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
delicate 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.