“Fire! Where?” he cried.

“Where! Why, _you_ are on fire. Blazing!”

He ran out and looked up at the tongues of flame and volleys of smoke.

“Shut the gate,” he roared. “Call the police. Fire! fire!” And he dashed

back, and calling to the other keepers to unlock all the doors they had

keys of, ran up to the garrets to see what could be done. He came out

awe-stricken at what he saw. He descended hastily to the third floor.

Now the third floor of that wing was occupied principally by servants.

In fact, the only patients at that time were Dodd and Alfred. Rooke

called to the men below to send Hayes up to No. 75 with his key

directly; he then ran down to the next floor--of which he had keys--and

opened all the doors, and said to the inmates with a ghastly attempt at

cheerfulness, belied by his shaking voice, “Get up, gentlemen; there

is a ball and supper going on below.” He was afraid to utter the word

“fire” to them. The other keepers were as rapid, each on his beat, and

soon the more rational patients took the alarm and were persuaded or

driven out half-dressed into the yard, where they cowered together in

extremity of fear; for the fire began to roar overhead like a lion,

and lighted up the whole interior red and bright. All was screaming and

confusion; and then came a struggle to get the incurable out from the

basement story. There was no time to handcuff them. The keepers trusted

to the terror of the scene to cow them, and so opened the doors and got

them out anyhow. Wild, weird forms, with glaring eyes and matted hair,

leaped out and ran into the hall, and laughed, and danced, and cursed in

the lurid reflection of the fires above. Hell seemed discharging

demons. Men recoiled from them. And well they did; for now the skylight

exploded, and the pieces fell tinkling on the marble hall fast as hail.

The crowd recoiled and ran; but those awful figures continued their

gambols. One picked up the burning glass and ground it in his hands that

bled directly: but he felt neither burn nor cut. The keepers rushed

in to withdraw them from so dangerous a place: all but one obeyed with

sudden tameness: that one struggled and yelled like a demon. In the

midst of which fearful contest came a sudden thundering at a door on the

third floor.

“What is that?” cried Rooke.

“It is Mr. Hardie,” screamed the Robin. “You have left him locked in.”

“I told Hayes to let him out long ago.”

“But Hayes hasn't got the key. You've got it.”

“No, no. I tell you Hayes has got it.”

“No, no! Murder! murder! They are dead men. Run for Mrs. Archbold,

somebody. Run! Here, hammers, hammers! for God's sake, come and help me,

break the door. Oh, Rooke, Rooke!”

“As I'm a man Hayes has got the key,” cried Rooke, stamping on the

ground, and white with terror.

By this time Garrett had got a hammer, and he and Wales rushed wildly up

the stairs to batter in the strong door if they could. They got to the

third floor, but with difficulty; the smoke began to blind them and

choke them, and fiery showers fell on them, and drove them back smarting

and choking. Garrett sank down gasping at the stair-foot. Wales ran into

the yard uttering pitiful cries, and pointing wildly upwards; but before

he got there, a hand had broken through the glass of a window up in the

third floor, the poor white hand of a perishing prisoner, and clutched

the framework and tore at it.

At this hand a thousand white faces were now upturned amid groans of

pity and terror, such as only multitudes can utter. Suddenly those

anxious faces and glistening eyes turned like one, for an attempt, wild

and unintelligible, but still an attempt, was about to be made to save

that hand and its owner out of the very jaws of death.

Now amongst the spectators was one whose life and reason were at stake

on that attempt.

Mrs. Dodd was hurrying homeward from this very neighbourhood when the

fire broke out. Her son Edward was coming at nine o'clock to tea,

and, better still, to sleep. He was leaving the fire brigade. It had

disappointed him; he found the fire-escape men saved the lives, the

firemen only the property. He had gone into the business earnestly

too; he had invented a thing like a treble pouch hook, which could be

fastened in a moment to the end of a rope, and thrown into the window,

and would cling to the bare wall, if there was nothing better, and

enable him to go up and bring life down. But he had never got a chance

to try it; and, _per contra,_ he was on the engine when they went

tearing over a woman and broke her arm and collar-bone in the

Blackfriars Road; and also when they went tearing over their own

fire-dog, and crippled him. All this seemed out of character, and

shocked Edward; and then his mother could not get over the jacket.

In a quarter of an hour he was to take off the obnoxious jacket for

ever, and was now lounging at the station smoking a short pipe, when a

man galloped up crying “Fire!”

“All right!” said Edward, giving a whiff. “Where?”

“Lunatic Asylum. Drayton House.”

Guess how long before the horses were to, and the engine tearing at a

gallop down the road, and the firemen shouting “Fire! fire!” to clear

the way, and Edward's voice the loudest.

When the report of fire swept townward past Mrs. Dodd, she turned, and

saw the glow.

“Oh dear,” said she, “that must be somewhere near Drayton House.” And

full of the tender fears that fill such bosoms as hers for those they

love, she could not go home till she had ascertained that it was not

Drayton House. Moreover, Edward's was the nearest station; she had

little hope now of seeing him to tea. She sighed, and retraced her

steps, and made timid inquiries, but could gain no clear information.

Presently she heard galloping behind her, and the fireman's wild

sharp cry of fire. An engine drawn by two powerful brown horses came

furiously, all on fire itself with red paint and polished steel gleaming

in the lights; helmeted men clustered on it, and out of one of these

helmets looked a face like a fighting lion's, the eyes so dilated, the

countenance in such towering excitement, the figure half rising from

his seat as though galloping was too slow and he wanted to fly. It

was Edward. Mother and son caught sight of one another as the engine

thundered by, and he gave her a solemn ardent look, and pointed towards

the fire; by that burning look and eloquent gesture she knew it was

something more than a common fire. She trembled and could not move. But

this temporary weakness was followed by an influx of wild vigour; she

forgot her forty-two years, and flew to hover round the fire as the hen

round water. Unfortunately she was too late to get any nearer than the

road outside the gates, the crowd was so dense. And, while her pale face

and anxious eyes, the eyes of a wife and a mother, were bent on that

awful fire, the human tide flowed swiftly up behind her, and there she

was wedged in. She was allowed her foot of ground to stand and look like

the rest--no more. Mere unit in that mass of panting humanity, hers was

one of the thousands of upturned faces lurid in the light of the now

blazing roof. She saw with thousands the hand break the window and

clutch the frame; she gasped with the crowd at that terrible and piteous

sight, and her bosom panted for her fellow-creature in sore peril.

But what is this? The mob inside utter a great roar of hope; the crowd

outside strain every eye.

A gleaming helmet overtops the outer wall. It is a fireman mounting the

great elm-tree in the madhouse yard. The crowd inside burst in a cheer.

He had a rope round his loins; his face was to the tree. He mounted and

mounted like a cat; higher, and higher, and higher, till he reached a

branch about twelve feet above the window and as many distant from it

laterally; the crowd cheered him lustily. But Mrs. Dodd, half distracted

with terror, implored them not to encourage him. “It is my child!” she

cried despairingly; “my poor reckless darling! Come down, Edward; for

your poor mother's sake, come down.”

“Dear heart,” said a woman, “it is the lady's son. Poor thing!”

“Stand on my knee, ma'am,” said a coal-heaver.

“Oh no, sir, no. I could not look at him for the world. I can only pray

for him. Good people, pray for us!” And she covered her face, and prayed

and trembled and sobbed hysterically. A few yards behind was another

woman, who had arrived later, yet like her was wedged immovable. This

woman was more terror-stricken than Mrs. Dodd; and well she might; for

_she_ knew who was behind that fatal window: the woman's name was Edith

Archbold. The flames were now leaping through the roof, and surging up

towards heaven in waves of fire six feet high. Edward, scorched and half

blinded, managed to fasten his rope to the bough, and, calculating

the distances vertical and lateral he had to deal with, took up rope

accordingly, and launched himself into the air.

The crowd drew their breath so hard it sounded like a murmur. To their

horror he missed the window, and went swinging back.

There was a cry of dismay. But Edward had never hoped to leap into the

window; he went swinging by the rope back to the main stem of the tree,

gave it a fierce spang with his feet, and by this means and a powerful

gesture of his herculean loins got an inch nearer the window: back

again, and then the same game; and so he went swinging to and fro over

a wider and wider space; and, by letting out an inch of cord each swing,

his flying feet came above the window-ledge, then a little higher, then

higher still; and now, oh sight strange and glorious--as this helmeted

hero, with lips clenched and great eyes that stared unflinchingly at the

surging flames, and gleamed supernaturally with inward and outward fire,

swang to and fro on his frail support still making for the window--the

heads of all the hoping, fearing, admiring, panting crowd went surging

and waving to and fro beneath; so did not their hearts only but their

agitated bodies follow the course of his body, as it rushed to and fro

faster and faster through the hot air starred with snow-flakes, and

hail, of fire. And those his fellow-men for whom the brave fireman made

this supernatural effort, did they know their desperate condition? Were

they still alive? One little hour ago Alfred sat on the bed, full of

hope. Every minute he expected to hear the Robin put a key into the

door. He was all ready, and his money in his pocket. Alas! his liberator

came not; some screw loose again. Presently he was conscious of a great

commotion in the house. Feet ran up and down. Then came a smell of

burning. The elm-tree outside was illuminated. He was glad at first; he

had a spite against the place. But soon he became alarmed, and hammered

at the door and tried to force it. Impossible. “Fire!” rang from men's

voices. Fire crackled above his head; he ran about the room like a wild

creature; he sprang up at the window and dashed his hand through, but

fell back. He sprang again and got his hand on some of the lighter

woodwork; he drew himself up nearly to the window, and then the wood

gave way and he fell to the ground, and striking the back of his head,

nearly stunned himself; the flames roared fearfully now; and at this

David, who had hitherto sat unconcerned, started up, and in a stentorian

voice issued order upon order to furl every rag of sail and bring the

ship to the wind. He thought it was a tempest. “Oh hush! hush!” cried

Alfred in vain.. A beam fell from the roof to the floor, precursor of

the rest. On this David thought the ship was ashore, and shouted a fresh

set of orders proper to the occasion, so terribly alike are the angry

voices of the sister-elements. But Alfred implored him, and got him to

kneel down with him, and held his hand, and prayed.

And, even while they kneeled and Alfred prayed, Death and Life met

and fought for them. Under the door, tight as it was, and through the

keyhole, struggled a hot stifling smoke, merciful destroyer running

before fire; and the shadow of a gigantic figure began to flicker in

from the outside, and to come and go upon the wall. Alfred did not know

what that was, but it gave him a vague hope: he prayed aloud as men

pray only for their bodies. (The crowd heard him and hushed itself

breathless.)

The smoke penetrated faster, blinding and stifling; the giant shadow

came and went. But now the greater part of the roof fell in with an

awful report; the blazing timbers thundered down to the basement with

endless clatter of red-hot tiles; the walls quivered, and the building

belched skyward a thousand jets of fire like a bouquet of rockets: and

then a cloud of smoke. Alfred gave up all hope, and prepared to die.

