University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE DESERTED SHRINE.

Kenyon knew the sanctity which Hilda (faithful Protestant,
and daughter of the Puritans, as the girl was)
imputed to this shrine. He was aware of the profound
feeling of responsibility, as well earthly as religious, with
which her conscience had been impressed, when she became
the occupant of her aërial chamber, and undertook
the task of keeping the consecrated lamp alight. There
was an accuracy and a certainty about Hilda's movements,
as regarded all matters that lay deep enough to have their
roots in right or wrong, which made it as possible and safe
to rely upon the timely and careful trimming of this lamp
(if she were in life, and able to creep up the steps), as
upon the rising of to-morrow's sun, with lustre undiminished
from to-day.

The sculptor could scarcely believe his eyes, therefore,
when he saw the flame flicker and expire. His sight had
surely deceived him. And now, since the light did not
reappear, there must be some smoke-wreath or inpenetrable
mist brooding about the tower's gray old head, and
obscuring it from the lower world. But no! For right

over the dim battlements, as the wind chased away a mass
of clouds, he beheld a star, and, moreover, by an earnest
concentration of his sight, was soon able to discern even
the darkened shrine itself. There was no obscurity
around the tower; no infirmity of his own vision. The
flame had exhausted its supply of oil, and become extinct.
But where was Hilda?

A man in a cloak happened to be passing; and Kenyon
— anxious to distrust the testimony of his senses, if
he could get more acceptable evidence on the other side
— appealed to him.

“Do me the favor, signor,” said he, “to look at the top
of yonder tower, and tell me whether you see the lamp
burning at the Virgin's shrine.”

“The lamp, signor?” answered the man, without at
first troubling himself to look up. “The lamp that has
burned these four hundred years! how is it possible,
signor, that it should not be burning now?”

“But look!” said the sculptor, impatiently.

With good-natured indulgence for what he seemed to
consider as the whim of an eccentric Forestiero, the
Italian carelessly threw his eyes upwards; but, as soon
as he perceived that there was really no light, he lifted his
hands with a vivid expression of wonder and alarm.

“The lamp is extinguished!” cried he. “The lamp
that has been burning these four hundred years! This
surely must portend some great misfortune; and, by my
advice, signor, you will hasten hence, lest the tower tumble
on our heads. A priest once told me, that, if the Virgin
withdrew her blessing, and the light went out, the old

Palazzo del Torre would sink into the earth, with all that
dwell in it. There will be a terrible crash before morning!”

The stranger made the best of his way from the
doomed premises; while Kenyon, — who would willingly
have seen the tower crumble down before his eyes, on
condition of Hilda's safety, — determined, late as it was,
to attempt ascertaining if she were in her dove-cote.

Passing through the arched entrance, — which, as is
often the case with Roman entrances, was as accessible at
midnight as at noon, — he groped his way to the broad
staircase, and, lighting his wax taper, went glimmering up
the multitude of steps that led to Hilda's door. The hour
being so unseasonable, he intended merely to knock, and,
as soon as her voice from within should reassure him, to
retire, keeping his explanations and apologies for a fitter
time. Accordingly, reaching the lofty height where the
maiden, as he trusted, lay asleep, with angels watching
over her, though the Virgin seemed to have suspended
her care, he tapped lightly at the door-panels — then
knocked more forcibly — then thundered an impatient summons.
No answer came; Hilda evidently was not there.

After assuring himself that this must be the fact, Kenyon
descended the stairs, but made a pause at every successive
stage, and knocked at the door of its apartment,
regardless whose slumbers he might disturb, in his anxiety
to learn where the girl had last been seen. But, at each
closed entrance, there came those hollow echoes, which a
chamber, or any dwelling, great or small, never sends out,
in response to human knuckles or iron hammer, as long

as there is life within to keep its heart from getting
dreary.

Once, indeed, on the lower landing-place, the sculptor
fancied that there was a momentary stir, inside the door,
as if somebody were listening at the threshold. He
hoped, at least, that the small, iron-barred aperture would
be unclosed, through which Roman housekeepers are wont
to take careful cognizance of applicants for admission,
from a traditionary dread, perhaps, of letting in a robber
or assassin. But it remained shut; neither was the sound
repeated; and Kenyon concluded that his excited nerves
had played a trick upon his senses, as they are apt to do
when we most wish for the clear evidence of the latter.

There was nothing to be done, save to go heavily
away, and await whatever good or ill to-morrow's daylight
might disclose.

Betimes in the morning, therefore, Kenyon went back
to the Via Portoghese, before the slant rays of the sun
had descended half-way down the gray front of Hilda's
tower. As he drew near its base, he saw the doves
perched in full session, on the sunny height of the battlements,
and a pair of them — who were probably their
mistress's especial pets, and the confidants of her bosom-secrets,
if Hilda had any — came shooting down, and
made a feint of alighting on his shoulder. But, though
they evidently recognized him, their shyness would not
yet allow so decided a demonstration. Kenyon's eyes
followed them as they flew upward, hoping that they
might have come as joyful messengers of the girl's
safety, and that he should discern her slender form, half-hidden

by the parapet, trimming the extinguished lamp
at the Virgin's shrine, just as other maidens set about the
little duties of a household. Or, perhaps, he might see
her gentle and sweet face smiling down upon him, midway
towards heaven, as if she had flown hither for a day
or two, just to visit her kindred, but had been drawn
earthward again by the spell of unacknowledged love.

