Nothing stands out to me more distinctly, with its pleasures and pains, than the visit to Erymanth Castle ­from our arrival in the dark ­the lighted hall ­the servants meeting us ­the Australians’ bewilderment at being ushered up to our rooms without a greeting from the host ­my lingering to give a last injunction in Eustace’s ear, “Now, Eustace, I won’t have Harold’s hair greased; and put as little stuff as you can persuade yourself to do on your pocket-handkerchief” ­orders I had kept to the last to make them more emphatic; then dashing after the housekeeper, leaving them to work ­my great room, where it was a perfect journey from the fire to the toilet-table ­my black lace dress, and the silver ornaments those dear nephews had brought me from London ­and in the midst of my hair-doing dear little Viola’s running in to me in one of her ecstacies, hugging me, to the detriment of Colman’s fabric and her own, and then dancing round and round me in her pretty white cloudy tulle, looped up with snowdrops.  The one thing that had been wanting to her was that her dear, darling, delightful Lucy should be at her own ball ­her birthday ball; and just as she had despaired, it had all come right, owing to that glorious old giant of ours; and she went off into a series of rapturous little laughs over Dermot’s account of her uncle’s arrival pick-a-back.  It was of no use to look cautious, and sign at Colman; Viola had no notion of restraint; and I was thankful when my dress was complete, and we were left alone, so that I could listen without compunction to the story of Lord Erymanth’s arrival at Arked House, and solemn assurance that he had been most hospitably received, and that his own observation and inquiry had convinced him that Mr. Alison was a highly estimable young man, in spite of all disadvantages, unassuming, well-mannered, and grateful for good advice.  Dermot had shown his discernment in making him his friend, and Lucy had, in truth, acted with much courage, as well as good judgment, in remaining with him; “and that so horrified mamma,” said Viola, “that she turned me out of the room, so I don’t know how they fought it out; but mamma must have given in at last, though she has never said one word to me about it, not even that you were all to be here.  What a good thing it is to have a brother!  I should never have known but for Dermot.  And, do you know, he says that my uncle’s pet is the cousin, after all ­the deferential fool of a cousin, he says.”

“Hush, hush, Viola!”

“I didn’t say so ­it was Dermot!” said the naughty child, with a little arch pout; “he says it is just like my uncle to be taken with a little worship from ­well, he is your nephew, Lucy, so I will be politer than Dermot, who does rage because he says Mr. Alison has not even sense to see that he is dressed in his cousin’s plumes.”

“He is very fond of Harold, Viola, and they both of them do it in simplicity; Harold does the things for Eustace, and never even sees that the credit is taken from him.  It is what he does it for.”

“Then he is a regular stupid old jolly giant,” said Viola.  “Oh, Lucy, what delicious thing is this?”

It was the little flower-pot, in which I had planted a spray of lemon-scented verbena, which Viola had long coveted.  I explained how Harold had presided over it as an offering from the Hydriot Company to its youngest shareholder, and her delight was extreme.  She said she would keep it for ever in her own room; it was just what she wanted, the prettiest thing she had had ­so kind of him; but those great, grand giants never thought anything too little for them.  And then she went into one of her despairs.  She had prepared a number of Christmas presents for the people about the castle to whom she had always been like the child of the house, and her maid had forgotten to bring the box she had packed, nor was there any means of getting them, unless she could persuade her brother to send early the next morning.

“Is Dermot staying here?”

“Oh yes ­all night; and nobody else, except ourselves and Piggy.  Poor Piggy, he moves about in more awful awe of my uncle than ever ­and so stiff!  I am always expecting to see him bristle!”

There came a message that my lady was ready, and was asking for Miss Tracy to go down with her.  Viola fluttered away, and I waited till they should have had time to descend before making my own appearance, finding all the rooms in the cleared state incidental to ball preparations ­all the chairs and tables shrunk up to the walls; and even the drawing-room, where the chaperons were to sit, looking some degrees more desolate than the drawing-room of a ladyless house generally does look.

