"I have a letter to read you now of a later date," Mr. Morrison went on,—"from Mr. Rhys, which shews how well he has got hold of the people and how much he is regarded by them already. It shews the influence gained by the truth, too, which is working there fast."
After giving some details of business and of his labours, Mr. Rhys wrote—"My last notable piece of work, has been in the character of an ambassador of peace—not heavenly but earthly. News was brought four or five days ago that the heathen inhabitants of two neighbouring districts had engaged in open hostilities. Home business claimed me one day; the next morning I set out on my mission, with one or two Christian natives. The desolations of war soon met our eyes, in destroyed crops and a deserted village. Nobody was to be seen. I and those who were with me sat down in the shade of some trees, while a native went to find the inhabitants who had hid themselves in a thicket of mangroves. As soon as the chief heard that I was there, and what I had come for, he declared he would be a Christian forthwith; and four or five of his principal men followed his example. They came to me, and entered fully into my object; and it was decided that we should go on immediately to the fortress where those who wished to carry on war had intrenched themselves. We got there just as the sun was setting; and from that time till midnight I was engaged in what I saw now for the first time; a savage council of war. Grim black warriors covered with black powder sat or stood about, on a little clear spot of ground where the moon shone down; muskets and clubs and spears lay on the glass and were scattered about among the boles of the trees; a heathen-looking scene. Till midnight we talked, and hard talking too; then it was ended as I had prayed it might. The party with whom I was had suffered already in battle and had not had their revenge; it was difficult to give that up; but at last the chief got up and put his hand in mine. 'I should like to be a heathen a little longer,' he said, 'but I willlotuas you so earnestly entreat me.'Lotuis their name for embracing Christianity. Another young warrior joined him; and there under the midnight moon, we worshipped God; those two and those who were with me. In another part of the village a dozen women for the first time bowed the knee in the same worship.
"So far was well; but it yet remained to induce the opposite hostile party to agree to peace; you understand only one side was yet persuaded. Early the next morning I set about it. Here a difficulty met me. The Christian chiefs made no objection to going with me to parley with their enemies; but I wanted the company also of another, the chief of this district; knowing it very important. And he was afraid to go. He told me so plainly. 'If I do as you ask me,' said he, 'I am a dead man this day.' I did my best to make him think differently; a hundred men declared that they would die in defence of him; and at last I gained my point. Tui Mbua agreed to go to the neighbourhood of the hostile town, if I would bring its principal men to meet him at an appointed place. So we went. This chosen place was a fine plot of ground enclosed by magnificent chestnut trees. I went on to the town, with a few unarmed men. The people received us well; but it was difficult to make the old heathen, brought up on treachery and falsehood, believe that I was to be trusted. But in the end the chief and twenty of his men consented to go with us, and left their arms at home. They did it with forebodings, for I overheard an old man say, as we set out from the place,—'We shall see death to-day.' I lifted my voice and cried, 'To-day we live!' They took up the words, and heart at the same time, and repeated, 'To-day we live'—to encourage themselves, I suppose, as we went towards the chestnut-tree meeting ground.
"I felt that the peace of the whole region depended on what was to be done there, and for my part went praying that all might go well. It was an anxious moment when we entered the open place; any ill-looks in either party would chase away trust front the other. As we went in I watched the chief who accompanied me. He gently bowed to Tui Mbua and approached him with due and evidently honest respect. My heart leaped at that moment. Tui Mbua looked at him keenly, sprang to his feet, and casting his arms about his enemy's neck gave him a warm embrace. The people around shouted for joy; I was still, I believe, for the very depth of mine. One of the Christian chiefs spoke out and cried, 'We thank thee, O Lord, for thus bringing thy creatures into the way of life;' and he wept aloud for very gladness.
"After that we had speechifying; and I returned home very full of thankful joy."
This was the last letter read. Mr. Morrison folded up his packet amid a great silence. Mrs. Caxton seemed thoughtful; Eleanor was motionless.
"He is doing good work," remarked Mr. Morrison; "but it is hard work.He is the right sort of man to go there—fears nothing, shirks nothing.So are they all, I believe; but almost all the rest of them have theirwives with them. How came Rhys to go alone?"
"He does not write as if he felt lonely," said Mrs. Caxton.
"It is better for a man to take a wife, though," said Mr. Morrison. "He wants so much of comfort and home as that. They get tired, and they get sick, and to have no woman's hand about is something to be missed at such times. O we are all dependent. Mr. Rhys is domesticated now with Brother Lefferts and his family. I suppose he feels it less, because he has not had a home of his own in a good while; that makes a difference."
"He knows he has a home of his own too," said Mrs. Caxton; "though he has not reached it yet. I suppose the thought of that makes him content."
"Of course. But in a heathen land, with heathen desolation and dark faces all around one, you have no idea how at times one's soul longs for a taste of England. Brother Rhys too is a man to feel all such things. He has a good deal of taste, and what you might call sensitiveness to externals."
"A good deal," said Mrs. Caxton quietly. "Then he has some beautiful externals around him."
"So they say. But the humanity is deplorable. Well, they will get their reward when the Master comes. A man leaves everything indeed when he goes to the South Seas as Rhys has done. He would have been very popular in England."
"So he will in the islands."
"Well so it seems," said Mr. Morrison. "He has got the ear of those wild creatures evidently. That's the man."
It was time for evening prayers; and afterwards the party separated; Mrs. Caxton carrying off with her her packet of letters unbroken. The morning brought its own business; the breakfast was somewhat hurried; Mr. Morrison took his departure; and nothing more was said on the subject of South Sea missionaries till the evening. Then the two ladies were again alone together.
