ch a course. What men call justice
lies chiefly in outward formalities, and has never the close application
and fitness that would be satisfactory to a soul like yours. I cannot be
fairly tried and judged before an earthly tribunal; and of this, Hilda,
you would perhaps become fatally conscious when it was too late. Roman
justice, above all things, is a byword. What have you to do with it?
Leave all such thoughts aside! Yet, Hilda, I would not have you keep my
secret imprisoned in your heart if it tries to leap out, and stings you,
like a wild, venomous thing, when you thrust it back again. Have you no
other friend, now that you have been forced to give me up?"

"No other," answered Hilda sadly.

"Yes; Kenyon!" rejoined Miriam.

"He cannot be my friend," said Hilda, "because--because--I have fancied
that he sought to be something more."

"Fear nothing!" replied Miriam, shaking her head, with a strange smile.
"This story will frighten his new-born love out of its little life, if
that be what you wish. Tell him the secret, then, and take his wise and
honorable counsel as to what should next be done. I know not what else
to say."

"I never dreamed," said Hilda,--"how could you think it?--of betraying
you to justice. But I see how it is, Miriam. I must keep your secret,
and die of it, unless God sends me some relief by methods which are now
beyond my power to imagine. It is very dreadful. Ah! now I understand
how the sins of generations past have created an atmosphere of sin
for those that follow. While there is a single guilty person in the
universe, each innocent one must feel his innocence tortured by that
guilt. Your deed, Miriam, has darkened the whole sky!"

Poor Hilda turned from her unhappy friend, and, sinking on her knees in
a corner of the chamber, could not be prevailed upon to utter another
word. And Miriam, with a long regard from the threshold, bade farewell
to this doves' nest, this one little nook of pure thoughts and innocent
enthusiasms, into which she had brought such trouble. Every crime
destroys more Edens than our own!

End of Project Gutenberg's The Marble Faun, Volume I., by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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