Full in the midst of an immense blue damask sofa sat Lady Diana, in grey brocade.  She was rather a small woman in reality, but dignity made a great deal more of her.  Eustace, with a splendid red camellia in his coat, was standing by her, blushing, and she was graciously permitting the presentation of the squirting violet.  “Since it was a birthday, and it was a kind attention,” &c., but I could see that she did not much like it; and Viola, sitting on the end of the sofa with her eyes downcast, was very evidently much less delighted than encumbered with the fragile china thing.

Lord Erymanth met me, and led me up to his sister, who gave me a cold kiss, and we had a little commonplace talk, during which I could see Viola spring up to Harold, who was standing beside her brother, and the colour rising in his bronzed face at her eager acknowledgments of the flower-pot; after which she applied herself to begging her brother to let his horse and groom go over early the next morning for the Christmas gifts she had left behind, but Dermot did not seem propitious, not liking to trust the man he had with him with the precious Jack o’Lantern over hills slippery with frost; and Viola, as one properly instructed in the precariousness of equine knees, subsided disappointed; while I had leisure to look up at the two gentlemen standing there, and I must say that Harold looked one of Nature’s nobles even beside Dermot, and Dermot a fine, manly fellow even beside Harold, though only reaching to his shoulder.

I was the greatest stranger, and went in to the dining-room with his lordship, which spared me the sight of Eustace’s supreme satisfaction in presenting his arm to Lady Diana, after she had carefully paired off Viola with her cousin Piggy ­i.e., Pigou St. Glear, the eldest son of the heir-presumptive, a stiff, shy youth in the Erymanth atmosphere, whatever he might be out of it, and not at all happy with Viola, who was wont to tease and laugh at him.

It was a save-trouble dinner, as informal as the St. Glear nature and servants permitted.  Lord Erymanth carved, and took care that Harold should not starve, and he was evidently trying to turn the talk into such a direction as to show his sister what his guests were; but Eustace’s tongue was, of course, the ready one, and answered glibly about closed beershops, projected cottages, and the complete drainage of the Alfy ­nay, that as to Bullock and Ogden hearing reason, he had only to go over in person and the thing was done; the farmyard was actually set to rights, and no difficulty at all was made as to the further improvements now that the landlord had once shown himself concerned.  That was all that was wanting.  And the funny part of it was that he actually believed it.

Dermot could not help saying to Harold, “Didn’t I see you applying a few practical arguments?”

Harold made a sign with his head, with a deprecatory twinkle in his eye, recollecting how infra dig Eustace thought his exploit.  The party was too small for more than one conversation, so that when the earl began to relate his experiences of the difficulties of dealing with farmers and cottagers, all had to listen in silence, and I saw the misery of restless sleepiness produced by the continuous sound of his voice setting in upon Harold, and under it I had to leave him, on my departure with Lady Diana and her daughter, quaking in my satin shoes at the splendid graciousness I saw in preparation for me; but I was kept all the time on the outer surface; Lady Diana did not choose to be intimate enough even to give good advice, so that I was very glad when the carriages were heard and the gentlemen joined us, Harold hastily handing to Viola the squirting violets which she had left behind her on the dining-table, and which he had carefully concealed from Eustace, but, alas! only to have them forgotten again, or, maybe, with a little malice, deposited in the keeping of the brazen satyr on the ante-room chimney-piece.

