THE SEQUEL AT WEST FALLS--COLONEL CRAWFORD'S FLIGHT, AND HOW IT WAS
ACCOUNTED FOR--JOSEPHINE HARRIS'S RETURN TO NEW YORK, AND HER
DISAPPOINTMENT--ANOTHER CONSPIRACY.
The length to which this narration, involving the fortunes of so many
different persons, has already extended, renders it necessary that some
of the succeeding incidents should be passed over with great rapidity
and in some instances even grouped together without order or
arrangement.
Were the opportunity otherwise, a forcible picture might be drawn of the
events at West Falls, following the departure of Colonel Egbert Crawford
and the discovery of his flight through the means of one of the
farm-hands who had seen him driving rapidly away towards Utica. Nearly
an hour after his departure had elapsed, before Mary Crawford was aware
of it; and naturally her first step, on being informed that he had left
the village, was to run up to his chamber. She knocked at the half-open
door, her heart beating with as much anxiety for _fear_ the knock should
be answered, as many another heart has beaten in fear that such a signal
would _not_ meet a response. But there was no reply. She flung the door
timidly open, and went in. Everything in the apartment remained as she
had arranged it in the morning for (as she supposed) her own bridal
chamber. The Colonel's valise and some portions of his clothing, had not
been removed, and this seemed to render impossible the supposition that
he had really left the village. But his sudden absence _at all_, after
what had occurred, gave ground to believe that some extraordinary
movement had really been made; and on the little table, after a moment,
the young girl discovered the note to Josephine Harris, directed under
her own care. It was sealed, and even had it not been, propriety would
have prevented her ascertaining the contents; but the very fact of there
being such a reply left, for _her_ to deliver, told that the shot must
have sped home, and that the expected bridegroom had indeed fled from
his bridal.
How the young girl managed to walk to her own room and once more array
herself for the street, with that dizzy sensation in her head, half of
joy, half of fright--how she silently and swiftly quitted the house
again, and made her way through the blazing afternoon sunshine, once
more to the little house of Mrs. Halstead,--she will probably never
know. People have walked in dreams, and others have done acts while
under the influence of _waking_ sleep, for which they were scarcely
responsible. It is enough to say that at three o'clock that afternoon
Josephine Harris was aroused from the sound slumber by which her
sick-headache was being rapidly cured--once more to receive the young
girl, whom she had little expected to see so soon.
When she descended the stairs, she found Mary Crawford standing alone
within the door of the sitting-room, Susan, who had admitted her,
having shown the innate delicacy of the good by retiring with only a
kind word and a sisterly kiss. The moment Josephine entered the room and
saw Mary standing there, her eyes full of unnatural brightness, her
cheeks all aglow with excitement like that of fever, and her glorious
auburn hair rudely dishevelled under her gipsy hat,--she knew that her
own effort had not failed--that surprise, and not disappointment, was
the feeling written upon that speaking face.
Without a word Mary Crawford threw herself into Joe Harris's arms, then
slid slowly to her knees, holding her arms still around the stranger of
only a few hours before, now dearer and more precious to her than any
sister could ever have been. At length she recovered herself
sufficiently to thrust one hand into the bosom of her dress, take out
the note, and hold it out to Joe, with the pleading words:
"Read! read! do read and tell me what he has done!"
"Why, you dear girl, how agitated you are!" said Josephine, stooping
down and kissing her on the forehead. "This letter for me, and from
_him_? Stop--answer me one question--has he gone?"
"He has gone!" spoke the young girl, almost with, a gasp.
A veritable cry of joy escaped Joe Harris. Often defeated and not seldom
misunderstood, she knew then that she had succeeded in the boldest and
most erratic act of her life; and that moment of triumph was worth years
of ordinary existence.
"He has gone! you are saved! Don't cry or tremble, pet, for it is all
right--I know it! See here!" and she tore open the note with such an
expression of gladness as some heroine of old may have vented when she
rushed in with her father's or her husband's pardon, at the very moment
when the axe was depending above his head.
Josephine Harris's eyes had run rapidly over the brief note. She
extended it to Mary:
"See! it is as I told you!"
Mary Crawford clutched the note in her hand, staggered to her feet, and
attempted to read. But she only saw a few words--heart and brain had
been overtasked--and with a low moaning cry she sunk fainting into the
arms of Josephine.
