A FIENDISH DEED.
Downing and Cato hurried away through the forest, toward Shadow Swamp,
Katie meanwhile lying unconscious in her abductor’s arms. But, when
they arrived at the pool, and stopped and signaled for the canoe, the
cessation of the jolting motion aroused her and she opened her eyes.
At first her senses were scattered, and she did not remember the
startling occurrence which had just taken place. But by degrees her
wandering thoughts collected, and looking at the dark, grim trees,
the still, pale light of the moon, the sable form beside her, and at
her own villainous captor, she realized all and her heart sunk. The
incidents, one by one, with startling distinctness rushed over her;
the sudden awakening and fright; the villain’s rude and immodest grasp
of her; the gradual fading away into oblivion; all, with the terrible,
sickening dread of her fate to come was too much for her, and she
swooned again.
When she again opened her eyes she looked upon four log walls and a
roof of “brush.” She was in a cabin.
The walls were hung with skins, weapons, utensils and clothing, and
last, in one corner, was a _looking-glass_--the pet of the dandy
captain. The cabin was small, very small; but it was clean. Raising
herself on her elbow, she looked around. In two corners were two piles
of buffalo-skins undressed, and blankets--evidently used as beds. A
round, short piece of a log stood on end in the center of the room,
evidently a stool. This, with her own couch, completed the scanty
furniture of the cabin.
She was lying on a bed which had been prepared for her, and she was
delicately covered by skins. Her own clothing lay near.
In a few moments the door opened, and Captain Downing entered. He found
her dressed and sitting vacantly on the stool without power to fly and
escape. He had evidently taken some pains with his toilet, as his green
coat was carefully brushed, his hair was arranged, and his boots were
cleansed of all soil which generally adhered to them.
He bowed gracefully, in a manner which would have reflected credit upon
many a “carpet knight.”
“Ah!” he said, softly, “I am very glad to see you are able to be up and
about. Please accept my sincerest wishes for your health.”
She did not raise her head, but sat as if in a trance. He went on:
“May I call you Miss Katie? Please do not be offended if I do. It seems
so much more pleasant than cold, formal Miss Jeffries. Besides, my
ardent regard for you causes me to use a more familiar title.”
But she did not notice him. After watching for any effect his remarks
might produce, he lounged gracefully upon his pile of robes, and took a
meerschaum from his pocket.
“A relic of former days,” he said, in a musing tone. “May I so
far trespass upon your good-humor as to smoke? A vice to which
gentlemen are much addicted. The dear ladies, however, in their sweet
graciousness, not only grant their permission generally, but protest
they ‘like the perfume of a good cigar.’ Here’s to the ladies--one in
particular, the bonniest of them all. Having no claret to quaff their
health in, I am forced to be satisfied with a meerschaum and very
villainous tobacco. Miss Katie, your own health.”
He puffed out a wreath of smoke with exquisite effrontery, and smiled
as a low moan escaped her lips.
“You are looking lovely to-day, Miss Katie--very enchanting. If you
only knew how my heart bleeds for you in your present embarrassing
situation, you would at least reward me with one of your sweet smiles.
Let us hope, however, that the present place may soon become pleasant,
even dear to you. I will do all in my power to make it so, I assure
you.”
His last remark had the effect of partially arousing her from her
apathy. She looked at him mournfully, with a glance in which were
mingled grief, outraged modesty, terror and contempt. He laughed.
“You are very beautiful--very lovely. When you gazed at me so earnestly
just now, my heart beat faster than its usual wont, and I imagined I
could detect a sly twinkle of love, too. Was my surmise correct, Katie?”
She rocked to and fro, groaning in sheer despair and terror. His eyes
snapped.
“I’m like the boy who drew the nightingale in the lottery,” he
muttered. “I’ve got her, and now she won’t sing. Well, we will try the
efficacy of force.”
He arose deliberately and stood before her, and their eyes met. Hers
were terror-stricken, like a wounded fawn’s; his glittered like a
snake’s. Nevertheless, he spoke musically and low.
“If the fair Katie is aware of the value of obedience, she will temper
her stubbornness slightly.”
