‘You insulted her, in fact,’ exclaimed Frederick, making a step forward.
‘No, Mr Walcheren, no,’ cried the coward, cringing before him; ‘I did not, upon my honour.’
‘Your honour,’ sneered the other.
‘I did not insult her; indeed I thought too highly of her for that. But she goaded me on to saying what I did. And then she turned round on me with such bitter scorn that she drove me beside myself. She almost spurned me from her in her mocking pride, and I saw she was perilously near the edge of the cliff. I stretched out my hand and laid it on her arm to save her from falling backward. But she wrenched her wrist from my grasp, crying out, “You brute! You want to push me over the cliffs now, I suppose.” Upon my soul, Mr Walcheren, I had never dreamt of such an awful thing before. But, as she said the words, I suppose the devil entered into me,—something did, at any rate—and I thought, “And if I do, no one will have you evermore. If I can never hope to call you mine, I can prevent Walcheren doing so.” I was mad—I must have been mad—for I had loved her so dearly, ever since she was a little child, and yet, at that moment, I seemed to have but one wish—to see her out of the reach of everybody, even myself—to know she would be unable ever again to taunt me, or despise me, or laugh over my infatuation. So, without thinking of the consequences, I gave her a push backwards instead of a pull forwards, and you know the rest. She fell—and I have never known a happy hour since. I don’t think I shall ever have a happy hour again.’
‘Not if I can help it!’ replied Frederick, with emphasis.
Hindes started, and changed colour.
‘But you cannot betray me. My revelation is sacred. You said yourself that the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’
‘I know I did. But this is not a confessional, Mr Hindes.’
The wretched man glared round him like a rat who has been trapped.
‘Do you mean to say that you are not bound to keep secrets told out of the church?’