CHAPTER XXIII.
JOSEPHINE HARRIS IN SEARCH OF INFORMATION--A BIG FIB FOR A GOODEND--MARY CRAWFORD WITH HER EYES SHUT, AND WITH THE SAME EYES OPENED--ABOMB-SHELL FOR COLONEL EGBERT CRAWFORD.
Pleasant though those hours in the little homestead at West Falls mayhave been, they must be passed rapidly over, except as each bore someevent connected with the progress of this story.
When Josephine Harris woke next morning with the birds singing Sundaymatins under her window, all the fogs and mists of merriment and countryenjoyment seemed for the time to have rolled away from her brain, andthe prime object of her visit to West Falls came prominently into hermind. In order to effect it, it was necessary that her aunt and cousinshould both be taken somewhat into her confidence; and she had no fearof any evil result from this, as their location at a distance from thecity would prevent any ill effects even from an unguarded word. Whateverthese confidences were to be, however, there was no occasion to makethem with any great suddenness; and in her character of an "amateurdetective" she naturally preferred to make what discoveries might bepossible, before explaining her motives for making the inquiries.
Accordingly, when breakfast and the Sunday "morning work" had beendispatched, she pulled little Susy away from the house, under thepretence of taking a "swing" in the popular abomination of that name,suspended between two of the trees in the back-yard. Seated side by sideon the board seat between the ropes, and with their arms clasping eachother's waists, the two girls fell into a conversation which was verysoon led by Josephine into the direction she wished. Not, however, untilshe had propitiated the demon of mischief within her, by making anonslaught upon a daguerreotype which she had found in one of the drawersof the bureau in her room during an imprudent "rummage" beforebreakfast. A few sly hits at the appearance of the face there depicted,brought a sudden flush to the face of little Susy; and not long elapsedbefore they elicited the information, given through deeper and warmerblushes, that she was under an engagement of marriage to the young manwhose portrait was thus made a hidden treasure--that he was an engineeron a distant railroad, who could only make his visits to West Falls atintervals of a month or two--and that they were to be married sometimeduring the ensuing year, if life and health would permit. SimpleSusy!--what a pity that she could not have been informed of some of theevents in the life of her cousin which had occurred during the previousfew days--especially of the "friends" who had accompanied her to Utica!In that case it is just possible that the blushes might have beenduplicated, though no corresponding confidence could have been elicited,for the best of all reasons. As it was, Susan had nothing to do but topour out the one life-secret of her innocent heart, receiving nothing inreturn but a peal or two of merry laughter and a final assurance that"he would do," and that "he was not so _very_ homely and awkward, afterall!"
When she had reduced her cousin to that state of defencelessness andsubserviency, Pussy Harris (as we have before had occasion to call her)suspended amusement, went into business, and commenced her round ofenquiries.
A quarter of a mile away, in full sight of the grounds in theneighborhood of the barn, from its elevated position near the top of agently-swelling knoll, a little separated from the main chain of hillsthat stretched away eastward--stood a large two-story farm-house, alittle old and Dutch in its appearance, but thrifty-looking andsuggesting that the man who made it a residence was the owner of manybroad acres. This appearance was very much added to by the size andextent of the barns and out-houses; and the impression of age andstability was enhanced by the fine old trees which surrounded the yardsand added so much to the pleasantness of the situation. From her oldmemory of the place, and of conversations during previous visits whenshe had no interest whatever in the inmates, Josephine Harris had animpression that this house was the abode of the Crawfords; and it wasupon that supposition that she began her enquiries.
"Let me see--I almost forget," she said, pausing in their swing, andwith the air of one trying very hard to remember--"Who was it that usedto live in the big house yonder on the hill? Thompson? Johnson? What wasthe name?"
"The big house? oh, Crawford--the Crawfords live there," answered Susan,very innocently.
"Oh, yes, the name _was_ Crawford," said Joe. "Let me see--there was anold man--"
"Yes, old John Crawford," so Susan supplied the missing name.
"And he had one daughter--only one daughter, and only one _child_, Ithink," said Josephine, working her features into a terrible semblanceof trying to recollect something in the past, that had almost escapedher.
"Why yes, he had only one child, Mary," said Susan, evincing a littlesurprise. "But I did not know that you ever met her, so as to take anyinterest in her."
"Humph! well, I never did meet her, except at church," said the citygirl, evasively. "But you were pretty young, then, and you wouldscarcely have remembered it if I had. I remember thinking that the oldhouse must be a nice place for living in the country, and I thought ofit again this morning. Is the old man living still?"
Less unsophisticated persons than little Susan Halstead might have beenled into pursuing a subject of village gossip, by so specious a trap asthat set by Josephine; and it is not strange that she fell at once intothe line of conversation that the other desired.
