall, aggravated by all that followed.

Neiher magistrate nor doctor was called in, but Prometesky came to
their help, and when he grew calmer, brought him home, where his
strength rallied, but his mind was for some time astray.  For weeks he
alternated between moods of speechless apathy and hours of frenzy,
which, from his great strength, must have been fatal to someone if he
had not always known his gentle, feeble old uncle, and obeyed his
entreaties, even when Prometesky lost power with him.

In this remote part of the country no one interfered; the Crees, whose
presence maddened him, were afraid to approach, and only Prometesky
sustained the hopes of the two Eustaces by his conviction that this was
not permanent insanity, but a passing effect of the injury; and they
weathered that dreadful time till the frantic fits ceased, and there
was only the dull, silent, stoniness of look and manner, lasting on
after his health had entirely returned, and he had begun mechanically
to attend to the farm and stock, and give orders to the men.

The final cure was the message that Dora was lost in the Bush. Harold
had the keen sagacity of a black fellow, and he followed up the track
with his unwearied strength until, on the third day, he found her,
revived her with the food he had brought with him, and carried her
home.  There was only just nourishment enough to support her, and he
took none himself, so that when he laid her down beside her father, he
was so spent that, after a mouthful or two, he slept for twenty hours
without moving, as he had never rested since the accident; and when he
woke, and Dora ran up and stroked his face, it was the first time he
had been seen to smile.  Ever since he had been himself again, though
changed from the boy of exuberant spirits, and the youth of
ungovernable inclinations, into a grave, silent man, happier apparently
in Dora's vehement affection than in anything else, and, at any rate,
solaced, and soothed by the child's fondness and dependence upon him.
This was two years ago, and no token of mental malady had since shown
itself.

My poor brother Eustace!  My heart yearned to have been able to comfort
him.  His tender nature had been all along the victim of others, and he
was entirely shattered by these last miseries; an old man when little
more than forty, and with heart disease so much accelerated by distress
and agitation, that he did not live a month after Dora's adventure; but
at least he had the comfort of seeing Harold's restoration, and being
able to commit the other two to his charge, being no doubt aware that
his son was at the best a poor weak being, and that Harold's nature
would rise under responsibility which would call out its generosity.

Harold had never touched liquor since the day of his child's death, nor
spoken of it; but when his dying uncle begged him to watch over his
young cousins, he took up the Bible that lay on the bed, and,
unsolicited, took a solemn oath to taste nothing of the kind for the
rest of his life.

Afterwards the three had lived on together at Boola Boola.  Then had
come the tidings of the inheritance supposed to be Harold's, and with
the relief of one glad to make a new beginning, to have a work to do,
and leave old things behind, he had taken both the others with him.

So it was true!  My noble-looking Harold had those dark lines in his
spectrum.  Wild ungovernable strength had whirled him in mere boyhood
at the beck of his passions, and when most men are entering freshly
upon life, he was already saddened and sobered by sin and suffering.
The stories whispered of him were more than true.  I remember I cried
over them as I sat alone that evening.  Eustace had not told all with
the extenuations that I discovered gradually, some even then by
cross-questioning, and much by the tuition of that sisterly affection
that had gone out from me to Harold, and fastened on him as the one
who, to me, represented family ties.

I never thought of breaking with him.  No, if I had been told he might
be insane that very night, it would have bound me to him the more.  And
when I went to bid him "Good-night" and take away Dora, and saw the
massive features in their stillness light up into a good-natured smile
of thanks at my inquiries, I could believe it all the less.  He was
lying cornerwise across the bed, with a stool beyond for his feet to
rest on, and laughed a little as he said he always had to contrive
thus, he never found a bed long enough; and our merriment over this
seemed to render what Eustace had told me even more incongruous in one
so scrupulously gentle.

That gentleness was perhaps reactionary in one who had had such lessons
in keeping back his strength.  He had evidently come forth a changed
man.  But that vow of his--was it the binding of a worse lion than that
he had fought with to-day?  Yet could such things be done in the might
of a merely human will?  And what token was there of the higher aid
being invoked?  My poor Harold!  I could only pray for him!  Alas! did
he pray for himself?

I was waked in early morning by Dora's vociferous despair at the
disappearance of her big patient, and then Eustace's peremptory fretful
tone was heard silencing her by explaining that Harold's hurts had
become so painful that he had walked off to Mycening to have the
bandages loosened.

Indeed, when we met at breakfast, Eustace seemed to think himself
injured by the interruption of his slumbers by Harold's coming to him
for assistance in putting on his clothes, and stared at my dismay at
his having permitted such an exertion.  Before long, however, we saw an
unmistakable doctor's gig approaching, and from it emerged Harold and
Mr. Yolland.  I saw now that he was a sturdy, hard-working-looking
young man of seven or eight and twenty, with sandy hair, and an honest,
open, weather-beaten face.  He had a rather abrupt manner, but much
more gentleman-like than that of the usual style of young Union
doctors, who are divided between fine words and affectation and
Sawbones roughness.

He said he had come in to enforce on us what he could not get his
patient to believe--that it was madness to take such liberties with
himself, while such serious wounds were so fresh; and certainly Harold
did not seem to suppose a two mile walk more of an exertion than a turn
on the terrace; indeed, but for Mr. Yolland, he would have set off
again after breakfast for the interrupted quest of horses at the fair.
This, however, was forbidden, with a hint about even the strongest
constitution not being able to defy tetanus.  This made us all look
grave, and submission being promised, the young doctor took his leave,
saying he would come in the evening and dress the hands again for the
night.

"Why _did_ you go to that fellow?" asked Eustace.  "It is the old
doctor who attends _gentlemen_; he is only the partner."

"He is good enough for me," said Harold.  "I was right glad to meet
him."

Then it appeared that as Harold was striding into town, half distracted
with the pain of his hands, in the sunrise of that April morning, he
had had the good fortune to meet Mr. Yolland just coming from the
cottage where the poor little boy lay who had been injured by the lion.
The fright and shock had nearly killed the mother, and the young doctor
had been up all night, trying to save her, while on the floor, in a
drunken sleep, lay the father, a navvy, who had expended the money
lavished on the child by the spectators of the accident, in a revel at
the public house.  If any were left, it was all in the brute's pocket,
and the only hope of peace was when he should have drunk it up.

Eustace went off to the fair to look at horses, Harold impressing on
him to do nothing final in haste; and I could see that, while proud of
doing anything on his own account, he was almost afraid of the venture
alone.  Tired by his sleepless night and morning walk, Harold, when we
went into the hall for Dora's lessons, lay down on the white bear-skin,
let us build a pile of cushions for his head, and thanked us with
"That's nice."  I suppose he had never been waited on before, he smiled
with such a grateful look, almost of surprise.

Have I not said that ours was a black oak-panelled hall, with a wide
fireplace, a gallery and oriel window, matted, and so fitted up as to
be a pleasant resort for summer days.  Our lessons took place there,
because I had found that my old schoolroom, out of sight and sound of
everything, was such an intolerable prison to my little wild Bush girl,
that she really could not learn there, since her very limited attention
could only be secured, under the certainty that Harold did not leave
the house without her.

He bade her let him hear how well she could read, but he was very soon
fast asleep, and I was persuading her that the multiplication table
could not disturb his slumbers, when, at the sound of horses' feet, she
darted from my side, like an arrow from a bow, to the open front door,
and there waved her hand in command, calling to the rider in a hushed
voice, "He is asleep."

I followed, expecting to see Eustace; but the rider was instead Dermot
Tracy, who in unfeigned alarm asked if he were seriously ill; and when
I laughed and explained, he gave his horse, to the groom, and came
quietly enough, to satisfy Dora, into the hall with us.

There he stood transfixed, gazing at the great sleeping figure with a
passion of enthusiasm in his dark-grey eyes.  "Glorious!" he said.
"Splendid fellow!  Worthy of the deed, Lucy!  It was the most plucky
thing I ever saw!"

"You distinguished yourself too," I said.

"I?  Why, I had a rifle.  I galloped down to Grice's for mine at the
first, when I saw the menagerie people were cowed.  What's that to
going at him alone, and mastering him too, as he had done before those
idiots thought proper to yell?"

Being talked about, of course, awoke Harold; his eyes opened, and he
answered for himself, greeting Dermot heartily.  Only then did we
understand the full history of what had happened.  The lion-tamer,
whose part it was to exhibit the liberty he could take with the
animals, was ill, and his assistant, after much bravado as to his equal
power, had felt his courage quail, and tried to renew it with drink.
Thus he was in no state to perceive that he had only shot-to the bolt
of the door of the cage; and his behaviour had so irritated the beast
that, after so dealing with him that he lay in a most dangerous state,
he had dashed out at the door in rage and terror, and, after seizing
the hindmost of the flying crowd, had lain down between the shafts of
the waggon, as we had seen him.

The keepers had lost their heads in the panic, and no one durst go near
him.  The lion-tamer had to be called from his bed, in lodgings in the
town, and only came on the scene just as Dermot's rifle had finished
the struggle.  The master had quite seen the necessity, but was in
great despair at the loss of so valuable an animal.

"I'll share in making it good to him," said Harold.

"You?  You are the last to do so.  If you had only been let alone, the
beast would have been captured unhurt.  No, no!  I settled all that, as
it was I who meddled in the matter when, I believe, you could have
settled him yourself."

"I don't know that," said Harold.  "I was glad enough to see your rifle
at his ear.  But I should like to have his skin, if they would sell it."

Dermot explained that he had been bargaining for the skin, and hoped
Mr. Alison would accept it from him, but here Harold's resolution won
the day, much as Dermot evidently longed to lay the trophy at his feet.
Poor Dermot, I could see hero-worship growing in his eyes, as they
talked about horses, endlessly as men can and do talk of them, and
diligent inquiries elicited from Harold what things he had done with
the unbroken animal in Australia.

I went off the scene at once, but when I returned to luncheon they were
at it still.  And Eustace's return with two steeds for Harold's
judgment renewed the subject with double vigour.  Dermot gave his
counsel, and did not leave Arghouse without reiterating an invitation
to the cousins to come to-morrow to his cottage at Biston, to be
introduced to his stables, let doctors say what they might, and Eustace
was in raptures at the distinguished acquaintance he fancied he had
made for himself.  He had learnt something of Mr. Tracy's sporting
renown, and saw himself introduced to all the hunting world of the
county, not to say of England.

It gave me a great deal to consider, knowing, as I did full well, that
poor Dermot's acquaintance was not likely to bring him into favour with
society, even if it were not dangerous in itself.  And my poor mother
would not have been delighted at my day, a thing I had totally
forgotten in the pleasantness of having someone to talk to; for it was
six weeks since I had spoken to anyone beyond the family, except Miss
Woolmer.  Besides, it was Dermot!  And that was enough to move me in
itself.

I think I have said that his father was an Irish landlord, who was shot
at his own hall-door in his children's infancy.  Lady Diana brought
them back to her old neighbourhood, and there reigned over one of her
brother's villages, with the greatest respect and admiration from all,
and viewed as a pattern matron, widow, and parent.  My mother was, I
fancy, a little bit afraid of her, and never entirely at ease with her.
I know I was not, but she was so "particular" about her children, that
it was a great distinction to be allowed to be intimate with them, and
my mother was proud of my being their licensed playfellow, when
Horsmans and Stympsons were held aloof.  But even in those days, when I
heard the little Tracys spoken of as pattern children, I used to have
an odd feeling of what it was to be behind the scenes, and know how
much of their fame rested on Di.  I gloried in the knowledge how much
more charming the other two were than anyone guessed, who thought them
models of propriety.

