THE VILLAIN AND HIS VICTIM.
The reader has, doubtless, arrived at the conclusion that Durant was
planning the destruction of Ellen Walton when he so earnestly desired the
assistance of Miss Fleming; and it will now be perceived how false were his
statements in relation to the _character_ of the expected guest. Though
unseen himself, he had taken every precaution to make certain of the party
at the Fleming Hotel; and just at the close of day he had the satisfaction
of seeing his efforts crowned with success. General Walton, influenced by
the tales his daughter's foe had whispered to him in confidence, passed by
the more elegant houses, which, but for defaming reports, he would have
preferred making his abode during his short stay in the place, and took
lodgings at the "Fleming."
Eliza Fleming made the acquaintance of her young female guest, and every
fresh insight into Miss Walton's character made her regret the hard
necessity she was under of doing her an injury. She had a hard struggle in
her mind, but at length her determination was fixed. To procure the ruin of
the innocent guest, (for she had thoroughly satisfied herself that Miss
Walton _was_ innocent and virtuous,) whom every obligation of hospitality
required her to protect, was indeed damnable; but to forfeit the hand of
Durant under the circumstances was impossible, and not to be thought of.
Poor Ellen! Heaven shield thee!
Durant was not seen by any of the Waltons, as it was his object to keep
them in entire ignorance of his proximity until such time as he chose to
reveal himself. Miss Fleming knew where to find him; and, according to
agreement, met him during the evening, to arrange some matters connected
with the plot.
"Louis, you have required too much at my hands in this affair. I fear I
shall not be able to comply with the terms of agreement."
"Then return my written promise of marriage, and live to be despised and a
by-word among men! I thought the matter was definitely settled, and that
you had resolved to save your own honor and name at every hazard."
"But is this my only hope?"
"Yes, as true as there is a God in heaven, it is. I will forsake you
forever unless you comply with my wishes in this affair."
"Then I must name some conditions, to which I shall demand the strictest
compliance on your part."
"Name them."
"In the first place, then, to avoid the possibility of noise or mishap, I
will give the lady a potion, which will stupefy her faculties, and cause a
deep sleep to lock up all her senses for the space of three or four hours.
I will so arrange it, that these hours shall be from eleven to three
o'clock, and what is done must be accomplished between those periods of
time. You shall, therefore, not enter number seventeen until after eleven
o'clock, and you must positively leave it before three; and you shall not
let your victim know what transpires at this house until after the Waltons
have left the city. Do you consent to these terms?"
"I suppose I must."
"Then the matter is settled. Remember the hours; I shall know if my
injunctions are disregarded, and you will fare the worse for it."
"Fear not. Come to reflect, I like your plan better than my own, as there
is less danger in it every way."
"Enough. Good night."
"Hold a moment. Is there any fastening on the door between the rooms, on
the side in number seventeen?"
"There is; but I will take care of that; and you know no one, unless well
acquainted with the spot, could tell there was a door there."
"True, true--I had forgotten that fact."
"Oh, I forgot one prohibition. You must in no case let a ray of light into
seventeen. It might render all our precautions abortive, and defeat their
object."
"Very well. I will be careful."
"Do so, and all will be well. Of course, no noise, even as loud as a
whisper, must be heard in the lady's room."
"I will be discreet; trust me for that. I am glad you have come to the
rescue; I find there is nothing like a woman's wit."
"Take care, then, that you are never _outwitted_ by them!"
"Not much fear of that while I have such an ingenious ally!"
"Take good care to keep her an ally; as an enemy, she might be equally
ingenious."
And so they parted. As she left the room, she mentally exclaimed:
"'Come to the rescue!' Yes, I am truly glad I have!"
The guests retired to their beds, and all was still as the solemn silence
of midnight. The old clock in the corner tolled the hour of eleven, and
half an hour afterward, a stealthy tread might have been heard along the
partition dividing the two rooms already named. Soon a door slowly opened
on its rusty hinges, and in the rayless darkness Durant entered the number
containing his victim. He reached the couch, and paused to assure himself
that all was as he desired. His ear was saluted with a heavy breathing, as
of one in deep sleep.