"Yes, old Mr. Crawford is still living," said Susy, "and that is aboutall that can be said. He is old and very feeble, and they have beenexpecting him to die any day for the past three or four months. And thatis not all--as you seem to have known something about Mary, I do notcare if I tell you. There is serious trouble in that house, CousinJosey!"
"Trouble?" echoed the young girl. "Indeed! why what is the matter?"
"It is a long story," said Susan, "but perhaps I can tell it withoutusing many words. You know that the Crawfords are richer than most of ushere--they say that the old man is _very_ rich--and so they belong tothe aristocracy and do not associate with everybody. Mary is older thanmyself, a year or two, but we were at school together. We have not hadmuch intimacy since, but a little, in spite of the difference in ourcircumstances. Mary is a dear, good soul, and not a bit proud, thoughthe family are proud as Lucifer. Well, she used to come here once inawhile, and she made me come over there, though I always felt out ofplace in the big house. She was as gay and merry, then, as could be, andseemed always happy and light-hearted. She used to think a great deal ofMother, apparently; and once, two years ago, when Mother was very sick,she came down two or three times a day and brought her everything nicethat she could think of. Lately she has not come here at all, and as sheis richer than I, I am too proud to put myself in her way."
"Did nothing occur between you, to make any change in her behaviortowards you?" asked the female lawyer.
"Nothing at all," answered little Susy. "I suppose that some of her fineacquaintances told her that she must not visit people poorer thanherself, and that may have made the difference."
"But this is not the 'trouble' you spoke of, is it?" asked the younggirl, who did not by any means intend to allow the cross-examination tofall through at this point.
"Oh, not at all," said the unsuspicious Susan. "I was coming to thatdirectly. There was a cousin of Mary's, Richard, from New York, who usedto come up here very often. I sometimes saw them together, and then itwas that she looked so gay and happy. I am sure that they loved eachother, and every one thought that some day they would be married. Ofcourse I have never heard any of these things from _her_, and perhaps Iought not to talk about them; but you know such things will creep out.Well, Richard Crawford does not come up here any more. They say that hehas been leading a dreadful life, drinking and going into bad places,until he is all broken down and a miserable cripple. There is anothercousin, a Colonel, who comes up here now, and he and Mary go outtogether sometimes. The Crawfords are notorious for trying to keep alltheir property in the family; and so, as the other has proved so bad,probably _this_ cousin and Mary may be married. But she looks like aghost when I meet her, at church or when she is riding ou
t; and I knowthat she is unhappy. Perhaps she loves the poor young man still, bad ashe is. Don't you think that is possible, cousin Joe? And may that not bewhat ails her?"
"Why yes, you dear little soul, I should think very likely!" said thecity girl, leaning down her head on her hand and trying to still thethrobbing of her temples. What a revelation was here, from lips soinnocent and evidently so truthful! And how the whole story tallied withwhat she had heard in her ambush and conjectured from othercircumstances! She was on the right scent, beyond a question--but herecame her difficulty,--how to cut this knot of villainy, even now that itlay plainly before her! This was the question that labored through theyoung girl's brain and bent down her head on her hand. And yet it mustbe done, whatever the difficulty. Courage, Joseph Harris!--there neverwas a difficult thing, either in wickedness or benevolence, that a womancould not master when she once fairly set about it!
"It is indeed a sad story that you have been telling," she said, "andit interests me more and more in the family and especially in Mary. Iwish I could see her and talk to her for half an hour." She had gatheredall the information that she had any right to expect, and now came thenecessary confidence. "What would you say now, Susy, if I could put backsome of the light into Miss Mary Crawford's eyes?"
"_You?_" and the country girl looked at her as if a pair of horns hadsuddenly sprouted from under the dark hair.
"Yes, _I!_" echoed the "amateur detective."
"I don't see how you can do it, especially as you do not know thesepeople or anything much about them," said Susan. "But indeed I should bevery much pleased if you could, and I should--yes, I should just thinkyou a witch!"
"Well," said Josephine, "suppose then that I had known something aboutthese people for a long time, and that I had come up to West Falls notonly to see my dear aunt and cousin, but to serve them in a way thatthey knew nothing about--would you and your mother keep the secret andhelp me?"
The wondering eyes looked at her more wonderingly still, but they seemedto see that the speaker was not jesting, and some of those countrypeople have a faith in the abilities of people from the "big city," notalways justified.
"Certainly I would," said Susy, "and I am sure that mother would doanything to serve Mary. But what is it all, Cousin Joe?"
"That is what I am just going to tell you, or at least a part of it,"said Josephine. "In one word, all these stories about Richard Crawfordare _lies_. He is a good, true-hearted young man, as can be found in theworld. I know him very well, and visit him and his sister every day ortwo--sometimes, when I am very idle, every day. I love him as I would myown brother, if I had one."
"Not _better_ than a brother, eh, cousin Josey?" asked the country girl,with a funny glance out of the corners of her eyes.
