So speaking, Frederick Walcheren left the room suddenly, slamming the door after him, whilst Henry Hindes remained on the floor, with the tears running down his cheeks. When he found himself alone, he rose from his knees and slowly quitted the apartment, not knowing what to do or where to go, or whom to consult, on the unhappy position in which he found himself.
The young priest was still pacing the floor of his dormitory, in the greatest disquietude, when a lay brother appeared, to tell him that a lady wished to speak to him in the common parlour, where the clergy usually receive their female visitors. Frederick tried to calm himself as he went down to meet her, but he felt very unequal to administering comfort, or giving advice to anyone. But what was his relief, on entering the parlour, to find that his visitor was Rhoda Berry. She was robed all in black, and looked so quiet and graceful that he was not surprised that the brother had called her a lady. Half his care seemed to fall off his shoulders as he recognised her.
‘Oh! Rhoda,’ he exclaimed, coming forward eagerly to greet her, ‘how good it is of you to answer my appeal so soon. Were you surprised that I should wish to see you again? I am in great trouble, and I long for your advice and counsel. You were always giving me good advice in the old days, Rhoda, so you must do the same now.’
‘Certainly, if I can,’ replied the girl, in an astonished tone; ‘but what advice of mine can benefit you, now that you are a priest, so high above me and so far, far away?’
‘Do you think I must necessarily be so high above you, Rhoda, just because I have been ordained,’ said Frederick, sadly. ‘I, on the contrary, have but lately found out that I am lower than I even believed myself to be; full of the old worldliness, the old envy, malice and all uncharitableness.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ replied Rhoda, stoutly, ‘you were never anything like that, Fred—I beg your pardon, I meant Mr Walcheren—’
‘Nonsense! call me Fred, Rhoda. What else should I be to you than that?’
‘But now—’ said Rhoda, dubiously, ‘it sounds so disrespectful.’
‘Does it? Never mind. It eases my heart to hear it. I feel very much alone sometimes, Rhoda, and as if I had isolated myself from all who loved me.’
‘I suppose you do, but perhaps the feeling will wear off with time. But I do not like to hear you accuse yourself of faults of which you were never guilty. I am sure you were never either envious or malicious. You were always the most kind-hearted and generous of men, at least to me. So I am sure you cannot have become uncharitable now.’