impression that his religious views had broadened, if
not entirely changed. Beneath the sudden heavy menace of death he
discovered that his original views were, after all, the most authentic
and the strongest. And he had much longed for converse with a
clergyman, who would repeat to him the beautiful reassurances of his
infancy. Even late in the afternoon, hours before the supreme crisis,
he would have welcomed a clergyman, for he was already beginning to
be afraid. He would have liked a clergyman to drop in by accident; he
would have liked the first advances to come from the clergyman.

But he could not bring himself to suggest that the rector of St.
Luke's, of whose flock he now formed part, should be sent for. He had
demanded a lawyer, and that was as near to a clergyman as he could
get. He had been balked of the lawyer. Further on in the evening,
when his need was more acute and his mind full of frightful secret
apprehensions, he was as far as ever from obtaining a clergyman. And
he knew that, though his eternal welfare might somehow depend on the
priest, he could never articulate to Rachel the words, "I should
like to see a clergyman." It would seem too absurd to ask for a
clergyman.... Strangeness of the human heart!

It was after Rachel had fallen asleep that the idea of confession
had occurred to him as a means towards safety in the future life. The
example of Julian had inspired him. He had despised Julian; he had
patronized Julian; but in his extremity he had been ready to imitate
him. He seemed to conceive that confession before death must be
excellent for the soul. At any rate, it prevented one from going down
to the tomb with a lie tacit on the lips. He was very ill, very
weak, very intimidated. And he was very solitary and driven in on
himself--not so much because Rachel had gone to sleep as because
neither Rachel nor anybody else would believe that he was really
dying. His spirit was absorbed in the gravest preoccupations that can
trouble a man. His need of sympathy and succour was desperate. Thus he
had wakened Rachel. At first she had been as sympathetic and consoling
as he could desire. She had held his hand and sat on the bed. The
momentary relief was wonderful. And he had been encouraged to confess.

He had prodded himself on to confession by the thought that Rachel
must have known of his guilt all along--otherwise she would never have
told that senseless lie about the scullery door being open. Hen