Crash! as if discharged from a cannon, came bursting through the window,

with the roar of an applauding multitude and a mother's unheeded scream,

a helmeted figure, rope in hand, and alighted erect and commanding on

the floor amidst a shower of splinters and tinkling glass. “Up, men, for

your lives,” roared this fire-warrior, clutching them hard, and dragged

them both up to their feet by one prodigious gesture: all three faces

came together and shone in the lurid light; and he knew his father and

“the Wretch,” and “the Wretch” knew him. “Oh!” “Ah!” passed like pistol

shots; but not a word: even this strange meeting went for little, so

awful was the moment, so great are Death and Fire. Edward clawed his

rope to the bed; up to the window by it, dropped his line to fireman

Jackson planted express below, and in another moment was hauling up a

rope ladder: this he attached, and getting on it and holding his own

rope by way of banister, cried, “Now, men, quick, for your lives.” But

poor David called that deserting the ship, and demurred, till Alfred

assured him the captain had ordered it. He then submitted directly,

touched his forelock to Edward, whom he took for that officer, and went

down the ladder; Alfred followed.

Now the moment those two figures emerged from the burning pile, Mrs.

Dodd, already half dead with terror for her son, saw and knew her

husband: for all about him it was as light as day.

What terror! what joy! what gratitude! what pride! what a tempest of

emotions!

But her fears were not ended: Edward, not to overweight the ladder, went

dangling by his hands along the rope towards the tree. And his mother's

eyes stared fearfully from him to the other, and her heart hung

trembling on her husband descending cautiously, and then on his

preserver, her son, who was dangling along by the hands on that frail

support. The mob cheered him royally, but she screamed and hid her face

again. At last both her darlings were safe, and then the lusty cheers

made her thrill with pride and joy, till all of a sudden they seemed to

die away, and the terrible fire to go out; and the sore-tried wife

and mother drooped her head and swooned away, wedged in and kept from

falling by the crowd.

Inside, the mob parted and made two rushes, one at the rescued men, one

at the gallant fireman. Alfred and David were overpowered with curiosity

and sympathy. They had to shake a hundred honest hands, and others still

pressing on hurried them nearly off their feet.

“Gently, good friends; don't part us,” said Alfred.

“He is the keeper,” said one of the crowd.

“Yes, I'm his keeper: and I want to get him quietly away. This

excitement will do him harm else; good friends, help me out by that

door.”

“All right,” was the cry, and they rushed with him to the back door.

Rooke, who was about twenty yards off saw and suspected this movement.

He fought his way and struggled after Alfred in silence. Presently,

to his surprise, Alfred unlocked the door and whipped out with David,

leaving the door open. Rooke shouted and halloaed: “Stop him! he is

escaping,” and struggled madly to the door. Now another crowd had been

waiting in the meadows; seeing the door open they rushed in and the

doorway was jammed directly. In the confusion Alfred drew David along

the side of the wall; told him to stay quiet, bolted behind an outhouse,

and then ran across country for the bare life.

To his horror David followed him, and with a madman's agility soon

caught him.

He snorted like a spirited horse, and shouted cheerily, “Go ahead,

messmate; I smell blue water.”

“Come on, then,” cried Alfred, half mad himself with excitement, and

the pair ran furiously, and dashed through hedges and ditches, torn,

bleeding, splashed, triumphant; behind them the burning madhouse, above

them the spangled sky, the fresh free air of liberty blowing in their

nostrils, and rushing past their ears.

Alfred's chest expanded, he laughed for joy, he sang for joy, he leaped

as he went; nor did he care where he went. David took the command, and

kept snuffing the air, and shaping his course for blue water. And so

they rushed along the livelong night.

Free.

CHAPTER XLIV

A REPORT came round that the asylum was open in the rear. A rush was

made thither from the front: and this thinned the crowd considerably;

so then Mrs. Dodd was got out by the help of some humane persons, and

carried into the nearest house, more dead than alive. There she found

Mrs. Archbold in a pitiable state. That lady had been looking on the

fire, with the key in her pocket, by taking which she was like to be a

murderess: her terror and remorse were distracting, and the revulsion

had thrown her into violent hysterics. Mrs. Dodd plucked up a little

strength, and characteristically enough tottered to her assistance, and

called for the best remedies, and then took her hand and pressed it, and

whispered soothingly that both were now safe, meaning David and Edward.

Mrs. Archbold thought she meant Alfred and David: this new shock was

as good for her as cold water: she became quieter, and presently gulped

out, “You saw them? You knew them (ump) all that way off?”

“Knew them?” said Mrs. Dodd; “why one was my husband, and the other my

son.” Mrs. Archbold gave a sigh of relief. “Yes, madam,” continued Mrs.

Dodd, “the young fireman, who went and saved my husband, was my own son,

my Edward; my hero; oh, I am a happy wife, a proud mother.” She could

say no more for tears of joy, and while she wept deliciously, Mrs.

Archbold cried too, and so invigorated and refreshed her cunning, and

presently she perked up and told Mrs. Dodd boldly that Edward had been

seeking her, and was gone home; she had better follow him, or he would

be anxious. “But my poor husband!” objected Mrs. Dodd.

“He is safe,” said the other; “I saw him (ump) with an attendant.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Dodd, with meaning, “that other my son rescued was an

attendant, was he?”

“Yes.” (Ump.)

She then promised to take David under her especial care, and Mrs. Dodd

consented, though reluctantly, to go home.

To her surprise Edward had not yet arrived, and Julia was sitting up,

very anxious; and flew at her with a gurgle, and kissed her eagerly, and

then, drawing back her head, searched the maternal eyes for what was the

matter. “Ah, you may well look,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Oh, my child! what a

night this has been;” and she sank into a chair, and held up her arms.

Julia settled down in them directly, and in that position Mrs. Dodd told

all the night's work, told it under a running accompaniment of sighs and

kisses, and ejaculations, and “dear mammas” and “poor mammas,” and

bursts of sympathy, astonishment, pity and wonder. Thus embellished and

interrupted, the strange tale was hardly ended, when a manly step came

up the stairs, and both ladies pinched each other, and were still as

mice, and in walked a fireman with a wet livery, and a face smirched

with smoke. Julia flew at him with a gurgle of the first degree, and

threw her arms round his neck, and kissed both his blackened cheeks

again and again, crying, “Oh my own, my precious, my sweet, brave

darling, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, you are a hero, a Christian hero,

that saves life, not takes it--” Mrs. Dodd checked her impetuous career

by asking piteously if his mother was not to have him. On this, Julia

drew him along by the hand, and sank with him at Mrs. Dodd's knees, and

she held him at arm's length and gazed at him, and then drew him close

and enfolded him, and thanked God for him; and then they both embraced

him at once, and interwove him Heaven knows how, and poured the wealth

of their womanly hearts out on him in a torrent, and nearly made him

snivel. But presently something in his face struck Mrs. Dodd accustomed

to read her children. “Is there anything the matter, love?” she inquired

anxiously. He looked down and said, “I am dead sleepy, mamma, for one

thing.”

“Of course he is, poor child,” said Julia, doing the submaternal; “wait

till I see everything is comfortable,” and she flew off, turned suddenly

at the door with “Oh, you darling!” and up to his bedroom and put more

coals on his fire, and took a swift housewifely look all round.

Mrs. Dodd seized the opportunity. “Edward, there is something amiss.”

“And no mistake,” said he drily. “But I thought if I told you before her

you might scold me.”

“Scold you, love? Never. Hush! I'll come to your room by-and-by.”

Soon after this they all bade each other good night; and presently Mrs.

Dodd came and tapped softly at her son's door, and found him with his

vest and coat off, and his helmet standing on the table reflecting a

red coal; he was seated by the fire in a brown study, smoking. He

apologised, and offered to throw the weed away. “No, no,” said she,

suppressing a cough, “not if it does you good.”

“Well, mother, when you are in a fix, smoke is a soother, you know, and

I'm in a regular fix.”

“A fix,” sighed Mrs. Dodd resignedly, and waited patiently all ears.

“Mamma,” said the fire-warrior, becoming speculative under the dreamy

influence of the weed, “I wonder whether such a muddle ever was before.

When a man is fighting with fire, what with the heat and what with the

excitement, his pulse is at a hundred and sixty, and his brain all in a

whirl, and he scarce knows what he is doing till after it is done. But

I've been thinking of it all since. (Puff.) There was my poor little

mamma in the mob; I double myself up for my spring, and I go at the

window, and through it; now, on this side of it I hear my mother cry,

'Edward come down;' on the other side I fall on two men perishing in

an oven; one is my own father, and the other is, who do you think? 'The

Wretch.'”

Mrs. Dodd held up her hands in mute amazement.

“I had promised to break every bone in his skin at our first meeting;

and I kept my promise by saving his skin and bones, and life and all.”

(Puff.)

Mrs. Dodd groaned aloud. “I thought it was he,” she said faintly. “That

tall figure, that haughty grace! But Mrs. Archbold told me positively it

was an attendant.”

“Then she told you a cracker. It was not an attendant, but a madman,

and that madman was Alfred Hardie, upon my soul! Our Julia's missing

bridegroom.”

He smoked on in profound silence waiting for her to speak. But she lay

back in her chair mute and all relaxed, as if the news had knocked her

down.

“Come, now,” said Edward at last; “what is to be done? May I tell Julia?

that is the question.”

“Not for the world,” said Mrs. Dodd, shocked into energy. “Would you

blight her young life for ever, as mine is blighted?” She then assured

him that, if Alfred's sad state came to Julia's ears, all her love for

him would revive, and she would break with Mr. Hurd, and indeed never

marry all her life. “I see no end to her misery,” continued Mrs. Dodd,

with a deep sigh; “for she is full of courage; she would not shrink from

a madhouse (why she visits lazar-houses every day); she would be always

going to see her Alfred, and so nurse her pity and her unhappy love. No,

no; let _me_ be a widow with a living husband, if it is God's will: I

have had my happy days. But my child she shall not be so withered in

the flower of her days for any man that ever breathed; she shall not, I

say.” The mother could utter no more for emotion.

“Well,” said Edward, “you know best. I generally make a mess of it when

I disobey you. But concealments are bad things too. We used to go with

our bosoms open. Ah!” (Puff.)

“Edward,” said Mrs. Dodd, after some consideration, “the best thing is

to marry her to Mr. Hurd at once. He has spoken to me for her, and I

sounded her.”

“Has he? Well, and what did she say?”

“She said she would rather not marry at all, but live and die with me.

Then I pressed her a little, you know. Then she did say she could never

marry any but a clergyman, now she had lost her poor Alfred. And then I

told her I thought Mr. Hurd could make her happy, and she would make me

happy if she could esteem him; and marry him.”

“Well, mamma, and what then?”

“Why then, my poor child gave me a look that haunts me still--a look of

unutterable love, and reproach, and resignation, and despair, and burst

out crying so piteously I could say no more. Oh! oh! oh! oh!”

“Don't you cry, mammy dear,” said Edward. “Ah, I remember when a tear

was a wonder in our house.” And the fire-warrior sucked at his cigar, to

stop a sigh.