Dermot had already claimed my first dance, causing a strange thrill of pain, as I missed the glance which always used to regret without forbidding my becoming his partner.  Viola was asked in due form by Eustace, and accepted him with alacrity, which he did not know to be due to her desire to escape from Piggy.  Most solicitously did our good old host present Eustace to every one, and it was curious to watch the demeanour of the different classes ­the Horsmans mostly cordial, Hippa and Pippa demonstratively so; but the Stympsons held aloof with the stiffest of bows, not one of them but good-natured Captain George Stympson would shake hands even with me, and Miss Avice Stympson, of Lake House, made as if Harold were an object invisible to the naked eye, while the kind old earl was doing his best that he should not feel neglected.  Eustace had learnt dancing for that noted ball at Government House, but Harold had disavowed the possibility.  He had only danced once in his life, he said, when Dermot pressed him, “and that counted for nothing.”  To me the pain on the bent brow made it plain that it had been at the poor fellow’s wedding.

However, he stood watching, and when at the end of our quadrille Dermot said, “Here lies the hulk of the Great Harry,” there was an amused air about him, and at the further question, “Come, Alison, what do you think of our big corroborees?” he deliberately replied, “I never saw such a pretty sight!” And on some leading exclamation from one of us, “It beats the cockatoos on a cornfield; besides, one has got to kill them!”

“Mr. Alison looks at our little diversion in the benevolent spirit of the giant whose daughter brought home ploughman, oxen, and all in her apron for playthings,” said Viola, who with Eustace had found her way to us, but we were all divided again, Viola being carried off by some grandee, Eustace having to search for some noble damsel to whom he had been introduced, and I falling to the lot of young Mr. Horsman, a nice person in himself, but unable to surmount the overcrowing of the elder sisters, who called him Baby Jack, and publicly ordered him about.  Even at the end of our dance, at the sound of Hippa’s authoritative summons, he dropped me suddenly, and I found myself gravitating towards Harold like a sort of chaperon.  I was amazed by his observing, “I think I could do it now.  Would you try me, Lucy?”

After all, he was but five-and-twenty, and could hardly look on anything requiring agility or dexterity without attempting it, so I consented, with a renewal of the sensations I remembered when, as a child, I had danced with grown-up men, only with alarm at the responsibility of what Dermot called “the steerage of the Great Harry,” since collision with such momentum as ours might soon be would be serious; but I soon found my anxiety groundless; he was too well made and elastic to be clumsy, and had perfect power over his own weight and strength, so that he could dance as lightly and safely as Dermot with his Irish litheness.

“Do you think I might ask Miss Tracy?” he said, in return for my compliments.

“Of course; why not?”

When he did ask, her reply was, “Oh, will you indeed?  Thank you.”  Which naïveté actually raised her mother’s colour with annoyance.  But if she had a rod laid up, Viola did not feel it then; she looked radiant, and though I don’t believe three words passed between the partners, that waltz was the glory of the evening to her.

She must have made him take her to the tea-room for some ice, and there it was that, while I was standing with my partner a little way off, we heard Miss Avice Stympson’s peculiarly penetrating attempt at a whisper, observing, “Yes, it is melancholy!  I thought we were safe here, or I never should have brought my dear little Birdie....  What, don’t you know?  There’s no doubt of it ­the glaze on the pottery is dead men’s bones.  They have an arrangement with the hospitals in London, you understand.  I can’t think how Lord Erymanth can be so deceived.  But you see the trick was a perfect success.  Yes, the blocking up the railway.  A mercy no lives were lost; but that would have been nothing to him after the way he has gone on in Australia. ­Oh, Lord Erymanth, I did not know you were there.”

“And as I could not avoid overhearing you,” said that old gentleman, “let me remind you that I regard courtesy to the guest as due respect to the host, and that I have good reason to expect that my visitors should have some confidence in my discrimination of the persons I invite them to meet.”

Therewith both he and Miss Stympson had become aware of the head that was above them all, and the crimson that dyed the cheeks and brow; while Viola, trembling with passion, and both hands clasped over Harold’s arm, exclaimed, in a panting whisper, “Tell them it is a wicked falsehood ­tell them it is no such thing!”

“I will speak to your uncle to-morrow.  I am obliged to him.”

