CHAPTER VIII.
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 everythingconnected 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 aSunday. 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 mythoughts 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 theycould advise you was to have patience. Patience forwhat, 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 actuallydoingit, 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.’
‘Butwhyshould 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 thisafternoon, 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? Haveyounever robbed your neighbour? Haveyoumurdered 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 poormurderer, 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 beenfaults 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 hispower. 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’tyouhave 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 thingsthat 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, excepthow 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.”’
“To thine own self, be true!It follows, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”’
“To thine own self, be true!It follows, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”’
“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. Ifyoufeel—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, buta man, with free thoughts, and free aspirations, and a God-given rightto 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 whattheywill say then. Think only what God will say, and He speaks to youthrough 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 overhim: “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 andsurprise, 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 sixteeth, 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.’
‘Idid 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.