CHAPTER XXIII
MIRIAM AND HILDA
On leaving the Medici Gardens Miriam felt herself astray in the world;and having no special reason to seek one place more than another, shesuffered chance to direct her steps as it would. Thus it happened, that,involving herself in the crookedness of Rome, she saw Hilda's towerrising before her, and was put in mind to climb to the young girl'seyry, and ask why she had broken her engagement at the church of theCapuchins. People often do the idlest acts of their lifetime in theirheaviest and most anxious moments; so that it would have been no wonderhad Miriam been impelled only by so slight a motive of curiosity as wehave indicated. But she remembered, too, and with a quaking heart, whatthe sculptor had mentioned of Hilda's retracing her steps towards thecourtyard of the Palazzo Caffarelli in quest of Miriam herself. Had shebeen compelled to choose between infamy in the eyes of the whole world,or in Hilda's eyes alone, she would unhesitatingly have accepted theformer, on condition of remaining spotless in the estimation of herwhite-souled friend. This possibility, therefore, that Hilda hadwitnessed the scene of the past night, was unquestionably the causethat drew Miriam to the tower, and made her linger and falter as sheapproached it.
As she drew near, there were tokens to which her disturbed mind gave asinister interpretation. Some of her friend's airy family, the doves,with their heads imbedded disconsolately in their bosoms, were huddledin a corner of the piazza; others had alighted on the heads, wings,shoulders, and trumpets of the marble angels which adorned the facadeof the neighboring church; two or three had betaken themselves to theVirgin's shrine; and as many as could find room were sitting on Hilda'swindow-sill. But all of them, so Miriam fancied, had a look of wearyexpectation and disappointment, no flights, no flutterings, no cooingmurmur; something that ought to have made their day glad and brightwas evidently left out of this day's history. And, furthermore, Hilda'swhite window-curtain was closely drawn, with only that one littleaperture at the side, which Miriam remembered noticing the night before.
"Be quiet," said Miriam to her own heart, pressing her hand hard uponit. "Why shouldst thou throb now? Hast thou not endured more terriblethings than this?"
Whatever were her apprehensions, she would not turn back. It mightbe--and the solace would be worth a world--that Hilda, knowing nothingof the past night's calamity, would greet her friend with a sunny smile,and so restore a portion of the vital warmth, for lack of which her soulwas frozen. But could Miriam, guilty as she was, permit Hilda to kissher cheek, to clasp her hand, and thus be no longer so unspotted fromthe world as heretofore.
"I will never permit her sweet touch again," said Miriam, toiling upthe staircase, "if I can find strength of heart to forbid it. But, O! itwould be so soothing in this wintry fever-fit of my heart. There can beno harm to my white Hilda in one parting kiss. That shall be all!"
But, on reaching the upper landing-place, Miriam paused, and stirred notagain till she had brought herself to an immovable resolve.
"My lips, my hand, shall never meet Hilda's more," said she.
Meanwhile, Hilda sat listlessly in her painting-room. Had you lookedinto the little adjoining chamber, you might have seen the slightimprint of her figure on the bed, but would also have detected at oncethat the white counterpane had not been turned down. The pillow was moredisturbed; she had turned her face upon it, the poor child, and bedewedit with some of those tears (among the most chill and forlorn that gushfrom human sorrow) which the innocent heart pours forth at its firstactual discovery that sin is in the world. The young and pure are notapt to find out that miserable truth until it is brought home to them bythe guiltiness of some trusted friend. They may have heard much ofthe evil of the world, and seem to know it, but only as an impalpabletheory. In due time, some mortal, whom they reverence too highly,is commissioned by Providence to teach them this direful lesson heperpetrates a sin; and Adam falls anew, and Paradise, heretofore inunfaded bloom, is lost again, and dosed forever, with the fiery swordsgleaming at its gates.
