Kate’s love for her father was deep, but she could not move a single step merely to pacify him. She could have yielded herself entirely to him in worldly matters; she would have doubted many of her strongest beliefs if he had contested them; she would have given up all her happiness for him; she would have died for him; but she could not let go the faintest of her religious dreams, although it was impossible to put them into words.
She wrote her letter to the priest. She found him living in a cottage and was somewhat taken aback when she entered.
There were hardly any books to be seen, but a crucifix hung on the wall.
‘Miss Radcliffe—an old and honoured name! What can be the object of your visit?’
‘Father, I am in distress. I want something which perhaps you can give.’
‘Ah, my child, I understand. You would like to confess, but you are Protestant; I cannot absolve you. Return to the true fold and you can be released.’
‘O Father, I have committed no crime; I come to you because I doubt and I must believe.’
The holy father was unused to such a penitent, and was perplexed and agitated.
‘Doubt, my child—yes, even the faithful are sometimes troubled with doubt, a temptation from the Enemy of souls. Were you one of the flock I could prescribe for you. But perhaps you mean doubt of the heresies of your communion. In that case I can recommend a little manual. Take it away with you, study it, and see me again.’
‘Father,’ said Kate, pointing to the crucifix, ‘did He, the Son of God, Son of the Virgin, really live on this earth? did He break His heart for me? If He did, I am saved.’