"Oh, no," said Joe, laughing. "Not _better_ than a brother, or I shouldscarcely be trying to make matters right between him and MaryCrawford."
"No, I suppose you would not--I didn't think of that," said Susy. "Andso you know them, and you know _him_, and he is a good man, is he? Why,cousin Josey, where did all these stories come from, then?"
"Humph!" said the city girl, "we may find all that out by-and-bye. It isenough to say that they are not true, and that I _know_ them not to betrue. If I find that I am right in my suspicions of their origin, I willtell you: if not, you will be the better for not knowing."
"And what are you going to do?" asked the proprietor of the unmanageablecurls and the wondering eyes.
"I scarcely know yet, myself," said the schemer. "It seems certain thatno time is to be lost. You say that old Mr. Crawford may die any day.Now, Susy, it is my belief that if he should die to-day, as matters arearranged Mary and all the property would go--well, I cannot tell youwhere, but where you would not like to see them."
"Indeed you frighten me, cousin!" said Susy.
"I suppose so," answered Josephine. "But now--see here! I think I oughtto see Mary Crawford this very day, and without any one at the big houseknowing that I am at West Falls or that she has any communication withthis house. How can that be managed?"
"Indeed I do not see how it can be managed at all!" said the countrygirl, with a very hopeless look at her pleasant face.
"Indeed it _must_!" said Miss Josey, who was only confirmed in thedetermination by the supposed difficulty.
"I do not see how it can," repeated Susy. "You cannot go _there_, ofcourse, without being seen, and I do not know of any way to get her_here_."
"But that is the thing," persisted Josephine. "She must be got _here_,in some way or another. Pshaw! I don't see how it is to be done, but it_must_ be done. We might set fire to the house, and that would probablybring her over, but then it would bring all the other people from thehouse, and then your mother might have some objections."
"I should think very likely she _would_!" said Susy, with anotherwondering look around at the female torpedo who was thus exploding inWest Falls.
"Stop! I have it!" cried the wild girl, a flash of triumph passing overher face. "Run into the house, Susy, and ask your mother to come outhere. Your 'help' must not hear what is said."
Susy ran into the house on her errand, stopping once, as she turned thecorner, to look around and satisfy herself whether Cousin Joe had notescaped from some lunatic asylum. While she was gone, Joe sat in theswing alone and did some energetic thinking; but twice, before the oldlady came, she endorsed her plan with: "Yes, that will do. That _must_do!"
Directly Aunt Betsey came out to the swing, her arms floured to theelbows, having been interrupted in the midst of the divine mysteries ofmoulding cherry-dumplings, for the Sunday dinner. But she did not lookthe less amiable and good-natured for the interruption, as many goodhousewives might have done.
"Aunt," said Josephine, grasping her by the hand, in spite of the flour."Aunt, I want you to do a good and benevolent action, at once."
"Well, I will try, my child!" said the good woman. "That is, if it _is_a good action that you want me to do. But you know, Josey, that you area bit of a rattle-brain."
"Yes, well, I think that I may have heard that observation before," saidMiss Josey. "However, I can live through it. Aunt, I will tell you_why_, by-and-bye when there is more time,--but I have a reason, thatmay be one of life and death, for what I ask. I want you to believe inthe weight of my reasons at once, and to help me get Mary Crawford fromthe big house yonder, over _here_, immediately."
"Why, she does not come here now-a-days; and what can you want of her?"asked Aunt Betsey.
"There you go, Aunt!" said Joe. "You are not doing what I asked you todo. I tell you there are reasons why I must see Mary Crawford to-day,and with no one, outside of this house, knowing that I do so."
"She is right, mother," said Susan. "She has told me what she means,and she ought to see her at once. Do help her--pray do!" These dearlittle innocent people who are happy in their own love-affairs, have amarvellous faculty of falling into the needs of others, and God blessthem for it!
"But how?" asked Aunt Betsey.
"Oh, _I_ don't know," said Susan. "Cousin Josey knows."
"I only know one plan to get her here without suspicion," saidJosephine. "To do that we must tell a falsehood, but only for an hour."
"Oh, I cannot tell a falsehood," said the conscientious matron.
"Yes you can, or you can let _us_ tell it," said the incorrigible. "Susytells me that when you were sick, two years ago, Mary Crawford came tosee you very often."
"She did, and she was a very kind nurse--Heaven bless her, even if she_does not_ come to see us any more!" said the old lady.
"If she thought you sick, she would come again, I think," saidJosephine. "Once here, my word for it that she would not be angry, butthank you, when she heard all that I have to tell her."
"I do not like it, my child!" said the straight-forward woman.
But what can a kind-hearted old lady do, with two young ones and one amodel of her sex, tugging at her apron-strings? In five minutes more,without at all understanding what was to be
done or why it should bedone, Aunt Betsey had given her consent to take part in what wasprobably one of the first falsehoods of her life. In ten minutes more,one of the boys who had already dressed himself for church, was on hisway to the Crawford mansion, with a sealed note in the school-girlhand-writing of Susan, written under the dictation of Josephine, andreading as follows:
SUNDAY, July 6th, (morning).
