CHAPTER XXII.
A Little Arrangement between Tom Leslie and Joe Harris—Up the Hudson-River Road—A Detention and a Recognition—Going to West Falls, and a Peep at the Halstead Homestead.
There are some things too sacred to be pryed into, and there are some things too difficult to make any progress in that attempt, even when the effort is made with the most determined will. Both these conditions will to some extent apply to the intimacy between Tom Leslie and Josephine Harris, which commenced on a day we well remember, and which may not close until their joint destiny is accomplished. The very next day after that adventure, he called at the house of Mrs. Harris, was introduced to her with great empressement by her daughter, and received by her with great cordiality. The good lady, whom we have no intention whatever of describing, was a splendid specimen of the widowed matron in comfortable circumstances, with just enough threads of silver shining amid her dark hair, to make her matron-hood sacred and all the more loveable. That she, who was not always pleased with a new-comer, chanced to like him from the first, completed the vanquishment of the journalist, if that object had not before been entirely accomplished; and within an hour after setting foot within that comfortable little home the young man felt that it had become dearer to him than any other building of bricks and mortar into which he had ever entered.
So of the confidence which at once began to exist between the two lovers. Yes—let the word be set down—lovers. When Josephine Harris accompanied Tom Leslie to the door, on the night of his first visit to her at home, he held out his arms to her, without a word, and she nestled into them in the same silence, and returned the first kiss he pressed upon her lips. Thenceforth their lips, we may believe, belonged exclusively to neither, but had a divided interest. What matter, thereafter, how many times they were pressed together, or how long that pressure lingered? What matter how many words they spoke, or what formed the burden of those words? They had accidentally touched, when drifting down the stream of life, and who should thenceforth have power to separate them? A month before, Tom Leslie, who had had fifty flirtations or less, would have laughed at the idea of being "in love," with what seemed like a life-passion; and even three days before Josephine Harris would have considered such an event, on her part, not undesirable, but simply impossible. So much for what we know, to-day, of that which is to exist to-morrow, even in the "best-regulated families!"
It was on the third visit paid to the house by Leslie, that Josephine communicated to him her intention to be absent from the city for a week or ten days, visiting some friends in one of the country sections reached by the New York Central Railroad; after which she was again to return to the city and accompany her mother, late in July, on her annual pilgrimage to the Ocean House at Newport. She would leave for the north on one of the first days of July—perhaps the Third or the Fourth. Strangely enough, Leslie had arranged to go to Niagara for a few days, at about the same time, and he suddenly found it a matter of no consequence that he should go by the Erie Road, as he had at first intended. Subsequent inquiries proved that the young girl would go unattended, and leave the railroad at Utica, taking stage for the short remainder of her journey. Leslie felt it almost a matter of inexcusable impudence, after so short an acquaintance, to ask the favor of timing his journey by hers and being her escort so far as Utica; but he dared the risk, as he had dared many a risk before, from things quite as deadly as woman's eyes; and he did not meet even one objection or expression of embarrassment. Josephine Harris accepted his escort as freely as offered, and seemed rather pleased than otherwise! How absurd, and in fact how improper! She should have blushed, simpered, and hinted that she would be very much pleased with his escort—but—so short an acquaintance—all her friends would know it—what would people say?—etc., etc. Joe Harris did not understand all these things, exactly; but the next woman would have acted out that role to perfection.
Not to linger over these details, Mamma Harris not objecting, they left the city of New York by the five o'clock train on the Hudson River Railroad, on the evening of the Fourth of July, just when the city was sweltering in its most deadly heat and all ablaze with patriotic fireworks. Leslie had certain patrio-political engagements which occupied him until after noon on that day, rendering it impossible to leave by the morning train. Leaving by that at five o'clock, they would connect with the train on the New York Central leaving Albany at midnight, and reach Utica very early in the morning. There Josephine would be set down, while Leslie, after seeing to her stage accommodation, would whirl onward with the train, for Niagara.
The connection between love and railroad-riding may not be obvious to all; and there are some, no doubt, who think the flying speed of the modern conveyance terribly unromantic. But there are others who know of nothing more thoroughly pleasant than lounging back easily in the cushioned seat of a railway-carriage, with the one close beside, with one hand in reach at any moment, the one face ready to reply in smiles to the look of pleasure given, and the one head ready to repose upon the shoulder when night comes on or the continued motion of the train brings on drowsiness. Of the latter class were both Tom Leslie and Joe Harris, both of whom had travelled much, though very differently, and neither of whom had ever before experienced the luxury of the one peculiar companionship. They may ride far and see Nature in her most wonderful phases, in other days; but it is doubtful whether either will ever experience a greater pleasure than that of sitting by the side of the other, on that July afternoon, conscious that they were together, and of very little else, but dimly aware, too, that they were sweeping away from the hot and dusty city, with its thousands of sweltering inhabitants, and flying through green woods, among towering hills and beside flashing waters.
It is not more true that "man proposes but God disposes," of any other series of events in life than railroad connections. That Albany express-train on the Hudson-River Road, dashed merrily on for the Highlands, meeting excursion-trains passing backwards and forwards between the various towns on the line, all decked with flags, and evergreens, and the passengers in all waving flags and shouting out their patriotic merriment. Already the Highlands of the Hudson were rising close before them, with the westering sun sinking low and casting broad shadows from their tops over the quiet river,—when suddenly, a little below Peekskill, the train came to a halt, without any station appearing in view.
"What is the matter?" asked some of the passengers, after the halt had been prolonged a few minutes. "Have we met with any accident?" asked others when that halt was longer protracted; and "Are we never going to get on?" asked all parties together, when the delay lengthened to more than half an hour and there appeared to be no signs of starting.