Everybody heard that, and all who had either feeling or manners knew that no more ought to be said.  Only Lord Erymanth made his way to Harold to say, “I am very sorry this has happened.”

Harold bent his head with a murmur of thanks, and was moving out of the supper-room, when Dermot hastily laid a hand on him with, “Keep the field, Harry; don’t go.”

“I’m not going.”

“That’s right.  Face it out before the hags.  Whom shall I introduce you ­There’s Birdie Stympson ­come.”

“No, no; I don’t mean to dance again.”

“Why not?  Beard the harpies like a man.  Dancing would refute them all.”

“Would it?” gravely said Harold.

Nor could he be persuaded, save once at his host’s bidding, but showed no signs of being abashed or distressed, and most of the male Stympsons came and spoke to him.  The whole broke up at three, and we repaired to our rooms, conscious that family prayers would take place as the clock struck nine as punctually as if nothing had happened, and that our characters depended on our punctuality.  Viola was in time, and so was Eustace; I sneaked in late and ashamed; and the moment the servants had filed out Viola sprang to Eustace with vehement acknowledgments; and it appeared that just before she came down her missing box of gifts had been brought to her room, and she was told that Mr. Alison had sent for them.  Eustace smirked, and Lady Diana apologised for her little daughter’s giddy, exaggerated expressions, by which she had given far more trouble than she ever intended.

“No trouble,” said Eustace.  “Harold always wants to work off his steam.”

“What, it was he?” said Viola.

“Yes, of course; he always does those things,” said Eustace, speaking with a tone of proprietorship, as if Harold had been a splendid self-acting steam-engine.  “I am very glad to have gratified you, Miss Tracy ­”

“Only he did, and not you,” said Viola, boldly, luckily without being heard by her mother, while Eustace murmured out, rather bewildered, “It is all the same.”

Viola evidently did not think so when Harold came in with beads of wet fringing his whiskers, though he had divested himself of the chief evidences of the rivers of muddy lane through which he had walked to Arked House, full four miles off.

Viola’s profuse thanks were crossed by Lady Diana’s curt apologies; and as poor Piggy, who had genuinely overslept himself, entered with his apologies ­poor fellow ­in a voice very much as if he was trying to say “Grumph, grumph,” while he could only say “Wee, wee,” they were received solemnly by his uncle with, “The antipodes are a rebuke to you, Pigou.  I am afraid the young men of this hemisphere have no disposition to emulate either such chivalrous attentions or exertions as have been Mr. Harold Alison’s excuse.”

When so much was said about it, Harold probably wished he had let the whole matter alone, and was thankful to be allowed to sit down in peace to his well-earned breakfast, which was finished before Dermot lounged in ­not waited for by his uncle, who offered an exhibition of his model-farm-buildings, machines, cattle, &c.  Fain would Viola and I have gone in the train of the gentlemen, but the weather, though not bad enough to daunt a tolerably hardy man, was too damp for me, and we had to sit down to our work in the drawing-room, while Piggy, always happier without his great-uncle, meandered about until Lady Diana ordered off Viola to play at billiards with him, but kept me, for, as I perceived, the awful moment was come, and the only consolation was that it might be an opportunity of pleading Harold’s cause.

With great censure of the Stympsons’ ill-breeding and discourtesy to her brother (which seemed to affect her far more than the direct injury to Harold), and strong disclaimers of belief in them, still my mother’s old friend must inquire into the character of these young men and my position with regard to them.  If she had been tender instead of inquisitorial, I should have answered far more freely, and most likely the air of defiance and defence into which she nettled me had a partisan look; but it was impossible not to remember that Miss Woolmer had always said that, however she might censure the scandal of the Stympsons, they only required to dish it up with sauce piquant to make her enjoy it heartily.

