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.