"I could not see your face before, and did not know that you were here. How long it is since I saw you!—ever since I left Rutgers, and you were still hammering away there!" said Josephine Harris, who was indeed the other, having come down to Wallack's with a party of friends, for the evening, and who had not before had a chance to recognize her old friend and school-fellow at the Rutgers Institute.
"Come and see me. Papa is in a hurry, and I cannot wait," said Emily, doubtful whether her friend had or had not observed the preceding movements. "I have not time for a card—look in the Directory and send me yours. Good night!" and in a moment she was gone, following the Judge to that mental slaughter involved in riding home with him in his present mood, and leaving the performance to pass on again as if no interruption had occurred.
As may be supposed, Frank Wallace was something of an "object of interest" for the small remainder of the evening; but he had no acquaintances in the neighborhood, and not much remark was ventured. One man behind him, indeed, leaned over and said: "Lost your girl, eh?" but Frank's "Ya-a-s!" was so broad and discouraging for any further questions, that the inquiry was not pursued. Most men, under similar circumstances, would have left the theatre at once, to avoid observation and to hide annoyance: he did not, and he may have acted wisely or unwisely in that course of conduct.
Josephine Harris had observed the preceding movements on the part of Judge Owen, and it was through recognition of his figure that she looked after and recognized Emily. Had the latter been left quietly sitting beside her lover, her schoolmate would probably not have seen her face, they would have left the theatre without recognition of each other, and Judge Owen's house might have escaped a very early visit destined to work important changes in the relations of residents and visitors. The puissant and pompous Judge had effected two coups d'etat within as many days. The one had driven Aunt Martha fairly over into the ranks of the enemy: had the second introduced Joe Harris, an electric wire full charged with destruction, into the immediate vicinity of his domestic magazine?
CHAPTER XXI.
Another Scene at the Crawfords'—Joe Harris playing the Detective, With Musical Accompaniments—A Strange Conversation, and a Strange Visit to a Strange Doctor.
Some chapters back in this narration, we saw Colonel Egbert Crawford playing volunteer physician to his invalid cousin Richard, and applying a certain bandage more or less suspicious in its character, while Josephine Harris held a very ambiguous position behind the parlor-door and drew certain deductions not complimentary to the character or intentions of the gallant Colonel. To take up the dropped thread of relation at that point—the Colonel left in a few moments afterwards, and Joe, from her position in the room up-stairs, watched his departure. By that time, the fearful agitation which had at first oppressed her, had somewhat moderated, and she was much more capable than before of thinking with clearness and acting with decision. "A perfect little fool" in many of her first confidences (as some of her friends paid her the doubtful compliment of calling her), Josephine Harris had yet a vein of distrust in her character, not difficult to touch; and when that vein was touched there was not "poppy or mandragora" enough in the world to lull to sleep her suspicions, until they were either proved true or fairly exploded.
Frank and generous natures will sometimes discern more clearly than subtle and designing ones, just as the naked eye will sometimes take in particulars in any scene more readily than when assisted by the glass. The power of discernment may be aided, in some degree, by the fact that they are not guarded against as some are because they bear the look or reputation of being dangerous. Many a man has taken off the outer garb of his soul and gone in his mental shirtsleeves (so to speak) from the impression on his mind that he was in the company of the confiding and the unobservant; and many a bad man has found detection and ruin in the experiment.
Josephine Harris had seen something in the eyes of Colonel Egbert Crawford, when directed towards his invalid cousin, which said: "I hate you, and I would put you out of the way if I could!" She had remarked the terrible agitation of Richard Crawford when she made her random observation to that effect. Now she had overheard enough to put her in possession of the conflict of interests; and she had at the same time witnessed the application to the body of the invalid, of a preparation that was expressly ordered to be kept from the knowledge of the physician. Taking all these things together, and jumping at a conclusion with a rash haste which such people will sometimes exhibit—away down in the depths of her mind she whispered the word "poison!" She might never have thought of the existence of an outward poison dangerous to human life, but she had read Mrs. Ann S. Stephens' touching story of "The Pillow of Roses," and remembered how the life of the first lover of Mary Stuart had been sacrificed by the introduction of a deadly bane into the silken pillow—the very gift of love on which he so confidingly laid his head. Might not this be something of the same kind—a murderous practice unknown to the great body of people, and yet in the knowledge of some peculiarly instructed? What more likely than that a lawyer whose line of business led him into the company of criminals and made him acquainted with their secret confessions, should have arrived at a knowledge so dangerous and resolved to apply it for his own benefit and the removal of a rival?