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Ernest Maltravers, Book 1

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Left alone, the host pressed his hand tightly to his forehead, and
remained motionless for nearly half an hour.

"If that cursed girl would but sleep," he muttered at last, turning
round, "it might be done at once. And there's the pond behind, as deep
as a well; and I might say at daybreak that the boy had bolted. He
seems quite a stranger here--nobody'll miss him. He must have plenty of
blunt to give half a guinea to a guide across a common! I want money,
and I won't work--if I can help it, at least."

While he thus soliloquised the air seemed to oppress him; he opened the
window, he leant out--the rain beat upon him. He closed the window with
an oath; took off his shoes, stole to the threshold, and, by the candle,
which he shaded with his hand, surveyed the opposite door. It was
closed. He then bent anxiously forward and listened.

"All's quiet," thought he, "perhaps he sleeps already. I will steal
down. If Jack Walters would but come tonight, the job would be done
charmingly."

With that he crept gently down the stairs. In a corner, at the foot of
the staircase, lay sundry matters, a few faggots, and a cleaver. He
caught up the last. "Aha," he muttered; "and there's the sledge-hammer
somewhere for Walters." Leaning himself against the door, he then
applied his eye to a chink which admitted a dim view of the room within,
lighted fitfully by the fire.



CHAPTER II.

"What have we here?
A carrion death!"
/Merchant of Venice/, Act ii. Sc. 7.

IT was about this time that the stranger deemed it advisable to commence
his retreat. The slight and suppressed sound of voices, which at first
he had heard above in the conversation of the father and child, had died
away. The stillness at once encouraged and warned him. He stole to the
front door, softly undid the bolt, and found the door locked, and the
key missing. He had not observed that during his repast, and ere his
suspicions had been aroused, his host, in replacing the bar, and
relocking the entrance, had abstracted the key. His fears were now
confirmed. His next thought was the window--the shutter only protected
it half-way, and was easily removed; but the aperture of the lattice,
which only opened in part like most cottage casements, was far too small
to admit his person. His only means of escape was in breaking the whole
window; a matter not to be effected without noise and consequent risk.

He 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
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, and saw that they were already the subject of curious
observation to the various passengers that overtook them. "Don't
forget!" he whispered, and strode on with a pace that soon brought him
to the town.

He inquired for the principal hotel--entered it with an air that bespoke
that nameless consciousness of superiority which belongs to those
accustomed to purchase welcome wherever welcome is bought and sold--and
before a blazing fire and no unsubstantial breakfast, forgot all the
terrors of the past night, or rather felt rejoiced to think he had added
a new and strange hazard to the catalogue of adventures already
experienced by Ernest Maltravers.



CHAPTER IV.

"Con una Dama tenia
Un galan conversacion."*
MORATIN: /El Teatro Espanol/.--Num. 15.

* With a dame he held a gallant conversation.

MALTRAVERS was first at the appointed place. His character was in most
respects singularly energetic, decided, and premature in its
development; but not so in regard to women: with them he was the
creature of the moment; and, driven to and fro by whatever impulse, or
whatever passion, caught the caprice of a wild, roving, and all-poetical
imagination, Maltravers was, half unconsciously, a poet--a poet of
action, and woman was his muse.

He had formed no plan of conduct towards the poor girl he was to meet.
He meant no harm to her. If she had been less handsome, he would have
been equally grateful; and her dress, and youth, and condition, would
equally have compelled him to select the hour of dusk for an interview.

He arrived at the spot. The winter night had already descended; but a
sharp frost had set in: the air was clear, the stars were bright, and
the long shadows slept, still and calm, along the broad road, and the
whitened fields beyond.

He walked briskly to and fro, without much thought of the interview, or
its object, half chanting old verses, German and English, to himself,
and stopping to gaze every moment at the silent stars.

At length he saw Alice approach: she came up to him timidly and gently.
His heart beat more quickly; he felt that he was young and alone with
beauty. "Sweet girl," he said, with involuntary and mechanical
compliment, "how well this light becomes you. How shall I thank you for
not forgetting me?"

Alice surrendered her hand to his without a struggle.

