Shoulder-Straps: A Novel of New York and the Army, 1862

by Henry Morford

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  THE SEQUEL AT WEST FALLS--COLONEL CRAWFORD'S FLIGHT, AND HOW IT WASACCOUNTED FOR--JOSEPHINE HARRIS'S RETURN TO NEW YORK, AND HERDISAPPOINTMENT--ANOTHER CONSPIRACY.

  The length to which this narration, involving the fortunes of so manydifferent persons, has already extended, renders it necessary that someof the succeeding incidents should be passed over with great rapidityand in some instances even grouped together without order orarrangement.

  Were the opportunity otherwise, a forcible picture might be drawn of theevents at West Falls, following the departure of Colonel Egbert Crawfordand the discovery of his flight through the means of one of thefarm-hands who had seen him driving rapidly away towards Utica. Nearlyan hour after his departure had elapsed, before Mary Crawford was awareof it; and naturally her first step, on being informed that he had leftthe village, was to run up to his chamber. She knocked at the half-opendoor, her heart beating with as much anxiety for _fear_ the knock shouldbe answered, as many another heart has beaten in fear that such a signalwould _not_ meet a response. But there was no reply. She flung the doortimidly open, and went in. Everything in the apartment remained as shehad arranged it in the morning for (as she supposed) her own bridalchamber. The Colonel's valise and some portions of his clothing, had notbeen removed, and this seemed to render impossible the supposition thathe had really left the village. But his sudden absence _at all_, afterwhat had occurred, gave ground to believe that some extraordinarymovement had really been made; and on the little table, after a moment,the young girl discovered the note to Josephine Harris, directed underher own care. It was sealed, and even had it not been, propriety wouldhave prevented her ascertaining the contents; but the very fact of therebeing such a reply left, for _her_ to deliver, told that the shot musthave sped home, and that the expected bridegroom had indeed fled fromhis bridal.

  How the young girl managed to walk to her own room and once more arrayherself for the street, with that dizzy sensation in her head, half ofjoy, half of fright--how she silently and swiftly quitted the houseagain, and made her way through the blazing afternoon sunshine, oncemore to the little house of Mrs. Halstead,--she will probably neverknow. People have walked in dreams, and others have done acts whileunder the influence of _waking_ sleep, for which they were scarcelyresponsible. It is enough to say that at three o'clock that afternoonJosephine Harris was aroused from the sound slumber by which hersick-headache was being rapidly cured--once more to receive the younggirl, whom she had little expected to see so soon.

  When she descended the stairs, she found Mary Crawford standing alonewithin the door of the sitting-room, Susan, who had admitted her,having shown the innate delicacy of the good by retiring with only akind word and a sisterly kiss. The moment Josephine entered the room andsaw Mary standing there, her eyes full of unnatural brightness, hercheeks all aglow with excitement like that of fever, and her gloriousauburn hair rudely dishevelled under her gipsy hat,--she knew that herown effort had not failed--that surprise, and not disappointment, wasthe feeling written upon that speaking face.

  Without a word Mary Crawford threw herself into Joe Harris's arms, thenslid slowly to her knees, holding her arms still around the stranger ofonly a few hours before, now dearer and more precious to her than anysister could ever have been. At length she recovered herselfsufficiently to thrust one hand into the bosom of her dress, take outthe note, and hold it out to Joe, with the pleading words:

  "Read! read! do read and tell me what he has done!"

  "Why, you dear girl, how agitated you are!" said Josephine, stoopingdown and kissing her on the forehead. "This letter for me, and from_him_? Stop--answer me one question--has he gone?"

  "He has gone!" spoke the young girl, almost with, a gasp.

  A veritable cry of joy escaped Joe Harris. Often defeated and not seldommisunderstood, she knew then that she had succeeded in the boldest andmost erratic act of her life; and that moment of triumph was worth yearsof ordinary existence.

  "He has gone! you are saved! Don't cry or tremble, pet, for it is allright--I know it! See here!" and she tore open the note with such anexpression of gladness as some heroine of old may have vented when sherushed in with her father's or her husband's pardon, at the very momentwhen the axe was depending above his head.

  Josephine Harris's eyes had run rapidly over the brief note. Sheextended it to Mary:

  "See! it is as I told you!"