"All right!" he muttered within himself. "My hour has come. The vengeance
of the '_dog_' shall be complete! Oh, but how I will glory in _my_ triumph,
and the proud one's disgrace! I'll make her _feel_ what it is to insult a
nobleman by blood! Gods, how the memory burns my brain of that indignity!
An unknown girl to scorn and cast contumely upon one of England's line of
lords! This night be the stain wiped out!"
Lost! lost! _lost_! demon! from thy presence we turn away! Villain and
victim, there is a God above!
* * * * *
The morning dawned, and the sun rose as cloudless as though no deeds of
crime, needing the darkness to cover them, had been perpetrated on the
earth. The Waltons left with the company they expected to join at Pittsburg
on the succeeding day, not knowing that Durant had slept under the same
roof with them. No, not so fast. One of their number _did_ know the
fact--Ellen. Was it that knowledge that caused the paleness on her cheek,
that aroused the anxious solicitude of her tender and watchful parents?
"Are you sick, my daughter?" was the mother's affectionate inquiry. But she
was cheered by the assurance that there was no serious cause of alarm; and
that Ellen was only a little unwell. Without any mishap, they reached their
new home in Kentucky.
Two weeks had passed, and Eliza Fleming was still unmarried. During that
time, she had seen Durant but twice, and he appeared desirous of avoiding a
private interview. She was not slow to perceive this, and it filled her
mind with misgivings of his truth, or the sincerity of his protestations.
She demanded an interview; the demand was acceded to; and she said:
"Why do you not make arrangements for our approaching marriage? It is
surely time you were about it."
"Oh, no hurry yet," he replied. "There is plenty of time."
"Plenty of time! Yes, if all that need be done, is to call the minister,
and have the ceremony performed! But it strikes me this is _not_ all.
However, what day have you fixed upon as your choice for the wedding
occasion?"
"I can't say as I have thought upon any day in particular; in fact, the
subject had so far escaped my mind, that I had nearly forgotten it
entirely."
"A devoted lover, truly! What am I to think of such unmerited coldness?"
and she burst into tears.
"Come, Eliza, let us understand each other, and be friends."
"Friends! Is that all?"
"Lovers, then."
"Husband and wife, you mean."
"Lovers only; as we have been."
"Am I to understand you as saying you will not fulfill your written promise
of making me your lawful wife?"
"You might be farther from the truth."
"Is this the reward of my devotion? the fruits of my sacrifice? Oh, God,
who shall measure the depths of wickedness of a depraved heart? Sir, I
shall enforce my rights."
"You dare not do it."
"Why not?"
"The very attempt will ruin yourself, and your father's business by
bringing disgrace upon his house."
"I see it, sir; but what if I still proceed?"
"You cannot."
"I can."
"On what plan?"
"On your own written promise."
"You have no such promise."
"Do you deny giving it?"
"I do."
"Then your own hand-writing will condemn you."
"Be certain of that before you proceed."
"You know I _have_ such a document."
"I know you have _not_."
"Then I will prove it."
And she went in search of the paper, where she had carefully placed it
away. But no paper was to be found! What could have become of it? She
returned.
"Well, let me see your 'document,' as you term it," he said, in a taunting
manner.
"It has been misplaced by some means, but I will find it in time to answer
my purpose."
"Perhaps."
"Durant, you _know_ I have such a paper, and what is the use of denying
it?"
"Again, I repeat, I know no such thing." Then after a pause, he continued:
"We might as well understand each other at once."
He produced a paper, and went on: "Here, I suppose, is the article you
speak of. I see it is in my hand-writing, and lest by any chance it should
again fall into your hands, I will destroy it."
And holding it in the candle, it was soon reduced to ashes. The outwitted
girl sat dumb with astonishment, surprise and dismay, and, for several
seconds, was speechless. When utterance came, she inquired:
"How, in the name of reason, did you get that paper in your possession?"
"I will be frank: I watched you putting it away, and the next day I went
and took it."
"And this is my reward for the signal service you demanded as the price of
that written promise?"
"My continued love will be your reward."
