The girl was almost as taken aback as he was.
‘Is this you, Fred?’ she said, in a tone of the utmost astonishment.
‘What have you done to yourself? I hardly knew you.’
But he only asked again,--
‘Why have you come? What do you want with me? I thought our
acquaintanceship was at an end.’
‘I have not come to ask anything of you, Fred,’ said Rhoda, in a
reproachful voice. ‘I think you might know that without my telling you.
I am here as your friend only. I heard that you were in trouble, and I
wanted to see if I could be of any use to you.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he replied nervously. ‘It is kind of you to
have thought of it. Won’t you sit down?’
Rhoda seated herself on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, whilst
Frederick took another as far as possible from her.
‘What is it that I can do for you?’ he commenced, in a stiff voice.
‘Nothing,’ replied the girl, ‘only tell me about yourself. Is it true
that you are a widower? I am so sorry for you! And why are you living
in this place? What have you to do with a training college?’
‘I am here as a probationer, or novice, Rhoda. It is evident you know
nothing about me. I am about to enter the Church and become a priest.’
‘A priest! Oh, Fred, never! _You_ a priest? You’ll never stick to it.
You will be tired to death of it in three months.’
This prophecy seemed to offend the young man exceedingly, the more so
as he had occasional doubts whether it might not be true.
‘You do not know what you are talking of,’ he returned,
grandiloquently. ‘A priest once is a priest for ever. There will be no
going back. Once ordained, my fate is fixed for life.’
‘Will there be _no_ getting out of it; not even if you thought it
right?’ exclaimed Rhoda, with open eyes.
‘Certainly not. Once admitted to the Church, there can be no leaving
her without everlasting disgrace and loss of one’s salvation.’
‘Oh, Fred!’ cried the girl, ‘think twice before you take such an
irrevocable step. You will repent it; I am sure you will. But what made
you think of it? What put such an idea into your head?’
‘The Almighty, in His infinite goodness,’ replied Frederick. ‘You have
heard, you say, of my great loss. It was that which first brought me to
my senses. It was so sudden--so terrible! I could see God’s finger of
wrath so plainly in it, that it mercifully opened my eyes to my true
condition.’
‘Do you think, then,’ said the girl, timidly, ‘that God revenges
Himself on us for our petty, thoughtless sins, by torturing or cutting
off the life of some one we love? If _you_ were the sinner, why should
_she_ have died to bring you to a sense of your wickedness? Why should
an innocent girl be used as a burnt-offering for your sins? And how
can you better matters by becoming a priest? Are there not plenty of
priests? Is it impossible to show God that you are sorry for the past
in some other way?’
‘Rhoda, as you truly say, you do not understand. You have not been
brought up in our blessed faith. I wish you had. Then you would know
there is no expiation for sin without blood shedding. When my beloved
wife was taken from me I was nearly mad--’
‘Tell me of her,’ interposed Rhoda, softly. ‘I would rather hear about
her than the Church.’
‘Oh! Rhoda!’ exclaimed Frederick, with the selfishness of grief, not
heeding how his praises of the dead might sting the girl before him,
‘she was so young, so loving, so beautiful. She was the most perfect
creature I have ever seen. And we had been married only one day, when
she met with a terrible accident that deprived me of her. She fell over
the cliffs at Dover and was killed on the spot. It nearly drove me out
of my mind.’
‘Poor Frederick!’ said Rhoda, kindly. ‘But are you sure it was an
accident?’
‘I am sure of nothing, except that my darling parted from me in health
and spirits, and that I never saw her alive again. She was found at
the foot of the cliffs, crushed to death. Some thought she might have
thrown herself over, but I am sure she did not do that; but whether
some villain insulted her, or tried to rob her, and so made her take a
false step, in agitation and alarm, I cannot say. No one will ever know
the truth now. The only thing certain is, that God has taken her from
me, and that I shall never see her again this side Eternity.’
‘Poor Frederick,’ repeated the girl, gently. ‘But why should you become
a priest because of that? It will not bring your wife back to you.’
‘Not in this world, Rhoda, but in the next. I need not mind saying to
you that I have been a very bad man, and led a sinful life. You know it
only too well. My mother intended me for the service of the Church, and
educated me, up to the age of twenty, with that end in view. But, as
soon as she died and I became my own master, I left college and entered
the world, and you know the bad use I made of my time whilst there. I
have to ask your pardon, Rhoda, for the way in which I treated you.’
