[16]March 14th, 1863.
[16]March 14th, 1863.
But it has been said that Walter Harding reached Niagara at noon on Monday, and thenceforth Leslie had a companion in most of his strolls and observations. Harding's calm face looked a little jaded with close attention to business in hot weather and a time of financial trouble; he had not been quite so frequent a rambler at the Falls as Leslie, and had some points of interest yet to visit in the neighborhood, especially on the Canada side; he was fonder of the road and less fond of observations among the crowd of sight-seers and summer-loungers, than his friend; and as a consequence, after his coming, riding took the place of lounging to a great degree. Nothing with reference to these rides, most of which took place along the green lanes and among the fertile fields of Brantford County, deserves notice in this place, except one phase of the peculiar character of Leslie, half-earnest patriotism and half-tormenting mischief. He found plenty of ill-feeling towards the United States, among the Canadians, and as much effort as possible to depreciate the Federal currency. Thenceforth his special anxiety was to vex and annoy as many of the Canadians and native English as possible, and verbally, at least, to annex the two Canadas to the Union.
Going up to the top of the Observatory at Lundy's Lane, on their Tuesday-morning ride, among the other visitors who were listening to the ten-thousandth repetition of the story of the battle of Niagara (varied to suit customers), told by the old soldier who either was or was not a participant in the battle, they found one true John Bull from the mother country,—a stout, thick-set, florid-faced man of middle-age, not over-intelligent but very earnest and enthusiastic. Leslie marked him as a victim and began at him at once.
"I suppose you have not heard the telegraphic reports from Washington, this morning?" he said to the Englishman, after some conversation with reference to the battle had brought them to terms of speaking acquaintance.
"No," answered the Englishman. "Anything of consequence?"
"I should think so!" said Leslie, very gravely. "War between the United States and England, beyond a doubt."
"God bless my soul!" said John Bull. "No?"
"Sure as you live!" said Leslie, while Harding shook his head and knitted his brows at him as a hint to be careful how far he went with his mischief—a signal which was misinterpreted by some of the bystanders to mean that he should not have betrayed the intelligence. "Lord Lyons made a demand on Secretary Seward, yesterday morning, to open the ports of Charleston and Savannah within twenty-four hours, for the free exportation of cotton. Secretary Seward at once refused to open them at all before the conclusion of the war or the First of January 1900; and Lord Lyons immediately exhibited his instructions to come home by the first steamer if the demand was not acceded to. He left Washington last evening, and will sail for England by the steamer of to-morrow."
Some of the auditors—intelligent visitors from the hotels, and other well-informed people, saw the joke and humored it. Others, prepared for almost any item of startling news, and not too well up in national affairs, took it all for sober earnest. John Bull was completely mystified.
"Good heavens!" he said. "Can this be possible?"
"I must hurry back!" said Leslie, warming into broader mischief, and pulling out his watch. "Non-intercourse between the two countries may be proclaimed at any moment, and in that case I should be a prisoner!"
"God bless me" said the Englishman. "In that case I had better get over to the International and look after getting part of my baggage that is there, over on this side of the river!"
"I should advise you to do so at once," answered Leslie, quite as gravely as before. "I wonder whether we shall be stopped on our way back, or not? However, it is a matter of not much consequence. If any of usshouldbe taken prisoners and kept over here, it would not be for long. Our people will of course overrun Canada within a week, and annex it to the Northern States."
"Oh, they couldn't dothat, you know!" said John Bull, who might believe anything else, but who could not possibly be brought to believe anything against the power of the British Government or its colonies, when in arms.
"I believe that you are an Englishman by birth? Am I mistaken?" asked Leslie, in a tone of ministerial gravity and dignity.
"Not at all mistaken, sir," said the Englishman, proudly. "John Hazelton Butts, Leakington, Monmouthshire."
"John Thompson, Jr., late Secretary of Legation to the Duchy of Parma," said Leslie, picking up the first names that happened to come into mind, and bowing in return. "You seem, Mr. Butts, to be a highly intelligent gentleman—"
"Thank you, Mr. Secretary," said the Englishman, who had at least caught the fictitious title.
"But, sir," Leslie went on, "it is impossible that any foreign resident should know, concerning affairs on this continent, what necessarily comes underourknowledge. Perhaps you will be a little surprised when I tell you that there is a secret order existing all along the borders of the States adjoining these provinces, numbering more than three hundred thousand men, all drilled weekly, and all sworn, in the event of any opportunity occurring, to seize upon the Canadas and New Brunswick at once?"
"Indeed Iamsurprised," said the Englishman. "This is really the case?"
"Really and incontestably, sir," answered Leslie. "You will see at once, sir, what chance there could be of defending these provinces against such an inroad. But come, Smith!" addressing Harding, "we must really hurry back before the bridge closes. Good morning, Mr. Butts!—good morning, gentlemen!" and Leslie hurried down from the observatory and away, accompanied by Harding. Whether the Englishman at once went over after his baggage, or not, is uncertain.