“And n--now n--ot a d--day without them,” sighed Mrs. Dodd “But _you_

have cost me none, my precious boy.”

“I'm waiting my time. (Puff.) Mamma, take my advice; don't you fidget

so. Let things alone. Why hurry her into marrying Mr. Hurd or anybody?

Look here; I'll keep dark to please you, if you'll keep quiet to please

me.”

At breakfast time came a messenger with a line from Mrs. Archbold, to

say that David had escaped from Drayton House, in company with another

dangerous maniac.

Mrs. Dodd received the blow with a kind of desperate resignation. She

rose quietly from the table without a word, and went to put on her

bonnet, leaving her breakfast and the note; for she did not at once see

all that was implied in the communication. She took Edward with her to

Drayton House. The firemen had saved one half of that building; the rest

was a black shell. Mrs. Archbold came to them, looking haggard, and told

them two keepers were already scouring the country, and an advertisement

sent to all the journals.

“Oh, madam!” said Mrs. Dodd, “if the other should hurt him, or lead him

somewhere to his death?”

Mrs. Archbold said she might dismiss this fear; the patient in question

had but one illusion, and, though terribly dangerous when thwarted in

that, was most intelligent in a general way, and much attached to Mr.

Dodd; they were always together.

A strange expression shot into Mrs. Dodd's eye: she pinched Edward's arm

to keep him quiet, and said with feigned indifference--

“Then it was the one who was in such danger with my husband last night?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Archbold off her guard. It had not occurred to her that

this handsome, fashionably-dressed young gentleman, was the fireman of

last night. She saw her mistake, though, the moment he said bluntly,

“Why, you told my mother it was an attendant.”

“Did I, madam?” asked Mrs. Archbold, mighty innocently: “I suppose I

thought so. Well, I was mistaken, unfortunately.”

Mrs. Dodd was silent a moment, then, somewhat hastily bade Mrs. Archbold

good-bye. She told the cabman to drive to an old acquaintance of ours,

Mr. Green. He had set up detective on his own account. He was not at his

office, but expected. She sat patiently down till he came in. They

put their heads together, and Green dashed down to the asylum with a

myrmidon, while Mrs. Dodd went into the City to obtain leave of absence

from Cross and Co. This was politely declined at first, but on Mrs.

Dodd showing symptoms of leaving them altogether, it was conceded. She

returned home with Edward, and there was Mr. Green: he had actually

traced the fugitives by broken fences, and occasional footsteps in the

side clay of ditches, so far as to leave no doubt they had got upon the

great south-eastern road. Then Mrs. Dodd had a female inspiration. “The

Dover road! Ah! my husband will make for the sea.”

“I shouldn't wonder, being a sailor,” said Green. “It is a pleasure to

work with a lady like you, that puts in a good hint. Know anything about

the other one, ma'am?”

Mrs. Dodd almost started at this off-hand question. But it was a natural

one for Green to ask.

She said gravely, “I do. To my cost.”

Green's eye sparkled, and he took out his note-book. “Now where is _he_

like to make for?”

Mrs. Dodd seemed to wince at the question, and then turned her eyes

inward to divine. The result was she gave a downright shudder, and said

evasively, “Being with David, I hope and pray he will go towards the

coast.”

“No, no,” said Green, “it won't do to count on that altogether. How do

we know which of the two will lead the other? You must please to put Mr.

Dodd out of the question, ma'am, for a moment. Now we'll say No. 2 had

escaped alone: where would he be like to run to?”

Mrs. Dodd thus pressed, turned her eyes more and more inward, and said

at last in a very low voice, and with a sort of concentrated horror--“He

will come to my house.”

Mr. Green booked this eagerly. The lady's emotion was nothing to him;

the hint was invaluable, the combination interesting. “Well, ma'am,”

said he, “I'll plant a good man in sight of your door: and I'll take the

Dover road directly with my drag. My teeth weren't strong enough for

the last nut you gave me to crack: let us try this one. Tom Green isn't

often beat twice running.”

“I will go with you, Mr. Green.”

“Honoured and proud, ma'am. But a lady like you in my dog-cart along o'

me and my mate!”

Mrs. Dodd waived this objection almost contemptuously; she was all wife

now.

It was agreed that Green should drive round for her in an hour. He

departed for the present, and Edward proposed to go in the dog-cart too,

but she told him no; she wanted him at home to guard his sister against

“the Wretch.” Then seeing him look puzzled, “Consider, Edward,” said

she, “he is not like your poor father: he has not forgotten. That

advertisement, Aileen Aroon, it was from him, you know. And then why

does he attach himself so to poor papa? Do you not see it is because he

is Julia's father? 'The Wretch' loves her still.”

Edward from puzzled looked very grave. “What a head you have got,

mamma!” he said. “I should never have seen all this: yet it's plain

enough now, as you put it.”

“Yes, it is plain. Our darling is betrothed to a maniac; that maniac

loves her, and much I fear she loves him. Some new calamity is

impending. Oh, my son, I feel it already heavy on my heart. What is it

to be? Is your father to be led to destruction, or will that furious

wretch burst in upon your sister, and kill her, or perhaps kill Mr.

Hard, if he catches them together? What may not happen now? The very air

seems to me swarming with calamities.”

“Oh, I'll take care of all that,” said Edward. And he comforted her a

little by promising faithfully not to let Julia go out of his sight till

her return.

She put on a plain travelling-dress. The dog-cart came. She slipped

fifty sovereigns into Mr. Green's hands for expenses, and off they went

at a slapping pace. The horse was a great bony hunter of rare speed

and endurance, and his long stride and powerful action raised poor Mrs.

Dodd's hopes, and the rushing air did her good. Green, to her surprise,

made few inquiries for some miles on the Dover road; but he explained

to her that the parties they were after had probably walked all night.

“They don't tire, that sort,” said Mr. Green.

At Dartford they got a doubtful intimation, on the strength of which he

rattled on to Rochester. There he pulled up, deposited Mrs. Dodd at the

principal inn till morning, and scoured the town for intelligence.

He inquired of all the policemen; described his men, and shrewdly added

out of his intelligence, “Both splashed and dirty.”

No, the Bobbies had not seen them.

Then he walked out to the side of the town nearest London, and examined

all the dealers in food. At last he found a baker who, early that

morning, had sold a quartern loaf to two tall men without hats, “and

splashed fearful;” he added, “thought they had broken prison; but 'twas

no business of mine: they paid for the bread right enough.”

On hearing they had entered Rochester hatless, the shrewd Mr. Green made

direct to the very nearest slop-shop; and his sagacity was rewarded: the

shopkeeper was a chatterbox, and told him yes, two gents out on a frolic

had bought a couple of hats of him, and a whole set of sailor's clothes.

“I think they were respectable, too; but nothing else would satisfy him.

So the young one he humoured him, and bought them. I took his old ones

in exchange.”

At that Green offered a sovereign for the old clothes blindfold. The

trader instantly asked two pounds, and took thirty shillings.

Green now set the police to scour the town for a gentleman and a common

sailor in company, offered a handsome reward, and went to bed in a small

inn, with David's clothes by the kitchen fire. Early in the morning he

went to Mrs. Dodd's hotel with David's clothes, nicely dried, and told

her his tale. She knew the clothes directly, kissed them, and cried over

them: then gave him her hand with a world of dignity and grace: “What an

able man! Sir, you inspire me with great confidence.”

“And you me with zeal, ma'am,” said the delighted Green. “Why I'd go

through fire and water for a lady like you, that pays well, and doesn't

grudge a fellow a bit of praise. Now you must eat a bit, ma'am, if it's

ever so little, and then we'll take the road; for the police think the

parties have left the town, and by their night's work they must be good

travellers.”

The dog-cart took the road, and the ex-hunter stepped out thirteen miles

an hour.

Now at this moment Alfred and David were bowling along ahead with a

perfect sense of security. All that first night, the grandest of his

life, Alfred walked on air, and drank the glorious exhilarating breath

of Freedom. But, when the sun dawned on them, his intoxicating joy began

to be dashed with apprehension: hatless and bemired, might they not be

suspected and detained by some officious authority?

But the slop-shop set that all right. He took a double-bedded room in

The Bear, locked the door, put the key under his pillow, and slept till

eleven. At noon they were on the road again, and as they swung lustily

along in the frosty but kindly air, Alfred's chest expanded, his spirits

rose, and he felt a man all over. Exhilarated by freedom, youth, and

motion, and a little inflated by reviving vanity, his heart, buoyant as

his foot, now began to nurse aspiring projects: he would indict his own

father, and the doctors, and immolate them on the altar of justice and

publicly wipe off the stigma they had cast on him, and meantime he would

cure David and restore him to his family.

He loved this harmless companion of his cell, his danger, and his

flight; loved him for Julia's sake, loved him for his own. Youth and

vanity whispered, “I know more about madness than the doctors; I have

seen it closer.” It struck him David's longing for blue water was one

of those unerring instincts that sometimes guide the sick to their cure.

And then as the law permits the forcible recapture of a patient--without

a fresh order or certificates--within fourteen days of his escape from

an asylum, he did not think it prudent to show himself in London till

that time should have elapsed. So, all things considered, why not hide a

few days with David in some insignificant seaport, and revel in liberty

and blue water with him all day long, and so by associations touch the

spring of memory, and begin the cure? As for David, he seemed driven

seaward by some unseen spur; he fidgeted at all delay; even dinner

fretted him; he panted so for his natural element. Alfred humoured

him, and an hour after sunset they reached the town of Canterbury. Here

Alfred took the same precautions as before, and slept till nine o'clock.

When he awoke, he found David walking to and fro impatiently. “All

right, messmate,” said Alfred, “we shall soon be in blue water.” He made

all haste, and they were on the road again by ten, walking at a gallant

pace.

But the dog-cart was already rattling along about thirty miles behind

them. Green inquired at all the turnpikes and vehicles; the scent was

cold at first, but warmer by degrees, and hot at Canterbury. Green just

baited his gallant horse, and came foaming on, and just as the

pair entered the town of Folkestone, their pursuers came up to the

cross-roads, not five miles behind them.

Alfred went to a good inn in Folkestone and ordered a steak, then

strolled with David by the beach, and gloried in the water with him.

“After dinner we will take a boat, and have a sail,” said he. “See,

there's a nice boat, riding at anchor there.”

David snuffed the breeze and his eye sparkled, and he said, “Wind due

east, messmate.” And this remark, slight as it was was practical, and

gave Alfred great delight: strengthened his growing conviction that not

for nothing had this charge been thrown on him. He should be the one to

cure his own father; for Julia's father was his: he had no father now.

“All right,” said he gaily, “we'll soon be on blue water: but first

we'll have our dinner, old boy, for I am starving.” David said nothing

and went rather doggedly back to the inn with him.

The steak was on the table. Alfred told the waiter to uncover and David

to fall to, while he just ran upstairs to wash his hands. He came down

in less than two minutes; but David was gone, and the waiter standing

there erect and apathetic like a wooden sentinel.