_Dear Miss Crawford:--_
Please pardon the liberty I take. Mother is very ill, and we should be very grateful if you would say nothing to any one else about this note and come over to the house _immediately_.
Very respectfully your friend,
SUSAN HALSTEAD.
No call is so irresistible as that which appeals to the sympathy of atrue woman; and no crime is so unpardonable as that which trifles withsuch sympathy. Less than half an hour had elapsed, and Aunt Betsey, alittle ashamed and a good deal frightened at what had been done, hadgone up-stairs to escape the possibility of first meeting the young girlif she should come,--when Josephine, looking impatiently out of thewindow at the road leading down from the hill towards the centre of thevillage, saw a young lady coming down the path at the side of the roadand approaching the gate. The figure was short and rather slight,dressed in some light summer-material, wearing one of the light jockeyhats of the time, and sheltered from the hot morning sun by a parasol ofdimensions too large to be fashionable. There was no reason why someother young lady should not be walking the foot-path at that time,especially as church-hour was approaching; but Josephine Harris had anindefinite impression that it was Mary Crawford, and that a trial wasapproaching, more severe than any to which she had ever before subjectedherself. Susy was close at her side, and as the figure approached,Josephine called her attention to it.
"Yes," said Susy, looking out of the window for only one instant, "that_is_ Mary Crawford, and she is coming here."
To say that Josephine Harris's heart was beating quickly, and that therewas such a confused rumbling in her head as that which forms part of thestage-fright to an actress or the first embarrassment to a publicspeaker before a large audience--would only be stating the simple truth.She had certainly been doing a bold act--even a rash one,--meddling inthe business of another, with the best intentions, it was true, butunder circumstances very liable to be misunderstood. If things shouldnot be as she had understood them to be, at the Crawford mansion, or ifshe should fail in convincing Miss Crawford of the truth of thestatements she was ready to make, nothing could be more painful than theposition in which she would herself remain, and nothing more injuriousthan the predicament in which she would have placed her aunt and cousin.All this she realized, and for one moment she felt like runningup-stairs with her aunt, and hiding herself between two of the thickestfeather-beds, in spite of the heat of the season. But, courage oncemore, Joe Harris! The playing of detective _en amateur_ is not always asinecure or a pleasant labor; but if it succeeds--aye, if itsucceeds--why then!
By the time these reflections had fairly passed through her mind, thefigure of Miss Crawford had entered the gate and was coming up to theporch.
"Go into the back room, Susan," said the city girl. "You will not knowhow to receive her. I must do it."
Instantly Susan glided through the back door, and shut it, and JosephineHarris was alone in her singular position. At the same moment MissCrawford tapped at the closed front door, and Josephine at once openedit to admit her.
Mary Crawford had been a charmingly-pretty country-girl--that Joe Harrissaw at a glance, the moment her eye took in the whole contour; and shedid not for a moment wonder that Richard should have been fond of her orthat his cousin should have used all _honorable_ means to supplant him.More of what she had been than what she was, the observer saw. Nochange, except age, could take away the charm from the rich chestnutauburn (is there not such a color?) of her hair; and her face couldnever be other than a pleasant and a _good_ one. But the hazel eyeslooked as if they had been more accustomed to filling with tears thanany one knew besides the owner; the handsomely rounded cheeks lookedalmost as sallow as they might have done from long sickness; the full,girlish mouth had a pinched and pained expression; and though she wasdressed richly and with excellent taste, for a mere call in the country,there was something about her small figure which showed that it had oncebeen fuller and rounder, and that she had fallen into lassitude andcomparative lifelessness.
"I had a note from Miss Halstead, saying that her mother was ill," saidMiss Crawford, recognizing a stranger's face as the door was opened.
"Yes," said Josephine. "Miss Mary Crawford, I presume? Pray, come in."
"Where _is_ Mrs. Halstead?" asked the visitor, perhaps a _little_surprised that she should not at least have been received by one of thefamily.
"Pray walk into this room a moment and lay off your bonnet," saidJosephine, opening the door into the cool, shaded parlor which adjoinedthe sitting-room, drawing her in and shutting the door. Perhaps MissCrawford saw something strange, too, in this or in the young girl'smanner, for her eyes ranged around the room and then alighted upon hercompanion, with a little wonder expressed in them. Josephine Harris sawand marked the expression; and she was too much excited, herself, not tosatisfy that wonder very quickly.
"Pray sit down, Miss Crawford," she said, drawing a large cushionedrocker near one of the windows.
"But Mrs. Halstead?" again asked the other. "Is she not _very_ sick?"
"I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before this moment, MissCrawford," said Josephine, her voice much thicker and huskier than shehad ever before known it to be--"but I am going to ask you to do me avery great favor?"