In truth, Dermot did not keep that reputation much longer than his
petticoats.  Ere long he was a pickle of the first order, equalling the
sublime naughtiness of Holiday House, and was continually being sent
home by private tutors, who could not manage him.  All the time I had a
secret conviction that, if he had been my own mother's son, she could
have managed him, and he would never have even wished to do what she
disapproved; but Lady Diana had no sympathy or warmth in her, and while
she loved her children she fretted them, and never thawed nor unbent;
and when she called in her brother's support, Dermot's nerves were
driven frantic by the long harangues, and his relief was in antics
which of course redoubled his offence.  After he had put crackers into
his uncle's boots, peppered the coachman's wig, inserted a live toad in
the centre of a fortification of clear jelly at a great luncheon, and
had one Christmas painted the two stone wild boars that guard the iron
gates of Erymanth Castle into startling resemblance of the porkers as
displayed in butchers' shops, with a little tin pail at the snout of
each, labelling each sevenpence-ha'penny per pound, his uncle had
little more hope of him.

Dreading his father's fate for him, Lady Diana put him into the Guards,
to prevent him from living in Ireland, and there he fell into all the
usual temptations of his kind, so that everybody came to look on him as
a black sheep, and all the time I knew that, if any one had taken him
in the right way, he might have been kept out of it.  Why there was one
talk that he and I had at a picnic on Kalydon Moor, which showed me how
hopeless he was of ever really pleasing or satisfying his mother
without being, what he could never be, like his uncle in his youth, and
how knowing that I cared really might make a difference to him.  But
mamma and Lady Diana were both very much vexed about that talk; mamma
was angry with me; and when Dermot, in a poetical game a little after,
sent me some verses--well, with a little more blarney and tenderness
than the case required--there was a real uproar about them.  Di showed
them to her mother, who apologised in her lofty way for my having been
insulted.  Oh! how angry it did make me; and mamma absolutely cried
about it.  It seems foolish to say so, but if they would have let us
alone I could have done something towards inducing him to keep
straight, whereas the way he was treated by his mother and Di only made
him worse.  Poor mamma! I don't wonder at her, when even his own mother
and uncle would not stand up for him; but I knew, whenever we met
afterwards at ball or party, that it was pain and grief to her for me
to speak a word to him, and that she thought me wrong to exchange
anything beyond bare civility.  He was vexed, too, and did not try; and
we heard worse and worse of him, especially when he went over to his
place in Ireland.

Then came the Crimean war, and all the chances of showing what I knew
he really was; but at the Alma he was wounded, not very dangerously,
but just touching his lungs, and after a long illness in London, the
doctors said he must not go back to Sebastopol, for to serve in the
trenches would be certain death to him.  He wanted to go back all the
same, and had an instinct that it would be better for him, but his
mother and uncle prevented him and made him sell out, and after that,
when he had nothing to do--oh! there's no need to think of it.

In the course of this last year he had taken the shooting of Kalydon
Moor, and a house with it, with immense stables, which one of the
Horsmans had made for his hunters, and had ruined himself and died. He
had not quarrelled with his mother--indeed nobody could quarrel with
Dermot--and he used to go over to see her, but he would not live at
home, and since he had been at Biston I had never once met him till I
saw him run up to attack the lion, the only man in all the fair except
Harold who had courage to do so!  I could not help my heart bounding at
the thought, and afterwards enjoying the talk with him that I could not
help.  But then it made me feel undutiful to my dear mother, and then
there was the further difficulty to be faced. It would have been all
very well to live with my nephews if we had been in a desert island,
but I could not expect them not to make friends of their own; and if
mine chose to drop me, how would it be for me, at my age, all alone in
the house?

Harold was forced to confess that he had done too much that first day.
His hand was inflamed, and pain and weariness forbade all thought of
spending a long day from home; and, besides, there arrived letters by
the morning's post which left grave lines on his brow.

So Eustace drove off alone, a good deal elated at such an expedition,
and I took Harold to my own little sitting-room, so despised by Dora,
for the convenience of bathing the flesh wounds on the right hand,
which, though really the least injured, was a much greater torment than
the broken fingers, and had allowed him very little sleep.

It was the first time he had been in the room, and on the chimney-piece
stood open a miniature-case containing a portrait, by Thorburn, of my
little brother Percy, in loose brown holland.  Harold started as he
came in, and exclaimed, "Where did that come from?"  I told him, and he
exclaimed, "Shut it up, please," and sat down with his back to it,
resigning his hand to me, and thanking me warmly when the fomentation
brought some relief, and when I asked if I could do any more for him he
seemed undecided, extracted some letters from his pocket with his
two-fifths of a hand, and sent Dora to his room for his writing-case.
I offered to write anything for him, but he said, "Let me try," and
then endeavoured; but he found that not only did the effort hurt him
unbearably, but that he could not guide the pen for more than a word or
two; so he consented to make use of me, saying, however, "Dora, it is
no use your staying in; you had better go out."

Dora, of course, wanted to stay; but I devised that she should go,
under the escort of one of the maids, to carry some broth to the
wounded boy, an expedition which would last her some time, and which
Harold enforced with all his might as a personal favour, till she
complied.

"Thank you," said Harold; "you see this must be done at once, or we
shall have them coming over here."

He gave me the sheet he had begun with "Dear Mother," and went on
dictating.  It was not at all after Julius Caesar's fashion of
dictating.  He sat with his eyes on his own letter, and uttered one
brief but ponderous sentence after another, each complete in all its
parts, and quite unhesitating, though slowly uttered.  I gathered it
up, wrote it down, said "Well," and waited for more in silence, till,
after I had looked at him once or twice to see whether he were asleep
or in a reverie, another such sentence followed, and I began to know
him very much better.

After saying "My hands have been lamed for a few days, and my aunt is
so good as to write for me," he went on to say, in forcible and not
very affectionate terms, that "Smith must not think of coming home;
Eustace could do nothing for him there, but as long as the family
remained at Nelson their allowance should be increased by one hundred
pounds a year."  I filled up an order, which he signed on a Sydney bank
for the first quarter.  "It must not be more," he said, as he told me
the sum, "or they will be taking their passage with it."

"No more?" I asked, when he prepared to conclude this short letter.

"No.  Smith reads all her letters."

"That is very hard on you."

"She meant to do well for me, but it was a great mistake.  If Smith
comes home to prey upon Eustace, it will be a bad business."

"But he has no claim on Eustace, whatever he may think he has on you."

"He is more likely to come now.  He knows he can get nothing out of
me--" Then, as I looked at the order, he added, "Beyond my mother's
rights.  Poor mother!"

I found that the schoolmaster had been induced to marry Alice Alison in
the expectation that her share in the proceeds of Boola Boola would be
much larger than it proved to be.  He had fawned on the two Eustaces,
and obtained all he could from the elder, but, going too far at last,
had been detected by the Sydney bank in what amounted to an
embezzlement.  Prosecution was waived, and he was assisted to leave
Australia and make a fresh start in New Zealand, whence he had never
ceased to endeavour to gain whatever he could from Boola Boola. He
could twist Eustace round his finger, and Harold, though loathing and
despising him, would do anything for his mother, but was resolved, for
Eustace's sake, to keep them at a distance, as could only be done by
never allowing them a sufficient sum at once to obtain a passage home,
and he knew the habits of Smith and his sons too well to expect them to
save it.  In fact, the letter before him, which he ended by giving me
to read, had been written by the poor woman at her husband's dictation,
in the belief that Harold was the heir, to demand their passage-money
from him, and that there was a sad little postscript put in afterwards,
unknown to her tyrant.  "My boy, don't do it.  It will be much better
for you not;" and, brave woman as she was, she added no entreaty that
his refusal might be softened.  I asked if she had had any more
children.  "No, happily," was Harold's answer.  "If I might only wring
that fellow's neck, I could take care of her."  In fact, I should
think, when he wanted to come within Harold's grasp, he hardly knew
what he asked.

This finished, it appeared that Harold wanted to have a letter finished
to Prometesky which he had begun some days before.  This astonished me
more, both by the questions Prometesky had been asking, and the answers
Harold was returning, as to the state of the country and the condition
of the people.  They did much to relieve my mind of the fears I had
sometimes entertained of Harold's being a ferocious demagogue incited
thereto by his friend.

Who would have thought there was so much depth in his brain?  He ended
by saying, "Eustace takes kindly to his new position, and is gone today
to see Mr. Tracy, nephew to Lord Erymanth, but who does not appear
disposed to carry on the same hostility to us."

I exclaimed at his having said nothing of the lion either to his mother
or his friend, and asked leave to add it, which he did not refuse,
though saying there was no use in it, and that he wanted me to do one
thing more for him--namely, to write to his agent in Sydney an order
which he signed for the transmission of some money to England.  He had
learnt from Mr. Yolland that morning that the "Dragon's Head" and some
adjoining houses at Mycening were for sale, and that the purchaser
could have immediate possession.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Shut it up."

"You can't do much good by shutting up one public-house."

"Eustace will do the same with those on his property."

"I am very much afraid your crusade will not succeed, unless you can
put something better into people's minds."

"I shall see about that," he answered, thinking, I believe, that I was
going to suggest religion, from all mention of which he shrank, as if
it touched a wound.  "Smith talked of religion," he once said, with a
shudder.  Besides, he was a creature in the superabundance of all human
faculties to whom their exercise seemed for a time all-sufficient, and
the dark shade of horror and remorse in the depths of his heart made
him unwilling to look back or think.  At any rate, he silenced me on
that head; but, thinking, perhaps, that he had been unkindly blunt, he
resumed, "There is no risk for Eustace in this acquaintance?"

In spite of the pang that smote me, I felt that this was the only time
I might have for that word of warning which seemed incumbent on me.  "I
do not think there is danger in his going to-day, but it does seem
right to tell you that poor Dermot Tracy is said to be very
extravagant, and to lead a wild life.  And Harold, though I have known
him all my life, I have been thinking that it will not do for me to be
here, if this should become a resort of the set of people he has made
friends of."

Harold answered in his steady, grave way, "I see.  But, Lucy, I suppose
none of them have been so bad as I have been?"--rather as if he were
wondering over the matter.

"But you belong to me," I answered, and I saw a look of real pleasure
meet my smile.

"I wish I knew what was best for Eustace," he said, after a few more
moments' thought.  "Is it doing him harm for me to be here?  I could go
back to New South Wales at once, only in some ways I don't think the
old fellow could get on without me, till he is more used to it all, and
in safe hands."

I had no hesitation in answering that Eustace would be much worse off
without his cousin, and that the treatment we were receiving was
chiefly on account of the fathers of both, not personal to Harold.

"Then you think it would not help him for me to leave him?"

"I think he is far more likely to live it down with you to help him."

"But, Lucy, are you being given up by all your friends for our sakes?
We did not know it meant that when we asked you to stay with us!"

"No more did I.  But don't be uneasy about that, Harold dear.  Don't
you think one's own flesh and blood is more than all such friends?"

"I should not have thought two fellows like us could have been worth
much to you," said Harold, gravely pondering.  "That pretty little
thing who was with you the night we came; she has never been here
again.  Don't you miss her?"

"It is not her fault," I said.  "Besides, nothing is like the tie of
blood."

