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!”