TBBfliSPP 
 
 ,-
 
 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 OB, 
 
 LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE, 
 
 ' The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together ; our virtues 
 would be proud if our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would despair if 
 they were not cherished by our virtues." ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 BY WHITTEMOBE, NILES, AND HALL. 
 
 1858.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, bj 
 
 THOMAS W. HIOGINS, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 STEREOTYPED UY ALLEN AND FAR Nil AM. 
 
 PRINTED BY METCALF AND COMPANY.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THERE are many things in this world of ours which 
 are disagreeable many, very many indeed ! Among 
 the number is the task of writing a preface to one's 
 own book. What to say, and how to say it, are per- 
 plexing questions, questions which make the author 
 hesitate, think, query, and "calculate." It would not 
 be good policy to give the reader a synopsis of the 
 book, for that would neutralize, if not destroy, all inter- 
 est in the story. "What then shall he say ? Yes, that 
 is the important question, what shall he say ? Sim- 
 ply this : He hopes that the following pages will 
 afford entertainment and instruction to those who may 
 read them, that while they illustrate some of the grow- 
 ing evils of society, they will also have a healthy moral 
 influence on the mind of the reader, by inculcating 
 virtue, and the necessity of upright, honorable conduct 
 in all the relations of life. If what he has written shall 
 have this effect, he is satisfied. 
 
 Fearing, trusting, hoping, he submits " The CROOKED 
 
 (3)
 
 4 PREFACE. 
 
 ELM, OR LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE " to the decision of a 
 generous public, believing that if he has attained his 
 object, his efforts will receive the approbation of that 
 class of the reading community whose approval alone 
 is worth seeking. 

 
 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " PULL the blinds quick, William ; I fear that I am 
 seen." 
 
 " Why, how pale you look ! and so agitated ! What 
 can be the matter with you ? " 
 
 " I am sure she saw, and has followed me. If she 
 has if she has seen me get into this carriage, I am 
 ruined forever ; and all because you were so unreason- 
 able as to insist upon my meeting you." 
 
 " Cornelia, you are nervous and excited. Compose 
 yourself there is no danger! Who saw you? Who 
 has frightened you in this manner ? " 
 
 " O, forgive me, William!" said she, bursting into 
 tears ; " I am to blame, and not you. You are always 
 kind and good to me, and I know you love me ; but I 
 am afraid of that woman. I know she means me harm. 
 She wishes you to love her daughter. I am sure she 
 does, and that is why she watches me. I fear her. I 
 met her just now ; I am sure she knew me, disguised as 
 1 (5)
 
 6 THE CROOKED ELM } 
 
 I am. She looked earnestly at me, and her black eyes 
 seemed to pierce my very soul. I have felt them upon 
 me ever since, although I dared not turn my head to see 
 whether she was following me. Of late I have met her 
 frequently and most unexpectedly. She looks at me as 
 though she would read my most hidden thoughts. I 
 fear her, William ! I know she will do me harm ! " 
 This was said hurriedly, and almost in one breath. 
 
 " I do not think so, Cornelia. You imagine that she 
 wishes me to love her daughter, and that leads you to 
 believe that she watches you. If she even did wish so 
 foolish a thing, why should that make her watch you ? 
 She knows nothing of our intimacy ; she does not dream 
 that you care for me other than as a friend a mere 
 visiting acquaintance." 
 
 " You may think so ; but I feel that she knows more 
 than you imagine she does." 
 
 " Be that as it may, my dearest Cornelia, let us think 
 and say no more about the matter ; for why should we 
 make ourselves unhappy now, when we have met to 
 enjoy each other's society, and revel in the delights of a 
 pure love? 'T is not often that we can see each other, 
 and though, as you imagine, there be danger attending 
 these secret interviews, that should make us prize them 
 the more. I forget all danger when there is a hope of 
 seeing you, and a thousand black eyes, be they never so 
 piercing, would be no barrier in the way." 
 ' " You are right ; I have risked every thing for you, 
 and why should I fear ? I know you will protect me 
 I 'feel safe and happy when with you. I am only 
 nervous and fearful when you are- absent from me. I 
 will be so no longer. I know you love me ; and while I 
 am conscious of that, why need I care what the world 
 may think or do ? No, William, I will neither fear her 
 or the world again. I am so glad to meet you so
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 7 
 
 happy when I am with you! Would that we might 
 never part ! " 
 
 Thus spoke Mrs. Cornelia Belmonte and William 
 Hastings, as the carriage which Mrs. Belmonte had just 
 entered, hastily and tremblingly, turned away from 
 Thompson's saloon, and moved slowly up Broadway. 
 There was nothing in the appearance of the driver, the 
 horses, or the carriage, as they wended their way through 
 this crowded thoroughfare of our metropolis, to excite 
 the attention of any one who might see them, save per- 
 haps the fact that the window curtains were closely 
 drawn. This might be thought a little unusual, espe- 
 cially as the weather was quite warm and pleasant. 
 But whose " establishment " was it ? no one knew. It 
 might be a private " turnout," or it might not. There 
 seemed to be a studied non-committal appearance in the 
 driver, the horses, and the carriage. The driver was 
 dressed in a plain black suit, black beaver hat, and 
 white gloves. The horses were bright " bays," and richly 
 harnessed. The carriage was costly in its finish, yet not 
 so much so as to be remarkable in this respect. It was 
 sufficiently respectable to be private, and plain and un- 
 ostentatious enough to have come from one of the many 
 excellent livery-stables of New York. Whoever or 
 whatever the driver was, he seemed to have had his in- 
 structions beforehand ; for no sooner had Mrs. Belmonte 
 entered the carriage, as before described, and thrown 
 herself, half fainting, on to the richly cushioned seat, 
 than he closed the door, and mounting the box, drove 
 away without a word or a sign from Mr. Hastings. 
 
 ^There was one who saw Mrs. Belmonte enter ; one 
 who saw and marked the mysterious drawing of the 
 curtains ; one who watched the closely muffled carriage 
 as it passed up Broadway ; and, though she saw no oe 
 in jit when Mrs. Belmonte entered, nor knew whose
 
 8 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 establishment it was, her eyes sparkled with rage and 
 resentment at what she did see, for she had penetrated 
 through the disguise of Mrs. Belmonte, and awakened 
 jealousy had done the rest. 
 
 " Thank you, Bessy, a thousand thanks for what you 
 told me this morning. I will now be revenged ! I will 
 make her feel my power ! She must not presume to set 
 herself up as a rival of my daughter ! " Thus thought 
 the lady with the black eyes, as she walked hastily along 
 in the direction of the carriage. Yes, Mrs. Belmonte, 
 those -black eyes, like a black cloud, were following and 
 threatening you; while, secluded from her gaze and 
 that of the world, you were lulling yourself into a fan- 
 cied security. Did those eyes also see him, by whose 
 side you were so happily reposing, and in whose pres- 
 ence you were so quickly forgetting every fear, and 
 dreaming only of sunshine and flowers ? 
 
 It is now necessary to go back a little way in this 
 story, in order that the reader may more fully under- 
 stand the previous conversation. A few weeks prior to 
 the incidents already mentioned, William Hastings was 
 quietly seated in a large and elegantly furnished room, 
 in one of the many brown stone houses that adorn the 
 upper part of the city of New York. It was about ten 
 o'clock at night. The whole appearance of the room 
 was that of taste and refinement. Rich lace curtains 
 fell in folds from the windows, and rested upon the vel- 
 vet carpet that covered the floor. The furniture in the 
 room was of the richest rosewood. In one corner there 
 was a wardrobe, with a full length mirror door ; in the 
 opposite corner, and on the same side of the room, 
 stood a beautifully carved book-case and secretary. 
 The book-case was filled with choice and elegantly 
 bound books. A bureau with an oval mirror stood in 
 one of the opposite corners, and an etegdre covered with
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 shells and minerals in the other. A large mirror rested 
 upon the white marble mantel, and in the centre of the 
 room stood a marble-topped table, on which lay a copy 
 of Shakspeare, a bible, and a newspaper; the last of 
 which Mr. Hastings had just finished reading. A sofa, 
 lounge, ottoman, easy-chairs, arm-chairs, and other 
 chairs, ah 1 cushioned and covered with rich material, 
 completed the furniture of the room. It was lit up, at 
 the time I have mentioned, by two of four burners 
 attachecf to a large chandelier, which hung suspended 
 from the centre of the ceiling, and which was presided 
 over by little inwrought cupids. Here, as I have already 
 said, sat William Hastings, with careless ease, and a 
 seeming indifference to every thing about him. 
 
 All was quiet and still ; and, as he lounged languidly 
 back in his easy-chair, he seemed to fall into communion 
 with his own thoughts. Let us leave him to his reflec- 
 tions for a moment, while we learn more concerning him. 
 William Hastings was a lawyer, about twenty-eight 
 years old ; tall, straight, and, if not handsome, was con- 
 sidered very good looking. He was six feet high, had dark 
 brown hair, which was rather long, and slightly inclined 
 to curl. His eyes were hazel, and had an expression of 
 melancholy, except when he was excited, and then they 
 seemed to speak the burning thoughts within. His beard 
 was left to grow unshaved, and on his upper lip he 
 wore a moustache of hair, so soft and fine that it never 
 required cutting, (a proof, as Eugene Sue would say, 
 when taken in connection with his small feet and small 
 white hands, of aristocratic birth). His features were 
 regular, and his well-developed forehead indicated a 
 mind accustomed to thought and reflection. When he 
 smiled, he showed a handsome set of teeth of the 
 purest whiteness ; and there was in his smile a fascina- 
 tion and a charm which drew one instinctively to him,
 
 10 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 and made him a favorite with the opposite sex. Add 
 to these the fact that he always dressed with neatness 
 and taste, and you have the outlines of William Has- 
 tings, as he lounged carelessly but thoughtfully in his 
 room as above described. He had remained in this 
 meditative mood about an hour, when tie heard a gen- 
 tle knock at his door, and without turning his head or 
 changing his position he said, "come in." The door 
 opened, and a lady entered the room. She was a little 
 above the medium height, and seemingly about thirty- 
 two or three years old. Her hair and eyes were black, 
 her complexion a dark brunette, and her features be- 
 spoke Spanish origin. She was elegantly but not 
 gaudily dressed, and there was a studied neatness in 
 her appearance, and an ease and grace in her manners, 
 which at once indicated that she was a lady of refine- 
 ment and cultivation. Advancing two or three steps 
 into the room, with eyes flashing fire and with a coun- 
 tenance of displeasure, she said to Mr. Hastings, who 
 still remained sitting, and who had not as yet looked up 
 to see his visitor, 
 
 " I should think you might at least look at me when 
 I come in." He, without moving, except to yawn and 
 stretch himself out a little, and seeming not to under- 
 stand what she was saying, answered 
 " Were you addressing me, Mrs. Delacy ? " 
 " William, you are most provoking ; you do not care 
 how unhappy you make me." Hastings, with imperturb- 
 able coolness, replied 
 
 " Is there any thing that I can do for you ? " 
 " You did not think it worth your while," continued 
 Mrs. Delacy, " to dine with us to-day, and all because I 
 had company, and particularly wished you to be here. 
 You might have told me that you could not be here 
 when I invited you."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 11 
 
 " Your company must have been very entertaining," 
 replied he, " to have put you into so amiable a state of 
 mind. I am glad to know that you have enjoyed their 
 society." 
 
 "Little do you care whether I have enjoyed their 
 society or not ! You know, William, that you torment 
 me purposely. That is why you remained away to- 
 day." 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Delacy, that you are .exceedingly 
 amiable to-night." 
 
 " You think nothing of the kind," answered she, 
 'tartly. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Hasting, coolly, " that you doubt 
 my veracity ; but since such is the fact, I fear that any 
 apologies which I might otherwise be inclined to make 
 for depriving myself the pleasure of dining with you to- 
 day wquld be useless." 
 
 " You never made an apology in your life ! nor had 
 you any thought of doing so to-night ! " 
 
 " Please excuse me, Mrs. Delacy ; but when you came 
 in I was following a train of thought wlu'ch I fear I 
 shall lose, if we continue our agreeable conversation." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you were thinking of her with 
 whom you doubtless have had the pleasure of dining to- 
 day." 
 
 " You flatter me exceedingly," said Hastings ; " and 
 really, if I knew to whom you refer, I should have to 
 thank you for the compliment which you have so 
 courteously bestowed upon my generous feelings." 
 
 "^You know very well to whom I refer ! if not, ask 
 your conscience ; that will tell you ! " 
 
 " I fear you are mistaken in that," said Hastings ; " for 
 I assure you that my conscience has not been in a com- 
 municative mood for some time past." 
 
 " William, you will drive me mad with your silly
 
 12 TEE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 nonsense, and your unkind treatment! You do not 
 think me worth your sensible conversation of late ! All 
 your attention and time are bestowed upon Mrs. Bel- 
 monte ! You tr^eat me cruelly, so you do ! and I cannot 
 endure it longer ! " As Mrs. Delacy said this she burst 
 into tears, and left the place where she had been stand- 
 ing, and seated herself in an arm-chair behind Hastings. 
 She hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained 
 silent for some minutes, then rising and advancing 
 towards him, she said 
 
 " Forgive me, William, for what I have said ; I do 
 not wish to offend you. I am sorry that I have annoyed 
 you by talking as I hav<*" She waited a moment, as 
 if expecting an answer ; but receiving none, she 
 added 
 
 " Will you forgive me, William ? I am very wretch- 
 ed ! " Hastings remained silent, and without seeming 
 to hear what she said. " William," continued Mrs. 
 Delacy, " I came up to invite you down to an oyster 
 supper with us ; but you treated me so coldly that I was 
 betrayed into saying what I have, and for which I am 
 very sorry. Will you come down? Mrs. Coleman 
 and her two daughters are here ; they will think it very 
 strange if you do not." When she had finished and 
 stood waiting for an answer, Mr. Hastings, without 
 moving his head, and with his back still towards her, 
 said, 
 
 " Pray, Mrs. Delacy, do not let me deprive you longer 
 of their agreeable company. I enjoyed my dinner so 
 much to-day that I have not the slightest inclination to 
 taste your oysters, although savored, as I know they 
 would be, by your and their, always to me, pleasant 
 society." With her handkerchief to her eyes, Mrs. 
 Delacy left the room ; and with his previous indiffer- 
 ence, William Hastings settled down again into Ins
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 13 
 
 thoughtful and meditative mood. The mention of Mrs. 
 Belmonte's name by Mrs. Delacy was evidently un- 
 pleasant to him, although his countenance, so accus- 
 tomed to control, remained unchanged while she con- 
 tinued in the room. As soon as she had left, however, 
 he began to ponder over what she had said, and, like 
 most persons who are not easily betrayed into any sud- 
 den emotion, reflection and thought produced upon his 
 mind an uneasiness more uncomfortable and intense 
 than any sudden surprise could have done. He had 
 purposely treated Mrs. Delacy coolly, to draw from her 
 if possible what he already half suspected that she 
 knew. The plan was successful Mrs. Delacy's jeal- 
 ousy and anger had betrayed her into saying what she 
 at once regretted having said. That night Hastings 
 found himself frequently repeating the following sug- 
 gestive words : " All your attention and time are be- 
 stowed upon Mrs. Belmonte." Yes, I dare say you 
 were thinking of her with whom you have doubtless 
 had the pleasure of dining to-day." He sat until long 
 after midnight, swallowed up in reflections growing out 
 of these two sentences. " Yes, I believe it," he would 
 sometimes say energetically, as he continued sitting 
 there ; " I am sure she has watched us, else why should 
 she be so furiously jealous of her ? " He had dined 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte that day at six o'clock, but 
 he had told the fact to no one. " How," thought he, 
 " should Mrs. Delacy know that I have dined there to- 
 day ? " He did not care whether she knew it or not, 
 but the thought that troubled him was, how she had ob- 
 tained the information. That morning Mr. Hastings 
 had addressed the following note to Mrs. Belmonte, 
 which will show, somewhat, the intimacy which existed 
 between himself and her : 
 2
 
 14 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 " DEAR MRS. BELMONTE : The Colemans are to dine 
 
 with Mrs. D to-day, and spend the evening. 1 
 
 have been specially invited to eaten with them. I will 
 not break my engagement with you, however, but will 
 call as promised, to-night. You will please have the 
 chessmen ready ; and also a spare seat at your dinner 
 table, as it is more than probable that I may drop un- 
 expectedly in upon you about six o'clock With this 
 declaration of intentions, 
 
 I remain sincerely, W. H." 
 
 As William Hastings reflected upon what Mrs. De* 
 lacy had said, he became convinced that she knew more 
 of the intimacy existing between himself and Mrs. Bel- 
 monte than was agreeable to him, and more than he 
 had supposed any one, except himself and Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, could have known. " This must be looked to,' 3 
 said he, as he rose to retire. " I will suffer no one to be 
 a spy upon my actions. No, Cornelia, for thy sake I 
 will be more cautious in future." Thinking thus, he 
 went to his bed ; but his disturbed and troubled thoughts 
 kept him a long time awake. At length, when he had 
 fallen into a dreamy and uneasy sleep, he thought he 
 saw Mrs. Belmonte walking carelessly and unconcerned 
 upon the edge of a high precipice. Near by her, and 
 concealed from her view, he saw Mrs. Delacy stealing 
 upon her, with the intention of throwing her from its 
 summit; while he, unable to move or speak, could not 
 rescue her. This, and such as this, were William Has- 
 tings's dreams that night. For, reader, strange as it may 
 seem, incredible as it may appear, he who had 
 sounded all the depths and shoals of society, and had 
 for a long time proved inflexible and deaf to the prompt- 
 ings of his tender tendencies, was now, at the age of 
 twenty-eight, hopelessly in love, and that, too, with a 
 married lady.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HEADER, it is necessary that we should go back again 
 in this story a little more than one year. It was a 
 gloomy, disagreeable day in the early part of spring. A 
 drizzly rain had been falh'ng for the last twenty-four 
 hours, and stm continued its monotonous pattering on 
 the muddy streets and slippery side-walks of Gotham. 
 William Hastings was sitting in his office. It was as 
 pleasant an office as lawyers usually have. I doubt 
 very much, however, the propriety of using the word 
 pleasant, as a qualifying adjective, in describing any of 
 these legal dispensaries. His looked out on Broad- 
 way, and was in the second story of one of the many 
 large buildings fronting on this crowded street. Beside 
 him, on a table, lay several large bundles of papers tied 
 together with red tape. On the same table and on the 
 desk before him were numerous Law Reports, lying 
 scattered about in beautiful confusion. He had just 
 finished consulting one of them, and, throwing it aside, 
 had placed his feet on the table beside these volumes 
 of bound up wisdom. Whether this irreverent act was 
 intended as an expression of his contempt for them, or 
 whether it enabled him the better to digest their gnarly 
 contents, is a question which I will leave wholly un- 
 settled. It is but proper, however, to state for the ben- 
 efit of the general reader, that it is a custom indulged 
 
 (15)
 
 16 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 in frequently by lawyers ; and as it is neither orna- 
 mental, nor one of the attitudes approved of by any 
 writer on office etiquette whom I have read, it is but 
 simple justice to this highly respectable body of men to 
 believe, that the elevation of one's lower extremities to a 
 horizontal plane with the head, assists one in solving' 
 difficult problems, especially if they be legal ones. Be 
 this as it may, William Hastings placed his feet on the 
 table, and turned his eyes to the noisy and clattering 
 street below. Had he been less thoughtful, what he 
 saw might have interested him ; but as it was, his eyes 
 only were upon the street, his mind was contemplat- 
 ing a different subject. It continued to rain, rain, rain. 
 A smoky and murky atmosphere pervaded the whole 
 city. The lower part of Broadway was filled with 
 vehicles of all descriptions, jammed together in such 
 confusion as to render the street almost impassable. 
 Omnibus wheels were interlocked with cart-wheels, 
 while the drivers of each sat soaked to the skin with 
 rain, exchanging with each other the most approved 
 oaths of their respective hostelries. Horses were wet 
 and reeking; men with umbrellas hoisted, thronged 
 the side- walks, and jostled each other from side to side 
 as they passed. Apple-women with bare red feet, and 
 with bedraggled and muddy skirts, stood on the corners 
 of the streets shivering with cold. Fat men with drip- 
 ping umbrellas were standing in the rain, watching for 
 an omnibus. Occasionally, when one of these city con- 
 veniencies made its appearance, labelled for that part of 
 the city where they seemed desirous of going, two or 
 three of these fat individuals aforesaid would make a 
 dash for it ; but, after having lowered their umbrellas 
 and opened the door, they were met with that ominous, 
 perhaps I might with propriety say, omnibus word, " full." 
 Full having been sounded and echoed by a dozen or
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 17 
 
 more voices within, the said fat gentlemen would turn 
 away, and at the risk of being run into by several quad- 
 rupeds and vehicles would regain their stand on the 
 side-walk, hoist their umbrellas, which continually 
 dripped upon their protuberant sides, and philosoph- 
 ically look out for another omnibus. While William 
 Hastings sat looking out upon this monotonous and 
 moving diorama of quadrupeds, vehicles, and people, a 
 boy stepped into his office from an adjoining room, and 
 said 
 
 " I have finished copying the answer to the complaint, 
 in the case of ' Wilful vs. Obstinate.' " 
 
 " Very well, Rolin," said he ; then taking out his 
 watch he added, " it is three o'clock ; you may have the 
 rest of the day to yourself." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Rolin, as he turned away, 
 took his hat, and left the office. As soon as he had 
 gone, Hastings muttered : " Yes, it is better that we 
 should be alone. It is not safe to have any one in the 
 office when he comes. He is to be here at half past 
 three o'clock. I wish I had never undertaken this 
 business there is no retreat now, however. I will go 
 on I will save the child, if possible ! " Having said 
 this in a low, suppressed voice, he turned his eyes 
 again upon the street, and settled down into a gloom 
 as profound as that caused by the rain and fog without. 
 He remained in this position for more than an hour, 
 when in walked a tall man, seemingly about thirty-five 
 years old. His hair was raven black, and hung in wavy 
 curls half way down his neck. His eyes, too, were 
 black and full, but not large. He had regular features, 
 and, save a certain sinister expression, his face was what 
 would be called handsome. Indeed, it had been his 
 good or bad fortune to be called so for several years 
 2*
 
 18 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 past by those who are by the laws of society consti- 
 tuted judges in these matters I mean, of course, the 
 ladies. He was dressed with scrupulous exactness 
 and precision ; perhaps too much so for this practical 
 and republican age. Yet, there was such taste displayed 
 in each article he wore, and such an absence of what is 
 commonly denominated flashiness in his appearance, that 
 it would be difficult to say in what particular he was 
 overdressed. Walking familiarly up to Mr. Hastings, 
 and slapping him on the shoulder, he said 
 
 " Ah ! Hastings, my good fellow, how do you do ? 
 you look as melancholy as winter, sitting here alone 
 among these musty law-books." To which Hastings 
 said, smiling slightly, and extending his hand to him 
 carelessly at the same time 
 
 " You flatter me, Belmonte, and I am sure these 
 books would acknowledge the compliment you have 
 paid them, if they only had the power of speech." Then 
 looking at his watch he added, 
 
 " But you are late it is past four o'clock." 
 
 " Yes," replied Belmonte, " this deuced rain has de- 
 tained me." 
 
 " But you look as dry as the books you condescended 
 to compliment just now," said Hastings. 
 
 " Do I ? look at that," said Belmonte, as he placed 
 his highly polished boot in a chair to show how it had 
 been splashed with mud and water. 
 
 Is that all?" replied Hastings "That needn't 
 trouble you, for the men will care nothing about it ; 
 and, as for the ladies, they never look at your feet when 
 they have your face to contemplate, covered with that 
 black beard and that irresistible moustache. But I 
 don't understand how the mud on your boot should 
 make you so long behind your time. Did you walk 
 down ? "
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. -19 
 
 " Not I. My carriage is at the door. I could not 
 walk through this rain, and as for riding in an omni- 
 bus whew ! I had rather go to Quaker meeting 
 any day. Fancy yourself, my dear fellow, snugly seated 
 in one of these comfortable conveniences, such a day as 
 this, with an apple-woman in her dripping rags on one 
 side, fat John on the other, soaked to the skin with 
 rain, two or three market baskets on your toes, and 
 the nursery maid on your lap. Isn't that a situation to 
 be envied? You must imagine in addition, that the 
 windows of the vehicle are all closed. Then the sa- 
 vory atmosphere the Lord save us ! That vapory, 
 aqueous, liquidous, nauseous atmosphere ! I think I 
 smell it now ! What a place it is for regaling one's 
 olfactory senses ! Oh no, you will please excuse me ! 
 So, as I said, I came in my carriage ; and it was in get- 
 ting out that I treated myself to this new coat of black- 
 ing. And would you believe it ? I have been at least 
 half an hour coming from Barnum's ! It is a perfect 
 jam from here to the Park. It is worth one's life to 
 attempt a passage through. Broadway should be re- 
 ported to the proper authorities as a nuisance ; that is 
 my opinion." 
 
 " I declare, Belmonte, you are quite eloquent on the 
 subject of omnibuses. But, without imagining myself, as 
 you request, in the lap of an apple-woman, I will give 
 it as my humble opinion, that we are not making up 
 for lost time that should have been devoted to busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "_You are right," said Belmonte; "we are losing 
 time. Has the matter progressed any since I was 
 here?" 
 
 " I have received another letter," answered Hastings, 
 getting up at the same time and locking the door that 
 opened into the hall. He then unlocked his safe, and
 
 20 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 took from an inner iron box a bundle of papers, and re- 
 turned to his seat at the desk. 
 
 " It is as well," said he, as he seated himself, " that 
 we should be undisturbed by intruders while engaged in 
 this agreeable business." A perceptible smile of irony 
 accompanied these words, but Belmonte heeding it not, 
 drew his chair close up to Hastings, and the two were 
 soon engaged in examining the papers before them. 
 Hastings drew from the bundle a letter, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 " NEW YORK, April , 18. 
 
 " DEAR SIR : I have your last letter before me. The 
 proposition which it contains I accept. The money 
 must be paid me as soon as the work is accomplished. 
 When I receive it, I will do as you suggest. The plans 
 must all be arranged, so as to prevent detection or fail- 
 ure. The receipt of some portion of the money in 
 advance satisfies me that you are in earnest. I re- 
 turn your letter through the general post-office as re- 
 quested. Yours, etc., 
 
 MICHAEL MERLE." 
 
 " D. D. DURLOCK, Esq." 
 
 " P. S. I shall be out of town to-morrow, but a letter 
 directed to me, with the usual address, will be received 
 the day after." 
 
 "The stupid fool," said Belmonte, "why can't he 
 remain in town until the business is settled ? But he 
 seems to be a very sensible fellow, his letter smacks 
 of honesty." 
 
 " It shows him to be as unscrupulous as we are," 
 answered Hastings sarcastically. 
 
 " You are in a bad humor to-day, Hastings, I fear 
 I have offended you."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE 21 
 
 " This business offends me. I am heartily tired of it. 
 I wish I never had undertaken it." 
 
 " It will soon be off our hands now," said Belmonte. 
 " You have arranged it admirably. I never dreamed 
 that you would manage the matter so well. Have you 
 set any time for its final accomplishment ? " 
 
 " No, I think we must see Merle ; there is that to be 
 said which cannot safely be intrusted to paper." 
 
 " But that will not be safe," said Belmonte. " He 
 must never know who employs him." 
 
 " He must be seen," said Hastings. " I have never 
 given him any thing more than a general outline of the 
 business which he is employed to do. It is not safe to 
 write down the details in full. He can be trusted, I 
 think, but the post-office cannot, in matters of this 
 importance. He must be seen you must meet him." 
 
 " I do not wish to place myself in the power of any 
 man. I cannot meet him," said Belmonte. 
 
 " Very well ; the matter ends at once then," replied 
 Hastings, coolly, as he commenced replacing the papers. 
 
 " Do you wish me to place myself in the power of 
 this cutthroat thief ? " asked Belmonte passionately. 
 
 " Not at all ; I had much rather you would abandon 
 a business requiring such a sacrifice of your respecta- 
 bility. I am glad that we cannot go on with it." 
 
 " But it must be accomplished," said Belmonte ener- 
 getically. 
 
 " I suppose you would like to have me meet your ac- 
 complice," said Hastings, with eyes flashing with indig- 
 nation. " I have no ambition to do any thing of the 
 kind. I leave you to choose some one else as your 
 adviser." As he said this, he got up and replaced the 
 papers in his safe. 
 
 When Belmonte saw that Hastings would not be 
 controlled, he said
 
 22 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 " I do not wish to offend you ; I am perfectly satis- 
 fied with what you have done ; but cannot the matter 
 be arranged without my meeting him? If not if 
 there is no alternative why, I must undergo the 
 ordeal." 
 
 Hastings, fearing that he had expressed too great re- 
 pugnance for the business they were engaged in, said : 
 " I do not think there will be any danger in your seeing 
 Merle. I should not be afraid to meet him at any place 
 within the city. I will not see him, however, the 
 business is yours." 
 
 "I will meet him. That matter is settled," said 
 Belmonte, " so let us quarrel no more about it." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Hastings, familiarly laying his 
 hand on Belmonte's knee, " if I have expressed myself 
 too warmly. I feel as much as you the necessity of 
 carrying this enterprise through safely. If it were neces- 
 sary for me to meet Merle, I would not hesitate a mo- 
 ment ; but it is not it is not even safe for me to do so. 
 You, he has not seen; and you can easily disguise 
 yourself, so that he would never recognize you, should 
 he meet you hereafter. He knows me my voice is 
 familiar to him ; for it was once used in defending him 
 on a criminal indictment." 
 
 " Then you are right in what you have advised," said 
 Belmonte. " I might have known that you had a good 
 reason to back all your suggestions ; for when did Wil- 
 liam Hastings, Esq., the promising and talented young 
 lawyer, act without some good reason to sustain him ? " 
 
 " None oT your nonsense, Belmonte," answered Hast- 
 ings, " I am too old to be the subject of your flattery." 
 
 " When must I see Merle ? " asked Belmonte. 
 
 " Let me see," said Hastings, " to-day is Thursday. 
 Call here one week from to-day at three o'clock, and I 
 will have the meeting arranged with him."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 23 
 
 " I will do so," said Belmonte ; and the two separated. 
 
 Belmonte called on the next Thursday as promised, 
 but no meeting had been appointed. Several weeks 
 passed without any definite arrangement being made for 
 a personal interview between Belmonte and Merle. 
 
 It was about the middle of May. Belmonte had 
 driven down to see Hastings again. The two were 
 seated together, and in earnest conversation. 
 
 " Here is a paper," said Hastings, " containing a pro- 
 gramme of operations, which I think you will do well 
 to follow. You must not part with Merle until all is 
 accomplished ; but, Belmonte, if the child is injured, I 
 will hold you accountable for it ; nor will I even spare 
 myself in the event." 
 
 " Every thing shall be done as you wish," replied Bel- 
 monte. He then opened and r,ead the paper which 
 Hastings had given him. " It shall be done," said he, 
 when he had finished it. " I am the legitimate heir to 
 the property, and I need it too much to be cheated out 
 of it by any one. I am resolved ! " As he said this, he 
 took a large pocket-book from an inside pocket, and 
 placed the paper carefully in it. 
 
 " I will write to Merle, and tell him when and where 
 to meet you," said Hastings. 
 
 " I will be at the place agreed upon," said Belmonte ; 
 then, looking at his watch,~he continued : " It is growing 
 late let us go down to Delmonico's and forget this 
 business over a bottle of champagne." Hastings ac- 
 cepted the invitation ; and they soon were discussing a 
 dinner of" turtle soup, shad, ducks, champagne, etc., 
 with countenances as cheerful as Wall street brokers. 
 
 " By the way, Hastings," said Belmonte, as they sat 
 at the table, " I never yet have had the pleasure of intro- 
 ducing you to Mrs. Belmonte. A few friends of ours 
 are to dine with us on Saturday and spend the evening,
 
 24 THE CKOOKED ELM J 
 
 and we shall be happy if you will consent to be one of 
 the number. Miss Leighton is to be there, the world 
 pronounces her beautiful ; and, unless you are confirmed 
 and properly barricaded in your bachelor proclivities, she 
 will storm your fortress, and compel you to capitulate. 
 We dine at half past five." 
 
 " Thank you," said Hastings ; " I accept your polite 
 invitation with pleasure, notwithstanding the serious 
 consequences that may ensue from an introduction to 
 the beautiful Miss Leighton. But as for capitulating, I 
 shall not do it while there is a shot in the locker, depend 
 upon it." 
 
 I think," said Belmonte, laughingly, " that she will 
 answer your complaints more effectually than any law- 
 yer could. But you must, first of all, dispossess her of 
 her antiquated ideas, she associates those of your 
 profession with ' Uriah Heep,' ' Quirk, Gammon & 
 Snap,' 'Sergeant Buzfuz,' and that class of the legal 
 fraternity. She is quite a novel reader, you must know, 
 and lawyers are no great favorites with these dainty 
 gentlemen of the quill." 
 
 " I can easily remove her prejudices. It will be im- 
 possible for her to resist two honest faces like ours ; for 
 you must stand sponsor for me if necessary, eh, Bel- 
 monte ? " 
 
 "Any thing to aid a friend in difficulty," said Bel- 
 monte ; " but I don't see the force of your argument. 
 Our faces are unquestionably honest ones, but beauty is 
 not always attracted by honesty." 
 
 " You discourage me in the outset," said Hastings. 
 " I had depended for my success upon the natural 
 alliance of like attributes. Beauty and Honesty are near 
 relatives. I am honest, she is beautiful; ergo you 
 understand the conclusion." 
 
 " That is an obsolete idea," said Belmonte, humorously.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 25 
 
 " 1 believe in the natural attraction of opposites. I know 
 Shakspeare has said that 
 
 ' Virtue, as it never will be moved, 
 
 Though lewdness court it in a shape of Heaven ; 
 So lust, though to a radiant angel linked, 
 Will sate itself in a celestial bed, 
 And prey on garbage.' 
 
 That is all very well in poetry, but it makes wretched 
 prose. If the sentiment were true, I fear that Mrs. 
 Belmonte and I would never have become one flesh. 
 I make no pretensions, Hastings, to rigid virtue." 
 
 Hastings wondered that Belmonte should introduce 
 his wife into a conversation so light and trifling, 
 and only accounted for it upon the ground that he had 
 been imbibing champagne freely. Not wishing to pro- 
 long an interview that might be unpleasant to Bel- 
 monte on sober reflection, he said: "Be my success 
 sure or doubtful, let us drink the health of this bewitch- 
 ing Hebe." As Hastings said this, they touched glasses 
 emptied them paid their reckoning got into their 
 carriage, and drove away. 
 
 3
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT the time mentioned in the last chapter, William 
 Hastings had known Walter Belmonte about six 
 months. The acquaintance commenced by Belmonte 
 applying to Hastings for his professional opinion re- 
 specting the title, descent, etc. of certain property. The 
 nature of the business was such as to bring them fre- 
 quently together ; and in consequence, quite an intimacy 
 had sprung up between them. Hastings did not like 
 Belmonte, however ; he believed him to be unscrupu- 
 lous and unprincipled ; yet he pretended to be his friend, 
 in order that he might the better thwart his wicked pur- 
 poses. Notwithstanding this seeming friendship be- 
 tween them, Hastings had never as yet been introduced 
 to Mrs. Belmonte, neither had he ever seen her. He 
 had more than once heard her spoken of, and always in 
 terms of the highest praise. Some of his friends were 
 personally acquainted with her, and from them he had 
 learned that she was a beautiful, accomplished, and 
 charming lady. It will readily be supposed, therefore, 
 that he accepted Belmonte's invitation to dine and spend 
 the evening at his house with feelings of more than 
 ordinary pleasure. He looked forward to Saturday 
 evening, and promised himself no small happiness. As 
 for the beautiful Miss Leighton, she never entered his 
 mind again until he met her at the party. He had fre- 
 
 (26)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 27 
 
 quently heard her spoken of as being the belle of Sara- 
 toga and other watering places ; but he had no curiosity 
 or ambition to make her acquaintance. Hastings was 
 fond of ladies' society, but was not what was called 
 a "ladies' man." He was dignified, affable, and 
 easy in his manners, collected and pleasing in his ad- 
 dress, and withal had a handsome and graceful figure. 
 These characteristics, coupled with honesty and a high 
 moral character, made him a favorite with the ladies. 
 He could, when he liked, be reserved and cold as an 
 icicle, or mild and genial as a summer morning. He 
 had the faculty of reading readily the thoughts of others, 
 and, as I might add, the art of keeping one in doubt and 
 suspense. Like the cat, he would sometimes torture a 
 victim. This may be inferred from his previously de- 
 scribed conversation with Mrs. Delacy. I have said 
 that he was -fond of ladies' society ; it was the society 
 of the virtuous and refined, however, not that of the gay 
 and dissolute. 
 
 Saturday evening came, after a great deal of patient 
 waiting, and about twenty persons of both sexes had 
 assembled at Belmonte's residence on Fifth Avenue. 
 Among the number was William Hastings. He had 
 been presented to Mrs. Belmonte, the bewitching Miss 
 Leighton, and several others of the party. Dinner was 
 over, and they had all assembled in the large and bril- 
 liantly lit drawing-room. Hastings had just excused 
 himself to Miss Leighton, whom he had the honor to 
 wait upon to the dinner table, and had passed to where 
 Mrs. JBelmonte was seated, some little distance away, 
 conversing with several lady and gentleman friends. 
 When he joined the circle, Mrs. Belmonte said: 
 
 " I appeal to you, Mr. Hastings, don't you think 
 Miss Leighton charming ? " 
 
 " I fear," replied he, pleasantly^ " that I am an inter-
 
 28 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 ested witness but if my evidence is good in this court 
 I shall say, most decidedly ! " 
 
 " Don't you think she has beautiful eyes ? " continued 
 Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 " If you lead me into particularities," answered Hast- 
 ings, " I fear that I shall contradict myself ; so I say, 
 generally, that I think her very handsome that com- 
 prises eyes, ears, nose, mouth every thing." 
 
 " You lawyers are remarkably shrewd," said Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, in reply. " You deal only in generalities. You 
 are afraid of committing yourselves to any thing defi- 
 nite, that is why so many of you remain single." 
 
 " We doubtless commit an unpardonable mistake in 
 remaining so," said Hastings, "which my friend Bel- 
 monte will evidence." The latter part of this sentence 
 was said as Belmonte joined the circle. A general con- 
 versation of a lively and mirthful character ensued, in 
 which all present joined. Dancing was introduced later 
 in the evening, and all was life and gayety. From the 
 first moment that Hastings saw Mrs. Belmonte, he 
 thought he recognized in her countenance one whom he 
 had previously seen. He taxed his recollection, and 
 tried to remember where he had met her, but to no pur- 
 pose. Her voice awakened in him memories of the 
 past ; and sometimes, as he listened to its sweet and 
 musical accents, he thought that he had heard it be- 
 fore ; then he would say to himself, " No, it cannot 
 be, I associate her, doubtless, with some forgotten 
 dream." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte was generally called handsome by 
 those well acquainted with her; but the appellation was 
 not strictly true. Her pleasing address and fascinating 
 manners made her appear more beautiful than she really 
 was. Those who had only seen her without hearing 
 her converse, would not think her any thing more than
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 29 
 
 very good looking. There was a charm in her voice 
 and face, when engaged in animated conversation, that 
 was more than a substitute for smooth and regular 
 features. She was naturally modest and retiring, and 
 could only appear to advantage when in the society of 
 those with whom she was well acquainted. She was 
 about the medium size had light brown hair and a 
 fair complexion. Her eyes were of a dark grayish 
 color, and were shaded by heavy eyelashes. Her mouth 
 was small, and her lips were a ruby red. She had 
 small white hands, with fingers beautifully tapered ; 
 add to these a full bust and a fine figure, and you have 
 an imperfect, though not an entirely untrue, sketch of 
 Mrs. Belmonte. What I have said, however, will 
 scarcely give the reader a faint shadow of what she 
 was. Descriptions of faces and forms, of eyes, mouth, 
 nose, hair, and features generally, are, in my opinion, 
 dull, stiff, and stupid things. How many there are who 
 are alike in these respects. They have the same colored 
 hair, the same eyes, and are the same in every thing, save 
 in themselves. So with Mrs. Belmonte. To look at, 
 she was not unlike many that we every day meet; but 
 to converse with, she was peculiarly herself, and differed 
 from them as much as day differs from night. On the 
 occasion I have mentioned, she wore a dress of rich 
 green velvet, so made as to display her beautiful neck 
 and exquisitely moulded arms ; each sleeve was grace- 
 fully looped on the shoulder with a large single dia- 
 mond ; her hair was braided short and rolled in thick 
 plaits around her beautifully shaped head, and was 
 fastened behind with a diamond arrow. During the 
 evening she was as lively and gay and lovely as she 
 had ever been in her life. Hastings thought, however, 
 that he detected occasionally, when conversing with 
 3*
 
 30 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 her, an expression of melancholy, if not of unhappi- 
 ness. We leave the reader to say whether or not he 
 was right in his conjectures, as her history is developed 
 in this story. 
 
 The party had ceased dancing, and the bewitching 
 Miss Leighton was seated at the piano. Beside her 
 stood Mr. Belmonte, and two or three other gentlemen. 
 Hastings and Mrs. Belmonte were seated some distance 
 away, engaged in conversation. Miss Leighton sung 
 and played selections from different operas. Her sing- 
 ing and her execution upon the piano were faultless ; 
 or, at least, it would be difficult for an amateur to point 
 out any defects in either; yet there was something 
 wanting to give the proper effect to the words of the 
 music; it might be more of soul, or it might be 
 that the singing and playing were a little, a very little, 
 overdone. Reader, have you not often listened in an 
 opera, when some of the most sublime passages were 
 being sung with seeming perfection of execution, with- 
 out being much affected by the singing ? You could 
 not tell why, but such was the fact. So with Miss 
 Leighton, she sung and played charmingly, yet with- 
 out charming any one into the spirit of the piece. She 
 was rapturously and repeatedly encored, however, and 
 all were unanimous in pronouncing the music enchant- 
 ing. When she had finished playing, Mrs. Belmonte, 
 after some persuasion by her guests, was waited upon 
 to the piano by Mr. Hastings. She first sung and 
 played the beautiful Cavatina, in the opera of Beatrice 
 DP Tenda, commencing, 
 
 " Oh ! divina Agnese tu basteresti a me." 
 
 When she had finished this charming piece, she was 
 greeted with the hearty encores of all in the room ; and 
 during her performance of it, every one had been as
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 31 
 
 still as the grave. There was a soul in her singing, 
 that found sympathy in the hearts of those who listened 
 to her. Hastings was profuse in his praises, and yet so 
 judicious in the use of his language as not to be 
 thought guilty of flattery. She next sung and played 
 the ballad, " The Heart Bowed Down" in the opera of 
 the Bohemian Girl, commencing, 
 
 " The heart bowed down by weight of woe, 
 To weakest hopes will cling." 
 
 When she came to the words, 
 
 " The mind will, in its worst despair, 
 
 Still ponder o'er the past ; 
 On moments of delight, that were 
 Too beautiful to last," 
 
 she threw so much of soul into them, and looked so 
 much the sentiment they express, that Hastings was 
 electrified and enchanted. Both she and the words 
 seemed to carry him back to other and happier days, 
 and awaken memories of the cherished and fondly re- 
 membered past. As she continued, 
 
 " For memory is the only friend, 
 That grief can call its own," 
 
 he stood seemingly lost in thought. When she finished 
 the ballad, and was receiving the usual expressions of 
 approbation and delight, Hastings forgot to join in their 
 praises. He was revisiting, in imagination, the scenes 
 and incidents of his childhood. After they had pro- 
 fusely complimented her performance of the piece, he 
 gave her his arm and handed her to a seat, saying as 
 they passed, so as not to be heard by any one except 
 herself
 
 32 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " Mrs. Belmonte, 1 think ' The Heart Bowed Down ' 
 is a lovely ballad, and I have to thank you for awaken- 
 ing in me an appreciation of it that I never before 
 felt. 
 
 " Your praise, though undeserved, flatters me," said 
 Mrs. Belmonte ; " for, if I am not mistaken, you are fond 
 of music." 
 
 " I never had thought myself passionately fond of it 
 until to-night," said Hastings, smilingly. " I am com- 
 pelled, however, to change my mind now." 
 
 " None of your flattery, Mr. Hastings," said she, evi- 
 dently not displeased at the compliment paid her. She 
 then asked, " Do you like the English, or Italian opera 
 better?" 
 
 " If you limit me to this evening, I must say Eng- 
 lish; but if I am permitted to except this evening, I 
 will say Italian." 
 
 " Again, Mr. Hastings," replied Mrs. Belmonte, " flat- 
 tery is inexcusable in a gentleman." 
 
 " If I have spoken too warmly in praise of your 
 singing," said Hastings, earnestly, "you must blame 
 yourself for it. In future you must sing with less effect, 
 if you would be praised less." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Belmonte, "a truce to the subject 
 now. I see that supper is announced." They were then 
 joined by Mr. Belmonte, with Miss Leighton leaning on 
 . his arm. " Hastings," said he, familiarly, as he came up, 
 "will you and Mrs. Belmonte accompany us to the 
 table ? " Mrs. Belmonte took Hastings's arm, and they, 
 together with the other guests, repaired to the supper 
 room. 
 
 It was about one o'clock at night before all of the 
 party had dispersed. Hastings lingered longer than the 
 rest. During the evening he had conversed more with 
 Mrs. Belmonte than with any other. He was pleased
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 33 
 
 ,nd charmed with her; he knew not why, but she 
 seemed to him like a friend whom he had known for 
 years. He finally took his leave, after promising Mrs. 
 Belmonte to call soon and renew his acquaintance. 
 That night he rode home in deep thought. Memories 
 of other days had been awakened, memories hallowed 
 by their sweet associations, memories of days and 
 events never to be forgotten.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT was the latter part of May. The weather was 
 warm and pleasant. The snowy and frosty robes of 
 winter had been laid aside, and nature, beautiful and 
 lovely nature, was veiled in sunshine and living spring. 
 The smooth waters of the Hudson seemed to smile as 
 they moved lazily along, reflecting the bright sunbeams 
 which rested upon . their surface. Its banks, together 
 with the trees and fields which lined its borders, were 
 green clad, and alive with the " songs of birds and the 
 hum of bees." The robin had returned to its northern 
 home, and had commenced refitting and rebuilding its 
 nest over the window ; the ground-squirrel was frisking 
 playfully about on the dry leaves under the hedges and 
 fences, or was eating a nut while seated in the sun on 
 the stump of a tree ; the atmosphere was freighted with 
 the sweet odor of flowers, and seemed to impart to every 
 living thing the spirit of reverie and of dreams. 
 
 Not far from New York, under a thick cluster of 
 trees on the east bank of the Hudson, sat a little girl 
 busily engaged making a wreath of natural flowers. 
 She was seemingly about six or seven years old ; her 
 rich auburn hair hung carelessly over her face, and fell 
 in curls upon her shoulders; her large blue eyes, con- 
 cealed under her long eyelashes, were intently inspecting 
 the nearly finished wreath. As she sat on her little
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 35 
 
 Btool, with one leg thrown over the other, and with her 
 little fingers busily arranging the flowers in her lap, she 
 said : 
 
 " Now, Rover ! I shall soon have it ready for you." 
 As she said this, a large Newfoundland dog which lay 
 on the grass by her side, hearing his name mentioned, 
 raised his head and looked at her for a moment, but 
 seeing that all was right, and that he was not wanted, 
 he laid his head down again and closed his eyes. When 
 she had completed the wreath she jumped up, and, put- 
 ting her arms round the dog's neck, said : 
 
 " Here, Rover ! get up quick, I 've made a collar for 
 you." The dog got up as requested ; and after some 
 coaxing and petting to keep him still, she succeeded in 
 putting the flowers round his neck. Then bursting 
 into a hearty and joyous laugh, and clapping her little 
 sun-burned* hands, she exclaimed: 
 
 " O Rover ! you look so funny ! " She then laughed 
 again, while Rover, wagging his large bushy tail and 
 dropping his ears, looked as much ashamed as he con- 
 veniently could. But he thought too much of his little 
 mistress to find fault with her, so he only continued to 
 stand still and wag his tail, and look ashamed. She 
 amused herself at Rover's expense for some time, now 
 seating herself on her stool to look at him, then jumping 
 up and arranging the wreath differently, as some new 
 fancy struck her, until Rover, as if feeling that he had 
 afforded her amusement enough for that time, walked 
 diffidently up to her, and stooping his head, licked her 
 hand gently, as much as to say: "please take this off 
 now." The little girl, as if understanding this humble 
 petition of her pet dog, threw her arms round his neck, 
 and hugging him close up to her, said : 
 
 "Dear, good old Rover! you are so funny!" She 
 then removed the flowers, and began to shape them into
 
 36 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 a little work basket, while Rover, seeing that he was no 
 longer wanted to play the harlequin, stretched himself 
 again on the grass. The basket was soon finished, and the 
 little girl seated herself beside the dog as he lay there, 
 and throwing her arm across his shoulder, she laid her 
 head down upon him, and with her hair shrouding her 
 sweet face, fell fast asleep. 
 
 About a hundred yards from where the little girl and 
 Rover lay, a man sat concealed in an underwood and 
 thicket of trees. He had been watching her and the dog 
 attentively for some time, and evidently began to feel 
 impatient ; for no sooner had the little girl fallen asleep, 
 than he, leaving his hiding-place, crept stealthily up to 
 the edge of a little hillock, which lay partly between him 
 and them, and seated himself in a clump of bushes, 
 where he could see them unobserved. He carried a 
 fowling-piece, and in appearance resembled a man who 
 had taken his gun for a few hours' shooting. He kept 
 a diligent look-out on all sides, especially in the direction 
 of a large country residence, not far distant from him. 
 The path that led to the house, and the one which the 
 little girl would probably follow in returning home, 
 wound round the hillock, and passed but a few steps 
 from where the man lay. Once he raised his gun to his 
 shoulder, and aimed it at the dog ; but seeming to change 
 his mind, he took it down again without firing, and 
 remained intently looking at them, as they slept, un- 
 conscious of danger. 
 
 Not far from him in a skiff, closely drawn up under 
 the bank of the river, sat another man, somewhat muf- 
 fled up for the season of the year, apparently engaged 
 in fishing. Occasionally he would turn his eyes anx- 
 iously in the direction of the man with the gun, but 
 seeing no one, he would only mutter a curse and con- 
 tinue to fish. He did not seem to be lucky as a fisher-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 37 
 
 man ; for notwithstanding he had remained in the same 
 place for nearly two hours, with tfook and line thrown 
 out, he had not as yet caught a single minnow. The 
 sun had passed the meridian, and was shedding its hot 
 rays down upon his head without mercy ; but, like his 
 philosophic predecessor Izaak Walton, he continued his 
 piscatory employment without seeming to think of his 
 own personal comfort, and still invited at least a nibble 
 from some straggling swimmer. If it really was his 
 wish to catch fish, he must have been sorely disappointed. 
 But he seemed to have some other object in view; for 
 once, as he turned his eyes to the wood, he exclaimed, in 
 a smothered undertone : " Hang the knave ! why don't 
 he return ? " 
 
 The little girl at length awoke, and rubbing her large 
 blue eyes with her tiny hands, she said : 
 
 " Come, Rover, let us go home." She then took the 
 little basket of flowers which she had made in one hand, 
 and, throwing one arm round the dog's neck, started 
 for home, following the path that wound round the hil- 
 lock. When they came near to the clump of bushes 
 where the man lay concealed, Rover turned his head 
 and uttered a deep growl. This frightened the little 
 girl, and clinging closer than ever to his neck, she looked 
 wildly in the direction which Rover pointed out; but 
 seeing nothing to be alarmed at, she said, " Come on, 
 Rover. You naughty man, how dare you frighten me 
 so ? " She pulled at the dog's neck, but he would not 
 move ; he remained standing with his eyes fixed upon 
 the bushes, and continued to growl angrily. 
 
 " &over, why won't " before she had finished the 
 sentence, the man with the gun rose to his feet and 
 said, in a mild and gentle voice : 
 
 " My little Miss, can you tell me who lives in. that 
 house yonder ? "
 
 38 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 She was too much frightened to answer, she stood 
 clinging to her dog for protection without saying a 
 word. The man was nearly between her and the 
 house ; had it not been for this, she probably" would 
 have run at once for home. " Don't be frightened, my 
 little girl, I will not harm you," said the man, blandly, as 
 he advanced a few steps towards her. " Can you tell me 
 who lives in that beautiful house ? " 
 
 " Grandpapa, please sir," answered she, falteringly. 
 Rover ^now showed such evident signs of displeasure 
 that the man stopped, afraid to go nearer, and com- 
 menced trying to coax him into a better humor, but all 
 to no purpose. The little girl, as if aided by instinct, 
 said: 
 
 " Don't come near Rover, please, sir ; he will bite 
 you." The man with the gun seemed to be of the 
 same opinion ; for he remained standing where he was, 
 trying to allay her fears, and to appease the wrath of the 
 dog. 
 
 " Please, sir, I want to go home," said she, as the 
 tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " Won't you stop and talk with me a moment ? I 
 have something very pretty to show you," said he. 
 
 " No, sir. I must go home to grandpapa." The 
 tears were now running down her cheeks, and she stood 
 trembling, with her large blue eyes turned imploringly 
 upon the man before her. She hesitated a moment, 
 then stepping timidly forward, with her arm still round 
 the dog's neck, she said : 
 
 " I am sure Rover will bite you, sir." Indeed Rover 
 began to show such symptoms of anger, as he stepped 
 forward with his mistress, that the man walked a little 
 further away from the path. As he did so the little girl 
 passed by where he stood, and ran hastily along the path 
 towards the house. Rover, slower in his pace, and with
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 39 
 
 his head turned towards the man continually, followed 
 her, and saw her safely enter her grandpapa's door. 
 
 The man with the gun, seeming perplexed at this turn 
 of affairs, stood looking in the direction of the house for 
 a moment, then turning, he quickly passed out of sight 
 and descended the bank to the river where the man sat 
 in the skiff fishing. 
 
 " You stupid fool ! " said the fisherman, when he came 
 up, " why have you come back here alone ? " Michael 
 Merle, for it was no other than he, sprang into the skiff 
 and answered the question, so politely put to him, by re- 
 lating all that had occurred. This he did hurriedly. 
 When he had finished, he added : 
 
 " But we must not remain longer here we may be 
 discovered." 
 
 " W 7 hat if we are discovered ? " replied the other. 
 " Have I not a right to fish in this river ? and have you 
 not a right to shoot upon its banks if you like the 
 sport ? " Then, as if suddenly recollecting the charac- 
 ter of the man he was with, he asked : 
 
 " Where could we conceal ourselves, if we wished 
 it?" 
 
 " There is a little cove about a mile above here, on 
 the other side of the river," answered Merle ; " we could 
 remain there undiscovered until nightfall." 
 
 " Pull for it at once, then," replied the other. 
 
 Walter Belmonte, the fisherman, was undecided as to 
 what should be done next. He did not like to lose 
 sight of Merle until his object was accomplished ; yet 
 he kiiew not what to do. It was growing late; the 
 little girl had been so frightened, he thought, that she 
 would not venture out alone again that day. He was 
 not disheartened, however, at this failure of his plans ; 
 for," said he to himself, " it is all for the best, perhaps, 
 for there are so many vessels passing and repassing, that
 
 40 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 it would have been difficult to conceal her and escape 
 undetected." They at length reached the cove, and, 
 pulling the skiff close up under the projecting rocks, they 
 remained sitting in it in silence for some time. Bel- 
 monte, disguised as much as it was possible for him to 
 be in such a situation, and looking as much unlike 
 himself as he well could, sat in the stem of the skiff 
 engaged, seemingly, in deep thought. The sun had 
 already disappeared behind the western horizon, and 
 darkness thick darkness shrouded these two men 
 in its folds, as they sat in silence in their hiding-place. 
 Not a ripple disturbed the smooth surface of the river ; 
 all was still and dark and gloomy. At length Bel- 
 monte raised his head and asked : 
 
 " Can you kill that dog with poison between this 
 and Saturday night ? " Merle answered, laconically : 
 
 " I think I can." 
 
 " Do so, then," said Belmonte, " and so secretly as not 
 to be discovered by any one." 
 
 " I understand," replied Merle. 
 
 " You had better give him the poison early in the 
 evening ; he will then be dead before morning, and no 
 one will suspect the cause." 
 
 " It shall be done as you suggest," replied Merle. 
 
 " I will meet you at this place," said Belmonte, after 
 thinking a moment, " on Saturday night. I shall ex- 
 pect to find you here a little after dark." 
 
 " You shall not be disappointed, sir," said Merle. 
 They then rowed out of the little cove, and passed to 
 the opposite side of the river, where Belmonte took 
 leave of his accomplice and returned to the city. Bel- 
 monte began already to reap the fruits of evil-doing. 
 He had placed himself, as he feared, in the power of 
 Merle his first plan had failed his mind was troubled 
 he was unhappy.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 41 
 
 Merle, left to himself and his own dark thoughts, rowed 
 out into the current of the tide, and dropped down the 
 river. As he did so, he muttered : " This is a bad busi- 
 ness I have no heart for it. Were I asked to take the 
 life of a grown up man, it would be quite another 
 thing ; but this little blue-eyed angel ! she looked at me 
 so pleadingly that my heart almost failed me. There 
 is some deep villany planned against her, I will war- 
 rant. There is more wickedness concealed under rich 
 broadcloth than is dreamed of by the common herd. I 
 will wager my life that he whom I have just left is a 
 most precious villain. If I thought that he intended to 
 murder the child, I would go no further in the business. 
 Blow me, if I wouldn't desert at once ! " He remained 
 thinking a moment, and then said : " I am too deep in 
 the matter to recede. Why should I be so chicken- 
 hearted ? No ! I will go forward I will be true to 
 my trust." When he had descended the river about a 
 mile, he turned the skiff towards the Jersey shore, and 
 soon drew up near a small cottage under the high 
 wall of rocks known as the Palisades. A flickering 
 light shone from the gable window, which indicated 
 that the house was tenanted. It was but one story 
 high, and did not differ in appearance from the many 
 houses which line the Hudson. Merle fastened his skiff 
 and walked cautiously up to the door of the hut, and 
 knocked once, twice, thrice. He then, after standing 
 a moment, repeated the knock, but in a different 
 way. At this signal an old woman came to a little 
 side window, and opening it, said : " Who the divil 
 are you, that have come to disturb a lone crater like 
 mysel, at this hour o' the night ? " When she had fin- 
 ished this long sentence, and had stopped to refill her 
 speaking apparatus for a second fire, Merle said, in a 
 4*
 
 42 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 low voice, " Aunt Judy, is all safe ? " These words 
 were electrical in their effect ; for she dropped the win- 
 dow, and unbolting the door hastily, said, as she seized 
 Merle by the hand with both of hers : " Faith, Robin, 
 and is it you, lad ? By the Holy Powers ! I thought 
 you were niver corning back any more. Be sated, 
 acushla be sated, and tell Aunt Judy where you 've 
 been this long, long while past." 
 
 " I have no time to talk now, Aunt Judy," said Merle, 
 almost tenderly. 
 
 " By St. Patrick ! but I 've waited for you long, and 
 niver for a moment have I stopped feeling unasy for 
 you; and you are safe, Robin," said the old woman, 
 as she stood by his side, all smiles. " The Holy Vargin 
 be praised! " As she said this, she crossed herself; then, 
 taking a chair, she seated herself close by Merle, and 
 looked at him as though her eyes feasted upon what 
 she saw. 
 
 " I have no time now, Aunt Judy, to spend here," 
 said Merle ; " but to-morrow night I will talk with 
 you." 
 
 " God bless you, Robin, for saying so. To-morrow 
 night to-morrow night," muttered the old woman. 
 " I wish it was to-morrow night now. You know best, 
 but I think you might talk to a lone, lorn crater like me 
 a wee while the night," 
 
 " No, Aunt Judy ; I want you to get me the keys," 
 replied Merle, rising from his chair. 
 
 " But, honey, to-morrow night you must be here 
 sure," said the old woman. She then got up, and, 
 opening a trap-door, descended into the cellar. She 
 soon returned, bringing with her a large bundle of keys, 
 which she gave to Merle, saying : " There they are, 
 ahag-ar, as safe as the day you left them with me." 
 Merle took the keys, blinded the windows, .double-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 43 
 
 locked the door, and then, lighting a dark lantern, passed 
 through the trap-door and descended the stairs. As 
 soon as he was at the bottom he lighted a candle, and 
 commenced removing some stones which seemed to be 
 a part of the cellar wall. He soon came to a large 
 stone slab hung on hinges ; this he unlocked, and with 
 some difficulty crept through the opening which it 
 made, on his hands and knees. He then pushed the 
 door to, and locking it descended three stairs, and fol- 
 lowed a narrow passage which led to another door, sim- 
 ilar to, but larger than the one just mentioned. This 
 opened into a large room, walled apparently by natural 
 rocks. A current of air passed through it continually, 
 caused by a passage-way leading from either side of 
 the cave to the edge of the rocks, and so ingeniously 
 concealed as to prevent being seen by any one. Forges 
 were built in the walls of the cave, and various tools 
 and instruments for counterfeiting money lay scattered 
 about on the floor. A small chest stood at one side, and 
 on the other there was a table on which lay piles of 
 counterfeit bank-notes. Merle, when he entered, glanced 
 hastily around the room, and then went to the chest, 
 and unlocking, took from it after some rummaging 
 among different articles a small paper parcel. He 
 then opened two or three small bags, containing either 
 real or counterfeit gold coin, and examined them. " All 
 is right," said he, as he replaced them in the chest, and 
 locked it. He then left the cave by the passage which 
 he had entered, and returned to the house. 
 
 " Aunt Judy," said he, as soon as he had closed the 
 trap-door, " can you give me a piece of fresh meat ? " 
 
 " Yes, darlint, and cook it well for you besides, sure." 
 " I do not wish it cooked," replied Merle. The old 
 woman stared at him as he said this, but asking no 
 questions, went and got the slice of meat. Merle took
 
 44 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 it left the house returned to his skiff, and rowed to 
 the opposite side of the river, and accomplished, after 
 some difficulty, the mission which Belmonte had in- 
 trusted to him. 
 
 Michael Merle, as I will for the present call him, was 
 a man about the middle size and height, and seemingly 
 about thirty years old. He was dark complexioned, 
 had black hair and eyes, and was firmly built. He 
 had received a collegiate education, was polished 
 in his manners, when he wished to be, and withal was 
 quite handsome. He never had been indicted for crime 
 but once, and then the charge was so lame and so 
 poorly sustained, that every one thought him a perse- 
 cuted man. At the time I have introduced him into 
 this story, he lived in New York, and had been residing 
 there for several years. He was naturally a brave, gen- 
 erous, kind-hearted man; but all honorable motives 
 seemed to have been forever blotted out of his naturally 
 noble nature. The causes which induced his present 
 mode of life, together with his earlier history, will be 
 more fully developed in due time. Merle did not 
 mingle much in society, although he lived, if not in 
 affluence, yet with many of the appendages of wealth. 
 His position, among those who knew him, was that of 
 a man whose income enabled him to live in independ- 
 ence. His lady acquaintances used frequently to won- 
 der why he alwaya wore such a melancholy expression 
 of countenance, and why he went so seldom into society. 
 Michael Merle was the name he had assumed for trans- 
 acting business with his unknown correspondent, Hast- 
 ings, and was known to be so by Hastings, but not 
 by Belmonte. He was known in New York by his 
 real name, Robin Moulton. He had three accomplices 
 in crime, one the old beldam already mentioned, the 
 other two were men whom he had never seen, and who
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 45 
 
 knew nothing of him, except through his correspondence. 
 One lived in New Orleans, the other in Baltimore. 
 His only business with them was to furnish them with 
 counterfeit money, and receive a stipulated share of the 
 proceeds of the money put into circulation. All other 
 transactions he conducted himself, unassisted by any 
 one, except the old woman aforesaid. With this out- 
 line of Michael Merle, (for I will still call him by his 
 assumed name,) let me proceed with this history. 
 
 The next morning after the incidents described in 
 this chapter, when the little girl's grandpapa, as she 
 called him, opened the front door, he saw lying there his 
 favorite dog, Rover, dead. His head was lying against 
 the door, as if in his last moments of life he had tried to 
 acquaint his little mistress with his sufferings. The 
 old grayheaded man, as he looked at Rover, could not 
 refrain from tears. " How," thought he, " can I impart the 
 news to little Flora ?" (that was the child's name). "Her 
 tender heart will break when she sees her pet dog, 
 her companion and playfellow, ' her dear, poor, good 
 old Rover,' as she always calls him." As he stood leaning 
 over the dog, not knowing what to do, and with the 
 tears coursing down his wrinkled cheeks, Flora in her 
 morning dishabille, and with her hair carelessly covering 
 her beautiful face, came to the door where her grand- 
 papa was standing. The moment she saw the dog lying 
 dead, she exclaimed wildly : 
 
 " O grandpapa ! Who has killed my poor Rover ? " 
 Then, throwing herself upon the dead body, she burst into 
 an uncontrollable fit of crying. Her sobs touched the 
 old man's heart, and he too joined her in her expres- 
 sions of grief. That day was one of deep mourning in 
 that house. A grave was dug for Rover on the little 
 hillock, where the day before little Flora had made him 
 a wreath of flowers. At the close of the day, just as
 
 46 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 the sun was sinking behind the western hills, Flora and 
 her grandpapa followed their pet dog, as he was earned 
 in a beautiful coffin to his burial-place. They walked 
 in silence, hand in hand, filled with thoughts of sorrow 
 and of mourning for the lost one. When they came 
 to the grave, Flora placed a wreath of flowers, which 
 she had made, round Rover's neck, bathed as they were 
 with her tears. The coffin was then gently lowered, 
 and she scattered flowers upon it, until it was nearly 
 covered. " Good-by, Rover ! " she then said, while the 
 bitter tears filled her large blue eyes ; " good-by ! I will 
 meet you up in the stars sometime, for grandpapa says 
 so." The old man, with his handkerchief to his eyes, 
 then took Flora's hand in his, and they returned to the 
 house. That night, when the old man read a chapter 
 in the Bible and kneeled in prayer, his usual custom be- 
 fore retiring to bed, little Flora, with her arms locked 
 round his arm, and with her head resting against it, 
 listened more attentively to what he said than she had 
 ever done before. When he prayed that the Lord 
 would temper the wind to the shorn lamb, she 
 wondered what he meant; and when he had finished 
 praying and .had seated himself in his arm-chair, she 
 climbed upon his knee, and, turning her blue eyes 
 reverently up into his face, asked : 
 
 " Grandpapa, what did you mean by praying that the 
 Lord would temper the wind to the shorn lamb ? " 
 
 The tears stole into the old man's eyes, as he an- 
 swered : 
 
 " God, my dear child, has promised to take care of 
 little lambs, and protect and keep them in the cold and 
 wintry weather. You know that little lambs have not 
 thick coats of wool like the grown up sheep ; that is 
 why God has promised to take care of them. So God, 
 my child, has promised to take care of little children,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 47 
 
 and comfort them when in trouble. He sees us and 
 knows all about us. He knows when we are happy, 
 and when we are in trouble. You, darling, are to-day 
 like a shorn lamb. You are in trouble ; but the Lord 
 sees you, and will take care of you." The old man 
 stopped speaking, but little Flora still looked him 
 earnestly in the face. When they had sat thus in 
 silence a few moments, she said : 
 
 " God is very good, is n't he, grandpapa ? " 
 
 " Yes, Flora, he is good, and we should love him." 
 
 " I do love God very much, grandpapa." Then, 
 after intently thinking for a moment, she asked : 
 
 " Grandpapa, if God thinks of little lambs, won't he 
 think of poor Rover too ? " 
 
 " Yes, darling, he thinks of all things." 
 
 " You told me, grandpapa, that poor Rover had gone 
 up among the stars. Do little lambs go up there too, 
 when they die ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my child," answered the old man, 
 with the tears still filling his eyes. 
 
 After conversing in this way for some time, Flora 
 went to her bed, and weeping herself to sleep, dreamed 
 of her lost and loved pet, Rover. 
 
 The next morning early, the old man and Flora 
 visited the grave. Flora planted several flowers about 
 and upon it, and spent a long time in decorating and 
 fitting it up. In the afternoon of the same day she 
 stole away without the knowledge of her grandpapa, 
 and visited Rover's grave again, and continued to work 
 about,, and adorn it. Before she left, she kneeled on 
 the grave, and closing her little hands, raised them be- 
 fore her, saying : " O God ! please temper the wind 
 to the little lambs, and keep poor Rover until I come." 
 
 Behind the little hillock, and in the same thicket of 
 trees before mentioned, lay Michael Merle. He saw
 
 48 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 little Flora as she kneeled on the grave, and as she 
 walked along the path close by him. " I could take her 
 now," thought he ; but his heart failed him. She 
 walked by him unconscious of danger. The Lord had 
 charge of her. The day previous, Merle, seated in the 
 same place, had witnessed the burial of the dog. He 
 had gone there to learn the result of the poison which 
 he had, the night before, administered to Rover. 
 
 On Saturday night, at the appointed time, Belmonte 
 met Merle at the cove. He there learned what had 
 been done, and, putting a purse of money into Merle's 
 hand, said : 
 
 " It will not do to carry out our plans now. You 
 will be informed by letter, in the usual address, of all 
 future arrangements. Keep yourself in readiness to act 
 upon short notice. Until you hear from me again, 
 good-by." 
 
 They parted, Belmonte to return to the city, and 
 Merle to go back to the cottage where he had left Aunt 
 Judy.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WE must once more, kind reader, go back about 
 seven or eight years. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning in the latter part of 
 August. The sun had just risen a little way above the 
 eastern hills, and was shedding its genial rays over the 
 city of Cork and the surrounding country. The banks 
 of the river Lee, so picturesque, variegated, and beautiful, 
 seemed to embrace each sunbeam, and add to it a softer 
 hue from their own effulgent loveliness. Intermingled 
 with green-clad hills and shady vales, here in sunshine 
 and there in perpetual shade, the waters of this unique 
 and classic river lent a charm to their enchanting and 
 lovely inclosures. The antiquated castles which lay in 
 ruins on its banks, together with the many churches 
 and mansions, surrounded by forests of trees and pleas- 
 ure-grounds, and imbosomed in their deep green fo- 
 liage, all were looking as beautiful and charming on 
 the morning I have mentioned as it were possible for 
 them to look. The stillness which reigned around 
 was now and then broken by a passing boat to or from 
 Queenstown, filled with passengers, listening, as they 
 looked out on the witching scenery, to the dulcet 
 music of a violin or flageolet. There was a fairy-like 
 influence pervading the whole atmosphere, which took 
 5 ()
 
 50 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 possession of the senses, and made one feel as if in the 
 land of romance and dreams. It was about ten o'clock 
 on the said morning, when an elegant chariot drawn 
 by four white horses, with postilions in light blue 
 jackets and black caps, drew up before the door of a 
 little church in one of the delightful villages on the 
 banks of the Lee. The door was opened and the steps 
 let down by a liveried lackey, when a young man, tall, 
 slight, and of a distingv.6 appearance, alighted, and, in 
 company with a man not quite his own height, passed 
 into the open door of the church. He wore a black 
 cloth morning coat, white vest beautifully embroidered, 
 white neck tie, and light pantaloons. To the peasantry 
 who had assembled about the door, and who touched 
 their ragged caps to him as he passed, he threw a hand- 
 ful of silver coin, and received the usual " God bless 
 you ! " He had not been in the church long, when three 
 carriages drove up to the door. From one of them a 
 young lady alighted, wearing a white satin dress cov- 
 ered with rich lace. A veil of the same lace hung in 
 graceful folds almost to her feet. Her head was en- 
 circled by a wreath of orange blossoms, intertwined 
 with water lilies. She was a blonde tall, graceful, 
 and had a beautiful though melancholy countenance. 
 Her eyes were large, and as soft and mellow in their 
 expression as a zephyr morning in May. Accompa- 
 nying her were three young ladies about her own age, 
 dressed in white. They were followed by two elderly 
 gentlemen and their wives, and by four or five young 
 persons of both sexes. When the young lady entered 
 the church, she with her three attendants passed up the 
 aisle to the communion table, where the young man and 
 his companion stood awaiting them. Immediately a 
 venerable man with gray hair, wearing a surplice of 
 snowy white, opened a book and commenced reading, in
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 51 
 
 a deep, clear voice, the marriage ceremony. When he 
 came to that part where the minister asks the bride- 
 groom, " If he will have this woman, " etc., he looked the 
 young man in the face and said : " William Hast- 
 ings, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, 
 to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate 
 of matrimony ? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor 
 and keep her, in sickness and in health ; and, forsaking 
 all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both 
 shall live ? " The young man, without raising his eyes 
 and with a troubled expression of countenance, fal- 
 tered out, " I will." The bride seemed equally unhappy. 
 She looked as though her heart did not enter into the 
 response which she feebly and tremblingly uttered. As 
 they stood with joined hands before the altar, each 
 seemed lost in thought, and indifferent to the solemni- 
 ties of the occasion. At length the ceremony was 
 concluded, by the minister saying : . " William Hastings 
 and Ida Linwood, I pronounce you man and wife." 
 The congratulations of friends over, William Hastings 
 handed his bride into the chariot and drove away, 
 amid the thankful cheers of the villagers. As they 
 passed along on their way to Cork, under the thick 
 shade of the tall trees that line the road, and beside the 
 high, gray old walls that inclose the different demesnes, 
 they spoke not a word, neither did they cease to look 
 the embodiment of unhappiness. 
 
 They soon entered the city, followed by the three 
 carriages before mentioned, and drew up at the " Impe- 
 rial Hotel." A few days subsequent to the wedding just 
 described, William Hastings was walking with his 
 young bride in the " Groves of Blarney? They had 
 visited this celebrated spot to dissipate the ennui which 
 they both felt while shut up in the city. It was a lovely 
 morning. The groves, together with the little flower-
 
 52 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 garden at the entrance to them, were lovely, smiling, 
 bright, beautiful. What a contrast were they to the 
 gloomy thoughts of Hastings and his wife! Hastings 
 had known Ida Linwood from his childhood. She was 
 an only daughter, and heiress to a large estate. He was 
 an only son. He had long known that his father in- 
 tended to have him marry her. Indeed, their union had 
 been agreed upon by their respective parents while they 
 were children. This fact, of itself, had made Hastings 
 cold and reserved to her. He never had made her his 
 confidante, never had been his frank and generous self 
 when in her society. He respected and esteemed her ; 
 he appreciated her many excellent qualities of mind and 
 heart ; but he did not love he did not wish to marry 
 her. When they had walked for some time in the 
 groves, they seated themselves on a little mossy knoll. 
 
 " This," commenced Hastings, " is the fairiest spot 
 that I have ever visited ; but how little do we enjoy its 
 sylvan beauties." 
 
 " It is certainly a lovely place," said Mrs. Hastings, 
 replying only to the first part of his observation. 
 
 " Ida," continued Hastings, in a mild and kind voice, 
 "we have done very wrong in marrying. We are 
 neither of us happy." He waited a moment as^jf ex- 
 pecting her to reply ; but she remained silwit and thought- 
 ful. " You," continued Hastings, " love another I have 
 long known it he is worthy of your best affections." 
 Again he paused, as if wishing her to speak, but she 
 continued silent, with her eyes resting upon the ground. 
 " We have obeyed the commands of our unfeeling and 
 unnatural parents," resumed he, " and have made our- 
 selves unhappy for the remainder of our li ves. If it 
 were to do over again, I would put an end to my life, 
 rather than consent to be the cause of your misery. I 
 never shall love my father again."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 53 
 
 " William," said Mrs. Hastings, in a voice full of 
 sweetness, "you are very noble-hearted. I am sorry, 
 for your sake, that we have been the unwilling instru- 
 ments in the hands of others to accomplish our own 
 unhappiness. I do not blame you. I will as far as 
 possible be a true and faithful wife to you." 
 
 There was so much gentleness in her words, and 
 such a spirit of resignation to what seemed to be her 
 fate, that Hastings more than ever regretted that he 
 had been made the cause of her sorrow. 
 
 " Ida," he said, when she had finished, " I appreciate 
 your feelings, and though I cannot promise you the love 
 that you should have from a husband, I will try to be 
 kind and good to you." 
 
 " I cannot expect more than that," answered she, ten- 
 derly. 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Hastings, passionately, " did we 
 consent to the domineering tyrants ! They knew that 
 they were sealing our unhappiness, and yet they per- 
 sisted in their tyranny, and all, that the family of 
 Charles Linwood might be allied to that of Richard 
 Hastings ! I shall never respect, I fear I shall hate 
 them both, as long as I live ! " 
 
 " Do not say so, William, they are our fathers, 
 they are wiser than we." 
 
 They conversed in this confidential way for more 
 than an hour. Never before had they been so frank and 
 open-hearted to each other. A sympathy had been 
 awakened between them, a sympathy which, had they 
 been -strangers, would probably have ended in love. 
 They at length left the groves, and inspected the old 
 castle which stands near them, then, after crossing the 
 field to the little lake, they returned to the city. The 
 two families, Linwood and Hastings, had been travel- 
 5*
 
 54 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 ling in Europe for more than a year. They had gone 
 into the south of Ireland to visit the lakes of Killarney, 
 and the many other celebrated places which characterize 
 that part of the island. While they were at Cork, the 
 father of young Hastings received intelligence of such 
 a nature from his home in Mississippi, as to require his 
 immediate return to America. He could not leave, 
 however, until he had seen his darling object consum- 
 mated. He at once, therefore, used all his influence, 
 together with his commands, to gain the consent of his 
 son to the marriage, before he should depart for home. 
 He had gained his unwilling consent, he had wit- 
 nessed their union, he was satisfied. As he was about 
 starting for home, he advised his son to repair to Paris, 
 as soon as convenient, and remain there with his wife for 
 a year or more. He hoped that the gayety of that me- 
 tropolis of fashion would at length dissipate their 
 unhappiness, and reconcile them to their marriage. 
 
 Days passed on. Hastings' father had left for Amer- 
 ica, in company with Mr. and Mrs. Linwood. He and 
 his wife had gone to the lakes of Killarney. They 
 visited every point of interest in the vicinity of the 
 lakes, and as much as possible gave their minds up to 
 the charms and delights of the picturesque beauties of 
 these world-wide celebrities. One day, when they had 
 returned to their hotel from a visit to " Tore Water- 
 fall " and " Muckross Abbey," a waiter handed a letter 
 to Mr. Hastings, directed to Ida Linwood. On his 
 arrival at the hotel, he had given orders to have any let- 
 ters with that address that might come there sent to 
 his rooms. As soon as he saw the direction, he handed 
 it to Mrs. Hastings. She glanced at the writing, and at 
 once recognizing it, turned deadly pale. Hastings saw 
 her agitation and said, in a mild voice : 
 
 " Ida, compose yourself why do you tremble so ? "
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 55 
 
 She soon became more calm, and said : 
 " William, do you know whom this is from ? " 
 " I think I do," replied he ; " but why don't you open 
 and read it ? " 
 
 " Ought I to read it now ? " asked she. 
 " Why not ? " said Hastings. " What harm can there 
 be in your reading Mr. Moulton's letters ? He is in- 
 capable of a dishonorable action. I hope you do not 
 think that I could be guilty of any thing so unworthy a 
 gentleman as it would be to deny you the privilege of 
 reading it. He has written it in all honor, he does not 
 know of your marriage, he does not dream of it. He 
 is your rightful lover, I do not object to your reading 
 his letters." Mrs. Hastings then with a trembling hand 
 broke the seal, and read a letter, from which I extract 
 the following : 
 
 " DEAREST IDA : I am sitting here under the grape- 
 vine bower of your old home, where we have passed so 
 many happy hours. Your last dear and precious letter 
 from Paris I have just finished reading for the hun- 
 dredth time. All its sweet words recall you to me in 
 imagination, and I am again sitting by your side as in 
 times past. But when I look around me, I am reminded 
 of your absence. This lovely arbor, which now shades 
 me, and which will forever be associated with the happy 
 past, has gone much to decay, Ida. The flowers which 
 once grew so lovely under your care have faded and 
 died. Your spirit is wanting, to give life and beauty to 
 what., I see. I have come here for the first time since 
 
 we parted. I have just returned from College 
 
 with my diploma, and, before visiting home, I have 
 stopped here to re-read your letter, and commune with 
 the many happy by-gones of this dear old place. 
 
 "You speak, dearest Ida, of the many fine things
 
 56 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 which you have seen in that most beautiful of all cities. 
 You write, ' I have just returned from a visit to the 
 Louvre, where, in company with my father and William 
 Hastings, I have passed nearly the whole morning in 
 admiring some beautiful paintings of the oldest mas- 
 ters.' 
 
 " I am glad, Ida, to know that such opportunities for 
 improvement and pleasure are afforded you. Yet you 
 have mentioned a name for which I have formed a dis- 
 like, not from any fault of him who bears it, but . . . 
 
 " Since I commenced this letter, I laid down on this 
 bench, where we have so often sat, and fell asleep. I 
 dreamed, dearest Ida, that you were again with me, 
 again I saw those happy smiles, again I listened to 
 those sweet, kind words, as in the olden time. Happy 
 memories ! Thrice, and forever welcome ! It is in 
 them that I li ve and have hope ! I often dream of you, 
 Ida, and I can say with another, 
 
 1 In my slumbers I'm blest, for thy spirit is o'er, 
 To keep watch while I rest, and thy presence restore : 
 I awake, and alas ! the glad vision has flown, 
 'T was only a dream, I 'm alone all alone ! ' 
 
 Forever thine, 
 
 ROBIN MOULTON." 
 
 "When Mrs. Hastings finished - reading it, she handed 
 it to her husband, without trying to conceal the tears 
 that were stealing down her cheeks. 
 
 " My dear," said he, declining to take it, " I cannot 
 read it. I see the superscription, and can judge what 
 are its contents." " To-morrow," continued he, " we are 
 to visit the Gap of Dunloe,' and as we shall be unac- 
 companied by any one, except our guide, we will talk
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 57 
 
 more on this subject; until then, let us say no more 
 about it." Thus ended the subject of the letter for that 
 day. The ifext day Mr. and Mrs. Hastings drove to the 
 Gap of Dunloe. When they had gone through this 
 mountain pass, and were walking down to the " Upper 
 Lake," a distance of nearly two miles, Hastings said : 
 
 " Ida, I have been thinking of what we were speaking 
 yesterday. You must not cease to correspond with Mr. 
 Moulton. I have concluded to leave for the continent 
 in a few days. When I have been there a short time 
 I will report myself as dead ; and so ingeniously will I 
 do it, that no one will think of discrediting it. You then 
 can return to America and explain all to your lover, and 
 I am sure he will continue to think of you -as he ever 
 has done. In due time you can marry him and be happy, 
 as you deserve to be. You may rely upon my honor, 
 and know that no one of my acquaintances and friends 
 will ever have reason to disbelieve the reports which I 
 will put in circulation concerning my death." 
 
 Mrs. Hastings could not think of having her husband 
 leave her. She, from admiring his noble nature, already 
 began to love him. Yes, reader, strange as it may ap- 
 pear, she had begun to love Hastings. She did not 
 know the fact, she still believed herself devoted to 
 another. To his proposition she answered : 
 
 " No, William ! I cannot consent to part with you. 
 You are noble-hearted, and I fear that I never have 
 appreciated your worth. I cannot tell why, William," 
 she said, looking up at him with a countenance of inex- 
 pressible tenderness, and pressing his arm gently to her, 
 " but I feel that I should be very unhappy should you 
 leave me. You will not go, will you ? " she inquired, 
 earnestly. 
 
 " But," replied he, " your heart is unalterably another's.
 
 58 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 You never have you never can you never ought to 
 love me as well, as truly, as you love Robin Moulton." 
 
 " I know that," innocently replied she -- " Yet you 
 must not leave me ; I shall be very miserable and 
 unhappy if you do." 
 
 They had now reached the beautiful little grove at 
 the end of the upper lake, and, seating themselves in 
 the shade near the little cottage that stands on the 
 bank, they talked long and frankly of all their plans 
 and troubles. 
 
 When they had finished, and had seated themselves 
 in the little boat, Hastings, looking troubled and un- 
 happy, said to himself, " I believe I have unwittingly 
 won her affections. She loves me." Then, with a 
 countenance which seemed to look far into the future, 
 he continued : " Moulton, in thy horoscope I read a 
 life of trouble and disappointed hopes. And am I not 
 the cause ? surely, 
 
 ' There 's a divinity shapes our ends, 
 Rough hew them as we will.' " 
 
 They were gliding along on the smooth surface of 
 the upper lake, looking out on the high and abutting 
 mountains, when Mrs. Hastings, in a low, confidential 
 tone, said : " William, it would not be right for me to 
 correspond with him longer. I shall never write him 
 again." 
 
 " Consider, my dear," replied he ; " when he wrote 
 you last, he knew nothing of our marriage. You should 
 answer that letter at least ; and I know no reason why 
 you should not continue to write him." 
 
 " But," replied Mrs. Hastings, " pleasant as it would 
 be to write him, I am now your wife, and must comport 
 myself as such. Your honw demands that I should
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 59 
 
 not write him again, or in any other way compromise 
 you as a gentleman." 
 
 " Well, Ida," answered Hastings, " do in this as you 
 like ; but I think my honor is already so much compro- 
 mised, if indeed I ever possessed any, that a letter to 
 one so worthy as he, and to one whom I have so much 
 wronged, will do me no injury, neither will it compro- 
 mise my character." Mrs. Hastings thought differently; 
 and, without dreaming that she loved Moulton less, she 
 resolved never to write to him again. She knew that 
 he would hear of her marriage on her father's arrival 
 home, and that would explain to him her silence. In 
 a few short weeks she resolved, voluntarily, to do what 
 she would have thought impossible a little while before. 
 Thus do we change without knowing it. Our minds 
 are moulded by situation and circumstance ; every 
 day they are receiving new impressions new ideas are 
 forming new hopes are awakened new loves 
 new hates new every thing and thus will it be to 
 the end of time. 
 