And really and truly it did seem as if there was nothing in the whole lives of those poor youths on which those women had not contrived to cast some horrid stain; working backwards from the dead men’s bones in the pottery (Dermot had told her they used nothing but live men’s bones), through imputations on Mr. George Yolland’s character, and the cause of the catastrophe at the “Dragon’s Head;” stories of my associating with all the low, undesirable friends they picked up at Mycening, or in the hunting-field; and as to the Australian part of the history, she would hardly mention to me all she had heard, even to have it confuted.

I was not sure how far she did believe my assurances, or thought me deceived, when I strenuously denied all evil intent from Harold towards his poor wife, and explained that he had merely driven over a precipice in the dark, and had a brain fever afterwards; all I could see was that, though not perfectly satisfied or convinced, she found that her brother would not allow the separation to be kept up, and therefore she resumed her favourite office of adviser.  She examined me on the religious habits of my nephews and niece, impressing on me that it was for the sake of the latter that my presence at Arghouse was excusable; but insisting that it was incumbent on me to provide her with an elderly governess, both for her sake and my own.  I was much afraid of having the governess at once thrust upon me; but, luckily, she did not happen to have one of a chaperon kind of age on her list, so she contented herself with much advice on what I was teaching Dora, so that perhaps I grew restive and was disposed to think it no concern of hers, nor did I tell her that much of the direction of Dora’s lessons was with a view to Harold; but she could not have been wholly displeased, since she ended by telling me that mine was a vast opportunity, and that the propriety of my residence at Arghouse entirely depended on the influence I exerted, since any acquiescence in lax and irreligious habits would render my stay hurtful to all parties.  She worried me into an inclination to drop all my poor little endeavours, since certainly to have tried to follow out all the details of her counsel would have alienated all three at once.

Never was I more glad than when the luncheon-bell put a stop to the conversation, and the sun struggling out dispensed me from further endurance, and set me free to go with Viola to bestow her gifts, disposing on the way of the overflow of talk that had been pent up for months past.  In the twilight, near the lodge of a favourite old nurse of Dermot’s, we encountered all the younger gentlemen, and not only did Viola drag her brother in but Harold also, to show to whom was owing the arrival of her wonderful tea-pot cozy.

The good woman was just going to make her tea.  Viola insisted on showing the use of her cozy, and making everybody stay to nurse’s impromptu kettledrum, and herself put in the pinches of tea.  Dermot chaffed all and sundry; Viola bustled about; Harold sat on the dresser, with his blue eyes gleaming in the firelight with silent amusement and perfect satisfaction, the cat sitting on his shoulder; and nurse, who was firmly persuaded that he had rescued her dear Master Dermot from the fangs of the lion, was delighted to do her best for his entertainment.  Viola insisted on displaying all the curiosities ­the puzzle-cup that could not be used, the horrid frog that sprang to your lips in the tankard, the rolling-pin covered with sentimental poetry, and her extraordinary French pictures on the walls.  Dermot kept us full of merriment, and we laughed on till the sound of the dressing-bell sent us racing up to the castle in joyous guilt.  That kettledrum at the lodge is one of the brightest spots in my memory.

We were very merry all the evening in a suppressed way over the piano, Viola, Dermot, and I singing, Harold looking on, and Eustace being left a willing victim to the good counsel lavished by my lord and my lady, who advised him nearly out of his senses and into their own best graces.

But we had not yet done with the amenities of the Stympsons.  The morning’s post brought letters to Lady Diana and Lord Erymanth, which were swallowed by the lady with only a flush on her brow, but which provoked from the gentleman a sharp interjection.

“Scandalous, libellous hags!”

“The rara Avis?” inquired Dermot.

And in spite of Lady Diana’s warning, “Not now,” Lord Erymanth declared, “Avice, yes!  A bird whose quills are quills of iron dipped in venom, and her beak a brazen one, distilling gall on all around.  I shall inform her that she has made herself liable to an action for libel.  A very fit lesson to her.”

“What steps shall I take, my lord?” said Eustace, with much importance.  “I shall be most happy to be guided by you.”

