[117] Why

[117] "Why?"
"It was a bastard. They acted quite correctly."
At the word bastard his heart moved painfully: it was as when a man in love hears a stranger name a flower which is also the name of a woman. Bastard: the word filled him with miserable happiness. It brought his own child nearer: he could see her under the tree by the rubbish-dump, unguarded. He repeated "Bastard?" as he might have repeated her name—with tenderness disguised as indifference.
"They said he was no fit father. But, of course, when the priests fled, she had to go to him. Where else could she go?" It was like a happy ending until she said: "Of course she hated him. They'd taught her about things." He could imagine the small set mouth of an educated woman. What was she doing here?
"Why is he in prison?"
"He had a crucifix."
The stench from the pail got worse all the time: the night stood round them like a wall, without ventilation, and he could hear somebody making water, drumming on the tin sides. He said: "They had no business ..."
"They were doing what was right, of course. It was a mortal sin."
"No right to make her hate him."
"They know what's right."
He said: "They were bad priests to do a thing like that. The sin was over. It was their duty to teach—well, love."
"You don't know what's right. The priests know."
He said after a moment's hesitation, very distinctly: "I am a priest."
It was like the end: there was no need to hope any longer. The ten years' hunt was over at last. There was silence all round him. This place was very like the world: overcrowded with lust and crime and unhappy love: it stank to heaven; but he realized that after all it was possible to find peace there, when you knew for certain that the time was short.
"A priest?" the woman said at last.
"Yes."
"Do they know?"
"Not yet."
[118] He could feel a hand fumbling at his sleeve. A voice said: "You shouldn't have told us. Father, there are all sorts here. Murderers ..."
The voice which had described the crime to him said: "You've no cause to abuse me. Because I kill a man it doesn't mean ..." Whispering started everywhere. The voice said bitterly: "I'm not an informer just because when a man says: 'Your mother's a whore ...' "
The priest said: "There's no need for anyone to inform on me. That would be a sin. When it's daylight they'll discover for themselves."
"They'll shoot you, father," the woman's voice said.
"Yes."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes. Of course."
A new voice spoke, in the corner from which the sounds of pleasure had come. It said roughly and obstinately: "A man isn't afraid of a thing like that."
"No?" the priest said.
"A bit of pain. What do you expect? It has to come."
"All the same," the priest said, "I am afraid."
"Toothache is worse."
"We can't all be brave men."
The voice said with contempt: "You believers are all the same. Christianity makes you cowards."
"Yes. Perhaps you are right. You see I am a bad priest and a bad man. To die in a state of mortal sin"—he gave an uneasy chuckle—"it makes you think."