The town of Luton is almost entirely devoted to the business of
plaiting straw for hats and bonnets. The windows of the cottages are
filled with specimens of the art, from the finest plait possible,
for the manufacture of Tuscan and Leghorn straw, to the coarse,
rustic twist that has been so fashionable of late years. The town is,
consequently, full of young women who, instead of going to service,
earn their livelihood by plaiting straw. Amongst them was Rhoda Berry,
who lived with her widowed mother in a cottage on the outskirts of the
town.
Mrs Berry enjoyed a world-wide repute for being, what was called in
olden times, ‘a wise woman,’ but who, in these more enlightened days,
would be spoken of as a clairvoyante. By whatever name one chose to
call her, however, there was no doubt that she was a very wonderful
woman, and possessed occult powers in no small degree. Had Mrs Berry
been in a position to rent apartments in Bond Street, and to keep
clean nails and a courtly manner, half the aristocratic ladies in
London would have besieged her door for admittance. But, being unknown,
excepting to the good people of Luton, she was fain to be content with
the credit they accorded her, and the sixpences they could spare, in
return for the prophecies she made for them. Notwithstanding the source
from which she derived the best part of her income, Mrs Berry was
held in high respect, and not a little fear, by her fellow-townsmen,
and there were few found bold enough to taunt or jest with her on the
misfortune which befell her daughter Rhoda.
Rhoda’s story was a very common and a very sad one. About a year
previous to the time when we first see her, she had received an offer,
from a London house in connection with the firm for which she worked
in Luton, to take up her residence in town, in order to do some of the
finishing work which was necessary after the straw had been made into
shapes. She was a particularly skilled workwoman in the department,
and the salary offered her was double what she could earn at home. Mrs
Berry had not wished her daughter to leave her. She had foretold all
sorts of disasters which would befall her in London, but the girl was
dazzled by the advantages she was promised, and the pleasant life she
anticipated leading. So she laughed her mother’s prophecies to scorn,
told her that ‘forewarned was forearmed,’ and that she would be very
careful to avoid the dangers she prognosticated. So Mrs Berry let her
go, with a sad heart, but she never ceased to lay the cards for her
absent child, and to foretell a disastrous coming-home for her.
And so it turned out! Rhoda Berry met Frederick Walcheren at some place
of public amusement, from which he, struck with her beauty, followed
her to her lodgings, made acquaintance with her, and pursued it until a
fatal intimacy was established between them.
It was the old game of the moth and the candle! The young man,
thoughtless and dissipated, dreamt of nothing higher than amusing
himself; whilst the girl, flattered by his attentions and with all
sorts of romantic stories, such as the Prince and Cinderella, and King
Cophetua and the Beggar Maid, floating through her brain, believed
that love must conquer over every obstacle, and Fred would make her
an honest woman in the end. And the end was--disgrace, dismissal and
despair. Mrs Berry was sitting one evening, laying the cards for her
daughter with a foreboding heart, when Rhoda rushed into the cottage
with wild eyes and incoherent words, and a face of crimson, which she
could only hide in her mother’s lap. The poor are much better to their
relations in distress, or poverty, or shame, than the rich are to
theirs. They don’t hound them down, or turn them from their doors, or
refuse to share their bite and sup with their less fortunate brethren.
It is only the well-bred and well-educated and rich people who do
such things. Mrs Berry received her daughter back with a good deal of
regret. She often told her that she was a shame and a disgrace to her,
and that her dead father would turn in his grave if he knew how badly
she had behaved. But for all that, she kept her whilst she could not
work, and nursed her through her illness, and would have stood up for
her against any who had dared to cast a stone at her. But, as has been
said, the wise woman was thought to be so powerful, and held in such
awe by the residents of Luton, that no one would have risked offending
her through her daughter. And Rhoda was a favourite amongst her young
companions also. She was a superior sort of girl. Her father had been
a respectable city tradesman, who had failed before his death, and
left his widow and orphan to shift for themselves. Rhoda had therefore
received an education far above that of most of her associates, which
should, indeed, have saved her from the fault she had fallen into, did
we not know that it is a fault which is committed by ladies of every
degree, though money, like charity, has the power to cover ‘a multitude
of sins.’
