As soon as Frederick Walcheren had left Rhoda’s presence, he hurried
to his private study and locked himself in. His interview with her had
greatly disturbed him. For not only had it brought back the past in all
its vividness, but made him conscious how dear that past had been to
him--how dear it was still!
He sat down by the table and buried his face in his clasped hands.
How plainly he could see all that he had promised to relinquish.
The racecourse and the cricket field, the regattas and the football
matches, the private theatricals and the picnics. And then the midnight
revelries. The theatres and music-halls and dances he had attended
and enjoyed with all the zest of youth and health combined. Was it
possible he should never, let him live to the age of a hundred, see
them evermore?
It was not that Frederick mourned the loss of such pleasure now. Jenny,
and Jenny’s cruel death, were still uppermost in his thoughts, and the
idea of dissipation of any sort was repulsive to him. His passion for
the pretty, petulant, self-willed daughter of old Crampton had been
no chimera of his passing fancy. It was an ingrained feeling of his
soul; a love which he would never forget nor replace to the last day of
his life! But Jenny had now been gone for some months, and the fierce
desire that had first obtained the mastery over him, to kill himself,
or hide himself for ever from the world, was not so vehement as it had
been. Rhoda’s warnings had affected him chiefly because he felt that
they were needed--that she was right in saying that he might live to
repent the step he was about to take, and that he would do well to
pause and consider before he made it irrevocable.
He had bade the poor girl begone, and told her she was an emissary of
the devil, because her entreaties, that he would give up the idea of
entering the Church, and go to some distant land with her, had taken so
pleasant a hold on his imagination. In fancy, he had beheld himself in
the wilds of Northern India or South America, wandering through totally
new scenes, and Jenny’s memory becoming fainter and fainter as time
went on. The picture had been too fascinating! He dared not dwell on it.
And instead, he had chosen the cloister and the interminable services,
and the strict standard of living and seclusion of a priest! Had he
been wise? Had he been wise?
In the solitude of his own chamber, and to his own heart, the young
man could not deny that the future held but few charms for him. In the
violence of his untutored grief, he had seized at the first rope held
out to him that seemed likely to guide him to a haven of peace. He
had been willing then to sacrifice everything for the chance of seeing
his beloved again, to secure their re-union, to make sure they should
not be parted for ever. But Rhoda’s searching questions had shown him
what was really in his heart, and increasing instead of diminishing his
discomfort. He was terribly afraid he had mistaken his vocation. He
might make a priest, for he was clever and highly educated; he would
also, he hoped, faithfully stick to his duty, but would he be an honest
and conscientious one?
Frederick shuddered when he thought of the answer to that question, for
his ordination was drawing very near. The day when he would take the
final vows upon himself was close at hand, and, after that, there would
be no drawing back. All would be fixed and settled for him. After that,
the rising at dawn to celebrate early mass for the rest of his life,
the daily services, the administering of sacraments, the cloistered
prayers, the grave address, the repression of all laughter and jesting
and pleasure for evermore. And yet, his heart had beat faster to think
of worldly amusements and merriment and brave companionship.
As he mused over these things, Frederick groaned within his clasped
hands. Could he stand it all, he thought--could he go on for the rest
of his life--he was only just thirty, he might have another half
century of work before him--in a service so utterly opposed to all his
tastes and habits?
He was still pondering on the subject, when a second visitor was
announced for him. It was his cousin Philip, who followed on the steps
of his messenger.
‘Well, Frederick,’ he commenced, shaking hands, ‘I thought I would not
pass another day without coming to see you. Father Tasker tells me you
have made such rapid progress with your studies that you are going up
for ordination some weeks sooner than was intended. I congratulate you
heartily. Your fate is now settled. Your life for this world and the
next provided for. What a blessed privilege! Were it not for Marion
and the children, I could find it in my heart to chuck up everything
and follow your example. It must be a state of such complete calm and
security and happiness. The very gate of Heaven. You lucky fellow!’
‘Do you think so?’ demanded Frederick, in a melancholy tone.
‘_Think so?_ My dear friend, there’s no thinking in the matter. It is
an assured certainty. You have dedicated the remainder of your life to
the Church, and in return she gives you everlasting bliss. There can
be no doubt on the matter. From the day of your consecration to her
service, she will stand security for your salvation. What can be more
assuring--more consolatory?’
