You will probably recognize the name at the bottom of this, as that of one you have often seen, but of whom you know very little. No one but myself knows anything of the contents. You are discovered—detected. I have watched you and overheard your conversation, for days past, at the house of Richard Crawford. What is more, I have the poisoned bandage in my pocket, after having had it analyzed by a chemist. If you leave at once, without attempting to consummate any more of your designs, you are safe from any exposure—I promise you so much, on the honor of a true woman. If you are not gone before to-morrow morning, without any further attempt at entangling Mary Crawford, I promise you, in the name of God who sees us both at this moment, that I will not only expose you before John Crawford and his family, but that I will do what I can to bring you to justice. Mary Crawford knows all your falsehood and crime, but she, like myself, will keep silence when you are gone.
Josephine Harris.
Mary Crawford had been sitting still in her chair, leaning her head upon her hand and not even looking up, while Josephine's pen was rapidly running over the paper. (The phrase is a proper one—Joseph's pen ran, always, when she attempted to write, and as a consequence her chirography was not the easiest in the world to be deciphered. No fear, however, but that what she wrote in this instance could be read!) When she had concluded and was rising from the desk, Mary first looked up, and there was such an expression of abject and almost hopeless helplessness upon her face, that had Josephine not pitied her before, she must now have done so. That look said so plainly: "Can you indeed help me? Is it possible that I can ever be lifted out of this pit of despair?"—that the city girl accepted it instead of words, and answered it.
"Yes, you need not look so doleful, my dear girl! I think you will find that this little epistle will do more than an ordinary volume could do. See—I have sealed it, as is best. I have said, within, that you knew nothing whatever of the contents, and at the same time I have said that you knew all his baseness and treachery."
"Oh, have you?" said the suffering girl. "How can I ever meet him, after that—when he knows that I have heard him spoken of in so terrible a manner?"
"You can even do that, a little better than you could lay your hand in his and promise to be his wife, I should think!" said the other, and there was even some sternness in her tone.
"Oh yes, yes, anything rather than become his beyond hope!" cried Mary, and there was such a shudder running over her frame for the instant, that her guide and mentor fully understood what must be the depth of the fear with which she had become inspired. "You have been so good to me—so kind and generous, that I can never thank you for what you have done. Command me, now—tell me what I must do, and I will obey you like a child—a poor, weak child as I am."
"I do believe that you thank and trust me," said Josephine, all her tender self again instantly, and grasping her warmly by the hand. "Many people think me a rattle-brain, I suppose, and my advice may sometimes seem very odd and rash; but I am sure that heaven has intended me for the instrument of foiling that man who would be your destroyer, and I know that I shall not fail. Please do precisely as I ask—give Egbert Crawford that letter without a word, and see if it does not produce the effect I have intended."
"I will do so, and trust that Heaven upon which you call, to save me from wrong and bring about the right!" answered Mary Crawford.
"The omens are all good," said Josephine, who really had in her nature a shade of impressibility, if not of superstition. "This is Sunday—a day for good deeds and not for evil ones. This night you were to have been married: I arrived just in time to put you on your guard. All will go well, and I shall see you free from a fetter so hateful and the wife of an honorable man whom I love as if he were my own brother."