The chair in which Hilda sat was near the portrait of Beatrice Cenci,which had not yet been taken from the easel. It is a peculiarity ofthis picture, that its profoundest expression eludes a straightforwardglance, and can only be caught by side glimpses, or when the eyefalls casually upon it; even as if the painted face had a life andconsciousness of its own, and, resolving not to betray its secret ofgrief or guilt, permitted the true tokens to come forth only when itimagined itself unseen. No other such magical effect has ever beenwrought by pencil.
Now, opposite the easel hung a looking-glass, in which Beatrice's faceand Hilda's were both reflected. In one of her weary, nerveless changesof position, Hilda happened to throw her eyes on the glass, and took inboth these images at one unpremeditated glance. She fancied--nor was itwithout horror--that Beatrice's expression, seen aside and vanishing ina moment, had been depicted in her own face likewise, and flitted fromit as timorously.
"Am I, too, stained with guilt?" thought the poor girl, hiding her facein her hands.
Not so, thank Heaven! But, as regards Beatrice's picture, the incidentsuggests a theory which may account for its unutterable grief andmysterious shadow of guilt, without detracting from the purity which welove to attribute to that ill-fated girl. Who, indeed, can look at thatmouth,--with its lips half apart, as innocent as a babe's that hasbeen crying, and not pronounce Beatrice sinless? It was the intimateconsciousness of her father's sin that threw its shadow over her, andfrightened her into a remote and inaccessible region, where no sympathycould come. It was the knowledge of Miriam's guilt that lent the sameexpression to Hilda's face.
But Hilda nervously moved her chair, so that the images in the glassshould be no longer Visible. She now watched a speck of sunshine thatcame through a shuttered window, and crept from object to object,indicating each with a touch of its bright finger, and then letting themall vanish successively. In like manner her mind, so like sunlightin its natural cheerfulness, went from thought to thought, but foundnothing that it could dwell upon for comfort. Never before had thisyoung, energetic, active spirit known what it is to be despondent. Itwas the unreality of the world that made her so. Her dearest friend,whose heart seemed the most solid and richest of Hilda's possessions,had no existence for her any more; and in that dreary void, out of whichMiriam had disappeared, the substance, the truth, the integrity of life,the motives of effort, the joy of success, had departed along with her.
It was long past noon, when a step came up the staircase. It had passedbeyond the limits where there was communication with the lower regionsof the palace, and was mounting the successive flights which led only toHilda's precincts. Faint as the tread was, she heard and recognized it.It startled her into sudden life. Her first impulse was to spring tothe door of the studio, and fasten it with lock and bolt. But a secondthought made her feel that this would be an unworthy cowardice, on herown part, and also that Miriam--only yesterday her closest friend hada right to be told, face to face, that thenceforth they must be foreverstrangers.
She heard Miriam pause, outside of the door. We have already seen whatwas the latter's resolve with respect to any kiss or pressure ofthe hand between Hilda and herself. We know not what became of theresolution. As Miriam was of a highly impulsive character, it may havevanished at the first sight of Hilda; but, at all events, she appearedto have dressed herself up in a garb of sunshine, and was disclosed, asthe door swung open, in all the glow of her remarkable beauty. The truthwas, her heart leaped conclusively towards the only refuge that it had,or hoped. She forgot, just one instant, all cause for holding herselfaloof. Ordinarily there was a certain reserve in Miriam's demonstrationsof affection, in consonance with the delicacy of her friend. To-day, sheopened her arms to take Hilda in.
"Dearest, darling Hilda!" she exclaimed. "It gives me new life to seeyou!"
Hilda was standing in the middle of the room. When her friend made astep or two from the door, she put forth her hands with an involuntaryrepellent gesture, so expressive that Miriam a
t once felt a great chasmopening itself between them two. They might gaze at one another from theopposite side, but without the possibility of ever meeting more; or, atleast, since the chasm could never be bridged over, they must treadthe whole round of Eternity to meet on the other side. There was evena terror in the thought of their meeting again. It was as if Hilda orMiriam were dead, and could no longer hold intercourse without violatinga spiritual law.