The hurrying feet of little Susy responsive to Joe's sudden call--the
glass of cool water from the well that in a moment touched Mary
Crawford's lips and sparkled on her forehead--these were the things of a
moment. That which had a memory in it, worthy to endure for all time,
was the return of recollection to the young girl, and the fervency with
which she threw herself again into Josephine's arms, embracing her
almost painfully, and saying, over and over again:
"Oh, you dear good friend! God bless you! God bless you!"
Mary Crawford was back at home again within the hour, happier than she
had been for many a long day, and after a few moments more of earnest
conversation with Josephine, too sacred for revelation. It may be
believed that she who had gone so far for the young girl's happiness and
that of her "brother" Richard, would not falter now in finishing her
task; and the truth is that had she had no benevolence extending
further, she had the fox-hunter's anxiety to be "in at the death," and
the feminine fancy for her own peculiar "reward," which could only be
obtained at the end of the course.
Instructed by the diplomatic Joe on one particular point, the moment she
reached her own house again Mary Crawford despatched a messenger to
inform Domine Rodgers that his services would not be needed that evening
for the marriage, as Colonel Crawford had been called to Albany by
telegraph, at a moment's notice, on government business. It seemed idle
to attempt, in her father's senile and helpless condition, to make him
acquainted with the real circumstances of the case; and so Joe's
suggestion was carried much further than she had intended, and the old
man and all the household were led to the same understanding, with the
additional belief that the Colonel had left so suddenly as only to make
Mary his confidant, after the arrival of a special (imaginary) messenger
from the telegraph-office at Utica.
Old John Crawford seemed a little disappointed, and weary of waiting for
the final arrangement of his family affairs; but he had not life enough
left in him to make his disappointment very painful, and Mary, inspired
with a new hope which gave her energy to brave almost anything, trusted
to something in a coming day which might enable her to remove that
disappointment entirely. So that somewhat eventful day closed upon the
Crawford mansion and upon the humbler one near it which had that day
exercised so powerful an influence on the fortunes of its inmates.
Here again it is necessary to pass on with unamiable if not inexcusable
rapidity, omitting any details of the time remaining of Josephine
Harris's visit at West Falls. When the city girl went up to that place,
she had considered her stay there likely to extend to at least a week
and possibly to twice that period. But her errand had been done so much
sooner than she could have expected, and she was so unwilling to
communicate with Richard in any other way than personally, with
reference to affairs at West Falls and her own action in the
matter,--that within an hour after Mary Crawford had left the house the
second time, her visit was really over. That is, the _heart_ in her
visit was gone. The shade and the quiet might be very pretty and
pleasant, and precisely what she could have enjoyed for a month under
other circumstances; but her restless brain was too busy to make rest
possible until all was done. Aunt Betsey's cares and little Susan's
attentions, joined with the society of the calf, the pigs and the
chickens (with occasional excursions into the cherry trees) enabled her
to wear through Monday. But every glance that she caught of the big
house on the hill, reminded her that Richard Crawford was lying (as she
supposed) a discouraged invalid, while she had a draught of hope at her
command that might be put to his pale lips and furnish him with new
life.
With the daybreak of Tuesday the robins woke her, and she slept no more.
Anxiety and restlessness had conquered, and not even the expectation of
receiving a letter from Tom Leslie that day (how enraged that gentleman
might have been, had he only known it!) could detain her longer. Aunt
Betsey plead and Susan pouted and scolded; but the laws of the Medes and
Persians were not more irrevocable than some of Miss Josey's notions;
and promising to come again if possible before the summer was over, and
exacting a promise from Susy to forward to her address in New York any
letters that might come for her from her _cousin_ at Niagara
(slyboots!)--she flitted away. The morning stage from West Falls took
her down to Utica; and the train at the Thirty-second Street Station at
New York, that evening, landed her at home again, dustier even than when
she went North, and this time alone, except as pleasant thoughts may
have been her companions. Long before midnight she burst in upon good
Mrs. Harris, with a fearful jangling of carriage-steps and ringing of
door-bells, leading that lady to believe, at first, that she had been
brought home in a sick or dying condition. But the maternal embrace was
warm, those red lips had never forgotten the kiss of dear love and
confidence upon those that had first caressed her when she came into the
world; and odd, wild, erratic Joe had a habit which many people with
more opportunities have managed to escape--that of being _always
welcome_.
