_ Still gliding onward, Hilda now looked up into the dome, where the
sunshine came through the western windows, and threw across long
shafts of light. They rested upon the mosaic figures of two
evangelists above the cornice. These great beams of radiance,
traversing what seemed the empty space, were made visible in misty
glory, by the holy cloud of incense, else unseen, which had risen into
the middle dome. It was to Hilda as if she beheld the worship of the
priest and people ascending heavenward, purified from its alloy of
earth, and acquiring celestial substance in the golden atmosphere to
which it aspired, She wondered if angels did not sometimes hover
within the dome, and show themselves, in brief glimpses, floating amid
the sunshine and the glorified vapor, to those who devoutly worshipped
on the pavement.
She had now come into the southern transept. Around this portion of
the church are ranged a number of confessionals. They are small
tabernacles of carved wood, with a closet for the priest in the centre;
and, on either side, a space for a penitent to kneel, and breathe his
confession through a perforated auricle into the good father's ear.
Observing this arrangement, though already familiar to her, our poor
Hilda was anew impressed with the infinite convenience--if we may use
so poor a phrase--of the Catholic religion to its devout believers.
Who, in truth, that considers the matter, can resist a similar
impression! In the hottest fever-fit of life, they can always find,
ready for their need, a cool, quiet, beautiful place of worship. They
may enter its sacred precincts at any hour, leaving the fret and
trouble of the world behind them, and purifying themselves with a
touch of holy water at the threshold. In the calm interior, fragrant
of rich and soothing incense, they may hold converse with some saint,
their awful, kindly friend. And, most precious privilege of all,
whatever perplexity, sorrow, guilt, may weigh upon their souls, they
can fling down the dark burden at the foot of the cross, and go
forth--to sin no more, nor be any longer disquieted; but to live again
in the freshness and elasticity of innocence.
"Do not these inestimable advantages," thought Hilda, "or some of them
at least, belong to Christianity itself? Are they not a part of the
blessings which the system was meant to bestow upon mankind? Can the
faith in which I was born and bred be perfect, if it leave a weak girl
like me to wander, desolate, with this great trouble crushing me
down?"
A poignant anguish thrilled within her breast; it was like a thing
that had life, and was struggling to get out.
"O help! O help!" cried Hilda; "I cannot, cannot bear it!"
Only by the reverberations that followed--arch echoing the sound to
arch, and a pope of bronze repeating it to a pope of marble, as each
sat enthroned over his tomb--did Hilda become aware that she had
really spoken above her breath. But, in that great space, there is no
need to hush up the heart within one's own bosom, so carefully as
elsewhere; and if the cry reached any distant auditor, it came broken
into many fragments, and from various quarters of the church.
Approaching one of the confessionals, she saw a woman kneeling within.
Just as Hilda drew near, the penitent rose, came forth, and kissed
the hand of the priest, who regarded her with a look of paternal
benignity, and appeared to be giving her some spiritual counsel, in a
low voice. She then knelt to receive his blessing, which was
fervently bestowed. Hilda was so struck with the peace and joy in the
woman's face, that, as the latter retired, she could not help speaking
to her.
"You look very happy!" said she. "Is it so sweet, then, to go to the
confessional?"
"O, very sweet, my dear signorina!" answered the woman, with moistened
eyes and an affectionate smile; for she was so thoroughly softened
with what she had been doing, that she felt as if Hilda were her
younger sister. "My heart is at rest now. Thanks be to the Saviour,
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints, and this good father, there is
no more trouble for poor Teresa!"
"I am glad for your sake," said Hilda, sighing for her own. "I am a
poor heretic, but a human sister; and I rejoice for you!"
She went from one to another of the confessionals, and, looking at
each, perceived that they were inscribed with gilt letters: on one,
Pro Italica Lingua; on another, Pro Flandrica Lingua; on a third, Pro
Polonica Lingua; on a fourth, Pro Illyrica Lingua; on a fifth, Pro
Hispanica Lingua. In this vast and hospitable cathedral, worthy to be
the religious heart of the whole world, there was room for all nations;
there was access to the Divine Grace for every Christian soul; there
was an ear for what the overburdened heart might have to murmur, speak
in what native tongue it would.
When Hilda had almost completed the circuit of the transept, she came
to a confessional--the central part was closed, but a mystic room
protruded from it, indicating the presence of a priest within--on
which was inscribed, Pro Anglica Lingua.
It was the word in season! If she had heard her mother's voice from
within the tabernacle, calling her, in her own mother-tongue, to come
and lay her poor head in her lap, and sob out all her troubles, Hilda
could not have responded with a more inevitable obedience. She did
not think; she only felt. Within her heart was a great need. Close
at hand, within the veil of the confessional, was the relief. She
flung herself down in the penitent's place; and, tremulously,
passionately, with sobs, tears, and the turbulent overflow of emotion
too long repressed, she poured out the dark story which had infused
its poison into her innocent life.
Hilda had not seen, nor could she now see, the visage of the priest.
But, at intervals, in the pauses of that strange confession, half
choked by the struggle of her feelings toward an outlet, she heard a
mild, calm voice, somewhat mellowed by age. It spoke soothingly; it
encouraged her; it led her on by apposite questions that seemed to be
suggested by a great and tender interest, and acted like magnetism in
attracting the girl's confidence to this unseen friend. The priest's
share in the interview, indeed, resembled that of one who removes the
stones, clustered branches, or whatever entanglements impede the
current of a swollen stream. Hilda could have imagined--so much to
the purpose were his inquiries--that he was already acquainted with
some outline of what she strove to tell him.