When Rhoda’s baby was born, Mrs Berry had, unknown to her daughter,
written to Frederick Walcheren to inform him of the event, and ask
him what he intended to do to remedy the wrong he had inflicted on
her child. His answer was that, much as he regretted the unfortunate
termination to his friendship with Rhoda, it was out of his power
to remedy it, as he was just about to be married to another woman.
He enclosed a cheque for a hundred pounds, with best wishes for the
girl’s health and happiness, and hoped she would forgive him for the
unintentional injury he had done her.
Some people in the position of Mrs Berry would have said that Mr
Walcheren had done ‘the handsome thing’ by her daughter, and that she
was lucky to have got so well out of the scrape. But Rhoda’s mother
thought differently. She enclosed the cheque in another letter and
sent it back to Frederick Walcheren, with an intimation that she could
support his son without his help, and that she wanted no hush money for
her daughter’s misfortune. But she warned him that the curse of Heaven
was on his marriage, and that it would come to no good, nor he either.
When Frederick received this letter, he was on the eve of running away
with Jenny Crampton, and, full of hope as he was, it still had the
power to make him feel uncomfortable. But he had paid no heed to it.
Rhoda Berry, in his estimation, was only a girl who had thrown herself
into his arms, and he thought a hundred pounds was very handsome pay
for his amusement. If the old woman wouldn’t take it, that wasn’t his
fault.
But he remembered it afterwards. He told both his cousin Philip and
Father Tasker that, whilst he was bending in agony over the remains
of his wife, he fancied he saw Rhoda Berry gibing at his misery, and
rejoicing in it. It was the very last thing that poor Rhoda would have
done; she had loved the _vaurien_ too well to take any pleasure in
what troubled him, but his conscience told him he deserved her scorn,
and so he fancied she gave it him. Poor Rhoda did not have a very good
time with her mother after her baby’s birth, for Mrs Berry could not
forgive her for having so totally disregarded all her warnings against
the trouble that loomed in the future for her. There was not another
girl in Luton, she declared, who would not have declined the London
situation after what she had told her, but her daughter thought less
of her prophecies than strangers did. Had she not laid the cards for
her the very evening before she left home, and did she not warn her, as
plainly as she could speak, to beware of a gentleman with dark eyes and
hair, who would promise her all sorts of fine things, but would leave
her with a curse upon her back. And hadn’t everything come to pass just
as she had foretold, and wasn’t the curse sleeping in a cradle at their
feet that moment, in the shape of a little boy, as black as a crow?
It was the end of November by this time. Poor Jenny had been laid for
months in her untimely grave, and Frederick Walcheren was hard at work
studying for his ordination. Rhoda Berry had returned to her work of
straw-plaiting at Luton, and everything went on the same in the cottage
where her mother lived--except for the little child, and her subdued
spirits.
‘Come! Rhoda,’ exclaimed Mrs Berry tartly, but not unkindly, ‘there’s
that brat of yours crying again. Take him up, do! Nothing’s good
enough for him, I suppose, as it wasn’t for his father before him! My
gracious! I believe he grows uglier and uglier every day. You’re as
unlike as light and darkness. The child’s a perfect nigger!’
Rhoda did not make any retort. She was a fair, slender girl of about
nineteen, with blue eyes and yellow hair, a very elegant young woman
in appearance, but of a sad countenance. She raised her youngster in
her arms and kissed him fondly. He was certainly unusually dark for so
young an infant, but bore unmistakably Frederick Walcheren’s features
and complexion.
‘Have you heard the news?’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Mr Jenkins has come in
for five hundred pounds by the death of an uncle in Australia that he
never remembers to have heard of. Mrs Jenkins is half out of her mind
with joy. She couldn’t believe me last week when I told her there was
money on the road for them. She said there wasn’t a creature in the
wide world that it could possibly come from. But I’m always right. The
cards never fail me, never. There’s Fanny Benson pronounced out of
danger this morning, notwithstanding all the doctors’ verdicts. I met
her mother in the street just now, and she says she’s wonderful; been
sitting up in bed and eating rice pudding. Why, when Mrs Benson came to
me last Thursday, crying her eyes out because the doctor had said there
was no hope, I told her it was all nonsense, and there was no death in
her cards, nor nothing like it. I wish you’d let me lay the cards for
you, Rhoda. It’s ages since I’ve done so.’
‘No! no! mother,’ cried the girl, shrinking backwards. ‘I would rather
not, really!’
