Books: My Young Alcides

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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.

CHAPTER XII. THE GOLDEN FRUIT.

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.

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