"Whatisthe use of all that, Tom?" asked Harding, when they were once more in the carriage and rolling along the privet-hedged lanes.
"Use? oh, plenty of use!—fun! I have been as grave as a judge for nearly a week; and besides, every Englishman whom I succeed in making thoroughly uncomfortable, is one scion of the stock ofperfidé Albionpaid off for all old scores!"
"Humph!" said Harding. "You are incorrigible, and that is all that can be said about it."
Close to the edge of one of the fields along which they were driving, some laborers were at work, hoeing potatoes. There were some splendid grain-fields adjoining, and at a little distance stood a handsome farm-house with thrifty-looking outbuildings. Leslie's spirit of mischief was now up, and nothing but exercise could calm it.
"Hallo, there!" he called to the laborers, stopping the carriage at the same time. One of the working-men stopped his work and came up to the fence.
"Whose farm is this?"
"Mr. Bardeleau's, sir."
"Oh, Bardeleau! I know him. Crops look finely."
"Yes, very finely, sir," answered the workman.
"Going to the house soon?"
"Yes, sir, going in to dinner before long," answered the man.
"Well, my good man," said Leslie, "be good enough to give Mr. Bardeleau the regards of Mr. Thompson, International Hotel, an old friend of his, and to tell him that war has just broken out between England and the United States, and that the President has this morning issued a proclamation annexing Canada to the State of New York. Good morning."
Mischief of this character varied and enlivened the performances of that day and the next, Harding alternately enjoying and protesting against it. But on the third day there was a decided change in the programme. Running over the register at the desk, before breakfast on Friday morning, Leslie found the following four names, arrivals of the night before: "Richard Crawford—John Crawford—Miss Isabel Crawford—Miss Marion Hobart—New York City."
"Why, here are acquaintances—or at least one of them!" he called to Harding, who was at a little distance. He might have said more than one acquaintance, with propriety, for though he had met none of the Crawfords except Bell, he knew so much of them from Josephine Harris that he seemed to have known them for a twelvemonth.
"Who are they?" asked Harding, busy with a carriage-order.
"The Crawfords—and somebody else with them," answered Leslie. "You remember the young ladies on Broadway, the impudent scoundrel and the caning, a few days ago—one of them a Miss Crawford"—
"Yes, I remember," said Harding, with a little flush rising suddenly to his face. He also remembered, beyond a doubt, that he had been very much impressed by that young lady, and that had hedared, he would have called at her house before leaving the city. Here she was, brought accidentally into the same hotel with himself, and—. What else he thought may be left to the imagination. "Yes, I remember," he said. "And the other lady—Miss Harris, is she in the company?"
"No," said Leslie, "she does not appear to be." ("Appear to be!"—just as if that scamp did not know where she was, and as if he had not a letter in his pocket from her!) "No, see—Miss Crawford and her two brothers, with another lady whose name I have never heard before."
The result of this discovery was that the parties met at breakfast, a slight flush (corresponding to that of Harding a little while before) mounting to the face of Bell Crawford as she introduced the two friends to her brothers and Miss Hobart. Very naturally, thereafter, though there was an overplus of males and a deficiency of females to make the association perfect, the two parties blended, and in the future plans for sight-seeing and amusement each made arrangements for and calculated upon the other.
They were just passing from the breakfast-room—that cool breakfast and dining-room of the Cataract, overlooking the lower rapids with the clumped little islands near the bridge,—when Leslie caught sight of a figure crossing the hall.
"Look—quick!" he said, touching the arm of Harding. "Look down the hall. There he is, now! Do you not recognize him?"
Harding, to whom Leslie had of course told the story of his late rencontre, looked in the direction indicated. Just for one instant the face of the person alluded to was turned towards them, and Harding plainly distinguished that it was that of the Virginian whom they had seen at the corner of Houston Street on the night of the opening of this story. He had but a moment to observe, for the tall man was almost at the office-door, and in an instant he had disappeared through it. At the same instant Marion Hobart uttered a quick, sharp cry, and staggered against John Crawford, as if about to fall. All the party gathered around her instantly, two or three of the waiters came up, and for the moment attention was distracted from everything beside.
"I had a sudden pain here. I do not feel very well. If you please I will go up to my room and lie down a little while. But I shall soon be better," said the young Virginian girl, in response to the anxious inquiries of her friends as to the cause of the sudden cry and the evident paleness of her face.
In compliance with her wish Bell Crawford accompanied her up-stairs; and the moment after, Tom Leslie stepped into the office-door through which he had seen Dexter Ralston disappear. He was not there. In reply to an inquiry, the clerk said that a tall man, whom he had seen several times before, had come into the room and stepped to the counter a moment, perhaps to examine the register, but that he had almost instantly gone out again. Leslie looked through the halls and upon the piazza, a little perplexed by the sudden appearances and disappearances of this man; but he was not in sight anywhere—he had evidently left the house.
