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 exténuations 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.”