The young priest was punctual to his appointment, and found Rhoda ready
to receive him. She was alone, and in the room where they had so often
met before, yet she displayed no self-consciousness of the fact. It was
evident that she had accepted the position, in which they now stood to
one another, as final. Frederick Walcheren a priest was as dead to her
as if he lay in his grave. She saw in him only a friend, whom she had
once dearly loved and trusted in, to be advised, comforted and maybe
led aright. Had she been a Catholic, this state of mind would not have
been extraordinary on her part, since, for a Catholic to think of a
priest otherwise than a priest, would be sacrilege. But Rhoda was a
Protestant, who had been brought up to detest Popery, and everything
connected with it, so that the reverential attitude she now assumed
towards her former lover was due, not to his Church, but himself. She
cared nothing, individually, for his office, but she still cared too
much for him to tempt him to say a word, or do an act, which should
become a reproach to him. She rose as he entered, but did not even hold
out her hand in greeting. All the courtesy she extended, was to ask him
if he would like a cup of tea after his walk.
‘Thanks, Rhoda,’ he replied; ‘I think it would be very refreshing, for
I have just come off a long round of visits. The women of the poorer
classes I can see at any time, but it is only in the evenings that I
can catch the men.’
‘But there is not nearly so much trouble to induce the men to go to
church in your religion as there is in ours, or so I have heard,’ said
the girl, as she busied herself with the kettle and the teapot.
‘No, I suppose not, because they are reared from infancy to believe
that it is a mortal sin not to attend Mass once on a Sunday. And a
mortal sin, unconfessed, means, with us, eternal damnation. But what is
the use, Rhoda, of a duty performed under such a dread? If it is only
done from fear of hell, it may as well not be done at all.’
‘We have not met to-night to discuss religion,’ said Rhoda, as she
placed his cup of tea before him, ‘and you would never convert me if
we had. You may remember that was one of the matters we used to argue
about in the past, and finally agreed that each of us was to have our
own way. But I quite agree with you, that a duty performed from the
fear of man’s opinion, or of future punishment, is just worth nothing
in the eyes of God. There is only one person we have to please, or to
account for our actions to, and that is Himself.’
‘You used not to think so much of God when I first knew you, Rhoda,’
said Frederick, ‘or, at all events, I do not remember ever hearing you
speak of Him.’
The tears filled Rhoda’s eyes.
‘No, perhaps not. But things that have happened since then may have
drawn my thoughts more that way. You must feel yourself, Fred, that
when one knows trouble and loss, one naturally goes to Heaven for
comfort. It has been the same with you. That is why people say that it
is sent to turn us to God.’
‘Yes, for such as I, perhaps, Rhoda, who was so selfishly absorbed in
my own joy as to forget the unhappiness I caused to others--I seemed
to have no resource but to devote the rest of my life to Heaven. But
you are young, and your loss has not been like mine! I have had to give
up a wife who was far too good for me, whilst you lost only a most
worthless friend, unworthy of the name, who did his best to ensure your
destruction with his own.’
‘Let us talk of what we were doing this afternoon,’ responded the girl,
quietly. ‘I have thought of nothing else since we parted. It is so
dreadful, so very, very sad; so terrible for you to hear so suddenly,
and when you had no idea of such a thing. You told me that you had
applied for counsel to your fellow-priests, and all they could advise
you was to have patience. Patience for _what_, Frederick?’
‘For nothing, Rhoda. Patience to see the murderer of my poor wife
walking about the world as usual, beloved by his family, respected
by his friends, and honoured by his fellow-men. That is all. I may
live for the next fifty years--so may he--eating my heart out to know
my great wrong goes unavenged, and pacifying myself with prayer the
while--prayer that my enemy may find grace hereafter, I suppose, as
well as here.’
‘Fred,’ said Rhoda, leaning her elbows on the table opposite to him,
and looking him steadily in the face, ‘if you had your whole will in
this matter, what would you do?’
‘Hang the brute fifty times, and gloat over his agony all the while.’
‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t,’ she replied, shaking her head.
‘I would, Rhoda, I would. What! spare him who had no mercy on my lost
darling? You do not know me.’
‘I think I do, better than you know yourself. You feel like that now,
certainly, but when it came to actually _doing_ it, you would draw back
and say, “This is not my work. Leave him to God.”’