‘The Church can only stand security for my everlasting happiness if
I fulfil my duties from my heart. What about Luther and his nun? Had
they not pledged themselves to God’s service for ever? Did that secure
their salvation? Will the Church allow they are in Heaven at the
present moment?’
‘My dear Frederick, what put those two unfortunate heretics in your
head? Surely, you do not liken yourself to either of them?’
‘Perhaps I am not so good as they were! No, Philip, I do not wish to
liken myself to anybody, but I sometimes fear that I am not worthy of
the high calling I propose to take upon myself. I find my heart is
still too much with the world--not sufficiently weaned from earthly
things, and though my trouble is still so fresh that I have no
inclination to mix in the scenes I used to love, I am afraid it only
needs time to make me enjoy them as much as heretofore.’
‘My dear cousin, before that time arrives, you will be folded in the
bosom of the Church, and she will keep you safe from all the dangers
you have so mercifully escaped since you turned your eyes once more
towards her. Have no fear! Once ordained, your sacred calling will
wrap you round as a mantle, and keep you from every harm. You will have
nothing to do with the world. Her voice will be drowned in that of God.’
‘You do not understand me, Philip. If the devil is in my heart, nothing
will eradicate him. My sacred vestments will become a mockery--a
falsehood. I am afraid I have been too hasty in deciding on this. I
was so mad with grief when it was first suggested to me, that I hardly
calculated what I was signing my name to. But I see more plainly now,
and I feel afraid. This ordination must be put off. I will not go up
for it with these feelings in my mind. It would be a sacrilege.’
Philip Walcheren now felt really alarmed. If Frederick once left the
college again, they might lose him for ever. And his money would go
with him. It was not to be thought of for a moment. At all costs, the
notion he had got into his head must be battled with and overcome. But
not by force--by suasion.
‘My dear Frederick,’ he commenced mildly, ‘these feelings do honour
to you. They prove your modesty--your want of self-esteem--your high
standard of the duties that lie before you. But, at the same time, they
are a worse temptation to you than those of the world you were speaking
of. Your thoughts come straight from the devil, Frederick, who, under
the guise of humility, is trying his utmost to dissuade you from
pursuing the glorious career you have dedicated your life to.’
‘Even if my fears do come from the devil, Philip, it is better that
I should not do this thing without further consideration. There is
no real hurry. Next month, or next year, will do just as well for my
ordination. I don’t think the world will lose much from the want of my
ministrations. And if I am in the same mind then, it is easy enough to
carry out my plans.’
‘If you are in the same mind then. Oh, Frederick, how you make my heart
ache by those words. How do you know that God will permit you to be
in the same mind then?--that He will not have delivered you over to
the machinations of the Evil One--that you may not, like Esau, fail to
find repentance, though you seek it carefully and with tears? My dear
cousin, I beg of you to put all such terrible doubts out of your head
at once, for they are only temptations sent to try your faith. Have
you not read that often, when dying Christians are at their last gasp,
Satan is permitted to try them, by implanting blasphemous doubts in
their minds of the truth of God or Christ’s salvation. It is so with
you. You have been allowed to reach, as it were, the very gates of
Heaven, and the devil attempts to drag you thence. Resist him by every
means in your power, Frederick! Stamp these unnatural doubts under
foot, and think only of the great good before you, and the few steps
left to gain it.’
Still Frederick was unconvinced.
‘It will not be good if I find I am unable to perform the duties
required of me, conscientiously and with my whole heart. Philip, this
is not a new fear with me. I have experienced it often during the last
few months, and I cannot believe but that it is sent as a warning.
I have tried hard to keep such thoughts out of my head, but it is
impossible. When I sleep, I dream of the world, of the scenes I used
to mix in, the amusements I engaged in, the people I associated with,
and I wake, feverish, excited, and anxious to see them all again. What
feelings are these with which to enter the Church?’
‘All temptations, diabolical temptations,’ said Philip, with a look of
distress.
‘But I cannot help them, they are unavoidable,’ replied his cousin,
‘and if they continue when I am a priest, what shall I do?’
‘Have you any doubt? Do as I have told you; stamp on them as you
would on the head of the Old Serpent himself. Frederick! beware how
you give way to such fancies. You have been plucked as a brand from
the burning. You have consecrated your life to the service of our
Church--your prayers to gaining the salvation of your young wife, who
was hurled into Eternity without a care for her soul--and, at your
peril, renounce these sacred objects for a mere dream. What! have you
forgotten Jenny so soon, that you no longer desire to work out her
salvation by the sacrifice of your own inclinations? Have you lost
the wish to meet her again, purified from the sins which bound you
together, and free to enjoy Heaven in each other’s company?’
