The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]

"More fool you," put in Mr. Hardie calmly.

"For I much fear you are the cause of that calamity."

"I really don't know what you allude to."

The son fixed his eyes on his father, and said, "The fourteen thousand pounds, sir!"

One unguarded look confirmed Alfred's suspicions; he could not bear to go on exposing his father, and wandered out, sore perplexed and nobly wretched, into the night.

III.--Alfred in Confinement

At last Alfred decided that justice must be done, and confided his suspicions to the Dodds. Edward's good commonsense at once settled that, as the man who married Julia would be the greatest sufferer by Hardie senior's fraud, Hardie junior should settle his own £10,000 on her, and marry her as soon as he came of age. Alfred joyfully agreed, privately arranging that the money should be settled on Julia's parents, and preparations went on apace.

But on the wedding-day the bridal party waited in vain for the bridegroom, and Edward ran to his lodgings to fetch him.

He came back alone, white with wrath, hurried the insulted bride and her mother into the carriage, and they went home as if from a funeral. Aye, and a funeral it was; for the sweetest girl in England buried her hopes, her laugh, her May of youth that day.

As soon as possible this heartbroken trio removed to London, where Mrs. Dodd became a dressmaker, and Edward a fireman.

It was true Alfred had received a letter in a female hand, but it was from a discharged servant of his father's, offering information about the £14,000 if he would come to a house about ten miles off the next morning. He calculated he could do so, and still be in the church in time, and drove there with all his luggage, only to find himself shut up in a lunatic asylum.

He made a desperate resistance, but was soon overpowered and left handcuffed, hobbled, and strapped down, more helpless than a swaddled infant. He lay mute as death in his gloomy cell; deeper horror grew and grew, gusts of rage swept over him, gusts of despair. What would his Julia think? He shouted, he screamed, he prayed. He saw her, lovelier than ever, all in white, waiting for him, with sweet concern in her peerless face. Half-past ten struck. He struggled, he writhed, he made the very room shake, and lacerated his flesh, but that was all. No answer, no help, no hope.

By-and-by his good wit told him his only chance was calmness; they could not long confine him as a madman, being sane. But all his efforts to convince his keepers that he was sane were useless; his letters seemed to go, but he got no answers; his appeals to visiting justices were in vain. The responsibility rested with the people who signed the certificates, and he could not even find out who they were. After months of softening hearts and buying consciences, he was on the point of escape, when he was moved to another asylum. Here there was no brutality, but constant watchfulness; and he had almost prevailed on the doctor to declare him cured when he was again moved to a still more brutal place, if possible, than the first.

One day he found himself locked in his room. This was unusual, for though they called him a lunatic in words, they called him sane by all their acts. He thought the commissioners must be in the house; had he known who really was in the house he would have beaten himself to pieces against the door.

At dinner there was a new patient, very mild and silent, with a beautiful mild brown eye like some gentle animal's. Alfred contrived to say some kind word to him; and the newcomer handled his forelock, and announced himself as William Thompson, adding, with simple pride, "Able seaman, just come aboard, your honour."

At night Alfred dreamed he heard Julia's sweet, mellow voice speaking to him; and lo, it was the able seaman. He slept no more, but lay sighing.

The matron told him this was David Dodd, Alfred redoubled his efforts to escape, and at last one of the keepers consented to help him off. He was sitting on his bed full dressed, full of hope, his money in his pocket, waiting for his liberator. Every moment he expected to hear the key in the door.

Then came a smell of burning, and feet ran up and down. "Fire!" rang from men's voices. Fire cracked above his head; he sprang up at the window, and dashed his hand through it, and fell back. He sprang again, and caught the woodwork; it gave way, and he fell back, nearly stunning himself. The flames roared fearfully now, and David, thinking it was a tempest, shouted appropriate orders. Alfred implored him, and got him to kneel down with him, and prayed. He gave up all hope, and prepared to die.

Crash! As if discharged from a cannon, came bursting through the window a helmeted figure, rope in hand, and alighted erect and commanding on the floor. All three faces came together, and Edward recognised his father and Alfred Hardie. Edward clawed his rope to the bed, and hauled up a rope ladder, crying, "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 touched his forelock to Edward, and went down the ladder. Alfred followed.