While all this was passing on the other side the world, Eustace fulfilled his wish for a season in London, was presented by Lord Erymanth, went to a court ball, showed his horses in the Park, lived at a club, and went to Ascot and Epsom.  He fulfilled Harold’s boast that he might be trusted not to get into mischief, for he really had no taste for vice, and when left to himself had the suspicious dislike to spending money which is so often found where the intellect is below the average.  Vanity and self-consequence were the poor fellow’s leading foibles, and he did not find that they were gratified when among his equals and superiors in station.  Sensible men could not make him a companion, and the more dangerous stamp of men, when they could not fleece him, turned him into ridicule, so that he came home discontented.

It was not for my sympathy or company that he came home.  He should have had it, for I had grown really fond of him, and was he not a charge left me by Harold?  But he did not want me more than as lady of the house when he gave a dinner-party; and after his experiences of club dinners his requirements had become so distracting as to drive our old servants away and me nearly crazy.  Also he was constantly in a state of discontent with Mr. Yolland about the management of the estate, always grumbling about expenses and expecting unreasonable returns, and interfering with the improvements Harold had set in hand, till Mr. Yolland used to come and seek private interviews with me, to try to get me to instil the explanations in which he had failed.  Once or twice I made peace, but things grew worse and worse.  I heard nothing but petulant abuse of George Yolland on one side, and on the other I knew he would have thrown up the agency except for Harold.

When at Michaelmas Eustace informed him that the estate should no longer go on without a regular responsible agent, and that one was engaged who had been recommended by Mr. Horsman, I do not know whether he was most hurt or relieved, though I could hardly forgive the slight to his cousin, far less the reply, when I urged the impropriety.  “Harold can’t expect to domineer over everything.  He has put me to expense enough already with his fancies.”

In truth Eustace had been resorting all this time to the companionship of the Horsmans.  Hunting, during the previous winter, had thrown him with them more than we knew, and when he found me far more of a champion for Harold’s rights than he wished, and, I fear too, much less tolerant of his folly and petulance than when his cousin was present to make the best of them by his loyal love, he deserted home more and more for Therford Hall.  Dora and I were hardly sorry, for he was very cross to her, and had almost forgotten his deference to me; but I certainly was not prepared for the announcement of his engagement to Hippolyta Horsman.

From sheepishness and want of savoir faire, he had not even properly withdrawn his suit from Viola Tracy, thus making Lady Diana and Lord Erymanth very angry, though the damsel herself was delighted.  I had ventured to give one little hint of how the land lay with Harold, and she had glowed with a look of intense gladness as of being confirmed in a happy belief.  I don’t even now think it was wrong.  It might have been imprudent, but it made that year of her life full of a calm bright hope and joy that neither she nor I can ever regret.

As far as could be guessed, Hippolyta’s first and strongest attraction had been towards Harold; but when it had been met by distaste and disregard, she had turned her attention to the squire, who could be easily gained by judicious flattery.  In those days, I could see no excuse for Hippolyta, and ascribed no motives to her but fortune-hunting and despair at being a spinster so long; but I have since learnt to think that she had a genuine wish to be in a position of usefulness rather than to continue her aimless life of rattle and excitement, and that she had that impulse to take care of Eustace and protect him which strong-minded women sometimes seem to feel for weak men.

The courtship was conducted at archery meetings, and afterwards at shooting parties, out of my sight and suspicion, though the whole neighbourhood was talking of it, and Miss Avice Stympson had come to Arghouse to inquire about it, and impart her great disapproval of Hippo, long before it was officially announced to me, and Eustace at the same time kindly invited Mrs. Alison and me to remain where I was till after the wedding.  I understood that this had been dictated to him, and was an intimation which I scarcely needed, that Arghouse would be our home no longer.

Just as I was thinking what proposal to make to Mrs. Alison came Harold’s letters about his unfortunate Australian double.  His first letter to the poor old lady merely told her that he had found her son, and that he was at Sydney, laid up by a bad accident received in a fray with the police.  His back was hurt, but there was no cause to fear danger.  He sent his love, and Harold would write again.  Viola sent me Dermot’s letter with full particulars, but I kept silence through all the mother’s agitations of joy and grief.