Her eyes wandering vacantly about, fell upon a polished pistol hanging
to a peg close by; she noted it. He waited a moment, then laid his hand
quietly on her shoulder.
With a wild, piercing cry she shook it off, and darting away, clutched
the pistol.
Never opening her lips, but piercing him with her eye, she stood drawn
to her full hight, her cheeks pale, her hands quivering, and her whole
being aroused.
“Stand back, you monster!” she commenced, in a ringing, grating voice.
“Don’t dare to lay your vile hands on me! Keep off, I say!”
She was thoroughly aroused, and her eyes darted angry fire.
Irresistibly lovely she looked, and Downing, in spite of his chagrin
at her opposition, loved her ten times more than ever. He gazed at her
with his heart beating violently, he was so affected by her resolute
bearing. Then his lip curled and he advanced on her.
She quickly cocked the pistol and presented it. He halted, but moved
slowly around her, trying to find an opportunity for rushing in and
disarming her. But, impelled by her terrified modesty, she was wary and
kept him at bay. After some time spent in gliding about, he saw it was
no use and changed his manner.
Dropping his arms and extending his hands, he put on, with splendid
cunning, a mask of virtue. Throwing a wistful, pleading look into his
comely brown eyes, he murmured, in a low voice:
“Lady, do your will and take my life! See, I am unarmed and unguarded;
shoot! Oh, dear lady, to die by your hands were far sweeter than to
live and see you scorn me so, my love!”
His sudden change surprised her, but she was too affrighted to lose her
advantage. He saw she was in earnest, and he went on:
“I do not, I could not wish to bring myself to such a degraded level
as to wish to do you harm. If you knew how passionately I love you,
with what high regard I esteem your purity and courage, you would at
least refuse to threaten me so. Your harsh manner cuts me to the heart.
Believe me, dear lady, I do not mean you ill--if you think so, you have
only to shoot and rid yourself of such a detested object as I am to
you.”
He groaned as he said this, and sinking on his couch, buried his
face in his hands. She watched him warily, though half melted by his
protestations.
“I brought you here,” he said, with his face muffled, “to love and
cherish you--to tenderly care for you. If, after a time you did not
like it here, I was going to take you back. But oh! it wounds me to
have you scorn me so.”
“I know too well your foul hypocrisy to be deluded by it. You have
brought me here for evil, and you can not deny it. But this I tell
you--that if you lay your hand on me but once, it will be your last
moment upon earth. Take it in earnest, you demon, for I am terribly so.”
He groaned, then spoke, pleadingly:
“Oh, my love! please--”
“Keep your distance in language as well as in manner, for I will brook
no rude familiarity from you!”
“Miss Jeffries, won’t you try and care for me? Even if you can not
regard me as I would choose, you can at least _endeavor_ to respect
me.”
This last was a false move. With this last effrontery her ire and grief
found a full vent.
“Dare you sit there and ask me to respect you?” she rung out, in noble
wrath. “Dare you, in the name of all that is pure and holy, to ask me
to look even pityingly upon you? Oh, sir, if in your mother was a spark
of womanly virtue, if your father was a man of worth and honesty, if
you ever had a pure sister, think of them and then of yourself at this
moment!--think of them and release me from this wicked place. Take me
back to my dear home; do not, oh, sir, do not bring down the wrath of
Heaven upon you! Think of my poor father--of his anguish at my absence;
think of the one who is to be my husband; please, sir, please pity and
commiserate me. Oh, if you could imagine my grief and horror at being
here, away from my friends, if you could respect or pity my sorrow, you
would at once release me. Oh, sir, for the love and in the memory of
your mother and sister, please do so, and let me go, and I will never
tell of what I have been through here.”
He looked up in his natural expression and said, quietly:
“I will at once release you and take you safely home if you will grant
me a single favor. It will not incommode you.”
“Name it!” she said, hastily, with her face lighted by a ray of hope.
“I will. It is to marry me.”
“Marry you!”
She looked at him steadily for a moment, then sunk on the stool with a
shudder, wildly weeping.
“What is your answer?” he asked, with a quiet smile.
She did not answer, but sobbed and wept as if her heart was breaking.
“What is your answer?” and he smiled.