It was of course too late, that night, for any conference with Richard
Crawford. But the next morning, before nine o'clock, his house was
treated to a repetition of the same ringing of bells that had sounded in
her own the night before, and Joe, all breathless eagerness (another one
of the bad habits of her childhood, that she had never been able to
overcome) stood talking in the hall with the domestic who had admitted
her. Much good her hurry had done! Much good was it for her to fly
hither and yon, transacting business for _invalids_! Some persons run
away from happiness--do they not?--as others try to escape from known
misery! Richard Crawford and his companions were then two hours up the
Hudson, on their way to Niagara! Crawford was going to pass West Falls,
within a few hours, so near it and yet ignorant of all that had
occurred!
To say that Joe Harris raved at this announcement, might be too strong a
word. But it is not too much to say that her springy foot (Joe had not
the proverbially "little" one of the novelists, but a very well-shaped
pedal of the Arab pattern, under the sole of which water could have run
with as much freedom as under the Starucca Viaduct or the High Bridge),
patted the hall floor with vexation, impatience and "botheration." There
was not much use in blurting out her vexation before a servant, but she
did say:
"Confound your picture, Dick Crawford! Why did you not let me know that
you were going away?" Which was not very elegant or very reasonable,
especially as wild Josey had for certain well-known reasons studiously
kept away from the house for some days before leaving for the North, and
still more especially because she had so concealed the direction of her
own journey that Dick Crawford could not have communicated with her if
he had tried never so earnestly.
Then and thereupon Joe Harris turned about indignantly and went to the
door. Then she changed her mind, went into the deserted parlor, opened
the piano and banged away upon it for a few minutes as if she was taking
the physical revenge of a drubbing, on the whole Crawford family. If
Dick Crawford could have heard _that_ performance, he would have gone
mad to a certainty! Then she flung to the piano with a slam (forgive
her, Steinway!--it was not your piano that she was abusing, but an
imaginary owner) and flung herself out of the house so precipitately
that Bridget only heard the violent shutting of two doors and knew
nothing more.
By the time she had reached her own house again, the young girl was
somewhat calmer and a great deal more reasonable. The fault was not that
of Richard Crawford, after all; and God bless him!--she was heartily
glad that he had recovered sufficiently to be able to leave the house
for a ride of four or five hundred miles. So she summoned back all the
patient and benevolent elements of her own nature (she had plenty of
them, but they were sometimes like badly-trained troops, and needed a
_recall_),--sat down and wrote a letter to Richard, giving him a brief
account of what had occurred, abusing him playfully for going off
without informing her of his intention, and ordering him to West Falls
immediately, in such terms as a commander-in-chief might have employed
towards a recruiting sergeant. That done, and the letter despatched, she
felt partially relieved.
But what a fool she had made of herself--she thought--by leaving West
Falls so soon! Neither her mother nor herself was yet ready to leave for
Newport (she much less than her mother, until certain half-finished
arrangements, in which Mr. Tom Leslie bore a part, were more
satisfactorily settled); the city was growing dull as well as hot, and
most of the "people one cares for," flitting to one or another of the
sea-shore or mountain resorts; and there were the pigs and chickens at
Aunt Betsey's all lying neglected. Joe Harris was nearer to being
_ennuyee_--absolutely bored, for the next hour, than she had before been
for a twelvemonth.
There is an old adage that some of us may have read in the primer (or
was it the hymn-book?) that "Satan finds some mischief still for idle
hands to do." Josephine's late life had been sufficiently exciting to
make her undeniably restless; and it was while ruminating upon the
misery of being too quietly happy, that she remembered her rencontre
with Emily Owen, at Wallack's, the magnificently bearish manner in which
Judge Owen had lugged his daughter out from the theatre, and the promise
she had made the mortified and abashed girl that she would run up and
call upon her some day. Why not now? Not much sooner thought of than
done; and in less than an hour thereafter she was ringing at the door of
Judge Owen's house near the Harlem River, having endured the smashing of
toes and disorder of dresses incident to a ride by car on a hot
afternoon when half the city was rushing to the Central Park and the
cool places over in Westchester.
