42. CHAPTER XLII.
CLEARING AND CLOUDY.
It was summer again, and Aunt Martha sat sewing in the
hardest of wooden chairs, erect, motionless. Yet all the bleakness
of the room was conquered by the victorious bloom of
Amy's cheeks, and the tender maidenliness of Amy's manner,
and the winning, human, sympathetic sweetness which was
revealed in every word and look of Amy, who sat beside her
aunt, talking.
“Amy, Lawrence Newt has been here.”
The young woman looked almost troubled.
“No, Amy, I know you did not tell him,” said Aunt Martha.
“I was all alone here, as usual, and heard a knock. I cried,
`Who's there?' for I was afraid to open the door, lest I should
see some old friend. `A friend,' was the reply. My knees
trembled, Amy. I thought the time had come for me to be
exposed to the world, that the divine wrath might be fulfilled
in my perfect shame. I had no right to resist, and said, `Come
in!' The door opened, and a man entered whom I did not at
first recognize. He looked at me for a moment kindly—so
kindly, that it seemed to me as if a gentle hand were laid upon
my head. Then he said, `Martha Darro.' `I am ready,' I
answered. But he came to me and took my hand, and said,
`Why, Martha, have you forgotten Lawrence Newt?”'
She stopped in her story, and leaned back in her chair. The
work fell from her thin fingers, and she wept—soft tears, like
a spring rain.
“Well?” said Amy, after a few moments, and her hand had
taken Aunt Martha's, but she let it go again when she saw
that it helped her to tell the story if she worked.
“He said he had seen you at the window one day, and he
was resolved to find out what brought you into Front Street.
But before he could make up his mind to come, he chanced to
see me at the same window, and then he waited no longer.”
The tone was more natural than Amy had ever heard from
Aunt Martha's lips. She remarked that the severity of her
costume was unchanged, except that a little strip of white collar
around the throat somewhat alleviated its dense gloom.
Was it Amy's fancy merely that the little line of white was
symbolical, and that she saw a more human light in her aunt's
eyes and upon her face?
“Well?” said Amy again, after another pause.
The solemn woman did not immediately answer, but went
on sewing, and rocking her body as she did so. Amy waited
patiently until her aunt should choose to answer. She waited
the more patiently because she was telling herself who it was
that had brought that softer light into the face, if, indeed, it
were really there. She was thinking why he had been curious
to know the reason that she had come into that room. She
was remembering a hundred little incidents which had revealed
his constant interest in all her comings, and goings, and doings;
and therefore she started when Aunt Martha, still rocking
and sewing, said, quietly,
“Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here?”
“I'm sure I don't know, Aunt Martha.”
Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that
her companion was studying her face. And it was a study
that companion relentlessly pursued, until Amy remarked that
Lawrence Newt was such a generous gentleman that he could
get wind of no distress but he instantly looked to see if he
could relieve it.
Finding the theme fertile, Amy Waring, looking with tender
eyes at her relative, continued.
And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story
of Lawrence Newt's large heart, there was an unusual softness
and shyness in her appearance. The blithe glance was more
drooping. The clear, ringing voice was lower. The words
that generally fell with such a neat, crisp articulation from her
lips now lingered upon them as if they were somehow honeyed,
and so flowed more smoothly and more slowly. She told of
her first encounter with Mr. Newt at the Widow Simmers's—
she told of all that she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel
Bennet.
“Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body
think of me as kindly as he thinks of every body.”
She had been speaking for some time. When she stopped,
Aunt Martha said, quietly,
“But, Amy, although you have told me how charitable he
is, you have not told me why he wanted to come here because
he saw you at the window.”
“I suppose,” replied Amy, “it was because he thought there
must be somebody to relieve here.”
“Don't you suppose he thinks there is somebody to relieve
in the next house, and the next, and has been ever since he
has had an office in South Street?”
Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought
it was quite likely.
“I have plenty of time to think up here, my child,” continued
Aunt Martha. “God is so good that He has spared my
reason, and I have satisfied myself why Lawrence Newt wanted
to come here.”
Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to distant
music. Her head drooped slightly forward; her hands
were clasped in her lap; the dedicate color glimmered upon
her cheek, now deepening, now paling. The silence was exquisite,
but she must break it.
“Why?” said she, in a low voice.
“Because he loves you, Amy,” said the dark woman, as her
busy fingers stitched without pausing.
Amy Waring was perfectly calm. The words seemed to
give her soul delicious peace, and she waited to hear what her
aunt would say next.
“I know that he loves you, from the way in which he spoke
of you. I know that you love him for the same reason.”
