Chapter XXXII: The Summons to Confession

Now that Amy Leonard was at home once more, with her conscience free of its cruel secret, and the forgiveness of her parents assured, a certain degree of tranquillity came back to her heart. Rest, profound rest, seemed the sweetest boon that could be given her. For a little time she had cast off the thorny crown of her sorrow; and the very fact of having a home with its little comforts, one from which there was no fear of being driven, was in itself a great blessing.

There was hope, too, in Amy’s heart. If her father, with his stern pride and blameless nature, could forget and forgive,—if the loquacious mother could grow delicate and tender in the refining strength of her compassion,—surely _he_ could not persist in the great sin which, for a moment, he might have meditated! Human nature could not be so bad as that. Led away by ambition and the love of wealth, his strong ruling passion, he might have gone farther than was honorable in his admiration of the young French girl; but to marry another and she alive, that could never be.

Besides this vague faith in human nature and in the honor of her husband, Amy knew that the elder Arnold and her own father had united in a determination to protect her. Oh, if she could have told them all,—if she could have said to those sorrowing men, who still went forth to the open air with heavy shoulders and heads bowed down from a belief in the shame of their children,—the truth, and the whole truth, how boldly and bravely they might have gone about their just work!

But, above all things human, Amy loved Benedict Arnold: never in her life had she disobeyed his most imperious wishes. The very tyranny of his character made her look up to him with worshiping awe. His bold self-reliance was so far above the possibility of her own attainment that it seemed grand and noble to her. But the charge of secresy, the vow which he had forced upon her, galled her delicate nature and dragged it down like guilt itself.

All this Amy did not feel so acutely now as she had a day or two before; for the most harrassing pain will grow stolid after a wild storm of passion, and it takes a little time to gather venom and strength to gnaw and rend the soul into fresh torment.

The one strong wish of Amy’s heart was to see Arnold, to plead with him on her knees to give back her oath and her honor, that she might stand in her calm innocence a wife before the world. She was gentle, but not altogether weak. If he refused this,—if he still persisted in branding her forehead with shame,—then she would be just to herself. If her womanly protest went for nothing, she would claim freedom from that cruel vow, and, asking it back of Heaven, prove to her father and his father that her greatest sin had been disobedience and secresy.

True, Amy had no record or certificate to prove this: both had been given to Arnold; but the clergyman was to be found. But why think of all these rebellious things? When Arnold knew of her sorrow,—when he heard of that terrible scene at the minister’s donation party,—he would cast aside every thing and protect her from his own proud sense of honor.

Thus Amy reasoned with herself, filling her life with fresh delusions, but finding comfort in them even in the saddest plight that ever a young creature was driven to.

Leonard had not yet told his wife or daughter of the arrangement by which Amy was to be given up for a time to the Arnolds; so the poor child wearied herself with plans, and grew sick with a wild desire to find her way to Benedict’s presence and there claim her place at his side. He should not use her weak, wicked oath to the cruel end of separating them. She was young, helpless, and forbidden to ask advice; but he could not look in her eyes and persist in doing the wrong they talked of.

In the midst of these reflections Leonard told her of his promise to Benedict’s father, and with sad kindness bade her prepare to set forth on the morrow.

Amy received the news as a feverish patient listens to the rush of cool waters. She clasped her hands and fairly wrung them in her extreme joy; her lips grew red; her eyes danced with light: she seemed really alive for the first time in months.

And now her small preparations were entered upon with something of former cheerfulness. A sweet joy broke up from the bottom of her heart, all springing from one thought. She would see him again in a few days: he might tell her with his own lips that some cruel mistake had arisen, out of which the agony through which she had passed had sprung.

The little party did not start so early as they had intended. A high wind blew strongly up the river and kept the sloop at her wharf twenty-four hours beyond her appointed time.

These twenty-four hours were bitter ones to Amy Leonard. For, on the morning when she should have sailed, three men, deacons and trustees of the church, came with the slow, solemn dignity of a grave occasion, and, fastening their horses by the door-yard fence, walked down to the saw-mill where Leonard was at work.

The unhappy man must have had some idea of the object, for his face flushed and grew pale as they approached, while he stood still, trembling like a culprit. He had not slept a calm hour since the minister’s donation party, and his nerves, which till then had seemed made of steel, were shaken.