She had better fortune, here, than she had experienced at the
Crawfords'. Emily was at home, sewing by the open window in her little
chamber, while by the other window of the same room showed the tall
figure and placid face of Aunt Martha. The meeting between the two
school-mates was very warm and cordial, and accompanied by those
embraces which, when they occur between two young girls and an
unfortunate masculine friend happens to be an observer, are so likely to
destroy his equanimity for a long period. Emily's cheek reddened a
little, to be sure, with shame at remembering where she had last met her
visitor; but perhaps this evidence of sensibility broke down all
barriers between the two, much easier than they could have been removed
under other circumstances. Josephine Harris had accidentally become
aware of the one secret of Emily's life, and so long as warm friendship
existed this fact could not be otherwise than a tie, just as it could
not fail to be a cause for avoidance if the two hearts once became
separated. Aunt Martha, something of an oddity among women, and Joe
Harris, an oddity without any qualification, were pleased with each
other at once; and a pleasant chat sprung up in the little room, which
lasted until Aunt Martha thought it proper to make an excuse for absence
and leave the young girls alone together.
It would have been something more or less than natural, if within a
minute afterwards the conversation of the two had not been running upon
the topic of which both had been thinking, but of which neither would
speak before the third person. Josephine broke into the theme at once:
"Who was he?"
"Who was _who_?" and the face of pretty Emily Owen was red enough in a
moment to show that she knew who was intended.
"Oh, you know that I saw part of it," said Joe. "I want to know the
rest. Who was the young man from whom your father took you away? A
lover, of course, or he would not have taken the trouble."
"It was--it was--Frank--Mr. Frank Wallace," said the young girl, the
color on her face by no means diminishing.
"Oh, don't blush so," said Josey. "We all get into some such scrape, at
one time or another--that is, so many of us as can find any one to form
the other half of the pair of scissors. He was your lover, of course?"
"You are a strange girl, and you ask such odd questions!" said Emily.
Then, looking into the face of Josephine, and seeing how true and
earnest, in spite of their mischief, were the eyes bent upon her, she
added: "But I _do_ remember how good and kind you were to me at school,
and I _will_ tell you all about it!"
"That's a dear!" said diplomatic Josey, and only casting down her eyes a
little and blushing occasionally, Emily Owen told the story of her love
and her persecutions--of her father's pride and prejudice--of Aunt
Martha's sympathy--of the relations borne towards the family by the
young printer and Col. Bancker--and of the unpleasant affairs which had
already occurred, culminating in that outrage at the theatre, since
which time (not many days, however,) the lovers had had no meeting.
"Why, it is as good as a play!" said Joe, when her friend had finished
her relation, and thinking, at the same time, how there was an
unaccountable something in her own fortune or character, which drew her
into acquaintance with so much that was dramatic in the lives of others.
"I am afraid you think me very weak and silly," said Emily. "You _must_
do so, unless--unless--"
"Oh, I understand you!" said Joe. "You mean that I must think your love
silly, unless I happen to be in love myself?"
"Yes, that was what I meant to say," answered the young girl.
"Oh, make yourself easy on that point!" said the incarnate mischief. "It
has not been very long under way, but I have picked up a _fellow_."
"Oh, I am so glad! Then I know that you will understand me!" answered
Emily.
"I understand you, and I do not think you silly at all," said her
mentor. "I saw the young man's face that evening, and I fancy that he is
decidedly good-looking. That is something. You say that he is honest,
industrious and _brave_: that is a good deal more. Then you love him,
and that is of much more consequence still. Never marry a man whom you
cannot love, my dear, if you remain an old maid so long that they date
from your birth instead of the Christian era."
Emily Owen looked up for an instant, to see how old this mentor could
be, who talked with the confidence of experience and the gravity of
fifty (so much like Aunt Martha); but she met a face very little older
than her own, and she merely said:
"I am so glad you think that I am right!"
"You say that you have not seen him since that evening at Wallack's,"
said Josephine. "Have you not _heard_ from him since?"
"Yes," said Emily, "we--"
"Write?"
"Yes," again said the young girl. "I hope you do not think that is
wrong. Frank does not wish to come here, and I do not wish him to come
here, possibly to be abused by my father; and so--"
"I wish I knew him," said Josephine, who by this time had some odd idea
running through her head. "What is he like? No, I do not mean how he
looks, for you know that I saw him for a moment; but what is his
disposition? Grave or gay?"
