Ellen Walton The Villain and His Victims

Excerpt

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?...