‘And let my darling lie in her bloody grave unavenged? Never!’
‘Is she not avenged? You have described to me what an abject,
trembling, miserable object her murderer is! Do you suppose he has not
suffered such tortures of remorse as would make the gallows a welcome
relief to him? There is no hell, Frederick, like that which we carry
within ourselves--the worm that dieth not. Leave this wretched man
to his own remorse! That will prove a greater hell to him than the
hangman’s rope, and be a jewel in your heavenly crown.’
‘But _why_ should I do this, Rhoda? I can understand the priests
telling me I must forego my revenge because I must not violate
the secrets of the confessional, yet, even they said that, if the
confession were made to me in private, as it was this afternoon, it
would be legitimate for me to bring the criminal to justice. But you
say just the opposite. Why?’
‘Because I am not speaking according to any formula, Frederick, of what
the Church will, or will not, permit you to do. I am talking to you as
a friend who thinks only of your individual good, and nothing of what
people or Churches will say. I am thinking only of how God will view
the matter, and what He might say when you had brought this murderer to
earthly justice. “Well! and now that you are satisfied with regard to
him who robbed you, how about yourself? Have _you_ never robbed your
neighbour? Have _you_ murdered no good thing which he prized?--never
taken from him anything which you can never give back again? Is there
no murder but that of the mortal life?” Oh! Fred, I do not mean or wish
to reproach you, but I want you to consider your own past life--your
life and mine--and see if we are not liable to make amends in the sight
of God as well as our fellow-creatures--even this poor murderer, on
whom you thirst to take your revenge.’
The young man had hidden his face in his hands as she spoke to him,
and, for a few moments, was too absorbed in thought to answer her.
Here was what the world would have called his victim--the girl he
had betrayed under a promise of eternal fidelity--who had trusted in
him and been deceived--who had never blamed nor reproached him, but
accepted her sad fate in all humility, teaching him true Christianity
as no one had ever taught him before.
He had robbed her of her good name and her virtue. He had murdered her
belief and faith in him. He had taken from her that which he could
never restore--her spotless reputation, and her pride in herself. He
had left her to support her shame and sorrow alone--the reproaches of
her family, the scorn of her companions--whilst he had been revelling
in Jenny’s beauty and Jenny’s love, and mourning over her death and his
own exceeding loss.
Yet, Rhoda had forgiven him in the divinest manner. She had felt with
him in his sorrow, but never asked him to share hers. She had listened,
with all sympathy to his tale of misery, but never once alluded to her
own. She had been a true friend to him in all things, and, if his life
could do her any good, he owed it to her; and then, with a deep groan,
he came back to himself and remembered that he was dead to the world;
he could benefit no one in it any more; he had made himself a cipher,
a machine, an automaton, to be moved only by the will of others, and
never to think or act for himself. The groan alarmed Rhoda. She feared
she had said too much.
‘Forgive me,’ she said softly, ‘if I was over bold. I forgot, for the
moment, what a gulf there is between us, and fancied I was scolding you
as of yore. You will not think too much of what I said. It is only a
girl’s opinion, after all, and you should know so much better than I.’
‘Yes, _should_,’ echoed Frederick Walcheren, moodily; ‘but the
question is if I do! Don’t blame yourself, Rhoda. You have put things
in a new light before me, and I thank you for it. I will go home and
think over the matter again. After all, you are right! What real good
would this man’s swinging do me? It cannot restore my murdered wife nor
my own peace of mind. I should be none the better for it.’
‘I am sure you would not, and especially if you had been the means of
bringing him to justice. It would only add another link to your chain
of sorrow. Besides, Fred, it would cast, as it were, a blot on your
ministry. I feel shy of touching on such a delicate subject, but you
will stand even this, I know, coming from me. The first fault, my dear,
was your own. Had you not married that young lady without the consent
of her parents, she would never have been placed in so dangerous a
position. This man would not have followed her, and she would have
had no chance of enraging him. There have been faults on all sides.