Before quitting the breakfast-table, it had been arranged that the whole reinforced party should use the fine morning for a ride over the bridge into Canada, a three-seated carriage being called into requisition. But after the gentlemen had waited a few moments for tidings from the sudden invalid, Bell Crawford came down-stairs again and announced that they would be obliged to take the ride without female company, as Miss Hobart felt too much indisposed to ride and would remain in her room, and she could not think of leaving her entirely alone in a strange house on the first day of their arrival. Marion, she said, had proclaimed her willingness to remain alone, and had even urged her to go, but she had refused and would remain.
This arrangement did not precisely please any of the gentlemen, and least of all it pleased Walter Lane Harding, who had lately ridden over all that ground quite often enough unless he was to go over it this time in peculiarly pleasant company. He had an insane belief, by this time, that Miss Bell Crawford was "very pleasant company." But there was little else to do, than to obey the decrees of fate; one of the ladies was temporarily an invalid, and the other, for humanity's sake, must play nurse; the gentlemen could have little of their society, at least for the morning; and so half an hour afterwards, while Bell Crawford returned up-stairs, fortified with a novel and two Buffalo papers, to perform her self-denying office of Good Samaritan, the four gentlemen took an open landau and were whirled down to the Suspension Bridge and over to the Canada side.
Their drive had lasted perhaps three hours and covered nearly twenty miles, when, hastening back to dinner, they drove in at the gate-house on the Canada side of the Suspension Bridge. A close-carriage was just leaving the bridge at the same moment. Between this and the carriage in which the four friends were seated, a clumsy furniture-wagon attempted to pass at the moment when they stopped to show tickets, and in doing so the driver locked his wheel with that of the close-carriage coming over. The friends noticed that there were trunks on the rack of this carriage, and that though the day was so hot and sultry, the windows were closed. As the wheels locked, one of the windows was dashed down with some petulance, and a head appeared through it, while a sharp, strong voice cried:
"Why the d—l don't you drive on?"
Both Tom Leslie and Walter Harding recognized the face and voice of Dexter Ralston. The latter, glancing at the figures in the landau, observed Leslie, and made a sign of recognition. By this time the wheel was cleared, Ralston again shut the window sharply, and the carriage dashed away at full speed towards the custom-house on which "V.R." is displayed for the benefit of those who never tread upon British soil to see it more liberally distributed.
"There he is again!" said Leslie to Harding.
"And apparently going away, by the trunks on the rack," replied Harding.
"Who is it?" asked John Crawford.
"An odd character, about whom we will tell you by-and-bye," said Tom Leslie. "He is a Southerner, but he must have been born in averyhot climate, to need the windows closed on such a day as this."
"And he must be in a hurry," said Harding, "by his impatience and the speed at which the carriage drove away."
They drove slowly over the bridge and then hurried back towards the Cataract. It was nearly two o'clock when they reached the house, and the riders and strollers had come back from their various wanderings and filled the halls and parlors, chatting, looking at the stereoscopic views arranged for the destruction of eyes, and waiting for dinner. As the four friends entered the hall after dismissing the carriage, they were met by Bell Crawford, who seemed to have been looking out for them from the head of the stairs—her face pale, her voice thick and troubled, and her general appearance frightened and "flustered."
"What is the matter?" asked Richard Crawford, who had, even in that short space of exposure to the outer air, so much improved that fatigue rather made him fresher than otherwise, and who might even then have been called "almost a well man."
"She is gone!" cried Bell, drawing John and Richard, and the others insensibly following, into an unoccupied corner of the parlor, which was, however, vacated the moment after, in answer to the dinner-call.
"Who is gone?" asked John Crawford, alarmed.
"Marion Hobart—gone—gone away. Oh, what can it all mean?" said poor Bell, almost distracted with trouble and wonder.
"Marion Hobart gone? gone where—gone how?" asked John, grasping Bell by the arm with his one unwounded hand.
"I do not know—oh, I am half crazy!" said the poor girl. "All that I know is, that she has left this house in such a manner that she evidently never means to return to it."
"My God!" said John. "My oath!—I swore to take care of her! Tell me, quick, what is it that has happened?"
"I will tell you all that I know," said poor Bell, "only give me time and do not frighten me any worse if you can help it. You know Marion was unwell, and that she went up-stairs and lay down on her bed. Her room is up yonder on the next floor, number Fifteen, very near the head of the stairs. Mine is number Sixteen, adjoining. She lay on the bed, and I sat beside her, chatting with her, though she seemed to speak wildly and as if frightened. After a while she seemed drowsy and appeared to wish to go to sleep. I thought I would leave her alone, then, for a little while, to sleep; and I took my book and went out on the little balcony at the end of that corridor. I was reading 'John Brent,' and I suppose I got crazy over the galloping horses going down to Luggernel Alley, for I read for perhaps an hour without hearing or seeing anything else than the things in my book. Then I went back to Marion's room—it was not an hour ago—and she was gone!"