‘But why not?’ asked Mrs Berry, who was very proud of her gift of
second sight, and could not bear to hear it discredited. ‘You know
how right they came before you went to London. If you’d followed the
cards then, you’d never have had that young crow upon your lap now. And
I’ve never laid them for you, with your own cutting, since. Don’t you
believe in them, Rhoda?’
‘Oh, yes, mother. Perhaps it is because I believe in them so much that
I don’t care to see them laid for me. Troubles come soon enough without
our knowing them beforehand. And if you were to tell me anything
unpleasant--that I should lose my baby, or have some other trouble--I
don’t think I could bear it, mother, not just yet. I’m so eaten up with
disappointment already.’
‘My poor girl,’ said Mrs Berry, compassionately, ‘you mustn’t mind all
I say about that little crow, Rhoda! He reminds me too much of your
misfortune; that’s why I speak short of him sometimes. But, bless you!
I wish him no harm, nor will he come to harm either. He’ll live to be a
man, and a comfort to you yet. I can read that in his face.’
‘Thank God for it!’ replied the girl, as she lifted the baby’s brown
hand to her lips and kissed it fondly. ‘I know he’s a disgrace, mother,
but it would kill me to part with him now. He’s all I’ve got left of
Fred.’
‘I don’t know that, my girl. I’ve dreamed some strange things about
that Fred (as you call him) lately. That’s why I want to lay the cards
for you. That marriage of his hasn’t turned out well. I feel sure of
it, though we’ve heard nothing of him since the letter he sent me to
say it was coming off. He’s in trouble of some sort, as sure as he
lives. I can see so much by the influences round the child, and I
verily believe it’s death.’
‘Not for him, mother,’ cried Rhoda, quickly.
‘If it’s not for him, it’s very near him; but, if you won’t cut the
cards, I can’t say more. Your fate and his are so mixed up, that I
can’t read one without the other.’
‘Very well, mother, I will cut them,’ replied Rhoda, as she laid her
boy in his cradle, and seated herself at the table. ‘You make me uneasy
when you speak of Fred so, and I shall not rest till I know the worst.’
Mrs Berry produced her favourite pack of cards, which had been laid for
all the inhabitants of Luton, and, having withdrawn some from the pack,
directed her daughter to cut and shuffle the remainder, and lay them on
the table in three portions, with their faces downwards. As she raised
and dealt them out, she went on rapidly with her reading.
‘There he is, you see,’ she commenced, pointing to the king of clubs,
‘as black as the little crow yonder. And I was right. There’s death
round him. If it hasn’t come, it’s coming, and it’s for his wife, not
for himself. See how he counts to the marriage ring in the lap of
death. There’s no escaping it for him, one way or another. Shuffle
them again, my dear, and cut as before.’
Rhoda did as she was desired, and her mother scrutinised the cards
attentively.
‘There’s trouble around him, as sure as he lives, and danger threatens
him very nearly.’
‘Danger, mother? What danger?’ exclaimed the girl, in a voice of alarm.
‘Not illness or death, my dear, so you needn’t look so frightened.
But he seems to me to be surrounded by a net of some sort--as if
there were people about him who are trying to take advantage of
him--to rob him, perhaps, or to entangle him in difficulties. He is
full of perplexities. I don’t like the look of this fair man who is
mixed up with him. He’s an enemy of his, and has done him, or will do
him, a great mischief. He’s been a bad man to you, this Mr Frederick
Walcheren, but he ought to be warned against those who are about him,
and especially of this fair man, or he will get into more trouble
still.’
‘Mother,’ said Rhoda, timidly, ‘do you really think that Fred has
behaved so very badly to me? He never promised to marry me, you
know--he never mentioned such a thing. I don’t say that _I_ didn’t
think of it, and hope for it, perhaps, but it was very foolish of me to
do so. How could he have married me? He comes of a very high family,
I have heard, and, under any circumstances, I am not fit to be his
wife. Of course, I should have thought of that before, and weighed
the consequences of my weakness, but then, mother, you see I loved
him, and Fred loved me in his way, so we were equally to blame. Cannot
you think of this trouble as you would if two children had gone out
to play together, and the weaker of the two had fallen down and cut
himself, whilst the stronger came back safe and well? We were equally
thoughtless and equally wrong. Why should Fred be blamed more than I,
because I have brought the worse trouble on myself.’