‘Oh! no! no! my poor darling, never!’ cried Frederick, in a burst of
remorse.
‘You will forfeit it all, if you do not fight against this horrible
snare,’ replied Philip, sternly. ‘I knew that such doubts were likely
to oppress you, Frederick, but I little thought to find you so weak
in dispelling them. Do you suppose that any priests are entirely free
from such feelings--that each one is not obliged at times to wrestle
with the earthly part of his nature, and kill the old man within him?
But where would be their crown of glory, without their cross to carry?
Is it to be earned for nothing? Are the angels to record no deeds of
valour on the roll of the martyrs’ names, to counteract the dark plots
which might otherwise efface them? If you imagined the road you elected
to travel was one of roses, I am sorry for you. I thought you had more
sense.’
‘Yes! yes! you are right. I see I have been very weak,’ said Frederick,
as he sat upright and assumed a more cheerful aspect. ‘It was a
devilish temptation, as you say, Philip! The fact is, I had been
talking with an old friend this morning, and it brought the past back a
little too vividly. The dark cloud has passed again, and I feel braver.
Please don’t think of it any more.’
But Philip Walcheren did think of it. He made inquiries, before he left
the college, as to what visitors his cousin had received, and heard
that a young woman had been closeted with him for nearly an hour in
the early part of the day. So he went straight to Father Tasker with
the story, the result of which was that the priest also paid Frederick
a visit, and had a long conversation with him upon the subject. Philip
had told him that his cousin showed such signs of wavering that, if
he were allowed to converse with many more young women, or to renew
his old worldly associations, there were grave doubts if he might not
give up the idea of being a priest altogether. And that meant, in the
estimation of them both, not only the loss of his fortune for the
Church, but the loss of himself for heaven.
So the father used his utmost casuistry to persuade the novice that the
feelings he complained of were only so many signs of God’s interest in
him, and that it was because He loved His son so much that He permitted
him to be chastised by doubts and perplexities. He ran over the old
gauntlet of Jenny’s peril in purgatory; of her present sufferings,
which Frederick would augment tenfold by any defalcation; of his
promises to offer the Mass daily for her relief, and of the probability
that if he drew back, after he had put his hand to the plough, _she_
would be the innocent victim of his defalcation.
He raked up the old wound, now gradually closing, till it streamed
with blood; he made his disciple writhe under his scathing reminders;
and, finally, he made him look so mean in his own eyes, that the young
man was fairly baited into retracting all he had said to his cousin,
and declaring he had never had any intention of giving up the Church,
or going back from his plighted word. The priest, however, was not
satisfied, and sought an early interview with his Superior, during
which they decided that, for the good of the Church, and this poor,
wavering soul, Frederick Walcheren’s ordination had better take place
as soon as possible, for which purpose several letters passed between
them and higher authorities, and the day for the ceremony was fixed
for a much earlier date than had been at first intended.
Meantime, Frederick was silenced, but not convinced. Had he been less
sick of the world and its gaieties at the time--had his nerves not been
so unstrung from the shock they had received--he would not have given
in a second time so easily, but he was too tired (mentally) to argue
the point. It was less trouble to say ‘Yes,’ than to keep on repeating
‘No,’ and he really did not seem to care which way it turned out; so he
yielded with a sigh, and tried to persuade himself that it was of no
consequence--that nothing would be of any consequence to him evermore.
But though he returned to his studies, he could not fix his attention
on them as heretofore, for the face of Rhoda Berry would come between
him and the written page. He feared he had spoken unkindly and roughly
to her, and, if so, he was a brute. The poor girl had never harmed him;
the wrong had been all on the other side. He had never been really
attached to her, but he had been fond of her during the days of their
courtship, and he could remember that he had regretted the fact of her
birth precluding the idea of his asking her to be his wife.
