CHAPTER XXIII

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JOSEPHINE HARRIS IN SEARCH OF INFORMATION--A BIG FIB FOR A GOOD END--MARY CRAWFORD WITH HER EYES SHUT, AND WITH THE SAME EYES OPENED--A BOMB-SHELL FOR COLONEL EGBERT CRAWFORD.

Pleasant though those hours in the little homestead at West Falls may have been, they must be passed rapidly over, except as each bore some event connected with the progress of this story.

When Josephine Harris woke next morning with the birds singing Sunday matins under her window, all the fogs and mists of merriment and country enjoyment seemed for the time to have rolled away from her brain, and the prime object of her visit to West Falls came prominently into her mind. In order to effect it, it was necessary that her aunt and cousin should both be taken somewhat into her confidence; and she had no fear of any evil result from this, as their location at a distance from the city would prevent any ill effects even from an unguarded word. Whatever these confidences were to be, however, there was no occasion to make them with any great suddenness; and in her character of an "amateur detective" she naturally preferred to make what discoveries might be possible, before explaining her motives for making the inquiries.

Accordingly, when breakfast and the Sunday "morning work" had been dispatched, she pulled little Susy away from the house, under the pretence of taking a "swing" in the popular abomination of that name, suspended between two of the trees in the back-yard. Seated side by side on the board seat between the ropes, and with their arms clasping each other's waists, the two girls fell into a conversation which was very soon led by Josephine into the direction she wished. Not, however, until she had propitiated the demon of mischief within her, by making an onslaught upon a daguerreotype which she had found in one of the drawers of the bureau in her room during an imprudent "rummage" before breakfast. 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 elapsed before they elicited the information, given through deeper and warmer blushes, that she was under an engagement of marriage to the young man whose portrait was thus made a hidden treasure--that he was an engineer on a distant railroad, who could only make his visits to West Falls at intervals of a month or two--and that they were to be married sometime during the ensuing year, if life and health would permit. Simple Susy!--what a pity that she could not have been informed of some of the events in the life of her cousin which had occurred during the previous few days--especially of the "friends" who had accompanied her to Utica! In that case it is just possible that the blushes might have been duplicated, though no corresponding confidence could have been elicited, for the best of all reasons. As it was, Susan had nothing to do but to pour out the one life-secret of her innocent heart, receiving nothing in return 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, after all!"

When she had reduced her cousin to that state of defencelessness and subserviency, Pussy Harris (as we have before had occasion to call her) suspended amusement, went into business, and commenced her round of enquiries.

A quarter of a mile away, in full sight of the grounds in the neighborhood of the barn, from its elevated position near the top of a gently-swelling knoll, a little separated from the main chain of hills that stretched away eastward--stood a large two-story farm-house, a little old and Dutch in its appearance, but thrifty-looking and suggesting that the man who made it a residence was the owner of many broad acres. This appearance was very much added to by the size and extent of the barns and out-houses; and the impression of age and stability was enhanced by the fine old trees which surrounded the yards and added so much to the pleasantness of the situation. From her old memory of the place, and of conversations during previous visits when she had no interest whatever in the inmates, Josephine Harris had an impression that this house was the abode of the Crawfords; and it was upon that supposition that she began her enquiries.

"Let me see--I almost forget," she said, pausing in their swing, and with the air of one trying very hard to remember--"Who was it that used to live in the big house yonder on the hill? Thompson? Johnson? What was the 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 an old man--"

"Yes, old John Crawford," so Susan supplied the missing name.

"And he had one daughter--only one daughter, and only one _child_, I think," said Josephine, working her features into a terrible semblance of trying to recollect something in the past, that had almost escaped her.

"Why yes, he had only one child, Mary," said Susan, evincing a little surprise. "But I did not know that you ever met her, so as to take any interest in her."

"Humph! well, I never did meet her, except at church," said the city girl, evasively. "But you were pretty young, then, and you would scarcely have remembered it if I had. I remember thinking that the old house must be a nice place for living in the country, and I thought of it again this morning. Is the old man living still?"

Less unsophisticated persons than little Susan Halstead might have been led into pursuing a subject of village gossip, by so specious a trap as that set by Josephine; and it is not strange that she fell at once into the line of conversation that the other desired.