"Are you well to-day, Eleanor?" was Mrs. Caxton's first question at the tea-table.
"Some headache, aunt Caxton."
"How is that? And I have noticed that your eyes were heavy all day."
"There is no harm, ma'am. I did not sleep very well."
"Why not?"
"I think the reading of those letters excited me, aunt Caxton."
Mrs. Caxton looked at a line of faint crimson which was stealing up into Eleanor's cheeks, and for a moment stayed her words.
"My dear, there is as good work to be done here, as ever in Polynesia."
"I do not know, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor leaning her head on her hand in thoughtful wise. "England has had the light a great while; it must be grand to be the first torch-bearers into the darkness."
"So Mr. Rhys feels. But then, my dear, I think we are to do the work given us—one here and one there;—and let the Lord place his servants, and our service, as he will."
"I do not think otherwise, aunt Caxton."
"Would you like, to hear some of what Mr. Rhys has written to me? there is a little difference between what is sent to a Committee and what is for the private eye of a friend."
"Yes ma'am, I would like it," Eleanor said; but she did not say so at all eagerly; and Mrs. Caxton looked at her once or twice before she changed the subject and spoke of something else. She held to her offer, however; and when the green cloth and the lamp were again in readiness, she brought out the letters. Eleanor took some work and bent her head over it.
"This is one of the latest dates," Mrs. Caxton said as she opened the paper; "written after he had been there a good many months and had got fairly acquainted with the language and with the people. It seems to me he has been very quick about it."
"Yes, I think so," Eleanor answered; "but that is his way."
Mrs. Caxton read.
"My dear friend,
"In spite of the world of ocean rolling between us, I yet have a strange and sweet feeling of taking your hand, when I set myself to write to you. Spirit and matter seem at odds; and far away as I am, with the vegetation and the air of the tropics around me, as soon as I begin upon this sheet of paper I seem to stand in Plassy again. The dear old hills rear their wild outlines before me; the green wealth of vegetation is at my feet, but cool and fresh as nothing looks to me under the northerly wind which is blowing now; and your image is so distinct, that I almost can grasp your hand, and almost hear you speak;seeyou speak, I do. Blessed be the Lord for imagination, as well as for memory! Without it, how slowly we should mount to the conception of heavenly things and the understanding of himself; and the distance between friends would be a sundering of them indeed. But I must not waste time or paper in telling you what you know already.
"By which you will conclude that I am busy. I am as busy as I can possibly be. That is as I wish it. It is what I am here for. I would not have a moment unused. On Sunday I have four or five services, of different sorts. Week days I have an English school, a writing school, one before and the other after mid-day; and later still, a school for regular native instruction. Every moment of time that is free, or would be, is needed for visiting the sick, whose demands upon us are constant. But this gives great opportunity to preach the gospel and win the hearts of the people.
"Some account of a little preaching and teaching journey in which I took part some few months ago, I have a mind to give you. Our object was specially an island between one and two hundred miles away, where many have become Christians, and not in name only; but where up to this time no missionary has been stationed. We visit them when we can. This time we had the advantage of a brig to make the voyage in; the mission ship was here with the Superintendent and he desired to visit the place. We arrived at evening in the neighbourhood; at a little island close by, where all the people are now Christian. Mr. Lefferts went ashore in a canoe to make arrangements; and the next day we followed. It was a beautiful day and as beautiful a sight as eyes could see. We visited the houses of the native teachers, who were subjects of admiration in every respect; met candidates for baptism and examined them; married a couple; and Bro. Griffiths preached. There is a new chapel, of very neat native workmanship; with a pulpit carved out of a solid piece of wood, oiled to give it colour and gloss. In the chapel the whole population of the island was assembled, dressed in new dresses, attentive, and interested. So were we, you may believe, when we remembered that only two years ago all these people were heathens. O these islands are a glorious place now and then, in spots where the devil's reign is broken. I wish you could have seen us afterwards, my dear friend, at our native feast spread on the ground under the trees; you who never saw a table set but with exact and elegant propriety. We had no table; believe me, we were too happy and hungry to mind that. I do not think you would have quarrelled with our dishes; they were no other and no worse than the thick broad glossy leaves of the banana. No fault could be found with their elegance; and our napkins were of the green rind of the same tree. Cocoanut shells were our substitute for flint glass, and I like it very well; especially when cocoanut milk is the refreshment to be served in them. Knives and forks we had none! What would you have said to that? Our meat was boiled fowls and baked yams and fish dressed in various ways; and the fingers of the natives, or our own, were our only dividers. But I have seen less pleasant entertainments; and I only could wish you had been there,—so you might have whisked back to England the next minute after it was over, on some convenient fairy carpet such as I used to read of in Eastern tales when I was a boy. For us, we had to make our way in haste back to the ship, which lay in the offing, and could not come near on account of the reef barrier. We got on board safely, passing the reefs where once an American ship was wrecked and her crew killed and eaten by the people of these parts.
