“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.