“Why, where is he?” said Alfred.

“Gent's gone out,” was the reply.

“And you stood there and let him? you born idiot. Which way is he gone?”

“I don't know,” said the waiter angrily, “I ain't a p'liceman. None but

respectable gents comes here, as don't want watching.” Alfred darted

out and scoured the town; he asked everybody if they had seen a tall

gentleman dressed like a common sailor. Nobody could tell him: there

were so many sailors about the port; that which in an inland town would

have betrayed the truant concealed him here. A cold perspiration began

to gather on Alfred's brow, as he ran wildly all over the place.

He could not find him, nor any trace of him. At last it struck him that

he had originally proposed to go to Dover, and had spoken of that town

to David, though he had now glanced aside, making for the smaller ports

on the south coast: he hired a horse directly, and galloped furiously

to Dover. He rode down to the pier, gave his horse to a boy to hold,

and ran about inquiring far David. He could not find him: but at last

he found a policeman, who told him he thought there was another party on

the same lay as himself: “No,” said the man correcting himself, “it

was two they were after, a gentleman and a sailor. Perhaps you are his

mate.”

Alfred's blood ran cold. Pursued! and so hotly: “No, no,” he stammered;

“I suspect I am on the same business.” Then he said cunningly (for

asylums teach the frankest natures cunning), “Come and have a glass of

grog and tell me all about it.” Bobby consented, and under its influence

described Mrs. Dodd and her companions to him.

But not everybody can describe minutely. In the bare outlines, which

were all this artist could furnish him, Alfred recognised at once, whom

do you think? Mrs. Archbold, Dr. Wolf, and his arch enemy Rooke, the

keeper. Doubtless his own mind, seizing on so vague a description,

adapted it rather hastily to what seemed probable. Mrs. Dodd never

occurred to him, nor that David was the sole, or even the main object

of the pursuit. He was thoroughly puzzled what to do. However, as his

pursuers had clearly scoured Dover, and would have found David if there,

he made use of their labours and galloped back towards Folkestone. But

he took the precaution to inquire at the first turnpike, and there he

learned a lady and two men had passed through about an hour before in a

dog-cart; it was a wonder he had missed them. Alfred gnashed his teeth;

“Curse you,” he muttered. “Well, do my work in Folkestone, I'll find him

yet, and baffle you.” He turned his horse's head westward and rode after

David. Convinced that his lost friend would not go inland, he took care

to keep near the cliffs, and had ever an eye on the beach when the road

came near enough.

About eight miles west of Folkestone he saw a dog-cart going down a

hill before him: but there was only a single person in it. However, he

increased his pace and got close behind it as it mounted the succeeding

hill which was a high one. Walking leisurely behind it his quick eye

caught sight of a lady's veil wrapped round the iron of the seat.

That made him instantly suspect this might be the dog-cart after all.

But, if so, how came a stranger in it? He despised a single foe, and

resolved to pump this one and learn where the others were.

While he was thinking how he should begin, the dog-cart stopped at

the top of the hill, and the driver looked seaward at some object that

appeared to interest him.

It was a glorious scene. Viewed from so great a height the sea expanded

like ocean, and its light-blue waters sparkled and laughed innumerable

in the breeze. “A beautiful sight, sir,” said the escaped prisoner, “you

may well stop to look at it.” The man touched his hat and chuckled. “I

don't think you know what I am looking at, sir,” he said politely.

“I thought it was the lovely sea view; so bright, so broad, so _free._

“No, sir; not but what I can enjoy that a bit, too: but what I'm looking

at is an 'unt. Do you see that little boat? Sailing right down the coast

about eight miles off. Well, sir, what do you think there is in that

boat? But you'll never guess. A madman.”

“Ah!”

“Curious, sir, isn't it: a respectable gentleman too he is, and sails

well; only stark staring mad. There was two of 'em in company: but it

seems they can't keep together long. _Our_ one steals a fisherman's

boat, and there he goes down channel. And now look here, sir; see this

steam-tug smoking along right in front of us: she's after him, and see

there's my governor aboard standing by the wheel with a Bobby and a

lady: and if ever there was a lady she's one;” here he lowered his

voice. “She's that mad gentleman's wife, sir, as I am a living sinner.”

They both looked down on the strange chase in silence. “Will they catch

her?” asked Alfred at last, under his breath.

“How can we be off it? steam against sails. And if he runs ashore, I

shall be there to nab him.” Alfred looked, and looked: the water

came into his eyes. “It's the best thing that can befall him now,” he

murmured. He gave the man half-a-crown, and then turned his horse's head

and walked him down the hill towards Folkestone. On his arrival there he

paid for his horse, and his untasted dinner, and took the first train to

London, a little dispirited; and a good deal mortified; for he hated to

be beat. But David was in good hands, that was one comfort; and he had

glorious work on hand, love and justice. He went to an out of the way

inn in the suburbs, and, when he had bought a carpet-bag and some linen

and other necessaries, he had but one sovereign left.

His heart urged him vehemently to go at once and find his Julia: but

alas! he did not even know where she lived; and he dared not at present

make public inquiries: that would draw attention to himself, and be

his destruction; for Wolf stood well with the police, and nearly always

recaptured his truant patients by their aid before the fourteen days

had elapsed. He determined to go first to a solicitor: and launch him

against his enemies, while compelled to shirk them in his own person.

Curious position! Now, amongst his father's creditors was Mr. Compton,

a solicitor, known for an eccentric, but honourable man, and for success

in litigation. Mr. Compton used to do his own business in Barkington,

and employ an agent in London: but Alfred remembered to have heard just

before his incarceration that he had reversed the parts, and now lived

in London. Alfred found him out by the Directory, and called at his

chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He had to wait some time in the

outer office listening to a fluent earnest client preaching within:

but presently a sharp voice broke in upon the drone, and, after a few

sentences, Mr. Compton ushered out a client with these remarkable words:

“And as for your invention, it has been invented four times before you

invented it, and never was worth inventing at all. And you have borrowed

two hundred pounds of me in ninety loans, each of which cost me

an hour's invaluable time: I hold ninety acknowledgments in your

handwriting; and I'll put them all in force for my protection;” with

this he turned to his head clerk: “Mr. Colls, take out a writ against

this client; what is your Christian name, sir? I forget.”

“Simon,” said the gaping client, off his guard.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Compton with sudden politeness: then resuming

hostilities--“A writ in the Common Pleas against Simon Macfarlane: keep

it in your drawer, Colls, and if ever the said Macfarlane does me the

honour to call on me again serve him with it on the spot; and, if not,

not; good morning, sir.” And with this he bolted into his own room and

slammed its door. 'The clerks opened the outer door to Mr. Macfarlane

with significant grins, and he went out bewildered sorely, yea even

like one that walketh abroad in his sleep. “Now, sir,” said Mr. Colls

cheerfully to Alfred. But the new client naturally hesitated now: he put

on his most fascinating smile, and said: “Well, Mr. Colls, what do you

advise? Is this a moment to beard the lion in his den?”

At Alfred's smile and address Colls fell in love with him directly, and

assured him _sotto voce,_ and with friendly familiarity, that now was

his time. “Why, he'll be as sweet as honey now he has got rid of a

client.” With this he took Alfred's name, and ushered him into a room

piled with japanned tin boxes, where Mr. Compton sat, looking all

complacency, at a large desk table, on which briefs, and drafts, and

letters lay in seeming confusion. He rose, and with a benignant courtesy

invited Alfred to sit down and explain his business.

The reader is aware our Oxonian could make a close and luminous

statement. He began at the beginning, but soon disposed of preliminaries

and came to his capture at Silverton. Then Mr. Compton quietly rang the

bell, and with a slight apology to Alfred requested Colls to search

for the draft of Mrs. Holloway's will. Alfred continued. Mr. Compton

listened keenly, noted the salient points on a sheet of brief-paper, and

demanded the exact dates of every important event related.

The story finished, the attorney turned to Colls, and said mighty

coolly, “You may go. The will is in my pocket: but I made sure he was a

madman. They generally are, these ill-used clients.” (Exit Colls) “Got

a copy of the settlement, sir, under which you take this ten thousand

pounds?”

“No, sir.”

“Any lawyer seen it?”

“Oh yes; Mr. Crauford, down at Barkington.”

“Good. Friend of mine. I'll write to him. Names and addresses of your

trustees?”

Alfred gave them.

“You have brought the order on which you were confined, and the two

certificates?”

“Not I,” said Alfred. “I have begged and prayed for a sight of them,

and never could get one. That is one of the galling iniquities of the

system; I call it 'THE DOUBLE SHUFFLE.' Just bring your mind to bear

on this, sir: The prisoner whose wits and liberty have been signed away

behind his back is not allowed to see the order and certificate on which

he is confined--until _after_ his release: that release he is to obtain

by combating the statements in the order and certificates. So to get out

he must first see and contradict the lies that put him in; but to see

the lies that put him in, he must first get out. So runs the circle

of Iniquity. Now, is that the injustice of Earth, or the injustice of

Hell?”

Mr. Compton asked a moment to consider: “Well, I think is of the

earth, earthy. There's a mixture of idiocy in it the Devil might fairly

repudiate. Young gentleman, the English Statutes of Lunacy are famous

monuments of legislatorial incapacity: and indeed, as a general rule, if

you want justice and wisdom, don't you go to Acts of Parliament, but to

the Common Law of England.”

Alfred did not appreciate this observation: he made no reply to it, but

inquired, with some heat, “what he could do to punish the whole gang;

his father, the certifying doctors, and the madhouse keepers?”

“Humph! You might indict them all for a conspiracy,” said Mr. Compton;

“but you would be defeated. As a rule, avoid criminal proceedings where

you have a civil remedy. A jury will give a verdict and damages where

they would not convict on the same evidence. Yours is just one of those

cases where Temper says, 'indict!' but Prudence says, 'sue!' and Law,

through John Compton, its oracle in this square, says, sue the defendant

and no other. Now, who is the true defendant here, or party liable in

law?”

“The keeper of the asylum, for one.”

“No. If I remember right, all proceedings against him are expressly

barred by a provision in the last statute. Let us see.”

He took down the statutes of the realm, and showed Alfred the clause

which raises the proprietor of a madhouse above the civic level of

Prince Royal. “Curse the law,” said Alfred bitterly.

“No, don't curse the Law. Curse the Act if you like; but we can't get on

without the Law, neither of us. Try again.”

“The certifying doctor, sir?”

“Humph!” said Mr. Compton, knitting his brows: “a jury might give you a

verdict. But it would probably be set aside by the full court, or else

by a court of error. For, unless you could prove informality, barefaced

negligence, or _mala fides,_ what does it come to? A professional man,

bound to give medical opinions to all comers, is consulted about you,

and says he thinks you are insane: you turn out sane. Well, then, he was

mistaken: but not more than he is in most of his professional

opinions. We lawyers know what guesswork Medicine is: we see it in the

witness-box. I hate suing opinions: it is like firing bullets at snipes

in a wind. Try again.”

