A VILLAIN UNMASKED.
In a beautiful district of the "Old Dominion," bordering on the
Rappahannock, there lived, just previous to the time of the opening of our
story, a planter, who had once been wealthy, but whose princely fortune had
become much reduced by indiscriminate kindness. Possessed of a noble heart,
a generous disposition, and the finest sympathies, he could never find it
in his heart to say "no" to an application for assistance. Thousands had
thus gone to pay debts of security; and, at last, he resolved to move to
the West, as a means of retrieving his affairs, as well as to cut loose
from the associations which were rapidly diminishing the remains of his
wealth.
This planter, whom we shall call General Walton, (the last name assumed,
the title one given him by common consent,) had one son, and an only
daughter, the former twenty-one, the latter eighteen, at the time we wish
to introduce them to the reader's notice. Both were worthy, the one as a
man, the other as a woman. He was noble, intellectual, manly; she was
beautiful, accomplished, intelligent; both possessed those higher and
nobler qualities of mind and heart which dignify and ally it to divinity.
Ellen Walton, an heiress, jointly with her brother, in prospective, and
reputed the wealthiest fair one in all the district, (the world don't
always know the true situation of a man's affairs,) was not left to pine
away in solitude with the dismal prospect in view of becoming that dreaded
personage--_an old maid_. No, she was _beset_ with admirers; some loving
_her_, some her _wealth_, and some _both_. To all but one she turned a deaf
ear; that one, though the least presuming of the many, and too diffident to
urge his claim until impelled by the irresistable violence of his love,
possessed, unknown to himself, a magnetic power over the heart of the fair
being. Many were the doubts and fears of both--natural accompaniments of
true, sincere, devoted, but unacknowledged, love--but all were dispelled
by the mutual exchange of thoughts, and the mutual plighting of faith. Vows
once made by the pure in heart, are seldom, if ever, broken, and then by
some higher duty or demand.
For a time the youthful lovers were happy--happy in themselves, and the
joys of the new existence opened up to them by the magic wand of LOVE. But
love has its trials, as all can testify who have tasted its potency in the
heart; and so these two learned. Their engagement was a family secret, not
yet to be developed. Hence, many of her admirers still offered their
attentions, in the vain hope of ultimate success. Particularly was this the
case with those who had an eye to the fortune rather than the heiress,
taking the latter as the only means of obtaining the former; and first
among this number was Louis Durant, a man of corrupt principles, and deeply
depraved feelings. A sprig of a noble family of small pretensions, whose
pride far exceeded their means, he was desirous of obtaining wealth; and
being too indolent to enter a profession, too poor to become a merchant,
and too proud to work, as a last resort, he wished to _marry_ a fortune.
Like most of his class, he was unscrupulous as to _means_ so the _end_ was
attained. It was, therefore, an easy matter to conform, in outward
appearance, to the society he was in. This he never failed to do. When with
the Waltons, he was a pattern of generosity, and a pitying angel. When with
the gambler, or the _roue_, he was equally at home--a debauchee, or a
handler of cards.
With the intuitive perception of woman, Ellen saw through his character at
once; and, though she treated him with civility, never gave him any
encouragement. Blinded by her fortune, and construing her reserve into the
bashfulness of a first passion, being too vain to acknowledge the inability
of his powers of fascination to carry all before them, he gave himself up
to hope, and already counted on the half of the Walton estate as his own,
and spent many a shilling of his small funds on the strength of the
anticipation.
When he saw that the bottom of his purse would soon be reached, he sought
an opportunity, declared himself in love, and asked the hand of Miss
Walton. The General to whom he had always appeared a "fine fellow," would
leave his daughter to decide the matter. Thus referred, he lost no time in
making Ellen the recipient of his "tale of love." All his theatrical powers
were called in action; his eloquence commanded; but the impressions made
were far different from those intended. Though the outward semblance was
complete, Ellen saw that the passion was feigned, and a still deeper
dislike took possession of her feelings. But with gentle delicacy, she told
him his passion was not returned.
"Then," said he, "let me win your love. I am sure your heart will yield
when you are convinced of the depth of the devotedness of my affection."
"Do not flatter yourself with a vain hope. I feel that I shall never be
able to love you; and it is in kindness that I tell you so at once."
"Ah, adorable, angelic being! One so kind, so considerate, so good, is too
pure, too near akin to heaven, for man to possess. I only ask to be your
friend."
"As such, you shall ever be welcome."
"Thanks! thanks! May I but prove worthy of your friendship!"
Thus terminated his first attempt to win Ellen. His fall from the lover to
a friend was the first step in a plot already matured. As a friend, he
could ever have access to the heiress, and be received more familiarly than
in any other capacity, save as an acknowledged lover. This familiarity
would give him the opportunity of ingratiating himself into her affections,
of which, finally, he felt certain.
He became a constant and frequent visitor at the mansion of the Waltons,
and was ever received with cordiality. He let no opportunity pass
unimproved to carry out his design. Goodness, benevolence, charity, were
counterfeited most adroitly, until even Ellen began to think she had done
him injustice by her suspicions. This is a favorable moment for a lover.
Prove that you have been dealt with unjustly, and a woman's heart is opened
by sympathy to let you in. It was well for Ellen that her heart was already
occupied, or this might possibly have been her fate. As it was, she
became, insensibly and unintentionally, kind to Durant. He did not fail to
notice the change, and his heart exulted in the prospect of complete
success.
