"He is the first man in the world whose name should pass your lips, with a prayer for forgiveness of your own cruelty joined with it!" said his advocate, all her ardent spirit now thrown into her words.
"My cruelty? His forgiveness?" echoed Mary Crawford, as if really stunned.
"I said those words," repeated Josephine. "One of the best and noblest men that God ever made is lying on his sickbed, nearly dying. He loved you—he loves you still. You pretended to love him; and now you have allowed the words of falsehood to estrange your heart, if you have one! It is to save you from doing what you will repent to your dying day, that I have meddled in your affairs and placed myself in this false position."
"The words of falsehood?" again echoed the young girl. If she had heard the other words of the sentence, these were the ones which seemed to have fixed themselves most deeply on her attention. She had not again resumed her place in the chair, but stood with her hand on its arm, in the same attitude of trouble and indecision.
"Falsehood—the worst and blackest!" said Josephine Harris. "Come here a moment, will you?" She took the hand of the young girl in hers, and led her close to the window, where the warm light of the summer day streamed in more brightly and countenances could be better discerned. "Look in my face. What do you see there?—tell me frankly—truth or deception?"
It is doubtful whether Mary Crawford had yet closely scanned the face before her. Now the troubled eyes looked closely into those that were sometimes so radiant with mischief, but now so solemnly earnest. The look was very long and silent—an evident acceptance of the strange invitation given. Before it was ended, that subtle magnetism which truth and goodness radiate to the true, had done its work. She cast down her eyes.
"I believe you to be true and good!" she said.
"Thank heaven that you do!" spoke Josephine. "Now sit down in that chair once more, and do not rise again until I have spoken what I must speak and you must hear. Do not shrink, faint or shudder, though I may say a few terrible words!" She led the young girl back to her chair, pressed her down into it, and drew her own still closer. She did not release her hand when she had placed her in that position, and she fixed her eyes full upon those of the other, which made an effort to escape, and then surrendered to the influence.
"Let me show you that I know all," she said. "Yet stop—let me first assure you that neither Richard Crawford nor his sister knows of my presence in this place—that neither of them has the least suspicion that I know one word of your family relations."
Mary Crawford's eyes looked into hers with one instant of close question; then again they surrendered, and were gently reliant though still full of trouble.