Alfred groaned. “Why there is nobody left but the rogue who signed the

order.”

“And if you were a lawyer, that alone would tell you he is the

defendant. Where a legal wrong has been committed by A. B. and C., and

there is no remedy against A. or B., there must either be one against

C., or none at all: but this Law abhors as Nature does a vacuum.

Besides, this defendant has _done_ the wrong complained of. In his

person you sue an act, not an opinion. But of course you are not cool

enough to see all this just at first.”

“Cool, sir,” said Alfred despairingly; “I am frozen with your

remorseless law. What, of all these villains, may I only attack one, and

can't I imprison even him, as he has me? Such narrow law encourages men

to violence, who burn under wrongs like mine.”

Mr. Compton looked keenly at his agitated, mortified client, but made no

concession. He gave him a minute to digest the law's first bitter pill:

and then said, “If I am to act for you, you had better write a line to

the Commissioners of Lunacy requesting them to hand me copies of the

order and certificates.” Alfred wrote it.

“And now,” said Mr. Compton thoughtfully, “I don't think they will

venture to recapture you during the fourteen days. But still they might;

and we attorneys are wary animals. So please give me at once a full

authority to act under advice of counsel for your protection.”

Alfred wrote as requested, and Mr. Compton put the paper in his drawer,

remarking, “With this I can proceed by law or equity, even should you

get into the asylum again.” He then dismissed Alfred somewhat abruptly,

but with an invitation to call again after three clear days. Like most

ardent suitors after their first interview with passionless law, he went

away sadly chilled, and so home to his cheerless lodging, to count the

hours till he could see Julia, and learn his fate from her lips.

This very morning a hasty note came to Edward from Folkestone, worded

thus:

“Oh, Edward: my worst misgivings! The two have parted. Poor papa has

taken a man's boat and is in sight. We shall follow directly in a

steamboat. But the other! You know my fears; you must be father and

mother to that poor child till I come home--Your sad mother,

“LUCY DODD.”

Julia held out her hand for the note. Edward put it in his pocket.

“What is that for?” said the young lady.

“Why surely I may put my own property in my pocket.”

“Oh, certainly. I only want to look at it first.”

“Excuse me.”

“Are you in earnest, Edward? Not let me see dear mamma's letter?” and

the vivid face looked piteously surprised.

“Oh, I'll tell you the contents. Papa had got to Folkestone and taken a

boat, and gone to sea: then mamma took a steamboat and after him: so she

will soon catch him, and is not that a comfort?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Julia, and was for some time too interested and excited

to think of anything else. But presently she returned to the charge.

“Anything else, dear?”

“Humph? Well, not of equal importance.”

“Oh, if it is of no importance, there can be no reason for not telling

me. What was it?”

Edward coloured but said nothing. He thought however, and thus ran his

thoughts: “She's my intellectual superior and I've got to deceive her;

and a nice mess I shall make of it.”

“It _is_ of importance,” said Julia, eyeing him. “You have told a story:

and you don't love your sister.” This fulminated, she drew herself up

proudly and was silent. A minute afterwards, stealing a look at her, he

saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears, _apropos_ of nothing tangible.

“Now this is nice,” said he to himself

At noon she put on her bonnet to visit her district. He put on his hat

directly, and accompanied her. Great was her innocent pleasure at that:

it was the first time he had done her the honour. She took him to her

poor people, and showed him off with innocent pride.

“Hannah, this is my brother.” Then in a whisper, “Isn't he beautiful?”

Presently she saw him looking pale; unheard of phenomenon! “There now,

you are ill,” said she. “Come home directly, and be nursed.”

“No, no,” said he. “I only want a little fresh air. What horrid places

what horrid sights and smells! I say, you must have no end of pluck to

face them.”

“No, no, no. Dearest, I pray for strength: that is how I manage. And oh,

Edward, you used to think the poor were not to be pitied. But now you

see.”

“Yes, I see, and smell and all. You are a brave, good girl. Got any

salts about you?”

“Yes, of course. There. But fancy a young lion smelling salts.”

“A young duffer, you mean; that has passed for game through the thing

not being looked into close.”

“Oh, you can he close enough, where I want you to be open.”

No answer.

The next day he accompanied her again, but remained at the stairfoot

while she went in to her patients; and, when she came down, asked her,

Could no good Christian be found to knock that poor woman on the head

who lived in a plate.

“No good Heathen, you mean,” said Julia.

“Why, yes,” said he; “the savages manage these things better.”

He also accompanied her shopping, and smoked phlegmatically outside the

shops; nor could she exhaust his patience. Then the quick girl put this

and that together. When they were at home again and her bonnet off, she

looked him in the face and said sweetly, “I have got a watch-dog.”

He smiled, and said nothing. “Why don't you answer?” cried Julia

impetuously.

“Because least said is soonest mended. Besides, I'm down upon you: you

decoy me into a friendly conversation, and then you say biting things

directly.”

“If I bite you, you sting me. Such want of confidence! Oh how cruel! how

cruel! Why can you not trust me? Am I a child? No one is young who has

suffered what I have suffered. Secrets disunite a family: and we were so

united. And then you are so stupid; _you_ keep a secret? Yes, like a dog

in a chain; you can't hide it one bit. You have undertaken a task you

are not fit for, sir; to hide a secret you must be able to tell fibs:

and you can't: not for want of badness, but cleverness to tell them

smoothly; you know it, you know it; and so out of your abominable

slyness you won't say a word. There, it is no use my trying to provoke

him. I wish you were not so good-tempered; so apathetic I mean, of

course.” Then, with one of her old rapid transitions, she began to

caress him and fawn on him: she seated him in an arm-chair and herself

on a footstool, and suddenly curling round his neck, murmured, “Dear,

dear brother, have pity on a poor girl, and tell her is there any news

that I have a right to hear, only mamma has given you your orders not to

tell me; tell me, love!” This last in an exquisite whisper.

“Let me alone, you little fascinating demon,” said he angrily. “Ask

mamma. I won't tell you a word.”

“Thank you!” she cried, bounding to her feet; “you _have_ told me. He

is alive. He loves me still. He was bewitched, seduced, deluded. He has

come to himself. Mamma has seen him. He wants to come and beg my pardon.

But you are all afraid I shall forgive him. But I will not, for at the

first word I'll stop his mouth, and say, 'If you were happy away from

me, I suppose you would not have come back.'”

And instantly she burst out singing, with inspired eloquence and

defiance--

“Castles are sacked in war,

Chieftains are scattered far,

Truth is a fixed star--

Aileen aroon.”

But, unable to sustain it, the poor Impetuosity dropped as quickly as

she had mounted, and out went her arm on the table, and her forehead

sank on her arm, and the tears began to run silently down the sweet

face, so brave for a moment.

“W--will y--you allow me to light a cigar?” said Edward. “I'm wretched

and miserable; you Tempest in petticoats, you!”

She made him a sign of assent with the hand that was dangling languidly,

but she did not speak; nor did she appeal to him any more. Alienation

was commencing. But what was worse than speaking her mind, she was for

ever at the window now, looking up and down the street; and walking with

her he felt her arm often tremble, and sometimes jerk. The secret

was agitating her nerves, and destroying her tranquillity as much, or

perhaps more, than if she had known all.

Mrs. Dodd wrote from Portsmouth: whereof anon.

Mr. Peterson called, and soon after him Mr. Hurd. Edward was glad to

see them, especially the latter, whose visits seemed always to do Julia

good.

Moreover, as Peterson and Hurd were rivals, it afforded Edward an

innocent amusement to see their ill-concealed aversion to one another,

and the admirable address and delicacy with which his sister conducted

herself between them.

However, this pastime was cut short by Sarah coming in and saying,

“There's a young man wants to see you, sir.”

Julia looked up and changed colour.

“I think he is a fireman,” said Sarah. She knew very well he was a

fireman, and also one of her followers. Edward went out and found one

of his late brethren, who told him a young gentleman had just been

inquiring for him at the station.

“What was he like?”

“Why, I was a good ways off, but I saw he was a tall one.”

“Six feet?”

“Full that.”

“Give you his name?'

“No: I didn't speak to him: it was Andrew. Andrew says he asked if there

was a fireman called Dodd: so Andrew said you had left; then the swell

asked where you lived, and Andrew couldn't tell him any more than it was

in Pembroke Street. So I told him, says I, 'Why couldn't you call me?

It is number sixty-six,' says I. 'Oh, he is coming back,' says Andrew.

However, I thought I'd come and tell you.” (And so get a word with

Sarah, you sly dog.)

Edward thanked him, and put on his hat directly, for he could not

disguise from himself that this visitor might be Alfred Hardie. Indeed,

what more likely?

Messrs. Hurd and Peterson always tried to stay one another out whenever

they met at 66, Pembroke Street. However, to make sure of not leaving

Julia alone, Edward went in and asked them both to luncheon, at which

time he said he should be back.

As he walked rapidly to the station he grew more and more convinced

that it was Alfred Hardie. And his reflections ran like this. “What

a headpiece mamma has! But it did not strike her he would come to me

first. Yet how plain that looks now: for of course I'm the duffer's only

clue to Julia. These madmen are no fools, though. And how quiet he was

that night! And he made papa go down the ladder first: that was the old

Alfred Hardie; he was always generous: vain, overhearing, saucy, but

noble with it all. I liked him: he was a man that showed you his worst,

and let you find his best out by degrees. He hated to be beat: but

that's no crime. He was a beautiful oar, and handled his mawleys

uncommon; he sparred with all the prizefighters that came to Oxford,

and took punishment better than you would think; and a wonderful quick

hitter; Alec Reed owned that. Poor Taff Hardie! And when I think that

God has overthrown his powerful mind, and left me mine, such as it is!

But the worst is my having gone on calling him 'the Wretch' all this

time: and nothing too bad for him. I ought to be ashamed of myself. It

grieves me very much. 'When found make a note on;' never judge a fellow

behind his back again.”

Arrived at the station, he inquired whether his friend had called again,

and was answered in the negative. He waited a few minutes, and then,

with the superintendent's permission, wrote a note to Alfred, inviting

him to dine at Simpson's at six, and left it with the fireman. This

done, he was about to return home, when another thought struck him. He

got a messenger, and sent off a single line to Dr. Wolf, to tell him

Alfred Hardie would be at Simpson's at seven o clock.

But, when the messenger was gone, he regretted what he had done. He had

done it for Alfred's good; but still it was treason. He felt unhappy,

and wended his way homeward disconsolately, realising more and more that

he had not brains for the difficulties imposed upon him.

On entering Pembroke Street he heard a buzz. He looked up, and saw a

considerable crowd collected in a semicircle. “Why that is near our

house,” he said, and quickened his steps.

When he got near he saw that all the people's eyes were bent on No. 66.

He dashed into the crowd. “What on earth is the matter?” he cried.

“The matter? Plenty's the matter, young man,” cried one.

“Murder's the matter,” said another.

At that he turned pale as death. An intelligent man saw his violent

agitation, and asked him hurriedly if he belonged to the house.

“Yes. For mercy's sake, what is it?”