"Gay--very gay, I should think," replied Emily.
"You go to theatres: is he fond of theatrical performances?"
"Very," answered the young girl.
"So far, so good," said Josephine, in whose mind the thought, whatever
it was, seemed to be shaping itself with great rapidity. "Now, is he a
mimic? Could he play a part if he should attempt it?"
"I should think so," answered Emily. "He is very droll and a great
mimic--too much so, I sometimes think. But what do you mean?"
"Why this," said Joe, whose plan had now grown to its full
proportions--as odd and reckless a plan as the most outre could have
wished, but quite consistent with her own sense of benevolent mischief.
She had not quite recovered from the influence of her "amateur
detective" exploit for the benefit of Richard Crawford, and masquerades
seemed to her, for the time, the only realities. Conjoined with the
memory of her late exploits as a volunteer detective, was a thought of
the very effectual manner in which she had seen Tom Leslie disguise
himself on the day of the visit to the fortune-teller; and she had hit
upon a plan--nothing more nor less--to introduce the young girl's lover
into that house, under her own protection, and in such a disguise that
not even the suspicious eyes of Judge Owen could know that they had ever
looked at him before! As for any ultimate good to flow from the
frolic--it must be confessed that she scarcely thought of it. She did
think of throwing the two lovers together, for once or twice, at least,
and of playing a prank which he well deserved, upon the imperious and
not-over-reasonable Judge--that was all. She did not foresee the real
results which were to follow the operation: as which of us ever did,
when we began a frolic, imagine what earnest that frolic might become
before it was concluded?
"Why, this is what I mean--a plan that will at least give you an
occasional sight of your 'Frank,' that no doubt you think more of than a
Congressman of his, and wouldn't lend it to anybody. Scribble him a
little note at once, tell him who I am and what I am going to do. Put in
this card of mine, so that he can know where to find me. Then tell him
to get a soldier's uniform--(say a Captain's) a crutch, a cane, and a
green patch for one eye, and come to my house to-morrow afternoon.
No--if he only gets the crutch and the came, I will make the patch for
his eye, to-night. You are not going out anywhere to-morrow evening?"
"No," answered the young girl, a little bewildered by such an
arrangement.
"Then I will bring him up to-morrow evening, equipped in that manner,
and introduce him as my cousin, Captain--Captain--Captain--what shall I
call him?--Captain Robert Slivers--that will be a good name enough--of
the Sickles Brigade, wounded in one of the late battles and home on
furlough. Don't you think that will do, dear?"
"I should like it, of all things in the world," said Emily Owen, "if I
was only sure that they would not know him. But no--to-morrow evening
will not do! I remember hearing that hateful Colonel Bancker tell Pa
that he was coming again to-morrow evening."
"Well, all that is none the worse," said the schemer. "If the gallant
Colonel is as old as you think, his eyes cannot be any sharper than
other people's; and if your Frank Wallace is half smart enough to
deserve such a pretty girl as you, he can manufacture some war stories
that will do the Colonel good."
"But I am afraid--" again began Emily.
"Afraid of your shadow!" said the plotter. "There, run away and do as I
tell you, and mind that your note goes this afternoon and that you do
not forget to put in my card. Stop! you are not afraid to trust me with
him, are you?"
"Oh, Josephine, you ought to be ashamed to ask such a question!" replied
Emily; and having given that assurance, and being really carried off her
feet by the plausible mischief of her friend, she set about performing
her part of the arrangement, though not without some question how it
would all end, and whether the frolic might not eventually give excuse
for additional severity on the part of Judge Owen.
It was agreed between the young girls, before they parted, that the
arrival should not take place until evening, when there would be the
advantage of gas-light in concealing the personality of the
masquerader,--and that Aunt Martha, who had already proved herself too
firm and consistent a friend to her niece, to be played falsely with in
the matter, should be made acquainted with the whole arrangement, even
at the risk of the disapprobation that she was almost certain to express
against a proceeding that would certainly be better suited to the stage
than the drawing-room.
Having set this mischief on foot and shaken off the ennui which had
oppressed her in the morning, Josephine Harris left the house where she
had paid so remarkable a first visit, and returned to her own, to
astonish her mother with the knowledge of an intended prank somewhat
more reckless and outrageous than any upon which she had before
ventured.