Hard Cash

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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.

He went to work, and soon produced a letter headed, "PRIVATE MADHOUSES."
In this he related pithily Alfred's incarceration, and the present
attempt to recapture him, with the particulars of his escape. "That will
interest th' enemy," said he drily. He vouched for Alfred's sanity at
both dates, and pledged himself to swear to it in a court of law. He then
inquired what it availed to have sent one tyrant to Phalaris and another
to Versailles in defence of our Liberty, since after all that Liberty
lies grovelling at the mercy of Dr. Pill-box and Mr. Sawbones, and a
single designing relative? Then he drew a strong picture of this
free-born British citizen skulking and hiding at this moment from a gang
of rogues and conspirators, who in France and other civilised countries
that brag less of liberty than we do, would be themselves flying as
criminals from the officers of justice; and he wound up with a warm
appeal to the press to cast its shield over the victim of bad laws and
foul practices. "In England," said he, "Justice is the daughter of
Publicity. Throughout the world deeds of villainy are done every day in
kid gloves: but, with us, at all events, they have to be done on the sly!
Here lies our true moral eminence as a nation. Utter then your 'fiat
lux,' cast the full light of publicity on this dark villainy; and behold
it will wither, and your oppressed and injured fellow-citizen be safe
from that very hour."

He signed it and read it out to them, or rather roared it. But he had
written it so well he could not make it bad by delivery. Indeed, he was a
masterly writer of English, you must know. Julia was delighted, but
Alfred shook his head. "The editor will not put it in."

"Th' editor! D'ye think I'm so green as to trust t' any one editor? D'ye
think I've lived all these years and not learned what poor cowardly
things men are? Moral courage! where can you find it? Except in the
dickshinary? Few to the world their honest thoughts _avow;_ the groveller
policy robs justice _now_--

And none but Sampson dares to lift a hond
Against the curst corruption of the lond.

Now, lad, I'm off to my printer with this. They are working night and day
just now: there will be two hundred copies printed in half an hour."

"And me, doctor," said Julia. "Am poor I to have no hand in it? How cruel
of you? Oh pray, pray, pray let me help a little."

"Put on your bonnet, then, directly," said he: "in war never lose a
minute."

"But I am so afraid they may be lying in wait for him outside."

"Then we'll give them a good hiding: there are three of us; all good men
and staunch," said the indomitable doctor.

"No, no," said the pugnacious Alfred. "Julia does not like fighting: I
heard her screaming all the time I was defending myself on the stairs:
let us be prudent: let us throw dust in their eyes. Put me on a bonnet
and cloak."

"And a nice little woman you'll make, ye fathom."

"Oh, I can stoop--to conquer."

Julia welcomed this plan almost with glee, and she and Edward very soon
made a handsome brazen-looking trollop six feet high. Then it had to
stoop, and Edward and Julia helped it out to the carriage, under the very
noses of a policeman and a keeper, who were watching for Alfred: seeing
which--oh frailty of woman!--the district visitor addressed it aloud as
her aunt, and begged it to take care: which she afterwards observed was
acting a falsehood, and "where was her Christianity?"

Alfred was actually not recognised: the carriage bowled away to the great
printing house; it was on that side the water. The foreman entered into
the thing with spirit, and divided the copy, small as it was, among two
or three compositors: so a rough proof was ready in an incredibly short
time; the doctor corrected it: and soon they began to work off the
copies. The foreman found them Mitchell's newspaper list, and envelopes
by the hundred, and while the copies were pouring in, all hands were
folding and addressing them to the London and provincial editors. The
office lent the stamps. The doctor drove Alfred to his own lodgings, and
forbade him to reappear in Pembroke Street until the letter should come
out in the London journals.

That night the letters were all posted, and at daybreak were flying
north, south, east and west. In the afternoon the letter came out in four
London evening papers, and the next morning the metropolis and the whole
kingdom were ringing with them, and the full blaze of publicity burst
upon this dark deed.