 They had been at Killarney some weeks, and were 
 only remaining there longer to witness the great " stag 
 hunt," that was advertised to come off on the twenty- 
 ninth of September. It was to inaugurate the hunting 
 season. The lord-lieutenant of Ireland was expected 
 to be present, to give eclat to the occasion. For days 
 and weeks before the time appointed, nothing else was 
 talked of. The hunt the hunt was in everybody's 
 mouth. Parties of ladies and gentlemen, who did not 
 intend^ joining in the chase, were organizing and prepar- 
 ing to witness the sport from the lakes. Boats were being 
 fitted up and gayly decorated, all was bustle, hurry, 
 and excitement. To Mr. and Mrs. Hastings the specta- 
 cle promised to be a novel one. They had witnessed 
 several fox-hunts, steeple-chases, etc., but never a stag-
 
 60 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 hunt, much less an annual one, to which the nobility 
 and gentry of the whole kingdom would repair. The 
 long looked for day at length dawned upon the little 
 village of Killarney. Ireland's governor was there, to- 
 gether with hundreds of officers and country gentlemen. 
 All was life, glitter, and gayety. Young men and old, 
 in their red coats and hunting-caps, were riding here 
 and there about the village, and leaving in small parties 
 for the hunting ground. Some of Ireland's and Eng- 
 land's most lovely daughters were there too, mounted 
 upon their blooded hunters, and, with the grace and bold- 
 ness of a Die Vernon, were galloping away, chaperoned 
 by gay gentlemen, to join in the general and glorious 
 chase. A little while, and they had assembled on the 
 the ground, the master of the hounds, the whipper-in, 
 and all. The stag, beautifully decorated with ribbons, 
 was let loose. He bounded away a few hundred yards, 
 and then stopping, threw his head proudly aloft, and 
 turned it with its large antlers hurriedly from side to 
 side, as if to choose his course. A moment, and only a 
 moment, did he stand ; then with an agile bound he 
 sped away across the fields, looking the personifica- 
 tion of grace and pride, and was soon out of sight. 
 The dogs were then let loose, and the general chase 
 commenced. Away they went at the first yelp of the 
 hounds, horses, riders, and all in hot pursuit. Some 
 of the maddened steeds unseated their riders at the first 
 fence, and galloped wildly across the fields, others, 
 too excited for careful fencing, fell in the first ditch ; 
 but the masses, the army of red-coats, galloped swiftly 
 on, leaping hedges, ditches, and walls, and following 
 closely the hounds and the whipper-in. 
 
 The stag, at length, wearied and too closely pursued 
 for his personal comfort, made for the water. Antici- 
 pating this, the lakes were dotted with beautiful boats
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 61 
 
 filled with gay and joyous parties, anxiously looking 
 out in the direction where they heard the deep baying 
 of the dogs. Soon they saw him bounding down the 
 side of the mountain towards them. Up went their 
 shouts and cheers, amid the waving of handkerchiefs 
 and the clapping of hands. He soon plunged into the 
 lake, and swam rapidly to the other side, leaving the 
 dogs far behind. The chase was nearly finished ; for, 
 tired and exhausted, the stag, after a little while, kept 
 in the water as his only hope of safety. The hunters 
 soon came up, and amid the most intense excitement, 
 the proud stag was captured. The dogs were called 
 off, and his life was saved. The day's sport had ended, 
 and spectators and hunters returned to the village. 
 
 Among the many visitors at Killarney was a young 
 Englishman by the name of Collingwood. He had 
 come there with his wife and little boy, three years old, 
 to witness the hunt. Imagine his pleasant surprise 
 when he met his old friend and college mate, William 
 Hastings. He had been educated in America by his 
 parents, and while at college had made the acquaint- 
 ance of Hastings, and, though two classes in advance 
 of him, a strong attachment had sprung up between 
 them, and a correspondence had been kept up for some 
 time; but, like most correspondences of the kind, it 
 gradually died out, while they only retained kindly re- 
 membrances of each other. Their meeting was there- 
 fore cordial, and while they were seated together wit- 
 nessing the sports, their whilom acquaintance and at- 
 tachment for each other were renewed. Old times had 
 been talked over, and before the day closed, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hastings had promised to visit Mr. Collingwood at 
 his country-seat in England, after which Mr. Colling- 
 wood and family were to accompany them to the con- 
 tinent. 
 
 6
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ABOUT a year and a half had elapsed since Hastings' 
 marriage, during which time he with his wife, in com- 
 pany with Collingwood and his family, had visited 
 much of Europe. They were in England. Colling- 
 wood had concluded to accompany his friend to Amer- 
 ica, and settle there for life. All arrangements had 
 been made preparatory to leaving, and the two families 
 took passage for New York. An addition had been 
 made to the party, Hastings was the father of a little 
 girl, only a few months old. When Mr. and Mrs. Hast- 
 ings turned their faces toward home, need I say that 
 they looked less happy than they had done since a few 
 weeks after their marriage. Old associations crowded 
 upon the minds of each earlier days were recalled 
 days indelibly enstamped on memory. Mrs. Hastings 
 thought of him whom she would probably meet on her 
 arrival in Mississippi. All her past pledges, all her 
 broken vows, filled her mind and made her anxious and 
 unhappy. Him whom she once adored, idolized, she 
 now most feared to meet. How could she look upon one 
 whom she had so grievously wronged ! These were the 
 agonizing, torturing thoughts, that weighed upon her 
 conscience and afflicted her very soul. After a long 
 and anxious passage they arrived safely in New York, 
 where they remained a few days before going South. 
 
 (62)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 63 
 
 An attractive theatrical bill induced 'them to go one 
 evening to Niblo's. They had seated themselves a little 
 to one side of the centre of the room, where they had a 
 nne view both of the stage and the audience. The 
 brilliantly lit house was filled to overflowing. The cur- 
 tain closing the first act had just dropped, when Mrs. 
 Hastings, taking her opera-glass, glanced her eyes around 
 upon the gay assemblage. At length they rested upon 
 one individual face in one of the side boxes. She 
 looked a moment, she caught the black eyes of him 
 at whom she was gazing, and, uttering a suppressed 
 shriek, she was carried fainting from the house. If the 
 thought of returning home had been unpleasant to her 
 heretofore, it now made her miserable. Wh^t reproach, 
 what defiance shot from those black eyes, which she 
 had looked into but for one moment. Her whole life 
 passed rapidly before her in review. She saw no happi- 
 ness or consolation in it all. 
 
 Time passed on, and they had all arrived at their 
 southern home. I have heretofore said, that Charles 
 Linwood and Richard Hastings were old friends. Their 
 plantations joined, and their large and beautiful country 
 residences were only two or three miles apart, and were 
 located upon the banks of the same little river. All the 
 comforts of affluence surrounded them. They had 
 lived there from childhood, and being men of cultivated 
 minds, improved by study and travel, they had displayed 
 more than ordinary taste in beautifying and adorning 
 their grounds. Beautiful groves surrounded and shaded 
 their .mansions. There were summer-houses, grottos, 
 arbors of trees, and shady walks, in short, all that go 
 to make a country home pleasant. Hastings and his 
 party were stopping with his father. They had been 
 at home nearly three weeks. Mrs. Hastings had learned 
 that Robin Moulton had not been heard of for more
 
 64 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 than a year. Strange reports had been circulated about 
 him. When he had first heard of Hastings' marriage, it 
 was said by some that he had become deranged. Others 
 reported that he was in a madhouse in New York. 
 Nothing definite, however, had been heard of him since 
 he had so mysteriously disappeared. His parents had 
 both died ; and the old Irish nurse, who had always lived 
 in the family, had gone no one knew where. She had 
 not been seen or heard of for many months. It was 
 believed by some that the parents of young Moulton 
 had died from the trouble and unhappiness growing 
 out of disappointed hopes, which they had long cher- 
 ished respecting their son. Though all this was un- 
 pleasant nws to Mrs. Hastings, she nevertheless felt a 
 relief in the thought that she probably would never 
 meet Moulton again. She knew that some of the re- 
 ports were untrue, especially the one respecting his 
 being in a madhouse; yet she thought that he never 
 would return to Mississippi again to live, and that 
 thought gave her a negative happiness. 
 
 One afternoon, she, with her child and servant, a black 
 woman, visited her father's house, and remained there 
 longer than she had intended. The sun was going 
 down when she set out to return. The path that led 
 from Mr. Linwood's to Mr. Hastings' crossed the fields, 
 and followed the channel of the river. The distance 
 was such that it was dusk before she had gone half 
 of the way. She was walking rapidly on beside her 
 servant, who was carrying her child, when a man 
 stepped from the thick shade of some trees which 
 stood close to the river, and confronted them. This 
 sudden apparition caused Mrs. Hastings to utter a 
 shriek of terror. She stood paralyzed and unable to 
 speak, as she gazed wildly at the dark object before her. 
 The servant had dropped the child in her fright on the
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 65 
 
 grass, and was running shrieking away. The dark 
 object advanced near to where Mrs. Hastings stood, and 
 said, in an excited tone of voice : 
 
 " Ida, I have met you at last. Long and patiently 
 have I waited to see one who could so basely betraj 
 me." Mrs. Hastings remained standing, unable to utter 
 a word, or attempt an escape. She at once recognized 
 the voice of the speaker, and even in fhat dark and 
 lonely spot, it had a wild charm, which, though it fright- 
 ened, yet spellbound her. Moulton stopped when 
 within a few feet of her, and continued addressing her. 
 " Look at me, Ida, and see what you have made me ! 
 Once I loved you! Once I was happy in thinking that 
 you loved me in return ! I believed what ygu told me ! 
 I thought you honest and truthful ! But how basely 
 unfeelingly fiendishly , did you deceive me! Oh, 
 that such hypocrisy should be clothed with so much 
 power to deceive ! The time was when I could have 
 gone through fire to serve you ! Then I was ambitious 
 to be learned and great, that I might make you happy! 
 I battled long and hard against poverty for this purpose 
 alone. Ah 1 my bright hopes have fled ! You are the 
 cause ! False, base, and treacherous woman ! You see 
 what your treachery has brought me to ! I am ruined, 
 desperate, careless of life, without hope here, or 
 hereafter ! " As he spoke this last sentence, Mrs. Hast- 
 ings uttered a cry of "help," and started to fly from 
 him; but she was immediately stopped by Moulton. 
 As he seized her he continued wildly : 
 
 " Igla, you have ruined me ; and, while I am destined 
 to walk the earth an outcast, it shall not be with the 
 consciousness that you are living happily with another. 
 No ! I will carry destruction and mourning to the doors 
 of those who have heartlessly and basely ruined me 
 6*
 
 66 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 forever ! " As he said this, a fiendish joy seemed to ani- 
 mate him ; and, plunging a stiletto into her side, she fell 
 at his feet, saying : 
 
 " Robin, I have grievously wronged you. It is but 
 just that I die. I forgive you for this deed, so may 
 God in heaven ! " Here muttering in a faint voice, 
 " My child my " she breathed her last. 
 
 As soon as Moulton heard her sweet voice he relented. 
 It recalled feelings that had long been dormant. He 
 lifted her lifeless body from the ground, and tried to re- 
 store it to consciousness. But when he saw that she 
 was dead, he gave vent to his feelings in bitter sobs. 
 For the moment, he remembered her only as his idolized 
 Ida, his Confiding, loving Ida, whom he had so often 
 met in the grape-vine bower, and talked to of love and 
 a life of happiness. The great deep of his heart was 
 convulsed, he mourned the deed which he had just 
 committed. He had taken the life of one whom he 
 loved more than all things else beside. He pressed her 
 to his bosom for a moment, and then, laying her on the 
 grass, kneeled by her side and hid his face in his hands. 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed he, " that you had known how I loved 
 you, how I have lived for you, and you only ! " Then, 
 as if remembering suddenly the cause that had led to 
 the committal of the deed, he said : " Would that you 
 had been just and true to me ! Had I not just grounds 
 for this, I were indeed a villain- ! " He felt, with Othello, 
 that 
 
 " had she been true, 
 
 If Heaven would make me such another world, 
 Of one entire and perfect crysolite, 
 I 'd not have sold her for it" 
 
 He clasped her hands in his, and, uttering a deep, 
 heart-rending groan, continued to kneel over her for a
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 67 
 
 moment ; then, as if delirious and wild with contending 
 emotions, he clasped her in his arms, ran hurriedly 
 down the bank, and, wading a little way into the stream, 
 laid her body gently in the water. Oh, what agony of 
 soul was in that moment ! Guilty, wretched man ! His 
 heart shed tears of blood, as he parted with her forever ! 
 He stood gazing at her dark form a little while as it 
 moved slowly away, then returning hastily to the child, 
 which still lay on the grass where the nurse had dropped 
 it, he picked it up and hurriedly walked a few hundred 
 yards down the river to where a little boat was fastened. 
 He loosed it, and jumping in, laid the child in the bot- 
 tom of the boat, and moved rapidly down the stream. 
 He continued to pull hard at the oars until late at night, 
 when running into a little creek he got out of the boat, 
 and left it to float down with the current. All was 
 thick darkness ; but he seemed to be acquainted with the 
 locality, for after climbing a steep hill covered with 
 trees and bushes, he walked at a rapid pace through the 
 dense forest, carrying the child in his arms. He con- 
 tinued to walk on over hills and vales until nearly morn- 
 ing, when, coming to a small stream lying between high 
 and rocky banks, he followed it up for two or three 
 miles. He then climbed up over some rough and 
 craggy rocks, and removing a few loose stones, entered 
 a dark cave. When he had gone a few rods in, he 
 turned into a side passage, where he saw a dim and 
 glimmering light, and soon entered an apartment in 
 which there was a tallow candle lighted. An old woman 
 lay on a mattress in the corner. She started "up when 
 Moulton entered, and said : 
 
 " Robin, is it you, lad ? " The child then commenced 
 crying ; and she, looking startled and inquiringly into 
 Moulton's face, exclaimed, " Holy Vargin ! and what 
 have you here, sure ? "
 
 68 THE CROOKED ELM 
 
 She continued anxiously looking into Moulton's face, 
 as if to gather from it an explanation of what she saw ; 
 but she looked in vain. His countenance wore a blank, 
 vacant expression. He seemed not to know where he 
 was. His mind was not there. 
 
 " Sure, and I know all, he is not right here, poor 
 boy," she said, touching her forehead. She then snuffed 
 the candle, and walking close up to Moulton looked at 
 the child in his arms. 
 
 "Robin, darlint, what have you here? Where did 
 you come by this wee baby ? " He did not answer her, 
 but continued looking vacantly about him. The old 
 woman again muttered : 
 
 " Sure he ' crazy. He is not himself any more since 
 his poor father and mither died." She took the child 
 from Moulton's arms, and seating herself by some coals 
 of fire, commenced examining it. 
 
 "Sure," said she, "and it's a girl baby. What a 
 swate cratur! Where could the lad have found it? 
 May be the wee thing is hungry." As she said this she 
 got up, and, going to a shelf of natural rock, took from 
 it a bowl of milk, and pouring some of it into a tin cup 
 placed it on the coals to warm. Moulton, as yet, had 
 not spoken a word. He continued walking about the 
 room, as if in search of something he could not find. 
 There was a certain vacant, wild expression in his eyes, 
 which might have led one not so well acquainted with 
 him as the old woman was to have thought him de- 
 ranged. She evidently believed him to be, as she said, 
 "not right in his head." She had known him ever 
 since his birth, and loved him as fondly as a mother 
 loves her child. She knew him only as the generous, 
 noble boy, the child that she had nursed, the youth, 
 who, when away at school, had always a kind word to 
 send to Aunt Judy. Her love for him now was even
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 69 
 
 greater than it had ever been. She felt that she must 
 protect the " poor boy," as she called him. And, though 
 she did whatever he asked her to do, and in every 
 respect permitted herself to be governed by his wishes, 
 she nevertheless fancied that she was taking care of 
 him. In all tilings, she sought only to please him. His 
 slightest wish was her law. Moulton at length seate^ 
 himself on a little stool, and turning his eyes gazed 
 thoughtfully into the fire. He remained for nearly an 
 hour without moving, and then turning to the old woman 
 he asked : 
 
 " Aunt Judy, does any one know of your being here ? " 
 " Sure, and why do you ask that, honey ? I think not, 
 Robin." 
 
 " Has no one seen you go across the fields ? " 
 " No. I have done as you told me, sure. And do 
 you think Aunt Judy would go out in the daytime, 
 when you told her not to ? I always milk the cows 
 afore day. But, Robin, where did you come by this ? " 
 " I found it lying in a field." The child commenced 
 crying again, and Moulton, fixing his eyes intently upon 
 it, muttered : " It is like them both. It shall not live. 
 I will not have her image in the person of another to 
 torment me as I drag out the remainder of my life. 
 No, it shall die ! " All his jealous, revengeful feelings 
 seemed to be again awakened, and he continued to mut- 
 ter his dark thoughts of vengeance. " I will deprive 
 him of happiness who so unfeelingly and dishonorably 
 won her from me. This, his child, shall die ! " Fierce, 
 deadly hate flashed from his eyes, and springing from 
 his seat, he commenced walking from one side of the 
 room to the other, with a quick and hurried pace. He 
 soon seated himself again by the fire, however, and fell 
 into gloomy thought. The old woman went about the 
 room, preparing a plain breakfast. She baked a cake
 
 70 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 in the ashes, made of corn-meal, and placing it, with a 
 bowl of milk, on a large stone slab, she said : 
 
 " Honey, dear, you must be hungry, and it 's a poor 
 breakfast I've got for you, sure." Moulton did not 
 heed what she said, but still sat looking into the fire. 
 She then, putting her hand on his shoulder, con- 
 Unued : 
 
 " Robin, the milk is on the table ; surely you want 
 something to ate, lad." 
 
 " No, I am not hungry," replied he, abstractedly. She 
 could not persuade him to eat any thing ; which of it- 
 self took away her own appetite, and the breakfast was 
 cleared away untouched by either. 
 
 " Aunt Judy," said Moulton, finally, " we must prepare 
 to leave this place." 
 
 " And where will we go, Robin ? " 
 
 To New Orleans," replied he. 
 
 " To New Orleans ! " said Aunt Judy, surprisedly. 
 
 " Yes, we must leave in a few days," he said, thought- 
 fully. He then said, in a low voice which she did not 
 hear "We must remain here a week or two yet. 
 They will be searching for me. I must not stir abroad 
 until the excitement has died away somewhat." 
 
 They continued in the cave for nearly three weeks, 
 never going out except after dark, and then only to milk 
 the cows of a neighboring planter. Their hiding-place 
 was secure, thick, dense woods surrounded the spot. 
 Aunt Judy could learn nothing more from Moulton con- 
 cerning the 'child than that he had found it lying in a 
 field. She felt troubled about it, and would have gladly 
 restored it to its parents, had she known who or where 
 they were. Early one night Moulton and his old nurse 
 left the cave and started in company through the thick 
 woods. The child, comfortably wrapped up, was in 
 the old woman's arms. Moulton could not, as yet,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 71 
 
 make up his mind to destroy it, although he had several 
 times resolved that it should not live. They travelled 
 on in company until nearly morning, when they stopped, 
 and lay concealed until nightfall again. Thus did they 
 continue their journey, travelling only in the night, for 
 fear of detection. Often were they hungry ; many times 
 did they lay all night in the open wood, and several 
 times they were in fear, lest the crying of the child 
 would lead to their discovery. The old woman could 
 not tell why they should travel in so stealthy and mys- 
 terious, a way, yet she did as Moulton wished, and in- 
 stinctively feared, not for herself, but for the safety of 
 her " darlint boy." They at last reached the Mississippi 
 River, and following it down a few miles came to a 
 landing, where, after waiting a few hours, they went on 
 board a boat bound to New Orleans. On their arrival 
 they procured lodgings in an obscure part of the city, 
 and late that night, Moulton, putting the child into a 
 basket and covering it up, carried it to the other side of 
 the city, where, after watching his opportunity, he left it 
 at the door of a large house. This he did believing 
 that it would when found, be placed in the Foundling 
 Asylum, where he should never see it again. As soon 
 as he had left it he hurried back to Aunt Judy, and, 
 telling her that he had restored the child to its parents, 
 bade her prepare to leave the lodgings where they were 
 stopping at once. She did as ordered, and on the next 
 morning they in company set out for New York. 
 
 Mrs. Hastings' servant, when she dropped the child, 
 ran, half dead with fright, towards the house, and after 
 much puffing and blowing rushed wildly into the apart- 
 ment where Hastings and his friend Collingwood were 
 seated, engaged in conversation. After several inef- 
 fectual efforts to speak, she finally delivered herself of 
 the following intelligent exclamation :
 
 72 THE CKOOKED ELM ; 
 
 " O massa Hastings ! O massa ! massa ! " and then 
 went off into a swoon. They were justly alarmed at 
 this exhibition of Miss Ebony. Hastings sprang up, 
 and getting a bucket of water threw its contents into 
 her face, which soon partially brought back her scattered 
 senses again. He then gleaned enough from her dis- 
 jointed exclamations to believe that something had 
 happened to his wife and child ; and, setting out with 
 Collingwood, they ran across the fields, following the 
 path leading to Mr. Linwood's. They saw no one, and 
 they continued running until they reached Mr. Lin- 
 wood's house. Learning that Mrs. Hastings had left 
 there early in the evening for home, they procured lights 
 and followed the path back slower, making diligent 
 search on both sides. Mr. Linwood accompanied them, 
 together with many of his slaves. 
 
 Mrs. Hastings' servant, having at length wholly re- 
 covered her lost wits, mustered several of her own color, 
 and, with young Hastings' father, set out for the spot 
 where she said she had seen the "O/e Feller? The 
 two parties, now numbering nearly a hundred, soon 
 met ; and after a diligent search they found where the 
 grass was saturated with blood. Their worst fears 
 were confirmed. Lamentations were now heard as they 
 ran wildly across the fields and along the banks of the 
 river, looking anxiously for the missing ones. The in- 
 telligence soon spread, and hundreds were on the 
 ground, mostly negroes, assisting in the search. The 
 body of Mrs. Hastings was found in the river about 
 two o'clock that night. They continued to search for 
 the child for several days, but, I need not say, without 
 finding it 
 
 I will not pretend to describe the suffering and trouble 
 of the husband and father, growing out of this sudden 
 bereavement. Neither will I relate the exaggerated
 
 OR, LIFE BY TIIE WAY-SIDE. 73 
 
 rumors which soon went abroad, to be discussed and 
 talked over by all who had witnessed or heard any thing 
 of what had taken place. All believed that the mother 
 and child had been murdered. Hastings also thought 
 that his child had been killed, and that its body had 
 floated down in the current of the river. He once or 
 twice thought of Moulton in connection with his wife's 
 death, but all his recollections of him were such that he 
 could not believe him guilty of any thing so criminal. 
 
 " He was generous, high-minded, and noble," said he 
 to himself. " I will not think that he could be guilty of 
 any thing so inhuman." His wife's death, and the loss 
 of his child, were set down as mysteries that he could 
 not solve. He loved his child with all the fondness of 
 his nature. It was his idol his all of happiness. He 
 never had loved Mrs. Hastings as he might have loved, 
 yet he appreciated her many virtues. He thought that 
 she had been victimized in marrying him, and this of 
 itself induced him to indulge her every wish. He was 
 kind and good to her, but his child he loved, he 
 doted upon it, and was happy. Its loss made him 
 wretched. 
 
 Tired of a place where he had experienced so much 
 trouble, Hastings persuaded his friend Collingwood to 
 go further north. They therefore left Mississippi, and 
 settled in Virginia. Hastings remained a guest in his 
 friend's family for more than a year, when he left them, 
 and, going to New York, commenced the practice of his 
 profession. 
 
 Wkh this earlier history of William Hastings, I will 
 now return to a point where I left him in a previous 
 chapter. 
 
 7
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FEW days after the dinner-party at Mr. Belmonte's, 
 described in a previous chapter, Mrs. Belmonte was in 
 her dressing-room completing her toilet, preparatory to 
 driving out. Her carriage had been ordered, and she 
 was just tying on her bonnet, when the door-bell rang. 
 
 " I do wish," said Mrs. Belmonte to herself, when she 
 heard it, " that I could be left to myself for a single 
 moment. This is the third call I have had since I com- 
 menced dressing. Well, I will see no one before going 
 out, that 's positive ! I will send word to her or him, or 
 whatever the sex may be, that I am unwell, or engaged, 
 01 " At this point in her soliloquy her servant entered, 
 and handed her a card. A slight flush immediately 
 tinged her cheeks, and her looks of displeasure were dis- 
 placed by a pleasing smile. 
 
 " Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Bessy, 
 and tell Mm that I will soon be down," said Mrs. Bel- 
 monte. 
 
 " Yes 'm," said Bessy, as she turned and walked away. 
 As she descended the stairs she muttered, " Lor bless 
 us ! what's got into Missis' head? She tells me say she 
 
 am disemgaged to Mr. and to Missis , and 
 
 now she am gwine to see dis here gem'man, when her 
 bonnet am all on, jis ready to get into de carriage! 
 
 (74)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 75 
 
 Well, white folks knows der business better nor culled 
 persons, dat am sartin." 
 
 Bessy's woolly head was evidently in a perplexed 
 state at this turn of affairs, but like an obedient servant 
 she did as told by her mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte took off her bonnet, and smoothing 
 her hair a little, descended to the drawing-room, where 
 she met Mr. Hastings. They were both a little embar- 
 rassed at this second meeting, without knowing why. 
 Mr. Hastings rose, and stepping forward bowed grace- 
 fully, as she advanced and extended her hand to him in 
 an easy and somewhat friendly manner. When they 
 were seated and the usual compliments over, Mr. Hast- 
 ings said : 
 
 " I am glad to see you looking so well, Mrs. Bel- 
 monte. I had expected to see you differently, as your 
 servant told me at the door that she thought you were 
 too unwell to see me." 
 
 " Did she ? " replied Mrs. Belmonte. " The officious 
 stupid ! I was only going out, and had refused to see 
 one or two who had called while I was preparing. But 
 I had concluded to postpone going until to-morrow, be- 
 fore you came, so there was no necessity of reporting 
 myself an invalid longer to my friends." 
 
 This Mrs. Belmonte said laughingly, although she 
 felt a little piqued to think that her servant had been so 
 officious. For, much as she was pleased to see Mr. 
 Hastings, she was not willing that he should think that 
 she would postpone a drive for the pleasure of his soci- 
 ety, or treat him with more partiality than her other 
 friends. She therefore misrepresented the facts a very 
 little, rather than have Mr. Hastings flatter himself too 
 much on his good fortune in obtaining an audience, 
 when other and older friends had been refused. She 
 pulled the bell-rope, and despatched a servant to the
 
 76 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 coachman to say that she would not drive out that 
 day. This message Hastings, of course, did not hear. 
 
 " Servants are very stupid sometimes," replied Hast- 
 ings to the last remarks of Mrs. Belmonte ; " but I am 
 not displeased to know that yours was mistaken when 
 she told me you were ill." 
 
 " Oh, as for that, you did not believe her when she 
 reported me so. It is so common for ladies to be ' not 
 at home] and ' engaged] and ' not very well] when 
 they have unwelcome visitors, that, had I treated you as 
 I did my other friends who called, you would have gone 
 away saying to yourself, she does not care about being 
 entertained by my most agreeable self to-day. Am I 
 not right?" 
 
 " You may be right in what you say relative to the 
 custom of ladies when called upon by those whom they 
 do not wish to see ; but I could hardly bring myself to 
 think that so sensible a lady as Mrs. Belmonte would 
 refuse, from choice, to be entertained by my most 
 agreeable self. So you see I should have gone 
 away, compelled to believe the servant's unwelcome 
 report." 
 
 " What sophistry and egotism ! But a truce to this 
 discussion," said Mrs. Belmonte. " There is no con- 
 tending with a lawyer, so I will not try longer to dis- 
 possess you of your erroneous opinions. I hope you 
 got home safely the other nigh.t, and dreamed pleasantly 
 of the beautiful Miss Leighton." 
 
 " I got home safely, and, if I recollect rightly, had 
 pleasing dreams." 
 
 " Of course you do not remember what your dreams 
 were ? " 
 
 " I believe," said Hastings, humorously, " that they 
 were of music, mild eyes, and but I forget all the 
 features of the dream."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 77 
 
 "I think I could describe them for you," said Mrs. 
 Belmonte ; " but, as you seem to desire me to do so, I 
 won't. She called here yesterday." 
 
 " Who ? " asked Hastings. 
 
 " That," replied Mrs. Belmorfte, " is the best thing that 
 I have heard since the new drama at Wallack's. 
 Who ! just as if you don't know who. I see you are 
 determined to make me talk about her, whether I will 
 or no. But I won't, if only to tease you. Mr. Bel- 
 monte thinks it would be the best match of the season." 
 
 " You talk to me in riddles, Mrs. Belmonte ; but if 
 my friend Belmonte had the remotest reference to me 
 in his allusions to a splendid match, I should have 
 only the one answer to make to any prospect so flatter- 
 ing, be the lady who she may." 
 
 " And what would that answer be, pray ? " inquired 
 Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 ." Why, that ' Barkis is willin',' of course." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte laughed, and said : 
 
 " Surely, no lady can find fault with your exceedingly 
 accommodating and amiable disposition." They re- 
 mained some time talking in this light and familiar 
 way. They did not feel or act towards each other as 
 strangers; there was something that made them feel 
 like friends ; what that something was neither of them 
 knew, nor did either know that the feeling was mu- 
 tual. Mr. Hastings continued to call occasionally 
 on Mrs. Belmonte, and had by invitation dined several 
 times with her and her husband. One afternoon in 
 the letter part of June, when he had called to see 
 Mrs. Belmonte, and was about taking his leave, she 
 asked : 
 
 " Has Mr. Belmonte told you, that we were going to 
 Saratoga on next Monday ? " 
 7*
 
 78 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 " He has not," answered Hastings. 
 
 u He said he would tell you to-day, and would try to 
 get you to accompany us." 
 
 " I presume he has called at my office, and found me 
 not at home," said Hastings. 
 
 " The papers say that Saratoga is very gay this sea- 
 son," said Mrs. Belmonte. " Do you know, Mr. Hastings, 
 that Miss Leighton is stopping there ? " 
 
 " I think," answered he, " that I read, somewhere, that 
 she was at a 'hop' at the United States the other 
 night" 
 
 " How very indefinite your recollection is, to be sure," 
 replied she. " You think you read somewhere, that she 
 was at a hop the other night. Your memory seems 
 very dull indeed. But you will accompany us on Mon- 
 day, and thus be able to see the Saratoga belle for your- 
 self?" 
 
 " I will try to do so," said he ; " but the time is so 
 short that I may have to deprive myself the pleasure." 
 
 " We shall remain there two or three weeks, and then 
 go on to Niagara Falls. I think the trip would be 
 beneficial to you, besides being very pleasant, unless 
 you were made jealous by rivals ; for I received a letter 
 from Miss Leighton yesterday, in which she speaks 
 flatteringly of a certain Mr. Dillingscott, from New 
 York. Do you know the gentleman ? " 
 
 " I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance," answered 
 Hastings ; " but I shall soon have, doubtless, for I must 
 surely go and look after my interests, or they will be 
 jeopardized. I think you may safely count upon being 
 taxed with my company on Monday." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte did not think that Hastings cared par- 
 ticularly for Miss Leighton, yet she found it convenient 
 to assume that she did. Belmonte thought that she 
 and Hastings would make a good match, and allowed
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 79 
 
 himself to believe that he was very much pleased with 
 her. Mrs. Belmonte did not wish to make her husband 
 think differently. She had no motive in seeming to be 
 of the same opinion of her husband ; at least I don't 
 think she had. She was not capable of artful plotting, 
 even had she wished it ; yet she had the instincts, if I 
 may be permitted the expression, of a woman; and, since 
 she liked the society of Hastings herself, she was willing 
 that her husband should think that he was partial to 
 another, inasmuch as she could then see Hastings fre- 
 quently, and without suspicion. 
 
 These were Mrs. Belmonte's thoughts; but she df<J 
 not know the fact. As I said before, they were her wo- 
 man's instincts. She never stopped to reason upon the 
 subject. Her heart was pure, and all her thoughts were 
 far removed from guile. 
 
 Monday at length came, and Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte, 
 in company with Mr. Hastings, set out for Saratoga. 
 They went on board a morning boat for Albany, and 
 thus had the pleasure of seeing the beautiful scenery on 
 the Hudson. They seated themselves under an awning 
 in the stern of the boat, and looked out on the numerous 
 sailing vessels that whitened the river and bay. It was 
 a beautiful morning, and nature seemed to smile on all 
 around. As the boat moved out into the middle of the 
 river, Hastings said, addressing Mrs. Belmonte : 
 
 " I have witnessed this scenery very often, yet it always 
 looks new and beautiful." 
 
 " It is very picturesque," replied Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 " Do you see the ' Elysian Fields ' yonder on the Jersey 
 shore?" inquired Hastings. 
 
 " You mean that beautiful wood, yonder ? " said 
 Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 " Yes," answered he ; " that might be made into one 
 of the most attractive and pleasant retreats in the vicinity
 
 80 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 of New York ; but now they are frequented by a class 
 that effectually excludes respectable visitors. There are 
 many tales related of occurrences which have taken 
 place in these ' fields,' which lead me to think that they 
 are not safe places to visit after dark." 
 
 " So I have frequently heard said," replied Mrs. Bel- 
 monte. 
 
 " There is one," resumed Hastings, " told of a beautiful 
 young woman who had been induced to accompany a 
 pretended lover there. Night came on, but she did not 
 return to her home. Search was made for her, and on 
 the next morning her body was found in the river, near 
 the Jersey shore, with marks of violence upon her 
 person. A merchant of New York was suspected of 
 being connected with her murder ; but there was not 
 sufficient evidence against him to warrant his indict- 
 ment for the crime. He feared to remain longer in New 
 York, however, and it is said that he left the country." 
 
 " I should be afraid to visit such a place after what 
 you have related," said Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 " They can be safely visited by ladies, except on Sun- 
 days," said Hastings. " On that day they are infested 
 by rogues of all classes and descriptions, who go there 
 to practise on the working classes that resort to the 
 * fields ' to get a sniff of wholesome air, and who can 
 go on no other day in the week." 
 
 " They look very lovely at this distance," said Mrs. 
 Belmonte. " I do not wonder that the laboring classes 
 resort to them for recreation." 
 
 Belmonte, who had been sitting in silence during the 
 previous conversation, excused himself to his wife and 
 Hastings, and left them to themselves. He had not 
 been listening to what they said. He had been thinking 
 of one who lived upon the banks of the river near where 
 they were, and of his unsuccessful attempt, not long
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 81 
 
 before, with Merle. As he walked away, Hastings 
 said: 
 
 " Do you see that hill, yonder, about a mile beyond 
 the Elysian Fields ? " 
 
 " I do," answered she. " You mean the one on 
 which those houses are ? " 
 
 " That is the one," said he. I have a little history 
 of my own in connection with that, to which, if you have 
 the patience to listen, I will relate." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to hear it," said Mrs. Belmonte, 
 evidently quite interested in their familiar conversation. 
 
 " It was some years ago," commenced Hastings. " I 
 had never before visited New York but once, and 
 then only to remain a day or two in the city. I was 
 verdant, of course, and did not fear any one. I was 
 not, in short, so well acquainted with New York 
 as I am now. . One pleasant day, in company with a 
 dear lady friend, I visited the Elysian Fields." Mrs. 
 Belmonte was all attention now. The "dear lady 
 friend " had excited her curiosity. " We had heard that 
 they were very beautiful, and we wished to see them. 
 We crossed the ferry, therefore, and wandered for some 
 time through the beautiful groves, looking at all that 
 presented itself for our inspection. In some places we 
 saw small parties of sailors, with their sweethearts, 
 dancing on the grass to the music of violins, played by 
 sons of ebony. At others were small pic-nic parties, 
 seated in the thick shade of some trees, cosily eating a 
 sociable lunch, while a little out of the way might be 
 seen .some devoted swain seated affectionately by his 
 dulcinea and whispering in her ear, as it would seem, 
 the zephyr accents of love. Well, we had seen much 
 of the fields had visited the cave, the swing, the rid- 
 ing ponies, and I know not what, when, passing through 
 the wood, we walked across the cleared field towards
 
 82 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 the hill, which I pointed out, but which is now out of 
 sight. The side of the hill was then covered with thick 
 growing bushes and trees. Near the bottom there was 
 a path leading through bushes so dense that we could 
 scarcely see out. We followed this path in for 
 nearly a quarter of a mile, and had seated ourselves on 
 the grass in a shaded spot, overhung with thick vines. 
 We had sat there for some time, when I heard a slight 
 noise, and on looking up saw a man crouching almost 
 upon us. He was a little higher up on the hill than we 
 were, and was not more than four or five steps from us. 
 I immediately sprung to my feet, and demanded of him 
 his purpose. He replied, with the utmost coolness, that 
 that was his own business ; whereupon I placed my 
 hand to my pistol pocket, and told him that it would be 
 my business to judge of his motives if he remained 
 longer where he was He then, with a sullen and dis- 
 appointed look, turned away and left us. We also left, 
 and were satisfied with getting off with our lives. We 
 had some jewelry about us, and that probably had in- 
 duced him to follow us." Mrs. Belmonte had listened 
 with the intensest interest to Hastings' story, and not 
 the less so that he had introduced into it his dear lady 
 friend. 
 
 " How strange ! " exclaimed Mrs. Belmonte, when he 
 had finished ; " but your friend who was she ? " 
 This was said without thought" as to whether the ques- 
 tion was a proper one to put or not. 
 
 " The dear friend I mentioned," replied he, with a 
 sober countenance, " was Mrs. Hastings, my wife." 
 
 " Have you then been married ? " inquired Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, with the utmost surprise. " I never heard that 
 you had been, and had always supposed to the con- 
 trary." 
 
 "I was married when quite young," answered he,
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 83 
 
 " and have been a widower for some years. I never be- 
 fore have mentioned the fact to any one in New York, 
 simply because it is an unpleasant subject for me to 
 converse upon, and must of necessity be one of indif- 
 ference to others." 
 
 " I think you are mistaken there," said she. What 
 concerns you cannot be a subject of indifference to your 
 friends." 
 
 " Be that as it may," said he, " you are the only one 
 to whom I have mentioned the subject. I told you a 
 personal incident in my life, in which I introduced a 
 lady in such connection, that 'justice demanded that I 
 should tell you who she was. You now have the fact 
 of my previous marriage, and may I rely upon your not 
 mentioning it to your friends ? I do not wish to an- 
 swer the many questions that might be asked me, should 
 they know that I have been married." 
 
 " You may rely upon my keeping it a secret, if that 
 be your wish," she replied. She nevertheless felt anx- 
 ious to hear more about a subject which Hastings made 
 somewhat mysterious by his anxiety to have it kept a 
 secret. She did not question him further about it, how- 
 ever. He had confided the fact to her, he had made 
 her a confidante by intrusting her with a secret, this 
 thought made Mrs. Belmonte happy, although she did 
 not ask herself the reason why. As the boat passed by 
 " Sleepy Hollow" the residence of the immortal author 
 of the " Sketch Book," Hastings said to Mrs. Belmonte, 
 who still sat by his side conversing interestedly with 
 him : 
 
 " There lives a man to be envied by the present gen- 
 eration, and admired throughout all coming time, for the 
 purity of his writings." 
 
 " He has chosen his residence," said she, " in a locality
 
 84 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 rendered classic, almost, by his own genius. I think he 
 has shown as good taste in the choice of a home, as he 
 has displayed genius in the choice of his subjects, and 
 grace in the style in which he has treated them." 
 
 " Sleepy Hollow is a lovely place ; and long may the 
 author of the ' Broken Heart ' live to enjoy it," said 
 Hastings. 
 
 "Do you, then," asked Mrs. Belmonte, "believe in 
 broken hearts?" 
 
 " I think there are instances," replied he, " where the 
 mind loses its balance by disappointed love, and the 
 nobler objects of life cease to have a controlling influence. 
 I recollect one of the kind now." 
 
 " Is it of a man, or woman ? " inquired she. 
 
 " Of a man." 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to relate the facts to me, 
 Mr. Hastings ? I should like to hear them, if you do 
 not object to the recital." *'' ' 
 
 " If the story will entertain you, I know no reason why 
 I may not tell it. But I think I am talking more than 
 my share of the time." 
 
 " I will give you absolution for the offence," said Mrs. 
 Belmonte, "before you commence; so there remains 
 no reason why you should not begin at once." 
 
 " But," said Hastings, " where is Belmonte ? I have 
 not seen him for some time." As he said this, he ex- 
 cused himself to Mrs. Belmonte, and went in search of 
 him. He found him in his state-room, seemingly de- 
 pressed in spirits. 
 
 " Are you sick, Belmonte ? " inquired Hastings. " A 
 little," answered he ; " these boats always make me sick. 
 But it is of no consequence ; I shall soon be better. In 
 the mean while, I must request you to entertain Mrs. 
 Belmonte." Hastings soon returned, and related to her
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 85 
 
 the story of Robin Moulton, leaving out nothing, save 
 the names of the characters which he introduced. When 
 he had finished, Mrs. Belmonte said : 
 
 " The tale is certainly a mournful one, and justifies 
 your belief in broken hearts. I shall never read of crime 
 and depravity in others again, without feelings of pity 
 for the criminals." 
 
 " There doubtless are," said Hastings, " many men 
 engaged in crime, who, by nature, possess as noble feel- 
 ings as men generally do. Their abandoned course of 
 life has been induced, perhaps, by disappointed hopes, or 
 by the unjust laws of society. Yet it would be unsafe 
 to treat them, as a class, with the leniency growing 
 out of sympathy. The innocent demand our protection. 
 Society must correct its own defective laws, if it would 
 keep its sons and daughters free from crime and misery." 
 They had now reached the Highlands, and were passing 
 through this wildest of river scenery. All eyes were 
 turned to the high mountain ranges which abut in close 
 proximity, rendering the channel of the river very nar- 
 row and crooked. 
 
 " We are now," said Hastings, "passing through the 
 ' Wind Gate,' I believe. Do you see that marble shaft 
 on the hill yonder, Mrs. Belmonte ? It is a monument 
 to the Polish patriot, Thaddeus Kosciusko. It was in 
 this wild and romantic spot," continued he, " that one 
 of the bravest officers of the American Revolution, the 
 hero of Quebec of Lake Champlain of Bemis' 
 Heights, sacrificed his honor as a man, and the many 
 bright laurels of fame which he had won during a long 
 and arduous struggle for the freedom of his country. 
 Surrounded by a picture as wild and bold as his own 
 impetuous mind, he blindly yielded to a " misguided am- 
 bition, and to an ignoble revenge ; leaving posterity to 
 8
 
 86 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 inscribe on his tomb the title, both of Hero and Traitor." 
 " The history of Benedict Arnold is certainly a melan- 
 choly one," replied Mrs. Belmonte ; " yet who knows the 
 many bitter wrongs that he may have suffered from an 
 ungrateful people, or from personal rivals? Think of 
 the story you just told me of another." 
 
 " I have no doubt," answered he, " that he believed 
 himself wrongly treated, and it is probable that he had 
 good cause for thinking so ; but that would not justify, 
 nor even mitigate, his treason." At this point in the 
 conversation, a steamboat going down the river met 
 and passed so close to the boat which they were on, 
 that many of the passengers were frightened, from an- 
 ticipation of a collision. 
 
 " How close that boat came to us," said Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, as soon as it had passed. " I thought it would 
 run into ours." She was leaning forward, as if to cling 
 to Hastings, in case of danger, for protection. " How it 
 frightened me ! " continued she. " I do not understand 
 how they can pass each other in this channel, in the 
 night. I should fear to travel on a night boat." 
 
 " It is sometimes dangerous," replied Hastings. " A 
 few years since, as the steamboat ' Swallow ' was on 
 her way to New York, in the middle of the night, 
 freighted with human beings, she was overtaken by a vio- 
 lent snow-storm, which so enshrouded her in thick dark- 
 ness as to render it impossible for the captain to deter- 
 mine the true channel of the river, and, mistaking his 
 course, the unfortunate vessel was wrecked on the rocks, 
 and some thirty passengers, who but a moment before 
 had been in high life and glee, were buried in the dark 
 waters of the Hudson, with no funereal dirge save 
 the fierce howling storm. This is but one of the 
 many occurrences of the kind ; and I mention it only
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 87 
 
 because I was one of the passengers on the boat at the 
 time" 
 
 " How were you saved ? " asked Mrs. Belmonte, eagerly. 
 
 " I seized a floating box, and clinging to it drifted 
 ashore about a mile below where the boat was wrecked. 
 
 " How frightful it is to think of the many accidents 
 and loss of life on the Hudson," exclaimed she. 
 
 They were all now running from side to side to 
 witness the different prospects presented by the frequent 
 turning of the boat, as it followed the crooked channel. 
 There were " Thunder Chamber," " Crow-nest," " An- 
 thony's Nose," " Sugar Loaf," etc., all looking as wild 
 and sublime, as they were picturesque and beautiful. 
 
 " I have passed through these Highlands several 
 times," said Mrs. Belmonte; "but I never saw them 
 when they appeared so lovely as now. How does the 
 scenery in this river compare with that on the Rhine, 
 Mr. Hastings ? " 
 
 " It is unlike it in almost every respect," replied he. 
 " The Rhine is noted for its ruins, while here we have 
 nature in all its wildness. Unlike the Rhine, this river 
 .has no ruins to commend it to the classic epicure. Here 
 are none of the relics of a heathen mythology, no 
 antiquated castles grace its banks. All is modern, 
 every thing presents the appearance of youth. In short, 
 it is the scenery of the New World, and the beholder 
 must look upon it as such, and not as upon the mould- 
 ering rains of the legendary past. There are no temples 
 here, dedicated to heathen divinities ; no battle grounds 
 of gods or demi-gods. We must view it as a beautiful 
 painting, pencilled by the fingers of Omnipotence, a 
 panoramic display of the ingenuity and genius of man, 
 combined with the divinity and magnificence of nature." 
 
 " I declare, you are quite poetic, Mr. Hastings," said 
 she, as he finished his last sentence. " If you only pre-
 
 88 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 serve this Byronic turn of mind until we get to Saratoga, 
 I think you need fear no rivals. Miss Leighton is par- 
 tial to poetry, and I believe sometimes courts the muses 
 herself." 
 
 " Does she ? " asked he, laughingly. " I must then 
 brush up my imagination a little." 
 
 " I think you must have written rhymes before now ? " 
 said she, inquiringly. 
 
 " I assure you, Mrs. Belmonte, that I have never been 
 guilty of the attempt but once or twice in my life ; and 
 then I only succeeded in convincing myself that I never 
 could make my prose thoughts jingle, should 1 try never 
 so hard. I might succeed in reciting the poetry of others, 
 perhaps. I could select passages from Byron or Moore 
 or Burns, or some other author that deals in heart-ware, 
 and recite them indifferently well. If the Saratoga 
 belle were here now, I might declaim something in praise 
 of this beautiful river; some verses which I now recol- 
 lect, for instance. I have forgotten the author ; but who- 
 ever he is, I am convinced that he is a jolly good fellow, 
 who was not only poetic, but also sufficiently patriotic. 
 Perhaps G. P. Morris is the author." 
 
 "I should like to hear them," said Mrs. Belmonte, 
 " after the curiosity you have awakened in me to know 
 what they are." 
 
 Hastings then recited the following verses. 
 
 " They may sing of the Rhone and the Rhine, 
 
 With their palaces, castles, and towers ; 
 Of their banks, overflowing with wine, 
 
 And their hamlets, embosomed in flowers : 
 But while through our own native land, 
 
 The Hudson's blue billows shall shiver, 
 I will hail it with heart and with hand, 
 
 Nor sigh for a lovelier river.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 89 
 
 " Our Highlands, what foe dare invade, 
 
 Where the arm of each freeman 's a tower ? 
 And for castles, see you Palisade, 
 And scoff at the enemy's power. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " Then fill high to our beautiful stream, 
 
 We ask not a braver or broader ; 
 On its bosom what argosies gleam ! 
 
 How green wave the woods on its border ! 
 While its waters shall flash in the sun, 
 
 No rival our heart-ties shall sever ; 
 But we 11 sing, will we not ? every one, 
 
 The Hudson the Hudson forever ! " 
 
 " Beautiful ! " exclaimed Mrs. Belmonte, " and so ap- 
 propriate. I think you can be trusted with your new 
 rivals." Thus did Hastings and Mrs. Belmonte con- 
 tinue to converse and enjoy the scenery, until they 
 reached Albany. The three then proceeded on to Sara- 
 toga, and arrived there a little after dark. Mrs. Belmonte 
 never in her life had enjoyed a day's sailing so much 
 as the one just described. Hastings, without realizing 
 it at the time, had conversed with her in a friendly man- 
 ner, and with a greater degree of confidence than was 
 his custom when talking with friends. They were both 
 happy in each other's society, without knowing or 
 inquiring the cause. 
 
 Hastings, since the death of his wife, had gone little 
 into society. His early disappointments, his later 
 troubles, weighed upon his sensitive mind, and produced 
 melancholy and depression of spirits. Since he had 
 known Mrs. Belmonte he was more cheerful ; and when 
 in her society he forgot the many trials of his life, and 
 was carried back, in memory, to the happier days of his 
 boyhood. He had already come to feel 'that his only 
 happy hours were those passed in conversing with her. 
 8*
 
 90 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 They had been at Saratoga about a week, when Bel- 
 monte, one fine morning, invited Hastings to take a short 
 walk. When they had gone as far as the little Indian 
 village, they seated themselves in the shade, and held 
 the following conversation. 
 
 " I have been thinking," commenced Belmonte, " that 
 I had better return to the city and complete the busi- 
 ness which has been so unsuccessfully begun. Until it 
 is finished, I shall not rest content. Amid all the gay- 
 ety of this place, I am thinking only of that one object, 
 yet to be accomplished." This was a subject unpleas- 
 ant to Hastings. He had seen enough of Belmonte to 
 believe him unscrupulous ; and he feared that the child 
 was not safe so long as it stood between him and a for- 
 tune. Belmonte was the nearest relative to the old 
 gentleman with whom little Flora was living, and 
 would, under the law, inherit at the old man's death a 
 large property. A will had been made, however, giving 
 the property to Flora, provided she outlived the old 
 man. This will sufficiently explain to the reader the 
 reason why Belmonte was so anxious to have little 
 Flora put out of his way. 
 
 " Do you think," asked Hastings, " that you will suc- 
 ceed in another effort, should you make one ? Consider 
 the danger attending such a desperate undertaking. 
 Had we not better let the matter rest where it is for the 
 present ? " 
 
 " I will never give it up, until I give up my life!" said 
 Belmonte, passionately. " You have promised your 
 assistance, and I trust you have too much honor to 
 break your word." 
 
 " There is very little honor connected with so base a 
 business, I think," replied Hastings, indignantly. 
 
 " What do you advise ? " asked Belmonte more coolly, 
 after sitting a moment in silence.
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 91 
 
 " Since you are determined not to abandon the enter- 
 prise," said Hastings, " I know no reason why you may 
 not return at once and proceed with it. Recollect, how- 
 ever, that I shall expect you to adhere rigidly to your 
 former promises respecting the safety of the child." 
 
 " I will do as I promised," said Belmonte. 
 
 " I must write a line to Merle," said Hastings. 
 Where shall I tell him to meet you ? " 
 
 " Say," answered Belmonte, " that I will meet him on 
 next Wednesday night where I last parted with him." 
 
 " I will do so," said Hastings ; and the two left the 
 wood and returned arm in arm to Congress Hall, where 
 they were stopping.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE next morning Belmonte, before taking leave of 
 his wife and Hastings, said to the latter : 
 
 " Hastings, my good fellow, you must not let Miss 
 Leighton monopolize all your time in my absence. I 
 shall expect you to give some of your leisure moments 
 to Mrs. Belmonte, whom I leave to your protection." 
 
 " Never fear," said Mrs. Belmonte, anticipating Hast- 
 ings' answer; " I will take good care that she has a rival 
 in me for his attentions." 
 
 " As for that," said Hastings, I think that Mrs. Bel- 
 monte need not fear Miss Leighton as a rival, for she is 
 surrounded by so many brilliant stars, that my rushlight 
 will be obscured when contrasted with them." 
 
 " How very modest we are, to be sure," said Mrs. 
 Belmonte, laughing. 
 
 When Belmonte had gone, Mrs. Belmonte and Miss 
 Leighton were almost constantly together. Hastings 
 always accompanied them to the table, and waited upon 
 them when they appeared in public. He walked with 
 them Whenever they visited the Springs, and chaperoned 
 them whenever they drove or rode out. It was soon 
 rumored among the gossiping circles that Miss Leighton 
 was very partial to him. This was somewhat annoying 
 to two or three of her particular admirers, who had, 
 until Hastings' arrival, been favored with her enoourag- 
 
 (92)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 93 
 
 ing smiles. She was by common consent denominated 
 one of the belles at the Springs ; and in consequence 
 they felt the more chagrined that another should sup- 
 plant them so easily. But, like gallant young knights, 
 they were determined not to retire from the field with- 
 out a contest with their presuming rival. 
 
 One evening, Hastings, in company with Mrs. Bel- 
 monte and Miss Leighton, attended a " hop " given at 
 the United States Hotel. There were hundreds of gayly 
 dressed beaux and belles present from all parts of the 
 country. Anxious mothers were there also, eagerly 
 looking out for eligible young men to introduce to their 
 marriageable daughters. Bread and butter misses, fresh 
 from boarding-school, brought out for the first time in 
 their lives, mingled in the gay assemblage a little 
 stiff and awkward, to be sure, in exemplifying the calis- 
 thenic lessons which had been so recently taught them 
 but nevertheless blushing, bashful, beautiful. It was 
 a gay, a fashionable '" hop." Miss Leighton, looking 
 her loveliest and glistening in diamonds, moved among 
 the throng, the conscious beUe of the evening. Hastings 
 was particularly attentive to her, without at all neglect- 
 ing Mrs. Belmonte ; and it was observed by all, that she 
 was flattered and pleased by his attentions. He mo- 
 nopolized most of her time during the entire evening, 
 much to the discomfiture and mortified pride of his 
 jealous rivals. Thus, on his arrival, he had shown Mrs. 
 Belmonte that the victory was his, if he sought it. And 
 need I say, it was for this purpose that he had been so 
 attentive to Miss Leighton ? He wished ta show her 
 that he had confidence in his ability to engage success- 
 fully in such a contest for empire. Perhaps he wished 
 to make her a little jealous of the Saratoga belle ; if so, 
 he succeeded to a charm, for she began to think that he 
 devoted too much of his time to Miss Leighton. She
 
 94 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 did not know the fact, perhaps, but Hastings did, and 
 felt a little flattered in consequence. Miss Leighton 
 now became a source of annoyance to him. She ac- 
 companied him and Mrs. Belmonte wherever they went ; 
 nor would she accept of any other chaperone than him- 
 self. She always had some excuse to give to those who 
 invited her to ,a drive, or a walk, or what not. Gener- 
 ally she told them that she had an engagement with 
 Mrs. Belmonte, which they construed as meaning Mr. 
 Hastings. In consequence of her continual presence, 
 Hastings very seldom had an opportunity of speaking a 
 word privately with Mrs. Belmonte. He began to wish 
 Belmonte would return. He felt that he was grievously 
 persecuted by the bewitching Miss Leighton ; and he 
 longed to be relieved of her society. This was very un- 
 gallant in him, to be sure, but was none the less true. 
 Mrs. Belmonte was growing more and more jealous of 
 Miss Leighton ; and he, knowing the fact, was cursing 
 the evil fate that took Belmonte away and left him thus 
 to be sacrificed. 
 
 One day, he in company with Mrs. Belmonte, Miss 
 Leighton, and a few others of their acquaintance, drove 
 to Saratoga Lake. The weather was beautiful, and 
 they all concluded to stop a few hours and fish. It so 
 happened from some cause, that Mrs. Belmonte and 
 Hastings occupied a boat unaccompanied by any one 
 save the boatman. They had not conversed alone before 
 for several days. They both, therefore, secretly re- 
 joiced that they were rid of Miss Leighton for at least 
 an hour or- two. When they had talked together some 
 time, Hastings said : 
 
 " I always visit this beautiful lake with peculiar inter- 
 est. I have a story to tell you of myself sometime in 
 connection with it." 
 
 " But why not tell it now ? " asked Mrs. Belmonte.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 95 
 
 " O, it would take too long, and I don't feel in the 
 humor for story-telling to-day," said he. 
 
 " You are waiting until you can have a larger audi- 
 ence, I suppose," said she, with an ill concealed feeling 
 of jealousy. 
 
 " No," replied Hastings, " that is not the reason, I as- 
 sure you." 
 
 " Then why not tell it at once? " inquired she, a little 
 peevishly. 
 
 " It is too long. I should not be able to finish it, I 
 fear," said he ; " but if you will listen to it to-night, I 
 will tell it ; and, to convince you that I wish none others 
 present, may I request you to meet me in the private 
 parlor, unaccompanied by Miss Leighton ? " A blush 
 suffused Mrs. Belmonte's cheeks. She had shown Hast- 
 ings that she was jealous of Miss Leighton. She an- 
 swered him, therefore, by saying : 
 
 " But why may I not invite her to be present ? " 
 
 " If you very much desire it," said Hastings, " of 
 course I cannot object; but if you do not, I should 
 prefer conversing witn you alone." 
 
 " If that be your wish, I will not invite her," said she. 
 
 " The fact of the matter is," said Hastings, " I am 
 tired of the gay company that one is persecuted with at 
 these watering-places ; and an evening spent in a sensi- 
 ble way will be a relief. To speak frankly, Mrs. Bel- 
 monte," continued Hastings, " I am bored to death with 
 Miss Leighton. I have already intrusted you with one 
 secret, and I now tell you another." Mrs. Belmonte's 
 countenance lighted up at this plain avowal of his. 
 It removed a heavy load from her mind. 
 
 " Your secret will be safe," replied she ; " but I am not 
 sure that I ought not to take you to task for the ungal- 
 lantry of the sentiment." 
 
 " If you think so," replied he, " I will listen to your
 
 96 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 lecture, I trust, with becoming resignation. You wUi 
 please begin at once, as I am in the best of humors to 
 hear a sermon." 
 
 " Not now," said she, smilingly ; " I will postpone it 
 until I feel more like reproving you." The day's fishing 
 at length ended, and the party returned to the village. 
 In the evening, Mrs. Belmonte and Hastings met as 
 agreed in the parlor, and, after conversing more than an 
 hour, he with a little persuasion related the following : 
 
 " It was about fifteen years ago that my father and 
 mother visited these Springs. I was then a lad about 
 thirteen years old." Mrs. Belmonte turned suddenly 
 pale at this point in his story, but he did not see her, 
 he was looking vacantly at the carpet, seemingly ab- 
 sorbed in what he was saying. " We remained here for 
 two months. There was a gentleman with his wife and 
 little daughter stopping here at the same time. My 
 father was not acquainted with them, but the little girl 
 and I became intimate friends. She was about two 
 years younger than I. We were always together, and 
 we came to love each other very much." Mrs. Bel- 
 monte now Listened with the intensest nervous excite- 
 ment. Could it be possible that she herself was the 
 little girl referred to? Hastings did not see her agita- 
 tion, but continued in the same thoughtful strain with 
 his story. " One day, shortly before she left, I per- 
 suaded her father to let her accompany us on a drive to 
 the lake, where we were to-day. My father and mother 
 and others were of the party. Cornelia (for that was 
 the little girl's name) and I rode together in my father's 
 carriage, the happiest pair of them all. We talked of 
 the fast approaching day when she rqjist leave, and we 
 promised never to forget each other. In a thousand 
 ways we declared our love. We could not bear the 
 thought of separating. Ah" our talk was about what
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 97 
 
 we would do when she had gone. We at length arrived 
 at the lake, and went out in boats to fish. I recollect 
 all that occurred that day as distinctly as if it were yes- 
 terday. Cornelia and I were in the same boat. We 
 had fished some time, and were returning to the shore, 
 when she leaned over the side of the boat in such a 
 manner, that I, fearing she would fall overboard, sprang 
 to her side to save her. The boat tilted, and we both 
 fell out, but were saved from drowning by the boatman. 
 The water was deep,' and I seized hold of Cornelia in 
 my desire to save her. I could not swim, but I continued 
 my hold of her until we were rescued. We were both 
 very much frightened ; but the incident only made us 
 love the more, if indeed it were possible for two of our 
 age to think more of each other than we then did." Mrs, 
 Belmonte, almost insensible from conflicting emotions, 
 sat looking wildly at Hastings as he continued. " The 
 day at length came when we must part. They were 
 to leave in the afternoon. On the morning of that day, 
 Cornelia and I sat on the piazza of the hotel where her 
 father and mother were stopping, and talked a long 
 time. We promised never to forget, but always to 
 love each other. We promised, too, that when we grew 
 up we would marry. They were children's pledges to 
 be sure, but I never forgot them. I never have forgot- 
 ten her I never shall forget her ! " This Hastings 
 said abstractedly, and as if unmindful that he had a lis- 
 tener. " The coach in which they were to leave, at 
 length drove up to the door. Their trunks were being 
 put on to it. Her father and mother were standing, ready 
 to get in, when Cornelia and I walked a little to one 
 side. The tears filled her eyes as she said, ' Willie, I '11 
 never forget you ! I '11 love you always, and when I am 
 far away I will pray for you.' " 
 9
 
 98 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 "So I have, Willie!" exclaimed Mrs. Belmonte, 
 wildly, rising from her chair. " I am the Cornelia of 
 whom you speak." Hastings sprang to his feet, and, 
 exclaiming 
 
 " Cornelia ! " the two were in each other's arms. 
 
 Carried away by the excitement caused by thus sud- 
 denly recognizing each other, they embraced with the 
 same feelings that they would have done had they been 
 young and free as when first they met. They had 
 seated themselves again, and Mrs. Belmonte, all blushes 
 and embarrassment, mingled with a perceptible glow 
 of pleasure, was looking at Hastings, as, if trying to 
 recognize her long-loved Willie. They both remained 
 silent both were embarrassed. All Hastings' attempts 
 to appear easy were utter failures. He saw before 
 him his Cornelia, her of whom he had so often dreamed, 
 and whose image, in all its innocent loveliness, had 
 long been engraven on his heart. But she was the 
 wife of another. This thought, coupled with the inci- 
 dent just related, made him as diffident and awkward 
 as young " Modest " in the play. His wits seemed to have 
 left him. He was in the presence of her whom he had 
 loved from boyhood, and yet he was unable to say a 
 word. At length, after much stuttering and stammering, 
 he said: 
 
 " Cornelia I I would say, Mrs. Belmonte, I 
 perhaps owe you a a an but " Here he broke 
 completely down ; and they both continued to sit and look 
 at each other, more embarrassed if possible than ever. 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte at length rising from her seat, said : 
 " I must leave you now, Wil , I mean Mr. Hastings, 
 for to-night. The surprise you gave me quite overcame 
 me, and and I I You will please excuse me, 
 Wil, Mr. Hastings. Good-night ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! " said Hastings ; and the two separated,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 99 
 
 to think of but I will leave the reader to imagine 
 what. The next morning when they met at the break- 
 fast table, they were confused and awkward. I will 
 pass over the next few days, leaving the embarrassed 
 lovers to arrange matters to their own liking ; hoping, 
 however, that they will not let so trifling and pleasant 
 an incident interfere materially with their mutual hap- 
 piness and kind feelings for each other. 
 
 Belmonte had been absent a little more than a 
 week, when Hastings, in looking over his letters one 
 morning, saw one that immediately drew his attention. 
 He broke the seal, and read as follows : 
 
 "NEW YORK, July , 18 . 
 
 " DEAR HASTINGS, I think I shall succeed in carry- 
 ing out our plans to-morrow. I have seen , and 
 
 have arranged every thing with him in such a manner 
 as to preclude failure, I think. The plan which I am 
 now following was suggested by him. It was a capital 
 idea success is sure. BELMONTE." 
 
 P. S. Give my love to Mrs. Belmonte." 
 
 " The villain," said Hastings to himself when he 
 finished reading the letter, " to mention his wife in con- 
 nection with such a business ! 'Tis well he spoke of her 
 only in the postscript ; for she should be as far removed 
 from such a base deed, as sin is distant from heaven. 
 I wonder that I could ever have lent myself to such a 
 man. He must be thwarted in his purposes. He is 
 no more worthy of Cornelia than he is deserving of 
 heaven." 
 
 Miss Leighton continued to remain at Saratoga, al- 
 though the party which she had come there with had 
 gone on to Lake George. She was the constant com- 
 panion of Mrs. Belmonte, and in consequence was as
 
 100 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 much as ever, when in public, attended by Mr. Hastings. 
 It was now the common talk among those at the 
 Springs, that the bewitching Saratoga belle and he 
 were engaged. Hastings knew this, and felt partic- 
 ularly annoyed in consequence. But there was no es- 
 cape he was compelled to go into company with her ; 
 and, disagreeable as it was, he had frequently to read in 
 the papers his own name in connection with hers, and 
 so mentioned as to lead any one to believe that their 
 marriage had been agreed upon. Thus matters stood, 
 until one day when he passed in to the dinner table 
 with Mrs. Belmonte and Miss Leighton, who should he 
 see but Mrs. Delacy and her daughter, in company with 
 several of their friends from New York. He immedi- 
 ately went and spoke to them, and after dinner when 
 they had assembled in the drawing-room, he introduced 
 them to Mrs. Belmonte and Miss Leighton. Mrs. De- 
 lacy was the widow of a southern planter. Her hus- 
 band had been well acquainted with William Hastings' 
 father, and in consequence when Hastings first went to 
 New York to practise law, his father had given him a 
 letter of introduction to her. She had an independent 
 fortune, and when Hastings presented his father's letter 
 she invited him to make his home at her house. He 
 accepted her generous invitation, and had lived there 
 ever since his first arrival in the city. Mrs. Delacy was 
 born in the South, and was of Spanish origin. Her 
 ancestors were Spanish ; yet, by intermarriage with 
 people in this country, the family had become somewhat 
 Americanized. Mrs. Delacy had the black eyes, the 
 raven locks, and the dark complexion of the Spaniard, 
 with most of the American or English features. She 
 was still called a young widow, notwithstanding she 
 had a daughter sixteen years old ; and withal was 
 thought to be quite handsome. The daughter, I have
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 101 
 
 already said, accompanied her at the time I have intro- 
 duced her at Saratoga. She was the counterpart of 
 her mother in looks, except that she had fuller and more 
 beautiful eyes. This was her first introduction into 
 society, or, as her mother expressed it, " I have brought 
 her out this season, for the first time in her life." It 
 had been Mrs. Delacy's custom to spend the warm 
 months at different watering-places with her Mends, and 
 her appearance therefore at Saratoga at the time I have 
 mentioned, was nothing strange. Hastings was glad 
 to see them. He was determined that they should 
 divide his attentions, at least. He welcomed their ar- 
 rival as the Arabian traveller welcomes the oasis in 
 the desert. Miss Delacy promised, at once, to be a 
 successful rival of the Saratoga belle. Hastings was all 
 attention to her whenever she appeared in public, from 
 the feeling of relief which it gave him. They composed 
 a part of his party whenever they appeared at table or 
 in the drawing-room. Miss Delacy was young and 
 beautiful. She had been absent from New York at- 
 tending boarding-school most of the time since Hast- 
 ings had lived in her mother's house, and consequently 
 he had seen very little of her. She was tall and rather 
 slender, and when she walked there was a slight ap- 
 pearance of pride and haughtiness in the manner in 
 which she carried her head. Her introduction at the 
 Springs, under so favorable auspices as the particular 
 attentions of Hastings, necessarily flattered her vanity. 
 She was at once made the successful rival of the belle 
 of the place. Hastings did not neglect Mrs. Belmonte, 
 for she filled all his thoughts ; he only wished to show 
 the visitors at the Springs that there was no truth in the 
 rumors afloat respecting himself and Miss Leighton. 
 One evening, at a ball given at one of the hotels, Hast- 
 9*
 
 102 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 ings and his party were all present. After dancing 
 first with Mrs. Belmonte, he chose Miss Delacy as his 
 second partner, to the wonder of all present. He de- 
 voted most of his time to Miss Delacy during the even- 
 ing, to the great delight of Mrs. Delacy (for she had 
 already set her heart upon marrying her daughter to 
 him). He danced two or three times with Miss Delacy, 
 and but once with Miss Leighton. His preference for 
 the former was seen by all, and it was immediately 
 whispered about that the lovely Miss Delacy had sup- 
 planted her rival. Mrs. Belmonte felt unhappy. She 
 instinctively disliked Mrs. Delacy and her daughter ; 
 she could not tell why they were polite to her, agree- 
 able, accomplished, and yet she disliked them. She 
 and Hastings, since they had recognized each other as 
 old lovers, were more formal when together than they 
 had been before, notwithstanding they loved as devot- 
 edly as when they parted fifteen years before, with all 
 the pledges of fond and overflowing hearts. But they 
 could not speak their feelings she was the wife of 
 another. Hastings was reserved almost to coldness 
 when with her, at least Mrs. Belmonte thought so ; and 
 this, together with his extreme politeness to Miss Delacy, 
 made her unhappy. When she retired to her own 
 room at night she would remain awake, and think, and 
 think, and think. " I am married to another," she 
 would sometimes say to herself, "why should I care 
 about his coldness to me ? Why should I be unhappy 
 because he bestows his attentions upon another ? He 
 has ceased to love me he does not know how wildly 
 I worship him. I have loved him ever since we first 
 met but I must not think of him as I have done 
 it is wrong. Oh ! why was it that I never saw him 
 again until I was another's ? " Thus ran the thoughts
 
 OR, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 103 
 
 of Mrs. Belrnonte, as she reflected upon the happy past 
 and the wretched present. 
 
 Hastings was equally unhappy also. AH his gayety 
 was assumed, in order that he might not be misrepre- 
 sented and misunderstood by the gossips at the Springs. 
 He could not avoid being embarrassed when with Mrs 
 Belmonte, and that of itself made him reserved. He 
 did not think it right to reopen the subject of their for- 
 mer acquaintance. Belmonte had placed his wife under 
 his protection. 
 
 " Have I acted honorably towards him ? " he would 
 frequently ask himself. He despised Belmonte, and 
 thought him utterly unworthy of her ; yet he had trusted 
 her to his honor, and he felt that he could not, then 
 especially, deceive him, or act unworthy the confidence 
 which Belmonte placed in him. 
 
 Thus he thought, and as a relief as a kind of des- 
 perate alternative, he threw himself into the passing 
 gayety of the place, and made himself miserable by ap- 
 pearing to enjoy the society of the already well-known 
 and beautiful Miss Delacy. 
 
 Mrs. Delacy had never before enjoyed a summer at 
 the Springs so much. She was proud of her daughter's 
 success. She was all smiles during her stay, and re- 
 ceived much attention from every one. In short, she 
 was one of the celebrities at Saratoga. They continued 
 at the Springs for nearly two months, when they all in 
 company returned to New York.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT was a long time before little Flora became recon- 
 ciled to the loss of her pet dog. Every day she visited 
 the spot where he lay, and every day she prayed the 
 Lord to temper the wind to the little lambs, and remem- 
 ber poor Rover. A white marble slab had been placed 
 at the head of the grave, on which was carved, in deep 
 letters, the simple inscription, " ROVER." At its foot lay 
 a little lamb, as white and natural and innocent in ap- 
 pearance as Flora herself. A little play-house stood 
 near by, where she kept her dolls and playthings gener- 
 ally. One day she was at Rover's grave, busily at work 
 planting and arranging her flowers, so as to make it as 
 pretty and lovely as possible. As she worked, she 
 talked to herself something in this way : 
 
 " There, Rover, I wish you could see how pretty these 
 flowers look. I will put this forget-me-not at your head, 
 Rover, for grandpapa says it will make me always think 
 of you ; and I want to think of you always, Rover. I 
 will put it here where I can see it, when I look at your 
 name there, that looks very pretty. Do you hear me, 
 Rover ? I 'm Flora, who used to play with you and put 
 flowers round your neck. I was very naughty to tease 
 you so. If you were here now, I would n't put flowers 
 round your neck. I 'd be very good to you. Now I 
 will run home and tell grandpapa how nretty these 
 
 (104)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 105 
 
 flowers look. I will bring him to see where I 've put 
 the forget-me-not. Good-by, Rover ! good-by ! " 
 
 Thus would she visit and talk with her friend every 
 day. Her grandpapa frequently accompanied her, and 
 assisted in adorning and beautifying a spot so dear to 
 his little angel grandchild. 
 
 One day, as they were walking hand in hand along 
 the path that led to Rover's grave, Flora said : 
 
 " Grandpapa, do you know what I am thinking 
 about?" 
 
 " No, darling, what is it ? " 
 
 " I am thinking how good you were to give that old 
 woman some money this morning, and something to 
 eat" 
 
 " Why do you think so, Flora ? " 
 
 " Oh ! she looked so good, and so poor. Don't you 
 think she is very good, grandpapa ? " 
 
 " She is old, my child, and we should always be kind 
 to old people." 
 
 " I think I saw her crying, grandpapa. I wonder if 
 she has lost a dog ? " 
 
 " I don't know, darling." 
 
 " She is the old woman I saw in the bushes day be- 
 fore yesterday ; she frightened me very much then, but 
 I will never be afraid of her again she looks so 
 good!" 
 
 " What was she doing, Flora ? " 
 
 " O, she only looked at me and motioned for me to 
 come to her ; but I ran away." 
 
 " She will not hurt you you never need fear her." 
 
 " I won't be afraid of her any more. Don't she talk 
 funny, grandpapa ? She said, ' Come to me, honey 
 you pretty wee darlint.'" As Flora said this, she 
 laughed heartily, and continued to repeat some words 
 of the old woman's that she thought very funny. " I
 
 106 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 think," continued she, with a more sober face, " that she 
 is very good ; for when she went away, she said, ' May 
 God bless your honor!' That was very kind of her, 
 wasn't it ? What did she mean, grandpapa, by saying 
 your honor ? I am sure she meant something good by 
 it." 
 
 " Yes, my child " Here the old man, breaking off 
 suddenly, said : " Yonder is the old woman now, walking 
 over the hill." 
 
 Flora looked ; but she had just disappeared. 
 
 " I wish," said she, " that she would stop and talk 
 with us ; she says such very, very funny things. Do 
 you know where she lives, grandpapa? " 
 
 " No, darling, I never saw her before this morning." 
 
 " I wish we knew where she lived. May be she will 
 come again, and then we will ask her." 
 
 They had now reached the grave, and Flora, with a 
 countenance beaming with pleasure, showed the old 
 man all the little changes she had made about it. She 
 never before had looked more beautiful. Her large blue 
 eyes shone brightly from under her long eye-lashes, and 
 her luxuriant hair fell in lovely ringlets upon her dim- 
 pled shoulders. 
 
 " Look here, grandpapa ! I 've put the ' forget-me- 
 not ' close by Rover's name, so that I may always think 
 of him when I grow to be big. Don't it look pretty ? " 
 
 " Yes, darling, it is very pretty." 
 
 " Grandpapa, why will the ' forget-me-not ' make me 
 remember Rover ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my child." 
 
 " You say, grandpapa, that Rover is up in the stars. 
 Do you think he sees these flowers at night when the 
 stars shine ? " 
 
 " Perhaps he does. If so, he must love you very 
 much for making his grave look so pretty."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 107 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she said, 
 
 " Grandpapa, the day before Rover died, I put some 
 flowers round his neck. I don't think he liked to have 
 me tease him so. Was it wrong to put flowers on his 
 neck, grandpapa ? " 
 
 " No, my child. I am sure he liked to have you play 
 with him." 
 
 " I am very glad that it was not wrong. I have 
 thought about it a great many times." 
 
 That night Flora was sitting on the old man's knee. 
 She had been looking attentively in his face for some 
 time, when she said : 
 
 " Grandpapa, what makes your hair white ? Was it 
 always so?" 
 
 " Why do you ask me that question, darling ? " 
 
 " Because the old woman this morning said that I 
 had such pretty brown hair. I always thought your 
 hair was pretty. Is my hair prettier than yours, grand- 
 papa ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Flora. Your hair is prettier for you, 
 and mine is prettier for me. You are young, and I am 
 old." 
 
 " Was your hair always white, grandpapa ? " 
 
 " No ; when I was your age, it was nearly the color 
 of yours. When people grow old their hair turns 
 white." 
 
 Why does it, grandpapa ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell, my child, unless God in his goodness 
 has taken this way to remind us that we soon must 
 die." 
 
 " God is very good, isn't he ? I love him very much. 
 Will my hair be white when I grow old ? " 
 
 " Yes, my child ; if you live to be old like me, your 
 hair will be white like mine."
 
 108 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " I am so glad ! I always wished my hair was white 
 like yours." 
 
 The old woman of whom they spoke was Aunt 
 Judy. She had been sent there by Merle. The next 
 day, Flora, as usual, visited Rover's grave. She had 
 not been there long, when Aunt Judy walked up to her 
 and said : 
 
 " Honey, what are you doing here ? " 
 " I am planting flowers about Rover's grave." 
 " How nice they look, to be sure ! " said the old 
 woman, as she seated herself on the grass. 
 
 " This is a ' forget-me-not,' " said Flora, as she walked 
 
 to the head of the grave. " Grandpapa says it will 
 
 make me think of poor Rover when I grow to be big." 
 
 " You swate little cratur ! You luck as fresh as the 
 
 posies thimsels." 
 
 Merle had told Aunt Judy a story about little Flora, 
 that had made her think that to entice her away from 
 the old man was not wrong. She had not a bad heart, 
 however ; and, as she sat looking at the little girl en- 
 gaged so sweetly among her flowers, she felt that she 
 could not do as Merle had asked. Once she got up to 
 leave ; but her love for her " darlint boy " at length over- 
 came her better instincts of right, and she yielded 
 implicit obedience to his instructions, and thus aided in 
 carrying out the wicked plot. 
 
 " Would you not like to have some more swate flow- 
 ers, darlint ? " asked the old woman. 
 " Yes, I should like them very much." 
 " Will you go with me and get some ? " 
 " Where are they, please ? " asked Flora, hesitatingly. 
 " Just a wee bit of a way ; we '11 be back in a jiffy." 
 " Are they very pretty, like mine here ? Are they 
 big, red ones ? " she asked, still hesitating.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 109 
 
 " Yes, darlint, they are O, so big ! and prittier niver 
 was seen ! " 
 
 Flora at length consented to go for the flowers. As 
 they walked away in company, Flora kept talking so 
 innocently and sweetly that Aunt Judy suffered real tor- 
 ture in deceiving her; but she was suffering, as she 
 thought, for her " darlint boy," and she continued on. 
 
 " What is your name, please ? " asked Flora, as they 
 were descending the bank towards the river. The ques- 
 tion puzzled the old woman, but she soon answered : 
 
 " Aunt Peggy." 
 
 " Aunt Peggy is a very pretty name," said Flora. 
 " Are the flowers down here by the river, Aunt Peggy ? " 
 
 " No, darlint ; they are in my own garden, sure, jist 
 foment here on the other side of the river." 
 
 Flora hesitated ; but she was overpersuaded by the 
 old woman, and was induced to get into the boat. 
 Aunt Judy took the oars and rowed with all her energy 
 down the stream. 
 
 " We '11 soon be there, honey," said the old woman, as 
 she saw Flora's cheeks turning pale. " We '11 soon be 
 there, and thin we '11 pick all the big red flowers in the 
 garden, sure. I '11 thin go back with you, and we '11 
 the 'gither plant thim on the grave." They soon landed, 
 near the little hut previously mentioned. Flora looked 
 eagerly about for the flower-garden ; but seeing none, 
 the tears began to creep into her eyes. 
 
 " Where is the garden, Aunt Peggy ? " she asked, in 
 a faltering voice. 
 
 " O,"I 've picked the flowers for you, sure. They are 
 all in the house, darlint." 
 
 " Please, Aunt Peggy, I want to go home." 
 
 " We '11 go back in a jiffy. Just come in and choose 
 the flowers first." Little Flora went into the hut, and 
 10
 
 110 THE CKOOKED ELM} 
 
 the door was locked upon her. When she saw the door 
 fastened and no flowers in the room, she burst into tears 
 and begged to be taken to her grandpapa. Merle, who 
 had been watching all that was going on from a con- 
 cealed spot overlooking the river, soon entered the hut. 
 He at first tried to allay the fears of the terrified child ; 
 but, finding that he could not, he carried her by force 
 into the cave underneath the house. Aunt Judy 
 went with them, and, in every way possible, tried to 
 soothe and quiet Flora. She promised that she would 
 go back with her the next day, and a thousand other 
 falsehoods, which she thought would comfort the almost 
 distracted child. 
 
 The night after little Flora was taken, Belmonte and 
 Merle met at the little cove in the river. 
 
 " Have you succeeded ? " asked Belmonte, eagerly, 
 when he came up to where Merle sat in his skiff. 
 
 " Yes," answered Merle. 
 
 " Where is she ? " inquired Belmonte, excitedly. 
 
 " In a safe place not far from here," answered Merle ; 
 " and can be produced if you desire it." 
 
 " I do not wish to see her," said Belmonte. Then , 
 thinking a moment, he added : " She had better re- 
 main concealed for a few days. Can you keep her 
 safely until you hear from me again ? " 
 
 " It will be attended with danger," said Merle ; " but 
 I suppose I must do so if it is absolutely necessary." 
 
 " It is necessary," said Belmonte. " Keep her until 
 you hear further from me, and you shall not go unre- 
 warded." 
 
 " Very well," said Merle. 
 
 " Have you arranged the other matter ? " asked Bel- 
 monte. " I mean, respecting the substitution." 
 
 Yes," said Merle ; " I have the dead body of a child 
 near here. Shall I go and get it ? "
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. Ill 
 
 " No, not now. Can you have it here by to-morrow 
 night this time ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you wish it." 
 
 " Well, bring it. Put the little girl's clothes upon it 
 carefully. Is the body so much decayed that no one 
 will suspect the deception ? " 
 
 " I think it will be by that time." 
 
 " Every thing," said Belmonte, nervously, " depends 
 upon the success of this last desperate undertaking. I 
 will, when I leave you to-morrow night, join in the 
 search, and you must bring the body to the point agreed 
 upon about twelve o'clock. Keep a good look-out and 
 see that no one observes you. I will be there watch- 
 ing for you. Be punctual and prompt, and all is 
 safe." 
 
 " I will do as yo.u advise," said Merle, and the two 
 parted. 
 
 When the old man missed Flora, he hunted for her, 
 alone, for a little while ; but not finding her, he became 
 alarmed and apprehensive, and got others to assist in 
 looking for her. The news soon spread, and many 
 joined in the search. The woods and fields were 
 scoured for miles around. The river was raked; but 
 no Flora was to be found. They continued the search 
 all night the next day, and the next night again until 
 about twelve o'clock, when Belmonte fired a gun as a 
 signal that she was found. All rushed to where they 
 heard the report. Belmonte told them that he had 
 found the body lying in the edge of the river, where the 
 receding tide had left it It was in a state of decompo- 
 sition, and the features were unrecognizable. It had on 
 the clothes which Flora had worn on the day she dis- 
 appeared, and no one suspected the deception which 
 had been so ingeniously practised upon them. The 
 body was taken to the house, and, on the next day, it
 
 112 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 was buried on the little hillock by the side of Rover. 
 The old man had suffered during his long life many 
 severe afflictions; but none had caused him so much" 
 sorrow and grief as the loss of little Flora. Often 
 would he sit in his arm-chair, with his Bible open, 
 trying to gather comfort and relief from his troubles 
 in its promises ; but the tears would steal down his fur- 
 rowed cheeks and fall upon its leaves without bringing 
 the boon which he sought. He had faith in all the 
 promises of the bible, yet he sometimes felt like crying 
 out, in the language of David, " Why standest thou 
 afar off, O Lord ! Why hidest thou thyself in time of 
 trouble ? " He almost daily visited the grave, and for 
 hours he would sit with eyes filled with tears, as he 
 thought of his lost child. " She was my only stay and 
 comfort in my old age," he would sometimes say to 
 himself as he sat weeping alone. " One after another 
 have all the props of life been removed, until now, like 
 an old dried up tree, I am left a prey to every sweep- 
 ing blast. Oh! that the Lord had spared little Flora 
 to me in my old age ! " Thus would he lament and 
 mourn for her loss. 
 
 Merle, as soon as he had witnessed the success of his 
 plans, returned secretly to the hut. He had been paid 
 the large sum of money stipulated, and even more than 
 was promised. He was as happy, perhaps, as it was 
 possible for a miserable man like himself to be. He 
 was fighting against society and the world, and he felt 
 proud of the mind that had enabled him to succeed in 
 the unequal contest without having been detected in 
 crime and but once suspected of it. He counted over 
 the gold which he had just received, and then going into 
 the cave he brought from it several bags of money. 
 He emptied them, and counted carefully their contents. 
 When he had finished, he said exultingly, " Twenty
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 113 
 
 thousand dollars is not so bad a sum as it might be." 
 fle enjoyed, for the moment, his numerous successes in 
 crime not as a miser enjoys the sight of his gold 
 but as a warrior enjoys a victory. Merle was no miser, 
 but the money which he had obtained was an evidence 
 of his superior intellect; at least he thought so, and 
 this alone gave him a kind of happiness. He sat look- 
 ing at the shining dust for some time, and then, carefully 
 replacing it in his bags, carried his ill-gotten treasure 
 back to the cave, and locked it securely in his chest. 
 
 Aunt Judy and little Flora were both lying together 
 asleep. Flora had cried most of the time since she had 
 been shut up in the dark and gloomy cave, and had, for 
 the first time since she had been enticed away from her 
 home, fallen into a troubled and dreamy sleep. Merle, 
 with a candle in his hand, walked close up to them as 
 they lay there unconscious of his presence. He looked 
 anxiously into Flora's face ; her eyes were red and 
 swollen with much crying, but her countenance was as 
 sweet as an angel's. Merle gazed at her for a long 
 time, and then leaving, he muttered : " Sweet child, it 
 is at the expense of thy happiness, and perhaps thy life, 
 that I have obtained this large sum of money. If I 
 thought thy life in danger, I would rescue it myself. 
 But why am I so tender-hearted ? Who cares for my 
 happiness ? No, I will not betray my trust. He has 
 paid me punctually, and even more than he promised. 
 I will be true." Although Merle strove to shut out his 
 better feelings, the image of the child haunted him. 
 Her lovely countenance was continually present to his 
 mind's eye. Aunt Judy began to love Flora very much, 
 and she tried in every way possible to alleviate her suf- 
 ferings and assuage her grief. She remained with her 
 in the cave almost constantly, and, in her homely way, 
 10*
 
 114 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 tried to administer consolation to one whom she felt 
 that she had very much wronged. Flora, worn out with 
 crying, was less loud in her grief than she had been ; 
 but there was a silent sadness in her countenance which 
 showed how much she was suffering. Her heart was 
 almost broken by this strange separation from her grand- 
 papa, as she called the old man. Her young mind was 
 filled with conjectures and fears. She wondered what 
 would be done with her she wondered if she should 
 always be shut up in that dark room. Sometimes she 
 wished that she might die, and go to her old friend 
 Rover, far away up among the stars. When she had 
 been there about a week, Merle one day stole down to 
 the door of the cave. Aunt Judy had gone out Flora 
 was alone. He looked cautiously in she was kneel- 
 ing on her little couch. The side of her face was 
 toward him the light shone full upon her, and re- 
 vealed to him her angel countenance. As she knelt, 
 with her little hands raised before her, she sai<4: " O 
 Lord ! temper the wind to the little lambs, and remem- 
 ber poor Rover." Then, after hesitating a moment, she 
 continued ; " and please, Lord, remember little Flora, 
 and take her back to her dear grandpapa." There was 
 something so touching in this simple* prayer, that Merle 
 listened as if she was in reality what she seemed, a 
 little angel. Tears rilled his eyes, and he turned away 
 with sad and troubled feelings. For several days after- 
 ward he stole down to the door of the cave, hoping 
 that he might hear her pray again ; but he was disap- 
 pointed. Her voice, so sweet, so simple, together with 
 the little prayer, touched a chord in his feelings which 
 had long been dormant. He felt anxious, troubled, and 
 unhappy. At night, when he had closed his eyes in 
 sleep, her image would appear to him in his dreams.
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 115 
 
 He could hear distinctly every word of her childish 
 prayer. He was haunted continually, both in his wak- 
 ing hours and in his sleep, by her sweet but troubled 
 looks. He had visited the cave many times unsuccess- 
 fully, when, one day as he came to the door, he saw her 
 on her knees, and in the same attitude as he had seen 
 her before. Again he listened to the simple prayer, and 
 again his eyes filled with tears, and, as he turned away, 
 he muttered, " If I thought he meant her harm I would 
 save her at the expense of all my money, nay, of my 
 worthless life." He went into the cave one day, and, 
 seating himself by her side, said : 
 
 " I do not mean you any harm, my child. Do you 
 feel unhappy ? " 
 
 " I want to go to grandpapa," she answered, with tears 
 filling her large eyes. 
 
