The next frosty day Dora and I set forth for a visit to the double cottage, where, on one side, dwelt a family with a newly-arrived baby; on the other was Dame Jennings’, with the dilapidated roof and chimney.  I was glad to see Dora so happily and eagerly interested over the baby as to be more girl-like than I had yet seen her, though, comparing her to what she had been on her arrival, she was certainly a good deal softened and tamed.  “Domesticated” would really not have been so inappropriate a word in her case as it is in advertisements of companions.

We had come to the door, only divided from Mrs. Jennings’s by a low fence and a few bushes, when voices struck on our ears, and we saw Bullock’s big, sturdy, John Bull form planted in a defiant attitude in the garden-path before the door, where the old woman stood courtesying, and mingling entreating protestations against an additional sixpence a week on her rent with petitions that at least the chimney might be made sound and the roof water-tight.

There is no denying that I did stand within the doorway to listen, for not only did I not wish to encounter Bullock, but it seemed quite justifiable to ascertain whether the current whispers of his dealings with the poor were true; indeed, there was no time to move before he replied with a volley of such abuse, as I never heard before or since, at her impudence in making such a demand.

I was so much shocked that I stood transfixed, forgetting even to draw Dora away from the sound, while the old woman pleaded that “Mr. Herod” had made the promise, and said nothing of increasing her rent.  Probably Bullock had been irritated by the works set on foot at Ogden’s farm, for he brought out another torrent of horrid imprecations upon “the meddling convict fellow,” the least intolerable of the names he used, and of her for currying favour, threatening her with instant expulsion if she uttered a word of complaint, or mentioned the increase of her rent, and on her hesitation actually lifting his large heavy stick.

We both cried out and sprang forward, though I scarcely suppose that he would have actually struck her.  But much more efficient help was at hand.  Bullock’s broad back was to the gate, and he little knew that at the moment he raised his stick Harold, attracted by his loud railing voice, leaped over the gate, and with one bound was upon the fellow, wresting the stick from his hand and laying it about his shoulders with furious energy.  We all screamed out.  Dora, it was suspected, bade him go on and give it to him well, and perhaps my wrath with the man made me simply shriek; but the sense of our presence did (whatever we wished) check Harold’s violence so far that he ceased his blows, throwing the man from him with such force that he fell prone into the poor dame’s gooseberry-bush, and had to pick himself up through numerous scratches, just as we had hurried round through the garden.

He had regained his feet, and was slinking up to the gate as we met him, and passionately exclaimed:  “Miss Alison, you have seen this; I shall call on you as my witness.”

Dora called out something so vituperative that my energies went in silencing her, nor do I think I answered Bullock, though at least it was a relief to see that, having a great sou’-wester over all his other clothes, the force of the blows had been so broken that he could not have any really serious injury to complain of.  It was not unfortunate, however, that he was so shaken and battered that he went first to exhibit himself to Dr. Kingston’s new partner, and obtain a formidable scientific account of his sprains and bruises; so that Eustace had heard an account of the affray in the first place, and Dora, with a child’s innate satisfaction in repeating personalities, had not spared the epithets with which Bullock had mentioned the “fool of a squire.”  The said squire, touched to the quick, went out invulnerable to his interview, declaring that the agent had been rightly served, only wishing he had had more, and indignantly refusing Bullock’s offer to abstain from prosecuting Mr. Harold Alison on receiving a handsome compensation, and a promise never to be interfered with again.  Eustace replied ­too much, I fear, in his own coin ­with orders to send in his accounts immediately and to consider himself dismissed from his agency from that hour; and then came back to us like a conquering hero, exulting in his own magnanimous firmness, which “had shown he was not to be trifled with.”

But he did not like it at all when Richardson came in trying to look quite impassive, and said to Harold, “Some one wants to speak to you sir.”

Harold went, and returned without a word, except, “You are wanted too, Lucy,” and I was not equally silent when I found it was to serve on me an order to appear as witness before the magistrates the next day, as to the assault upon Bullock.

