Frederick Walcheren had passed through his novitiate, and been
ordained. The die was cast. He was a priest. At first his duties
were much the same as they had been during his stay in college, with
the exception of ministering at the Mass. But, as he settled down
into his new position, they became more various. The church to which
he was attached was a very small one, belonging to his own sect of
the Servite fathers. It had only two priests attached to it, one of
whom was presently bound on a mission to the East. When he left,
Frederick Walcheren (or Father Walcheren as we must henceforward term
him) was to take his place. The novice entered on his new sphere of
action, dully, almost sullenly. He knew he was unfit for the office
he had undertaken, and was mad with himself for not having had more
moral courage than to accept it, and more moral fortitude to brave
the sneers, or the reproaches which would have accompanied his
relinquishment of the sacred office he had once believed himself able
and willing to fill. As he glanced round at his companions during their
hours of privacy, and read the indifference on one face, the weariness
on another, the melancholy on a third, and listened to the stilted
speech they considered it a sign of their calling to adopt, he felt
like the startled novice in Gustave Dore’s famous picture, who has his
eyes opened all at once to the earthliness of his surroundings--to the
truth that, Church or no Church, man’s nature is the same, and God can
subdue it just as well whilst he remains in the world, perhaps better,
than when he has given up the outward and visible sign of participation
in it.
One of Frederick’s first duties, naturally, lay amongst the poor of his
parish, and, in this department, he received a severe rebuke before
long, from his superior, Father Henniker, for not adopting a more
distinctly clerical form of speech when speaking with them of their
various ailments and troubles. In this dilemma, Frederick had recourse
to the counsel of his other priestly companion, Father Grogan.
Dennis Grogan was an Irishman, a man several years younger than
Frederick Walcheren, but who had entered the ministry some time before.
He was a genial, good-hearted young fellow, though somewhat unrefined,
as Irish priests are apt to be, and Walcheren felt less difficulty in
talking to him than to his superior.
‘Brother Grogan,’ he said one day when they found themselves, for a few
rare minutes, alone and at liberty, ‘how did you feel when you first
became a priest? Was it not all very strange to you?’
‘Strange!’ echoed Grogan, without raising his eyes from his missal,
‘how could that be, when my thoughts had been fixed on nothing else for
years beforehand?’
‘But it is so difficult all at once to shake off the habits and customs
of the world. For instance, I have been used all my life to plunge into
a bath as soon as I get out of bed, but Brother Henniker has given me a
long string of reasons, with none of which I agree, why it is desirable
that I should relinquish the habit.’
‘If he thinks so, you are bound to obey him! Why give another thought
to such a trifle?’
‘A trifle!’ cried Frederick, indignantly, ‘do you call cleanliness a
trifle? Why, it has been part of my religion! When I lost my wife--when
I had to give up all that made life endurable to me, I said there was
only one thing that might not go after it, and that was cold water! And
what harm can there be in it? I feel unfit for anything if I am not
clean.’
‘Perhaps the undue longing you have for this particular form of luxury
is the very reason you are now called upon to give it up, brother,’
replied Grogan. ‘Remember! there have been men so holy as to give up
washing altogether, for the love of God.’
‘Dirty beasts!’ cried Frederick, involuntarily, and then recalled to
the indiscretion of which he had been guilty, by the horror depicted in
his companion’s eyes, he added, ‘But you don’t really suppose that we
can please the Almighty by not washing our flesh, do you?’
‘I know that we cannot please Him, unless we pay the strictest
obedience to the commands of our superiors. You have not forgotten the
vows you have taken so lately already, surely, Brother Walcheren!’
‘Of course not, but I confess I was not prepared to find they included
the surveillance of my toilet. However, it will be all one a hundred
year hence. When I lost my wife, I lost everything!’
‘Brother,’ said Grogan, with his eyes still fixed on his book, ‘would
it not be wiser to leave off alluding to the time when you wallowed in
earthly sin? It seems to me that you think of it too much. You have
but one bride now, the holy Church, and you owe all your thoughts and
affections and aspirations to her.’
‘Do you mean that it is sin to think of, or allude to, my dear lost
angel?’ demanded Frederick.
‘I think our superior would say that it is your bounden duty to put all
the memories of the time when you lived with sinful companions, in a
sinful condition, on one side.’
‘Sinful companions!’ exclaimed Frederick, all the old man springing up
in him at once. ‘Do you mean to tell me you are alluding to my late
wife?’
‘I was certainly alluding to the time of sin, which, by God’s grace, we
trust you have put away from you for ever.’
