Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net
ELLEN WALTON;
OR, THE VILLAIN AND HIS VICTIMS.
BY ALVIN ADDISON,
AUTHOR OF THE RIVAL HUNTERS, ETC.
CINCINNATI:
H.M. RULISON, QUEEN CITY PUBLISHING HOUSE, 115-1/2 MAIN STREET.
PHILADELPHIA:
QUAKER CITY PUBLISHING HOUSE, 32 SOUTH THIRD STREET.
1855.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
H.M. RULISON,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern District of
Ohio.
THE VILLAIN AND HIS VICTIMS.
CHAPTER I.
FLEMING'S HOTEL.
In the year 1785, as, also, prior and subsequent to that time, there was a
hotel situated in one of the less frequented streets of Pittsburg, then the
largest town west of the mountains, and kept by one Fleming, whence it
derived the name of "Fleming's Hotel." This house, a small one, and
indifferently furnished, was a favorite resort of the Indians who visited
the town on trading expeditions. Fleming had two daughters, who possessed
considerable personal attractions, and that pride of a vain
woman--_beauty_. History does not, to the best of our knowledge, give us
the first names of the two girls; and we will distinguish them as Eliza and
Sarah. Unfortunately for these young females, they had ever been surrounded
by unfavorable circumstances, and exposed to the vices of bad associations;
and that nice discrimination between propriety and politeness, which is a
natural characteristic of the modest woman, had become somewhat
obliterated, and the hold which virtue ever has by nature in the heart of
the gentler sex, had been somewhat loosened. In short, the young Misses
Fleming failed at all times to observe that degree of propriety which
should ever characterize the pure in heart, and were, by many, accused of
immorality. How far this accusation was true, we shall not attempt to say,
but, doubtless, there were not wanting many tongues to spread slanderous
reports.
In early years of womanhood, Eliza had given her affections to one who
sought her love under the guise of a "gentleman of fortune." He proved to
be what such characters usually are--a libertine, whose only motive in
seeking to win her confidence and young affections was to gratify his
hellish passions in the ruin of virtue and a good name. Under the most
solemn assurances of deep, abiding, unalterable love for her, and the most
solemn promises of marriage at an early day, which if he failed to perform,
the direst maledictions of heaven, and the most awful curses, were called
down upon his own head, even to the eternal consuming of his soul in the
flames of perdition, he succeeded in his design. Virtue was overcome, and
the jewel of purity departed from the heart of another of earth's
daughters. Vain were the tears of the repentant girl to induce a
performance of the promises so solemnly made; false had been and still were
the vows of the profligate; but he continued to make them all the more
profusely; and hope, at first unwavering, then fainter and fainter, filled
the heart of his victim. Once conquered, and the victory was ever after
comparatively easy; and having taken something of a fancy to this lady, he
was for a long time attached to her, and, in his way, remained faithful.
Such were the mutual relations sustained by these two toward each other,
when, one day, the betrayer entered the presence of the betrayed, and, in
some agitation, said:
"Eliza, my dear, you have always been a kind, dear girl to me, and I have
resolved to repay your constancy and devotion by making you my bride in a
few days; but first I must demand of you a service, an important service.
Can I depend on you?"
"You know you can; let me know how I can aid you in such a manner as will
insure me your hand, and I will serve you unto death."
"Bravely spoken! Just what I expected of your devoted love! But the service
I shall require will sorely try that love!"
"Then let me prove its strength."
"Eliza, do you doubt my truth? my sincerity?"
"Have I not given you stronger proof than a thousand asseverations, or the
strongest oaths, that my confidence is unbounded? Without this trust, I
should be wretched beyond endurance!"
"I am glad to hear you talk so. Still I fear you will not consent to serve
me as I shall wish."
"Try me and see."
"Are you of a _jealous_ disposition, my love?"
"Jealous? What a question for _you_ to ask!"
"It may appear strange, yet I would be pleased to have you answer me truly,
and without reserve. Tell me your real sentiments without reserve or
disguise. Much depends thereon."
"Truly, I cannot say, never having been tried; but I can verily believe
that intense hatred would arise in my heart toward one of my sex who would
attempt to supplant me in your affections."
"Suppose I should disregard their efforts, what then?"
"Nothing. If sure of your attachment, I would care for nothing beside."
"'Tis well! But suppose that I should tell you that I once loved another
than you?"
"As you love me?"
"No; with a boyish affection, soon forgotten."
"Then I would care nothing for it."
"Not if it left an incurable wound?"
"Did it?"
"It did!"
"My God! How have I been deceived."
"Don't be alarmed, my dear, the wound was not in the heart--it was in
pride."
"How?"
"I was not troubled at heart, but the girl I fancied gave me mortal
offense, and I would be revenged!"
