"Oh, you dear good friend! God bless you! God bless you!"
Mary Crawford was back at home again within the hour, happier than she had been for many a long day, and after a few moments more of earnest conversation with Josephine, too sacred for revelation. It may be believed that she who had gone so far for the young girl's happiness and that of her "brother" Richard, would not falter now in finishing her task; and the truth is that had she had no benevolence extending further, she had the fox-hunter's anxiety to be "in at the death," and the feminine fancy for her own peculiar "reward," which could only be obtained at the end of the course.
Instructed by the diplomatic Joe on one particular point, the moment she reached her own house again Mary Crawford despatched a messenger to inform Domine Rodgers that his services would not be needed that evening for the marriage, as Colonel Crawford had been called to Albany by telegraph, at a moment's notice, on government business. It seemed idle to attempt, in her father's senile and helpless condition, to make him acquainted with the real circumstances of the case; and so Joe's suggestion was carried much further than she had intended, and the old man and all the household were led to the same understanding, with the additional belief that the Colonel had left so suddenly as only to make Mary his confidant, after the arrival of a special (imaginary) messenger from the telegraph-office at Utica.
Old John Crawford seemed a little disappointed, and weary of waiting for the final arrangement of his family affairs; but he had not life enough left in him to make his disappointment very painful, and Mary, inspired with a new hope which gave her energy to brave almost anything, trusted to something in a coming day which might enable her to remove that disappointment entirely. So that somewhat eventful day closed upon the Crawford mansion and upon the humbler one near it which had that day exercised so powerful an influence on the fortunes of its inmates.
Here again it is necessary to pass on with unamiable if not inexcusable rapidity, omitting any details of the time remaining of Josephine Harris's visit at West Falls. When the city girl went up to that place, she had considered her stay there likely to extend to at least a week and possibly to twice that period. But her errand had been done so much sooner than she could have expected, and she was so unwilling to communicate with Richard in any other way than personally, with reference to affairs at West Falls and her own action in the matter,—that within an hour after Mary Crawford had left the house the second time, her visit was really over. That is, the heart in her visit was gone. The shade and the quiet might be very pretty and pleasant, and precisely what she could have enjoyed for a month under other circumstances; but her restless brain was too busy to make rest possible until all was done. Aunt Betsey's cares and little Susan's attentions, joined with the society of the calf, the pigs and the chickens (with occasional excursions into the cherry trees) enabled her to wear through Monday. But every glance that she caught of the big house on the hill, reminded her that Richard Crawford was lying (as she supposed) a discouraged invalid, while she had a draught of hope at her command that might be put to his pale lips and furnish him with new life.
With the daybreak of Tuesday the robins woke her, and she slept no more. Anxiety and restlessness had conquered, and not even the expectation of receiving a letter from Tom Leslie that day (how enraged that gentleman might have been, had he only known it!) could detain her longer. Aunt Betsey plead and Susan pouted and scolded; but the laws of the Medes and Persians were not more irrevocable than some of Miss Josey's notions; and promising to come again if possible before the summer was over, and exacting a promise from Susy to forward to her address in New York any letters that might come for her from her cousin at Niagara (slyboots!)—she flitted away. The morning stage from West Falls took her down to Utica; and the train at the Thirty-second Street Station at New York, that evening, landed her at home again, dustier even than when she went North, and this time alone, except as pleasant thoughts may have been her companions. Long before midnight she burst in upon good Mrs. Harris, with a fearful jangling of carriage-steps and ringing of door-bells, leading that lady to believe, at first, that she had been brought home in a sick or dying condition. But the maternal embrace was warm, those red lips had never forgotten the kiss of dear love and confidence upon those that had first caressed her when she came into the world; and odd, wild, erratic Joe had a habit which many people with more opportunities have managed to escape—that of being always welcome.
It was of course too late, that night, for any conference with Richard Crawford. But the next morning, before nine o'clock, his house was treated to a repetition of the same ringing of bells that had sounded in her own the night before, and Joe, all breathless eagerness (another one of the bad habits of her childhood, that she had never been able to overcome) stood talking in the hall with the domestic who had admitted her. Much good her hurry had done! Much good was it for her to fly hither and yon, transacting business for invalids! Some persons run away from happiness—do they not?—as others try to escape from known misery! Richard Crawford and his companions were then two hours up the Hudson, on their way to Niagara! Crawford was going to pass West Falls, within a few hours, so near it and yet ignorant of all that had occurred!
To say that Joe Harris raved at this announcement, might be too strong a word. But it is not too much to say that her springy foot (Joe had not the proverbially "little" one of the novelists, but a very well-shaped pedal of the Arab pattern, under the sole of which water could have run with as much freedom as under the Starucca Viaduct or the High Bridge), patted the hall floor with vexation, impatience and "botheration." There was not much use in blurting out her vexation before a servant, but she did say:
"Confound your picture, Dick Crawford! Why did you not let me know that you were going away?" Which was not very elegant or very reasonable, especially as wild Josey had for certain well-known reasons studiously kept away from the house for some days before leaving for the North, and still more especially because she had so concealed the direction of her own journey that Dick Crawford could not have communicated with her if he had tried never so earnestly.
Then and thereupon Joe Harris turned about indignantly and went to the door. Then she changed her mind, went into the deserted parlor, opened the piano and banged away upon it for a few minutes as if she was taking the physical revenge of a drubbing, on the whole Crawford family. If Dick Crawford could have heard that performance, he would have gone mad to a certainty! Then she flung to the piano with a slam (forgive her, Steinway!—it was not your piano that she was abusing, but an imaginary owner) and flung herself out of the house so precipitately that Bridget only heard the violent shutting of two doors and knew nothing more.