The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 129/130

"It all passed so quickly, all like a glare of lightning," said Hilda,

"and yet it seemed to me that Donatello had paused, while one might draw

a breath. But that look! Ah, Miriam, spare me. Need I tell more?"

"No more; there needs no more, Hilda," replied Miriam, bowing her head,

as if listening to a sentence of condemnation from a supreme tribunal.

"It is enough! You have satisfied my mind on a point where it was

greatly disturbed. Henceforward I shall be quiet. Thank you, Hilda."

She was on the point of departing, but turned back again from the

threshold.

"This is a terrible secret to be kept in a young girl's bosom," she

observed; "what will you do with it, my poor child?"

"Heaven help and guide me," answered Hilda, bursting into tears; "for

the burden of it crushes me to the earth! It seems a crime to know

of such a thing, and to keep it to myself. It knocks within my heart

continually, threatening, imploring, insisting to be let out! O my

mother!--my mother! Were she yet living, I would travel over land and

sea to tell her this dark secret, as I told all the little troubles of

my infancy. But I am alone--alone! Miriam, you were my dearest, only

friend. Advise me what to do."

This was a singular appeal, no doubt, from the stainless maiden to the

guilty woman, whom she had just banished from her heart forever. But

it bore striking testimony to the impression which Miriam's natural

uprightness and impulsive generosity had made on the friend who knew her

best; and it deeply comforted the poor criminal, by proving to her that

the bond between Hilda and herself was vital yet.

As far as she was able, Miriam at once responded to the girl's cry for

help.

"If I deemed it good for your peace of mind," she said, "to bear

testimony against me for this deed in the face of all the world, no

consideration of myself should weigh with me an instant. But I believe

that you would find no relief in such a course. What men call justice

lies chiefly in outward formalities, and has never the close application

and fitness that would be satisfactory to a soul like yours. I cannot be

fairly tried and judged before an earthly tribunal; and of this, Hilda,

you would perhaps become fatally conscious when it was too late. Roman

justice, above all things, is a byword. What have you to do with it?

Leave all such thoughts aside! Yet, Hilda, I would not have you keep my

secret imprisoned in your heart if it tries to leap out, and stings you,

like a wild, venomous thing, when you thrust it back again. Have you no

other friend, now that you have been forced to give me up?"