“It is not you,” said Lord Erymanth.

“Oh! if it is only he, it does not signify so much.”

“Certainly not,” observed Dermot.  “What sinks some floats others.”

Lady Diana here succeeded in hushing up the subject, Harold having said nothing all the time; but, after we broke up from breakfast, I had a private view of Lady Diana’s letter, which was spiteful beyond description as far as we were concerned; making all manner of accusations on the authority of the Australian relations; the old stories exaggerated into horrible blackness, besides others for which I could by no means account.  Gambling among the gold-diggers, horrid frays in Victoria, and even cattle-stealing, were so impossible in a man who had always been a rich sheep farmer, that I laughed; yet they were told by the cousins with strange circumstantiality.  Then came later tales ­about our ways at Arghouse ­all as a warning against permitting any intercourse of the sweet child’s, which might be abused.  Lady Diana was angered and vexed, but she was not a woman who rose above the opinion of the world.  Her daughter, Di Enderby, was a friend of Birdie Stympson, and would be shocked; and she actually told me that I must perceive that, while such things were said, it was not possible ­for her own Viola’s sake ­to keep up the intimacy she would have wished.

For my part it seemed to me that, in Lady Diana’s position, unjust accusations against a poor young girl were the very reason for befriending her openly; but her ladyship spoke in a grand, authoritative, regretful way, and habitual submission prevented me from making any protest beyond saying coldly, “I am very sorry, but I cannot give up my nephews.”

Viola was not present.  It was supposed to be so shocking that she could know nothing about it, but she flew into my room and raged like a little fury at the cruel wickedness of the Stympsons in trying to turn everyone’s friends against them, and trumping up stories, and mamma giving up as if she believed them.  She wished she was Dermot ­she wished she was uncle Erymanth ­she wished she was anybody, to stand up and do battle with those horrid women! ­anybody but a poor little girl, who must obey orders and be separated from her friends.  And she cried, and made such violent assurances that I had to soothe and silence her, and remind her of her first duty, &c.

Lord Erymanth was a nobler being than his sister, and had reached up to clap Harold on the shoulder, while declaring that these assertions made no difference to him, and that he did not care the value of a straw for what Avice Stympson might say, though Harold had no defence but his own denial of half the stories, and was forced to own that there was truth in some of the others.  He was deeply wounded.  “Why cannot the women let us keep our friends?” he said, as I found him in the great hall.

“It is very hard,” I said, with grief and anger.

“Very hard on the innocent,” he answered.

Then I saw he was preparing to set off to walk home, twelve miles, and remonstrated, since Lake Valley would probably be flooded.

“I must,” he said; “I must work it out with myself, whether I do Eustace most harm or good by staying here.”

And off he went, with the long swift stride that was his way of walking off vexation.  I did not see him again till I was going up to dress, when I found him just inside the front door, struggling to get off his boots, which were perfectly sodden; while his whole dress, nay, even his hair and beard, was soaked and drenched, so that I taxed him with having been in the water.

“Yes, I went in after a dog,” he said, and as he gave a shiver, and had just pulled off his second boot, I asked no more questions, but hunted him upstairs to put on dry clothes without loss of time; and when we met at dinner, Eustace was so full of our doings at the castle, and Dora of hers with Miss Woolmer, that his bath was entirely driven out of my head.

But the next day, as I was preparing for my afternoon’s walk, the unwonted sound of our door-bell was heard.  “Is our introduction working already?” thought I, little expecting the announcement ­“The Misses Stympson.”

However, there were Stympsons and Stympsons, so that even this did not prepare me for being rushed at by all three from Lake House ­two aunts and one niece ­Avice, Henny, and Birdie, with “How is he?” “Where is he?  He would not take anything.  I hope he went to bed and had something hot.”  “Is he in the house?  No cold, I hope.  We have brought the poor dear fellow for him to see.  He seems in pain to-day; we thought he would see him.”