I shall never forget the look that was in Harold's eyes.  I was
standing over him, putting some fresh warm water on his hand.  He put
back his head and looked up earnestly in my face, as if to see whether
I meant it, then said, "We are very thankful to you for thinking so."

I could not help bending and touching his forehead with my lips.  His
eyes glistened and twinkled, but he said nothing for a little space,
and then it was, "If any one like you had been out there--"

I don't think I ever had a compliment that gave me more pleasure, for
there was somehow an infinite sense of meaning in whatever Harold said,
however short it might be, as if his words had as much force in them as
his muscles.

After a good deal more of silent sponging and some knitting of his
brows, either from thought or from pain, he said, "Then, as I
understand, you cast in your lot with us, and give us the blessing of
your presence and care of poor little Dora, to help to set Eustace in
his proper place in society.  I see then that it is your due that we
should bring no one here of whom you do not fully approve."

"It is not only a matter of approval," I explained.  "There are many
with whom I could freely associate in general society, or if I had any
lady with me, whom I ought not to have constantly here with only you
two."

"England is different from the Bush," he answered, and meditated for
ten minutes more, for no doubt it was the Australian practice to offer
free quarters to all comers without Mrs. Grundy, who had hardly yet had
her free passage.  My heart smote me lest I were acting unkindly for
her sake, but then surely I was saving my allegiance to my dead mother,
and while I was still thinking it over, Harold said:

"You are more to us than any one could be; Eustace shall see the thing
rightly, and while you are good enough to make this our home, I promise
you that no one shall be invited here but as you like."

It was a bold promise, especially as it turned out that Eustace had
been making large invitations to the Arghouse fishing to Dermot Tracy
and some officer friends whom he had found at Biston, and who seemed to
have made themselves very pleasant.  I bade Harold never mind about
that sort of invitation, as it need not affect Dora or me, since we
could keep out of the way of it, being unconcerned with gentlemen's
parties.  Miss Woolmer said I had done right, and gave us a general
invitation to spend the evening with her if Eustace wished to entertain
his friends, though she hinted, "Don't be too ready to leave the coast
clear.  Remember that you are a wholesome check."




CHAPTER III.

THE "DRAGON'S HEAD."


Harold's right hand healed quickly, and was free in a few days, but the
left had to be kept for some time in a sling, and be daily attended to,
though he heeded it but little, walking miles to look at horses and to
try them, for he could manage them perfectly with one hand, and in this
way he saw a good deal of Dermot Tracy, who exerted himself to find a
horse to carry the mighty frame.

The catastrophe at the fair had gained him two friends, entirely unlike
one another--Dermot, who thenceforward viewed him with unvarying
hero-worship, and accepted Eustace as his appendage; and George
Yolland, the very reverse of all Dermot's high-bred form of Irishism,
and careless, easy self-indulgence.

A rough-hewn, rugged young man, intensely in earnest, and therefore
neither popular nor successful was that young partner of Dr. Kingston.
Had Harold been squire, the resignation of the patient into his hands
would have been less facile; but as a mere Australian visitor, he was
no prize, and might follow his own taste if he preferred the
practitioner to whom club, cottage, and union patients were abandoned.

By him Harold was let into those secrets of the lower stratum of
society he had longed to understand.  Attention to the poor boy who had
been torn by the lion brought him into the great village of workmen's
huts, that had risen up round the Hydriot clay works on the Lerne.

These had been set up by a company about eighteen years before, much
against all our wills.  With Lord Erymanth at our head, we had opposed
with all our might the breaking up of the beautiful moorland that ran
right down into Mycening, and the defilement of our pure and rapid
Lerne; but modern progress had been too strong for us.  Huge brick
inclosures with unpleasant smoky chimneys had arisen, and around them a
whole colony of bare, ugly little houses, filled with squalid women and
children, little the better for the men's wages when they were high,
and now that the Company was in a languishing state, miserable beyond
description.  We county people had simply viewed ourselves as the
injured parties by this importation, bemoaned the ugliness of the
erections, were furious at the interruptions to our country walks,
prophesied the total collapse of the Company, and never suspected that
we had any duties towards the potters.  The works were lingering on,
only just not perishing; the wages that the men did get, such as they
were, went in drink; the town in that quarter was really unsafe in the
evening; and the most ardent hope of all the neighbourhood was, that
the total ruin constantly expected would lead to the migration of all
the wretched population.

Mr. Yolland, who attended most of their sicknesses, used to tell
fearful things of the misery, vice, and hardness, and did acts of
almost heroic kindness among them, which did not seem consistent with
what, to my grief and dismay, was reported of this chosen companion of
Harold--that physical science had conducted him into materialism. The
chief comfort I had was that Miss Woolmer liked him and opened her
house to him.  She was one of the large-hearted women who can see the
good through the evil, and was interested by contact with all phases of
thought; and, moreover, the lad should not be lost for want of the
entree to something like a home, because the upper crust of Mycening
considered him as "only Dr. Kingston's partner," and the Kingstons
themselves had the sort of sense that he was too much for them which
makes a spider dislike to have a bluebottle in his web.

She was interested, too, rather sadly in the crusade without the cross
that the two young men were trying to undertake against the
wretchedness of those potters.

It was much in their favour that the landlord, who was also the owner
of the "Dragon's Head," was invited to join a brother in America
without loss of time, and was ready to sell and give immediate
possession; so that Harry actually owned it in a fortnight from first
hearing of the offer, having, of course, given a heavy price for it.

The evening it came into his possession he went down, and, standing at
the door, tried to explain why he had closed it, and why he could not
bear to see its frequenters spending their wages on degrading
themselves and making their homes miserable.  In no mood for a
temperance harangue, the men drowned, or would have drowned aught but
his short incisive sentences, in clamours for their beer, and one big
bully pushed forward to attack him.  His left hand was still in the
sling, but with the other he caught hold of the fellow by the collar,
and swung him over the side of the stone steps as helpless as a puppy
dog, shaking him till his teeth chattered ere setting him on his feet.
"If you wish for any more," he said, "we'll have it out as soon as this
hand is well."

That made them cheer him, and the fellow slunk away; while Harold,
having gained a hearing, told them that he meant to make the former
"Dragon's Head" a place where they might smoke, read the papers, play
games, and have any refreshment such as coffee, tea, or ginger-beer, at
which they hissed, and only one or two observed, "I am sure you wishes
us well, sir."

It was a good-sized house, and he meant to put in a steady couple to
keep it, giving up two upper rooms to make a laboratory for Mr.
Yolland, whose soul was much set on experiments for which his lodgings
gave him no space; but the very day when Harold opened his
coffee-rooms, as he went down the street, an "Original Dragon's Head"
and a "Genuine Dragon's Head" grinned defiance at him, in the full
glory of teeth, fiery breath, and gilded scales, on the other side of
the way.  I believe they had been beershops before; but, be that as it
may, they devoured quite as many as their predecessor, and though
newspapers and draught-boards lay all about the place, they attracted
only two clients!

And the intended closing of all the beer-houses on the Arghouse
property, except the time-honoured "Blue Boar" on the village green,
seemed likely to have the same effect; for the notices to their
holders, grimly resisted by Bullock, seemed only to cause dozens of
householders to represent the absolute need of such houses whenever
they did not belong to us.

"To destroy one is to produce two," sighed Harold.

"There's nothing to be done but to strike at the root," I said.

"What's that?" said Harold.

"Man's evil propensities," I said.

"Humph," said Harold.  "If I could manage the works now!  They say the
shares are to be had for an old song."

"Oh, Harry, don't have anything to do with them," I entreated.  "They
have ruined every creature who has meddled with them, and done
unmitigated mischief."

Harold made no answer, but the next day he was greatly stimulated by a
letter from Prometesky, part of which he read to me, in its perfect
English, yet foreign idiom.

"I long to hear of the field of combat we had to quit, because one
party was too stolid, the other too ardent.  I see it all before me
with the two new champions freshly girded for the strife, but a
peaceful strife, my friend.  Let our experience be at least profitable
to you, and let it be a peaceful contention of emulation such as is
alone suited to that insular nation which finds its strongest stimulus
in domestic comfort and wealth.  Apropos, has some one pursued a small
discovery of mine, that, had I not been a stranger of a proscribed
nation, and had not your English earl and the esquires been hostile to
all save the hereditary plough, might have found employment for
thousands and prevented the history of your fathers and of myself?
That bed of argillaceous deposit around the course of your Lerne, which
I found to be of the same quality as the porcelain clay of Meissen,
does it still merely bear a few scanty blades of corn, or is its value
appreciated, and is it occupying hundreds of those who starved and were
discontented, to the great surprise of their respectable landlords?  I
wonder whether a few little figures that I modelled in the clay for
specimens, and baked in my hostess's oven, are still in existence.  The
forms of clay were there.  Alas!  I asked in vain of your English
magnates for the fire from heaven to animate the earth, or rather I
would have brought it, and I suffered."

It was amusing to see how much delighted honest Harold was with this
letter, and how much honoured he seemed by his dear old Prometesky
having spent so much time and thought upon writing to him.  It fired
him with doubled ardour to investigate the Hydriot Company, and he
could hardly wait till a reasonable hour the next day.  Then he took
Eustace down with him and returned quite talkative (for him) with the
discoveries he had made, from one of the oldest workmen who had become
disabled from the damp of working in the clay.

The Company had been set up by a clever speculating young attorney, but
the old man remembered that "that there foreign gentleman, the same as
was sent to foreign parts with the poor young squires," was "always
a-puddling about in it; and they did say as how he tried to get my
lord, and Squire Horsman, and Squire Stympson to see to setting up
summut there; but they wasn't never for 'speriments, and there was no
more talk of it not till that there young Crabbe got hold, they say, of
some little images as he had made, and never rested till he had got up
the Company, and begun the works, having drawn in by his enthusiasm
half the tradesmen and a few of the gentlemen of the place."

Three years of success; then came a bad manager; young Crabbe struggled
in vain to set things right, broke down, and died of the struggle; and
ever since the unhappy affair had lingered on, starving its workmen,
and just keeping alive by making common garden pots and pans and
drain-tiles.  Most people who could had sold out of it, thanking the
Limited Liabilities for its doing them no further harm; and the small
remnant only hung on because no one could be found to give them even
the absurdly small amount that was still said to be the value of their
shares.

That they would find now Harold had fallen in with young Yolland, who
had been singing the old song, first of Prometesky, then of Crabbe, and
had made him listen to it.  Five pounds would now buy a share that used
to be worth a hundred, and that with thanks from the seller that he got
anything from what had long ceased to pay the ghost of a dividend.  And
loose cash was not scarce with Harold; he was able to buy up an amount
which perfectly terrified me, and made me augur that the Hydriot would
swallow all Boola Boola, and more too; and as to Mr. Yolland's promises
of improvements, no one, after past experience, could believe in them.

"Now, Harold, you know nothing of all this intricate business; and as
to these chemical agencies, I am sure you know nothing about them."

"I shall learn."

"You will only be taken in," I went on in my character as good aunt,
"and utterly ruined."

"No matter if I am."

"Only please, at least, don't drag in Eustace and Arghouse."

"Eustace will only have five shares standing in his name to enable him
to be chairman."

"Five too many!  Harold!  I cannot see why you involve yourself in all
this.  You are well off!  You don't care for these foolish hopes of
gain."

"I can't see things go so stupidly to wrack."