He could remember also that he thought her a very intelligent and
well-read girl, and a most interesting companion, more interesting,
perhaps, and sensible than his sweet Jenny, who needed nothing but
her own beauty to make all men worship her. Rhoda was a pretty girl
too, not quite in his style, perhaps, for how could he admire blue
eyes and yellow hair, with Jenny’s big hazel orbs and chestnut locks
forever before his mental vision? Still--whatever Rhoda was like, he
had deeply wronged her, and she had never even reproached him for
his baseness--never hinted that he had behaved badly to her, or that
he ought to be ashamed of himself for deserting her and her child,
in order to marry another woman. It was awfully good of her. Almost
angelic, and he could weep tears of blood when he thought of it. He
said one or two long prayers on her behalf, and then returned to his
books, and tried to banish her from his mind.
But it was in vain! Strive as hard as Frederick would to fix his
thoughts on Saint Augustine, or Saint Chrysostom, or any other of the
holy fathers of the Church, their revered memories had to give way to a
pair of tearful blue eyes and a willowy figure bearing a little image
of himself in its arms.
He felt that he could settle to nothing until he had made peace with
his conscience by making such amends as lay in his power for the
grievous wrong he had done poor Rhoda Berry.
‘Hang it all!’ he said to himself, after a most unclerical fashion,
‘I must make some provision for that child, whether Rhoda likes it or
not. I can’t make up my mind to give thousands to a Church, who is as
rich as old Crœsus, whilst I leave my own flesh and blood unprovided
for. But she never even told me the little beggar’s name, and, if I
write to her for it, she will refuse again to take the money. Well! I
can settle it on her instead. I must see Mr Sinclair on the subject at
once!’
This resolution, on his part, resulted in his sending a request to his
solicitor to call on him as soon as convenient, when he received him in
his private room.
‘I have asked to see you, Mr Sinclair,’ he commenced, ‘in order to
place a confidence in you. You are aware, I believe, that, in a very
short time, I am to be admitted to Holy Orders, and that, when that
happens, my money, of which you have hitherto had the charge, will be
confiscated to the Church.’
‘I have heard so, Mr Walcheren, and, frankly, I was very sorry to hear
it.’
‘Ah, well, never mind that. It is all settled, so the less said soonest
mended. But, before the deeds are drawn up in favour of the Church, I
wish to make the disposition of a small portion of my property to an
old friend. I conclude I am at perfect liberty to do so?’
‘Most certainly, Mr Walcheren; you can give, or will, the whole of it
away, if you like. The money was left absolutely to you for your own
use. Pray, don’t be persuaded into thinking that you are in any way,
morally or legally, bound to give it to the Church.’
‘No, no, I am aware of that. I make it over of my own free will. Only,
I should like to make this little provision first. What does my income
really amount to, Mr Sinclair? I have been such a careless dog, that I
never made myself master of the amount.’
‘You have the estate of Tetley, in Shropshire, you know, Mr Walcheren,
which brings in about five hundred a year, and forty thousand pounds
in consols, and from fifteen to twenty thousand in scrip. It’s a tidy
little fortune, and might be greatly increased by judicious handling.
I’m truly sorry to find you throwing it away.’
‘Hush! hush! man, what would the reverend fathers think if they heard
you speak of increasing the revenues of the Church by such a term? And
it will be all one, you know, when I am ordained. What good will money
be to me then? I shouldn’t be allowed to spend it if I had it.’
‘True, but is it quite impossible that you may not yet change your
mind?’
‘Quite so; but let us keep to the matter in hand. I need not tell you,
Mr Sinclair, who have known me through my “green sallet” days, that
I have been a bit wild at times, and, amongst other peccadilloes, I
deeply wronged a young friend of mine, named Rhoda Berry. In fact,
she--she--has a little child of mine, and it is this child I am
desirous of providing for, but the mother has refused to take any money
from me. Cannot it be settled on her without any consent on her part?’
‘Most certainly! any amount you like, provided you are in possession of
the young woman’s full name.’
‘Yes! Her only names are Rhoda Berry, and she lives with her mother at
Elm Cottage, Harrow Lane, Luton.’
‘Very good,’ replied the solicitor, as he noted down the information,
‘And the amount to be settled?’
‘Five thousand pounds,’ replied Frederick, promptly.
‘That’s a large sum, Mr Walcheren, for a case like this. It means a
couple of hundred a year, remember.’
‘And which do you suppose wants it most; this poor girl, who is thrown
probably on her own resources for life, with a child to keep into
the bargain, and all through my beastly selfishness, or the Catholic
Church, who has thousands of benefactors, and is rich in every sort of
treasure?’
