VERY HARD CASH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

COULD any one have known what was passing
in different places, he would have counted Alfred's
deliverance a certainty; for Sampson's placard
was on Barkington walls, and inside the asylum
Alfred was softening hearts and buying consciences,
as related; so, in fact, he had two
strings to his bow.

But mark how strangely things turn; these
two strings got entangled, and spoilt all. His
father, alarmed by the placard, called at the
pawnbroker's shop, and told him he must move
Alfred directly to a London asylum. Baker
raised objections; Mr. Hardie crushed them with
his purse, i.e. with his son's and victim's sweetheart's
father's money: so then, as Baker after
all could not resist the project, but only postpone
it for a day or two, he preferred to take a handsome
present, and co-operate; he even connived
at Mr. Hardie's signing the requisite name
to the new order. This the giddy world calls
forgery; but, in these calm retreats, far from the
public's inquisitive eye, it goes for nothing.
Why, Mrs. Archbold had signed Baker's name
and Dr. Bailey's more than a hundred several
times to orders, statements, and certificates;
depriving Englishmen of their liberty and their
property with a gesture of her taper fingers;
and venting the conventional terms, "Aberration,"
"Exaltation," "Depression," "Debility,"
"Paralysis," "Excitable," "Abnormal," as boldly
and blindly as any male starling in the flock.

On the very night then of Alfred's projected
escape, two keepers came down from Dr.
Wycherley's asylum to Silverton station: Baker
met them, and drove them to Silverton House in
his dog-cart. They were to take Alfred up by
the night train; and, when he came into the
kitchen with Brown, they suspected nothing,
nor did Baker or Cooper, who presently emerged
from the back kitchen. Brown saw, and
recovered his wits partially. " Shall I go for his
portmanteau, sir?" stammered he, making a
shrewd and fortunate guess at what was up.
Baker assented; and soon after went out to get
the horse harnessed: on this Mrs. Archbold,
pale, sorrowful, and silent hitherto, beckoned
Alfred into the back kitchen, and there gave him
his watch and his loose money. " I took care of
them for you," said she; " for the like have often
been stolen in this place. Put the money in your
shoes; it may be useful to you."

He thanked her somewhat sullenly; for his
disappointment was so deep and bitter that small
kindnesses almost irritated him.

She sighed. " It is cruel to be angry with me,"
she said: " I am not the cause of this; it is a
heavier blow to me than to you. Sooner or later
you will be free— and then you will not waste a
thought on me, I fear— but I must remain in
this odious prison without your eyes and your
smile to lighten me, yet unable to forget you.
Oh, Alfred, for mercy's sake whisper me one
kind word at parting; give me one kind look to
remember and dote upon."

She put out both hands as eloquently as she
spoke, and overpowered his prudence so far that
he took her offered hands— they were as cold
now as they were burning hot the last time—
and pressed them, and said, " I shall be grateful
to you while I live."

The passionate woman snatched her hands
away. " Gratitude is too cold for me," she cried;
"I scorn even yours. Love me, or hate me."

He made no reply. And so they parted.

"Will you pledge your honour to make no
attempt at escape on the road?" asked the
pawnbroker, on his return.

"I'll see you d—d first," replied the prisoner.

On this he was handcuffed, and helped into the
dog-cart.

They went up to town by the midnight train;
but, to Alfred's astonishment and delight, did
not take a carriage to themselves.

However, station after station was passed, and
nobody came into their carriage. At last they
stopped at a larger station, and a good many
people were on the platform: Alfred took this
opportunity and appealed in gentle but moving
terms to the first good and intelligent face he
saw. " Sir," said he, " I implore your assistance."

The gentleman turned courteously to him. The
keepers, to Alfred's surprise, did not interrupt.

"I am the victim of a conspiracy, sir; they
pretend I am mad: and are taking me by force
to a madhouse, a living tomb."

"You certainly don't appear to be mad," said
the gentleman.