He stood upright, as I have said, waiting for the potentates of the society to approach. The Christians of those days possessed many ideas of religion which the advancement of mind has softened and refined; now, a stern sense of duty, such as they understood it, filled every heart. The idea of consideration or gentle pity for an offender was regarded with distrust, as a snare and a weakness. If any such feeling ever clamored at their naturally kind hearts, they were ready to fall upon the earth and pray God to relieve them from a grave temptation. Indeed, indeed it was a stern type of religion which sent our forefathers into the great western wilderness.

When the functionaries of the society came before Leonard, he, knowing their business by intuition, stood still to receive them, without saying a word or attempting to reach forth his hand. His eyes filled with troubled light, and he looked upon his visitors with deprecating humility, that had, nevertheless, something strong and noble in it.

“Brother Leonard,” said the foremost of the deputation, an old man, whose locks, white as snow, fell down his back wound and tied by a rusty black ribbon, “Brother Leonard, we have come, unwilling, and in the name of the Lord.”

“I know,—I know it all. My child—the poor, helpless white rabbit up yonder—you’ll not leave her in the form to nurse her wounds and hide herself? Oh, Brother Downs, couldn’t you wait a little before you bring her to open shame? Just give us breathing time till God will hear our prayers. We can only wail and bemoan ourselves now. The gift of words has forsook us, even before the Lord. We can only bow down with our faces to the earth. Leave us alone, brethren,—leave us alone! In a little while we can bear this better.”

“Nay, brother,” said the old man, lifting his eyes slowly from the earth, where they had been riveted while Leonard spoke; “the laws of our society are strict, and change not. When a member of the fold backslides, prompt correction must be applied. We have waited long and patiently, hoping to be spared this grave duty; but the house of our Master must be rescued from contamination. The girl has sinned grievously, and must atone with penitence and abasement that our skirts may be cleansed.”

“She is penitent; no human soul ever grieved as she does,—my poor, lost child!” cried Leonard, with a quiver of his massive chin.

The old man answered,

“Truly it rejoices us to hear this; but penitence, to be of sweet savor before the Lord, must be open, and the humiliation of sin complete. This is set down clearly in the platform of our faith. No form of regeneration to the culprit must be wanting,—no degree of atonement omitted which our fathers have deemed essential to salvation.”

“And what would you with the child?” faltered the unhappy father.

The unflinching reply was,

“It is the law that one offending like her shall confess her sins openly before the assembled society, and, standing with her head uncovered in the broad aisle of the meeting-house, ask pardon of God and the brethren for the reproach which has been brought upon both.”

“And you ask my Amy to stand thus? Are you so hard with the poor lambkins of the flock? Must a sacrifice of shame be offered, before my child can kneel in the house of God again?” cried Leonard, with bitter anguish in his look and voice.

“Brother Downs,” he added, “you have a grandchild, think of her, and have a little patience. Our wounds are fresh now; they ache and bleed at the first touch. Give us a little time, only a little time.”

The old man shook his head. “Nay, Brother Leonard, the work of the Lord cannot be put off. That which the platform layeth down must be accomplished. The girl you speak of is dear as the apple of my eye; but if she had offended like your daughter, I would not, for one moment, ask a suspension of the just laws which purify our society from sin.”

The old man said truly. In the moral force of his religion he was a Brutus, and like him would have acted. But Leonard was, in truth, what the old man thought himself to be,—a devout Christian,—and, with such, mercy and tenderness stand side by side with justice. He could not protest against the laws to which both he and his daughter had subscribed when they were enrolled into the brotherhood of the church; but their significance had never seemed so terrible before. The thought of his child suffering all this humiliation lowered his strong soul to the dust.

And yet still some vague hope, springing out of Amy’s still more vague words, prompted him to plead for a little time. To ask more than this he knew well would be in vain. Turning to the younger members of the committee, he urged this point upon them with an eloquence that at last prevailed. Some understrata of human kindness lay beneath their iron sense of duty; and, with many a word of hopeful consolation, they promised,—should they find the girl penitent, as her father reported,—to put off the day of her inevitable humiliation to the most distant period possible.

Here the conference in the saw-mill ended, and, in a body, the deputation moved towards the house, Leonard going first, to prepare his wife and child for the cruel interview which was to follow.

Like mourners gathering for a funeral, these stern men seated themselves around the kitchen, each gazing fixedly on the floor at his feet; for, with all their stoicism, it was a painful duty they had come upon; and, even to the white-headed old man, the occasion was a mournful one.

The door which led to the inner room was closed, and a faint stir of garments could be heard within, but no word or whisper penetrated it from the group within. If they had expected to hear sobs and moans, nothing of the kind met them, but the stillness was far more distressing.