She looked up shyly to see how her mother had taken her argument,
when she saw, to her surprise, that Mrs Berry had sunk back in her
chair in a trance. She was not alarmed, for it was an usual thing for
her to pass under control; but it struck the girl with a sense of awe.
Presently her mother sat upright, and addressed her in her ordinary
tone of voice.
‘If you love this man,’ she said gravely, ‘you must try to save him.
In a few days it will be too late. He is about to imprison himself
for life--to deliver up his will, his mind, his very senses, into the
keeping of others, and he will be miserable under the discipline.
You will not be able to dissuade him from his purpose now, but your
visit to him will have a good effect. Don’t worry him about your own
troubles. Only ask him to pause before he delivers himself over,
body and soul, a prisoner for life. His wife has passed over. He
thinks she died by an accident. It was not an accident. There was a
man mixed up with it--not very tall and rather stout, with light
hair, plainly parted in the middle, blue eyes, a straight nose, and a
pleasant smile. He is very particular about his hands and nails. He
has been your lover’s worst friend--and _her_ worst friend, he--he--he
pushed--her--over!’
Here Mrs Berry’s control took flight, and she yawned once or twice and
opened her eyes.
‘Have I been asleep?’ she said, as she met her daughter’s startled gaze.
‘Yes, mother,’ replied Rhoda, who was much excited, ‘and you have been
telling me the most extraordinary things.’
‘Who was it?’ demanded Mrs Berry. ‘Paul, or Daisy?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, in a bewildered manner; ‘I never asked.
But they said--I mean, you said--that is, whoever it was, said, that
Fred is in great danger of some kind, and I must go up to London and
warn him to be careful. And, his wife is dead--you were right--and they
said something I couldn’t understand, about someone being pushed over
somewhere. And they described a man who is Fred’s worst friend. I don’t
know, how--but I am to warn him against him. And oh! mother, may I go
to town and see him?’ she concluded with glistening eyes.
‘I don’t half like the idea, Rhoda,’ replied Mrs Berry. ‘What should
you go thrusting yourself into this man’s way again for? He may quite
misconstrue your motives.’
The girl drew herself up proudly.
‘No, mother, he could hardly do that. I would not let him do that.
Besides, Fred is a gentleman, remember. If I go to warn him, and ask
him to consider before he takes any important step, he will know I only
do it as a friend. And his poor wife is so lately dead, too. Please,
mother, do me more justice than that.’
‘I know, child, I know; but when there has once been such intimacy, it
is hard to break through or forget it. However, if the controls urge
you to go, go you must. Do you know where Mr Walcheren is now?’
‘No, but I know his flat in Nevern Mansions, and, doubtless, I can find
out his present address there.’
‘I won’t say anything for it, nor against it, Rhoda, but you mustn’t
take the child. I won’t have my daughter calling at a gentleman’s house
with a baby in her arms. Remember who your dear father was, and don’t
make him turn in his grave, poor man.’
‘No, no, mother!’ replied Rhoda, as if such a feat were possible; ‘but
I’m afraid it will be such a trouble to you if I leave baby behind me.’
‘You mean you think I’ll smack the little crow as soon as your back is
turned. No, my girl, I’m not quite such a brute as that, though the
sight of the little rascal does make me swear sometimes. But it’s only
for your sake, Rhoda; I’ve no spite against the poor, innocent baby.
After all, isn’t he yours before anyone else’s, and aren’t you the
only one I ever had to call my own? No, my dear, whatever happens,
we’ll stick to the little crow, you and I, and bring him up between us,
and be mother and father both to him.’
And so saying, Mrs Berry lifted her little grandson from his cot and
held him to her heart.
‘Oh, mother, mother, when you talk like that, you do make me feel so
happy,’ exclaimed poor Rhoda, as she embraced Mrs Berry; ‘indeed, I
know what a trouble and a shame I’ve been to you, and baby too, but I
can’t help loving him, mother, never mind what he is. And you needn’t
be afraid I’ll say anything to Fred to remind him of his obligations to
me. I’m much too proud for that. Only, if he is in danger, and I can
warn him, I feel it’s my duty to do so; but if I find it’s a mistake,
and the lady is living still, I shall come straight away again, without
seeing him.’
‘It’s no mistake, Rhoda; she’s gone, sure enough, but I’ve no idea what
danger Mr Walcheren can be in, unless he’s got into another scrape.’
Rhoda reddened like a rose.