When he thought the proper time had arrived, he prepared the way, and again
declared himself a lover, with more eloquence than before. Again his suit
was gently declined; but this time he persevered until his importunities
became unbearable, and with them, all Ellen's old prejudices returned,
strengthened ten-fold. If he could and would force himself for weeks and
months upon an unwilling victim of his importunities, and attempt by such
means to force her to accept his hand, he was depraved enough for any other
wickedness. So she plainly told him she could not and would not submit
longer to his unreasonable conduct; that he must consider himself as
finally, fully and unrecallably dismissed.
"And give up all hope--the hope that has sustained and given me life so
long? Oh, think, Ellen, think of my misery, of the untold wretchedness into
which you plunge me, and let your heart, your kind, generous heart,
relent!"
"Mr. Durant, I have told you often and often that it was impossible for me
to love you, and that it was kindness to tell you so. If you have
disregarded my oft repeated declaration, the truth of which you must long
ere this have been convinced, the fault is yours, not mine."
"I know you have so spoken often, but still I have dared to hope. I loved
too fervently for the passion ever to die before you denied me hope. Think
of all these things, and then recall your words."
"You have repeated them so frequently, that I could not well avoid thinking
of them whether I chose to or not. Let me now say, once for all, that
importunities are utterly useless, and can prove of no avail."
"Then I am to understand you as casting me off from your presence; and this
being the _end_ of your kindness, may I ask what was the _object_ of that
kindness?"
"I always endeavor to do unto others as I would have them do to me. If you
think such a course wrong, I cannot help it."
"Then you would wish some person, who had the power, to show you all
manner of good will, until your affections were won, and so firmly fixed as
to be unalterable, and then cast you off?"
"No, I should be far from desiring such conduct on the part of any one."
"And yet that is your way of 'doing as you would be done by!'"
"I am not aware of ever having done so; if I have been the unwitting
instrument of such acts, I am truly sorry for it."
"Then let your sorrow work repentance."
"Tell me how, and I will try to do so."
"You cannot be ignorant of my meaning."
"I am totally at a loss to know how your remarks can apply to me, in any
way."
"Then I will speak plainly. Your actions for the last few months have been
such as to bid me hope for a return of my love, and allured by that hope,
founded on those actions, I have placed my affections so strongly, that I
fear it will be death to tear them away. As you have caused me to love, is
it demanding more than justice that I should ask you to at least _try_ to
love me in return?"
"Mr. Durant, you know that your accusations are untrue. Did you not just
tell me that you loved before you ever spoke to me on the subject? and have
you not repeatedly, aye, a hundred times, told me I was cold toward you,
ever evincing a want of cordiality? How, then, can you have the face to ask
a return of love on this score? Since you have been at such pains to make
out so contradictory a case, I will say that you but lessen yourself in my
esteem by the attempt!"
"I see, alas, you are a heartless coquette!"
"Because I will not place the half of my father's wealth in your
possession. I have read your motive from the beginning, sir, and have only
refrained from telling you my mind, because I make it a rule to have the
good will of a dog, in preference to his ill will, when I can. But as your
conduct to-day has removed the last thin screen from your real character,
and revealed your naked depravity of heart, I care not even for your
friendship. You know, you _feel_, that you are a degraded wretch, and that
you are unworthy of the society of the virtuous."
"Madam, those words just spoken have sealed your fate! Dog as I am, I have
the power to work your ruin, and _I will do it_! I go from your presence a
bitter and unrelenting foe! The love you have rejected has turned into
bitterness, and the dregs of that bitterness you shall drink till your soul
sickens unto death! I will never lose sight of you! Go where you may, I
will follow you! Hide in what corner of the world you may, I will find you!
When you meet me, remember I am an implacable enemy, seeking revenge!"
"Go, vile miscreant, from my presence! Think not to intimidate me. Better
an 'open enemy than a secret foe.' I am glad you have unmasked yourself so
fully. Now I know that I have escaped the worst fate on earth."
"Not the worst! To be the wife of even a villain is better than to be his
victim!"
"Leave my presence, sir, or I will call a slave to put you out! Infamous
wretch! The curse of God be upon you!"
He went, quailing under the flash of her indignant eye, which made his
guilty soul cower in abasement.
When he was fairly gone, her high strung energies relaxed, and the reaction
prostrated her strength. She sunk upon a lounge, and, giving way to her
feelings, exclaimed:
"That man may yet work the ruin of my happiness! Oh, God, pity me, and let
not the wicked triumph! In Thee I put my trust. Let thy watchful eye be
over me, and thy power protect me. Oh, let me not fall into the hands of my
enemy; but preserve me by thy right hand, and keep me lifted up!"
Prayer gave her strength, and renewed her courage. Relying, with firm
faith, on the goodness and watchful care of her Father in heaven, she
became cheerful and composed.
She very seldom saw or heard anything of Durant, but when she did, it
always awakened fear. For a year she heard nothing of him, and, at last,
the old dread had passed from her heart, when her father prepared to go to
the West.
As for Durant, he went from her presence muttering curses and threatening
vengeance, among which was distinguished by a slave, grated out between his
clenched teeth, "I'll make her repent this day's work in 'sack-cloth and
ashes!' aye, if all h--ll oppose!"