After a little the door opened, and Amy came forth, a little in advance of her parents. The frightened look, which so many had remarked before her secret was made public, had given place to a sweet, deprecating expression, which no mortal man could have met without throbs of compassion. She was pale, but it was the still, firm paleness of concentrated feeling, not the livid white that springs from fear.

“You wish to speak with me?”

Her tones were low, and gentle as a human voice could utter; full of humility, but blended with something of self-respect.

The men who had come to judge her, saw that fair young creature standing before them in her meek dignity, and had nothing to say. Was this the aspect of guilt? Was that mild face, with no ideas save the acute shadows about the eyes, one that guilty passions had swept?

“Sit down,” said the old man, clasping his hands on one knee, and clearing his voice, which, spite of himself, was a little husky.

Amy moved towards one of the splint-bottomed chairs that furnished the kitchen, and sat down. Then her mother came through the inner door, and placed herself close to Amy. She had been weeping bitterly, and her face was flushed; but the silence and imposing gravity of the committee held her in thrall. At last she spoke, but in a subdued voice.

“If she’s done wrong, it’s me that led her to it,—me, and me alone, bro—gentlemen. When an old bird leaves her nest, over and over agin, afore the young ones know how to fly rightly, it isn’t the poor little critter that should be punished, but the parent-bird that didn’t do its duty and keep watch. If you’ve got any thing cruel to say, or hard, that you want done, I sit here now ready to bear it all, and do it all. If you want somebody to stand up in the broad aisle and confess that she’s wicked as Satan, and wickeder too, I’ll do it next Sunday; and Joshua’ll stand up and testify that it’s all true, and my fault from beginning to end. Don’t shake your heads and look strange, bro—gentlemen. I’ll do it! You may set that hull committee of sisters on a row in the deacon’s seat to look at me, and I won’t flinch. See if I do.”

Tears, great bright tears, started into Joshua Leonard’s eyes, as stars break through a stormy cloud. He had never known how much real greatness lay in the heart of his rosy, common-place wife: so, out of all this pain sprang the blessing of a true companionship. He could never think of her but with reverence from that day forever; for, beneath the foam and driftwood of her nature he knew that pure water always slept, ready to sparkle forth when self-sacrifice was wanted.

Leonard drew near his wife, and laid one hand tenderly on her shoulder. She looked at the committee with a glance of triumph.

“You see Joshua stands to what I say. He’ll bear me out when I tell you that all the wrong that has been done in this house belongs to me.”

“Mother,” said a sweet, low voice, “let me speak. The committee think that I have done wrong.”

“Think!” exclaimed the old man severely, planting his cane on the floor, and folding both hands over it. “Brother Leonard, is this the penitence you promised?”

Leonard was about to speak, but Amy anticipated him.

“My father promises nothing that I will not perform. I am sorry, oh! you will never believe how sorry, for all that has brought trouble on my parents, and reproach upon myself! But you are Christians, and kind men; you cannot wish to condemn me more than I deserve. I am so young,—so much in your power! Those who loved me once have turned against me now, and I have no friends to stand up for me,—none but my father and mother, who, being good and blameless, might expect some mercy for their child.”

The pathos of her voice and manner had its effect, where the words alone might, perhaps, have failed.

Even the old man’s fingers began to quiver on the top of his cane, and the rest of the committee looked upon her with gleams of compassion, forgetting how guilty she was supposed to be.

“Do you ask a trial before the society? Is that what you want?” said the old man, in a softer voice than he had yet used.

“A trial!” she said, quickly. “A trial! with the right to bring evidence and speak for myself! Yes, yes, I will ask that. Give me four weeks,—one little month. It is all I want. Then if you still condemn me, I will beg pardon of the brethren on my knees anywhere you shall point out; but have mercy on me just a little while, for my father’s sake.”

“Brother Leonard,” said the old man, standing up, with the cane planted before him, on which he leaned with both hands, “the four weeks which this unfortunate girl asks shall be given. What do you say, brothers? Shall we refuse time meet for repentance? For the sake of one good man God put off his vengeance on an iniquitous city; for our brother’s sake we will wait also.”

Joshua Leonard turned his face away. He could not endure that his friends should see how deeply their kindness touched him. The mother caught a glimpse of his emotion, and began to cry; but Amy looked into the old man’s face with a faint smile, which made him lift one hand from the cane; for he forgot her crime in that innocent look, and was about to say good-by, in the usual way. But a thought of his position checked the impulse, and he frowned heavily on her, that she might not guess his weakness; and so the committee went away, happier, it may be, from the gentle sympathies that had conquered their iron convictions of duty.