"The next day we made the land we sought; and got ashore through a tremendous surf. Here we found the island had lately been the seat of war—some of the heathen having resolved to put an end by violence to the Christian religion there, or as they call it, thelotu. The Christians had gained the victory, and then had treated their enemies with the utmost kindness; which had produced a great effect upon them. The rest of the day after our landing was spent in making thorough inquiry into this matter; and in a somewhat extended preaching service. At night we slept on a mat laid for us, or tried to sleep; but my thoughts were too busy; and the clear night sky was witness to a great many restless movements, I am afraid, before I lost them in forgetfulness. The occasion of which, I suppose, was the near prospect of sending letters home to England by the ship. At any rate, England and the South Seas were very near together that night; and I was fain to remember that heaven is nearer yet. But the remembrance carne, and with it sleep. The next day was a day of business. Marrying couples (over forty of them) baptizing converts, preaching; then meeting the teachers and class-leaders and examining them as to their Christian experience, etc. From dawn till long past mid-day we were busy so; and then were ready for another feast in the open air like that one I described to you—for we had had no breakfast. We had done all the work we could do at that time at One, and sought our ship immediately after dinner; passing through a surf too heavy for the canoes to weather.
"Let me tell you some of the testimony given by these converts from heathenism; given simply and heartily, by men who have not learned their religion by book nor copied it out of other men's mouths. It was a very thrilling thing to hear them, these poor enterers into the light, who have but just passed the line of darkness. One said, 'I love the Lord, and I know he loves me; not for anything in me, or for anything I have done; but for Christ's sake alone. I trust in Christ and am happy. I listen to God, that he may do with me as he pleases. I am thankful to have lived until the Lord's work has begun. I feel it in my heart! I hold Jesus! I am happy! My heart is full of love to God!'
"Another said, 'One good thing I know,—the sacred blood of Jesus. I desire nothing else.'
"Another,—'I know that God has justified me through the sacred blood of Jesus. I know assuredly that I am reconciled to God. I know of the work of God in my soul. The sacred Spirit makes it clear to me. I wish to preach the gospel, that others also may know Jesus.'
"All these have been engaged the past year in teaching or proclaiming the truth in various ways. Another of their number who was dying, one or two of us went to see. One of us asked him if he was afraid to die? 'No,' he said, 'I am sheltered. The great Saviour died for me. The Lord's wrath is removed. I am his.' And another time he remarked, 'Death is a fearfully great thing, but I fear it not. There is aSaviourbelow the skies.'
"So there is a helmet of salvation for the poor Fijian as well as for the favoured people at home. Praise be to the Lord! Did I tell you, my dear friend, I was restless at the thought of sending letters home? Let me tell you now, I am happy; as happy as I could be in any place in the world; and I would not be in any other place, by my own choice, for all the things in the world. I need only to be made more holy. Just in proportion as I am that, I am happy and I am useful. I want to be perfectly holy. But there is the same way of trusting for the poor Fijian and for me; and I believe in that same precious blood I shall be made clean, even as they. I want to preach Christ a thousand times more than I do. I long to make his love known to these poor people. I rejoice in being here, where every minute may tell actively for him. My dear friend, when we get home, do what we will, we shall not think we have done enough.
"Our life here is full of curious contrasts. Within doors, what our old habits have stereotyped as propriety, is sadly trenched upon. Before the ship came, Mrs. Lefferts' stock of comfort in one line was reduced to a single tea-cup; and in other stores, the demands of the natives had caused us to run very short. You know it is only by payment of various useful articles that we secure any service done or purchase any native produce. Money is unknown. Fruit and vegetables, figs, fish, crabs, fowls, we buy with iron tools, pieces of calico, and the like; and if our supply of these gives out, we have to draw upon the store of things needed by ourselves; and blankets and hardware come to be minus. Then, forgetting this, which it is easy to do, all the world without is a world of glorious beauty. How I wish I could shew it to you! These islands are of very various character, and many of them like the garden of Eden for natural loveliness; shewing almost every kind of scenery within a small area. Most of them are girdled more or less entirely by what is called abarrier reef—an outside and independent coral formation, sometimes narrow, sometimes miles in width, on the outer edge of which the sea breaks in an endless line of white foam. Within the reef the lagoon, as it is called, is perfectly still and clear; and such glories of the animal and vegetable world as lie beneath its surface I have no time to describe to you now. I have had little time to examine them; but once or twice I have taken a canoe and a piece of rest, gliding over this submarine garden, and rejoicing in the Lord who has made everything so beautiful in its time. My writing hour is over for to-day. I am going five or six miles to see a man who is said to be very ill.
"Feb. 16. The man had very little the matter with him. I had my walk for nothing, so far as my character of doctor or nurse was concerned.