"I do not understand you, Miss ----," said the visitor.
"Of course not," said the temporary hostess. "I am such an odd jumblethat nobody understands me, at first. But let me hope that I may makemyself fully understood directly."
"May I ask your name, Miss ----?" again said the young girl,inquiringly.
"Certainly, you have a perfect right to my name," said Josephine. "I amcalled Josephine Harris, and I am a niece of Mrs. Halstead."
"Oh," said Mary Crawford; but whether she uttered the word inrecognition or in depreciation, the other had no means of guessing.
"I said that I was going to ask a great favor of you," said the citygirl, going on. "It is that you will remain in this room while I saysome very strange things to you, and that you will try not to be hurt orangry with me until I have done."
"This _is_ certainly very strange," said Mary Crawford. "What can Ithink?"
"Think that you are in the house of true friends, who would neither seeyou harmed nor insulted," said Josephine.
"Oh, I am sure of _that_," answered her companion.
"Then listen to me," said Josephine, "and whatever surprise you mayfeel, pray do not _say_ it until you have heard all. Mrs. Halstead isnot sick, and the note sent to you was written at my request, as theonly means within my knowledge of inducing you to visit this house_immediately_."
"Mrs. Halstead not sick? a falsehood--a cruel falsehood!" said the younggirl, with some indignation, and rising from her chair as if to leavethe room.
"Miss Mary Crawford, I implore you to resume your seat," said Josephine,her voice now broken and husky with her great agitation. "For the sakeof your own happiness and the happiness of those dearer to you than yourown life, I implore you to hear me out."
"This is all so strange I--what _can_ you mean?" she uttered, but shesunk back, nevertheless, into the chair again.
"It _is_ strange--it is all strange--it is of crime and suffering that Iam about to tell you," answered Josephine. "To tell you for your ownsake and no interest of my own."
"For _my_ sake?" asked Mary Crawford, now visibly trembling, and with alook of startled wonder upon her face that was really pitiable tobehold. "What can you know of _me_, and what interest can you take inme?"
"I know nearly everything of you, and I take the same interest in youthat I woul
d do in a dear sister," replied the city girl, striving touse the words that would most reassure and invite confidence. "Will youunderstand me when I say that two of the dearest friends I have in theworld are your cousins Isabel and _Richard Crawford_?"
She purposely laid a peculiar stress on the latter name, and fixed hereyes keenly on the other as she did so. She saw the young girl flush tothe very temples, then pale as suddenly, make another movement to risefrom her chair, then sink back again as if from sheer exhaustion. Oh, itwas not difficult to see how nearly that word touched with agony thevery fountains of her life! She seemed trying to speak, but the words,if any were intended, died upon her lips, and her helpless agitation wasreally fearful to witness. Josephine Harris retained sufficient coolnessto mark every indication, and though her young heart bled for the miserybefore her, after a moment's silence she repeated the names:
"Did you hear me, Miss Mary? I said that two of my dearest friends wereIsabel and Richard Crawford."
This time the young girl did manage to stagger to her feet, by a mightyeffort, her face white and her expression piteous. Her voice had brokenalmost to hoarse sobs, as she said, leaning one hand on the arm of thechair:
"I do not know why you have sent for me, or why you should torture me socruelly! If you know anything of me and of the man you have named, youknow that every word you speak is an unkindness, and that he is the lastman in the world whose name should sound in my ears!"
"He is the _first_ man in the world whose name should pass your lips,with a prayer for forgiveness of your own cruelty joined with it!" saidhis advocate, all her ardent spirit now thrown into her words.
"_My_ cruelty? _His_ forgiveness?" echoed Mary Crawford, as if reallystunned.
"I said those words," repeated Josephine. "One of the best and noblestmen that God ever made is lying on his sickbed, nearly dying. He lovedyou--he loves you still. You pretended to love _him_; and now you haveallowed the words of falsehood to estrange your heart, if you _have_one! It is to save you from doing what you will repent to your dyingday, that I have meddled in your affairs and placed myself in this falseposition."
"The words of falsehood?" again echoed the young girl. If she had heardthe other words of the sentence, these were the ones which seemed tohave fixed themselves most deeply on her attention. She had not againresumed her place in the chair, but stood with her hand on its arm, inthe same attitude of trouble and indecision.
"Falsehood--the worst and blackest!" said Josephine Harris. "Come here amoment, will you?" She took the hand of the young girl in hers, and ledher close to the window, where the warm light of the summer daystreamed in more brightly and countenances could be better discerned."Look in my face. What do you see there?--tell me frankly--truth ordeception?"
It is doubtful whether Mary Crawford had yet closely scanned the facebefore her. Now the troubled eyes looked closely into those that weresometimes so radiant with mischief, but now so solemnly earnest. Thelook was very long and silent--an evident acceptance of the strangeinvitation given. Before it was ended, that subtle magnetism which truthand goodness radiate to the true, had done its work. She cast down hereyes.