Aunt Martha went on working and rocking. Amy turned
pale. She had not dared to say to herself what another had
now said to her. But suddenly she started as if stung. “If
Aunt Martha has seen this so plainly, why may not Lawrence
Newt have seen it?” The apprehension frightened her.
A long silence followed the last words of Aunt Martha.
She did not look at Amy, for she had no external curiosity to
satisfy, and she understood well enough what Amy was thinking.
They were still silent, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the clear, hard voice of Aunt Martha.
The door opened—the two women looked—and Lawrence
Newt walked into the room. He shook hands with Aunt
Martha, and then turned to Amy.
“This time, Miss Amy, I have caught you. Have I not
kept your secret well?”
Amy was thinking of another secret than Aunt Martha's
living in Front Street, and she merely blushed, without speaking.
“I tried very hard to persuade myself to come up here after
I saw you at the window. But I did not until the secret
looked out of the window and revealed itself. I came to-day
to say that I am going out of town in a day or two, and that
I should like, before I go, to know that I may do what I can
to take Aunt Martha out of this place.”
Aunt Martha shook her head slowly. “Why should it be?”
said she. “Great sin must be greatly punished. To die,
while I live; to be buried alive close to my nearest and dearest;
to know that my sister thinks of me as dead, and is glad
that I am so—”
“Stop, Aunt Martha, stop!” cried Amy, with the same firm
tone in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dismissed
the insolent shopman, “how can you say such things?”
and she stood radiant before her aunt, while Lawrence Newt
looked on.
“Amy, dear, you can not understand. Sons and daughters
of evil, when we see that we have sinned, we must be brave
enough to assist in our own punishment. God's mercy enables
me tranquilly to suffer the penalty which his justice
awards me. My path is very plain. Please God, I shall walk
in it.”
She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly. Whatever
her offense was, she had invested her situation with the dignity
of a religious duty. It was clear that her idea of obedience
to God was to do precisely what she was doing. And this
was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring's mind that she
was perplexed how to act. She knew that if her aunt suspected
in her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode,
she would disappear at once, and elude all search. And to betray
it while it was unreservedly confided to her was impossible
for Amy, even if she had not solemnly promised not to do so.
Observing that Amy meant to say nothing, Lawrence Newt
turned to Aunt Martha.
“I will not quarrel with what you say, but I want you to
grant me a request.”
Aunt Martha bowed, as if waiting to see if she could grant
it.
“If it is not unreasonable, will you grant it?”
“I will,” said she.
“Well, now please, I want you to go next Sunday and hear
a man preach whom I am very fond of hearing, and who has
been of the greatest service to me.”
“Who is it?”
“First, do you ever go to church?”
“Always.”
“Where?”
Aunt Martha did not directly reply. She was lost in reverie.
“It is a youth like an angel,” said she at length, with an
air of curious excitement, as if talking to herself. “His voice
is music, but it strikes my soul through and through, and I
am frightened and in agony, as if I had been pierced with the
flaming sword that waves over the gate of Paradise. The
light of his words makes my sin blacker and more loathsome.
Oh! what crowds there are! How he walks upon a sea of
sinners, with their uplifted faces, like waves white with terror!
How fierce his denunciation! How sweet the words of promise
he speaks! `The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a
broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.”'
She had risen from her chair, and stood with her eyes lifted
in a singular condition of mental exaltation, which gave a lyrical
tone and flow to her words.
“That is Summerfield,” said Lawrence Newt. “Yes, he is
a wonderful youth. I have heard him myself, and thought
that I saw the fire of Whitfield, and heard the sweetness of
Charles Wesley. I have been into the old John Street meeting-house,
where the crowds hung out at the windows and
doors like swarming bees clustered upon a hive. He swayed
them as a wind bends a grain-field, Miss Amy. He swept
them away like a mountain stream. He is an Irishman,
with all the fervor of Irish genius. But,” continued Lawrence
Newt, turning again to Aunt Martha, “it is a very different
man I want you to hear.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“His name is Channing. He comes from Boston.”
“Does he preach the truth?” she asked.
“I think he does,” answered Lawrence, gravely.
“Does he drive home the wrath of God upon the sinful, rebellious
soul?” exclaimed she, raising both hands with the energy
of her words.
“He preaches the Gospel of Christ,” said Lawrence Newt,
quietly; “and I think you will like him, and that he will do
you good. He is called—”
“I don't care what he is called,” interrupted Aunt Martha,
“if he makes me feel my sin.”
“That you will discover for yourself,” replied Lawrence,
smiling. “He makes me feel mine.”
Aunt Martha, whose ecstasy had passed, seated herself, and
said she would go, as Mr. Newt requested, on the condition
that neither he nor Amy, if they were there, would betray
that they knew her.
This was readily promised, and Amy and Lawrence Newt
left the room together.
