STILL AT WORK.
An evil heart, bent on mischief, is never contented in idleness, but, like
the volcanic fires, its passions and thirst for revenge, when not in open
eruption, are actively at work in secret and darkness, preparing for new
outbursts, bearing death along their path, and leaving devastation, blight
and ruin in their wake. This was much the case with Louis Durant, after the
failure of his attempt on the boat. He was resolved to accomplish the
villainy on which he had set his heart, and to this end determined to leave
no means untried, be they ever so base, which lay within his reach.
To proceed openly, however, was not exactly practicable, as by so doing too
many eyes would be upon him; and he was too cowardly to face an open foe on
fair ground. So he went to work in secret.
After mature deliberation, and the revolving and the re-revolving of the
matter in his mind, he concluded to join the Indians, and through their aid
accomplish the consummation of his designs. In carrying out this plan, he
was very materially aided by his old accomplice in crime, Ramsey, whose
familiarity with the red men gave him at once the facilities for
introducing his friend to their notice, which he did with a flourish and
eulogium. Things went on smoothly enough while Durant was learning the
language, customs, manners and habits of his new allies. He had as much as
he could do to convince them of his bravery and undaunted courage, which
qualities, believing he was deficient in them, they as often as possible
put to the test. In many of these adventures he barely came off with credit
whole, a thing he found absolutely necessary to maintain any kind of credit
with this singular people, and, for this purpose, he called into action
every particle of courage from every crack and crevice of his system, and
brought the whole to bear upon one point, the wavering of his own heart,
and, with it, the staying of his almost quaking limbs, and
ready-to-run-away feet. He had just "_quantum sufficit_" for this purpose,
and _none to spare_.
These achievements occupied about two years in their accomplishment, at the
end of which period, Durant, having established himself pretty fairly in
the good graces of his red brethren, felt as though the time had arrived
for him to put in execution his long intended project; for, be it known,
his desire for vengeance had neither slumbered nor died during the two
years, but was the grand moving impulse to every important act. These
years, so full of restrained wrath on his part, were years of peace to his
intended victim. Ellen Walton, save the fear of Indians, and the usual
trials incident to pioneer life, had spent her time in hopeful quiet, full
of love's anticipated bliss in the bright _future_.
Almost had she forgotten Durant and his threats. Pity she should ever be
awakened from her blissful dreams to dread reality.
Very early in the spring of 1787, and not quite two years since her
father's settlement in the country, on a very pleasant day, she ventured to
walk out a short distance into the forest, which adjoined their dwelling.
Becoming interested in her own musings, she sat down on the trunk of a
fallen tree, to give free vent and wide range to her thoughts. The reader
can, doubtless, imagine as well as we, the rainbow hues of her straying
fancy, as it reveled in the rosy bowers of love.
"Miss Walton, I believe I have the honor of addressing."
[Illustration: "Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing before her,
his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her heart."--See
page 36.]
At the sound of her name, Ellen sprung to her feet, with a suppressed
scream of fright on her lips. Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing
before her, his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her
heart, she hardly knew why; for certainly the individual before her was a
stranger, or one with whom she had had so slight an acquaintance, as to
remember nothing concerning him. While her mind was running over all the
passing acquaintances she had ever made, and endeavoring among them to put
the personage before her, he continued to scan her countenance with a
steady gaze, as if to read her thoughts, which divining, he continued:
"I perceive you do not remember me, though we have met before. My memory
is not so treacherous; and, beside, your looks made a lasting impression on
my mind, an impression that time can never efface or obliterate; and to
this impression you are indebted for my present visit--an unceremonious
one, I must confess."
At this point of his discourse Ellen made a movement as if to retrace her
steps homeward, seeing which, he went on:
"Do not be impatient, fair maiden, or in haste to go, for I have that to
tell thee which is of the utmost importance both to thy present and future
welfare."
This adoption of the familiar and solemn style of address, had the effect
rather to increase than diminish the tremors about the girl's heart; yet
she silently awaited his words:
"I am come to warn thee that great, very great and imminent danger is
hanging, impended but by a thread, over thy head."
This blunt and unexpected announcement caused Ellen to start with a
shudder, and sent the blood still more forcibly upon her heart, which
labored, for a moment, under the load, and then beat so loud she was afraid
the stranger would hear it. Noticing the effect of his words, he continued:
"Thou hast an enemy, a bitter enemy, who has sworn to do thee an evil, and
it is in his heart to keep the oath. I see by the pallor of thy countenance
thou hast not forgotten him."
