Ernest Maltravers | Page 8

girl stopped him. "Don't say anything about
it; he is my father, they would hang him."
"No, no. But you?--are safe, I trust?--depend on my gratitude.--I shall
be at ------ to-morrow--the best inn--seek me if you can. Which way
now?"
"Keep to the left."
The stranger was already several paces distant; through the darkness,
and in the midst of the rain, he fled on with the speed of youth. The girl
lingered an instant, sighed, then laughed aloud; closed and re-barred the
door, and was creeping back, when from the inner entrance advanced
the grim father, and another man, of broad, short, sinewy frame, his
arms bare, and wielding a large hammer.
"How?" asked the host; "Alice here, and--hell and the devil! have you
let him go?"
"I told you that you should not harm him."
With a violent oath the ruffian struck his daughter to the ground, sprang
over her body, unbarred the door, and, accompanied by his comrade,
set off in vague pursuit of his intended victim.
CHAPTER III.

"You knew--none so well, of my daughter's flight." /Merchant of
Venice/, Act iii. Sc. 1.
THE day dawned; it was a mild, damp, hazy morning; the sod sank
deep beneath the foot, the roads were heavy with mire, and the rain of
the past night lay here and there in broad shallow pools. Towards the
town, waggons, carts, pedestrian groups were already moving; and,
now and then, you caught the sharp horn of some early coach, wheeling
its be-cloaked outside and be-nightcapped inside passengers along the
northern thoroughfare.
A young man bounded over a stile into the road just opposite to the
milestone, that declared him to be one mile from ------.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, almost aloud. "After spending the night
wandering about morasses like a will-o'-the-wisp, I approach a town at
last. Thank Heaven again, and for all its mercies this night! I breathe
freely. I AM SAFE."
He walked on somewhat rapidly; he passed a slow waggon---he passed
a group of mechanics--he passed a drove of sheep, and now he saw
walking leisurely before him a single figure. It was a girl, in a worn and
humble dress, who seemed to seek her weary way with pain and
languor. He was about also to pass her, when he heard a low cry. He
turned, and beheld in the wayfarer his preserver of the previous night.
"Heavens! is it indeed you? Can I believe my eyes?"
"I was coming to seek you, sir," said the girl, faintly. "I too have
escaped; I shall never go back to father; I have no roof to cover my
head now."
"Poor child! but how is this? Did they ill use you for releasing me?"
"Father knocked me down, and beat me again when he came back; but
that is not all," she added, in a very low tone.
"What else?"

The girl grew red and white by turns. She set her teeth rigidly, stopped
short, and then walking on quicker than before, replied: "It don't matter;
I will never go back--I'm alone now. What, what shall I do?" and she
wrung her hands.
The traveller's pity was deeply moved. "My good girl," said he,
earnestly, "you have saved my life, and I am not ungrateful. Here" (and
he placed some gold in her hand), "get yourself a lodging, food and rest;
you look as if you wanted them; and see me again this evening when it
is dark and we can talk unobserved."
The girl took the money passively, and looked up in his face while he
spoke; the look was so unsuspecting, and the whole countenance was
so beautifully modest and virgin-like, that had any evil passion
prompted the traveller's last words, it must have fled scared and
abashed as he met the gaze.
"My poor girl," said he, embarrassed, and after a short pause; "you are
very young, and very, very pretty. In this town you will be exposed to
many temptations: take care where you lodge; you have, no doubt,
friends here?"
"Friends?--what are friends?" answered Alice.
"Have you no relations?--no /mother's kin/?"
"None."
"Do you know where to ask shelter?"
"No, sir; for I can't go where father goes, lest he should find me out."
"Well, then, seek some quiet inn, and meet me this evening just here,
half a mile from the town, at seven. I will try and think of something
for you in the meanwhile. But you seem tired, you walk with pain;
perhaps it will fatigue you to come--I mean, you had rather perhaps rest
another day."

"Oh no, no! it will do me good to see you again, sir."
The young man's eyes met hers, and hers were not withdrawn; their soft
blue was suffused with tears--they penetrated his soul. He turned away
hastily,