"I believe you to be true and good!" she said.
"Thank heaven that you do!" spoke Josephine. "Now sit down in that chaironce more, and do not rise again until I have spoken what I must speakand you must hear. Do not shrink, faint or shudder, though I may say afew terrible words!" She led the young girl back to her chair, pressedher down into it, and drew her own still closer. She did not release herhand when she had placed her in that position, and she fixed her eyesfull upon those of the other, which made an effort to escape, and thensurrendered to the influence.
"Let me show you that I know _all_," she said. "Yet stop--let me firstassure you that neither Richard Crawford nor his sister knows of mypresence in this place--that neither of them has the least suspicionthat I know one word of your family relations."
Mary Crawford's eyes looked into hers with one instant of closequestion; then again they surrendered, and were gently reliant thoughstill full of trouble.
"I said that I would prove to you that I knew _all_," Josephine went on."I will do so. You loved Richard Crawford, I think, and he loved youwith his whole heart. You were to be married, and the large property ofyour father would thus be kept in the family. A few months ago he ceasedcoming here any more, and you heard of him as plunged into riot anddissipation. Then you heard of him as sick, and that his sickness wasthe result of the foulest excesses, that had broken down hisconstitution and made him unfit for the society of any true woman. Youbegan to answer his letters briefly and coldly, and then you ceasedanswering them at all. You heard those reports--you scarcely knewyourself how you heard them, but I _do_,--through another cousin, EgbertCrawford, who has taken the place of Richard."
The young girl's eyes stared, now, and she moved as if to rise, but thehand of Josephine on her arm held her gently down, and her words wenton, that steady gaze still fixed upon her as before:
"Every one of those words was a lie, and Egbert Crawford was trying tobreak your heart and the heart of the man who truly loved you, that hemight win you and your wealth!"
"How do you know this?--woman, how do you know this?" broke out the poorgirl, her agony of doubt and suffering terrible to behold.
"I know it as if God had revealed it to me from heaven!" said JosephineHarris, casting up her eyes and lifting her hand momentarily, as ifinvoking that heaven for the truth she was uttering. "Not one word ofthese stories of Richard Crawford was true. He was pure and good. He isso, in spite of wrong and neglect. He loves you still, though he isalmost broken-hearted."
"Oh, you cannot prove these things to me!" again spoke Mary Crawford,the trouble in her eyes still deeper than before, and still that troublenow strangely compounded of joy and fear.
"I can and I will!" said the strange mentor. "Your own heart is provingthem to you at this moment. You see how blind you have been, but you donot yet know all."
"All? what more can there be, whether I am to believe you or not?" askedthe young girl.
"More--much more!" said Josephine Harris, speaking now almost in awhisper. "Do not shriek or run away from me; but I tell you, before God,Mary Crawford, that for weeks past--perhaps for months, Egbert Crawfordhas been attempting to murder the relative he wished to rival, by_poison_."
"Poison? oh no, oh my God!" cried the young girl, now no longer to berestrained, and starting from her chair in uncontrollable agitation."You are mad--mad--and you are trying to make _me_ so!"
"I have seen him apply the poison," said the strange compound of womanlyweakness and more than manly strength "seen him apply it, under thepretence of healing. I have seen the racking pains those fiendishpractices have produced, and that no doctor's skill could combat. I havesaved him--yes, I believe that I have saved him! You do not yet quitebelieve all the wickedness of this man! I see by your eyes that you donot! But you shall! See here!" and with the word she drew from thepocket of her dress the very bandage which she had exhibited in theoffice of Doctor LaTurque, and unrolled its dark loathsomeness--"here isthe very poison that I saw him apply to Richard Crawford's heart,warning him not to let the doctors suspect it, because they would laughat him for _superstition_. I have stolen this--yes, _stolen it_, fromthe spot where Richard Crawford had hidden it when he first began to beaware of the terrible truth; I have tested the powers of the unseenworld to bear witness to his guilt; I have had this bandage examined byone of the ablest physicians in America, and it is _poison--insidious,deadly poison_. Egbert Crawford is not only a liar, but a _murderer_!"
"Help me! help me! oh, my God, what shall I do?" cried the poor girl,staggering as if about to fall, and only prevented by the quick arm ofJosephine. "Do you know what you have been saying to me? My father issinking fast--his will is made--Egbert Crawford, whom you call amurderer, is at this moment at my home--I am to marry him this veryday!"
"You _are_ to marry him, after this warning?" said Josephine Harri
s,looking at her with surprise not unmingled with horror. "Then you do notbelieve me, or you would marry a villain! You are not glad to know thatthe man you once loved, and who yet loves you so dearly, is true andloyal? I have indeed meddled where I was not wanted, and RichardCrawford--indeed--indeed she was not worthy of you!"
