University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE WORLD'S CATHEDRAL.

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.

“Oh, help! Oh, 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?”

“Oh, 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 rod 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 towards 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 England 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.
“Oh, 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 burden 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 him 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.