"_Your_ love! Think you, vile miscreant, I would have the base semblance of
affection from such a polluted thing as you? No, sir! Now that I see your
depravity, worlds would not tempt me to wed you, degraded as I am! How I
have remained blinded so long is a mystery I cannot solve, in the
overwhelming light of this hour. Thank God, I am even with you!--Yes, thank
Him from the bottom of my heart! You have deceived me, but in this instance
I am not behind you. Ellen Walton left this house as pure as she entered
it! Think you I had no object in all my restrictions of time, of secrecy
and darkness? I had. One hour in the society of Miss Walton, convinced me
of her unsullied purity, and another of your baseness. I resolved to save
her at all hazards; and I did. My only regret _now_ is, that I made myself
the victim instead of her!"
"H--ll and furies!"
"Even, am I not?"
"May the devil take you!"
"Better take care of the old fellow yourself; and of woman's wit, too!"
"I'll have my revenge yet. I'll swear that I did stay the night with Ellen,
despite your treachery."
"It will do you no good. My sister gave the young lady an attested
certificate, stating that she passed the whole time with her, the two
together, that the door to their room was locked, and that they were
undisturbed during the night.--Nothing like a 'woman's wit!'"
[Illustration: "And drawing a pistol, which some freak had caused her to
conceal in her dress, she made it ready, and, with her finger on the
trigger, aimed it at his heart."--See page 29.]
"I curse you! Vile, treacherous--"
"Spare your epithets, inhuman monster! or, by the heavens above us, you
leave not this spot alive!"
And drawing a pistol, which some freak had caused her to conceal in her
dress, she made it ready, and, with her finger on the trigger, aimed it at
his heart. Like all villains of his caste, he was a coward, and trembled
with quaking fear before the flashing eye and resolute look of the excited
girl.
"Now, vile, degraded, polluted _thing_! you go from my presence never to
return. Hold! not just yet, I have a parting word to say before you leave.
I confess, with self-abasement, that I once loved you, and with deep
humiliation, amounting to agony, that that love was the cause of my ruin.
The vail is now torn from my eyes, and I behold you as you are, a
corrupted, debased, unfeeling demon, in the human form; and I would not
even touch you with my finger's end, so deep is my detestation and
abhorrence of your depravity! Aye, sir, even for _me_ your very touch is
defiling! But if ever you whisper a word concerning the relation you once
sustained toward _me_, be it but so loud as your breath, I will as surely
destroy you as I now stand before you! Remember and beware! for I call God,
and angels, and earth to witness this my vow! One so lost as _you_, shall
not couple _my_ name with his!"
She paused a moment, as if to collect her energies for a last effort, and
then continued:
"Into the darkness of this moonless, starless, sky-beclouded night, you
shall soon be driven. May it faintly prefigure the unending blackness of
that eternal night you have chosen as your future portion. As you have
willfully, voluntarily, and most wickedly called it down upon your own
head, may the 'curse of God rest upon you in this world and the world to
come!' May evils betide you in this life, every cherished hope be blasted;
every plot of villainy thwarted, and you become a reproach among men, an
outcast and a vagabond on the face of the earth! And when, at last, your
sinful race is run, and your guilty soul has been ushered into that dreaded
eternity you have plucked upon it, may your polluted carcass become the
prey of the carrion-crow and the buzzard, and the wild beasts of the desert
wilderness howl a requiem over your bones! Go now, and meet your doom! Go
with the curse of wretched innocence ever abiding upon you! Go with the
canker-worm of festering corruption ever hanging, like an incubus, upon
your prostituted heart, and may its fangs, charged with burning poison,
pierce the very vitals of existence, till life itself shall become a burden
and a curse! Go!"
And he went, with the awful curse ever burning as a flaming fire on the
tablet of his memory.
* * * * *
The reader must bear with us for being compelled to introduce in our pages
some exceptional characters. Had we consulted our own taste, or painted the
characters ourself, it would not have been so. In this particular, we had
no choice, as the actors were furnished to our hand in the light we have
represented them, as we shall presently show by authenticated history. For
the present, however, we pass to other scenes.--AUTHOR.