"I will give you a little notion of the beauty of these islands, in the description of one that I visited a short time ago. It is one of our out-stations—too small to have a teacher given it; so it is visited from time to time by Mr. Lefferts and myself. With a fair wind the distance is hardly a day's journey; but sometimes as in this case it consumes two days. The voyage was made in a native canoe, manned by native sailors, some Christian, some heathen. They are good navigators, for savages; and need to be, for the character of the seas here, threaded with a network of coral reefs, makes navigation a delicate matter. Our voyage proceeded very well, until we got to the entrance of the island. That seems a strange sentence; but the island itself is a circle, nearly; a band of volcanic rock, not very wide, enclosing a lake or lagoon within its compass. There is only a rather narrow channel of entrance. Here we were met by difficulty. The surf breaking shorewards was tremendously high; and meeting and struggling with it came a rush of the current from within. Between the two opposing waters the canoe was tossed and swayed like a reed. It was, for a few moments, a scene to be remembered, and not a little terrific. The shoutings and exertions of the men, who felt the danger of their position, added to the roar and the power of the waters, which tossed us hither and thither as a thing of no consequence, made it a strange wild minute,—till we emerged from all that struggle and roar into the still beautiful quiet of the lagoon inside. Imagine it, surrounded with its border of rocky land covered with noble trees, and spotted with islets covered in like manner. The whole island is of volcanic formation, and its rocks are of black scoria. The theory is, I believe, that a volcano once occupied the whole centre of such islands; which sinking afterwards away left its place to the occupancy of a lake instead. However produced, the effect is singular in its wild beauty. The soil of this island is poor for any purpose but growing timber; the inhabitants consequently are not many, and they live on roots and fish and what we should think still poorer food—a great wood maggot, which is found in plenty. There are but four villages, two of them Christian. I staid there one night and the next day, giving them all I could; and it was a good time to me. The day after I returned home. O sweet gospel of Christ! which is lighting up these dark places; and O my blessed Master, who stands by his servants and gives them his own presence and love, when they are about his work and the world is far from them, and men would call them lonely. There is no loneliness where Christ is. I must finish this long letter with giving you the dying testimony of a Tongan preacher who has just gone to his home. He came here as a missionary from his own land, and has worked hard and successfully. He said to Mr. Calvert the day before his death, 'I have longenjoyedreligion and felt itspower. In my former illness I was happy; but now I am greatly blessed. The Lord has come down with mighty power into my soul, and I feel the blessedness offull rest of soulin God. I feel religion to be peculiarly sweet, and my rejoicing is great. I see more fully and clearly the truth of the word and Spirit of God, and the suitableness of the Saviour. The whole of Christianity I see as exceedingly excellent.'
"With this testimony I close, my dear friend. It is mine; I can ask no better for you than that it may be yours."
Mrs. Caxton ended her reading and looked at Eleanor. She had done that several times in the course of the reading. Eleanor was always bent over her work, and busily attentive to it; but on each cheek a spot of colour had been fixed and deepening, till now it had reached a broad flush. Silence fell as the reading ceased; Eleanor did not look up; Mrs. Caxton did not take her eyes from her niece's face. It was with a kind of subdued sigh that at last she turned from the table and put her papers away.
"Mr. Morrison is not altogether in the wrong," she remarked at length. "It is better for a man in those far-off regions, and amidst so many labours and trials, to have the comfort of his own home."
"Do you think Mr. Rhys writes as if he felt the want?"
"It is hard to tell what a man wants, by his writing. I am not quite at rest on that point."
"How happened it that he did not marry, like everybody else, before going there?"
"He is a fastidious man," said Mrs. Caxton; "one of those men that are rather difficult to please, I fancy; and that are apt enough to meet with hindrances because of the very nice points of their own nature."
"I don't think you need wish any better for him, aunt Caxton, than to judge by his letters he has and enjoys as he is. He seems to me, and always did, a very enviable person."
"Can you tell why?"
"Good—happy—and useful," said Eleanor. But her voice was a little choked.
"You know grace is free," said Mrs. Caxton. "He would tell you so. Ring the bell, my dear. And a sinner saved in England is as precious as one saved in Fiji. Let us work where our place is, and thank the Lord!"
"Speak, is't so?If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,To tell me truly."
Mr. Morrison's visit had drifted off into the distance of time; and the subject of South Sea missions had passed out of sight, for all that appeared. Mrs. Caxton did not bring it up again after that evening, and Eleanor did not. The household went on with its quiet ways. Perhaps Mrs. Caxton was a trifle more silent and ruminative, and Eleanor more persistently busy. She had been used to be busy; in these weeks she seemed to have forgotten how to rest. She looked tired accordingly sometimes; and Mrs. Caxton noticed it.
"What became of your bill, Eleanor?" she said suddenly one evening.They had both been sitting at work some time without a word.
"My bill, ma'am? What do you mean, aunt Caxton?"
"Your Ragged school bill."
"It reached its second reading, ma'am; and there it met with opposition."
"And fell through?"
"I suppose so—for the present. Its time will come, I hope; the time for its essential provisions, I mean."
"Do you think Mr. Carlisle could have secured its passage?"
"From what I know and have heard of him, I have no doubt he could."
"His love is not very generous," remarked Mrs. Caxton.
"It never was, aunt Caxton. After I left London I had little hope of my bill. I am not disappointed."
"My dear, are you weary to-night?"
"No ma'am! not particularly."
"I shall have to find some play-work for you to do. Your voice speaks something like weariness."
"I do not feel it, aunt Caxton."
"Eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your decision and action with respect to Mr. Carlisle?"
"Never, aunt Caxton. How can you ask me?"
"I did not know but you might feel weariness now at your long stay inPlassy and the prospect of a continued life here."
Eleanor put down her work, came to Mrs. Caxton, kneeled down and put her arms about her; kissing her with kisses that certainly carried conviction with them.
"It is the most wicked word I ever heard you say, aunt Caxton. I love Plassy beyond all places in the world, that I have ever been in. No part of my life has been so pleasant as the part spent here. If I am weary, I sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off from its natural duties and stranded somehow, all alone; but that is an unbelieving thought, and I do not give it harbour at all. I am very content—very happy."
Mrs. Caxton brought her hand tenderly down the side of the smooth cheek before her, and her eyes grew somewhat misty. But that was a rare occurrence, and the exhibition of it immediately dismissed. She kissed Eleanor and returned to her ordinary manner.
"Talking about stranded lives," she said; "to take another subject, you must forgive me for that one, dear—I think of Mr. Rhys very often."
"His life is not stranded," said Eleanor; "it is under full sail."
"He is alone, though."
"I do not believe he feels alone, aunt Caxton."
"I do not know," said Mrs. Caxton. "A man of a sensitive nature must feel, I should think, in his circumstances, that he has put an immense distance between himself and all whom he loves."
