Ernest Maltravers — Volume 01. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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СКАЧАТЬ his weapon with both hands; and started to find the intruder was only Alice. She came in with bare feet, and pale as marble, her finger on her lips.

      She approached—she touched him.

      "They are in the shed behind," she whispered, "looking for the sledge-hammer—they mean to murder you; get you gone—quick."

      "How?—the door is locked."

      "Stay. I have taken the key from his room."

      She gained the door, applied the key—the door yielded. The traveller threw his knapsack once more over his shoulder, and made but one stride to the threshold. The 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.

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      1

      For /The Disowned/ is cast in the time of our grandfathers, and /The Pilgrims of the Rhine/ had nothing to do with actual life, and is not, therefore, to be called a novel.

      2

      At the date of this preface /Night and Morning/ had not appeared.

      3

1

For /The Disowned/ is cast in the time of our grandfathers, and /The Pilgrims of the Rhine/ had nothing to do with actual life, and is not, therefore, to be called a novel.

2

At the date of this preface /Night and Morning/ had not appeared.

3

In some foreign journal I have been much amused by a credulity of this latter description, and seen the various adventures of Mr. Maltravers gravely appropriated to the embellishment of my own life, including the attachment to the original of poor Alice Darvil; who now, by the way, must be at least seventy years of age, with a grandchild nearly as old as myself.