At last I got in a question edgeways as to the antecedents, as the trio kept on answering one another in chorus, “Poor dear Nep ­your cousin ­nephew, I mean ­the bravest ­”

Then it flashed on me.  “Do you mean that it was for your dog that Harold went into the water yesterday!”

“Oh, the bravest, most generous, the most forgiving.  So tender-handed!  It must be all a calumny.  I wish we had never believed it.  He could never lift a hand against anyone.  We will contradict all rumours.  Report is so scandalous.  Is he within?”

Harold had been at the Hydriot works ever since breakfast, but on my first question the chorus struck up again, and I might well quail at the story.  “Lake Mill; you know the place, Miss Alison?”

Indeed I did.  The lake, otherwise quiet to sluggishness, here was fed by the rapid little stream, and at the junction was a great mill, into which the water was guided by a sharp descent, which made it sweep down with tremendous force, and, as I had seen from the train, the river was swelled by the thaw and spread far beyond its banks.  “The mill-race!” I cried in horror.

“Just observe.  Dear Nep has such a passion for the water, and Birdie thoughtlessly threw a stick some way above the weir.  I never shall forget what I felt when I saw him carried along.  He struggled with his white paws, and moaned to us, but we could do nothing, and we thought to have seen him dashed to pieces before our eyes, when, somehow, his own struggles I fancy ­he is so sagacious ­brought him up in a lot of weeds and stuff against the post of the flood-gates, and that checked him.  But we saw it could not last, and his strength was exhausted.  Poor Birdie rushed down to beg them to stop the mill, but that could never have been done in time, and the dear dog was on the point of being sucked in by the ruthless stream, moaning and looking appealingly to us for help, when, behold! that superb figure, like some divinity descending, was with us, and with one brief inquiry he was in the water.  We called out to him that the current was frightfully strong ­we knew a man’s life ought not to be perilled; but he just smiled, took up the great pole that lay near, and waded in.  I cannot describe the horror of seeing him breasting that stream, expecting, as we did, to see him borne down by it into the wheel.  The miller shouted to him that it was madness, but he kept his footing like a rock.  He reached the place where the poor dog was, and the fury of the stream was a little broken by the post, took up poor Nep and put him over his shoulder.  Nep was so good ­lay like a lamb ­while Mr. Alison fought his way back, and it was harder still, being upwards.  The miller and his men came out and cheered, thinking at least he would come out spent and want help; but no, he came out only panting a little, put down the dog, and when it moaned and seemed hurt he felt it all over so tenderly, found its leg was broken, took it into the miller’s kitchen, and set it like any surgeon.  He would take nothing but a cup of tea, whatever they said, and would not change his clothes ­indeed, the miller is a small man, so I don’t see how he could ­but I hope he took no harm.  He walked away before we could thank him.  But, oh dear! what a wicked thing scandal is!  I will never believe anything report says again.”

To the end of their days the Misses Stympson believed that it was the convenient impersonal rumour which had maligned Harold ­not themselves.

I was just parting with them when Harold appeared, and they surrounded him, with an inextricable confusion of thanks ­hopes that he had not caught cold, and entreaties that he would look at his patient, whom they had brought on the back seat of the barouche to have his leg examined.  Harold said that his was self-taught surgery, but was assured that the dog would bear it better from him than any one, and could not but consent.

I noticed, however, that when he had to touch the great black Newfoundland dog, a strong shudder ran through his whole frame, and he had to put a strong force on himself, though he spoke to it kindly, and it wagged its tail, and showed all the grateful, wistful affection of its kind, as he attended to it with a tender skill in which his former distaste was lost; and the party drove away entreating him to come and renew the treatment on the Monday, and asking us all to luncheon, but not receiving a distinct answer in Eustace’s absence, for he was very tenacious of his rights as master of the house.

I was quite touched with the dog’s parting caress to his preserver.  “So you have conquered the birds with iron quills!” I cried, triumphantly.