The truth was that he saw in it a continuation of Prometesky's work and
his father's, so expostulations were vain.  He had been thoroughly
bitten, and was the more excited at finding that Dermot and Viola Tracy
were both shareholders.  Their father had been a believer in Crabbe,
and had taken a good many shares, and these had been divided between
them at his death.  They could not be sold till they were of age, and
by the time Dermot was twenty-one, no one would buy them; and now, when
they were recalled to his mind, he would gladly have made Harold a
present of them, but Harold would not even buy them; he declared that
he wanted Dermot's vote, as a shareholder, to help in the majority;
and, in fact, the effective male shareholders on the spot were only
just sufficient to furnish directors.  Mr. Yolland bought two shares
that he might have a voice; Eustace was voted into the chair, and the
minority was left to consist of the greatly-soured representative of
the original Crabbe, and one other tradesman, who held on for the sake,
as it seemed, of maintaining adherence to the red pots and pans, as, at
any rate, risking nothing.

Of course I hated and dreaded it all, and it was only by that power
which made it so hard to say nay to Harold, that he got me down to look
at the very lair of the Hydriot Company.  It was a melancholy place;
the buildings were so much larger, and the apparatus so much more
elaborate than there was any use for; and there were so few workmen,
and those so unhealthy and sinister-looking.

I remember the great red central chimney with underground furnaces all
round, which opened like the fiery graves where Dante placed the bad
Popes; and how dreadfully afraid I was that Dora would tumble into one
of them, so that I was glad to see her held fast by the fascination of
the never-superseded potter and his wheel fashioning the clay, while
Mr. Yolland discoursed and Harold muttered assents to some wonderful
scheme that was to economise fuel--the rock on which this furnace had
split.

It has been explained to me over and over again, and I never did more
than understand it for one moment, and if I did recollect all about it,
like a scientific dialogue, nobody would thank me for putting it in
here, so it will be enough to say that it sounded to me very
bewildering and horribly dangerous, not so much to the body as to the
pocket, and I thought the Hydriot bade fair to devour Boola Boola and
Harold, if not Arghouse and Eustace into the bargain.

They meant to have a Staffordshire man down to act as foreman and put
things on a better footing.

"I'll write to my brother to send one," said Mr. Yolland.  "He's a
curate in the potteries; has a wonderful turn for this sort of thing."

"Have you a brother a clergyman?" I said, rather surprised, and to fill
up Harold's silence.

"Yes, my brother Ben.  It's his first curacy, and his two years are all
but up.  I don't know if he will stay on.  He's a right down jolly good
fellow is Ben, and I wish he would come down here."

Neither of us echoed the wish.  Harold had no turn for clergymen after
the specimen of Mr. Smith; and Mr. Yolland, though I could specify
nothing against him but that he was rough and easy, had offended me by
joining us, when I wanted Harold all to myself. Besides, was he not
deluding my nephews into this horrid Hydriot Company, of which they
would be the certain victims?

The Staffordshire man came, and the former workmen looked very bitter
on him.  After a meeting, in which the minority made many vehement
objections, Eustace addressed the workmen in the yards--that is to say,
he thought he did; but Harold and Mr. Yolland made his meaning more
apparent.  A venture in finer workmanship, imitating Etruscan ware, was
to be made, and, if successful, would much increase trade and profits,
and a rise in wages was offered to such as could undertake the
workmanship.  Moreover, it was held out to them that they might become
the purchasers of shares or half shares at the market price, and thus
have an interest in the concern, whereat they sneered as at some new
dodge of the Company for taking them in.  It did not seem to me that
much was done, save making Harry pore over books and accounts, and run
his hands through his hair, till his thick curls stood up in all
directions.

And Miss Woolmer herself was sorry.  She remembered the old story--nay,
she had one of Prometesky's own figures modelled in terra cotta,
defective, of course, as a work of art, but with that fire that genius
can breathe into the imperfect.  She believed it had been meant for the
Hope of Poland.  Alas! the very name reminded one of the old word for
despair, "Wanhope."  But Harold admired it greatly, and both he and
George Yolland seemed to find inspiration in it.

But one summer evening, when the young men were walking up and down the
garden, smoking, we heard something that caused us to look round for a
thunder-cloud, though none could be seen in the clear sky, and some
quarter of an hour after, Richardson hurried out to us with the
tidings, "I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a person come up to say
there has been an explosion at the Hydriot works."

"Impossible!" said Harold.  "There's nothing to explode!"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but it is Mr. Yolland they say has blowed
himself up with his experiments, and all the old 'Dragon's Head' in
Lerne Street, and he is buried under the ruins.  It is all one mass of
ruin, sir, and he under it."

Harold rushed off, without further word or query, and Eustace after
him, and I had almost to fight to hold back Dora, and should hardly
have succeeded if the two had not disappeared so swiftly that she could
not hope to come up with them.

I let her put on her things and come down with me to the lodge-gate to
watch.  I was afraid to go any farther, and there we waited, without
even the relief of a report, till we had heard the great clock strike
quarter after quarter, and were expecting it to strike eleven, when
steps came near at last, and Eustace opened the gate. We threw
ourselves upon him, and he cried out with surprise, then said, "He is
alive!"

"Who! Harold?"

"Harold!  Nonsense.  What should be the matter with Harold?  But he is
going to stay with him--Yolland I mean--for the night!  It was all his
confounded experiments.  It was very well that I went down--nothing was
being done without a head to direct, but they always know what to be at
when _I_ come among them."

No one there knew the cause of the accident, except that it had taken
place in Mr. Yolland's laboratory, where he had been trying
experiments.  The house itself had been violently shattered, and those
nearest had suffered considerably.  Happily, it stood in a yard of its
own, so that none adjoined it, and though the fronts of the two
opposite "Dragon's Heads" had broken windows and torn doors, no person
within them had been more than stunned and bruised.  But the former
"Dragon's Head" itself had become a mere pile of stones, bricks, and
timbers.  The old couple in charge had happily been out, and stood in
dismay over the heap, which Harold and a few of the men were trying to
remove, in the dismal search for Mr. Yolland and the boy he employed to
assist him.  The boy was found first, fearfully burnt about the face
and hands, but protected from being crushed by the boards which had
fallen slantwise over him.  And under another beam, which guarded his
head, but rested on his leg, lay young Yolland.

Harold's strength had raised the beam, and he was drawn out.  He
revived as the night air blew on his face, looked up as Harold lifted
him, said, "I have it," and fainted the next moment.  They had taken
him to his lodgings, where Dr. Kingston had set the broken leg and
bound the damaged rib, but could not yet pronounce on the other
injuries, and Harold had taken on himself the watch for the night.

The explanation that we all held by was, that the damage was caused by
an officious act of the assistant, who, perceiving that it was growing
dark, fired a match, and began to light the gas at the critical moment
of the experiment, by which the means of obtaining the utmost heat at
the smallest expense of fuel was to be attained. It was one of those
senseless acts that no one would have thought of forbidding; and though
the boy, on recovering his senses, owned that the last thing he
remembered was getting the matches and Mr. Yolland shouting to stop
him, there were many who never would believe anything but that it was
blundering of his, and that he was a dangerous and mischievous person
to have in the town.

Harold came home for a little while just as we were having breakfast,
to bring a report that his patient had had a much quieter night than he
expected, and to say that he had telegraphed for the brother and wanted
Eustace to meet him at the station.  The landlady was sitting with the
patient now, and Harold had come home for ice, strawberries, and, above
all, to ask for help in nursing, for the landlady could not, and would
not, do much.  I mentioned a motherly woman as, perhaps, likely to be
useful, but Harold said, "I could do best with Dora."

He had so far learnt that it was not the Bush as not to expect me to
offer, and was quite unprepared for the fire that Eustace and I opened
on him as to the impossibility of his request.  "Miss Alison, _my_
sister," as Eustace said, "going down to a little, common, general
practitioner to wait on him;" while I confined myself to "It won't do
at all, Harold," and promised to hunt up the woman and to send her to
his aid.  But when I had seen her, arranged my housekeeping affairs,
and called Dora to lessons, she was nowhere to be found.

"Then she has gone after Harold!" indignantly exclaimed Eustace.  "It
is too bad!  I declare I will put a stop to it!  To have _my_ sister
demeaning herself to put herself in such a situation for a little Union
doctor!"

I laughed, and observed that no great harm was done with so small a
person, only I could not think what use Harold could make of her; at
which Eustace was no less surprised, for a girl of eight or nine was of
no small value in the Bush, and he said Dora had been most helpful in
the care of her father.  But his dignity was so much outraged that he
talked big of going to bring her home--only he did not go.  I was a
little wounded at Harold having taken her in the face of my opposition,
but I found that that had not been the case, for Eustace had walked to
the lodge with him, and she had rushed after and joined him after he
was in the town.  And at luncheon Eustace fell on me with entreaties
that I would come with him and help him meet "this parson," whom he
seemed to dread unreasonably, as, in fact, he always did shrink from
doing anything alone when he could get a helper.  I thought this would
be, at least, as queer as Dora's nursing of the other brother; but it
seemed so hard for the poor man, coming down in his anxiety, to be met
by Eustace either in his vague or his supercilious mood, that I
consented at last, so that he might have someone of common sense, and
walked down with him.

We could not doubt which was the right passenger, when a young
clergyman, almost as rough-looking as his brother, and as much bearded,
but black where he was yellow, sprang out of a second-class with
anxious looks.  It was I who said at one breath, "There he is! Speak to
him, Eustace!  Mr. Yolland--he is better--he will do well--"

"Thank--thank you--" And the hat was pushed back, with a long breath;
then, as he only had a little black bag to look after, we all walked
together to the lodgings, while the poor man looked bewildered and
unrealising under Eustace's incoherent history of the accident--a far
more conjectural and confused story than it became afterwards.

I waited till Harold came down with Dora; and to my "How could you?"
and Eustace's more severe and angry blame, she replied, "He wanted me;
so of course I went."

Harold said not a word in defence of her or of himself; but when I
asked whether she had been of any use, he said, smiling affectionately
at her, "Wasn't she?"

Then we went and looked at the shattered houses, and Harold showed us
where he had drawn out his poor friend, answering the aggrieved owners
opposite that there would be an inquiry, and means would be found for
compensation.

And when I said, "It is a bad beginning for the Hydriot plans!" he
answered, "I don't know that," and stood looking at the ruins of his
"Dragon's Head" in a sort of brown study, till we grew impatient, and
dragged him home.




CHAPTER IV.

THE WRATH OF DIANA.


Harold did not like clergymen.  "Smith was a clergyman," he said, with
an expressive look; and while George Yolland had his brother and the
nurse I had sent, he merely made daily inquiries, and sometimes sat an
hour with his friend.

Mr. Crosse's curate had kindred in Staffordshire, and offered to
exchange a couple of Sundays with Mr. Benjamin Yolland, and this
resulted in the visitor being discovered to have a fine voice and a
great power of preaching, and as he was just leaving his present
parish, this ended in Mr. Crosse begging him to remain permanently, not
much to Harold's gratification; but the two brothers were all left of
their family, and, different as their opinions were, they were all in
all to each other.

The agreement with Mr. Crosse would hardly have been made, had the
brothers known all that was coming.  George Yolland was in a strange
stupefied state for the first day or two, owing, it was thought, to the
effects of the gas; but he revived into the irritable state of
crankiness which could not submit in prudent patience to Dr. Kingston's
dicta, but argued, and insisted on his own treatment of himself, and
his own theory of the accident, till he as good as told the doctor that
he was an old woman.  Whether it were in consequence or not, I don't
know, but as soon as Dr. Kingston could persuade himself that a shock
would do no harm, he wrote a polite letter explaining that the
unfortunate occurrence from which Mr. Yolland was suffering had so
destroyed the confidence of his patients, that he felt it due to them
to take steps to dissolve the partnership.