“Make way there!” shouted the man. “He belongs. Sir, a madman has broke

loose and got into your house. And I'm sorry to say he has just killed

two men.”

“With a pistol,” cried several voices, speaking together.

CHAPTER XLV

ALFRED HARDIE spent three days writhing in his little lodging. His

situation had been sadder, but never more irritating. By right

possessor of thousands, yet in fact reduced to one suit, two shirts, and

half-a-crown: rich in intellect, yet hunted as a madman: affianced to

the loveliest girl in England, yet afraid to go near her for fear of

being torn from her again, and for ever. All this could last but one

week more; but a week's positive torture was no trifle to contemplate,

with a rival at his Julia's ear all the time. Suppose she should have

been faithful all these months, but in this last week should be worn

out and give herself to another: such things had been known. He went to

Lincoln's Inn with this irritating fear tearing him like a vulture. Mr.

Compton received him cheerfully, and told him he had begun operations in

Hardie _versus_ Hardie: had written to Thomas Hardie two days ago, and

inquired his London solicitor, and whether that gentleman would accept

service of the writ in Hardie _versus_ Hardie.

“To Thomas Hardie? Why, what has he to do with it?” asked Alfred.

“He is the defendant in the suit.” Then seeing amazement and incredulity

on Alfred's face, he explained that the Commissioners of Lunacy had

treated him with great courtesy; had at once furnished him with copies,

not only of the order and certificates, but of other valuable documents.

“And there,” said he, “lies the order; signed by Thomas Hardie, of Clare

Court, Yorkshire.”

“Curse his impudence,” cried Alfred in a fury; “why, sir, he is next

door to an idiot himself.”

“What does that matter? Ah, now, if I had gone in a passion and indicted

him, there would be a defence directly; 'no malice, defendant being

_non compos.'_ Whereas, by gently, quietly suing him, even if he was

a lunatic, we would make him or his estate pay a round sum for falsely

imprisoning a sane Briton. By-the-by, here is counsel's opinion on your

case,” and he handed him a short opinion of a distinguished Queen's

Counsel, the concluding words of which were these:

3. If the certificates and order are in legal form, and were made and

given _bona fide,_ no action lies for the capture or detention of Mr.

Hardie.

“Why it is dead against me,” said Alfred. “There goes the one rotten

reed you had left me.”

“Singularly dead,” said the attorney coolly; “he does not even say 'I

am of opinion.' He is in great practice, and hardworked: in his hurry he

has taken up the Lunacy Acts, and has forgotten that the rights of sane

Englishmen are not the creatures of these little trumpery statutes. No,

thank you; our rights are centuries older, and prevail wherever, by

good luck, the statutes of the realm are silent; now they are all silent

about incarcerating sane men. Besides, he gives no cases. What is an

opinion without a precedent? A lawyer's guess. I thought so little of

his opinion that I sent the case to a clever junior, who has got time to

think before he writes.” Colls entered soon after with the said junior's

opinion. Mr. Compton opened it, and saying, “Now let us see what he

says,” read it to Alfred. It ran thus:

“There was clearly a right of action under the common law and it has

been exercised. _Anderdon v. Brothers; Paternoster v. Wynn,_ &c. Such a

right can only be annulled by the express terms of a statute: now the 8

and 9 Victoria, cap. 100, sect. 99, so annuls it as against the madhouse

proprietor only. That, therefore, is the statutory exception, and tends

to confirm the common right. If the facts are as represented (on which,

of course, I can form no opinion), Mr. Hardie can safely sue the person

who signed the order for his alleged false imprisonment.

“I agree with you that the usual course by praying the Court of Chancery

for a Commission de Lunatico Inquirendo, is timorous, and rests on

prejudice. Plt., if successful, is saddled with his own costs, and

sometimes with Deft.'s, and obtains no compensation. It seems clear that

a jury sitting at Nisi Prius can deal as well with the main fact as can

a jury sitting by the order of the Chancellor; and I need not say the

costs will go with their verdict, to say nothing of the damages, which

may be heavy. On the other hand, an indictment is hazardous; and I think

you can lose nothing by beginning with the suit. By having a shorthand

writer at the trial, you may collect materials for an indictment, and

also feel the pulse of the court; you can then confer upon the evidence

with some counsel better versed in criminal law than myself. _My_ advice

is to sue Thomas Hardie; and declare in Tort.

“(Signed) BARROW.

_“N.B._--I have been thus particular, because Hardie _v._ Hardie (if

carried to a verdict) will probably be a leading case.”

“Who shall decide when counsel disagree?” inquired Alfred satirically.

“That depends on where they do it. If in court, the judge. If here, the

attorney.”

You appear sanguine, Mr. Compton,” said Alfred; “perhaps you would not

mind advancing me a little money. I've only half-a-crown.”

“It is all ready for you in this drawer,” said Compton cheerfully. “See

thirty sovereigns. Then you need not go to a bank.”

“What, you knew I should borrow?”

“Don't all my clients begin by bleeding _me?_ It is the rule of this

office.”

“Then why don't you give up business?”

“Because I bleed the opposite attorney's client a pound or two more than

my own bleeds me.”

He then made Alfred sign a promissory note for the thirty pounds:

advised him to keep snug for one week more, and promised to write to him

in two days, and send Thomas Hardie's answer. Alfred left his address

and went from Mr. Compton a lighter man. Convinced of his courage and

prudence, he shifted one care off his own shoulders: and thought of love

alone.

But, strange as it may appear, two cares are sometimes better for a

man than one. Alfred, having now no worry to divert him from his deeper

anxiety, was all love and jealousy; and quite overbalanced: the desire

of his heart grew so strong it overpowered alike his patience and his

prudence. He jumped into a cab, and drove to all the firemen's stations

on the Surrey side of the river, inquiring for Edward. At last he hit

upon the right one, and learned that Julia lived in Pembroke Street;

number unknown. He drove home to his lodgings; bought some ready-made

clothes, and dressed like a gentleman: then told the cabman to drive

to Pembroke Street. He knew he was acting imprudently; but he could not

help it. And, besides, Mr. Compton had now written to his uncle, and

begun the attack: that would surely intimidate his enemies, and turn

their thoughts to defence, not to fresh offence. However, catching sight

of a gunsmith's shop on the way, he suddenly resolved to arm himself on

the bare chance of an attack. He stopped the cab; went in and bought

a double-barrelled pistol, with powder-flask, bullets, wads, and caps

complete. This he loaded in the cab, and felt quite prudent after it.

The prudence of youth!

He paid off the cab in Pembroke Street, and set about the task of

discovering Julia. He inquired at several houses, but was unsuccessful.

Then he walked slowly all down the street, looking up at all the

windows. And I think, if he had done this the day before, he might have

seen her, or she him: she was so often at the window now. But just then

she had company to keep her in order.

He was unlucky in another respect. Edward came out of No. 66 and went

up the street, when he himself was going down it not so very many yards

off. If Alfred's face had only been turned the other way he would have

seen Edward, and all would have gone differently.

The stoutest hearts have their moments of weakness and deep dejection.

Few timings are more certain, and less realised by ordinary men than

this; from Palissy fighting with Enamel to Layard disinterring a city,

this thing is so.

Unable to find Julia in the very street she inhabited, Alfred felt weak

against fate. He said to himself, “If I find her, I shall perhaps wish I

had never sought her.”

In his hour of dejection stern reason would be heard, and asked him

whether all Mrs. Archbold had said could be pure invention; and he was

obliged to confess that was too unlikely. Then he felt so sick at heart

he was half minded to turn and fly the street. But there was a large

yard close by him, entered by a broad and lofty gateway cut through one

of the houses. The yard belonged to a dealer in hay: two empty waggons

were there, but no men visible, being their dinner-time. Alfred slipped

in here, and sat down on the shaft of a waggon; and let his courage

ooze. He sighed, and sighed, and feared to know his fate. And so he sat

with his face in his hands unmanned.

Presently a strain of music broke on his ear. It seemed to come from the

street. He raised his head to listen. He coloured, his eyes sparkled; he

stole out on tiptoe with wondering, inquiring face into the street. Once

there, he stood spell-bound, thrilling from his heart, that seemed now

on fire, to his fingers' ends. For a heavenly voice was singing to the

piano, just above his head; singing in earnest, making the very street

ring. Already listeners were gathering, and a woman of the people said,

“It's a soul singing without a body.” Amazing good things are said

in the streets. The voice was the voice of Julia; the song was Aileen

Aroon, the hymn of constancy. So sudden and full was the bliss, which

poured into the long and sore-tried listener at this sudden answer to

his fears, that tears of joy trembled in his eyes. “'Wretch that I was

to doubt her,” he said: and unable to contain his longing, unable to

wait and listen even to that which had changed his griefs and doubts

into rapture, he was at the door in a moment. A servant opened it: “Miss

Dodd?” he said, or rather panted; “you need not announce me. I am an old

acquaintance.” He could not bear any one should see the meeting between

him and his beloved; he went up the steep and narrow stair, guided by

the hymn of constancy.

He stopped at the door, his heart was beating so violently.

Then he turned the handle softly, and stepped into the drawing-room; it

was a double room: he took two steps and was in the opening, and almost

at Julia's back.

Two young clergymen were bending devotedly one on each side of her; it

was to them she was singing the hymn of constancy.

Alfred started back as if he had been stung; and the music stopped dead

short.

For she had heard his step, and, womanlike, was looking into her

companions' eyes first, to see if her ear had deceived her. What she saw

there brought her slowly round with a wild look. Her hands rose toward

her face, and she shrank away sideways from him as if he was a serpent,

and her dilated eyes looked over her cringing shoulder at him, and she

was pale and red and pale and red a dozen times in as many seconds.

He eyed her sorrowfully and sternly, taking for shame that strange

mixture of emotions which possessed her. And so they met. Strange

meeting for two true lovers, who had parted last upon their wedding eve.

No doubt, if they had been alone, one or other would have spoken

directly; but the situation was complicated by the presence of two

rivals, and this tied their tongues. They devoured one another with

their eyes in silence; and then Julia rose slowly to her feet, and began

to tremble from head to foot, as she looked at him.

“Is this intrusion agreeable to you, Miss Dodd?” said Mr. Hurd

respectfully, by way of courting her. She made no reply, but only looked

wildly at Alfred still, and quivered visibly.

“Pray, sir,” said Alfred, turning on Mr. Hurd, “have you any right to

interfere between us two?”

“None whatever,” said Julia hastily. “Mr. Hurd, I need no one: I will

permit no one to say a word to him. Mr. Hardie knows he cannot enter a

house where I am--without an explanation.”

“What, before a couple of curates?”

“Do not be insolent to my friends, sir,” said Julia, panting.

This wounded Alfred deeply. “Oh, as you please,” said he. “Only if you

put me on my defence before strangers, I shall, perhaps, put you to the

blush before them.”

“Why do you come here, sir?” said Julia, not deigning to notice his

threat.

“To see my betrothed.”

“Oh, indeed!” said she bitterly; “in that case why have you postponed

your visit so long?”