  Mary Crawford clutched the note in her hand, staggered to her feet, andattempted to read. But she only saw a few words--heart and brain hadbeen overtasked--and with a low moaning cry she sunk fainting into thearms of Josephine.

  The hurrying feet of little Susy responsive to Joe's sudden call--theglass of cool water from the well that in a moment touched MaryCrawford's lips and sparkled on her forehead--these were the things of amoment. That which had a memory in it, worthy to endure for all time,was the return of recollection to the young girl, and the fervency withwhich she threw herself again into Josephine's arms, embracing heralmost painfully, and saying, over and over again:

  "Oh, you dear good friend! God bless you! God bless you!"

  Mary Crawford was back at home again within the hour, happier than shehad been for many a long day, and after a few moments more of earnestconversation with Josephine, too sacred for revelation. It may bebelieved that she who had gone so far for the young girl's happiness andthat of her "brother" Richard, would not falter now in finishing hertask; and the truth is that had she had no benevolence extendingfurther, she had the fox-hunter's anxiety to be "in at the death," andthe feminine fancy for her own peculiar "reward," which could only beobtained at the end of the course.

  Instructed by the diplomatic Joe on one particular point, the moment shereached her own house again Mary Crawford despatched a messenger toinform Domine Rodgers that his services would not be needed that eveningfor the marriage, as Colonel Crawford had been called to Albany bytelegraph, at a moment's notice, on government business. It seemed idleto attempt, in her father's senile and helpless condition, to make himacquainted with the real circumstances of the case; and so Joe'ssuggestion was carried much further than she had intended, and the oldman and all the household were led to the same understanding, with theadditional belief that the Colonel had left so suddenly as only to makeMary his confidant, after the arrival of a special (imaginary) messengerfrom the telegraph-office at Utica.

  Old John Crawford seemed a little disappointed, and weary of waiting forthe final arrangement of his family affairs; but he had not life enoughleft in him to make his disappointment very painful, and Mary, inspiredwith a new hope which gave her energy to brave almost anything, trustedto something in a coming day which might enable her to remove thatdisappointment entirely. So that somewhat eventful day closed upon theCrawford mansion and upon the humbler one near it which had that dayexercised so powerful an influence on the fortunes of its inmates.

  Here again it is necessary to pass on with unamiable if not inexcusablerapidity, omitting any details of the time remaining of JosephineHarris'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 weekand possibly to twice that period. But her errand had been done so muchsooner than she could have expected, and she was so unwilling tocommunicate with Richard in any other way than personally, withreference to affairs at West Falls and her own action in thematter,--that within an hour after Mary Crawford had left the house thesecond time, her visit was really over. That is, the _heart_ in hervisit was gone. The shade and the quiet might be very pretty andpleasant, and precisely what she could have enjoyed for a month underother circumstances; but her restless brain was too busy to make restpossible until all was done. Aunt Betsey's cares and little Susan'sattentions, joined with the society of the calf, the pigs and thechickens (with occasional excursions into the cherry trees) enabled herto wear through Monday. But every glance that she caught of the bighouse on the hill, reminded her that Richard Crawford was lying (
as shesupposed) a discouraged invalid, while she had a draught of hope at hercommand that might be put to his pale lips and furnish him with newlife.

  With the daybreak of Tuesday the robins woke her, and she slept no more.Anxiety and restlessness had conquered, and not even the expectation ofreceiving a letter from Tom Leslie that day (how enraged that gentlemanmight have been, had he only known it!) could detain her longer. AuntBetsey plead and Susan pouted and scolded; but the laws of the Medes andPersians were not more irrevocable than some of Miss Josey's notions;and promising to come again if possible before the summer was over, andexacting a promise from Susy to forward to her address in New York anyletters that might come for her from her _cousin_ at Niagara(slyboots!)--she flitted away. The morning stage from West Falls tookher down to Utica; and the train at the Thirty-second Street Station atNew York, that evening, landed her at home again, dustier even than whenshe went North, and this time alone, except as pleasant thoughts mayhave been her companions. Long before midnight she burst in upon goodMrs. Harris, with a fearful jangling of carriage-steps and ringing ofdoor-bells, leading that lady to believe, at first, that she had beenbrought home in a sick or dying condition. But the maternal embrace waswarm, those red lips had never forgotten the kiss of dear love andconfidence upon those that had first caressed her when she came into theworld; and odd, wild, erratic Joe had a habit which many people withmore opportunities have managed to escape--that of being _alwayswelcome_.