 " I would take you home, darling, if I could, but I 
 cannot." 
 
 " Oh, won't you take me home ? " she said, implor- 
 ingly. " Grandpapa will like you very much, if you 
 will." 
 
 " I am trying to save you from harm." 
 
 " Oh, do take me home! " she again said, while she 
 cried bitterly. Merle could not comfort her. His hard 
 heart was softened, and the tears trickled down his 
 cheeks as he witnessed her sorrow. Flora saw the tears 
 in his eyes. She had always associated crying with 
 goodness, and taking hope she said : 
 
 " I am sure you are good, or you would n't cry. 
 Won't you take me to grandpapa ? " 
 
 Merle, unable to contain his pent up feelings longer, 
 put his handkerchief to his eyes, and wept bitterly. 
 Little Flora got up, and, putting her arm round his neck, 
 said : 
 
 " Do not ciy so, it makes me feel very bad." But the
 
 116 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 fountain of his heart had been unlocked, and th'e tears 
 continued to flow. 
 
 " What makes you cry ? Have you lost a dog ? " 
 inquired Flora, soothingly. This was too much for 
 Merle's overflowing feelings, and he hugged her to him, 
 while he vowed in his heart, that come what might he 
 would save the child from the plot which he thought 
 was laid, perhaps, against her life.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHEN William Hastings returned to New York from 
 Saratoga, he immediately addressed a note to Merle, 
 and waited patiently a few days for an answer to it, but 
 receiving none, he wrote another, and still another ; but 
 to neither of them did he get a word in reply. It had 
 been his intention to save the child from all harm, 
 through the instrumentality of Merle, and eventually, 
 when he could do so with safety, restore it to the old 
 man. This hope of saving the child's life induced him 
 to cooperate with Belmonte in its abduction. No other 
 motive actuated him. He never had seen either it or 
 the old man, that he knew of. He knew that the old 
 man was Belmonte's uncle, and that the child had been 
 adopted by him. This was all that he knew or cared to 
 know respecting either. Belmonte" had said enough to 
 make Hastings believe, that so long as the child stood 
 between him and a fortune its life was not safe. For 
 several weeks Hastings was unremitting in his efforts to 
 find Merle, but he searched for him in vain. He then 
 sought Belmonte, and demanded an explanation of 
 Merle's silence ; but Belmonte could give him no satis- 
 faction. This led Hastings to believe that the child's 
 life had been destroyed, and that the story of substitut- 
 ing a body in its stead had been concocted simply to 
 deceive him. But there was no way of learning the 
 
 (117)
 
 118 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 truth of the matter. All was doubt and uncertainty. 
 The thought that he probably had been instrumental 
 in taking the child's life made him unhappy, nay, at 
 times, wretched. He had the poor consolation, to be 
 sure, that his motives were pure in lending himself to 
 Belmonte ; but this was not sufficient to satisfy his con- 
 science. Thus is it with those who " do evil that good 
 may come ; " they are generally thwarted in their good 
 purposes, and left to repent, perhaps for a lifetime, the 
 wrong which their good intentions have done while, 
 leagued with sin. If Hastings had heretofore disliked 
 Belmonte, he now hated him ; but he still pretended to 
 be his friend, in order that he might visit Mrs. Belmonte. 
 His love for her made him play the hypocrite to her 
 husband, not however without many misgivings of 
 conscience and sore trials in concealing his feelings 
 from Belmonte when in his presence. He did not 
 abandon his search fof Merle, neither did he give up all 
 hope of yet being able to counteract Belmonte's wicked 
 purposes. He still lived at Mrs. Delacy's. Her daugh- 
 ter was stopping at home; and as soon as the opera 
 season commenced he not unfrequently accompanied 
 them, together with Miss" Leighton, to Niblo's. The 
 rivalry between Miss Delacy and Miss Leighton was 
 ingeniously kept up by him ; for he saw, or thought he 
 saw, a disposition on the part of the mother to have 
 him, as much as possible, associated in the public mind 
 with her lovely daughter. He, of course, was not am- 
 bitious or desirous to gratify her wishes in this respect, 
 and consequently, he generally invited Miss Leighton 
 to accompany them when they attended public places 
 of amusement This he did to neutralize the effect of his 
 being seen so frequently with Miss Delacy. The reader 
 may ask, why he accompanied them at all, if it was not 
 his wish to do so. It will be remembered, that he was
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 119 
 
 living at Mrs. Delacy's ; and he could not of course re- 
 fuse to attend them to the opera, whenever they signi- 
 fied a desire to go. Besides, he was pleased with Miss 
 Delacy, and liked her society very much. There was 
 nothing unpleasant to him in thus gratifying them, save 
 the fact that Mrs. Belmonte was made jealous and un- 
 happy by it. Mrs. Delacy began to dislike the rival of 
 her daughter, although she tried to conceal the fact from 
 Hastings. She always spoke of her in praise, to be 
 sure ; but sometimes her compliments were somewhat 
 doubtful and obscure, from the double meaning of the 
 words employed to express them. For instance ; one 
 day at table she said : 
 
 " Miss Leighton is to be envied ; for she has been the 
 reigning belle at the Springs for several years past." 
 
 At another time she said, in the presence of Hastings, 
 " She," meaning Miss Leighton, " need have no fears 
 of a successful rival, for her beauty and many accom- 
 plishments are too generally known not to be appre- 
 ciated." Now if there was one subject on which Miss 
 Leighton was more tender than another, it was that of 
 her age. She had been a beauty some time, and was 
 rapidly climbing the ladder twenty, with its nine rounds. 
 Indeed, she had reached nearly to the top. A lady's 
 age, after she has attained twenty-five, -is a sacred sub- 
 ject, and never should be, either directly or indirectly, 
 alluded to, by any one save the census taker. Mrs. 
 Delacy's compliments, therefore, might be thought a 
 little doubtful, especially by ill-judging people. Miss 
 Leighton was past twenty-five, and of course, exempt 
 by the laws of society from any reference to the number 
 of years that she had lived, especially by her friends. 
 We all know how reluctantly a lady enters upon each 
 new year, after she has passed a certain period, and how 
 indignantly she repels any allusion to her age. Sheridan
 
 120 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 has somewhere said, that she counts the years of her 
 life in this wise : " Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty- 
 nine, sixty;" but I am disposed to believe this an 
 unmitigated slander upon the sex. Be that as it may, 
 it is admitted by all, that a lady's age should never be 
 referred to after a certain period in her life, and this 
 should have been known by Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 Hastings was not a fool, and yet he never saw, or 
 seemed to see, the bearing of these left-handed compli- 
 ments. He always innocently joined in praising Miss 
 Leighton. He extolled her beauty and her many supe- 
 rior accomplishments, and in various ways made Mrs. 
 Delacy feel extremely uncomfortable. He was, as he 
 thought, acting upon the justifiable law of self-preser- 
 vation. It was frequently amusing to him to listen to 
 tne conversation between the Delacies and Miss Leigh- 
 ton. One evening, when they were ah 1 seated in a pri- 
 vate box at Niblo's Garden, the following conversation 
 took place immediately after the first act : 
 
 "Mr. Hastings," commenced Miss Leighton, "you 
 
 do not like the singing of Madame as \vell as 
 
 you do that of Mademoiselle . I differ with you. 
 
 I think she is her superior in almost every respect. I 
 shall begin to think that your ear for music is not so 
 
 good as it has been represented to be. Madame 
 
 sings divinely to-night, and her acting, how true to 
 the life is ;t all!" 
 
 Mrs. Delacy, without giving him an opportunity to 
 reply, answered : 
 
 " I think, Miss Leighton, that Mr. Hastings is right 
 
 in his preference for Mademoiselle . The singing 
 
 to-night is certainly very excellent ; yet I think she does 
 not throw enough of soul into the music. There is a 
 want of that sentiment which so much characterizes the 
 singing of Mademoiselle . I like the music of the
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 121 
 
 heart, as well as that produced by the harmony of 
 sounds." Hastings enjoyed these little controversies 
 exceedingly, and always so managed that neither should 
 carry off the victory. He therefore answered in his 
 turn : 
 
 " I confess, Miss Leighton, that I have nothing more 
 than an ordinarily good ear for music ; and if you have 
 heard to the contrary, you have been misinformed. 
 Yet it is sufficiently good to appreciate the compliment 
 
 you have so lavishly bestowed upon Madame 's 
 
 singing this evening. She is superior to her rival in 
 many respects; and yet I agree with Mrs. Delacy in 
 thinking that she is not equal to her in others. I can, 
 therefore, appreciate what you have both said, without 
 subscribing to either." 
 
 " I think," said Miss Delacy, " that you and mother 
 must agree with Mr. Hastings, that they both possess 
 superior musical talent, but that they are distinct and 
 different. I like them both almost equally well, and 
 yet I think 1 prefer a very little, the singing of Madem- 
 oiselle ." 
 
 The discussion was continued by them all until the 
 curtain again rose. Miss Delacy, however, had the 
 advantage in it of giving her opinion last; and in 
 consequence it was not greatly different from that 
 previously expressed by Hastings. Indeed, she was 
 generally satisfied in thinking as he thought. Miss 
 Leighton had made the first remark, simply to draw 
 Hastings out in a pleasant discussion, and he knew the 
 fact ; Itmt Mrs. Delacy, in her eagerness to have the tastes 
 and opinions of Miss Leighton conflict with those of 
 Hastings, assailed her views with a zeal and enthu- 
 siasm which carried her far beyond her own convictions. 
 It was with peculiar pleasure that she sought indirectly 
 11
 
 122 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 to convince Hastings, that Miss Leighton had not 
 
 enough of soul to appreciate Mademoiselle . Thus 
 
 would they generally conduct their discussions. Mrs. 
 Delacy could not see things exactly as Miss Leighton 
 saw them. There was always a difference in their 
 opinions, an amiable difference of course, respecting 
 almost every subject upon which they conversed, when 
 in the society of Hastings. Miss Delacy being the 
 youngest of the party, and not very well versed in the 
 artifices and intrigues of polite society, did not feel so 
 jealous of Miss Leighton as her mother did. She left 
 all the management with her mother, and was satisfied 
 with every thing and everybody, so long as she pleased 
 Hastings. Thus matters stood, when one day as Mrs. 
 Delacy passed through Hastings' room she saw lying on 
 his table a little billet-doux. She looked at the address, 
 and was quite sure she knew the hand that had penned 
 it. " The writing is disguised," said she to herself, as 
 she looked at it from every point of view. Her curi- 
 osity was excited. " Why," continued she, " should 
 Mrs. Belmonte write to Mr. Hastings ? and more than 
 all, why should she disguise her hand ? " As she said 
 this, she held the letter up between herself and the light, 
 and scrutinized it carefully with her black eyes. She 
 would have given a seat at the opera to have known 
 what it contained possibly more. Perhaps she even 
 wished to open it, for she examined carefully the seal- 
 ingwax that locked its contents from her. She did not 
 open it, however, but laid it down where she had found it, 
 and left the room to think. She began to put this and 
 that together. When she had seated herself in her own 
 room, she muttered : " Now I think of it, he was quite 
 attentive to her at Saratoga. Belmonte left her in his 
 charge; What fools some men are! She seemed
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 123 
 
 pleased with his attentions, too. No longer ago than 
 last Monday night, he accompanied her and her husband 
 to the opera. He dines out of late much oftener than 
 he formerly did. I will look into this matter. There is 
 something in that letter which she does not wish to 
 have known, or why should she disguise her hand? It's 
 suspicious! decidedly suspicious, to say the least !" 
 
 Thus from that little unoffending letter did Mrs. De- 
 lacy's imagination take wing, and in a remarkably short 
 time it had flown to Saratoga and back many times. 
 The sparks of a new jealousy had been kindled ; and 
 all that was now wanting was a little breeze to fan 
 them into a flame. 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte had called upon Mrs. Delacy once or 
 twice since her return from Saratoga, yet she did not 
 like Mrs. Delacy much. She felt as if she never could 
 make her an intimate friend. The next day after Mrs. 
 Delacy had seen the little billet-doux lying on Hastings' ' 
 table, she called upon Mrs. Belmonte. It was quite late 
 in the day, and when she went in she found Hastings 
 there. The three felt a little embarrassed, without know- 
 ing why. Mrs. Belmonte instinctively feared that the 
 note which she had sent to Hastings the day previous 
 had caused Mrs. Delacy's present visit. Such are 
 woman's fears, when she for the first time does that 
 which will compromise in any way her good name. 
 Mrs. Belmonte had written to Hastings to invite him to 
 dine with them on that day. She had done so at the 
 request of her husband. There was no necessity for 
 disguising her handwriting, and yet she did so from 
 fear of Mrs. Delacy. She loved Hastings, and for that 
 reason, and that alone, she had done what there was not 
 the slightest necessity for doing, and what at once awa- 
 kened the suspicions of the only person whom she sought 
 to deceive. Her extreme caution and nervousness had
 
 124 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 betrayed her into doing what was in itself suspicious, 
 and what was capable of a construction very unfavora- 
 ble to herself. When Mrs. Delacy called, and found 
 Hastings there alone with Mrs. Belmonte, she very nat- 
 urally supposed that he had called at that hour, because 
 she was alone, and in compliance with a previous un- 
 derstanding between them. The note of the day before, 
 she thought, had something to do with his present visit. 
 She did not hesitate to place the worst construction 
 possible upon the simple fact of his being there alone 
 with her. She thought that Mrs. Belmonte looked em- 
 barrassed and guilty. Perhaps she was right in think- 
 ing so, for Mrs. Belmonte did feel a little guilty, with- 
 out inquiring the cause. Mrs. Delacy did not remain 
 long, and while she was there she talked and laughed 
 and made herself as agreeable as possible. She ob- 
 served them both closely, however, and tried to satisfy 
 herself as to whether her newly awakened suspicions 
 were well grounded. She requested Mrs. Belmonte to 
 sing and play something ; and, when she had prevailed 
 upon her to take a seat at the piano, she easily detected 
 the unnatural tremor in her voice. Mrs. Belmonte had 
 not finished the piece which she first commenced before 
 she entirely broke down, and crimson with blushes, ex- 
 cused herself by saying that she had a very severe cold. 
 As Mrs. Delacy rode home that day, she said to her- 
 self: " How confused they were, to be sure ! That 
 little billet-doux was to invite him to call when her hus- 
 band would be absent. She could not sing because she 
 had a severe cold! I know, Mrs. Belmonte, how you 
 caught your cold. Cold, indeed ! And Hastings, the 
 deceitful! Who would have thought him guilty of 
 such an intrigue ? " 
 
 Thus was Mrs. Delacy letting her new jealousy con- 
 sume her happiness and peace of mind. She no longer
 
 
 OR, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 125 
 
 thought of Miss Leighton as a rival ; and what is more 
 strange still, she began to coincide with her in almost 
 all her views on all subjects. Mrs. Delacy pressed Mrs. 
 Belmonte, when she left her on the day mentioned, to 
 return her call soon. 
 
 " Call any day next week, Mrs. Belmonte," said she ; 
 " I shall be most happy to see you. If you do not 
 come soon, I shall be very, very angry with you." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte, of course, promised to call. I fear, 
 however, that she had no intention of doing so. 
 
 Mrs. Delacy waited patiently for a few days to receive 
 Mrs. Belmonte's promised visit; but days lengthened 
 into weeks, and she did not come. She could wait no 
 longer. Hastings had dined out during the three weeks 
 that had passed no less than four times. What should 
 she do? That was the great and all-absorbing ques- 
 tion with Mrs. Delacy. " I will," said she, after much 
 thinking, " give a dinner party, and invite Mrs. Bel- 
 monte and that blind husband of hers. If there is one 
 thing more than another," continued she, indignantly, 
 " for which I despise a man, it is for being a ninny in 
 the management of his household affairs ! Belmonte is 
 called handsome, and he is well enough looking ; but, 
 the simpleton ! he is as blind as a beetle, and as stupid 
 as an owl in his self-conceit ! I despise such a man 
 from the bottom of my heart! I do not blame Mrs. 
 Belmonte for her preference ; but she must not presume 
 to interfere with my arrangements, or woe is she ! No ; 
 Hastings shall marry my daughter, or I will " At 
 this point in her. soliloquy the door bell rang, and a 
 servant entered with Miss Leighton's card. Mrs. De- 
 lacy descended to the drawing-room burning with 
 indignation, leaving her pent-up feelings of wrath to 
 smoulder on. 
 
 11*
 
 126 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 " Why, how do you do, Lib ? I am delighted to see 
 you ! " said Mrs. Delacy as she met Miss Leighton. " 1 
 was thinking about you the moment before you rang 
 the bell. Walk up to my private parlor ; I have some 
 confidential talk for your ear alone. I want your coun- 
 sel in a little matter, of which I have been thinking." 
 When the two were seated in Mrs. Delacy's room, she 
 continued : 
 
 " I am going to give a little dinner party to-morrow 
 or next day. Who shall I invite of your friends ? " 
 
 " I have no friends," said Miss Leighton, " whom I 
 care particularly to see here on such an occasion. Any 
 arrangements which you may choose to make will be 
 quite satisfactory to me. I shall be pleased to meet 
 any guests that Mrs. Delacy would invite to her 
 house." 
 
 " Shall I tell you what I have been thinking of, Lib?" 
 
 " What is it, pray ? " 
 
 " I have thought that we might have a little amuse- 
 ment at Mr. Hastings' expense." Miss Leighton was all 
 attention as soon as Hastings' name was mentioned. 
 
 " What do you propose ? " asked she, somewhat 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I have concluded to invite Mr. Dillingscott to the 
 party. What a queer name ! " said Mrs. Delacy, laugh- 
 ing. " Excuse me, Lib," continued she, " but I always 
 have to laugh when I think of him. What a bundle of 
 conceit behind a pair of whiskers ! Yet they say he is 
 very wealthy, and well thought of among his acquaint- 
 ances. I will invite him. You andjVIary (Mrs. Dela- 
 cy's daughter) must be particularly polite to him. That 
 will make Hastings jealous. What do you say to that, 
 Lib?" 
 
 Miss Leighton thought it a very disagreeable propo-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 127 
 
 sition ; yet she could not" well refuse to cooperate with 
 her friend. So she said : 
 
 " I think it a capital suggestion ! capital ! " 
 
 " You see," said Mrs. Delacy, " that Mr. Hastings 
 only wants to be made a little jealous, and then he will 
 see the necessity of securing you from his would-be 
 rivals. He is too confident and independent, by at least 
 one half. This Dillingscott was quite attentive to you 
 at the Springs, and I doubt not he will be proud at 
 being again admitted as a rival for your smiles. I will 
 see that all is managed rightly. You and Mary must 
 treat Hastings with indifference, and be charmed, of 
 course, with that popinjay, Dillingscott. Do you un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 " Perfectly," answered Miss Leighton. 
 
 They arranged every thing to suit themselves, and 
 the invitations were sent out to Mrs. Delacy's intimate 
 friends to attend an informal dinner party, to be given 
 two nights after the above conversation. The day 
 came, and about twenty-five of Mrs. Delacy's friends 
 had assembled at her house. Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte 
 were among the number, so also was Mr. Dillings- 
 cott. Every thing went merrily along, all seemed in 
 good spirits. Even Mrs. Belmonte felt unusually gay 
 and happy. Mrs. Delacy was so polite to her, so agree- 
 able, so attentive, that she forgot her fears, and almost 
 began to like her. Dinner was over, and all had assem- 
 bled in the brilliantly lit drawing-room. Hastings had 
 attended Mrs. Belmonte to the table, Dillingscott had 
 waited upon Miss Leighton, and Belmonte upon Miss 
 Delacy. It is but justice to say that Miss Delacy did 
 not enter into her mother's plans without feelings of re- 
 luctance. Miss Leighton had very little heart for the 
 " very good joke," as Mrs. Delacy was pleased to call it,
 
 128 THE CKOOKED ELM J 
 
 but she was determined to act up to the programme in 
 every particular. 
 
 Soon after they had assembled in the drawing-room, 
 Mrs. Delacy escorted Mr. Dillingscott up to where Miss 
 Leighton was sitting, and requested that they would 
 lead off in a quadrille. They did as asked, and Mr. 
 Belmonte immediately followed them with Miss Delacy 
 as his partner, while Hastings danced with Mrs. Bel- 
 monte. Mr. Dillingscott was all attention to Miss 
 Leighton, and she all smiles to him ; but Hastings 
 knew nothing of the fact ; he was too much interested 
 in Mrs. Belmonte to see any one else. Poor Miss De- 
 lacy looked very much like pouting, during the early 
 part of the evening ; she thought it was a very stupid 
 party, take it all together. Hastings enjoyed himself 
 more than he had done before for many a long day at 
 such an entertainment. Mrs. Belmonte was delighted. 
 Her countenance reflected a heart all joy all happi- 
 ness, as she conversed with Hastings. She received 
 more of his attentions than any other one there, and that 
 gave her infinite pleasure. The only unhappy ones 
 were Mrs. Delacy, her daughter, and Miss Leighton. 
 Mr. Dillingscott danced the second set with Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, and Hastings took Miss Delacy as his second 
 partner. She for a few minutes did as her mother had 
 instructed her, but she could not hold out long; she 
 yielded to her feelings, and never made herself more 
 agreeable in her life to Hastings than she did during 
 the remainder of the evening. She was too delighted 
 with his agreeable society to heed the winks and expres- 
 sions of anger of her mother. Miss Leighton was now 
 in trouble enough. She thought that Mrs. Delacy was 
 plotting to displace her in the good opinion of Hastings. 
 She became immediately reserved and cold to Mr. Dil-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 129 
 
 lingscott, so much so that he thought he had in some 
 way unwittingly offended her. He sought her out for 
 an explanation ; but was, very unsatisfactorily to him- 
 self, " snubbed " by her. She was peevish, veied, and 
 decidedly " out of spirits." Mrs. Delacy was angry at 
 her daughter, who had so unfeelingly upset all her plans. 
 She was annoyed to see how Miss Leighton construed 
 her, and unhappy to see Hastings and Mrs. Belmonte 
 enjoying themselves so well. As the party was about 
 breaking up, Hastings said, in the presence of sev- 
 eral : 
 
 " Mrs. Delacy, this is what I call a dinner party. 
 None of your stiff, clumsy affairs, but a genuine old- 
 fashioned sociable entertainment. In fact you never 
 half do things ; what you undertake you always ac- 
 complish." 
 
 " I am happy, Mr. Hastings," said Mrs. Delacy, smil- 
 ingly, " that you have enjoyed the evening so much. If 
 my other friends have been so well entertained I shall 
 feel highly nattered." 
 
 " Look at their faces," said Hastings. " Don't they 
 'tell,' as we sometimes say, as though they had made 
 an evening of it? My friend Dillingscott," continued 
 he, laying his hand on Dillingscott's arm, "is the only one 
 present whose face isn't all sunshine. I think he must 
 have lost some dear relative, or he certainly would look 
 less grave." 
 
 " You are facetious, Hastings," said Dillingscott, with 
 an effort to look happy. " I leave it to Mrs. Delacy 
 whether mine is not the more smiling face of the 
 two." 
 
 " That is a question," said Mrs. Delacy, " which I 
 must leave for the young ladies to decide." The party 
 at length broke up, and Hastings took Miss Leighton 
 home in his carriage. As soon as they had all gone,
 
 130 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Mrs. Delacy requested her daughter to accompany her 
 to her private room. 
 
 " I wish to know," said the mother when they were 
 alone, " why you disobeyed my wishes ? " The daughter 
 stood pouting without answering her. " I never knew 
 you to act so stupidly in my life," continued the mother. 
 " I would have a little more pride and self-respect, and 
 not be made a tool of by Mr. Hastings." 
 
 " You never said any thing to me before against Mr. 
 Hastings," said the daughter, " and what has he done 
 now to make me treat him other than I have been 
 accustomed to ? I think you are very unreasonable and 
 cruel, so I do ! " Here she burst into tears and con- 
 tinued, "I won't offend Mr. Hastings, so I won't ! 
 He is kind to me, and treats me politely, and why 
 should I be so unnatural ? You and Miss Leighton are 
 always trying to annoy me, so you are ! " 
 
 The mother could say no more. She had to nurse her 
 disappointment as best she could. Her plans had 
 failed clouds appeared in the horizon of her imagi- 
 nation threatening clouds would they disappear, 
 or would they thicken and grow darker ?
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HASTINGS' old friend Collingwood was still living in 
 Virginia. He had a beautiful country-seat, situated on 
 a small river nearly in the heart of the Old Dominion, 
 or, as it is sometimes called, the Mother of States. 
 Like most Englishmen of the better classes who emi- 
 grate to the Southern States, he soon became reconciled 
 to the " institution " of negro slavery. For, objection- 
 able and wrong as slavery is in the United States, it 
 finds a rival in the servitude of the poor in England 
 and Ireland. Both are obnoxious to the spirit of free 
 governments, and opposed to enlightened ideas of right. 
 The wealthy and titled in England occupy the position 
 of masters over the poor in that country, in almost as 
 absolute a sense as the slave-owners of Virginia do 
 over their negroes. This is not said in mitigation of 
 negro slavery, but to show the reader that Mr. Colling- 
 wood readily conformed to the customs and habits of 
 a country not entirely dissimilar in its laws to his own. 
 He was an easy, rather indolent, yet in all respects 
 a gentlemanly and an honorable man. He always 
 had friends surrounding him because they loved him. 
 His House was open to all, and his hospitality was in 
 keeping with his kind and benevolent feelings. His 
 ideas of birth and blood were theoretically those of his 
 countrymen generally, because he had himself descended 
 
 (131)
 
 132 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 from a titled ancestry. But practically he was a re- 
 publican. The poor as well as the rich found in him a 
 companion and friend. None who were in need left his 
 house empty-handed. In short, he was a fit represent- 
 ative of Virginia hospitality and generous, noble feeling. 
 Mrs. Collingwood was affectionate, kind-hearted, and 
 in all respects an excellent and exemplary mother. She 
 had more heart than intellect, without being at all 
 deficient in the latter. She loved her husband, and in 
 almost all things conformed to his views and wishes. 
 They had but the one child, the little boy mentioned in 
 a previous chapter. He was now eleven years old, and 
 was, as he ever had been from his birth, an idol of them 
 both. He was tall for his age, rather slender, and 
 straight as an Indian. His hair and eyes were dark ; 
 and in every respect he was a handsome boy. He was 
 naturally dignified and independent, and withal had a 
 generous and noble heart. Never having associated 
 much with children of his own age, he acted more like 
 a man than he did like a boy of his years. He had 
 been accustomed to command his father's slaves, and 
 to have all his wishes gratified. The slaves loved him, 
 and indulged him as freely in hft wants and likes as 
 did his parents; nor did they always go unrewarded, 
 for Harry Collingwood often found means of repaying 
 their love and good feeling for him sometimes by 
 persuading his father to give them a holiday, and some- 
 times by influencing his mother to gratify their wishes. 
 He was the pet of all who knew him, which naturally 
 enough made him a little proud, and gave him a good 
 opinion of himself. His mother loved him with all her 
 heart. Harry was her religion her all of happiness. 
 He, too, loved her in return, and took pride in walking 
 with her in the fields and pleasure-grounds as her guide 
 and protector. He never was so happy as when he fan-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 133 
 
 cied that she looked to him for protection from danger. 
 One day, when he and she were driving out, the horse 
 became restive, and the mother in her fright tried to 
 take the reins from him, when he said, confidently : 
 
 " Never mind, mother, I'll manage old Jack, and see 
 that you are not harmed." 
 
 Harry was bold, proud, and had feelings beyond his 
 years. As he and his mother were returning one pleas- 
 ant afternoon from a somewhat longer drive than usual, 
 they met a man and little girl walking in the thick 
 shade of some tall trees that lined the road. When 
 they had passed by them, Harry said : 
 
 " Mother, do you know who that man is ? Is n't that 
 little girl pretty ! " 
 
 " I think," replied she, " that is the stranger who 
 bought Mr. Draper's farm last fall." 
 
 " I wonder if it is n't ? " said Harry. " Did you see 
 what a pretty face the little girl had? and such beauti- 
 ful curls ! I wish we knew them, mother." 
 
 " I think, Harry, that her curls were too long, they 
 hung down too far on her shoulders." This the mother 
 said to draw her son out. 
 
 " That is just what I like," said Harry, while his eyes 
 gljstened with the enthusiasm which the subject awak- 
 ened. " And that broad-brimmed hat how well it 
 looked on her, to be sure ! " 
 
 " I think, Harry, that you are quite enthusiastic when 
 talking about the little girls. There is little Lizzie Rob- 
 inson ^ you recollect how you praised her the other 
 day." 
 
 " Lizzie Robinson ! " said Harry, " why, mother, she 
 never looked so sweet and pretty as the little girl we 
 have just met." 
 
 " I am afraid, Harry," said she, still leading him on, 
 12
 
 134 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " that Lizzie would not feel flattered could she hear you 
 say so." 
 
 " Well, I don't want to talk about her now," said he, 
 impatiently. " I wish we had spoken to the man." 
 
 " You mean to the little girl," said the mother, enjoy- 
 ing her son's awakened curiosity to know who tho 
 strangers were. 
 
 " Mother, you are very provoking!" said Harry, ihdig- 
 nantly. " You know I don't care any thing about thu 
 little girls." 
 
 She now thought she had pressed the matter far 
 enough, so she said : 
 
 " I think that is the man who lives where Mr. Diaper 
 did. They say he does not visit his neighbors much." 
 
 " Why don't he, mother ? I should think they would 
 be lonely. If they are strangers here, it would be right 
 in father to invite them to come and see us and get ac 
 quainted." The mother saw the real cause of Harry's 
 interest in the strangers ; but she was too fond of him to 
 tease him further. 
 
 "We ought," continued Harry, "to get acquainted 
 with them ; it is our duty don't you think so, moth- 
 er?" 
 
 " Perhaps so," said she ; " but we don't know who 
 they are." 
 
 "I am sure he is a gentleman," replied he. "He 
 looks like one. I will tell father about them when we 
 get home, and may be he will invite them to come and 
 see us. Do you think he will, mother ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; you can ask him." 
 
 " But won't you ask him ? " said Harry. " Father don't 
 care about what I say to him. Perhaps, if I asked him 
 to invite them, he would only laugh ; you must speak to 
 him about it, and press him to have them come and see 
 us ; will you ? "
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 135 
 
 The mother consented, and Harry was all anxiety to 
 know what his father would do in the matter. His 
 head was filled with the pretty face and curly hair of 
 the beautiful girl he had so unexpectedly seen. Often 
 did he remind his mother of her promise to intercede 
 with his father to have the strangers visit them. Mrs. 
 Collingwood had already spoken to her husband about 
 the wishes of Harry, and had initiated him into the 
 secret of her son's anxiety in the matter. He at once 
 consented to gratify Harry; yet he wished to amuse 
 himself a little at his son's expense. So, one day, he 
 said to Mrs. Collingwood in Harry's presence : 
 
 " I think, my dear, we will invite the stranger whom 
 you met the other day and his wife to make us a visit ; 
 and, to make it the more pleasant for them, we will ask 
 some of our neighbors to meet them here." 
 
 Harry was now in trouble. He thought that he 
 would not have the pleasure of seeing the curly-headed 
 little beauty after ah 1 . The fear of losing so golden an 
 opportunity, however, at length made him bold, and he 
 said : 
 
 " But, father, you might ask them to bring their iittle 
 boys and girls. You know Mr. Robinson always brings 
 his, and it would be pleasant for them to play together. 
 This skilful diplomacy on the part of Harry caused his 
 father to look knowingly at Mrs. Collingwood and 
 smile while he said : 
 
 " Oh ! you told me something about a little curly- 
 headed girl whom Harry fell in love with at first sight. 
 How Is this, my son ? " This was too much for the 
 proud boy's sensitive feeling, and he left the room as he 
 said, 
 
 " Mother is always talking some of her nonsense 
 about me, and saying things that she has no business 
 to say." As he said this, he closed the door and walked
 
 136 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 away from the house indignantly. As soon as he had 
 gone, Mrs. Collingwood said : 
 
 " My dear, why do you tease the child so ? You make 
 him quite unhappy, and he blames me for it all." 
 
 " I did not know that he was so tender on the sub- 
 ject," replied he, laughing. " Well, Harry must be grat- 
 ified," continued he, " and I will say nothing further to 
 him on the subject of his love." The mother was care- 
 ful to inform Harry that they had invited all the family, 
 and as far as possible she made him forget what his 
 father had said. The thought of soon seeing the little 
 beauty made the anxious boy as happy as he had been 
 miserable. It was only when in his father's and mother's 
 company that he felt a little uncomfortable. He knew 
 what his father was thinking about, and sometimes he 
 could see him give Mrs. Collingwood a peculiar look, 
 when any thing was said of the coming visit of the 
 strangers. 
 
 Invitations had been sent to Mr. Collingwood's 
 friends to visit him on a certain afternoon. The 
 strangers living on Mr. Draper's place had been invited 
 also, and had accepted the invitation. Harry was now 
 all on tiptoe with excitement and anticipation. He 
 longed to have the day come when he should see the 
 little girl again. Never before had old time seemed so 
 lazy in his tread. He tried in all kinds of ways to hasten 
 him along, but to no purpose. As the day drew near, 
 he began to plot and plan as to how he should enter- 
 tain her when she came. He wondered whether she 
 was fond of riding, or walking, or reading, or singing. 
 In short, his head was filled full of conjectures, curiosity, 
 and anxiety. When he laid his head down at night, 
 his eyes refused to close until his mind had gone over 
 and over again all his promised pleasures. 
 
 The day at last came, and Harry was up early to see
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 137 
 
 its commencement. He had beaten the sun in rising 
 at least half an hour, and before ten o'clock he was 
 anxious to be putting on his best clothes for the coming 
 occasion. He called Aunt Rose, a colored house-ser- 
 vant, and repaired to his dressing-room. It was a long 
 time before he could decide what to put on. He first 
 took out of his chest a white pair of pantaloons, white 
 vest, and blue jacket; and then, putting them back, he 
 took out something else. 
 
 " Lor 5 bless us ! what 's in Massa Harry's head ? " said 
 Aunt Rose, as she watched his proceedings. " He fuss 
 takes out de blue jacket, den he takes out de white 
 jacket, and den he displaces 'em all back agin, jis as dey 
 was afore." Here she laughed, and continued to look 
 at the perplexed Harry. He sent Rose to his mother 
 twice to ask her what he had better wear. He thought 
 that a jacket was too boyish for one of his years, and 
 one so capable of taking care of himself. But his mother 
 had not provided him with a coat, so there was no al- 
 ternative he must wear a jacket. He tried on his 
 clothes, and anxiously questioned Aunt Rose as' to how 
 they fitted him, until the old negress was full to over- 
 flowing with mirth. 
 
 " Why, Massa Harry," said she, encouragingly, " you 
 is jis de bes looking gem'man in ole Virginny." At 
 this point she giggled a little to herself, and then con- 
 tinued. " Little Lizzie Robinson won't she roll up 
 de whites ob her eyes when she sees you ! he, he, he ! " 
 
 Harry did not like these compliments very well. He 
 thought that Rose treated him too much like a child, so 
 he said : 
 
 " Rose, you old fool, can't you keep your mouth shut, 
 and help me to dress ? " 
 
 Rose did keqp her mouth shut for a little while ; but 
 12*
 
 138 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 there was a comical expression in her eyes which Harry 
 did not more than half like, although he pretended not 
 to notice her. He was nearly dressed, after at least an 
 hour's effort to please himself in the selection of his 
 clothes. He was looking anxiously in the glass, as he 
 tried to adjust his cravat. He had tied and untied it 
 at least a dozen times, when his eyes met those of Aunt 
 Rose, who stood behind him, scarcely able to keep down 
 her risible propensity. He turned and ordered her out 
 of the room ; but he could not change the humorous ex- 
 pression of her face. She left him, however; but as she 
 walked away she would giggle and look sidewise out 
 of her large white eyes. This annoyed him, and he 
 muttered, as soon as he was rid of her : " They all 
 treat me like a child. Am I not eleven years and two 
 months old ! I '11 show them that I won't put up with 
 such treatment ! And old Rose, the fool ! she must 
 laugh and giggle because 1 wish to dress as becomes 
 one of my years. I'll teach her that I am somebody, 
 one of these days ; mind if I don't ! " His indignation 
 was aroused, and his dignity very much hurt, at all the 
 checks thus given to it. When he had finished dressing, 
 he hesitated before he could make up his mind to ap- 
 pear in the presence, of his father and mother ; but it 
 was early yet, and he must go through the dreaded 
 ordeal. When he went down to where they were, he 
 passed Aunt Rose, who still wore the same comical 
 face that she had done when she left him in his dressing- 
 room. He did not seem to see her, however, but passed 
 indignantly by, and walked into the parlor. His father 
 and mother tried to make him feel easy and happy. 
 They had annoyed him enough already. They saw his 
 embarrassment, and resolved not to tease him more. 
 The company at length assembled, including the stran-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 139 
 
 ger and the little girl with the sweet face and curly 
 hair. 
 
 T will now go back to where I left little Flora. Merle 
 continued to visit her in the cave, and spend most of his 
 time with her for more than a week. While he was in 
 her presence, he would resolve to protect and save her ; 
 but as soon as he was alone, he would think of his obli- 
 gations to be faithful in the performance of his contract. 
 His mind wavered he thought of the wrongs he had 
 received, and his old feelings of despair and wretched- 
 ness returned to him. He had been talking with Flora 
 for several hours, one day. Her innocent heart and 
 sweet words seemed to bring back to him his better 
 self. He thought of his innocent and happy boyhood. 
 There was something in the little girl's looks and voice 
 which his heart could not contend against. He had al- 
 ready told her that there was a man who had sought to 
 carry her away from her grandpapa's, and perhaps take 
 her life. He had made her believe that she would prob- 
 ably be killed if she was taken back to p the old man's 
 again. Although it cost little Flora 'much bitter cry- 
 ing to think of leaving her grandpapa, yet she beg- 
 ged Merle to take her out of that dark room, and let her 
 live with him. He had won her feelings she believed 
 him to be good she was tired of being shut up in that 
 gloomy place. 
 
 " Oh, take me away with you to some place ! I will 
 love you very much if you will," she said to him, from 
 the depths of her heart. 
 
 She' plead so earnestly and so lovingly, that Merle 
 said to her : 
 
 " If I take you out of here, Flora, and take you far 
 away, will you live with me and love me ? Will you stay 
 with me until you grow up to be big, if I will then bring 
 you back to your grandpapa ? "
 
 140 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 " Oh, do take me away ! J will love you very much ! " 
 ^he said, as she stood by his side, with her little arm 
 round his neck. He pressed her to him, and said : 
 
 " "Well, Flora, we will leave here to-night. I will go 
 with you to where there are beautiful flowers, and where 
 the sun shines warm and pleasant where there are 
 shady trees and pleasant fields, and little birds to sing to 
 you. And, Flora, I will get you another dog, like the 
 Rover which you so much loved ; and I will, when you 
 grow to be big, bring you back to your grandpapa." 
 
 She was all smiles and attention, until her dog's 
 name was mentioned, when she burst into tears, and 
 said : 
 
 " You are very good to promise me so many fine 
 things, but I do not want another dog, please. Rover 
 might not like me to have one. I am sure I never 
 should love another dog as much as I love Rover." 
 
 Merle was affected almost to tears as she thus, in all 
 the simplicity of innocence, showed her continued love 
 for her old companion. He had been the cause of her 
 dog's death ; but hever before had he known how much 
 heartfelt sorrow he had given her in taking its life. 
 
 " Flora," said he, " you must call me your papa, and 
 I will try to be a father to you." 
 
 "I shall be so glad to call you papa. I never have 
 called any body papa yet." 
 
 " Is your father dead ? " asked Merle, (or Moulton, as 
 I shall from this onward call nim). 
 
 " Yes, sir ; grandpapa told me that my father and 
 mother were both dead that they died when I was a 
 little baby." 
 
 " I will be your father, then, and you must be my little 
 daughter. I will try to be good to you, and I hope to 
 make you happy. When we go away from here, you 
 must never speak about being shut up in this dark place
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 141 
 
 to any one, nor about being taken away from your 
 grandpapa." 
 
 " I won't speak to anybody about it. I will do what 
 you tell me," said she, with tears in her eyes at the 
 thought of leaving her old home. 
 
 Every thing was arranged, and Moulton, together with 
 little Flora and Aunt Judy, left the dark cave early that 
 evening. They first went to New York, and without 
 stopping proceeded on to Virginia, where we have 
 already found them. They lived in comparative seclu- 
 sion for several months; but in the spring, when the 
 weather was warm, Moulton, thinking that there could 
 be no further danger, began to venture abroad ; and he, 
 with Flora by his side, might have been seen almost 
 every day wandering about the rMds and through the 
 shaded woods. They gathered flowers, and listened to 
 the little singing birds, and in many ways enjoyed the 
 free country air. 
 
 I will not enter into the history of the months which 
 they had already passed in Virginia. It is sufficient to 
 say, that Moulton had been reformed thoroughly re- 
 formed, by the influence of little Flora ; and every night 
 they kneeled together in prayer, just as she and her 
 grandpapa had done before. Flora had a little room of 
 her own in the beautiful house where they lived. She 
 repaired to it every day ; nor did she forget to kneel on 
 her little stool, which stood by her work-table, and pray 
 the prayer which she had so often prayed at the head 
 of Rover's grave. She also prayed for her grandpapa, 
 and asked the Lord to take care of him until she grew 
 to be big. She loved Moulton and Aunt Judy, and 
 they both sought to make her happy. Aunt Judy 
 loved her as much as she could have done had Flora 
 been her own child. When Moulton was invited to 
 make the visit to Mr. Collingwood's, he accepted the
 
 142 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 invitation because he thought it would be pleasant for 
 Flora. He had been informed in the note of invitation 
 that there would be children at the party, and he thought 
 it would only be right to give his little charge the oppor- 
 tunity of associating with those of her own age. Her 
 welfare and happiness were all that he sought. They 
 were the only objects for which he lived. He seemed 
 to think that in treating her well he atoned in some 
 little, for the crimes he had committed. She had 
 awakened him again to his better thoughts. He for- 
 gave every one for the wrongs they had done him, and 
 sought to bury his troubles in the consciousness of now 
 doing what he conceived to be right. Flora seemed to 
 him to have been placed in his way to reform him. 
 She was his guardian angel to guide him in the path of 
 innocence, in the path of duty. He was often made 
 unhappy, when he thought over his past life. A gloomy 
 melancholy followed him and clouded his mind con- 
 tinually when he was alone. It was only when with 
 little Flora that he could get rid of his troubled 
 thoughts. He loved her better, far better than he loved 
 himself. 
 
 On the day of the party at Mr. Collingwood's, Aunt 
 Judy and a colored servant were long in preparing little 
 Flora for the occasion. Her hair was curled in the 
 prettiest way. Her bonnet was trimmed gayly with 
 natural flowers, and she was in all respects, when she 
 sat out for the party in the buggy with Moulton, a 
 sweet and prettily dressed Flora. Her large blue eyes 
 looked as lovely and as bright as when we first met her 
 on the little hillock playing with her old friend Rover. 
 She was happy, and loved Moulton as much as she had 
 ever loved her grandpapa. She was a child and like 
 a child, her mind was flexible and easily moulded to 
 circumstances.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MOULTON, for the better protection of little Flora, 
 took the name of Mowbray, when he went to Virginia. 
 He feared detection, not for his own sake, but for her's. 
 He resolved never, under any circumstances, to deliver 
 her up to any one, save to the old man from whom she 
 had been taken. I have said that he and Flora had 
 gone by invitation to Mr. Collingwood's. He had been 
 presented to the company assembled there, and was 
 soon engaged with his neighbors in an easy and familiar 
 conversation. The party was free of that ceremony 
 and formality which characterize assemblages of the 
 kind in cities. Each one amused himself in his own 
 way, and in accordance with his own tastes. Some 
 were seated on the long piazza, others were strolling or 
 lounging under the trees which surrounded the house. 
 Later in the day, backgammon, chess, and whist were 
 introduced ; and all made themselves agreeable, sociable, 
 and happy, as they played at the different games, and 
 imbibed the sparkling champagne which was freely cir- 
 culated among them. They seemed to enjoy, in the 
 real old Virginia way, the hospitality of their host and 
 hostess. The little girls and boys, while in the presence 
 of their parents, were somewhat reserved and bashful. 
 They sat or stood looking at each other, without being 
 able to say much. To Flora it was something new, 
 
 (143)
 
 144 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 She never in her life had been to such a party. She 
 had, while living with her grandpapa, visited and been 
 visited by little girls of her own age, but she never be- 
 fore had seen such a collection of little people of both 
 sexes. She was a stranger to them all. For some time 
 she stood by Moulton's side, all blushes and embarrass- 
 ment, unable to make any advances toward an acquaint- 
 ance with any of the little girls who stood looking at 
 her. She was the most prettily dressed of any of them, 
 and her large blue eyes never looked so meltingly sweet 
 before. Harry Collingwood stood looking at her, un- 
 able to see any one else. His heart beat quicker, as he 
 looked into her sweet countenance, than it ever had 
 done when in the presence of Lizzie Robinson. Lizzie 
 was there before him, but Harry, the ungallant and 
 fickle-minded, could not see her. The blue eyes ab- 
 sorbed all his vision. His mother glanced at him oc- 
 casionally, and was amused to see how effectually her 
 son was swallowed up in admiration of the little curly- 
 headed stranger. Lizzie Robinson was about Flora's 
 age, and withal a very sweet and pretty girl. When 
 Flora had been standing a little while by Moulton, Liz- 
 zie approached her cautiously, and said in a whisper: 
 
 " What pretty hair you 've got ! " then hesitating a 
 moment, she added : " My name is Lizzie Robinson ; 
 what is your name?" To this question Flora very 
 modestly and diffidently whispered : 
 
 " My name is Flora." 
 
 " Do you like to play, Flora ? " asked Lizzie, growing 
 a little bolder. 
 
 " Play what ? " inquired Flora, not knowing what she 
 meant. 
 
 " Oh ! to run and play under the trees," said Lizzie. 
 
 " I should like that very much," said Flora. 
 
 Harry was watching the two little beauties, as they
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 145 
 
 thus modestly began to make each other's acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Lizzie again said : " What do you like to play ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered Flora. Lizzie thought this 
 very queer, but she did not say so, she only asked : " Do 
 you like ' chase the squirrel,' or to play ' kiss-in-the- 
 ring,' or ' blind-man's-buff,' or ' babes-in-the-wood ? ' " 
 
 " I don't know," said Flora, " but I think I should 
 like ' babes-in-the-wood.' " After a little further conver- 
 sation between the two, Lizzie invited Flora to go into 
 the grove with her. Flora asked her papa, as she now 
 called Moulton, if she might go, and obtaining his con- 
 sent they left the room and went out upon the green 
 grass among the trees, followed by Harry and the other 
 children. When they were fairly out of sight of their 
 respective parents, they grew more familiar and commu- 
 nicative. Harry began to mingle with the rest, and soon 
 introduced himself to the curly-headed beauty who had 
 caused him so many sleepless hours. Thinking of 
 nothing better, he said to her : " Mother and I met you 
 and your father walking last week. Do you like to 
 walk ? " Flora very diffidently answered him, that she 
 did like to walk. 
 
 " I like to walk too," said Harry, growing bold. " I 
 think everybody ought to like to walk." Then hesitat- 
 ing a moment, as if to think of something else to 'say, 
 he added : Do you like to ride ? " 
 
 " Yes, very much," answered Flora. 
 
 " I like to ride too," said Harry. " I think everybody 
 ought k> like to ride." Flora made no reply to this sage 
 observation, but remained looking as much embarrassed 
 as ever. Harry was puzzled to know what to say next ; 
 but he took courage, as her eyes timidly met his own, 
 and asked : 
 
 (13)
 
 146 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Flora," answered she. 
 
 " What a pretty name ! My name is Harry. Don't 
 you think it an ugly name, Flora ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered she, innocently. 
 
 Harry was a little perplexed at this answer, but he 
 added : 
 
 " I think it is a very ugly name ; but your name is so 
 sweet ! what do you like most, Flora ? " asked he, not 
 exactly knowing what he was saying. 
 
 The other children stood around them, eager to know 
 something more of the pretty little stranger. 
 
 " I like papa, Rover, and grandpapa best," answered 
 Flora to the last question of Harry. He now thought 
 her the queerest little curiosity that he had ever met. 
 
 " Who is Rover, Flora ? " he asked eagerly, half fear- 
 ing that the name belonged to some little boy. Flora be- 
 gan to look sad. She felt very much like crying, but she 
 seemed to think it would not be exactly proper ; so she 
 stood looking timidly at Harry, as if in doubt as to 
 whether she should cry, or answer his question. " Rover 
 is a pretty name," said Harry, encouragingly, when he 
 saw that she hesitated. " Is it the name of a boy or 
 girl?" Flora looked at Harry, and then at the little 
 girls and boys who stood around her. The tears began 
 to steal into her eyes, as she answered : 
 
 " Rover is the name of my poor dog, that died." 
 
 Harry felt relieved. He saw the tears in her eyes, 
 however, and sympathizing with her, he said : 
 
 " Did any one kill your poor dog, Flora ? If any one 
 did, I would make him sorry for it." 
 
 " No, Rover only died," answered she, still unable to 
 conceal her tears. 
 
 " Won't you tell us of him ? and how he died ? " in- 
 quired Harry. " I should like to know all about him.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 147 
 
 He must have been a very good dog, or you wouldn't 
 love him so." 
 
 " He was a very good dog," said she, " and he loved 
 me very much." They all sat down on the grass at 
 Harry's request, while Flora repeated the history of her 
 old friend. She frequently wiped away her tears as she 
 spoke. Harry's eyes, together with those of the other 
 listeners, were more than once moistened, as she pro- 
 ceeded with her story. 
 
 " I should like such a dog," said Lizzie Robinson, 
 when Flora had finished. 
 
 " I will buy you a dog just like Rover," said Harry, 
 with a little show of his own importance. " I will buy 
 you one before a week has passed, and you may have it 
 to play with just as you used to play with Rover." Flora 
 told him, however, that she did not want another dog. 
 Harry, therefore, was deprived of doing what his gen- 
 erous heart prompted. 
 
 "I should like to see the little hill where he was 
 buried," he said. " Was it near here ? " 
 
 " Oh, it is a great, great way off, where grandpapa 
 lives!" 
 
 Harry was now so much interested in little Flora, 
 that he entirely forgot how much he had formerly liked 
 Lizzie Robinson. Lizzie was not jealous of her rival, 
 however. The story about the dog had made her love 
 Flora very much. They soon commenced playing. 
 Every thing was novel and strange to Flora, but she 
 soon learned to " chase-the-squirrel " as well as any of 
 them. ' They ran about upon the grass, and made the 
 woods merry with their joyous laughter. After playing 
 for some time, they all went into the garden. Harry 
 gave the little girls flowers, but Flora always received 
 the prettiest ones. He made her a bouquet also, which 
 she took with her when she went home. When they
 
 148 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 went into the house, Flora showed Moulton the flowers 
 which Harry had given her, and told him who gave 
 them to her. Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood were present 
 at the time, and Harry could not but observe the know- 
 ing and significant look which his father gave his 
 mother. He was proud, however, to think that little 
 Flora valued the gift, and he felt that he could endure 
 any reasonable amount of persecution for the sake of 
 pleasing her. Late in the afternoon, Harry, Flora, Liz- 
 zie, and several others of the children went down to the 
 river and amused themselves in various ways. Harry 
 had a beautiful boat, and they all got into it, and he 
 rowed them about on the water for some time. The 
 river was dammed up a little above the house. When 
 they had all got out of the boat, a lad, larger and 
 stronger than Harry, got into it, and rowed out into the 
 middle of the stream. He was skilful in the use of 
 the oars, and was evidently anxious that they should 
 know the fact; for as 'soon as he had gone a little dis- 
 tance away, he turned the boat and rowed along near 
 the top of the dam, where the current was very swift. 
 They expected to see him swept down over the dam, 
 but he suddenly turned and came safely back to the 
 shore. Harry did not like this, he thought that the 
 boy was trying to make himself the hero of the day. 
 As soon, therefore, as the lad got out of the boat, he 
 jumped in, determined upon surpassing his rival in 
 boating. He pulled towards the top of the dam, and 
 ran the boat much nearer to it than the other boy had 
 done. He was now where the current was swiftest, and, 
 despite all his efforts, was gradually dropping down 
 stream. He saw his danger, and, turning the head of 
 the boat up the river, used all his strength and skill to 
 make headway against the sweeping tide that threat- 
 ened his destruction. It was a moment of fearful anx-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 149 
 
 iety to those who saw his danger. They watched him, 
 breathless with excitement, for a few seconds, some- 
 times he gained a little headway, and then again fell 
 back. Flora watched him only for a moment, and then 
 ran as fast as she could to the house, and brought Moul- 
 ton back with her. Mr. Collingwood, with several oth^ 
 ers, also ran hurriedly down to the river. Moulton, as 
 soon as he saw Harry's danger, plunged into the water, 
 and, partly wading and partly swimming, soon made 
 the side of the boat. Before he had reached it, all the 
 party, including the men, women, and children, had 
 assembled on the banks, anxiously watching Harry, as 
 he still fought bravely against the tide. When he 
 gained a little on it, they cheered him ; and when he 
 seemed to be falling back, they remained breathlessly 
 silent. As Moulton reached the boat, they all felt relief; 
 but, as he seized hold of it to throw himself in, the cur- 
 rent carried them swiftly over the dam. They disap- 
 peared for a few seconds beneath the white foam. It 
 was a moment of life or death. But who can describe 
 the joy of the father and mother of Harry, as they saw 
 him rise to the top and strike boldly out for the shore, 
 accompanied by Moulton ! They watched them, full of 
 the intensest anxiety, until they had reached the bank. 
 As soon as they were safely on land, Mr. Collingwood 
 ran up to Moulton and said : 
 
 " I am forever your debtor for so gallantly saving my 
 son ! I never shall be able to repay you ! " 
 
 Moulton, making very light of the matter, answered : 
 " I have only shown my inability to assist the lad, for 
 I assure you he received no aid from me. I succeeded 
 in carrying him over the dam, but you will scarcely 
 thank me for that. But what ails Harry ? " continued 
 Moulton, as he saw him trying to straighten his arm. 
 13*
 
 150 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 " I think my arm is broken," said Harry, without 
 seeming to think it much of an accident. They exam- 
 ined it, and found that the bone was broken below the 
 elbow. It was fortunate that there was a surgeon 
 among those present. It was soon set, and Harry was 
 out among his young friends again, the acknowledged 
 hero of the day. He was a little mortified at not being 
 able to surpass his rival in boatmanship ; but the bold- 
 ness and bravery which he had shown more than coun- 
 terbalanced his want of success in what he had under- 
 taken. 
 
 " I should have soon got out of the current had no 
 one come to my assistance," he said. " It was very 
 noble in Mr. Mowbray to try to help rne, to be sure, but 
 there was no need of it." 
 
 When Harry had gone out to play again, he said to 
 Flora : 
 
 "I think I saw you running over the bank to the 
 house, while I was out in the river. I suppose I must 
 thank you for bringing them all down to look at me." 
 
 She had not recovered from her fright, so she said : 
 " Please, don't go so near that falling water again." 
 
 Harry told her that he would not, and in many ways 
 thanked her for trying to assist him. Flora was much 
 concerned about his arm, but he told her that it was 
 nothing worth minding. 
 
 " The doctor says it will soon be well," said he to her. 
 "When it is well, I am coming to see you. Shall I ? " 
 
 " I will be so glad to have you come," she said, de- 
 lightedly. 
 
 He and she were on the best of terms. They each 
 liked the other equally well. Flora thought Harry a 
 wonder in the way of bravery and good-heartedness, and 
 he thought that Flora was the prettiest little angel that 
 it had ever been his good fortune to see.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 151 
 
 Collingwood and Moulton had become quite well 
 acquainted, and the incident in the river had bound 
 them together as warm and ardent friends. Moulton 
 remained until quite late in the evening, and on leaving 
 promised to visit Mr. Collingwood often. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Collingwood also promised to visit Moulton. 
 
 " You must," said Moulton, " let Harry come and see 
 us frequently, for since our swim together I have quite 
 a high opinion of him. He can swim with one arm as 
 well as I can with two." This was said in Harry's pres- 
 ence. " Then," continued Moulton, " here is little Flora ; 
 he has her to thank for being carried over the dam. He 
 will have to call often to repay her for the service which 
 she rendered him." 
 
 When they had separated, Flora's little head was 
 filled with thoughts of the brave boy whom she had that 
 day met, and Harry could think of nothing else save 
 big blue eyes and pretty curls. 
 
 Moulton was pleased with his visit. He looked at 
 Flora's glowing countenance, and was glad that he had 
 afforded her so much pleasure. A new life had been 
 opened to her imagination. When she went to her 
 little room that night, she dreamed about the plays and 
 sports of the day, nor did she neglect to dream of 
 Harry. 
 
 The next day after the party, Harry was sitting in 
 the kitchen with Aunt Rose, when the latter said, ad- 
 dressing him : 
 
 " Lor, Massa Harry ! was n't Aunt Rose skeered when 
 you w^ent ober de dam 2 " 
 
 " That was nothing," said Harry. " Do you think that 
 I am a child, that I should fear going over that little 
 dam? You must suppose that I am nothing but a 
 baby ! " This Harry said half indignantly. He remem- 
 bered Rose's treatment on the day previous, and lie
 
 152 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 wished to give her to understand that he was not so 
 much of a child as she seemed to think him. 
 
 " But," said Aunt Rose, " de water am mighty swif 
 dah. Dis here chile would n't like to be in it, dat am 
 sartain, he, he, he! Am your arm berry sore, Massa 
 Harry?" 
 
 " No," answered he, " it is nothing at all only 
 broken below the elbow, Rose." 
 
 " Ony broke 'low de ebow ! Lisen to dat ar,' he, 
 he, he ! " 
 
 " But when will that cake be done ? " asked Harry. 
 " I am very hungry." .>..> 
 
 " It '11 be done now, in de twinkledum of a 'possum's 
 eye. Den Massa Harry shall hab his belly full." 
 
 The cake was soon baked, and Harry seated himself 
 by the side of the old negress and helped her to eat it. 
 She also got him some jelly, and other sweet things 
 which she always kept locked up in the cupboard for 
 him. She was very fond of Harry, and he liked her 
 very much, except when she treated him, as he thought, 
 too much like a child. He would not have seen her 
 abused without resenting it. Rose had seen Harry's 
 attentions to Flora, and had learned enough already to 
 know why he had been so particular in dressing himself 
 on the day previous. She therefore said, as they sat 
 eating together : 
 
 " Massa Harry, did you see dat lubly little gal, what 
 hab de curly hair? 1 means de one what was here 
 yes'day." 
 
 " Yes, I believe I saw her," said Harry, with seeming 
 indifference. " You mean Mr. Mowbray's little girl ? " 
 
 Rose felt strongly inclined to laugh at this answer of 
 his, but she thought too much of the good cake she was 
 eating to offend him ; so she answered, with a grave 
 countenance :
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 153 
 
 " Dat am she. Was n't she lubly ? " 
 
 " Yes, she was pretty good looking," said he, still out- 
 wardly indifferent. 
 
 " But, Massa Harry, don't you think dat she am berry 
 lubly?" 
 
 " I believe, now I think of it, that she was rather 
 handsome." 
 
 This was too much for Aunt Rose's gravity ; she 
 laughed outright, and said : 
 
 " Did n't I see you gib her de flowers, and how you 
 looks into dem ar eyes ob hern an how you plays and 
 talks and all dat ar ! No, Massa Harry, you can't foo 1 
 dis chile, he, he, he!" 
 
 " Rose, you are an old fool, that's just what you are," 
 said Harry, as he rose and left the kitchen. 
 
 A few days after the party, Harry went with his 
 father to visit Moulton and Flora. Before they reached 
 the house, they met them walking in a beautifully shaded 
 lane, that divided the fields. Then- meeting was cordial. 
 Harry walked up to Flora, and, shaking her hand warm- 
 ly, said : 
 
 " Flora, I have come to see you, as I promised." 
 
 She was too embarrassed to answer him, except as 
 she spoke her pleasure with her eyes. Her visit to Mr. 
 Collingwood's seemed to her like a dream. She could 
 scarcely believe that the Harry, of whom she had 
 dreamed so much since the party, was a reality a 
 veritable living boy. But there he was before her, with 
 his arm in a sling, looking as smiling and noble as he 
 had lo'bked in her dreams. Collingwood and Moulton 
 walked on toward the house arm in arm, while Flora 
 and Harry lingered behind them, and soon were busily 
 engaged in animated conversation. 
 
 " Do you know what I have brought you, Flora ? " 
 asked Harry.
 
 154 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " No, is it a bouquet ? " inquired she, without stopping 
 to think that she would have seen it if it had been. 
 
 " This is it," said Harrv, eager to show her the pres- 
 ent. He then gave her a dog, very prettily worked in 
 worsted, with the name Rover written underneath. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty ! " exclaimed she. " Did you make 
 it^Harry?" 
 
 " No, it is one that mother made last summer. I 
 told her the story about your poor dog, and persuaded 
 her to work the name of it on this, and give it to me. 
 She listened to all I told her, and thought it a very 
 pretty story. She said that you were a very good girl 
 to love such a dog. 
 
 " But this," continued Harry, " is not as pretty as 
 your Rover, is it ? I don't think it is very pretty. Do 
 you think so ? " 
 
 Flora did not think it was as pretty as her old pet, 
 but she did not wish to say so ; she therefore said : 
 
 " It is so pretty ! and I will like it very much ! because 
 it has Rover's name on it and because you have given 
 it to me," she added, as she looked timidly into Harry's 
 face. " Because you have given it to me," touched a 
 tender chord leading to Harry's heart. He was a thou- 
 sand times repaid for the trouble he had taken to please 
 her. 
 
 " Harry," said Flora, " does your arm pain you ? Is n't 
 it very sore ? " 
 
 " It is nothing at all, only broken below the elbow," 
 replied he. 
 
 Flora had thought it at the time a very serious acci- 
 dent ; but Harry spoke so lightly of it that she began to 
 think broken arms were not much after all. They 
 at length reached the house. Collingwood and Moul- 
 ton had gone in, but the two little lovers remained out- 
 side on a piazza overhung with vines, and talked long
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 155 
 
 and confidentially on a variety of subjects. Harry spoke 
 to her of what he should do when he grew up to be a 
 man, and, strange to say, he was never going to do 
 things alone. 
 
 " I will build a house," said he, "a large, fine house, 
 and we will li ve like people ought to live. I will drive 
 the horses when we drive out, and you may work little 
 dogs, or any thing you like. I shan't care what you do. 
 We will be very happy, won't we ? " Flora innocently 
 thought they would. 
 
 Thus, without knowing it, their young hearts were 
 pledged in love, each to the other. I must now leave 
 the young and loving pair seated together, talking the 
 language of the heart in all the poetry of their young 
 imaginations, while I return to another branch of this 
 story.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HASTINGS continued to call frequently upon Mrs. Bel- 
 monte ; and Mrs. Delacy, knowing that he did, continued 
 to feel jealous, and to grow more and more unhappy 
 every day. She knew no way of controlling, however, 
 what seemed to be his inclination ; so she only nursed 
 her jealousy, and felt as miserable as she comfortably 
 could. Miss Leighton and she had become friends 
 again, after suitable explanations and apologies had been 
 interchanged. All, therefore, moved along as quietly 
 and smoothly as could reasonably be expected, where 
 there were so many opposing elements in the same cur- 
 rent. With Mrs. Delacy it was only the stillness of 
 the volcano, however ; for she had determined to know 
 more of what gave her so much trouble and uneasiness 
 of mind, and was resolved to supplant every rival of hex 
 daughter's especially Mrs. Belmonte. She began to 
 plot, lay plans, and intrigue, in order that she might be 
 admitted behind the scenes, where she could see all and 
 know all that was taking place. Hastings did not 
 suspect her of any thing dishonorable ; nor did he think 
 her capable of doing what he subsequently learned that 
 she had done. It was only by degrees that the light 
 burst upon his mind, and revealed her to him as she 
 really was. She could not smother all her jealous feel- 
 ings when in his presence ; and, by a word dropped now 
 
 (156)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 157 
 
 and then, he was led to believe that she knew what he 
 had supposed her ignorant of. 
 
 Hastings was fond of playing chess. He was a good 
 player, and had few competitors who were his equals. 
 Mrs. Belmonte knew his fondness for the game, and she 
 wished that she knew how to play it. She told him her 
 desire to learn it, and requested him to become her 
 teacher. Belmonte also joined in asking him to teach 
 his wife so intellectual an amusement. Hastings, of 
 course, was most willing to comply with their wishes. 
 One day, therefore, soon after the above request was 
 made, Mrs. Belmonte was sitting in her room with Misa 
 Leighton, when the bell rung, and a box of beautiful 
 chess-men was handed in. Mrs. Belmonte opened it 
 immediately, and took from it a slip of paper, on which 
 Hastings had penned his compliments to her, adding 
 that if she were at leisure, he should be happy in 
 giving her the first lesson in playing chess that evening. 
 Had Mrs. Belmonte known what the box contained, she 
 probably would not have opened it before Miss Leigh- 
 ton ; but having done so, and thereby disclosed the billet- 
 doux which was in it, she could not well decline reading 
 it to her. Miss Leighton, when she heard the note 
 read, felt a little jealous, or envious, which is about the 
 same thing, of her friend Mrs. Belmonte. She thought 
 that it was exceedingly polite in Hastings to send her 
 the chess-men. She suddenly remembered that he never 
 had invited herself to learn the game, nor had he ever 
 even mentioned the subject of chess to her. The spark 
 of jealousy, which had already kindled, and was burning 
 in Mrs. Delacy's bosom, now found a lodgement in Miss 
 Leighton's thoughts. " Hastings," said she to herself as 
 she left Mrs. Belmonte's, " is very marked in his atten- 
 tions to her, very marked indeed ! I don't understand 
 14
 
 158 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 it all. There is something behind the curtain that I 
 cannot see." As she thought this, she ordered her 
 coachman to drive to Mrs. Delacy's. She communi- 
 cated the circumstance to Mrs. Delacy ; and the result 
 was, that they each to the other unbosomed their re- 
 spective thoughts, suspicions, and jealousies. A bond of 
 union was at once established between them ; and they 
 set their wits to work to accomplish certain specified 
 results by intrigue and diplomacy. Mrs. Delacy, how- 
 ever, did not let Miss Leighton into the secret of all her 
 plans. She had thoughts and designs of her own, 
 which she would communicate to no one. 
 
 Hastings called on Mrs. Belmonte in the evening of the 
 day that he had sent the box of chess. Mrs. Belmonte 
 was all smiles at the prospect of learning a game which 
 he was so fond of. The men were already arranged on 
 the board ready for battle. They seated themselves on 
 opposite sides of it, and Hastings commenced showing her 
 the different moves, and the relative value of the pieces. 
 She was all attention, and for at least an hour was oblivi- 
 ous to every thing, save kings, queens, castles, knights, 
 bishops, and pawns. She learned all the moves, and 
 went through with one game that evening. Hastings 
 praised and encouraged her, until she believed that she 
 had already advanced far in obtaining a knowledge of 
 this most difficult of all games. 
 
 " You play capitally," said he, " for a beginner. It took 
 me two weeks to learn as much as you have already 
 acquired." 
 
 " You flatter me," said she. " It is a delightful game! 
 Walter said I would find it stupid. He was sure I 
 would n't like it ; but I am charmed with it ! " 
 
 The next day she purchased Hoyle, and got her brains 
 completely muddled in trying to follow one of his 
 games through. She could not understand the book
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 159 
 
 half so well as she could Hastings; besides, it was 
 infinitely less interesting to her than he was. Hoyle, 
 therefore, was laid on the top shelf, while she took clev- 
 erly to the lessons of Hastings. Chess was introduced, 
 now, almost every evening that he called to see her. 
 Belmonte, thinking it a stupid way of passing the even- 
 ings, generally retired to the library to smoke a cigar 
 and look over the daily papers. He did not like the 
 game, yet he was willing that those who did should 
 play it. Mrs. Belmonte already thought it a fascinating 
 amusement. They would sit together, hour after hour, 
 with the chess-men between them, Hastings looking 
 thoughtfully at her, and she, unconscious of the fact, 
 wholly absorbed in the game. He would purposely leave 
 some piece exposed, or by some move place his men in 
 such a position as to induce an attack, which he* was 
 sure she would make. When she had made the move 
 that he had expected, he would praise her playing, and 
 pretend to be greatly puzzled to know how to ward off 
 the attack which she was so skilfully making. Her 
 countenance would light up, when she fancied that she 
 was getting the advantage in the contest ; and when she 
 could drive him from some unsustained position she 
 felt all the pleasure that the game can impart to the 
 greatest lovers of chess. She thought there was nothing 
 so delightful as checkmating him, which he frequently 
 permitted her to do. She would clap her hands when 
 she had beaten him, and look the personification of hap- 
 piness. Hastings thought there was nothing more pleas- 
 ant thin looking at Mrs. Belmonte, when all absorbed 
 in the game that he had the pleasure of teaching her. 
 Thus did the two lovers continue to pass their evenings 
 for several weeks, when a little incident occurred, which 
 I will here relate. Mrs. Belmonte had some young lady 
 relatives stopping with her. They had been there for
 
 160 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 several days, and Hastings had become well acquainted 
 with them. One of the visitors was a young lady of 
 about eighteen years. She seemed to think it no harm 
 to like Hastings' society very much ; or, if she did see 
 harm in it, she certainly did not avoid being in his com- 
 pany whenever he called at Mrs. Belmonte's. She was 
 not pleased or nattered much, therefore, to see him de- 
 vote so much of his time to Mrs. Belmonte. She 
 thought that if there was any one thing more stupid 
 or dull than another, it was that " abominable game 
 of chess." 
 
 "No one can speak to either of you," she would 
 sometimes say, in her impatience, " without disturbing 
 you. There you sit for hours at a time, without saying 
 a word, and seemingly without knowing that there is 
 any one else in the room. I will put a stop to your 
 playing, see if I don't ! " This was said half in earnest 
 and half in jest. 
 
 One evening, soon after this, Hastings had called, 
 and Mrs. Belmonte had gone to get her chess-men ; but 
 when she opened the drawer where she always kept 
 them she saw no box there. She hunted for them a 
 little while, and then went down into the parlor and 
 
 charged Miss with having removed them. This 
 
 she did laughingly, although she felt a little provoked 
 that they should have been taken out of her drawer by 
 any one. She loved the chess-men, and was as careful of 
 them *as she would have been of the most valuable pres- 
 ent. Her long-loved Willie had given them to her, and 
 she had spent many a happy hour in playing with them. 
 She loved the meanest pawn among them as much, and 
 more, -than an officer loves his men. She naturally 
 
 enough, therefore, felt a little displeased that Miss 
 
 should assume to take charge of them in this unceremo- 
 nious way. It was with difficulty that she could laugh
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 161 
 
 at what Miss thought a capital piece of fun ; Mrs. 
 
 Belmonte returned to her room, and made diligent search 
 for the men, but was unable to find them there. She 
 
 next went into Miss 's room, and after a deal of 
 
 trouble, found them concealed under one of the pillows 
 on the bed. She hastened down into the parlor as soon 
 as she had recovered them, feeling that she had outwit- 
 ted Miss after all, and was quite happy at being 
 
 again in possession of them. When she entered the 
 parlor, Miss sprang up and said : 
 
 " I declare, you shall not play that detestable game 
 to-night ! You shall not monopolize all of Mr. Hast- 
 ings' time and company." 
 
 As she said this, she playfully ran up to Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, and commenced trying to take the box of chess- 
 men from her. They struggled together for some time, 
 when the lid of the box came off, and kings, queens, 
 knights, and all, fell with the weight of all their dignity 
 on the floor. The heads were knocked off from some, 
 others had their limbs disjointed, and they were a 
 wounded and deplorable set of men generally. Hastings 
 assisted in gathering them up, and placed them on the 
 board as well as he could in their crippled condition. 
 Mrs. Belmonte, annoyed and grieved at this unlocked 
 for " tide in the affairs of (her) men," seated herself at 
 the table to play ; but the sight of her headless bishops 
 and queens was too much she burst into tears and 
 left the room. Miss soon followed her to apolo- 
 gize for what she had done; but Mrs. Belmonte told 
 her that she never wished to speak to her again. She 
 would not even open her door to let her in. A little 
 later in the evening, Mrs. Belmonte sent a note down to 
 Hastings, begging him to excuse her for the remainder 
 of the night. Hastings did not like what Miss 
 14*
 
 1<SS THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 had done ; yet he concealed his feelings. He knew that 
 the chess-men had been broken in play, and, perhaps, he 
 was not displeased to see how much Mrs. Belmonte 
 
 loved them. He remained an hour or so with Miss ; 
 
 and then leaving, he walked over to Broadway and pur- 
 chased a more valuable set of men than those were 
 which he had given her before. He also wrote a little 
 note and placed it in the box, and then returning, gave 
 it to Bessy, Mrs. Belmonte's servant, and told her to 
 give it to her mistress, and to no one else. He then 
 placed a piece of silver in Bessy's hand, and walked 
 away. When Mrs. Belmonte opened the box, and saw 
 the beautiful men, she felt that it was very kind in 
 Hastings to send them to her ; yet she thought that she 
 never should love them as she had loved the others. 
 
 She made friends with Miss the next morning ; 
 
 but she never felt so kindly toward her afterwards. She 
 gathered up her crippled men carefully, and placed them 
 in the drawer, where she had been accustomed to keep 
 them. She felt for them as a general feels for men 
 who have long fought under him, and who have won 
 him many battles and much honor. The new men 
 were prettier ; but she loved the wounded ones better. 
 She never liked the game of chess so well afterward. 
 This may seem unnatural to the reader ; but I cannot 
 help it, insomuch as I am telling the plain, unvarnished 
 truth of the whole matter no more no less. % 
 
 Mrs. Delacy, after the party at her house, called on 
 Mrs. Belmonte once or twice ; but, being unable to con- 
 ceal her jealousy from her, she never received another 
 visit from Mrs. Belmonte. All intercourse of a friendly 
 nature was broken off between them. Hastings still 
 continued to absent himself occasionally from Mrs. 
 Delacy's dinner-table ; and, what was still more annoying
 
 OR, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 163 
 
 to Mrs. Delacy, he frequently remained out later at 
 night than he had done before. " How," said Mrs. 
 Delacy to herself, as she was thinking of these disagree- 
 able facts, " how can I break off his visiting Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, without losing his friendship myself? It must be 
 done ! 1 will brook no rival ! I might make her blind 
 husband jealous of him ; but I fear that would not do. I 
 have no facts to disclose to him. I must have some 
 facts ! " said she, energetically. " I will know more of 
 what is going on that is settled ! I am determined ! " 
 One evening that Hastings had not come home to 
 dine, Mrs. Delacy went to her room, and after thinking 
 for nearly an hour she muttered : " Yes, I will do it, be 
 the consequences what they may ! " She then called 
 her daughter, and told her that she was going out for a 
 little while, after which she dismissed her, and, going to 
 her wardrobe, selected the plainest dress that she could 
 find, and putting it on together with a plain bonnet 
 and thick veil, she stole away from the house. It was 
 quite dark, though early in the evening. She walked 
 hurriedly along, keeping as much as possible in the 
 least frequented streets, so as not to attract attention. 
 She continued thus to walk, closely veiled, until she was 
 opposite Belmonte's house, when she slackened her pace 
 and looked eagerly at the windows. She could see no 
 one inside, although she knew that the parlor was occu- 
 pied, from the manner in which it was lighted. She 
 passed and repassed the house, and peered about from 
 different points to see if she could not get a glimpse, at 
 least, 'of those within ; but it was all to no purpose. 
 The blinds were too closely drawn to admit even her 
 black eyes. She believed that Hastings was there with 
 Mrs. Belmonte. All her jealous feelings were awakened : 
 and she could, in her anger and jealousy, almost hav< 
 destroyed her daughter's successful rival, if she had
 
 164 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 possessed the power. She forgot somewhat her first 
 feelings of danger, and grew proportionably bold as 
 her anger increased. She had walked at least an 
 hour in sight of the house, when just as she was 
 passing, Bessy, the servant girl, came out of the base- 
 ment door. 
 
 " I will bribe this wench to give me the information I 
 seek," muttered Mrs. Delacy, as she approached to 
 where Bessy stood. 
 
 " Bessy, come this way ; I wish to speak with you," 
 said Mrs. Delacy, as she turned and walked further 
 away from the house. She did not disguise her voice, 
 for she knew that Bessy would recognize her as soon 
 as she entered into conversation with her. She was 
 determined to risk all on the one bold cast of the die. 
 Bessy thought that the voice was familiar; yet she 
 did not recognize the speaker. She was half afraid 
 to do as requested; but her curiosity got the better 
 of her fear, and she followed at a little distance from 
 the mysterious female who had spoken to her, and who 
 had mentioned her name. As she walked on, she mut- 
 tered : " Lor 5 bless us ! who am dat ar 5 'spicious lookin' 
 feminale ? She knows my name, dat am sartin ! Dat 
 ar 5 voice ob hern sounds mighty like one I've heerd 
 afore. Well, she won't ketch dis chile sleepin' ! I's not 
 sleepin' when my eyes is open, no how ! " When Mrs. 
 Delacy had walked nearly two blocks away, she stopped 
 and said, commandingly " Bessy, hurry on ! " But 
 Bessy would not hurry on ; she stopped, and said, trem- 
 blingly : 
 
 " What you wants me for ? " 
 
 " Come here, you stupid ! " said Mrs. Delacy. " Don't 
 you know me ? " Bessy now recognized Mrs. Delacy's 
 voice, and hurried to her at once, wondering what she 
 could want of her. Mrs. Delacy did not hesitate, but
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 165 
 
 opened at once with her business. She had lived too 
 long in the South not to be able to read negro char- 
 acter readily. She was not deceived in believing that 
 Bessy could be bribed to give her the information which 
 she so much wished. 
 
 " Bessy," said she, is Mr. Hastings at the house? " 
 
 " How is I to know ? I jis comes from de kitchen," 
 said Bessy, feigning ignorance. Mrs. Delacy placed a 
 sovereign in her hand, and asked again : 
 
 " Is Hastings at Belmonte's ? " 
 
 Bessy held the piece of money up so as to get the 
 reflection of light from an adjoining street lamp, and 
 seeing that it was gold, answered : 
 
 " Yes 'm, he am dah." 
 
 " Did he dine there to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes 'm." 
 
 " Is Mr. Belmonte at home ? " 
 
 " Not as I knows on," said Bessy, still unwilling to 
 tell all she knew. 
 
 " Don't you know that he is not at home ? " 
 
 " I'specs I does." 
 
 " What are Mr. Hastings and your mistress doing ? 
 Are they playing chess ? " 
 
 " I'specs dey is." 
 
 " Is any one there besides them ? " 
 
 " You means long- wid 'em ? " 
 
 " No ; is anybody else in the house ? " 
 
 " Oh ! dat am what you means ! No, dey is all alone 
 wid one anudder." 
 
 " Does Mr. Hastings come there frequently ? " 
 
 " You means eb'ry day ? " 
 
 " No ; does he come there two or three times a week ? " 
 
 " I can't 'zactly say." 
 
 " Does he come there once a week ? " 
 
 Ob course he do."
 
 166 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 " Don't he come there oftener than once a week ? " 
 " I 'specs he do, but I can't ^zactly say." 
 " Bessy, does your mistress and Hastings play chess 
 every time he comes there ? " 
 
 " You means do dey play chestes ? " 
 " Yes ; why don't you answer me at once ? " 
 " Oh ! dat am what you wants to know ! I never 
 seed em ! " 
 
 " But, don't you know whether they do or not ? " 
 " I does n't know, 'cept dat I hears Missis speakin' ob 
 kingses, and knightses, and castledumses mose ebery 
 day." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy pumped Bessy as dry as she well could, 
 and then giving her another piece of money said: 
 " Come to my house on next Saturday night about 
 ten o'clock, and I will give you more money. Don't 
 tell any one that you have seen me. Look after Mr. 
 Hastings, and be able to tell me how often he visits 
 your mistress, and how they spend their time. Does 
 your mistress go out often alone ? " continued she. 
 
 " Not berry," said Bessy, " 'cept when she goes wid 
 somebody." 
 
 " Come," said Mrs. Delacy, " as I tell you, on Sat- 
 urday night, and inquire for me." Then, thinking a 
 moment, she added : " Say to Jule (that was the name 
 of Mrs. Delacy's servant who answered the door-bell) 
 that you have a letter for me, and that you must put it 
 into my hands. Do you understand me ? " 
 
 Yes, I 'stands all about it." Mrs. Delacy then left 
 Bessy and hurried home, filled with thoughts of ven- 
 geance and burning jealousy. " I will," thought she, 
 " break off his intimacy with Mrs. Belmonte, or I will 
 ruin myself in his estimation in attempting it." Thus 
 did she resolve, as she passed hurriedly along in the 
 shade of the tall houses that line the streets in the upper
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 167 
 
 part of New York. That night when Hastings returned 
 home he found Mrs. Delacy and her daughter sitting 
 in what they called the reception room. He walked 
 in carelessly, and commenced talking in an easy and 
 familiar way. 
 
 " Well, Mary," he said, addressing the daughter, I 
 forgot to deliver your message and get that book to- 
 day of Miss Holcomb. I crave a thousand pardons for 
 the grave offence. But you don't look as though you 
 intended to grant them. Don't keep me in suspense, 
 just for the gratification of torturing me ! Do speak at 
 once, and let me know my doom ! " All this he said 
 without giving Miss Delacy an opportunity of putting 
 in a word. When he had ceased speaking, she said : 
 
 " You care very much, doubtless, whether I grant you 
 pardon or not." 
 
 " Yes," replied Hastings ; " now you talk like your- 
 self. I do care very much about it, I assure you." 
 Miss Delacy was half in the pouting mood. She thought 
 that Hastings had been spending the evening with Miss 
 Leighton ; she therefore asked : 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to tell me what could so 
 occupy your mind as to make you forget so simple a 
 request ? " Hastings understood her feelings, and an- 
 swered in a manner calculated to provoke her still more 
 than he already had done. 
 
 " You won't be so unreasonable as not to grant my 
 request, when you learn how agreeably I have been en- 
 tertained. How could I think of your message? I 
 knew besides, that you did not care much about my 
 calling on your friend. If you had very much desired 
 to have me call, why, that would have been quite a dif- 
 ferent matter. I could have thought of nothing else 
 until the errand was done. Isn't that clear, and, as Sam 
 Weller would say, ' werry wisible ? ' "
 
 168 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " The first part is quite clear," replied she ; " you have 
 evidently been agreeably entertained." 
 
 " Still sensible, as you always are," said Hastings, 
 teasingly. 
 
 " You might have called, however, I think," said she, 
 a little displeased at Hastings' seeming neglect. 
 
 " So I might, and under ordinary circumstances 
 would ; but " ^ 
 
 " Well, I won't hear any thing more about it," said 
 she, interrupting him. " I have heard enough of your 
 nonsense." 
 
 " Spoken like yourself," said Hastings, as he took 
 from an inside pocket the book which she had wished 
 him to borrow of her friend. " I forgot your errand, 
 but I have a book of the same kind here. Will this 
 answer ? " 
 
 It was beautifully bound. He had purchased it for 
 her. Her countenance at once brightened up, and she 
 said: 
 
 " I beg your pardon for being so severe in censuring 
 you, but you must blame yourself for it; you are al- 
 ways provoking me to it." 
 
 " I don't see that so clearly," said he. " I wish you 
 would illuminate that idea a little." 
 
 " I will eliminate it," said she ; " so no more nonsense, 
 I pray." 
 
 " Algebraical again, I declare ! I had almost forgot- 
 ten that you had conquered all those deuced hard 
 studies." 
 
 " You forget a great many things, and not least of all, 
 you forget to talk sensibly to me." This she said quite 
 spiritedly, for Hastings was for ever teasing and annoy- 
 ing her about her studies, and asking her hard questions 
 about what she had been learning at school. 
 
 He answered her last remark by saying :
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 169 
 
 " I thought algebra a very sensible subject, or I should 
 not have alluded to it in so grave and serious a conver- 
 sation." 
 
 " I think you are a great tease, and a great talker of 
 words without ideas ; that is what I think," said she, 
 half indignantly. 
 
 " I declare, you are getting more and more compli- 
 mentary. I should think that you would be naturally 
 cross and unamiable ; but not a bit of it. You are 
 pleasant as Pickwick on a benevolent errand." This 
 brought a smile to Miss Delacy's face, and she said: 
 
 " I suppose you bought this book, so as to have the 
 longer time to spend with whoever has been so agreea- 
 bly entertaining you to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, whoever" said Mrs. Delacy, who had until 
 now remained silent and reserved. 
 
 Hastings answered this sally from Mrs. Delacy by 
 saying : 
 
 " Yes, Mary, whoever. That is a question to think 
 upon. Now, I will venture a seat at the next opera 
 that you think I have been spending the evening with 
 my friend Belmonte." 
 
 " You must be anxious to go to the next opera," said 
 the daughter, " or you would not venture a seat upon 
 any thing so ridiculous. I will wager a seat for you 
 and all your friends, that I can tell where you have 
 been spending the evening so delightfully." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy, no longer able to restrain her feelings, 
 said, 
 
 " Shall I tell you where you have been ? " 
 
 " That, Mrs. Delacy," replied he, would deprive all 
 my friends of the next opera. I wish to make at least 
 three private boxes out of Mary. Now own up," con- 
 tinued he, addressing the daughter. " Don't you think 
 15
 
 170 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 that I have been passing the evening with my friend 
 Belmonte ? Come, be frank, . and pay the bet gal- 
 lantly." 
 