"Yes, old Mr. Crawford is still living," said Susy, "and that is about all that can be said. He is old and very feeble, and they have been expecting him to die any day for the past three or four months. And that is not all--as you seem to have known something about Mary, I do not care if I tell you. There is serious trouble in that house, Cousin Josey!"

"Trouble?" echoed the young girl. "Indeed! why what is the matter?"

"It is a long story," said Susan, "but perhaps I can tell it without using many words. You know that the Crawfords are richer than most of us here--they say that the old man is _very_ rich--and so they belong to the aristocracy and do not associate with everybody. Mary is older than myself, a year or two, but we were at school together. We have not had much intimacy since, but a little, in spite of the difference in our circumstances. Mary is a dear, good soul, and not a bit proud, though the family are proud as Lucifer. Well, she used to come here once in awhile, and she made me come over there, though I always felt out of place in the big house. She was as gay and merry, then, as could be, and seemed always happy and light-hearted. She used to think a great deal of Mother, apparently; and once, two years ago, when Mother was very sick, she came down two or three times a day and brought her everything nice that she could think of. Lately she has not come here at all, and as she is richer than I, I am too proud to put myself in her way."

"Did nothing occur between you, to make any change in her behavior towards you?" asked the female lawyer.

"Nothing at all," answered little Susy. "I suppose that some of her fine acquaintances told her that she must not visit people poorer than herself, and that may have made the difference."

"But this is not the 'trouble' you spoke of, is it?" asked the young girl, who did not by any means intend to allow the cross-examination to fall through at this point.

"Oh, not at all," said the unsuspicious Susan. "I was coming to that directly. There was a cousin of Mary's, Richard, from New York, who used to come up here very often. I sometimes saw them together, and then it was that she looked so gay and happy. I am sure that they loved each other, and every one thought that some day they would be married. Of course I have never heard any of these things from _her_, and perhaps I ought 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 he has been leading a dreadful life, drinking and going into bad places, until he is all broken down and a miserable cripple. There is another cousin, a Colonel, who comes up here now, and he and Mary go out together sometimes. The Crawfords are notorious for trying to keep all their 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 a ghost when I meet her, at church or when she is riding out; and I know that she is unhappy. Perhaps she loves the poor young man still, bad as he is. Don't you think that is possible, cousin Joe? And may that not be what ails her?"

"Why yes, you dear little soul, I should think very likely!" said the city girl, leaning down her head on her hand and trying to still the throbbing of her temples. What a revelation was here, from lips so innocent and evidently so truthful! And how the whole story tallied with what she had heard in her ambush and conjectured from other circumstances! She was on the right scent, beyond a question--but here came her difficulty,--how to cut this knot of villainy, even now that it lay plainly before her! This was the question that labored through the young girl's brain and bent down her head on her hand. And yet it must be done, whatever the difficulty. Courage, Joseph Harris!--there never was a difficult thing, either in wickedness or benevolence, that a woman could not master when she once fairly set about it!

"It is indeed a sad story that you have been telling," she said, "and it interests me more and more in the family and especially in Mary. I wish I could see her and talk to her for half an hour." She had gathered all the information that she had any right to expect, and now came the necessary confidence. "What would you say now, Susy, if I could put back some of the light into Miss Mary Crawford's eyes?"

"_You?_" and the country girl looked at her as if a pair of horns had suddenly 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 these people or anything much about them," said Susan. "But indeed I should be very much pleased if you could, and I should--yes, I should just think you a witch!"

"Well," said Josephine, "suppose then that I had known something about these people for a long time, and that I had come up to West Falls not only to see my dear aunt and cousin, but to serve them in a way that they knew nothing about--would you and your mother keep the secret and help me?"

The wondering eyes looked at her more wonderingly still, but they seemed to see that the speaker was not jesting, and some of those country people have a faith in the abilities of people from the "big city," not always justified.

"Certainly I would," said Susy, "and I am sure that mother would do anything 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 Crawford are _lies_. He is a good, true-hearted young man, as can be found in the world. I know him very well, and visit him and his sister every day or two--sometimes, when I am very idle, every day. I love him as I would my own 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 should scarcely be trying to make matters right between him and Mary Crawford."