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!"
"Then wherefore," rejoined the priest, with somewhat less mildness in
his tone,--"wherefore, I ask again, have you taken possession, as I
may term it, of this holy ordinance; being a heretic, and neither
seeking to share, nor having faith in, the unspeakable advantages
which the Church offers to its penitents?"
"Father," answered Hilda, trying to tell the old man the simple truth,
"I am a motherless girl, and a stranger here in Italy. I had only God
to take care of me, and be my closest friend; and the terrible,
terrible crime, which I have revealed to you, thrust itself between
him and me; so that I groped for him in the darkness, as it were, and
found him not,--found nothing but a dreadful solitude, and this crime
in the midst of it! I could not bear it. It seemed as if I made the
awful guilt my own, by keeping it hidden in my heart. I grew a
fearful thing to myself. I was going mad!"
"It was a grievous trial, my poor child!" observed the confessor.
"Your relief, I trust, will prove to be greater than you yet know!"
"I feel already how immense it is!" said Hilda, looking gratefully in
his face. "Surely, father, it was the hand of Providence that led me
hither, and made me feel that this vast temple of Christianity, this
great home of religion, must needs contain some cure, some ease, at
least, for my unutterable anguish. And it has proved so. I have told
the hideous secret; told it under the sacred seal of the confessional;
and now it will burn my poor heart no more!"
"But, daughter," answered the venerable priest, not unmoved by what
Hilda said, "you forget! you mistake!--you claim a privilege to which
you have not entitled yourself! The seal of the confessional, do you
say? God forbid that it should ever be broken where it has been
fairly impressed; but it applies only to matters that have been
confided to its keeping in a certain prescribed method, and by persons,
moreover, who have faith in the sanctity of the ordinance. I hold
myself, and any learned casuist of the Church would hold me, as free
to disclose all the particulars of what you term your confession, as
if they had come to my knowledge in a secular way."
"This is not right, father!" said Hilda, fixing her eyes on the old
man's.
"Do not you see, child," he rejoined, with some little heat, "with all
your nicety of conscience, cannot you recognize it as my duty to make
the story known to the proper authorities; a great crime against
public justice being involved, and further evil consequences likely to
ensue?"
"No, father, no!" answered Hilda, courageously, her cheeks flushing
and her eyes brightening as she spoke. "Trust a girl's simple heart
sooner than any casuist of your Church, however learned he may be.
Trust your own heart, too! I came to your confessional, father, as I
devoutly believe, by the direct impulse of Heaven, which also brought
you hither to-day, in its mercy and love, to relieve me of a torture
that I could no longer bear. I trusted in the pledge which your
Church has always held sacred between the priest and the human soul,
which, through his medium, is struggling towards its Father above.
What I have confided to you lies sacredly between God and yourself.
Let it rest there, father; for this is right, and if you do otherwise,
you will perpetrate a great wrong, both as a priest and a man! And
believe me, no question, no torture, shall ever force my lips to utter
what would be necessary, in order to make my confession available
towards the punishment of the guilty ones. Leave Providence to deal
with them!"
"My quiet little countrywoman," said the priest, with half a smile on
his kindly old face, "you can pluck up a spirit, I perceive, when you
fancy an occasion for one."
"I have spirit only to do what I think right," replied Hilda simply.
"In other respects I am timorous."
"But you confuse yourself between right feelings and very foolish
inferences," continued the priest, "as is the wont of women,--so much
I have learnt by long experience in the confessional,--be they young
or old. However, to set your heart at rest, there is no probable need
for me to reveal the matter. What you have told, if I mistake not,
and perhaps more, is already known in the quarter which it most
concerns."
"Known!" exclaimed Hilda. "Known to the authorities of Rome! And
what will be the consequence?"
"Hush!" answered the confessor, laying his finger on his lips. "I
tell you my supposition--mind, it is no assertion of the fact--in
order that you may go the more cheerfully on your way, not deeming
yourself burdened with any responsibility as concerns this dark deed.
And now, daughter, what have you to give in return for an old man's
kindness and sympathy?"
"My grateful remembrance," said Hilda, fervently, "as long as I live!"
"And nothing more?" the priest inquired, with a persuasive smile.
"Will you not reward him with a great joy; one of the last joys that
he may know on earth, and a fit one to take with him into the better
world? In a word, will you not allow me to bring you as a stray lamb
into the true fold? You have experienced some little taste of the
relief and comfort which the Church keeps abundantly in store for all
its faithful children. Come home, dear child,--poor wanderer, who
hast caught a glimpse of the heavenly light,--come home, and be at
rest."
"Father," said Hilda, much moved by his kindly earnestness, in which,
however, genuine as it was, there might still be a leaven of
professional craft, "I dare not come a step farther than Providence
shall guide me. Do not let it grieve you, therefore, if I never
return to the confessional; never dip my fingers in holy water; never
sign my bosom with the cross. I am a daughter of the Puritans. But,
in spite of my heresy," she added with a sweet, tearful smile, "you
may one day see the poor girl, to whom you have done this great
Christian kindness, coming to remind you of it, and thank you for it,
in the Better Land."
The old priest shook his head. But, as he stretched out his hands at
the same moment, in the act of benediction, Hilda knelt down and
received the blessing with as devout a simplicity as any Catholic of
them all. _