"How so? What is this? Don't love, and wish revenge! Revenge for what? And
that dark frown--what means all this?"
"Be calm; you are excited; you fear my truth; and where there is no
confidence, love soon departs. I can soon explain all. In my young days I
fell in love with a beautiful girl of my own age; but soon learned that she
was not virtuous, and with this knowledge my love changed into desire. As
the least return for my love, to gain which she had recourse to all the
wiles and blandishments of a coquette, I wished to possess her for a time;
but she spurned me from her presence as she would a dog! From that hour I
have sworn to have my revenge and gain my point. My hour has now come, and
I can accomplish my oath, provided I am secure of one thing."
"And what is that?"
"Your co-operation."
"Me aid in such a scheme!"
"Why not?"
"_Why not?_ Shall I turn the enemy of my own sex, and aid in the
destruction of one who has never injured me?"
"She _has_ injured you."
"In what way?"
"By destroying, in a good degree, my confidence in the sex. Had that
confidence been unshaken, you would, long ere this time, have been my wife;
but how could I trust my happiness with woman when woman had proved
treacherous? I had been once deceived, and distrust had taken the place of
faith, when I met you. You know the result. Now tell me, has not this girl
injured you deeply?"
"It may be so; but why not let her go? What good can it do to pursue her
with vengeance? Perhaps she has repented. How wicked, then, to destroy her
peace of mind."
"Dream not that such as she will ever repent. But to satisfy you on this
point, I can say, _I know she has not changed from what she was_; and it is
this knowledge that, above all things, urges me on in my plans."
"Well, what do you wish me to do?"
"Listen. I have just learned that this girl, in company with her family,
will be in town to-day, on their way to Ohio or Kentucky, and will put up
at this house. Now I wish you to so place the young lady, that I can have
access to her sleeping apartment; this is all."
"I cannot do it."
"You can; I will take number eighteen for the night; put her in seventeen,
and it is all I ask. I am sure this is easily done."
"And thus bring about my own shame and her dishonor?"
"I tell you she is already dishonored; and instead of bringing shame upon
yourself, you take it away forever."
"Do not tempt me to do wrong! Alas, I have done too much evil already! I
pray God I may be forgiven!"
"Come, now, be a good girl, and do me this _one_ favor; it is the last I
shall require of you until I give you my name."
"I cannot. Such conduct would disgrace our house."
"It need not be known."
"It is hard to prevent such things being spread abroad."
"I will take care of that point. Your house shall not be injured one
particle by the occurrence, I give you my word for it. Now do you consent?"
"Perhaps you still love this girl, and are trying to deceive me."
"I swear that I do not, that I love only you."
"Why, then, seek the society of this other?"
"I have sworn it, as I have already told you; and this oath _must_ be
performed. Will you aid me or not?"
"I cannot. I pray you again, do not tempt me!"
"But you _must_ help me. I cannot do without you."
"For God's sake say no more! Every feeling of my heart revolts at the
thought! Just think, for a moment, what it is you ask of me! Think what
would be my feelings! Love is incompatible with your request. How can I see
you debase yourself and me by such an act?"
"I only desire you to decide between this and a worse debasement. Which
will you choose?"
"What mean you?"
"That I will only marry you on condition you will accede to my present
proposition."
"Have you not told me, time and again, that you looked upon me as your wife
by the highest of all laws, the laws of nature and of God? How, then, can
you talk of not making me legally yours, in the sight of men?"
"I will, I tell you, if you will do as I wish in the present instance.
Come, be kind, be gentle and loving, as you ever have been, and we will
soon be completely happy by acknowledging our love before men, at the
altar."
"This again! Oh, tempter, betray me not!"
"You have your choice. I will _never_ marry you if you refuse my present
offer, NEVER! Whose, then, will be the shame? Which will you be, an
honorable wife, or a despised offcast? Your destiny is in your own hands,
make your election."
"Oh, God! I am in your power!"
"Then you consent?"
"What assurance have I that this promise will make me your wife? Have you
not promised the same thing scores of times?"
"Require any form of obligation, and I will give it; as I mean what I say,
make your own conditions."
"Give me a written promise."
He gave it as she dictated it:
"I hereby promise to marry Eliza Fleming within one month from this 12th
day of April, 1786. This promise I most solemnly give, calling on heaven to
witness it, and if I fail in its performance, may the curses of God rest
upon my soul in this world and in the world to come.
"LOUIS DURANT."
"That will do," she said.
"And I may depend on you?"
"Yes; I am no longer free. But mind, all must be done quietly and kept a
profound secret."
"Leave that to me; I will be responsible for the result."
Thus was a net woven for an unsuspecting victim. Who was she, and what the
cause for this unrelenting and revengeful feeling on the part of Durant?
Time must show.