But what can a kind-hearted old lady do, with two young ones and one a model of her sex, tugging at her apron-strings? In five minutes more, without at all understanding what was to be done or why it should be done, Aunt Betsey had given her consent to take part in what was probably one of the first falsehoods of her life. In ten minutes more, one of the boys who had already dressed himself for church, was on his way to the Crawford mansion, with a sealed note in the school-girl hand-writing of Susan, written under the dictation of Josephine, and reading as follows:
Sunday, July 6th, (morning).
Dear Miss Crawford:—
Please pardon the liberty I take. Mother is very ill, and we should be very grateful if you would say nothing to any one else about this note and come over to the house immediately.
Very respectfully your friend,
Susan Halstead.
No call is so irresistible as that which appeals to the sympathy of a true woman; and no crime is so unpardonable as that which trifles with such sympathy. Less than half an hour had elapsed, and Aunt Betsey, a little ashamed and a good deal frightened at what had been done, had gone up-stairs to escape the possibility of first meeting the young girl if she should come,—when Josephine, looking impatiently out of the window at the road leading down from the hill towards the centre of the village, saw a young lady coming down the path at the side of the road and approaching the gate. The figure was short and rather slight, dressed in some light summer-material, wearing one of the light jockey hats of the time, and sheltered from the hot morning sun by a parasol of dimensions too large to be fashionable. There was no reason why some other young lady should not be walking the foot-path at that time, especially as church-hour was approaching; but Josephine Harris had an indefinite impression that it was Mary Crawford, and that a trial was approaching, more severe than any to which she had ever before subjected herself. Susy was close at her side, and as the figure approached, Josephine called her attention to it.
"Yes," said Susy, looking out of the window for only one instant, "that is Mary Crawford, and she is coming here."
To say that Josephine Harris's heart was beating quickly, and that there was such a confused rumbling in her head as that which forms part of the stage-fright to an actress or the first embarrassment to a public speaker before a large audience—would only be stating the simple truth. She had certainly been doing a bold act—even a rash one,—meddling in the business of another, with the best intentions, it was true, but under circumstances very liable to be misunderstood. If things should not be as she had understood them to be, at the Crawford mansion, or if she should fail in convincing Miss Crawford of the truth of the statements she was ready to make, nothing could be more painful than the position in which she would herself remain, and nothing more injurious than the predicament in which she would have placed her aunt and cousin. All this she realized, and for one moment she felt like running up-stairs with her aunt, and hiding herself between two of the thickest feather-beds, in spite of the heat of the season. But, courage once more, Joe Harris! The playing of detective en amateur is not always a sinecure or a pleasant labor; but if it succeeds—aye, if it succeeds—why then!
By the time these reflections had fairly passed through her mind, the figure of Miss Crawford had entered the gate and was coming up to the porch.