It was the chaplain.
Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word against him—for the narrowness and formality of his religious belief sometimes annoyed and were a hindrance to me—remember it not. Set down his name, the Reverend James Thorley, on the list of those whom I wish to be kept always in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely honoured, and who have been most kind to me of all my friends.
The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I thanked him for coming, replied in the manner which I had many a time heard him use in convict cells:—
“I came, sir,' because I felt it to be my duty.”
“Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it, and thank you.”
And we remained silent—both standing—for he declined my offer of a chair. Noticing my preparations, he said, with some agitation, “Am I hindering your plans for departure? Are you afraid of the law?”
“No.”
He seemed relieved; then, after a long examining look at me, quite broke down.
“O Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is! who would have believed it of you!” It was very bitter, Theodora.
When he saw that I attempted neither answer nor defence, the chaplain continued sternly:—“I come here, sir, not to pry into your secrets, but to fulfil my duty as a minister of God; to urge you to make confession, not unto me, but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye you cannot escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you to punishment. But perhaps,” seeing I bore with composure these and many similar arguments; alas, they were only too familiar! “perhaps I am labouring under a strange mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as soon have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you. For God's sake break this reserve, and tell me all.”