The next mail brought me full details of the skirmish, and of what Harold had learnt of Henry Alison’s course.  It had been a succession of falls lower and lower, as with each failure habits of drunkenness and dissipation fastened on him, and peculation and dishonesty on that congenial soil grew into ruffianism.  Expelled from the gold diggings for some act too mean even for that atmosphere, he had become the leader of a gang of runaway shepherds in the recesses of the Red Valley, and spread increasing terror there until the attack on him in his stronghold, when Harold’s cousinly embrace (really intended to spare his life, as well as that of the magistrate) had absolutely injured his spine, probably for life.  He had with great difficulty been carried to Sydney, and there placed in the hospital instead of the jail; since, disabled as he was, no one wished to prosecute the poor wretch, and identification was always a difficulty.  Harold had been taking daily care of him, and had found him in his weak and broken state ready to soften, nay, to shed tears, at the thought of his mother; evincing feelings that might be of little service if he had recovered, but if he were crippled for life might be the beginning of better things.  Harold had given him the Bible, and the stockings, and had left him alone with them.  The Bible was as yet left untouched, as if he were afraid of it, but he had ever since been turning over and fondling the stockings, as though all the love that the poor mother had been knitting into them for years and years, apparently in vain, were exhaling like the heat and colours stored by the sun in ages past in our coals.

Harold was wondering over the question whether a man in his state could or ought to be brought to England, or whether it could be possible to send his mother out to him, when the problem was solved by his falling in with a gentleman whose wife was a confirmed invalid, and who was ready to give almost any salary to a motherly, ladylike woman, beyond danger of marrying, who would take care of her and attend to the household.  He would even endure the son, and lodge him in one of the dependencies of his house, which had large grounds looking into beautiful Sydney Bay, provided he could secure such a person.

Even an escort had been arranged, as a brother of the gentleman was in England, and about to return with his wife to Australia; so that I was at once to communicate with them, pack her up, and consign her to them.  To Mrs. Alison herself Harold wrote with the offer of the situation, and a representation of her son’s need and longing for her, telling her the poor fellow’s affectionate messages, and promising himself to meet her at Sydney on her arrival.

He must needs await the arrival of Prometesky’s pardon, in answer to the recommendations that had gone by this very mail, and which he had had no difficulty in obtaining.  The squatters round Boola Boola would have done anything for the man who had delivered them from the Red Valley gang; and, besides, there was no one who had been long enough in the country to remember anything adverse to the old hermit mechanist, and most of them could hardly believe that he “had not come out at his own expense.”  And at Sydney, as a visitor, highly spoken of by letters from the Colonial Secretary, and in company with an English gentleman connected as was Mr. Tracy, Harold found himself in a very different sphere from that of the wild young sheep-farmer, coming down half for business, half for roistering diversion.  He emulated Eustace’s grandeur by appearances at Government House, and might have made friends with many of the superior families, if, after putting things in train for the sale of Boola Boola, he had not resolved on spending his waiting time on a journey to New Zealand to see his mother.

He trusted himself the more from having visited the Crees, and having found he could keep his temper when they sneered at him as a swell and a teetotaller ­nay, even wounded him more deeply by the old man’s rejection of his offers of assistance, as if he had wanted to buy the family off from denouncing him as having been the death of their daughter.  Often Harold must have felt it well for him that Dermot Tracy knew the worst beforehand ­nay, that what he learnt in New South Wales was mild compared with the Stympson version.  Dermot himself wrote to his uncle the full account of what he had learnt from Cree and from Prometesky of Harold’s real errors, and what Henry Alison had confessed of those attributed to him, feeling that this was the best mode of clearing the way for those hopes which Harold had not concealed from him.  Dermot was thoroughly happy, enchanted with the new world, more enthusiastic about his hero than ever, and eager to see as much as possible; but they renewed their promise to be in Sydney in time to greet poor old Mrs. Alison.

Dear old body, what a state she was in, between joy and grief, love and terror, heart and brain.  She never wavered in her maternal eagerness to go to “poor little Henry,” but what did she not imagine as to Botany Bay?  She began sewing up sovereigns in chamois-leather bags to be dispersed all over her person against the time when she should have to live among the burglars; and Dora, who was desperately offended, failed to convince her that she might as well expect robbers at home.  However, the preparations were complete at last, and I took her myself to the good people who were to have the charge of her.  I had no fears in sending her off, since Harold was sure to arrange for her maintenance and comfort, in case of her situation not being a success; and though I had learnt to love her, and lost in her my chaperon, I was glad to be so far unencumbered; and to be freed from the fear that Eustace and Hippolyta might do something harshly inconsiderate by her, in their selfish blindness to all save themselves.