And true it was that the mention of "an enemy" called up her old foe to the
most vivid recollection of the now thoroughly alarmed Ellen. With the
utmost exertion of her strength and will, she could barely suppress the
outward manifestations of her terror.
"Well, this enemy, whom you had well-nigh forgotten, has never, for a
single day, had thee out of his mind. Ever since his threat, he has been
laying deep schemes to ruin thee, and once very nearly succeeded. For two
years he has been at work in a new way; his plans are about matured, and
_you will soon be in his power!_"
This last clause was spoken slowly, and emphasized on every word. All the
time he was speaking, Ellen's feelings became more and more intensely
excited, and, at the close, had reached the limit of control. For a moment
she was overcome, and leaned against a tree for support; but seeing the
stranger make a motion as though to assist her, she rallied again, and,
becoming more composed, demanded:
"How know you these things of which you speak?"
"It matters but little to thee, to know more than the facts in the case;
these I tell thee, but no more."
"Then you have come as a kind friend to warn me of my danger?"
"Aye, and more."
"Thanks! thanks! and pardon me if, at the first, I looked with suspicion on
a friend. The circumstances of our meeting is my apology for the ungenerous
thought."
"Thou hadst cause to suspect, if not to fear me, and for thy thought I have
no need to pardon thee. But my mission is not yet completed."
"Then let us go to the house of my father, which is but a short way off,
and there hear what further is to be said."
"No, I have but little time, and this place will answer my purpose quite as
well as your father's house, with the situation of which I am well
acquainted."
"Indeed! Then you are not a stranger in these parts?"
"Not entirely so; but as my business was with you, more particularly, it
was natural that I should familiarize myself with your place of abode,
that, if need be, I might render myself efficient in a case of emergency,
which may arrive but too soon."
This allusion to danger re-awakened Ellen's apprehensions, which noticing,
he continued:
"I have told you of overhanging peril; yet I have told you but half. You
are unable to escape from the net that is woven around you--you have no
means in your power to free yourself from the unseen toils that have been
secretly laid to ensnare you. Every step you take is one of danger, and
every effort you make to flee from that danger, may but drive you nearer to
destruction. Such is the nature of your enemy's operations, that while they
are secret, they are sure; and so thoroughly has every preparation been
made, and so exact has every minute particular been examined and attended
to, there is no possibility of his scheme failing, and equally no
possibility for you to escape."
"Your words are words of doom. How am I to interpret your enigmatical
conduct? But now I thought you a friend, come to give me timely warning to
guard against threatened danger, when, all at once, you declare my
situation a hopeless one! If you _are_ my friend, why not warn me sooner,
and in time?"
This was said in a firm manner, and gave the stranger to understand he had
no common, timid nature to deal with. The truth was, the thought had
flashed across Ellen's mind that this man was some way connected with
Durant, perhaps employed by him, and she began to conclude it might be a
trick to frighten her, after all. If so, or if not, she determined to meet
boldly what he had to say. The man perceived the change, and replied:
"My seemingly enigmatical conduct is easily explained. It is true I have a
long time been known to the fact that most determined designs of mischief
were entertained against you, and that your enemy was ceaselessly at work
to perfect his plans; but just as I was preparing to come to inform you of
this state of affairs, I was so unfortunate as to be desperately wounded in
battle with the Indians. I have but just recovered; the fresh scar you can
see on my temple."
And brushing away the hair, he exposed a hardly healed, terrible gash. This
appeared to satisfy his listener.
"I have, therefore, done the best I could, and you must charge the rest to
fate--a fate whose inexorable decree I almost rebeled against bowing to.
But I am here, my warning is given, and I can only regret that it comes so
late."
These words and the exhibition of the scar restored Ellen's confidence in
the stranger, and, with it, her fears returned. He perceived this, and
proceeded:
"Though your case is a desperate one, there is still some hope; there is a
_possibility_ of your deliverance from impending peril."
"Then let me know how I am to act."
"I fear to do so."
"Why fear?"
"It may prove a desperate alternative."
"Nothing can be so dreadful as falling into the hands of my enemy."
"Perhaps not; still you may be unable to choose between the evils."
"Let me know them, and I will try."
"As I said, it may be a desperate alternative, and I must ask of you
beforehand to pardon me for being compelled to give you only the choice
between what may prove one of two equally direful evils. Your only hope of
relief from present evil _is in me_."
This was an unexpected announcement; it fairly startled Ellen, and, in the
moment of bewilderment, she made no reply. He continued:
"Do not consider me selfish--at least do not condemn me for my selfishness.
