Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief of
communication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet consecrated
--the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating, long pent-up
pain into a vessel whence it could not be again diffused--had done me
good. I was already solaced.
"Must I go, father?" I asked of him as he sat silent.
"My daughter," he said kindly--and I am sure he was a kind man: he had
a compassionate eye--"for the present you had better go: but I assure
you your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is apt
to become formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured your
heart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, and
take it with me to my oratory. Were you of our faith I should know
what to say--a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of
retreat, and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well
known, has no satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have
bidden penitents like you to hasten their path upward by penance,
self-denial, and difficult good works. Tears are given them here for
meat and drink--bread of affliction and waters of affliction--their
recompence comes hereafter. It is my own conviction that these
impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to
bring you back to the true Church. You were made for our faith: depend
upon it our faith alone could heal and help you--Protestantism is
altogether too dry, cold, prosaic for you. The further I look into
this matter, the more plainly I see it is entirely out of the common
order of things. On no account would I lose sight of you. Go, my
daughter, for the present; but return to me again."
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