‘Don’t, don’t,’ said Rhoda, quickly. ‘I can’t bear it. I have not
reproached you, Frederick. Nor, in my own heart, have I blamed you.
I always spoke my mind, you know. We were very happy whilst we knew
each other, and thought we cared for each other, and if we have had to
“pay for our whistle,” let us do so bravely, and without any cant. I
have borne my share without crying out. Do the same by yours. God will
accept our secret grief and prayers quite as soon as any public display
of regret.’
‘I daresay you are right,’ replied the young man, who, however, did
not like being cut short in his protestations of repentance; ‘but to
return to what we were talking of. My godfather, Sir Frederick Ascher,
who died before I can remember him, left me all his property, coupled
with a hope that I should either enter the Church, when it would be
confiscated to its use, or, failing that, that I should leave it to the
Church at my own death, or endow some ecclesiastical building with it.
This behest I laughed at, and had no intention of obeying until my eyes
were so mercifully opened to the sins of which I had been guilty, and I
saw that the only reparation I could make to Heaven, would be to do as
my dear mother and godfather wished me, and become a priest.’
‘But how,’ demanded Rhoda, ‘will that repair the wrong you have done in
the world? It seems to me that it benefits really no one.’
‘Oh, Rhoda! you speak in ignorance,’ said Frederick Walcheren. ‘In
right of my blessed office, I shall have the privilege of offering the
Mass for the repose of the souls of those I have loved and injured,
every day. I shall live, as it were, in the sight of Heaven, and weary
it with prayers for the pardon of my own sins, and the sins of those
I have led, by my example or otherwise, into error; I shall live, I
trust, blameless, henceforth, in the eyes of God and men, so that, when
my time comes to leave the world, I may be found worthy to join my
friends and relatives, and to live in the sight of God and angels for
evermore.’
‘And could you not effect these objects just as well by living in the
world, instead of burying yourself alive?’ asked Rhoda drily.
‘I could not trust myself to do it, Rhoda. My aspirations are good, but
my flesh is frail, and the temptations of this life might prove too
strong for me.’
‘Then I don’t see much good in your repentance, Fred,’ said the girl.
‘If you are obliged to shut yourself up to prevent your sinning, your
abstinence cannot be of much value in God’s eyes. Your virtue will lie
in the four walls of your clergy house, not in yourself.’
The young man sat silent. He did not like the tone adopted by his
former friend. It was too much an echo of something which he could not
drive out of his mind, nor his heart.
‘Is this all you have to say to me, Rhoda?’ he asked after a pause.
‘No, Fred. I came up from Luton this morning expressly to see you. I
heard, through my mother--you know _how_--that you were in trouble and
danger, and I see now that both reports were true. I couldn’t think
what the danger might be! I was told that you were being entangled in
a net that would close round you, and deliver over your soul and body
into the keeping of others. I understand what they meant now! When you
have become a priest, you will no longer be a man. You will be a slave,
obliged to go here, or there, or do this or give up the other, as your
superiors choose.’
‘But it will be all for my good, Rhoda. I am not fit to look after, or
take care of, myself.’
‘Perhaps so, but I entreat of you, Fred, not to do this thing in too
great a hurry! You are not in a fit state to judge for yourself at this
moment! You are so grieved by the loss of your wife, that you have but
one wish--to give up the world and everything in it, and be left to
yourself and your own thoughts for ever. I know what the feeling is!
Do you suppose that I have not felt it also? Do you suppose that I do
not know what it is to despair of God’s existence, and to believe that
He neither sees nor hears what His unfortunate creatures are doing or
suffering?’
‘_You_, Rhoda, you? But what trouble have you had to make you despair
like this?’
The girl turned and looked him full in the face. Was it possible that
he could be so selfish and absorbed in his own sorrows, as entirely to
have forgotten hers?
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you cared for me as much as all that?’
demanded Frederick, with a touch of the old vanity.
