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,