"Oh no, no! do not say so!" cried the young girl, changing so suddenlyfrom the icy misery in which she had before stood, that JosephineHarris was literally bewildered. "I do love Richard Crawford. I havenever known one happy day since I believed him unworthy to be myhusband. I do believe you, dear, good girl, and I do thank you from mysoul for all you have done to serve me! But oh, I am so miserable and sohelpless! What shall I do? what shall I do?" Before she had ceasedspeaking, she had literally flung herself on her knees, embracing thebottom of Josephine's garment, clinging to her as if there was nodependence in the world beyond, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Josephine Harris was melted in a moment, and nearly heart-brokenherself, at the sight of the young girl's misery; but oh, what a gleamof joy underlay the sorrow! She was _not_ misunderstood!--she had _not_been laboring in vain! Happy Joe--even in the midst of her pain andanxiety!
She raised the poor alarmed and sorrowing girl from her position ofpleading and humiliation, took the chair that had just been vacated, anddrew her down upon her own lap as if she had been a mother or an eldersister.
"What shall I do?" still repeated the troubled lips, through chokingsobs. "I cannot escape now. It is too late. Poor Richard!--poor wrongedRichard! I have deserved my fate, for being so untrue to him. What shallI do? What shall I do?"
"Do?" said Josephine Harris, smoothing down her hair and striving tocomfort her at the same time that she braced up her nerves for what mustfollow. "Do? Why send Colonel Egbert Crawford packing--that is the firststep."
"Oh, I cannot!" moaned the young girl. "It would kill my poor oldfather, to have any trouble in the house, now; and I must marry thatman, though I have never loved him--and he, oh heavens!--a murderer!"
"Well, if you _do_ marry him," said Joe, with something of her oldmanner, justifying the resumption of her pet name, "all that I can say,is, that I hope you will have a happy time of it!"
"Why do you speak so?" asked the poor girl. "Why do you speak so lightlywhen I am so wretched?"
"Because I do not mean that you shall _remain_ wretched," was theanswer. "Hold up your head, now, Mary--may I not call you Mary, _dear_Mary! Hold up your head, like a brave girl, and listen to me."
Her frightened companion made an effort to do so, and she went on:
"You believe that I have been right in what I have said, do you not? Andthat I am a true friend?"
"Yes, indeed I do!"
"Then obey me now!" she continued, rapidly shaping into words thethoughts that had been for a few moments assuming consistency in herbrain. "Do precisely as I tell you, nothing less and nothing more, andthis marriage will _break itself_, without one word from you."
"Oh, how can that be possible?" asked the trembler.
"Sit down in that chair for a few minutes, and don't mind _me_!" and ina moment she had transferred her burden to the chair. In another she hadflung open one of the end shutters of the room, drawn a small tabletowards the window, opened upon it her portable writing-desk (an articleof use without which she never travelled), and was hastily scribbling,though with a hand that shook a little at its own boldness--thefollowing note:--
WEST FALLS, Sunday, July 6th (noon).
_Col. Egbert Crawford:--_
You will probably recognize the name at the bottom of this, as that of one you have often seen, but of whom you know very little. No one but myself knows anything of the contents. You are discovered--detected. I have watched you and overheard your conversation, for days past, at the house of Richard Crawford. What is more, I have the _poisoned bandage_ in my pocket, after having had it analyzed by a chemist. If you leave at once, without attempting to consummate any more of your designs, you are safe from any exposure--I promise you so much, on the honor of a true woman. If you are not gone before to-morrow morning, without any further attempt at entangling Mary Crawford, I promise you, in the name of God who sees us both at this moment, that I will not only expose you before John Crawford and his family, but that I will do what I can to bring you to justice. Mary Crawford knows all your falsehood and crime, but she, like myself, will keep silence when you are gone.
JOSEPHINE HARRIS.
Mary Crawford had been sitting still in her chair, leaning her head uponher hand and not even looking up, while Josephine's pen was rapidlyrunning over the paper. (The phrase is a proper one--Joseph's pen _ran_,always, when she attempted to write, and as a consequence herchirography was not the easiest in the world to be deciphered. No fear,however, but that what she wrote in this instance could be read!) Whenshe had concluded and was rising from the desk, Mary first looked up,and there was such an expression of abject and almost hopelesshelplessness upon her face, that had Josephine not pitied her before,she must now have done so. That look said so plainly: "_Can_ you indeedhelp me? Is it possible that I can ever be lifted out of this pit ofdespair?"--that the city girl accepted it instead of words, and answeredit.
"Yes, you need not look so doleful, my dear girl! I think you will findthat this little epistle will do more than an ordinary volume could do.See--I have sealed it, as is best. I have said, within, that you knewnothing whatever of the contents, and at the same time I have said thatyou knew all his baseness and treachery."
