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.  Hence his confession could not surprise her.  She would receive it in the right, loving, wifely attitude, telling him that he was making too much of a little, that it was splendid of him to confess, and generally exonerating and rehabilitating him.

Then he had begun to confess.  The horrible change in her tone as he came to the point had unnerved him.  Her wild sobs when the confession was made completed his dismay.  And then, afterwards, her incredible harshness and cruelty, her renewed refusal, flat and disdainful, to believe that he was dying—­these things were the most wounding experience of his entire existence.  As for her refusal to listen to the rest of his story, the important part, the exculpatory part—­it was monstrously unjust.  He had had an instant’s satisfaction on beholding her confusion at being charged with the lie about the scullery door, but it was a transient advantage.  He was so ill....  She had bullied him with the lacerating emphasis of her taciturn remarks....  And at last she had requested him not to make it any more awkward for her!...

III

When he had obediently taken the food and thanked her for it very nicely, he felt much better.  The desire for a clergyman, or even for a lawyer, passed away from his mind; he forgot the majority of his sins and his aspirations, and the need for restoring the defalcations to Jim Horrocleave seemed considerably less urgent.  Rachel stayed by him while he ate, but she would not meet his glance, and looked carefully at the window.

“As soon as I’ve tidied up the room, I’ll just sponge your hands,” said she.  “The doctor will be here early.  I suppose I mustn’t touch your face.”