Perhaps it was no wonder.  Such things were told and believed, that
those who had never yet been attended by George Yolland believed him a
wild and destructive theorist.  Miss Avice Stympson asked Miss Woolmer
how she could sleep in her bed when she knew he was in the town, and
the most astonishing stories of his practice were current, of which I
think the mildest was, that he had pulled out all a poor girl's teeth
for the sake of selling them to a London dentist, and that, when in a
state of intoxication, he had cut off a man's hand, because he had a
splinter in his finger.

However, the effect was, that Harold summoned a special meeting of the
shareholders, the same being nearly identical with the Directors of the
Hydriot Company, and these contrived to get George Yolland, Esquire,
appointed chemist and manager of the works, with a salary of 70 pounds
per annum, to be increased by a percentage on the sales! Crabbe
objected vehemently, but was in the minority.  The greater number were
thoroughly believers in the discovery made on that unlucky night, or
else were led away by that force of Harold's, which was almost as
irresistible by mind, as by matter.  But the tidings were received with
horror by the town.  Three nervous old ladies who lived near the Lerne
gave notice to quit, and many declared that it was an indictable
offence.

Small as the salary was, it was more than young Yolland was clearing by
his connection with Dr. Kingston; and as he would have to spare himself
during the next few months, and could not without danger undertake the
exertions of a wide field of Union practice, the offer was quite worth
his acceptance.  Moreover, he had the enthusiasm of a practical
chemist, and would willingly have starved to see his invention carried
out, so he received the appointment with the gruff gratitude that best
suited Harold; and he and his brother were to have rooms in the late
"Dragon's Head," so soon as it should have been rebuilt on improved
principles, with a workman's hall below, and a great court for the
children to play in by day and the lads in the evening.

Of the clerical Yolland we saw and heard very little.  Harold was much
relieved to find that even before his brother could move beyond the
sofa, he was always out all day, for though he had never spoken a word
that sounded official, Harold had an irrational antipathy to his black
attire.  Nor did I hear him preach, except by accident, for Arghouse
chapelry was in the beat of the other curate, and in the afternoon,
when I went to Mycening old church, he had persuaded Mr. Crosse to let
him begin what was then a great innovation--a children's service, with
open doors, in the National School-room. Miss Woolmer advised me to try
the effect of this upon Dora, whose Sundays were a constant perplexity
and reproach to me, since she always ran away into the plantations or
went with Harold to see the horses; and if we did succeed in dragging
her to church, there behaved in the most unedifying manner.

"I don't like the principle of cutting religion down for children,"
said my old friend.  "They ought to be taught to think it a favour to
be admitted to grown-up people's services, and learn to follow them,
instead of having everything made to please them.  It is the sugar-plum
system, and so I told Mr. Ben, but he says you must catch wild heathens
with sugar; and as I am afraid your poor child is not much better, you
had better try the experiment."

I did try it, and the metrical litany and the hymns happily took Dora's
fancy, so that she submitted to accompany me whenever Harold was to sit
with George Yolland, and would not take her.

One afternoon, when I was not well, I was going to send her with
Colman, and Harold coming in upon her tempest of resistance, and trying
to hush it, she declared that she would only go if he did, and to my
amazement he yielded and she led him off in her chains.

He made no comment, but on the next Sunday I found him pocketing an
immense parcel of sweets.  He walked into the town with us, and when I
expected him to turn off to his friend's lodging, he said, "Lucy, if
you prefer the old church, I'll take Dora to the school.  I like the
little monkeys."

He went, and he went again and again, towering among the pigmies in the
great room, kneeling when they knelt, adding his deep bass to the
curate's in their songs, responding with them, picking up the sleepy
and fretful to sit on his knee during the little discourse and the
catechising; and then, outside the door, solacing himself and them with
a grand distribution of ginger-bread and all other dainty cakes,
especially presenting solid plum buns, and even mutton pies, where
there were pinched looks and pale faces.

It was delightful, I have been told, to see him sitting on the low wall
with as many children as possible scrambling over him, or sometimes
standing up, holding a prize above his head, to be scrambled for by the
lesser urchins.  It had the effect of rendering this a highly popular
service, and the curate was wise enough not to interfere with this
anomalous conclusion to the service, but to perceive that it might both
bless him that gave and those that took.

In the early part of the autumn, one of the little members of the
congregation died, and was buried just after the school service. Harold
did not know of it, or I do not think he would have been present, for
he shrank from whatever renewed the terrible agony of that dark time in
Australia.

But the devotions in the school were full of the thought, the metrical
litany was one specially adapted to the occasion, so was the brief
address, which dwelt vividly, in what some might have called too
realising a strain, upon the glories and the joys of innocents in
Paradise.  And, above all, the hymns had been chosen with special
purpose, to tell of those who--

          For ever and for ever
          Are clad in robes of white.

I knew nothing of all this, but when I came home from my own church,
and went to my own sitting-room, I was startled to find Harold there,
leaning over the table, with that miniature of little Percy, which, two
months before, he had bidden me shut up, open before him, and the tears
streaming down his face.

In great confusion he muttered, "I beg your pardon," and fled away,
dashing his handkerchief over his face.  I asked Dora about it, but she
would tell nothing; I believe she was half ashamed, half jealous, but
it came round through Miss Woolmer, how throughout the address Harold
had sat with his eyes fixed on the preacher, and one tear after another
gathering in his eyes.  And when the concluding hymn was sung--one
specially on the joys of Paradise--he leant his forehead against the
wall, and could hardly suppress his sobs.  When all was over, he handed
his bag of sweets to one of the Sunday-school teachers, muttering "Give
them," and strode home.

From that time I believe there never was a day that he did not come to
my sitting-room to gaze at little Percy.  He chose the time when I was
least likely to be there, and I knew it well enough to take care that
the coast should be left clear for him.  I do believe that, ill-taught
and unheeding as the poor dear fellow had been, that service was the
first thing that had borne in upon him any sense that his children were
actually existing, and in joy and bliss; and that when he had once thus
hearkened to the idea, that load of anguish, which made him wince at
the least recollection of them, was taken off.  It was not his nature
to speak in the freshness of emotion, and, after a time, there was a
seal upon his feelings; but there was an intermediate period when he
sometimes came for sympathy, but that was so new a thing to him that he
did not quite know how to seek it.

It was the next Sunday evening that I came into my room at a time I did
not expect him to be there, just as it was getting dark, that he seemed
to feel some explanation due.  "This picture," he said, "it is so like
my poor little chap."

Then he asked me how old Percy had been when it was taken; and then I
found myself listening, as he leant against the mantelpiece, to a
minute description of poor little Ambrose, all the words he could say,
his baby plays, and his ways of welcoming and clinging to his father,
even to the very last, when he moaned if anyone tried to take him out
of Harold's arms.  It seemed as though the dark shadow and the keen
sting had somehow been taken away by the assurance that the child might
be thought of full of enjoyment; and certainly, from that time, the
peculiar sadness of Harold's countenance diminished.  It was always
grave, but the air of oppression went away.

I said something about meeting the child again, to which Harold
replied, "You will, may be."

"And you, Harold."  And as he shook his head, and said something about
good people, I added, "It would break my heart to think you would not."

That made him half smile in his strange, sad way, and say, "Thank you,
Lucy;" then add, "But it's no use thinking about it; I'm not that sort."

"But you are, but you are, Harold!" I remember crying out with tears.
"God has made you to be nobler, and greater, and better than any of us,
if you only would--"

"Too late," he said.  "After all I have been, and all I have done--"

"Too late!  Harry--with a whole lifetime before you to do God real,
strong service in?"

"It won't ever cancel that--"

I tried to tell him what had cancelled all; but perhaps I did not do it
well enough, for he did not seem to enter into it.  It was a terrible
disadvantage in all this that I had been so lightly taught. I had been
a fairly good girl, I believe, and my dear mother had her sweet, quiet,
devotional habits; but religion had always sat, as it were, outside my
daily life.  I should have talked of "performing my religious duties"
as if they were a sort of toll or custom to be paid to God, not as if
one's whole life ought to be one religious duty. That sudden loss,
which left me alone in the world, made me, as it were, realise who and
what my Heavenly Father was to me; and I had in my loneliness thought
more of these things, and was learning more every day as I taught Dora;
but it was dreadfully shallow, untried knowledge, and, unfortunately, I
was the only person to whom Harold would talk.  Mr. Smith's having been
a clergyman had given him a distaste and mistrust of all clergy; nor do
I think he was quite kindly treated by those around us, for they held
aloof, and treated him as a formidable stranger with an unknown ill
repute, whose very efforts in the cause of good were untrustworthy.

I thought of that mighty man of Israel whom God had endowed with
strength to save His people, and how all was made of little avail
because his heart was not whole with God, and his doings were
self-pleasing and fitful.  Oh! that it might not be thus with my
Harold? Might not that little child, who had for a moment opened the
gates to him, yet draw him upwards where naught else would have availed?

As to talking to me, he did it very seldom, but he had a fashion of
lingering to hear me teach Dora, and I found that, if he were absent,
he always made her tell him what she had learnt; nor did he shun the
meeting me over Percy's picture in my sitting-room in the twilight
Sunday hour.  Now and then he asked me to find him some passage in the
Bible which had struck him in the brief instruction to the children at
the service, but what was going on in his mind was entirely out of my
reach or scope; but that great strength and alertness, and keen, vivid
interest in the world around, still made the present everything to him.
I think his powerfulness, and habit of doing impossible things, made
the thought of prayer and dependence--nay, even of redemption--more
alien to him, as if weakness were involved in it; and though to a
certain extent he had, with Prometesky beside him, made his choice
between virtue and vice beside his uncle's death-bed; yet it was as yet
but the Stoic virtue of the old Polish patriot that he had embraced.

And yet he was not the Stoic.  He had far more of the little child, the
Christian model in his simplicity, his truth, his tender heart, and
that grand modesty of character which, though natural, is the step to
Christian humility.  How one longed for the voice to say to him, "The
Lord is with thee, thou mighty man of valour."

And so time went on, and we were still in solitude.  People came and
went, had their season in London and returned, but it made no
difference to us.  Dermot Tracy shot grouse, came home and shot
partridges, and Eustace and Harold shared their sport with him, though
Harold found it dull cramped work, and thought English gentlemen in sad
lack of amusement to call that sport.  Lady Diana and Viola went to the
seaside, and came back, and what would have been so much to me once was
nothing now.  Pheasant shooting had begun and I had much ado to prevent
Dora from joining the shooting parties, not only when her brother and
cousin were alone, but when they were going to meet Mr. Tracy and some
of the officers to whom he had introduced them.

On one of these October days, when I was trying to satisfy my
discontented Dora by a game at ball upon the steps, to my extreme
astonishment I beheld a white pony, led by Harold, and seated on the
same pony, no other than my dear little friend, unseen for four months,
Viola Tracy!

I rushed, thinking some accident had happened, but Harold called out in
a tone of exultation, "Here she is!  Now you are to keep her an hour,"
and she held out her arms with "Lucy, Lucy, dear old Lucy!" and jumped
down into mine.