"No, I suppose you would not--I didn't think of that," said Susy. "And so 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 is enough to say that they are not true, and that I _know_ them not to be true. If I find that I am right in my suspicions of their origin, I will tell you: if not, you will be the better for not knowing."

"And what are you going to do?" asked the proprietor of the unmanageable curls and the wondering eyes.

"I scarcely know yet, myself," said the schemer. "It seems certain that no 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 are arranged Mary and all the property would go--well, I cannot tell you where, 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 ought to see Mary Crawford this very day, and without any one at the big house knowing that I am at West Falls or that she has any communication with this house. How can that be managed?"

"Indeed I do not see how it can be managed at all!" said the country girl, with a very hopeless look at her pleasant face.

"Indeed it _must_!" said Miss Josey, who was only confirmed in the determination by the supposed difficulty.

"I do not see how it can," repeated Susy. "You cannot go _there_, of course, 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 probably bring her over, but then it would bring all the other people from the house, and then your mother might have some objections."

"I should think very likely she _would_!" said Susy, with another wondering look around at the female torpedo who was thus exploding in West Falls.

"Stop! I have it!" cried the wild girl, a flash of triumph passing over her face. "Run into the house, Susy, and ask your mother to come out here. Your 'help' must not hear what is said."

Susy ran into the house on her errand, stopping once, as she turned the corner, to look around and satisfy herself whether Cousin Joe had not escaped from some lunatic asylum. While she was gone, Joe sat in the swing alone and did some energetic thinking; but twice, before the old lady 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 the elbows, having been interrupted in the midst of the divine mysteries of moulding cherry-dumplings, for the Sunday dinner. But she did not look the less amiable and good-natured for the interruption, as many good housewives 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 are a bit of a rattle-brain."

"Yes, well, I think that I may have heard that observation before," said Miss 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, that may be one of life and death, for what I ask. I want you to believe in the weight of my reasons at once, and to help me get Mary Crawford from the 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 to do. 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 dear little innocent people who are happy in their own love-affairs, have a marvellous faculty of falling into the needs of others, and God bless them 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," said Josephine. "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. "Susy tells me that when you were sick, two years ago, Mary Crawford came to see 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," said Josephine. "Once here, my word for it that she would not be angry, but thank 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 a model 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 be done, Aunt Betsey had given her consent to take part in what was probably 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 his way to the Crawford mansion, with a sealed note in the school-girl hand-writing of Susan, written under the dictation of Josephine, and reading 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 a true woman; and no crime is so unpardonable as that which trifles with such sympathy. Less than half an hour had elapsed, and Aunt Betsey, a little ashamed and a good deal frightened at what had been done, had gone up-stairs to escape the possibility of first meeting the young girl if she should come,--when Josephine, looking impatiently out of the window at the road leading down from the hill towards the centre of the village, saw a young lady coming down the path at the side of the road and approaching the gate. The figure was short and rather slight, dressed in some light summer-material, wearing one of the light jockey hats of the time, and sheltered from the hot morning sun by a parasol of dimensions too large to be fashionable. There was no reason why some other young lady should not be walking the foot-path at that time, especially as church-hour was approaching; but Josephine Harris had an indefinite impression that it was Mary Crawford, and that a trial was approaching, more severe than any to which she had ever before subjected herself. 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 there was such a confused rumbling in her head as that which forms part of the stage-fright to an actress or the first embarrassment to a public speaker before a large audience--would only be stating the simple truth. She had certainly been doing a bold act--even a rash one,--meddling in the business of another, with the best intentions, it was true, but under circumstances very liable to be misunderstood. If things should not be as she had understood them to be, at the Crawford mansion, or if she should fail in convincing Miss Crawford of the truth of the statements she was ready to make, nothing could be more painful than the position in which she would herself remain, and nothing more injurious than the predicament in which she would have placed her aunt and cousin. All this she realized, and for one moment she felt like running up-stairs with her aunt, and hiding herself between two of the thickest feather-beds, in spite of the heat of the season. But, courage once more, Joe Harris! The playing of detective _en amateur_ is not always a sinecure or a pleasant labor; but if it succeeds--aye, if it succeeds--why then!

By the time these reflections had fairly passed through her mind, the figure of Miss Crawford had entered the gate and was coming up to the porch.

"Go into the back room, Susan," said the city girl. "You will not know how to receive her. I must do it."