"But I thought he had almost no family relations left?"
"Did it never occur to you," said Mrs. Caxton, "when you used to see him here, that there was somebody, somewhere, who had a piece of his heart?"
"No, ma'am,—never!" Eleanor said with some energy. "I never thought he seemed like it."
"I did not know anything about it," Mrs. Caxton went on slowly, "until a little while before he went away—some time after you were here. Then I learned that it was the truth."
Eleanor worked away very diligently and made no answer. Mrs. Caxton furtively watched her; Eleanor's head was bent down over her sewing; but when she raised it to change the position of her work, Mrs. Caxton saw a set of her lips that was not natural.
"You never suspected anything of the kind?" she repeated.
"No, ma'am—and it would take strong testimony to make me believe it."
"Why so, pray?"
"I should have thought—but it is no matter what I thought about it!"
"Nay, if I ask you, it is matter. Why should it be hard to believe, ofMr. Rhys especially?"
"Nothing; only—I should have thought, if he liked any one, a woman,—that she would have gone with him."
"You forget where he was bound to go. Do you think many women would have chosen to go with him to such a home—perhaps for the remainder of their lives? I think many would have hesitated."
"Butyouforget for what he was going; and any woman whom he would have liked, would have liked his object too."
"You think so," said Mrs. Caxton; "but I cannot wonder at his having doubted. There are a great many questions about going such a journey, my dear."
"And did the lady refuse to go?" said Eleanor bending over her work and speaking huskily.
"I do not think he ever asked her. I almost wish he had."
"Almost, aunt Caxton? Why he may have done her the greatest wrong. She might like him without his knowing it; it was not fair to go without giving her the chance of saying what she would do."
"Well, he is gone," said Mrs. Caxton; "and he went alone. I think men make mistakes sometimes."
Eleanor sewed on nervously, with a more desperate haste than she knew, or than was in the least called for by the work in hand. Mrs. Caxton watched her, and turned away to the contemplation of the fire.
"Did the thought ever occur to you, Eleanor," she went on very gravely, "that he fanciedyou?"
Eleanor's glance up was even pitiful in its startled appeal.
"No, ma'am, of course not!" she said hastily. "Except—O aunt Caxton, why do you ask me such a thing!"
"Except,—my dear?"
"Except a foolish fancy of an hour," said Eleanor in overwhelmed confusion. "One day, for a little time—aunt Caxton, how can you ask me such a thing?"
"I had a little story to tell you, my dear; and I wanted to make sure that I should do no harm in telling it. What is there so dreadful in such a question?"
But Eleanor only brushed away a hot tear from her flushed face and went on with her sewing. Or essayed to do it, for Mrs. Caxton thought her vision seemed to be not very clear.
"What made you think so that time, Eleanor? and what is the matter, my dear?"
"It hurts me, aunt Caxton, the question. You know we were friends, and I liked him very much, as I had reason; but Ineverhad cause to fancy that he thought anything of me—only once I fancied it without cause."
"On what occasion, my love?"
"It was only a little thing—a nothing—a chance word. I saw immediately that I was mistaken."
"Did the thought displease you?"
"Aunt Caxton, why should you bring up such a thing now?" said Eleanor in very great distress.
"Did it displease you, Eleanor?"
"No aunty"—said the girl; and her head dropped in her hands then.
"My love," Mrs. Caxton said very tenderly, "I knew this before; I thought I did; but it was best to bring it out openly, for I could not else have executed my commission. I lave a message from Mr. Rhys to you, Eleanor."
"A message to me?" said Eleanor without raising her head.
"Yes. You were not mistaken."
"In what?"
Eleanor looked up; and amidst sorrow and shame and confusion, there was a light of fire, like the touch the summer sun gives to the mountain tops before he gets up. Mrs. Caxton looked at her flushed tearful face, and the hidden light in her eye; and her next words were as gentle as the very fall of the sunbeams themselves.
"My love, it is true."
"What, aunt Caxton?"
"You were not mistaken."
"In what, ma'am?"
"In thinking what you thought that day, when something—a mere nothing—made you think that Mr. Rhys liked you."
"But, aunty," said Eleanor, a scarlet flood refilling the cheeks which had partially faded,—"I had never the least reason to think so again."
"That is Mr. Rhys's affair. But you may believe it now, for he told me; and I give it to you on his own testimony."
It was curious to Mrs. Caxton to see Eleanor's face. She did not hide it; she turned it a little away from her aunt's fill view and sat very still, while the intense flush passed away and left only a nameless rosy glow, that almost reminded Mrs. Caxton of the perfume as well as of the colour of the flower it was likened to. There was a certain unfolding sweetness in Eleanor's face, that was most like the opening of a rosebud just getting into full blossom; but the lips, unbent into happy lines, were a little shame-faced, and would not open to speak a word or ask another question. So they both sat still; the younger and elder lady.
"Do you want me to tell you any more, Eleanor?"
"Why do you tell me this at all now, aunt Caxton?" Eleanor said very slowly and without stirring.
"Mr. Rhys desired I should."
"Why, aunt Caxton?"
"Why do gentlemen generally desire such things to be made known to young ladies?"
"But ma'am"—said Eleanor, the crimson starting again.
"Well, my dear?"
"There is the whole breadth of the earth between us."
"Ships traverse it," said Mrs. Caxton coolly.
"Do you mean that he is coming home?" said Eleanor. Her face was a study, for its changing lights; too quick, too mingled, too subtle in their expression, to be described. So it was at this instant. Half eager, and half shame-faced; an unmistakeable glow of delight, and yet something that was very like shrinking.