  It was of course too late, that night, for any conference with RichardCrawford. But the next morning, before nine o'clock, his house wastreated to a repetition of the same ringing of bells that had sounded inher own the night before, and Joe, all breathless eagerness (another oneof the bad habits of her childhood, that she had never been able toovercome) stood talking in the hall with the domestic who had admittedher. Much good her hurry had done! Much good was it for her to flyhither and yon, transacting business for _invalids_! Some persons runaway from happiness--do they not?--as others try to escape from knownmisery! Richard Crawford and his companions were then two hours up theHudson, 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 hadoccurred!

  To say that Joe Harris raved at this announcement, might be too strong aword. But it is not too much to say that her springy foot (Joe had notthe proverbially "little" one of the novelists, but a very well-shapedpedal of the Arab pattern, under the sole of which water could have runwith as much freedom as under the Starucca Viaduct or the High Bridge),patted the hall floor with vexation, impatience and "botheration." Therewas not much use in blurting out her vexation before a servant, but shedid say:

  "Confound your picture, Dick Crawford! Why did you not let me know thatyou were going away?" Which was not very elegant or very reasonable,especially as wild Josey had for certain well-known reasons studiouslykept away from the house for some days before leaving for the North, andstill more especially because she had so concealed the direction of herown journey that Dick Crawford could not have communicated with her ifhe had tried never so earnestly.

  Then and thereupon Joe Harris turned about indignantly and went to thedoor. Then she changed her mind, went into the deserted parlor, openedthe piano and banged away upon it for a few minutes as if she was takingthe physical revenge of a drubbing, on the whole Crawford family. IfDick Crawford could have heard _that_ performance, he would have gonemad to a certainty! Then she flung to the piano with a slam (forgiveher, Steinway!--it was not your piano that she was abusing, but animaginary owner) and flung herself out of the house so precipitatelythat Bridget only heard the violent shutting of two doors and knewnothing more.

  By the time she had reached her own house again, the young girl wassomewhat calmer and a great deal more reasonable. The fault was not thatof Richard Crawford, after all; and God bless him!--she was heartilyglad that he had recovered sufficiently to be able to leave the housefor a ride of four or five hundred miles. So she summoned back all thepatient and benevolent elements of her own nature (she had plenty ofthem, but they were sometimes like badly-trained troops, and needed a_recall_),--sat down and wrote a letter to Richard, giving him a briefaccount of what had occurred, abusing him playfully for going offwithout informing her of his intention, and ordering him to West Fallsimmediately, in such terms as a commander-in-chief might have employedtowards a recruiting sergeant. That done, and the letter despatched, shefelt partially relieved.

  But what a fool she had made of herself--she thought--by leaving WestFalls so soon! Neither her mother nor herself was yet ready to leave forNewport (she much less than her mother, until certain half-finishedarrangements, in which Mr. Tom Leslie bore a part, were moresatisfactorily settled); the city was growing dull as well as hot, andmost of the "people one cares for," flitting to one or another of thesea-shore or mountain resorts; and there were the pigs and chickens atAunt Betsey's all lying neglected. Joe Harris was nearer to being_ennuyee_--absolutely bored, for the next hour, than she had before beenfor a twelvemonth.

  There is an old adage that some of us may have read in the primer (orwas it the hymn-book?) that "Satan finds some mischief still for idlehands to do." Josephine's late life had been sufficiently exciting tomake her undeniably restless; and it was while ruminating upon themisery of being too quietly happy, that she remembered her rencontrewith Emily Owen, at Wallack's, the magnificently bearish manner in whichJudge Owen had lugged his daughter out from the theatre, and the promiseshe had made the mortified and abashed girl that she would run up andcall upon her some day. Why not now? Not much sooner thought of thandone; and in less than an hour thereafter she was ringing at the door ofJudge Owen's house near the Harlem River, having endured the smashing oftoes and disorder of dresses incident to a ride by car on a hotafternoon when half the city was rushing to the Central Park and thecool places over in Westchester.