Instantly Susan glided through the back door, and shut it, and Josephine Harris was alone in her singular position. At the same moment Miss Crawford tapped at the closed front door, and Josephine at once opened it to admit her.

Mary Crawford had been a charmingly-pretty country-girl--that Joe Harris saw at a glance, the moment her eye took in the whole contour; and she did not for a moment wonder that Richard should have been fond of her or that his cousin should have used all _honorable_ means to supplant him. More of what she had been than what she was, the observer saw. No change, except age, could take away the charm from the rich chestnut auburn (is there not such a color?) of her hair; and her face could never be other than a pleasant and a _good_ one. But the hazel eyes looked as if they had been more accustomed to filling with tears than any one knew besides the owner; the handsomely rounded cheeks looked almost as sallow as they might have done from long sickness; the full, girlish mouth had a pinched and pained expression; and though she was dressed richly and with excellent taste, for a mere call in the country, there was something about her small figure which showed that it had once been fuller and rounder, and that she had fallen into lassitude and comparative lifelessness.

"I had a note from Miss Halstead, saying that her mother was ill," said Miss 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 the family.

"Pray walk into this room a moment and lay off your bonnet," said Josephine, opening the door into the cool, shaded parlor which adjoined the sitting-room, drawing her in and shutting the door. Perhaps Miss Crawford saw something strange, too, in this or in the young girl's manner, for her eyes ranged around the room and then alighted upon her companion, with a little wonder expressed in them. Josephine Harris saw and marked the expression; and she was too much excited, herself, not to satisfy that wonder very quickly.

"Pray sit down, Miss Crawford," she said, drawing a large cushioned rocker 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, Miss Crawford," said Josephine, her voice much thicker and huskier than she had ever before known it to be--"but I am going to ask you to do me a very great favor?"

"I do not understand you, Miss ----," said the visitor.

"Of course not," said the temporary hostess. "I am such an odd jumble that nobody understands me, at first. But let me hope that I may make myself 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 am called Josephine Harris, and I am a niece of Mrs. Halstead."

"Oh," said Mary Crawford; but whether she uttered the word in recognition 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 city girl, going on. "It is that you will remain in this room while I say some very strange things to you, and that you will try not to be hurt or angry with me until I have done."

"This _is_ certainly very strange," said Mary Crawford. "What can I think?"

"Think that you are in the house of true friends, who would neither see you harmed nor insulted," said Josephine.

"Oh, I am sure of _that_," answered her companion.

"Then listen to me," said Josephine, "and whatever surprise you may feel, pray do not _say_ it until you have heard all. Mrs. Halstead is not sick, and the note sent to you was written at my request, as the only means within my knowledge of inducing you to visit this house _immediately_."

"Mrs. Halstead not sick? a falsehood--a cruel falsehood!" said the young girl, with some indignation, and rising from her chair as if to leave the 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 sake of your own happiness and the happiness of those dearer to you than your own life, I implore you to hear me out."

"This is all so strange I--what _can_ you mean?" she uttered, but she sunk back, nevertheless, into the chair again.

"It _is_ strange--it is all strange--it is of crime and suffering that I am about to tell you," answered Josephine. "To tell you for your own sake and no interest of my own."

"For _my_ sake?" asked Mary Crawford, now visibly trembling, and with a look of startled wonder upon her face that was really pitiable to behold. "What can you know of _me_, and what interest can you take in me?"

"I know nearly everything of you, and I take the same interest in you that I would do in a dear sister," replied the city girl, striving to use the words that would most reassure and invite confidence. "Will you understand me when I say that two of the dearest friends I have in the world are your cousins Isabel and _Richard Crawford_?"

She purposely laid a peculiar stress on the latter name, and fixed her eyes keenly on the other as she did so. She saw the young girl flush to the very temples, then pale as suddenly, make another movement to rise from her chair, then sink back again as if from sheer exhaustion. Oh, it was not difficult to see how nearly that word touched with agony the very fountains of her life! She seemed trying to speak, but the words, if any were intended, died upon her lips, and her helpless agitation was really fearful to witness. Josephine Harris retained sufficient coolness to mark every indication, and though her young heart bled for the misery before her, after a moment's silence she repeated the names:

"Did you hear me, Miss Mary? I said that two of my dearest friends were Isabel and Richard Crawford."