"But Viola, your mother--"

"I could not help it," she said with a laughing light in her eyes. "No,
indeed, I could not.  I was riding along the lane by Lade Wood, on my
white palfrey, when in the great dark glade there stood one, two, three
great men with guns, and when one took hold of the damsel's bridle and
told her to come with him, what could she do?"

I think I said something feeble about "Harold, how could you?" but he
first shook his head, and led off the pony to the stable, observing,
"I'll come for you in an hour," and Dora rushing after him.

And when I would have declared that it was very wrong, and that Lady
Diana would be very angry, the child stopped my mouth with, "Never
mind, I've got my darling Lucy for an hour, and I can't have it spoilt."

Have I never described my Viola?  She was not tall, but she had a way
of looking so, and she was not pretty, yet she always looked prettier
than the prettiest person I ever saw.  It was partly the way in which
she held her head and long neck, just like a deer, especially when she
was surprised, and looked out of those great dark eyes, whose colour
was like that of the lakes of which each drop is clear and limpid, and
yet, when you look down into the water, it is of a wonderful clear deep
grey.

Those eyes were her most remarkable feature; her hair was light, her
face went off suddenly into rather too short a chin, her cheeks wanted
fulness, and were generally rather pale.  So people said, but plump
cheeks would have spoilt my Viola's air, of a wild, half-tamed fawn,
and lessened the wonderful play of her lips, which used often to
express far more than ever came out of them in words.  Lady Diana had
done her utmost to suppress demonstrativeness, but unless she could
have made those eyes less transparent, the corners of that mouth less
flexible, and hindered the colour from mantling in those cheeks, she
could not have kept Viola's feelings from being patent to all who knew
her.

And now the child was really lovely, with the sweet carnation in her
cheeks, and eyes dancing with the fear and pretence at alarm, and the
delight of a stolen interview with me.

"Forth stepped the giant!  Fee! fo! fum!" said she; "took me by the
bridle, and said, 'Why haven't you been to see my Aunt Lucy?'"

"I must not," she said.

"And I say you must," he answered.  "Do you know she is wearying to see
you?"

Then I fancy how Viola's tears would swim in her eyes as she said,
"It's not me; it's mamma."

And he answered, "Now, it is not you, but I, that is taking you to see
her."

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot!" was whistled out of the wood; and
the whistle Viola knew quite well enough to disarm me when I came to
the argument what was to become of her if she let such things be done
with her; and she had quite enough of Dermot's composition in her to
delight in a "little bit of naughtiness that wasn't too bad," and when
once she had resigned herself into the hands of her captor she enjoyed
it, and twittered like a little bird; and I believe Harold really did
it, just as he would have caught a rare bird or wild fawn, to please me.

"Then you were not frightened?" I said.

"Frightened?  No.  It was such fun!  Besides, we heard how he mastered
the lion to save that poor little boy, and how he has looked after him
ever since, and is going to bind him apprentice.  Oh, mind you show me
his skin--the lion's, I mean.  Don't be tiresome, Lucy. And how he goes
on after the children's service with the dear little things.  I should
think him the last person to be afraid of."

"I wish your mother saw it so."

Viola put on a comically wise look, and shook her head, as she said,
"You didn't go the right way to work.  If you had come back in the
carriage, and consulted her, and said it was a mission--yes, a
mission--for you to stand, with a lily in your hand, and reform your
two bush-ranger nephews, and that you wanted her consent and advice,
then she would have let you go back and be good aunt, and what-not. Oh,
I wish you had, Lucy!  That was the way Dermot managed about getting
the lodge at Biston.  He says he could consult her into going out
hunting."

"For shame, Viola!  O fie!  O Vi!" said I, according to an old formula
of reproof.

"Really, I wanted to tell you.  It might not be too late if you took to
consulting her now; and I can't bear being shut up from you. Everything
is grown so stupid.  When one goes to a garden-party there are nothing
but Horsmans and Stympsons, and they all get into sets of themselves
and each other, and now and then coalesce, especially the Stympsons, to
pity poor Miss Alison, wonder at her not taking mamma's advice, and say
how horrid it is of her to live with her cousins. I've corrected that
so often that I take about with me the word 'nephews' written in large
text, to confute them, and I've actually taught Cocky to say, 'Nephews
aren't Cousins.'  Dermot is the only rational person in the
neighbourhood.  I'm always trying to get him to tell me about you, but
he says he can't come up here much without giving a handle to the
harpies."

I had scarcely said how good it was in Dermot, when he sauntered in.
"There you are, Vi; I'm come to your rescue, you know," he said, in his
lazy way, and disposed himself on the bear-skin as we sat on the sofa.
I tried again to utter a protest.  "Oh Dermot, it was all your doing."

"That's rather too bad.  As if I could control your domestic
lion-tamer."

"You abetted him.  You could have prevented him."

"Such being your wish."

"I am thinking of your mother."

"Eh, Viola, is the meeting worth the reckoning?"

"You should not teach her your own bad ways," said I, resisting her
embrace.

"Come, we had better be off, Dermot," she said, pouting; "we did not
come here to be scolded."

"I thought you did not come of your own free will at all," I said, and
then I found I had hurt her, and I had to explain that it was the
disobedience that troubled me; whereupon they both argued seriously
that people were not bound to submit to a cruel and unreasonable
prejudice, which had set the country in arms against us. "Monstrous,"
Dermot said, "that two fellows should suffer for their fathers' sins,
and such fellows, and you too for not being unnatural to your own flesh
and blood."

"But that does not make it right for Viola to disobey her mother."

"And how is it to be, Lucy?" asked Viola.  "Are we always to go on in
this dreadful way?"

By this time Eustace could no longer be withheld from paying his
respects to the lady guest, and Harold and Dora came with him, bringing
the kangaroo, for which Viola had entreated; and she also made him
fetch the lion-skin, which had been dressed and lined and made into a
beautiful carriage-rug; and to Dora she owed the exhibition of the
great scar across Harold's left palm, which, though now no
inconvenience, he would carry through life.  It was but for a moment,
for as soon as he perceived that Dora meant anything more than her
usual play with his fingers, he coloured and thrust his hand into his
pocket.

We all walked through the grounds with Viola, and when we parted she
hung about my neck and assured me that now she had seen me she should
not grieve half so much, and, let mamma say what she would, she could
not be sorry; and I had no time to fight over the battle of the sorrow
being for wrongdoing, not for reproof, for the pony would bear no more
last words.

Eustace had behaved all along with much politeness; in fact, he was
always seen to most advantage with strangers, for his manners had some
training, and a little constraint was good for him by repressing some
of his sayings.  His first remark, when the brother and sister were out
of hearing, was, "A very sweet, lively young lady.  I never saw her
surpassed in Sydney!"

"I should think not," said Harold.

"Well, you know I have been presented and have been to a ball at
Government House.  There's an air, a tournure about her, such as uncle
Smith says belongs to the real aristocracy; and you saw she was quite
at her ease with me.  We understand each other in the higher orders.
Don't be afraid, Lucy, we shall yet bring back your friend to you."

"I'm glad she is gone," said Dora, true to her jealousy.  "I like
Dermot; he's got some sense in him, but she's not half so nice and
pretty as Lucy."

At which we all laughed, for I had never had any attempt at beauty,
except, I believe, good hair and teeth, and a habit of looking
good-humoured.

"She's a tip-topper," pronounced Eustace, "and no wonder, considering
who she is.  Has she been presented, Lucy?"

Though she had not yet had that inestimable advantage, Eustace showed
himself so much struck with her that, when next Harold found himself
alone with me, he built a very remarkable castle in the air--namely, a
wedding between Eustace and Viola Tracy.  "If I saw him with such
happiness as that," said Harold, "it would be all right.  I should have
no fears at all for him.  Don't you think it might be, Lucy?"

"I don't think you took the way to recommend the family to Lady Diana,"
I said, laughing.

"I had not thought of it then," said Harold; "I'm always doing
something wrong.  I wonder if I had better go back and keep out of his
way?"

He guessed what I should answer, I believe, for I was sure that Eustace
would fail without Harold, and I told him that his cousin must not be
left to himself till he had a good wife.  To which Harold replied, "Are
all English ladies like that?"

He had an odd sort of answer the next day, when we were all riding
together, and met another riding party--namely, the head of the Horsman
family and his two sisters, who had been on the Continent when my
nephews arrived.  Mamma did not like them, and we had never been great
friends; but they hailed me quite demonstratively with their eager,
ringing voices: "Lucy!  Lucy Alison!  So glad to see you!  Here we are
again.  Introduce us, pray."

So I did.  Mr. Horsman, Miss Hippolyta, and Miss Philippa Horsman--Baby
Jack, Hippo, and Pippa, as they were commonly termed--and we all rode
together as long as we were on the Roman road, while they conveyed,
rather loudly, information about the Dolomites.

They were five or six years older than I, and the recollection of
childish tyranny and compulsion still made me a little afraid of them.
They excelled in all kinds of sports in which we younger ones had not
had nearly so much practice, and did not much concern themselves
whether the sport were masculine or feminine, to the distress of the
quiet elder half-sister, who stayed at home, like a hen with ducklings
to manage.

They spoke of calling, and while I could not help being grateful, I
knew how fallen my poor mother would think me to welcome the notice of
Pippa and Hippo.

Most enthusiastic was the latter as she rode behind with me, looking at
the proportions of Harry and his horse, some little way on before, with
Dora on one side, and Pippa rattling on the other.

"Splendid!  Splendiferous!  More than I was prepared for, though I
heard all about the lion--and that he has been a regular stunner in
Australia--eh, Lucy, just like a hero of Whyte-Melville's, eh?"

"I don't think so."

"And, to complete it all, what has he been doing to little Viola Tracy?
Oh, what fun!  Carrying her off bodily to see you, wasn't it? Lady
Diana is in such a rage as never was--says Dermot is never to be
trusted with his sister again, and won't let her go beyond the garden
without her.  Oh, the fun of it!  I would have gone anywhere to see old
Lady Di's face!"




CHAPTER V.

THE CAPTURE IN THE SNOW.


I do not recollect anything happening for a good while.  Our chief
event was the perfect success of Mr. Yolland's concentrated fuel, which
did not blow up anything or anybody, and the production of some lovely
Etruscan vases and tiles, for which I copied the designs out of a book
I happily discovered in the library.  They were sent up to the
porcelain shops in London, and orders began to come in, to the great
exultation of Harold and Co., an exultation which I could not help
partaking, even while it seemed to me to be plunging him deeper and
deeper in the dangerous speculation.

We put the vases into a shop in the town and wondered they did not
sell; but happily people at a distance were kinder, and native genius
was discovered in a youth, who soon made beautiful designs.  But I do
not think the revived activity of the unpopular pottery did us at that
time any good with our neighbours.

Harold and Eustace sent in their subscriptions to the hunt and were not
refused, but there were rumours that some of the Stympsons had
threatened to withdraw.

I had half a mind to ride with them to the meet, but I could not tell
who would cut me, and I knew the mortification would be so keen to them
that I could not tell how they would behave, and I was afraid Eustace's
pride in his scarlet coat might be as manifest to others as to us, and
make me blush for him.  So I kept Dora and myself at home.

I found that by the management of Dermot Tracy and his friends, the
slight had been less apparent than had been intended, when all the
other gentlemen had been asked in to Mr. Stympson's to breakfast, and
they had been left out with the farmers; Dermot had so resented this
that he had declined going into the house, and ridden to the village
inn with them.