Eustace was very much annoyed, and said it was disgraceful, and that Harold was always getting into scrapes, and would ruin him with all the county people, just as he was beginning to make way with them ­a petulant kind of ingratitude which we had all learnt to tolerate as “old Eu’s way,” and Dora announced that if he was put in prison, she should go too.

It was only a Petty Sessions case, heard in the justice-room at Mycening, and on the way the prisoner was chiefly occupied in assuring the witness that there was nothing to be nervous about; and the squire, that it would hurt nobody but himself; and, for his part, fine him as they would, he would willingly pay twenty times as much to rid the place of Bullock.

The bench ­who sat at the upper end of a table ­were three or four Horsmans and Stympsons, with Lord Erymanth in the chair par excellence, for they all sat on chairs, and they gave the like to Eustace and me while we waited, poor Harold having put himself, in the custody of a policeman, behind the rail which served as bar.

When our turn came, Harold pleaded “Guilty” at once, not only for truth’s sake, but as meaning to spare me the interrogation; and Crabbe, who was there on Bullock’s behalf, looked greatly baffled and disappointed; but the magistrates did not let it rest there, since the amount of the fine of course would depend on the degree of violence, &c., so both Mrs. Jennings and I, and the doctor, were examined as witnesses.

I came first; and at first I did not find the inquiries half so alarming as I expected, since my neighbours spoke to me quite in a natural way, and it was soon clear that my account of the matter was the best possible defence of Harold in their eyes.  The unpleasant part was when Crabbe not only insisted on my declaring on oath that I did not think Bullock meant to strike the old woman, but on my actually repeating the very words he had said, which he probably thought I should flinch from doing; but he thereby made it the worse for himself.  No doubt he and Crabbe had reckoned on our general unpopularity, and had not judged it so as to discover the reaction that had set in.  An endeavour to show that we were acting as spies on the trustworthy old servant, in order to undermine him with his master, totally failed, and, at last, the heavy fine of one shilling was imposed upon Harold ­as near an equivalent as possible to dismissing the case altogether.  Lord Erymanth himself observed to Eustace, “that he felt, if he might say so, to a certain degree implicated, since he had advised the dismissal of Bullock, but scarcely after this fashion.”  However, he said he hoped to have Eustace among them soon in another capacity, and this elevated him immensely.

The case had taken wind among the workmen at the potteries; and as we came out at their dinner-hour, there was a great assemblage, loudly cheering, “Alison, the poor man’s friend!”

Eustace stood smiling and fingering his hat, till Captain Stympson, who came out with us, hinted, as he stood between the two young men, that it had better be stopped as soon as possible.  “One may soon have too much of such things,” and then Eustace turned round on Harold, and declared it was “just his way to bring all the Mycening mob after them.”  Whereat Harold, without further answer, observed, “You’ll see Lucy home then,” and plunged down among the men, who, as if nothing had been wanting to give them a fellow-feeling for him but his having been up before the magistrates, stretched out hands to shake; and as he marched down between a lane of them, turned and followed the lofty standard of his head towards their precincts.

Bullock, in great wrath and indignation, sent in his accounts that night with a heavy balance due to him from Eustace, which Harold saw strong cause to dispute.  But that battle, in which, of course, Crabbe was Bullock’s adviser, and did all he could to annoy us, was a matter of many months, and did not affect our life very closely.  Harold was in effect Eustace’s agent, and being a very good accountant, as well as having the confidence of the tenants, all was put in good train in that quarter, and Mr. Alison was in the way to be respected as an excellent landlord and improver.  People were calling on us, and we were evidently being taken into our proper place.  Lady Diana no longer withheld her countenance, and though she only called on me in state she allowed Viola to write plenty of notes to me.

But I must go on to that day when Harold and Eustace were to have a hunting day with the Foling hounds, and dine afterwards with some of the members of the hunt at the Fox Hotel at Foling, a favourite meet.  They were to sleep at Biston, and I saw nothing of them the next day till Eustace came home alone, only just in time for a late dinner, and growled out rather crossly that Harold had chosen to walk home, and not to be waited for.  Eustace himself was out of sorts and tired, eating little and hardly vouchsafing a word, except to grumble at us and the food, and though we heard Harold come in about nine o’clock, he did not come in, but went up to his room.