‘No!’ she answered, ‘no! I did not care for you as much as all that,
and if I had done so, the time is past for telling you of it! Let
me finish what I was going to say to you! Be warned by me! If you
become a priest, you will regret it. You are not fitted by nature or
constitution, for such an artificial life, neither is your present
feeling a permanent one. I feel it! Something tells me so! Your mind
has been upset, and you are not capable of judging for yourself! Don’t
take the final step without further consideration. And tell me one
thing! Do you know a man, not very tall but rather stout--with blue
eyes and fair hair, parted down the middle--a man with a pleasant smile
and manner, and who is especially natty about his hands and nails?’
‘Yes, yes!’ cried the young man; ‘what of him? I recognise your
description perfectly.’
‘He is an enemy of yours, Fred!’ replied Rhoda. ‘I was told to tell you
that he--’
‘Stop!’ cried Frederick, suddenly. ‘_Who_ told you?’
‘Mother did, last night, or some of her controls. I told you, ages ago,
you may remember, that she has the gift of second sight.’
‘A soothsayer--a woman with a familiar spirit--condemned alike of God
and our holy Church!’ exclaimed her companion excitedly, ‘and you bring
me warnings and admonitions from such a source! Away--silence! I will
hear no more of it. I sin each moment that I listen. My poor friend,
do you know the danger you run by giving heed to anything you may hear
from such a source? You are playing with the devil--listening to his
advice, delivering your soul into his hands. You must promise me never
to have any dealings with such people again, or you will imperil your
immortal soul.’
But Rhoda, though deeply attached to the man before her, was too
sensible a woman not to have opinions of her own, and the courage to
stick up for them, into the bargain.
‘Not have dealings with my own mother!’ she retorted; ‘what will you
tell me next, I wonder! If you don’t choose to heed what I say to you,
it’s no fault of mine, Fred, but I’ve done my duty in telling you what
was told to me. And as for its being wrong, I don’t believe it. If my
mother’s controls were evil spirits, why did they warn me against you
before ever I came to London, and say that nothing but trouble would
come of our intimacy? Why didn’t they tell me that life was short in
this world, and I had better make the most of it whilst it lasted,
instead? No! that was _your_ teaching, not theirs; but you’d like to
make out your principles the better of the two! You may not take my
advice. I can’t help that, but don’t set up your own against it, for
you’ll only anger me, and I came to see you from a pure wish to do you
good.’
And with that, and a suspicious sound in her voice as if she could not
trust herself to speak any more, Rhoda gathered up a little shawl she
had carried over her arm, and her umbrella, and prepared to quit the
room.
‘Rhoda, don’t be vexed with what I said,’ replied Frederick. ‘You did
it in good faith, I am sure, but I must obey the teachings of our most
holy Church on the subject. She strictly forbids all tampering with
such knowledge--with any communications from spirits of the dead. We
are taught to regard them with horror, as temptations from the Evil
One, and sent in order to lure us to our own damnation.’
‘Yes,’ said Rhoda, incredulously. ‘But I thought that saints in the
Roman Catholic Church were often made so, because they had seen or
talked with spirits of the dead, and that the Pope called a convocation
to decide if such reports were true, and, if they were, the saintship
was confirmed.’
‘That may be correct, Rhoda, but it is very different!’
‘How?’
Frederick began to fidget.
‘Well, you see, the reports, as you say, are confirmed by a court of
inquiry, and established by the approval of the Church, so that there
remains no doubt of their honesty and--’
‘You need say no more, Fred! My mother is as much to me as your Church
is to you--perhaps a little more--and I have the same faith in her
honesty, and impossibility of dealing with the devil, so that we may
cry quits.’
‘I hope I have not offended you,’ said Frederick, ‘but I dare not
listen to communications from such a source! If not actually ordained,
I am pledged to become a minister of the Church, and am bound to follow
her commands in everything.’
‘Poor Fred!’ said the girl, compassionately, ‘I can do nothing more
for you, so I had better go. Good-bye! Believe how I sympathise in
your great trouble--that I would have saved you from it, if I could. I
don’t suppose that I shall ever see you again, but I shall never forget
you--never!’
She held out her hand to him as she spoke, and the warm human touch
seemed to Frederick Walcheren like a last farewell of the world he had
loved so much.
‘One moment, Rhoda,’ he said tremblingly; ‘you said, just now, that
you had had sorrow enough to make you despair. What was it? Was it
connected with me?’
‘You know how you left me,’ she answered, colouring; ‘surely I needn’t
remind you of that.’
