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."