Eustace was himself again the next morning, but Harold was gone out.  However, as, since he had been agent, he had often been out and busy long before breakfast, this would not have been remarkable, but that Eustace was ill at ease, and at last said, “The fact is, Lucy, he has been ‘screwed’ again, and has not got over it.”

I was so innocent that only Dora’s passion with her brother revealed to me his meaning, and then I was inexpressibly horrified and angry, for I did not think Harold could have broken his own word or the faith on which I had taken up my abode with them, and the disappointment in him, embittered, I fear, by the sense of personal injury, was almost unbearable.

Eustace muttered something in excuse which I could not understand, and I thought was only laxity on his part.  I told him that, if such things were to happen, his house was no home for me.  And he began, “Come now, Lucy, I say, that’s hard, when ’twas Harold, and not me, and all those fellows ­”

“What fellows?”

“Oh, Malvoisin and Nessy Horsman, you know.”

I knew they were the evil geniuses of Dermot’s life.  Lord Malvoisin had been his first tempter as boys at their tutor’s, and again in the Guards; and Ernest, or Nessy, Horsman was the mauvais sujet of the family, who never was heard of without some disgraceful story.  And Dermot had led my boys among these.  All that had brightened life so much to me had suddenly vanished.

It was Ash Wednesday, and I am afraid I went through my Lenten services in the spirit of the elder son, nursing my virtuous indignation, and dwelling chiefly on what would become of me if Arghouse were to be made uninhabitable, as I foresaw.

I was ashamed to consult Miss Woolmer, and spent the afternoon in restless attempts to settle to something, but feeling as if nothing were worth while, not even attending to Dora, since my faith in Harold had given way, and he had broken his word and returned to his vice.

Should I go to church again, and spare myself the meeting him at dinner?  I was just considering, when Mr. George Yolland came limping up the drive, and the sight was the first shock to the selfish side of my grief.  “Is anything the matter?” I asked, trying to speak sternly, but my heart thumping terribly.

“No ­yes ­not exactly,” he said hastily; “but can you come, Miss Alison?  I believe you are the only person who can be of use.”

“Then is he ill?” I asked, still coldly, not being quite sure whether I ought to forgive.

“Not bodily, but his despair over what has taken place is beyond us all.  He sits silent over the accounts in his room at the office; will talk to none of us.  Mr. Alison has tried ­I have ­Ben and all of us.  He never looks up but to call for soda-water.  If he yields again, it will soon be acute dipsomania, and then ­” he shrugged his shoulders.

“But what do you mean?  What can I do?” said I, walking on by his side all the time.

“Take him home.  Give him hope and motive.  Get him away, at any rate, before those fellows come.  Mr. Tracy was over at Mycening this morning, and said they talked of coming to sleep at the ‘Boar,’ for the meet to-morrow, and looking him up.”

“Lord Malvoisin?” I asked.

And as I walked on, Mr. Yolland told me what I had not understood from Eustace, that there had been an outcry among the more reckless of the Foling Hunt that so good a fellow should be a teetotaller.  Dermot Tracy had been defied into betting upon the resolute abstinence of his hero ­nay, perhaps the truth was that these men had felt that their victim was being attracted from their grasp, and a Satanic instinct made them strive to degrade his idol in his eyes.

So advantage was taken of the Australian’s ignorance of the names of liqueurs.  Perhaps the wine in the soup had already caused some excitement in the head ­unaccustomed to any stimulant ever since the accident and illness which had rendered it inflammable to a degree no one suspected.  When once the first glass was swallowed, the dreadful work was easy, resolution and judgment were obscured, and the old habits and cravings of the days when poor Harold had been a hard drinker had been revived in full force.  Uproarious mirth and wild feats of strength seemed to have been the consequence, ending by provoking the interference of the police, who had locked up till the morning such of the party as could not escape.  Happily, the stupefied stage had so far set in that Harold had made it no worse by offering resistance, and Dermot had managed to get the matter hushed up by the authorities at Foling.  This was what he had come to say, but Harold had been very brief and harsh with him; though he was thoroughly angered and disgusted at the conduct of his friends, and repeated, hotly, that he had been treated with treachery such as he could never forgive.