 " You know right well," said Miss Delacy, " that you 
 are not right. What is the use of pretending that you 
 have not been to see Miss Leighton ? Who else could 
 occupy your time half so agreeably ? " 
 
 " I own to having lost the bet," said Hastings ; " so, 
 Mary, you may consider yourself booked for the next 
 opera, together with any two of your best friends." As 
 he said this he glanced at Mrs. Delacy. She was look- 
 ing unhappy. She thought that she had excited Hast- 
 ings' suspicion, by the manner in which she had at first 
 spoken ; for the remainder of the evening, therefore, she 
 tried to conceal her feelings and make herself agreeable. 
 Hastings, as he left them for his own room, said : 
 
 " Well, I must tear myself away, and bid you good- 
 night. Your smiling countenances will make me think 
 pleasant thoughts and dream happy dreams ; so bon soir ! 
 Remember the next opera." This he said as gayly and 
 carelessly as though he felt all that he seemed. He had 
 not failed to observe Mrs. Delacy's clouded brow when 
 he first entered, and he at once suspected that it had 
 something to do with his visit to Mrs. Belmonte's. He, 
 therefore, in talking with Miss Delacy, had tried to draw 
 the mother out. His efforts were partly successful ; and 
 he retired, half believing and half doubting that Mrs. 
 Delacy knew more of his personal matters than was safe 
 for him. He saw the danger that he was in, if it came 
 to be thought that he visited Mrs. Belmonte other than 
 as a friend. Consideration for her made him half fear 
 Mrs. Delacy. Hastings liked Miss Delacy, because she 
 was naturally a frank and high-minded young lady ; but 
 all his thoughts of her and all his attentions to her were 
 those only of a friend a sincere friend.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BELMONTE occasionally visited his relative, the old man 
 whom he had robbed of little Flora. He wished to keep 
 in favor with him ; and more than all he longed to be in 
 possession of his large property. When he called to see 
 him, therefore, he was all kindness and affection. He 
 sympathized with him in the loss of Flora, and in every 
 way possible tried to win his love. One day, not many 
 months after the little girl had been taken away, Bel- 
 monte called in his carriage, and induced the old man 
 to get into it and take a drive with him. As they rode 
 along on the banks of the Hudson, Belmonte did all in 
 his power to amuse and natter Mm. 
 
 " Uncle," said he, " you look quite young yet. You 
 will live many years, I hope, to enjoy this beautiful 
 scenery, and the pleasant home where you now li ve. I 
 never saw you looking better in my life. If you will drive 
 out every day and get the fresh air, it will do you a great 
 deal of good. Shall I come and take you out occasion- 
 ally, when it is pleasant ? " 
 
 " No*/' said the old man. " I drive in my own carriage 
 when 1 feel like it; but I prefer walking in the fields and 
 working in my flower-garden." 
 
 Belmonte did think that his uncle was looking 
 healthy, too much so by far for his wishes and prospects. 
 He would have rather seen him with one foot in the 
 
 (171)
 
 172 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 grave. Along towards evening, he and the old man 
 walked together across the fields to the little mound 
 where the child and Rover lay buried. It was the first 
 time that he had visited the spot since the burial of the 
 little girl. He looked eagerly as they approached the 
 graves, and saw two little white marble slabs, exactly 
 alike, one at the head of each of the sleepers. On one 
 he read in large letters the name ROVER, on the other, 
 FLORA. At first sight of them he started suddenly back ; 
 but, recovering his self-possession immediately, he walked 
 up to them, and seated himself on a little bench beside 
 his uncle. Belmonte was superstitious and cowardly, 
 and it was with difficulty that he could appear natural 
 and easy. He had only accompanied the old man to the 
 place in the hope of being able to still further ingratiate 
 himself in his affections. He saw, by the appearance of 
 ah 1 around him, how much his uncle mourned the loss of 
 Flora and Rover. The playhouse was there, just as 
 Flora had left it. The forget-me-not stood at the head 
 of her old friend, just where she had planted it. Two 
 little lambs, exactly alike, lay at the foot of each grave 
 fit emblems of the purity they were intended to repre- 
 sent All the flowers which Flora had planted on and 
 about Rover's grave still grew as lovely as when at- 
 tended by herself. The old man had preserved every 
 thing, just as it had been when she was there. The 
 flowers, the playhouse, and all reminded him of his 
 angel grandchild, and of the times when he and she used 
 to visit the place together. Belmonte sat beside him 
 whom he had so much wronged, and pretended to 
 enter into all his thoughts and sympathies. He even 
 feigned to wipe away the tears from his own tyes, as he 
 saw them coursing down the cheeks of the old man. He 
 talked of Flora and her innocence with all the affectation 
 of real feelings of love for her.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 173 
 
 " She is in heaven, the little angel," said he, sympathiz- 
 ingly. " She was fitter for that place than she was for 
 this earth." 
 
 " Oh," said the old man, in the depths of his sorrow, 
 "she was my only stay and support in my old age! 
 Would that Heaven had given her to me a little longer ! " 
 
 " It is from these losses and afflictions," replied the 
 hypocrite, " that we learn to place our affections on the 
 things which are not of this earth." Thus did Belmonte 
 talk ; and, so well did he play his part, that tlje old man 
 thought that he had found in his nephew a source of 
 comfort, and a solace for the trials of his old age. 
 
 Belmonte could have engaged in any safe enterprise that 
 would have put him in possession of his uncle's estate. 
 He longed for him to die. He even thought of assisting 
 him to " shuffle off the mortal coil " which bound him 
 to this earth. His own fortune was fast dwindling 
 away. He found it more and more difficult to meet his 
 engagements and pecuniary obligations. He had heav- 
 ily mortgaged his own property the times of payment 
 were drawing nigh they must be renewed ; other mort- 
 gages must be given. Money must be raised to meet 
 his current expenses. As this view of his prospects 
 stared him in the face, he heartily wished his old uncle 
 in the grave. He had no confidence in his own plans, 
 or he might have hastened the event. There was no 
 one, to whom he could open a proposition so full of 
 danger. Sometimes he feared the return of little Flora. 
 There was something mysterious in her sudden disap- 
 pearance. At others, he even suspected that Hastings 
 knew where she was ; but these suspicions soon passed 
 away. He was troubled and unhappy, because his deeds 
 were evil. He was extensively interested in different 
 " Fancy Mining Stocks," and had made, at times, large 
 15*
 
 174 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 sums of money by his scheming and rather unscrupulous 
 transactions. He had also suffered heavy losses, by the 
 failure of some of his speculative plans. He was not 
 considered a safe business man among the more sub- 
 stantial stock operators, although he enjoyed the reputa- 
 tion of being smart and shrewd in whatever he engaged. 
 He had brain enough, but he was unscrupulous in its 
 use. He was a plausible, sanguine, driving man, when 
 he wished to be ; but there was so little system in what 
 he did, th%t he was often the loser in what he undertook. 
 He operated, as I have said, in fancy stocks ; but more 
 particularly in mining stocks, of the doubtful and preca- 
 rious kind. As he was sitting one day in his office 
 thinking of all his prospects, a letter was handed him by 
 the postman. He looked at the address, but did not rec- 
 ognize the handwriting. He opened it, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 N. Y. , . 
 
 " SIR : You will do well to look a little more closely 
 into your domestic affairs, if you wish to preserve the 
 reputation of your family from stain, and the conse- 
 quence of suspicion. Your friends think you a little 
 blind. Au revoir. 
 
 " ONE WHOSE EYES ARE OPEN." 
 
 Belmonte read over and over again the startling little 
 missive. He could not interpret it. Sometimes he 
 thought that it referred to his own guilt in taking little 
 Flora from his uncle's. The word domestic, however, 
 led him to believe that it had some other meaning. 
 He thought of Hastings' frequent visits to his house, 
 but he believed him to be honorable. He thought of 
 Mrs. Belmonte. He knew that she never had married 
 him from choice, and that she never had loved him ex-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 175 
 
 cessively; yet he believed her true, and incapable of 
 deception. He had been of late so absorbed in his own 
 wicked plots, that he had thought of nothing else 
 scarcely. We have already seen him leaving Saratoga 
 and all its attractive gayety to carry out one of his 
 schemes. His mind had been engrossed in the one 
 great idea of possessing himself of his uncle's fortune. 
 He looked at the letter which he continued to hold in 
 his hands he turned it upside down, and scrutinized 
 it closely from every conceivable point of view ; but he 
 still remained in darkness as to its meaning. He did 
 not know the handwriting he felt puzzled and per- 
 plexed at its mysterious contents. He looked at the 
 envelope, thinking that it probably was not for him ; but 
 he saw his own name in full, together with the street, 
 and number, of his office. The more he thought of the 
 domestic features of the letter, the more was his head 
 filled with Hastings' visits to his wife. 
 
 " His frequent calls in my absence," muttered he, " have 
 led some evil-minded person to suspect my wife of incon- 
 stancy. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yet it 
 may be well to guard against suspicion." He sat a long 
 time thinking of subjects growing out of that mischiev- 
 ous note. 
 
 " Well," said he, " although I know his visits are all 
 honorable, and that my wife is free from guile or de- 
 ception of any kind, yet others may misconstrue his 
 coming to my house so often. It may be better that he 
 shguld never call except when I am at home, and then 
 not so often as he has been accustomed to of late. He 
 has done me a lasting favor in helping me to get rid of 
 that child, and I must not let him think that I suspect 
 him of any thing dishonorable. I will tell Cornelia 
 that it will be better that Hastings call to see her only 
 when I am at home."
 
 176 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 Thus did Belmonte reason, not, however, without, 
 sometimes feeling a little jealous of Hastings. The 
 spark had been lit, although it was scarcely perceptible. 
 
 Hastings called to see Mrs. Belmonte in the evening 
 of the day that Belmonte had received the anonymous 
 note ; and Belmonte, notwithstanding his convictions of 
 his wife's and Hastings' innocence, could not leave the 
 room where they sat playing their favorite game of 
 chess. He, contrary to his usual custom, remained 
 with them during the whole evening. He had already 
 commenced " looking a little more closely into his do- 
 mestic affairs," as politely requested by " one whose eyes 
 are open." He felt half jealous, half suspicious, yet he 
 would say to himself : " It is all nonsense. I will not 
 distrust either of them." Notwithstanding all his con- 
 victions of their innocence, however, when Hastings 
 called in future to see Mrs. Belmonte, he always felt 
 uneasy and uncomfortable, until he could go into the 
 drawing-room or parlor where his wife and Hastings 
 were. It mattered not how busy he was, or how. much 
 interested in a newspaper article, he would drop all and 
 repair at once to them. That little letter was disturb- 
 ing his quiet, and was operating just as Mrs. Delacy 
 had intended that it should when she penned it. One 
 evening, when Mrs. Belmonte and her husband were 
 sitting together, he said to her : 
 
 " Cornelia, my dear, I fear that some evil-minded 
 persons may make mischief out of my friend Hastings' 
 frequent visits here." <Mgi 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte turned crimson at this remark, so un- 
 expected and startling. She could not conceal her agi- 
 tation. Belmonte construed her blushes as evidence of 
 her innocence, and apologized as well as he could for 
 having mentioned the subject. Mrs. Belmonte felt 
 guilty, because she knew that she loved Hastings with
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 177 
 
 her whole heart. She thought it was very wrong to 
 love him as she did ; yet she was unable to control her 
 feelings, or think differently of him. She was innocent 
 of every thing except that of loving him she never 
 had thought of any thing beyond. Hastings never had 
 spoken to her of any thing that could compromise her- 
 self in her own estimation. Her thoughts were her 
 only guilt. She was happy when with him to whom 
 she had pledged her lasting love in the days of her 
 girlhood. They each loved the other they instinc- 
 tively knew the fact, and they were satisfied. Their 
 feelings were expressed in looks, in kind actions, and in 
 words, which without speaking the language of affection, 
 nevertheless breathed it in the tender accents in which 
 they were uttered. Their hearts conversed together in 
 sighs, and through the love-expressing eye. It was a 
 language which hearts only understand, and infinitely 
 more expressive than any combination of words could 
 be. When Belmonte spoke as he did of Hastings' visits, 
 she knew not how to construe him. She feared she 
 thought that something must have occurred to make her 
 husband suspicious of him. What could it be ? Bel- 
 monte never had spoken to her before against his com- 
 ing there as often as he liked. He had always seemed 
 pleased to have him call. Mrs. Belmonte instinctively 
 thought that Mrs. Delacy was at the bottom of it all. 
 Thus do woman's instincts or perceptive faculties often 
 lead her to instantaneous and correct conclusions, which 
 plodding man can only arrive at after a long course of 
 reasoning and calculation. 
 
 " Why," inquired Mrs. Belmonte, after she had suffi- 
 ciently recovered from her agitation to speak, " why do 
 you think that his visits are improper now, when here- 
 tofore you have been pleased to have him call as often 
 as he liked ? " Belmonte sat a moment, as if unable to
 
 178 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 answer this pointed question. " What," continued she, 
 " has occurred to make you so suddenly change your 
 mind ? " 
 
 " My dear," said he, a little confused, " I have no ob- 
 jection to his calling here as often as he can make it 
 pleasant to himself and agreeable to you ; but there are 
 evil-minded persons who may make mischief out of it. 
 So you will please intimate to him that he had better 
 call only when I am here, and then not so often as he 
 has been accustomed to." 
 
 " But how can I tell him that ? He will be justly of- 
 fended." 
 
 " I leave that, my dear, to your good-sense and judg- 
 ment," said Belmonte, not more than half liking the 
 feeling way in wliich Mrs. Belmonte resisted his sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 " You are very kind," replied she, spiritedly. " Your 
 friend certainly has reason to feel flattered at the kind- 
 ness and consideration we are about to show him." 
 
 " Well, let us say no more about the matter now," 
 said Belmonte, as he left the room. He was hah in- 
 ch' ned to feel jealous in very earnest. Mrs. Belmonte 
 could not sleep that night. Her head was filled with 
 conjectures and forebodings. 
 
 " What does this all mean ? " thought she, as she lay 
 uneasy and nervous on her pillow during the small 
 hours of the morning. " Something has made Walter 
 suspicious of him." Hastings called a few evenings 
 after this conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte, 
 and was surprised to see Mrs. Belmonte looking sedate 
 and troubled. He asked her the cause, and she told 
 him that nothing was the matter ; that she felt as well 
 and the same as she had done when he had seen her 
 last. She could not make up her mind to tell him what 
 she had been instructed to say. She feared that he
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 179 
 
 would misconstrue and blame her, and consequently 
 the subject was not mentioned that evening. Just as 
 Hastings was leaving, however, she said to him: 
 
 " Will you be at leisure to-morrow morning at eleven 
 o'clock ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered he. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to call here at that hour ? 
 I have something particular to say to you." 
 
 " I will call ; but you are a little mysterious, and your 
 serious countenance leads me to think that you have 
 something unpleasant to communicate. I hope I have 
 in no way offended you." 
 
 " No," said she, almost with tears in her eyes. " Do 
 not misconstrue the request, until yoi} shall hear all that 
 I have to say." Hastings left, full of conjecture as to 
 what Mrs. Belmonte wished to communicate. He was 
 impatient for the morning to come ; but never did the 
 hours pass more slowly -away. Twice did he get up 
 and look at his watch during the night. The morning 
 seemed to be an age in coming. It came, however, at 
 last ; and at eleven o'clock precisely he rung the bell at 
 Mrs. Belmonte's door, and was let in by Bessy. She 
 noticed Hastings' anxious looks, and as she passed 
 down to the basement she moralized in this way : 
 
 " Well, suthen is up, sartin ! He's jis as white as mis- 
 sis' hand. Den, to come dis hour in de mornin' ! Dey 
 'magines dat dis chile is sleepin', but dey is mighty de> 
 ceived. Missis 'Lacy jis think of her tudder night! 
 I 'speps daT is suthen up. Well, white folks knows 
 der business better nor culled persons, but I don't 'zactly 
 see it." Thus did Bessy think, as she returned to her 
 work in the kitchen. 
 
 Hastings walked into the parlor, where Mrs. Bel- 
 Kionte was awaiting him. They met as cordially as 
 ever. He seated himself by her side, and looked in-
 
 180 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 quiriiigly at her. She tried to be as pleasant and agree- 
 able to him as she had been accustomed to be previous- 
 ly. She feared that he would be offended at her for 
 what she was about to say, and she sought to con- 
 vince him, by a welcome and cordial greeting, that 
 she still thought of him as she always had done since 
 she had first known him. It was some time before she 
 could introduce the disagreeable subject. At length, 
 however, she said : 
 
 " You will not be offended, I hope, at what I am 
 compelled to say ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. But you are very mysterious. You 
 excite my curiosity, and make me apprehensive." 
 
 " Will you promise not to be angry with me ? " 
 
 " I never can be angry with you but you speak to 
 me in riddles." 
 
 " I fear you will blame me. I cannot tell you," said 
 Mrs. Belmonte nervously, and scarcely able to keep 
 back her tears. 
 
 " You need not fear to tell me any thing. Tell me 
 at once what is making you so unhappy." 
 
 She then told him what she had been compelled to 
 say. 
 
 " What has put this into your head ? " asked Hast- 
 ings. 
 
 " I fear," replied she, " that evil-minded persons may 
 make mischief out of your visits here in Walter's ab- 
 sence." 
 
 Belmonte had told her not to mention his name in 
 connection with the matter, and she was trying to give 
 some good excuse to Hastings for what she had so un- 
 willingly said to him. Hastings thought a moment, 
 and then said : 
 
 " It is very true that evil-minded persons might mis- 
 construe my visits here ; but what has led you to think
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 181 
 
 of this now ? Why have you never thought so be- 
 fore ? " Mrs. Belmonte was in trouble she feared 
 that if she did not give some better reason for what 
 she had said, he would be offended. Her love for 
 him finally conquered and, disobeying her husband's 
 command, she told him all. 
 
 " Walter instructed me to say what I have," said she. 
 " I am very sorry that you have been compelled to listen 
 to what must seem to you very strange, and to what 
 has given me so much pain to say. I fear that some- 
 thing has occurred to make him suspicious." 
 
 Hastings sat for a moment in silence and then said: 
 
 " I don't understand why he should so suddenly sus- 
 pect me." 
 
 " Do not blame me for what I have said, will you ? " 
 said Mrs. Belmonte, imploringly. 
 
 " Blame you ? never ! It is a thing impossible ! " 
 said Hastings, with some enthusiasm. 
 
 Then, he continued : " But I must obey Belmonte's 
 wishes. I cannot call as often as I have done heretofore." 
 Then stopping a moment and looking at Mrs. Belmonte 
 with a countenance beaming with tenderness and love, 
 he added : 
 
 " We have long known each other, Cornelia ; yes, I 
 will say Cornelia, for it is by that name I always think 
 of you. We have known each other long, and it is use- 
 less for me to confess that I have loved you from the 
 time we first met at Saratoga, for you must have known 
 it. We have passed many happy hours together ; but 
 we must now separate, for you are the wife of another. 
 We are suspected, and for me to visit you longer will 
 be to injure your good name. Hard as it is to deprive 
 myself the pleasure of your society, I nevertheless can 
 do it for your sake. You know, and must long have 
 16
 
 182 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 known, that I prized your friendship more than all else 
 beside. Am I wrong in thinking that my feelings are 
 to some extent reciprocated ? " 
 
 Mrs. Belmont did not answer him. She was embar- 
 rassed and confused, but her silence was the very elo- 
 quence of love. Her face was crimson with blushes. 
 She could not raise her eyes from the floor. At length 
 Hastings rose to go ; and, taking Mrs. Belmonte's small, 
 white, and soft but trembling hand in his, he said : 
 
 " I am grieved, Cornelia, that we are suspected, and 
 more than all I am pained to think that in future I am 
 to be deprived of your society. I think I had better not 
 call again ; for what pleasure will there be to either 
 of us in my visiting you, when we both know that 
 we are constantly watched by your suspicious, per- 
 haps jealous, husband. No, Cornelia, I must not call 
 again." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte could not endure the idea of being 
 thus deprived of his society. 
 
 " Do not mind what Walter thinks, but call just as 
 often as you have done heretofore." 
 
 " No, Cornelia," said Hastings, as he still held her 
 hand in his, " I must not ; I fear for your sake, not for 
 my own." 
 
 " But you must call. I shall be very lonely if I can- 
 not see you." 
 
 Hastings saw her troubled countenance, and thinking 
 a moment, said : 
 
 " Cornelia, have you known me long enough to trust 
 to my honor ? " 
 
 ^ ** Yes, William, in every thing," said she, still unable 
 to raise her eyes from the floor. She remained stand- 
 ing by his side, with her hand in his. This was the first 
 time that she had ever called him William. She could
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 183 
 
 not say Mr. Hastings neither could she say Willie, 
 as she had done in years gone by. She, therefore, as 
 her heart overflowed with love for him, said : 
 
 " Yes, William, in every thing ! " 
 
 " Will you then meet me occasionally where we can 
 converse freely together ? " 
 
 " No, I could not do that. It would be very wrong. 
 Don't ask me to do what would compromise my self- 
 respect." 
 
 " I know," replied Hastings, " that it would be wrong 
 in the eyes of the world. But we will know that we are 
 innocent of every thing, except that of loving each other. 
 That knowledge will be our excuse, if not our justifi- 
 cation." 
 
 " It is impossible for me to meet you, William ; there 
 would be danger in doing so, some one might see us, 
 and then I should be ruined forever." 
 
 " We could get into a close carriage, and drive for an 
 hour or two occasionally, without being seen or sus- 
 pected, I think," said he. 
 
 " No, no, I must not, I cannot ! " 
 
 " I know the danger," said Hastings, " and will not 
 urge you to consent to what I ask. Yet I cannot recon- 
 cile myself to the thought of not visiting or seeing you 
 again, except occasionally, and then only when Bel- 
 monte is present to watch us." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte was undecided. She knew not what 
 to do. She felt, as Hastings expressed himself, that it 
 would, be unpleasant to have her husband continually 
 watching them. She never had cared before whether 
 Belmonte remained in the room with them when Hast- 
 ings was there or not. But the thought that she should 
 be watched gave her uneasiness. 
 
 " I should be glad to meet you ; " continued Hastings, 
 " and, should you consent, I will give you my word that
 
 184 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 you shall be treated honorably ; but I suppose I must 
 not hope for so much happiness." 
 
 As he said this, he moved hesitatingly towards the 
 door, still holding her hand. Mrs. Belmonte was unable 
 longer to resist his proposition. She looked into his face 
 and said : 
 
 " I will see you as you have suggested. You must 
 not construe my conduct harshly. I cannot refuse your 
 request, although my heart tells me that I am very 
 wicked in deciding to meet you." 
 
 Hastings pressed her hand gently, and putting one 
 arm round her waist and tenderly embracing her, 
 said : 
 
 " I feel that I am inducing you to do wrong ; yet, 
 whatever may be the consequence, I will be true to you 
 always. We are not the only ones who are guilty. 
 Should harm come to you, I will share it." 
 
 The time of their meeting was agreed upon, and 
 Hastings left, full of thought respecting the future. 
 
 " Belmonte is not worthy of such an angel ! " mut- 
 tered he, as he walked away. Perhaps he was inter- 
 ested and partial in thinking thus. Be this as it may, 
 he certainly thought that Mrs. Belmonte was too good 
 for her husband. This mitigated his own wrong in his 
 estimation. Thus does Cupid teach the heart to ex- 
 cuse what reason tells us is wrong.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BESSY, true to her promise, set out /or Mrs. Delacy's 
 a little before ten o'clock on Saturday night. It was 
 raining quite hard ; and so dark that she could see noth- 
 ing save the nickering street lamps. With her dress 
 and skirts well gathered up in one hand, and holding an 
 old umbrella with half protruding ribs in the other, she 
 walked hastily on through the mud and water, regard- 
 less of wet feet and bespattered stockings. Could one 
 have been near those lamps as she passed, it would 
 have been no difficult matter to see by the white in her 
 eyes that she was a genuine African. Bessy did not 
 dislike her mistress. She had lived with her a long 
 time, and would have done any thing in reason to please 
 her. She could not understand why Mrs. Delacy was 
 so anxious to know how often Hastings called to see 
 Mrs. Belmonte. It was a mystery to her, although she 
 sometimes half suspected that jealousy was at the bot- 
 tom of the matter. She saw no harm in accepting 
 Mrs. Delacy's gold ; yet she frequently had conscientious 
 scruples and misgivings in receiving it on the terms im- 
 posed, and for the moment wished that she never had 
 disclosed the secrets of her mistress's house. It was a 
 question that troubled her, and often did she get her 
 woolly head into a perplexed and bemuddled state, in 
 16 * (186)
 
 186 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 trying to come to a clear solution of it. When she 
 came to Mrs. Delacy's house, she walked up the steps, 
 and, after stamping the wet from her feet, rang the bell, 
 and was surprised to have the door immediately opened 
 by the very lady whom she had come to see. 
 
 " Bessy, walk into that room, quick," said Mrs. De- 
 lacy, pointing her finger towards the reception-room 
 door. Bessy walked in as directed, and soon the two 
 were engaged in close conversation. 
 
 " Has Mr. Hastings been to see your mistress since I 
 saw you ? " commenced Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " Yes 'm, he 's been dah twistes." 
 
 " Was Mr. Belmonte at home ? " 
 
 " One time, but not de tudder." 
 
 " Did you see how they passed their time ? " 
 
 " You means how dey 'joyed one anudder's socia- 
 bility ? Oh, yes, I seed how dey 'joyed one anudder." 
 
 " Well, how did they spend their time ? " 
 
 " Oh, dey plays chestes, ob course, jis as dey allers 
 does." 
 
 " Where did they play, in the parlor ? " 
 
 " Ob course," said Bessy, as she looked wonderingly 
 at Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " Did you see them playing ? " 
 
 " Yes 'm. You see Missis rings de bell, and 'quests 
 me to bring 'em some wine an' cake. So, do ye see, I 
 did as Missis said, and jis as I comes into de room, dey 
 was a standin' up lookin' at a picter on de wall, an' 
 Missis says, says she, * come, Misser Hastins, an' drink 
 some cake an' some wine, for I knows you is mighty 
 dry arter gittin' de wuss ob de play.' So, do ye see, dey 
 bofe drinks, and Misser Hastins says, says he, ' I con- 
 glomerates you on de cess ob de game, and de skill you 
 has in playin' chestes.' "
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 187 
 
 What did she say to that ? " asked Mrs. Delacy, with 
 a clouded brow. 
 
 " Oh, Missis drinks de cake and de wine, and looks as 
 smilin' as a basket ob chips." 
 
 " What else did you see, Bessy?" 
 
 " I only seed Massa Hastins shake hands wid Missis 
 jis afore he lef. For, do ye see, I has my eyes open, I 
 has, and when I hears him a gwine to go, I jis peeps 
 roun' de stairs, and sees him a smilin' an' shakin' ob 
 Missis' hand. An' Missis says, says she, ' be sure an' 
 ^ome nex' Wenzy night.' An' he promises Missis he 
 will, sure. Dey bofe lef den, an' I lef too. Dats all I 
 knows." 
 
 " But what of the other night, that he called ? " asked 
 Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " I was dah, but I seed nuthin, 'cept dat Massa Bel- 
 monte 'mained in de parlor with Missis an' Massa 
 Hastins." 
 
 " Well, Bessy, you can go now ; but come here again 
 on next Saturday night." As she said this, she placed 
 a piece of gold in Bessy's hand and showed her out of 
 the house, not, however, without cautioning her to say 
 nothing to any one of her visit. 
 
 When Mrs. Delacy was alone, she began to think of 
 her dark plans of revenge. " Next Wednesday night," 
 muttered she, " he has promised to visit her again." She 
 thought for a moment, and then said : 
 
 " I will invite Mrs. Coleman and her daughters to 
 dine with me on that day, and spend the evening. I 
 will also invite Mr. Hastings to meet them here. He 
 can hardly refuse, for Mrs. Coleman is one of the most 
 influential ladies in the city. Yes, that is what I will 
 do ; and thus, Mrs. Belmonte, will I disappoint you for 
 once." 
 
 On the next Wednesday morning, therefore, she told
 
 188 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Hastings that she had invited Mrs. Coleman and her 
 daughters to dine and spend the evening with her. 
 
 " I hope," said she, " that we shall have the pleasure 
 of your company also, William." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy frequently called him William, perhaps 
 because she had long known him, and probably because 
 she thought it more familiar and friendly than Mr. 
 Hastings. 
 
 He did not promise to dine with her on that day, 
 neither did he tell her that he could not be present with 
 them on the occasion. He left for his office, however, 
 fully determined not to break his engagement with Mrs. 
 Belmonte. Mrs. Delacy waited her dinner for Mm a 
 little while, impatiently ; but she waited in vain he did 
 not come. About ten o'clock that night he came home, 
 and went immediately to his room. Mrs. Delacy, boil- 
 ing over with rage and disappointment, soon followed 
 him, and the conversation between them is that given in 
 the first chapter. 
 
 On that Wednesday evening, she for the first time, 
 openly showed to Hastings her jealousy of Mrs. Bel- 
 monte. The words, " All your time and attention are 
 bestowed upon Mrs. Belmonte," fully opened Hastings' 
 eyes to the real state of Mrs. Delacy's feelings. She was 
 sorry the moment after she had mentioned Mrs. Bel- 
 monte's name that she had been so indiscreet, but it 
 was too late. She had shown her hand, and in doing so 
 she had "run before her horse to market." She had 
 also let Hastings know that she knew where he had 
 been spending the evening. This, too, she regretted; 
 and we see her, as described in the first chapter, weep- 
 ing in the midst of her contending passions, and asking 
 Hastings' forgiveness for what she had said. She loved 
 him herself, with all her wild, fiery, impetuous nature, 
 but she could not expect him to return it. She never
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 189 
 
 had intimated her feelings to him. She only sought to 
 have him marry her daughter, so that she herself might 
 always live with him. She had made herself unhappy 
 and miserable by what she had said to him that night, 
 and she sincerely wished Hastings to forgive her. She 
 turned to him for relief from her troubles, because he 
 alone had the power of granting it. He was cold and 
 distant, however. He wondered how she knew where 
 he had been passing the evening, and her mention of 
 Mrs. Belmonte's name made all her pleading for for- 
 giveness futile. She left him, therefore, and returned to 
 her guests, without having obtained the relief which she 
 had sought. She had said enough to trouble his dreams, 
 and make herself more miserable than she had been 
 before. 
 
 The next Saturday night, Bessy went again to see 
 Mrs. Delacy. They remained closeted together a long 
 time. When Bessy was about leaving, Mrs. Delacy 
 said 
 
 " If your mistress should go out alone, will you run 
 up here and tell me ? I will give you more money, if 
 you will." 
 
 " I will, mum," said Bessy, and the two separated 
 Bessy to return home in the dark, and Mrs. Delacy to 
 follow her own dark thoughts. The latter had written 
 in a disguised hand the note to Belmonte, which we 
 have read in another chapter. She thought that the 
 result of it would be, that Belmonte would be made 
 jealous of Hastings, and refuse to have him visit his 
 wife. If so, she thought it not improbable that Mrs. 
 Belmonte and Hastings would meet each other by ap- 
 pointment at some other place than Belmonte's house. 
 She did not hesitate to place the worst construction on 
 his visits ; and she readily supposed that their intimacy 
 would not be broken off by a refusal on the part of
 
 190 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 Belmonte to have Hastings call on his wife. It was 
 because she thought this, that she wished Bessy to let 
 her know whenever her mistress should go out alone. 
 The last time that Bessy had called, she had told her of 
 Hastings' visit in the morning at eleven o'clock, and she 
 rightly enough supposed that her letter to Belmonte 
 was the cause of it She therefore anxiously waited 
 the result of her own plans so boldly commenced. 
 
 A few. mornings after Bessy's last visit to Mrs. De- 
 lacy's, she came running up to her house again, half out 
 of breath ; and, as soon as she was alone with Mrs. De- 
 lacy, she said: 
 
 " Missis has jis' went out all by herself." 
 
 " How was she dressed, Bessy ? 
 
 " Oh, she hab on a brack dress, an' she hab on a plain 
 bonnet, an' a mighty thick veil." 
 
 " Did she see you when she went out ? " 
 
 " No, I peeps out de winder." 
 
 " Which way did she go ? " 
 
 " I seed her turn towards Broadway. She looked as 
 white as " 
 
 " Never mind your comparison," said Mrs. Delacy, in- 
 terrupting her. " You may run back now, Bessy." 
 
 As soon as Bessy had gone, Mrs. Delacy ordered her 
 carriage ; and dressing herself as quickly as possible, she 
 was soon driving down Broadway, eagerly watching both 
 sides of this crowded thoroughfare. She continued 
 down as far as " Stewart's," and then turned, and was 
 coming back, when she saw Mrs. Belmonte, not far 
 from Spring street, walking down Broadway. Their 
 eyes met, although Mrs. Belmonte was closely veiled. 
 As soon as Mrs. Delacy was past, she ordered her car- 
 riage up to the walk, and getting out, dismissed it and 
 followed on after Mrs. Belmonte, though at some dis- 
 tance behind. She saw her get into a carriage in front
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 191 
 
 of Thompson's saloon. She watched it narrowly, as it 
 turned away and proceeded up Broadway with drawn 
 curtains, and her jealousy knew no bounds. She first 
 thought of going at once to Belmonte's office, and of 
 telling him what she had witnessed ; but that, she feared, 
 would involve herself in the business. " I will return 
 home," muttered she, " and write the cuckold another 
 note. I will tell the stupid coxcomb what a fool his 
 wife is making of him." She tried to keep up with the 
 muffled carriage, but it soon left her. She saw it until 
 it turned down Eighth street towards Fifth Avenue, 
 when, losing sight of it altogether, she hurried home as 
 fast as she could. As soon as she entered the house, 
 she hastened to her room, and throwing her things on 
 the nearest chair, sat down at her writing-desk and 
 penned the following letter in a disguised hand. 
 
 " Wednesday, A. M. 
 
 " SIR, I wrote you not long since and told you to 
 look a little more closely into your domestic affairs. 
 You will do well to heed that advice. If you doubt 
 my sincerity in thus interesting myself in what con- 
 cerns, or ought to concern you, just ask one of your 
 family where she was this morning at twelve o'clock, 
 and with whom she passed her time. Au revoir. 
 
 ONE WHOSE EYES ARE OPEN." 
 
 This letter was carefully folded, and addressed to 
 Belmonte. She then put her things on again, and be- 
 fore 'Mrs. Belmonte had returned home it was placed 
 safely in the post-office. She had gone so far that she 
 could not well recede, and she so anxiously awaited the 
 result of what she had done, that her troubled mind 
 could not rest. She feared that Hastings would sus- 
 pect her. She was kept in a continual nervous ex-
 
 192 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 citement from what she herself was doing. Her hap- 
 piness was destroyed. Like a gamester who has staked 
 his all on the turn of a card, she awaited the result of 
 her plots with the intensest anxiety and fear. Every 
 moment to her was an age. When she was in Hast- 
 ings' presence she was embarrassed, and do what she 
 would she could not act naturally. Her impetuosity 
 and jealousy had led her to an extremity where, as she 
 thought, happiness or ruined hopes awaited her. 
 
 Belmonte received her last letter, and, after reading it 
 over two or three times, started immediately with it for 
 home. On arriving there, he at once summoned his 
 wife and showed it to her. When she first glanced at 
 its contents, her heart sunk within her ; but reading it 
 gave her time to collect herself, and throwing it indig- 
 nantly from her and crushing it with her small foot, she 
 said, with a look of anger and haughty contempt : 
 
 " Tliat 's all it 's fit for I " Her proud spirit was 
 aroused, and for the moment she could have defied a 
 legion of Mrs. Delacies. Her anger was soon over, but 
 it had convinced Belmonte of her innocence. He apol- 
 ogized for having suspected her for a moment; nor did 
 he again allude to the subject, further than to tell her to 
 invite Hastings to call as he had before been accus- 
 tomed to. 
 
 " I received," said he, " a letter similar to this, a short 
 time before I told you to request Hastings to visit you 
 less frequently. I was foolish enough to let it influence 
 me. I have now received this from the same person; 
 and, as a proof that I disregard its contents, I wish you 
 to see him as often as you like, and whenever you 
 please." 
 
 Belmonte was not a jealous man naturally. He had 
 redeeming traits of character, and his confidence in his 
 wife's virtue was one. He knew that she did not love
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 193 
 
 him much, yet he trusted to her honor, and to her natural 
 sense of right. This was a noble trait in him, and I 
 freely give him credit for it. He had not a high opinion 
 of female virtue generally, but he believed his own wife 
 pure and honest. Had he followed the advice which 
 Mrs. Delacy had given him, namely, to ask Mrs. Bel- 
 monte where, and with whom, she had been spending 
 the morning, it is quite probable that she would have 
 been so confused as to convince him of her guilt ; but 
 the letter had put her in possession of the whole secret 
 at once, and her natural feelings of indignation for one 
 who would use such means to injure her, served her in 
 the hour of need as effectually as though it had been 
 the indignation of conscious innocence. Her fears soon 
 returned, however, and she felt that a net was inclosing 
 her for her ruin. She had promised Hastings when she 
 left him that she would meet him again in one week ; 
 but now she could not think of placing herself a second, 
 time in the power of Mrs. Delacy. She that night, 
 therefore, wrote him the following note : 
 
 " Thursday, P. M. 
 
 " DEAR WILLIAM : Please call here to-morrow after- 
 noon, I have some news of importance to tell you. 
 Call if you can at three o'clock. 
 
 Ever your CORNELIA." 
 
 This note Mrs. Belmonte put into the office on the 
 next morning, and anxiously awaited Hastings' arrival. 
 As soon as he got it he hurried up to see her, and was 
 surprised at the intelligence she imparted to him. They 
 both thought that Mrs. Delacy had written the letters to 
 Belmonte. Hastings decided to leave Mrs. Delacy's as 
 soon as he could do so safely. Mrs. Belmonte told him 
 17
 
 194 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 what her husband had said about his calling in future, 
 and he concluded to visit her as he had done previously. 
 From this on, he was very seldom at Mrs. Delacy's din- 
 ner table. He felt uncomfortable when in her presence, 
 and consequently avoided her as much as possible. 
 
 When Saturday night came, Bessy went again to 
 Mrs. Delacy's. She had nothing consoling, however, for 
 her employer's ears. 
 
 " Does Mr. Hastings still visit your mistress ? " asked 
 Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 \es 'm," said Bessy. 
 
 " Does Belmonte see him when he comes ? " 
 
 " Yes 'm. Dey played drafters las' night, an' dey 
 laughs and talks mose all de time. Massa Belmonte 
 says to Misser Hastins, says he, ' You is no match for 
 me in drafters, so you had better go on wid your chestes 
 with Missis.' " 
 
 " When was this ? " eagerly asked Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 "Las' night Well," continued Bessy, "what I's 
 gwine to say is jis this : Tudder night, Massa Belmonte 
 comes home, lookin' as mad as a naligator, an' he calls 
 to Missis, an' han's her a letter ! Missis reads de letter 
 'tentively, and den she throws it away, and kicks it with 
 her foot, lookin' mighty savage. An' I heered her say, 
 * dat am all it 's fit for ! ' Lor 5 ! if you could a seed 
 Missis through de crack ob de door ! Did n't she look 
 like de Lady Macbest at de theatre tudder night! I 
 reckon she did ! " 
 
 " When was this ? " asked Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " Let me see," said Bessy, scratching her head ; " It 
 was on Thursday." 
 
 "What did Mr. Belmonte say?" 
 
 " Oh, he talks sweet things to Missis, an' 'pologises. 
 Dat is all I seed, for I was mighty feer'd dat Massa 
 would see me through de crack ob de door."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 195 
 
 " Has Mr. Hastings called there since ? " asked Mrs. 
 Delacy. 
 
 " Yes 'm he was dah yes'day in de arternoon." 
 
 " Did he remain long ? " 
 
 " Yes, he 'mained a long time, an' talks to Missis, but 
 I didn't heer what dey said." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy then dismissed her ; and, retiring to her 
 own room, felt all the mortification of failure. She re- 
 solved, however, not to give the matter up yet. " If I, 
 by what I have done," muttered she, " have incurred the 
 displeasure of William, I will die rather than not be re- 
 venged on her. Could I have a greater contempt for a 
 human being than I have for that insignificant, ninny hus- 
 band of hers ! He deserves to' be cozened, the brain- 
 less fool ! He showed my letter to her ! That is unfor- 
 tunate, for I fear she will tell William ; if so, he will 
 mistrust me, after what I have already said to him. 
 ' Come what come may,' however, I will not give up 
 the game yet. If my hopes are to be thus suddenly 
 blasted, I will take good care that one other shall also 
 taste the bitter fruits of disappointment. I dare do any 
 thing to attain the one goal! missing that, life is 
 of no more worth to me. I will go on, although in 
 doing so I accomplish my own ruin ! " 
 
 Thus did Mrs. Delacy reason, as she sat alone in her 
 room. All had retired but herself. She was wild at 
 the thought of losing Hastings' esteem; and, in the 
 depths of her despair, she resolved not to sink below 
 the waves that threatened, without carrying one other 
 down with her. Hers was the despair of a wild and 
 desperate, but disappointed love ! such as woman alone 
 can feel !
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WEEKS passed away without effecting any change 
 in the friendly intercourse between Mrs. Belmonte and 
 Hastings. Mrs. Delacy was anxiously waiting an op- 
 portunity when she might strike a last blow to the 
 hopes of her daughter's successful rival. Hers was 
 the suspense of the tigress before it leaps upon its 
 prey. 
 
 It was a morning in the middle of winter. The 
 snow had fallen on the streets during the night to the 
 depth of one foot or more. Men and women were 
 shovelling it from their door-steps and from the nag- 
 ging in front of their houses, and piling it in the gutters. 
 The trees, scattered here and there through the city, and 
 those in the different parks, were snow-capt, and bend- 
 ing beneath their fleecy and wintry loads. Omnibuses, 
 drawn by four hot and smoking horses, were making 
 their slow way towards the Battery, half-axle-deep in 
 snow and mud. Mammoth sleighs, drawn by six, eight, 
 and even ten horses, and filled to overflowing with 
 men, women, and children, moved down Broadway, 
 making the air resonant with their shouts of mirth and 
 glee. Occasionally a man, in trying to get on to one 
 of these winter conveyances, tumbled headlong into the 
 snow, greatly to the amusement of servant girls, who 
 stood peeping out from basement windows, and the boys
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 197 
 
 who were making themselves merry, by pelting the oc- 
 cupants of the different sleighs with snowballs. It con- 
 tinued to snow, and the people continued to shovel 
 and sweep the side-walks, and to ride down Broadway 
 to the music of joyous laughter and the jingling of 
 merry bells. William Hastings, having rode down in 
 one of the omnibuses aforesaid, was in his office. His 
 heavy overcoat had been laid aside, and he was seated 
 by his fire looking over the " Morning Herald," to see 
 the txact depth of the snow, and the exact state of cur- 
 rent events generally, when in stepped a lad with a red 
 and glowing face, and, familiarly walking up to Hast- 
 ings, said: 
 
 "I have brought you a letter, Mr. Hastings, from 
 cousin Lib." 
 
 " Ah ! Charley, my lad, you are stirring early this 
 morning. Your cheeks are as rosy as little Clara's, 
 whom they say you admire so much." 
 
 This Hastings said while Charley was trying to take 
 the letter from an outside jacket pocket, half filled with 
 snow. 
 
 " There it is at last," said Charley, " and wet enough, 
 to be sure. Cousin Lib wouldn't thank me much, if 
 she could see it." This he said as though he thought 
 the wetting of the letter was a very good joke. 
 
 " I think, Charley, that your cousin Lib was crying 
 when she wrote this. It is soaked with her tears." 
 Charley laughed, and turned his back to the fire to dry, 
 while Jhe waited for Hastings to read and answer the 
 letter. Hastings opened and read : 
 
 " DEAR MR. HASTINGS : The snow is deep enough 
 
 now to remind you of your promise. Kate and Cle- 
 
 mie Coleman are here, and they say they are dying for a 
 
 17*
 
 198 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 genuine old fashioned sleigh-ride. Mollie Delacy, I am 
 sure is in a bad way for the same reason, to say nothing 
 of her dear mama. I won't attempt a description of my 
 own feelings on so exciting a subject. Suffice it to say, 
 that the jingle of bells in imagination has quite intoxi- 
 cated me. I remain, LIB LEIGHTON, 
 and as you will doubtless think, ' a little over the bay? " 
 " Tuesday morning-." 
 
 When Hastings finished reading it he turned 1 * his 
 desk, and commenced writing an answer. 
 
 "I'll warrant," said Charley, "that Lib has been 
 writing some of her nonsense, for I heard her and Kate 
 Coleman laughing in Lib's room, before I started down 
 here. I would not answer it if I were in your place, 
 Mr. Hastings. It will serve them just right." Hastings 
 smiled at this advice of Charley's, and continued writing. 
 When he had finished it, he put it into an envelope, and 
 addressing it, handed it to Charley, saying : 
 
 " Now don't give this the baptism you gave your 
 cousin Lib's, or she will never be able to read it." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Charley, " I will take care that your letter 
 is kept dry ; but Lib's was n't worth looking after." He 
 left with the letter, and, after stopping frequently to have 
 a turn with the boys at snowballing, reached home, 
 where Miss Leighton was anxiously awaiting him. 
 
 " Why, how long you have been ! What has kept 
 you ? " asked Miss Leighton, reprovingly. 
 
 "Do you think," said Charley, indignantly, "that I 
 can run through the snow as fast as a grey-hound to do 
 your messages ? And then your letter got so wet that 
 Mr. Hastings couldn't read it." This he said, as he 
 lazily fumbled about in his pockets as if in search of 
 something.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 199 
 
 " How stupid you were to let my letter get wet! Do 
 hurry and find his answer ! " 
 
 Charley purposely kept her in suspense, and after 
 searching his pockets some time without finding it, he 
 said : 
 
 I reaUy believe I have lost it." 
 
 " You good-for-nothing ! " said Miss Leighton, quite 
 vexed with him. " If you have lost it, you deserve a good 
 whipping for your carelessness ! Run straight back 
 again, and tell Mr. Hastings that you have lost his 
 letter ! " 
 
 Charley still continued to rummage in his pockets, 
 turning them inside out, and pretending to be in a dread- 
 fully perplexed state of mind at not being able to find 
 the letter, which he knew ah 1 the while was in his cap. 
 He at length suddenly recollected where he had put it, 
 and gave it to his impatient cousin, who thanked him 
 for it thus : 
 
 " Now do leave the room, stupid." She opened it 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " DEAR LIB : Your little note, immersed in tears, has 
 just been handed me by Charley. The dying condition 
 of your friends is truly alarming. Something must be 
 done, and that speedily. So, if you and they are agree- 
 able, we will turn your imaginary bells into real ones 
 this evening. I will call with Mrs. and Miss Delacy 
 about eight o'clock. Please tell Kate and Clemie so. I 
 already fancy myself, not ' over the bay,' but, ' over the 
 hills and far away,' to the jingle of the merry, merry 
 beUs. Deliberately, 
 
 "Tuesday. W. HASTINGS." 
 
 When Miss Leighton finished reading it, she des- 
 patched a message to Kate and Clemie Coleman, telling
 
 200 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 them the welcome news. All was preparation and joy- 
 ous excitement, in anticipation of the promised sleigh- 
 ride. Two or three times, snowing as it was, did Kate 
 Coleman trip over to see Miss Leighton during the day. 
 They livM but a few blocks apart ; and the anxiety as 
 to what they should wear, and what they should do, and 
 generally as to how the whole thing should be managed, 
 kept them running back and forth every few hours to 
 plan and fix and arrange. They were on the qui vive 
 of excitement and expectation. 
 
 Miss Leighton was in remarkably good spirits. Hast- 
 ings's note had pleased her. It was the first time that 
 he had addressed her as Dear Lib. She read it over 
 many times during the day. It made her happier than 
 any letter, either long or short, had ever done before. 
 She had received a great many, and from a great many 
 people, but never one that pleased her half as much as 
 that little note, commencing Dear Lib 
 
 Hastings had sent a note to Mrs. Delacy telling her 
 of the anticipated sleigh-ride, and she went down to see 
 Miss Leighton, and assist her in arranging for it. A 
 few hours after Hastings had answered Miss Leighton's 
 note, he received one from Mrs. Belmonte, informing 
 him that she and her husband, with several friends, 
 were going sleigh-riding that night, and saying that they 
 would be most happy if he would consent to be one of 
 the number. When he had finished reading her note, 
 he said to himself : " I can't go. I must be persecuted 
 by accompanying those whom I care nothing about. I 
 wish I was free from them ; I will be erelong, I hope, 
 and then I can do as I please." Thus did he think, as 
 he turned to his desk and penned the following note : 
 
 " DEAR MRS. B. : - 1 have promised to take my partic- 
 ular friends sleigh-riding to-night, and in consequence I
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 201 
 
 am compelled to forego the pleasure of your kind invita- 
 tion. To-morrow night, or any other, while the snow 
 lasts, I shall be delighted to take you and your friends 
 on a similar excursion. With regrets that I cannot 
 accompany you to-night, and wishing you ah 1 the pleas- 
 ure imaginable, I remain Sincerely, 
 
 "Tuesday. WM. HASTINGS." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte was disappointed, when she read this 
 note. She prevailed upon her husband to postpone 
 their sleigh-ride until the next night. She felt a little 
 jealous of Hastings' " particular friends." It was un- 
 pleasant for her to think that she could not have the 
 pleasure of the first sleigh-ride with her Willie.'j She 
 expected that he would call and see her during the day, 
 but she looked for him in vain. . Hastings had intended 
 to drop in and see her, but he was unexpectedly detained 
 down town until a late hour, and thus prevented doing 
 what his heart dictated. Mrs. Belmonte did not sleep 
 well that night, although she continually accused herself 
 of being very silly for bestowing a thought upon her 
 disappointment. 
 
 A little before eight o'clock that evening, a beautiful 
 sleigh, drawn by four spirited horses and almost filled 
 with furs and robes, turned up at Mrs. Delacy's door. 
 Mrs. Delacy, her daughter, and Hastings ^ot into it, 
 and driving rapidly away, soon took in the remainder 
 of the party. They were all gleeful, joyous, and happy, 
 as they flew rapidly away to the music of the merrily 
 jingling bells. As soon as they were fairly out of the 
 city, they yielded themselves up to the hilarious excite- 
 ment of the occasion. They laughed and sang songs, 
 and then laughed again, until the air resounded with 
 their merry peals. They started for High Bridge on 
 the Bloomingdale road. Hundreds of sleighs were
 
 202 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 meeting, passing, and following them. It seemed as 
 though all New York had gone on a general sleighing 
 excursion. The moon shone brightly, which, with the 
 snow, made the night almost as clear and light as day. 
 Miss Leighton was all life, all enjoyment. She was 
 the gayest and liveliest of the party. Hastings, too, 
 (shame to say,) entered into the spirit of the occasion, 
 and never had made himself, generally, more agreeable 
 in his life. They had driven to High Bridge, and were 
 returning fuller of life, glee, and good feeling than ever. 
 The champagne they had drank at the Bridge made 
 them no less noisy than they had been, to say the leas^t. 
 All was going " merry as a marriage bell," when, as 
 they were descending a long hill, the horses suddenly 
 took fright and became unmanageable. When they 
 had run a little distance, Hastings stepped forward on 
 to the box, and took the reins from the driver. He held 
 them steadily in the road for some time, but could not 
 check them. It was with difficulty that he avoided 
 running into the many sleighs that he met and the 
 many that he passed. The ladies had expressed their 
 fears in screams at first, but they soon settled into a 
 breathless quiet. On and on they went, the horses 
 becoming more and more unmanageable every moment. 
 The leaders commenced kicking, and ran wildly from 
 side to side, maddened and perfectly uncontrollable. 
 The snow was thrown from their feet into Hastings' 
 face until he was no longer able to see. On they flew, 
 past trees, fences, and sleighs, at a fearful pace, when, 
 suddenly coming in collision with a large rock, Hastings 
 and the driver were hurled headlong into the snow. 
 The horses became detached from the sleigh, and ran 
 madly on. The driver soon picked himself up, but 
 Hastings lay insensible from the shock. None of the 
 ladies were injured, and they soon recovered sufficiently
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 203 
 
 from their fright to get out and look for Hastings. 
 They were horrified when they saw his seemingly life- 
 less body taken from the ground by the driver, assisted 
 by some men who had got out of their sleighs in pass- 
 ing. They had him placed in his own sleigh, and then, 
 gathering around him, tried to restore him to life. Very 
 soon a multitude of people had assembled, curious to 
 know what had happened. Hastings was soon suffi- 
 ciently recovered to be able to ride home. His party re- 
 turned to the city, as sorrowful as it had been mirthful. 
 It was ascertained, when Hastings was safely deposited 
 in his own room, that three of his ribs were broken, and 
 that he had received a severe contusion on the side and 
 back of his head. His wounds were soon dressed by 
 his physician, and his life pronounced out of danger. 
 The next day, Hastings ordered paper and ink to be 
 brought him, and with difficulty he penned the follow- 
 ing note, as he lay scarcely able to move in his bed. 
 
 " DEAK MRS. B : I was thrown from my sleigh 
 
 last night, and so much injured that I will be deprived 
 the pleasure of seeing you for several days. Nothing 
 serious, however. Always the same, 
 
 " Wednesday morning. WM. HASTINGS." 
 
 As soon as he had written and addressed this note, he 
 despatched a servant with it to Mrs. Belmonte. When 
 Mrs. Belmonte read it, she was much alarmed. She 
 wished that he was at her own house. It would not be 
 safe, she thought, to visit him at Mrs. Delacy's. She 
 questioned the servant who had brought the letter, and 
 learned from her that Hastings was much worse than 
 she had been led to suppose, from what he had writ- 
 ten. She became excited and apprehensive, and knew 
 not what to do. At last she told the servant to wait in
 
 204 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 the hall until she wrote an answer to the letter. As 
 soon as she was in her room alone, she burst into tears. 
 The servant had represented Hastings as almost dead, 
 and Mrs. Belmonte really feared that he would die 
 without her seeing him. In her anxiety and excitement 
 she tied on her bonnet, resolved to go at once to him, 
 but her fears of Mrs. Delacy led her to take it off again. 
 After a great deal of indecision and irresolution, she 
 penned the following note, guarding every word through 
 fear of Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND : I have just read your alarming 
 note, and am much concerned about you. I fear you 
 have not told me your real danger. I know not what to 
 do. I would come at once to you, but I fear that you 
 would think it indiscreet. Write me one word, if you 
 are able, and tell me just how 'much to fear. If you are 
 dangerously ill I will hurry to you at once at all risk, 
 and in the face of every danger. 
 
 " I am unhappy and miserable until I hear from you 
 again. I will send for Walter, and have him go and 
 see you as soon as he comes. Write me a word at 
 once, do. Ever, 
 
 CORNELIA BELMONTE." 
 
 Although Mrs. Belmonte thought that she was par- 
 ticularly guarded in the use of her language in writing 
 to Hastings, yet a disinterested person might think dif- 
 ferently. 
 
 As soon as the servant returned with Mrs. Belmonte's 
 letter, Mrs. Delacy took it, and despatched the servant on 
 an errand down town that would keep her absent an 
 hour or more. She then retired to her own room, and, 
 locking herself in, deliberately but carefully opened and 
 read it. When she had finished reading it she sealed il up
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 205 
 
 and sent it in to Mr. Hastings, muttering as she did so : 
 " It is well you fear to come here. I will turn your fear 
 into terror, and your terror into destruction and utter 
 ruin. I have warned you sufficiently. I will now show 
 you that I am powerful to act, as well as threaten. A 
 pretty letter for a wife to send him ! " Miss Leighton 
 and Kate Coleman called, the day after the accident, to 
 see how Hastings was. They even went with Mrs. De- 
 lacy into his room, and were glad to see that he was 
 doing well, and feeling mirthful, or at least seeming to 
 feel so. 
 
 " I should be up and at my office," said Hastings, " if 
 the doctor was only a little less timid. He says I must 
 lie here for days yet, and perhaps weeks. If he don't 
 change his views soon, I will dismiss him and employ 
 another." 
 
 This was said in the doctor's presence, and of course 
 not seriously. 
 
 " I am to blame for all this mischief," said Miss 
 Leighton, " but I intend to see that you are well taken 
 care of. It is too serious a matter to be mirthful over." 
 Belmonte entered the room while they were still there, 
 and was surprised to find Hastings so badly bruised and 
 injured. Miss Leighton gave him a full description of 
 the runaway and the accident. She wound up by say- 
 ing, that she herself was the only person to blame for it 
 all ; for, said she : 
 
 " Mr. Hastings went at -my suggestion." 
 
 Hastings did not write to Mrs. Belmonte again that 
 day, but trusted to her husband to give her an account 
 of his injuries. When Belmonte went home, he told 
 Mrs. Belmonte all about Hastings' condition. He also 
 related to her what Miss Leighton had said, and told her 
 who were in Hastings' room. This intelligence was un- 
 18
 
 206 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 pleasant to her, for more reasons than one. She went 
 to her room as soon as she could get away from Bel- 
 monte, and wept bitterly partly in sorrow for Hast- 
 ings, and partly because her jealousy of Miss Leighton 
 made her unhappy. She could not endure the thought 
 of her visiting his room so familiarly. " Why," thought 
 she, " does he not write me one word, as I requested ? 
 He did not call here yesterday, either. There is something 
 that 1 do not understand in this seeming coldness." 
 The next morning she sent her husband to see Hastings 
 again ; and on his return she learned that Miss Leighton 
 was still there. Her jealousy was gaining strength more 
 and more every hour. She finally, in her impatience, 
 sent Bessy with a note to him. Bessy gave it to Mrs. 
 Delacy ; and, before she left, Mrs. Delacy said to her : 
 " Bessy, if your mistress sends you with any more letters, 
 give them to me, and to no one else." 
 
 " Yes 'm," replied the wench, not however without 
 wondering why Mrs. Delacy should wish to have her 
 mistress's letters given to her, before Hastings should 
 receive them. When Bessy had gone, Mrs. Delacy went 
 immediately to her room, and opened the letter wliich 
 had been handed her. It read as follows: 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, William, do send me one word 
 telling me how you are. I am dying with suspense and 
 trouble. CORNELIA." 
 
 When Mrs. Delacy had read this little note, she sat 
 in silence for some minutes, thinking. She had reached 
 a point where she hesitated. There are times in life, 
 when, like a mariner, we pause and take our bearings, 
 our latitude and longitude, before venturing forward. 
 So with Mrs. Delacy ; she saw shoals and breakers on
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 207 
 
 almost every side. There was danger that all her hopes 
 would be wrecked, before she could get out into the clear 
 and wide ocean again. It was a moment of peril, and 
 she fully knew it. At length, as if decided as to what 
 she would do, she said : "I will do it ! It is too late 
 to recede. I will peril every thing to break off their 
 intimacy ! " Then, taking her pen, she copied Mrs. Bel- 
 monte's hand until she could imitate it so nearly that 
 Hastings would not be likely, she thought, to discover 
 the deception. She then wrote as follows : 
 
 " DEAR MR. HASTINGS : I am surprised that you do 
 not write me one word, as requested. Is your time so 
 agreeably occupied as to make you forget me ? "Wal- 
 ter tells me that Miss Leighton is constantly with you. 
 
 CORNELIA BELMONTE." 
 
 When Mrs. Delacy had finished the above note, she 
 placed it in an envelope, similar to the one which Mrs. 
 Belmonte had sent, and, directing and sealing it, sent it 
 to Hastings. When he read it, he was surprised 
 to see how little Mrs. Belmonte seemed to sympathize 
 with him in his sickness. " Walter tells me, that Miss 
 Leighton is constantly with you," he read from her let- 
 ter. " She is jealous," muttered he "jealous of Miss 
 Leighton. Can it be possible that she has no more con- 
 fidence in me than that ? " 
 
 He ordered his writing materials to be brought him, 
 and taking a pen, he wrote : 
 
 " DEAR MRS. BELMONTE : I would have written you 
 yesterday, had not Belmonte called and had it been 
 less difficult for me to write than it is. Miss Leighton 
 is here, but not in accordance with my wishes. I shall 
 soon be up again, I hope, and my first visit will be to
 
 208 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 see you. I wish I could have you here to read to me, 
 and to converse with. No one can fill your place in 
 my thoughts no one ever shall. I am improving 
 rapidly. I shall soon see you. 
 
 " Ever your 
 
 " WILLIAM HASTINGS." 
 
 This letter was given to Bessy when finished, who at 
 once carried it, as she had been instructed, to Mrs. De- 
 lacy, and then waited for Mrs. Delacy's orders. The 
 latter hurried with it to her room, and opening, read its 
 contents. Then seating herself at her writing-table, she 
 wrote in a hand as like Hastings as she' could, as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " DEAR MRS. BELMONTE : My hand trembles so that 
 I can with difficulty write. I should have written you 
 yesterday, but Miss Leighton was in my room reading 
 to me nearly the whole day. They are very kind to me 
 here, and anticipate all my wants. I shall soon be 
 well again with so much kind treatment. Miss Leigh- 
 ton is sitting near me while I write, and joins me in 
 love to you. WILLIAM HASTINGS." 
 
 This letter was substituted for the one Hastings had 
 written, and carried by Bessy to her mistress. Mrs. Bel- 
 monte read it, and then went again to her room and 
 indulged in a fit of crying. 
 
 " Can it be possible," thought she, " that this is the 
 Willie whom I have so long loved ? tie has forgotten 
 me in two days, and is wholly taken up -with Miss 
 Leighton." Sometimes she felt indignant, at others 
 she was the most unhappy and miserable of beings. 
 Her love was too deep-rooted to be easily overturned. 
 She resolved, however, not to write to Hastings again, 
 until she had received another letter from him. Hast-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 209 
 
 ings waited impatiently a day or two for a letter 
 from her ; but none coming, he wrote the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 "DEAREST CORNELIA: Why do you delay writing 
 me ? Do send me one cheering word one word of 
 love and hope. I am dying with impatience to hear 
 from you. I am bored to death with Miss Leighton and 
 Mrs. Delacy, who are eternally in my room, whenever I 
 allow them. Write me at once. I am much better 
 I shall soon be able to call on you. That thought 
 cheers me, and gives me courage to endure the persecu- 
 tions of my particular friends. Ever your 
 
 WILLIAM." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy read this letter with flashing eyes. " He 
 is bored to death, is he ? " muttered she. " What does 
 he mean by the ' persecutions of his particular friends ? ' 
 I will keep this love of a letter, Mrs. Belmonte, and write 
 you one myself. It is too precious to part with. 
 The ungrateful! I almost wish he had broke his 
 neck, instead of his ribs. She then wrote the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 " DEAR MRS. BELMONTE : I am getting on wonder- 
 fully ! Miss Leighton is here every day, and cheers me 
 by reading and singing to me. She has just been read- 
 ing some choice passages from Byron. I never before 
 appreciated ' Childe Harold? Belmonte told me he was 
 going 'out of town for a day or two, when he was here 
 last. I suppose he has not yet returned. My spirits 
 were never better under difficulties than now. I wish 
 
 you would send me 's last novel. I believe you 
 
 have it. Miss Leighton expressed a wish to read it. 
 18*
 
 210 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 When you have leisure, please write me. Now I think 
 of it, you are one letter in my debt. 
 With the best of wishes, I am still, 
 
 WILLIAM HASTINGS." 
 
 When Mrs. Belmonte read this counterfeit letter, she 
 became almost distracted. Her heart sickened. She 
 felt for the moment that Hastings no longer loved her 
 " My confidence has been misplaced," she thought. " I 
 have believed him noble and true. I have worshipped 
 him as the soul of honor I have been deceived. 
 Never will I place confidence in another living mortal." 
 It was with difficulty that Mrs. Belmonte could bring 
 herself to believe Hastings dishonorable. She doubted, 
 feared, and was unhappy. 
 
 Belmonte was compelled to leave for the South to 
 attend to some business. He persuaded Mrs. Belmonte 
 to accompany him. It was with feelings of regret, 
 however, that she consented to leave the city before she 
 could see Hastings. The time drew near when they 
 must go. A day or two before they left, Mrs. Belmonte 
 wrote the following letter, and sent it to Hastings : 
 
 "DEAR WILLIAM: Walter has prevailed upon me to 
 accompany him to Florida. We shall be absent several 
 months. With what regrets and feelings of sorrow do I 
 leave without seeing you. Your letters have seemed to 
 me cold. I have read them, and felt that they did not 
 express the feelings of the ' Willie ' whom I have wor- 
 shipped from my childhood. I cannot believe, though, 
 that you have so soon forgotten me. All my thoughts 
 of you tell me that you are true, noble, and constant. 
 These are what you ever have been to me. I will be- 
 lieve you such yet. I will forget your seeming coldness,
 
 OR, LIFE B/ THE WAY-SIDE. 211 
 
 and wait until my return to see and talk with you face 
 to face. When I am absent I will think of and love 
 you as I ever have done. The many happy bygones 
 that we have enjoyed together will be ever present to 
 remind me of one whose image is enstamped on my 
 heart of hearts. I have been unhappy, and for the mo 
 ment have distrusted you. But I throw all doubt of 
 your sincejity to the winds. I will have faith in you. 1 
 will love you while life lasts. 
 
 " Good-by, William ! a fond, a loving good-by 
 until my return ! You know .where to write me in 
 Florida. We leave to-morrow evening. Shall I not hear 
 from you before then ? Ever your loving 
 
 " Monday. CORNELIA." 
 
 This, her last letter to Hastings before she left the 
 city, was read by Mrs. Delacy, and the following one 
 substituted in its stead : 
 
 " DEAR MR. HASTINGS : I am surprised that you 
 write me so seldom. I am satisfied that you have 
 ceased to love me. Walter and I leave for the South 
 to-morrow, and I hardly need say that I shall not expect 
 to hear from you again, since you have other and better 
 friends near you. CORNELIA BELMONTE." 
 
 Hastings was astounded when he read this strange 
 letter. It shut the door against his writing her in future. 
 
 " She is jealous," thought he ; " or perhaps she never 
 has loved me." He resolved never to write to her again. 
 ' Mrs. Belmonte looked in vain for an answer to her 
 last letter. The hour came when she must go and 
 with a heavy heart she left the city and all that to her 
 was dear in life. 
 
 Hastings now became so impatient and fretful that
 
 212 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 he refused to have any one come into his room, except 
 the man servant who attended him. Miss Leighton 
 and ah 1 were deprived for weeks of seeing him. He, in 
 his anger, cursed the cause of all his misfortunes. " I 
 was a fool," he would say to himself, " to go with a 
 party that I cared nothing for. Fate overshadows all 
 my actions, and gives me nothing but disappointment 
 and unhappiness. 
 
 Such is man's inconsistency ; in hours of trouble he 
 lays at the door of fate the sins and mistakes which are 
 solely his own.
 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IT was the latter part of autumn. The leaves were 
 turning purple and yellow, and falling from the trees. 
 The farmer was gathering in his corn, and preparing for 
 winter. Orchards were filled with ripe and luscious 
 apples, which hung in clusters from the half-concealed 
 branches, or lay scattered about upon the grass under 
 the trees. In short, it was that most delightful of 
 American seasons, bright, clear, and sunshiny autumn. 
 Little Flora sat on the grass in the garden, arranging 
 some flowers for Aunt Judy. An espalier, on which 
 was trained a beautiful grape-vine filled with bunches 
 of ripe grapes, shaded her from the sun. Her little lap 
 was filled with flowers of various kinds, and, as she 
 worked with them, she talked to herself thus : " Aunt 
 Judy will like this bouquet, I am sure. It is very pretty ! 
 Let me see ; I will place this large one in the middle. 
 There that looks better. Now I will run into her 
 room and give it to her ; but I will step light, for it may 
 be that she is asleep." As she said this, she got up and 
 ran to the house, and walking on tiptoe entered the 
 room where Aunt Judy was lying in bed. 
 
 The old woman was not asleep. She looked pale 
 and emaciated. She had been sick for several weeks, 
 and the physician said she could not get well. Flora 
 
 (213)
 
 214 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 handed her the flowers, which she had brought from the 
 garden, saying : 
 
 " Aunt Judy, I have made you a boquet. Do you 
 think it is pretty ? " 
 
 " Yes, darlint," said the old woman in a feeble voice ; 
 " it is as pretty as you are yourself, sure. Put it into 
 the tumbler ; that 's a swate cratur ! " 
 
 Flora placed the flowers on a stand near the head of 
 her bed, and then asked her if she wanted any thing. 
 
 " I 'm thinking I '11 take a wee bit o' water th' drink, 
 honey." 
 
 Flora immediately went and brought her what she 
 wished. Flora had learned to read ; and, every day 
 while Aunt Judy was sick, she read a chapter from the 
 Bible to her, while she lay in her bed. Moulton was 
 very kind to his old nurse in her illness, and often would 
 sit for hours in her room, watching with her and minis- 
 tering to her wants. One day when he was alone with 
 her, she said: 
 
 " Robin, honey, I must soon leave you. I feel that I 
 cannot live much longer. Aunt Judy has been faithful 
 to you, lad, and has done all she could for you. May 
 the Holy Vargin be praised ! " 
 
 " You will live a long time yet, I hope," said Moulton, 
 soothingly. 
 
 " No, darlint, I must leave you all alone with little 
 Flora. Are you sure, Robin, that it will all be well with 
 the poor child? I never have been quite able to free 
 my conscience for taking her away from her old home. 
 Are you sure that it will all be right and just ? " 
 
 " Yes, Aunty," said he. " I think you were not to blame 
 for taking her away. I will see that she is properly 
 taken care of ; and, when she is a little older, I will take 
 her back to her grandpapa's."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 215 
 
 " May the blessing of the Holy Vargin be with you, 
 Robin, for saying so ! I can now die comfortably." 
 
 She grew more feeble every day, and it was evident 
 to Moulton that she could not live much longer. He 
 and Flora read to her whenever she wished them to do 
 so. She had been a Catholic almost all her life ; and, 
 though she in theory had become a Protestant in her 
 old age, yet she always thought and spoke as a Catholic. 
 Harry Collingwood called almost every day to see how 
 she was, and to talk with Flora. He loved Aunt Judy 
 because Flora loved her, and he had come to be quite a 
 favorite with the old woman. 
 
 The time came at last, when Moulton Void and faith- 
 ful nurse must leave him. She felt that she was about 
 to die, and, calling him to her side, she said : 
 
 " Robin, I feel that I 'm dying. You '11 soon have no 
 Aunt Judy to look after and take care of you. You 
 will be all alone in the wide world, lad, with no one to 
 keep you from harm. I have watched over you long 
 I have done what I could for you, but I must now 
 leave you; stoop down, Robin, till I bless you." He 
 leaned over the bed, and she placed her shrivelled hands 
 on his head, and gave him her parting blessing. 
 
 " Call Flora in now," said she, in a voice scarcely 
 audible. Flora then came into the room, and Aunt 
 Judy motioned her to come near. Flora walked cau- 
 tiously and tremblingly up to the side of the bed, and, 
 leaning over it, took one of Aunt Judy's hands in both 
 of hers. 
 
 " Flora, child, will you forgive Aunt Judy for stealing 
 you away from your pleasant home ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered she, unable to say more. Tears 
 filled her eyes. The whole scene was new and strange 
 to her. She still stood holding Aunt Judy's hand, while
 
 216 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 the tears flowed down her flushed cheeks and fell on the 
 bed. 
 
 " Call Harry," said the old woman in a whisper. 
 
 Harry immediately came to her, and she, placing his 
 hand in Flora's, said : 
 
 " May the Lord love you both, and make you happy 
 the 'gither so long as you live ! " Moulton stood by 
 her side unable to control his feelings ; and Aunt Judy 
 fixing her eyes on him, with an ineffable expression of 
 love and tenderness beaming from her countenance, 
 breathed her last without a struggle. The next day, 
 several of Moulton's neighbors assembled to attend her 
 funeral. As they proceeded with her body to the little 
 village burial-ground a few miles away, Moulton, little 
 Flora, and Harry Collingwood followed the hearse as 
 chief mourners. Moulton mourned the death of his old 
 nurse, because she had always loved him, and had been 
 faithful to him in all the strange vicissitudes of his 
 eventful life. She was the last of his early friends; 
 he was now left with none to care for him, save the 
 little girl whom he had so strangely rescued, as he sup- 
 posed, from danger. Flora was dear to him. He loved 
 her as his redeeming angel. His former life was a 
 blank; his old friends had disappeared; he was a stran- 
 ger in the wide world, haunted continually with tor- 
 turing thoughts and memories of his earlier disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 A few weeks after Aunt Judy's funeral, Moulton was 
 sitting with Mr. Collingwood in the apple-orchard of the 
 latter. The weather was warm and pleasant, and they 
 were seated on the grass .under one of the trees. They 
 had not been there long, when Harry came running up 
 to them with a letter in his hartd for his father. 
 
 Mr. Collingwood broke the seal, and after reading it 
 he said :
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 217 
 
 " This is from my old and valued friend William 
 Hastings, of New York." 
 
 At the mention of Hastings' name, Moulton turned 
 deadly pale. Collingwood noticed the sudden change 
 in his countenance, and said : 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Mowbray ? You 
 look ill." 
 
 "It is only a sudden pain in my side," answered 
 Moulton, as he placed his hand over his heart. " I will 
 soon be better." 
 
 Collingwood immediately after resumed the subject 
 of his friend, and entered into a long and detailed ac 
 count of his first acquaintance with him, and of its re 
 newal at the Lakes of Killarney after years of separa- 
 tion. He spoke of the sudden death of Hastings' young 
 wife and child, and of the mystery that still shrouded 
 their murder. Moulton, in being thus compelled to 
 listen to the recital of 'his own crimes, suffered all the tor- 
 tures of a guilty conscience. He would gladly have been 
 spared the infliction ; but there was no way by which 
 he could avoid it. " My friend," continued Collingwood, 
 " has written to tell me that he thinks of coming here 
 on a visit soon. You will like him very much, Mow- 
 bray. He is just the kind of man that you would enjoy 
 a day's shooting with, or in fact spend the time any way 
 with. I shall be pleased to introduce you to him." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Moulton, " that I shall be deprived 
 the pleasure of his acquaintance. I came here to-day 
 to tell you that I have business that demands my ab- 
 sence'for several weeks, perhaps months." 
 
 " But you can delay leaving until after he comes ? " 
 said Collingwood, inquiringly. 
 
 " No, I am compelled to leave here on Monday next," 
 said Moulton. 
 
 19
 
 218 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " I am heartily sorry that you can't be here. Do you 
 go alone ? " 
 
 " I shall take Flora with me." 
 
 This intelligence troubled Harry. He even asked 
 Moulton to leave her at his father's until his return; 
 but he could not prevail upon him to do so. The mo- 
 ment that Moulton learned that Hastings was an old 
 friend of Collingwood, he thought it unsafe for him 
 to remain longer where he was. He did not wish to 
 see Hastings, nor did he wish to let any one, who had 
 previously been acquainted with him, know where he 
 was. He feared for Flora's sake ; he was greatly alarmed 
 for her safety ; and, without any further thought, he de- 
 cided at once to remove to another part of the country. 
 He therefore began immediately to prepare for leaving. 
 
 Harry Collingwood spent almost all his time with 
 Flora, during the few remaining days of her stay. He 
 thought that she would soon return ; yet it gave him 
 trouble to part with her, even for a few weeks. 
 
 It was Sunday evening. Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, 
 together with Harry, were at Moulton's. A few other 
 of Moulton's neighbors had also dropped in to bid him 
 good-by before he should leave. The moon was shining 
 brightly, and Flora and Harry had gone out on to the 
 piazza. They were seated together ; Harry's arm en- 
 circled Flora's waist, and they were telling each other 
 how much they loved. 
 
 u I will write you a letter every day when I am gone," 
 said Flora. " I cannot write much, but papa will help 
 me." 
 
 Harry was extravagant in his promises of fidelity. 
 " Flora, I will think of you all the time that you are 
 away : I will write to you every day such, long letters ! 
 Mother will tell me how to spell the hard words ; but I
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 219 
 
 can spell most of them myself. I will write you a 
 sheet full every time. I will come here and attend to 
 your flowers, too, while you are gone." 
 
 The hour grew late. Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood had 
 gone, leaving Harry to remain all night. Moulton, 
 when they left, walked out into the garden. He was 
 looking at what he must so soon leave, perhaps for- 
 ever; he was thoughtful and melancholy. For a 
 brief period he had lived comparatively happy ; but now 
 he must go from a place endeared to him by many 
 associations. 
 
 " It is thus," thought he, " that I have been goaded on 
 by fortune, ever since my childhood. All my bright 
 hopes have been cut off, all my life has been filled 
 with diappointment and bitter trials! If it were not 
 for little Flora, I would welcome death as a harbinger 
 of mercy." 
 
 As he thus strolled about in the garden, weighed 
 down with his troubled thoughts, he came near to where 
 Flora and Harry were sitting. He walked cautiously 
 up to where he could see them, as they sat in each oth- 
 er's embrace. Curiosity tempted him to listen to what 
 they were saying. Harry had brought a locket with 
 him containing his likeness, which he had intended to 
 give Flora at parting with her ; but he could not wait 
 until morning ; it burned in his" pocket, he could keep 
 it no longer. 
 
 " Here, Flora," said he, " I have brought you my like- 
 ness. ,. Will you wear it for my sake always ? " 
 
 As he said this, he took from his pocket a beautifully 
 enamelled gold locket, and placed it around Flora's 
 neck. Moulton saw and heard all that was taking 
 place between the little lovers. Flora held the locket in 
 her' hand for some time, without saying a word, and
 
 220 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 then, looking into his face with her large blue eyes, she 
 said : 
 
 " Yes, Harry, I will always wear it; and when I am a 
 great way off I will look at it; and think of you. It is 
 so pretty ! I will love it very much ! " Harry pressed 
 her to him and kissed her for the first time in his life. 
 His heart overflowed with warm, pure love. She was 
 the brightest little angel that he had ever seen, or ever 
 expected to see. They talked long and lovingly to- 
 gether of all their feelings, plans, and hopes. Moulton 
 listened to them, and thought of the time when he last 
 sat with his beloved Ida under the grape-vine bower in 
 her southern home. He thought of their pledges of 
 lasting love, and he remembered how bitterly all his 
 hopes had been blasted. " How little," said he to him- 
 self, " do you know what disappointments await you. 
 You do not dream, dear Flora, that you are leaving here 
 for ever." He regretted to take her away from a place 
 where she had been so happy; and more than all, he dis- 
 liked separating her from Harry, whom he knew she 
 loved with all the innocence of childhood. He took 
 pleasure in their attachment; but fate, he thought, had 
 decreed that they must part. He listened long to their 
 conversation. In them he was living over again the 
 only happy period of his life. The next morning Harry 
 and Flora walked for a long time on the piazza, and 
 talked over again their many plans. At length Moulton 
 came to them and said : 
 
 " Now, Flora, you must bid Harry good-by." She 
 took Harry's hand, and turned her eyes, filled with tears, 
 into his manly face. Tears also came into Harry's 
 eyes, and he pressed her gently to him, and fondly kiss- 
 ing her, said : 
 
 "Flora, I will never forget you. I hope you will 
 soon come back."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 221 
 
 She turned away, and cried as if her heart would 
 break. It was a moment of sorrow, of bitter, heart- 
 felt sorrow for them both. Moulton bid Harry good- 
 by, and then with Flora entered the stage-coach that 
 awaited them, and set out on his journey. 
 
 Several weeks had passed since they left, but Harry 
 Collingwood had not received a single letter from Flora. 
 He wondered why she had not written him. Every 
 day he went to the post-office and inquired for a letter, 
 and, when the postmaster would tell him that there was 
 none for him, he would get him to look again ; but no 
 letter for Master Harry could be found. He was begin- 
 ning to think that he would not hear from her until she 
 and Moulton should return. He continued to go early 
 to the post-office every day, however, always getting 
 there at least an hour before the mail came in. The 
 time had passed when they were to have been back ; but 
 they came not, neither did any word come to tell anx- 
 ious Harry when to expect them. He went to the 
 kitchen one day to get comfort and consolation from 
 Aunt Rose. 
 
 " Aunt Rose," said Harry, " do letters ever go the 
 wrong way in the post-office ? " 
 
 " Dat 'pends," said Rose, with a very wise look, 
 " berry much on succumstances. For, de ye se, Massa 
 Harry, if de letters goes de wrong way, why den dey 
 don't go de right way, you know." 
 
 "But, Rose, do people ever take letters out of the 
 post-om(ft that don't belong to them ? " 
 
 " Dat am anudder question all togedder. I 'specs 
 dey does sometimes." 
 
 " Do you think any one would take a letter of mine 
 out?" 
 
 " Dah you got me, Massa Harry ; whedder folkses 
 19*
 
 222 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 would take Massa Harry's letters is more nor I 
 knows." 
 
 " Do you think they would, Rose ? can't you tell me 
 what you think ? " 
 
 " It would be mighty hard work, Massa Harry, for 
 any one to take your letters; for you is allers at de 
 pose-office de berry fuss one." Harry thought this a 
 very sage remark, and for once he felt that Aunt Rose 
 was wiser than himself. 
 
 " Rose, do you think Mr. Mowbray will come back 
 this week ? " 
 
 " I can't jis say, Massa Harry." 
 
 What do you think ? " 
 
 " I spose he may, but I can't 'zactly say. I's warrant 
 he'll come back agin when he's done been gone long 
 'nough to 'complish his business." 
 
 " Don't you wish he would come back ? I like Mr. 
 Mowbray very much." Rose was strongly tempted to 
 amuse herself at Harry's expense again, but her love for 
 him led her to answer : 
 
 " Yes, Massa Harry, I wishes dey would come back ; 
 I lubs 'em berry much." 
 
 " I don't like any of the folks around here, as well as 
 I like Mr. Mowbray. Do you, Rose ? " 
 
 " I likes eberybody, case it 's right." 
 
 " But, don't you like Mr. Mowbray best ? " 
 
 " I don't know but I does, jis a mite de bes. I likes 
 little Flora too, an I 's a gwine to bake a cake for her, 
 when she 's done ben come back agin." 
 
 " Are you ? " asked Harry, eagerly. " That is very 
 good of you, Rose." 
 
 She had now struck a vein that interested him, and 
 she carefully pursued it 
 
 "I's been thinkin', dat when she comes back agin
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 22o 
 
 I '11 'wite her up here, an we '11 eat de cake 'mong one 
 anudder." 
 
 " So we will," said Harry. " That 's just like you, 
 Rose, you are always good." 
 
 " I 'U put all de sweet things in it, an I '11 make it fus 
 trate." Harry drew a little closer to her, and said : 
 
 " May be they will come home to-night ; who knows ? 
 They may be home now ; perhaps they are ; do you 
 think they are ? Let us go and see, Rose." 
 
 He was impatient to have them return. The picture 
 which Aunt Rose had drawn of Flora there with them 
 eating the nice cake was so much in accordance with 
 Harry's feelings, that he more than ever longed for her 
 to return. Aunt Rose answered his last question with 
 the wise look which she still assumed. " Massa Harry, 
 if we go, an den dey am not dah, why, do ye see, we '11 
 feel mighty disappinted. So I 's jis bin thinkin' dat 
 we 'd better not go. I would n't like to be disappinted, 
 it hurts one's feelin's so. I nebber in my life lub'd a 
 little gal so much as I lubs dat ar Flora. Do you know, 
 Massa Harry, what I 's been thinkin' ? " 
 
 No ; what is it ? " 
 
 " I 's been thinkin', Massa Harry, how I 'd like to lib 
 wid you and Flora when you grows to be big, and nuss 
 all your little babies." Harry looked at the old negress, 
 but she was as serious and sedate as the table beside 
 her. "I's gittin' old, Massa Harry, and I allers hab 
 lub'd you, and I neber will lib so comfortable like 
 with anybody as I 'd lib with you and Flora. Will you 
 take Aunt Rose, Massa Harry ? " 
 
 " Yes, Rose, we both like you. You shall always 
 live with us." 
 
 " Dat am jis like you. I knows you will. I '11 nuss 
 all de babies, an bake de cakes, an I '11 lub you bofe 
 'zactly like."
 
 224 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 Harry's heart warmed towards his old nurse, and 
 when he got up to leave he walked up to her, and put- 
 ting his arm round her neck, said : " You are always 
 good ; I love you very much Flora and I will take 
 you with us ; we '11 have a better kitchen than this one 
 for you, and you may bake as many nice cakes for us 
 as you like. I won't let any one disturb you. Flora 
 and I will come into the kitchen sometimes, and help 
 you to eat the nice things which you wih 1 have laid 
 away in the cupboard. Won't we be happy when we 
 get into our new house, Rose ? " As Harry said this, 
 his love for her was such that he could have kissed her ; 
 but he only hugged her woolly head up to him, in token 
 of his kind feelings. 
 
 After this conversation, he frequently sought the 
 kitchen for solace and comfort. Rose became his con- 
 fidante. He told her all his thoughts, and she, from real 
 love of the boy, entered into all his troubles, and sym- 
 pathized with him in all his thoughts. They would 
 often sit together in the kitchen until a late hour at 
 night, and speculate as to where Flora was, and when 
 she would return. But Flora came not, neither did she 
 write. Moulton had forbidden her writing; he feared 
 that it would lead to his detection. Thus was all com- 
 munication cut off between them. Harry had written 
 numerous letters to Flora, but he knew not where to 
 send them. His father knew his anxiety to have Flora 
 return, and he resolved to send him away to school ; 
 thinking that he would there soon forget his childish 
 attachment. He wondered why Moulton did not return, 
 and still more why he had not written. 
 
 An agent came in the winter and sold Moulton's 
 farm, together with all his slaves and other property. He 
 could give no information, however, of Moulton. He 
 said he had been employed to transact the business by a
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 225 
 
 lawyer in Cincinnati. Mr. Collingwood began to think 
 that Moulton was an impostor; but Harry continued to 
 remember him and Flora as he had always known them. 
 Aunt Rose was not able to answer the thousand ques- 
 tions that the impatient boy now put to her; but she was 
 sure of one thing, she said, and that was, that all would 
 come right some time.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHEN Moulton left his home in Virginia, he proceeded 
 to Cincinnati, where he employed a lawyer to sell his farm, 
 and settle his business generally. He then continued on 
 to Nashville, Tennessee. Little Flora felt lonely and 
 unhappy. The thought that she could not write to or 
 hear from Harry, saddened her tender heart. 
 
 " Papa," said she one day, soon after they had arrived 
 in Nashville, " why won't you let me write to Harry ? " 
 
 " Because, Flora," said Moulton, " it would be dan- 
 gerous for you to do so. I will tell you some time why. 
 It is for your good that I do not wish you to write to 
 him." 
 
 " But, papa, won't you write and tell them where we 
 are ? Harry will wonder why I don't send him a letter. 
 I told him I would." 
 
 " I do not wish them to know where we are. Your life 
 is in danger, perhaps mine also ; and it was for this that I 
 left a place where we were both so happy." She could 
 not understand how her life was endangered ; and the 
 thought that she had left, perhaps for ever, the generous 
 and noble Harry, made her young heart sorrowful. 
 Often would she, when alone, take the locket which he 
 had given her from her bosom, "and look at his likeness. 
 She would kiss it, weep over it, and say to herself: 
 " Dear Harry, I will always wear this for thy sake." 
 
 (226)
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 227 
 
 Moulton took a beautiful little house in the city, and 
 in every way possible tried to make Flora happy and 
 content. When the weather was warm he drove out with 
 her, and amused and entertained her by pointing out dif- 
 ferent places of interest. They frequently drove as far 
 as the Hermitage, and he took pleasure in telling her all 
 about the hero of the battle of New Orleans. One day, 
 about the middle of winter, they had walked out to the 
 State Prison, and were passing through it with a conduc- 
 tor, when the latter said, pointing to one of the pris- 
 oners : 
 
 " There is a man whose time expires next week ; he 
 has been here two years." 
 
 " What was his offence ? " inquired Moulton. 
 
 " Passing counterfeit money," replied the conductor. 
 
 "On what bank?" 
 
 The bank of ." 
 
