It was agreed between the young girls, before they parted, that the arrival should not take place until evening, when there would be the advantage of gas-light in concealing the personality of the masquerader,—and that Aunt Martha, who had already proved herself too firm and consistent a friend to her niece, to be played falsely with in the matter, should be made acquainted with the whole arrangement, even at the risk of the disapprobation that she was almost certain to express against a proceeding that would certainly be better suited to the stage than the drawing-room.
Having set this mischief on foot and shaken off the ennui which had oppressed her in the morning, Josephine Harris left the house where she had paid so remarkable a first visit, and returned to her own, to astonish her mother with the knowledge of an intended prank somewhat more reckless and outrageous than any upon which she had before ventured.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Five Minutes with the Moonlight—The Last Scene at Judge Owen's—Capt. Slivers, of the Sickles Brigade—Two Rivals Disguised, and the Result of their Rencontre.
There was no terrible portent in the air, hanging over the city of New York on that Thursday evening the Tenth of July, to which allusion has before been made as the same on which Richard Crawford and his companions reached Niagara. On the contrary, as some of the summer tourists may remember, that evening was remarkably and even wondrously beautiful. Not a clearer full moon ever rose than that which beamed over nearly the whole of the Northern States that night; and those, especially, who had the privilege of seeing that moon rise over the brow of Eagle Cliff at the Franconia Notch of the White Mountains, standing on the plateau in front of the Profile House and seeing the disk of glittering silver heaving slowly up beyond the crest, with the great trees on the summits defined against it so sharply, with the dark mountain brows frowning and the upturned human faces radiant in the silver light, and with every aspect and influence of the scene something wildly and weirdly beautiful—those who enjoyed that privilege will not be likely soon to lose the memory of one of the loveliest nights that ever dropped down out of heaven. How many souls, in one place and another, and under influences akin to those we have named, may have bowed down that night in worship before denied to the Almighty Hand that, not content with making a world instinct with life and usefulness, endowed it with such marvellous beauty! And how many young hearts, before that hour partial strangers to each other or divided by prudence or by ignorance, standing under that silver sheen may have acknowledged the influence of the time, melted into tenderness, and flowed together to be no more separated forever!
Moonlight is an enchanter as well as a beautifier, and the old fancy of partial madness when the moon was at the full (from which the word "lunacy") was not altogether unwarranted by reality. At sea, in the tropics, a night on deck under the broad full moon stiffens and entirely maddens, if it does not kill; here the madness is only partial and it has a general reference to mischief and the opposite sex; but the influence is the same, under different degrees of development.
On how many lands and waters is such a broad full moon shining, and what varied scenes it throws into flickering light and shadow—the very thought being a part of the permitted madness of the time! Think of that strange variety for a moment. Far out on the ocean tired sailors throw themselves under the lee of the bulwarks and gaze up into its face, while the light plays fantastic tricks among the masts and cordage. Out of pleasant groves in the country light-robed figures are flitting, and under that marvellous sheen words are spoken that would long have been frightened back in the brighter glare of day—words that may make the happiness or misery of a life-time. Ringing laughter breaks from merry groups that glance in and out under the shade-trees and the vine-arbors that surround stately old mansions in the valleys of wheat and corn. Rough shouts and loud peals of laughter break from the rough throats of the raccoon and opossum hunters in the wild back-woods. A broken-hearted woman sits at her chamber-window and gazes out into the weird atmosphere, thinking of falsehood and sorrow and the inconstancy of one year. Half in the sheen and half in the shadow lies a little grave, its light and shade fit type of the love and grief of two who sit on a vine-covered porch and think of the day when they buried the dear little sleeper. In the dark passes of the Apennines lurks a bandit, poniard in hand, ready to spring on the unwary traveller as he emerges from the shadow. On the gardens and jalousies of fair Granada falls the silver beam, and guitars tinkle and white arms wave in recognition. Under the gloom of the palazzo of St. Mark, at Venice, a gondola is shooting, while the boatman hums a drowsy air and the lover anxiously watches for the waving of the white scarf of his mistress. Cascades leap down the mountain gorges, unheard of mortal ear and unseen by mortal eye, but scattering their diamond drops in air as a full libation to the glory of night. Far away at sea, on a drifting raft, a sailor eats his last biscuit and smiles sorrowfully back to the placid face that will look down next night upon his corpse!
All which may have very little to do with this story, and yet it may be fully warranted by the occasion. And at least it is justifiable to say that the full of the moon may have made Joe Harris madder than usual and readier than ever to indulge in frolics of the most reprehensible character. What we began to indicate, especially, was that no portent loomed in the heavens above the doomed city or even above the house of Judge Owen, and that still an earthquake was muttering and rumbling under it, destined to tumble it into the most fatal confusion.
At about half-past eight that evening, a ring at the door announced visitors. Judge Owen had not yet returned, but all the other members of the family, and one who expected to become a member of the family—of course, Colonel John Boadley Bancker,—were sitting at that moment in the front parlor. For some reason or other, not necessary to be here explained, Emily went herself to the door and admitted the visitors. They proved to be Miss Josephine Harris, who had just alighted from a carriage at the door, and a male companion in uniform. Some time elapsed before the military gentleman, who was introduced to the young hostess as "Captain Robert Slivers," managed to get over the door-step, so very lame was he. But he managed to spare a hand for one moment from one of his crutches, the instant after; for Emily, who was half frightened out of her wits and half inclined to burst into uncontrollable laughter, felt a "pinch" on her arm which nearly made her scream aloud.