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.

Transcriber's note: Transcriber has added a table of contents and moved the footnotes to the end of the document.

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.

CHAPTER II.

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?"