 At this answer Moulton turned suddenly pale, and 
 looked attentively at the prisoner for some minutes. He 
 saw his pale face, his shaved head, all that could degrade 
 him as a man. 
 
 " Has he a family ? " asked Moulton. 
 
 " Yes, a wife and three children. They have visited 
 him every week for the last six months." 
 
 "Do they live in this city ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have excited in me an interest for them ; will 
 you please tell me where I can find them ? " 
 
 The conductor told him where they lived, and he and 
 Flora then left. Moulton had reason to believe that the 
 prisoner was his unknown accomplice. He returned to 
 his home that day, full of melancholy thought. " Go 
 where I will," said he to himself, " my crimes stare me 
 in the face I am hunted up and down in the world 
 like a wild beast, Truly the way of the transgressor is
 
 228 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 hard. I will seek out this unhappy man's family and 
 give them relief in their present hour of trouble." He 
 had learned of the conductor that the prisoner was once 
 a respectable man, and of a good family ; also that his 
 wife and children were almost in a destitute condition. 
 That night he inclosed several hundred dollars in a 
 package, and in the morning early he sought out the pris- 
 oner's family. He came to the house where they lived, 
 and, on inquiring for Mrs. T , a woman, pale, ema- 
 ciated, and with a countenance full of sorrow, rose from 
 her seat in the corner, and stepped towards him. He 
 glanced hastily around the room, and saw how destitute 
 it was of every thing necessary for their comfort. The 
 children, shivering and half naked, were hovering around 
 a few coals of fire. He looked at the mother a moment, 
 who stood in her rags gazing at him. " This," thought 
 he, " is the home which I have helped to make for you 
 and your children." Is this the wife of Mr. T.," asked 
 he, " who is now in prison ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied she, as the blush of shame rose to her 
 cheek, " I am his wife." 
 
 " I have brought you a package from a friend you 
 will be kind enough to accept it, and believe that what 
 it contains is rightly your own." As he said this, he 
 handed it to her, and, without stopping to hear her 
 thanks, turned and walked away. 
 
 He continued to live at Nashville until the next June. 
 Flora had become more reconciled to her separation 
 from Harry, although she still remembered him with all 
 the love that she had ever felt; but, like all other chil- 
 dren, she soon adapted herself to her situation, and was 
 comparatively happy and contented. 
 
 In the early part of June, she and Moulton left Ten- 
 nessee. They went on board a little steamer, running 
 from Nashville to the mouth of the Cumberland River.
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 229 
 
 Every thing was new to Flora. Her young mind drank 
 in all the beauties of the scenery. The lofty mountains 
 a little below Nashville charmed and delighted her. 
 She never had seen any thing so wildly picturesque 
 and beautiful. The tall trees standing high above her 
 head the dark mouths of caves the high and pro- 
 jecting rocks, all lent a bewitching charm to her grati- 
 fied vision. For hours would she sit on deck beside 
 Moulton, looking out on the ever new and ever chang- 
 ing prospects. The boat at length stopped at one of 
 the numerous iron founderies on this river, and began to 
 take in pig iron. Flora sat looking at the negroes, as 
 they carried the iron from the foundery and threw it over 
 the bank, and was much amused at the manner in 
 which they performed their labor. A dozen or more 
 would march in single file to the large pile of iron, and, 
 each shouldering a pig, would then march in the same 
 manner to the bank and throw it down to the hands 
 who were loading it into the steamer. What amused 
 her most was the singing which they kept up while 
 they were at work. One of the company, a kind of im- 
 provvisatore, would sing one line of a rhyme by himself, 
 and then the others would join in a chorus. Thus as 
 they marched, each with a pig of iron on his shoulder, 
 he would sing out at the top of his voice : 
 
 " I is a mighty stout man ; " 
 
 and then the others would join in the chorus 
 He ho, he ho, he ho! 
 
 And can carry as much as any nigger can ; 
 
 , He ho, he ho, he ho ! 
 
 De iron am hebby, but I is hebbier, 
 He ho, he ho, he ho ! 
 
 Sally am lubly, but Dinah am lublier, 
 He ho, he ho, he ho ! 
 
 20
 
 230 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Thus would they sing for hours, much to the amuse- 
 ment of Flora, who never had seen any thing of the 
 kind before. 
 
 Moulton returned to Cincinnati, settled his business 
 with his lawyer, and then proceeded on north. He had 
 resolved to settle in Canada. He went first to Niagara 
 Falls, and showed Flora ah 1 its wonders and attractions. 
 They went under the great sheet of water on the 
 Canada side rode on the " Maid of the Mist," 
 crossed the river in the little skiff below the boiling and 
 foaming flood, and visited Goat Island. Moulton was 
 careful to relate all the accidents and incidents that he 
 remembered to have taken place there. He told her of 
 young Addison, the son of the owner of the little steamer 
 on which they had rode close up under the FaUs. 
 
 " Young Addison," said Moulton, " was an only son. 
 He was a generous and high-minded youth. He, in 
 company with some young ladies from Buffalo, had 
 come here to spend the day pleasantly. Among the 
 party was a little girl about your age. They were on 
 Goat Island, not far from where we are now standing. 
 They stood on the bank of that little stream of water, 
 which you see is cut off from the main current by that 
 small island. Addison was standing behind the little 
 girl, and thinking to startle, he seized hold of her, when 
 she sprang, frightened, into the water. He sprang after, 
 and caught hold of her ; but the water was so swift that 
 both were carried over the Falls." 
 
 Flora listened to the story with breathless interest 
 until he had finished, when she asked : 
 
 " Did they love each other, papa ? " 
 
 I don't know. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, if they loved each other, may be they died happy." 
 She thought of Harry when she heard the sfbry, and
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 231 
 
 felt that had they only loved as she and Harry loved, 
 that they could even go happily together over the Falls. 
 Moulton left, after spending a few days there, and pro- 
 ceeded on to Quebec, where he rented a house, and em- 
 ployed a governess for little Flora. 
 
 I will leave them now in a pleasant part of this 
 walled-in city, Moulton to look after and take care of 
 his adopted child, and Flora to commence learning 
 those things which_were requisite and necessary for her 
 to know, while I return again to Harry, the disconso- 
 late. 
 
 Winter, long and frosty winter, had passed. Spring 
 had come and gone ; but Harry Collingwood had not 
 heard a syllable of little Flora. He was sitting in the 
 kitchen one night, in the early part of June, with Aunt 
 Rose. Ever since Flora had gone, he had found great 
 comfort in talking to Aunt Rose, and in consequence 
 she seldom spent an evening alone. Harry was sitting 
 thoughtfully on an old chair near where Rose was at 
 work. 
 
 " Aunt Rose," said he, at last, father says I must go 
 to school. He and mother are going with me next 
 week. I know I shall hate school, don't you ? " 
 
 " Massa Harry, larnin' is a mighty good thing, is 
 larnin'." 
 
 " But I don't want to go, I don't wish to leave you, 
 Rose." 
 
 " I knows it 's mighty tryin' to your feelin's, Massa 
 Harry, but Massa knows what 's de bes' for you." 
 
 " But, Rose, may be Flora will come back, or write to 
 me while I am away." 
 
 " Spose she do write, I 's sure to send you her let- 
 ters." 
 
 " But you can't write, Rose ; how will you send her 
 letters ? "
 
 232 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " You see, Massa Harry, de writin' will be on de let- 
 ter when I gits it, or how could it come to you ? Well, 
 I '11 jis put it in de office agin wid your name on it, jis 
 as little Flora writed it herself." 
 
 " But it won't come to me, if you do put it in the 
 office." 
 
 " What 's dat you say, Massa Harry ? Not come to 
 you?" 
 
 " No, Rose ; my post-office address would have to be 
 written on it." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! 1 sees ; de 'dress would hab to be put on, 
 pose-office 'dress. Yes, I sees now ; de 'dress. How 
 do dey put on de 'dress, Massa Harry ? may be I could 
 pat on de 'dress." 
 
 " I mean that the name of the post-office where I am 
 going would have to be written on the back of the 
 letter." 
 
 " Oh, dat am what you means." 
 
 " How could you send it, Rose ? " 
 
 Could n't I get Missis to 'dress it ? " 
 
 " Oh, mother would n't send it ; she don't care any 
 thing about Flora." 
 
 " De more am de pity de little angel ! " 
 
 " If she sends me a letter, I '11 never get it, I know," 
 said Harry, despondingly. 
 
 " If de letter comes, I'll get Missis to 'dress it. I'll 
 talk to Missis about Massa Harry, 'till she gets to 
 feelin' soft like, and den I'll jis speak 'bout de 'dressip' 
 ob de letter." 
 
 " Will you, Rose ? Don't let her put you off by say- 
 ing pshaw ! and fudge ! and the like of that. Stick to 
 her until she consents." 
 
 " Oh, I 's get her to 'sent ; nebber fear Aunt Rose." 
 
 The time soon came, when he must leave home. The 
 night before going, he talked long and lovingly to old
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 233 
 
 Rose. She had baked for him a great many cakes, and 
 had prepared a variety of things for him when he 
 should leave. 
 
 " Rose," said he, " I hate school, I know I sha'n't 
 learn any thing. I wish father would let me stay at 
 home." 
 
 " But, Massa Harry, you 's a growin' up ; one of dese 
 days you '11 be a big man, and you 's a gwine to marry 
 little Flora. Den you '11 want to hab larnin'." 
 
 " But why can't I learn at home ? " 
 
 " May be, Massa Harry," said Rose, with a very wise 
 look, " you '11 fine Flora where you 's a gwine." 
 
 " I wonder if I won't ! " said Harry, eagerly. " Per- 
 haps I may see her somewhere ! Who knows ? Father 
 says it is several hundred miles away ; I think it more 
 than likely I will meet her ; I wonder I never thought 
 of that before!" 
 
 Rose had ingeniously turned the whole tenor of his 
 thoughts. He even longed for the morning to come, 
 that he might begin his journey. 
 
 Rose was up the next morning long before the sun, 
 fixing and arranging every thing for her dear Massa 
 Harry. She packed away more good things than' he 
 could ever eat. Nothing that she could do to add to 
 his comfort did she leave undone. She moved about 
 with a serious and sorrowful face, and occasionally she 
 wiped away the falling tears with her rough hand. 
 Harry, too, was up early, and he spent ah 1 the time he 
 could with Rose. 
 
 " When I am gone," said he, " I will write to you in 
 mother's letters, and I think she will read them to you." 
 
 " Do, Massa Harry ; Missis will read de letters. I 
 will get Missis to write a letter for me, and 'dress it to 
 
 you." 
 
 20
 
 234 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " But you cannot tell her all that you will wish to say." 
 
 " Well, I '11 jis tell her all dat I can, an' you know you 
 can guess de res'." 
 
 The carriage at length drove up to the door, and 
 Harry was told to get ready to leave. Before he left 
 the kitchen, Aunt Rose put her arms round him and 
 hugged him up to her, saying, as she did so : 
 
 " Oh, Massa Harry, Aunt Rose will be berry lone- 
 some when you is gone." 
 
 Harry put his arms round the neck of his good and 
 kind-hearted old nurse, and promised always to take 
 care of her when he grew to be a man. He left the 
 kitchen in tears. The trunks were all on. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Collingwood had seated themselves in the carriage. 
 Harry lingered a little, Rose was by his side, and before 
 he got in, she gave him another loving embrace, and 
 slipped into his pocket a purse of money. Harry did 
 not see her do this, but Mr. Collingwood did, and re- 
 solved that Rose's purse should soon be replenished. 
 The carriage at last drove away, and Rose returned to 
 the kitchen with the big tears coursing down her ebony 
 face. 
 
 Mr. Collingwood first went to New York, where he 
 met his old friend Hastings. He stopped a week or two 
 in the city, visiting various places of note. Hastings 
 was glad to see them, and took great pains to make 
 their stay pleasant. Harry was delighted with much 
 that he saw. Often would he look at the little girls as 
 he passed through the more crowded streets, hoping to 
 see Flora, but he was always doomed to disappoint- 
 ment. He never before had dreamed that a city could 
 be so large. He wondered how so many people could 
 live in so small a compass. 
 
 They at length left the city with all its noise, and
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 235 
 
 dust, and confusion, and went to a beautiful little vil- 
 lage in the State of New York, where Harry was left in 
 a school where they prepared boys for college. It was 
 about two hundred miles from the city, and in one of 
 the loveliest spots in the whole Empire State. It was 
 hard for Harry to part with his father and mother, but 
 he had made up his mind to do it. He remembered 
 the sage remark of Aunt Rose respecting his growing 
 up to be big, and of his intention to marry Flora ; and 
 he thought, with her, that then he should need an edu- 
 cation. This thought made him courageous, and he 
 even tried to avoid shedding a tear at parting ; but when 
 his mother embraced and kissed him, and told him to 
 be a good boy, and study to be a great man, the tears 
 came into his eyes, in spite of all his efforts to keep 
 them back. His father kissed him, and bade him a fond 
 good-by. They separated and Harry Collingwood 
 had entered upon a new life he had stepped over the 
 threshold which admits man to all his greatness and to 
 all his troubles. 
 
 Thus did the two young lovers, in the spring-time of 
 life, begin to fit themselves for the great drama, whose 
 theatre is the world. So do we ah 1 enter upon the stage 
 of life, little knowing the parts we ourselves are to play. 
 As we leave, others take our places to reenact with 
 slight variations the same parts we have personated, and 
 with only a shade of difference in the shifting of the 
 scenes. Time and the world move on, however, leav- 
 ing ns to gape and wonder at the parts we are respec- 
 tively playing, and giving us scarcely an opportunity to 
 bow a respectful entrance and exit, before the final 
 drop-scene falls, and Charon significantly whispers in 
 our ears that the play is ended, and that his boat is 
 ready to convey us over the mystic wave.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 IT was a stinging, biting, frosty morning. The air, 
 filled with drifting snow, whistled and howled around 
 the corners and roofs of houses. The milkman, as he 
 stood in his cart waiting for Bridget to show herself 
 from the basement, beat his sides with his mittened 
 hands. Omnibus drivers, as they whirled along over 
 the creaking snow and ice, were trying to hide their ears 
 and faces beneath their overcoat collars. Teeth chat- 
 tered, and blue noses predominated. All out of doors 
 was crisped, pinched, and shivering. It was a morning 
 to make poverty and the Five Points moan. William 
 Hastings sat by his cheerful fire well wrapped up in his 
 dressing-gown. Five weeks had passed since the event- 
 ful sleigh-ride, and he had not yet been out of the house. 
 To him they were long weeks, filled with troubled and 
 torturing thoughts. He was looking pale and melan- 
 choly. He had heard nothing from Mrs. Belmonte 
 since she had left the city. Nothing would have afforded 
 him greater pleasure than a letter from her. He could 
 not understand her seeming coldness and indifference. 
 
 " Her letters were so unlike herself," he would some- 
 times say, " that there must be something at the bottom 
 of them that I am unable to see I have offended her 
 in some way without knowing it. I would gladly 
 write her, but I will not compromise my self-pride by 
 
 (236)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM; 237 
 
 doing so. She has told me that she would not expect 
 to hear from me. I will never write her again, although 
 it is impossible to cease loving her. As Hastings, on 
 the morning that I have mentioned, sat thinking of 
 Mrs. Belmonte and the letters which she had written 
 him, a letter was handed in to him, post-marked Florida. 
 He opened it hastily, and read : 
 
 " FLORIDA, March , 18 . 
 
 " DEAR HASTINGS, We have concluded to remain 
 here a few months. When you are able, I wish you 
 would look a little after my business. There are several 
 notes of mine which must be met soon. I will forward 
 you drafts to take them up. I hope you have entirely 
 recovered from your injuries. Mrs. Belmonte is not 
 very well, and I have thought that this climate might 
 be better for her than that of New York. This explains 
 our remaining longer here than we had at first intended. 
 I will write you again soon. Why have we not heard 
 from you ? In great haste, I am, etc., 
 
 " Yours sincerely, BELMONTE." 
 
 There was nothing in this letter to comfort Hastings. 
 No news of Mrs. Belmonte, save that she was not well, 
 and that she intended to remain where she was a few 
 months longer. " Why could she not send me a word 
 of explanation ? " muttered he. " I have been deceived. 
 I have believed her perfect, and yet, without the shadow 
 of a reason, she tells me that she will not expect me to 
 write her again. I will never trust one of her sex 
 again." As he said this, he threw the letter which he 
 had been reading on to the table, and walked into the 
 drawing-room. "I believe," continued he, "that all 
 women are deceitful, hypocritical, and unworthy of con- 
 fidence. Mrs. Belmonte, I will obey your request. You
 
 238 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 will never have occasion to tell me a second time, that 
 you will not expect to hear from me. No ! I shall now 
 live for myself, regardless of consequences, and careless 
 of the feelings of others. . Fate, you have long opposed 
 me ; I now bid you defiance ! " 
 
 Soon after Hastings had left his room, Mrs. Delacy 
 entered it, and seeing the open letter on his table, she 
 did not hesitate to pick it up and read it. A satisfied 
 smile rested on her countenance when she finished it. 
 Ah ! " said she, that letter operated capitally ! Mrs. 
 Belmonte, you must not presume to come between me 
 and my plans!" Two weeks after Mrs. Belmonte had 
 left the city, Mrs. Delacy, wishing to keep her away as 
 long as possible, wrote her the following forged let- 
 ter: 
 
 "DEAR MRS. BELMONTE, Two weeks have passed 
 since you left. I am getting along swimmingly! I 
 never can sufficiently repay Miss Leighton and Mrs. 
 Delacy for their unremitting attentions to me during 
 my present illness. Miss Leighton is here almost con- 
 stantly. I had once thought her not possessed of those 
 traits of character which make home pleasant I have 
 changed my mind ; she is an angel in disguise. I write 
 you this letter to tell you that I think it injudicious and 
 dangerous for us to correspond with each other in 
 future. I fear, from some things which I have heard, 
 that reports will get into circulation which must of 
 necessity injure seriously your good name. There is 
 but one way by which such a calamity can be avoided. 
 If you remain whjsre you are a few months, it is possi- 
 ble that the apprehended danger may be averted. It is 
 not necessary for me to enter into the details of what is 
 here hinted at, for you will readily understand to what 
 I allude. I cannot write you again consideration for
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 239 
 
 you forbids it ; neither can I ever visit you, for the same 
 reason. I shall not expect a letter from you in future. 
 With feelings of the sincerest regard, 
 
 I remain your friend, 
 
 WILLIAM HASTINGS." 
 
 "New York, February , 18 ." 
 
 When Mrs. Belmonte read this letter, she suffered all 
 the torture of the rack. She was naturally sensitive 
 respecting every thing touching her reputation. She 
 knew too well that she had given cause for suspicion, 
 and that if her indiscretion were known, it would be 
 construed into guilt and unworthiness. But, more than 
 all else, the cold, icy letter of Hastings chilled her souL 
 That he whom she had so long loved, so idolized, and 
 for whom she was now perhaps about to suffer dis- 
 grace, that he should write her such a letter, sickened 
 her heart, and made her feel that life was no longer 
 desirable. She besought Belmonte to let her remain in 
 Florida a few months longer, giving as a reason her 
 delicate state of health. He complied with her wishes ; 
 and thus she was, without dreaming it, assisting Mrs. 
 Delacy in her infamous plots. 
 
 Mrs. Delacy, when she read Belmonte's letter, exulted 
 over the success of her plans. " Every thing," thought 
 she, " is moving as smoothly as I could wish. I am 
 playing a dangerous game, but I have nerve enough to 
 carry it through. I will go on." 
 
 That morning Miss Leighton and Kate Coleman 
 called in their carriage to visit Mrs. Delacy. When 
 they walked into the drawing-room^ muffled in furs, and 
 with cheeks red and rosy from the cold without, they 
 met Hastings. They had not seen him before for 
 several weeks. In his impatience he had refused to see 
 all visitors, alleging as a reason, that his physician had
 
 240 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 forbidden him to see any one. His physician had given 
 such instructions ; but not until requested to do so by 
 himself. When they entered the room where he was 
 sitting, therefore, they both exclaimed, delightedly: 
 " Why, Mr. Hastings, how do you do ? I am so glad 
 to see you out again." They shook his hand heartily, 
 and were really rejoiced to see him. 
 
 " I am sorry, ladies," said Hastings, blandly, " that I 
 have been compelled to forego the pleasure of seeing 
 you, when you have so kindly called to inquire after 
 me ; but that blockhead physician of mine would have 
 his own way." 
 
 " Well," said Miss Leighton, " since he has got you 
 nearly well again, we will forgive him for past griev- 
 ances." 
 
 Hastings, in his despair, entered heartily into conver- 
 sation with them, and made himself so agreeable that 
 they never for a moment suspected the real cause of 
 their being so long deprived of his, to them, pleasant 
 society. Miss Delacy soon came into the room where 
 they were, and a cheerful, lively, and general conversa- 
 tion ensued. 
 
 " I think," said Kate Coleman, " that we ought to 
 have a small Fourth of July to celebrate Mr. Hastings' 
 convalescence." 
 
 " I think," said Miss Delacy, " that we ought rather 
 to scold him for not showing himself to his friends 
 sooner. If he looked a little less pale, I would be half 
 inclined to relieve my mind at once. I will pay him off, 
 though, depend upon it," 
 
 " We will pardon him now," joined in Miss Leighton, 
 " provided he promises better things in future ! " 
 
 " I am in the hands of my friends," replied Hastings, 
 laughing, " and, like a politician before election day, I 
 eave them to dispose of me as suits themselves. I am
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 241 
 
 half inclined, however, to the opinion of Miss Coleman. 
 A few lire-crackers would n't be amiss just now." As 
 he said this, he wrapped himself a little closer in his 
 dressing-gown ; and Miss Delacy, readily interpreting 
 him, rung the bell, and ordered some more coal to be 
 brought. Miss Leighton and Miss Coleman were easily 
 persuaded to dismiss their carriage, and spend the day 
 there. 
 
 Kate Coleman was about eighteen years old, spright- 
 ly, gay, and yet withal a little timid and diffident. She 
 was full of life and animal spirits, liked genuine fun, but, 
 unless with those with whom she was well acquainted, 
 was reserved and retiring. Her figure was beautiful, her 
 features were good, and would be by some thought hand- 
 some. Her hair was rather light, perhaps, but it shaded a 
 face so clear and white, that it did not look unbecoming. 
 Her eyes were large, full, and of a dark blue ; and were 
 so soft and mellow in their expression, that the twinkle 
 of mirthfulness which occasionally gleamed from them 
 was scarcely perceptible. She was both gay and diffi- 
 dent sprightly, and yet sedate. She was one to melt 
 the heart into tenderness with a look, a sigh, or a sooth- 
 ing word. She was artless and innocent ; and never, in 
 her li veliest moods of mirth and humor, would she in- 
 jure the feelings of friend or foe. When with Mr. Hast- 
 ings, Miss Leighton, and Miss Delacy, she was as lively 
 and talkative as either of them ; but had she been in 
 the room alone with him she would have been too re- 
 sen' ed,, perhaps. She was one to make a confidante of 
 one to love. She never had looked better in her life 
 than on the morning that I have mentioned ; at least, 
 Hastings thought so. He was almost charmed with her, 
 as she joined in the merriments of the occasion. 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Hastings," said she, " that we 
 21
 
 242 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 are going to take you out sleigh-riding again, to get 
 the fresh air? It is surprising how it improves one's 
 health ! " 
 
 " It effected a very decided change in mine!" said he. 
 
 " Kate," said Miss Leighton, reprovingly, " how heart 
 less you are to speak so lightly of the unfortunate 
 ride ! " 
 
 " 1 am taking satisfaction now, for the way in which 
 he has treated us for the past few weeks. It is the only 
 way one can get redress for one's grievances." 
 
 " I am of your opinion, Kate," said Miss Delacy, " but 
 we are three to one ; besides, he don't look more than 
 half himself ; so, for the present, we will let him off more 
 lightly than he deserves." 
 
 " If I were condemned to be punished," said Hasiv 
 ings, " I don't know who I should choose in preference 
 to you, Miss Coleman, to inflict it." 
 
 At this sally, Kate blushed to the eyes, and replied : 
 
 " I think you would have cause to rue your choice ; 
 for I am sure I should be severe with one so guilty as 
 you." 
 
 Kate Coleman, as she was always called by her 
 friends, was not indifferent to Hastings. She had 
 liked him from the time she first knew him, and 
 whenever he had been very civil to her she had felt 
 gratified and flattered. Mrs. Coleman liked him, and 
 frequently had shown him marked politeness. Kate 
 had been with Miss Leighton a great deal, and, in con- 
 sequence, had been thrown frequently into Hastings' 
 company ; but he, blind to the charms of every one ex- 
 cept Mrs. Belmonte, had never appreciated Kate's many 
 excellent traits of character. He saw her now, blushing 
 in her beauty, and thought her lovely and fascinating ; 
 and in his despair and recklessness of feeling, produced
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 243 
 
 by what he thought inconstancy in one whom he had 
 long loved, he made her happy, by being particularly 
 polite and civil to her. 
 
 Miss Leighton and she remained at Mrs. Delacy's 
 until after tea. In the afternoon, as they were all sitting 
 in the drawing-room, Hastings went to his own room 
 and brought from it two large and elegantly bound 
 books, containing steel engravings and sketches of 
 scenery on the Rhine, in Italy, and on the Mediter- 
 raneari. As he returned with them he said : 
 
 " Miss Coleman, I never have had the pleasure of 
 showing you these volumes of scenery in Europe. The 
 others have seen them, I believe, and I trust they will 
 excuse us a few minutes while we look over them." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy was in the drawing-room with them, and 
 she felt a little jealous of Kate, at being shown such 
 particular attention by Hastings. Perhaps Miss Leigh- 
 ton and Miss Delacy felt a little in the same way, when 
 they saw him seat himself on the same sofa with Kate, 
 and commence showing her the engravings, and explain- 
 ing such of them as he had seen in his travels. Kate 
 never before had spent an hour so pleasantly with him. 
 She wished, when the two volumes were finished, that 
 there were two more, even larger ones, to go through 
 with. 
 
 " I am glad," said Miss Leighton, when the books 
 were closed, " that your travels in Europe are over. We 
 may now expect some of your society." 
 
 " I suppose," joined in Mrs. Delacy, "that Mr. Hast- 
 ings enjoys the Rhine and sunny Italy more than he 
 does the scenery of his own plain home." 
 
 " To tell the truth, Mrs. Delacy," replied he, " I must 
 confess a weakness by acknowledging your supposition. 
 But I never should enjoy travelling alone in a strange 
 country. With such company as I have just been
 
 244 THE CROOKED ELM: 
 
 roaming with, a lifetime would be too short to enjoy 
 all that is to be enjoyed in so charming a climate and 
 country." Hastings again brought the bloom to Miss 
 Kate's cheeks, as he thus complimented her, merely to 
 annoy Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " Another such journey will make you quite well 
 again," said Mrs. Delacy, a little annoyed at what 
 Hastings had said. 
 
 " Nothing can entirely cure him," said Miss Kate, 
 " unless it be another sleigh-ride." 
 
 " Had you said another sail up the Rhine, I would 
 have agreed with you," answered he. 
 
 Kate had the misfortune to blush one of her pleasant 
 and satisfied blushes again. Hastings seemed deter- 
 mined to make them jealous of her ; and he succeeded 
 to a charm. The day had been passed pleasantly by 
 them all, and they separated when night came, full of 
 spirits. Miss Leighton and Kate promised to call again, 
 and assist Hastings in his efforts to get well. 
 
 Hastings, from sheer heartlessness, was determined to 
 make Mrs. Delacy jealous of the fair and blushing Miss 
 Coleman. He was reckless and desperate, and regard- 
 less of the consequences that might result from his atten- 
 tions to her. He was wrong in thus trifling with the 
 affections of Kate, simply to gratify his own caprice; 
 but of that I have nothing to say, I am merely re- 
 cording facts. He must bear the blame of all the de- 
 fects in his character, and vindicate himself as becometh 
 a gentleman and a man of honor. Two or three days 
 after the visit of Miss Leighton and Miss Coleman, 
 just described, Mrs. Delacy called on the former, and 
 invited her to come and spend the next day with her. 
 
 " But," said she, " come alone ; you need not bring 
 Kate Coleman with you this time." This advice ac- 
 corded with Miss Leighton's feelings so perfectly, that
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 245 
 
 she did not mention the subject of her intended visit to 
 her friend Kate. The next day she visited Mrs. Delacy, 
 and was pleased to find Hastings in one of his most 
 amiable moods. He was in the drawing-room with her 
 nearly all day. He tried to make Mrs. Delacy jealous 
 of her, and succeeded nearly as well as he had done a 
 few days previous in making her jealous of Kate Cole- 
 man. 
 
 " How soon," inquired Miss Leighton, " will you be 
 out again ? We are losing the best, of the opera sea- 
 son." 
 
 " That is rich, I declare ! " said Hastings. " Why, 
 you have been to the opera every second night for the 
 last six weeks. Don't I hear of your going with Mr. 
 Dillingscott, and with Mr. this one and Mr. that one ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I go occasionally, of course. One can't refuse 
 always," said Miss Leighton. 
 
 " I don't know why they should wish to refuse, when 
 such agreeable company applies," answered he. 
 
 " Agreeable ! " exclaimed she, " you know that I 
 never could endure that Dillingscott. Agreeable, in- 
 deed!" 
 
 "Now, Lib, I rather like that! .That is decidedly 
 cool, to say the least ! " 
 
 " You know I can't endure him ! so where is the use 
 of persecuting me by the mention of his name ! " 
 
 Miss Leighton affected to be a little miffed at what 
 she called Hastings' persecutions ; but he had pleased 
 her more by calling her Lib than he had offended in 
 seeming to think that she took pleasure in the society 
 of Mr. Dillingscott. He had called her Lib, simply be- 
 cause Mrs. Delacy was in the room. He seemed to 
 think that Mrs. Delacy was at the bottom of all his 
 troubles. . 4*1*' 
 
 21*
 
 246 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " You did not answer me," continued Miss Leighton. 
 u When may we expect to see you out again ? " 
 
 " I feel as though I might venture abroad now," 
 answered he. " Your society has so cheered me that I 
 could almost dance the polka, even now. Will you try 
 one with me, Lib ? " As he said this he got up, and 
 without any music amused them by his awkward at- 
 tempts at dancing a polka with Miss Leighton. " I 
 declare," said Hastings, " I enjoyed that as much as I 
 used to enjoy kiss-in-the-ring when a boy." 
 
 Mrs. Delacy was beginning to feel her old jealousy of 
 Miss Leighton returning. Hastings had made himself 
 particularly agreeable to her daughter's former rival, she 
 thought. Poor Mrs. Delacy was beset with a multitude 
 of troubles. As soon as one was removed, another 
 took its place. Miss Leighton went home that night 
 feeling almost as happy as blushing Kate had felt a few 
 evenings previous. Hastings was evidently beside him- 
 self. His misunderstanding with Mrs. Belmonte had 
 deranged his mind, and, as a kind of revenge for it all, 
 he lent himself to getting up petty rivalries and jealous- 
 ies between his admirers, as heartily as though they had 
 been the cause of his troubles. He wag soon able to 
 leave the house, and the first visit he made was to see 
 Kate Coleman. It was the first time that he had ven- 
 tured out, and Kate felt proud of the compliment. 
 Hastings sat with her and Clemie for an hour or two 
 in their mother's large drawing-room. Kate tried, in 
 every way possible, to make his call agreeable. It was 
 the first time he had ever visited her at her own home. 
 
 As he was about leaving, he said : " Miss Coleman, I 
 think of attending the opera on next Monday evening ; 
 can I have the pleasure of your and Miss Clemie's com- 
 pany?;>
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 247 
 
 " I shall be most happy to go," answered she, delight- 
 edly. 
 
 " I shall take no one else," said he, " unless you can 
 prevail on your mother to accompany us." 
 
 " Mother seldom attends such places of amusement," 
 said Kate, " but I will tell her of your polite invita- 
 tion." 
 
 Hastings saw that she was pleased at the thought 
 of accompanying him to the opera. He rose to go, 
 and, as he did so, he said : " Miss Coleman, I am in- 
 debted to you for a very pleasant afternoon. I accept 
 with pleasure the polite invitation you have given me 
 to call whenever I can make it pleasant to myself. I 
 fear, though, that ypu will have occasion to regret so 
 unlimited an invitation." 
 
 Kate could not reply to him, save in blushes. He 
 stood by her side, and looked into her delighted face. 
 It was a moment of temptation. He took her small 
 white hand in his, and drawing her gently towards him, 
 kissed her. She did not refuse this unexpected- advance ; 
 and the only manifestation, either of pleasure or dis- 
 pleasure, that she evinced, was, to blush more deeply 
 than ever. She was unable to raise her eyes from the 
 floor. Never were sweeter lips kissed, and never were 
 they kissed more unexpectedly or more modestly than 
 then. Hastings bowed himself out, leaving Miss Kate 
 in her blushes and embarrassment. 
 
 Monday night came, and Hastings accompanied Miss 
 Kate and Clemie Coleman to the opera. He had now 
 shown so decided a preference for Kate, that Mrs. De- 
 lacy, her daughter, and Miss Leighton, began to feel 
 extremely envious of their fair rival. They felt decid- 
 edly uncomfortable. Hastings had anticipated this ; and 
 it was for this purpose alone that he had shown so much 
 attention to Kate. They were up in arms now, not
 
 248 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 openly, to be sure, but secretly, against unoffending 
 Kate. 
 
 Time passed on. Several months had gone. Spring, 
 in all its loveliness, had displaced gloomy winter. The 
 weather was growing warm and pleasant. Hastings 
 had continued to visit Miss Coleman occasionally ever 
 since he had been able to leave the house. Mrs. De- 
 lacy was almost as jealous of her as she had been of 
 Mrs. Belmonte. She no longer called to see her. A 
 coldness had grown up between them, from some remarks 
 and observations which Mrs. Delacy had made one day in 
 Kate's presence. They no longer interchanged the civil- 
 ities of friends. Hastings had called to see Miss Cole- 
 man one beautiful evening ; the inoon was shining 
 brightly, and the weather was so warm that the draw- 
 ing-room windows were left open. Hastings and she 
 were seated in the window together. The room was so 
 light and pleasant that the gas had not been lit. They 
 had been sitting thus for some time, when Hastings, 
 looking across the avenue, saw a female walking slowly 
 by. Her form was bent, and she leaned upon a staff 
 as if for support. He saw her turn her head sev- 
 eral times, and look towards the window where he was 
 seated. He took no notice of it, however, nor did he 
 think it any thing strange or remarkable. But when 
 he saw the same woman soon afterwards walking back, 
 and almost continually looking in the direction where 
 he was, his curiosity was excited. 
 
 " Miss Coleman," said he, as the woman was about 
 opposite to him, " I must bid you good night. I have a 
 curiosity to know who that woman is who has been 
 walking up and down the avenue, looking at us." He 
 took leave of Kate, and, crossing the street, followed the 
 mysterious female. The woman saw that she was 
 watched, and began to manifest signs of uneasiness
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 249 
 
 She crossed from one side of the street to the other ; but 
 Hastings kept about the same distance from her, do 
 what she would. If she quickened her pace, he quickened 
 his ; if she walked slow, he did the same. When she 
 saw that there was no getting rid of him, she led him far 
 down into the heart of the city, and, as she turned a cor- 
 ner some distance in advance of him, she jumped into a 
 carriage that stood there, and told the driver to go with 
 all speed to a place which she named, not many blocks 
 distant from Mrs. Delacy's house. Hastings was quite 
 confident that the woman whom he had followed was 
 none other than Mrs. Delacy herself, although on his re- 
 turn home he found her seated in her parlor. The next 
 morning, at the breakfast table, he related his adventure 
 on the night previous. Mrs. Delacy affected to think it a 
 very strange incident. She listened attentively to what 
 he said, but was unable to conceal her feelings sufficiently 
 to deceive him. He was convinced that she was the 
 woman who had watched him at Mrs. Coleman's win- 
 dow. He began to think. "She will stoop to any 
 thing," muttered he, " to accomplish her base ends." He 
 remembered some insinuations which she had made 
 during the time that he had visited Mrs. Belmonte. His 
 eyes began to open ; but, strange to say, he never once 
 suspected her of having been in any way connected with 
 his present misunderstanding with Mrs. Belmonte. He 
 feared her, but his fears had taken no definite shape.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ONE pleasant morning in the latter part of May, Hast- 
 ings was walking thoughtfully down Fifth Avenue, 
 There was a zephyr-like softness pervading the atmos- 
 phere, which naturally awakened in him his better feel- 
 ings. He sauntered about on this palatial street for 
 some hours, swallowed up in his own reflections. He 
 was dissatisfied with himself, and with almost every one 
 whom he knew. " I am," soliloquized he, " heart-sick 
 of myself and of the world. Instead of acting as be- 
 cometh a man of sense and honor, I am engaged in get- 
 ting up petty rivalries between those for whom I care 
 nothing. Care nothing? No, that is not true. I do 
 care for Miss Coleman. I like her. She is innocent, 
 confiding, and noble-hearted. So much the more am I 
 to blame for trifling with her affections. I will do so no 
 longer ; I will give her to understand that my feelings 
 for her are those only of a friend. I will leave off playing 
 the fool, and act sensibly in future. I will turn my at- 
 tention to something which will afford me a permanent 
 happiness. I will leave the gay, heartless, treacherous, 
 and hypocritical world at once, and for ever. I will no 
 longer place confidence in woman. They are all deceit- 
 ful and unworthy. There is Mrs. Delacy, all smoothness 
 and smiles when in my presence, but how low will stye 
 stoop to accomplish her ends ! Cornelia, too, whom I 
 
 (250)
 
 TEE CROOKED ELM. 251 
 
 had thought perfect, and for whom I could have laid down 
 my life, she, even she " at this point in his thoughts, 
 his attention was called to a carriage which drove up to 
 Mr. Belmonte's door. His curiosity was excited, and 
 he watched it attentively. He was several blocks off, but 
 he saw a man, whom he took to be Belmonte, walk up 
 the steps and ring the bell. Bessy answered it, and, with 
 another servant, descended to the carriage and assisted in 
 carrying a lady into the house. " It is Cornelia ! I will 
 go at once to her ! " muttered Hastings, excitedly, as he 
 started hastily towards Belmonte's house. His first im- 
 pulse was soon checked, however, and he stopped, saying 
 to himself, " No ! I will not go. She cares not to see me'. 
 She has said as much in her letters. I will not sacrifice 
 my self-respect by disobeying her request. I have 
 ceased to care for her. She is not worthy of my love ! " 
 Notwithstanding these were Hastings' feelings, he 
 lingered about in sight of Belmonte's house for more 
 than an hour. Sometimes he was half inclined to go to 
 the door and inquire after Mrs. Belmonte of Bessy ; at 
 others he turned, resolved to go away and think no more 
 about her ; but before going many blocks, he would stop 
 and walk back as near to the house as he dare venture 
 without fear of being seen. That evening, before it was 
 scarcely dark, he was walking from one street to another, 
 in the immediate vicinity of Belmonte's house. He 
 looked at the windows, hoping to see who occupied the 
 lighted rooms. He caught glimpses of persons moving 
 about in Mrs. Belmonte's room. His impatience to hear 
 from her, and to know how she was, made him resolve to 
 go to the door and ring the bell. Twice did he pass by, 
 however, before he could make up his mind to mount the 
 steps. At length he walked hesitatingly up to the door, 
 and pulled the bell. " I will just ask Bessy how her 
 mistress is, and then go away," thought he ; "I will dis-
 
 252 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 If"" | 
 
 guise my voice, so that she will not recognize me. Bessy 
 soon opened the door, and Hastings, embarrassed and 
 stammering, tried to gather from her some knowledge 
 of Mrs. Belmonte. Bessy knew him at once, and said, 
 with a solemn shake of her head : 
 
 " Oh ! Massa Hastin's ! Missis is berry bad ! She 's 
 gwine to die ! I know she is ! " 
 
 Hastings stammered out a few questions, when Bel- 
 monte, hearing his voice, came into the hall where he 
 was. 
 
 " Why, Hastings, how glad I am to see you ! How 
 did you learn that we had returned ? " 
 
 "I I was passing, and saw the house lighted up, 
 and thought that you were here." By this time they 
 were in the parlor. 
 
 " You look pale and ill, Hastings. Are you not well ? " 
 
 " Not very well," replied Hastings. " How is Mrs. 
 Belmonte ? " 
 
 " She is very poorly indeed. She has been unwell 
 ever since we first left here for the South. Would you 
 like to see her ? " 
 
 " I fear from what you tell me," said Hastings, " that 
 her health is such as not to permit it." 
 
 " I will go and let her know that you are here," said 
 Belmonte, leaving the room. Hastings' pride now re- 
 turned ; and, though he would have given all that he was 
 worth to have been invited by Mrs. Belmonte to come 
 and see her, he could not think of intruding himself on 
 her notice. He rose to leave the house. " She will re- 
 fuse to see me, of course," thought he; " I will not stay to 
 hear my sentence pronounced." He was just walking 
 to the parlor door, when Belmonte returned, and said : 
 
 " She will see you shortly." 
 
 Hastings could scarcely believe what he heard. He 
 tried to be collected and natural while with Belmonte,
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 253 
 
 but he felt an inward nervousness that baffled all his 
 efforts to appear composed. 
 
 " I have promised to call on Dr. C ," said Bel- 
 
 monte. " I shall not be gone more than an hour. Do 
 not leave before I come back, for I wish to have a talk 
 with you." 
 
 Hastings promised that he would remain until his re- 
 turn, and Belmonte left. The thought of again seeing 
 Mrs. Belmonte unnerved Hastings, as he sat alone, 
 expecting every moment to be summoned into her 
 presence. There are moments in which we live an age, 
 almost, so intense are the thoughts which crowd upon 
 the mind. Hastings was not easily excited; he was 
 naturally cool and collected under the severest trials; 
 but now his lip quivered, and his countenance beto- 
 kened a mind stirred with strong emotions. His visit 
 was unexpected to Mrs. Belmonte. She had thought 
 that he would never call upon her again. The forged 
 letter of Mrs. Delacy led her to think so. The letters 
 which she had received from Mrs. Delacy were the 
 cause of her illness. She was taken from her bed at 
 her own request, and placed in an easy chair. Her 
 head and shoulders reclined upon satin pillows, while 
 her feet rested on a beautifully worked footstool. The 
 whole appearance of the room was that of refined ele- 
 gance. She had dismissed her domestics, and sat 
 awaiting Hastings. A feverish flush had displaced for 
 the moment the natural paleness in her cheeks, while 
 her heaving bosom indicated intense mental agitation. 
 Bessy soon informed Hastings that her mistress was 
 ready to receive him. Tremulous, and with a fluttering 
 heart, he went alone to her room. When he had en- 
 tered and closed the door, he hesitated a moment 
 their eyes met from hers beamed all the forgiving, 
 22 iii v
 
 254 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 loving tenderness which she felt. Their hearts spoke 
 together in that one look. Hastings hesitated no longer, 
 but rushing forward and falling upon one knee at her 
 feet, and clasping her right hand convulsively in both of 
 his, exclaimed in a voice of tenderest love : 
 
 " Cornelia ! " Then, as if suddenly recollecting him- 
 self, he said : " Pardon me, Cornelia ! I mean you no 
 disrespect. I am beside myself with joy at again see^ 
 ing you." 
 
 In a feeble and agitated voice she bade him be seated. 
 When he had complied with her wishes, she said: 
 
 " William, I had thought after the letter which you 
 sent me, that you would never call to see me again." 
 
 " What ! what do you mean ? what letter ? " 
 
 " I mean the one which you wrote to me while I was 
 in Florida." 
 
 " Cornelia, I do not understand you. I never wrote 
 you a letter while you were there. You told me that 
 you would not expect to hear from me." 
 
 I told you so ? Never, William ! But I see through 
 it all now; we have been imposed upon; our letters 
 have been intercepted. I have thought so from the 
 moment I first saw you enter this room ! " 
 
 " You are too ill now, Cornelia, to talk more on this 
 subject. I will call to-morrow and see you. We then 
 shall be better able to fathom this mystery, which has so 
 long estranged us." 
 
 " I wish," said Mrs. Belmonte, " to know more of it 
 before I sleep. The trouble arising out of those cold 
 letters, which I was foolish enough to think you wrote, 
 caused my present illness." 
 
 " Have you the letter which you received in Flor- 
 ida?" 
 
 " Yes. Will you unlock that box on the bureau ? 
 You will find the key in the little drawer in that cabi-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 255 
 
 net. I think the letter is at the bottom of a package of 
 letters which you will see there. Bring them all here." 
 
 Hastings did as directed. 
 
 "That is the letter," said Mrs. Belmonte, as she 
 handed it to him. He looked over its contents. 
 
 " I never saw that base letter before, Cornelia. Shall 
 I pledge you my honor that I never penned it ? " 
 
 " No, William ; I know that you never wrote it." 
 
 Hastings then looked over several others which she 
 pointed out, and which she said she received before she 
 left the city. 
 
 " They are all forgeries ! base, villanous forgeries ! I 
 never saw one of them before ! " 
 
 " I believe it," said Mrs. Belmonte, in a feeble voice. 
 " You do not know what a weight has been removed 
 from my mind by your calling to-night. I never will 
 distrust you again. Have you the letters which I sent 
 you while you were ill ? " 
 
 " I have them, but not here. Yes, they are in my 
 inside pocketbook." He soon produced them, and 
 Mrs. Belmonte said that she never had written any, 
 except the first one. 
 
 " Do you suspect any one of intercepting our let- 
 ters ? " inquired she. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " Now that 1 look at them 
 closely, I easily recognize the hand that penned them. 
 I need not tell you whom I suspect; you already 
 know." 
 
 " I have long feared her," answered she. 
 
 Hastings saw that Mrs. Belmonte was very much ex- 
 cited, and fearing to remain longer, said : 
 
 " I must now go, Cornelia, You need rest ; and, 
 pleasant as it would be for me to talk with you longer, 
 I must forego the happiness until you are better." 
 
 " I am so glad that you called, Willi am ! Nothing
 
 256 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 will ever make me doubt you again ! I know that you 
 love me, and with that knowledge I am happy." 
 
 He rose, and walking up to her side pressed her 
 hand in his, and gently kissing her, said : 
 
 " I hope you will soon be well again. While my life 
 lasts, it shall be devoted to your happiness ! Good-by ! 
 May God bless you, and restore you speedily to 
 health ! " As he said this, he turned and walked hur- 
 riedly from the room. When he entered the hall, he 
 saw Bessy walking away, but thought nothing of it. 
 She had looked through the keyhole of Mrs. Belmonte's 
 door, and had seen and heard much that had been said 
 and done. She was alarmed. She had heard them 
 speak of the forged letters, and, though she did not 
 clearly understand what they meant, she very naturally 
 thought that they referred to Mrs. Delacy. She feared 
 for her own safety. Late that night Bessy stole from the 
 kitchen and hurried to Mrs. Delacy's. The latter had 
 retired for the night ; but on learning who wished to see 
 her she got up, and throwing on a loose wrapper has- 
 tily descended the stairs to where Bessy stood in the 
 hall. They walked into the reception-room, and locked 
 the door. 
 
 " What has brought you here to night, Bessy ? " 
 
 Oh! We's'sposed! We's 'sposed! De letters! De 
 letters!" exclaimed the wench, with eyes protruding 
 from their dark sockets. 
 
 " Whafrdo you mean ? What is the matter with you, 
 Bessy ? " asked Mrs. Delacy, now quite excited herself. 
 
 " Missis has come home ! an we 's 'sposed ! I peeps 
 through de keyhole an' seed it all ! we 's 'sposed ! " 
 
 " Why can't you tell what you mean, Bessy ? When 
 did your mistress come back ? " 
 
 " Dis mornin'. Massa Hastin's was dah to-night to 
 see Missis, an' I peeps through de keyhole, an' heers
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 257 
 
 him say, dat de letters am all de berry wuss kine ob 
 forgesies ; an' he says, says he, ' Do you know who 
 wrote de letters ? an' Missis lookin' mighty knowin' says, 
 says she ' I allers hab feared her, I hab.' " 
 
 " What else did you see ? " nervously inquired Mrs. 
 Deiacy. 
 
 " Oh, I seed Massa Hastin's run into Missis arms, an' 
 he 'ducted his self jis' for all de worle like de big man 
 with de long beard in de play. He kneels on de floor 
 aside ob Missis, an' says, says he, ' Lor* ! how I lubs you, 
 Corneely! Den he puts bofe of his han's into one ob 
 Missises, an' he squeezes 'em, an' looks mighty lovin' like." 
 
 " What did your mistress say, Bessy ? " 
 
 " She was a lookin' as smilin' an' as pleased as, " 
 
 "But what did she say?" 
 
 " Oh she squeezes Massa Hastin's han's, an' says, says 
 she, ' William, I is mighty glad ob de opportunity to 
 see you!' An' den dey bofe guesses dat dey knows 
 who sends de letters. I gits skeered arter a while, an' 
 when I sees Massa Hastin's a kissin' ob Missis, an' a 
 sayin' good-by, an' all ob dat kine ob talk, I goes away 
 from de door. Dat is all I know." 
 
 Mrs. Deiacy went to her drawer and took from it a 
 piece of gold and offered it to Bessy, but she refused to 
 take it. 
 
 " I 's not gwine to 'cept any more money. I 's not 
 gwine to come an' see you agin, I knows dey wilj 
 'sciver us ; an' I wont do wrong any more. If dey 
 wouldn't 'sciver us, why den do you see 'twould be 
 quite anudder thing altogedder. I hates mightily to be 
 'scivered, I does." Bessy got up to leave; determina- 
 tion rested upon her countenance. Mrs. Deiacy saw 
 there was no use trying to persuade her to act as an 
 accomplice longer; so she threatened her with direst 
 22*
 
 258 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 punishment if she ever revealed any thing that had 
 taken place between them. Bessy made no promises, 
 but left with eyes big with wonder and fear. 
 
 The intelligence which Bessy had brought came like 
 a clap of thunder to Mrs. Delacy's already uneasy and 
 guilty mind. She knew that her desperate game had 
 ended, and that she was the loser. All her hopes and 
 dreams of happiness were at one fell stroke prostrated 
 in the dust. But she did not yield all yet. 
 
 " Every thing," muttered she, " is exposed. I will 
 now wage open war ! I will show Mrs. Belmonte that 
 I have power even yet. I have lost every thing. There 
 is no more hope for me ! But revenge is sweet, and I 
 will have it. Mrs. Delacy never played a timid game ; 
 and why should she now, when there is nothing more 
 to lose ? I will rack her with terror ! Her days shall be 
 filled up with harrowing fear, and her nights with 
 visions of demons ! I will be her evil spirit to torment 
 her here and hereafter! I now combat openly; there 
 is nothing to conceal." Thus, in her despair and rage, 
 did she threaten the destruction of Mrs. Belmonte. 
 Alternately did she rave and weep as she lay in her 
 bed that night. Sometimes, as she thought of giving 
 up him whom she so wildly loved, and for whom she 
 had sacrificed pride every thing, she wept the bitter 
 tears of disappointed love. " Oh ! " would she exclaim, 
 " had he known how madly I worshipped him ! Had 
 he known my breaking heart, he never could have left 
 me the hopeless wreck that 1 am ! I would have fol- 
 lowed him to the ends of the earth to have served him ! " 
 Then, when she thought of her whom she supposed had 
 been the cause of all her misery, her feelings were those 
 of the tigress for its prey. They were fierce, bitter, 
 deadly such as woman alone can feel.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 259 
 
 Hastings resolved to leave Mrs. Delacy's at once; 
 and the next morning engaged apartments at a hotel. 
 Mrs. Delacy was not much surprised when the express- 
 man came for his trunks. She asked no questions 
 she knew too well the meaning of it all. Miss Delacy 
 did not understand why Hastings was leaving so sud- 
 denly. She asked her mother for an explanation, but 
 could get none. She went to her room, and thinking 
 of nothing better, hid her face in her hands and wept. 
 During the day she received the following : 
 
 " DEAR FRIEND MARY : For certain reasons I have 
 felt it necessary to leave your mother's, and it is but jus- 
 tice to say that it is for nothing that you have said or 
 done. Your mother knows why I have left, and I leave 
 it to her to explain to you the reason. I remain your 
 very sincere 'friend and wellwisher. 
 " Thursday, P. M. WILLIAM HASTINGS." 
 
 Miss Delacy showed this note to her mother, and 
 besought her to explain why Hastings had left; but 
 Mrs. Delacy was, or affected to be, indignant respecting 
 its contents, and refused utterly to speak of him. 
 
 Hastings called frequently to see Mrs. Belmonte, 
 almost to the entire neglect of blushing Kate Coleman, 
 (a fact which makes this honest pen of mine indignant 
 as I write). He was better than all Mrs. Belmonte's 
 physicians ; for she, in a remarkably short time, entirely 
 recovered her health. 
 
 He called occasionally to see Miss Coleman. Kate 
 was not a jealous girl, and she, very generously to be 
 sure, accepted his flimsy excuses of " press of business " 
 as genuine, and was, or at least she tried to be, satisfied 
 with a visit from him whenever he could find leisure to 
 drop in and see her. Miss Leighton was beginning to
 
 260 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 flag in the general chase, and it is worthy of record that 
 she now took more kindly to Mr. Dillingseott than she 
 had ever been known to before. 
 
 Mrs. Delacy, like a general who has been beaten but 
 not conquered, sat coolly down, and took a careful sur- 
 vey of the whole field of strife. She calculated all the 
 chances of success and defeat, with more nerve than 
 she ever had evinced before. All the letters which she 
 had intercepted while Hastings was ill had been care- 
 fully laid aside. She went and got them, and read crit- 
 ically their contents. " They will be a dainty morsel 
 for that stupid owl, Belmonte, one of these mornings! 
 I had rather see him when he reads them, than witness 
 the ' Jealous Husband ' as played at Wallaces ! " She 
 exulted over the power which she possessed. She felt 
 that those letters would ruin for ever the good name of 
 Mrs. Belmonte. They were carefully sealed up and sent 
 to Belmonte. He received and read them. He com- 
 pared those signed by Hastings with some of Hastings' 
 writing which he had in his office. " They are genuine, 
 come from whom they may," exclaimed he, mad with 
 passion. " If I am convinced that Hastings has played 
 me false, I will shoot him as I would a dog ! Garrote 
 me, if I dont ! I will shoot them both before night ! I 
 have been too confiding ! too trusting ! in short too much 
 of a cursed fool! I have refused to open my eyes to 
 what must have been apparent to every one else ! I 
 have encouraged his visits. I have refused to listen to 
 the advice of one who has written me two letters of 
 warning. I will now carry war, exterminating war 
 into the insidious, deceitful, hypocritical, villainous, 
 enemies' camp ! Blow me if I don't shoot them both 
 before sundown!" Thus did the amiable Belmonte 
 talk himself into one of the most uncomfortable of 
 passions over the unoffending letters which lay on the
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 261 
 
 table before him. In his rage he seized them passion- 
 ately in his hand, and throwing them on the floor 
 crushed them with his heel, muttering : " Thus will I 
 crush you, villain ! * Had there been a fire in his office 
 he would have burned them ; but as there was none 
 he acted more wisely, by carefully gathering them from 
 the floor, and putting them in his pocketbook. He 
 then rushed from his office. His first impulse was to 
 go at once to Hastings, and inflict upon him summary 
 vengeance ; but second thought induced him to act 
 more diplomatically. He remembered, even then, his 
 connection with Hastings in an affair that concerned 
 himself deeply. He had not forgotten the little girl 
 who had been spirited away from his uncle's. When 
 he reflected more on the matter, he determined to adopt 
 a course that would fully satisfy himself as to the exact 
 nature of Hastings' intimacy with Mrs. Belmonte. He 
 resolved to take her to the country, and leave her there 
 with her friends for a few weeks. " If," said he to him- 
 self, Hastings and she are as intimate as these letters 
 indicate, they will correspond with each other while 
 separated; and I will intercept the letters, or in some 
 way manage to read them. I will fathom the matter to 
 the bottom." This was the plan that he settled down 
 upon a slow one to be sure for a jealous husband, but 
 perhaps a wise one. Be this as it may, this is simply 
 what Mr. Belmonte, with all his shrewdness, determined 
 to do. That evening, as he and Mrs. Belmonte were 
 sitting together, he said : 
 
 " My dear, you have been sick so long that I think 
 the country air would strengthen and invigorate you. 
 How soon can you get ready to leave the city ? I will 
 take you to sister's, and leave you there for a few 
 weeks." 
 
 " I don't like the country," replied Mrs. Belmonte. " I
 
 262 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 infinitely prefer remaining here. Besides, Walter, I 
 think the city agrees with m<. I was sick all the time 
 during my absence from it As soon as we returned I 
 grew better, and got entirely well. I don't wish to go to 
 the country." 
 
 Belmonte did not like this resistance to his wishes, 
 and he answered : 
 
 " My dear, I am compelled to leave again for the 
 South. In my absence I wish you to remain in the 
 country. You will get ready, therefore, to leave here 
 by Wednesday next." 
 
 " That is too short a time to prepare to visit one's 
 friends ; especially as you seem determined that I shall 
 remain there a long time. I always did dislike visiting 
 relatives." 
 
 " Well, how long will it require for you to get ready 
 to leave ? " 
 
 ' At least a couple of weeks. I must have some 
 dresses made, and some " 
 
 u Never mind enumerating your wants. Give me a 
 list of what you require, and I think I will have them 
 provided for you by Wednesday next." 
 
 " What makes you in such a hurry to get rid of 
 me?" 
 
 " Why, I must leave for the South by Friday or 
 Saturday, and I wish to see you safely away before 
 I go." 
 
 " But you never mentioned this before ? " 
 
 " No," answered he ; " it is a sudden and unexpected 
 necessity that takes me away." 
 
 " If I must get ready by that time, I suppose I must, 
 so there is the end of it ; but I had much rather remain 
 here while you are absent." 
 
 It was with difficulty that Belmonte could keep cool 
 during this pleasant discussion ; especially was it so
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 263 
 
 when Mrs. Belmonte expressed a wish to remain in the 
 city during his absence. All thirtgs were prepared for 
 leaving. Hastings had visited Mrs. Belmonte every 
 day since he was told that she was so soon to leave. 
 Belmonte, however, remained in his society when he 
 came, and with a powerful effort succeeded in conceal- 
 ing his jealousy from him. Hastings had expected that 
 Mrs. Delacy would try to break off his A r isits to Bel- 
 monte's ; but he was determined to meet boldly what- 
 ever she should do to effect such an end. He would 
 have been surprised at no time after he left Mrs. De- 
 lacy's, had Belmonte attacked him for an improper inti- 
 macy with Mrs. Belmonte. He expected something of 
 the kind constantly ; yet his love for her led him to 
 brave every danger that threatened. Belmonte had 
 taken passage for himself and wife on one of the evening 
 boats running to Albany. They were to leave home at 
 five o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 Hastings spent a long time with Mrs. Belmonte in 
 the morning, and he visited her again just as they were 
 leaving the house. She invited him to get into the car- 
 riage and go to the boat with them ; Belmonte, how- 
 ever, did not join in the request. Hastings declined 
 going by saying that he had business of importance that 
 prevented his accepting her invitation. Mrs. Belmonte 
 was unable to conceal her feelings of regret at parting 
 with Hastings. Belmonte watched her narrowly, and 
 saw the tears come into her eyes as she extended her 
 hand to bid Hastings good-by. When they were 
 driving down to the landing, Belmonte said : 
 
 " Why are you so much agitated at parting with 
 Hastings ? I never knew you to show so much emo- 
 tion when I have parted with you, even for a much 
 longer time than you are now to be absent from him ? " 
 
 She could answer nothing, but that she supposed hex
 
 264 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 sickness had made her nervous. She feared that she 
 had led him to suspect the true reason for her wishing 
 to remain in the city, and she made an effort to be 
 cheerful ; but the tears would make their way into her 
 eyes through all her smiles, no matter how hard she 
 tried to keep them back. Belmonte went with her to a 
 beautiful little village in the State of New York, and 
 left her there. When he bid her good-by, he said : 
 
 " My dear, I think that I shall have to remain in New 
 York a week or two yet, before going South. I will 
 write you a line every day until I go." 
 
 He had been so artfully cool when in her presence, 
 that she did not dream that he was weaving a web to 
 ensnare her. He kissed her as loving a good-by as he 
 ever had done in his life, and then left, to find evidence, 
 if possible, of her inconstancy.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ON his way back to the city, Belmonte called on his 
 uncle. The old man was glad to see him, for he be- 
 lieved his nephew to be his best friend. After a great 
 deal of persuasion, Belmonte consented to remain all 
 night with him. They sat talking together until a late 
 hour. The old man spoke of Flora her death, and of 
 many incidents in her life. Belmonte felt the blood 
 ran cold through his veins as he listened, and thought 
 of his own guilt in removing the little girl from him. 
 The domestics had all retired ; every thing about was 
 as still as the grave. The hour and the place inspired 
 Belmonte with fear. His guilty conscience cowered, 
 but could find no hiding-place. Little Flora, and the 
 dead body which he had taken from the river dressed in 
 her clothes, were continually present. At length they 
 separated for the night. Belmonte's bed-room was on 
 the second floor, and overlooked the Hudson. The 
 night was clear, and the moon shone brightly. He 
 pulled the curtain aside, and seated himself by the win- 
 dow he was afraid to retire. It was midnight, and 
 he continued looking out on the moonlit spectacle, tor- 
 tured with his own reflections. It was that solemn hour, 
 when time seems to hold familiar converse with eter- 
 nity when the spirits of the dead are supposed to 
 
 23 (266)
 
 266 THE CROOKED ELM) 
 
 break their cerements and revisit the earth to remind 
 man of his misdeeds, and forewarn him of punishments 
 in store. His eyes wandered unconsciously in the direc- 
 tion of the graves on the little hillock. " Heavens ! " 
 gasped he, as he convulsively clasped his forehead with 
 his hands, and shook with terror : " What do I see ? " 
 His eyes dilated, and cold perspiration stood in great 
 drops on his face as he intently watched a white figure 
 moving slowly towards the house, along the path lead- 
 ing to the graves. He looked wildly at it for a few mo- 
 ments, and then fell insensible from his chair. When 
 he recovered his senses he got up, and, afraid to look 
 out of the window again, staggered to the bed, and 
 covering himself with the bed-clothes lay trembling with 
 fear until morning. The white object which he had 
 seen was the house-maid, who was in the habit of 
 walking in her sleep. As soon as day-light appeared, 
 Belmonte got out of bed, and, descending the stairs to his 
 uncle's room, took leave of the old man, and returned 
 to the city. No inducement would have tempted him 
 to pass another night there. When he was safely at 
 home, he sat down and carefully surveyed his plans and 
 prospects. " He," meaning his uncle, " is looking better 
 than when I left for the South. He will never die. I 
 am a ruined man, unless I have a windfall from some 
 quarter. I will try my scheme with that hypocritical 
 villain, Hastings, first ; and if I don't succeed, I will turn 
 that old dotard uncle of mine into his grave!" He 
 suddenly remembered the apparition of the night pre- 
 vious, and for a moment trembled with fear.. Daylight, 
 however, had not so many terrors to him as midnight ; 
 and, soon recovering his self-possession, he added : 
 " He must die, if necessary for my preservation from 
 ruin. I am too deep in crime to be chicken-hearted. I
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 267 
 
 am determined to save myself, even though devils haunt 
 me both day and night ! " Driven to the verge of de- 
 spair, he resolved, if possible, to defraud Hastings out of 
 a large sum of money before breaking friendship with 
 him ; but, failing in that, he was determined to put 
 himself in possession of his uncle's large property. With 
 his mind filled with these dark purposes, he went to 
 Hastings' office. He found him sitting at his desk, 
 writing. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear fellow ! busy as usual ! " said Ed- 
 na onte in his blandest way, as he walked familiarly up 
 and shook hands with him. " I have just this moment 
 
 returned from the beautiful village of A , where I 
 
 left Mrs. JBelmonte in the arms of her friends. 'Pon my 
 soul ! I thought they would eat her up when I sat her 
 down among them. We had not been there an hour, 
 when more than twenty of her friends came to bid her a 
 hearty welcome. Captain B. offered her the use of his 
 carriage and horses as long as she chose to remain. It 
 is a delightful place ! She will live and grow fat there, 
 and no mistake ! She is rejoiced to get out of this 
 monotonous city, this mud and mortar Gotham." All 
 this Belmonte said as gayly as possible, and without 
 giving Hastings an opportunity of putting in a word. 
 
 " I am rejoiced," said Hastings, " that her prospects 
 of enjoying the country are so flattering." 
 
 " Flattering ! Lord ! she will be feasted to death every 
 day, should she remain there the entire year ! Do you 
 know, Hastings, that I am compelled to leave on busi- 
 ness for the South in a few days ? My presence is re- 
 quired to effect the organization of the company that I 
 am getting up there. It will be the best paying com- 
 pany in the whole South in less than three years. . We 
 have made extensive purchases, and the mining has been 
 most successfully commenced. If you wish to make
 
 268 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 an investment that will double every year, I will let you 
 in, Hastings, on the same favorable terms as the original 
 stockholders. I would make no other man living that 
 offer. If you will take one fifth of the whole stock, we 
 can manage the concern ourselves. Such an opportu- 
 nity does not present itself every day." 
 
 " I will investigate the matter, Belmonte, and if I 
 think then as favorably of it as you do now, I may ac- 
 cept your proposition." 
 
 " I have with me," said Belmonte, " an elaborate geo- 
 logical report of the lands we have purchased. It may 
 be relied upon, for it was made by an able scientific 
 man, employed for the purpose by the State. But, 
 Hastings, I am in need of present funds to complete all 
 the purchases that it is desirable to make. The fact of 
 the matter is, that we wish to monopolize the whole 
 mining district. In order to do this effectually we must 
 have more land. I wish to get ten thousand dollars of 
 you." 
 
 Hastings had no faith in what Belmonte had told 
 him, nor had he any desire to become a stockholder in 
 the company that Belmonte was in some way interested 
 in forming. He did not wish to say so, however, so he 
 only put the matter off, by promising to investigate it. 
 Belmonte had come to the point. He had told Hast- 
 ings what he wanted. 
 
 " Here is twenty thousand dollars' worth of stockcer- 
 tificates on the < Bauble Gold Mining Company' in 
 Mexico, now in successful operation, and paying a 
 semiannual dividend of twelve per cent. I will leave 
 these with you as security for ten thousand dollars for 
 six months." 
 
 Hastings thought for a moment, and then said : 
 
 " I will make you the loan, without any other -security 
 than your individual notes." He took his pen, as he
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 269 
 
 said this, and filled five notes for two thousand dollars 
 each, and handed them to Belmonte to sign. He then 
 drew checks for the money, and placed them in Bel- 
 monte's hands. This liberality astonished Belmonte. 
 He could not understand what it meant. He thanked 
 Hastings over and over again, and then left to draw the 
 money. When he had gone Hastings muttered : "I 
 will run the risk of losing this money for thy sake, Cor- 
 nelia. Had I not let him have it, he would have been 
 ruined perhaps he would have committed some des- 
 perate act to possess himself of the money which he 
 now requires not, as he says, to purchase mining 
 lands, but to pay the mortgages that are falling due. 
 Twenty thousand dollars of stock certificates ! He 
 must think me a fool ! As a business transaction, I 
 would not loan him one thousand on them. I will not 
 let him think that he can impose upon me with his 
 worthless securities. Twenty thousand dollars indeed ! 
 I make the loan, Belmonte, not to accommodate you, 
 but to save another from disgrace." 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte and Hastings interchanged letters 
 almost every day while they were separated. They 
 addressed them in fictitious names, agreed upon before 
 Mrs. Belmonte left the city. That the reader may 
 know how she enjoyed the country, I here extract from 
 one of her letters to Hastings : 
 
 " DEAREST WILLIAM : I have just read over and 
 over again your welcome and precious letter. Your 
 letters afford me the only enjoyment that I have, while 
 stopping in this stupidly dull and monotonous village. 
 Every day I am bored to death with Walter's country 
 cousins, and the over -politeness of these officious villa- 
 gers. I have to sit in the drawing-room constantly, and 
 23*
 
 270 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 entertain a dozen or more of them, whom I heartily 
 wish at their own homes. I trip over to the post-office 
 early in the morning, as soon as the New York mail 
 comes in, and get your dear, sweet, loving letters my- 
 self. I have read those you have sent me at least a 
 hundred times, and have them now lying hid next my 
 heart. Do continue to write me every day. The locket 
 which you gave me I wear constantly round my neck 
 while here. It lies open before me now, as I write. I 
 am praying for cold weather, so that I may leave this 
 place and go to the city, where I can see you. I am 
 sure I can beat you playing chess when I get back. I 
 am compelled to go to evening parties to gratify "Wal- 
 ter's friends. If they knew how infinitely I disliked 
 spending my evenings so, I am sure they would not take 
 so much trouble to torment me. 
 
 Write me a good long letter next time just such as 
 you wrote me last. There is no danger of their being 
 intercepted ; for no one here knows, or can know, what 
 name to inquire for, even should they suspect me of 
 corresponding with you. Do write me at least one let- 
 ter a day, for they are my life when absent from you. 
 
 My sheet is full. With love, now and ever," I 
 
 remain, Your 
 
 " Saturday . CORNELIA." 
 
 About two weeks after Mrs. Belmonte had left the 
 city, Belmonte called on Hastings, at his office, to bid 
 him good-by. 
 
 " I am going south, to-morrow, to effect the pur- 
 chases I spoke to you of. I may be gone four or five 
 weeks. In my absence, Hastings, I wish you would 
 occasionally correspond with Mrs. Belmonte, and tell
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 271 
 
 her how things move along in the city. I am sure she 
 will be glad to hear from you." 
 
 " I will do so with pleasure," answered Hastings ; 
 not, however, without a slight suspicion that Belmonte 
 meant more than his words implied. 
 
 " I shall be back here,. I think, in five weeks," said 
 Belmonte, " and then we will talk more on the subject 
 of your becoming a shareholder. Good-by, Hastings! 
 I shall never forget your kindness in lending me that 
 ten thousand dollars. Don't let Kate Coleman carry 
 you away captive until I come back." 
 
 " If she should be so foolish," answered Hastings, 
 " she will soon rue her bargain. She will find me ' dam- 
 aged goods.' " 
 
 Well, good-by, Hastings ! " 
 
 " Good-by, Belmonte ! I wish you a safe and suc- 
 cessful journey." 
 
 They shook hands heartily, and separated. Belmonte 
 had no thought of going south. It was a deception 
 which he practised upon Hastings, and his wife, to in- 
 duce them to correspond freely if they wished to do so. 
 When he left New York, he went to Philadelphia, and 
 remained there one week, and then proceeded at once 
 to the village where he had left Mrs. Belmonte. It was 
 late in the evening when he arrived. Mrs. Belmonte 
 had 'gone a few miles into the country to attend a party. 
 He went to her room, and unlocking her trunks, 
 searched them through and through, but found no let- 
 ters. He next opened a little rosewood box, in which 
 he recollected that she sometimes kept her letters. He 
 saw a package containing at least a dozen, tied up 
 carefully with a piece of blue ribbon. He pulled one 
 from the package. It commenced : " MY DEAREST 
 CORNELIA." It was decidedly a suspicious commence- 
 ment. He opened a second, a third, and so on, until he
 
 272 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 came to the last ; and, without an exception, they were 
 all addressed to " DEAREST CORNELIA." He turned to 
 the subscription, and saw in undisguised letters the 
 name WILLIAM HASTINGS. He was in a blazing pas- 
 sion ; yet he seated himself and read them carefully 
 through. Occasionally, as he looked through their con- 
 tents, he stamped his foot, clenched his fists, and mut- 
 tered suppressed curses of vengeance. He seemed to 
 gather no consolation from the letters ; for the moment 
 that he finished the last one he sprang to his feet, and 
 exclaimed in a fierce, determined voice, "I will have 
 the heart's blood of them both ! I swear it ! " He 
 rushed madly out of the room, and after a little delay 
 procured a carriage and started for the place where Mrs. 
 Belmonte was spending the evening. Before reaching 
 there he had time to reflect. His passions cooled a lit- 
 tle, and he began to " calculate " as to what he had bet- 
 ter do. He was naturally a coward, and more than all, 
 was excessively vain. He did not like to have the world 
 think that his wife loved any one better than himself. 
 " If I act hastily in seeking revenge, I will only expose 
 myself to public ridicule. No ! I will meet her as cor- 
 dially as ever. I will play a game of my own, and 
 seek revenge in my own way ! " He soon drove up to 
 a large country residence, well lighted up, and alighting, 
 rung the bell and sent in his card. When Mrs. Bel- 
 monte heard her husband's name announced, an invol- 
 untary shudder shook her frame. Hastings' likeness 
 was in her bosom, and her dress was so low that the 
 beautiful gold chain to which it was attached could be 
 seen encircling her snowy white neck. She knew not 
 what to do. There was no time to remove it Bel- 
 monte's sudden arrival, at a time when she supposed him 
 a thousand miles away, was a fact in itself sufficient to
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 273 
 
 disconcert her, even had she possessed more nerve than 
 she did. He entered the room where she was, and with 
 an effort embraced her as warmly as he would have* 
 done had nothing occurred to disturb his equanimity. 
 
 " My dear," said Belmonte, " I am rejoiced to see you 
 enjoying yourself so well here among my old friends." 
 
 Her cheeks were scarlet, she knew not what to 
 think or say. She instinctively feared that her hus- 
 band's sudden arrival augured no good. 
 
 " Your cheeks, Cornelia, are as red as roses. I hardly 
 knew you the country has improved your looks so 
 much." 
 
 She saw him look at the chain round her neck. His 
 countenance indicated displeasure, although covered 
 with smiles. She tried to appear cheerful during the 
 remainder of the evening, but could not she feared 
 her husband. Belmonte mingled with his friends, and 
 exerted himself successfully in trying to be as gay as 
 the gayest. He danced and talked and laughed as 
 heartily as he would have done had he been in the best 
 of spirits. The party at length broke up, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Belmonte set out to return to the village. They 
 sat in the carriage together in silence for some time. 
 Belmonte broke the ice : 
 
 " My dear," inquired he, " have you ever loved me ? " 
 
 The question^as so unexpected, so suggestive, that 
 she could not answer immediately. When she could 
 speak, s*he said : 
 
 " Why do you ask me such a question ? " 
 
 " Simply to ascertain the truth," replied he, laconi- 
 cally. 
 
 " You know," answered she, tremblingly, " that I 
 never have said that I loved you ; I even told you when 
 we were married that I did not, but that I loved another, 
 and most probably ever should."
 
 274 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 " Do you respect me ? " asked he, somewhat sarcasti- 
 cally. 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte's worst fears were confirmed. She 
 knew from his manner that her intimacy with Hastings 
 had brought her husband there. She also knew that 
 appearances and facts were against her. She at once 
 thought of Hastings' letters, locked up as she supposed 
 in her rosewood box. She remembered his likeness, 
 then in her bosom. What could she do ! What could 
 she say in palliation of what she had done ! These 
 thoughts, and such as these, crowded thick and fast upon 
 her mind. She sat in silence, and without answering 
 Belmonte's last question. He again said : 
 , " Do you, or have you ever, respected me ? " 
 
 " I know not what to answer ! You appear so strange 
 and unlike yourself! " 
 
 " I am very ' strange and unlike myself,' am I ? " said 
 Belmonte, in a voice of suppressed anger. " You are 
 unable to comprehend me. Well, I will be more plain 
 and explicit. But, first of all, I should Jike to know how 
 you came by that exceedingly pretty chain that I saw 
 about your neck. It is very ornamental, very ! May I 
 have the pleasure of looking at it when we get home ? " 
 
 This speech had the effect to make Mrs. Belmonte 
 indignant for a moment, and she answered, in a proud 
 and haughty tone ; 
 
 " I will not show it to you, nor to any one else, who 
 cannot ask to see it in a gentlemanlike manner! It 
 belongs to Mr. Hastings ; if that is what you wish to 
 know." 
 
 The fire flashed from her eyes as she spoke, but she 
 soon lost all courage, all presence of mind. She felt 
 that she was ruined, and the thought almost crazed her 
 brain. 
 
 " The chain belongs to Mr. Hastings, does it?" coolly
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 275 
 
 reiterated he. " A very pretty chain, indeed ! May I 
 ask if there is any thing attached to it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte's brain reeled, and she fainted. He 
 saw the agitated state of her rnind ; and when she had 
 recovered he spoke less harshly to her. He removed the 
 chain and locket from her neck while she was insensible, 
 and put them in his pocket. 
 
 There was not much else said by either, until they 
 had arrived at the house where Mrs. Belmonte was 
 stopping. They both repaired to her room together. 
 As soon as a light was struck, Belmonte seated himself, 
 and deliberately taking Hastings' letters from his pocket, 
 said, in a tone of irony : 
 
 " My dear, will you sit down with me and examine 
 these specimens of epistolary excellence ? " 
 
 She was overwhelmed with what she saw, and sunk 
 to the floor in a swoon. He picked her up, and laying 
 her on the bed soon restored her to consciousness. He 
 had no mercy, however, and was resolved to rack her 
 with terror. She buried her face in her hands, and wept 
 the bitter tears of despair. Her heart was broken. 
 She thought she was ruined for ever in the estimation of 
 the virtuous ; and, though she knew that the extent of 
 her guilt was that of loving Hastings only, yet she well 
 understood the construction that her husband and the 
 world" would p^' upon her conduct. She thought 
 that Belmonte would discard her for ever. In this she 
 was mistaken. 
 
 " You see," said he, that I am at the bottom of 
 your secret. You know that I have lost all respect for 
 you that I believe you guilty of that which will for 
 ever make me despise you ! hate you ! loathe you ! But 
 I am not willing to sacrifice myself and my chances of 
 a fortune, for any woman ! much less for one so un- 
 worthy as you have proved to be ! "
 
 276 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " Sit down here ! " said he, commandingly, and in a 
 voice which made the blood run cold through her veins. 
 She was powerless to resist. She feared for her life. 
 There was the fierceness, of a demon in his countenance. 
 She seated herself at the table where he pointed. " Take 
 your pen," continued he, " and write what I shall dictate." 
 
 She did as told, without seeming to know what she 
 was doing, and penned to his dictation the following 
 letter, and addressed it to William Hastings : 
 
 " : You will please return all the letters 
 
 which you have of mine. It is wrong for me to cor- 
 respond with you ; and I now feel that I have been 
 guilty, very guilty, in ever permitting myself to be led 
 astray by you. There are sacred duties which I owe to 
 my husband and, God helping me, I will in future 
 discharge them faithfully. When I think of my own 
 guilt of how we have both deceived Walter, I lose 
 all self-respect, and my esteem for you is very much les- 
 sened. I once had thought myself and you above such 
 deception; but like many others, my eyes have been 
 blinded, and I have been artfully ensnared. I now see 
 and feel the enormity of my guilt, and for the remain- 
 der of my life, I will devote myself to my husband's 
 interests and welfare, and will try to make amends for 
 my inconstancy and ingratitude, bji^^ing a virtuous 
 life. If you have any regard for me left, you will do as 
 I request. I shall be unhappy until the evidence of my 
 guilt is destroyed. I shall never write you again, never 
 see you, neither will I ever read another letter of yours. 
 Send me my letters, I implore, before Walter returns 
 from the South. I fear and am troubled, until I have 
 them in my possession. I shall expect them immedi- 
 ately after you shall have read this. 
 
 " Wednesday, , 18 . ."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 277 
 
 Belmonte posted this letter on the next morning, and 
 also sent the chain and locket which he had taken from 
 his wife's neck, to Hastings by express. During the 
 day he left Mrs. Belmonte alone, telling her that he was 
 going a few miles away from the village. But, instead 
 of doing as he said, he went to a public-house which 
 commanded a view of the post-office and watched at- 
 tentively to see if Mrs. Belmonte would go to it to post, 
 or receive a letter. He had not been there long when 
 he saw her drop a letter into the letter box and hurry 
 away. As soon as she was out of sight he went and 
 inquired for a letter, which he said his wife had just 
 dropped into the letter box. " I wish to take it out, and 
 make some alterations and corrections before it goes," 
 said Belmonte. The postmaster, being well acquainted 
 with him, immediately handed him the letter, which she 
 had written and directed to Hastings. He opened it, 
 and read : 
 
 " DEAREST WILLIAM, I am delirious with fear and 
 excitement ! He is here ! He compelled me to write 
 you a letter to-day ! He came here unexpectedly, and 
 has read all your letters ! I am almost distracted ! I 
 know not what I am doing ! If he knew that I was 
 writing you this letter, he would kill me ; I know he 
 would ! I am r^Jned for ever ! Oh, pity me, William ! 
 for it has been for you that I have risked life, reputa- 
 tion, every thing ! I shall not dare to write you again. 
 You must not write me. He would intercept your let- 
 ters. I know not what will become of me ! I love you, 
 as I always have and shall ; but in doing so I make 
 myself wretched miserable ! Would that I were 
 dead ! I have no desire to live longer. Oh, pity and 
 forgive my weakness ! I fear him, and know not what 
 24
 
 278 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 he will do in revenge ! I .am wild with apprehension. 
 Do not blame me, William. 
 
 " I am ever thine, 
 
 " CORNELIA." 
 
 This letter he destroyed, nor did he ever tell Mrs. 
 Belmonte that it had been intercepted. He waited 
 anxiously until the time had passed when he might rea- 
 sonably expect the return of his wife's letters. He then 
 became impatient, and feared that Hastings would not 
 send them. " If," thought he, " the hypocrite ascertains 
 that I am here, and that I know of his intimacy with 
 Cornelia, I must then call him to an account for his vil- 
 lany ; but if he does not know this, I will not make the 
 matter public. Revenged I will be, though ! and that, 
 too, in the most effectual and deadly way ! I cannot 
 willingly, however, lose reputation and fortune simply 
 to make myself a cuckold in society. No, I will save 
 myself, but deal death-blows to them! Those letters 
 should have been here ere this. I fear he suspects me 
 of having a hand in Cornelia's last love-letter. It cer- 
 tainly was a very cool document, and, I doubt not, very 
 unlike those she has previously sent him! Ugh! I 
 could wring her heart's blood out, for such detestable 
 treachery and apostasy ! If this matter is made public, 
 I will then be the devil that Ifeell ^ffhey shall both 
 suffer the tortures of the rack, if I liave the power 
 thus to torment them ! They shall know that Walter 
 Belmonte has the courage to redress such damnable 
 wrong ! I will be 
 
 ' Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell ! ' " 
 
 Thus did he rave and reason while impatiently wait- 
 ing to receive further evidence of his wife's inconstancy.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 279 
 
 At one time, he would be as cool and politic as the wily 
 Robespierre at another, as headstrong, reckless, and 
 impetuous as Benedict Arnold. The letters at last 
 came, and he opened and read them all muttering 
 death threats as he did so. " I will follow him to the 
 ends of the earth, if necessary, to be revenged on him ! 
 Neither earth nor heaven shall deprive me of the satis- 
 faction I seek." 
 
 When Hastings read the letter which Belmonte had 
 compelled his wife to write, he was naturally startled^ 
 not so much on his own account, but he feared for 
 Mrs. Belmonte. He believed that Belmonte had gone 
 to where she was, instead of going South. He had 
 received the locket which he had given her. " She 
 would not have sent it to me, unless compelled to do 
 so," thought Hastings. " How should Belmonte know 
 that I have letters of hers, unless he has read those 
 which I have written to her ? I will return them, though, 
 because she demands them. I cannot refuse to do as 
 she asks, although I believe it would be much better to 
 burn them. I must obey her request, because it is her 
 request. There is no alternative." Thus thought Hast- 
 ings, as he sealed and directed the package of letters 
 which Mrs. Belmonte had written to him. " I will go 
 and see her, though," muttered he ; "I will know what 
 her wishes are from her own lips. I will encounter the 
 cowardly, politic villain, and afford him an opportunity 
 of being revenged ! I will see her, despite all his efforts 
 to prevent me ! ' I have long li ved for her, and her 
 alone ! I have just fried to save her from the disgrace 
 and mortification of her worthless husband's bank- 
 ruptcy ! I must and will know her wishes from her 
 own lips ! I will give him any satisfaction which his 
 cowardly heart may demand ! " Hastings was intensely 
 excited. He believed that his intimacy with Mrs. Bel-
 
 280 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 monte was known to her husband. There was no safe 
 way of communicating with her. He resolved, there- 
 fore, to meet the danger on the threshold, and take the 
 consequence of his own indiscretion and misdeeds. In 
 accordance with this resolution, he set out the very next 
 day for the village where Mrs. Belmonte was stopping. 
 The particulars of his adventurous visit will be the sub- 
 ject of the next chapter.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 LATE on Saturday night a stage-coach drove up to a 
 nail country inn, not far from the village where Mrs. 
 Belmonte was stopping. William Hastings, the only 
 passenger in it, alighted and went into the house. A 
 man, with nothing on save a shirt and pair of panta- 
 loons the latter held up by one suspender rose 
 from a rug on the floor and lighted a tallow candle. 
 The pale, flickering light disclosed a rudely constructed 
 counter, behind which were two shelves filled with hah 
 empty bottles of pale liquor, dirty tumblers, tobacco- 
 pipes, cigar-boxes, etc. Hastings walked up to the 
 gaping and yawning man, who now stood rubbing his 
 eyes behind the counter, and said : 
 
 " Can I have lodging here until to-morrow morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Well, I reckon as how you can," answered the man 
 with the one suspender, in a drawling tone. " But you 
 will have to sleep two in a bed. Let me see," added 
 he, yawning again, " there is Joe Sikes ; you can sleep 
 with him the other beds are full. Joe will let you 
 have part of his'n." 
 
 " But can't you give me a room to myself? " 
 
 " I 'm sorry, stranger, but it can't be helped there is 
 no room but Joe's. He is a mighty fine fellow, is Joe, 
 24 * ( 281 )
 
 282 THE CKOOKED ELM ; 
 
 and he won't mind it a mite. He is monstrous quiet, 
 too." 
 
 " I prefer sleeping alone. Can't I have a bed here 
 on the floor ? " 
 
 " There 's none for you, stranger. Won't you have 
 suthen to drink ? " 
 
 At this point in their conversation the driver came in. 
 
 " Yes," answered Hastings, " have you good brandy ? " 
 
 " The genuine stuff, sir ! None of your tarnal ' rot- 
 gut!"' 
 
 Hastings invited them both to drink an invitation 
 which they accepted most willingly each emptying 
 almost a tumbler full of the pale liquor. Hastings took 
 advantage of the occasion, and emptied his tumbler on 
 the floor. In paying for the drinks, he gave the man a 
 one dollar bill, and refused to accept of any change. 
 
 " Is there no way," again asked he, " by which I can 
 be accommodated with a room to myself? " 
 
 Hastings thought he saw the driver and the man 
 behind the bar exchange looks of intelligence. 
 
 " If you must have a room all to yourself, I suppose 
 you must ; so there 's the end on 't. Joe must come 
 down and sleep in the bar." 
 