“Never!” she sobbed; “never!”
“Very well--very well.”
He arose and walked toward the door and looked out.
“By the sun I should judge the time to be ten o’clock. Now, Miss
Jeffries, you will stay here twelve times twelve hours without food or
water unless you accede to my desire. I do not wish to humiliate you in
any manner, and will say there is a preacher about forty miles east.
If you desire to unite your fortunes with mine, say the word and before
night we will be at his house. Otherwise think of the terrors and
anguish of slow starvation. I will give you an hour to decide. Reflect
carefully, Miss Jeffries!”
He walked quietly out, leaving her a prey to the most harrowing
thoughts. She had been tenderly reared and had never known the
slightest grief, and this blow, dire as it was, humbled her and caused
great anguish. She well knew his quiet ferocity and unrelenting
disposition; she had just now seen his character in different phases;
and knowing he would accomplish his purpose if it was possible, she
trembled at the thought of the future.
In addition to these keen pangs was one nearly as piercing--she had
no idea in what place she was. In the settlement the robber had lived
in Hans Winkler’s cabin; she had often been there and knew this was
not it. She was probably in some remote and obscure place, far from
any path, alone with this dangerous and passionate man. She did not
dream that a dozen yards from the cabin, seven or eight men, abandoned
and profligate, ready to sanction and further any act of Downing’s,
isolated from any thing pure or honest, were laughing and coarsely
joking--even about her.
It was fortunate she did not, else she might have been unable to bear
the thought, and would have swooned with fear.
She was in a critical and harrowing position, without means of escape,
as she had heard him place a heavy log against the door as he went out.
The door opened outward purposely in order to confine any prisoner
within. Escape by the door was impossible.
As she thought upon her situation, fear lent her strength, and she
began to examine the walls of the cabin. For a half-hour she beat them
and pushed at the heavy logs feebly; she ran about sobbing, beating
them with her delicate hands until they bled; she mounted the stool and
searched the strong roof; she vainly endeavored to force the door; she
called on her father and lover frantically; then, when escape was only
too vain, she began to pray, half-crazed.
At the expiration of the hour Downing entered and closed the door
behind him.
Then he folded his arms and quietly gazed at her as she sat on the low,
rude stool, in a semi-stupor.
“Well?” he said.
She made no reply, neither did she raise her eyes; but sat motionless.
“Well,” he continued, smiling slightly, “have you made up your mind?”
He expected here that she would show some spirit, at least a little
resistance; but she neither did one nor the other.
“Have you resolved which alternative you will take?”
She answered in a faint voice, “I have.”
“Well, will you be my wife and gain a protecting husband?”
“No!”
“Are you in earnest, Miss Jeffries? Think well before you speak. You
know the alternative; do you choose it?”
“I do; any thing were better than being the wife of a man I loathe and
detest.”
“You will find yourself mistaken before many days, mark well what I
say. I am not to be deterred from my resolve.”
“I am resolved.”
“Once again I enjoin, nay entreat you to reflect. You are,
metaphorically speaking, at the forks of a road. One leads, if not to
perfect happiness, to at least, an easy, indolent life, well garnished
with luxuries; the other to--a horrible, unknown death.”
“Fiend!”
“I am, Miss Jeffries, I acknowledge it. Yet I can be most tender and
agreeable when I choose. Fiend! that is a harsh word, yet I take a
strange sort of pride in it. You do not know my early life. Well, I
will relate it. Meanwhile you can, in listening, form some opinion of
_death by starvation._ I love you fondly, tenderly, Miss Kate, as only
one of my disposition can; and it is for this reason that I treat you
so cruelly. It is one of the contradictions of my nature. But I will go
on with my history.”
He lighted his quaint, costly pipe, and begging her pardon as politely
as any native of France, began in his rich, round voice, occasionally
making a gesture with the ease of an experienced orator.
“I am a native, of nowhere, and my parents were nobody. That is, my
parents either died or deserted me when very young, as I was found, a
frail infant in the middle of one of New York’s busiest thoroughfares,
in early morning, by a young roystering blade, rolling home in the
morning. He took me to a foundling asylum, and left me to live or
die--as my nurses by their care or neglect, might will.