"But she may have gone down on the Island—she is a strange little mortal—she may be out on the balcony over the rapids. What makes you think that she isgone, as you call it?" asked John, terribly excited, while all the others listened with strange interest.
"Oh," said Bell, "I know that she is gone for good" [Americanice, "finally"] "and I knew it the moment I entered her room. Her large trunk was gone—the one you bought her the other day, John; her clothing was gone—everything."
"Astonishing!" said Richard Crawford.
"This beats romance!" said Tom Leslie.
"It just beats thed—l!" said John Crawford, who must be excused for using such words in the presence of a lady,—because he was only a rough soldier. "And that is all you know, is it, sister?"
"No," answered Bell Crawford. "I know a good deal more, and it is all worse and worse. I got the chambermaid to enquire, and she found that a tall man came with a close carriage—"
"A tall man? a close carriage?" almost gasped Tom Leslie, though he only spoke to Walter Harding. "Do you hear what she says? This was a Virginian girl—he is a Virginian—his being here this morning—over the Suspension Bridge—those trunks on the rack—by George, Harding—don't you see?"
"But what couldhehave been toher?" asked Harding, who did not yet see it in the same clear light.
Bell Crawford had meanwhile gone on with her story.—"That the tall man went up-stairs, asking one of the waiters for number Fifteen, and that five minutes afterwards he came down with a very small lady, dressed for travelling, ordered down the baggage from that room, put her into the carriage and got in himself after throwing a dollar to the waiter who brought down the trunks; and that then the carriage drove rapidly away towards the Bridge."
"By George, I knew it!" said Tom Leslie, this time so loudly that all could hear him. All turned to him in surprise.
"What do you mean?" asked Richard Crawford.
"That I believe I know the man who has taken away this girl!" answered Tom Leslie.
"And I believe thatIdo,now," said Walter Harding, at last fairly convinced.
"Stop," said Bell. "There was one thing I forgot to tell you. She had evidently left in great haste, and two or three little things were left scattered around the room. Here are two of them, that I picked up and put in my pocket—one of her tiny little shoes, and this locket. The locket I have before seen in her possession. She seemed to be sorry that I had seen it, as I accidentally did, and said that it was the portrait of a dear friend of her family." She took out a little slipper, scarcely too large for an ordinary child of ten years, yet retaining the mould of the graceful atom of foot that had rested warm within it; and with it she took out the enamelled locket we have before seen, and handed it to the gentlemen. Tom Leslie grasped it with an almost frantic haste and threw it open.
"Dexter Ralston!" he cried. "Look, Harding! It is all explained! I know, now, why he haunted this house, and what the sharp cry meant when he crossed the hall this morning! Don't you see!"
They did see, as little by little, while the dinner-dishes were rattling in the dining-room adjoining, Tom Leslie explained to his wondering auditors (Harding only excepted—who yawned and was hungry) so much of the antecedents and character of the strange Virginian as could bear any relation to the abduction—though abduction it could not be properly called. That that singular and commanding man and that equally singular mere child had been friends, perhaps lovers, was evident; that they had fled away, with the girl's consent, beyond the hope of successful pursuit, was equally evident: and here the mystery for the time shut completely down, and they knew no more.
But what was it that Mazeppa said, through the lips of his self-appointed spokesman, Byron, of the impossibility of escaping the patient search and long vigil of the man seeking revenge for wrong? He might have cited another motive, less fierce but quite as powerful—curiosity!Job Thornberrymay give up his search for the name of the destroyer of his daughter, and allow her to break her heart in quiet; but not soPaul Pry, who needs a full explanation of the scandal for retail purposes. John Crawford, in spite of the oath which he could now no longer keep, might possibly have allowed the mystery to rest here, had not Tom Leslie, who had sworn no oath whatever, been in his way. Balked in New York and mystified everywhere, the latter gentleman determined to know more—or less! John Crawford only needed this companionship; and an hour after the discovery of the abduction, the two once more whirled over into Canada, possibly on a longer ride than the one they had just concluded.
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 forfearthe knock should be answered, as many another heart has beaten in fear that such a signal wouldnotmeet 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 absenceat 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, forherto 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 ofwakingsleep, 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 fromhim? 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, theheartin 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 hercousinat 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 beingalways 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 forinvalids! 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 heardthatperformance, 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 arecall),—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 beingennuyeé—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 waswho?" 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 Idoremember how good and kind you were to me at school, and Iwilltell 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. "Youmustdo 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 afellow."
"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 andbrave: 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 notheardfrom 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.
Five Minutes with the Moonlight—The Last Scene at Judge Owen's—Capt. Slivers, of the Sickles Brigade—Two Rivals Disguised, and the Result of their Rencontre.