’Oh! I am not blaming you,’ replied Mr Sinclair, who, being a
Protestant, would rather have seen the money thrown into the gutter
than go to enrich the coffers of the Roman Church. ‘I think you
are quite right, and doing most handsomely by the young lady--most
handsomely indeed!’
‘No money can make amends for sin,’ said Frederick, sententiously.
‘And how is this sum to be settled on Miss Berry, Mr Walcheren?’
demanded the solicitor. ‘In trust for the child, or unconditionally on
herself?’
‘Unconditionally on herself, please. I know, if she uses it at all, it
will be for the benefit of the boy. Keep a note of my directions, Mr
Sinclair, but don’t draw up the deed until you do the two together.
There will be less chance then, I think, of my being bothered from
either side. When you draw the five thousand pounds, take it from the
sum in consols. There will be the less chance of its being missed. Oh,
dear! how glad I shall be when all this worry is over, and matters
settled for good and all!’
‘Am I to draw out this sum, and re-invest it in Miss Berry’s name?’
‘No, put it back in consols. It is a lower rate of interest than Rhoda
could get elsewhere, but it is safer; and women are idiots about
money matters. When you write and tell her about my present, perhaps
you will advise her not to take it out on the chance of getting more
interest. And, Sinclair, I wish you to have five hundred pounds, over
and above what I may owe you.’
‘I couldn’t think of taking such a sum, Mr Walcheren. It is far too
much.’
‘Nonsense! You were a good friend to me when I was knocking about town,
and got me out of many a scrape, and I know no one whom I would rather
give it to. Why, what’s the odds to me? I sha’n’t have a halfpenny in
my own hands in a fortnight’s time. Why shouldn’t I have the pleasure
of making my old friends a little present whilst I can.’
‘You’re very good, Mr Walcheren, and I don’t say that the sum will
not give me pleasure, and be very useful to me; but, believe me, when
I add that I would rather, a thousand times over, see it in your own
hands. This step you contemplate makes me very uneasy. It seems so
unnatural--so sudden!’
‘It is sudden, Sinclair, but not unnatural. In losing my beloved wife,
I have lost everything, and I don’t care what becomes of the rest of
my life. The vocation I am about to adopt is the one chosen for me by
my mother, and I am only following her express wishes by entering the
Church. It appears unnatural to you, because you have never known me,
except as a wild, devil-may-care fellow, up to any pranks, and utterly
careless all round. But you don’t know the complete difference a shock,
like the one I have experienced, makes in a man. It opens his eyes in a
moment, as it were, to the folly and wickedness of his past life, and
makes him see that there is only one thing worth living and striving
for, and that is--the next. Once convinced of that truth, there can be
no returning to the past existence. It fades away like a dream, and
nothing can content one in the future, but hard, solid, substantial
work.’
‘Very true, Mr Walcheren. I suppose that time comes to every man after
a certain period of carelessness. You remember the old song, sir,
“Each dog must have his day.” And when the best part of the day is
over, we all feel, if we have any sense, that it is time to give up
play. But you can work whilst you remain in the world, Mr Walcheren,
and set a good example to your neighbours, into the bargain.’
The same axiom that Rhoda had hurled at his head, though clothed in
other words. Frederick recognised it at once, and the recognition made
him assume a colder air towards the solicitor.
‘No doubt, Mr Sinclair,’ he responded, ‘no doubt, but we all have
different tastes, and the Church is mine. I am afraid I shall have to
dismiss you now, as the time is getting on for refectory, and I have
some preparations to make before the bell sounds. You will bear all my
instructions in mind, I am sure. Good morning!’
‘Good morning! Mr Walcheren. I cannot thank you enough for your kind
intentions respecting myself, for which you know that I should receive
your instructions in writing. And if I have, in my sincere regard and
friendship for you, said more than I should, I hope you will forgive
me. I had not the least intention to offend.’
‘I am sure of that, Sinclair, but there are things that will not bear
talking of. I am fairly sick of life, my dear old friend--terribly sick
and tired of it, and one lot is quite as good as another in my eyes. My
greatest wish is that it may all be over as quickly as possible, and I
may join my darling girl again.’
He held out his hand to his companion as he spoke, and as Mr Sinclair’s
eyes met the careworn, haggard face of the young man, whom he
remembered as one of the handsomest, most _débonnair_ fellows about
town, they became so moist that he could hardly see, and, grasping the
hand offered him firmly, he quickly left the room.