How can you tell, if you had been placed under the same circumstances
as this wretched murderer, whether you might not stand at this moment
in the same position? You know I am not attempting to defend him. His
crime excites the greatest abhorrence in my eyes, especially as it
has so cruelly hurt you. But I cannot help feeling the same about all
murderers--that, but for God’s grace, we might have encountered the
same lot. How many hasty blows are given, how many more intended--any
one of which might, if dealt a few inches nearer or farther, cause
death instead of mere pain. You say this man told you that his life had
been a curse to him ever since--that he was in despair. Is that not
sufficient punishment for his sin? What can be more terrible than a
life of remorse? The gallows would be preferable a thousand times over.
Don’t try to hurry him out of the world before he has repented and
tried to make such amends as may be in his power. Perhaps God may send
the thought to him. Perhaps your leniency may have the same effect! At
any rate, Fred, whatever may be his ultimate fate, don’t _you_ have a
hand in it! _Don’t_, for the sake of the old days!’
The tears were standing in her bright eyes as she leaned across the
table and put her hand upon his arm. He placed his own hand over it.
‘Were the old days very dear to you, Rhoda?’ he asked.
‘You know they were, but it is of no use talking of it. Since your lot
in life is fixed, it would be foolish to revert to the time when you
thought otherwise from now. I hear your voice, and fancy I have got
my old friend again, but, when I look at you, dressed in that strange
manner, and with your beautiful brown hair cropped off, I can hardly
believe you are the same Fred I knew. And it is best so, is it not?’
‘But what I am afraid of, Rhoda, is that my face and clothes are the
only things that are changed about me. That is one thing I wanted to
talk to you about. I fear I have made a terrible mistake in becoming
a priest. You see, this time last year, I was so mad with grief, the
shock I experienced had so shattered my nerves, that I was not myself.
All I wanted was to find forgetfulness, even at the sacrifice of
worldly good. My friends and relations worked largely on my frame of
mind, by assuring me the peace I longed for was to be found only in the
Church. My mother and godfather had intended me for that profession,
and I was in too despondent a state of mind to care what they did with
me, or made of me. So I drifted into ordination, not from a love of
God, but of despairing grief for my great loss. And now, I am sure,
I am unfitted for it. I am not nearly good enough. My thoughts and
desires are all with the world I have left. I have no vocation for
the ministry. What am I to do? Tell me, Rhoda. I have faith in your
sincerity and purity of teaching. Don’t consider anything, except how
I can please Heaven best. I don’t want to please myself so much, as not
to disgrace my calling.’
‘If you ask my advice, Fred, I can only give it in the words of your
favourite Shakespeare:--
“To thine own self, be true!
It follows, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”’
‘Be true to myself!’ mused Frederick Walcheren. ‘Yes, Rhoda, you are
right! That must be the only true test of any man’s conduct.’
‘Be true to the divinity that is in you, Fred. If _you_ feel--if your
soul--your very self feels that you will live an honester and better
life by leaving the Church--a life nearer God, and more in accordance
with the nature which He has given you--then don’t go by what any
priest, or Church, or law says, but be a law to yourself--and act
like not only a Christian, but _a man_, with free thoughts, and free
aspirations, and a God-given right to regulate his own life as he may
see best for himself and others.’
‘Oh, you little heretic!’ said Frederick, laughing, ‘what would they
have done to you a few centuries ago if you had been overheard uttering
such blasphemies! You would have been condemned to be burnt at the
stake!’
‘Should I?’ retorted Rhoda. ‘Well, I should not think much of a
religion that could do that!’
‘They both did it,’ replied Frederick, ‘the Protestants as well as the
Catholics! Everyone who differed from them in opinion, had to pay the
penalty of their rashness.’
‘Then I shouldn’t have thought much of either of them,’ said the girl.
‘Fred! religion was meant to bring us nearer God, not farther from Him.
The Church is not God, the priests are not God, the Bible, prayer--all
these--are only so many helps to bring us nearer Him. Why think about
what _they_ will say then. Think only what God will say, and He speaks
to you through your own conscience, and not through your fellow-men.’
‘Rhoda, you astound me,’ exclaimed her companion; ‘where have you
learned all this wisdom? You used not to talk to me like this when we
knew each other before. Who has taught you so much? With whom have you
been associating?’
The girl looked down and reddened.
