Ernest Maltravers. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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paused in despair. He was naturally of a strong-nerved and gallant temperament, nor unaccustomed to those perils of life and limb which German students delight to brave; but his heart well-nigh failed him at that moment. The silence became distinct and burdensome to him, and a chill moisture gathered to his brow. While he stood irresolute and in suspense, striving to collect his thoughts, his ear, preternaturally sharpened by fear, caught the faint muffled sound of creeping footsteps—he heard the stairs creak. The sound broke the spell. The previous vague apprehension gave way, when the danger became actually at hand. His presence of mind returned at once. He went back quickly to the fireplace, seized the poker, and began stirring the fire, and coughing loud, and indicating as vigorously as possible that he was wide awake.
He felt that he was watched—he felt that he was in momently peril. He felt that the appearance of slumber would be the signal for a mortal conflict. Time passed, all remained silent; nearly half an hour had elapsed since he had heard the steps upon the stairs. His situation began to prey upon his nerves, it irritated them—it became intolerable. It was not now fear that he experienced, it was the overwrought sense of mortal enmity—the consciousness that a man may feel who knows that the eye of a tiger is on him, and who, while in suspense he has regained his courage, foresees that sooner or later the spring must come; the suspense itself becomes an agony, and he desires to expedite the deadly struggle he cannot shun.
Utterly incapable any longer to bear his own sensations, the traveller rose at last, fixed his eyes upon the fatal door, and was about to cry aloud to the listener to enter, when he heard a slight tap at the window; it was twice repeated; and at the third time a low voice pronounced the name of Darvil. It was clear, then, that accomplices had arrived; it was no longer against one man that he would have to contend. He drew his breath hard, and listened with throbbing ears. He heard steps without upon the plashing soil; they retired—all was still.
He paused a few minutes, and walked deliberately and firmly to the inner door, at which he fancied his host stationed; with a steady hand he attempted to open the door; it was fastened on the opposite side. “So!” said he, bitterly, and grinding his teeth, “I must die like a rat in a cage. Well, I’ll die biting.”
He returned to his former post, drew himself up to his full height, and stood grasping his homely weapon, prepared for the worst, and not altogether unelated with a proud consciousness of his own natural advantages of activity, stature, strength and daring. Minutes rolled on; the silence was broken by some one at the inner door; he heard the bolt gently withdrawn. He raised 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.
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