When Hilda and himself turned away from the unfinished bust, the
sculptor's mind still dwelt upon the reminiscences which it suggested.
"You have not seen Donatello recently," he remarked, "and therefore
cannot be aware how sadly he is changed."
"No wonder!" exclaimed Hilda, growing pale.
The terrible scene which she had witnessed, when Donatello's face
gleamed out in so fierce a light, came back upon her memory, almost
for the first time since she knelt at the confessional. Hilda, as is
sometimes the case with persons whose delicate organization requires
a peculiar safeguard, had an elastic faculty of throwing off such
recollections as would be too painful for endurance. The first shock
of Donatello's and Miriam's crime had, indeed, broken through the frail
defence of this voluntary forgetfulness; but, once enabled to relieve
herself of the ponderous anguish over which she had so long brooded, she
had practised a subtile watchfulness in preventing its return.
"No wonder, do you say?" repeated the sculptor, looking at her with
interest, but not exactly with surprise; for he had long suspected that
Hilda had a painful knowledge of events which he himself little more
than surmised. "Then you know!--you have heard! But what can you
possibly have heard, and through what channel?"
"Nothing!" replied Hilda faintly. "Not one word has reached my ears from
the lips of any human being. Let us never speak of it again! No, no!
never again!"
"And Miriam!" said Kenyon, with irrepressible interest. "Is it also
forbidden to speak of her?"
"Hush! do not even utter her name! Try not to think of it!" Hilda
whispered. "It may bring terrible consequences!"
"My dear Hilda!" exclaimed Kenyon, regarding her with wonder and deep
sympathy. "My sweet friend, have you had this secret hidden in your
delicate, maidenly heart, through all these many months! No wonder that
your life was withering out of you."
"It was so, indeed!" said Hilda, shuddering. "Even now, I sicken at the
recollection."
"And how could it have come to your knowledge?" continued the sculptor.
"But no matter! Do not torture yourself with referring to the subject.
Only, if at any time it should be a relief to you, remember that we can
speak freely together, for Miriam has herself suggested a confidence
between us."
"Miriam has suggested this!" exclaimed Hilda. "Yes, I remember, now, her
advising that the secret should be shared with you. But I have
survived the death struggle that it cost me, and need make no further
revelations. And Miriam has spoken to you! What manner of woman can
she be, who, after sharing in such a deed, can make it a topic of
conversation with her friends?"
"Ah, Hilda," replied Kenyon, "you do not know, for you could never
learn it from your own heart, which is all purity and rectitude, what
a mixture of good there may be in things evil; and how the greatest
criminal, if you look at his conduct from his own point of view, or from
any side point, may seem not so unquestionably guilty, after all. So
with Miriam; so with Donatello. They are, perhaps, partners in what we
must call awful guilt; and yet, I will own to you,--when I think of the
original cause, the motives, the feelings, the sudden concurrence of
circumstances thrusting them onward, the urgency of the moment, and
the sublime unselfishness on either part,--I know not well how to
distinguish it from much that the world calls heroism. Might we not
render some such verdict as this?--'Worthy of Death, but not unworthy of
Love! '"