“I lived--after suffering all the ills and evils of babydom, and grew
strong and healthy. When I arrived at the unripe and vicious age of
ten, an old gentleman, a retired merchant, attracted by the comeliness
of my face and form, adopted me, giving me his own name--Robert Davis.
“I was a quick-witted, jovial little chap, and if I do say it myself,
was very fair and handsome. Being petted and caressed by all the
women both old and young, of the neighborhood, I easily grew into the
belief that I was something superhuman--in fact a genius, one day to
be the President of the country. It is true, that notwithstanding
my good-nature and affability, I was at times seized with fits of
quiet, inordinate cruelty, which made me a demon, and at these moments
everybody avoided me.
“As years went on these attacks became more frequent and violent.
Before, when under the influence of them, I restrained myself, and was
content with murdering all the small animals within my reach. But now,
I became more bloodthirsty and ferocious--attempting, though vainly,
the lives of all my companions.
“Then they avoided me, and feared the very ground I trod. This incensed
me and I grew more violent. At last, on my twentieth birthday, a fit,
stronger and more uncontrollable than any before, seized me. Without
provocation of any kind I fell upon a comrade and attempted his life. I
failed, though he was made a cripple for life, and I was buried in an
insane asylum, a monomaniac. I was not insane but only a monomaniac,
yet that was sufficient to cause my incarceration.
“In five years I was pronounced cured, and was freed. I went back
to my old haunts, penitent and resolving to do all in my power to
alleviate any suffering I had caused. But I was too late; the friends I
sought were gone. My adopted father was dead, the one whom I had made
useless for life had gone, no one knew whither; and weary of lingering
near the scene of so much unhappiness I went South.
“If you recollect, or if you ever knew, a most horrible robbery and
murder occurred in Charleston, a few years since. The perpetrator was
never discovered, though long and vigilant search was made for him,
and large rewards were offered for his apprehension. I see by your
face you recollect the event--it was the talk and alarm of the whole
country. I will not tell you what reason the murderer had for his
outrage; I need not dwell upon the subject, but will only say that
he escaped scot-free, plunged into the western wilds and organized
a band of robbers. Miss Jeffries, the man who stole into a banker’s
house for purposes of robbery (and to gratify a grudge) and who, being
discovered, took the lives of him and his servant, then made off with a
rich plunder, stands before you.”
She started up wildly, then after gazing at him in terror, clasped her
hands and sunk to the ground, unnerved. He smiled.
“I did not relate the narrative for effect--if I had I would have told
it minutely and in much greater length; but I told it briefly to make
you aware with whom you are dealing. And, to conclude, I will tell you
my name is not Danforth, but Captain Downing, chief of a bandit band,
and that I was never yet thwarted. Have you your answer ready?”
She slowly arose, pale, but firm and calm. Smiting him with her eyes
she regarded him steadily until his own quailed. Then she spoke in a
strange, grating voice:
“Were I in the power of one ten times the villain that you are; were I
looking forward to a fate worse than death; were I doomed to eternal
future pain and misery, instead of knowing that you can but take my
life; I would still have the same answer--I shall never wed but one
man, and he is your opposite.”
“This is your final resolve?”
“It is my final resolve!”
“Very well. May you enjoy yourself then, in the short life you have
marked out for yourself.”
He went softly around the cabin, and took every weapon from its walls,
even the pistol at her feet. Then, he opened the door, and looked at
her fixedly.
“It is well!” he said, with a quiet smile. “Through this open door take
your last glimpse of nature. You will never see human being or outside
world again. Farewell forever Miss Jeffries.”
“Ay!” she said, “we will never meet in the future world. I have but one
single prayer, and that is, may you forever be haunted by the ones whom
you have so fiendishly injured on earth. God forgive me for uttering
such a wish; but, mark my words, if ever there was justice above or
below you will be punished.”
He smiled on her, then turned and went out. The door closed and was
barred; she sunk down, overwhelmed; but a voice rung out through the
forest, unheard at the island in Shadow Swamp, but speaking still, and
the words were ominous:
“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”
She was left, without hope, to her fate.