Hippolyta’s fortune was in a complicated state, which made her settlements long in being made out; and as Eustace did not wish to turn me out till the wedding, I had time to wait to ascertain what Harold would like me to do.  I hoped that Dora was so inconvenient an appendage that I should be allowed to keep her, but I found that Hippolyta had designs on her ­saying, truly enough, that she could neither write nor spell and knew not a word of any language.  “Poor Lucy Alison, what could be expected of her!” So Dora was to go to the married cousins in London, who, by thus taking her in, would be enabled to have a superior governess for their own tribe.  Poor Dora! how fiercely she showed her love for me all those weeks of reprieve, and how hard I laboured to impress upon her that her intended system of defiance to the whole Horsman family was not, by any means, such a proof of affection as either Harry or I should relish.

More letters from our travellers from New Zealand turned our attention from our own troubles.  They had reached Dunedin, and there found Harold’s letter, to announce his coming, waiting at the post-office.  The Smith family had left the place, and Mr. Smith only came or sent from time to time when Harold’s regular letters, containing remittances, were due.  By inquiry, they were traced to the goldfields; and thither Harold and Dermot repaired, through curious experiences and recognitions of old army and London friends of Dermot’s, now diggers or mounted police.  Save for one of these gentlemen, much better educated than Harold, but now far rougher looking, they would never have found the house where “Parson Smith” (a title that most supposed to be entirely unfounded) made a greater profit by selling the necessaries of life to the diggers, than did his son by gold-digging and washing.

Poor Alice, the stately farmhouse beauty of thirty years ago, was a stooping, haggard, broken-down wreck ­not a slattern, but an overworked drudge, with a face fitter for seventy than for fifty years old, and a ghastly look of long-continued sickness.

Her husband was out, and she sat, propped up in a chair behind the board that served for a counter, still attending to the shop; and thus it was that her son beheld her when he stooped under the low doorway, with the one word, “Mother.”

Dermot had waited outside, but Harold called him in the next moment.  “He will mind the shop, mother.  I’ll carry you to your bed.  You are not fit to be here a moment.”

And Dermot found himself selling tobacco, tin cups, and knives to very rough-looking customers, some of whom spoke in as refined a voice as he could do, and only asked what green chum the parson could have picked up instead of the sickly missus.

Alice Smith was indeed far gone in illness, the effect of exposure, drudgery, and hard usage.  Perhaps her husband might have had mercy on her, but they were both cowed by the pitiless brute of a step-son, whose only view was to goad her into driving their profitable traffic to her last gasp.  But there was no outbreak between them and Harold.  The father’s nature was to cringe and fawn, and the son estimated those thews and muscles too well to gratify his hatred by open provocation, and was only surly and dogged, keeping himself almost entirely out of the way.  Alice wanted nothing but to look at her son ­“her beautiful boy,” “her Harry come back to her at last;” and kind and tender to her and loving, as he had never been since his baby days; but he would have moved heaven and earth to obtain comforts and attendance for her.  Dermot rode a fabulous distance, and brought back a doctor for a fabulous fee, and loaded his horse with pillows and medicaments; but the doctor could only declare that she had a fatal disease of long standing and must die, though care and comfort might a little while prolong her life.  It was welcome news to poor Alice, provided she might only die while her boy was still with her, shutting out all that had so long made her life one ground-down course of hopeless wretchedness.

Smith’s most profitable form of employment was carrying dinners out to the men at work; and for an hour or two at noon the little store was entirely free from customers.  The day after the doctor’s visit, Dermot came in at this time to speak to Harold, and as soon as Alice knew of his presence (there was a mere partition of slab between her bed and the shop), she eagerly and nervously bade him stay and keep watch that no one should come near to see or hear.  Then, when certain that she was alone with her son, she produced from hiding-places about her person what appeared to be three balls of worsted ­her eyes gleaming, and her whole person starting at every sound.  She laid her skeleton fingers over them with a start of terror, as Harold, puzzled at first, would have unwound one; but made him weigh them, parted the covering with her nail, and showed for one instant a yellow gleam.  Each held a nugget of unusual size!  Her urgency and her terror were excessive till they were out of sight in his pockets, though he protested that this was but to satisfy her for the moment; he could not keep them.  She laid her head so close to his that she could whisper, and told him they were not meant for him.  They were payment for the L200 of which her husband had defrauded the elder Eustace, and which had been a heavy weight ever since on her high-spirited pride.  By one of the strange chances that often befell in the early days of the goldfields, she, going to draw water at a little stream soon after her first arrival, had seen these lying close together in the bed of the shallow rivulet ­three lumps of gold formed by a freak of nature into the likeness of the golden pippins her father used to be so proud of, and the gathering of which had been the crisis of the courtship of the two handsome lads from Arghouse.