But his eyes were blessed by no such fair vision or
reality; nor, in truth, were the eager, unquiet flutterings
of the doves indicative of any joyful intelligence, which
they longed to share with Hilda's friend, but of anxious
inquiries that they knew not how to utter. They could
not tell, any more than he, whither their lost companion
had withdrawn herself, but were in the same void despondency
with him, feeling their sunny and airy lives
darkened and grown imperfect, now that her sweet society
was taken out of it.

In the brisk morning air, Kenyon found it much easier
to pursue his researches than at the preceding midnight,
when, if any slumberers heard the clamor that he made,
they had responded only with sullen and drowsy maledictions,
and turned to sleep again. It must be a very dear
and intimate reality for which people will be content to
give up a dream. When the sun was fairly up, however,
it was quite another thing. The heterogeneous population,
inhabiting the lower floor of the old tower, and the
other extensive regions of the palace, were now willing
to tell all they knew, and imagine a great deal more.
The amiability of these Italians, assisted by their sharp
and nimble wits, caused them to overflow with plausible

suggestions, and to be very bounteous in their avowals
of interest for the lost Hilda. In a less demonstrative
people, such expressions would have implied an eagerness
to search land and sea, and never rest till she were
found. In the mouths that uttered them, they meant
good wishes, and were, so far, better than indifference.
There was little doubt that many of them felt a genuine
kindness for the shy, brown-haired, delicate young foreign
maiden, who had flown from some distant land to alight
upon their tower, where she consorted only with the
doves. But their energy expended itself in exclamation,
and they were content to leave all more active measures
to Kenyon, and to the Virgin, whose affair it was, to see
that the faithful votary of her lamp received no harm.

In a great Parisian domicile, multifarious as its inhabitants
might be, the concierge under the archway would
be cognizant of all their incomings and issuings forth.
But, except in rare cases, the general entrance and main
staircase of a Roman house are left as free as the street,
of which they form a sort of by-lane. The sculptor,
therefore, could hope to find information about Hilda's
movements only from casual observers.

On probing the knowledge of these people to the bottom,
there was various testimony as to the period when
the girl had last been seen. Some said that it was four
days since there had been a trace of her; but an English
lady, in the second piano of the palace, was rather
of opinion that she had met her, the morning before, with
a drawing-book in her hand. Having no acquaintance
with the young person, she had taken little notice, and

might have been mistaken. A Count, on the piano next
above, was very certain that he had lifted his hat to
Hilda, under the archway, two afternoons ago. An old
woman, who had formerly tended the shrine, threw some
light upon the matter, by testifying that the lamp required
to be replenished once, at least, in three days, though its
reservoir of oil was exceedingly capacious.

On the whole, though there was other evidence enough
to create some perplexity, Kenyon could not satisfy himself
that she had been visible since the afternoon of the
third preceding day, when a fruit-seller remembered her
coming out of the arched passage, with a sealed packet
in her hand. As nearly as he could ascertain, this was
within an hour after Hilda had taken leave of the sculptor,
at his own studio, with the understanding that they
were to meet at the Vatican the next day. Two nights,
therefore, had intervened, during which the lost maiden
was unaccounted for.

The door of Hilda's apartments was still locked, as on
the preceding night; but Kenyon sought out the wife of
the person who sublet them, and prevailed on her to
give him admittance by means of the duplicate key, which
the good woman had in her possession. On entering, the
maidenly neatness and simple grace, recognizable in all the
arrangements, made him visibly sensible that this was the
daily haunt of a pure soul, in whom religion and the love
of beauty were as one.

Thence, the sturdy Roman matron led the sculptor
across a narrow passage, and threw open the door of a
small chamber, on the threshold of which he reverently

paused. Within, there was a bed, covered with white
drapery, enclosed with snowy curtains, like a tent, and of
barely width enough for a slender figure to repose upon it.
The sight of this cool, airy, and secluded bower, caused
the lover's heart to stir, as if enough of Hilda's gentle
dreams were lingering there to make him happy for a
single instant. But then came the closer consciousness of
her loss, bringing along with it a sharp sting of anguish.

“Behold, signor,” said the matron; “here is the little
staircase by which the signorina used to ascend and trim
the blessed Virgin's lamp. She was worthy to be a
Catholic, such pains the good child bestowed to keep it
burning; and doubtless the blessed Mary will intercede
for her, in consideration of her pious offices, heretic though
she was. What will become of the old palazzo, now that
the lamp is extinguished, the saints above us only know!
Will you mount, signor, to the battlements, and see if she
have left any trace of herself there?”