So we came to the former “Dragon’s Head,” where Harold had fitted up a sort of office for himself.  Mr. Yolland bade me go up alone, and persuade him to come home with me.  I was in the greater fright, because of the selfishness which had mingled with the morning’s indignation, but I had just presence of mind enough for an inarticulate prayer through the throbbings of my heart ere knocking, and at once entering the room where, under a jet of gas, Harold sat at a desk, loaded with papers and ledgers, on which he had laid down his head.  I went up to him, and laid my hand as near his brow as his position would let me.  Oh, how it burnt!

He looked up with a face half haggard, half sullen with misery, and hoarsely said, “Lucy, how came you here?”

“I came in to get you to walk home with me.”

“I’ll get a fly for you.”

(This would be going to the “Boar,” the very place to meet these men.)

“Oh no! please don’t.  I should like the walk with you.”

“I can’t go home yet.  I have something to do.  I must make up these books.”

“But why?  There can’t be any haste.”

“Yes.  I shall put them into Yolland’s hands and go by the next mail.”

“Harold!  You promised to stay till Eustace was in good hands.”

He laughed harshly.  “You have learnt what my promise is worth!”

“Oh Harold! don’t.  You were cheated and betrayed.  They took a wicked advantage of you.”

“I knew what I was about,” he said, with the same grim laugh at my folly.  “What is a man worth who has lost his self-command?”

“He may regain it,” I gasped out, for his look and manner frightened me dreadfully.

He made an inarticulate sound of scorn, but, seeing perhaps the distress in my face, he added more gently, “No, Lucy, this is really best; I am not fit to be with you.  I have broken my word of honour, and lost all that these months had gained.  I should only drag Eustace down if I stayed.”

“Why?  Oh, why?  It was through their deceit.  Oh, Harry! there is not such harm done that you cannot retrieve.”

“No,” he said, emphatically.  “Understand what you are asking.  My safeguard of an unbroken word is gone!  The longing for that stuff ­accursed though I know it ­is awakened.  Nothing but shame at giving way before these poor fellows that I have preached temperance to withholds me at this very moment.”

“But it does withhold you!  Oh, Harold!  You know you can be strong.  You know God gives strength, if you would only try.”

“I know you say so.”

“Because I know it.  Oh, Harold! try my way.  Do ask God to give you what you want to stand up against this.”

“If I did, it would not undo the past.”

“Something else can do that.”

He did not answer, but reached his hat, saying something again about time, and the fly.  I must make another effort.  “Oh, Harold! give up this!  Do not be so cruel to Dora and to me.  Have you made us love you better than anybody, only to go away from us in this dreadful way, knowing it is to give yourself up to destruction?  Do you want to break our hearts?”

“Me!” he said, in a dreamy way.  “You don’t really care for me?”

“I?  Oh, Harry, when you have grown to be my brother, when you are all that I have in this world to lean on and help me, will you take yourself away?”

“It might be better for you,” he said.

“But it will not,” I said; “you will stay and go on, and God will make your strength perfect to conquer this dreadful thing too.”

“You shall try it then,” he said, and he began to sweep those accounts into a drawer as if he had done with them for the night, and as he brought his head within my reach, I could not but kiss his forehead as I said, “Thank you, my Harry.”

He screwed his lips together, with a strange half-smile very near tears, emptied the rest of a bottle of soda-water into a tumbler, gulped it down, opened the door, turned down the gas, and came down with me.  Mr. Yolland was watching, I well knew, but he discreetly kept out of sight, and we came out into a very cold raw street, with the stars twinkling overhead, smiling at us with joy I thought, and the bells were ringing for evening service.