“I was in prison.”

“In prison?”

“In the worst of all prisons; where I was put because I loved you;

where I was detained because I persisted in loving you, you faithless,

inconstant girl.”

He choked at these words; she smiled--a faint, uncertain smile. It died

away, and she shook her head, and said sadly--

“Defend yourself, and then call me as many names as you like. Where was

this prison?”

“It was an asylum: a madhouse.”

The girl stared at him bewildered. He put his hand into his pocket and

took Peggy's letter. “Read that,” he said. She held it in her hand,

and looked him in the face to divine the contents. “Read it,” said he,

almost fiercely; “that was the decoy.” She held it shaking in her hands,

and stared at it. I don't know whether she read it or not.

He went on: “The same villain who defrauded your father of his money,

robbed me of my wife and my liberty: that Silverton House was a lunatic

asylum, and ever since then (Oh, Julia, the agony of that day) I have

been confined in one or other of those hells; sane amongst the mad;

till Drayton House took fire, and I escaped: for what? To be put on my

defence, by you. What have you suffered from our separations compared

with the manifold anguish I have endured, that you dare to receive the

most injured and constant of mankind like this, you who have had your

liberty all this time, and have consoled yourself for my absence with a

couple of curates?”

“For shame,” said Julia, blushing to the forehead, yet smiling in a way

her companions could not understand.

“Miss Dodd, will you put up with these insults?” said Mr. Hurd.

“Ay, and a thousand more,” cried Julia, radiant, “and thank Heaven for

them; they prove his sincerity. You, who have thought proper to stay and

hear me insult my betrothed, and put my superior on his defence, look

how I receive his just rebuke: Dear, cruelly used Alfred, I never

doubted you in my heart, no not for a moment; forgive me for taunting

you to clear yourself; you who were always the soul of truth and honour.

Forgive me: I too have suffered; for I thought my Alfred was dead.

Forgive me.”

And with this she was sinking slowly to her knees with the most touching

grace, all blushes, tears, penitence, happiness, and love; but he caught

her eagerly. “Oh! God forbid,” he cried: and in a moment her head was on

his shoulder, and they mingled their tears together.

It was Julia who recovered herself first, and shrank from him a little,

and murmured, “We are not alone.”

The misgiving came rather late: and they were alone.

The other gentlemen had comprehended at last that it was indelicate

to remain: they had melted quietly away; and Peterson rushed down the

street; but Hurd hung disconsolate about that very entry, where Alfred

had just desponded before him.

“Sit by me, my poor darling, and tell me all,” said Julia.

He began; but, ere he had told her about his first day at his first

asylum, she moaned and turned faint at the recital, and her lovely head

sank on his shoulder. He kissed her, and tried to comfort her, and said

he would not tell her any more.

But she said somewhat characteristically, “I insist on your telling me

all--all. It will kill me.” Which did not seem to Alfred a cogent reason

for continuing his narrative. He varied it by telling her that through

all his misery the thought of her had sustained him. Alas, in the midst

of their Elysium a rough voice was heard in the passage inquiring for

Mr. Hardie. Alfred started up in dismay: for it was Rooke's voice. “I am

undone,” he cried. “They are coming to take me again; and, if they do,

they will drug me; I am a dead man.”

“Fly!” cried Julia; “fly! upstairs: the leads.”

He darted to the door, and out on the landing.

It was too late. Rooke had just turned the corner of the stairs, and

saw him. He whistled and rushed after Alfred. Alfred bounded up the next

flight of stairs: but, even as he went, his fighting blood got up; he

remembered his pistol: he drew it, turned on the upper landing, and

levelled the weapon full at Rooke's forehead. The man recoiled with a

yell, and got to a respectful distance on the second landing. There he

began to parley. “Come, Mr. Hardie, sir,” said he, “that is past a joke:

would you murder a man?”

“It's no murder to kill an assassin in defence of life or liberty; and

I'll kill you, Rooke, as I would kill a wasp, if you lay a finger on

me.”

“Do you hear that?” shouted Rooke to some one below.

“Ay, I hear,” replied the voice of Hayes.

“Then loose the dog. And run in after him.”

There was a terrible silence; then a scratching was heard below: and,

above, the deadly click of the pistol-hammers brought to full cock.

And then there was a heavy pattering rush, and Vulcan came charging up

the stairs like a lion. He was half-muzzled; but that Alfred did not

know; he stepped forward and fired at the tremendous brute somewhat

unsteadily; and missed him, by an inch; the bullet glanced off the

stairs and entered the wall within a yard of Rooke's head: ere Alfred

could fire again, the huge brute leaped on him, and knocked him down

like a child, and made a grab at his throat; Alfred, with admirable

presence of mind, seized a banister, and, drawing himself up, put the

pistol to Vulcan's ear, and fired the other barrel just as Rooke rushed

up the stairs to secure his prisoner; the dog bounded into the air and

fell over dead with shattered skull, leaving Alfred bespattered with

blood and brains, and half blinded: but he struggled up, and tore the

banister out in doing so, just as a heavy body fell forward at his feet:

it was Rooke stumbling over Vulcan's carcass so unexpectedly thrown in

his path: Alfred cleared his eyes with his hand, and as Rooke struggled

up, lifted the banister high above his head, and, with his long sinewy

arm and elastic body, discharged a blow frightful to look at, for youth,

strength, skill, and hate all swelled, and rose, and struck together

in that one furious gesture. If the wood had held, the skull must have

gone. As it was, the banister broke over' the man's head (and one half

went spinning up to the ceiling). The man's head cracked under the

banister like a glass bottle; and Rooke lay flat and mute, within the

blood running from his nose and ears. Alfred hurled the remnant of the

banister down at Hayes and the others, and darted into a room (it

was Julia's bedroom), and was heard to open the window, and then drag

furniture to the door, and barricade it. This done, he went to load his

pistol, which he thought he had slipped into his pocket after felling

Rooke. He found to his dismay it was not there. The fact was, it had

slipped past his pocket and fallen down.

During the fight, shriek upon shriek issued from the drawing-room.

But now all was still. On the stairs lay Vulcan dead, Rooke senseless:

below, Julia in a dead faint. And all in little more than a minute.

Dr. Wolf arrived with the police and two more keepers, new ones in the

place of Wales and Garrett discharged; and urged them to break into the

bedroom and capture the maniac: but first he was cautious enough to set

two of them to watch the back of the house. “There,” he said, “where

that load of hay is going in: that is the way to it. Now stand you in

the yard and watch.”

This last mandate was readily complied with; for there was not much to

be feared on the stones below from a maniac self-immured on the second

story. But to break open that bedroom door was quite another thing. The

stairs were like a shambles already--a chilling sight to the eyes of

mercenary valour.

Rooke was but just sensible: the others hung back. But presently the

pistol was found sticking in a pool of gore. This put a new face on the

matter; and Dr. Wolf himself showed the qualities of a commander. He

sent down word to his sentinels in the yard to be prepared for any

attempt on Alfred's part, however desperate: and he sent a verbal

message to a stately gentleman who was sitting anxious in lodgings

over the way, after bribing high ad low, giving out money like water to

secure the recapture, and so escape what he called his unnatural son's

vengeance; for he knew him to be by nature bold and vindictive like

himself. After these preliminaries, Doctor Wolf headed his remaining

forces--to wit, two keepers, and two policemen, and thundered at the

bedroom door, and summoned Alfred to surrender.

Now among the spectators who watched and listened with bated breath,

was one to whom this scene had an interest of its own. Mr. Hurd,

disconcerted by Alfred's sudden reappearance, and the lovers'

reconciliation, had hung about the entry very miserable; for he was

sincerely attached to Julia. But, while he was in this stupor, came the

posse to recapture Alfred, and he heard them say so. Then the shots were

fired within, then Wolf and his men got in, and Mr. Hurd, who was now at

the door, got in with them to protect Julia, and see this dangerous

and inconvenient character disposed of. He was looking demurely on at

a safish distance, when his late triumphant rival was summoned to

surrender.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf coaxed.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf told him he had police as well as keepers, and resistance would

be idle.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf ordered his men to break in the door.

After some little delay, one of the keepers applied a chisel, while a

policeman held his truncheon ready to defend the operator. The lock gave

way. But the door could not open for furniture.

After some further delay they took it off its hinges, and the room stood

revealed.

To their surprise no rush was made at them. The maniac was not even in

sight.

“He is down upon his luck,” whispered one of the new keepers; “we shall

find him crouched somewhere.” They looked under the bed. He was not

there. They opened a cupboard; three or four dresses hung from wooden

pegs; they searched the gowns most minutely, but found no maniac hid in

their ample folds. Presently some soot was observed lying in the grate;

and it was inferred he had gone up the chimney.

On inspection the opening appeared almost too narrow. Then Dr. Wolf

questioned his sentinels in the yard. “Have you been there all the

time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seen nothing?”

“No, sir. And our eyes have never been off the window and the heads.”

Here was a mystery; and not a clue to its solution. The window was open;

but five-and-twenty feet above the paved yard; had he leaped down he

must have been dashed to pieces.

Many tongues began to go at once; in the midst of which Edward burst in,

and found the two dead men of contemporary history consisted of a dead

dog and a stunned man, who, having a head like a bullet, was now come

to himself and vowing vengeance. He found Julia very pale, supported

and consoled by Mr. Hurd. He was congratulating her on her escape from a

dangerous maniac.

She rose and tottered away from him to her brother and clung to him. He

said what he could to encourage her, then deposited her in an arm-chair

and went upstairs; he soon satisfied himself Alfred was not in the

house. On this he requested Dr. Wolf and his men to leave the premises.

The doctor demurred. Edward insisted, and challenged him to show a

magistrate's warrant for entering a private house. The doctor was

obliged to own he had none. Edward then told the policemen they were

engaged in an illegal act; the police had no authority to take part

in these captures. Now the police knew that very well; but, being

handsomely bribed, they had presumed, and not for the first time, upon

that ignorance of law which is deemed an essential part of a private

citizen's accomplishments in modern days. In a word, by temper and

firmness, and a smattering of law gathered from the omniscient _'Tiser,_

Edward cleared his castle of the lawless crew. But they paraded the

street, and watched the yard till dusk, when its proprietor ran rusty

and turned them out.

Julia sat between Edward and Mr. Hurd, with her head thrown back and

her eyes closed; and received in silence their congratulations on her

escape. She was thinking of his. When they had quite done, she opened

her eyes and said, “Send for Dr. Sampson. Nobody else knows anything. Oh

pray, pray, pray send for Dr. Sampson.”

Mr. Hurd said he would go for Dr. Sampson. She thanked him warmly.

Then she crept away to her bedroom, and locked herself in, and sat on

the hearthrug, and thought, and thought, and recalled every word and

tone of her Alfred; comparing things old and new.

Dr. Sampson was a few miles out of town, visiting a patient. It was

nine o'clock in the evening when he got Julia's note; but he came on

to Pembroke Street at once. Dr. Wolf and his men had retired; leaving

a sentinel in the street, on the bare chance of Alfred returning. Dr.