"What is your name?" said he, bending his face down to hers.

"Alice Darvil."

"And your terrible father,--/is/ he, in truth, your father?"

"Indeed he is my father and mother too!"

"What made you suspect his intention to murder me? Has he ever
attempted the like crime?"

"No; but lately he has often talked of robbery. He is very poor, sir.
And when I saw his eye, and when afterwards, while your back was turned,
he took the key from the door, I felt that--that you were in danger."

"Good girl--go on."

"I told him so when we went up-stairs. I did not know what to believe,
when he said he would not hurt you; but I stole the key of the front
door, which he had thrown on the table, and went to my room. I listened
at my door; I heard him go down the stairs--he stopped there for some
time; and I watched him from above. The place where he was opened to
the field by the back-way. After some time, I heard a voice whisper
him; I knew the voice, and then they both went out by the back-way; so I
stole down, and went out and listened; and I knew the other man was John
Walters. I'm afraid of /him/, sir. And then Walters said, says he, 'I
will get the hammer, and, sleep or wake, we'll do it.' And father said,
'It's in the shed.' So I saw there was no time to be lost, sir,
and--and--but you know all the rest."

"But how did you escape?"

"Oh, my father, after talking to Walters, came to my room, and beat
and--and--frightened me; and when he was gone to bed, I put on my
clothes, and stole out; it was just light; and I walked on till I met
you."

"Poor child, in what a den of vice you have been brought up!"

"Anan, sir."

"She don't understand me. Have you been taught to read and write?"

"Oh no!"

"But I suppose you have been taught, at least, to say your
catechism--and you pray sometimes?"

"I have prayed to father not to beat me."

"But to God?"

"God, sir--what is that?"*

* This ignorance--indeed the whole sketch of Alice--is from the life;
nor is such ignorance, accompanied by what almost seems an instinctive
or intuitive notion of right or wrong, very uncommon, as our police
reports can testify. In the /Examiner/ for, I think, the year 1835,
will be found the case of a young girl ill-treated by her father, whose
answers to the interrogatories of the magistrate are very similar to
those of Alice to the questions of Maltravers.

Maltravers drew back, shocked and appalled. Premature philosopher as he
was, this depth of ignorance perplexed his wisdom. He had read all the
disputes of schoolmen, whether or not the notion of a Supreme Being is
innate; but he had never before been brought face to face with a living
creature who was unconscious of a God.

After a pause, he said: "My poor girl, we misunderstand each other. You
know that there is a God?"

"No, sir."

"Did no one ever tell you who made the stars you now survey--the earth
on which you tread?"

"No."

"And have you never thought about it yourself?"

"Why should I? What has that to do with being cold and hungry?"

Maltravers looked incredulous. "You see that great building, with the
spire rising in the starlight?"

"Yes, sir, sure."

"What is it called?"

"Why, a church."

"Did you never go into it?"

"No."

"What do people do there?"

"Father says one man talks nonsense, and the other folk listen to him."

"Your father is--no matter. Good heavens! what shall I do with this
unhappy child?"

"Yes, sir, I am very unhappy," said Alice, catching at the last words;
and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Maltravers never was more touched in his life. Whatever thoughts of
gallantry might have entered his young head, had he found Alice such as
he might reasonably have expected, he now felt that there was a kind of
sanctity in her ignorance; and his gratitude and kindly sentiment
towards her took almost a brotherly aspect.--"You know, at least, what
school is?" he asked.

"Yes, I have talked with girls who go to school."

"Would you like to go there, too?"

"Oh, no, sir, pray not!"

"What should you like to do, then? Speak out, child. I owe you so
much, that I should be too happy to make you comfortable and contented
in your own way."

"I should like to live with you, sir." Maltravers started, and half
smiled, and coloured. But looking on her eyes, which were fixed
earnestly on his, there was so much artlessness in their soft,
unconscious gaze, that he saw she was wholly ignorant of the
interpretation that might be put upon so candid a confession.

