Ellen Walton Part 1

Ellen Walton.

by Alvin Addison.

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 circ.u.mstances, and exposed to the vices of bad a.s.sociations; 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 s.e.x, 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 h.e.l.lish pa.s.sions in the ruin of virtue and a good name. Under the most solemn a.s.surances 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 a.s.severations, 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 s.e.x 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 G.o.d! 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 s.e.x, 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 s.e.x. 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?"