Yet, in the wantonness of her despair, Miriam made one more step towardsthe friend whom she had lost. "Do not come nearer, Miriam!" saidHilda. Her look and tone were those of sorrowful entreaty, and yetthey expressed a kind of confidence, as if the girl were conscious of asafeguard that could not be violated.
"What has happened between us, Hilda?" asked Miriam. "Are we notfriends?"
"No, no!" said Hilda, shuddering.
"At least we have been friends," continued Miriam. "I loved you dearly!I love you still! You were to me as a younger sister; yes, dearer thansisters of the same blood; for you and I were so lonely, Hilda, that thewhole world pressed us together by its solitude and strangeness. Then,will you not touch my hand? Am I not the same as yesterday?"
"Alas! no, Miriam!" said Hilda.
"Yes, the same, the same for you, Hilda," rejoined her lost friend."Were you to touch my hand, you would find it as warm to your grasp asever. If you were sick or suffering, I would watch night and day foryou. It is in such simple offices that true affection shows itself;and so I speak of them. Yet now, Hilda, your very look seems to put mebeyond the limits of human kind!"
"It is not I, Miriam," said Hilda; "not I that have done this."
"You, and you only, Hilda," replied Miriam, stirred up to make her owncause good by the repellent force which her friend opposed to her. "I ama woman, as I was yesterday; endowed with the same truth of nature, thesame warmth of heart, the same genuine and earnest love, which youhave always known in me. In any regard that concerns yourself, I am notchanged. And believe me, Hilda, when a human being has chosen a friendout of all the world, it is only some faithlessness between themselves,rendering true intercourse impossible, that can justify either friend insevering the bond. Have I deceived you? Then cast me off! Have I wrongedyou personally? Then forgive me, if you can. But, have I sinned againstGod and man, and deeply sinned? Then be more my friend than ever, for Ineed you more."
"Do not bewilder me thus, Miriam!" exclaimed Hilda, who had not forborneto express, by look and gesture, the anguish which this interviewinflicted on her. "If I were one of God's angels, with a natureincapable of stain, and garments that never could be spotted, I wouldkeep ever at your side, and try to lead you upward. But I am a poor,lonely girl, whom God has set here in an evil world, and given her onlya white robe, and bid her wear it back to Him, as white as when she putit on. Your powerful magnetism would be too much for me. The pure, whiteatmosphere, in which I try to discern what things are good and true,would be discolored. And therefore, Miriam, before it is too late, Imean to put faith in this awful heartquake which warns me henceforth toavoid you."
"Ah, this is hard! Ah, this is terrible!" murmured Miriam, dropping herforehead in her hands. In a moment or two she looked up again, as paleas death, but with a composed countenance: "I always said, Hilda, thatyou were merciless; for I had a perception of it, even while youloved me best. You have no sin, nor any conception of what it is; andtherefore you are so terribly severe! As an angel, you are not amiss;but, as a human creature, and a woman among earthly men and women, youneed a sin to soften you."
"God forgive me," said Hilda, "if I have said a needlessly cruel word!"
"Let it pass," answered Miriam; "I, whose heart it has smitten upon,forgive you. And tell me, before we part forever, what have you seen orknown of me, since we last met?"
"A terrible thing, Miriam," said Hilda, growing paler than before.
"Do you see it written in my face, or painted in my eyes?" inquiredMiriam, her trouble seeking relief in a half-frenzied raillery. "I wouldfain know how it is that Providence, or fate, brings eye-witnesses towatch us, when we fancy ourselves acting in the remotest privacy. Didall Rome see it, then? Or, at least, our merry company of artists? Or isit some blood-stain on me, or death-scent in my garments? They say thatmonstrous deformities sprout out of fiends, who once were lovely angels.Do you perceive such in me already? Tell me, by our past friendship,Hilda, all you know."
Thus adjured, and frightened by the wild emotion which Miriam could notsuppress, Hilda strove to tell what she had witnessed.