"No, my love," Mrs. Caxton made answer—"I do not mean that. He would not leave his place and his work, even for you."
"But then, ma'am—"
"What all this signifies? you would ask. Are you sorry—do you feel any regret—that it should be made known to you?"
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor low, and hanging her head.
"What it signifies, I do not know. That depends upon the answer to a very practical question which I must now put to you. If Mr. Rhys were stationed in England and could tell you all this himself, what would you say to him in answer?"
"I could give him but one, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor in the same manner.
"And that would be a grant of his demand?"
"You know it would, ma'am, without asking me."
"Now we come to the question. He cannot leave his work to come to you.Is your regard for him enough to make you go to Fiji?"
"Not without asking, aunt Caxton," Eleanor said, turning away.
"Suppose he has asked you."
"But dear aunt Caxton," Eleanor said in a troubled voice, "he never said one word to me of his liking for me, nor to draw out my feeling towards him."
"Suppose he has said it."
"How, ma'am? By word, or in writing?"
"In writing."
Eleanor was silent a little, with her head turned away; then she said in a subdued way, "May I have it, aunt Caxton?"
"My dear, I was not to give them to you except I found that you were favourably disposed towards the object of them. If you ask me for them again, it must be upon that understanding."
"Will you please to give them to me, aunt Caxton," Eleanor said in the same subdued tone.
Mrs. Caxton rose and went to a secretary in the room for one or two papers, which she brought and put in Eleanor's hand. Then folding her arms round her, stooped down and kissed the turned-away face. Eleanor rose up to meet the embrace, and they held each other fast for a little while, neither in any condition to speak.
"The Lord bless you, my child!" said Mrs. Caxton as she released her. "You must make these letters a matter of prayer. And take care that you do the Lord's will in this business—not your own."
"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor presently, "why was this not told me long ago—before Mr. Rhys went away?" She spoke the words with difficulty.
"It is too long a story to tell to-night," Mrs. Caxton said after hesitating. "He was entirely ignorant of what your feeling might be towards him—ignorant too how far you might be willing to do and dare for Christ's sake—and doubtful how far the world and Mr. Carlisle might be able to prevail with you if they had a fair chance. He could not risk taking a wife to Fiji who had not fairly counted the cost."
"He was so doubtful of me, and yet liked me?" said Eleanor.
"My love, there is no accounting for these things," Mrs. Caxton said with a smile.
"And he left these with you to give to me?"
"One was left—the other was sent. One comes from Fiji. I will tell you about them to-morrow. It is too long a story for to-night; and you have quite enough to think about already. My dear Eleanor!"
They parted without more words, only with another speaking embrace, more expressive than words; and without looking at the other each went to her own room. Eleanor's was cosy and bright in winter as well as in summer; a fire of the peculiar fuel used in the region of the neighbourhood, made of cakes of coal and sand, glowed in the grate, and the whole colouring of the drapery and the furniture was of that warm rich cast which comforts the eye and not a little disposes the mind to be comfortable in conformity. The only wood fire used in the house was the one in the sitting parlour. Before her grate-full of glowing coals Eleanor sat down; and looked at the two letters she held in her hand. Looked at the handwriting too, with curious scrutiny, before she ventured to open and read either paper. Wondered too, with an odd side thought, why her fingers should tremble so in handling these, when no letter of Mr. Carlisle's writing had ever reminded her that her fingers had nerves belonging to them. One was a little letter, which Mrs. Caxton had told her was the first to be read; it was addressed, "In the hand of Mrs. Caxton, for Miss Eleanor Powle." That note Eleanor's little fingers opened with as slight tearing of the paper as might be. It was in few words indeed.
"Although I know that these lines will never meet the eye of her for whom they are written, unless she be favourably inclined both to them and to me; yet in the extreme doubt which possesses me whether that condition will be ever fulfilled, and consequently whether I am not writing what no one will ever read, I find it very difficult to say anything. Something charges me with foolhardiness, and something with presumption; but there is a something else, which is stronger, that overthrows the charges and bids me go on.
"If you ever see these lines, dear Eleanor, you will know already what they have to tell you; but it is fit you should have it in my own words; that—not the first place in my heart—but the second—is yours; and yours without any rivalry. There is one thing dearer to me than you—it is my King and his service; after that, you have all the rest.
"What is it worth to you? anything? and what will you say to me in reply?
"When you read this I shall be at a distance—before I can read your answer I shall be at the other side of the globe. I am not writing to gratify a vague sentiment, but with a definite purpose—and even, though it mocks me, a definite hope. It is much to ask—I hardly dare put it in words—it is hardly possible—that you should come to me. But if you are ready to do and venture anything in the service of Christ—and if you are willing to share a life that is wholly given to God to be spent where and how he pleases, and that is to take up its portion for the present, and probably for long, in the depths of South Sea barbarism—let your own heart tell you what welcome you will receive.
"I can say no more. May my Lord bless and keep you. May you know the fulness of joy that Jesus can give his beloved. May you want nothing that is good for you.
"R. Rhys."