There was no terrible portent in the air, hanging over the city of New York on that Thursday evening the Tenth of July, to which allusion has before been made as the same on which Richard Crawford and his companions reached Niagara. On the contrary, as some of the summer tourists may remember, that evening was remarkably and even wondrously beautiful. Not a clearer full moon ever rose than that which beamed over nearly the whole of the Northern States that night; and those, especially, who had the privilege of seeing that moon rise over the brow of Eagle Cliff at the Franconia Notch of the White Mountains, standing on the plateau in front of the Profile House and seeing the disk of glittering silver heaving slowly up beyond the crest, with the great trees on the summits defined against it so sharply, with the dark mountain brows frowning and the upturned human faces radiant in the silver light, and with every aspect and influence of the scene something wildly and weirdly beautiful—those who enjoyed that privilege will not be likely soon to lose the memory of one of the loveliest nights that ever dropped down out of heaven. How many souls, in one place and another, and under influences akin to those we have named, may have bowed down that night in worship before denied to the Almighty Hand that, not content with making a world instinct with life and usefulness, endowed it with such marvellous beauty! And how many young hearts, before that hour partial strangers to each other or divided by prudence or by ignorance, standing under that silver sheen may have acknowledged the influence of the time, melted into tenderness, and flowed together to be no more separated forever!
Moonlight is an enchanter as well as a beautifier, and the old fancy of partial madness when the moon was at the full (from which the word "lunacy") was not altogether unwarranted by reality. At sea, in the tropics, a night on deck under the broad full moon stiffens and entirely maddens, if it does not kill; here the madness is only partial and it has a general reference to mischief and the opposite sex; but the influence is the same, under different degrees of development.
On how many lands and waters is such a broad full moon shining, and what varied scenes it throws into flickering light and shadow—the very thought being a part of the permitted madness of the time! Think of that strange variety for a moment. Far out on the ocean tired sailors throw themselves under the lee of the bulwarks and gaze up into its face, while the light plays fantastic tricks among the masts and cordage. Out of pleasant groves in the country light-robed figures are flitting, and under that marvellous sheen words are spoken that would long have been frightened back in the brighter glare of day—words that may make the happiness or misery of a life-time. Ringing laughter breaks from merry groups that glance in and out under the shade-trees and the vine-arbors that surround stately old mansions in the valleys of wheat and corn. Rough shouts and loud peals of laughter break from the rough throats of the raccoon and opossum hunters in the wild back-woods. A broken-hearted woman sits at her chamber-window and gazes out into the weird atmosphere, thinking of falsehood and sorrow and the inconstancy of one year. Half in the sheen and half in the shadow lies a little grave, its light and shade fit type of the love and grief of two who sit on a vine-covered porch and think of the day when they buried the dear little sleeper. In the dark passes of the Apennines lurks a bandit, poniard in hand, ready to spring on the unwary traveller as he emerges from the shadow. On the gardens and jalousies of fair Granada falls the silver beam, and guitars tinkle and white arms wave in recognition. Under the gloom of the palazzo of St. Mark, at Venice, a gondola is shooting, while the boatman hums a drowsy air and the lover anxiously watches for the waving of the white scarf of his mistress. Cascades leap down the mountain gorges, unheard of mortal ear and unseen by mortal eye, but scattering their diamond drops in air as a full libation to the glory of night. Far away at sea, on a drifting raft, a sailor eats his last biscuit and smiles sorrowfully back to the placid face that will look down next night upon his corpse!
All which may have very little to do with this story, and yet it may be fully warranted by the occasion. And at least it is justifiable to say that the full of the moon may have made Joe Harris madder than usual and readier than ever to indulge in frolics of the most reprehensible character. What we began to indicate, especially, was that no portent loomed in the heavens above the doomed city or even above the house of Judge Owen, and that still an earthquake was muttering and rumbling under it, destined to tumble it into the most fatal confusion.
At about half-past eight that evening, a ring at the door announced visitors. Judge Owen had not yet returned, but all the other members of the family, and one who expected tobecomea member of the family—of course, Colonel John Boadley Bancker,—were sitting at that moment in the front parlor. For some reason or other, not necessary to be here explained, Emily went herself to the door and admitted the visitors. They proved to be Miss Josephine Harris, who had just alighted from a carriage at the door, and a male companion in uniform. Some time elapsed before the military gentleman, who was introduced to the young hostess as "Captain Robert Slivers," managed to get over the door-step, so very lame was he. But he managed to spare a hand for one moment from one of his crutches, the instant after; for Emily, who was half frightened out of her wits and half inclined to burst into uncontrollable laughter, felt a "pinch" on her arm which nearly made her scream aloud.