‘_Sinful!_’ repeated Frederick, with a glowing face; ‘why, she was as
fresh and innocent as the dawn. She was worth all the priests that were
ever ordained put together! Sinful! It is all very well for you and me
to talk about our sins, acted and unacted, but never couple her memory
in my presence again with such a word, Brother Grogan, or I will not
answer for myself!’
And the newly-ordained priest rushed from the apartment to subdue his
unholy temper in the privacy of his own dormitory.
The conversation was duly reported to Father Henniker, who made a
note of it, with the intention of shipping Brother Walcheren to some
convenient station, a good distance from London, as soon as possible.
He was a brand plucked from the burning, but the brand was smoking
considerably still. The fire was not yet quenched, and required a good
deal more cold water poured on it before it should be. So he sent
Frederick much oftener amongst the poor. Here it was most palpably
borne in upon him that he had mistaken his mission. He found no
difficulty in talking to his poorer brethren, for he had a kind and
generous heart, and he felt deeply for their privations and sufferings.
But he found he was too apt to talk with them over their troubles, and
advise them on the best way to get out of them, instead of praying
with them and exhorting them to bless the Hand that had afflicted them.
He detected himself more than once lamenting that he had no private
purse from which he could have relieved their poverty, and telling them
not to rise when he entered the room, and pay him so much well-meant
attention when they were not fit to leave their seats. Once or twice he
gave vent to an expression, or a wish, that shocked himself--pulled him
up short, as it were, as he had been used to pull up his horses, in the
olden days, upon their haunches, in order to check their too animated
career. But, for a priest! Frederick’s constant inward cry now was,
‘Why did I ever suppose I was fit to become a priest?’
The face and form of his wife seemed to haunt him as much as they
did Henry Hindes, and he could not bring himself to confess, to his
fellow-priests, how constantly he thought and dreamed of her! He knew
he should do so--he had been reared in the belief that, if he omitted
one sin in confession, the whole was null and void, and absolution a
mockery. Yet, he could not, and he would not, mention Jenny’s name.
He consoled himself with the idea that it was not a sin; that she was
an angel in heaven, and he might dream of her just as soon as of the
Virgin Mary, or any other saint. Still, the fact remained that, where
he had sworn to render implicit obedience, he was thinking and acting
for himself, just as if he still inhabited that world which he had
voluntarily given up.
This tale is not written with the view of defending him. It only
endeavours to portray the workings of a mind that has promised to give
itself up into another man’s keeping, and finds that it cannot do so
without resigning its liberty of conscience--its rights as a man and a
child of God--all its strength, its decision and its humanity.
Frederick Walcheren had not yet been made a confessor. He was
considered to be too much of a novice--too young, and, perhaps, too
handsome for so difficult an office. And, in truth, he did not desire
it. He had received instruction in the duties of the confessional, and
they did not attract him. He said openly that he feared he should never
gain the _sangfroid_ necessary for such a delicate duty. He had been a
man of the world, accustomed to restrain his language and his allusions
before women, and the questions he was advised to put to young girls,
both of the educated and uneducated classes, shocked him to the last
degree. He felt that he never could ask them, never mind how long he
might be at the work--that he should feel himself blushing all over,
just as if he were in a drawing-room instead of a confessional. He
confided these scruples to his director, who begged him not to worry
himself on the subject--that it would all come natural to him in time,
and that, if his scruples did not vanish with custom, there were plenty
of other fields open to him beside the confessional.
The little church which he belonged to was called Saint Sebastian
del Torriano. Confessions were heard there on every day of the week,
if necessary, but the regular time for them was on Saturdays, between
three and six in the afternoon, when Fathers Henniker and Grogan were
always ready to receive their penitents, whilst Frederick conducted
Benediction. On one particular Saturday, however, just as the clock was
on the stroke of three, Father Grogan came hurriedly into the priests’
house, to tell Frederick that Father Henniker had been taken very ill
with spasms of the heart, and was totally unable to hear confessions.
_He_ was therefore to occupy the confessional instead of him, and they
had sent round to another church to ask the services of a brother
priest for Benediction, which did not commence until four o’clock.
Frederick was rather taken aback by this intelligence; however, there
was nothing to be done but to cast aside his book, don his priestly
vestment, and ensconce himself in Father Henniker’s confessional.