"Oh, have you?" said the suffering girl. "How can I ever meet him, afterthat--when he knows that I have heard him spoken of in so terrible amanner?"
"You can even do that, a little better than you could lay your hand inhis and promise to be his wife, I should think!" said the other, andthere was even some sternness in her tone.
"Oh yes, yes, anything rather than become his beyond hope!" cried Mary,and there was such a shudder running over her frame for the instant,that her guide and mentor fully understood what must be the depth of thefear with which she had become inspired. "You have been so good tome--so kind and generous, that I can never thank you for what you havedone. Command me, now--tell me what I must do, and I will obey you likea child--a poor, weak child as I am."
"I do believe that you thank and trust me," said Josephine, all hertender self again instantly, and grasping her warmly by the hand. "Manypeople think me a rattle-brain, I suppose, and my advice may sometimesseem very odd and rash; but I am sure that heaven has intended me forthe instrument of foiling that man who would be your destroyer, and Iknow that I shall not fail. Please do precisely as I ask--give EgbertCrawford that letter without a word, and see if it does not produce theeffect I have intended."
"I will do so, and trust that Heaven upon which you call, to save mefrom wrong and bring about the right!" answered Mary Crawford.
"The omens are all good," said Josephine, who really had in her nature ashade of _impressibility_, if not of superstition. "This is Sunday--aday for good deeds and not for evil ones. This night you were to havebeen married: I arrived just in time to put you on your guard. All willgo well, and I shall see you free from a fetter so hateful and the wifeof an honorable man whom I love as if he were my own brother."
"God bless you for all!" said Mary. "Kiss me before I go--my more thansister."
"Just what I was going to ask of _you_," said Joe Harris, who had greatfaith, and was not ashamed to own the fact, in the magnetism of thelips. The kiss was exchanged, with a warm embrace as an accompaniment,and then Mary Crawford said:
"I must go at once, before I am missed and too much wonder excited. Iwill try to obey all your directions. I shall see you again?--you willnot leave West Falls until--until--"
"Until _you are safe_? No! Not if I stay a month!" was the reply. "Ifthat letter fails, something else shall _not_! Good-bye, and let me hearfrom you to-morrow, or even to-day if anything occurs. But remember, nomarriage to-night,
if you have to run away here to escape it!"
"Oh, no! no! no! Good-bye!" and the young girl had passed out of thedoor and into the street, bearing the second letter which had that dayleft the little house for the great one on the hill, and bearing--oh,what a terrible change in knowledge and feeling since she had enteredthe door less than an hour before! Her brain throbbed almost tobursting, and every nerve in her body seemed to be strung to anunendurable tension, as she left the little gate and took her wayhomeward. She was wretched, in the knowledge of guilt and wrong whichhad been imparted to her, and in the fear of the future, which she couldnot shake away; but she confided, spite of herself, in the counsel whichhad been given her, and there was a happiness out-weighing all themisery, in the knowledge that the idol of her young heart was not a baseand miserable counterfeit. The gulf between Richard Crawford and herselfmight have grown too wide to be over-leaped--she might have become, tohim, only a name to be regretted and yet despised--but it was stillsomething in life to know that he was true and worthy, even if he was tobe nothing more to _her_; and the foot of the young girl trod morefirmly upon the green sward of the pathway than it had done for many along month, and half the languor was gone from eye and nerve, as shewalked slowly homeward through the summer noon, to try that strangeexperiment upon which she felt that the happiness or misery of her wholefuture life might depend.
As for Josephine Harris, those who know the depressions which sometimesfall upon high nervous organizations after severe and continued effort,scarcely need be told that she was almost prostrated the moment she feltthat her work was for the time concluded. She had been suffering withthrobbing temples and a too-rapid motion about the heart, during a largepart of her conversation with Mary Crawford; and when Aunt Betsey,seeing from the window the departure of Mary, and little Susan, recalledby the voice of her cousin, re-entered the sitting-room, they found Joeshedding tears like a great baby and sobbing a little, with a fairprospect of an afternoon and night in the company of that mostunromantic of companions--_sick-headache_.
It is a matter of no consequence how much of the conversation which hadjust passed, Josephine narrated to her aunt and cousin. Enough tosatisfy their proper curiosity and give them assurance that she hadsucceeded in her attempt at first alarming and then winning theconfidence of the young girl, and nothing more. Neither asked more, forboth felt, beyond a doubt, that there might have been confidences inthat conversation, too sacred to be revealed to other ears.
The sick-headache did come, as it had promised; and Joe Harris, hertemples bathed with cologne by the willing hands of little Susy, went upto an enforced _siesta_ in her little bed-room. But she had thesatisfaction, as the drowsy hum of the summer afternoon gradually lulledher into slumber, of saying to herself--the best of all auditors forthose who have sound hearts and clear consciences:
"I thought I would do it--I meant to do it--and may I never playdetective again if I don't believe that I have _done_ it!"
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