The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 78/130

This was what Kenyon said to himself; but his reluctance, after all, and

whether he were conscious of it or no, resulted from a suspicion that

had crept into his heart and lay there in a dark corner. Obscure as it

was, when Miriam looked into his eyes, she detected it at once.

"Ah, I shall hate you!" cried she, echoing the thought which he had

not spoken; she was half choked with the gush of passion that was thus

turned back upon her. "You are as cold and pitiless as your own marble."

"No; but full of sympathy, God knows!" replied he.

In truth, his suspicions, however warranted by the mystery in which

Miriam was enveloped, had vanished in the earnestness of his kindly and

sorrowful emotion. He was now ready to receive her trust.

"Keep your sympathy, then, for sorrows that admit of such solace," said

she, making a strong effort to compose herself. "As for my griefs, I

know how to manage them. It was all a mistake: you can do nothing for

me, unless you petrify me into a marble companion for your Cleopatra

there; and I am not of her sisterhood, I do assure you. Forget this

foolish scene, my friend, and never let me see a reference to it in your

eyes when they meet mine hereafter."

"Since you desire it, all shall be forgotten," answered the sculptor,

pressing her hand as she departed; "or, if ever I can serve you, let my

readiness to do so be remembered. Meanwhile, dear Miriam, let us meet in

the same clear, friendly light as heretofore."

"You are less sincere than I thought you," said Miriam, "if you try to

make me think that there will be no change."

As he attended her through the antechamber, she pointed to the statue of

the pearl-diver.

"My secret is not a pearl," said she; "yet a man might drown himself in

plunging after it."

After Kenyon had closed the door, she went wearily down the staircase,

but paused midway, as if debating with herself whether to return.

"The mischief was done," thought she; "and I might as well have had the

solace that ought to come with it. I have lost,--by staggering a little

way beyond the mark, in the blindness of my distress, I have lost, as

we shall hereafter find, the genuine friendship of this clear-minded,

honorable, true-hearted young man, and all for nothing. What if I should

go back this moment and compel him to listen?"

She ascended two or three of the stairs, but again paused, murmured to

herself, and shook her head.

"No, no, no," she thought; "and I wonder how I ever came to dream of

it. Unless I had his heart for my own,--and that is Hilda's, nor would I

steal it from her,--it should never be the treasure Place of my secret.

It is no precious pearl, as I just now told him; but my dark-red

carbuncle--red as blood--is too rich a gem to put into a stranger's

casket."