‘In the confessional?’
‘Yes; Father Henniker was taken suddenly ill this afternoon, with one of his heart attacks, and I was called upon to take his place. After a while a man entered, whom I recognised at the first glance. It was—’
‘Hush! hush! stop my dear brother; what are you thinking of?’ exclaimed the elder priest, warningly. ‘You must not repeat any names. Remember, the confessional is sacred.’
‘All right, father, I won’t; but it will have to come out some day. Well, this man entered, and after telling me he was not a Catholic, said he had a great burden on his mind and wished to try if confession would ease it. He then went on to give me the whole details of my darling’s murder—how he had gone down to Dover and met her on the cliffs, and she had repulsed and taunted him—I can see her doing it, my poor, brave girl!—and how he had pushed her deliberately over the rocks to the shingles below. He said he had been miserable ever since, as well he may have been, the brute! and had the audacity to ask me for absolution for his crime.’
‘Did you give it him?’
‘Not I! I felt much more like giving him his quietus for evermore! I told him, if he were penitent, to go and make his peace with the law first, and then ask for the forgiveness of Heaven. It was all I could do to speak to him with any degree of decency.’
‘Do you think he did not recognise you, brother?’
‘Not till the last, when I opened the half door and looked at him. He knew me then and ran away, horrified, no doubt, at his own indiscretion. And now, father, tell me what steps can I take? To whom should I go? I feel as if I could not pass through the Sunday services with this black secret in my keeping. Tell me downright, what shall I do?’
Father Tasker looked at him sadly.
‘You should know better than to ask me. You can do nothing!’