Ernest Maltravers | Page 3

heritage of
their parent--the right to survive the grave!
LONDON, August 12th, 1837.

ERNEST MALTRAVERS.

BOOK I.
"Youth pastures in a valley of its own: The glare of noon--the rains and
winds of heaven Mar not the calm yet virgin of all care. But ever with
sweet joys it buildeth up The airy halls of life." SOPH. /Trachim/.
144-147.
CHAPTER I.
"My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid *
* * * yet, who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?"
/All's Well that Ends Well/, Act iv. Sc. 3.
SOME four miles distant from one of our northern manufacturing
towns, in the year 18--, was a wide and desolate common; a more
dreary spot it is impossible to conceive--the herbage grew up in sickly
patches from the midst of a black and stony soil. Not a tree was to be
seen in the whole of the comfortless expanse. Nature herself had

seemed to desert the solitude, as if scared by the ceaseless din of the
neighbouring forges; and even Art, which presses all things into service,
had disdained to cull use or beauty from these unpromising demesnes.
There was something weird and primeval in the aspect of the place;
especially when in the long nights of winter you beheld the distant fires
and lights which give to the vicinity of certain manufactories so
preternatural an appearance, streaming red and wild over the waste. So
abandoned by man appeared the spot, that you found it difficult to
imagine that it was only from human fires that its bleak and barren
desolation was illumined. For miles along the moor you detected no
vestige of any habitation; but as you approached the verge nearest to
the town, you could just perceive at a little distance from the main road,
by which the common was intersected, a small, solitary, and miserable
hovel.
Within this lonely abode, at the time in which my story opens, were
seated two persons. The one was a man of about fifty years of age, and
in a squalid and wretched garb, which was yet relieved by an
affectation of ill-assorted finery. A silk handkerchief, which boasted the
ornament of a large brooch of false stones, was twisted jauntily round a
muscular but meagre throat; his tattered breeches were also decorated
by buckles, one of pinchbeck, and one of steel. His frame was lean, but
broad and sinewy, indicative of considerable strength. His countenance
was prematurely marked by deep furrows, and his grizzled hair waved
over a low, rugged, and forbidding brow, on which there hung an
everlasting frown that no smile from the lips (and the man smiled often)
could chase away. It was a face that spoke of long-continued and
hardened vice--it was one in which the Past had written indelible
characters. The brand of the hangman could not have stamped it more
plainly, nor have more unequivocally warned the suspicion of honest or
timid men.
He was employed in counting some few and paltry coins, which,
though an easy matter to ascertain their value, he told and retold, as if
the act could increase the amount. "There must be some mistake here,
Alice," he said in a low and muttered tone: "we can't be so low--you
know I had two pounds in the drawer but Monday, and now--Alice, you

must have stolen some of the money--curse you."
The person thus addressed sat at the opposite side of the smouldering
and sullen fire; she now looked quietly up, and her face singularly
contrasted that of the man.
She seemed about fifteen years of age, and her complexion was
remarkably pure and delicate, even despite the sunburnt tinge which her
habits of toil had brought it. Her auburn hair hung in loose and natural
curls over her forehead, and its luxuriance was remarkable even in one
so young. Her countenance was beautiful, nay, even faultless, in its
small and child-like features, but the expression pained you--it was so
vacant. In repose it was almost the expression of an idiot--but when she
spoke or smiled, or even moved a muscle, the eyes, colour, lips,
kindled into a life, which proved that the intellect was still there,
though but imperfectly awakened.
"I did not steal any, father," she said in a quiet voice; "but I should like
to have taken some, only I knew you would beat me if I did."
"And what do you want money for?"
"To get food when I'm hungered."
"Nothing else?"
"I don't know."
The girl paused.--"Why don't you let me," she said, after a while, "why
don't you let me go and work with the other girls at the factory? I
should make money there for you and me both."
The man smiled--such a smile--it