Sampson found brother and sister sitting sadly, but lovingly together.

Julia rose upon his entrance. “Oh, Doctor Sampson! Now _is_ he--what

they say he is?”

“How can I tell, till I see 'm?” objected the doctor.

“But you know they call people mad who are nothing of the kind; for you

said so.”

Sampson readily assented to this. “Why it was but last year a

surjin came to me with one Jackson, a tailor, and said, 'Just sign a

certificate for this man: his wife's mad.' 'Let me see her,' sid I.

'What for,' sis he, 'when her own husband applies.' 'Excuse me,' sis I,

'I'm not a bat, I'm Saampson.' I went to see her; she was nairvous

and excited. 'Oh, I know what you come about,' said she. 'But you are

mistaken.' I questioned her kindly, and she told me her husband was a

great trile t' her nairves. I refused to sign. On that disn't the tailor

drown himself in the canal nixt day? He was the madman; and she knew it

all the time, but wouldn't tell us; and that's a woman all over.”

“Well then,” said Julia hopefully.

“Ay, but,” said Sampson, “these cases are exceptions after all; and the

chances are nine to one he's mad. Daun't ye remember that was one of

the solutions offered ye, whem he levanted on his wedding-day?” He added

satirically, “And couldn't all that logic keep in a little reason?”

This cynical speech struck Julia to the heart; she could not bear it,

and retired to her own room.

Then Dr. Sampson saw his mistake, and said to Edward, with some concern,

“Maircy on us, she is not in love with Him still, is she? I thought that

young parson was the man now.”

Edward shook his head: but declined to go much into a topic so delicate

as his sister's affections: and just then an alarming letter was

delivered from Mrs. Dodd. She wrote to the effect that David, favoured

by the wind, had run into Portsmouth harbour before their eyes, and had

disappeared, hidden, it was feared, by one of those low publicans,

who provide bad ships with sailors, receiving a commission. On this an

earnest conversation between Sampson and Edward.

It was interrupted in its turn.

Julia burst suddenly into the room, pale and violently excited, clasping

her hands and crying, “He is _there._ His voice is like a child's. Oh,

Help me! He is hurt. He is dying.”

CHAPTER XLVI

JULIA, as I have said, went to her own room, wounded unintentionally by

a chance speech: she sat down sick at heart; and presently opened her

window and looked out upon the starry night, and wondered where Alfred

was now; that Alfred for whom nobody else had a Human heart, it seemed.

“Alfred! my poor Alfred!” she sighed, and half-expected to hear him

reply. Then she said to herself, “They all called you false but me; yet

I was right: and now they all call you mad; but not I: I believe nothing

against you. You are my own Alfred still. Where have the wretches driven

you to?” At this her feelings carried her away, and she cried aloud on

him despairingly, and leaned upon the window-sill, and the tears ran

fast for him.

Presently out of the silence of the night seemed to struggle a faint but

clear voice:

“Julia.”

She started, and a muffled scream came from her. Then she listened, all

trembling. Again the voice sighed, faintly but clear, “Julia!”

“Alfred?” said she, quavering.

“Yes. Pray be cautious; give no alarm. The house is watched; bring

Edward.”

She flew downstairs, and electrified Edward and Sampson with the news.

“Oh, promise me not to betray him!” she cried.

“Hut!” said the doctor, starting to his feet, “what should we betray

him for? I'll cure him for you. I can cure any lunatic that has lucid

intervals. Where is he?”

“Follow me,” gasped Julia. “Stay. I'll get rid of the servants first.

I'll not play the fool, and betray him to his enemies.” She sent Sarah

eastward, and Jane westward, and then led the way through the kitchen

door into the yard.

They all searched about, and found nothing. Then Julia begged them to be

silent. She whispered, “Alfred!” And instantly a faint voice issued

from the top of a waggon laden with hay and covered with a tarpaulin.

“Julia.”

They all stood staring.

“Who are those with you?” asked Alfred uneasily.

“Only friends, dear! Edward and Dr. Sampson.”

“Ned, old fellow,” groaned Alfred, “you pulled me out of the fire, won't

you help me out of this? I think my leg is broken.”

At this Julia wrung her hands, and Edward ran into the house for his

rope, and threw it over the waggon. He told Julia and Sampson to hold on

by one end, and seizing the other, was up on the waggon in a moment. He

felt about till he came to a protuberance; and that was Alfred under the

tarpaulin, in which he had cut breathing-holes with his penknife. Edward

sent Julia in for a carving-knife, and soon made an enormous slit:

through this a well-known figure emerged into the moonlight, and seemed

wonderfully tall to have been so hidden. His hands being uninjured,

he easily descended the rope, and stood on one leg, holding it. Then

Sampson and Edward put each an arm under his, and helped him into the

house.

After the body the mind. That is the rule throughout creation. They

examined, not his reason, but his leg. Julia stood by with clasped

hands, and a face beaming with pity and anxiety, that repaid his pain.

Sampson announced there were no bones broken, but a bad sprain, and the

limb very red and swollen. “Now,” inquired he briskly of the company,

“what is the practice in sprains? Why, leeches and cold water.”

Edward offered at once to run and get them.

“Are you mad?” was the reply. “Daun't I tell ye that is the _practice?_

And isn't the practice sure to be th' opposite of the remedy? So get

water as hot as he can bear it, and no leeches.”

Julia remonstrated angrily. “Is this a case for jesting?”

“Deevil a jest in it,” replied the doctor. “'Well then, if ye must

know, th' opera-dancers apply hot water to sprains: now what is their

interest? T' expedite the cure: and the faculty apply cold water: and

what is their interest? To procrastinate the cure, and make a long job

of it. So just hold your toungues, and ring for hot water.”

Julia did not ring; she beckoned Edward, and they flew out and soon

brought a foot-pan of hot water. Edward them removed Alfred's shoes and

stockings, and Julia bared her lovely arms, and blushed like a rose.

Alfred divined her intention. “Dear Julia,” he said, “I won't let you:

that is too high an honour. Sarah can do that.”

But Julia's blood was up. “Sarah?” said she contemptuously; “she is too

heavy handed: and--hold your tongue; I don't take my orders from you;”

then more humbly to the doctor, “I am a district visitor: I nurse all

manner of strangers, and he says I must leave his poor suffering leg to

the servants.”

“Unnatural young monster,” said the doctor. “G'im a good nip.”

Julia followed this advice by handling Alfred's swollen ankle with a

tenderness so exquisite, and pressing it with the full sponge so softly,

that her divine touch soothed him as much or more than the water. After

nursing him into the skies a minute or two, she looked up blushing in

his face, and said coaxingly, “Are you mad, dear Alfred? Don't be afraid

to tell us the truth. The madder you are, the more you need me to take

care of you, you know.”

Alfred smiled at this sapient discourse, and said he was not the least

mad, and hoped to take care of _her_ as soon as his ankle was well

enough. This closed that sweet mouth of hers exceeding tight, and her

face was seen no more for a while, but hid by bending earnestly over

her work, only as her creamy poll turned pink, the colour of that hidden

face was not hard to divine.

Then Edward asked Alfred how in the world he had escaped and got into

that waggon. The thing was incredible. “Mirawculous,” said Dr. Sampson

in assent.

“No,” said Alfred, “it looks stranger to you than it is. The moment I

found my pistol was gone, I determined to run. I looked down and saw a

spout with a great ornamental mouth, almost big enough to sit on; and,

while I was looking greedily at it, three horses came into the yard

drawing a load of hay. The waggoner was busy clearing the pavement with

his wheel, and the waggon almost stopped a moment right under me. There

was a lot of loose hay on the top. I let myself down, and hung by the

spout a moment, and then leaped on to the loose hay. Unfortunately there

were the hard trusses beneath it, and so I got my sprain. Oh, I say,

didn't it hurt? However, I crept under the hay and hid myself, and saw

Wolf's men come into the yard. By-and-by a few drops of rain fell,

and some fellows chucked down a tarpaulin from the loft, and nearly

smothered me: so I cut a few air-holes with my penknife. And there I

lay, Heaven knows how long: it seemed two days. At last I saw an angel

at a window I called her by the name she bears on earth: to my joy

she answered, and here I am, as happy as a prince among you all, and

devilish hungry.”

“What a muff I was not to think of that,” said Edward, and made for the

larder.

“Dear doctor,” said Julia, lifting a Madonna-like face with swimming

eyes, “I see no change in him: he is very brave, and daring, and saucy.

But so he always was. To be sure he says extravagant things, and stares

one out of countenance with his eyes: well, and so he always did--ever

since _I_ knew him.”

“Mayn't I even _look_ my gratitude?” whined Alfred.

“Yes, but you need not stare it.”

“It's your own fault, Miss Julee,” said Sampson. “With you fomenting his

sprain the creature's fomenting his own insensate passion. Break every

bone in a puppy's body, and it's a puppy still; and it doesn't do to

spoil puppies, as ye're spoiling this one. Nlist me, ye vagabin. Take

yonr eyes off the lady; and look _me_ in the face--if ye can: and tell

me how you came to leave us all in the lurch on your wedding morn.”

Julia fired up. “It was not his fault, poor thing; he was decoyed away

after that miserable money. Ah, you may laugh at me for hating money;

but have I not good reason to hate it?”

“Whist, whist, y' impetuous cracter; and let him tell his own tale.”

Alfred, thus invited, delivered one of his calm, luminous statements;

which had hitherto been listened to so coldly by one official after

another. But the effect was mighty different, falling now on folk

not paid to pity. As for Dr. Sampson, he bounced up very early in the

narrative, and went striding up and down the room: he was pale with

indignation, and his voice trembled with emotion, and every now and then

he broke in on the well-governed narrative with oaths and curses, and

observations of this kind--“Why dinnt ye kill um? I'd have killed um.

I'd just have taken the first knife and killed um. Man, our Liberty is

our Life. Dith to whoever attacks it!”

And so Edward coming in with Alfred's dinner on a tray, found the

_soi-disant_ maniac delivering his wrongs with the lofty serenity of

an ancient philosopher discussing the wrongs of another, Julia crying

furtively into the tub, and the good physician trampling and raving

about the room, like what the stoical narrator was accused of being.

Edward stopped, and looked at them all over the tray. “Well,” said he,

“if there's a madman in the room, it is not Hardie. Ahem.”

“Madman? ye young ijjit,” roared the doctor, “he's no madder than I am.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Alfred drily.

“No madder than _you_ are, ye young Pump.”

“That's an ungenerous skit on Edward's profession,” objected the maniac.

“Be quite now, chattering,” said the excited doctor; “I tell ye ye niver

were mad, and niver will be. It's just the most heartless imposture, the

most rascally fraud I've ever caught the Mad Ox out in. I'll expose it.

Gimme pninkpapr. Man, they'll take y' again if we don't mind. But I'll

stop that: these ineequities can only be done in the dark. I'll shed the

light of day on 'em. Eat your dinner, and hold your tongue a minute--if

ye can.” The doctor had always a high sense of _Alfred's_ volubility.