  She had better fortune, here, than she had experienced at theCrawfords'. Emily was at home, sewing by the open window in her littlechamber, while by the other window of the same room showed the tallfigure and placid face of Aunt Martha. The meeting between the twoschool-mates was very warm and cordial, and accompanied by thoseembraces which, when they occur between two young girls and anunfortunate masculine friend happens to be an observer, are so likely todestroy his equanimity for a long period. Emily's cheek reddened alittle, to be sure, with shame at remembering where she had last met hervisitor; but perhaps this evidence of sensibility broke down allbarriers between the two, much easier than they could have been removedunder other circumstances. Josephine Harris had accidentally becomeaware of the one secret of Emily's life, and so long as warm friendshipexisted this fact could not be otherwise than a tie, just as it couldnot fail to be a cause for avoidance if the two hearts once becameseparated. Aunt Martha, something of an oddity among women, and JoeHarris, an oddity without any qualification, were pleased with eachother at once; and a pleasant chat sprung up in the little room, whichlasted until Aunt Martha thought it proper to make an excuse for absenceand leave the young girls alone together.

  It would have been something more or less than natural, if within aminute afterwards the conversation of the two had not been running uponthe topic of which both had been thinking, but of which neither wouldspeak before the third person. Josephine broke into the theme at once:

  "Who was he?"

  "Who was _who_?" and the face of pretty Emily Owen was red enough in amoment to show that she knew who was intended.

  "Oh, you know that I saw part of it," said Joe. "I want to know therest. Who was the young man from whom your father took you away? Alover, of course, or he would not have taken the trouble."

  "It was--it was--Frank--Mr. Frank Wallace," said the young girl, thecolor on her face by no means diminishing.

  "Oh, don't blush so," said Josey. "We all get into some such scrape, atone time or another--that is, so many of us as can find any one to formthe other half of the pair of scissors. He was your lover, of course?"
<
br />   "You are a strange girl, and you ask such odd questions!" said Emily.Then, looking into the face of Josephine, and seeing how true andearnest, in spite of their mischief, were the eyes bent upon her, sheadded: "But I _do_ remember how good and kind you were to me at school,and I _will_ tell you all about it!"

  "That's a dear!" said diplomatic Josey, and only casting down her eyes alittle and blushing occasionally, Emily Owen told the story of her loveand her persecutions--of her father's pride and prejudice--of AuntMartha's sympathy--of the relations borne towards the family by theyoung printer and Col. Bancker--and of the unpleasant affairs which hadalready occurred, culminating in that outrage at the theatre, sincewhich time (not many days, however,) the lovers had had no meeting.

  "Why, it is as good as a play!" said Joe, when her friend had finishedher relation, and thinking, at the same time, how there was anunaccountable something in her own fortune or character, which drew herinto acquaintance with so much that was dramatic in the lives of others.

  "I am afraid you think me very weak and silly," said Emily. "You _must_do so, unless--unless--"

  "Oh, I understand you!" said Joe. "You mean that I must think your lovesilly, unless I happen to be in love myself?"

  "Yes, that was what I meant to say," answered the young girl.

  "Oh, make yourself easy on that point!" said the incarnate mischief. "Ithas not been very long under way, but I have picked up a _fellow_."

  "Oh, I am so glad! Then I know that you will understand me!" answeredEmily.

  "I understand you, and I do not think you silly at all," said hermentor. "I saw the young man's face that evening, and I fancy that he isdecidedly good-looking. That is something. You say that he is honest,industrious and _brave_: that is a good deal more. Then you love him,and that is of much more consequence still. Never marry a man whom youcannot love, my dear, if you remain an old maid so long that they datefrom your birth instead of the Christian era."

  Emily Owen looked up for an instant, to see how old this mentor couldbe, who talked with the confidence of experience and the gravity offifty (so much like Aunt Martha); but she met a face very little olderthan her own, and she merely said:

  "I am so glad you think that I am right!"

  "You say that you have not seen him since that evening at Wallack's,"said Josephine. "Have you not _heard_ from him since?"

  "Yes," said Emily, "we--"

  "Write?"

  "Yes," again said the young girl. "I hope you do not think that iswrong. Frank does not wish to come here, and I do not wish him to comehere, possibly to be abused by my father; and so--"

  "I wish I knew him," said Josephine, who by this time had some odd idearunning through her head. "What is he like? No, I do not mean how helooks, for you know that I saw him for a moment; but what is hisdisposition? Grave or gay?"

