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.