VERY HARD CASH.

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

CHAPTER XXXVII.

AT two o'clock an attendant stole on tiptoe to
the strong-room, unlocked the door, and peeped
cautiously in. Seeing the dangerous maniac
quiet, he entered with a plate of lukewarm beef
and potatoes, and told him bluntly to eat. The
crushed one said he could not eat. "You must,"
said the man. "Eat!" said Alfred; "of what do
you think I am made? Pray put it down and
listen to me. I'll give you a hundred pounds to
let me out of this place; two hundred; three."

A coarse laugh greeted this proposal. "You
might as well have made it a thousand when you
was about it."

"So I will," said Alfred, eagerly, "and thank
you on my knees besides. Ah, I see you don't
believe I have money. I give you my honour I
have ten thousand pounds: it was settled on me
by my grandfather, and I came of age last week."

"Oh, that's like enough," said the man
carelessly. "Well, you are green. Do you think
them as sent you here will let you spend your
money? No, your money is theirs now."

And he sat down with the plate on his knee and
began to cut the meat in small pieces; while his
careless words entered Alfred's heart, and gave
him such a glimpse of sinister motives and dark
acts to come as set him shuddering.

"Come, none o' that," said the man, suspecting
this shudder; he thought it was the prologue
to some desperate act—for all a chained madman
does is read upon this plan; his terror passes
for rage, his very sobs for snarls.

"Oh, be honest with me," said Alfred
imploringly: "do you think it is to steal my money
the wretch has stolen my liberty?"

"What wretch?"

"My father."

"I know nothing about it," said the man
sullenly: "in course there's mostly money
behind, when young gents like you come to be
took care of. But you mustn't go thinking of
that, or you'll excite yourself again; come, you
eat your vittles like a Christian, and no more
about it."

"Leave it, that is a good fellow; and then I'll
try and eat a little by-and-by. But my grief is
great—oh Julia! Julia!—what shall I do? And
I am not used to eat at this time. Will you, my
good fellow?"

"Well I will, now you behave like a gentleman,"
said the man.

Then Alfred coaxed him to take off the
handcuffs. He refused, but ended by doing it; and
so left him.

Four more leaden hours rolled by, and then
this same attendant (his name was Brown)
brought him a cup of tea. It was welcome to
his parched throat; he drank it, and ate a
mouthful of the meat to please the man, and even
asked for some more tea.

At eight four keepers came into his room,
undressed him, compelled him to make his
toilette, etc., before them, which put him to shame
—being a gentleman—almost as much as it
would a woman: they then hobbled him, and
fastened his ankles to the bed, and put his hands
into muffles, but did not confine his body; because
they had lost a lucrative lodger only a month ago,
throttled at night in a strait-waistcoat.

Alfred lay in this plight, and compared with
anguish unspeakable his joyful anticipations of
this night with the strange and cruel reality.
"My wedding night! my wedding night!" he
cried aloud, and burst into a passion of grief.

By-and-by he consoled himself a little with the
hope that he could not long be incarcerated as a
madman, being sane; and his good wit told him
his only chance was calmness. He would go to
sleep and recover composure to bear his wrongs
with dignity, and quietly baffle his enemies.

Just as he was dropping off he felt something
crawl over his face. Instinctively he made a
violent motion to put his hands up. Both hands
were confined, he could not move them. He
bounded, he flung, he writhed. His little
persecutors were quiet a moment, but the next they
began again: in vain he rolled and writhed, and
shuddered with loathing inexpressible. They
crawled, they smelt, they bit.

Many a poor soul these little wretches had
distracted with the very sleeplessness the madhouse
professed to cure, not create. In conjunction with
the opiates, the confinement, and the gloom of
Silverton House, they had driven many a feeble
mind across the line that divides the weak and
nervous from the unsound.

When he found there was no help, Alfred