With the secretiveness that tyranny had taught her, Alice hid her treasure; and with the inborn honest pride which had, under Smith’s dominion, cost her so much suffering, she swore to herself that they should go to Eustace to wipe out the fraud against his father.  She had sought opportunities ever since, and believed that she should have to send for some man in authority when she was dying, and no one could gainsay her, and commit them to him, little guessing that it was in her own son’s hands that she should place them.

As little did she reckon on what Harold chose to do.  He said that for him to conceal them, and take them away without her husband’s knowledge, would be mere robbery; but that he would show them to Smith, and sign a receipt for them, “for Eustace Alison,” in payment of the sum of L200 due from James Smith to his father.  Mr. Tracy and his friend, the policeman, should be witnesses, and the nuggets themselves should be placed in charge of the police, when their weight and value would be ascertained, and any overplus returned to Smith.  The poor woman trembled exceedingly ­Dermot heard the rustling as he stood outside; and he also heard Harold’s voice soothing her, and assuring her that she should not be left to the revenge of young Dick Smith.  No, she feared not that; she was past the dread of Dick for herself, but not for Harold.  He laughed, and said that they durst not touch him.

For his mother’s relief, and for Dermot’s safety, he, however, waited to say anything till the assistance of the gentleman of the police force had been secured, so that there might be no delay to allow Dick Smith to gather his fellows for revenge or recovery of the gold.

And with these precautions all went well.  Harold, in the grave, authoritative way that had grown on him, reminded Mr. Smith of a heavy debt due to his uncle; and when the wretched man began half to deny and half to entreat in the same breath, Harold said that he had received from his mother a deposit in payment thereof, and that he had prepared a receipt, which he requested Mr. Smith to see him sign in presence of the two witnesses now waiting.

Smith’s resentment and disappointment at the sight of the treasure his wife had hidden from him were unspeakable.  He was not an outwardly passionate man, and he was in mortal fear, not only of the giant who seemed to fill up all his little room, but also of anything that could compromise him with the police.  So he suppressed his passion, aware that resistance would bring out stories that could not bear the light.  Harold signed, and the golden apples were carried away to the office, where Mr. Smith was invited to come the next day and see them weighed.

That night Harold kept watch over his mother; and Dermot, who was thought to be at his friend’s shanty, kept watch near the door:  but Dick Smith, hating Harold’s presence, had gone on an excursion lasting some days, and before his father went in quest of him in the morning, Harold had a proposal ready ­namely, to continue to pay Smith what he already allowed his mother, with an addition, provided he were allowed to take her with him to Dunedin, and, if possible, home.

Smith haggled, lamented, and pretended to hesitate, but accepted the terms at last, and then showed considerable haste in setting the party off on their journey before his son should come home, fearing, perhaps, some deadly deed if Dick should discover what a prey the poor woman had concealed from him, while she was within his reach; and as the worth of the apples was estimated at about twenty pounds beyond the debt, Harold paid this to him at once, and they left him in the meek, plausible, tearful stage of intoxication, piteously taking leave of his wife as if she were the very darling of his heart, and making fine speeches about his resolution to consign her to her son for the sake of her health.  So contemptible had the poor creature become, that Harold found it easier to pity than to hate him.

Besides, Harold had little thought then to spare from the eager filial and maternal affection that had been in abeyance all the years since poor Alice’s unhappy marriage.  For a little while the mother and son were all in all to each other.  The much-enduring woman, used to neglected physical suffering, bore the journey apparently well, when watched over and guarded with a tender kindness recalling that of the husband of her youth; and Harold wrote to me from Dunedin full of hope and gladness, aware that his mother could never be well again, but trusting that we might yet give her such peace and rest as she had never yet tasted.