 Joe was soon brought down, but he came muttering 
 discontentedly : " He must be mighty stuck up to want 
 a bed all to hisself I am just as good as he is and 
 I am satisfied with half a bed. These are gittin' to be 
 'tarnal queer times, when a poor man is n't as good as a 
 rich man, or when plain clothes is n't equal to broadcloth. 
 I think no man should be above sleepin' two in a bed. 
 Them 's my sentiments." Hastings gave him a piece 
 of money, which he readily accepted, and walking up 
 to the counter, took a tumbler half full of liquor out 
 of it to begin with. Hastings' curiosity was a little 
 excited by the frequent looks of intelligence which
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 283 
 
 were interchanged between the driver and the man be- 
 hind the bar. He saw them look at his valise, but he 
 was too tired and troubled to remain longer with them, 
 and, repairing to the room which Joe had just vacated, he 
 spread the clothes over the bed, and after locking the 
 door securely threw himself down without undressing. 
 He was feverish and almost exhausted from travel, and 
 lay uneasy, tossing himself from side to side on the bed, 
 and in vain trying to close his eyes in sleep. Somnus 
 refused to relieve him of his troubled thoughts. When 
 he left the bar-room, the man behind the counter said to 
 the driver : 
 
 " Mike, that 's Mr. Hastings. Did n't you see the let- 
 ter H. on his valise ? " 
 
 " I seed it," said Mike. " It 's him, and no mistake. 
 He 's a 'tarnal fine fellow, be he who he may ; for he 
 treated me afore I started, and then agin when I got here. 
 He 's somebody, he is." 
 
 Which of us, Mike, shall go and tell Mr. Belmonte ? 
 You know we promised to go and tell him as soon as he 
 came. He's Belmonte 's friend." 
 
 Won't it do as well in the mornin' ? " asked Mike. 
 " I don't see the use of being in such a tarnation hurry." 
 
 " But, Mike, you know we promised to go and tell him 
 as soon as he came ? " 
 
 " Well, let 's toss cents to see who shah 1 go," said Mike. 
 " I 'm mighty sleepy ! I don't see why Mr. Belmonte 
 should be in such a 'tarnal hurry, and then he told us 
 to say nothing about it. I reckon he wants to give him a 
 surprise. He said, you know, that he was an old friend 
 of his'n." 
 
 They tossed coppers, and Mike won. They drank 
 together, and the man with the one suspender put on his 
 hat, and started on his errand. 
 
 Belmonte had thought that Hastings might come on
 
 284 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 to see his wife, and he had taken this precaution to 
 guard against any sudden surprise. 
 
 When morning came, Hastings got up, and, washing 
 himself in a small tin basin which stood on the floor, pro- 
 ceeded to perform his toilet, as well as he could, before 
 descending to the breakfast table. He could eat nothing 
 appetite had fled. He inquired of the landlord the 
 way to the village of . 
 
 " You will follow the river down on the opposite side," 
 said the landlord, " about three miles ; that will bring 
 you there." 
 
 Hastings, thanking him, paid his reckoning, and set out 
 for the village as directed. 
 
 It was Sabbath morning, one of those beautiful, 
 quiet, sunny mornings, which are never witnessed save 
 in the country. Sunday is always a different, a more 
 hallowed day, than any other of the week ; but when it 
 is accompanied by pleasant skies, warm and sunshiny 
 weather, green woods and fields, together with a delight- 
 some country atmosphere, it throws around man an in- 
 fluence for good unknown to all other days. Hastings 
 crossed the river and followed the road, which soon led 
 him through a thick wood, close along on the bank of 
 the dark and shaded water below him. There was a 
 stillness in all around which was almost oppressive. 
 No sound could be heard, save the occasional chirping 
 of a bird, or the ripple of the water as it fell over the 
 stones. The leaves on the surrounding trees were not 
 ruffled by even a breath of air. All nature seemed to 
 be keeping this general day of rest. As Hastings walked 
 slowly along under the thick shade, he became thought- 
 ful and meditative. He was about to take a desperate 
 step, and one that he would condemn in another. At 
 length he seated himself on a log that lay close to the 
 river, and fell naturally into a spirit of reverie. His
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 285 
 
 mind wandered back to the days of his boyhood. He 
 remembered the time when he first met the beautiful 
 Cornelia at Saratoga ; he thought of his marriage with 
 Ida Linwood, of her sudden death, and of the loss of his 
 child. These and more came into his mind, and he felt 
 that Ms life had been filled up with disappointments and 
 blasted hopes. As he sat thus, swallowed up in thought, 
 he heard Jhe village bell as it tolled the villagers to the 
 house of God. " Perhaps," thought he, " Cornelia is now 
 among those who are obeying its summons. Little does 
 she think that I am so near. Little does she dream that 
 she will see me before night. But had I not better wait 
 here in these woods until night, before I go to the vil- 
 lage ? If I go to the house where she is at once, I may 
 not see her at all. Belmonte might see me, and that 
 would frustrate ah 1 my plans. I will wait here until 
 nightfall." He got up, thinking to walk a little way 
 from the road, so as not to be seen by those who might 
 chance to pass. He walked a few hundred rods further 
 down the river, and was turning into a thick wood, when 
 he saw seated before him, Belmonte. He had time to 
 look at him only a moment, when their eyes met. From 
 Belmonte's flashed rage and resentment from Hast- 
 ings' cool determination. Belmonte sprang to his feet 
 and rushed towards Hastings, but stopped when within 
 a few feet of him. 
 
 " Villain ! " cried he, fiercely, " how dare you insult me 
 by your presence again ! " 
 
 " I thought you were in the South," answered Hast- 
 ings, ironically. " I came here to see one more worthy." 
 
 " Hypocrite ! Dastard ! Take that ! " replied Belmonte, 
 in a storm of passion, as he pulled a revolver from his 
 pocket and fired it at Hastings. 
 
 He missed his aim ; and Hastings, rushing up to him, 
 commenced a struggle for the weapon. They were
 
 286 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 close on the bank of the river. Belmonte was yielding 
 ground; Hastings had already taken the pistol from 
 him, and thrown it into the water. The struggle con- 
 tinued; Belmonte drew a knife, and raised his hand 
 to plunge it into Hastings. His foot tripped, however, 
 before the blow could be struck, and they both fell over 
 the bank. The fall separated them. Belmonte got up 
 and walked away, saying as he did so : 
 
 " You will hear from me soon, in a manner that will 
 teach you that I know how to revenge an insult ! " 
 
 " Why not teach me the lesson now, coward ! " an- 
 swered Hastings, determinedly. He made no reply ; but 
 left the wood and Hastings to themselves. " This is 
 unfortunate," muttered Hastings, as soon as he was 
 alone. " I fear it will deprive me of seeing her alto- 
 gether. But, now that he knows I am here, I care not 
 for consequences. I will go and see her this very night! 
 Did I not know how utterly unworthy he is of her, I 
 would trouble him no more. As it is, I will see her or 
 die attempting it ! " That night Hastings went to the 
 house where he learned that Mrs. Belmonte was staying, 
 and rung the bell. It was answered by the lady of the 
 house. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Belmonte in ? " inquired Hastings. 
 
 " No, they left here about an hour ago." 
 
 " Can you tell me where th* ey went ? " 
 
 " Mr. Belmonte said he was going back to the city 
 that important business called him away. May I in- 
 quire your name, if you please ? " said she. 
 
 " William Hastings." 
 
 " Oh ! I have often heard Mrs. Belmonte speak of 
 you. Will you walk in, Mr. Hastings ? " 
 
 He accepted the invitation thus cordially given, and 
 remained talking with her for some time. He learned 
 all that he could of what had taken place. She told
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 287 
 
 him when Belmonte had come there so unexpectedly, 
 and many other things which Hastings sought to know. 
 When he had learned all that he wished, he left, ex- 
 pressing his regret at not finding those whom he had 
 purposely come to see. She was very sorry at his dis- 
 appointment, and pressed him hard to remain all night ; 
 but he declined, thanking her kindly for her politeness. 
 He returned at once to the city, and remained there 
 several days. He sent a messenger to Belmonte's 
 office, and learned that Belmonte had gone to a small 
 village in Michigan, on the St. Clair River. He at once 
 set out for the place ; and after two days' travel arrived 
 there just at dusk, and by inquiring learned where Bel- 
 monte was stopping. He then went to his room and 
 wrote the following letter : 
 
 " DEAREST CORNELIA : I am stopping at the 
 
 Hotel. I have come here to see you. I received your 
 letter demanding the return of your letters. I could not 
 I can not believe that you wrote it voluntarily. I 
 have much to say to you I must see you at least once 
 more ! I must know, dearest Cornelia, from your own 
 lips, what your wishes are. I will then obey them to 
 the letter. Can you not appoint a meeting where we 
 will be undisturbed by him ? I will not write more now. 
 I have seen the servant where you stop, and have em- 
 ployed her to give you this. You can trust her in 
 any thing. Write one word, telling me how and when 
 I can see you, and hand the letter to the servant. It 
 will come to me safely. I am dying with impatience to 
 see and talk with you ! I await an answer, I have 
 learned that Belmonte is not at home. 
 
 Ever your WILLIAM." 
 
 The servant handed this letter to Mrs. Belmonte, as
 
 288 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 directed. She glanced over its contents eagerly, and 
 for the moment forgot all else save the fact that her 
 lover was in the same village with herself. She seized 
 her pen and wrote : 
 
 " I am so much rejoiced, William, that you are here ! 
 I will meet you in the garden at the back of the house, 
 close by the little gate which you will see. Walter is 
 not here, he will be absent until to-morrow. I will be 
 there at ten or eleven o'clock. A thousand thanks for 
 coming to see me ! I am delirious with excitement ! I 
 long for the hour to come when I can tell you all that 
 has happened ! Be sure to be at the back gate at ten 
 o'clock. CORNELIA." 
 
 She hastily folded what she had written and gave it 
 to the servant, and waited anxiously for all in the house 
 to retire. It seemed to her as if they never would go to 
 their bedrooms. She walked up and down the stairs 
 leading to her room at least a dozen times, telling them 
 all how very sleepy she was. She looked at her watch, 
 yawned, and in every way possible tried to hurry them 
 off to their beds. At length the lights were extinguished, 
 and the house was quiet. Mrs. Belmonte immediately 
 stole from her room, and crept as noiselessly as possible 
 down the stairs and out of the back door. She then 
 glided through the garden to the point' indicated in her 
 letter. Hastings was there. She threw herself into his 
 arms, exclaiming, in a suppressed but passionate voice, 
 " William ! " They stood in silence for some time, 
 locked in each other's embrace. Each felt an over- 
 flowing joy that no words can express, no hearts know, 
 save their own. It was the meeting of anxious hearts, 
 long bound to each other by the indissoluble and inde- 
 structible bonds of love.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 289 
 
 " Oh, William! I am so rejoiced to see you again! 
 I had begun to think that we should never meet ! " 
 " You did not doubt me, Cornelia ? " 
 " No ; but Walter says I must leave the country with 
 him for Europe in two weeks' time." 
 
 They walked into another part of the garden, and 
 seated themselves behind some shrubbery, where they 
 were concealed from view. The moon shone brightly, 
 and Hastings saw the unnatural pallor of Mrs. Bel- 
 monte's cheeks. She looked troubled and unhappy, 
 although for the moment a melancholy pleasure rested 
 upon her countenance. " William," said she, as she 
 looked lovingly into his eyes, " I have prayed for this 
 hour, that I might see and talk with you once more. 
 I am so happy that my prayer is answered!" He 
 pressed her to his bosom, and said : 
 
 " Cornelia, why did you write me that cold let- 
 ter?" 
 
 " He made me write it. Did you get the other one 
 that I wrote ? " 
 
 " No ; I got no other." 
 
 " Then he must have intercepted it," said she, with a 
 slight expression of fear in her countenance. 
 
 " Well, Cornelia, let us say no more of the past 
 let us speak of the future." 
 
 " The future is a dark blank to me ! " answered she. 
 " There is no hope left of happiness. Despised by my 
 husband, and cut off from all that I hold dear, I can 
 only look forward to the grave as the termination of a 
 life of sorrow ! " 
 
 " You must not think so despondingly, dearest. We 
 do not know what changes may come ? " 
 " I know there is no happiness left for me." 
 " Do you wish, Cornelia, to leave him ? If you do, I 
 25
 
 290 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 will be your protector, and will too gladly serve you in 
 every wish." 
 
 " No, William ! much as I should rejoice to go with 
 you, I cannot. I have a mother and father and friendb, 
 I cannot disgrace them. I must not bring a stain 
 upon their name. No ! I must not do that. You know 
 how much I love you ! how I have ever loved you, since 
 we first met ! I would give up all, and go with you to 
 the ends of the earth, were it not for my relatives and 
 friends ! You will not ask me to injure them by leav- 
 ing my husband ? " 
 
 " I cannot ask you to leave him," said Hastings. " I 
 know the obstacles in the way. I can only offer my 
 life in your service, whenever you may find it of use to 
 you." 
 
 They sat together until an early hour. Day was just 
 beginning to dawn. The hour when they must separate, 
 perhaps forever, had already come. 
 
 " Dearest," said Hastings, " do you know that day is 
 dawning ? " 
 
 " Oh, do not speak of going, William ! I shall die, if 
 separated from you ! " 
 
 " This night's happiness," said he, " will compensate 
 me for the life of banishment that I must endure, in 
 being deprived the bliss of your society." 
 
 " Oh do not go ! do not leave me ! " said she, in an 
 agitated and tremulous voice. 
 
 " Will you go with me ? Say but the word, and we 
 will never separate ! " 
 
 " I must not. But do not leave me." 
 
 She was almost wild at the thought of parting with 
 him. It grew lighter and lighter. Never before had 
 day seemed to displace darkness so rapidly. Mrs. Bel- 
 monte nerved herself as well as she could ; and, with
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 291 
 
 pledges of fidelity and lasting love, and with tears 
 wrung as it were from her sorrowing heart, they took 
 a last, fond embrace. What a world of happiness and 
 misery in that one moment. 
 
 "' Remember, dearest Cornelia," said Hastings, as he 
 pressed her to him convulsively, " that while I live my 
 life is at your command. I shall always think of you 
 as I now do, and regret the cruel fate that separates us." 
 
 " I know not," said she, " what I may be compelled 
 to do hereafter but when you are gone and while I am 
 li ving ; I wish you to think and know that I am what 
 you see me now, wholly and entirely devoted to you. 
 Do not for a moment doubt my love." 
 
 " Good-by, Cornelia ! May God bless and protect 
 you ! " He pressed her to him their lips met. 
 Another moment, and Hastings had gone. Mrs. Bel- 
 monte watched him until he passed from her sight, and 
 then, with the full realization of her desolate and for- 
 lorn situation, she returned noiselessly to the house and 
 regained her room. That morning Hastings went down 
 to the little steamer that lay at the wharf, and took pas- 
 sage for home. He looked as he passed the house where 
 Mrs. Belmonte was, and saw her at an upper window, 
 watching the boat as it moved away. They recognized 
 each other each waved a white handkerchief. The 
 boat soon disappeared, and Mrs. Belmonte retired to ner 
 room to weep over her heart-breaking sorrows ; and 
 Hastings went to his state-room to think over the strange 
 incidents of the last fortnight. He had eaten nothing, 
 scarcely, neither had he slept much, since he had re- 
 ceived the letter which Mrs. Belmonte had been com- 
 pelled to write him. Entirely exhausted and worn-out, 
 he at last fell into a feverish sleep. In his dreams he 
 saw Mrs. Belmonte pale and trembling, as she in fear 
 obeyed the commands of her husband. Again he strag-
 
 292 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 gled with Belmonte, and again was he seated beside 
 his Cornelia. He soon awoke, however, to feel the des- 
 olation of all his previgus hopes. 
 
 Mrs. Belmonte remained in her room all that day. 
 She saw no light to cheer or guide her in life's dark 
 path. How desolate must be the life of a woman 
 united to a man whom she does not love, and how 
 more than desolate must she be, if she loves and is 
 loved by another. The question may be asked, " Why 
 does a woman marry a man whom she does not love ? " 
 It is a question easily asked, and one which I will not 
 try to answer. I state it as a fact, however, that many 
 such marriages occur daily. We all know it. It may be 
 a fault of the parties themselves, or of the parents of the 
 parties, or a fault of society. It is a question which I 
 leave with the reader. 
 
 Belmonte, who had been absent with some friends on 
 a fishing excursion, returned home late at night ; and on 
 the next morning set out with Mrs. Belmonte for New 
 York. 
 
 " I wish you," said Belmonte, addressing his wife 
 while seated together on the boat, " to prepare to leave 
 for Europe in less than a fortnight. I am going to leave 
 a place infested with villains and treacherous women ! 
 I will no longer live in a city where honor has no con- 
 trol over either man's or woman's actions. I will leave 
 New York immediately, and as 1 hope forever, as a 
 place of residence." Mrs. Belmonte made no answer 
 to what he said. A settled melancholy rested upon her 
 countenance. She grew more and more pale every day. 
 Her health was fast declining. She was dying of a 
 broken heart. In less than two weeks' time they took 
 passage for Europe. Their friends went down to the 
 wharf to see them off. Hastings had learned when they 
 were to sail, and had selected a spot commanding a
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 293 
 
 view of the vessel in which they were. He saw Mrs. 
 Belmonte ; but she looked in vain for him. He remained 
 gazing at the vessel until it had moved far out into the 
 channel, then turning away he muttered : 
 
 " Cornelia, I pity you from the bottom of my heart ! 
 and am I not to blame for your present unhappiness ? " 
 This thought troubled him, and he continued to repeat, 
 as he returned to his home, " Am I not to blame for it 
 all ? " As he turned the corner of a street, he saw Mrs. 
 Delacy passing him in her carriage. Their eyes met. 
 She too had stood afar off, and watched the vessel as 
 it moved away with Mrs. Belmonte. She was return- 
 ing exultant to her home. She saw Hastings' dejected 
 countenance, and when their eyes met she gave him a 
 look significant of her victory. She was, for the moment, 
 proud and defiant. She was enjoying the unnatural 
 pleasure of a gratified revenge. She had seen Mrs. 
 Belmonte dragged unwillingly away from Hastings. " 1 
 have shown them," thought she, " that I am powerful yet, 
 and that I will not brook a rival, nor submit to insult." 
 Mrs. Delacy still loved Hastings as wildly as ever, and, had 
 he signified a desire to renew friendship with her, she 
 would have been but too delighted. She knew him, 
 however, too well to ever hope to be reinstated in his 
 good opinion, and she lived only to prevent any other 
 from 'enjoying what was forever deprived herself. When 
 she arrived at home, she threw herself exhausted on her 
 bed, and exclaimed : " I can now rest contented ! I 
 have realized the last wish of my heart ! I have seen 
 them separated with my own eyes ! I have sent her 
 adrift, with her amiable husband ! " 
 25*
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 HARRY COLUNGWOOD had been placed by his parents in 
 the family of a clergyman, the father of the principal of 
 the school. There were three other boys about Harry's 
 age in the same family, and attending the same school 
 with him. The clergyman was a very large man, with 
 large feet, large hands, a large head, and a large appetite. 
 He usually wore a large pair of glasses astride his large, 
 fleshy nose, and was in the habit of removing them with 
 his left thumb and forefinger whenever he had any 
 thing of peculiar importance to say to the boys under 
 his charge. His voice was deep and hollow, and seemed 
 to proceed from some far down cavern in the abdominal 
 regions. He seldom laughed, or even smiled, except at 
 his own Latin jokes, which none in the family under- 
 stood save himself. He took great delight in teaching 
 his pupils the beauties and force of the guttural sounds 
 in declamation. It was on the guttural that he prided 
 himself. Those deep, Macbethian, sepulchral tones, 
 were to him the music of the spheres. It was his de- 
 light, when in the pulpit, to startle the weak nerved 
 of his congregation, by hurling at them the denuncia- 
 tions of scripture against the wicked. Frequently 
 would he, in all the perfection of his elocutionary art,
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 295 
 
 make the sinner shake in his seat, as he thundered forth 
 such sentences as these : 
 
 " Woe unto thee, Chorazin ! woe unto thee, Beth- 
 saida !"...." And thou, Capernaum, which art ex- 
 alted unto heaven, shall be brought down to hell!!" 
 The last sentence " shall be brought down to hell " 
 would seem to come up, not from that hadeian region, 
 but from some gloomy, cavernous hollow, concealed be- 
 neath the old man's protuberant waistbands. It was 
 his custom to stand the young hopefuls in his family up 
 in one corner of his study every working-day in the 
 week, and practice them in the useful art of declama- 
 tion. Passages from the ghost scene in Hamlet, and 
 other like productions, were favorites with him on such 
 occasions. The old dominie had a wife the very oppo- 
 site of himself. She was tall and thin, and as shrivelled 
 up as a dried apple. Her voice was squeaky and sharp ; 
 her face thin, sharp, and long; and her nose was so 
 thin, that when it was between one and daylight it was 
 almost transparent. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet 
 seemed to be of the same piece with her body, all of 
 which were slender, lank, and long. Indeed, the gut- 
 tural proclivities of her husband seemed to have shaken 
 all the flesh from her bones. She was, in short, a living 
 and breathing testimonial of the force and effect of the 
 guttural system of elocution. These twain had two 
 children, one the principal of the school, a man about 
 twenty-five years old, the other a lad of thirteen. The 
 former possessed nothing peculiar, either in character or 
 look, from other men. He was about an equal mixture 
 of his parents, having the sharp nose of his mother, 
 and the guttural voice of his father. He was excessively 
 attached to the system of elocution which his father 
 had with so much pains drilled into him. He prided him- 
 self in being able to make all his pupils brilliant young
 
 296 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 orators. The latter was peculiarly his mother's child. 
 He was the counterpart of herself, and all the old man's 
 efforts to teach him the beauties of the guttural tones of 
 voice were useless; his voice would squeak, and all 
 attempts to bring it up from lower down in his throat 
 than his shirt collar, were futile. It was all " Love's 
 labor lost." 
 
 The clergyman's name was Doremus Babblington; 
 but the boys, the irreverent rascals, used to call him, 
 when by themselves, " Old Babble." To Mrs. Babbling- 
 ton they gave the soubriquet of " Old Mrs. Babble," 
 old being prefixed in both cases to distinguish them 
 from the principal of the school and his wife. When 
 Harry was first left in this family, the three boys men- 
 tioned were absent spending vacation. He therefore nat- 
 urally enough felt lonesome and homesick until they re- 
 turned. Indeed, he would have given any tiling he had, 
 or ever expected to have, could he have been back again 
 at his home in Virginia. Five long and dreary days 
 did he pass with these three specimens of the genus 
 homo; and, to tell the truth, he thought them the queer- 
 est trio that he had ever looked upon. He was far gone 
 with the blues, and was thinking seriously of setting 
 out for home on foot, when the boys, who had been 
 absent, came back. They had been there one term al- 
 ready, and had been initiated into the peculiarities of 
 the place. The night after they returned, one of them, 
 a tall, generous-faced, and good-looking lad, went to 
 Harry and invited him to go with him into his room. 
 Harry gladly accepted the invitation, and when they 
 went in they found the other two boys there. 
 
 " My name," said the tall boy, addressing Harry, " is 
 Charles Willington, but the boys call me Charley. What 
 is your name ? " 
 
 " Harry Collingwood."
 
 OR, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 297 
 
 I like that name," said Charley. " I always did like 
 Harry, and I am sure I shall like you." " This," con- 
 tinued he, " is Richard Evans. We always call him 
 Richard the Third, or Dick. This is George Washing- 
 ton Jackson Smith," said he, introducing Hariy to a 
 pale, thin boy, who seemed weighed down by the great- 
 ness of his name. " We always," said Charley, " call 
 him Wash, for shortness. So now you know us all. 
 Where do you live, Harry ? " 
 
 " In Virginia." 
 
 " Virginia ? " queried Charley. " Virginia ? where 
 is Virginia, Wash. Smith ? " 
 
 " It is one of the States south of the Ohio River," 
 answered young Smith. 
 
 " Oh ! I recollect," said Charley. " It is that yellow 
 State on the map. Oh, yes ! I know now. That 
 must be a pleasant country, Harry ? " 
 
 " It is very pleasant," said Harry. 
 
 " Do you like almonds, Harry ? " asked Charley, as he 
 went to his trunk to unlock it. 
 
 " Yes, I am very fond of them." 
 
 " How fortunate ! " exclaimed Charley. " I have some 
 here in my trunk. Cousin Lib put them up for me ! " 
 As he said this, he took from his trunk a large paper of 
 almonds and distributed them among his *ompanions, 
 giving Harry a large portion. He was the same lad 
 who carried Miss Leighton's letter to Hastings, on the 
 snowy morning described in a previous chapter. When 
 they had eaten the almonds, Harry remembered the 
 cake which Aunt Rose had put up for him, and he went 
 to his room and got it. 
 
 " Here," said he, as he came back, " is a pound-cake 
 that Rose put in my trunk. Do you like pound-cake, 
 Charley?" 
 
 Charley answered affirmatively, and taking the cake
 
 298 THE CKOOKED ELM ; 
 
 from Harry cut it up with his pocket-knife ; and they 
 all feasted on the good things before them. 
 
 " Is Rose your cousin, Harry ? " inquired Charley. 
 " You said Rose gave you this cake." 
 
 " Oh, no ; Rose is one of father's slaves. She is very 
 good." 
 
 "Oh! I didn't know but that she was your cousin 
 I have got a cousin Lib, and she torments my life out 
 She thinks that I was mader for no other purpose than 
 to carry her messages and run on errands. I '11 tell you 
 what ! I am getting too old to be ordered about by 
 her; and when I go back home, I'll just tell her so, too. 
 I'll tell her to carry her own messages. I am glad, 
 Harry, that Rose is not your cousin." 
 
 George Washington Jackson Smith seldom if ever 
 spoke, except when a question was referred to him, re- 
 quiring more book knowledge than the others were 
 master of. He was the best scholar of the three, and 
 was liked by Charley and Dick, because he was a very 
 kind-hearted and generous boy. Richard Evans, or 
 " Richard the Third," was noted for his powers of dec- 
 lamation. He seldom talked much, save when he was 
 posted in the corner of old Mr. Babblington's study. 
 
 " Harry," said Charley, as they sat eating the pound* 
 cake, " has Old Babble been teaching you the guttural 
 yet?" 
 
 " No," answered Harry ; " what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, you see, Harry, he stands us up in one corner 
 of his room and makes us speak from way down in our 
 throats ; this he calls the Guttural System.' Isn't it 
 a queer name, Harry ? You ought to hear Richard the 
 Third come down on the guttural ! Dick, show Harry 
 how you do it." 
 
 Dick stood up as requested, and commenced in as 
 deep a voice as possible :
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 299 
 
 " Now is the winter of our discontent 
 Made glorious summer, by this son of York." 
 
 When he had gone through the whole soliloquy, as 
 taught him by Mr. Babblington, Charley cried out : 
 
 " What do you think of that, Harry ? That is what 
 Old Babble calls the guttural. Dick has the system to 
 perfection. Have you seen Squeaking Jimmy yet ? " 
 inquired Charley. 
 
 " No ; " answered Harry, " what do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean Old Babble's weazen-faced boy. They 
 call him a a t tradegy. Is that the word, 
 Wash?" 
 
 " A prodigy," answered young Smith. 
 
 " Yes, prodigy ; that is the word. They say he is a 
 prodigy in book-learning, Harry; but I don't believe 
 he is better than Wash Smith ; for Wash knows as 
 much as any one need know." 
 
 " I have seen him," said Harry ; " he is a slim fel- 
 low." 
 
 " That is he. Don't he look for all the world like 
 Death in the Primer ? Old Babble won't let him come 
 to our rooms, neither will he let him play with us. You 
 ought to see him practising the system Lord! 
 don't he murder the guttural ! Dick, show Harry how 
 he squeaks." 
 
 Dick got up again, and, gesticulating in an extrava- 
 gant and awkward manner, commenced declaiming in 
 a squeaky, nasal tone of voice, the speech of Moloch, 
 beginning : 
 
 " My sentence is for open war : of wiles 
 More unexpert I boast not " 
 
 They all laughed until their sides ached ; and when 
 he had finished, Charley said : 
 
 That, Harry, is just like him. Dick takes him off
 
 300 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 better than Squeaking Jimmy does it himself. All his 
 speeches are for open war. One would think him an 
 an an who was he, Wash Smith, who whipped 
 aU the world?" 
 
 Alexander." 
 
 " Yes, Harry, one would fancy him a second Alex- 
 ander in the way of fighting. Don't he look like open 
 war! But little people will boast and talk big, you 
 know. Squeaking Jimmy fighting ! Why, Wash 
 Smith could knock him into a cocked hat in no time. 
 Have you seen Old Babble's feet yet ? " 
 
 " No ; what of them ? " inquired Harry, laughing. 
 
 " His boots," said Charley, " are big enough for 
 sleeping apartments for two or three such fellows as 
 Wash Smith. I think Squeaking Jimmy sleeps in 
 one of them every night, along with the big tom- 
 cat." 
 
 At this remark they all laughed, and speculated as to 
 what part of the boot Jimmy's head must occupy. 
 
 "There is old Mrs. Babble," continued Charley; 
 " is n't she a picture ! You ought to see her sit cross- 
 legged, singing psalm tunes. Dick, show Harry how 
 she sings." 
 
 Dick crossed his legs, and with a serio-comic face 
 commenced : 
 
 " From Greenland's icy mountains, 
 From India's coral strand, 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 Boll down their golden sand." 
 
 There was something so ludicrous in the expression 
 of Dick's face, and in his manner and voice while sing- 
 ing, that they all shook their sides again, much to the 
 gratification of Dick, who was not insensible to their
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 301 
 
 praise. Harry thought him a curiosity a perfect 
 wonder, in his way. He never before had seen any 
 one so decidedly funny. 
 
 The boys in old Mr. Babblington's family occupied 
 rooms in a house adjoining the one in which he lived. 
 The lower part was occupied as a recitation-room, and 
 the upper part as their sleeping apartments. They 
 could, therefore, have their own fun without much fear 
 of being disturbed. Harry had already formed a great 
 liking for the three boys. They had effectually dis- 
 pelled his gloomy thoughts and forebodings, and he 
 began to think his prospects not so hopelessly blue as 
 he had at first thought them. At the very outset, he 
 had become well acquainted with them all. He looked 
 upon Dick as a decided genius. Wash Smith he had 
 been taught to think of as one whose head was filled 
 with a prodigious amount of book-learning, and Char- 
 ley Willington was a boy after his own heart. If he 
 could have been any other boy than himself, he would 
 have been Charley Willington. They talked and 
 laughed on the first night of their introduction to Harry, 
 until a late hour. He had made a good impression on 
 the boys, and was at once admitted into their private 
 counsels, and welcomed in all their sports as heartily as 
 though they had known him for years. There were 
 about thirty scholars attending the Babblington school ; 
 but most of them were much further advanced than 
 those under old Mr. Babblington's immediate charge ; 
 and, consequently, did not mingle much with them. 
 Harry, Charley, Dick, and Wash were seldom allowed 
 to mix with the other boys in the school. 
 
 On the first morning of Term, old Mr. Babblington 
 invited the boys in his family into his study, for the 
 purpose of assigning them their lesson, and drilling 
 26
 
 302 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 them in his favorite art. After a few inaugural remarks, 
 usual on such important occasions, he said : 
 
 " Richard Evans, stand up in the corner and declaim 
 Mark Antony's speech. Mind that you give the proper 
 emphasis and accentuation and above all remember the 
 guttural tones in the passages which I marked for you. 
 This," continued he, "is Master Harry Collingwood, 
 from Virginia. Show him now, Master Richard, the 
 system of elocution I have taught you." 
 
 Charley, occasionally, as the old man spoke, looked 
 at Harry and very significantly closed one eye, as much 
 as to say : " Isn't this rich ? You are now about "to 
 be initiated into the system that Dick exemplified the 
 other night in my room." But he only winked, and left 
 Harry to imagine what he would have said, could he 
 have had the opportunity. 
 
 Dick stood up, and began : 
 
 " Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ! " 
 Several times during the delivery of the speech, old Mr. 
 Babblington stopped him, and told him how he might 
 improve certain passages ; nor did he neglect to cast an 
 eye at Harry occasionally, to see how the guttural sys- 
 tem affected him. But Harry had already been so far 
 initiated that he was not particularly astonished. He 
 thought, however, that Dick was a perfect orator, and 
 wondered how he ever had mastered so much of the 
 system in so short a time. He almost envied him. 
 When Dick had finished, Harry was requested to get up 
 and declaim any thing that he knew. 
 
 " Just speak any thing, Master Harry, that you have 
 committed to memory," said the old man, encourag- 
 ingly. Harry thought for a moment, and then said, 
 " I never have learned any thing in my life." 
 
 " Oh, any thing at all, Master Harry," said the old
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 303 
 
 man again, " any verses or poetry that you know, if it 
 is not more than two lines." 
 
 Harry taxed his recollection again, but could think of 
 nothing except the prayer that he had learned when a 
 child, commencing : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep," 
 
 and some verses which Aunt Rose had taught him. 
 He thought that it was not the proper time to repeat 
 the prayer, so as an only alternative he drew upon 
 Aunt Rose, and getting up in the corner which Dick 
 had just vacated, commenced in imitation, as much as 
 he could, of Dick's guttural tones : 
 
 " My ole Massa, he lubs gin, 
 An* der way he drinks it, am a sin." 
 
 This was too much for Charley and Dick. They 
 laughed outright, which so much confused Harry that 
 he broke down, and could get no further than the two 
 lines quoted. Old Mr. Babblington did not laugh, but 
 said, in an encouraging tone of voice : 
 
 " Those lines, Master Harry, which you have just 
 declaimed so well, are somewhat peculiar ; but they 
 serve' as well as any others to develop the art of elocu- 
 tion. It is not the matter, so much as the manner of 
 speaking, which I teach. Those deep, guttural tones, so 
 universally undeveloped in the youth of our country, I 
 bring out into speaking life. Won't you get up again, 
 Master Harry, and declaim something else that you 
 know?" 
 
 Charley looked encouragingly, and whispered in 
 Harry's ear, that he only laughed at the funny words 
 which he had spoken.
 
 304 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " You did charmingly ! " said Charley. " You speak 
 almost as well as Dick." 
 
 Harry was in doubt ; he did not like to be excelled 
 by any one; and more than all he disliked being 
 laughed at. He took the corner again, as a last, desper- 
 ate alternative, and with a determined accent, and 
 coming down stronger than ever on the guttural, be- 
 gan: 
 
 " Black Susan, she fell into de ribber, 
 An' de way she got out I nebber could disciber ; 
 De water it was deep, an' running berry swif " 
 
 Charley, unable longer to resist his risible propensity, 
 burst into an illy suppressed laugh, joined by Dick and 
 Wash. Harry, more confused than ever, returned to 
 his seat. Charley, feeling really sorry for him, and re- 
 gretting that he and Dick had behaved so badly, tried 
 to encourage him. 
 
 " I was only laughing at the words, Harry," whispered 
 he. " They are such funny words." 
 
 Old Mr. Babblington, as sedate as the tones of his 
 own voice, again complimented Harry's delivery. 
 
 " When you have been here one quarter," said he, 
 " you will be as good as Master Richard, than whom 
 I have no better scholar in the school in that interesting 
 branch which I have very significantly and appropri- 
 ately denominated the Guttural System. Harry, you 
 will commit the Soliloquy of Hamlet to memory, so as 
 to declaim it one week from to-day. Master Charley 
 will show you where to find it. I mean the one com- 
 mencing 
 
 Oh, that this, too, too solid flesh would melt ! "' 
 Charley whispered to Harry, as soon as the old man
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 305 
 
 turned his eyes : "I think, Harry, that old Mrs. Bab- 
 ble must have declaimed that speech often ; for her 
 flesh, if she ever had any, has melted and 'resolved 
 i elf into a dew.' " 
 
 This diplomatic manoeuvre of Charley's had the effect 
 to make Harry laugh and receive Charley into favor 
 again. 
 
 That night they all assembled in Harry's room by in- 
 vitation, and Harry took all the good things to eat 
 which Rose had packed away for him out of his trunk, 
 and distributed them among his school-fellows. 
 
 " I say, Harry," began Charley, " how do you like the 
 ' Guttural System ? ' Those were the funniest words! 
 'My ole Massa, he lub gin!'" Here he and 'Dick 
 laughed heartily, but Harry did not feel much like join- 
 ing at first. He soon caught the laughing contagion, 
 however, and joined them in their cachinations over 
 this, his first effort in developing the guttural system. 
 They were all on the best of terms again, laughing and 
 talking, and enjoying themselves generally as much as 
 was possible. 
 
 " Did you notice old Babble's feet to-day ? " inquired 
 Charley. 
 
 " No, I did n't think of them." 
 
 " I,.suppose you were too busy recollecting those fun- 
 ny verses. Just look at them to-morrow, and his hands 
 too ! Dick says they remind him of a land-turtle, belly 
 upwards, save his fingers, which he says are like over- 
 ripe bananas. You ought to hear him preach. Dick 
 is n't to be compared to old Babble on the guttural. 
 He comes down powerfully, and no mistake ! We sit 
 in his pew, along with old Mrs. Babble and Squeaking 
 Jimmy. She sits cross-legged and sings every Sunday, 
 just as Dick did the other night I wish it was Sunday 
 26*
 
 306 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 now, so that you could hear her ! Sometimes, when old 
 Babble is going it strong on the guttural, she groans a 
 little, and sighs, and looks at the end of her nose. Dick 
 says he can read fine print through the tip of her nose 
 on a sunshiny day ; but I doubt that a little." 
 
 As Charley was going on in this strain, they heard 
 some one coming up the stairs, and in a moment they 
 were as still as possible. 
 
 " That is old Babble," whispered Charley. Let us 
 open our books and study, as if for our lives." 
 
 They did as he advised, and when old Mr. Babbling- 
 ton opened the door they were busy preparing their 
 lessons for the next day. He, seeming to think all was 
 right, soon left them. They listened until he stepped 
 down the last stair, and then threw their books aside. 
 
 " Sometimes he 'sends Squeaking Jimmy up here," 
 said Charley. " But I think Jimmy is getting tired of 
 coming to see us. He has not been up here since we 
 played that trick on him. One night," continued Char- 
 ley, addressing Harry, " Jimmy came up here after dark, 
 and the old tomcat followed him without his knowing 
 it. Well, Wash and I got to talking with him, while 
 Dick took the cat into his room and kept it there until 
 Squeaking Jimmy started to return. It was dark he 
 could see nothing, and, just as he stepped into the hall, 
 Dick put a split stick on the cat's tail, which pinched it 
 terribly, and then let it go. Lord! didn't they cut a 
 figure going through the hall ! It would be difficult to 
 say which squeaked the louder. They both tumbled 
 down the stairs in their fright ; the tomcat over Jim- 
 my, and Jimmy over the tomcat. The cat got the stick 
 off its tail somehow, so that we were never found out. 
 Squeaking Jimmy thought it was a ghost, doubtless, for 
 he never has ventured up here since after dark."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 307 
 
 " Were you not afraid that he would hurt himself 
 tumbling down stairs ? " asked Harry. 
 
 " Trust him for that," answered Charley. " He is too 
 light to be hurt from falling. The only danger would 
 be that he might break those pipe-stem legs of his. 
 
 We call them Ms p p pe what is it that we do 
 
 caH them, Wash?" 
 
 " Pedal extremities," said Wash. 
 
 " Yes, that 's it pedal extremities. Are n't they 
 specimens of legs, Harry ? I would much rather have 
 legs than to have all his book-learning, myself." 
 
 Charley one day mentioned Mr. Hastings' name when 
 talking with Harry, and they were each surprised to 
 find that the other knew him. They each liked Mr. 
 Hastings ; and the fact of his being a friend to them 
 both, bound them more closely together as friends than 
 they had hitherto been. They all liked each other, and 
 were as happy as they well could be where the " Gut- 
 tural System " pervaded the whole atmosphere, and 
 entered into all their hours of study and recreation. 
 Charley generally took the lead in conversation, Dick 
 in declamation, Wash in the intricacies of book-knowl- 
 edge, and Harry in the out-door games and sports. If 
 one had any thing good to eat, he always shared it with 
 the rest. Every thing was in common.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HARRY COLLINGWOOD had been at the Babblington 
 s* ftool more than a year. .Another vacation had come, 
 and he, together with Charley, Dick, and Wash, was on 
 the qui vive of excitement. They were, by the consent 
 of their respective parents, going to Dick's father's, dis- 
 tant about one hundred miles, to spend the interim of 
 their studies. The coach in which they had taken pas- 
 sage drove up on the first day of vacation in front of 
 Mr. Babblington's house. Charley was already at the 
 door, valise in hand, waiting for it, and Harry was run- 
 ning about anxiously trying to get Wash Smith ready ; 
 while Dick was silently preparing his own personal 
 effects for the anticipated visit. As the coach came rat- 
 tling up, Charley called out at the top of his voice, 
 
 " Hurry boys! the stage is here ! We will be left be- 
 hind ! I know we will ! I '11 warrant that Dick has n't 
 put on his sky-blues yet! He is always provokingly 
 slow." 
 
 The three ,boys soon came running down stairs, each 
 carrying a carpet-bag in his hand, and looking as lively 
 and joyous as possible. Old Mr. and Mrs. Babblington 
 moved about hurriedly, assisting the boys to get ready, 
 and arranging every thing for their comfort while they 
 should be absent. The old couple had kind hearts, and 
 
 (308)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 309 
 
 liked the boys very much ; besides, they felt a pride in 
 having the Babblington school well represented abroad. 
 At length, after receiving an embrace from old Mrs. 
 Babblington and being kissed all round by her skinny 
 lips, and after shaking the big, fat hands of old Mr. Bab- 
 blington and the little bony fingers of Squeaking Jimmy, 
 the young hopefuls seated themselves in the coach, 
 drawn by four horses, and were rapidly whirled- away 
 from the Babblington school and the ' guttural system. 
 When they started on their journey there were no other 
 passengers in the coach, and in consequence they in- 
 dulged freely in the hilarities which the occasion in- 
 spired. 
 
 " I say, Dick," commenced Charley, as soon as they 
 were fairly away from the house, " how do you like old 
 Mrs. Babble's lips ? She kissed you twice, and the rest 
 of us but once." 
 
 Dick protested that she kissed him but once. 
 
 " I may be mistaken," said Charley, " but I am sure 
 that she hugged you much harder and longer than she 
 did any of us. I am afraid that she squeezed all the 
 guttural out of you." 
 
 " Was n't her nose cold ? " said Dick. " She ran the 
 little end of it into my cheek." 
 
 The coach rolled rapidly on, and they were fast leav- 
 ing the village behind. They looked out and saw the 
 receding houses, and commenced crying out : 
 
 Good-by, old Babble ! Good-by, old Mrs. Babble ! 
 Good-by, Squeaking Jimmy! Good-by, old tomcat! 
 Good-by to the guttural system ! " 
 
 " There," said Charley, as he continued looking out 
 of the window, " we are out of sight of them ah 1 now. 
 Harry, shall we give three cheers for old Mrs. Babble's 
 sunshiny nose ? " 
 
 " Charley," answered Harry, reprovingly, " you ought
 
 310 THE CROOKED ELM*, 
 
 not to make fun of what she cannot help. She is a 
 very good woman." 
 
 " True," said Charley, with affected seriousness, " it is 
 wrong. She would have a nose like other people, if 
 possible, no doubt ; and if she could have one of her 
 own choosing, I dare say she would take one that was 
 warm at the little end, eh, Dick ? " 
 
 " I think," answered Dick, laughing, " that old Babble 
 might spare her a piece of his, and not miss it. Let us 
 give three cheers for old Babble's nose." 
 
 Three cheers were given, according to Dick's sugges- 
 tion, for the old dominie's proboscis ; and on they went, 
 as full of glee and frolic as hopeful parents could rea- 
 sonably expect. After travelling all day and all night 
 they arrived at Dick's father's. Mr. Evans was an itin- 
 erant preacher, and travelled on what he called a cir- 
 cuit ; that is, preaching one day in one neighborhood, 
 and the next day in an adjoining one, and so on until 
 he had completed his circuit and returned to the place 
 whence he had started. In this way he would address 
 the same congregation about once a month. 
 
 The boys had been at Mr. Evans's about a week when 
 he came home. He greeted them heartily, and promised 
 to take them all to a camp-meeting then being held in 
 the immediate neighborhood. None of them had ever 
 been to such a place, and they had great curiosity to 
 see what a camp-meeting was like. They talked of 
 nothing else, scarcely, until the morning when they all 
 set out in a large two-horse wagon for the camp-ground. 
 They arrived there at last, and the four hopefuls were 
 left to themselves to make the. most of their time. The 
 camp, as it was called, was in a thick wood. In one 
 place was erected a platform, made of loose boards, 
 over which was spread a large piece of canvas. This 
 was the preacher's stand. Around and near it were
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 311 
 
 many small tents, some made of logs, others of canvas. 
 In front of the stand were loose boards, benches, etc., 
 for the people to sit upon during the time of preach- 
 ing. There were a great many persons present, of both 
 sexes and of all ages. Charley and his party wandered 
 about, looking at all that was to be seen. In some places 
 they saw men dealing out whiskey ; at others they were 
 selling green corn, watermelons, cakes, cigars, snuff, to- 
 bacco, pumpkin pies, etc., etc. There seemed to "% a 
 mixture of small beer and religion, whiskey-and tracts, 
 for converting the heathen. In short, the* four boys 
 looked upon it as the greatest and most singular meet- 
 ing of any kind that they had ever attended. When 
 they had looked about them for more than an hour, they 
 saw the men and women assembling and seating them- 
 selves on the benches. They followed the example thus 
 set them and took seats together, nearly in the middle 
 of the large concourse of people. They had not been 
 seated long when a large man rose from the long bench 
 on the platform and commanded silence. While he 
 was trying to obtain quiet, several men ascended to the 
 platform, and seating themselves commenced tying large 
 pocket handkerchiefs around their heads, which made 
 them look something Like old women, and something 
 like house slaves in the Southern States. When the 
 benches were all filled, and quiet had been restored, the 
 big man read a hymn, and then re-read it, two lines at a 
 time, and the multitude sung them over after him at the 
 top of then: voices. When they had finished, he com- 
 menced praying in a loud voice, that rivalled even the 
 guttural tones of old Mr. Babblington. He had not 
 been praying long when a big fat man, who had kneeled 
 beside Dick, commenced praying in a very loud voice 
 also, to the utter amazement of old Mr. Babblington's 
 pupils ; and, before the preacher had half finished his
 
 312 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 prayer, at least a dozen men and women, in different 
 parts of the congregation, were shouting and clapping 
 their hands. 
 
 "Dick," whispered Charley, "look at that woman 
 yonder." 
 
 Dick and the other boys looked in the direction 
 pointed out by Charley, and saw a woman jumping up 
 and down, clapping her hands, and shouting in a shrill 
 voic* " Glory to God ! Glory to God ! Praise the 
 Lord ! Pr^se the Lord ! I am going home ! " 
 
 Her crie * at length became fainter and fainter, until, 
 seeming to go off into a regular swoon, she was carried 
 out of the crowd by two men. Other women soon 
 commenced shouting, and kept it up until the preacher 
 had done praying, when after a little soothing and 
 loosening of waistcoat strings they came to their senses 
 again, and the preacher took a text and preached a ser- 
 mon. During its delivery different persons kept crying 
 out, "Praise the Lord! Glory to God! Amen! 
 Lcyrd grant it ! " The four boys were amazed at what 
 they saw and heard, and were half inclined to think the 
 people crazy. When the preacher had finished his 
 sermon he called upon one of the men with a handker- 
 chief tied round his head to pray ; and during the time 
 of his prayer the people shouted and prayed as they 
 had done at the commencement of the services. The 
 big fat man by Dick's side went off, as others had gone 
 off before him, in a regular shout. He seemed to have ex- 
 hausted every other word except Hallelujah; but he 
 repeated this so frequently and loud that he drowned 
 the voices of all the other shouters in his immediate 
 neighborhood. He clapped his thick, fat hands contin- 
 ually as he cried Hallelujah, and finally, from sheer ex- 
 haustion and from over exertion in the heated atmos- 
 phere, he, too, rolled off his seat and was carried from the
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 313 
 
 crowd by four stout men. Charley, taking courage at 
 his removal, said, " Dick, he came the guttural amaz- 
 ingly! did n't he?" 
 
 When the man with the turban had finished praying 
 his loud prayer, and the shouters had shouted all their 
 strength away, a man in the audience commenced sing- 
 ing in a loud, shrill voice, 
 
 " Oh won't you go to glory -with me ? 
 Oh, glory, hallelujah! 
 If you get there before I do 
 Oh glory, hallelujah ! 
 Just tell them I am coming too 
 Oh glory, hallelujah!" 
 
 When he had finished singing a long string of verses 
 similar to the one I have quoted, the man who had 
 preached the sermon stood up and said : 
 
 "During the time of intermission, the brethren will 
 please keep their feet off the benches. I have always 
 noticed," continued he, "that those having the larger 
 and muddiest feet are the ones who walk on the ladies' 
 seats." Charley, Harry, Dick, and Wash, who were stand- 
 ing on a seat at the time, dropped from it as quickly 
 though they had been shot. " The ladies," continued 
 the preacher, "if they have occasion to go into, the 
 woods, will please go to the left of the camp,"-^- 
 pointing his finger in the direction, " and the gentle- 
 men will go to the right. It is to be hoped that no 
 gentleman will break over this regulation and annoy the 
 ladies who have occasion to visit the woods. The 
 brethren will do well also to keep away from the liquor 
 stands ; for they are the temptations of Satan. During 
 the intermission there will be a revival prayer-meeting 
 for the conversion of sinners in brother Pundleton's tent, 
 27
 
 314 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 and also in brother Muddlehead's tent. It is hoped 
 that the praying brethren will be there, as there is a 
 mighty work to be done in this place. The boys will 
 take care not to make a noise on the camp-ground, or 
 smoke tobacco in the tent, especially during the time 
 of prayer." When the preacher had made these an- 
 nouncements, the people dispersed, some to go to the 
 fruit, cake, and liquor stands, and some to go into the 
 woods, both to the right and to the left of the camp- 
 ground. The whole scene was a novel one to old Mr. 
 Babblington's pupils. They never had dreamed that 
 camp-meetings were such queer places. As they 
 walked away, Dick said : 
 
 " Charley, why did he tell the men to go into the 
 woods at the right, and the women to go to the left of 
 the camp-grpund ? " 
 
 Charley thought a moment, but, unable to answer the 
 question, said : 
 
 " Wash, what did he mean ? " 
 
 " I suppose," answered Wash, " that he meant that 
 the women should go one way to eat their luncheons 
 and the men the other." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if that was it," said Charley. 
 " Let us go to the right and eat ours." 
 
 They did as Charley suggested, and soon returned to 
 the camp-ground again. They looked into the tents 
 where they were holding prayer-meetings, and saw men 
 and women jumping up and down, shouting at the top 
 of their lungs. Some were praying for a revival, others 
 for the heathen, and still others for the conversion of the 
 world. General confusion prevailed. Big, burly men 
 lay on their backs shouting, " Glory to God ! " 
 Women, mothers of families, lay in the arms of men, 
 and clapped their hands and cried, " Glory to God ! "
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 315 
 
 Night came at last, and the babel of sounds that 
 reigned during the day was increased. Shouts, yells, 
 praying, preaching, fighting, and drunkenness mingled 
 together in one unharmonious whole. The boys were 
 glad to get back home again. They had seen a regular 
 camp-meeting, one similar, no doubt, to those you 
 may have witnessed, reader, in the Middle and Western 
 States. I do not wish to denounce the motives of those 
 who originate these camp-meetings, but I have no faith 
 in the utility of the meetings themselves. They tend 
 rather to bring religion into disgrace, and to perpetuate 
 a system of things but a little way removed from bar- 
 barism. The boys returned to school, after remaining at 
 Mr. Evans's about two weeks. Their visit was filled 
 with incidents, new and amusing, and they had learned 
 more of the ways of the world in this short time, than 
 they would have done in a year at the Babblington 
 School. A few nights after they had got back, they all 
 assembled in Charley's room. Each tried to surpass 
 the other in ludicrous descriptions of what they had 
 witnessed at the camp-meeting. 
 
 " I say, Harry," said Charley, "wouldn't you like to 
 see old Babble shouting? Wouldn't he make a stir in 
 a small crowd ! Only think, what a noise he would 
 make ! Lord ! would n't he make the tallest kind of 
 a shouter ! He is religious, too ! May be he will give 
 us a turn some of these days. Wash says it is religion 
 that makes people shout, and Wash knows. I should 
 like to see old Mrs. Babble at camp-meeting, and hear 
 her shout, and see her lying in the arms of two or three 
 men. Wouldn't her squeaky voice make them stare! 
 And then, only think of her jumping into the air! 
 Wouldn't her pedal extremities show to advantage! 
 I fancy I see her now, with her hair all flying, and her 
 dress unhooked, just like the woman we saw. Wouldn't
 
 316 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 she be a picture' I should like to see her sit cross- 
 legged and sing : 
 
 " Satan's kingdom's coming down, 
 O glory, hallelujah ! " 
 
 Dick, can't you sing that funny hymn ? " 
 
 Dick took the corner, and rolling his eyes up towards 
 the ceiling in imitation of those whom he had seen 
 sing at the camp-meeting, commenced singing in a loud 
 voice : 
 
 " Where now is the good old Daniel ? 
 Safe in the promised land." 
 
 When he had finished a long string of verses, Charley 
 commenced clapping his hands, and finally fell into 
 Wash Smith's lap, seemingly exhausted. Dick was a 
 natural mimic, and it was a long time before he ceased 
 to amuse the boys by imitating what might probably 
 be called the peculiarities of the camp-meeting. 
 
 There was a large pond of water near the Babbling- 
 ton school, in which all the boys, numbering, as I have 
 before said, about thirty, used to swim nearly every 
 afternoon. Old Mr. Babblington's four pupils used to 
 go into the pond at the same time that the other boys 
 did; but they always kept some distance away from 
 them. One day, as they were all in the pond, a large 
 boy swam up to Wash Smith and put him under 
 water. He was much larger than Wash, and could 
 handle him as he pleased. Harry saw him amusing 
 himself at Wash's expense, and, swimming up to them, 
 told the large boy to let Wash alone. He took no 
 notice, however, of what Harry said, but plunged young 
 Smith under the water again. Harry was no longer 
 able to remain a spectator, but seizing hold of the boy
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 317 
 
 struggled to put him under the water, and finally suc- 
 ceeded in doing so ; but as soon as the large boy came 
 to the top he caught hold of Harry determinedly, and 
 the struggle was continued fiercer than ever. Again 
 Harry succeeded in putting him under. When the boy 
 came to the top the second time, puffing and blowing, 
 he said : 
 
 " I will attend to you when you go on shore." 
 
 " Just as you like," answered Harry. 
 
 When they had dressed themselves and were return- 
 ing to school, the large boy approached Harry and struck 
 nim. Harry returned the blow, and gave the boy a sound 
 thrashing. The other boys gathered around to see the 
 result of the fight, and were much pleased to see Harry 
 come off best. They disliked the large boy, for he was 
 overbearing and rough with them all, especially to those 
 who were physically his inferiors. This incident made 
 Harry quite a lion among them all, and made Wash 
 Smith love him with all his heart for taking his part so 
 gallantly. Charley declared that he should always think 
 more of Harry after that. " For," said he, " that impu- 
 dent George Jones domineers over us as much as 
 though he had a right to do so. Didn't you make him 
 howl, though ! " 
 
 Wash Smith never forgot this generous conduct of 
 Harry's, and often did he afterwards assist him in some 
 of his more difficult studies. I will now leave Master 
 Harry with his three companions, who love him dearly, 
 and with his school-fellows ; who have made him quite a 
 hero since his victory over George Jones, while I return 
 to another branch of this story. 
 
 27*
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " PAPA, why don't everybody speak English ? " 
 " I don't know, my child. Why do you ask ? " 
 " Then we would n't have to study so much to learn 
 how to talk to people." 
 
 " But don't you like to study, Flora?" 
 " Oh, yes. I like to study very much ; but Miss 
 Lishman says there are a great many languages, and 
 that it would take a great while to learn them. She says 
 she don't know them all." 
 
 " It is not necessary to learn all the languages, child." 
 " Is n't it ? I thought I would have to learn them all." 
 " There are several hundred languages altogether, 
 Flora." 
 
 " Oh, dear! I never thought there were so many 
 before. Are they all as easy to learn as French and 
 Italian, papa ? " 
 
 "Some of them are, but not all." 
 " If they were as easy, I could soon learn them ; for 
 Miss Lishman says that I will soon be able to speak 
 both French and Italian well." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so ; for when you grow 
 up you may travel in foreign countries, and then it will 
 be pleasant for you to be able to converse with the peo- 
 ple you meet, and to read their language." 
 
 (818)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 319 
 
 " I should like to go to Italy, papa, for Miss Lishman 
 says they have beautiful sunshiny weather and pleasant 
 skies there. I should like such a country." 
 
 " Perhaps you may go there, some time." 
 
 " Do boys study French and Italian, papa ? " 
 
 " Yes, darling. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I thought it would be pleasant some time to 
 write Harry a letter in French. Do you think Harry 
 will study French ? " 
 
 " I do not know, child." 
 
 " Perhaps he is studying French now. Who knows ? " 
 
 " It is time to go to bed, Flora ; it is growing late." 
 
 " Bon nuit, mon chere pere ! " 
 
 As little Flora said this, she put her arms round 
 Moulton's neck and kissed him; then, taking a candle, 
 she went to her bedroom. 
 
 Moulton had employed Miss Lishman, an excellent 
 teacher and governess, to superintend Flora's education. 
 Flora was learning rapidly every day. New ideas, new 
 views of things, were finding a lodgement in her young 
 and susceptible mind. One day, as Flora and her 
 teacher were sitting in the room set apart for study 
 busily engaged with some needle-work, the following 
 conversation took place : 
 
 " Miss Lishman, did you ever love a little boy when 
 you were young ? " 
 . <<Why, Flora?" 
 
 >* I thought you had, may be ; you sometimes look so 
 sorry." 
 
 " Do you think all people who look sad love little 
 boys?" 
 
 " I don't know ; but I think they would be sad 
 if they loved them very much, and had to leave them." 
 
 " But they don't all have to leave them." 
 
 " You did, though, did n't you, Miss Lishman ? "
 
 320 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 What makes you think so ? " 
 
 " Why, if you had not left him he would have mar- 
 ried you, if he loved you. Harry always told me he 
 would marry me, and I am sure if a little boy had loved 
 you, he would have married you, when you grew to be 
 big." 
 
 " But boys are not all alike, Flora. They may not all 
 be as good as your Harry." 
 
 " I don't think they are. I never thought of that be- 
 fore. Did the little boy you loved, Miss Lishman, look 
 like Harry ? " 
 
 " I have not said that I ever loved a little boy, Flora. 
 Besides, I never have seen your Harry." 
 
 " Oh, this looks just like him," said Flora, as she took 
 Harry's likeness from her bosom and showed it to Miss 
 Lishman. " This is just like Harry, his hair, his face, 
 his eyes, his mouth every thing ! Was your little 
 boy as handsome as that ? " 
 
 " You forget, Flora, that I have not said that I ever 
 loved a little boy." 
 
 " I think you have, though. I think everybody ought 
 to like the little boys. You are very good, Miss Lish- 
 man, and I am sure you liked them when you were 
 little." 
 
 " But do you like all little boys, Flora ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I only Like Harry. Mr. Simpson's boy, 
 who comes here sometimes, I don't like him, I don't 
 see how anybody could like him." 
 
 " May be all the boys whom I knew when I was little 
 were like Mr. Simpson's boy." 
 
 I don't think they could all be as bad. Why, he 
 pinches the cats and dogs, and I saw him yesterday 
 pulling the legs off of flies. Oh, no ! I am sure there are 
 not many boys as bad as he." 
 
 " Well, Flora, we will not talk longer now about the
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 321 
 
 little boys. It is almost time for me to hear your 
 Italian." 
 
 " I have translated all you gave me. Shall I get my 
 book now ? '.' 
 
 ** Yes, get it, and I will hear you recite the lesson." 
 
 Flora got her book, and the two seated themselves 
 together, and read their morning lesson. 
 
 One day, in the middle of summer, Moulton, with 
 Flora and Miss Lishmaii, took a long walk. They fol- 
 lowed the road leading out through the little French 
 village, in the direction of Montmorency Falls. As they 
 walked along through the village, numerous small and 
 ragged children surrounded them and begged for money. 
 Flora had never been that road before, nor had she ever 
 seen children begging. At first she feared them, and 
 kept close to Moulton ; but when she saw how destitute 
 they were of clothing she wished to give them some- 
 thing. She told Moulton so, and he gave her a handful 
 of pennies, which she distributed freely among them. 
 When she had given them all the money she had, 
 they bowed and curtsied, and thanked her over and over 
 again. 
 
 " Merci, merci, petite Mademoiselle ! " was spoken by 
 at least a dozen of the half-clad urchins that surrounded 
 her. 
 
 " Those are very good children, are they not, papa ? " 
 asked Flora, as soon as they had got a little way from 
 the beggar children. 
 
 " I presume they are," answered he ; " but they ought 
 to be taught something mdffe respectable than begging 
 in the streets." 
 
 " But they are poor, papa. I pity poor children." 
 
 " That is right, Flora. We should pity and assist all 
 poor children ; but they should be taught to be industri- 
 ous, and then they would grow up knowing how to
 
 322 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 work, and provide food and clothing for themselves. 
 They would then become useful and good people in so- 
 ciety." 
 
 " Perhaps they have no fathers and mothers to teach 
 them, papa. Do you think they are not good children ? " 
 
 " I presume they are very good. Their fathers and 
 mothers are to blame for letting them grow up in idle- 
 ness. But we must cross the fields here," said Moul- 
 ton, " the ' Natural Steps ' are in those woods you see 
 yonder. Are you not too tired to go to them, Flora ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I am not a bit tired. I wish very much to 
 see the ' Natural Steps.' Miss Lishman says they are 
 very pretty." 
 
 They then turned into the fields, and Flora, with Miss 
 Lishman, ran about from place to place, gathering 
 flowers and admiring every thing new which she saw. 
 Flora was full of life and spirits. She liked the country, 
 for it was there she had spent so many happy hours. 
 They soon reached the great curiosity. A little stream 
 dashing down through the rocks, and filled with white 
 foam, lay before them ; on its banks were shelving rocks, 
 so gradual and regular in their ascent from the stream, 
 that they resembled a regularly constructed stair. Flora 
 ran about from rock to rock in the wild wooded place, 
 with all the gayety and friskiness of a young kid. She 
 was glad to get the fresh air. The charming wildness 
 of the scenery enchanted her young mind. 
 
 " Look there, Miss Lishman ! See how prettily the 
 water dashes down through those rocks ! How easy 
 these steps are to climb ! I can run up them." As she 
 said this, she ran away over the gradually rising stones 
 to show Miss Lishman and Moulton how easily she 
 could climb them. They remained some time in the 
 woods, and then started to return to the city. As they 
 passed back through the French village, the little boys
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 323 
 
 and girls among whom Flora had distributed her money 
 BO bounteously gathered around her and gave her 
 bouquets and flowers of various kinds. She accepted 
 their gifts, and thanked them. The children looked 
 pleased and happy as they saw her walk away with 
 her hands filled with the flowers they had gathered pur- 
 posely for her an evidence that even little beggar- 
 children are not destitute of human hearts. Flora car- 
 ried her flowers home and kept them in water as long 
 as she could, and never has she forgotten the touching 
 little incident between herself and the beggar-children of 
 the little French village. Flora still remembered her 
 grandpapa and her old friend Rover ; but as she grew 
 older her recollection of them became more and more 
 indistinct.- They had an existence in her mind; but 
 they were like the memory of a half-forgotten dream. 
 She recollected the little mound where Rover was 
 buried, and many other things connected with her old 
 home ; but the time when she had lived with her -grand- 
 papa seemed a long way back in the past. Since she 
 had been in Quebec, she had made the acquaintance of 
 a little girl of the name of Eunice Demerge. Eunice's 
 parents were French. She had black hair and eyes, 
 and a very pretty face. In looks she was almost Flora's 
 opposite; yet, the girls liked each other very much, 
 and were together a great deal. M. Demerge was a 
 man of wealth, and had but the one child. He indulged 
 her in all her wants, and took great pains with her edu- 
 cation. When Flora commenced studying French, 
 Eunice assisted her ; and, when Flora had learned more 
 of the language, they would often sit together for hours 
 conversing in French. In this way Flora learned to 
 speak French with a correctness of accent and pronun- 
 ciation seldom acquired outside of Paris. Eunice was
 
 324 THE CKOOKED ELM J 
 
 impulsive, generous, and kind-hearted, and generally 
 took the lead in all their studies and amusements. One 
 day when Flora had gone to see Eunice, who lived but 
 a few doors away, the following conversation took place 
 while walking in the flower-garden. They talked in 
 French. 
 
 " Flora, run here and see this provence rose ! It is just 
 budding. Does n't it look beautiful ? " 
 
 " How pretty ! " exclaimed Flora. 
 
 " I will get mamma to make me a wreath of them to 
 wear to-morrow night. But would n't you like to wear 
 them, Flora?" 
 
 " No, Eunice, I shall like so much to see them in your 
 hair. They will look so pretty with that maize-colored 
 dress." 
 
 " But I had rather you would wear them, Flora. 
 They look so sweet ! " 
 
 " But you know, Eunice, that I am going to wear 
 the wreath of forget-me-nots." 
 
 " Well, Flora, if you won't wear them, I suppose I 
 must, though I had much rather you would." 
 
 There was going to be a children's party at M. 
 Demere're's the next night to celebrate Eunice's birth- 
 day. Eunice and Flora had talked of it for weeks, and 
 had made great preparations for celebrating so important 
 an event. The time came at last, and the little folks, 
 numbering thirty or forty in all, assembled in M. Deme- 
 re're's drawing-room. Eunice, with her maize-colored 
 crape dress, and a wreath made of provence rose-buds, 
 moved about among her young companions, the ob- 
 served of all. Flora, in a simple white muslin dress, 
 and with a wreath of forget-me-nots entwined with her 
 rich auburn hair, rivalled the beauty of her. generous 
 friend, and attracted many admiring eyes by the sim-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 325 
 
 plicity of her manners and the loveliness of her sweet 
 face. Eunice introduced Flora to all her little friends, 
 and soon they mingled together in the merry mazes of 
 the dance. Eunice and Flora led off with two of the 
 rosiest faced boys, and the others followed, and soon all 
 was life, merriment, and glee. After dancing and enjoy- 
 ing themselves generally until a late hour, the party 
 broke up, and the little girls and boys separated for their 
 respective homes, all proud of the characters they had 
 individually personated in celebrating little Eunice's 
 birthday. Flora had enjoyed it immensely, and had 
 taken pride in making it as pleasant a party as she 
 could, for the sake of her much-loved friend. Not 
 many days after the party, Eunice and Flora were 
 sitting on the piazza at the back of M. Demereire's 
 house, when the following conversation took place : 
 
 " Don't you think, Flora, that Willie Delano is very 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " I think he is very good looking ; but he is n't so 
 handsome as Harry." 
 
 "None of them were as handsome as your Harry; 
 but, don't you think he was better looking than any of 
 the other boys at the party ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is good looking, Eunice." 
 
 " But, don't you think he is handsome ? not handsome 
 like your Harry ; but very handsome ? " 
 
 " Perhaps he is." 
 
 Eunice, try all she would, could not get Flora to 
 speak much in praise of Willie. There was but one 
 handsome boy in her estimation, and that was the one 
 whose image she wore next her heart. 
 
 " I should Eke to see your Harry, Flora. Do you 
 think he will ever come here to see you ? " 
 28
 
 326 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 " I think not, for he don't know where I am." 
 
 " But won't you ever tell him where you are ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; perhaps papa would n't like to have 
 me write to him." 
 
 " How queer ! " exclaimed Eunice. " I should think 
 he would like to have you write to so good a boy. I 
 know I shall like him if I ever see him." 
 
 " I know you will," said Flora, with eyes sparkling 
 " He is oh ! such a fine boy ! " 
 
 " When you marry Harry, won't you come and live 
 here, Flora? It will be so nice! I will go .and stay 
 with you all day, and we will have so much fun ! We 
 will have parties, and we will oh, I don't know what 
 we won't have ! " 
 
 " I shall like to have you live with us, Eunice, it will 
 be so pleasant. We will get up every morning and 
 work in the garden, and we will have such a nice gar- 
 den and such beautiful flowers ; and we will have every 
 thing so nice ! won't we ? Harry is very fond of flow- 
 ers, and he always said he would build such a beautiful 
 house ! Yes, Eunice, you must live with us." 
 
 Thus did the two little girls, in the innocence of their 
 own pure thoughts, talk for hours. Their young minds 
 run together as one. All their pleasures and troubles 
 were shared. Being thus together every day, they nat- 
 urally formed like tastes and like habits. Moulton did 
 not try to break off their intimacy. He saw how much 
 attached they were, and he was glad that Flora had one 
 near her own age to play and amuse herself with. 
 
 I have given the reader an inside view of what little 
 Flora was doing during the first few months of her stay 
 in Quebec. I will now draw the curtain and leave her 
 with her friend Eunice, together with Moulton and her 
 governess, to continue on in the path of life which she
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 327 
 
 has just entered upon. Before her are flowers and sun- 
 shine. Her young imagination pictures a future, rain- 
 bow-tinted and beautiful as the gossamer webs of a 
 delightful romance. Let no one disturb her dreams of 
 happiness.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 EVER since Flora had been stolen away from her 
 grandpapa's, as she always called the old man, but whom 
 we will know in future as Mr. Rivington, Hastings 
 had tried to ascertain where Moulton was, and through 
 him learn what had been done with the little girl. All 
 his efforts to find him, however, or learn any thing of her 
 more than what Belmonte had told him, were unsuccess- 
 ful. He felt continually that he had been instrumental 
 in doing the old man a great wrong a wrong that was 
 irreparable. A few weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte 
 had sailed for Europe, Hastings was seated in his office 
 brooding over the desponding thoughts which filled and 
 troubled his mind. He never before had felt so deeply 
 guilty. " I have driven Cornelia from her home and 
 friends, ^nd have made her life wretched," thought he. 
 " I am steeped in crime of all descriptions, and deserve 
 to be punished. I have lent myself to the wicked plots 
 of Belmonte, and have robbed Mr. Rivington of his 
 grandchild perhaps have murdered her ; I am more and 
 more convinced every day that she was killed. Horrible 
 thought ! I must know more of this ; and, if my suspi- 
 cions are well founded, I will give a true statement of the 
 facts to the public, and answer the heinous crime with 
 my worthless life. I will not rest until I have investi- 
 agted this wicked deed to the extent of my ability. I 
 
 (328)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 329 
 
 will go to old Mr. Rivington's, and learn all the facts con- 
 nected with their finding the child in the river." 
 
 In accordance with this resolution, he set out early 
 the next morning for Mr. Rivington's. He found the 
 old man in his garden watering some flowers, and im- 
 mediately introduced himself as Belmonte's friend. The 
 old man was glad to see him ; for, as we have already 
 learned, he loved his nephew, and believed him to be his 
 best friend. 
 
 " I was passing here, Mr. Rivington," said Hastings, 
 " and thought I would drop in a moment and see how 
 you were getting along. You have a fine garden of 
 flowers. Do you cultivate them yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, I spend many of my idle hours here. It is 
 
 almost the only recreation I have. I am very fond of 
 
 flowers ; and I like to be out in the morning air, looking 
 
 after and tending them. I do not trust the servants in 
 
 here. I prefer watering and taking care of them myself." 
 
 Hastings looked attentively at the benevolent and 
 good countenance of the old man, and his conscience 
 more than ever smote him for what he had done. 
 
 " I think you do right," said Hastings, " to look after 
 the flowers yourself. It gives you health and pleasant 
 employment." As he said this he turned away from 
 the old man to admire a bed of beautiful verbenas, helio- 
 tropes, and forget-me-nots. " This is a beautiful bed of 
 flowers, Mr. Rivington." 
 
 Yes," replied he, "that was little Flora's bed before 
 she died. I have kept it just as it was when she used 
 to water and tend it herself." 
 
 " Little Flora ! " queried Hastings, " how strange ! I 
 
 have helped to rob him of a little girl, and her name was 
 
 Flora. I too have been robbed of a child, and its name was 
 
 Flora. It was murdered perhaps his Flora was too." 
 
 28*
 
 330 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 For a moment his emotions, at thus suddenly and 
 strangely being reminded of the death of his child, ren- 
 dered him unable to speak. He turned away an in- 
 stant to conceal his feelings, and then said : 
 
 " You must have loved your little grandchild very 
 much to take such care of what belonged to her." 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, with tears in his eyes, " I 
 did love her very much. She was a sweet, dear child. 
 I never can reconcile myself to her loss." 
 
 " She was drowned, I believe ? " 
 
 Yes the little angel ! " 
 
 " She was your grandchild ? " 
 
 "No! She always called me grandpapa, and was 
 thought, by most who knew her, to be my grandchild; 
 but she was not related to me, except by the ties which 
 love makes." 
 
 " I had always supposed that she was your grand- 
 child?" 
 
 " No, she was not." 
 
 " May I ask how you came to know her ? You have 
 interested me in her. I was told of her death at the 
 time it took place. It must have been a sore trial to you." 
 
 ," I have as yet told no one her history, and you must 
 excuse me, Mr. Hastings, for declining to tell it to you." 
 
 " I will not press you to tell me her life, she found 
 in you a benefactor and a father ; and you doubtless 
 have good reasons for keeping her history locked up in 
 your own bosom. I cannot tell why, but you have ex- 
 cited in me a curiosity to learn more of her. Perhaps 
 it is because I once lost a child, a little babe, whose 
 name was Flora. I loved it very much, and your men- 
 tion of the name excited my curiosity." 
 
 The old man looked anxiously at Hastings, and said: 
 
 " Of what did your child die ? "
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 331 
 
 " I do not know but presume that it was mur- 
 dered." 
 
 What ! Murdered ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Hastings ; " I have every reason to be- 
 lieve that it was murdered." 
 
 The old man's curiosity was now excited. There 
 was something mysterious in what Hastings had said. 
 
 " I do not wish," said he, " to intrude myself upon 
 your private feelings, yet you have excited in me a wish 
 to know how your child was killed." 
 
 " Sit down here, Mr. Rivington," said Hastings, " and 
 I will tell you all I know of my child's death." 
 
 Hastings, in deciding to gratify the old man by telling 
 him the story of his murdered child, thought that in 
 doing so he might so much gain his confidence as to 
 learn from him more of the particulars of the child 
 whom Moulton and Belmonte had stolen away. He 
 therefore entered into all the details of his wife's death, 
 and the disappearance of his child. When he had 
 finished, the old man asked eagerly what year these 
 strange events had taken place." 
 
 " They occurred in the spring of 18 ," answered 
 Hastings. 
 
 The old man was now more excited than before, and 
 asked with a quivering lip: "Is there any thing by 
 which you could have recognized your child, had she 
 lived?" 
 
 " I know of nothing," said Hastings, unconcernedly. 
 " I have no hope at all of her being alive." 
 
 " Her name, you say, was Flora ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " What colored hair and eyes had she ? " 
 
 Hastings looked at the old man, wondering why he 
 should ask such questions, and then answered : 
 
 She had beautiful auburn hair, and large blue eyes.
 
 332 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 "Were she alive now, I should know her by these 
 alone." 
 
 The old man, now almost unable to control himself, 
 said, in a voice full of emotion : 
 
 " What you have said, Mr. Hastings, interests me 
 much. I am led to believe that the child you lost is the 
 same Flora who lived with me" 
 
 " What ! What ! Impossible ! What do you mean ! 
 My child, the little girl who lived with you! No! I 
 will not believe it ! It cannot be ! " 
 
 " Calm yourself, Mr. Hastings, and I will tell you 
 why I think it possible, yea, quite probable, that they 
 are one and the same." 
 
 " Do not torment me by such a supposition ! Tell 
 me not that it was my child who lived with you ! I can- 
 not endure the thought ! It cannot it shall not be true ! 
 I will not believe it ! " 
 
 Beside himself at the thought of having possibly been 
 instrumental in taking his own child's life, Hastings was 
 almost distracted. " No," said he, " I will not listen to 
 your story." As he said this he got up hastily, and 
 started to leave the old man, but he 'could not go. 
 Confused and wild almost, from this sudden surprise, 
 he knew not what he was doing. When he had com- 
 posed himself a little, he returned, pale and agitated, to 
 the old man, and said : 
 
 " You will pardon, I trust, what must seem to you 
 strange in me. The surprise you gave me was so sud- 
 den that I lost all command of myself." 
 
 The old man did think that Hastings acted strangely. 
 " He does not," thought he, " wish to think that the dar- 
 ling child who lived with me was his. I should think he 
 would be rejoiced to find even where she was buried." 
 When Hastings had seated himself again by the old 
 man's side, he continued :
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 333 
 
 " Will you now tell me why you think the little girl 
 who li ved with you was the child I lost ? " 
 
 " I have been accustomed," commenced the old man, 
 " to spend my winters in New Orleans. ^In the spring 
 of 18 , just before returning north, I was at a friend's 
 house in the city I have mentioned. Late at night, we 
 heard a noise at the front door ; and, on going to ascer- 
 tain what caused it, found a little child tied up in a 
 bundle of clothing, lying on the steps. It was taken in, 
 and as Mrs. Rivington and I had no children (Mis. 
 Rivington was then alive) we concluded to adopt it, 
 and if no one came to claim it, educate and bring it up 
 as our own child. It continued to live with us until it 
 Was two years old, when Mrs. Rivington died one 
 winter, while we were at New Orleans. Since then, 
 and until the time of the poor child's death, I took 
 charge of it myself. I loved her as she grew older as 
 much as though she had been my own." Here the 
 old man wiped away a tear, and then went on with 
 his story. "We named the child Flora, because the 
 dress she wore when we found her had the name ' Flora' 
 worked on it in little letters. Flora had such eyes and 
 hair as you described." 
 
 " Have you the dress you found on her ? " eagerly 
 inquired Hastings. 
 
 " ^"es, I have always kept it carefully, thinking that 
 it might sometime be of service to her when she grew 
 up, in assisting her to discover her parents." 
 
 " Let me see it," said Hastings, in a trembling voice. 
 
 " Come with me," said the old man, as he got up and 
 walked towards the house. During the few moments 
 of Hastings' anxiety and suspense in walking into the 
 house, a thousand thoughts crowded in quick succession 
 upon his mind. He was about to know whether the 
 child whom he had assisted Belmonte in taking away
 
 334 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 from the old man was his. What racking anxiety in 
 those brief moments of suspense ! When they had got 
 into the house, the old man went to a bureau, and, un- 
 locking a drawer, took from it a small bundle of cloth- 
 ing, the same that had been found with the child. 
 He took from it a little frock, and held it out in his 
 hand. Hastings looked at it his brain reeled he 
 recognized it. It was the dress of his own lost child. 
 He stood motionless for some moments staring at it, 
 and then, bursting into tears, cried out in the depths of 
 his grief, " Oh ! that I had never lived to see this 
 hour ! Would that I had died, Flora, long ago, for thy 
 sake ! It is the dress of my poor child ! I know it ! I 
 know it ! " Thus, in the bitterness of his sorrow, did he 
 upbraid himself for the part he had taken in removing 
 his own child from its benefactor. He was convinced 
 that the little girl who had lived with Mr. Eivington 
 was his, and the conviction burned into his very soul. 
 It was a long time before he could li sten to the old man 
 while he related the incidents connected with the find- 
 ing of the child's body in the river, its burial, and 
 every thing connected with its death. When the old 
 man had told him how, and where the child was found, 
 where buried, etc., Hastings said : 
 
 " What dress had she on when you found her ? " 
 
 " I will show you," answered the old man, as he went 
 to the same drawer and took from it a muslin dress. 
 " This is the one." 
 
 " Was she much changed in her appearance when 
 she was first taken from the river ? " 
 
 " Yes. I should never have recognized her." This 
 answer gave Hastings some hope that Belmonte's story 
 was correct. 
 
 " Would you have known her, if it had not been for 
 her dress ? "
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 335 
 
 " I don't understand you," said the old man. " I 
 know it was Flora we found. Why do you ask so 
 strange a question ? " 
 
 Hastings saw that it would not do to press his inqui- 
 ries further, so he said : 
 
 " I only wish to know whether the body was much 
 decayed when found?" 
 
 " She was very much altered indeed," said the old 
 man. He then gave Hastings a brief history of Flora, 
 from the time he first took her into his family, up to the 
 time of her supposed death. He entered into all the 
 little details of her life, and frequently during the reci- 
 tal did he and Hastings weep over the touching inci- 
 dents which he so feelingly described. 
 
 In the afternoon, Hastings, with the old man leaning 
 on his arm, visited the little mound where the child and 
 Rover lay buried. 
 
 " I am glad," said the old man as they walked along, 
 " that I have found her father ; not that I will love her 
 more, but because it is pleasant to know that her par- 
 ents were respectable." 
 
 " I can never repay you, Mr. Rivington, for the kind- 
 ness and love you have shown for my child. I shall 
 owe you a debt of gratitude to the last day of my life." 
 
 " The ways of Providence are mysterious," answered 
 the ofd man. " I was a thousand times repaid for any 
 trouble that she may have been to me while a babe, by 
 the purity and strength of her love when she grew older. 
 She was all the happiness that was left me. We 
 walked together, worked in the garden together, and in 
 a thousand ways did she make me happy. Would that 
 she had not died ! " 
 
 They had now come near the little mound. Hast- 
 ings was unable to conceal the strong emotions which 
 agitated his mind as they drew nigh. There, in all the
 
 336 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 innocent simplicity in which we have seen them before, 
 were the two little graves, surrounded by flowers, part 
 of which Flora herself had planted. There stood her 
 little play-house. The same marble slabs were at the 
 heads of the graves, and the same snowy white lambs 
 lay at their feet Hastings looked eagerly at all around 
 him. " My own child," thought he, rt planted these 
 flowers. This is her little play-house. I am standing 
 on the ground where she has so often and innocently 
 played." They stood together for some time in silence, 
 each busied with his own thoughts. At length they, 
 seated themselves on the grass, and Hastings asked the 
 old man a thousand questions about little Flora. When 
 they were about leaving, Hastings went to the play- 
 house and looked at its contents. He took from it a 
 small broken box and placed it in his bosom. Then 
 going to the forget-me-not at Rover's grave, he said: 
 
 " May I take a sprig of this with me, Mr. Rivington ? 
 You say she planted it with her own hands. I shall 
 value it above all price." 
 
 " Yes," answered the old man, " you can take it, but 
 I never should have consented to its being disturbed 
 by any one else. She is your child, take it." 
 
 Hastings carefully removed a few sprigs, and placed 
 them also in his bosom. They then walked away, and 
 returned in silence to the house. 
 
 " I must now leave you, Mr. . Rivington," said Hast- 
 ings. " The love you have shown my child will always 
 make you very dear to me." 
 
 "I am glad," replied the old man,. "to find a father 
 who thought so much of his child." 
 
 " Are you not lonely here, Mr. Rivington ? " 
 
 " No. I have many servants, and I do not care to 
 have any one live with me since her death." 
 
 " May I visit you occasionally ? "
 
 OR, JJFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 337 
 
 " I shall be glad to see you, Mr. Hastings, should you 
 come here every day. There is something in your coun- 
 tenance that reminds me of my darling child I mean 
 little Flora. I wish you would come and see me when- 
 ever you can make it pleasant to do so, and remain as 
 long as you like. You see, Mr. Hastings, that I have 
 an abundance of every thing necessary for my comfort. 
 I have a large house, almost unoccupied. You will 
 always be welcome here, and to all that I have." 
 
 Hastings pressed the old man's hand warmly, and, 
 with a heart overflowing with gratitude and love for him, 
 bade him good-by, promising to visit him again soon. I 
 will leave the reader to imagine what his reflections must 
 have been that night, as he returned to the city The 
 next day Hastings tried to collect his thoughts, and set- 
 tle upon some definite plan to find Moulton. " He must 
 be found," muttered he. " I must know the fate of my 
 child. If I do not succeed in finding him, I will seek 
 out Belmonte, and compel him to confess the extent of 
 his crime. If, as I fear, he has murdered her, I will 
 make him answer her death with his own worthless 
 life." After thinking a long time, he concluded to give 
 a full description of Moulton to the chief of police in 
 New York, and offer him a large reward if he succeeded 
 in finding him. Acting upon this resolution he drew 
 up a description of Moulton, and also wrote down some 
 of the particulars of his life ; this he gave- to the chief 
 of police, and explained to him in addition all that he 
 thought necessary. He also gave him a large sum of 
 money to enable him to commence the search immedi 
 ately, with the promise, that, if he succeeded in finding 
 him, he would give him a much larger sum. Satisfied 
 with the thought that he had now begun to act in ear- 
 nest in the matter, he returned to his hotel with a some- 
 29
 
 338 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 what lightened though still saddened heart, to devise 
 other means, if possible, to find his lost child. " Why 
 is it," muttered he, as he sat in his room that evening, 
 " that I am thus sorely punished ? Why are some men 
 weighed down to the earth, yea, crushed with the 
 weight of their afflictions, while others, less worthy, and 
 more deserving of punishment, pass through the world 
 with no trouble at all worth naming ? I have been fol- 
 lowed with trouble all my days. What had I done, 
 what have I done to merit it all ? Surely I have reason 
 to complain. I will no longer believe in an overruling 
 Providence. If there was a just God in heaven,. I would 
 not be afflicted thus." As he was thus railing at his 
 fate, a servant knocked at his door and handed in a let- 
 ter. He opened it, and read as follows : 
 
 "DEAR MR. HASTINGS: Will it be convenient for 
 you to call here this evening? Clemie and I are at 
 home, and will be glad to give you a hearty welcome. 
 We cannot imagine why you have delayed coming to 
 see us so long. We fear that something unusual has 
 kept you away. Will you please come to-night and 
 relieve our minds of apprehension? I sent a messenger 
 to your office this morning, and learned that you had 
 not been there since day before yesterday. We fear 
 very much that you are ill. Please drop a line by the 
 bearer of this, telling us if you are unwell, and also if 
 we may expect the pleasure of your company to-night. 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 KATE COLEMAN." 
 
 " P. S. I have something of importance to tell you. 
 Do come. KATE." 
 
 This letter changed the current of Hastings' thoughts.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 339 
 
 " I will go and see Kate," he said to himself. " I have 
 neglected her very much of late. She is a very kind- 
 hearted and affectionate girl, and much too good a 
 friend of mine to be badly treated. I fear she thinks 
 more of me than she ought more than I deserve. I 
 must go and see her, or rather them ; for she has very 
 modestly written, ' Clemie and I will be glad to give 
 you a hearty welcome.' Yes, Kate, I will call and see 
 you to-night." He took his pen and wrote as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " DEAR FRIEND KATE, I have just read your polite 
 and kind note, and I accept with pleasure the invitation 
 to call and see you this evening. I will apologize for 
 my seeming neglect when I see you until then please 
 believe me, as sincerely as ever, 
 
 " Your friend, HASTINGS." 
 