I have said that Maltravers was a wild, enthusiastic, odd being--he was,
in fact, full of strange German romance and metaphysical speculations.
He had once shut himself up for months to study astrology--and been even
suspected of a serious hunt after the philosopher's stone; another time
he had narrowly escaped with life and liberty from a frantic conspiracy
of the young republicans of his university, in which, being bolder and
madder than most of them, he had been an active ringleader; it was,
indeed, some such folly that had compelled him to quit Germany sooner
than himself or his parents desired. He had nothing of the sober
Englishman about him. Whatever was strange and eccentric had an
irresistible charm for Ernest Maltravers. And agreeably to this
disposition, he now revolved an idea that enchanted his mobile and
fantastic philosophy. He himself would educate this charming girl--he
would write fair and heavenly characters upon this blank page--he would
act the Saint Preux to this Julie of Nature. Alas, he did not think of
the result which the parallel should have suggested. At that age,
Ernest Maltravers never damped the ardour of an experiment by the
anticipation of consequences.

"So," he said, after a short reverie, "so you would like to live with
me? But, Alice, we must not fall in love with each other."

"I don't understand, sir."

"Never mind," said Maltravers, a little disconcerted.

"I always wished to go into service."

"Ha!"

"And you would be a kind master."

Maltravers was half disenchanted.

"No very flattering preference," thought he: "so much the safer for us.
Well, Alice, it shall be as you wish. Are you comfortable where you
are, in your new lodgings?"

"No."

"Why, they do not insult you?"

"No; but they make a noise, and I like to be quiet to think of you."

The young philosopher was reconciled again to his scheme.

"Well, Alice--go back--I will take a cottage to-morrow, and you shall be
my servant, and I will teach you to read and write and say your prayers,
and know that you have a Father above who loves you better than he
below. Meet me again at the same hour to-morrow. Why do you cry,
Alice? why do you cry?"

"Because--because," sobbed the girl, "I am so happy, and I shall live
with you and see you."

"Go, child--go, child," said Maltravers, hastily; and he walked away
with a quicker pulse than became his new character of master and
preceptor.

He looked back, and saw the girl gazing at him; he waved his hand, and
she moved on and followed him slowly back to the town.

Maltravers, though not an elder son, was the heir of affluent fortunes;
he enjoyed a munificent allowance that sufficed for the whims of a youth
who had learned in Germany none of the extravagant notions common to
young Englishmen of similar birth and prospects. He was a spoiled
child, with no law but his own fancy,--his return home was not
expected,--there was nothing to prevent the indulgence of his new
caprice. The next day he hired a cottage in the neighbourhood, which
was one of those pretty thatched edifices, with verandas and monthly
roses, a conservatory and a lawn, which justify the English proverb
about a cottage and love. It had been built by a mercantile bachelor
for some Fair Rosamond, and did credit to his taste. An old woman, let
with the house, was to cook and do the work. Alice was but a nominal
servant. Neither the old woman nor the landlord comprehended the
Platonic intentions of the young stranger. But he paid his rent in
advance, and they were not particular. He, however, thought it prudent
to conceal his name. It was one sure to be known in a town not very
distant from the residence of his father, a wealthy and long-descended
country gentleman. He adopted, therefore, the common name of Butler;
which, indeed, belonged to one of his maternal connections, and by that
name alone was he known in the neighbourhood and to Alice. From her he
would not have sought concealment,--but somehow or other no occasion
ever presented itself to induce him to talk much to her of his parentage
or birth.



CHAPTER V.

"Thought would destroy their Paradise."--GRAY.

MALTRAVERS found Alice as docile a pupil as any reasonable preceptor
might have desired. But still, reading and writing--they are very
uninteresting elements! Had the groundwork been laid, it might have
been delightful to raise the fairy palace of knowledge; but the digging
the foundations and the constructing the cellars is weary labour.
Perhaps he felt it so; for in a few days Alice was handed over to the
very oldest and ugliest writing-master that the neighbouring town could
afford. The poor girl at first wept much at the exchange; but the grave
remonstrances and solemn exhortations of Maltravers reconciled her at
last, and she promised to work hard and pay every attention to her
lessons. I am not sure, however, that it was the tedium of the work
that deterred the idealist--perhaps he felt its danger--and at the
bottom of his sparkling dreams and brilliant follies lay a sound,
generous, and noble heart. He was fond of pleasure, and had been
already the darling of the sentimental German ladies. But he was too
young and too vivid, and too romantic, to be what is called a
sensualist. He could not look upon a fair face, and a guileless smile,
and all the ineffable symmetry of a woman's shape, with the eye of a man
buying cattle for base uses. He very easily fell in love, or fancied he
did, it is true,--but then he could not separate desire from fancy, or
calculate the game of passion without bringing the heart or the
imagination into the matter. And though Alice was very pretty and very
engaging, he was not yet in love with her, and he had no intention of
becoming so.