The military gentleman hobbled along into the room after them, and was introduced to the others there assembled. One of the burners of the chandelier only had been lit, but it quite sufficed to reveal an extraordinary figure. Captain Robert Slivers seemed to be about fifty to fifty-five, to judge by his gray hair and moustache; but any idea of the precise looks of his face was rendered impossible, by an immense green patch which concealed not only the right eye, but all that side of the nose and the temple, while the string running around his forehead took away any expression from that important part of the human countenance, and an oblong strip of black court-plaster extended diagonally from the left eye nearly to the corner of the mouth, creating an impression of very severe tattooing. A pair of green spectacles were mounted on the bridge of the nose, and the left glass did duty over the corresponding eye, while the other was unseen as relieved against the shade. So much for the facial appearance and adornments of this hero, and his other claims to notice were not less extraordinary. Sartorially, he wore an undress military cap, with the "U.S." on the front, and a dingy blue uniform with the shoulder-straps of a Captain of infantry. Physically he seemed nearly as much out of order as facially. He carried a heavy cane in his right hand, and the right foot was enclosed in a sort of moccasin or spatterdash which might have belonged to one of the conductors on an avenue railroad, for use in very severe weather. In shoe-makers' measurement this foot-gear would probably have been rated about number sixteen. Under the left arm, which was swathed below the elbow, he carried a crutch, and though the foot on that side seemed to be uninjured, the leg had not escaped so fortunately. It was stiffened and drawn up so that the toe merely touched the ground and the principal dependence was made upon the crutch. According to this arrangement, the left leg limped and the right foot shuffled, and the style of locomotion may be imagined.
But for the "pinch," which was a little characteristic, Emily Owen might have had grave doubts, even after the warning of the day before, whether this could be the sprightly young man whom she had known so well; and the very mother who bore him, if she could have seen him in that situation, would have been almost as excusable for not recognizing her offspring, as that traditional matron who defeated all the theories about "intuition" by not recognizing her son when "done up with pepper and onions, in a stew."
This interesting person was finally ushered into the parlor and introduced to the trio sitting there, as well as manœuvered into a chair. Aunt Martha, behind the curtain, was not prevented by her fright at the possible consequences, from nearly smothering with concealed laughter at the wonderful metamorphosis which had been accomplished. Mrs. Owen, a weak woman with a soft heart, was dreadfully affected by the "reality of war" thus brought home to her, and uttered many ejaculations of pity, carefully under her breath for fear the "poor fellow" should hear her and be pained.
Colonel Bancker—there is no use disguising the fact—was literally horrified at the spectacle. A miserable old beau, with unlimited vanity and a desire to appear everything that other people admired, but without any other positive personal vices—he was, as Frank Wallace had always believed, an incarnate, unmitigated poltroon—a coward of the first water. He never had fought for anything, with hand or weapon—he never intended to fight for anything—he nevercouldfight for anything. He could not bear to think of being hurt himself, and he was pained beyond measure at the thought of seeing any one else injured or in suffering. One hour of the battle-field, with its sights and sounds of horror, would have killed him without any aid from sword or bullet. He could have been robbed in a dark street by a boy of ten years, who presented a knife or a pistol; and in any time of danger to himself or others (as may have been indicated by the adventure of the carriage before recorded) he could be of no more use than a baby in arms. Such men are not very common, but they do exist; and under any ordinary circumstances, as they cannot help the infirmities with which they are born, they should be pitied and not ridiculed. It is only when they attempt to disguise themselves in the characters of bolder and better men, that they deserve lashing without mercy.
Colonel Bancker had never had the least intention of going to the war, nor had he ever connected himself, except in the most vague description of talk, with any organization. He had never come nearer to a commission than to think about one—that is, think that he did not want one. He saw hundreds of others wearing uniforms and the insignia of rank without any intention of fighting, and thought that he could do as they did, sport borrowed plumes without too much enquiry being made into the source whence they were derived, and throw them off when he pleased, under any excuse which he might choose to invent—sickness, business engagements, ordissatisfaction with the mode in which the war was being conducted.
With the before-named dislike to being pained, Colonel Bancker had so far avoided all the painful sights of the war. He had not visited the wounded at the Park Barracks or in any of the hospitals—he had managed to see none of the maimed living and none of the glorious dead—he had even escaped the hungry wives of the soldiers, clamoring for their husbands' pay and the means to buy bread, along the crosswalks of the Park and at the entrances of the City Hall. So far he had escaped easily from what he most dreaded.
But within the last day or two a terrible disquiet had sprung up. The army was to be reinforced and a stringent conscription was talked of. Among the unpleasant rumors in circulation, was one that the Provost-Marshals were to be directed to arrest every man in officer's uniform found in the streets, and if he could exhibit no commission, force him to immediate service in the ranks! Here was a dilemma—a dilemma none the less for having two well-defined horns. His uniform was becoming dangerous, but how give it up? He was determined to win Emily Owen, and he had discovered that one of his strongest claims to the favor of her pig-headed father lay in the wearing of that very uniform and pretending to be a soldier. To give it up was to acknowledge that he had no intention of joining the army, and perhaps to lose all. No—hemuststick to those dangerous insignia of war, at least until he had accomplished his grand purpose, and then—. But they made him uncomfortable—very uncomfortable.