If you have ever loved, you know what almost omnipotent power that passion
has over the mind and heart. For long years I have loved you in secret,
with a burning, consuming intensity of feeling, which defies all efforts to
describe. I cannot tell you all the joy or agony love has awakened in my
bosom; I can only say, that you have it now in your power to render me
supremely happy, or abjectly miserable. If you will cast yourself on my
love, I will save you from your plotting foe, and devote my life to your
service, and to make you happy. If I had any other means of saving you, I
would not propose this one, but I have not. Just now I have not time to
explain all that I would like to make clear, and must ask you, for the
present, to take my word; for at any moment, even now, your malignant foe
may come upon us, and then all is lost. Can you accept the alternative?"
"I--I thank you, but I cannot."
"You say, in view of all the facts, this is your unalterable decision, from
which I may not hope to persuade you?"
"It is. For all or any kind intentions and wishes you may have had or still
entertain for me, please accept my sincere thanks; but do not attempt to
change my purpose, for it is fixed, and I would save us both the pain of
repeating it."
"Then farewell, and God protect you!"
"Amen!"
This one word was said in such a fervent, and, at the same time, confident
manner, the stranger paused a moment as he was turning away; for a short
time he seemed engaged in deep thought, which had the effect of totally
changing his former, and apparently predetermined course of action. Turning
again to Ellen, who saw his hesitancy of action, he said:
"You rely, then, in God?"
"I do, most assuredly."
"And you have a hope that He will deliver you from the sad situation in
which you are now placed?"
"I humbly trust He will shield and protect me from harm."
"Perhaps that confidence induces your present course of action?"
"Doubtless it does, in part."
"Well, let me tell you that angels nor devils can save you!"
"I have no wish to be saved by the devils."
"I wonder you can be at all merry in your situation."
"I begin to be less apprehensive than I was."
"Indeed! and why, pray?"
"To be plain, an explanation will not be very flattering to your vanity, or
very creditable to my penetration, and, therefore, I had rather not make
it."
"I see you suspect me, so you may as well know the truth."
Saying which, he threw off some outward disguises, and stood before the
astonished maiden--LOUIS DURANT himself!
"You see me, Ellen Walton, and in me your worst enemy, because you will not
permit me to be a friend. I have made the present attempt to win you by
stratagem, in the not very sanguine hope of success. I have failed--now for
my revenge. Know that all I have said concerning my plans, and the net I
have woven around you, is true. You are now in my power, and I only forbear
taking you captive at this time because I wish you to live for a short
period in dread and suspense, as you once made me."
"Keep to the truth, sir, in making your statements."
"I intend to; and so bid you beware, and _to escape if you can!_"
"I have a very comfortable expectation for the future, thank you."
"Well, cherish it, then; hug it close, for it will be short lived, I give
you fair warning."
"The warnings of a man who comes with the tissue of falsehood, are of
little worth. Keep them to yourself."
"Beware how you presume on my forbearance; it may give way."
"I presume on nothing but your cowardice."
"Enough! enough! I will bear no more! I go, but you will see me soon again!
_Your doom is sealed!_ '_Cowardice!_' This from a woman! Gods! but I'll
remember this in my revenge!"
He started, as if to leave the place, but turned again, and said.
"Girl, I dislike to leave you in this manner. For the love I bear you, I
would still see you happy--happy as a wife and not a despised outcast--the
scorn of society. You might once have been my honorable bride; yes, you
might still be. Passing by all your insults, I would still offer you my
hand, and honorable marriage."
"Infamous villain! how dare you insult my self-respect by even naming such
a thing? Never dare again, to couple my name with yours! never, sir! It is
the basest sacrilege to humanity!"
"Very well. Our _names_ shall _not_ be coupled; our _destinies shall be!_
Go, with the consoling thought to cheer you for a few fleeting hours. Here
I stand and swear it--witness my oath, ye trees! witness it, earth and sky!
and, if such beings there are, witness it, angels and devils--_Ellen Walton
shall be mine!_"
He was so deeply absorbed in calling on his witnesses, he noticed nothing
about him, and now looking to the spot where she stood, to observe the
effect of his words, behold, Ellen was not there. His tragic agony had been
wasted on the "desert air." Turning away once more, he left the place in a
rage.
Ellen, though she had left, heard his words in the distance, and
notwithstanding she had made a show of boldness, she was really alarmed,
and greatly dreaded the future. She knew that an evil-minded man, however
contemptible, was capable of doing infinite harm to a fellow-being, when
determinedly set thereon. Thus, between hope and fear, her time was passed.