This time the young girl did manage to stagger to her feet, by a mighty effort, her face white and her expression piteous. Her voice had broken almost to hoarse sobs, as she said, leaning one hand on the arm of the chair:

"I do not know why you have sent for me, or why you should torture me so cruelly! If you know anything of me and of the man you have named, you know that every word you speak is an unkindness, and that he is the last man 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!" said his advocate, all her ardent spirit now thrown into her words.

"_My_ cruelty? _His_ forgiveness?" echoed Mary Crawford, as if really stunned.

"I said those words," repeated Josephine. "One of the best and noblest men that God ever made is lying on his sickbed, nearly dying. He loved you--he loves you still. You pretended to love _him_; and now you have allowed 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 dying day, that I have meddled in your affairs and placed myself in this false position."

"The words of falsehood?" again echoed the young girl. If she had heard the other words of the sentence, these were the ones which seemed to have fixed themselves most deeply on her attention. She had not again resumed her place in the chair, but stood with her hand on its arm, in the same attitude of trouble and indecision.

"Falsehood--the worst and blackest!" said Josephine Harris. "Come here a moment, will you?" She took the hand of the young girl in hers, and led her close to the window, where the warm light of the summer day streamed in more brightly and countenances could be better discerned. "Look in my face. What do you see there?--tell me frankly--truth or deception?"

It is doubtful whether Mary Crawford had yet closely scanned the face before her. Now the troubled eyes looked closely into those that were sometimes so radiant with mischief, but now so solemnly earnest. The look was very long and silent--an evident acceptance of the strange invitation given. Before it was ended, that subtle magnetism which truth and goodness radiate to the true, had done its work. She cast down her eyes.

"I believe you to be true and good!" she said.

"Thank heaven that you do!" spoke Josephine. "Now sit down in that chair once more, and do not rise again until I have spoken what I must speak and you must hear. Do not shrink, faint or shudder, though I may say a few terrible words!" She led the young girl back to her chair, pressed her down into it, and drew her own still closer. She did not release her hand when she had placed her in that position, and she fixed her eyes full upon those of the other, which made an effort to escape, and then surrendered to the influence.

"Let me show you that I know _all_," she said. "Yet stop--let me first assure you that neither Richard Crawford nor his sister knows of my presence in this place--that neither of them has the least suspicion that I know one word of your family relations."

Mary Crawford's eyes looked into hers with one instant of close question; then again they surrendered, and were gently reliant though still 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 you with his whole heart. You were to be married, and the large property of your father would thus be kept in the family. A few months ago he ceased coming here any more, and you heard of him as plunged into riot and dissipation. Then you heard of him as sick, and that his sickness was the result of the foulest excesses, that had broken down his constitution and made him unfit for the society of any true woman. You began to answer his letters briefly and coldly, and then you ceased answering them at all. You heard those reports--you scarcely knew yourself how you heard them, but I _do_,--through another cousin, Egbert Crawford, who has taken the place of Richard."

The young girl's eyes stared, now, and she moved as if to rise, but the hand of Josephine on her arm held her gently down, and her words went on, that steady gaze still fixed upon her as before:

"Every one of those words was a lie, and Egbert Crawford was trying to break your heart and the heart of the man who truly loved you, that he might win you and your wealth!"

"How do you know this?--woman, how do you know this?" broke out the poor girl, her agony of doubt and suffering terrible to behold.

"I know it as if God had revealed it to me from heaven!" said Josephine Harris, casting up her eyes and lifting her hand momentarily, as if invoking that heaven for the truth she was uttering. "Not one word of these stories of Richard Crawford was true. He was pure and good. He is so, in spite of wrong and neglect. He loves you still, though he is almost 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 trouble now strangely compounded of joy and fear.

"I can and I will!" said the strange mentor. "Your own heart is proving them to you at this moment. You see how blind you have been, but you do not yet know all."

"All? what more can there be, whether I am to believe you or not?" asked the young girl.

