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."
"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."
"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.