‘With no one but myself,’ she answered gently. ‘I have been very much
alone. You see, I have been too much ashamed to go amongst the other
girls. But I think I have learned a great deal from my little baby. He
came, you know, Fred, when I was so very unhappy and despairing, and
he seemed like a little messenger of God to me, so sweet and innocent
and sinless, and yet, all mine, who was so wicked and ungrateful and
repining. I suppose I ought to have been very much ashamed of him,
but I never was. He seemed to say to me, when he looked up in my face
and smiled, whilst I was weeping over him: “Yes, you have been very
wicked, and you are very unhappy, but here I am, you see, sent straight
from God to comfort you. And, if you will be good for the future, He
will let me stay to make up to you for all you have lost.” It was silly
of me, wasn’t it? to fancy such things, but they comforted me, and so I
go on fancying them, even to this day. And baby has seemed to make me
think of God and bring me nearer to Him than I have ever been before.
And oh! Fred,’ she continued, bursting out into a sudden enthusiasm,
which she had never permitted herself to exhibit before, ‘he is such
a darling little creature, you can’t think, so fat and strong, and he
can toddle all over the place by himself. He was fourteen months old
yesterday. But I forgot,’ said Rhoda, suddenly checking herself; ‘I
oughtn’t to mention him to you now. It will hurt you to remember it.
Please forgive me, Fred. I should not have done it. It was a mistake.’
She looked at him, and, to her pity and surprise, saw that tears were
standing in his eyes.
‘Talk to me just as you will, Rhoda,’ he said, ‘I love to hear you. How
can I say I am glad you have this little child to comfort you, when I
remember all the shame and sorrow he has brought you, and of which I
am the cause? Yet, perhaps, God knows best, and sent him with a holy
purpose. May He bless you both, and reward you for your sweet, womanly
goodness to me. I cannot. Will you tell me some more about him?’ he
added, humbly.
‘Why, yes, of course, Fred, if you care to hear it! But mother says, if
I once begin talking of my black crow, as she calls him, I never stop.’
‘Is he so very dark, then?’ asked the young man, gazing at the girl’s
golden hair.
‘Oh! yes, not a bit like me, thank goodness! His eyes are like black
velvet, and so is his hair. I am glad of that. He reminds me of you!
And he has six teeth, and eats crusts like anything! And he can say
“muvver” and “danny” quite well!’
‘Nothing else?’ inquired Frederick, wistfully.
‘Only “sugar”,’ replied Rhoda, looking at him as much as to say, ‘How
can I teach him of a father he will never know?’
‘And your mother,’ continued Walcheren, ‘did she pronounce Anathema
Maranatha on me, Rhoda, for the shabby trick I played you?’
‘She was very, very angry at first, Fred. She could hardly help being
that; but she has been an angel of goodness to me all through. And she
is really very fond of Freddy, now!’
‘You called him after me!’ cried the young man, eagerly.
‘Was I wrong? Are you angry?’ said Rhoda, colouring from cheek to brow.
‘Angry! No! why should I be, only you might have called the poor
bantling after a better man.’
‘_I_ did not think so,’ said Rhoda, simply.
There was a long pause between them before the young man rose to take
his leave. How strange it seemed that, all at once, he had become timid
in the presence of this young girl who had such faith in him. They had
been so much to each other, and now they were so little; such a wide
gulf separated their interests and lives. And yet there was one tiny
link between them which neither could ever forget.
‘It is getting late! I must go,’ said Frederick, as he stood up and
held out his hand to her.
Rhoda took it in a lifeless manner. She dared not press it--it was the
hand of a priest, not of her lover. Yet, not to press it, and when he
was in trouble, seemed so hard. But she dropped it instead, as if her
own had no power to retain it.
‘Good-night!’ she murmured. ‘God bless you, Frederick, and help you
out of this new trouble. I shall go back to Luton by the first train
to-morrow.’
He longed to say ‘Don’t,’ but he dared not. Whatever lay in the future
for him, he must not say a word more than necessary to her, whilst he
wore those robes. So he said ‘Good-night!’ also, in an awkward manner,
as if he were ashamed to part with her so coldly, and turned away. But,
as he reached the door, he halted for a moment to add,--‘You have done
me so much good, I feel quite hopeful since I have seen you! God bless
you!’ and, nodding kindly, went his way.
And when he had disappeared, Rhoda sank down on her knees, and thanked
God that she had seen him again, and that he still thought of and
regarded her as a friend.