The other letter was longer. It was dated "Island Vulanga, in the SouthSeas, March, 18—,
"My dear Eleanor—
"I do not know what presumption moves me to address you again, and from this far-away place. I say to myself that it is presumption; and yet I yield to the impulse. Perhaps it is partly the wish to enjoy once at least even this fancied communion with you, before some news comes which may shut me off from it for ever. But I yield to the temptation. I feel very far from you to-day; the tops of the bread-fruit trees that I see from my window, the banana tree with its bunches of fruit and broad bright leaves just before my door—this very hot north wind that is blowing and making it so difficult to do anything and almost to breathe—all remind me that I am in another land, and by the very force of contrast, the fresh Welsh mountains, the green meadows, the cool sweet air of Plassy—and your face—come before me. Your face, most of all. My mind can think of nothing it would be so refreshing to see. I will write what I please; for you will never read it if the reading would be impertinent; and something tells me youwillread it.
"This is one of the hot months, when exertion is at times very difficult. The heat is oppressive and takes away strength and endurance. But it is for my Master. That thought cures all. To be weary for Christ, is not to be weary; it is better than any delights without him. So each day is a boon; and each day that I have been able to fill up well with work for God, I rejoice and give thanks. There is no limit here to the work to be done; it presses upon us at all points. We cannot teach all that ask for teaching; we can hardly attend to the calls of the sick; hundreds and hundreds stand stretching out their hands to us with the prayer that we would come and tell them about religion, and we cannot go! Our hands are already full; our hearts break for the multitudes who want the truth, to whom we cannot give it. We wish that every talent we have were multiplied. We wish that we could work all night as well as all day. Above allIwant to be more like my Lord. When I am all Christ's,thenI shall be to the praise of his glory, who called me out of darkness into his marvellous light. I want to be altogether holy; then I shall be quite happy and useful, and there is no other way. Are you satisfied with less, Eleanor? If you are, you are satisfied with less than satisfies Christ. Find out where you stand. Remember, it is as true for you as it was for Paul to say, 'Through Christ I can do all things.'
"There are a few native Christians here who are earnestly striving to be holy. But around them all is darkness—blacker than you can even conceive. Where the Sun of righteousness has shined, there the golden beams of Fiji's morning lie; it is a bright spot here and there; but our eyes long for the day. We know and believe it is coming. But when? I understand out here the meaning of that recommendation—'Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into the harvest.' You can hardly understand it in England. Do you pray that prayer, Eleanor?
"Before I left England I wrote you a note. Amid the exquisite pleasure and pain of which lurked a hope—without which it would not have been written, but which I now see to have been very visionary. It is possible that circumstances may be so that the note may have been read by you; in that case Mrs. Caxton will give you this; but at the distance of space and time that intervenes now, and with cooler thoughts and better knowledge, I feel it to be scarcely possible that you should comply with the request I was daring enough to make to you. I do not expect it. I have ceased to allow myself to hope for it. I think I was unreasonable to ask—and I will never think you unreasonable for refusing—so extravagant a demand. Even if you were willing, your friends would not allow it. And I would not disguise from you that the difficulties and dangers to be met in coming here, are more and greater than can possibly have been represented to you. Humanly speaking, that is; I have myself no fear, and never have felt any. But the evils that surround us—that come to our knowledge and under our very eyes—are real and tangible and dreadful. So much the more reason for our being here;—but so much the less likely that you, gently reared and delicately cared for, will be allowed to risk your delicate nurture in this land of savages. There is cannibalism here, and to the most dreadful extent; there is all the defilement of life and manners that must be where human beings have no respect for humanity; and all this must come more or less under the immediate knowledge and notice of those that live here. The Lord God is a sun and shield; we dwell in him and not in the darkness; nevertheless our eyes see what our hearts grieve over. I could not shield you from it entirely were you here; you would have to endure what in England you could not endure. There are minor trials many and often to be encountered; some of which you will have learned from other letters of the mission.
"The heathen around us are not to be trusted, and will occasionally lay their hands upon something we need very much, and carry it off. Not long ago the house of Mr. Thomas, on a neighbouring station, was entered at night and robbed of almost all the wearing apparel it contained. The entrance was effected silently, by cutting into the thin reed and grass wall of the house; and nobody knew anything of the matter till next morning. Then the signs shewed that the depredators had been prepared to commit violence if resisted. I do not know—but I am inclined to think such a thing would not happen in my house. I have been enabled to gain the good will of the people very generally, by kindness to the sick, &c.; and two or three of the most powerful chiefs in this vicinity have declared themselves each formally my 'friend'—a title of honour which I scrupulously give and take with them. Nevertheless they are not to be relied upon. What of that? The eternal God is our refuge! After all I come back into feeling how safe we are, rather than how exposed.
"Yet all I have told you is true, and much more. Let no one come here who does not love Christ well enough to suffer the loss of all things for his sake, if necessary; for it may be demanded of him. He wants the helmet of salvation on his head; but with that, it does not matter where we are—glory to the Captain of our salvation! Fiji is very near heaven, Eleanor; nearer than England; and if I dared, I would say, I wish you were here;—but I do not dare. I do not know what is best. I leave you to your own judgment of what you ought to do, and to that better direction which will tell you. For me, I know that I shall not want; not so but that I can find my supply; and soon I shall be where I shall not want at all. Meanwhile every day is a glad day to me, for it is given to my Lord; and Jesus is with me. The people hear the word gladly, and with some fruit of it continually our hearts are cheered. I would not be anywhere else than I am. My choice would be, if I had my choice, to live and die in Fiji.
"I dare not trust myself to say the thoughts that come surging up for utterance; it is wiser not. If my first note to you was presumptuous, this at least is the writing of a calmer and wiser man. I have resigned the expectations of a moment. But it is no harm for me to say I love you as well as ever;thatI shall do, I think, till I die; although I shall never see you again, and dare not promise myself I shall ever again write to you. It may be it will be best not, even as a friend, to do that. Perhaps as a friend I could not. It is not as a friend, that I sign myself now,
"Rowland Rhys."