To my surprise, Eustace chose to go on hunting, because it asserted his
rights and showed he did not care; and, besides, the hard riding was
almost a necessity to both the young men, and the Foling hounds, beyond
Biston, were less exclusive, and they were welcomed there.  I believe
their horsemanship extorted admiration from the whole field, and that
they were gathering acquaintance, though not among those who were most
desirable.  The hunting that was esteemed hard exercise here was
nothing to them.  They felt cramped and confined even when they had had
the longest runs, and disdained the inclosures they were forced to
respect.  I really don't know what Harold would have done but for
Kalydon Moor, where he had a range without inclosures of some twelve
miles.  I think he rushed up there almost every day, and thus kept
himself in health, and able to endure the confinement of our civilised
life.

A very hard winter set in unusually early, and with a great deal of
snow in December.  It was a great novelty to our Australians, and was
not much relished by Eustace, who did not enjoy the snow-balling and
snow fortification in which Harold and Dora revelled in front of the
house all the forenoon.  After luncheon, when the snowstorm had come on
too thickly for Dora to go out again, Harold insisted on going to see
how the world looked from the moor.  I entreated him not to go far,
telling him how easy it was to lose the way when all outlines were
changed in a way that would baffle even a black fellow; but he listened
with a smile, took a plaid and a cap and sallied forth.  I played at
shuttle-cock for a good while with Dora, and then at billiards with
Eustace; and when evening had closed darkly in, and the whole outside
world was blotted out with the flakes and their mist, I began to grow a
little anxious.

The hall was draughty, but there was a huge wood fire in it, and it
seemed the best place to watch in, so there we sat together, and
Eustace abused the climate and I told stories--dismal ones, I
fear--about sheep and shepherds, dogs and snowdrifts, to the tune of
that peculiar howl that the wind always makes when the blast is
snow-laden; and dinner time came, and I could not make up my mind to go
and dress so as to be out of reach of--I don't know what I expected to
happen.  Certainly what did happen was far from anything I had pictured
to myself.

Battling with the elements and plunging in the snow, and seeing,
whenever it slackened, so strange and new a world, was a sort of sport
to Harold, and he strode on, making his goal the highest point of the
moor, whence, if it cleared a little, he would be able to see to a vast
distance.  He was curious, too, to look down into the railway cutting.
This was a sort of twig from a branch of the main line, chiefly due to
Lord Erymanth, who, after fighting off the railway from all points
adjacent to his estate, had found it so inconvenient to be without a
station within reasonable distance, that a single line had at last been
made from Mycening for the benefit of the places in this direction, but
not many trains ran on it, for it was not much frequented.

Harold came to the brow of the cutting, and there beheld the funnel of
a locomotive engine, locomotive no more, but firmly embedded in the
snowdrift into which it had run, with a poor little train of three or
four carriages behind it, already half buried.  Not a person was to be
seen, as Harold scrambled and slid down the descent and lighted on the
top of one of the carriages; for, as it proved, the engineer, stoker,
and two or three passengers had left the train an hour before, and were
struggling along the line to the nearest station.  Harold got down on
the farther side, which was free of snow, and looked into all the
carriages.  No one was there, till, in a first-class one, he beheld an
old gentleman, well wrapped up indeed, but numb, stiff, and dazed with
the sleep out of which he was roused.

"Tickets, eh?" he said, and he dreamily held one out to Harold and
tried to get up, but he stumbled, and hardly seemed to understand when
Harold told him it was not the station, but that they had run into the
snowdrift; he only muttered something about being met, staggered
forward, and fell into Harold's arms.  There was a carriage-bag on the
seat, but Harold looked in vain there for a flask.  The poor old man
was hardly sensible.  Ours was the nearest house, and Harold saw that
the only chance for the poor old gentleman's life was to carry him home
at once.  Even for him it was no small effort, for his burthen was a
sturdy man with the solidity of years, and nearly helpless, save that
the warmth of Harold's body did give him just life and instinct to hold
on, and let himself be bound to him with the long plaid so as least to
impede his movements; but only one possessed of Harold's almost giant
strength could have thus clambered the cutting at the nearest point to
Arghouse and plodded through the snow.  The only wonder is that they
were not both lost.  Their track was marked as long as that snow lasted
by mighty holes.

It was at about a quarter-past seven that all the dogs barked, a
fumbling was heard at the door, and a muffled voice, "Let me in."

Then in stumbled a heap of snow, panting, and amid Spitz's frantic
barks, we saw it was Harold, bent nearly double by the figure tied to
him.  He sank on his knee, so as to place his burthen on the great
couch, gasping, "Untie me," and as I undid the knot, he rose to his
feet, panting heavily, and, in spite of the cold, bathed in
perspiration.

"Get something hot for him directly," he said, falling back into an
arm-chair, while we broke out in exclamations.  "Who--where did you
find him?  Some poor old beggar.  Not too near the fire--call
Richardson--hot brandy-and-water--bed.  He's some poor old beggar," and
such outcries for a moment or two, till Harold, recovering himself in a
second, explained, "Snowed up in the train.  Here, Lucy, Eustace, rub
his hands.  Dora, ask Richardson for something hot.  Are you better
now, sir?" beginning to pull off the boots that he might rub his feet;
but this measure roused the traveller, who resisted, crying out,
"Don't, don't, my good man, I'll reward you handsomely. I'm a justice
of the peace."

Thick and stifled as it was, the voice was familiar.  I looked again,
and screamed out, "Lord Erymanth, is it you?"

That roused him, and as I took hold of both hands and bent over him, he
looked up, dazzled and muttering, "Lucy, Lucy Alison!  Arghouse! How
came I here?" and then as the hot cordial came at last, in the hand of
Richardson, who had once been in his service, he swallowed it, and then
leant back and gazed at me as I went on rubbing his hands.  "Thank you,
my dear.  Is it you?  I thought I was snowed up, and I have never
signed that codicil about little Viola, or I could die easily.  It is
not such a severe mode, after all."

"But you're not dying, you're only dreaming.  You are at Arghouse.
Harold here found you and brought you to us."

And then we agreed that he had better be put to bed at once in
Eustace's room, as there was already a fire there, and any other would
take long in being warmed.

Harold and Eustace got him upstairs between them, and Richardson
followed, while I looked out with dismay at the drifting snow, and
wondered how to send either for a doctor or for Lady Diana in case of
need.  He had been a childless widower for many years, and had no one
nearer belonging to him.  Dora expressed her amazement that I did not
go to help, but I knew this would have shocked him dreadfully, and I
only sent Colman to see whether she could be of any use.

Harold came out first, and on his way to get rid of his snow-soaked
garments, paused to tell me that the old gentleman had pretty well come
round, and was being fed with hot soup and wine, while he seemed half
asleep.  "He is not frost-bitten," added Harold; "but if he is likely
to want the doctor, I'd better go on to Mycening at once, before I
change my things."

But I knew Lord Erymanth to be a hale, strong man of his years, little
given to doctors, and as I heard he had said "No, no," when Eustace
proposed to send for one, I was glad to negative the proposal from a
man already wet through and tired--"well, just a little."

Our patient dropped asleep almost as soon as he had had his meal, in
the very middle of a ceremonious speech of thanks, which sent Eustace
down to dinner more than ever sure that there was nothing like the
aristocracy, who all understood one another; and we left Richardson to
watch over him, and sleep in the dressing-room in case of such a
catastrophe as a rheumatic waking in the night.

We were standing about the fire in the hall, our usual morning
waiting-place before breakfast, and had just received Richardson's
report that his lordship had had a good night, seemed none the worse,
and would presently appear, but that he desired we would not wait
breakfast, when there was a hasty ring at the door, and no sooner was
it opened than Dermot Tracy, battered and worn, in a sou'-wester
sprinkled with snow and with boots up to his thighs, burst into the
hall.

"Alison, you there?  All right, I want you," shaking hands in an
agitated way all round, and speaking very fast with much emotion. "I
want you to come and search for my poor uncle.  He was certainly in the
train from Mycening that ran into a drift.  Men went to get help;
couldn't get back for three hours.  He wasn't there--never arrived at
home.   My mother is in a dreadful state.  Hogg is setting all the men
to dig at the Erymanth end.  I've got a lot to begin in the Kalydon
cutting; but you'll come, Alison, you'll be worth a dozen of them.  He
might be alive still, you see."

"Thank you, Dermot, I am happy to say that such is the case," said a
voice from the oak staircase, and down it was slowly proceeding Lord
Erymanth, as trim, and portly, and well brushed-up as if he had arrived
behind his two long-tailed bays.

Dermot, with his eyes full of tears, which he was squeezing and winking
away, and his rapid, broken voice, had seen and heard nothing in our
faces or exclamations to prepare him.  He started violently and sprang
forward, meeting Lord Erymanth at the foot of the stairs, and wringing
both his hands--nay, I almost thought he would have kissed him, as he
broke out into some incoherent cry of scarcely-believing joy, which
perhaps surprised and touched the old man. "There, there, Dermot, my
boy, your solicitude is--is honourable to you; but restrain--restrain
it, my dear boy--we are not alone."  And he advanced, a little
rheumatically, to us, holding out his hand with morning greetings.

"I must send to my mother.  Joe is here with the sleigh," said Dermot.
"Uncle, how did you come here?" he added, as reflection only made his
amazement profounder.

"It is true, as you said just now, that Mr. Harold Alison is equal to a
dozen men.  I owe my preservation, under Providence, to him," said Lord
Erymanth, who, though not a small man, had to look far up as Harold
stood towering above us all.  "My most earnest acknowledgments are due
to him," he added, solemnly holding out his hand.

"I might have expected that!" ejaculated Dermot, while Harold took the
offered hand with a smile, and a mutter in his beard of "I am very
glad."

"I'll just send a line to satisfy my mother," said Dermot, taking a pen
from the inkstand on the hall-table.  "Joe's here with the sleigh, and
we must telegraph to George St. Glear."

Lord Erymanth repeated the name in some amazement, for he was not
particularly fond of his heir.

"Hogg telegraphed to him this morning," and as the uncle observed,
"Somewhat premature," he went on: "Poor Hogg was beside himself; he
came to Arked at ten o'clock last night to look for you, and, luckily,
I was there, so we've been hallooing half the night along the line, and
then getting men together in readiness for the search as soon as it was
light.  I must be off to stop them at once.  I came in to get the
Alisons' help--never dreamt of such a thing as finding you here.  And,
after all, I don't understand--how did you come?"

"I cannot give you a detailed account," said his lordship.  "Mr. Harold
Alison roused me from a drowsiness which might soon, very probably,
have been fatal, and brought me here.  I have no very distinct
recollection of the mode, and I fear I must have been a somewhat
helpless and encumbering burthen."

Dora put in her oar.  "Harry can carry anything," she said; "he brought
you in so nicely on his back--just as I used to ride."

"On his back!"

"Yes," said Dora, who was fond of Mr. Tracy, and glad to impart her
information, "on his back, with his boots sticking out on each side, so
funnily!"