But our dangers were not over.  We had just emerged into the main street when a dog-cart came dashing up, the two cigars in it looming red.  It was pulled up.  Harold’s outline could be recognised in any light, but I was entirely hidden in his great shadow, and a voice called out: 

“Halloo, Alison, how do?  A chop and claret at the ’Boar’ ­eh?  Come along.”

“Thank you,” said Harold, “but I am walking home with Miss Alison ­”

The two gentlemen bowed, and I bowed, and oh! how I gripped Harold’s arm as I heard the reply; not openly derisive to a lady, but with a sneer in the voice, “Oh! ah! yes!  But you’ll come when you’ve seen her home.  We’ll send on the dog-cart for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Harold.  His voice sounded firm, but I felt the thrill all through the arm I clung to.  “Good night.”

He attempted no excuse, but strode on ­I had to run to keep up with him ­and they drove on by our side, and Nessy Horsman said, “A prior engagement, eh?  And Miss Alison will not release you?  Ladies’ claims are sacred, we all know.”

What possessed me I don’t know, nor how I did it, but it was in the dark and I was wrought up, and I answered, “And yours can scarcely be so!  So we will go on, Harold.”

“A fair hit, Nessy,” and there was a laugh and flourish of the whip.  I was trembling, and a dark cloud had drifted up with a bitter blast, and the first hailstones were falling.  The door of the church was opened for a moment, showing bright light from within; the bells had ceased.

“My dear Lucy,” said Harold, “you had better go in here for shelter.”

“Not if you leave me!  You must come with me,” I said, still dreading that he would leave me in church, send a fly, and fall a victim at the “Boar;” and, indeed, I was shaking so, that he would not withdraw his arm, and said, soothingly, “I’m coming.”

Oh! that blessed hailstorm that drove us in!  I drew Harold into a seat by the door, keeping between him and that, that he might not escape.  But I need not have feared.

Ben Yolland’s voice was just beginning the Confession.  It had so rarely been heard by Harold that repetition had not blunted his ears to the sound, and presently I heard a short, low, sobbing gasp, and looked round.  Harold was on his knees, his hands over his face, and his breath coming short and thick as those old words spoke out that very dumb inarticulate shame, grief, and agony, that had been swelling and bursting in his heart without utterance or form ­“We have erred and strayed ­there is no health in us ­”

We were far behind everyone else ­almost in the dark.  I don’t think anyone knew we were there, and Harold did not stand up throughout the whole service, but kept his hands locked over his brow, and knelt on.  Perhaps he heard little more, from the ringing of those words in his ears, for he moved no more, nor looked up, through prayers or psalms, or anything else, until the brief ceremony was entirely over, and I touched him; and then he looked up, and his eyes were swimming and streaming with tears.

We came to the door as if he was in a dream, and there a bitterly cold blast met us, though the rain had ceased.  I was not clad for a night walk.  Harold again proposed fetching a carriage from the “Boar,” but I cried out against that ­“I would much, much rather walk with him.  It was fine now.”

So we went the length of the street, and just then down came the blast on us; oh! such a hurricane, bringing another hailstorm on its wings, and sweeping along, so that I could hardly have stood but for Harold’s arm; and after a minute or two of labouring on, he lifted me up in his arms, and bore me along as if I had been a baby.  Oh!  I remember nothing so comfortable as that sensation after the breathless encounter with the storm.  It always comes back to me when I hear the words, “A man shall be as a hiding-place from the tempest, a covert from the wind.”

He did not set me down till we were at the front door.  We were both wet through, cold, and spent, and it was past nine, so long as it had taken him to labour on in the tempest.  Eustace came out grumbling in his petulant way at our absence from dinner.  I don’t think either of us could bear it just then:  Harold went up to his room without a word; I stayed to tell that he had seen me home from church, and say a little about the fearful weather, and then ran up myself, to give orders, as Mr. Yolland had advised me, that some strong hot coffee should be taken at once to Harold’s room.

I thought it would be besetting him to go and see after him myself, but I let Dora knock at his door, and heard he had gone to bed.  To me it was a long night of tossing and half-sleep, hearing the wild stormy wind, and dreaming of strange things, praying all the time that the noble soul might be won for God at last, and almost feeling, like the Icelander during the conversion of his country, the struggle between the dark spirits and the white.

I had caught a heavy cold, and should have stayed in bed had I not been far too anxious; and I am glad I did not, for I had not been many minutes in my sitting-room before there was a knock at the door, and Harold came in, and what he said was, “Lucy, how does one pray?”

Poor boys!  Their mothers, in the revulsion from all that had seemed like a system of bondage, had held lightly by their faith, and in the cares and troubles of their life had heeded little of their children’s devotions, so that the practical heathenism of their home at Boola Boola had been unrelieved save by Eustace the elder, when his piety was reckoned as part of his weak, gentlemanly refinement.  The dull hopeless wretchedness was no longer in Harold’s face, but there was a wistful, gentle weariness, and yet rest in it, which was very touching, as he came to me with his strange sad question, “How does one pray?”

I don’t know exactly how I answered it.  I hardly could speak for crying, as I told him the very same things one tells the little children, and tried to find him some book to help; but my books no more suited him than my clothes would have done, till he said, “I want what they said in church yesterday.”

And as we knelt together, and I said it, the 51st Psalm came to my mind, and I went through it, oh! how differently from when I had said it the day before.  “Ah!” he said at the end, “thank you.”

And then he stood and looked at the picture which was as his child’s to him, turned and said, “Well for him that he is out of all this!”

Presently, when I had marked a Prayer Book for him, he said, “And may I ask that the ­the craving I told you of may not come on so intolerably?”

“‘Ask, and it shall be given,’” I said.  “It may not go at once, dear Harold.  Temptation does come, but only to be conquered; and you will conquer now.”

We went down to breakfast, where Eustace appeared in full hunting trim, but Harold in the rough coat and long gaiters that meant farming work; and to Eustace’s invitations to the run, he replied by saying he heard that Phil Ogden had been to ask him about some difficulty in the trenching work, and he was going to see to it.  So he spent the daylight hours in one of those digging and toiling tasks of his “that three day-labourers could not end.”  I saw him coming home at six o’clock, clay up to the eyes, and having achieved wholesome hunger and wholesome sleepiness.

Eustace had come in cross.  He had been chaffed about Harold’s shirking, and being a dutiful nephew, and he did not like it at all.  He thought Harold ought to have come out for his sake, and to show they did not care.  “I do care,” said Harold.  And when Eustace, with his usual taste, mentioned that they had laughed at the poor fellow led meekly home by his aunt, Harold laid a kind hand on mine, which spoke more than words.  I had reason to think that his struggle lasted some time longer, and that the enemy he had reawakened was slow of being laid to rest, so that he was for weeks undergoing the dire conflict; but he gave as little sign as possible, and he certainly conquered.

And from that time there certainly was a change.  He was not a man without God any longer.  He had learnt that he could not keep himself straight, and had enough of the childlike nature to believe there was One who could.  I don’t mean that he came at once to be all I could have wished or figured to myself as a religious man.  He went to church on Sunday morning now, chiefly, I do believe, for love of the Confession, which was the one voice for his needs; and partly, too, because I had pressed for that outward token, thinking that it would lead him on to more; but it generally seemed more weariness than profit, and he never could sit still five minutes without falling asleep, so that he missed even those sermons of Mr. Ben Yolland’s that I thought must do him good.

I tried once, when, feeling how small my powers were beside his, to get him to talk to this same Mr. Yolland, whose work among the pottery people he tried to second, but he recoiled with a tone half scorn, half reserve, which showed that he would bear no pressure in that direction.  Only he came to my sitting-room every morning, as if kneeling with me a few moments, and reading a few short verses, were to be his safeguard for the day, and sometimes he would ask me a question.  Much did I long for counsel in dealing with him, but I durst seek none, except once, when something Mr. Ben Yolland said about his having expressed strong affection for me, made me say, “If only I were fitter to deal with him,” the answer was, “Go on as you are doing; that is better for him as yet than anything else.”