“Who were they?” asked Harold, astonished.

“Surely you know them?  I never thought of introducing you.”

“You don’t mean that they were those women?”

“Of course they were.  I thought you knew you were performing an act of heroic forgiveness.”

Harold’s unfailing politeness towards me hindered him from saying “heroic fiddlesticks,” but he could not suppress a “Faugh!” which meant as much, and that mortified me considerably.

“Come now, Harry,” I said, “you don’t mean that you would not have done it if you had known?”

“I should not have let the poor beast drown because his mistresses were spiteful hags.”  And there was a look on his face that made me cry out in pain, “Don’t, Harry!”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be unforgiving.  Say you forgive them.”

“I can’t.  I could as soon pardon Smith.”

“But you ought to pardon both.  It would be generous.  It would be Christian.”

I was sorry I had said that, for he looked contemptuously and said, “So they teach you.  I call it weakness.”

“Oh, Harry! dear Harry, no!  The highest strength!”

“I don’t understand that kind of talk,” he said.  “You don’t know what that Smith is to my poor mother!”

“We won’t talk of him; but, indeed, the Misses Stympson are grateful to you, and are sorry.  Won’t you go to them on Monday?”

“No!  I don’t like scandal-mongers.”

“But you have quite conquered them.”

“What do you mean?  If we are the brutes they tell those who would have been our friends, we are not less so because I pulled a dog out of the river.”

The hard look was on his face, and to my faint plea, “The poor dog!”

“The dog will do very well.”  He went decisively out of the way of further persuasions, and when a formal note of invitation arrived, he said Eustace and I might go, but he should not.  He had something to do at the potteries; and as to the dog, the less it was meddled with the better.

“I know you hate black dogs,” said Eustace; “I only wonder you ever touched it.”

Harold’s brow lowered at this, and afterwards I asked Eustace to account for the strange dislike.  He told me that the dogs at the store had run yelping after the buggy on that fatal drive, and this and the melancholy howl of the dingoes had always been supposed to be the cause of the special form of delirious fancy that had haunted Harold during the illness following ­that he was pursued and dragged down by a pack of black hounds, and that the idea had so far followed him that he still had a sort of alienation from dogs, though he subdued it with a high hand.

He would still not go with us to Lake House, for go we did.  An invitation was stimulating to Eustace, and though I much disliked the women, I knew we could not afford to reject an advance if we were not to continue out of humanity’s reach.

So I went, and we were made much of in spite of the disappointment.

Had not Mr. Harold Alison been so kind as to come over both Sunday and Monday morning and see to poor Nep in his kennel before they were down?  Oh, yes, they had heard of it from the stable-boy, and had charged him to take care the gentleman came in to breakfast, but he could not persuade him.  Such a pity he was too busy to come to-day!

Eustace gave learned and elaborate opinions on Nep, and gained the hearts of the ladies, who thenceforth proclaimed that Mr. Alison was a wonderfully finished gentleman, considering his opportunities; but Mr. Harold was at the best a rough diamond, so that once more his conquest had been for Eustace rather than for himself.  They showed me, in self-justification, letters from their relations in Melbourne, speaking of the notorious Harry Alison as a huge bearded ruffian, and telling horrid stories of his excesses in no measured terms.  Of course we denied them, and represented that some other man must have borne the same name, and gratitude made them agree; but the imputation lay there, ready to revive at any time.  And there had been something in the whole affair that had not a happy effect on Harold.  He was more blunt, more gruff, less tolerant or ready to be pleased; Eustace’s folly was no longer incapable of provoking him; and even his gentleness towards Dora and me was with a greater effort, and he was plainly in an irritable state of suppressed suffering of mind or temper, which only the strong force he put upon himself kept in check.  My poor Harold, would he see that there were moral achievements higher than his physical ones, and would he learn that even his strength was not equal to them, unaided?