"Do not say you are no saint!" answered Kenyon with a smile, though he
felt that the tears stood in his eves. "You will still be Saint Hilda,
whatever church may canonize you."
"Ah! you would not have said so, had you seen me but an hour ago!"
murmured she. "I was so wretched, that there seemed a grievous sin in
it."
"And what has made you so suddenly happy?" inquired the sculptor. "But
first, Hilda, will you not tell me why you were so wretched?"
"Had I met you yesterday, I might have told you that," she replied.
"To-day, there is no need."
"Your happiness, then?" said the sculptor, as sadly as before. "Whence
comes it?"
"A great burden has been lifted from my heart--from my conscience, I had
almost said,"--answered Hilda, without shunning the glance that he fixed
upon her. "I am a new creature, since this morning, Heaven be praised
for it! It was a blessed hour--a blessed impulse--that brought me
to this beautiful and glorious cathedral. I shall hold it in loving
remembrance while I live, as the spot where I found infinite peace after
infinite trouble."
Her heart seemed so full, that it spilt its new gush of happiness, as
it were, like rich and sunny wine out of an over-brimming goblet. Kenyon
saw that she was in one of those moods of elevated feeling, when the
soul is upheld by a strange tranquility, which is really more passionate
and less controllable than emotions far exceeding it in violence. He
felt that there would be indelicacy, if he ought not rather to call it
impiety, in his stealing upon Hilda, while she was thus beyond her
own guardianship, and surprising her out of secrets which she might
afterwards bitterly regret betraying to him. Therefore, though yearning
to know what had happened, he resolved to forbear further question.
Simple and earnest people, however, being accustomed to speak from their
genuine impulses, cannot easily, as craftier men do, avoid the subject
which they have at heart. As often as the sculptor unclosed his lips,
such words as these were ready to burst out:--"Hilda, have you flung
your angelic purity into that mass of unspeakable corruption, the Roman
Church?"
"What were you saying?" she asked, as Kenyon forced back an almost
uttered exclamation of this kind.
"I was thinking of what you have just remarked about the cathedral,"
said he, looking up into the mighty hollow of the dome. "It is indeed
a magnificent structure, and an adequate expression of the Faith which
built it. When I behold it in a proper mood,--that is to say, when I
bring my mind into a fair relation with the minds and purposes of its
spiritual and material architects,--I see but one or two criticisms to
make. One is, that it needs painted windows."