"More--much more!" said Josephine Harris, speaking now almost in a whisper. "Do not shriek or run away from me; but I tell you, before God, Mary Crawford, that for weeks past--perhaps for months, Egbert Crawford has 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 be restrained, 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 womanly weakness and more than manly strength "seen him apply it, under the pretence of healing. I have seen the racking pains those fiendish practices have produced, and that no doctor's skill could combat. I have saved him--yes, I believe that I have saved him! You do not yet quite believe all the wickedness of this man! I see by your eyes that you do not! But you shall! See here!" and with the word she drew from the pocket of her dress the very bandage which she had exhibited in the office of Doctor LaTurque, and unrolled its dark loathsomeness--"here is the very poison that I saw him apply to Richard Crawford's heart, warning him not to let the doctors suspect it, because they would laugh at him for _superstition_. I have stolen this--yes, _stolen it_, from the spot where Richard Crawford had hidden it when he first began to be aware of the terrible truth; I have tested the powers of the unseen world to bear witness to his guilt; I have had this bandage examined by one 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 of Josephine. "Do you know what you have been saying to me? My father is sinking fast--his will is made--Egbert Crawford, whom you call a murderer, is at this moment at my home--I am to marry him this very day!"

"You _are_ to marry him, after this warning?" said Josephine Harris, looking at her with surprise not unmingled with horror. "Then you do not believe me, or you would marry a villain! You are not glad to know that the man you once loved, and who yet loves you so dearly, is true and loyal? I have indeed meddled where I was not wanted, and Richard Crawford--indeed--indeed she was not worthy of you!"

"Oh no, no! do not say so!" cried the young girl, changing so suddenly from the icy misery in which she had before stood, that Josephine Harris was literally bewildered. "I do love Richard Crawford. I have never known one happy day since I believed him unworthy to be my husband. I do believe you, dear, good girl, and I do thank you from my soul for all you have done to serve me! But oh, I am so miserable and so helpless! What shall I do? what shall I do?" Before she had ceased speaking, she had literally flung herself on her knees, embracing the bottom of Josephine's garment, clinging to her as if there was no dependence in the world beyond, and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Josephine Harris was melted in a moment, and nearly heart-broken herself, at the sight of the young girl's misery; but oh, what a gleam of joy underlay the sorrow! She was _not_ misunderstood!--she had _not_ been laboring in vain! Happy Joe--even in the midst of her pain and anxiety!

She raised the poor alarmed and sorrowing girl from her position of pleading and humiliation, took the chair that had just been vacated, and drew her down upon her own lap as if she had been a mother or an elder sister.

"What shall I do?" still repeated the troubled lips, through choking sobs. "I cannot escape now. It is too late. Poor Richard!--poor wronged Richard! I have deserved my fate, for being so untrue to him. What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Do?" said Josephine Harris, smoothing down her hair and striving to comfort her at the same time that she braced up her nerves for what must follow. "Do? Why send Colonel Egbert Crawford packing--that is the first step."

"Oh, I cannot!" moaned the young girl. "It would kill my poor old father, to have any trouble in the house, now; and I must marry that man, though I have never loved him--and he, oh heavens!--a murderer!"

"Well, if you _do_ marry him," said Joe, with something of her old manner, 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 lightly when I am so wretched?"

"Because I do not mean that you shall _remain_ wretched," was the answer. "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? And that I am a true friend?"

"Yes, indeed I do!"

"Then obey me now!" she continued, rapidly shaping into words the thoughts that had been for a few moments assuming consistency in her brain. "Do precisely as I tell you, nothing less and nothing more, and this 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 in a moment she had transferred her burden to the chair. In another she had flung open one of the end shutters of the room, drawn a small table towards the window, opened upon it her portable writing-desk (an article of use without which she never travelled), and was hastily scribbling, though with a hand that shook a little at its own boldness--the following 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 upon her hand and not even looking up, while Josephine's pen was rapidly running over the paper. (The phrase is a proper one--Joseph's pen _ran_, always, when she attempted to write, and as a consequence her chirography was not the easiest in the world to be deciphered. No fear, however, but that what she wrote in this instance could be read!) When she had concluded and was rising from the desk, Mary first looked up, and there was such an expression of abject and almost hopeless helplessness upon her face, that had Josephine not pitied her before, she must now have done so. That look said so plainly: "_Can_ you indeed help me? Is it possible that I can ever be lifted out of this pit of despair?"--that the city girl accepted it instead of words, and answered it.

"Yes, you need not look so doleful, my dear girl! I think you will find that 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 knew nothing whatever of the contents, and at the same time I have said that you knew all his baseness and treachery."

