Thus assisted, she revealed the whole of her terrible secret! The whole,
except that no name escaped her lips.
And, ah, what a relief! When the hysteric gasp, the strife between words
and sobs, had subsided, what a torture had passed away from her soul! It
was all gone; her bosom was as pure now as in her childhood. She was a
girl again; she was Hilda of the dove-cote; not that doubtful creature
whom her own doves had hardly recognized as their mistress and playmate,
by reason of the death-scent that clung to her garments!
After she had ceased to speak, Hilda heard the priest bestir
himself with an old man's reluctant movement. He stepped out of the
confessional; and as the girl was still kneeling in the penitential
corner, he summoned her forth.
"Stand up, my daughter," said the mild voice of the confessor; "what we
have further to say must be spoken face to face."
Hilda did his bidding, and stood before him with a downcast visage,
which flushed and grew pale again. But it had the wonderful beauty which
we may often observe in those who have recently gone through a great
struggle, and won the peace that lies just on the other side. We see
it in a new mother's face; we see it in the faces of the dead; and
in Hilda's countenance--which had always a rare natural charm for her
friends--this glory of peace made her as lovely as an angel.
On her part, Hilda beheld a venerable figure with hair as white as snow,
and a face strikingly characterized by benevolence. It bore marks of
thought, however, and penetrative insight; although the keen glances of
the eyes were now somewhat bedimmed with tears, which the aged shed, or
almost shed, on lighter stress of emotion than would elicit them from
younger men.
"It has not escaped my observation, daughter," said the priest, "that
this is your first acquaintance with the confessional. How is this?"
"Father," replied Hilda, raising her eyes, and again letting them fall,
"I am of New Eng land birth, and was bred as what you call a heretic."
"From New England!" exclaimed the priest. "It was my own birthplace,
likewise; nor have fifty years of absence made me cease to love it. But
a heretic! And are you reconciled to the Church?"
"Never, father," said Hilda.
"And, that being the case," demanded the old man, "on what ground, my
daughter, have you sought to avail yourself of these blessed privileges,
confined exclusively to members of the one true Church, of confession
and absolution?"
"Absolution, father?" exclaimed Hilda, shrinking back. "O no, no! I
never dreamed of that! Only our Heavenly Father can forgive my sins; and
it is only by sincere repentance of whatever wrong I may have done, and
by my own best efforts towards a higher life, that I can hope for his
forgiveness! God forbid that I should ask absolution from mortal man!"