There were only two confessionals in Saint Sebastian del Torriano,
one on each side of the chancel. They were divided into two parts,
the closed box where the priest sat, and the open portion, which was
shaded by red baize curtains, where the penitent knelt. Between these
was a partition formed of perforated zinc. This rendered everything
behind it dark to the penitent. All he or she saw was the sheet of
zinc, through which their sins or troubles had to be whispered in the
confessor’s ear. The priest, on the contrary, could see the features
and expressions of the penitents plainly, on account of the light
thrown behind them by the opening of the curtains, which were too
narrow to draw quite close. Few of the penitents knew this. It gave
them confidence to believe they were unseen or recognised, and only
the _habitués_ of the church cared to discover their identity. Father
Walcheren walked into the confessional, feeling rather sheepish, and
a little shy. He soon found, however, that the penitents left him
but little to do. They provided all the talk themselves, and came
laden with a string of small vices to pour at his feet, with perfect
confidence of hearing the mechanical absolution pronounced over them
as soon as the list was completed. They were, for the most part,
women, both young and old. Some were in a tremendous hurry. He could
watch them from the body of the church fighting their way into the
confessional to get their business over as quickly as possible, almost
pushing their neighbours aside in order to reach him first. They were
accustomed to confess regularly every Saturday afternoon, and did it as
formally as they assumed their walking things to go out. But they were
in a bit of a hurry. They were going on to Mrs So-and-So’s afternoon
tea, or a flower _fête_ at the Botanical, or, perhaps, down to the
Crystal Palace to see a dog or cat show afterwards, and had promised
not to keep mamma waiting. Others, again, were old women, who brought
not only their own sins, but those of all their household, into the
confessional with them--related how bad their servants were, and what
difficulty they experienced in keeping their husbands in the straight
and narrow path. This sort of penitent showed no disposition whatever
to hasten, was deaf, indeed, to all the coughs that went on outside to
remind them that time was up, nor took any notice of the faces that
occasionally peered round the curtain to see if the confessor and
confessed had both fallen asleep, or died at their posts.
Frederick Walcheren felt sick and disgusted with his fellow-creatures
as he sat in Father Henniker’s place and listened to the mechanical
details of their faults and follies. Not one had approached him in a
sincere manner or an earnest voice. It had all been rattle, rattle,
prattle, prattle, get-it-over-as-quick-as-you-can sort of work, without
any evidences of faith, or feeling, or hearty repentance for the sins
they had committed. They had been told it was a religious duty--they
knew they couldn’t go to Holy Communion the next morning unless they
had confessed--and had they gone to bed that night without having done
so, they would have felt quite uneasy, because it had been their custom
for years, and not because they had any real penitence in their hearts.
Frederick Walcheren was musing much after this fashion, and pronouncing
the absolution upon one after another, wondering when the long string
would have come to an end, when the curtain was raised again and a man
stumbled into the confessional. He did not ask a blessing, but, as old
Catholics seldom do, knowing that as soon as they sink on their knees
it will be given them, Frederick pronounced it in the usual form, and
waited for the confession to follow. To his intense surprise, the first
words the man said were,--
‘I am not of your faith.’
His voice was so weak and husky that Frederick Walcheren did not at
first recognise it.
‘Indeed!’ he answered, in a low whisper. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I have a burden on my soul, an intolerable burden, and I
am told that, if I confess it, it will leave me. Will you give me
absolution?’
Frederick now looked at the stranger more particularly. He thought he
had heard his voice before, and, now he saw him plainly, he recognised,
to his intense astonishment, Henry Hindes. Yes! decidedly Henry
Hindes--the man for whom he had always had such an invincible dislike,
without knowing why--but so changed, in the short space of a year, that
he thought he should never have known him again had he not heard him
speak. His first impulse was to reveal his identity; the next moment
he remembered where he was, and for what purpose, and shrunk further
back on his seat, as if it were possible that the penitent should see
him as plainly as he was seen. But, when he addressed him again, he was
careful to disguise his own voice, and to speak as low as possible.
‘I cannot say if I can give you absolution,’ he answered, ‘until I have
heard your confession. But God never refuses it to the truly penitent.’
‘I _am_ penitent, God knows!’ replied Hindes. ‘My life is a misery to
me on account of my sin. I would wash it out with my life’s blood if it
were possible.’
‘I am listening to you,’ was all the answer that the priest made.
‘Are you quite, _quite_ sure that no one will hear me?’ demanded the
unhappy man.
‘No one but the God you have offended and myself,’ said Frederick, in
the same assumed tone; ‘but place your mouth close to the grating, and
speak low.’
Hindes did as was required of him, and began,--
‘I have committed a murder! Is there any hope for me?’
‘A murder!’ exclaimed the priest, startled; and then, remembering
himself, he added, ‘there is hope for all!’
‘It was a girl,’ resumed Hindes, in a shaking voice; ‘I had known her
from her childhood, and I had secretly loved her. She taunted me whilst
we were standing near some cliffs, and in my rage I--God forgive me!--I
pushed her over them.’
Frederick Walcheren was nearly rushing out of the confessional and
seizing his penitent by the throat; but he restrained himself in time.