Lord Erymanth endeavoured to swallow the information suavely by the
help of a classical precedent, and said, with a gracious smile, "Then I
perceive we must have played the part of AEneas and Anchises--" But
before he had got so far, the idea had been quite too much for Dermot,
who cried out, "Pick-a-back!  With his boots sticking out on both
sides!  Thank you, Dora.  Oh! my uncle, pick-a-back!" and went off in
an increasing, uncontrollable roar of laughter, while Harold, with a
great tug to his moustache, observed apologetically to Lord Erymanth,
"It was the only way I could do it," which speech had the effect of so
prolonging poor Dermot's mirth, that all the good effect of the feeling
he had previously displayed for his uncle was lost, and Lord Erymanth
observed, in his most dry and solemn manner, "There are some people who
can see nothing but food for senseless ridicule in the dangers of their
friends."

"My dear Lord Erymanth," I said, almost wild, "do just consider Dermot
has been up all night, and has had nothing to eat, and is immensely
relieved to find you all safe.  He can't be expected to quite know what
he is about when he is so shaken.  Come to breakfast, and we shall all
be better."

"That might be a very sufficient excuse for you or for Viola, my dear
Lucy," returned Lord Erymanth, taking, however, the arm I offered.
"Young _ladies_ may be very amiably hysterical, but a young man, in my
day, who had not trifled away his manliness, would be ashamed of such
an excuse."

There was a certain truth in what he said.  Dermot was not then so
strong, nor had he the self-command he would have had, if his life had
been more regular; but he must always have had a much more sensitive
and emotional nature than his uncle could ever understand. The
reproach, however, sobered him in a moment, and he followed us gravely
into the dining-room, without uttering a word for the next quarter of
an hour; neither did Harold, who was genuinely vexed at having made the
old man feel himself ridiculous, and was sorry for the displeasure with
his friend.  Nobody did say much except Eustace, who was delighted at
having to play host to such distinguished guests, and Lord Erymanth
himself, who was so gracious and sententious as quite to restore
Dermot's usual self by the time breakfast was over, and he saw his
servant bringing back his sleigh, in which he offered to convey his
uncle either home or to Arked.  But it was still fitfully snowing, and
Lord Erymanth was evidently not without touches of rheumatism, which
made him lend a willing ear to our entreaties to him not to expose
himself.  Harold then undertook to go in search of his portmanteau
either to the scene of the catastrophe or the Hall.

"My dear sir, I could not think of exposing you to a repetition of such
inclement weather as you have already encountered.  I am well supplied
here, my young friend--I think I may use the term, considering that two
generations ago, at least, a mutual friendship existed between the
houses, which, however obscured for a time--hum--hum--hum--may be said
still to exist towards my dear friend's very amiable young daughter;
and although I may have regretted as hasty and premature a decision
that, as her oldest and most experienced--I may say paternal--friend, I
ventured to question--you will excuse my plain speaking; I am always
accustomed to utter my sentiments freely--yet on better
acquaintance--brought about as it was in a manner which, however
peculiar, and, I may say, unpleasant--cannot do otherwise than command
my perpetual gratitude--I am induced to revoke a verdict, uttered,
perhaps, rather with a view to the antecedents than to the individuals,
and to express a hope that the ancient family ties may again assert
themselves, and that I may again address as such Mr. Alison of
Arghouse."

That speech absolutely cleared the field of Harold and Dermot both. One
strode, the other backed, to the door, Dermot hastily said, "Good-bye
then, uncle, I shall look you up to-morrow, but I must go and stop
George St. Glear," and Harold made no further ceremony, but departed
under his cover.

Probably, Richardson had spoken a word or two in our favour to his
former master, for, when Lord Erymanth was relieved from his nephew's
trying presence, he was most gracious, and his harangues, much as they
had once fretted me, had now a familiar sound, as proving that we were
no longer "at the back of the north wind," while Eustace listened with
rapt attention, both to the long words and to anything coming from one
whose name was enrolled in his favourite volume; who likewise
discovered in him likenesses to generations past of Alisons, and seemed
ready to admit him to all the privileges for which he had been six
months pining.

At the first opportunity, Lord Erymanth began to me, "My dear Lucy, it
is a confession that to some natures may seem humiliating, but I have
so sedulously cultivated candour for my whole term of existence, that I
hope I may flatter myself that I am not a novice in the great art of
retracting a conclusion arrived at under premises which, though
probable, have proved to be illusory.  I therefore freely confess that
I have allowed probability to weigh too much with me in my estimation
of these young men."  I almost jumped for joy as I cried out that I
knew he would think so when he came to know them.

"Yes, I am grateful to the accident that has given me the opportunity
of judging for myself," quoth Lord Erymanth, and with a magnanimity
which I was then too inexperienced to perceive, he added, "I can better
estimate the motives which made you decide on fixing your residence
with your nephews, and I have no reluctance in declaring them natural
and praiseworthy."  I showed my satisfaction in my old friend's
forgiveness, but he still went on: "Still, my dear, you must allow me
to represent that your residence here, though it is self-innocent,
exposes you to unpleasant complications.  I cannot think it well that a
young lady of your age should live entirely with two youths without
female society, and be constantly associating with such friends as they
may collect round them."

I remember now how the unshed tears burnt in my eyes as I said the
female society had left me to myself, and begged to know with whom I
had associated.  In return I heard something that filled me with
indignation about his nephew, Dermot Tracy, not being exactly the
companion for an unchaperoned young lady, far less his sporting
friends, or that young man who had been Dr. Kingston's partner.  He was
very sorry for me, as he saw my cheeks flaming, but he felt it right
that I should be aware.  I told him how I had guarded myself--never
once come across the sportsmen, and only seen Mr. Yolland
professionally when he showed me how to dress Harold's hand, besides
the time when he went over the pottery with us.  Nay, Dermot himself
had only twice come into my company--once about his sister, and once to
inquire after Harold after the adventure with the lion.

There I found I had alluded to what made Lord Erymanth doubly convinced
that I must be blinded; my sight must be amiably obscured, as to the
unfitness--he might say, the impropriety of such companions for me.  He
regretted all the more where his nephew was concerned, but it was due
to me to warn, to admonish, me of the true facts of the case.

I did not see how I could want any admonition of the true facts I had
seen with my own eyes.

He was intensely astonished, and did not know how to believe that I had
actually seen the lion overpowered; whereupon I begged to know what he
had heard.  He was very unwilling to tell me, but it came out at last
that Dermot and Harold--being, he feared, in an improperly excited
condition--had insisted on going to the den with the keeper, and had
irritated the animal by wanton mischief, and he was convinced that this
could not have taken place in my presence.

I was indignant beyond measure.  Had not Dermot told him the true
story?  He shook his head, and was much concerned at having to say so,
but he had so entirely ceased to put any confidence in Dermot's
statements that he preferred not listening to them.  And I knew it was
vain to try to show him the difference between deliberate falsehood,
which was abhorrent to Dermot, and the exaggerations and mystifications
to which his uncle's solemnity always prompted him.  I appealed to the
county paper; but he had been abroad at the time, and had, moreover,
been told that the facts had been hushed up.

Happily, he had some trust in my veracity, and let me prove my perfect
alibi for Harold as well as for Dermot.  When I represented how those
two were the only men among some hundreds who had shown either courage
or coolness, he granted it with the words, "True, true.  Of course, of
course.  That's the way good blood shows itself. Hereditary qualities
are sure to manifest themselves."

Then he let me exonerate Harold from the charge of intemperance,
pointing out that not even after the injury and operation, nor after
yesterday's cold and fatigue, had he touched any liquor; but I don't
think the notion of teetotalism was gratifying, even when I called it a
private, individual vow.  Nor could I make out whether his Australian
life was known, and I was afraid to speak of it, lest I should be
betraying what need never be mentioned.  Of Viola's adventure, to my
surprise, her uncle did not make much, but he had heard of that from
the fountain-head, unpolluted by Stympson gossip; and, moreover, Lady
Diana had been so disproportionately angry as to produce a reaction in
him.  Viola was his darling, and he had taken her part when he had
found that she knew her brother was at hand.  He allowed, too, that she
might fairly be inspired with confidence by the voice and countenance
of her captor, whom he seemed to view as a good-natured giant.  But
even this was an advance on "the prize-fighter," as Lady Diana and the
Stympsons called him.

It was an amusing thing to hear the old earl moralising on the
fortunate conjunction of circumstances, which had brought the property,
contrary to all expectation, to the most suitable individual.  Much did
I long for Harold to return and show what he was, but only his
lordship's servant, letters, and portmanteau came on an improvised
sleigh.  He had an immense political, county, and benevolent
correspondence, and was busied with it all the rest of the day.
Eustace hovered about reverentially and obligingly, and secured the
good opinion which had been already partly gained by the statement of
the police at the Quarter Sessions, whence Lord Erymanth had been
returning, that they never had had so few cases from the Hydriot
potteries as during this last quarter.  Who could be complimented upon
this happy state of things save the chairman?  And who could
appropriate the compliment more readily or with greater delight?  Even
I felt that it would be cruel high treason to demonstrate which was the
mere chess king.

Poor Eustace!  Harold had infected me enough with care for him to like
to see him in such glory, though somewhat restless as to the
appearances of this first state dinner of ours, and at Harold's
absence; but, happily, the well-known step was in the hall before our
guest came downstairs, and Eustace dashed out to superintend the
toilette that was to be as worthy of meeting with an earl as nature and
garments would permit.  "Fit to be seen?" I heard Harold growl. "Of
course I do when I dine with Lucy, and this is only an old man."

Eustace and Richardson had disinterred and brushed up Harold's only
black suit (ordered as mourning for his wife, and never worn but at his
uncle's funeral); but three years' expansion of chest and shoulder had
made it pinion him so as to lessen the air of perfect ease which,
without being what is called grace, was goodly to look upon.  Eustace's
studs were in his shirt, and the unnatural shine on his tawny hair too
plainly revealed the perfumeries that crowded the young squire's
dressing-table.  With the purest intentions of kindness Eustace had
done his best to disguise a demigod as a lout.

We had a diner a la Russe, to satisfy Eustace's aspirations as to the
suitable.  I had been seeking resources for it all the afternoon and
building up erections with Richardson and Colman; and when poor Harold,
who had been out in the snow with nothing to eat since breakfast,
beheld it, he exclaimed, "Lucy, why did you not tell me? I could have
gone over to Mycening and brought you home a leg of mutton."

"Don't expose what a cub you are!" muttered the despairing Eustace. "It
is a deena a la Roos."

"I thought the Russians ate blubber," observed Harold, somewhat
unfeelingly, though I don't think he saw the joke; but I managed to
reassure him, sotto voce, as to there being something solid in the
background.  He was really ravenous, and it was a little comedy to see
the despairing contempt with which he regarded the dainty little
mouthfuls that the cook viewed with triumph, and Eustace in equal
misery at his savage appetite; while Lord Erymanth, far too real a
gentleman to be shocked at a man's eating when he was hungry, was quite
insensible of the by-play until Harold, reduced to extremity at sight
of one delicate shaving of turkey's breast, burst out, "I say,
Richardson, I must have some food.  Cut me its leg, please, at once!"

"Harry," faintly groaned Eustace, while Lord Erymanth observed, "Ah!
there is no such receipt for an appetite as shooting in the snow. I
remember when a turkey's leg would have been nothing to me, after being
out duck-shooting in Kalydon Bog.  Have you been there to-day? There
would be good sport."

"No," said Harold, contented at last with the great leg, which seemed
in the same proportion to him as a chicken's to other men.  "I have
been getting sheep out of the snow."

I elicited from him that he had, in making his way to Erymanth, heard
the barking of a dog, and found that a shepherd and his flock had taken
refuge in a hollow of the moor, which had partly protected them from
the snow, but whence they could not escape.  The s

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