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 exhunter 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 teet............