 When he had sealed this and given it to the messen- 
 ger, he again fell into the thinking mood. " I must 
 not," thought he, " lead Kate to believe that I care for 
 her other than as a dear friend. There is one, and only 
 one, in the wide world whom I ever have or ever can 
 love. Kate is worthy, and I know she likes me, I 
 fear she even loves me. Have I not given her encour- 
 agement ? Am I not to blame for making her a suc- 
 cessful rival of Miss Leighton and Miss Delacy, simply 
 to annoy them, and gratify my own foolish caprice ? I 
 will be more discreet in future." 
 
 About nine o'clock that night, Hastings, without 
 much preparation in his toilet, and looking careworn 
 and somewhat haggard, called at Mrs. Coleman's, and 
 was shown into the drawing-room. There was no one 
 in it when he entered, and he had an opportunity, while 
 left there a moment to himself, to notice a large china
 
 340 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 vase on the table underneath the oval mirror, filled with 
 beautiful exotics. There were, he thought, as he glanced 
 his eyes round the room, evidences that more than ordi- 
 nary care had been taken in preparing to receive him. 
 He thought, also, that he detected Kate's good taste 
 and supervising eye in the management of sundry little 
 ornaments, which always add so much to the tout en- 
 semble of the most elegantly furnished boudoirs. Hast- 
 ings, as we have seen, had called there frequently be- 
 fore ; but the exciting incidents of the last few weeks 
 had kept him away an unusually long time. Kate had 
 got tired waiting for him to call on her, and, unable to 
 continue longer in suspense and doubt as to the cause 
 of his seeming neglect, she addressed to him the note 
 which we have read, requesting him to visit her that 
 evening. She loved Hastings very much, yet she was 
 too modest and diffident to show him the full extent of 
 her attachment. She could not request him to call and 
 see herself, even, but modestly informed him that Clemie 
 and she were both at home. When she got his note in 
 answer to hers, accepting her invitation, she bounded 
 about the house with a light heart, preparing and ar- 
 ranging every thing in such a manner as she thought 
 would please him. 
 
 Hastings had not waited long in the drawing-room, 
 when Kate made her appearance, dressed with more 
 than her usuaj care. As she approached and cordially 
 greeted him, the color in her cheeks came and went in 
 quick succession, like the waves of sunshine and shade. 
 She looked inquiringly into his face, and said : 
 
 " I am so glad to see you again ! but you look ill. 
 Have you been sick ? Be seated, while I scold you for 
 staying away so long. Have you really been ill ? " 
 
 " No, I have not been sick. Business of importance 
 has engaged all my time of late ; so much so, indeed,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 341 
 
 that I have no doubt you see in my face what I feel, 
 that my qualities as a beau are alarmingly below par. 
 I am glad to see, however, that you have improved in 
 looks during my absence. I never saw you looking so 
 bewitchingly charming before." 
 
 Kate blushed at this compliment, and replied : 
 
 " If your qualities as a beau have depreciated, I think 
 as a flatterer you are still above par." 
 
 " Be this as it may, it has always been a fault of 
 mine to speak the truth at all times, however disagreea- 
 ble it may be to the listener." 
 
 A satisfied smile enlivened Kate's countenance as she 
 answered : I am glad to see you confess your faults. 
 It encourages one to hope better things of you in fu- 
 ture." 
 
 " I fear, Kate, that there is very little in me worth 
 hoping for. But what is it that you have to iell me ? 
 You wrote that you had something of importance to 
 communicate." 
 
 " I have something to tell you, but I will wait until 
 your next visit before I impart the important news." 
 
 " Well, I will not quarrel with you, although the ex- 
 action you make is very unreasonable." 
 
 Hastings tried to appear cheerful, but he could not 
 conceal the trouble and anxiety which weighed upon 
 his mind. His words were light and gay, but his heart 
 was sad, and alt his efforts to disguise the fact were un- 
 successful. Miss Clemie soon came into the drawing- 
 room with a book in her hand which she, seemingly, had 
 just been reading. She was two years younger than 
 her sister, and in many respects very different. She 
 walked hastily up to Mr. Hastings, and, shaking him 
 heartily by the hand, exclaimed : 
 
 " How ill you look ! I hardly knew you ! " 
 29*
 
 342 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 " Do you think me, then, so t7Z-looking, Miss Clemie ? 
 
 " I am sure you have been sick have n't you ? " 
 
 They joined in a general conversation for a few min 
 utes, when Clemie, excusing herself, took a seat at the 
 further end of the room, and continued reading her 
 book. 
 
 " I think," said Kate, in the latter part of the evening^ 
 " that something troubles you. You do not look as 
 cheerful as you used to." 
 
 " That is your imagination." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " When do you go into the country ? " asked Hastings, 
 changing the subject. 
 
 " The latter part of next week, I believe." 
 
 " You go to Newport, do you not ? " 
 
 " No, I believe mother has decided on going to Sara- 
 toga." 
 
 " That will be pleasant for you. There are always 
 plenty of fine beaux at Saratoga." 
 
 " I had rather remain in the city than go to any 
 watering-place, but mamma will not let me." 
 
 " I should think that you would be impatient to get 
 away from this monotonous city." 
 
 " We are just as comfortable here as we would be at 
 any of those fashionable resorts. Where will you spend 
 the remainder of the summer ? " 
 
 " I think I shall go to Newport foi* a few weeks. 
 The sea air is beneficial to me. When you return from 
 Saratoga I shall expect to be introduced to some dash- 
 ing young beaux. Do you understand, Kate ? " 
 
 " I understand ; but you will be disappointed in your 
 expectation." 
 
 " I hope not. I hope you will make the acquaint- 
 ance of some 'gentleman as worthy as you are your- 
 self."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 343 
 
 Hastings said this with a somewhat serious counte- 
 nance, and could not fail to see how unpleasant it made 
 Kate feel. He wished, however, to let her know that 
 his visits were those of a friend only, and he added : 
 
 " It is growing late, and I must not remain longer to- 
 night. It will give me pleasure on my return to learn 
 that you have made the acquaintance, at the Springs, of 
 your future husband. Do not think me officious, Kate, 
 and believe that few wish you better than I do." 
 
 She made no reply to what he said, but looked dis- 
 concerted and embarrassed. He got up to leave ; he 
 saw that he had made her unhappy, yet he did not wish 
 to change the impression which his words had made on 
 her mind. Turning to the vase of flowers, he said : 
 
 " These are beautiful ! I was admiring them while 
 sitting here alone." 
 
 " Do you like them ? " said Kate, her countenance 
 lighting up suddenly. " Here," said she, " I will make 
 you a present of this heliotrope, upon condition that 
 you never wish me so many bad wishes again." 
 
 She took the flower from the vase and handed it to 
 him so modestly and prettily that he could but accept 
 it, with the condition imposed, and praise its delicious 
 odor and its rare beauty. 
 
 " We shall not leave town before the latter part of 
 next "week," said Kate, " and if you wish to hear the 
 important news I promised, you must call before we 
 leave." 
 
 " I shall <3o so with pleasure," said Hastings. And 
 then, shaking her heartily by the hand, they separated 
 for the night, she to think of what he had said, and he 
 to brood over his heart troubles. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Coleman and her daughters were 
 sitting together, when Kate said : 
 
 " Mamma, why don't you go to Newport, instead of
 
 344 THE CKOOKED ELM; 
 
 Saratoga ? I think that Saratoga is the stupidest place 
 we could go to. Besides, if one must leave the city 
 why not go to the sea-coast, where it is cool, and where 
 one can bathe in the sea-water ? I like bathing in salt 
 water very much. It would be beneficial to us all. 
 Won't you go to Newport, mamma ? " 
 
 " Kate has always got something new in her head," 
 joined in Clemie. " I wouldn't go to Newport on any 
 account. There is no place like Saratoga." 
 
 " But, Clemie," replied Kate, " all the hotels at Sara- 
 toga are crowded to overflowing. What comfort could 
 we take there ? " 
 
 " I have made arrangements to go to Saratoga, girls," 
 said Mrs. Coleman, " and I cannot change my plans 
 now." 
 
 " I don't wish to go to Saratoga, mamma," said Kate, 
 half poutingly. 
 
 " Well, I do, though," said Clemie. All the fine 
 beaux go to Saratoga." 
 
 " All the fine beaux, indeed ! You had better think 
 of your books than fine beaux, Miss Clemie," said Kate, 
 reprovingly. 
 
 " There is no use of your disputing about the mat- 
 ter," said the mother. " I thought that you would both 
 like going to Saratoga. You never have expressed your 
 preference for Newport before, Kate." 
 
 " I never have said that I liked going to Saratoga, 
 mamma," said Kate. " I don't see what difference it 
 would make. Why can't you go to Newport, as well 
 as Saratoga?" 
 
 " For the same reason," said the mother, " I do not 
 see why you object so strenuously to going to Sara- 
 toga." 
 
 Kate had her own reasons for the choice she had 
 made, but she did not see fit to make them known ; so
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 345 
 
 she reluctantly yielded to her mamma and Clemie, and 
 said nothing more about going to Newport. 
 
 Hastings called again on Kate before they left and 
 spent a pleasant evening, and on leaving wished her and 
 Clemie a great deal of happiness during their absence. A 
 few days after they had gone, he, too, left the city ; not to 
 go to Newport, however, but to forward plans which he 
 had formed, and which concerned him more than all 
 things else.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE ship Graceful, in which Mr. and Mrs. Belmonte 
 had taken passage, moved slowly down New York bay. 
 As the city became less and less distinct, and as Mrs. 
 Belmonte left further and further behind all that to her 
 was dear, she gave vent to her desponding feelings and 
 wept the burning tears of regret at separating from one, 
 around whom the tendrils of her girlhood's first affections 
 clung for life and nourishment. She wept tears of sor- 
 JTOW also for the web of troubles that seemed to enfold 
 her in its meshes and threaten her utter ruin. She 
 stood upon deck looking out on the fast receding city. 
 " I am leaving you forever, William," she said, men- 
 tally. " I feel that I shall never see you again. Land 
 of my childhood! I am looking at you for the last time. 
 I must now bid adieu to all my dreams of happiness. 
 There is nothing left to make life endurable." She did 
 not try to conceal her grief. Belmonte saw her weeping, 
 and turning away he muttered : 
 
 " I will yet be revenged on you and him. I am only 
 waiting the proper time. Weeping for him before my 
 face ! Your tears shall be changed into blood. The 
 time is coming when I will be what I now feel." 
 The vessel moved on and on, until the city was left far 
 behind in the dim and hazy distance. It was soon out 
 of sight. The Highlands also disappeared, and the 
 
 (346)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 347 
 
 Graceful was alone on the wide ocean. Mrs. Belmonte 
 felt that she, too, was on the wide and troubled ocean of 
 life, separated from all who cared for or loved her, and 
 left to drift whithersoever its eddies and currents tended. 
 She never had been on the ocean before. Every thing 
 was new to her ; the singing of the sailors as they worked 
 at the capstan or pulled at the bowline, all, all was to 
 her novel and strange. The weather was warm and 
 pleasant, and for two or three days the Graceful moved 
 smoothly and majestically through the slightly ruffled 
 waters. There was a gentle westerly breeze blowing, 
 and all her sails were set. Mrs. Belmonte remained 
 upon deck most of the time, seemingly looking out on 
 the vast expanse of water, but really absorbed in her 
 own reflections. Occasionally the captain pointed out 
 to her a sail, a shark, or a school of black-fish, and for a 
 moment her thoughts were diverted from the general 
 melancholy which weighed upon her mind. One day, 
 as the Graceful lay becalmed a little westward of the 
 Banks of Newfoundland, a school of whales, number- 
 ing thirty or forty in all, played about the vessel for 
 several hours. Sometimes two of these monsters of the 
 deep would swim close up under the bows of the ship 
 and spout forth huge columns of water, making a noise 
 not unlike a steam-engine, and showing their large black 
 backs "above the surface of the water. Some of them 
 were far off under the horizon, and could only be distin- 
 guished by the water which they occasionally spouted 
 into the air ; others were nearer, and could be distinctly 
 seen every time they rose to the surface to breathe. 
 They invariably swam together in pairs, and all seemed 
 to be enjoying a merry holiday. Mrs. Belmonte, anx- 
 ious to get relief from her sorrows, sat watching them 
 for a long time, as the Graceful lounged lazily on the
 
 348 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 waves, flapping her masts and yards with her snowy 
 white sails. 
 
 When they had been out about a week the wind 
 freshened and shifted, and the sea became so rough that 
 Mrs. Belmonte had to go to her berth, where she re- 
 mained, sea-sick and dispirited, during the remainder of 
 the voyage. 
 
 When Belmonte arrived in England, he went to see 
 an old friend of his, who resided near Liverpool. After 
 remaining there a few days he told his friend that it was 
 necessary for him to return to New York ; that business 
 of a pressing nature demanded his immediate presence 
 there. " But," added he, " I will tax your hospitality by 
 leaving Mrs. Belmonte with you until I come back." 
 
 " We shall be delighted to have her remain with us," 
 said Belmonte's friend, " and will make her stay as 
 pleasant as possible. We remember your hospitality to 
 us when we were in New York. We shall be happy to 
 have her remain as long as it is pleasant to herself." 
 
 The morning before Belmonte left, he held the fol- 
 lowing conversation with his wife : 
 
 " I am going back to New York, shall leave to-day. 
 I wish you to remain here until I return. It is quite 
 possible that you may guess what takes me back there. 
 If you write to Hastings, or in any way inform him 
 that I have returned, I will abandon you, and expose 
 your character to your friends and to the world. It 
 will be impossible for you to deceive me again." 
 
 Is this all ? " asked Mrs. Belmonte, half indignantly. 
 
 " No," replied he, with flashing eyes, " it is not all; but 
 it is sufficient for the present" 
 
 His tone and manner completely subdued her, and 
 she said : 
 
 " I ask nothing of you but the mercy of your silence.
 
 OB, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 349 
 
 What I am or have been, you will never know from 
 my lips, because, if I told you the truth, you would dis- 
 believe me. I repeat, your silence is all I ask. Only 
 let my character rest a little while, and it will be buried 
 with me in the grave." 
 
 " You are deucedly sentimental over your apostasy," 
 replied he, sneeringly. 
 
 " I shall say no more," answered she, as she turned to 
 leave her enraged husband. 
 
 " I think," continued he, " that you had better say 
 no more, unless it be to damn your inconstancy." 
 This was all the consolation that Mrs. Belmonte re- 
 ceived from him previous to Ms leaving. She was left 
 alone in a strange country, shut out from all whom she 
 knew, and left to believe that Hastings, whom she so 
 idolized, was in danger. Bessy was left with her ; and, 
 though she on former occasions had betrayed her mis- 
 tress, she now loved her with all her heart, and was 
 truly sorry for what she had done. It was her love of 
 money that had led her into the trap of Mrs. Delacy, 
 and not her dislike of Mrs. Belmonte. She now in 
 every way tried, in her entire devotion to her mistress' in- 
 terests, to redeem the treachery of the past. 
 
 Belmonte had returned to New York, and in dis- 
 guise and in a fictitious name had put up at an ob- 
 scure" and out of the way hotel, where he remained, 
 never going out, except after dark. He had not been 
 there many days, when a man, closely muffled, visited 
 him about ten o'clock one night, and the two remained 
 closeted together for more than an hour. Not many 
 evenings after, the same suspicious looking individual 
 came again to the hotel where Belmonte was stopping, 
 and, gliding quickly and unobservedly up the stairs, 
 knocked at his door. Belmonte let him in immediately, 
 30
 
 350 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 and after surely bolting the door, said: "Have you 
 seen hip. _, ? 
 
 " Yes, he came to town last night ; but I am dry as a 
 mackerel! Tarn me, if I've had three drinks to-day ! " 
 
 Belmonte, although provoked at the delay, ordered 
 two whiskey punches. While they were waiting for 
 them to be brought in, Belmonte said : 
 
 " You have seen him, then ? " 
 
 " I can't talk business till the grog comes," said the 
 man dryly, as he began to remove a wig and false pair 
 of whiskers. " I always like my glass beside me when 
 talking business." 
 
 " You are looking glum to-night, Duggett. What's 
 in the wind now ? " 
 
 " Curse the wind ! What do " 
 
 Before he could finish the sentence there was a rap at 
 the door, and he hastily concealed his wig and whiskers, 
 by placing them in his chair and sitting down upon 
 them. He had scarcely done so, when the waiter en- 
 tered with the punches. Duggett emptied his glass at a 
 swallow, and ordered another to be brought. The whis- 
 key seemed to put him in better spirits. 
 
 " I seed him," commenced he, " to-day. Tarn me if 
 I didn't go straight to the critter's office, and git a 
 glimpse of him. It was about twelve o'clock when I 
 went in. I saw a man settin' down by a desk writin,' 
 and says I, 'Is Mr. Hastings in?' That's my name! 
 says he. So I said, says I, ' If a man can't pay his rent 
 at quarter-day, can the landlord turn a body out ! ' He 
 looked at me a minit, and then took down a book 
 and said, says he, ' What's your name?' So you see I 
 was stumped, but I soon recollected myself and said, 
 says I : ' My name is John Smith,' John Smith is a 
 mighty convenient name, but I didn't tell him so.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 351 
 
 * Where do you live, Mr. Smith ? ' says he. ' On Centre 
 street,' says I. ' What number ? ' says he. There he 
 got me agin ; but says I, ' there isn't no number on the 
 house.' Very well,' says he. Now what do you want 
 of me, Mr. Smith ? So I said, says I : If a body can't 
 pay his rent when it comes due, can the landlord turn 
 a body out ? ' ' He can, Mr. Smith,' says he. ' What is 
 the damages ? ' says I. ' Nothing,' says he. So do you 
 see, I left He has a mighty keen eye, he has, and tarn 
 me if I didn't feel as though he was looking two holes 
 through me while I stood there." The second punch 
 was now brought in, and Duggett, taking a swallow of 
 it, continued : 
 
 " He's a mighty shrewd chap, that's sartain." 
 
 " Would you know him, should you meet him again? " 
 
 "Know him! Wouldn't I! He's not one of them 
 chaps that one soon forgets." 
 
 " I want you to dog him to-morrow, Duggett, and see 
 what he does, and where he goes. Follow him from 
 the time he leaves his hotel until he returns to it again 
 to-morrow night. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," answered Duggett. 
 
 " You will call here to-morrow night, after you leave 
 him, and tell me all that transpires. Let me see," said 
 Belrnente, as he thought for a moment. " No, I will 
 call and see you at eleven o'clock. Be sure to be in at 
 that hour. You will know me when I come by the 
 usual double knock." 
 
 " I will be there at eleven," said Dnggett. But I 
 must have some money as I go along." 
 
 " You promised to ask nothing until the business was 
 accomplished," replied Belmonte. 
 
 " I know I did," said Duggett, coolly ; " but you know 
 body and soul must be kept together, as the preacher 
 says." Here he emptied his glass. Belmonte, seeing
 
 352 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 no other alternative, and feeling that he was, to some 
 extent at least, in his accomplice's power, pulled two ten 
 dollar gold pieces from his pocket and handed them to 
 him. " Your promises," continued Duggett, very pro- 
 vokingly, " are all very fair; but many's the slip, 'twixt 
 the cup and the lip, as the poet says. Saul Duggett 
 never gives in though, and you may depend on me to 
 the eend." 
 
 " Well, watch him closely to-morrow," said Belmonte, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Yes, I understand. We will have another punch. 
 I am almighty dry, tarn me if I aint." 
 
 Belmonte dissembled his feelings, and ordered two 
 more punches. Duggett drank his off lightly, and soon 
 left; not, however, until he had carefully replaced his 
 wig and whiskers. As soon as he had gone, Belmonte 
 muttered : " Blast the fellow ! He will spoil every 
 thing yet ! His infernal appetite for drink will rain all 
 my plans ! I can't control him, however, and it is now 
 too late to think of another accomplice. His fancied 
 power over me makes him impudent. The knave! 
 Only wait until I am fairly through this business, and 
 I will soon dispose of him ! I will trust no one with 
 such a secret. I must endure his insolence for a time, 
 however, as patiently as I am able." 
 
 The next morning early, Saul Duggett was hovering 
 near the hotel where Hastings was stopping. After 
 watching attentively for some hours, he saw Hastings 
 come out, get into his carriage, and drive up Fifth 
 Avenue. Duggett followed it closely until it turned off' 
 into the Bloomingdale road, and then falling further be- 
 hind, he kept in sight of it until he saw it turn up to 
 the door of a large house a few miles out of the city. 
 He saw Hastings alight from it and go in, and soon 
 after saw him walking in the garden in company with
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 353 
 
 an old man. He watched them attentively for about an 
 hour, when Hastings and the old man got into the car- 
 riage and drove away. He did not follow them, but lay 
 concealed near the house until' they returned. The car- 
 riage did not stand long at the door, before the coach- 
 man mounted the box and drove back in the direction 
 of the city, with no one inside. Saul Duggett immedi- 
 ately stepped into the road, and walked back toward 
 the city, also. When the carriage came up with him, 
 they were ascending a little hill. 
 
 " Them's mighty fine horses," said Duggett, address- 
 ing the coachman. " They're Mr. Hastings', aint they ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the coachman, little inclined to 
 enter into a conversation. 
 
 " I knew they was. He always keeps good horses. 
 They're five years old, aint they ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the coachman ; " they were five last 
 spring." 
 
 " I knew so. I never knowed him to keep old horses 
 as long as I've been acquainted with him. He is a 
 mighty good judge of a horse, and always was." 
 
 They had now come to the top of the hill, and the 
 coachman, knowing that Duggett was expecting to be 
 invited to get on to the box, and thinking that he was 
 well acquainted with Hastings, he said : 
 
 " Would you like to ride a little way ? " 
 
 " I don't care if I do," said Duggett, as though the 
 idea had not struck him until that moment. " You are 
 driving the horses out for exercise, I suppose," continued 
 Duggett, as soon as he was seated beside the coachman. 
 
 " No, I left Mr. Hastings at that large house, which 
 you must have passed a little way back." 
 
 " Oh, you did ! I thought you were only airing them 
 a little. You go back after him, I suppose ? " 
 30*
 
 354 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " No ; he remains there until to-morrow morning, and 
 then is going to walk into town." 
 
 " The deuce he is ! I never thought he was much of 
 a walker." 
 
 " Oh, he frequently walks out that far before sun- 
 up" 
 
 You don't say ! " 
 
 " Yes. He likes walking in the morning ! I'll war- 
 rant he'll be in town to-morrow morning before sun- 
 rise." 
 
 " I should think he would go on horseback." 
 
 " He does sometimes." 
 
 Duggett thus led the coachman on, until he had 
 learned from him all that he wished to know ; and, not 
 wishing to ride into the city in company with him, he 
 said: 
 
 " Well, I'm much obleeged to you for the ride you've 
 give me. I must cross the river here, if you'll let me 
 down." 
 
 The coachman stopped, and Duggett, springing from 
 the box, turned into a field towards the Hudson, and 
 as soon as the carriage was out of sight hurried back 
 to the city. 
 
 About eleven o'clock that night, Belmonte, true to his 
 promise, glided noiselessly out of his hotel and walked 
 hastily along, crossing one street and another, until he 
 came to Chambers street. He followed this down to 
 Centre street, and proceeding down this in the direction of 
 the Tombs, he kept on until nearly opposite its huge gran- 
 ite pillars, when turning down a dark narrow street to the 
 right, he was soon in that locality known as the Five 
 Points. The street lamps gave but a flickering light ; and 
 more than once, as Belmonte passed some more than 
 usually gloomy place, did he wish that he had let Saul
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 355 
 
 Duggett come to the hotel. The atmosphere became 
 more and more humid and nauseous as he advanced. 
 Depraved men, women, and children, half concealed in 
 their rickety dens of shame, mingled in their midnight 
 revels, more like fallen spirits from the other world than 
 intelligent human beings. Belmonte occasionally heard 
 their deep curses and blasphemous profanity as he hur- 
 ried on. He saw besotted women, dirty and in rags, 
 drinking, swearing, and carousing with bloated and 
 drunken men. Precocious children, with the evidences 
 of depravity written in their faces, mixed with the older 
 spirits in this pandemonium of vice and crime. Now 
 and then a female, whose face the street lamps showed 
 to be bloated and blotched, accosted him with: 
 "Deary, what's your hurry? Duckey, won't you go 
 with me ? Honey, give me a quarter. My love ! my 
 duckey ! darling ! " But he turned neither to the right 
 nor the left until he came to Saul Duggett's house. 
 Had Belmonte been a philanthropic man, he might 
 have seen enough in that one short walk to occupy all 
 his missionary thoughts and labors to the end of his life. 
 As it was, his thoughts were not about how their con- 
 dition could be bettered, but how he might accomplish 
 his purposes and avoid them as much as possible. He 
 gave the knock agreed upon when he came to Duggett's 
 house, and was admitted. There was a dim light 
 burning in an inner room. When they had picked 
 their way into it, Duggett said : 
 
 " Take a cheer and set down." 
 
 Belmonte did as requested, although the spectral ap- 
 pearance of every thing in the house, coupled with the 
 scenes he had just witnessed, and a knowledge of the 
 locality he was in, made him nervous and uneasy. His 
 lip quivered as he asked : 
 
 " What has been your success to-day, Duggett ? "
 
 356 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " Wait a minit," said Duggett, in answer. " I '11 soon 
 be back." 
 
 He then opened a trap-door and descended a pair of 
 stairs, taking with him the light, and leaving Belraonte 
 in total darkness. He soon returned with a bottle and 
 two tumblers. 
 
 " Won't you have a little o' suthin," inquired he of 
 Belmonte, as he placed them on the table. 
 
 " No," answered the latter ; " I have been drinking." 
 
 " Well then," said Duggett, who evidently had been 
 drinking freely, " here is to the success of of , tarna- 
 tion if I know what of." He drank off half a tumbler 
 of the liquor, and then seating himself, said: 
 
 " Now, I am ready for business." 
 
 The appearance of the rooms, as dimly seen by the fee- 
 ble light, was that of poverty. There were no carpets 
 on the floor, and the walls looked dingy and old. A 
 cupboard stood in one corner of the room where they 
 were, and a few old clothes hung against the board par- 
 tition between the two rooms. A few chairs, an old 
 clock on the mantel-piece, and the table beside which 
 they were sitting, completed the furniture of the room. 
 Saul Duggett had been a blacksmith ; but of late years 
 he never was known to follow any employment for a 
 livelihood. He had more than once been suspected of 
 crime, even of murder ; yet there was no evidence 
 against him of a nature sufficient to warrant his being 
 indicted. He was naturally a shrewd, bold man, with 
 a strong yet uncultivated mind. He had lived for 
 several years in the house where he then was, and, in 
 some way, always managed to pay his rent when it fell 
 due, much to the wonder of some of his immediate 
 neighbors, who always saw him spending, but never 
 making money. He was naturally rather reserved when 
 with those in his own station in life ; indeed, he seldom
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 357 
 
 mixed much in society. He had a wife, or at least a 
 woman lived with him. Gossips, and people learned in 
 the affairs of their neighbors did say, however, that she 
 was not his wife, and that she was no better than she 
 should be. The latter was undoubtedly true ; but I will 
 not vouch for the former. 
 
 " Have you seen him to-day?" inquired Belmonte. 
 
 " Yes, I 've treed the critter blow me if I have n't ! " 
 
 " Where ? " asked Belmonte, excitedly. 
 
 " At an old man's up the Hudson. I believe the 
 name is Rivers, or some thing like it." 
 
 " Was it Rivington ? " 
 
 " That 's the name." 
 
 Belrnonte turned deadly pale at this announcement. 
 " The villain/' thought he, " is trying to supplant me in 
 my uncle's esteem ! They shall both die ! I have sworn 
 it ! He shall die by my own hand ! " 
 
 Duggett then related to him all that he had that day 
 seen and heard of Hastings. Belmonte listened "with 
 breathless interest to every word. When he had 
 finished, Belmonte muttered, half to himself: " He re- 
 mains there all night, eh ? He has advanced far in the 
 old man's favor, to be sure ! " 
 
 Mrs. Duggett, or Sally Jones, as she had formerly 
 been known, had left her sleeping apartmenf, and crept 
 noiselessly up to a side door opening into the room 
 where they were sitting. She had heard all the conver- 
 sation that had taken place between them, and, deter- 
 mined to know all that was going on, she remained 
 with her ear at the key-hole, listening intently to every 
 word that was uttered. 
 
 Belmonte sat in silence for some moments, and then 
 suddenly rousing up as if a new idea had come to him, 
 he said :
 
 358 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 " Duggett, we must change our plans. They must 
 both die to-night!" 
 
 " Die to-night ! " exclaimed Duggett, half rising from 
 his chair. 
 
 " Yes," answered Belmonte, coolly, " they must both 
 die to-night. The old man with whom he is stopping, 
 is he of whom I have spoken to you. We can go there 
 and despatch them both before morning. I know where 
 the old man sleeps, where the servants sleep, and where 
 Hastings sleeps." He stopped suddenly ; for he remem- 
 bered the night which he had passed in his uncle's 
 house. The thought of again seeing the ghost which 
 had terrified him so much unnerved him. He turned 
 pale, and sat thinking a moment, and then added : 
 " No, we will let the old man live a little longer. We 
 will, to-night, send Hastings to his accounts. He comes 
 to the city early in the morning. He shall never see 
 this city again ! My hour of revenge has come at last ! 
 We will lie in wait for him." 
 
 " Where ? " inquired Duggett. 
 
 " In the woods this side of Mr. Kivington's." 
 
 " That will be dangerous ! We will be detected ! " 
 said Duggett, in a tone and manner that showed he had 
 little heart -for the business. 
 
 " Do you remember the dark glen, a mile or two this 
 side of the house where he stopped?" asked Bel- 
 monte. 
 
 " You mean the one where the large elm overhangs 
 the road ? " 
 
 " The same. It is called the ' Crooked Elm.' We 
 will secrete ourselves there, and wait until he passes. 
 Have you a fowling-piece in the house ? " 
 
 " I have not," said Duggett. 
 
 " That is unfortunate. I have none either. I will
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 359 
 
 use my pistols. I wish to have him see me. The 
 hypocrite ! I will teach him that I can revenge an in- 
 sult ! Have you a boat ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have one a little way above this, on the Hud- 
 son." 
 
 " Well, make haste and get ready. We will float up 
 there on the incoming tide. It will be flood tide until 
 six o'clock to-morrow morning. Providence assists me 
 in seeking revenge ! " 
 
 Duggett hesitated. 
 
 " I fear that we will be found out. We have n't 
 thought of the matter long enough." 
 
 " Never fear. You can remain in the boat. I will 
 do the business myself, and then we can float back to 
 the city." 
 
 They made hasty preparations and left the house 
 together, and were soon in the boat rowing up the 
 river. 
 
 Mrs. Duggett, or Sally Jones, as I will in future call 
 her, listened attentively until Belmonte and Duggett 
 left the house. Their conversation startled her. " What 
 does this mean ? " thought she. " Hastings ! Going to 
 murder Hastings ! I wonder if it is Lawyer Hastings, 
 who defended me. If I thought it was Lawyer Hast- 
 ings, I would let him know the danger he is in. He 
 saved* me from Sing- Sing once. One good turn de- 
 serves another. I never have paid him for defending 
 me. I will pay him now. He never asked me any 
 thing, but I '11 pay him. I '11 let him know the danger 
 he is in. It must be Lawyer Hastings ! Duggett is to 
 remain in the boat the other man don't know me. 
 I'll save Lawyer Hastings' life, for he once pleaded 
 hard for me." As she muttered the above, she went 
 about hurriedly getting ready to set out at once for the 
 Crooked Elm. She disguised herself as much as possi-
 
 360 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 ble, and was soon on the road leading to Mr. Biving- 
 ton's. She did not know where the Crooked Elm was ; 
 but the description which Belmonte had given of it led 
 her to hope that she would be able to recognize it by 
 the large tree overhanging the road. It was a long way 
 for her to walk, and she feared every moment that she 
 would be too late. The moon, which had given her a 
 partial light at first, went down before she had gone 
 half the way. There was nothing to light the road, save 
 the thought that she was doing a righteous act. She 
 had walked so rapidly at first, that she began to weary. 
 There were two or three miles yet to go. She wiped 
 the perspiration from her face with her apron and 
 walked on, looking out continually for the large crooked 
 tree and the dark glen which Belmonte had mentioned. 
 Sometimes she feared that in the darkness she had 
 passed the place, and was on the point of turning back. 
 Yet she pressed on, hoping and expecting that every hill 
 she descended would bring her to the Crooked Elm. 
 Day was just beginning to light the East, Sally Jones 
 was on the top of a little hill, before her, and at the bot- 
 tom of the hill she saw a densely dark and thick wood. 
 She took courage and hurried on. " There stands the 
 Crooked Elm," she muttered. " I am in time ! I will 
 save his life!" Just then she heard a rustling in the 
 leaves at the side of the road, and, as she thought, foot- 
 steps approaching her. She uttered a wild scream of 
 " help," and ran forward. She passed the crooked tree 
 and ascended the hill on the other side as fast as her 
 feet would carry her. As soon as she thought it safe, 
 she seated herself in a partially concealed place at the 
 side of the road, and waited for Hastings. Belmonte 
 had heard her foot-steps, and, thinking they were those 
 of Hastings, he crept from his hiding-place and stepped 
 toward the road. Her scream undeceived him, how-
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 361 
 
 ever, and thinking that it was the voice of one of Mr. 
 Rivington's servants he thought it unsafe for him to 
 remain there longer. With a deep curse for the mis- 
 take he had made, he hurried back to the boat, and 
 ordered Duggett to lose no time in rowing back to the 
 city. 
 
 Sally Jones looked anxiously for Hastings until it 
 was growing quite light, then fearing that she would be 
 discovered by Duggett if she remained longer, she be- 
 came impatient and alarmed for her own safety. " I 
 will write him warning," thought she, " and hand it to 
 some one at the house to give to him." Mr. Riving- 
 ton's house was in sight. She felt in her pocket for a 
 pencil, and found one ; but could find no paper. This 
 puzzled her. There was no time to lose. She thought 
 for a moment, and then, pulling her sun-bonnet from her 
 head, tore from it a piece of pasteboard, and wrote 
 upon it : 
 
 " MR. HASTINGS, Do not go to the city alone, to- 
 day. Your life will be taken if you do. There is a 
 man watching to murder you. Meet me at the Crooked 
 Elm, at twelve o'clock, to-night. 
 
 ONE WHOM YOU HAVE BEFRIENDED." 
 
 "Wnen she had written the above, she tore a piece of 
 lining from her bonnet and wrapped the pasteboard care- 
 fully in it ; then hurrying to the house, she saw an old 
 man working in a garden. She did not hesitate, but 
 walking up to him, said : 
 
 " Is Mr. Hastings here ? Lawyer Hastings, I 
 mean." 
 
 " Yes," answered the old man. 
 
 " Will you give him this package ? " 
 31
 
 362 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 She handed him the uncouth parcel and walked 
 away, leaving the old man to wonder at her, without 
 the opportunity of asking a single question. In return- 
 ing to the city, she avoided the Crooked Elm by walk- 
 ing a long way round it. She overtook a market wagon 
 before she had gone far, and had an opportunity of rid- 
 ing all the way into the city. She got home before 
 Duggett did, and thus avoided all suspicion. A little 
 after eight o'clock, she told Duggett that she had prom- 
 ised to sit up with a sick friend's child that night, and 
 readily obtained his consent to her doing so ; for Bel- 
 monte had promised to visit him again at eleven o'clock, 
 pnd he thought it just as well, at least, that she should 
 be absent. She made hasty preparations, and soon set 
 out to travel the same road over again, which she had 
 walked that morning. She would have appointed some 
 other hour to meet Hastings ; but she knew of no other 
 that she could surely and safely leave home. She feared 
 that she would be watched, if she attempted to see him 
 in the daytime. She had gone but a few blocks, when, on 
 turning a corner in the very heart of the Five Points, a 
 little girl rushed wildly from an old ricketyframe house, 
 crying and shrieking as though her life was being taken. 
 Immediately a half drunken ragged woman issued from 
 the same door, with a rolling pin raised in her hand as 
 if to strike her. The child clung to Sally Jones, and 
 implored her protection. Sally was naturally a kind- 
 hearted woman, and she stood between the little girl 
 and the enraged woman, and tried to reason with the 
 hag. She had spoken scarcely a word, however, when 
 the woman seized her by the hair and threw her to the 
 pavement. The little girl in the mean time ran away. 
 Sally cried for help, and the drunken woman continued 
 beating, kicking, and scratching her. A crowd of Five
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 363 
 
 Pointers soon gathered around to witness the " fun," as 
 they called it. A police officer soon entered the ring, 
 and, separating the two women, led them both off to the 
 Tombs, notwithstanding the strenuous and earnest re- 
 monstrances of Sally, who continually asserted her in- 
 nocence. He would not listen to any thing she said ; 
 but locked her and the enraged woman up in the same 
 cell, to remain there together until morning. Sally was 
 sadly dispirited, but there was no way of getting out 
 that night ; so after shedding a few tears she resigned 
 herself unwillingly to what seemed to be her fate. 
 
 When Hastings read what Sally Jones had written 
 on the pasteboard, he knew not what to think. He 
 questioned Mr. Rivington respecting the appearance of 
 the person who had brought it there ; but the old man 
 could tell him nothing which enabled him to form any 
 idea as to who the woman was. He thought of setting 
 out at once in pursuit of her ; but on looking, she was 
 nowhere to be seen. He did not tell Mr. Rivington 
 the contents of the package. 
 
 " I must go to the city immediately," said he to the 
 old man. "*Can you send your carriage in with me ? " 
 -- " Certainly, with pleasure," replied the old man, who 
 at once ordered it to be brought. The carriage soon 
 came, and Hastings set out for the city, full of conjec- 
 ture as to the meaning of the strange and startling note 
 which had been written and brought him so mysteri- 
 ously. Sometimes, as he rode along, he muttered : " It 
 is all a hoax got up by some one of my friends to excite 
 my curiosity. I will dismiss it from my thoughts." He 
 could not avoid looking to the sides of the road as he 
 passed some more than usually dark and wooded spot, 
 to see if he could get a glimpse of the person alluded 
 to in the note. At other times, he thought it might be 
 a trap to ensnare him. Belmonte more than once en-
 
 364 THE CKOOKED ELM J 
 
 tered his mind ; yet he believed him to be in Europe, 
 and he ceased to connect him with the strange affair. 
 He arrived safe in the city, and resolved to dismiss the 
 subject from his mind. " I will not," thought he, " do as 
 the writer requests. I will neither be hoaxed nor entrap- 
 ped by any one knowingly." Thus did he reason as he 
 went to his office. On looking over his letters that 
 morning, his eyes lit upon one mailed in England. He 
 knew the handwriting, and hastily breaking the seal, 
 read : 
 
 " DEAREST WILLIAM, I cannot resist writing to 
 warn you of the danger you are in, although I am 
 threatened with ruin if I do. Be on your guard ! He 
 has returned to New York ! I am led to believe from 
 some things he said, that he has gone back to be re- 
 venged on you ! I implore you to take warning and 
 avoid the threatened danger! I am ever thinking of 
 you, ever loving you as in times past. Oh that this may 
 reach you in time to save you from harm ! Do not 
 write to me. He Will intercept your letters. May 
 heaven protect you. Ever thine, 
 
 "CORNELIA." * 
 
 This letter Hastings read over and over again. It 
 brought to him the devotion of a heart wholly his own, 
 as also intelligence of an alarming nature. " I will be 
 prepared for him," thought he. " I will hunt him out 
 of his concealment, and afford him an opportunity to 
 be revenged." The mysterious letter which he had re- 
 ceived that morning suddenly came to his mind. He 
 took it from his pocket and examined it carefully. He 
 did not know the handwriting. " There is something in 
 it," thought he, " more than I have been willing to be- 
 lieve. It is a trap to ensnare me ! The Crooked Elm !
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAT-SIDE. 365 
 
 Why ask me to go to so secluded a place ? Why not 
 come here and give me warning ? " He thought and 
 pondered long over the contents of the two letters 
 before him. They both warned him of danger. The 
 honesty of one he did not question, but the other 
 troubled his brain. " A woman brought it to me ! 
 How should a woman be connected with Belmonte in 
 his wicked purposes ? " Still more did he wonder how 
 any woman should know any thing of his own danger. 
 He thought of Mrs. Delacy, and looked again at the 
 writing on the pasteboard, but it was not hers. " This 
 may be a friendly warning," he at length said, as he got 
 up and paced his office floor excitedly. " I will solve 
 the mystery! I will go to the Crooked Elm! This 
 doubt and uncertainty is worse than death ! I will go 
 alone, but not unprepared for danger ! " 
 
 The locality known as the Crooked Elm was a lonely 
 and densely wooded ravine or glen, lying near the Hud- 
 son River. Many legends were related of it by the old 
 Dutch settlers of New York. Ghosts had been seen there. 
 It was a place dreaded by children, and those many de- 
 scendants of the Dutch in and about New York city, 
 who believed in ghosts, witches, hobgoblins, etc. Es- 
 pecially was it a place to be avoided after dark. About 
 eleven o'clock that night Hastings was walking thought- 
 fully along the road leading to the Crooked Elm. He had 
 not much further to go ; he was rising the hill, on the 
 opposite side of which lay the haunted glen, which was 
 to determine his fate. He pulled his watch from his 
 pocket when on the summit, and held it up to the 
 moonlight to see the time. It was too dark he could 
 not tell the hour. " It must be near midnight," thought 
 he, as he stood a moment looking down into the dark 
 ravine before him. His heart beat quick as he started 
 31*
 
 366 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 to descend the hill, not that he was a coward, but the 
 doubt, uncertainty, and darkness made him nervous. 
 He walked on with a firm and cautious step, watching 
 the sides of the road attentively until he had reached the 
 large crooked elm overhanging the road. " If my 
 enemy is here," thought he, "it is probable he is con- 
 cealed behind the trunk of this tree." He pulled his 
 pistol from his pocket, and walked round the huge 
 trunk, but without seeing any one. " I will seat my- 
 self by this tree," he muttered, " and wait the unravel- 
 ling of the plot. He kept the pistol in his hand, and 
 looked from side to side to avoid surprise. All was 
 dark and still as the grave, no one appeared. The 
 denouement was not to be that night. He continued 
 with his back to the tree for two or three hours, then 
 getting up, he walked back and forth past the crooked 
 elm a few times ; but seeing no one he reseated him- 
 self. " I will remain a little longer," thought he, " al- 
 though I am satisfied that the note which I received 
 this morning was a hoax." He banished all fear, and 
 fell into a profound reverie. All his past life passed 
 before him in review. " Like this gnarly and crooked 
 tree which overshadows me," he muttered, as he was 
 about leaving, " I have lived to no purpose. My life is 
 full of ' mistakes, errors, and crimes ; I will reform. 
 Here in this solitude, where no eye sees me, save His 
 who rules the universe, I solemnly vow to live an hon- 
 est and upright life in future. The Crooked Elm shall 
 be my starting point." Day was breaking when he 
 arrived at his hotel in the city. 
 
 About nine o'clock that morning, Sally Jones, with 
 some twenty or thirty others of both sexes, and almost 
 of all ages, was marched into the Police Justice's office, 
 and, after waiting some two or three hours until her
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 367 
 
 turn came, was duly tried and fined five dollars for dis- 
 turbing the peace of the Five Points. In case the fine 
 was not paid, she was to be imprisoned for twelve days. 
 She sent for Duggett and paid the fine, and was left to 
 go at large again about one o'clock that afternoon. 
 She lost no time, but stole away from the house as 
 soon as she could do so safely, and started in search of 
 Hastings' office. It is cheering, as we pass through life, 
 to see in the most depraved outcasts, sparks of generous 
 and noble feeling. It lends encouragement to the mis- 
 sionary, and gives promise of a better future. Hast- 
 ings had defended Sally Jones some years before, when 
 she was indicted for crime, the punishment for which 
 was the state prison for some years. He believed her 
 innocent, and by his exertions succeeded in getting her 
 acquitted. He neither expected nor ever asked any pay 
 for his services. She was penniless, and one whom the 
 world called an outcast. She was now anxious to 
 show her gratitude to him for what he had done for 
 her. She was not long in finding his office, and, after 
 waiting an hour or more for Hastings to get through 
 talking with some clients, she was shown in by Rolin, the 
 clerk, to where he was sitting. Hastings did not recol- 
 lect her countenance. 
 
 "Be seated," he said, as he commenced folding some 
 papers which lay open on the desk before him. 
 
 " I suppose," commenced Sally, " that you have for- 
 gotten Sally Jones, whom you once pleaded for? I 
 have n't forgot you." 
 
 " Oh, I remember," said Hastings, smiling. " In 
 trouble again, Sally ? " 
 
 " No, I 'm not exactly in trouble on my own ac- 
 count." 
 
 " You have n't come to pay me, I suppose, Sally ?
 
 368 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 That would be truly an unexpected pleasure." This he 
 said laughingly. 
 
 " Yes, I have come to pay you, Mr. Hastings." 
 
 He looked at her for a moment in surprise, and then 
 aid : 
 
 " I am glad to see you so honest ; but what you owe 
 me, if unpaid, will not make me much poorer than I 
 am. I have long since forgotten the debt. You can 
 keep your money ; it will assist you, I hope, to live an 
 honest life." 
 
 " It is not money I 'm going to pay you," said Sally, 
 as a tear stole into her eye. " I fear you are in danger, 
 Mr. Hastings." 
 
 Had she fired a pistol, at him, she could not have 
 startled him more. The mysterious letter flashed upon 
 his mind. 
 
 " Then you wrote me that note yesterday morning ? " 
 
 " Did you get it ? " asked Sally eagerly. 
 
 Yes," 
 
 " I am so glad ! " exclaimed she. " It saved your 
 life!" 
 
 You talk to me in riddles, Sally. Explain." 
 
 " There are two men plotting against you, Mr. Hast- 
 ings. Will you promise not to harm one of them, if I 
 tell you all that I know about them ? " 
 
 That would be unreasonable, Sally." 
 
 " But I cannot tell you, unless you promise." 
 
 " I cannot promise you that I think I already know 
 whom you mean." 
 
 "What! You don't suspect him!" said Sally, be- 
 traying herself almost in her fright. 
 
 Hastings saw the advantage he had gained, and 
 answered : 
 
 " Yes, he is suspected"
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 369 
 
 " You will not injure him, will you, Mr. Hastings ? 
 He is not so much to blame as the other man." 
 
 " They must both be punished," answered he. 
 
 His manner was so cool and deliberate that Sally 
 thought he knew whom she referred to, and bursting 
 into tears, she exclaimed : " Saul is not so much to 
 blame as the other man." 
 
 " Ah ! " thought Hastings, " I have a clue to this vil- 
 lainy. I will learn the extent of it." He gave Sally no 
 time to reflect, but said : 
 
 " What do you know of this plot against my life ? 
 You have proven yourself my friend, and if you tell me 
 honestly all you know about it, I may spare the man 
 whom you so unreasonably plead for. Who is this 
 man, whom you wish me to be merciful to beyond his 
 deserving ? " 
 
 " Saul Duggett," replied she. I live with him." 
 
 " Live with such a man ! " exclaimed Hastings. 
 
 She hid her face in her apron and wept, but made no 
 answer. He saw there was little use to reason with 
 her. 
 
 " Well, Sally, tell me all about this villainy." 
 
 She then related all the conversation which she had 
 heard between Belmonte and Duggett spoke of her 
 visiting the Crooked Elm, and the reason why she had 
 sent "him such a singular note of warning. She also 
 told him why she had not met him there at the time 
 appointed. Hastings could not refrain from smiling at 
 her recital of her own grievances, in being carried to 
 the Tombs and fined for disturbing the peace. When 
 she had finished, he asked : 
 
 " Did you see the man who came to your house ? " 
 
 " Yes. I saw him through the key-hole. He had 
 black hair." 
 
 Was he tall ? "
 
 370 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 " I can't say. He was sitting down." 
 
 He learned all he could from Sally, and then told her 
 to keep diligent watch on all Duggett's movements, and 
 report to him. 
 
 " I will spare Duggett, for your sake," he added ; " but 
 I advise you to leave him, and live in a more honest 
 and respectable way." She made him no answer, save 
 that she would keep him informed of all that came to 
 her knowledge. When she rose to leave, Hastings re- 
 quested her to accept some money, but she refused, say- 
 ing : " I can act honestly sometimes without pay. I 
 will serve you in this to the extent of my ability ; for 
 you once pleaded for me." When she had gone, Hast- 
 ings muttered, " I am indebted to this woman for my 
 life. I will never disbelieve in an overruling Providence 
 again. She, whom I once defended, and whom I 
 more than ever believe innocent of the crime for which 
 she was indicted, now, by one of the strange and almost 
 miraculous chances, which frequently happen, is the 
 means of saving my life. Her noble conduct shall 
 not go unrewarded. His first thoughts, when she had 
 left, were those of gratitude to her ; his second, how he 
 could meet and punish the assassins who were plotting 
 to take his life. " I must," thought he, " take immedi- 
 ate measures to save old Mr. Rivington. He must 
 be protected at every risk, for he is the benefactor of 
 my child. I will not expose Belmonte's infamous de- 
 signs upon his uncle, unless it becomes necessary. It 
 would be a stain upon Cornelia's name. No, for her 
 sake I will spare her worthless husband. Her letter of 
 love and warning strengthened him to meet boldly the 
 plots against his life.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE next day Sally Jones was at Hastings' office at 
 least an hour before he came. As soon as he entered, 
 she said : * 
 
 " They have gone up to Mr. Rivington's in a boat 
 They started before daylight this morning." 
 
 This intelligence alarmed Hastings. He had intended 
 to bring Mr. Rivington to the city for a week or two, 
 and was going for him that very afternoon. 
 
 " I overheard what they said," continued Sally. " The 
 man with the black hair said they would dress them- 
 selves as sportmen that he had the dresses all ready 
 and then go in the boat up to his uncle's. ' There 
 is,' said he, * a little wood, on a hillock, near the river. 
 The old man is in the habit of going there every day 
 to visit a grave that lies near. We will conceal our- 
 selves in that wood, and when he passes by, fire upon 
 him, and then take to our boat.' " 
 
 " Are you sure they left as agreed ? " 
 
 " Yes. As soon as Saul left the house I hurried to 
 
 Dock, where he keeps his boat, and, concealing 
 
 myself behind a pile of lumber, saw them come, both 
 dressed in gray clothes, and get into the boat, and then 
 row out into the river." 
 
 Hastings put the name of the dock down in his mem- 
 orandum-book, thanked Sally for what she had told 
 
 (371)
 
 372 THE CKOOKED ELM, 
 
 him, and then left his office. " There is no time to be 
 lost," he thought ; " I must go at once to the old man's 
 protection." He hurried home ordered his carriage, 
 and was soon on his way to Mr. Rivington's. It was a 
 great relief to his mind to see the old man out in his 
 garden, long before the carriage reached the house. 
 
 " I have come," said Hastings, approaching the old 
 man, " to take you for a drive." 
 
 They both got into the carriage, and Hastings ordered 
 his coachman to drive towards the city. 
 
 " I should like to have you go and spend a few days 
 with me, Mr. Rivington," said Hastings, as soon as they 
 were seated. " The change will do you good." He 
 could not, by any inducement, get the old man to con- 
 sent to leave home even for a few days. 
 
 " I am so much attached to home," said the old man, 
 " that I should feel lost were I absent from it. You 
 must not ask me to leave it." 
 
 " I have special reasons for wishing you to accompany 
 me to the city this morning. They are important rea- 
 sons too." Hastings said this with a serious counte- 
 nance. The old man looked at him, wonderingly, and 
 said: 
 
 " Please explain yourself, Mr. Hastings." 
 
 " Can you not trust me for once," said Hastings, " and 
 believe that I would not urge you to go with me against 
 your inclinations if I did not think it necessary that you 
 should go ? " 
 
 " I could trust you, Mr. Hastings, but there is some- 
 thing mysterious in what you say. I scarcely know 
 what to think." 
 
 Hastings did not wish to reveal to the old man the 
 reason why he wished him to leave home for a few days. 
 He feared the shock would be too great for him. 
 
 " You will trust the father of little Flora, will you not,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 373 
 
 Mr. Rivington, when he tells you that it is absolutely 
 necessary for your safety to go with me into the city this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " What ! What do you mean ? Necessary for my 
 safety ! " The old man looked steadily at Hastings for 
 a moment, and then said : 
 
 " I cannot go with you unless you explain yourself 
 more fully. You startle me." 
 
 " I will tell you all when you are more calm," said 
 Hastings, without changing his countenance. He saw 
 that the old man distrusted him. Yet he feared to tell 
 him what he knew would so much shock his feelings. 
 
 " I can listen to it now," said Mr. Rivington, still 
 showing in his countenance the alarmed state of his 
 mind. 
 
 " I know not why," said Hastings, " I should withhold 
 from you the reasons why I think it necessary for you to 
 go with me to New York. You must prepare yourself 
 to listen to what will surprise and shock you. I hurried 
 to you to-day to save you from a threatened danger." 
 
 " I cannot understand you yet. What danger threatens 
 me?" 
 
 " Calm yourself, while I relate what I have seen and 
 heard." The old man listened attentively while Hast- 
 ings told him what he had heard from Sally Jones. 
 When he had finished, he added, " I have reason to be- 
 live that one of the men is your nephew, Belmonte." 
 
 " Impossible ! I will not believe it ! " exclaimed the old 
 man. " Why do you think one of them is my nephew? " 
 
 " I have other reasons than those given for believing 
 so." 
 
 " I will not believe he is here, unless I see him with 
 my own eyes." 
 
 " I will give you an opportunity of seeing the two 
 32
 
 374 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 men of whom I speak, I hope, before many days. It is 
 necessary that we should counteract them." 
 
 " You must be mistaken ; Belmonte is in Europe. I 
 will not think him so base." 
 
 They had now passed the limits of the old man's 
 usual drive, and he proposed returning. 
 
 " No," said Hastings, " I will send for what things you 
 require. It is better that we keep on. I wish to lose 
 no time in preparing for these men, whoever they are." 
 
 Mr. Rivington consented to Hastings' wishes, and 
 the carriage proceeded on. When they arrived at the 
 city, Hastings left the old man at the hotel where he 
 himself was stopping, and then hurried down town. 
 He concealed himself near the dock which Sally had 
 mentioned, and watched attentively to see if Belmonte 
 and Duggett would return that day. He had been there 
 several hours. Night was inclosing the city in its dark 
 mantle. Hastings left his hiding-place, and crept 
 close up to the dock where they would probably 
 land, and concealing himself between two large piles of 
 lumber. He waited patiently there until late at night, 
 when he saw a smah 1 dark object moving stealthily to- 
 wards him on the smooth surface of the river. It drew 
 up at the foot of a flight of dock steps, and two men 
 soon walked up within a few feet of where Hastings 
 lay, and stood a moment in conversation. 
 
 " It will not do for us to walk down town together," 
 said a voice which Hastings readily recognized. " Do 
 you watch him to-morrow, and let me know all that 
 transpires. I wish particularly to know where he 
 spends his evenings." 
 
 " Very well," replied Duggett ; " but I begin to wish 
 this business off my hands. It hangs fire a tarnation 
 sight too long."
 
 OB, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 375 
 
 " Watch him closely," said Belmonte, encouragingly, 
 " and before another week we will have finished the busi- 
 ness, and you will be in possession of the money I 
 promised. Mind that you are at the hotel early." 
 
 " Yes ! I understand ! " said Duggett. 
 
 " I will visit you to-morrow night at eleven again," 
 said Belmonte, as they separated. Duggett started down 
 the river, and Belmonte proceeded up into the heart of 
 the city, on one of the cross streets, followed by Hastings, 
 who kept in sight of him until he entered the obscure 
 hotel where he was stopping. " I have tracked you to 
 your den at last," thought Hastings. " I will keep an 
 eye on your movements in future." Hastings hurried 
 home, as soon as he saw Belmonte enter the door, and 
 found old Mr. Rivington in a high state of nervous ex- 
 citement. His presence soon quieted him, and they 
 began to lay plans for future operations. Hastings told 
 the old man where he had been, and what he had seen, 
 but he failed to convince him that Belmonte was in 
 the city. 
 
 " They meet," said Hastings, " to-morrow night, at a 
 house in the Five Points." 
 
 " We will go there and surprise them then," replied 
 old Mr. Rivington, quite spiritedly. 
 
 " That is what I would have proposed myself," said 
 Hastings, " but I feared to place you in danger. You 
 are too old to come in contact with desperate men." 
 
 " Whoever they may be," said the old man, in the 
 same bold and determined voice, " I do not fear to meet 
 them. I have always, during my somewhat long life, 
 found that great criminals were great cowards." 
 
 " That may be true, Mr. Rivington. Yet, men made 
 desperate from fear sometimes exhibit deeds of daring 
 and bravery that seem almost marvellous." 
 
 " There is no use arguing the question with me, Mr.
 
 376 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 Hastings," said the old man, " if your fears are on my 
 account. I fear no danger from meeting them thus 
 boldly and unexpectedly : yet," continued he, changing 
 his tone, " if, as you believe, my nephew is engaged in 
 such a base plot against my life, I will for my own and 
 his friend's sake, keep the matter from the public. I 
 do not wish to disgrace his relatives. I had sooner 
 die than have such a stain attached to his family." 
 
 " I am just as anxious to keep the matter quiet as you 
 are," said Hastings, " and will do all in my power, con- 
 sistent with your and my own safety, to keep their crime 
 from the public ear." 
 
 " Shall we go there to-morrow night and meet them ? " 
 asked the old man. 
 
 " Let us leave the question undecided until to-mor- 
 row," said Hastings. " I will see and learn more, if pos- 
 sible, between this and the time they are to meet." 
 
 " But they will be watching you to-morrow. You 
 must do nothing to excite suspicion." 
 
 " Trust me for that," said Hastings. 
 
 They talked a long time over their plans, and then 
 retired to think of them, for neither closed his eyes in 
 sleep that night 
 
 The next morning Hastings went to his office as 
 usual. He saw Duggett watching him, but he pretended 
 not to notice him. " I must see Sally Jones," thought he, 
 " between this and dark." But how to escape Duggett 
 was the difficult question. He glanced his eye out of 
 his office window several times, and saw him walking 
 slowly by, with his eyes turned towards the door of the 
 building. After a great deal of thinking, Hastings re- 
 membered a private entrance leading into the street at 
 the back of the building. He no sooner thought of this 
 outlet, than he cautiously left by it, and hastened to 
 Duggett's house. Sally was frightened when she
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 377 
 
 opened the door and let him in. She feared that Dug- 
 gett would come home and find Hastings there. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, Sally," said Hastings, reading 
 her thoughts. " There is no danger. Duggett is down 
 at my office watching for me. He did not see me leave 
 there. They are to meet here at eleven o'clock to-night. 
 Have you a place where you can conceal another man 
 and myself ? I wish to hear what they have to say." 
 
 " You are not going to bring the police ! " said Sally, 
 terrified. 
 
 " No ! You need not fear. Saul shall not be dis- 
 turbed by the police." 
 
 " But," replied she, " Saul will know that I let you in, 
 and he will take my life for betraying him." 
 
 "Never fear; we will only listen to them and see 
 what their plans are." 
 
 " Here is a closet," she said, " near the door. Do you 
 think you could get into that ? " 
 
 He stepped into it and said, " This is just the thing ! 
 and so near the door ! Capital ! It seems to have been 
 made for the purpose." 
 
 " But you promise, Mr. Hastings, not to expose Saul? " 
 
 " I will not have him punished, if it is possible to 
 avoid it." 
 
 " Then you can come," said she. " But how will you 
 get here without being discovered ? " 
 
 " I will be here in less than an hour. Saul is watch- 
 ing for me down town, and will be likely to remain 
 there a long time yet. If he comes before I return, 
 hang this handkerchief in the window." He threw her 
 a white handkerchief as he spoke. 
 
 " I will do so," said Sally, " or will in some way try 
 to let you know that he is here." 
 
 Hastings then left, and soon returned with Mr. Riv- 
 32*
 
 378 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 ington. They secreted themselves in the closet, and 
 waited patiently for eleven o'clock. It was a tedious 
 undertaking, for it was not yet one o'clock. They were 
 both prepared for defence, if necessary; and both were 
 resolved to meet Belmonte and Duggett face to face. A 
 chair had been so arranged that the old man could sit 
 down; but Hastings remained standing during the long 
 hours which preceded the time appointed for their meet- 
 ing. About ten o'clock they heard some one enter the 
 house and walk heavily over the bare floor past the closet 
 where they were. They heard a voice addressing 
 Sally: 
 
 " Hurry arid get my supper; I'm tarnation hungry." 
 
 Just then the old, clock on the mantel-piece struck 
 ten " Blow me, if it is n't ten o'clock ! 1 have a friend 
 coming here at eleven ; so hurry your stumps." 
 
 The supper was soon prepared and eaten, and Sally 
 was ordered to her sleeping apartment. 
 
 As eleven o'clock approached, Hastings and the old 
 man grew a little nervous. Their plan was to leave 
 the closet when Belmonte should come thinking the 
 noise which would be made by him in coming in 
 would prevent him and Duggett from hearing them. At 
 length they heard a loud double knock. They both 
 instinctively started. It was like the signal for battle. 
 They nerved themselves for the occasion. 
 
 As soon as they heard the bolt drawn and the door 
 opened, they crept noiselessly from the closet and 
 crouched themselves by the door which Sally had 
 pointed out to them. Hastings looked through the key- 
 hole and saw the two come into the dimly lighted room, 
 and seat themselves by the old table. The room had 
 the same spectral appearance that it had on the night 
 of Belmonte's first visit A bottle and two tumblers
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 379 
 
 were on the table. Duggett poured some liquor into the 
 glasses, and asked Belmonte to drink ; but he declined, 
 saying, as before, that he had just been drinking. The 
 old man heard their voices, and readily recognized one 
 of the speakers. He sat in silence, however, notwith- 
 standing his agitated state of mind, and listened atten- 
 tively to what they said. 
 
 " What news, Duggett ? " inquired Belmonte. 
 
 " None worth mentioning. The critter escaped me 
 somehow." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean that I followed him to his office, and that 
 I lost sight of him then." 
 
 " How could you lose sight of him, if you watched 
 attentively ? " asked Belmonte impatiently. 
 
 " Blow me, if I know how ! I don't think the critter 
 left his office at all I watched the door till night, and 
 then went straight to his office and found it locked." 
 
 " I think you were not attending to your business," 
 said Belmonte, quite angrily. Duggett' s eyes flashed 
 fire for a moment, which so terrified Belmonte that 
 he deemed it necessary to be more cautious in future ; 
 and he immediately qualified what he had said by 
 adding : " I do not wish to blame you ; but this busi- 
 ness is progressing too slowly they should both have 
 been in their graves before this." 
 
 " I cannot help the delay," said Duggett, sternly 
 "I have done my part of the business faithfully. I 
 am gitting tarnation tired of it. I wish I never had 
 undertaken it." 
 
 " You do not hesitate now, when the danger threat- 
 ens, do you ? " said Belmonte. 
 
 "I do not hesitate on account of danger, but it 
 hangs fire too long. I fear I never shall get my 
 money ! "
 
 380 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " Never fear," said Belmonte. " I think we will turn 
 the old man into his grave to-morrow night. I am 
 well acquainted with the house, and know where he 
 sleeps. I see no other way of getting rid of him. 
 I will give you half the money as soon as he is dis- 
 posed of." 
 
 Mr. Rivington shuddered at this cold-blooded propo- 
 sition, but remained quiet. 
 
 " What's the use of doing it to-morrow night?" said 
 Duggett. " Tomorrow is Friday. I hate doing things 
 o' this kind on Friday." 
 
 " You are superstitious, Duggett. One day is just 
 as good as another." 
 
 " May be," said Duggett ; " but I have an almighty 
 horror of that day. It's hangman's day." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Belmonte, with affected indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 " Well," said Duggett, " you may think as you like, 
 but I can't go with you to-morrow night. Fri- 
 day is an unlucky day I could tell but it don't 
 matter." 
 
 "What could you tell?" asked Belmonte, evidently 
 a little nervous, but striving to conceal it. 
 
 " It's now so long since," said Duggett, "that there's 
 no manner o' use speaking on't. It makes me shudder 
 to think of any thing so awful." He looked steadily 
 and somewhat wildly at the candle as he spoke. 
 
 " What do you mean, Duggett ? " asked Belmonte, 
 evidently frightened at what Duggett had said. 
 
 " I think," said Duggett, still looking fixedly at the 
 candle, "that dead men sometimes leave their graves. 
 'Specially if they're killed on a Friday. I've seed one 
 in my dreams, that's been dead now this many's the 
 long year. He was killed on a Friday." 
 
 Belmont's blood ran cold in his veins he wished
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 381 
 
 himself safely away from that gloomy place. He 
 almost fancied that he saw ghosts in the room. He 
 remembered the night which he once passed at his old 
 uncle's. They both sat in silence for a few moments 
 Duggett still with his eyes riveted on the candle. The 
 old clock on the mantel-piece broke the death-like 
 stillness of the room, with its solemn tick tick tick. 
 It seemed to warn them to beware of the step they 
 were about taking. Duggett turned his head suddenly, 
 and said : 
 
 " I wish you would get along without me. I some- 
 how feel kinder queer to-night. I don't like to help 
 kill that old man. If he was a rantin' preacher, 
 or a lawyer, or anybody 'cept an old man, why I 
 wouldn't so much keer. But to kill an old man! 
 I fear 'twouldn't turn out well. It's an old man I seed 
 in my dreams ! " At this point he took a large swallow 
 of the beverage on the table, which seemed to give him 
 fresh courage, for he added: I'm in for the tarnal busi- 
 ness though, and I s'pose I must go through." 
 
 "We will put it off until Saturday night," said 
 Belmonte." 
 
 " Here 's luck to the old man ! " said Duggett, as he 
 emptied his glass. 
 
 This sentiment caused the old man to shudder invol- 
 untarily and move slightly. 
 
 "What noise is that?" asked Belmonte, turning 
 pale. 
 
 "Nothing," replied Duggett. Just then the clock 
 struck twelve. "It's Friday," added Duggett, "the 
 noise you heard may have been a sperit ! who knows ? " 
 
 " Don 't talk nonsense," said Belmonte, tremblingly. 
 
 " It may be nonsense ; but I 've heard them walk afore 
 now."
 
 382 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Hastings purposely made a slight noise, and looked 
 through the key-hole to observe the effect. 
 
 " I certainly heard a noise," said Belmonte, turning 
 his face towards the door where Hastings and the old 
 man lay concealed. He looked frightened. 
 
 " I told you," said Duggett, with the utmost indiffer- 
 ence, for he had now drank enough to make him fear- 
 less, " that sperits of dead men sometimes leave their 
 graves, 'specially on a Friday!" 
 
 Belmonte was anxious to get away. 
 
 " Will you go with me on Saturday -night ? " 
 
 " I s'pose I must." 
 
 " Meet me then at dusk at your boat. I will be 
 there." 
 
 Hastings again made a slight noise. 
 
 " I '11 swear I heard a noise," said Belmonte, half rising 
 from his chair. 
 
 " That did sound like suthen," said Duggett, as he 
 turned his eyes towards the door. " I told you Friday 
 was an unlucky day. I should n't wonder if there was 
 sperits in the room. I 've seed 'em in rooms not near so 
 dark as this." 
 
 Duggett saw Belmonte's frightened countenance, and 
 he resolved to benefit by it. 
 
 " I must have some more money before you go," he 
 said, carelessly. 
 
 Belmonte trembled more than ever. It sounded 
 almost like a demand for his purse. He took two pieces 
 of gold from his pocket and handed them to Duggett. 
 
 " I must go now," said he. " It is growing late." 
 
 " This will no.t pay my expenses," said Duggett, 
 coolly. 
 
 "There, then, take that," said Belmonte, throwing 
 him a small purse. " I can remain here no longer."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 383 
 
 Duggett pocketed the money, and said, " I '11 be there ; 
 depend on 5 t." 
 
 Belmonte had risen from his seat at the table, when 
 Duggett, as if suddenly recollecting something, said: 
 " Wait a minit," and opening the trap-door descended 
 into the cellar, leaving Belmonte in total darkness. 
 While he stood there, Hastings again made a noise on 
 the door. Duggett soon came back with the light. He 
 had gone below for no other purpose than to practise 
 upon Belmonte's fears. 
 
 " I tell you," said Belmonte, " that there is something 
 or somebody in the house. I heard a noise distinctly." 
 He was looking deadly pale, and Duggett, enjoying his 
 fright, said : 
 
 " You '11 believe in ghosts after this, won't you ? " 
 
 " I will stay no longer," said Belmonte. 
 
 At that moment, the door flew open, and Hastings 
 and the old man stood before them. The white hair of 
 the old man made him look almost ghostly in the dimly 
 lighted room. Belmonte stared wildly at them for a 
 moment, as if unable to credit his senses, and then rush- 
 ing into the front room broke through the window into 
 the street, leaving his hat and gloves behind him. Saul 
 Duggett, terror-stricken at this unexpected apparition, 
 threw himself through the trap-door, which was open, 
 and, falling on his head, dislocated his neck. Sally Jones 
 was soon in the room ; and when Hastings and the old 
 man brought Duggett's lifeless body from the cellar she 
 fell upon it, and wept as if her heart would break. Such 
 is woman's love, even when bestowed upon those known 
 by her to be unworthy. She reproached Hastings at 
 first ; but when she learned that it was an accident she 
 became more reconciled, and promised to follow Hast- 
 ings' instructions in making his death known to the 
 public. The next day the newspapers announced Saul
 
 384 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 Duggett's death, and stated that he had fallen through 
 a trap-door into the cellar of his own house, when in a 
 state of partial intoxication, and had dislocated his neck. 
 Belmonte left his hotel that night, and took passage on 
 a vessel bound to New Orleans. Hastings watched 
 him and saw him leave, and then hurried back to old 
 Mr. Kivington to report the news, and congratulate him 
 on thus narrowly escaping the wicked designs of his 
 nephew.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SEVERAL weeks had passed since the occurrences nar- 
 rated in the last chapter. Hastings had made diligent 
 search for Moulton in all parts of the country, but could 
 find no traces of him. He was beginning to despair of 
 ever knowing the fate of his child. His troubles began 
 to show in his countenance, although, when among 
 friends, he tried to appear cheerful and happy. He 
 could not communicate his thoughts to any one, not 
 even to his friend, old Mr. Rivington. Man never feels 
 the trials of life so heavy to bear as when he has not a 
 single friend to whom he can confide them. The gay 
 ' outer world may make him smile, but his smiles are 
 
 " Like twilight imaged on a bank of snow," 
 
 they do not proceed from the heart. One evening, as 
 Hastings was walking up Broadway, he saw crowds of 
 well-dressed people of both sexes going into Niblo's. 
 He had been absent from the city for more than a week, 
 and had that day returned. He was feeling melancholy 
 and dispirited. " I will drop in here for a few minutes," 
 thought he, " and see if I cannot get rid of my own 
 reflections." It was benefit-night, and the house was 
 
 33 (386)
 
 386 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 fall to overflowing. He had not been in long, when he 
 saw Mrs. Coleman and her two daughters in one of the 
 private boxes at the side of the stage. They had seen 
 him when he entered, and as soon as he recognized 
 them, Kate beckoned him to their box. 
 
 " This is an unexpected pleasure," said Kate, as soon 
 as he had picked his way through the crowd which 
 filled the lobby. " I had not hoped to see you here." 
 
 " I was passing, and saw that it was Madame S 's 
 
 benefit night, and thought I would drop in a moment." 
 
 " But why have you not called to see me ? You 
 promised to call as soon as you returned to the city." 
 
 " Have n't I called to see you ? " 
 
 " Yes, but this is accidental." 
 
 " I only arrived in town this afternoon ; and when I 
 came in here, was on my way to see you." 
 
 " I have hah a mind to scold you, then, for loitering so 
 idly by the way." 
 
 " I could not resist the many pretty faces which I saw 
 entering the hall. I thought I would drop in and take 
 a peep at them by gas-light" 
 
 " You did not seem to be improving your time, for I 
 saw you when you came in, and you scarcely lifted 
 your eyes while you were sitting yonder. And you 
 were looking so sedate!" 
 
 " Was I ? That was because . I had not seen your 
 cheerful and rosy countenance since my return to the 
 city." 
 
 Kate blushed, and said, with a face beaming with 
 pleasure : 
 
 " Had that been the cause, you would not have lin- 
 gered on the way to look at pretty faces." 
 
 " I think," said Clemie, " that you might make less 
 noise, Kate. I can scarcely hear the singing for your 
 talking."
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 387 
 
 " Well, Miss Rudeness," said Kate, " sit further away 
 then. It's a pity I cannot speak a moment to Mr. 
 Hastings, whom I have not seen for nearly two weeks, 
 without interfering with your comfort." 
 
 Clemie made no answer, but moved further away 
 from indignant Kate. 
 
 " I think Clemie is more than half right in her re- 
 monstrances. We are losing those beautiful passages 
 in this Lucia D6 Lammermoor, which the newspaper 
 critics say Madame S. sings so divinely." 
 
 They now turned their attention to the opera, or at 
 least they ceased conversing for a little while. Kate 
 was fond of music ; but she did not enjoy Madame S.'s 
 singing as well as she enjoyed conversing with Hast- 
 ings. His words were sweeter to her than the most 
 dulcet strains that ever came from throat of warbler. 
 
 "Do you leave town again, soon?" inquired Kate, 
 when the act closed. 
 
 " I hope not," answered he. 
 
 "I should have remained at home to-night, had I 
 known that you were in town," said Kate. I did not 
 wish to come as. it was, but mamma compelled me. I 
 have something particular to communicate to you when 
 next you call." 
 
 " Are you sure that you are not hoaxing again, 
 Kate?" 
 
 " Quite sure. Can you call some evening this week ? 
 I have a letter to show you." 
 
 " A letter ! From some pine-away lover, I'll warrant 1 
 I will surely call if you have a letter to read to me." 
 
 " It is nothing of the kind, I assure you." 
 
 " Some happy, accepted lover, then." 
 
 " Don't talk such nonsense," said Kate, impatiently ; 
 "it don't become that melancholy face of youfs. I
 
 388 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 shall begin to think," added she, " that you are in love, 
 unless you look more cheerful than you have of late." 
 
 " Why should n't I be in love ? Certainly I am old 
 enough." 
 
 " It is Cupid, then, who makes you look so unlike 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Why not ? Do you think me destitute of those 
 tender tendencies sometimes so beautifully exhibited in 
 those of my sex ? " 
 
 Kate laughed and said, " Your tender-hearted sex are 
 to be pitied, poor unfortunates ! " 
 
 " I am glad they have your sympathies, Kate. But 
 the letter ! What about that ? Can you not tell me its 
 contents ? " 
 
 She could not resist her inclination to let him know 
 something of what was in it ; so she answered : 
 
 " It is about you." 
 
 " Oh ! Is that all ? " said he carelessly. He had sus- 
 pected, from the moment she spoke of it, that it was 
 from Mrs. Delacy. 
 
 " You treat it very lightly," said Kate. 
 
 " If it is about me," continued Hastings, " it is of 
 very small importance. Is that all you have to tell 
 me?" 
 
 " But it slanders you, Mr. Hastings. It states what I 
 know to be untrue. It says that you have been mar- 
 ried." She said this as though she felt very indignant 
 at the effrontery of the person who had written such a 
 falsehood. .'. 
 
 " If it says nothing less true of me than that," said 
 Hastings, still unmoved by any thing she had said, " I 
 cannot find much fault with it" 
 
 Kate looked at him incredulously. 
 
 "You need not put on so sedate a countenance. 
 You cannot make me believe any thing so ridiculous."
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 389 
 
 " What is there ridiculous in the idea that I have 
 once been married ? Why do you disbelieve that I 
 have ? " 
 
 " You might have been, to be sure," said Kate, still 
 half believing that he was trying to impose upon her 
 credulity. " But you have not been, have you, Mr. 
 Hastings?" 
 
 " Yes, Kate," said Hastings, in a manner not admit- 
 ting of doubt, " your letter is true in that. What else 
 does it say ? Nothing worse, I hope ? " 
 
 " No ; that is about all. It tells me how I might as- 
 certain the truth of what it states. But I hope you do 
 not think me capable of seeking to know whether it is 
 true or false from any one, save yourself. I have shown 
 the letter to no one, not even to mamma ; for I believed 
 it to be untrue, and I was quite sure the writer of it 
 was not your friend." 
 
 " I am glad, Kate, that you had sufficient confidence 
 in me to believe that I would tell you the truth. If 
 you have not mentioned the contents of the letter to 
 any one, will you still observe the same discretion, and 
 speak of it to no one in future ? " 
 
 " I will do so with the greatest pleasure," answered 
 she, evidently nattered to think that Hastings had made 
 her to some extent his confidant." 
 
 The curtain was again raised, and Madame S 
 
 came on to the stage amid the plaudits of an enthusias- 
 tic house. Hastings and Kate ceased talking for a 
 moment, but soon were as deeply engaged in conversa- 
 tion as ever. 
 
 " I do wish, mamma," said Clemie, " that you would 
 make Kate stop talking. She won't let Mr. Hastings 
 or any one else listen to the singing." 
 
 " Clemie, I think you are exceedingly rude," answered 
 33*
 
 390 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Kate peevishly. " Just as though we must all remain 
 as still as church-mice to accommodate you ! " 
 
 Clemie turned her back to Kate, and continued listen- 
 ing. Mrs. Coleman, hearing what had been said, turned 
 to Clemie and reproved her in a voice little above a 
 whisper. " Clemie," said she, " I will not bring you to 
 the opera again, unless you conduct yourself better." 
 Hastings overheard her reproof, and smiled to see that 
 Clemie affected not to hear it ; but kept her eyes riveted 
 upon the Prima Donna. 
 
 " Will you be at home to-morrow night, Kate ? " in- 
 quired Hastings. 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " I will call and read that mischievous letter then, 
 with your permission." 
 
 " Do," said Kate. " I wish to show it to you. You 
 may recognize the handwriting. Have you any idea 
 who wrote it ? " 
 
 " I must see it," answered he, " before I express my 
 suspicions." 
 
 The opera at length broke up, and Hastings, after 
 showing Miss Kate, her mamma, and Clemie into their 
 carriage, returned to his own home, pondering over the in- 
 telligence which Kate had imparted. He feared that 
 Kate would be made the object of Mrs. Delacy's revenge. 
 
 He called, as promised, the night following, to see 
 Kate. She handed him the letter almost as soon as he 
 entered the house. Before he commenced reading it, 
 Miss Clemie came into the drawing-room. 
 
 " I declare, Miss Clemie," said Hastings, " the opera 
 last night has improved your looks at least one half." 
 
 She did not relish the compliment. 
 
 " I think," said she, " that you and Kate were not 
 much improved or entertained by it."
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 391 
 
 " We have," said Hastings, trying to tease her, "the 
 double faculty of conversing and listening to music at 
 the same time. That is a very rare gift, Clemie. I 
 came this evening," continued he, " to condole with you. 
 I heard your mamma say last night that she should not 
 let you go to the opera again soon, because you behaved 
 so badly. Now you ought not to be so very naughty, 
 Miss Clemie." 
 
 She left the room, indignant to think Hastings should 
 treat her so much like a child, and mortified to know 
 that he had overheard the reproof of her mamma. She 
 liked Hastings, and knew him to be her sincere friend ; 
 yet he sometimes teased her, until she became impatient, 
 and almost angry with him. Hastings and Kate were 
 now left entirely to themselves. As soon as he glanced 
 at the letter, he recognized the writing, and knew it to 
 be Mrs. Delacy's. 
 
 " This is a singular document, Kate, as we lawyers 
 say. I think I know who wrote it ; but it is not nec- 
 essary for me to tell you whom I suspect of any thing 
 so base." He read its contents carefully, and then 
 added : " This was written to influence you against me. 
 I fear that I cannot safely call on you in future. The 
 person who wrote this may do you some harm. She 
 may. slander you." 
 
 " Why do you think so ? " asked Kate. 
 
 " It is evident that she wishes to break off my visits 
 here." 
 
 " But why need we care ? " said Kate, made a little 
 uneasy by what he said. " This letter did not influence 
 me a particle. I never would be influenced against you 
 by your enemies." 
 
 " But, Kate, a person who would stoop to write you 
 such a letter, would be base enough to circulate inju- 
 rious reports about you." .
 
 392 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 " I fear no one," said Kate, somewhat haughtily. " I 
 do as nearly right as I can, without any fear or thought 
 of those who would injure me." 
 
 " You do right in that," said Hastings ; " but I know 
 more of the world, perhaps, than you do, and I fear that 
 I cannot safely visit you as frequently as I have done 
 heretofore." 
 
 Kate could not conceal her uneasiness of mind at the 
 prospect of seeing him less often than she had been 
 accustomed. 
 
 " I will be frank with you, Kate," said Hastings. " I 
 must not visit you so frequently. It would be doing you 
 a great wrong. Others might misconstrue my calls, 
 especially if assisted by some evil-minded person." 
 
 Kate tried to suppress her feelings, but she could not. 
 Tears came into her eyes, and excusing herself for a 
 moment she left the room. This made Hastings un- 
 easy. He feared that she was thinking too much of 
 him. 
 
 " I hope," said Hastings, when she returned, " that I 
 have not been so rude as to injure your feelings." 
 
 " No ! " answered Kate. " It is my own foolishness. 
 I have always enjoyed your calling here, and I see no 
 reason why I should be debarred the pleasure of your 
 society by any evil-disposed person." 
 
 " May I visit you as your brother, Kate ? And will 
 you always think of me as such ? I have no sisters, and 
 I should like to treat you as I fancy I would treat a 
 sister. Otherwise I must call here only occasionally." 
 
 Kate could not think of having him call less often 
 than he had been accustomed to of late, but there was 
 something so dispiriting in what he had said, that she 
 knew not what to answer. She loved him with all her 
 large heart, and the idea that he only cared for her as a 
 dear friend made hex wretched. She answered him,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 393 
 
 however, with her eyes resting on the floor : " I have 
 always valued your friendship, and I hope I shall con- 
 tinue to do so, notwithstanding what others may say." 
 
 " But will you promise me, Kate, that my visits here 
 shall not interfere with those of any of your many ad- 
 mirers ? You may think this vanity in me, but I hope 
 you will attribute my frankness to my disinterested 
 friendship for you." 
 
 " I will do as you ask," answered she, submissively ; 
 " I can treat you as I would a brother." 
 
 " With this understanding, I shall be happy to con- 
 tinue my calls, and will take great pleasure in introduc- 
 ing to you the most respectable of my young acquaint- 
 ances." 
 
 Kate made no reply ; but it was plain to be seen that 
 she had no wish to be introduced even to Hastings' 
 " most respectable " friends. 
 
 " Since you are to be my sister," said he, " I must 
 take you into confidence. I don't know why it is, but 
 I feel that I can safely tell you what I have long kept 
 pent up in my own bosom. You have , frequently 
 accused me of looking unhappy and melancholy. Shall 
 I tell you what has contributed to make me so ? " 
 
 " I shall esteem it a great favor to be your confidant 
 in an^y thing so nearly concerning yourself." 
 
 " I never," commenced he, " have told you any thing 
 of my previous life. Why did you wonder, Kate, when 
 you were told that I had been married ? " 
 
 " Because I have known you so long, and you never 
 have mentioned the fact." 
 
 " I never thought it advisable," answered he, " to do 
 so ; not that I wished to deceive you, or any other of 
 my friends." 
 
 " I have no doubt," said she, " that you had good rea-
 
 394 THE CKOOKED ELM J 
 
 sons for acting as you have. Others have no right to 
 inquire into what concerns yourself alone." 
 
 " You have found out part of my secret from some 
 unknown correspondent. I will now tell you what the 
 writer of that letter does not, nor ever can know." 
 Kate listened, wondering what he could mean. " My 
 wife," continued he, " died several years since ; but I 
 have, or hope I have a child, a lovely little girl, living 
 somewhere in the world. It is because I believe her 
 living, and am unable to find her, that I am some- 
 times dejected and cheerless when I call here." 
 
 " How strange ! " exclaimed Kate. " But why is it 
 that you do not know where she is ? " 
 
 " I cannot now tell you all the reasons." Kate was 
 intensely interested in what he had said. There was a 
 mystery about it all, which she could not understand. 
 She longed to hear Hastings explain. 
 
 " I cannot wonder now," said she, " that you some- 
 times looked sad. You must have thought me heart- 
 less in making so light of your troubled looks." 
 
 " Your greatest crime has been in trying to dissipate 
 my gloomy thoughts." 
 
 " But what of your child ? " inquired she. " I wish 
 to know more of it." 
 
 " I had for several years supposed it dead," said he. 
 
 " Supposed it dead ! " exclaimed Kate. " Did it not 
 live with you ? " 
 
 " Listen awhile, and I will tell you what I know of 
 her history." 
 
 He then related all that he knew of little Flora, how 
 she had been saved, and for some years brought up by 
 old Mr. Rivington. He did not tell her all the facts con- 
 nected with her being removed from the old man's, yet 
 he told her sufficient to give her a full knowledge of the
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 395 
 
 manner, that she was stolen away. Kate listened with 
 almost breathless attention to it all, and, when he had 
 finished, exclaimed : 
 
 " How wonderful ! But do you not hope to find her 
 yet ? " 
 
 " 1 still hope to find her, yet I fear I shall never see 
 the dear child again." As he said this he wiped away 
 a tear. Kate saw him do so, and as if in sympathy her 
 eyes filled with tears also, and she left the room for a 
 moment to conceal them. When she returned, Hastings 
 said, smilingly : 
 
 " I have intrusted you with a secret of great impor- 
 tance to myself, and all because you are my sister. I 
 know that it is safe with you, and I am happy in hav- 
 ing some one to whom I can relate my troubles." 
 
 Kate made no answer, but he saw in her face a lan- 
 guage more expressive than words. 
 
 " It is growing late," said Hastings, and I must go." 
 
 " Stop a moment," cried she, as she ran hastily out of 
 the room, as though she had suddenly thought of some- 
 thing which she was near forgetting. She soon came 
 back, holding in her hand a beautifully wrought scarlet 
 smoking cap. " We thought this would become you 
 very much." 
 
 " We thought," said Hastings, with a significant ac- 
 cent on the we, as he took the cap and examined, and 
 of course praised it. " Shall I thank we for it, or you, 
 Kate ? " 
 
 She blushed, and hung her head. 
 
 " I do not smoke," said he ; " but I will wear this for 
 the sake of tlje donor." 
 
 " I must see you put it on," said Kate. 
 
 He complied with her wish. 
 
 " I declare ! " exclaimed she. " You look like a sul-
 
 396 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 tan. Let me run and bring Clemie." She ran away, 
 but Clemie was too much offended to return with her. 
 She had not recovered from her pouting mood. 
 
 " Have you any commands, Kate ? I must leave be- 
 fore your mamma comes and scolds us. Are there no 
 nice young beaux of my acquaintance that you will be 
 introduced to ? " 
 
 " None," answered she, laconically. 
 
 " Consider a moment," said he, pleasantly. " Think 
 of Mr. ." 
 
 " I will hear no more," said she, laughing. 
 
 " Well, bon soir, wilfulness." 
 
 " Au revoir monfrere, Hastings." 
 
 They shook hands cordially, and separated. It was 
 long before Kate closed her eyes in sleep that night. 
 Little Flora and her strange history occupied her 
 thoughts until a late hour. She did not feel happy, 
 either, in thinking that Hastings felt towards her only 
 as a brother. 
 
