‘Do you mean to say she is not happy now? That she has not already entered into the joys of Heaven?’ asked Frederick anxiously.
‘My dear cousin, you have surely not so far forgotten the precepts of our Holy Church as to imagine that Heaven is obtained without purgatory—bliss without self-sacrifice. This poor girl, however innocent and blameless she may have seemed, will have her expiation to pass through, as well as all of us. But we can pray for her, that she may find relief. We can yield up our own wishes, our own pleasures, that she may the sooner pass from purgatory to Paradise. Much will rest with you. Your future life will make or mar her progress to the gates of Heaven!’
‘It shall not mar it,’ replied Frederick, brokenly; ‘my life is worth nothing to me now, and I will give it into your hands and Father Tasker’s to do with as you think fit!’
Philip Walcheren smiled inwardly, not sardonically, for he was in earnest if man ever was, but with sublime satisfaction that the Almighty had seen fit to deliver the soul of this bruised reed into the power of the Church. He had no doubt now but that his hopes for his cousin’s future were assured, and the poisoned barb had gone home so deeply that whilst the sting lasted he would be able to wield Frederick as he chose. But he was too prudent to press the subject home at the present moment. He contented himself with consoling his cousin to the best of his ability, always keeping before him the power and influence of the Blessed Mother of God, and her interest in the souls of young girls, like the poor dead child before them, until the miserable husband was almost supplicating the Virgin of his boyhood, then and there, to save his darling from the pit his misdeeds had drawn her into—he, who had not breathed a prayer for years past.
Philip Walcheren stayed by him all through that night and until the coroner’s jury assembled on the following afternoon. At the appointed hour a noise, as of the trampling of many feet, sounded in the public bar of the house, and Philip touched Frederick gently on the shoulder.
‘Fred, dear old man, rouse yourself. Here are the coroner and jury coming to view the body. And Mr Crampton and Mr Hindes wish to come in first. Be brave, my dear cousin. It is a painful but necessary ordeal. Stand apart a little and let your wife’s father have access to the body. It is his right, you know.’
The young man stood up mechanically, and taking Philip’s arm staggered to the other side of the room. Mr Crampton entered, leaning on Henry Hindes. The latter was suffering the tortures of the damned. His eyes were not still for a moment, and his whole frame shook and quivered. The sight of the crushed and pallid corpse struck both men like a heavy blow. Old Crampton gazed at it for a minute, muttering, ‘My God! My God! can that be my Jenny?’ but Hindes said nothing, and kept his eyes turned on Frederick Walcheren. Presently Mr Crampton’s followed suit, and the sight appeared to rouse him into fury.
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, ‘there lies my murdered child, and there stands her murderer.’
‘Crampton, Crampton, think what you are saying!’ cried Hindes, shaking his friend’s arm, whilst Philip Walcheren said angrily, ‘If the effect of this sad sight, which should draw two men in misfortune together, is only to cause you to make malevolent and unjustifiable accusations, sir, I shall be compelled, as my cousin’s friend, to request you to leave the room. This lady may have been your daughter, but she was his wife, and as such, no one has a right to intrude upon his grief.’
‘Ay, Ay! a wife he stole from me, sir—that he stole from me, and murdered!’ repeated the old man, shaking with rage.