It was under such circumstances that Captain Robert Slivers, of the Sickles Brigade, came under his notice that evening, and he was horrified to see what wrecks war really made of men. One eye gone—a face cut to pieces—crippled in one leg, one arm and one foot—good heavens! For the moment the fright of such a spectacle almost overcame every other consideration, and Emily Owen and all her material charms became secondary to the thought of being placed beyond the danger of becoming a thing likethat!
To add to the Colonel's horror, Captain Slivers seemed to take a decided fancy to him, and edged along his chair, the best he could do in his crippled condition, until he had brought it into very close juxtaposition to that of the Colonel; while the four ladies, conversing together, formed a circle of their own a little in the background. It may be said, here, that Frank Wallace, even through his one green spectacle-glass, had seen and recognized the disgust and terror on the face of the Colonel, and that he had determined to dose him thoroughly with such flippant horrors as his fertile imagination could readily manufacture for the occasion, but such as no battle-field on earth has ever had much chance of witnessing.
Near as they had been brought together, and inviting as was the chance for conversation between two members of the same profession, the gallant Colonel did not seem disposed to enter upon it with so fearful an object as the Captain. The latter was obliged to commence the attack, after all.
"Very glad to meet a brother in arms," said the pseudo-Captain, in an assumed bass, taking up his cane and giving a slight punch to the Colonel, who seemed pre-occupied.
"Oh! ah! yes, very glad, to be sure," answered the Colonel, who scarcely knew whether he was talking English or Choctaw at that moment. Then partially recovering himself and remembering that something in the shape of conversation must be carried on, he said: "Very pretty girl that—cousin of yours, didn't they say, Captain?Whatis her name?"
"Eh?" said the Captain. "Oh, my cousin yonder? yes, Miss Harris, Miss Joe Harris—daughter of Mrs. Harris." It is supposed that in the latter name he alluded to a somewhat doubtful character of Charles Dickens. "Devil of a girl, Colonel,Itell you!"
"Ah, what do you mean?" asked the Colonel.
"Mean? why I mean that when I came home two or three days ago, she seemed rather glad than otherwise to see that I had been cut up. Stuck her finger in my eye, or rather in the place where my eye had been, to see whether they had made a clean operation of it, and nearly broke that bone of my left arm again, trying to discover whether they had set it entirely straight. Said I must have been a splendid subject in the hospital. Devil of a girl—going into one of the hospitals to nurse, directly. Says that she is never happy except she has a few broken limbs, and smashed heads, and gunshot wounds through the body, and holes made by Minie bullets, under her especial care."
"Horrible!" gasped the Colonel, who could no longer sit silent under such a revelation of female character.
"Yes, itisa little horrible, but a fact, though!" said the Captain. "Devil of a girl, I tell you! I believe that she would just as lieve see my head amputated as not, provided she could stand by and witness a 'beautiful operation.'"
"I say this is dreadful!" said the Colonel.
"Dreadful, of course," said the Captain. "Still, nothing when you once get used to it. Plenty of women just like her—all female devils, though they manage to conceal the fact, sometimes, until they get a man under their thumbs, especially for the purpose of practising on him. But wewantwomen who have some nerve, for these bloody times. Don't you think so, Colonel?"
"Yes—I can't say—that is, really I don't know!" answered the Colonel, who did not at that particular moment, know much else than that he was a little sick at the stomach and that the whole world seemed to be a kind of hideous mockery.
"Oh yes, fact!" continued the Captain, who saw the white face and did not intend that it should regain any fresher color, in a hurry. "Bloody times, I tell you, Colonel! Make me think, sometimes, when the dead are lying in heaps around me and the blood running like small brooks, of that time prophesied for the Valley of Armageddon, when the blood is to run deep enough to reach to the horse-bridles."
"Captain," said the Colonel, "really I would rather—"
"Rather that I should talk about the present war, than anything in Scripture? of course—very natural and quite correct. Let me see—you were not at Fair Oaks, were you?"
"No," said the Colonel, emphatically.
"No, I suppose not," continued the pseudo-Captain. "Well, you ought to have been there—that is all! Highest old fight that any man ever heard of. When we went into battle we had not had a wink of sleep for ten nights, but I tell you that it kept us wide awake while it lasted! In the middle of the day the air was so thick with bullets and shells that it seemed to be as dark as twilight, and the blood at one time made such a river down one of the gulleys that dozens of men and horses were drowned in it!"
"Oh, this is too much!" gasped the Colonel, who thought of getting up and running away, anywhere beyond the sound of the voice of this sanguinary madman.
"Too much? of course it was too much!" echoed the veracious narrator. "But who could help it? Couldn't have so many dead men, you know, without plenty of blood! At one time there were so many of our fellows lying in a long win-row near the top of the hill, that when the rebels made an advance we punched holes through the wall of corpses and used them for breast-works."
The Colonel made an effort to stagger to his feet, but his nerves were too terribly unstrung to allow him that escape. He sunk back upon his chair in a state of partial syncope, aware that the terrible fellow was talking, and that he must belying, but that there might be truth enough at the base of his stories to make them a fearful warning to all who had ever thought of tempting the field.