Poor Eleanor! She was of all people in the world the least given to be sentimental or soft-hearted in a foolish way; but strong as she was, there was something in these letters—or some mixture of things—that entered her heart like an arrow through the joints of an armour, and found her as defenceless. Tears came with that resistless, ceaseless, measureless flow, as when the secret nerve of tenderness has been reached, and every barrier of pride or self-consideration is broken down or passed over. So keen the touch was to Eleanor, that weeping could not quiet it. After all it was only a heavy summer shower—not a winter storm. Eleanor hushed her sobs at last to begin her prayers; and there the rest of the night left her. The morning was dawning grey in the east, when she threw herself upon her bed for an hour's sleep. Sleep came then without waiting.
Perhaps Mrs. Caxton had not been much more reposeful than her niece; for she was not the first one down stairs. Eleanor was there before her; Mrs. Caxton watched her as she came in; she was ceremoniously putting the fire in best burning condition, and brushing up the ashes from the hearth. As Mrs. Caxton came near, Eleanor looked up and a silent greeting passed between them; very affectionate, but silent evidently of purpose. Neither of them was ready to speak. The bell was rung, the servants were gathered; and immediately after prayers breakfast was brought in. It was a silent meal for the first half of it. Mrs. Caxton still watched Eleanor, whose eyes did not readily meet hers. What about her? Her manner was as usual, one would have said, yet it was not; nor was she. A little delicate undefined difference made itself felt; and that Mrs. Caxton was studying. A little added grace; a little added deftness and alacrity; Mrs. Caxton had seen it in that order taken of the fire before breakfast; she saw it and read it then. And in Eleanor's face correspondingly there was the same difference; impossible to tell where it lay, it was equally impossible not to perceive it. Though her face was grave enough, there was a beauty in the lines of it that yesterday had not seen; a nameless witness in the corners of her mouth, that told tales the tongue would not. Mrs. Caxton looked on and saw it and read it, for half the breakfast time, before she spoke. Maybe she had a secret sigh or two to cover; but at any rate there was nothing like that in her look or her voice when she spoke.
"So you will go, Eleanor!"
Eleanor started, and coloured; then looked down at her plate, the blush growing universal.
"Have you decided, my love?"
Eleanor leaned her head upon her hand, as if with the question came the remembrance of last night's burden of thoughts; but her answer was a quiet low "yes."
"May I know—for I feel myself responsible to a degree in this matter,—may I know, on what ground?"
Eleanor's look was worth five hundred pounds. The little glance of surprise and consciousness—the flash of hidden light, there was no need to ask from what magazine, answered so completely, so involuntarily. She cast down her eyes immediately and answered in words sedate enough—
"Because I am unable to come to any other decision, ma'am."
"But Eleanor, my dear," said Mrs. Caxton,—"do you know, Mr. Rhys himself would be unwilling you should come to him for his own sake alone—in Fiji."
Eleanor turned away from the table at that and covered her face with her hands; a perfect rush of confusion bringing over face and neck and almost even over the little white fingers, a suffusing crimson glow. She spoke presently.
"I cannot say anything to that, aunt Caxton. I have tried myself as well as I can. I think I would go anywhere and do anything where I saw clearly my work and my place were put for me. I do not know anything more about it."
"My love, that is enough. I believe you. I entirely approve your decision. I spoke, because I needed to ask the questionhewould have asked if he had been here. Mr. Rhys has written to me very stringently on the subject."
"So he has to me, ma'am."
"If you have settled that question with your conscience, my dear, there is no more necessary to be said about it. Conscience should be clear on that point, and the question settled securely. If it is not, you had better take time for thought and self-searching."
"I do not need it, aunt Caxton."
Mrs. Caxton left her place and came round to Eleanor, for the sole purpose of taking her in her arms and kissing her. Grave, earnest kisses, on brow and cheek, speaking a heart full of sympathy, full of tenderness, full of appreciation of all that this decision of Eleanor's involved, full of satisfaction with it too. A very unusual sort of demonstration from Mrs. Caxton, as was the occasion that called for it. Eleanor received it as the seal of the whole business between them. Her aunt's arms detained her lovingly while she pressed her lips to every part of Eleanor's face; then Mrs. Caxton went back to her place and poured herself out another cup of coffee. Sentiment she had plenty; she was not in the least bit sentimental. She creamed her coffee thoughtfully and broke bread and eat it, before she came out with another question.
"When will you go, Eleanor?"
Eleanor looked up doubtfully. "Where, aunt Caxton?"
"To Fiji."
There seemed to be some irresolution or uncertainty in the girl's mind; for she hesitated.
"Aunt Caxton, I doubt much—my mother will oppose my going."
"I think she will. But I think also that her opposition can be overcome. When will you write to her?"
"I will write to-day, ma'am."
"We must have an answer before we send any other letters. Supposing she does not oppose, or that her opposition is set aside, I come back to my question. When will you go?"
Eleanor looked up doubtfully again. "I don't know, ma'am—I suppose opportunities of going only occur now and then."
"That is all—with long intervals sometimes. Opportunities foryourgoing would come only rarely. You must think about it, Eleanor; for we must know what we are to tell Mr. Rhys."
Eleanor was silent; her colour went and came.
"You must think about it, my dear. If you write to Mr. Rhys to-day and send it, we may get an answer from him possibly in twenty months—possibly in twenty-four months. