In the Easter recess our Northchester member had his house full, and among his guests was one of the most influential men of the day, who, though not a cabinet minister himself, was known to have immense influence with Government and in Parliament, from his great weight and character.

Eustace and I were invited to meet him, also Lady Diana and her daughter and son, who was called well now, though far from strong.  When the gentlemen came out of the dining-room, Eustace and Dermot came up to us, the former much excited, and saying, “Lucy, you must make preparations.  They are all coming to luncheon to-morrow at Arghouse.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, Sir James (the great man himself), and Mr. Vernon, and the General, and all the party.  I asked them all.  Sir James has heard of the potteries, and of my system, and of the reformation I have effected, and there being no strikes, and no nothing deleterious ­undesirable I mean ­and the mechanics having an interest, he wants to see for himself ­to inspect personally ­that he may name it in Parliament in illustration of a scheme he is about to propose.  So Mr. Vernon will bring him over to see the Hydriot works to-morrow, and I have asked them to luncheon.  Only think ­named in Parliament!  Don’t you think now it might lead to a baronetcy, Tracy?”

“Or a peerage,” quoth naughty Viola, out of reach of mother or Harold.  “My Lord Hardbake would be a sweet title.”

“I should revive the old honours of the family,” said Eustace, not catching the bit of wickedness.  “Calldron of Arghouse was an old barony.  Lord Calldron of Arghouse!  Should you object, Miss Tracy?”

“Earthen pot or copper kettle?  Which?” laughed Viola.  “Ah! there’s Miss Vernon going to sing.  I want to hear her,” and she jumped up.

“Sit down, Dermot, in my place; you are not to stand.”

She threaded her way to the piano, followed by Eustace, who still viewed himself as her suitor.

“Poor little Vi!” said Dermot, who by this time was aware of the courtship, and regarded it with little favour.

“She will rub him off more easily among numbers,” I said, as he settled down by me.  “But is this really so, Dermot?”

“What, is she to be my Lady Calldron?  I am afraid my hopes of that elevation are not high.  But as to the luncheon, you will really have to slaughter your turkeys, and declare war on your surviving cocks and hens.  He has been inviting right and left.  And tell Harold from me that if he votes the thing a bore, and keeps out of the way for fear of having to open his mouth, he’ll be doing serious damage.  If respect to the future baronetcy makes him get into the background, tell him, with my compliments, the whole thing will be a muddle, and I’ll never speak a good word for him again.”

“Then you have been speaking good words?”

“When Sir James began to inquire about the Hydriots, Mr. Alison was called on to answer him, and you are aware that, except to certain constitutions of intellect, as my uncle would say, certain animals cannot open their mouths without proclaiming themselves.  The most sensible thing he said was the invite to come and see.  Really, he made such mulls with the details that even I had to set him right, and that led to Sir James talking it out with me, when I had the opportunity of mentioning that a certain person, not the smallest of mankind, had been entirely overlooked.  Yes I did, Lucy.  I up and told him how our friend came over as heir; and when he was done out of it, set to work as agent and manager and improver-general, without a notion of jealousy or anything but being a backbone to this cousin of his, and I could not say what besides to all that came in his way; but I flatter myself there’s one man in the room who has some notion of the difference there is between the greater and the less.”

“Harold would not thank you,” I said.

“Not he.  So much the more reason that you should take care he comes to the front.”

Dermot did Eustace a little injustice in fancying he wanted to suppress Harold.  He never did.  He was far too well satisfied with his own great personality to think that anyone could interfere with it; and having asked everyone in the room, ladies and all, to the inspection and the luncheon, discoursed to me about it all the way home, and would almost have made me and all the servants stay up all night to prepare.  Harold, who was still up when we came home, received the tidings equably, only saying he would go down to Yolland the first thing in the morning and get things made tidy.  “And don’t bother Lucy,” he added, as we went upstairs.

Well, the supplies were contrived, and the table laid without anyone being quite distracted.  From Richardson downwards, we all had learnt to take our own way, while the master talked, and Mrs. Alison was really very happy, making delicate biscuits after a receipt of her own.  Things came to a point where I was sure they would finish themselves off more happily without either of us, and though one idle female more might not be desirable, I thought at least I might prevent Harold’s effacement, and went down to Mycening with Eustace to receive the guests.

Sure enough, Harold was not in the entrance yard, nor the superintendent’s office.  Mr. Yolland was there, looking grim and bored, and on inquiry being made, said that Mr. Harold had insisted on his being on the spot, but was himself helping the men to clear the space whence it would be easiest to see the action of the machinery.  I made a rush after him, and found him all over dust, dragging a huge crate into a corner, and to my entreaty he merely replied, pushing back his straw hat, “I must see to this, or we shall have everything smashed.”

The carriages were coming, and I could only pick my way back by the shortest route, through stacks of drain-tiles and columns of garden-pots, to Eustace, who, becoming afraid it would seem as if he were keeping shop, was squeezing down the fingers of his left-hand glove, while impressing on Mr. Yolland and me that everyone must understand he was only there as chairman of the directors.

The people came, and were conducted round, and peeped about and made all sorts of remarks, wise and foolish.  Eustace was somewhat perplexed between the needful attentions to Mrs. Vernon and to Sir James, who, being much more interested in the men than the manufacture, was examining Mr. Yolland on their welfare, spirit, content, &c.; and George Yolland might be trusted for making Mr. Harold Alison the prominent figure in his replies, till at last he could say, “But here is Mr. Harold Alison, Sir James.  He can reply better than I.” (Which was not strictly true, for George Yolland had by far the readiest tongue.) But he had managed to catch Harold in the great court, moving back one of his biggest barrels of heavy ingredients, with face some degrees redder and garments some degrees dustier than when I had seen him ten minutes before.  It really was not on purpose, or from any wish to hide, but the place needed clearing, there was little time, and his strength could not be spared.

I am sorry to say that a chattering young lady, who stood close to Eustace, exclaimed, “Dear me, what a handsome young foreman!” making Eustace blush to the eyes, and say, “It is my cousin ­he is so very eccentric ­you’ll excuse him.”

Sir James, meantime, had heartily shaken the hand which, though begrimed at the moment, Harold held out to him, and plunged into inquiries at once, not letting him go again; for Harold, with the intuition that nothing was idly asked, and that each observation told, answered to the point as no man could do better, or in fewer words.  When the round was over, and Eustace was prepared with the carriage to drive the grandees the mile up to Arghouse, Sir James returned his thanks, but he was going to walk up with Mr. Harold Alison, who was going to show him his workmen’s reading-room, cottages, &c.  Eustace looked about for someone to whom to resign the reins, but in vain, and we all had to set off, my housewifely mind regretting that time and Eustace had combined to make the luncheon a hot instead of a cold one.

We found the Tracys when we arrived at home.  Dermot was not equal to standing about at the pottery, but Lady Diana had promised to come and help me entertain the party, and very kindly she did so during the very trying hungry hour to which we had to submit, inasmuch as, when Sir James at last appeared, it turned out that he never ate luncheon, and was in perfect ignorance that we were waiting for him.

He offered me his arm and we went to the long-deferred luncheon.  I listened to his great satisfaction with what he had seen, and the marvel he thought it; and meanwhile I looked for Harold, and saw him presently come in, in exactly that condition of dress, as he considered due to me, and with the long blue envelope I knew full well in one hand, in the other the little figure of the Hope of Poland which Miss Woolmer had given him; and oh! what a gladness there was in his eyes.  He put them both down beside Sir James, and then retreated to a side table, where Dora had been set to entertain a stray school-boy or two.

I longed to hear Sir James’s observations, but his provoking opposite neighbour began to talk, and I got nothing more to myself, and I had to spend the next half-hour in showing our grounds to Mrs. Vernon, who admired as if she were electioneering, and hindered me from knowing what anybody was about, till the people had had their cups of coffee and their carriages had come.

We three found ourselves in the porch together when Eustace had handed in Mrs. Vernon, and Sir James, turning for a last shake of Harold’s hand, said, “I shall expect you this day week.”  Then, with most polite thanks to the master of the house, he was driven off, while Harold, beaming down on us, exclaimed, “It is as good as done.  I am to go up and see the Secretary of State about it next week.”

I had no doubt what it was, and cried out joyfully to ask how he had done it.  “I told him who first discovered the capabilities of the clay, and laid the state of the case before him.  He was very much touched, said it was just such a matter as needed severity at the time, but was sure to be pardoned now.”

“Pardoned!  What do you mean?” exclaimed Eustace.  “You don’t mean that you have not done with that wretched old Prometesky yet?  I thought at least, when you took up Sir James all to yourself, spoiling the luncheon and keeping everyone waiting, you were doing something for the benefit of the family.”

As Harold seemed dumb with amazement, I asked what he could possibly have been expected to do for the good of the family, and Eustace mumbled out something about that supposed Calldron barony, which seemed to have turned his head, and I answered sharply that Sir James had nothing at all to do with reviving peerages; besides, if this one had ever existed, it would have been Harold’s.  I had much better have held my tongue.  Eustace never recovered that allegation.  That day, too, was the very first in which it had been impossible for Harold to avoid receiving marked preference, and the jealousy hitherto averted by Eustace’s incredible vanity had begun to awaken.  Moreover, that there had been some marked rebuff from Viola was also plain, for, as the Arked carriage was seen coming round, and I said we must go in to the Tracys, Eustace muttered, “Nasty little stuck-up thing; catch me making up to her again!”

It was just as well that Harold did not hear, having, at sight of the carriage, gone off to fetch a favourite cup, the mending of which he had contrived for Viola at the potteries.  When we came into the drawing-room, I found Lady Diana and Mrs. Alison with their heads very close together over some samples of Welsh wool, and Dermot lying on the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head, and his sister hanging over him, with her cheeks of the colour that made her beautiful.

The two elder ladies closed on Eustace directly to congratulate him on the success of his arrangements, and Dermot jumped up from the sofa, while Viola caught hold of my hand, and we all made for the window which opened on the terrace.  “Tell her,” said Viola to her brother, as we stood outside.

Dermot smiled, saying, “Only that Sir James thinks he has to-day seen one of the most remarkable men he ever met in his life.”

“And he has promised to help him to Prometesky’s pardon,” I said; while Viola, instead of speaking, leaped up and kissed me for joy.  “He is to go to London about it.”

“Yes,” Dermot said.  “Sir James wants him to meet some friends, who will be glad to pick his brains about New South Wales.  Hallo, Harry!  I congratulate you.  You’ve achieved greatness.”

“You’ve achieved a better thing,” said Viola, with her eyes beaming upon him.

“I hope so,” he said in an under tone.

“I am so glad,” with a whole heart in the four words.

“Thank you,” he said.  “This was all that was wanting.”

The words must have come out in spite of himself, for he coloured up to the roots of his hair as they ended.  And Viola not only coloured too, but the moisture sprang into her fawn-like eyes.  Dermot and I looked at each other, both knowing what it meant.

That instant Lady Diana called, and Dermot, the first of all, stooped under the window to give his sister time, and in the little bustle to which he amiably submitted about wraps and a glass of wine, Lady Diana failed to look at her daughter’s cheeks and eyes.  Viola never even thanked Harold for the cup, which he put into her lap after she was seated beside Dermot’s feet on the back seat of the carriage.  She only bent her head under her broad hat, and there was a clasp of the two hands.

I turned to go up to my sitting-room.  Harold came after me and shut the door.

“Lucy,” he said, “may one give thanks for such things?”

The words of the 107th Psalm came to my lips:  “Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men.”

He put his hands over his face, and said presently, in a smothered voice, “I had just begun to pray for the old man.”

I could not say any more for happy tears, less for “the captive exile” than for my own Harry.

Soon he looked up again, and said with a smile, “I shan’t fight against it any longer.”

“I don’t think it is of any use,” was my answer, as if pretending to condole; and where another man would have uttered a fervent rhapsody, he exclaimed, “Lovely little darling!”

But after another interval he said, “I don’t mean to speak of it till I come back.”  And on my question, “From London?” “No, from Boola Boola.”

He had evidently debated the whole matter during his midnight tramps, and had made up his mind, as he explained, that it would be cruel to Viola to touch the chord which would disclose her feelings to herself.  She was a mere child, and if her fancy were touched, as he scarcely allowed himself to believe, it was hard to lay fully before her those dark pages in his history which she must know before she could be allowed to give herself to him.  Besides, her mother and uncle would, even if there were nothing else amiss, be sure to oppose a match with one who had nothing in England but his cousin’s agency and a few shares in the potteries; and though Harold had plenty of wealth at Boola Boola, it was certain that he should not have a moment’s audience from the elders unless he could show its amount in property in England.  If things went well, he would buy a piece of Neme Heath, reclaim it, and build a house on it; or, perhaps, an estate in Ireland, near Killy Marey, where the people had gained his heart.  Till, however, he could show that he had handsome means in a form tangible to Lady Diana, to express his affection would only be exposing Viola to displeasure and persecution.  Moreover, he added, his character was not cleared up as much as was even possible.  He had told Lord Erymanth the entire truth, and had been believed, but it was quite probable that even that truth might divide for ever between him and Viola, and those other stories of the Stympsons both cousins had, of course, flatly denied, but had never been able otherwise to confute.

I asked whether it had ever struck him that it was possible that the deeds of Henry Alison might have been charged on his head.  “Yes,” he said, and he thought that if he could trace this out, with Dermot as a witness, the authorities might be satisfied so far as to take him for what he was, instead of for what he had never been.  But the perception of the storm of opposition which speaking at present would provoke, made me allow that he was as wise as generous in sparing Viola till his return, since I knew her too well to fear that her heart would be given away in the meantime.  Still I did hint, “Might not she feel your going away without saying anything?”

“Not at all likely,” said Harold.  “Besides, she would probably be a happier woman if she forgot all about me.”

In which, of course, there was no agreeing; but he had made up his mind, and it was plain it was the nobler part ­nay, the only honest part, since it was plainly of no use to speak openly.  I wondered a little that his love was so self-restrained.  It was an intense glow, but not an outbreak; but I think that having gone through all the whirlwind of tempestuous passion for a mere animal like poor Meg made him the more delicately reverent and considerate for the real love of the higher nature which had now developed in him.  He said himself that the allowing himself to hope, and ceasing to crush his feelings, was so great a change as to be happiness enough for him; and I guarded carefully against being forced into any promise of silence, being quite determined that, if I saw Viola unhappy, or fancying herself forgotten, I would, whether it could be called wise or foolish, give her a hint of the true state of things.

Nothing was to be said to Eustace.  He would have the field to himself, and it was better that he should convince himself and Lady Diana that there was no hope for him.  Harold thought he could safely be commended to George Yolland and me for his affairs and his home life; and, to our surprise, he did not seem half so reluctant to part with his cousin as we had expected.  He had gone his own way a good deal more this winter and spring, as Harold seldom had time to hunt, and did not often drive out, and he had grown much more independent.  His share of Boola Boola was likewise to be sold, for neither cousin felt any desire to keep up the connection with the country where they had never had a happy home; and he gave Harold full authority to transact the sale.

Perhaps we all had shared more or less in Dora’s expectation that Harold would come home from London with Prometesky’s pardon in his pocket; though I laughed at her, and Eustace was furious when we found she thought he was to kneel before the Queen, present his petition, and not only receive the pardon, but rise up Sir Harold Alison!  It did fall flat when he came back, having had very satisfactory interviews, but only with the Secretaries of State, and having been assured that Prometesky would be certainly pardoned, but that, as a matter of form, some certificates of conduct and recommendations must be obtained from New South Wales before the pardon could be issued.

This precipitated Harold’s departure.  Dermot was just well enough to be likely to be the better for a voyage, and the first week in May was fixed for their setting forth.  A great box appeared in my sitting-room, where Harold began to stow all manner of presents of various descriptions for friends and their children, but chiefly for the shepherds’ families at Boola Boola; and in the midst, Mrs. Alison, poor thing, brought a whole box of beautifully-knitted worsted stockings, which she implored Harold to carry to her dear Henry; and he actually let her pack them up, and promised that, if he ever found Henry, they should be given.  “And this little Bible,” said the good old lady; “maybe he has lost his own.  Tell him it is his poor papa’s, and I know he will bring it back to me.”

“He shall if I can make him,” said Harold.

“And Harold, my dear,” said Mrs. Alison, with her hand on his shoulder, as he knelt by his box, “you’ll go to see your own poor mamma?”

Harold started and winced.  “My mother is in New Zealand,” he said.

“Yes, my dear,” said the old lady triumphantly; “but that’s only the other side of the way, for I looked in Lucy’s map.”

“And she has a husband,” added Harold between his teeth, ignoring what the other side of the way might mean.

“Yes, my dear, I know he is not a nice man, but you are her only one, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I know what that is ­not that I ever married anyone but your poor uncle, nor ever would, not if the new rector had asked me, which many expected and even paid their compliments to me on, but I always said ‘No, no.’  But you’ll go and see her, my dear, and comfort her poor heart, which, you may depend, is longing and craving after you, my dear; and all the more if her new gentleman isn’t quite as he should be.”

Harold could not persuade himself to bring out any answer but “I’ll see about it;” and when we were alone, he said with a sigh, “If I should be any comfort to her poor heart.”

“I should think there was no doubt of that.”

“I am afraid of committing murder,” answered Harold, almost under his breath, over the trunk.

“Oh, Harold!  Not now.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You have not seen him for ten years.  He may be altered as much as you.”

“And for the worse.  I could almost say I dare not.”

“There’s nothing you don’t dare, God helping you,” I said.

“I shall think.  If it is my duty, I suppose God will help me.  Hitherto, I have thought my rage against the brutes made it worse for her, and that I do best for her by keeping out of the way.”

“I think they would respect you now too much to do anything very bad before you.”

“She would fare the worse for it afterwards.”

“I am of Mrs. Alison’s opinion, that she would be willing for the sake of seeing her son, and such a son.”

Harold sighed.

“But it could not have been so dreadful when Eustace lived with them, and was so fond of the man.”

“He nattered Eustace to curry favour with him and his father.  He has sunk much lower.  Then he lived like a decent clergyman.  He has thrown all that off in New Zealand, and fallen entirely under the dominion of that son.  I could wish I had quite throttled that Dick when I so nearly did so at school.”

“If you say such things, I shall think you ought not to trust yourself there.”

“That is it ­I am afraid.  I have crimes enough already.”

It was too great a responsibility to persuade him to put himself into temptation, even now that he knew what prayer was.  I longed to have seen him come yet nearer, and taken the means of strengthening and refreshing.  But he said, “I cannot; I have not time to make fit preparation.”  And when I pleaded that I could not bear to think of his encountering danger without fulfilling that to which the promise of Everlasting Life is attached, I struck the wrong key.  What he was not ready to do for love, he would not do for fear, or hurry preparation beyond what his conscience approved, that he might have what I was representing as the passport of salvation.  Whether he were right or wrong I know not even now, but it was probably through the error of the very insufficient adviser the poor fellow had chosen in me.  It may seem strange, but I had never thought of his irreligion as an obstacle with Viola, for, first, I knew him to be a sincere learner, as far as he went; and next, her sister’s husband had none of the goodness that Lady Diana’s professions would have led one to expect in her chosen son-in-law.

We all met and parted at the railway-station, whither Viola came with her brother.  Dora had been only allowed to come upon solemn promises of quietness, and at the last our attention was more taken up with her than anyone else, for she was very white, and shook from head to foot with the effort at self-restraint, not speaking a word, but clinging to Harold with a tight grip of his hand, and, when that was not attainable, of his coat.  Fortunately the train was punctual, and the ordeal did not last long.  Harold put in all his goods and Dermot’s, and finally he lifted the poor child up in his arms, held her close, and then, as her hands locked convulsively round his neck, Eustace unclasped them, and Harold put her down on my lap as I sat down on the bench, left a kiss on my brow, wrung Eustace’s hand, pressed Viola’s, saying, “I’ll take care of your brother,” and then, with one final impulse, carried the hand to his lips and kissed it, before springing into the carriage, which was already in motion.  Poor Dora was actually faint, and never having experienced the feeling before, was frightened, and gasped out, “Hasn’t it killed me, Lucy?”

The laugh that was unavoidable did us all good, and I sent Eustace for some restorative from the refreshment-room.  The child had to be carried to the carriage, and was thoroughly out of order for several days.  Poor little girl, we neither of us knew that it was the beginning of her darker days!

Of Harold’s doings in Australia I can tell less than of those at home.  He kept his promise, dear fellow, and wrote regularly.  But, alas! his letters are all gone, and I can only speak from memory of them, and from what Dermot told me.

Making no stay in Sydney, they pushed on to Boola Boola, avoiding a halt at Cree’s Station, but making at once for Prometesky’s cottage, a wonderful hermitage, as Dermot described it, almost entirely the work of the old man’s ingenious hands.  There he lived, like a philosopher of old, with the most sternly plain and scanty materials for comfort ­a mat, a table, and a chair; but surrounded by beautiful artistic figures and intricate mathematical diagrams traced on his floor and wall, reams of essays and poems where he had tried to work out his thought; fragments of machines, the toys of his constructive brain, among which the travellers found him sitting like a masculine version of Albert Durer’s Melancholia, his laughing jackass adding tones of mockery to the scene, perched on the bough, looking down, as his master below took to pieces some squatter’s crazy clock.

When Harold’s greeting had aroused him, Dermot said, nothing could be more touching than the meeting with Prometesky, who looked at him as a father might look at a newly-recovered son, and seemed to lose the joy of the prospect of his own freedom in the pride and exultation of his own boy, his Ambrose’s son, having achieved it.  The beauty of the place enchanted Dermot, and his first ride round the property made him marvel how man could find it in his heart to give up this free open life of enterprise for the tameness of an old civilised country.  But Harold smiled, and said he had found better things in England.

Harold found that there were serious losses in the numbers of the sheep of the common stock, and that all the neighbouring settlers were making the like complaint.  Bushranging, properly so called, had been extinguished by the goldfind in Victoria, but as my brothers had located themselves as far as possible from inhabited districts, Boola Boola was still on the extreme border of civilisation, and there was a long, wide mountain valley, called the Red Valley, beyond it, with long gulleys and ravines branching up in endless ramifications, where a gang of runaway shepherds and unsuccessful gold diggers were known to haunt, and were almost certainly the robbers.  The settlers and mounted police had made some attempts at tracking them out, but had always become bewildered in the intricacies of the ravines, and the losing one’s way in those eucalyptus forests was too awful a danger to be encountered.

A fresh raid had taken place the very night before Harold arrived at Boola Boola, upon a flock pasturing some way off.  The shepherds were badly beaten, and then bailed up, and a couple of hundred sheep were driven off.

Now Harold had, as a lad, explored all the recesses of these ravines, and was determined to put an end to the gang; and when it became known that Harold Alison was at home, and would act as guide, a fully sufficient party of squatters, shepherds, and police rallied for the attack, and Dermot, in great delight, found himself about to see a fight in good earnest.

A very sufficient guide Harold proved himself, and they came, not to any poetical robber’s cavern, but within sight of a set of shanties, looking like any ordinary station of a low character.  There a sudden volley of shot from an ambush poured upon them, happily without any serious wounds, and a hand-to-hand battle began, for the robbers having thus taken the initiative, it was hardly needful to display the search warrant with which the party had come armed.  And to the amazement of all, the gang was headed by a man who seemed the very counterpart of Harold, not, perhaps, quite so tall, but with much the same complexion and outline, though he was somewhat older, and had the wild, fierce, ruffianly aspect of a bushranger.  This man was taking deliberate aim at the magistrate who acted as head of the party, when Harold flung down his own loaded rifle, sprang upon him, and there was the most tremendous wrestling match that Dermot said he could have imagined.  Three times Harold’s antagonist touched the earth, three times he sprang from it again with redoubled vigour, until, at last, Harold clasped his arms round him, lifted him in the air, and dashed him to the ground, where he lay senseless.  And then, to the general amusement, Harold seemed astonished at his state as he lay prone, observing, “I did not want to hurt him;” and presently told Dermot, “I believe he is old Mrs. Sam Alison’s son.”

And so it proved.  He was the Henry or Harry Alison of whose deeds the Stympsons had heard.  The gang was, after all, not very extensive; two had been shot in the fray, one was wounded, and one surrendered.  Alison, though not dead, was perfectly helpless, and was carried down the rocky valley on an extemporary litter, Harold taking his usual share of the labour.  The sheep and cattle on whom were recognised the marks of the Alisons of Boola Boola, and of sundry of their neighbours, were collected, to be driven down and reclaimed by their owners, and the victory was complete.