‘It is not my light. It is the light of the Church,’ said his companion.
‘But it has not shined on me,’ retorted Frederick, quickly. ‘You make me feel I am unfit for our holy office! I am a man still, not a neutral creature, without feelings, or passions, or warm, human blood running through my veins. If I imagined that ordination would cure me of all this, I was mistaken! It has failed to do so. On every side I receive the same advice. Don’t feel—don’t think—don’t remember! Be patient—be calm—be silent! Act, live, do your duty as if such things had never been, as if everything were right within you, and God had not taken the only thing which made your life worth living from you at one cruel blow!’
‘Hush! hush!’ interposed the priest. ‘When you compare the love you conceived for a sinful woman, whose charms only appealed to the lust of the eye, to the duty which you owe to the Almighty, you are uttering blasphemy.’
‘A sinful woman!’ echoed Frederick. ‘Who presumes to call her so? You forget she was my wife, father! No one shall ever call her “sinful” in my hearing, were it the Holy Father himself!’
‘I will not listen to such talk any longer,’ exclaimed Father Henniker, indignantly. ‘You are right when you say you have mistaken your vocation, Brother Walcheren! Leave my presence, and never enter it again whilst such feelings obtain the mastery over you!’
Frederick did as he was desired, biting his lips with indignation at the rebuff, and, retreating to his own room, did not speak to his superior for some days to come.
It was while he was still warring with the human passions which had been raised in his breast, that he was informed one evening that a gentleman desired to speak with him, and on demanding his name, received the card of Henry Hindes. A close observer might have seen Father Walcheren’s hands clench as he read the name on the card, but he told the man to admit the visitor to his private sanctum, in as calm a voice as he could muster. Whilst Henry Hindes was being conducted through the long stone passages, Frederick tried to make up his mind how he should address him, but his thoughts were all chaos. He stood like a statue, with his mind a blank, to receive—the murderer of his wife.
Hindes entered, looking very cringing and humiliated. He glanced round the small, bare chamber on entering, to see if there was any third person present to listen to their conversation, but perceiving they were alone, he plucked up courage to advance a little nearer. He had made up his mind to learn the worst, for he could wrestle no longer with his agony of suspense. As he advanced, Frederick Walcheren retreated till the distance of the room lay between them.
‘Not a step nearer, Mr Hindes,’ he ejaculated; ‘give me some chance of remaining master of myself! Now, what have you to say to me?’
‘Are you sure we are quite alone?’ inquired his visitor, glancing around him fearfully; ‘that we shall not be overheard?’