‘Oh! no, mother, indeed; it’s something to do with men. The controls
said so. It’s all very misty to me, but one thing’s clear--that I’m to
go and see him, and my visit is to do him good. I sha’n’t be more than
three or four hours gone, mother, and I’m sure baby will be good with
you for that time.’
So, the following day, the injured girl set forth, with her heart full
of nothing but love and concern for the man who had ruined her good
name, and an earnest desire to return him good for evil. How some women
can forgive! How they revel in forgiving! They seem always ready to
take their betrayers and traducers back into their loving arms, as a
mother receives her child, at the first note of repentance.
Rhoda would have suffered very keenly at any other time on re-visiting
London. Here it was that she had dreamed such delicious dreams, and
woke up to find them delusions! Here it was that she had been publicly
dishonoured and disgraced, and told to go home to her mother, and
receive her reproaches, alone, friendless, and without protection!
But she forgot all that trouble now that she was on her mission of
mercy to Frederick Walcheren. She went to his flat in the Nevern
Mansions first, and found it had been let, furnished, to new tenants.
‘Can you,’ she asked timidly of the servant who had opened the door,
‘give me the present address of Mr Frederick Walcheren?’
At this appeal, the mistress of the apartments came to have a look at
her, and seeing that she was not a beggar, said she _had_ received Mr
Walcheren’s address, for the purpose of forwarding his letters, but she
did not know if he would receive any visitors.
‘I can but try,’ replied Rhoda, gently; ‘and if I cannot see him, they
may deliver a message for me.’
‘That is true,’ said the lady; ‘and, if you are a friend of his, you
may as well take a packet of newspapers that have been waiting an
opportunity to go to him.’ She gave Rhoda a large parcel of papers and
magazines as she spoke, and added: ‘Mr Walcheren is staying at present
at Canon Bulfil’s college in Winters’ Lane, Southwark.’
‘Thank you very much,’ returned Rhoda; and then she said wistfully,
‘May I ask you, madam, if the report I have heard of the death of Mr
Walcheren’s wife is true?’
‘Oh! dear, yes. That happened months ago,’ replied the lady, as she
closed the door again.
One part of her mother’s revelation was true then, and so might the
rest be. Rhoda knew that Frederick was a Catholic, but also that he
had been a very lax one, as he had been lax in everything else, and
could not help wondering what on earth he could be doing in a college.
And, whilst sheltered within its walls, what danger could threaten
him? He had been such a joyous, devil-may-care young fellow when she
knew him, that she could not fancy him mured up in a religious house.
What sympathy could he have with its inmates? What pleasure could he
derive from its customs or mode of living? However, she would fulfil
her mission, whether her warnings were needed or not. It was a long
journey down to Southwark, but Rhoda reached it at last, and found her
way, by dint of inquiries, to Canon Bulfil’s college. It was a large,
red brick building, more like a jail than anything else she could liken
it to, and Rhoda felt very timid as she pulled the iron chain which
sustained the bell, and heard the loud echoes it evoked in the vaulted
hall beyond. It was answered by a lay brother, who demanded, in a grave
voice, what was her business.
‘I have come with a packet and message for Mr Frederick Walcheren, and
wish to see him,’ replied Rhoda.
The man unlocked the massive door, and admitted her to a cold-looking
passage with brick walls, unpapered and unpainted.
‘What name shall I say?’ asked the lay brother, as if he were
conducting a funeral.
‘Say, please, that I have come from Mrs Pattison,’ replied Rhoda, who
had ascertained that was the name of the tenant of the flat in Nevern
Mansions.
After what appeared to her to be an unconscionable delay, the man
returned and ushered her into a parlour, the only furniture in which
was a piece of matting on the oaken floor, a large table, four
rush-bottomed chairs, and a fald stool placed in front of an oil
painting of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. Rhoda, remembering
the luxury in which Frederick Walcheren used to live and revel in,
thought it all very cold-looking and uncomfortable and precise, and
wondered how he enjoyed himself there, and what could make him stay.
In a few minutes the door opened, and Frederick himself appeared. For
the first moment, Rhoda did not recognise him. His dark hair was cut
close to his head, he had shaved off his moustache, and wore a long,
black cassock, which reached to his heels. His face was pale and
careworn, and darker than usual. As he recognised his visitor, he gave
a slight cry and staggered to a chair.
‘Rhoda,’ he exclaimed, faintly, ‘what on earth have you come to see me
for?’