Again came bitter vexation in Eustace’s way of receiving the intelligence.  “I hope he does not mean to bring her here.  It would be so extremely inconvenient ­not a widow even!  It would just confirm all the scandals I have surmounted.”

“I thought she had been almost as much a mother to you as your own?”

“Oh, that was when I was at school, and they were paid for it.  Besides, what a deceitful fellow Smith was, and how he defrauded me.”

“And how she has restored it!”

“I hope Harold will not go and get those nuggets changed into specie.  They would make splendid ornaments ­so distingue with such a story attached to them.”

I could only again tell myself that my first impression had been right, and that he must be underwitted to be so absolutely impervious to gratitude.  How Harold must have bolstered him up to make him so tolerable as he had been.

He need not have feared.  Alice’s improvement was but a last flash of the expiring flame.  She grew worse the very day after Harold wrote to me, and did not live three weeks after he brought her into the town, though surrounded by such cares as she had never known before.  She died, they said, more from being worn out than from the disease.  She had done nothing her whole lifetime but toil for others; and if unselfishness and silent slavery can be religion in a woman, poor Alice had it.  But!

Harold once asked her the saddest question that perhaps a son could ask:  “Mother, why did you never teach me to say my prayers?”

She stared at him with her great, sunken, uncomplaining eyes, and said, “I hadn’t time;” and as he gave some involuntary groan, she said, “You see we never got religion, not Dorothy and me, while we were girls; and when our troubles came, I’m sure we’d no time for such things as that.  When your father lay a-dying, he did say, ’Alice, take care the boy gets to know his God better than we have done;’ but you were a great big boy by that time, and I thought I would take care you was taught by marrying a parson and a schoolmaster; but there, I ought to have remembered there was none so hard on us as the parsons!”

Nor would she see a clergyman.  She had had enough of that sort, she said, with the only petulance she ever showed to Harold when he pressed it.  She did not object to his reading to her some of those passages in the Bible and Prayer-Book which had become most dear to him, but she seemed rather to view it as one of the wonderful performances of her boy ­a part of his having become “as good an English gentleman as ever his poor father was, and able to hold up his head with any of them.”  She was too ill to be argued with; she said “she trusted in God,” whatever she meant by that; and so she died, holding Harold’s hand as long as her fingers could clasp, and gazing at him as long as her eyes could see.

He wrote to me all out of his overflowing heart, as he could never have spoken by word of mouth, on his voyage between New Zealand and Australia; and on his arrival there, finding our letters just before the mail went out, he added the characteristic line to the one he had written to Eustace, “All right, old chap, I wish you joy;” and to me he wrote, that since I asked what he wished, he thought I had better take a house by the year in, or near, Mycening, and see how things would turn out.  He hoped I should keep Dora.  We need not write again, for he should leave Sydney before our letters could arrive.

I found a little house called Mount Eaton, on the Neme Heath side of Mycening, with a green field between it and the town, and the heath stretching out beyond, where Harold might rush out and shake his mane instead of feeling cribbed and confined.  It wanted a great deal of painting and papering, which I set in hand at once, but of course it was a more lingering business than I expected.  All the furniture and books that had belonged to my own mother had been left to me, and it had been settled by the valuation, when I knew little about it, what these were; and all that remained was to face Eustace’s disgust at finding how many of “the best things” it comprised.  Hippolyta showed to advantage there.  I believe she was rather glad to get rid of them, and to have the opportunity of getting newer and more fashionable ones; but, at any rate, she did it with a good grace, and made me welcome not only to my own property, but to remain at Arghouse till my new abode should be habitable, which I hoped would be a day or two after the wedding.

The great grievance was, however, that I had put myself and Dora into mourning, feeling it very sad that this last of the four exiles should be the only one of whose death I even knew.  Eustace thought the whole connection ought to be forgotten, and that, whatever I might choose to do, it was intolerable that his sister, the present Miss Alison of Arghouse, should put on mourning for the wife of a disgraced fellow, a runaway parson turned sharper!

I am afraid I was not as patient or tolerant as I ought to have been, and it ended in the time of reprieve being put an end to, and Dora being carried off by the Horsmans to her new schoolroom in London, her resistance, and the home-truths she told her brother, only making him the more inexorable.  Poor little girl!  I do not like to think of the day I put her into Hippolyta’s hands.