Ay, stout Sampson, well you knew mankind, and well you knew the nation
you lived in. Richard Hardie, in the very act of setting detectives to
find Alfred's lurking-place, ran his nose against this letter in the
_Globe._ He collapsed at the sight of it; and wrote directly to Dr. Wolf,
enclosing it and saying that it would be unadvisable to make any fresh
attempt. His letter was crossed by one from Dr. Wolf, containing
Sampson's thunderbolt extracted from the _Sun,_ and saying that no
earthly consideration should induce him to meddle with Alfred _now._
Richard Hardie flung himself into the train, and went down to his brother
at Clare Court.

He was ill at ease. He felt like some great general, who has launched
many attacks against the foe, very successful at first, then less
successful, then repulsed with difficulty, then repulsed with ease, till
at last the foe stands before him impregnable. Then he feels that ere
long that iron enemy will attack him in turn, and that he, exhausted by
his own onslaughts, must defend himself how he can. Yet there was a
pause; he passed a whole quiet peaceful day with his brother, assuring
him that the affair would go no further on either side; but in his secret
soul he felt this quiet day was but the ominous pause between two great
battles: one of the father against the son, the other of the son against
the father.

And he was right: the very next day the late defender attacked, and in
earnest. But for certain reasons I prefer to let another relate it:

_Hardie v. Hardie._

"DEAR SIR,--If you had been in my office when I received your favour of
yesterday relating deft.'s ruffian-like assault, you would have seen the
most ridiculous sight in nature--videlicet, an attorney in a passion. I
threw professional courtesy to the winds, and sent Colls off to Clare
Court to serve the writ personally. Next day, he found the deft, walking
in his garden with Mr. Richard Hardie. Having learned from the servant
which was his man, he stepped up and served copy of the writ in the usual
way. Deft. turned pale, and his knees knocked together, and Colls thinks
he mistook himself for a felon, and was going to ask for mercy. But Mr.
Richard stopped him, and said his attorneys were Messrs. Heathfield, in
Chancery Lane; and was this the way Mr. Compton did business? serving a
writ personally on a gentleman in weak health. So Colls, who can sneer in
his quiet way, told him 'No,' but the invalid had declined to answer my
letter, and the invalid had made a violent attack upon our client's
person, avoiding his attorney, 'so, as his proceedings are summary, we
meet him in kind,' says little Colls. 'Oho,' says Mr. Richard, 'your are
a wit, are you? Come and have some luncheon.' This was to get him away
from the weaker brother, I take it. He gave Colls an excellent luncheon,
and some admirable conversation on policy and finance: and when he was
going, says this agreeable host: 'Well, Mr. -----, you have had your
bellyful of chicken and Madeira; and your client shall have his bellyful
of law.' And this Colls considers emphatic but coarse.--I am, yours
faithfully,

"JOHN COMPTON.

_"P.S._--Colls elicited that no further attempt will be made to capture
you. It seems some injudicious friend of yours has been writing to the
newspapers. Pray stop that."

On receiving this letter, Alfred bought another double pistol, loaded it,
hired a body-guard of two prizefighters, and with these at his heels,
repaired to 66 Pembroke Street. No enemy was near: the press had swept
the street alike of keepers and police with one Briarian gesture. He
found Julia and Edward in great anxiety about their father. The immediate
cause was a letter from Mrs. Dodd, which Edward gave him to read; but not
till he had first congratulated him heartily on the aegis of the press
being thrown over him. "The _'Tiser_ has a leader on it," said he.

Mrs. Dodd's letter ran thus:--

"My DEAR DEAR CHILDREN,--I am coming home to you heartbroken, without
your poor father. I saw an East Indian ship go to sea, and some instinct
whispered, suppose he should be on board that ship! But, foolishly, I did
not utter my thoughts: because they call these instincts women's fancies.
But now even Mr. Green thinks he is gone to sea; for the town has been
ransacked, and no trace of him can we find. I met my cousin, Captain
Bazalgette, here, and he is promoted to the _Vulture_ frigate, and sails
to-day. I have told him all our misfortunes, and he has promised to
overhaul that merchant ship if he comes up with her: but I _can see by
the way his eye shuns mine_ he has no real hopes. His ship is the
swifter, but he may pass her in the night. And then he is bound for New
Zealand, not India. I told Reginald my poor husband's expression of face
is altered by his affliction, and that he takes himself for a common
sailor, and has his medal still round his neck. Our cousin is very kind,
and will do all he can. God can protect my darling at sea, as He has
ashore: and in His power alone have I any trust. Any further stay here is
vain: my heart, too, yearns for my other treasures, and dreads lest
whilst I am here, and because I am here, some evil should befall you too.
Expect me soon after this letter, and let us try and comfort one another
under this the heaviest of all our many troubles.-- With sad heart, I am,
both my darlings' loving mother and friend,