  "Gay--very gay, I should think," replied Emily.

  "You go to theatres: is he fond of theatrical performances?"

  "Very," answered the young girl.

  "So far, so good," said Josephine, in whose mind the thought, whateverit was, seemed to be shaping itself with great rapidity. "Now, is he amimic? Could he play a part if he should attempt it?"

  "I should think so," answered Emily. "He is very droll and a greatmimic--too much so, I sometimes think. But what do you mean?"

  "Why this," said Joe, whose plan had now grown to its fullproportions--as odd and reckless a plan as the most outre could havewished, but quite consistent with her own sense of benevolent mischief.She had not quite recovered from the influence of her "amateurdetective" exploit for the benefit of Richard Crawford, and masqueradesseemed to her, for the time, the only realities. Conjoined with thememory of her late exploits as a volunteer detective, was a thought ofthe very effectual manner in which she had seen Tom Leslie disguisehimself on the day of the visit to the fortune-teller; and she had hitupon a plan--nothing more nor less--to introduce the young girl's loverinto that house, under her own protection, and in such a disguise thatnot even the suspicious eyes of Judge Owen could know that they had everlooked at him before! As for any ultimate good to flow from thefrolic--it must be confessed that she scarcely thought of it. She didthink of throwing the two lovers together, for once or twice, at least,and of playing a prank which he well deserved, upon the imperious andnot-over-reasonable Judge--that was all. She did not foresee the realresults which were to follow the operation: as which of us ever did,when we began a frolic, imagine what earnest that frolic might becomebefore it was concluded?

  "Why, this is what I mean--a plan that will at least give you anoccasional sight of your 'Frank,' that no doubt you think more of than aCongressman of his, and wouldn't lend it to anybody. Scribble him alittle note at once, tell him who I am and what I am going to do. Put inthis card of mine, so that he can know where to find me. Then tell himto get a soldier's uniform--(say a Captain's) a crutch, a cane, and agreen patch for one eye, and come to my house to-morrow afternoon.No--if he only gets the crutch and the came, I will make the patch forhis eye, to-night. You are not going out anywhere to-morrow evening?"

  "No," answered the young girl, a little bewildered by such anarrangement.

  "Then I will bring him up to-morrow evening, equipped in that manner,and introduce him as my cousin, Captain--Captain--Captain--what shall Icall him?--Captain Robert Slivers--that will be a good name enough--ofthe Sickles Brigade, wounded in one of the late battles and home onfurlough. Don't you think that will do, dear?"

  "I should like it, of all things in the world," said Emily Owen, "if Iwas only sure that they would not know him. But no--to-morrow eveningwill not do! I remember hearing that hateful Colonel Bancker tell Pathat he was coming again to-morrow evening."

  "Well, all that is none the worse," said the schemer. "If the gallantColonel is as old as you think, his eyes cannot be any sharper thanother people's; and if your Frank Wallace is half smart enough todeserve such a pretty girl as you, he can manufacture some war storiesthat will do the Colonel good."

  "But I am afraid--" again began Emily.

  "Afraid of your shadow!" said the plotter. "There, run away and do as Itell you, and mind that your note goes this afternoon and that you donot forget to put in my card. Stop! you are not afraid to trust me withhim, are you?"

  "Oh, Josephine, you ought to be ashamed to ask such a question!" repliedEmily; and having given that assurance, and being really carried off herfeet by the plausible mischief of her friend, she set about performingher part of the arrangement, though not without some question how itwould all end, and whether the frolic might not eventually give excusefor additional severity on the part of Judge Owen.

  It was agreed between the young girls, before they parted, that thearrival should not take place until evening, when there would be theadvantage of gas-light in concealing the personality of themasquerader,--and that Aunt Martha, who had already proved herself toofirm and consistent a friend to her niece, to be played falsely with inthe matter, should be made acquainted with the whole arrangement, evenat the risk of the disapprobation that she was almost certain to expressagainst a proceeding that would certainly be better suited to the stagethan the drawing-room.

  Having set this mischief on foot and shaken off the ennui which hadoppressed her in the morning, Josephine Harris left the house where shehad paid so remarkable a first visit, and returned to her own, toastonish her mother with the knowledge of an intended prank somewhatmore reckless and outrageous than any upon which she had beforeventured.