"Talk about thechancesof war!" the incorrigible romancer went on—"there was no chance about it, in such a fight as that at Fair Oaks or at Gaines' Mills! We went into Fair Oaks nine hundred and eighty-four strong, and came outfour—three men and one officer!Iwas the officer. I only had one Minie bullet through the left breast, too high to do much harm, two bullets in the left leg and right foot, my left arm broken by a fragment of shell and my right eye punched out by another. That was all that ailedme!"
"Heavens! heavens!" was all that the stupified Colonel could articulate.
"Yes," continued the Captain, "think of being obliged to fight like that on two meals a week, the meals consisting of boiled horse and mouldy crackers, drinking the same swamp water you have been standing in all day! And I suppose you think that our regiment lost heavily, Colonel? Eh? Well, you are mistaken! We had the crack regiment and scarcely suffered at all, in comparison with some of the others. They took a tally the day before I left, and found eight sound eyes, twelve legs that were good for anything, and six usable arms, in the whole division."
"Oh good Lord! he will kill me!" cried the Colonel, starting at last to his feet and utterly unable to endure such torture one moment longer.
By this time Frank Wallace, carried away by the excitement of the lies he had already vented, and observing how horrified he had succeeded in making his auditor, began to get a little reckless, and concluded that it was time to play the indignant. The ladies had been in conversation on the opposite side of the room, the elder members delighted with the new acquaintance to whom Emily had introduced them in Josephine; and though it may be supposed that at least two of them kept their regards pretty closely directed to the "military" corner of the room, much of the past conversation had been carried on in so subdued a tone as to be drowned by their own. What followed, however, they could not very well avoid hearing.
As the Colonel staggered to his feet and attempted to get away, the pseudo-Captain managed to crutch-and-cane himself to a standing position and confronted his superior.
"That last remark was offensive!" he said, speaking so that all in the room could hear him.
"What is offensive? What do you mean, sir?" asked the poor Colonel, now having thorough surprise added to his other emotions.
"Why this, sir?" cried the Captain, letting his big cane come down on the floor with such a thump as he had observed at the hands of enraged East Indian uncles and heavy fathers in old comedies. "You said in so many words, sir, that I was a bore and a humbug, and I do not take that from any man, sir!"
"I said nothing of the kind!" disclaimed the Colonel, who certainly had not used any such expression.
"What did you mean, then, sir, by the offensive expression: 'Good Lord! he will kill me!' I have not fought for nothing, sir!Iknow what such words mean, and I would fight any man who used them, if I had only one arm and no leg to stand on!"
"Captain Slivers," said the Colonel, "you are unreasonable!"
"There he goes! another insult!" cried the disabled soldier, partially appealing to the ladies. Under any other circumstances than those just then existing, either or all the four would have made some attempt to prevent what they believed would eventuate in an outright quarrel; but Mrs. Owen, as the hostess, did not like to interfere with the right of a guest to quarrel or even to fight, if he thought proper to do so, and neither of the others dared say a word for fear of forcing a betrayal of the disguise.
"Well, then," said the Colonel, who had spirit enough, sometimes, as we have before seen, to grow angry and be even threatening when he saw no personal danger before him. "If you do not like that, I will say something more. You are either crazy or drunk, Captain Slivers, and I do not know or care which!"
"I will fight you to-morrow, cripple as I am!" cried the Captain, while the ladies had now all risen to their feet in real alarm. Then, as if suddenly recollecting: "Stop! no, I will punish you in another way. You wear a Colonel's uniform—where is your regiment, sir? I will make you join it to-morrow and march within the week. Every regiment in the city is to be ordered off at once. See if I have not influence enough with my uncle, the Governor, to sendyoupacking!"
"Findmy regiment first—findit, sir!" said the Colonel, now fairly (and reasonably) exasperated beyond any recollection of what he was saying.
"Ah!—h!—h!" cried the Captain with one of those tones of stage exultation which he had so often heard proclaiming the final triumph of the villain or the discovery of that lost will which was to restore the flagging fortunes of persecuted virtue. "Ah!—h!—h! now Ihavegot you! You have no commission, you do not belong to any regiment, and you are subject to the draft that is already ordered! Do you hear me?—thedraft! thedraft!" and he howled it out towards the Colonel as if he suspected him of a very material failure in his sense of hearing.
Achilles had his vulnerable heel, and there are times in the lives of each of us when the arrow of accident, harmless at all other periods, can enter and ruin. Colonel Bancker had kept his secret, or believed that he had kept it, inviolate; but his fatal moment had come. Whether really frightened out of all recollection at the thought of that terrible "draft" which has already twice re-peopled Canada[17]at the expense of the population of the United States, or whether exultant beyond bounds at the knowledge that he could escape it, by his age, in spite of them all,—he uttered the fatal word, oblivious that Judge Owen stood angry and astonished at the parlor door, and that others to whom he had so roundly sworn that he was only thirty-two, were within hearing.