"LUCY DODD"

In the discussion of this letter Alfred betrayed a slight defect of
character. He pooh-poohed the calamity: said David had now a chance, and
a good one, of being cured: whereas confinement was one of the common
causes of insanity even in sane persons. And he stoutly maintained that
David's going to sea was a happy inspiration. Edward coloured, but
deigned no reply. Julia was less patient, and though she was too loving
and too womanly to tell Alfred to his face he was deceiving himself, and
arguing thus indirectly to justify himself in taking her father out of
the asylum at all, yet she saw it, and it imparted a certain coldness
into her replies. Alfred noticed this, and became less confident and
louder, and prodigiously logical.

He was still flowing on with high imperious voice, which I suppose
overpowered the sound of Mrs. Dodd's foot, when she entered suddenly,
pale and weary, in her travelling-dress.

Alfred stopped, and they all started to their feet.

At sight of Alfred she stood dumbfoundered a single moment; then uttered
a faint shriek; and looked at him with unutterable terror.

He stood disconcerted.

Julia ran, and throwing her arms round Mrs. Dodd's neck, entreated her
not to be afraid of him: he was not mad; Dr. Sampson said so. Edward
confirmed her words; and then Julia poured out the story of his wrongs
with great gushes of natural eloquence that might have melted a rock,
and, as anticlimax is part of a true woman, ended innocently by begging
her mother not to look so unkindly at him; and his ankle so sprained, and
him in such pain. For the first time in her life Mrs. Dodd was deaf to
her daughter's natural eloquence; it was remarkable how little her
countenance changed while Julia appealed. She stood looking askant with
horror at Alfred all through that gentle eloquent appeal. But
nevertheless her conduct showed she had heard every word: as soon as ever
her daughter's voice stopped, she seemed to dilate bodily, and moved
towards Alfred pale and lowering. Yes, for once this gentle quiet lady
looked terrible. She confronted Alfred, "Is this true, sir?" said she, in
a low stern voice. "Are you not insane? Have you _never_ been bereft of
your reason?"

"No, Mrs. Dodd, I have not."

"Then what have you done with my husband, sir?"

CHAPTER XLVII

IT was a thunderbolt. Alfred hung his head, and said humbly, "I did but
go upstairs for one moment to wash my hands for dinner; and he was gone."

Mrs. Dodd went on in her low stern voice, almost as if he had not
answered her at all: "By what right did you assume the charge of him? Did
I authorise you to take him from the place where he was safe, and under
my eye?"

Alfred replied sullenly: "He was not very safe, for he was almost burnt
to death. The fire liberated him, not I. After the fire I ran away from
him: he followed me; and then what could I do? I made the best of it; and
gave up my own desires to try and cure him. He longed for the sea: I
tried to indulge him: I hoped to bring him back to you sane: but fate was
against me. I am the most unfortunate of men."

"Mr. Hardie," said Mrs. Dodd, "what you have done was the act of a
madman; and, if I believed you to be anything but a madman, the sight of
you would be intolerable to me; for you have made me a widow, and my
children orphans."

With this she gave a great shudder, and retired in tears.

Alfred rose, pale and defiant. "That is _her_ notion of justice," said he
bitterly; "pray is it yours, you two?"

"Well, since you ask my opinion," said Edward, "I think it was rather
presumptuous of you to undertake the care of my father: and, having
undertaken it, you ought not to have left him a moment out of your
sight."

"Oh, that is your opinion, is it? And you, dear Julia?"

Julia made no reply, but hid her face in her hands and sighed deeply.