"After the rest of the party had passed on, I went back to speak toyou," she said; "for there seemed to be a trouble on your mind, and Iwished to share it with you, if you could permit me. The door of thelittle courtyard was partly shut; but I pushed it open, and saw youwithin, and Donatello, and a third person, whom I had before noticed inthe shadow of a niche. He approached you, Miriam. You knelt to him! Isaw Donatello spring upon him! I would have shrieked, but my throatwas dry. I would have rushed forward, but my limbs seemed rooted to theearth. It was like a flash of lightning. A look passed from your eyes toDonatello's--a look."--"Yes, Hilda, yes!" exclaimed Miriam, with intenseeagerness. "Do not pause now! That look?"
"It revealed all your heart, Miriam," continued Hilda, covering hereyes as if to shut out the recollection "a look of hatred, triumph,vengeance, and, as it were, joy at some unhoped-for relief."
"Ah! Donatello was right, then," murmured Miriam, who shook throughoutall her frame. "My eyes bade him do it! Go on, Hilda."
"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 drawa 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 wasgreatly disturbed. Henceforward I shall be quiet. Thank you, Hilda."
She was on the point of departing, but turned back again from thethreshold.
"This is a terrible secret to be kept in a young girl's bosom," sheobserved; "what will you do with it, my poor child?"
"Heaven help and guide me," answered Hilda, bursting into tears; "forthe burden of it crushes me to the earth! It seems a crime to knowof such a thing, and to keep it to myself. It knocks within my heartcontinually, threatening, imploring, insisting to be let out! O mymother!--my mother! Were she yet living, I would travel over land andsea to tell her this dark secret, as I told all the little troubles ofmy infancy. But I am alone--alone! Miriam, you were my dearest, onlyfriend. Advise me what to do."
This was a singular appeal, no doubt, from the stainless maiden to theguilty woman, whom she had just banished from her heart forever. Butit bore striking testimony to the impression which Miriam's naturaluprightness and impulsive generosity had made on the friend who knew herbest; and it deeply comforted the poor criminal, by proving to her thatthe bond between Hilda and herself was vital yet.
As far as she was able, Miriam at once responded to the girl's cry forhelp.
"If I deemed it good for your peace of mind," she said, "to beartestimony against me for this deed in the face of all the world, noconsideration of myself should weigh with me an instant. But I believethat you would find no relief in such a course. What men call justicelies chiefly in outward formalities, and has never the close applicationand fitness that would be satisfactory to a soul like yours. I cannot befairly tried and judged before an earthly tribunal; and of this, Hilda,you would perhaps become fatally conscious when it was too late. Romanjustice, 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 mysecret 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 noother friend, now that you have been forced to give me up?"
"No other," answered Hilda sadly.
"Yes; Kenyon!" rejoined Miriam.
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"He cannot be my friend," said Hilda, "because--because--I have fanciedthat he sought to be something more."
"Fear nothing!" replied Miriam, shaking her head, with a strange smile."This story will frighten his new-born love out of its little life, ifthat be what you wish. Tell him the secret, then, and take his wise andhonorable counsel as to what should next be done. I know not what elseto say."
"I never dreamed," said Hilda,--"how could you think it?--of betrayingyou to justice. But I see how it is, Miriam. I must keep your secret,and die of it, unless God sends me some relief by methods which are nowbeyond my power to imagine. It is very dreadful. Ah! now I understandhow the sins of generations past have created an atmosphere of sinfor those that follow. While there is a single guilty person in theuniverse, each innocent one must feel his innocence tortured by thatguilt. Your deed, Miriam, has darkened the whole sky!"
Poor Hilda turned from her unhappy friend, and, sinking on her knees ina corner of the chamber, could not be prevailed upon to utter anotherword. And Miriam, with a long regard from the threshold, bade farewellto this doves' nest, this one little nook of pure thoughts and innocententhusiasms, into which she had brought such trouble. Every crimedestroys more Edens than our own!
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