 A few days after Hastings had made Kate his confi- 
 dant, he found the following among his letters by the 
 last post : 
 
 " DEAREST WILLIAM, I can remain in suspense no 
 longer. Do write me if you are yet alive, and relieve my 
 anxiety of mind. I fear that something has happened 
 to you. Oh, write me one word, and tell me that you are 
 still alive. Walter has not written me since he left. I 
 fear that you never got my letter of warning. I am 
 wretched in being banished from you. I care not for 
 consequences. I must hear from you I must know 
 whether you have been harmed by him. Direct a letter 
 
 to , General post-office, and I will get it. Oh, 
 
 write at once, and relieve me of the weight that is in-
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 397 
 
 supportable. I shall be unhappy until I hear from you. 
 In my banishment I am ever thinking of the only one 
 I have ever loved. Believe me forever, your 
 
 " CORNELIA." 
 
 Hastings read and re-read this letter, and then seated 
 himself at his desk, and. wrote her in answer a long let- 
 ter, in which he detailed all that had occurred between 
 himself and Belmonte since the latter's return to New 
 York. He expressed his undying love for her, and told 
 her how lonely and unhappy her absence made him. 
 His letter, which filled several sheets, closed with this 
 quotation : 
 
 " Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside, 
 Shall leave us love, till life itself be past." 
 
 34
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ANOTHER winter had passed away. Spring had come 
 and gone, and Mrs. Belmonte still remained in England. 
 Belmonte had written to her once or twice, saying that 
 business of a peculiar nature demanded his presence in 
 New Orleans, and telling her to remain where she was 
 until he should come for her. She had more than once 
 heard from Hastings, and had written to him occasion- 
 ally. Her letters to him were much more cheerful than 
 she felt ; for she was unwilling that he should know the 
 extent of her heart-breaking sorrow. I will not attempt 
 a description of the long, gloomy days, weeks, and 
 months which she had passed in England, shut out 
 from all whom she knew, and apprehensive and fearful 
 respecting the future. Day after day she would shut 
 herself up in her room and weep over hopes long since 
 fled, and over the net of troubles which encompassed 
 her. Bitterly, long, and silently, had she mourned over 
 what seemed to be her fate. The bloom on her cheeks 
 had disappeared. Pale, thoughtful, and with a melan- 
 choly expression of countenance, she moved among her 
 friends and visitors, without seeming to realize where 
 she was or what she was doing. Her thoughts were 
 not there. They were far away, following him whom 
 neither time nor distance could teach her to forget 
 
 (398)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 399 
 
 One day, in the early part of June, Bessy came running 
 to her mistress, half out of breath. 
 
 " Here's a letter, Missis," exclaimed she ; " I 's ran de 
 whole ob de way from de pose-office. I 'specs it 's from 
 Massa Belmonte. Mrs. Belmonte knew the handwrit- 
 ing, and quickly broke the seal and commenced read- 
 ing it. Bessy remained in the room long enough to 
 see her mistress' countenance light up with a glow 
 of pleasure, and then leaving, she muttered : " Bref 
 de Lor 5 ! Bref de Lor' ! I know'd it was from 
 Massa Hastins de berry fus minit I seed it, but I 
 'tended to Missis dat I thought it was from Massa 
 Belmonte, case she might n't jis like it over much, to 
 hab dis chile know moje'n was 'zacly right. Bref 
 you, Massa Hastins ! bref you for makin' missis 
 happy! Bref de Lor'! Bref de Lor 5 !!" Bessy 
 went about the house the remainder of that day 
 scarcely knowing what she was about. Her ebony 
 face was covered with smiles. She could have em- 
 braced Hastings for thus cheering the heart of her 
 mistress. Mrs. Belmonte read the letter which Bessy 
 had given to her until all its thoughts had been trans- 
 ferred to her memory, and for a few days she appeared 
 more cheerful and happy than she had for some time. 
 This favorable change soon wore away, however, and 
 she became as pensive and absent-minded as ever. It 
 was apparent to all who knew her that her health was 
 fast failing. She neither enjoyed riding, walking, nor 
 any of the many amusements that were gotten up sole- 
 ly for her entertainment She became iore and more 
 retired in her habits every day seldom going into so- 
 ciety when she could reasonably avoid doing so. One 
 day her physician advised her to travel for a few months 
 in some warm climate. " Travelling," said he, " will 
 benefit you more than any medicine I can prescribe."
 
 400 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 <; But," answered she, " I do not know when Mr. Bel- 
 monte will return. I can not leave here until I obtain 
 his consent." 
 
 " If you wait for that," said the physician, who seemed 
 to divine the cause of her illness, " it may be too late. 
 I have been speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, 
 (the people in whose house she was staying,) and they 
 say they would be happy in accompanying you to Italy, 
 or to any other place you might wish to go." 
 
 " They are exceedingly kind to me," said Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, " and have been all the time that I have been 
 with them. Yet I cannot consent to leave here at 
 present." As she said this, a thought suddenly occurred 
 to her, and she added : " If a .visit to the south of Ire- 
 land would be of any benefit to me, I might consent to 
 go there for a month or so. That is not so far away 
 as Italy. Should Mr. Belmonte return, I could soon 
 come on here." 
 
 The physician readily consented to her visiting Ire- 
 land, and she at once made arrangements to set out for 
 Cork in company with her kind host and hostess. 
 
 She had long wished to visit the place where Hast- 
 ings had been married. He had often spoken to her of 
 the events and incidents connected with his wedding, 
 and had described much of the scenery which he had, 
 in company with his young bride, visited during the 
 few first weeks of their married life. " I should like," 
 thought Mrs. Belmonte, " to see the little church where 
 William was married the rivers, castles, lakes, and 
 mountains, of which I have so often heard him speak. 
 Walter knows nothing of this part of his history. He 
 cannot object to my spending the summer months in 
 the south of Ireland. Yes, William, I will go and see 
 the little church, the lakes and castles which you have 
 seen, and I will associate them all with you. I may
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 401 
 
 never see you or hear your voice again, but it will be a 
 pleasure, while banished from you, to look at scenery 
 forever associated in my mind with your earlier life." 
 
 Arrangements were soon made, and Mrs. Belmonte, 
 accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, set out for 
 Cork. The first place they visited, on arriving there, 
 was the little church, a few miles out of the city, in 
 which Hastings and Ida Linwood were married. Mrs. 
 Belmonte exhibited no curiosity of mind respecting it 
 when with Mr. and Mrs. Worthington; but the next 
 day she excused herself to them, saying that she wished 
 to do a little shopping, and that she might be absent an 
 hour or more. She took Bessy with her, and as soon 
 as they had gone a few blocks from the hotel they got 
 into a carriage and drove to the little church again. 
 The sexton, quite an old man, was there, and took 
 pleasure in answering all the questions which Mrs. Bel- 
 monte asked him. Bessy remained in the carriage, and 
 wondered what her mistress was about. " What am de 
 matter with Missis ? " muttered she. " Here she comes 
 yes'day an den agin to-day to look at de meetin' house. 
 It am no great curimosity arter all. It am purty 'nough, 
 but I 've seed a mighty sight purtier. Missis looks sol- 
 emn like, too. May be she thinks as how she 's gwine 
 to die, an she comes here case ob dat. I is sartin dat 
 am de reason. Now she's talkin' with dat ar ole gen'- 
 man. Well, white folks knows der business better nor 
 culled persons, dat am sartin." Bessy watched atten- 
 tively all that her mistress did, for she wondered why she 
 should take such an interest in visiting a place, seem- 
 ingly of so little note. Mrs. Belmonte learned of the 
 sexton what seemed to satisfy her, and she left him and 
 walked about, first in the church and then in the shaded 
 grounds surrounding it. At length she seated herself 
 34*
 
 402 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 under the shade of a large tree, and commenced sketch- 
 ing the church on a leaf of her portfolio, which she had 
 evidently brought with her for the purpose. She sat 
 absorbed in her book for nearly an hour, and then get- 
 ting up approached the old sexton. " I thank you for 
 being so kind to me to-day. I wish to sketch this 
 church for my album, and may visit here frequently. 
 Will you accept this ? You look old and feeble." She 
 handed the old man a piece of gold. 
 
 " May the Lord presarve you, my good lady ! " said 
 he, as he took off his hat and made a low bow. 
 
 " I may come here to-morrow. Will you be here ? " 
 inquired Mrs. Belmbnte, as she was about leaving. 
 
 " I will be here, God bless your ladyship ! ivery day 
 you come, if it be all the days in the year." 
 
 She thanked him again, and got into her carriage and 
 drove away, leaving the old man standing near the door 
 of the church with his hat still in his hand. The next 
 day, Mrs. Belmonte in company with her friends visited 
 Blarney Castle, its groves, lake, and many places of 
 interest in its immediate vicinity. They continued at 
 Cork; and Mrs. Belmonte in company with Bessy 
 frequently stole away to the same little church which I 
 have already mentioned, and to the groves of Blarney. 
 The old sexton always had a smile for her when she 
 came, and the old woman at the castle welcomed her 
 with her best courtesy. Often would she sit in the shade 
 of the trees surrounding the church and write for hours 
 at a time. She seemed to take a melancholy pleasure 
 in doing so. She had completed her sketch of the little 
 church, embosomed as it was beneath the green foliage 
 of the tall trees which stood on every side of it. Blarney 
 Castle, its groves and sylvan lake, had also been trans- 
 ferred to her album. Two weeks more have passed,
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 403 
 
 and Mrs. Belmonte has just returned to Cork, from a 
 visit to the lakes of Killarney. Several additional 
 sketches of scenery on the lakes have been added to 
 those already taken. The scenery and the air in the 
 south of Ireland have not effected a favorable change in 
 her health. She is looking more feeble than when she 
 left England. She scarce ever smiles, or engages in con- 
 versation with any one. A settled melancholy rests 
 upon her countenance. 
 
 As soon as they had returned from Killarney, Mr. 
 Worthington wrote to her physician, requesting him to 
 come on at once. 
 
 " We cannot," wrote he, " prevail upon her to leave 
 this place, although it is apparent that she is fast failing 
 every day. She seems to take pleasure in remaining 
 here and visiting two or three places only. I proposed 
 to-day a sail on the Cove of Cork, but she declined, 
 giving as a reason that she wished to complete some 
 sketches which she had commenced. Mrs. Worthing- 
 ton and I are growing alarmed in consequence of her 
 greatly increased debility of body, and the general mel- 
 ancholy of her mind." 
 
 In answer to this letter, Mrs. Belmonte's physician 
 wrote, advising Mr. Worthington to persuade Mrs. Bel- 
 monte to take a short trip to the continent. He also 
 recommended a physician to him residing in Cork, and 
 stated that it would be impossible for him then to leave 
 home. Mr. Worthington showed this letter to Mrs. 
 Belmonte, but he could not prevail upon her to -leave 
 Cork. 
 
 Weeks passed on, and her health continued 
 way. She had become so feeble that when she 
 out it was necessary that she should be bolstered 
 her carriage. In this condition she drove to the 
 church one day, after an absence from it of nearl
 
 404 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 week. She sat in her carriage for some time, but at 
 length signified a desire to go to her old seat under the 
 large tree. The old sexton assisted her to get down, 
 and let her lean on his arm as she walked into the 
 churchyard. A pillow was placed on the seat, and Mrs. 
 JBelmonte requested to be left alone. She sat in silence 
 for a few moments, and then taking her pencil wrote in 
 her portfoli o the following short letter : 
 
 " DEAREST WILLIAM, I am sitting here near the 
 little church where you were married. For several 
 weeks I have visited this lovely spot almost daily. It 
 speaks to me of you, and I find a pleasure in coming 
 here. But even this happiness will soon be denied me. 
 I am no longer able to walk about in these hallowed, 
 sylvan shades without assistance. The good old sexton 
 let me lean on his arm as I walked from my carriage 
 here. He remembers you, and has told me many times 
 of your wedding. He has not forgotten your generosity 
 to the peasantry and to himself. I fear, William, that 
 I cannot come here many times more. I do not wish 
 to alarm you, I do not wish to say aught that will give 
 you pain. I have purposely kept from you my fast fail- 
 ing health; but now I feel it necessary to write you, 
 and tell you that I have not long to live. Since I can- 
 not see you, since all hope of happiness is denied me 
 in this life, I have no desire to live longer. Bessy will 
 keep my portfolio and a few papers which it contains, 
 and will, when she returns to New York, deliver them 
 safely to you. I feel that I shall not write you many 
 times more. Do not think me unhappy in thus leaving 
 a world which has ever given md trouble and disappoint- 
 ment. I welcome death as a messenger of mercy. I 
 can write no more now. I must leave this dear place, 
 perhaps for the last time. Believe, while you live, that
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 405 
 
 the heart which has never changed is still thine, and 
 will be until it is laid in the cold grave. CORNELIA." 
 
 When Mrs. Belmonte became conscious that she 
 never would get well, she took Bessy into her confidence 
 a little, as the only means of communicating with Hast- 
 ings. There were several papers and small articles 
 which she wished to be given to him in case of her 
 death. She had made her wishes on this subject known 
 to Bessy, and had given her such instructions as she 
 deemed necessary respecting them. One day she called 
 Bessy to her bedside, and said : 
 
 " Will you be sure to do as I have told you with that 
 rose-wood box, in case I do not get well ? " 
 
 Bessy answered, with tears coursing down her cheeks : 
 " I '11 do jis as missis says ; but I hope de Lor 5 will let 
 you lib many's de long year yit." As she said this, she 
 sat down and blubbered aloud. " Oh, I hab allers lub'd 
 you, so I hab. You allers hab been a good missis to 
 me, an' you mussent die." 
 
 She loved her mistress, and could not endure the 
 thought of her dying. Whenever Mrs. Behnonte had 
 spoken to her of late on the. subject, she had burst into a 
 fit of crying. More than a week had passed since Mrs. 
 Belmonte's last visit to the little church, and she con- 
 tinued to grow more feeble every day. 
 
 " Bessy," said she one day, " take this sketch to the 
 old sexton. He will like it as a present from me, I am 
 sure. See! I have sketched him at the door of the 
 church. Do you think it looks like him ? " 
 " 'Zacly like him for all de worle." 
 
 " Well, carry it to him. He is very poor too ; give 
 him this purse. Go now and tell him that I am not so 
 well as I have been, but that I hope soon to visit him 
 again."
 
 406 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 Bessy took an outside car, and soon arrived at the 
 church. The old sexton was there, and was glad to see 
 her. 
 
 "See here, what missis sent you, Misser Sextle!" 
 said Bessy, as soon as she had shaken the old man's 
 hand. He looked attentively at the church, the trees, 
 and himself, as they were sketched on the paper, and, 
 hastily brushing away a tear with his rough hand, 
 said : 
 
 M How is your good mistress ? God bless her lady- 
 ship!" 
 
 " She am no better, Mr. Sextle," answered Bessy, 
 shaking her head solemnly. 
 
 " Is she confined to her room ? " 
 
 " Yes, she am 'fined to her room. Missis thinks she 
 am gwine to die, an' she am jis as nappy as if she was 
 gwine to lib." She tried to keep from crying, but it 
 was of no use ; she soon went off in a regular fit of 
 blubbering, and the old man wiped away the tears as 
 they came into his own eyes. 
 
 " Here am some money missis sent you. She 
 'quested me to say dat she hopes for to come here 
 soon." 
 
 " God bless her ! God bless her for remembering the 
 poor! " cried the old man, as he turned away weeping, 
 and walked into the church. As soon as Bessy had 
 gone, the old man seated himself in the shade where he 
 had often seen Mrs. Belmonte sit, and after counting the 
 money she had sent him looked attentively for a long 
 time at the sketch, which he still held in his hand. 
 Dear lady ! " he muttered. " To think of a poor cra- 
 ture like me ! May the Lord presarve her a long time 
 yet ! To send the like o' me so much money ! and this 
 picture, how beautiful ! There 's myself by the church 
 door, sure. She made me with her own hand, God
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 407 
 
 bless her ! " As he said this he kissed himself in the 
 picture, and, getting up, walked away muttering all 
 kinds of blessings upon Mrs. Belmonte for being so kind 
 to him. 
 
 The physician, recommended to Mr. Worthington, 
 visited Mrs. Belmonte daily, but could prescribe nothing 
 to help her. He did not understand her disease. She 
 was dying of a broken heart. There are few, perhaps, 
 in this material age, who believe in broken hearts. 
 Occasionally, however, we see those of the gentler sex 
 fading and passing away without seeming to die of any 
 disease. All efforts, put forth by the most skilful physi- 
 cians, fail to effect a cure. They fade like autumn 
 leaves; they die of broken hearts. All their ideal 
 world, all of every thing they have prized, has been 
 swept away by the tornado of disappointed love, and 
 they are left the helpless wrecks of the sweeping and 
 withering blast. The picture of disappointed love, so 
 beautifully painted in Irving's " Broken Heart," com- 
 mends itself to every one possessed of human feeling 
 for its truthfulness and fidelity to nature. Like Irving, 
 I believe in broken hearts. 
 
 Mrs. Worthington remained with Mrs. Belmonte, and 
 did all she could for her. One morning, as they were in 
 the. loom together, Mrs. Belmonte said, 
 
 " I know not how to thank you, Mrs. Worthington, 
 for all the kindness you have shown to me. I do not 
 think I shall live many days longer, and I cannot die 
 until I have expressed to you my sincere gratitude for 
 all you have done. I have one request to make of you, 
 and I am sure you will grant it. Will you have me 
 buried in the wood, near by the little church which we 
 visited together on the day after our arrival here? 'Tis 
 there, under the shade of those tall trees, that I wish to 
 repose when I am dead."
 
 408 THE CROOKED ELM | 
 
 " Your request shall be granted," answered Mrs. 
 Worthington, deeply affected. " I have often wondered 
 why you visited that little church so frequently. There 
 must be something which endears it to you." 
 
 " We all have histories of our own," said Mrs. Bel- 
 monte, in a feeble voice, " much of which is known only 
 to ourselves. We all, too, have secrets which will be 
 buried with us in the grave. You are right in thinking 
 that the place where I wish to be laid is endeared to 
 me. It is, and must ever be associated in my mind 
 with a very dear friend. And now that I am in a 
 strange land, I wish to attest my friendship, by selecting 
 it as the place wherein to repose after this life of mine, 
 which has been filled with sorrow and trouble, shall 
 have passed away from earth." 
 
 There was something so plaintive and sad in the 
 tones of Mrs. Belmonte's voice, as she made this partial 
 confession, that Mrs. Worthington's eyes filled with 
 tears as she listened. She took Mrs. Belmonte's hand, 
 and, pressing it tenderly, said : 
 
 " I fear we have not known the cause of your ill- 
 ness. I have sometimes suspected that private troubles 
 weighed upon your mind. Have you no other requests 
 to make ? No word to leave for Mr. Belmonte ? " 
 
 " Tell him," said she, " that I died happy." 
 
 " Is there nothing more that you wish said to him ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Mrs. Belmonte. " He will get 
 the things I leave with you. I have written what I 
 wished to say to him, and he will read it when he comes 
 on here. You will please keep carefully the small 
 trunk which stands there. What I have written is in 
 that." 
 
 Mrs. Worthington promised that she would. At this 
 point in the conversation, Bessy entered the room and 
 handed Mrs. Belmonte a letter. It was mailed in New
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 409 
 
 Orleans. She opened and read it. For a moment a 
 smile rested upon her countenance. Belmonte wrote 
 that he could not come to England for several months. 
 " He will not be here," thought she, " to oppose my 
 dying request. I can sleep in the churchyard where I 
 have passed so many hours thinking of William, who, 
 in the hour of his marriage to another, was still faithful 
 and true to me ! I am glad that Walter will not be 
 here when I die." 
 
 His letter imparted a negative happiness. It secured 
 to her, she thought, her last and fondest wish. 
 
 35
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HARRY COLLINGWOOD had been at the Babblington 
 school so long that all its peculiarities had ceased to 
 be novelties. He took to his books kindly, and had 
 already learned his hie, hcec, hoc, and was rapidly pre- 
 paring himself to enter college. Charley, Dick, and 
 Wash continued to be his warm friends and compan- 
 ions, and all was passing along as smoothly as could 
 well be expected. He had received letters from home 
 frequently; nor had he neglected to write often to 
 his father and mother, and to Aunt Rose. About the 
 middle of summer he wrote and mailed the following 
 letter : 
 
 "DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, Term closes next 
 Wednesday. Charley Willington and I will leave 
 here on Thursday. We will go to New York in 
 company. May be he will go home with me. He 
 says he will if his folks will let him. I wish they 
 would, you would like him so much. I tried to 
 get Dick Evans and Wash Smith to go too, but their 
 fathers wouldn't let them. I am so glad that it is 
 near the time to leave. The money you sent came 
 to me safely. Old Babble I mean Mr. Babbling- 
 ton bought me a new jacket and trowsers with part 
 of it Charley wanted a jacket and trowsers like mine, 
 
 (410)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 411 
 
 so I let him have enough money to buy them. Charley 
 says I look real well in my new suit. My old clothes, 
 which I brought from home, are vastly too short for 
 me. I am a great deal bigger than I was. I don't 
 think Aunt Rose will know me. I want to see you 
 all so much! I have just finished my Latin First 
 Reader, and have commenced translating in the Second 
 Reader. It is growing late, and I am tired. Good 
 night. Tell Aunt Rose that I will be at home in 
 a week or so. Your affectionate son, 
 
 HARRY." 
 
 As soon as term closed, Harry and Charley bade good- 
 by to Dick, and Wash, and to the Babblington family, 
 and, after more than a day's travel on the railroad, 
 arrived safely in New York city. They had not been 
 there long when they, in company, visited Hastings 
 at his office. 
 
 " Ah, Harry and Charley, my boys ! I am delighted 
 to see you!" said Hastings, as soon as they entered 
 his office. " When did you come to the city? " 
 
 " This morning," answered Harry. 
 
 " Your cousin Lib didn't know you, did she, Char- 
 ley?" 
 
 " Trust her for that ! She asked me to carry a mes- 
 sage for her to Mr. Diddlescott, or some such name, 
 an hour after I got home. I believe she will want me 
 to run on errands when I am fifty years old." 
 
 " I thought you were very fond of your cousin Lib," 
 said Hastings, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, I like her well enough; but I am glad she is 
 going to get married." 
 
 " Married ! " exclaimed Hastings. 
 
 " Yes, she is going to be married to Mr. Diddlesby, 
 or whatever his name is. Didn't you know it? "
 
 412 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 " I have heard nothing of it before," said Hastings. 
 
 " I am glad, Mr.- Hastings, that you are not going to 
 many Lib. She would bother your life out" 
 
 Hastings laughed, and asked when her wedding was 
 to take place. 
 
 " In a fortnight," said Charley. " Have you seen ]\Ir. 
 Diddle, Mr. Hastings?" 
 
 " Dillingscott, you mean ? " 
 
 " I believe that is his name. Have you seen him ? " 
 
 " Frequently. He is a very fine looking gentleman. 
 Don't you think he is, Charley ? " 
 
 " I suppose he is," said Charley, shrugging his 
 shoulders slightly. " I am glad he is going to take 
 Lib, at any rate." 
 
 " Lib wouldn't thank you, if she heard you speaking 
 so lightly of her intended husband." 
 
 u Oh, she don't care. I told her this morning that 
 I did not like Mr. Diddle Diddlescott. I never have 
 seen him but once, and I don't like him. That is the 
 long and short of it." 
 
 " How soon do you leave for home, Harry ? " inquired 
 Hastings, putting his arm round Harry's waist, and 
 pulling him close up to his side. " They won't know 
 you, you have grown so tall. I declare, you are get- 
 ting to be quite handsome too ! What will little Miss 
 Robinson say when she sees you ? " 
 
 " Oh," said Harry, quite dignifiedly, " I don't think 
 much of Lizzie Robinson. She is very good, to be 
 sure; but I don't think much about the little girls. 
 Do I Charley?" 
 
 " No, Mr. Hastings, he don't," answered Charley, quite 
 sedately. 
 
 " That is right enough," said Hastings, smiling to see 
 how promptly Charley came to the assistance of his 
 friend. " But I think I have heard your father speak of
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 413 
 
 a little curly-headed beauty, who once lived near you. 
 You took very kindly to her, did n't you, Harry ? " 
 
 " I think father has very little to do," said Harry, in- 
 dignantly, " when he says such things of me." 
 
 " I was told that she was very pretty," said Hastings. 
 
 " So she was good looking enough," said Harry, relax- 
 ing his indignant expression of countenance a little. " I 
 liked Flora very much, and so did everybody who 
 knew her." 
 
 " Flora ! Was her name Flora ? " said Hastings, in 
 terestedly. 
 
 " Yes. Her name was Flora Mowbray." 
 
 " That is the little girl to whom you gave your like- 
 ness ? " said Charley. " I have often heard you speak 
 of her." 
 
 Harry looked displeased at his friend for divulging so 
 sacred a secret, and Charley at once regretted saying 
 what he had. He tried to mend the matter by adding : 
 " Oh, no ! I am quite mistaken! I was thinking of of 
 ." Here Hastings, who had not been listening to 
 what Charley was saying, muttered, half to himself and 
 half to Harry, " Her name was Flora Mowbray ? " 
 
 " Yes, that was her name," said Harry, wondering that 
 Hastings should repeat the question. 
 
 " Had Mr. Mowbray much of a family, Harry ? " 
 
 ** Flora was all, except an old woman whom they 
 called Aunt Judy." This answer was electrical in its 
 effect upon Hastings. He sprang to his feet involun- 
 tarily, and paced the floor. 
 
 Hastings had visited his friend Collingwood, and had 
 heard him speak of a little girl to whom Harry had be- 
 come much attached. He had not heard her name 
 mentioned, except as little Miss Mowbray. Indeed, 
 nothing had been said of her to excite any thing more 
 35*
 
 414 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 than a general and passing interest in her. The men- 
 tion of the name Flora, therefore, awakened his curios- 
 ity to know more of her. He soon composed himself, 
 and, taking a seat again by Harry, inquired when he was 
 going to leave for home. " Day after to-morrow," said 
 Harry. " Charley is going with me." 
 
 " How would you like me as company ? " asked 
 Hastings. 
 
 " You ? "Will you go ? " asked Harry, delightedly. 
 
 " I think I will. It has been some time since I have 
 had the pleasure of visiting your father and mother." 
 
 Harry and Charley were rejoiced to think Hastings 
 was going with them, for they both liked him very much. 
 The next day Hastings treated the boys to various 
 presents, and took them to several places of note, among 
 others, Greenwood Cemetery. He asked Harry many 
 questions respecting Flora, and finally told him that he 
 thought Mr. Mowbray was an old acquaintance of his. 
 
 " Do you know where he is now ? " inquired Harry, 
 eagerly, as soon as he was told that Mr. Mowbray 
 might possibly be known to Hastings. 
 
 " I do not know where he lives," said Hastings. " I 
 wish to ascertain where he is very much." 
 
 " So do I," said Harry, enthusiastically. 
 
 Hastings could scarcely refrain from smiling to see 
 how absorbed Harry was in every thing appertaining to 
 little Flora. As they were passing round one of the 
 little lakes which adorn Greenwood, Harry saw the 
 name Flora carved on a white marble monument. 
 That was all that was written upon it. For a moment 
 he trembled almost, and looked up inquiringly into 
 Hastings' face. Hastings understood his feelings, and 
 soon dispelled his fears. 
 
 " Do you think Flora is alive ? " inquired Harry, with 
 the utmost simplicity.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 415 
 
 " Why do you ask that question ? " said Hastings, 
 scarcely knowing how to answer him. 
 
 " Oh, there are so many graves here I thought that 
 Flora might have died since she went away." 
 
 They at length seated themselves on the borders of a lit- 
 tle lake, in which there was a beautiful fountain playing, 
 and gave themselves up to their own reflections. There 
 is something in the very atmosphere of Greenwood that 
 awakens serious thought. Memories of other days 
 crowd upon the mind days never to be forgotten. We 
 are reminded, by the tokens of death which surround us, 
 of absent friends, friends far away, perhaps, who are 
 sleeping their last sleep beneath ground long since conse- 
 crated in memory. In these solemn sylvan shades the in- 
 clinations and thoughts of even the depraved are compar- 
 atively pure, and free from the contaminations of vice, and 
 the corrupting influences of the world. Death, in its most 
 pleasing aspect, is little inviting to any of us ; but, could 
 we be sure that our bodies would finally rest in so lovely 
 a spot as Greenwood, some of the terrors of dissolution 
 would certainly disappear. It matters little, perhaps, 
 where the body rests when the soul has fled, but there 
 is something unpleasant in the thought that our bodies 
 will be disturbed or even neglected after death. In 
 Greenwood we see with what tenderness and pious 
 care" the bodies of relatives and friends are regarded. A 
 rigid philosophy would teach us that " to mourn the 
 loss of friends were idle ; " yet, in the face of these un- 
 feeling facts, the soul delights to linger around the 
 graves of those once loved in life. We see evidences 
 of this at every step in Greenwood. The choice flowers, 
 so tenderly cultivated and so tastefully arranged, the 
 forget-me-not, the bridal wreath, the cedar that 
 emblem of lasting continuance, and numerous other
 
 416 THE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 flowers equally expressive of affection, find a welcome 
 place at almost every grave. Greenwood is certainly a 
 charming, a lovely place. All is so still, so beautiful. 
 Even the little birds that build their nests in the branches 
 of its trees, and the little squirrels that burrow beneath 
 their thick green shades, seem to know that they are 
 protected by the sacredness of the place. For how in- 
 nocently will the former carol some favorite song while 
 perched upon a branch near by ; and how fearlessly will 
 the latter gambol and play about our pathway. They 
 know no'danger because they have never been led to fear 
 man's destructive tendencies. They have only seen him 
 in his melting moments. With this digression I will 
 return to my story. 
 
 The next day, Hastings with the two boys set out for 
 Harry's father's. When they arrived at Mr. Colling- 
 wood's they were all most heartily welcomed. Aunt 
 Rose, as soon as she had an opportunity, threw her 
 arms round Harry, and shed tears of joy at seeing him 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, Lor 5 ! Massa Harry ! How big you is ! " said 
 she, looking at him in astonishment. Harry was glad 
 to see her ; but he thought Rose did not receive him 
 with sufficient dignity before strangers. Had he been 
 in the kitchen alone with her, it would have been quite 
 another thing, but as it was he thought that she made 
 too free with him. He had not been there long when 
 he stole into the kitchen where Rose was, and, for- 
 getting all his dignity, threw himself into her arms, and 
 permitted her to hug him to her and blubber over him 
 as much as she liked. A tear or two escaped from 
 Harry's eyes, although he strove all he could to keep 
 them back. 
 
 "Don't be so foolish, Rose," said Harry. "They 
 will hear you crying." His admonitions were thrown
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-BIDE. 417 
 
 away ;. for Aunt Rose was too overjoyed to think of the 
 proprieties of life. Harry sat down in the kitchen, and 
 Rose looked at him, and walked about him, and went 
 to the cupboard and brought from it all the good things 
 which she had made purposely for him when he should 
 come home. As she walked about, not knowing half 
 the time what she was doing, she kept muttering: 
 " How big Massa Harry is ! How big young Massa 
 Harry is! " She at length settled down into something 
 resembling a calm, and talked to Harry in the same old 
 confidential way that she was wont to before he left 
 for school. 
 
 " I must go now, Rose," said Harry, when he had 
 been with her nearly an hour. " Charley will be looking 
 for me. I will come in and see you to-night. Shall I 
 bring Charley with me ? " 
 
 " No, Massa Harry, I wishes to hab you all alone by 
 yourself." 
 
 " Well, 1 will come and see you to-night." 
 
 " Dat am jis' like you, I know'd as how you 'd 
 'member Aunt Rose." 
 
 Harry left, and Aunt Rose continued to go about the 
 kitchen, some of the time laughing and some of the time 
 crying, but all the time looking happy. Occasionally she 
 would leave the kitchen and walk past the door of the 
 house to get a glimpse of Harry as he sat talking to his 
 father and mother. Then she would return to the kitchen 
 to wait impatiently for night to come. It seemed to her 
 as though the sun never would go down that day. It 
 did go down, however ; and Harry, excusing himself to 
 Charley as they were retiring to their beds, stole into 
 the kitchen to talk to Aunt Rose. She had placed all 
 the good things of her well-stored cupboard on the 
 table and the two sat down together, and discussed, 
 not only the delicacies before them, but many matters
 
 418 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 which had long been locked up in their respective minds. 
 Harry was not so much of a child as he had been when 
 Rose talked to him before, but she thought of him and 
 talked to him just as she had done previous to his 
 leaving for school. He found no fault with her for 
 doing so. His dignity had all evaporated and master 
 and slave talked together of old times, and renewed 
 their pledges of friendship. 
 
 " Rose, have you heard any thing about little Flora?" 
 asked Harry, when they had settled down into the con- 
 fidential mood. 
 
 " No ! Massa Harry," said Rose, shaking her head 
 solemnly, and picking at her apron with her right fore- 
 finger and thumb. " I hab hearn nuthin' ob her at all, 
 at all." She rolled her eyes up at Harry to see the 
 effect of this speech, and then added : 
 
 " Massa Harry, hab you seed de little angel in all 
 your trabbels ? " 
 
 " No, Rose. I fear I shah 1 never see her again. I often 
 dream of her, and then I see her just as she was when 
 she lived here." 
 
 Rose drew a long sigh, and said : 
 
 " De Lor 5 , Massa Harry, will keep little Flora in de 
 holler ob his han', I knows he will. Dat am what de 
 good book says, I listen to Missis when she read it 
 las' Sunday." 
 
 " But, Rose, why did the Lord take her away ? " 
 
 " Massa Harry! Massa Harry!" said Rose, shaking 
 her head, half reprovingly. " De Lor' am berry good. 
 It am all for de bes' ! It am all for de bes'! " 
 
 " But why is it all for the best, Rose ? Little Flora 
 was happy here, and I was happy, and you were happy. 
 She and I loved each other very much ; and if she had 
 remained here, you know I would have married her, and 
 then you would have li ved with us, and we all would
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 419 
 
 have been happy. But now, I shall never marry any 
 one, and you will never be any better off than you are 
 at present. You will always have to live here with 
 father." 
 
 Rose drew another long sigh at this vivid picture of 
 her own and Harry's gloomy prospects, but said with a 
 becoming spirit of Christian resignation: 
 
 " De Lor', Massa Harry, am allers right. I will trus' 
 de Lor 5 to bring all roun' right." 
 
 Harry made no answer ; but it is to be feared that his 
 faith was not so strong as that of his old nurse in the 
 sentiment she had expressed. 
 
 " Massa Harry," said Rose, " I hab a dream a long 
 time ago, an' 'twas all 'bout you an' de little angel. Do 
 you think dreams come true, Massa Harry ? " 
 
 " They never come true with me," said Harry. " I 
 have dreamed of seeing Flora a great many times. My 
 dreams don't come true. But what did you dream, 
 Rose?" 
 
 Harry sat in his chair, with his elbows resting on the 
 table, and with his head resting in his hands, while Rose, 
 with a serious and almost solemn face, related the fol- 
 lowing dream : 
 
 " Eber so long 'go ; not many days arter you lef ' to 
 tend school, I hab a dream. I 'magined in my dream 
 dat I was in de kitchen ob a berry fine house. I don't 
 jis 'member whar de house was, but it was a mighty fine 
 house. De kitchen was de cleanest an' de bes' as neb- 
 ber was. I 'magined I was sittin' by de fire, a reel 
 ginuine good fire, dat blazed an' sparkled, an' crackled, 
 an' made de room warm an' comfor'able. For, Massa 
 Harry, it was de berry dead ob winter. I 'magined dat 
 I was dah, an' dat Massa Harry was dah, an' dat little 
 Flora was dah, an' dat we was all dah, a settin' by de 
 big fire in de kitchen. I 'magined dat Massa Harry
 
 420 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 hab grow'd up to be a big man, an' dat little Flora was 
 de finest ob ladies. I 'magined dat she looked berry 
 good, an' berry nice, an' berry fine ; an' dat she was 
 a settin' in a cheer by Massa Harry's side, an' dat Massa 
 Harry was a settin' in a cheer by little Flora's side, an' 
 dat I was a settin' on a stool in de corner, lookin' at 
 dem bofe. I 'magined dat little Flora was big an' dat 
 she was a leanin' one arm on Massa Harry's knee, an' 
 dat Massa Harry hab one ob his arms roun' little 
 Flora's waise oh! Massa Harry, if you could hab seed 
 'em! How lubly dey looked! Little Flora's har fell 
 in curls aU ober her face, an' she look for all de worle jis 
 like she did when she was here, only her har was 
 longer an' curlier, an' her eyes was bigger and han- 
 somer, an' she was a drefful sight bigger an' han'somer 
 an' beautifuller. I 'magined dat I was dah, an' dat I 
 hab all de good things to eat locked up in de cubber. 
 If you could had seed dat ar' kitchen, an' dat ar' fire, 
 an' dat ar 5 cubber, and all dat I seed, Massa Harry, den 
 you would trus' de Lor' an' b'lieve dat it would all 
 come true, some time. I b'lieve in dreams ; I do. I 's 
 know'd many's a one to come true." 
 
 Harry listened attentively to the picture which Rose 
 had drawn, and wished in his heart that her dream had 
 been real. 
 
 "Is that all, Rose?" 
 
 " Yes, Massa Harry, I woke up afore I lef ' de kitchen. 
 But it would hab to be a mighty fine house to hab a 
 kitchen like dat ar' kitchen was. It mus hab been de 
 berry same house dat you use to say you an' Flora 
 would lib in. I know it mus be de berry same 
 house." 
 
 Aunt Rose's faith was much stronger than Harry's. 
 He once had been as hopeful as she ; but, strange to say, 
 his book-learning and his increased age, and a more
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 421 
 
 extended knowledge of the world, had made him place 
 less trust in dreams and wishes than .he had been wont 
 to in his earlier years. The strong faith of Rose, how- 
 ever, encouraged him to hope, perhaps partly believe, 
 that her dream would come true. They remained talk- 
 ing until long after midnight, when Harry, after receiv- 
 ing a loving embrace from his old nurse, stole away to 
 his bed to dream over again Aunt Rose's dream. 
 
 The next day, he with Charley visited the farm where 
 Moulton and Flora had lived. It was occupied by 
 another family. Every thing looked different to Harry. 
 He remained some time, and visited many places which 
 were indelibly associated in his mind with Flora, and 
 then returned home with a heavy heart. Every thing 
 which he saw looked different from what it had when 
 he left home. His father's house seemed to be much 
 smaller, so did the hills about, and the river which ran 
 by the door. Every thing had diminished in size. 
 Charley remained with his friend several weeks, and 
 often did they astonish Aunt Rose with their prodigious 
 amount of learning. Harry declined Latin adjectives, 
 and conjugated Greek verbs, until the old negress rolled 
 up the whites of her eyes in very wonderment. She 
 began to look upon him with feelings akin to awe ; and, 
 had.it not been for his confidential moods, which he 
 indulged in almost every night, when alone with her, 
 she would scarcely have recognized the Harry whom 
 she had nursed when a child, and always loved so much. 
 Whenever he talked to her alone in the kitchen, how- 
 ever, she always forgot his great wisdom, and thought 
 of him only as her darling Harry*. 
 
 The two young hopefuls did not fail to initiate Aunt 
 Rose into the beauties and force of the " Guttural Sys- 
 tem." They regretted very much that Dick Evans was 
 36
 
 422 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 not there to take off Squeaking Jimmy, but in his absence 
 they did the best they could. They posted themselves al- 
 ternately in one corner of the kitchen and spoke at Aunt 
 Rose for hours at a time, making her sometimes the 
 Roman Senate, at others the British Parliament, and I 
 know not what," until her eyes dilated to twice their or- 
 dinary dimensions. They told her many amusing stories 
 and anecdotes while they were devouring the good 
 things which she always prepared for them when they 
 came into the kitchen ; and Charley came to think 
 her, before he left, one of the best " women of color " 
 that it had ever been his fortune to know. She always 
 listened to his stories, and gave him the best she had in 
 the kitchen to eat, and never asked him to run on errands. 
 This may have had some influence in the opinion which 
 he had formed of her. Be this as it may, he began to 
 feel very tender, very tender indeed, towards old Rose. 
 
 Hastings immediately on his arrival learned all he 
 could of Moulton. The information which he obtained 
 there convinced him that his child was still living. It 
 removed a heavy load from his mind. He no longer 
 doubted the truth of what Belmonte had told him re- 
 specting the substitution of a child to deceive old Mr. 
 Rivington. He was confident that Moulton had re- 
 formed. This also relieved his mind of the anxiety 
 which he had at first felt when Harry disclosed the fact 
 that little Flora was living with Moulton. 
 
 He did not tell Collingwood why he wished to find 
 Mowbray, nor did he intrust any of the secrets respect- 
 ing his child with him. When he left, he bade them all 
 a cordial good-by ; but he felt a tenderness for Harry 
 greater than he had ever felt before, because Harry had 
 loved little Flora and made her happy. 
 
 " Here, Harry," said he, as he was about leaving ;
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 423 
 
 " you are now getting to be such a man that you ought 
 to have a watch. Will you wear mine ? " as he said 
 this he took from his vest pocket a beautiful gold watch 
 and gave it to Harry. " You have been a very good 
 boy at school, I am told," and, continued Hastings in a 
 lower tone of voice, " I like you very much, because you 
 like little Flora." 
 
 He shook Harry heartily by the hand, and left without 
 giving him time even to thank him for the valuable 
 present. 
 
 Harry was puzzled to know what Hastings meant by 
 the words, " I like you because you like little Flora." 
 He did not fail to have a confidential talk with Aunt 
 Rose that night.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 WHEN Hastings left his friend Collingwood's, he pro- 
 ceeded to Cincinnati to learn, if possible, something 
 more concerning his child of Moulton's agent. His 
 visit was fruitless, however, for he obtained no informa- 
 tion by which he could trace Moulton from that city. 
 After spending several weeks in different places he re- 
 turned to New York with the full conviction that his 
 child was li ving, and with a heavy heart at not being 
 able to find her. Among the letters awaiting him at his 
 office, was the one which Mrs. Belmonte had written 
 while seated in the shade of the old trees which stood 
 by the little church. The desponding tone of its con- 
 tents alarmed him. " Can it be possible," muttered he, 
 " that Cornelia is -dying, with no one near her wh%>m 
 she knows ? I will fly to her at once, be the consequence 
 what it may!" In accordance with this resolution, 
 he immediately left his office and engaged passage on a 
 vessel bound the next day to Liverpool. He made hasty 
 preparations for leaving, nor did he in his hurry and ex- 
 citement forget to call that evening to see his adopted 
 sister, Kate Coleman. He had been absent from the 
 city much longer than he had intended to be when he left 
 it with Harry and Charley. Kate, therefore, was anx- 
 ious and impatient to see him. She met him with 
 smiles as usual, notwithstanding his truancy, for it 
 
 (424)
 
 THE CROOKED ELM. 425 
 
 never yet entered into her mind to find fault with 
 him. 
 
 " You have been playing truant in earnest, this time," 
 said she, when they had seated themselves together in 
 her mother's drawing-room. " 1 have a great mind to 
 scold you for writing me but one letter while you were 
 absent. Don't you think you deserve a good scolding ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I do ; and if you will promise before you 
 begin that it shall be a good scolding, I think I will lis- 
 ten to it, disagreeable as it may be to my feelings." 
 
 " But where have you been so long ? " inquired she. 
 
 " Then you are not going to scold me ? " 
 
 " Not until I am sure that you deserve it. But tell 
 me why you have remained so long away ? " 
 
 " Since you are disposed as ever to deal mercifully 
 with me, Kate, I will answer your question." 
 
 Hastings' troubled countenance contradicted his light 
 words, and Kate was quick to discover it. She inter- 
 rupted him, therefore, by saying : 
 
 " But you look pale and careworn ? " 
 
 " Absence from you for so long a time has made me 
 look so," said he, striving to conceal his real feelings. 
 
 " Do not jest, but tell me what troubles you." There 
 was so much tenderness and love in the tones of her 
 voicej that he answered : 
 
 " You are right, Kate. I feel very little like jesting, 
 or engaging you in light conversation. Sit here by me 
 and I will talk with you candidly." 
 
 Kate seated herself on the sofa by his side, and he, 
 taking her hand in his, related what he had so recently 
 learned respecting little Flora. She listened with the 
 deepest interest to every word he spoke ; she shared his 
 feelings and anxiety respecting the lost one. 
 
 " I am sure," said she, when he had finished, " that 
 36*
 
 426 THE CROOKED ELM*, 
 
 you will yet find her. She has been mysteriously and 
 strangely preserved, and I feel confident that you will 
 one day meet her." 
 
 " I wish I had your faith, Kate ; it wouid encourage 
 me while I still seek her." 
 
 " You doubted but a little white ago whether she yet 
 lived, and now that discouraging uncertainty has been 
 removed. It is thus, in ways that we think not of, that 
 Providence opens our eyes to the light. I have great 
 faith in an overruling Power. I believe that to the 
 good, all things will be well. And, since it is right that 
 you should find your child, I believe you will." She 
 said this with so much enthusiasm, and with so much 
 of faith and hope beaming from her sweet and expres- 
 sive countenance, that Hastings felt awed into rever- 
 ence as he listened to her. " If I were as innocent and 
 good as you," thought he, " I, too, might have faith ; 
 but to me there is no such consolation." 
 
 " Your words," added he, after a moment's silence, 
 " cheer me, although I cannot feel as you do. My faith 
 is not like yours." 
 
 She made him no answer, but sat as if intently think- 
 ing for a few moments ; and then, suddenly turning to 
 Hastings, she said :' 
 
 " Why was it that she was taken to your friend's in 
 Virginia, if not directed by an overseeing eye ? Is it 
 not strange that she should have been taken there, 
 rather than to any other p^ace ? Have you not known 
 of similar strange occurrences, which can be accounted 
 for in no other way so satisfactorily as in believing that 
 they were ordered by an overruling and an all-wise 
 Providence ? " 
 
 " It is strange," said Hastings, " that she should have 
 been taken there, and I will not try to weaken your
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 427 
 
 faith in the belief which you have expressed, that she 
 was guided by an unseen hand. The good only can 
 have such faith as yours. It must be pleasant to feel 
 that we are deserving the interference of Providence 
 fyr our greater happiness." 
 
 Thus does woman, in the simplicity of faith, and, as 
 if feeling her own weakness, lean as it were on the arm 
 of her Maker, putting trust in all his promises, and be- 
 lieving that he will even " hear the young ravens when 
 they cry ;. " while man, self-reliant and proud, trusts 
 to his own strength, and is disinclined to believe in the 
 intervention of supernatural agencies in the affairs of 
 men. His faith in facts is the deduction of reason. 
 Like Thomas, he must see in his hands the print of the 
 nails, and put his fingers into the print of the nails, and 
 thrust his hand into his side, before he can believe. 
 
 The trusting faith of Kate made Hastings feel that 
 she was his superior in all that was elevating and good. 
 He had come to tell her that he was going to England 
 the next day, but it was late in the evening before he 
 could mention the subject to her. At length he said: 
 
 " Kate, I have taken passage in a vessel which is to 
 sail for Liverpool to-morrow. I have come to bid you 
 good-by." 
 
 She was not much surprised, for she at once thought 
 that he was going there in search of little Flora. 
 
 " I am very sorry," she said, " to think of being so 
 long deprived of your society." 
 
 " The time will soon pass away, Kate," said he, with 
 an effort to be cheerful, " and my absence will cheer your 
 many admirers, for I really believe that some of them 
 think me their rival. You must undeceive them when 
 I am gone." 
 
 Kate made no answer, but blushed, looked embar- 
 rassed, and perhaps a little unhappy. She left the room,
 
 428 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 and soon returned with Clemie and her mother. She 
 had not told them that Hastings was about to leave the 
 city. 
 
 " Ah ! Clemie," said Hastings, after first speaking to 
 Mrs. Coleman, "those roses on your cheeks are *s 
 blooming as ever." 
 
 Clemie did not like this liberty with her cheeks, but 
 she did not tell him so. She only remained silent, and 
 looked a little displeased. They all sat together talking 
 for some time, but neither Kate nor Hastings felt like 
 lively conversation, and the result was that Clemie 
 thought them more than usually dull. 
 
 " I will leave you to yourselves," said Clemie, ad- 
 dressing Kate and Hastings, as she got up to leave the 
 room ; " you are exceedingly dull to-night." 
 
 " But, Clemie, I am going to leave the city to-morrow 
 for Europe. I have come here specially to bid you 
 good-by." ' 
 
 " I am sorry that you are going away so soon," said 
 Clemie unaffectedly, for she really liked Hastings. 
 
 " I will not quarrel with you again, Clemie," said he, 
 as he rose to shake her by the hand, " until my return ; 
 for, much as we have disagreed, I find that I am very 
 sorry to part with you." 
 
 Clemie dropped her head to conceal a tear, and, bid- 
 ding him good-by, tripped out of the room. Her mother 
 remained a short time in the drawing-room, and then 
 left Kate and Hastings to themselves. It was past mid- 
 night, when he, rising to go, said : 
 
 " Mind that you follow my advice respecting young 
 Carleton." 
 
 " I cannot do so. I do not think enough of him to 
 obey your request." 
 
 Carleton was one of Kate's admirers, and a very 
 worthy and promising young man.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 429 
 
 " He is justly entitled to your esteem, to your " 
 
 " Say no more about him," interrupted Kate. " I 
 must be judge in matters of this kind. I esteem him 
 and appreciate his worth as much as any one, perhaps, 
 but he and I can only be friends no more." 
 
 " I will drop the subject," said Hastings ; "but I am 
 half inclined to be angry with you for your obstinacy." 
 
 They were at the door, Kate could not conceal her 
 grief at having to part with him, tears came into her 
 eyes, and her countenance reflected the sadness of her 
 heart. 
 
 " I must bid you good-by now, Kate," said Hastings, 
 taking her hand in his, " although I have been trying to 
 postpone doing so to the last moment. I hope, when I 
 return, that I will find you happy and well, and more 
 willing to listen to good advice than you are to-night." 
 
 She made no reply, but hung her head in silence. 
 
 " Good-by, sister Kate ! " said Hastings, modestly 
 kissing her, " Good-by ! May God bless you ! " 
 
 " Good-by! " said she," I hope you will find little Flora." 
 
 Her last words sounded in his ears all that night. 
 
 The next day he embarked for Liverpool. "Weeks 
 passed, and he had arrived safely at Cork. The old 
 city was the same as when he had visited it before. 
 There were its limestone quays, its irregular buildings, 
 its narrow and crooked streets ; in short its sombre and 
 somewhat gloomy self, spread out on both sides of the 
 river Lee. Former associations crowded upon Hast- 
 ings' mind as he entered the city. It was there that he 
 had married Ida Linwood, the mother of little Flora. 
 What a history, rilled with what strange events, had 
 he lived since then ! There was a conflict of emotions 
 awakened in his mind by reflections upon his previous 
 visit to that city, and by thoughts of Mrs. Belmonte, 
 whom he had come to see. I will not pretend to de-
 
 430 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 scribe his feelings, his anxiety of mind, his hopes 
 and fears, as he drew near the hotel where Mrs. Bel- 
 monte was stopping. I leave these to the imagination' 
 of the reader. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Belmonte stopping here ? " inquired Hastings 
 of the clerk of the Imperial Hotel, when he had 
 alighted from his carriage. He was deadly pale, and 
 his voice trembled as he spoke. The clerk, thinking 
 that the person who questioned him might be Mr. Bel- 
 monte, answered : 
 
 " Walk up to the parlor, if you please, and I will be 
 with you in a moment." 
 
 Hastings did as requested, and soon the clerk re- 
 turned, and, entering the room where Hastings was, in 
 company with a gentleman, said : " This is Mr. Worth- 
 ington; he will give you the information you seek." 
 As he said this, he retired from the room, leaving Mr. 
 Worthington and Hastings to themselves. Hastings 
 rose from his seat as Mr. Worthington came in, and 
 asked, in a faltering voice : 
 
 " Is Mrs. Belmonte ah' ve ? " 
 
 He read the answer to his question in Mr. Worth- 
 ington's countenance, and staggering to a seat he ex- 
 claimed, in a voice of inexpressible sorrow, "She i? 
 dead! Cornelia is dead !!" 
 
 Some days had passed. Hastings lay in his bed, 
 and beside him stood Bessy. He was just recovering 
 from the insensibility into which the intelligence of 
 Mrs. Belmonte's death had thrown him. For more 
 than a week his life had been almost despaired of. 
 None had been more faithful to him, more watchful, 
 more anxious during the critical period that he lay sus- 
 pended as it were between life and death between this 
 world and the next between time and eternity; I 
 say none had been more faithful to him during this
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 431 
 
 trying ordeal, than Bessy. She watched with him day 
 and night while he lay insensible to all that was passing 
 around. When he had so much recovered as to be able 
 to sit up in his bed, and the physician had pronounced 
 him out of danger, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington left Cork 
 for their own home in England. Bessy only remained 
 to take care of him. When he had gained sufficient 
 strength to walk about the room, and had become 
 somewhat reconciled to Mrs. Belmonte's death, Bessy 
 said to him : 
 
 " Massa Hastin's, Missis lef ' a little box with me, and 
 'zired me to take it to you, in New York. What I's a 
 thinkin' ob am, whedder I orter to gib it to you afore 
 you gets back dah." 
 
 " Run and get it at once," said Hastings, impatiently. 
 " Why have you not given it to me before ? " 
 
 Bessy left to get the box, muttering to herself, "I 
 don't know whedder it am 'zactly right Missis did 
 not tell me to gib it to him here. I 'specs I orter, 
 though." 
 
 She brought a rose-wood box to Hastings, and then 
 left the room. He unlocked it, and from a portfolio 
 which lay on the top he took and read the following 
 letter, after carefully removing the lock of hair which it 
 contained. 
 
 " MY DEAREST WILLIAM, I feel that I have but a few 
 days more to live. I would not give you pain by writ- 
 ing this conviction, did I not know, that, when you shah 1 
 read this, my spirit will have passed away from earth 
 forever. I have no regrets at parting with a world in 
 which there is no happiness left for me. Once I had 
 hope. Once I looked forward, and drew for myself 
 pictures of happiness. Now all these fair but delu- 
 sive hopes, these beautiful pictures in which fancy
 
 432 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 and the imagination had blended all the delicate tints 
 of a life transparent with love and sunshine, all, all, 
 have for ever fled ! Oh, ' that I may be permitted to 
 see him once more ! ' has been my prayer for many days 
 past ; but I never shall be permitted so much happiness. 
 I shall never see you again. The sands of my life have 
 wellnigh run. I have but a few brief days to live. 
 I cannot hope ever to hear your voice again, that 
 voice which has spoken words that have ever thrown 
 a charm around my life. No, William, I feel assured 
 that we will never meet again in this life. Every day 
 since we parted I have thought of you, every night 
 have I dreamed of you. In the sketches which Bessy 
 will deliver to you, I have conversed with you. All my 
 life, since our last meeting, has been lived for you, and 
 only you. I remember the generous and loving Willie 
 of my happy girlhood days. I remember the pledges 
 of love which were then made, and which have been 
 by us both so faithfully kept. I remember all the 
 cheering, loving words of him whose image has been 
 to me a star of hope to guide me through all the paths 
 of life. These memories of happier days have filled 
 my mind while living here among strangers. They 
 have been my food by day and my sleep at night." 
 
 The letter filled several sheets ; but I will leave out 
 all except what I have here given of its commence- 
 ment, and the following closing words. 
 
 " William, when I am gone, when I am forgotten 
 by most who have known me, you will still think of 
 me, and know that the love I gave you at our first 
 meeting will continue unbroken until I am laid in 
 the grave. My body will be placed in the shade of 
 the trees near the little church where you were mar- 
 ried. I have often sat there and thought of you. The 
 place is dear to me. I welcome death as a messenger
 
 OK, LITE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 433 
 
 of mercy. The old trees, beneath whose shades I shall 
 sleep my last, long sleep, seem to invite me ; I must 
 bid you a long good-by until we meet in another, 
 and, as I trust, a better world. Good-by, William! 
 a fond a loving a lasting good-by, until the break- 
 ing of a brighter day. CORNELIA." 
 
 Hastings sat for hours reading and musing over this 
 last heart-offering of his idolized Cornelia. Through 
 it he was holding converse with her departed spirit. 
 The sun had gone down behind the western hills; 
 twilight the hour for dreams and reverie had 
 thrown its gauzy mantle over the city. Hastings 
 still sat in his room, silent and thoughtful. The letter 
 remained open in his hand his mind wandered far 
 away into " realms of boundless space." There axe 
 times when the soul seems to leave its prison-house 
 of clay, and to hold communion with spirits beyond 
 the tomb. 
 
 Bessy soon entered with a light, and Hastings, re- 
 placing the lock of hair and carefully folding the letter, 
 put it in his bosom. He then opened the portfolio 
 again, and the first thing which drew his attention 
 was the sketch of the little church in which he had, 
 several years before, been married. Underneath it were 
 the foUowing verses written by Mrs. Belmonte. 
 
 In thy cool shade, old trees, I oft have thought 
 
 Of childhood's morn, when hope and life were new 
 
 The many lessons that a life has taught, 
 
 Have 'neath thy foliage been thought of too. 
 
 And thou, loved vine-clad church how dear thou art 1 
 As, peeping forth from this beautiful shade, 
 Thou whisperest me of a faithful heart, 
 True to the pledge of love in boyhood made. 
 37
 
 434 THE CROOKED ELM J 
 
 These trees, this church, and all that I hold dear, 
 Like a flitting -vision may pass away ; 
 But the heart that proved true oh ! may this tear 
 Seal it to mine till a happier day. 
 
 A tear fell from Hastings' cheek upon the paper 
 containing these simple, unpretending words, as he 
 finished reading them. The sentiment which they 
 embodied found a response in his heart. " Yes," said 
 he, "this tear shall bind thee to me until the coming 
 of a happier day." 
 
 There were many other sketches of scenery in the 
 immediate vicinity of Cork, and also many other scraps 
 of poetry scattered through the portfolio. He examined 
 all the sketches, and read all the poetry, with a lover's 
 enthusiasm. He remained until long after midnight 
 communing with her who had left him these evidences 
 of her love. The box contained many other little me- 
 mentos, all of which he carefully preserved as souvenirs 
 of the past. 
 
 As soon -as he was able he drove down to the little 
 church where Mrs. Belmonte was buried. He met the 
 old sexton, who immediately recognized him, although 
 he never had seen Hastings but once, and that many 
 years before. The old man was rejoiced to see him. 
 He pointed out Mrs. Belmonte's grave, and in a voice 
 full of emotion said : 
 
 " This is her grave, dear lady ! Long will the poor 
 remember her." When he had taken Hastings to her 
 grave he left him alone and walked away. The spot 
 which she had selected for her final resting-place was 
 close by the seat where she had so often sat. There 
 was a quiet beauty and loveliness in all around, so con- 
 genial to the sorrowing heart. The day was warm and 
 pleasant ; Hastings seated himself beside her grave, and 
 remained there undisturbed by any one for several hours.
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 435 
 
 Then getting up he approached the old sexton, and 
 said : 
 
 " Did you ever converse with Mrs. Belmonte when she 
 came here ? " 
 
 " Yes, your honor ! She asked me all about your 
 wedding, and she talked to me of you almost every day 
 as long as she came here." He showed Hastings the 
 sketch which she had given him, and told him how kind 
 she had been in giving him money. Hastings listened 
 attentively until the old man had told him much of the 
 conversations which he had with Mrs. Belmonte when 
 she had come there to sketch different scenery. He 
 then asked the old man where he lived. 
 
 " Just on the hill yonder, in that cottage." 
 
 " Have you a family ? " inquired Hastings. 
 
 " I have a wife and four children," answered he. 
 
 " You are very poor, are you not ? " said Hastings. 
 
 " God knows I am." 
 
 " You are getting old. Will you accept this as a loan 
 until you are able to repay it ? " As he said this he 
 placed a well-filled purse of gold in the old sexton's 
 hand. 
 
 ." God bless your honor ! and may the Lord presarve 
 you ! " said the old man, as he uncovered his head and 
 bow;ed low to Hastings. 
 
 The next day Hastings had a beautiful monument of 
 white marble placed at the head of Mrs. Belmonte's 
 grave, on which was inscribed, in deep letters, the name 
 " COKNELIA." He also had the grave beautifully em- 
 paled, and then, taking leave of the old sexton in the 
 following words, he left the little church and the grave 
 of his Cornelia perhaps forever. " I shall not see you 
 again soon, Mr. Sexton, but I shall feel myself fully re- 
 paid for the money I loaned you, if in my absence you
 
 436 THE CROOKED ELM. 
 
 take charge of Mrs. Belmonte's grave, and see that it is 
 never disturbed." 
 
 " I cannot tell you how thankful I am for your kind- 
 ness," replied the old man, with the tears coursing down 
 his furrowed cheeks, " but I should have done what you 
 ask without pay. I love her for her own sake, dear 
 lady ! She was one of a thousand ! The blessings of 
 the poor followed her to the grave. You should have 
 seen them on the day she was buried. There was not 
 a dry eye among them all. No one will disturb her 
 resting-place ; but it will be faithfully guarded by many 
 loving hearts." 
 
 Hastings, unable to conceal his emotions at parting 
 from a place so endeared to him, bade the old sexton 
 good-by, and walked away. The old man stood with 
 his hat in his hand until Hastings was out of sight, and 
 then, going to the grave of Mrs. Belmonte, he gave vent 
 to his feelings in a flood of tears.
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 MANY months had passed since Mrs. Belmonte's 
 death. Hastings had returned to New York. He con- 
 tinued to visit old Mr. Rivington, and to add as much 
 as possible to his comfort and happiness. The old man 
 still lived as he had been accustomed to before Bel- 
 monte's attempt upon his life. He worked in his gar- 
 den, and almost every day walked across the field to the 
 graves on the little hillock. Nothing had been heard of 
 Moulton .or Flora, although Hastings had been unre- 
 mitting in his efforts to find them. A rumor was in 
 circulation that Belmonte had been killed, while en- 
 gaged in a questionable enterprise in the West Indies. 
 There was nothing reliable, however, in the reports. No 
 one could trace the rumor to its source. Hastings, after 
 his., return from Cork, called as frequently as ever on 
 Kate Coleman. He had made her his confidante in 
 almost every thing. She had received several anony- 
 mous letters, trying to prejudice her against him, but 
 she burned them without showing them to any one. 
 She never even told Hastings that such letters had been 
 sent to her. Nothing could weaken her confidence in 
 him. Nothing could make her love him less. 
 
 Summer had come again. Mrs. Coleman, her two 
 daughters, and some of their friends, together with 
 
 37* U 3 T)
 
 438 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 Hastings, had gone to Niagara Falls. It was a warm 
 and beautiful evening. Kate Coleman and Hastings 
 were sitting together on the veranda of the Clifton 
 House looking out on the falling waters. The moon 
 was at its full, and as it rose from the horizon it shed 
 a soft, lustrous light on the white foam and spray, and 
 imparted to them a kaleidoscopic coloring and beauty, 
 at once fairy-like and enchanting. The dull, heavy 
 moan of the tumbling floods lulled the senses to repose, 
 and added interest to the witching picture. 
 
 " I think," said Hastings, that the Falls are seen at 
 no time so favorably as by moonlight. The partial 
 darkness gives effect to the deep and hollow roar of the 
 cataract, and lends a charm to this wild scenery. Look 
 yonder," continued he, "at the long line of foaming 
 water as it comes dashing on over the rocks towards 
 the American Fall. Is it not a beautiful picture ? " 
 
 " Charming ! " exclaimed Kate. " How silvery bright 
 and picturesque, as it stretches away in the distance as 
 far as the eye can see ! " 
 
 " I think," said Hastings, " that each rock, each tree, 
 each church-spire; in short, all that we can here see, look 
 more beautiful to-night than they have ever appeared 
 before when I have seen them." 
 
 " We can imagine," said Kate, " that those rocks, 
 trees, church-spires, and even Goat Island, as it lies there 
 dividing the waters, are spectres from the other world 
 come to witness the wonders and curiosities of this." 
 
 " But," replied Hastings, " it would require the imag- 
 ination of a poet to draw pictures so fanciful." 
 
 " The spirit of poetry," answered Kate, enthusiasti- 
 cally, " would be awakened in the dullest mind at be- 
 holding a spectacle like this, lit up as it is by the * pale 
 glimpses of the moon.' "
 
 OE, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 439 
 
 " If I were to draw a picture from my unproductive 
 imagination," said Hastings, " I would make this one of 
 the scenes described by Milton. Do you see that tower 
 yonder near Goat Island, standing on the very brink of 
 the precipice ? I would make that gloomy, spectral ob- 
 ject ' Moloch, sceptred king,' addressing his myrmi- 
 dons, and exhorting them to 'open war' against this 
 power eternal which threatens his destruction. The 
 ragged rocks, and these dark, shadowy trees should be 
 his auditory, the thunders of the cataract his voice, and 
 this dimly lighted spectacle, made ghostly by half seen 
 objects, and the nickering lights in the village on the op- 
 posite side of the river, should be his and their doomed 
 abode their ' dark, opprobrious den of shame.' There 
 is something awe-inspiring in Niagara Falls by moon- 
 light ; and, though the picture which I have drawn is 
 not very poetic, is there not a wild majesty in the one 
 which we here see, equal almost in sublimity to those 
 drawn by the blind poet ? " 
 
 " I declare ! You are quite poetic nor is the com- 
 parison which you have made inappropriate," said Kate. 
 " But I am less Miltonic in my imagination than you. 
 I have somewhere seen Niagara River compared to 
 human life. At first the water moves smoothly along, 
 unruffled by any opposing obstacle. The current quick- 
 ens as it nears the cataract, and is broken and thrown 
 from side to side by the rocks, until, dashing forward at 
 a fearful rate, the waters are hurled from the precipice 
 into the yawning abyss below. Like Niagara River we 
 were represented to glide smoothly along in our early 
 life. The beautiful woods and green fields which line 
 this river were life's allurements and promised pleasures. 
 They were always seen in the distance, but never en- 
 joyed. As we increased in years we hurried on from 
 one promised enjoyment to another, from hope to dis-
 
 440 THE CROOKED ELMJ 
 
 appointment, until life's current, which is hourly increas- 
 ing in rapidity and strength, carries us irresistibly on, 
 sweeping by every delusive happiness until precipitated 
 into the unseen and the unknown future." 
 
 "There is truth in the comparison at least," said 
 Hastings. " I am and ever have been in this current. 
 Pleasure and happiness have lined the shore, but I have 
 never known them." 
 
 " When the banks of this river," said Kate, " were 
 darkened by the dense forest, when the country about 
 was peopled with the red men alone, and when the 
 Falls were constituted a deity, I can imagine with what 
 wonder and with what awe-inspiring amazement these 
 savages of the forest must have beheld this natural 
 wonder for the first time! Imagine one of these, on 
 such a night as this, emerging from the thick woods, 
 and stepping out upon the bank of the river into full 
 view of the Falls ! Who could blame him for dropping 
 upon his knees, and imploring the benisons of this blind 
 deity!" 
 
 " Your imagination is on the wing to-night, Kate." 
 As Hastings said this, a girl, seemingly about ten or 
 twelve years old, stepped from a room on to the veranda 
 near where he and Kate were sitting. 
 
 " Oh, Eunice ! " exclaimed she, in a sweet, musical 
 voice. " Come here, quick ! How beautiful the water 
 looks ! Hurry, Eunice ! " 
 
 Immediately a girl about her own age came to her 
 side and exclaimed, as she placed her arm round her 
 companion's waist : " How very, very beautiful ! " They 
 stood admiring the Falls for some time. Hastings and 
 Kate ceased conversing, and listened to what they said. 
 The two girls were Eunice Demere're and little Flora. 
 
 " Did the water look as beautiful as this when you 
 saw it before ? " inquired Eunice.
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 441 
 
 " Oh, no ! I never before saw any thing so beautiful 
 as this!" 
 
 Flora stood within a step or two of Hastings. A 
 light from an adjoining room shone full upon her and 
 revealed to him her large blue eyes and her sweet, ex- 
 pressive countenance. Her voice and face interested 
 him. 
 
 " Do you like this moonlit scenery ? " said he, ad- 
 dressing Flora. 
 
 She turned her head, and modestly looking him in the 
 face answered : " I think it is very beautiful, sir." 
 
 " But don't you like to look at the Falls better by 
 daylight?" 
 
 Flora moved instinctively, as it were, towards him 
 without fear or embarrassment. 
 
 " I think," said she, "that I like them better by moon- 
 light" 
 
 Hastings put his arm round her waist, and gently 
 drew her close up to him. 
 
 " Have you seen Niagara Falls before ? " inquired he. 
 . " Yes, sir, I saw them once before." 
 
 Kate Coleman engaged Eunice in conversation. 
 Flora stood leaning against Hastings, and continued 
 talking familiarly with him for nearly an hour. A 
 gentleman then came to where they were, and, addressing 
 Flora and Eunice in French, told them that they had 
 better retire. Flora turned her eyes again into Hast- 
 ings' face and said, in a soft, sweet voice : 
 
 " I must retire now. Good -night, sir ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! " said Hastings. " I wish you many 
 pleasant dreams." 
 
 " Thank you, sir ! " said she, and then turning she 
 walked away with M. Demere're and Eunice ; for it 
 was Eunice's father who had addressed them.
 
 442 TEE CROOKED ELM ; 
 
 " What sweet girls ! " said Kate, when they had gone. 
 
 " I think I have seen those large blue eyes before," 
 said Hastings, half abstractedly. " Her voice is familiar 
 too and so musical ! I could have talked with her all 
 night Did you observe her sweet countenance, Kate ? " 
 
 " She was very beautiful. How unaffected and 
 simple in her manners she was too ! She talked to you 
 as familiarly as though she had known you for years." 
 
 " I am sure I have seen her before," said he. " She 
 must be from New York. Perhaps she knows me. 1 
 will see and talk more with her to-morrow." 
 
 The next morning, as Hastings was walking early on 
 the veranda, he saw a carriage drive away from the door 
 of the Clifton House. A girl looked at him from the 
 carriage window his eyes met hers she bowed to 
 him as the carriage passed and smiling sweetly threw a 
 little bouquet of choice flowers towards him. He kissed 
 his hand to her, and then descending the steps quickly 
 picked the bouquet from the ground and held it up so 
 that she could see that he had got it. She remained 
 looking out of the window until she could see Hastings 
 no linger, and he continued looking at her until the 
 carriage was out of sight. " How strange ! " muttered he. 
 "She must know me!" He told Kate the incident 
 when he met her that morning, and she exclaimed, 
 laughing : 
 
 " How romantic ! The liking is mutual ! I am sorry 
 she has gone ! I should like to know more of her." 
 
 " So should I," said Hastings. 
 
 I do not think they are sisters," said Kate. " They 
 do not look alike. They are direct opposites, except 
 that they are both sweet and lovely in their manners, 
 looks, and conversation." 
 
 " I must go to the office and see who they are," said
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 443 
 
 he. " I will lay you a wager, Kate, that they are from 
 New York, and that the little blue-eyed beauty knows 
 me?" 
 
 What shall the wager be ? " inquired Kate. 
 
 u Any thing you please. A drive to the burning 
 spring, to the observatory, or where you like." 
 
 " You have the advantage in the bet," said she, " but 
 I will accept it." 
 
 Hastings went to the office, and soon returning said : 
 
 " I have lost as usual. They are M. Demerere and 
 his two daughters from Quebec. At least, the names 
 are entered so as to indicate that they are his daughters. 
 The entry reads M. and Mme. Demerere, two Misses, 
 and servant." , 
 
 "I should never have taken them for sisters," said 
 Kate. " Did you observe with what a delicate and 
 sweet accent they spoke French to their father ? " 
 
 " I did remark it," said he. " Perhaps they are 
 French." 
 
 " We may meet them," said Kate, "at Quebec. I 
 wish we may. It would be pleasant to know a family 
 so accomplished and interesting." 
 
 " But where shall we drive to-day ? " asked Hastings. 
 " I must pay my losses. I dislike remaining in your 
 debj; more than is necessary." 
 
 " I will go and see Clemie," said Kate. " She may 
 not wish to drive to-day. Yesterday she was teasing 
 mamma to let her go under the 4 great sheet of water,' as 
 it is called in the guide-books ; but I persuaded mamma 
 not to let her do so foolish a thing. There is no know- 
 ing what she will be up to next. Perhaps she will be 
 wishing to navigate the river in an Indian canoe, or to 
 descend the rope ladder which leads into the Cave of 
 the Winds.' It would not be unlike her to wish some- 
 thing of the kind. I will go and see her."
 
 444 THE CKOOKED ELM ; 
 
 Mrs. Coleman and her party remained at Niagara 
 Falls a week or more, and then left for Montreal. On 
 their arrival at the latter place, Hastings was agreeably 
 surprised to meet his old friends Mr. and Mrs. Colling- 
 wood, together with Harry Collingwood and Charley 
 Willington. He introduced them to Mrs. Coleman and 
 her two daughters, as well as to the others of her party, 
 and they all in a few days proceeded on to Quebec. 
 They had been at Quebec about a fortnight. They 
 were intending to leave the next day. The weather was 
 delightfully warm and pleasant, and Hastings proposed 
 that they should again visit Montmorency Falls before 
 leaving the city. The proposition was favorably received, 
 and the party was soon without the gates ot the city, 
 driving towards the Falls, which are distant from Que- 
 bec about seven or eight miles. They passed through 
 the little French village mentioned in a previous chap- 
 ter. Harry and Charley had purposely filled their pock- 
 ets with change, so as to have some fun with the young 
 villagers ; for when they had passed through before they 
 were sadly in want of ready funds to meet the demands 
 of the market. There were as many as twenty or thirty 
 children who gathered about the carriage in which 
 Harry and Charley were, and followed close to it to 
 pick up the pennies which were occasionally thrown to 
 them. Whenever a piece of money fell among them 
 there would be a general scrambling to see who should 
 get it, much to the entertainment of Mr. Babblington's 
 hopeful pupils. When they arrived at the Falls, they 
 found several carriages there. The day was so mild 
 and pleasant that many of the citizens of Quebec had 
 gone there to enjoy the drive. The party, which was 
 now quite numerous, was mirthful and joyous. As they 
 walked from the road down towards the Falls through 
 the thick wood which lines the bank of the stream,
 
 OK, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 445 
 
 Charley, Harry, Clemie, and sofne others of the party 
 made the air vocal with their happy and gleeful laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " Charley, run here, quick ! " cried Harry, enthusiasti- 
 cally. 
 
 Charley hastened to him ; for he. expected, by the 
 tone of surprise in which Harry spoke, that there was 
 something wonderful to be seen. Clemie and several 
 others also ran to where Harry stood peering with 
 seeming astonishment into vacancy. 
 
 " Do you see that large sheet of falling water yonder, 
 Charley?" 
 
 " No," answered Charley, looking intently in the 
 direction which Harry pointed out. 
 
 " No more do I ! " exclaimed Harry, as he turned and 
 ran laughing away. They all laughed heartily at 
 Charley's expense, and followed joyously on in the 
 direction where they heard the roar of falling water. 
 They soon reached the bank on the edge of the cat- 
 aract. 
 
 " How wild and romantic ! " exclaimed Clemie. " I 
 like this much better than Niagara ! " 
 
 " Why, Clemie, you are more poetic than I had sup- 
 posed," said Hastings, teasingly. " I had always asso- 
 ciate4 you with simple prose. I find, however, that I 
 have been egregiously at fault." 
 
 " You are generally at fault," said Clemie, tartly. 
 
 " Clemie ! " said Kate, reprovingly. 
 
 Clemie made no answer, but walked a little to one 
 side, and, seating herself on a broken rock, contemplated 
 in silence the picturesque beauty of this wild and 
 charming waterfall. They all at length crossed to the 
 other side of the stream, and were descending the high 
 bank to the water at the foot of the falls. Harry, anx- 
 38
 
 446 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 ious to show his dexterity, was leading them. They 
 had not descended far, when he, leaving the path, thought 
 he would reach the bottom in a shorter way. His feet 
 tripped, however, and threw him on to the slaty rock, 
 which was so steep and slippery that he could not 
 obtain footing. Hastings, who was near him, tried to 
 rescue him, but could not. Harry caught at first to 
 some loose stones, but they gave way, and he slid and 
 rolled to the water's edge, a distance of nearly two 
 hundred feet. His father, Hastings, and in fact all of 
 the party, hurried down the steep path to see what had 
 become of him. When they had gone a little further 
 down, they saw a man carry him up the bank, and lay 
 him down on the grass near to where two young girls 
 were standing. Mr. Collingwood and Hastings were 
 soon by Harry's side, trying to restore him to conscious- 
 ness. The remainder of the party soon came up, and 
 formed a circle about him. Mrs. Collingwood was so 
 much frightened, when she saw her son lying there insen- 
 sible, that she fainted. The two girls, who had been 
 standing a little distance away, watching anxiously all 
 that was going on, approached near to where Harry lay. 
 One of them gazed intently into his face. All was 
 excitement, all were anxious to do something for 
 Harry. She, however, stood as if spellbound, with her 
 eyes riveted upon Harry's countenance. Consciousness 
 was soon restored, and Harry, raising his head, turned 
 his eyes in the direction where she was standing. She 
 rushed forward and fell upon her knees by his side, ex- 
 claiming wildly, "It is Harry! it is Harry!" And, 
 seeming to forget that there were any others present, 
 she took his hand and said in a voice full of emotion, 
 " I am Flora ! Don't you know me, Harry ? " Harry 
 raised himself up, and, with a pale countenance and
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 447 
 
 with eyes staring at her as if unable to credit his own 
 senses, exclaimed, in a feeble voice : " Flora ! Is it you, 
 Flora ? " 
 
 " Yes, Harry, I am Flora ! " and the two were in 
 each other's arms. While this scene was being enacted 
 by Harry and Flora, Hastings, astonished and trembling 
 with the conviction which flashed upon his mind, rose 
 to his feet from where he had been kneeling beside 
 Harry, and cast his eyes around him. They met those 
 of Moulton, for it was he who had picked Harry from 
 the sand. A moment, and only a moment did they 
 look at each other, when Hastings, clasping Flora to 
 his bosom, cried out, in the fulness of his joy : 
 " My child ! my child ! I have found my child ! " 
 Flora looked at him and then at Harry. Her coun- 
 tenance was full of bewilderment. Tears coursed down 
 Hastings' face and fell upon her head as he leaned over 
 her and pressed her to him. All stood in utter amaze- 
 ment. They were struck dumb at what to them was so 
 unaccountably strange, and they remained gazing at the 
 actors in the scene without the power of speech. Mr. 
 Collingwood rose from where he had been kneeling by 
 Harry, and fixed his eyes alternately on Hastings and 
 Moulton. Charley stood near Harry, and contemplated 
 the whole spectacle with eyes big with wonder. Eunice 
 Demerge, terrified by this unexpected and strange 
 scene, had stepped a little further away, and with her 
 head bent forward, and with her hands raised in fright, 
 stood with her eyes fixed upon Flora. Kate Coleman, 
 who knew more of what was passing than any of the 
 other spectators, stood near Hastings weeping for joy. 
 Her prayers were answered, Hastings had found his 
 child. Moulton, pale and trembling, remained standing 
 as if unable to move for a moment, with eyes bursting
 
 448 THE CROOKED ELM; 
 
 almost from their sockets as they gazed at Hastings and 
 Flora. Then, pressing his hand convulsively to his fore- 
 head, as if to repress some sudden and overpowering 
 conviction, he turned his eyes wildly upwards. Until 
 that moment he had not known that Flora was the 
 child of his once fondly loved Ida. The knowledge 
 burst upon his mind like a gleam of fight from the 
 other world. In the revelation he saw the spirit of Ida. 
 It was she who had watched over to save him. Before 
 him stood her child, and he who had once so deeply 
 wronged him. His brain reeled, and he fell at the feet 
 of her who had saved him from a life of crime, and, 
 without uttering a word, his spirit passed away from 
 earth forever. 
 
 Two or three weeks had passed since Hastings 
 found his child. M. Demerdre, Eunice, Harry, Charley, 
 Hastings, and Flora were the guests of Mrs. Cole- 
 man at her house in New York. Harry in his fall had 
 received several severe injuries, and had only recovered 
 from them sufficiently to walk about the house. His 
 father and mother had returned to Virginia, leaving 
 him in the care of Hastings. Flora had regained some- 
 what her cheerful spirits ; and she and Harry, as in 
 years past, had stole away from the others in the house, 
 and were seated together on the back piazza. They 
 each told to the other their individual histories since 
 they had been separated. 
 
 " I never have ceased thinking of you, Harry," said 
 Flora. " I have always thought that we would meet 
 some time." 
 
 " Rose and I often talked of you," said Harry. " She 
 always said that I would meet you again." 
 
 They remained a long time talking together. Hast- 
 ings sat by a window where he could hear much of
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 449 
 
 their conversation. " God bless you both ! " said he to 
 himself. " Your innocent and pure love shall never be 
 disturbed by me." 
 
 They renewed their pledges of love, and resolved 
 never to be separated again, without writing to each 
 other. I will not attempt a description of Hastings' joy 
 at finding his long-lost child. Flora and he clung 
 naturally and fondly to each other. She already loved 
 him more than she had ever loved any one else. They 
 were together much, and he told her much of the his- 
 tory of her mother, and as far as possible revealed to 
 her young mind the many strange events connected 
 with her childhood. They remembered their strange 
 meeting at Niagara Falls, and the incidents connected 
 with it were often alluded to by them both. 
 
 A few days after Hastings had returned to the city, 
 he visited old Mr. Rivington and gradually told him of 
 the deception which Belmonte had practised upon him, 
 and informed him that Flora was still alive. The old 
 man was wild with joy on learning that she was still 
 living. He was for going at once to the city to see 
 her. 
 
 " I will bring her here to-morrow afternoon," said 
 Hastings. " In the mean time the grave of the child, 
 buried beside Rover, had better be removed. I fear 
 that the effect of it would be injurious to her." 
 
 Mr. Rivington consented to the arrangement, and thai 
 afternoon removed the remains of the child to anothei 
 spot, and had the fresh earth carefully sodded over, so as 
 to leave no traces of what had been done. The next 
 day, Hastings, alone with Flora, drove to old Mr. Riv- 
 ington's. When the carriage stopped at the gate in 
 front of his house, the old man, with his head uncovered 
 and with his white locks falling carelessly over his face
 
 450 THE CROOKED ELM, 
 
 and neck, hurried out to meet his once adopted child. 
 They were soon in each other's arms. The old man 
 wept like a child. 
 
 " May the Lord be praised for restoring you to me 
 again ! " said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. Flora 
 could not speak a word, but looked tearfully at the old 
 man, as if trying to recall him to her mind. He picked 
 her up in his arms, as he had been accustomed to when 
 she lived with him, although she was now quite a large 
 girl, and walked towards the house, pressing her to him 
 and exclaiming : " Praise the Lord ! Praise the Lord ! 
 She was dead and is alive again ; and was lost and is 
 found ! Praise the Lord for his goodness in restoring to 
 me my darling child ! " 
 
 It was a long time before he could compose himself 
 sufficiently to talk to her. He seated her on his knee as 
 he had often done years before, and looked into her 
 face with a countenance beaming with gratitude and 
 joy. After remaining for an hour or more in the house, 
 the three started across the field to see her old friend 
 Rover's grave. What emotions were awakened in her 
 young heart at beholding again the familiar objects of 
 her childhood! The house, the fields, and wood and 
 river, all were there before her ; but how diminished in 
 size! Her grandpapa, as she still called Mr. Rivington, 
 looked natural to her, yet she gazed at him as if trying 
 to recall him more forcibly to memory. When they 
 arrived at the little hillock, Flora looked anxiously about 
 her. Her heart was full to overflowing fond and 
 cherished memories crowded upon her mind. She 
 looked anxiously at Rover's grave, her little play-house, 
 the forget-me-nots which she had planted, and at all 
 which recalled the past. She could contain her feelings 
 no longer they found vent in tears. The old man
 
 OR, LIFE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 451 
 
 and Hastings stood by her side. Each was 'filled with 
 his own thoughts. Each was rejoicing over the safe 
 return of the lost one. 
 
 Flora and Eunice remained at Mrs. Coleman's for 
 nearly two months. M. Demere're had left Eunice with 
 Flora, having been earnestly solicited to do so by Hast- 
 ings. They were happy when together. Kate Cole- 
 man thought that Flora was the sweetest girl she had 
 ever known. She tried in every way to add to her hap- 
 piness. Flora and she were, very soon, great friends. 
 
 One evening, as Kate and Hastings were seated 
 together on the piazza, Hastings, taking Kate's hand in 
 his, said : 
 
 " Kate, you have been a very kind and good sister to 
 me. We have known each other a long time. I had 
 resolved never to marry again ; but T now leave it to you 
 to say whether I shall break or keep the resolution. 
 Can you love me other than as a brother ? Will you 
 become my wife ? " 
 
 As he said this, he rose from his seat, pressed her 
 hand gently, and bid her good-night, leaving Kate 
 with cheeks suffused with blushes. The words which 
 he had spoken gave her more happiness than any which 
 she had ever before listened to. Her cup of joy was full 
 to overflowing. 
 
 Several years have rolled away. Hastings and Kate 
 and Flora are living in a beautiful house in New York. 
 Bessy is there, too, all smiles, and with a face beaming 
 with pleasure as she plays with a little bright-eyed boy 
 and curly-headed girl, who have already learned to call 
 Kate and Hastings, mamma and papa. Flora has 
 grown to be a handsome and accomplished young lady. 
 Eunice Demere're visits her frequently, and they often 
 talk over the many incidents of their lives, and their 
 future prospects. Harry has completed his collegiate
 
 452 THE CKOOKED ELM. 
 
 studies, and is reading law with Hastings. Rumors are 
 afloat rumors that may be relied on as true that he 
 and the accomplished Miss Hastings are soon to be 
 married. It is even stated that the day for their wed- 
 ding has been named, and that a certain clergyman by 
 the name of Babblington, from the northern part of the 
 State of New York, has been invited to officiate on the 
 occasion. The farm where Moulton lived in Virginia 
 has been purchased by Mr. Collingwood, and the house 
 has been beautifully fitted up. Aunt Rose superin- 
 tended the repairing and arranging the kitchen ; and it 
 is a fact worthy of mention, that she looked more smil- 
 ingly while doing so than she had for years before. It 
 is whispered also that old Mr. Rivington intends living 
 with Harry and Flora when they commence " keeping 
 house." 
 
 Charley Willington is a frequent visitor at M. Deme- 
 re"re's, and it is more than probable that he and Eunice 
 will follow the commendable example which Flora and 
 Harry intend setting them. 
 
 George Washington Jackson Smith, (now an assist- 
 ant editor of a very popular magazine,) and Richard 
 Evans, a young physician, are expected to be present at 
 Harry's wedding to give eclat to the occasion, as well 
 as to show their respect for old Mr. Babblington and 
 the " Guttural System." 
 
 Wishing Flora and Harry, and Eunice and Charley, 
 all kinds of happiness in their, at present, flattering and 
 joyous prospects, I bid them, together with the other 
 characters in this story, and the reader, an affectionate 
 adieu.
 
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