He felt the evening somewhat long, when for the first time Alice
discontinued her usual lesson; but Maltravers had abundant resources in
himself. He placed Shakespeare and Schiller on his table, and lighted
his German meerschaum--he read till he became inspired, and then he
wrote--and when he had composed a few stanzas he was not contented till
he had set them to music, and tried their melody with his voice. For he
had all the passion of a German for song, and music--that wild
Maltravers!--and his voice was sweet, his taste consummate, his science
profound. As the sun puts out a star, so the full blaze of his
imagination, fairly kindled, extinguished for the time his fairy fancy
for his beautiful pupil.

It was late that night when Maltravers went to bed--and as he passed
through the narrow corridor that led to his chamber he heard a light
step flying before him, and caught the glimpse of a female figure
escaping through a distant door. "The silly child," thought he, at once
divining the cause; "she has been listening to my singing. I shall
scold her." But he forgot that resolution.

The next day, and the next, and many days passed, and Maltravers saw but
little of the pupil for whose sake he had shut himself up in a country
cottage, in the depth of winter. Still he did not repent his purpose,
nor was he in the least tired of his seclusion--he would not inspect
Alice's progress, for he was certain he should be dissatisfied with its
slowness--and people, however handsome, cannot learn to read and write
in a day. But he amused himself, notwithstanding. He was glad of an
opportunity to be alone with his own thoughts, for he was at one of
those periodical epochs of life when we like to pause and breathe a
while, in brief respite from that methodical race in which we run to the
grave. He wished to re-collect the stores of his past experience, and
repose on his own mind, before he started afresh upon the active world.
The weather was cold and inclement; but Ernest Maltravers was a hardy
lover of nature, and neither snow nor frost could detain him from his
daily rambles. So, about noon, he regularly threw aside books and
papers, took his hat and staff, and went whistling or humming his
favourite airs through the dreary streets, or along the bleak waters, or
amidst the leafless woods, just as the humour seized him; for he was not
an Edwin or Harold, who reserved speculation only for lonely brooks and
pastoral hills. Maltravers delighted to contemplate nature in men as
well as in sheep or trees. The humblest alley in a crowded town had
something poetical for him; he was ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it
were only gathered round a barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and listen to
all that was said and notice all that was done. And this I take to be
the true poetical temperament essential to every artist who aspires to
be something more than a scene-painter. But, above all things, he was
most interested in any display of human passions or affections; he loved
to see the true colours of the heart, where they are most
transparent--in the uneducated and poor--for he was something of an
optimist, and had a hearty faith in the loveliness of our nature.
Perhaps, indeed, he owed much of the insight into and mastery over
character that he was afterwards considered to display, to his disbelief
that there is any wickedness so dark as not to be susceptible of the
light in some place or another. But Maltravers had his fits of
unsociability, and then nothing but the most solitary scenes delighted
him. Winter or summer, barren waste or prodigal verdure, all had beauty
in his eyes; for their beauty lay in his own soul, through which he
beheld them. From these walks he would return home at dusk, take his
simple meal, rhyme or read away the long evenings with such alternation
as music or the dreamy thoughts of a young man with gay life before him
could afford. Happy Maltravers!--youth and genius have luxuries all the
Rothschilds cannot purchase! And yet, Maltravers, you are
ambitious!--life moves too slowly for you!--you would push on the wheels
of the clock!--Fool--brilliant fool!--you are eighteen, and a
poet!--What more can you desire?--Bid Time stop for ever!

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