"Mrs. Halstead not sick? a falsehood—a cruel falsehood!" said the young girl, with some indignation, and rising from her chair as if to leave the room.
"Miss Mary Crawford, I implore you to resume your seat," said Josephine, her voice now broken and husky with her great agitation. "For the sake of your own happiness and the happiness of those dearer to you than your own life, I implore you to hear me out."
"This is all so strange I—what can you mean?" she uttered, but she sunk back, nevertheless, into the chair again.
"It is strange—it is all strange—it is of crime and suffering that I am about to tell you," answered Josephine. "To tell you for your own sake and no interest of my own."
"For my sake?" asked Mary Crawford, now visibly trembling, and with a look of startled wonder upon her face that was really pitiable to behold. "What can you know of me, and what interest can you take in me?"
"I know nearly everything of you, and I take the same interest in you that I would do in a dear sister," replied the city girl, striving to use the words that would most reassure and invite confidence. "Will you understand me when I say that two of the dearest friends I have in the world are your cousins Isabel and Richard Crawford?"
She purposely laid a peculiar stress on the latter name, and fixed her eyes keenly on the other as she did so. She saw the young girl flush to the very temples, then pale as suddenly, make another movement to rise from her chair, then sink back again as if from sheer exhaustion. Oh, it was not difficult to see how nearly that word touched with agony the very fountains of her life! She seemed trying to speak, but the words, if any were intended, died upon her lips, and her helpless agitation was really fearful to witness. Josephine Harris retained sufficient coolness to mark every indication, and though her young heart bled for the misery before her, after a moment's silence she repeated the names:
"Did you hear me, Miss Mary? I said that two of my dearest friends were Isabel and Richard Crawford."
This time the young girl did manage to stagger to her feet, by a mighty effort, her face white and her expression piteous. Her voice had broken almost to hoarse sobs, as she said, leaning one hand on the arm of the chair:
"I do not know why you have sent for me, or why you should torture me so cruelly! If you know anything of me and of the man you have named, you know that every word you speak is an unkindness, and that he is the last man in the world whose name should sound in my ears!"