But he could not speak plainly. He sat in his box, paralysed with
horror and his desire for revenge. How could he fail to guess what was
coming! The murderer of his Jenny knelt before him. He knew it for a
certainty, but he forced himself to reply,--
‘Go on! Tell all!’
‘I loved her,’ wailed Henry Hindes; ‘I would have given my life for
hers at any time, but she preferred another man, and ran away and
married him. I was commissioned by her father to pursue them and
bring her back, if possible. I followed her to Dover, and met her on
the cliffs. She was so lovely, so haughty in her pride and love for
that other man, that she drove me mad. I reasoned with her. She said
she hated me--had always done so--should do so to the end. It was
her defiant words that raised the devil in me. I saw her standing
perilously near the edge of the cliffs as she spoke to me, and put out
my hand to prevent an accident. I grasped her by the wrist. She thought
I was going to lay violent hands on her, and calling out, “Don’t touch
me! Do you want to murder me?” wrenched her hand from mine. She put it
into my head. I swear before God I never thought of it before. But,
when she said those words, the idea of preventing anybody ever having
her, since _I_ could not, flashed into my brain, and I pushed her--God
forgive me! I put out my hand and pushed her over the cliff. That is
the whole truth; but I have been a miserable man ever since, and Heaven
has avenged itself upon me! My only son has fallen down a flight of
stairs, and is likely to be a cripple for life. Give me absolution! I
am truly penitent! Lift this awful burden off my soul, and let me feel
I am forgiven.’
The priest did not answer, but sat in his box, with set teeth and
clenched hands, thinking, if he had his will, what he would do to the
wretch who had robbed him, in so brutal a manner, of his beautiful
young wife.
‘Speak to me! I implore you,’ wailed Henry Hindes. ‘I thought this
confession would ease my soul, but it feels no better. I repeat I am
truly penitent! Why cannot I have absolution? Is it because I am not of
your faith? I will promise to become a Catholic to-morrow if that will
bring me any peace. Speak! pray, speak!’
At last Frederick Walcheren understood that he must say something, or
his conduct would be open to misconstruction, but his voice sounded
like that of an old man; no need to disguise it now.
‘Absolution,’ he replied, ‘is for the truly penitent. There, you are
right! But the truly penitent make amends, for the wrongs they have
committed, to the world as well as to God. A foul, uncalled-for murder
needs expiation according to the law, as well as before heaven. The
blood of your victim cries to you from the ground. I have no power to
pronounce absolution over you until you have made what reparation the
law demands.’
‘Do you mean that I must confess it before men?’ asked Hindes, in a
cold sweat with terror.
‘Most certainly! You owe it to all of whom you stole her life! You
think only of your own misery and fear! What of her husband’s--her
parents’--the society which delighted in her youth, and beauty, and
innocence? Make your peace with them first, and then ask forgiveness of
God.’
‘Oh! I cannot, I cannot! I am a married man myself. I have a wife and
children dependent on me! God cannot wish me to own this deed--this
accident--it was more an accident than anything else. I did not think
what I was doing. My rage--my desire of revenge overcame my better
feelings. Had I stopped to consider for a moment, I should never have
done it. But there was no time. It happened so suddenly, before I
realised what my hasty touch would do. Oh! father, surely it will not
be accounted against me as a murder. I was wrong to call it by such a
name. It was an accident! a pure accident!’
The priest’s voice came back like a judgment.
‘I do not believe you, Henry Hindes.’
‘You know my name,’ cried the penitent, starting. ‘Who are you?’
‘One whom you also know, or have known, but that is irrelevant to the
matter in hand.’
‘You are mistaken! I know no priest, nor have ever known one,’ replied
Hindes, trembling.
All his anxiety now was to get out of the confessional before the
priest, who had evidently recognised his voice, should also see his
face. He little knew that he had been gazing at it all the while,
noting its expression, and watching every change that passed over it.
‘You are quite mistaken,’ he continued hurriedly; ‘I am not the person
you mentioned, nor have I ever heard the name before. I am a tradesman
from the North of England, and am only passing through town. I hoped
to hear better news from you, but it is of no consequence. I cannot
stay any longer. Good-afternoon!’
And then, his cunning coming to his aid, he added,--
‘I have been only trying to see how far I could go with you. A friend
told me I could get absolution for every sin in the calendar, so I
thought I would make up a story about a murder. I suppose it was very
wrong of me, but we had a bet on the subject, and I wanted to prove to
him that I was right. I trust you will forgive me.’
As he said the last words, he left the confessional, and prepared
to fly from the church. But, as he did so, the door which admitted
the confessor to his portion of the confessional also opened, and
the face of Frederick Walcheren looked forth from it. Hindes turned
involuntarily, and met his gaze, and with a low cry turned round and
literally ran out of the sacred building.