The sculptor stepped across the chamber and ascended
the little staircase, which gave him access to the breezy
summit of the tower. It affected him inexpressibly to see
a bouquet of beautiful flowers beneath the shrine, and to
recognize in them an offering of his own to Hilda, who
had put them in a vase of water and dedicated them to
the Virgin, in a spirit partly fanciful, perhaps, but still
partaking of the religious sentiment which so profoundly
influenced her character. One rose-bud, indeed, she had
selected for herself from the rich mass of flowers; for
Kenyon well remembered recognizing it in her bosom,
when he last saw her at his studio.

“That little part of my great love she took,” said he
to himself. “The remainder she would have devoted to
heaven; but has left it withering in the sun and wind.
Ah! Hilda, Hilda, had you given me a right to watch
over you, this evil had not come!”

“Be not downcast, signorino mio,” said the Roman
matron, in response to the deep sigh which struggled out
of Kenyon's breast. “The dear little maiden, as we see,
has decked yonder blessed shrine as devoutly as I myself,
or any other good Catholic woman, could have done. It
is a religious act, and has more than the efficacy of a
prayer. The signorina will as surely come back as the
sun will fall through the window to-morrow no less than
to-day. Her own doves have often been missing for a day
or two, but they were sure to come fluttering about her
head again, when she least expected them. So will it be
with this dovelike child.”

“It might be so,” thought Kenyon, with yearning anxiety;
“if a pure maiden were as safe as a dove, in this
evil world of ours.”

As they returned through the studio, with the furniture
and arrangements of which the sculptor was familiar, he
missed a small, ebony writing-desk that he remembered
as having always been placed on a table there. He knew
that it was Hilda's custom to deposit her letters in this
desk, as well as other little objects of which she wished to
be specially careful.

“What has become of it?” he suddenly inquired, laying
his hand on the table.

“Become of what, pray?” exclaimed the woman, a

little disturbed. “Does the signor suspect a robbery
then?”

“The signorina's writing-desk is gone,” replied Kenyon;
“it always stood on this table, and I myself saw it
there only a few days ago.”

“Ah, well!” said the woman, recovering her composure,
which she seemed partly to have lost. “The
signorina has doubtless taken it away with her. The fact
is of good omen; for it proves that she did not go unexpectedly,
and is likely to return when it may best suit her
convenience.”

“This is very singular,” observed Kenyon. “Have
the rooms been entered by yourself, or any other person,
since the signorina's disappearance?”

“Not by me, signor, so help me heaven and the
saints!” said the matron. “And I question whether
there are more than two keys in Rome, that will suit
this strange, old lock. Here is one; and as for the other,
the signorina carries it in her pocket.”

The sculptor had no reason to doubt the word of
this respectable dame. She appeared to be well-meaning
and kind-hearted, as Roman matrons generally are;
except when a fit of passion incites them to shower horrible
curses on an obnoxious individual, or perhaps to
stab him with the steel stiletto that serves them for a
hair-pin. But Italian asseverations of any questionable
fact, however true they may chance to be, have no witness
of their truth in the faces of those who utter them.
Their words are spoken with strange earnestness, and yet
do not vouch for themselves as coming from any depth,

like roots drawn out of the substance of the soul, with
some of the soil clinging to them. There is always a
something inscrutable, instead of frankness, in their eyes.
In short, they lie so much like truth, and speak truth so
much as if they were telling a lie, that their auditor suspects
himself in the wrong, whether he believes or disbelieves
them; it being the one thing certain, that falsehood
is seldom an intolerable burden to the tenderest of
Italian consciences.

“It is very strange what can have become of the
desk!” repeated Kenyon, looking the woman in the
face.

“Very strange, indeed, signor,” she replied, meekly,
without turning away her eyes in the least, but checking
his insight of them at about half-an-inch below the
surface. “I think the signorina must have taken it with
her.”

It seemed idle to linger here any longer. Kenyon
therefore departed, after making an arrangement with the
woman, by the terms of which she was to allow the apartments
to remain in their present state, on his assuming
the responsibility for the rent.

He spent the day in making such further search and
investigation as he found practicable; and, though at first
trammelled by an unwillingness to draw public attention
to Hilda's affairs, the urgency of the circumstances soon
compelled him to be thoroughly in earnest. In the course
of a week, he tried all conceivable modes of fathoming
the mystery, not merely by his personal efforts and those
of his brother-artists and friends, but through the police

who readily undertook the task, and expressed strong
confidence of success. But the Roman police has very
little efficacy, except in the interest of the despotism of
which it is a tool. With their cocked hats, shoulder-belts,
and swords, they wear a sufficiently imposing aspect, and
doubtless keep their eyes open wide enough to track a
political offender, but are too often blind to private outrage,
be it murder or any lesser crime. Kenyon counted
little upon their assistance, and profited by it not at all.

Remembering the mystic words which Miriam had addressed
to him, he was anxious to meet her, but knew
not whither she had gone, nor how to obtain an interview
either with herself or Donatello. The days wore away,
and still there were no tidings of the lost one; no lamp
rekindled before the Virgin's shrine; no light shining
into the lover's heart; no star of Hope — he was ready
to say, as he turned his eyes almost reproachfully upward
— in heaven itself!