"Oh, have you?" said the suffering girl. "How can I ever meet him, after that--when he knows that I have heard him spoken of in so terrible a manner?"

"You can even do that, a little better than you could lay your hand in his and promise to be his wife, I should think!" said the other, and there 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 the fear with which she had become inspired. "You have been so good to me--so kind and generous, that I can never thank you for what you have done. Command me, now--tell me what I must do, and I will obey you like a child--a poor, weak child as I am."

"I do believe that you thank and trust me," said Josephine, all her tender self again instantly, and grasping her warmly by the hand. "Many people think me a rattle-brain, I suppose, and my advice may sometimes seem very odd and rash; but I am sure that heaven has intended me for the instrument of foiling that man who would be your destroyer, and I know that I shall not fail. Please do precisely as I ask--give Egbert Crawford that letter without a word, and see if it does not produce the effect I have intended."

"I will do so, and trust that Heaven upon which you call, to save me from wrong and bring about the right!" answered Mary Crawford.

"The omens are all good," said Josephine, who really had in her nature a shade of _impressibility_, if not of superstition. "This is Sunday--a day for good deeds and not for evil ones. This night you were to have been married: I arrived just in time to put you on your guard. All will go well, and I shall see you free from a fetter so hateful and the wife of 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 than sister."

"Just what I was going to ask of _you_," said Joe Harris, who had great faith, and was not ashamed to own the fact, in the magnetism of the lips. 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. I will try to obey all your directions. I shall see you again?--you will not leave West Falls until--until--"

"Until _you are safe_? No! Not if I stay a month!" was the reply. "If that letter fails, something else shall _not_! Good-bye, and let me hear from you to-morrow, or even to-day if anything occurs. But remember, no marriage 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 the door and into the street, bearing the second letter which had that day left the little house for the great one on the hill, and bearing--oh, what a terrible change in knowledge and feeling since she had entered the door less than an hour before! Her brain throbbed almost to bursting, and every nerve in her body seemed to be strung to an unendurable tension, as she left the little gate and took her way homeward. She was wretched, in the knowledge of guilt and wrong which had been imparted to her, and in the fear of the future, which she could not shake away; but she confided, spite of herself, in the counsel which had been given her, and there was a happiness out-weighing all the misery, in the knowledge that the idol of her young heart was not a base and miserable counterfeit. The gulf between Richard Crawford and herself might have grown too wide to be over-leaped--she might have become, to him, only a name to be regretted and yet despised--but it was still something in life to know that he was true and worthy, even if he was to be nothing more to _her_; and the foot of the young girl trod more firmly upon the green sward of the pathway than it had done for many a long month, and half the languor was gone from eye and nerve, as she walked slowly homeward through the summer noon, to try that strange experiment upon which she felt that the happiness or misery of her whole future life might depend.

As for Josephine Harris, those who know the depressions which sometimes fall upon high nervous organizations after severe and continued effort, scarcely need be told that she was almost prostrated the moment she felt that her work was for the time concluded. She had been suffering with throbbing temples and a too-rapid motion about the heart, during a large part of her conversation with Mary Crawford; and when Aunt Betsey, seeing from the window the departure of Mary, and little Susan, recalled by the voice of her cousin, re-entered the sitting-room, they found Joe shedding tears like a great baby and sobbing a little, with a fair prospect of an afternoon and night in the company of that most unromantic of companions--_sick-headache_.

It is a matter of no consequence how much of the conversation which had just passed, Josephine narrated to her aunt and cousin. Enough to satisfy their proper curiosity and give them assurance that she had succeeded in her attempt at first alarming and then winning the confidence of the young girl, and nothing more. Neither asked more, for both felt, beyond a doubt, that there might have been confidences in that conversation, too sacred to be revealed to other ears.

The sick-headache did come, as it had promised; and Joe Harris, her temples bathed with cologne by the willing hands of little Susy, went up to an enforced _siesta_ in her little bed-room. But she had the satisfaction, as the drowsy hum of the summer afternoon gradually lulled her into slumber, of saying to herself--the best of all auditors for those who have sound hearts and clear consciences:

"I thought I would do it--I meant to do it--and may I never play detective again if I don't believe that I have _done_ it!"

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