‘No, no; but I thought, perhaps--I hoped, as you had said nothing of
it, that--that--’
‘That God had mercifully buried the proof of your treatment of me, with
your other sins, I suppose, Fred,’ replied the girl, scornfully.
‘Your mother wrote me a letter some time ago now, I remember (but later
events have put it out of my head), and I sent her a cheque for one
hundred pounds, for expenses, but she returned it to me, and said she
did not want it. And not having heard since--’
‘You flattered yourself you would never hear again,’ retorted Rhoda.
‘Well, you were right! You never will! Good-bye!’
But he would not let her go.
‘Tell me,’ he urged, ‘tell me everything! Don’t think, because I’m
going to be a priest, that I have lost all trace of human feeling. Is
the child alive and well? Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘What is the good of my telling you?’ asked Rhoda, dashing away the
tears that had risen to her eyes. ‘You’ll never see him, nor will he
call you “father.” But since you ask me, he is a boy, and strong and
healthy, and I love him dearly. Is that sufficient?’
‘My little son,’ said Frederick, musingly. ‘The only child I shall ever
have, and him I have disgraced, God forgive me! Rhoda, you must let me
settle some money on this boy before my fortune passes out of my hands.
He is mine; you have no right to refuse me.’
‘No, no, I will not have it; he shall not take it!’ exclaimed Rhoda,
passionately. ‘Mother and I have enough for him, and he shall never
know who his father is. Don’t be afraid but that he will be well looked
after. He is all--all--’ with a sudden break in her voice--‘that I have
left.’
In a moment the injury he had done this girl, whose existence he had
almost forgotten, flashed across Frederick Walcheren’s mind.
‘Oh! let me make you some amends,’ he cried. ‘Don’t leave me with this
remorse tearing at my heart. If you do, the child and you will come
between me and my prayers. The money is my own still, to do as I will
with. Let me put a thousand pounds in the bank--only a thousand pounds,
Rhoda--in your name, that you may have something to fit the boy out
with when he is of an age to enter the world.’
But she shook her head.
‘I will not take your money,’ she said. ‘I will not be paid for my
love.’
‘Then what can I do for you?’ he cried, in a voice of despair. ‘How
can I show you how sorry I am for the past--how much I would do to
repair it?’
‘If you wish to make me happier,’ she answered, turning so as to face
him, ‘_don’t become a priest_. Give up this mad idea. You will regret
it bitterly if you do not. Ah, Fred,’ she continued, drawing closer to
him, ‘I don’t ask--I don’t wish to be anything to you ever again, but
come back to the world and live in it a little longer before you take
a step you can never recall. I do not expect, nor ask to receive, your
love. I know that has gone from me to the girl you made your wife,
but if I can comfort you by my friendship and my devotion, it will be
yours to your life’s end. Come back and let me try and comfort you for
all you have lost. I will be your servant and your friend, and nothing
more, so long as I can smooth your path in life. Dear, dear Fred, you
know I loved you! Let us go away to some distant land together till
your grief is assuaged and your mind is more fit to decide upon your
future plans.’
She laid her hand affectionately upon his arm as she spoke, but he
flung it from him as if it had been a serpent.
‘Woman!’ he cried, ‘have you been sent from the devil to torture me
and tempt me to forsake my duty? Leave this hallowed spot. Go back
and wallow in the Slough of Despond from which I have been lifted.
Are you mad to speak to me like this? What hellish design have you in
your brain regarding me? Do you want to drag me down to the abyss with
yourself? Go, and never come near me more! You have planted a sword in
my breast that it will take weeks, perhaps months, to draw forth again.
Go, go! Don’t let me curse you! Oh, God! have I not suffered enough
without this? Is it Thy will to crucify me afresh? _Sancta Maria! Ora
pro nobis!_’
And, with a look of agonised entreaty at the pictured face that hung
above the mantelpiece, Frederick Walcheren crossed himself and fled
from the college parlour, and Rhoda saw him no more.
She was a little offended and very much hurt to have her overtures
received in so ungracious a manner. She cried bitterly as she took her
way back to Luton, but she told her mother nothing beyond the bare
facts of the case. Fred was no longer the gay, _debonnair_ young man
she had given her heart to. So much the easier, she told herself, to
forget all about him. Still, as she dreamt over the past, she could not
but believe that, some day, she and the father of her child would meet
again.