82. CHAPTER LXXXII.
THE LOST IS FOUND.
It was a whim of Lawrence's to give dinners; to have
them good, and to ask only the people he wanted, and who
he thought would enjoy themselves together.
“How much,” he said, quietly, as he conversed with Mrs.
Bennet, while his guests were assembling, “Edward Wynne
looks like your sister Martha!”
It was the first time Mrs. Bennet had heard her sister's name
mentioned by any stranger for years. But Lawrence spoke as
calmly and naturally as if Martha Darro had been the subject
of their conversation.
“Poor Martha!” said Mrs. Bennet, sadly; “how mysterious
it was!”
Her husband saw her as she spoke, and he was so struck by
the mournfulness of her face that he came quietly over.
“What is it?” he said, gently.
“For my son who was dead is alive again. He was lost
and is found,” said Lawrence Newt, solemnly.
Mrs. Bennet looked troubled, startled, almost frightened.
The words were full of significance, the tone was not to be
mistaken. She looked at Lawrence Newt with incredulous
eagerness. He shook his head assentingly.
“Alive?” she gasped rather than asked.
“And well,” he continued.
Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in a silent prayer. A light so
sweet stole over her matronly face that Lawrence Newt did
not fear to say,
“And near you; come with me!”
They left the room together; and Amy Waring, who knew
why they went, followed her aunt and Lawrence from the
room.
The three stopped at the door of Lawrence Newt's study.
“Your sister is here,” said he; and Amy and he remained
outside while Mrs. Bennet entered the room.
It was more than twenty years since the sisters had met,
and they clasped each other silently and wept for a long time.
“Martha!”
“Lucia!”
It was all they said; and wept again quietly.
Aunt Martha was dressed in sober black. Her face was
very comely; for the hardness that came with a morbid and
mistaken zeal was mellowed, and the sadness of experience
softened it.
“I have lived not far from you, Lucia, all these long years.”
“Martha! and you did not come to me?”
“I did not dare. Listen, Lucia. If a woman who had always
gratified her love of admiration, and gloried in the power
of gratifying it—who conquered men and loved to conquer
them—who was a woman of ungoverned will and indomitable
pride, should encounter—as how often they do?—a man who
utterly conquered her, and betrayed her through the very
weakness that springs from pride, do you not see that such
a woman would go near to insanity—as I have been—believing
that I had committed the unpardonable sin, and that no
punishment could be painful enough?”
Mrs. Bennet looked alarmed.
“No, no; there is no reason,” said her sister, observing it.
“The man came. I could not resist him. There was a
form of marriage. I believed that it was I who had conquered.
He left me; my child was born. I appealed to Lawrence
Newt, our old friend and playmate. He promised me
faithful secrecy, and through him the child was sent where
Gabriel was at school. Then I withdrew from both. I thought
it was the will of God. I felt myself commanded to a living
death—dead to every friend and kinsman—dead to every thing
but my degradation and its punishment; and yet consciously
close to you, near to all old haunts and familiar faces—lost to
them all—lost to my child—” Her voice faltered, and the
tears gushed from her eyes. “But I persevered. The old
passionate pride was changed to a kind of religious frenzy.
Lawrence Newt went and came to and from India. I was
utterly lost to the world. I knew that my child would never
know me, for Lawrence bad promised that he would not betray
me; and when I disappeared from his view, Lawrence gradually
came to consider me dead. Then Amy discovered me
among the poor souls she visited, and through Amy Lawrence
Newt; and by them I have been led out of the valley of the
shadow of death, and see the blessed light of love once more.”
She bowed her head in uncontrollable emotion.
“And your son?” said her sister, half-smiling through her
sympathetic tears.
“Will be yours also, Amy tells me,” said Aunt Martha.
“Thank God! thank God!”
“Martha, who gave him his name?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
Aunt Martha paused for a little while. Then she said:
“You never knew who my—my—husband was?”
“Never.”
“I remember—he never came to the house. Well, I gave
my child almost his father's name. I called him Wynne; his
father's name was Wayne.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in her lap.
“How wonderful! how wonderful!” was all she said.
Lawrence Newt knocked at the door, and Amy and he
came in. There was so sweet and strange a light upon Amy's
face that Mrs. Bennet looked at her in surprise. Then she
looked at Lawrence Newt; and he cheerfully returned her
glance with that smiling, musing expression in his eyes that
was utterly bewildering to Mrs. Bennet. She could only look
at each of the persons before her, and repeat her last words:
“How wonderful! how wonderful!”
Amy Waring, who had not heard the previous conversation
between her two aunts, blushed as she heard these words, as
if Mrs. Bennet had been alluding to something in which Amy
was particularly interested.
“Amy,” said Mrs. Bennet.
Amy could scarcely raise her eyes. There was an exquisite
maidenly shyness overspreading her whole person. At length
she looked the response she could not speak.
“How could you?” asked her aunt.
Poor Amy was utterly unable to reply.
“Coming and going in my house, my dearest niece, and
yet hugging such a secret, and holding your tongue. Oh
Amy, Amy!”
These were the words of reproach; but the tone, and look,
and impression were of entire love and sympathy. Lawrence
Newt looked calmly on.
“Aunt Lucia, what could I do?” was all that Amy could say.
“Well, well, I do not reproach you; I blame nobody. I
am too glad and happy. It is too wonderful, wonderful!”
There was a fullness and intensity of emphasis in what she
said that apparently made Amy suspect that she had not correctly
understood her aunt's intention.
“Oh, you mean about Aunt Martha!” said Amy, with an
air of relief and surprise.
Lawrence Newt smiled. Mrs. Bennet turned to Amy with
a fresh look of inquiry.
“About Aunt Martha? Of course about Aunt Martha.
Why, Amy, what on earth did you suppose it was about?”
Again the overwhelming impossibility to reply. Mrs. Bennet
was very curious. She looked at her sister Martha, who
was smiling intelligently. Then at Lawrence Newt, who did
not cease smiling, as if he were in no perplexity whatsoever.
Then at Amy, who sat smiling at her through the tears that
had gathered in the thoughtful womanly brown eyes.
“Let me speak,” said Lawrence Newt, quietly. “Why
should we not all be glad and happy with you? You have
found a sister, Aunt Martha has found herself and a son, I
have found a wife, and Amy a husband.”
They returned to the room where they had left the guests,
and the story was quietly told to Hope Wayne and the others.
Hope and Edward looked at each other.
“Little Malacca!” she said, in a low tone, putting out her
hand.
“Sister Hope,” said the young man, blushing, and his large
eyes filling with tenderness.
“And my sister, too,” whispered Ellen Bennet, as she took
Hope's other hand.