"I see," said Alfred sorrowfully. "Even you are against me at heart. You
judge by the event, not the motive. There is no justice in this world for
me. I'm sick of life. I have no right to keep the mistress of the house
out of her own room: there, I'll go, my heart is broken. No, it is not,
and never shall be, by anything that breathes. Thank Heaven, I have got
one friend left in this bitter world: and I'll make her the judge whether
I have deserved this last injustice. _I'll go to my sister._"

He jumped up and hobbled slowly across the room, while Julia and Edward
sat chilled to the bone by those five little words, so simple, so
natural, yet so incredible, and to the hearers so awful. They started,
they shuddered, they sat petrified, staring at him, while he hobbled
across the room to go to his sister.

As he opened the door to go out he heard stout Edward groan and Julia
utter a low wail. He stood confounded a moment. Then he hobbled down a
stair or two. But, ere he had gone far, there was a hasty whispering in
the drawing-room, and Edward came after him in great agitation, and
begged him to return; Julia must speak with him. He turned, and his face
brightened. Edward saw that, and turned his own face away and stammered
out, "Forget what I said to you. I am your friend, and always must be for
her sake. No, no, I cannot go into that room with you; I'll go and
comfort mamma. Hardie, old fellow, we are very unhappy, all of us. We are
too unhappy to quarrel."

These kind words soothed Alfred's sore heart. He brightened up and
entered the drawing-room. He found Julia standing in the middle of it,
the colour of ashes. Alfred was alarmed. "You are unwell, dearest," he
cried; "you will faint. What have I done with my ungoverned temper?" He
moved towards her with a face full of concern.

"No, Alfred," said she solemnly, "I am not the least ill. It is sorrow,
deep sorrow for one I love better than all the world. Sit down beside me,
my poor Alfred; and--God help me to speak to him!"

Alfred began to feel dire misgivings.

"Yes," said she, "I love you too well to let any hand but mine wound
you." And here she took his sinewy hand with her soft palm. "I want to
soften it in the telling: and ah, how can I? Oh, why can I not throw
myself body and soul between you and all trouble, all sorrow?"

"My Julia," said Alfred gravely, "something has happened to Jane."

"Yes, Alfred. She met with a terrible accident."

"Ah!"

"She was struck by an unfortunate man; he was not in his right mind."

"Struck? My sister struck. What, was there no man by?"

"No. Edward nearly killed him afterwards."

"God bless him."

"Alfred, be patient. It was too late."

"What, is she hurt seriously? Is she disfigured?"

"No, Alfred," said Julia solemnly; "she is not disfigured; oh far from
that."

"Julia, you alarm me. This comes of shutting her brother up. May Heaven's
eternal curse light on those who did it. My poor little sister! How you
weep, Julia. My heart is lead."

"I weep for you, darling, not for her."

"Ah, that is how they talk when those we love are----One word! I shall
never see my poor little Jenny again; shall I?"

"Yes, Alfred; if you will but follow her steps and believe in Him, who
soothed her last hour, and made her face shine with joy like an angel's
while we all wept around. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, he said he had but
one true friend in the world. Alas it is so; you have but me now, who
pity you and love you more than heart can utter; my own, my beloved, my
bereaved."

What could soften such a shock as this? It fell, and his anguish was
frightful, all the more so that he ascribed the calamity to his
imprisonment, and mingled curses and threats of vengeance with his bursts
of grief. He spurned the consolations of religion: he said heaven was as
unjust as earth, as cruel as hell.

She cried out and stopped his mouth with her hand; she almost forced him
to kneel beside her, and prayed aloud for him: and when at last his agony
found vent in tears, she put her innocent arms round his neck and wept
with him.

Every now and then the poor fellow would almost shriek with remorse. "Oh,
if I had only been kinder to her! if I had but been kinder to her!"

"You were kind to her," said Julia softly, but firmly. "Oh, no; I was
always sneering at her. And why? I knew her religion was sincere: but my
little mind fixed on a few phrases she had picked up from others, and
I----" He could say no more, but groaned with anguish. And let his
remorse be a caution to us all. Bereaved we all must be, who live on and
on: but _this,_ bereavement's bitterest drop, we may avoid.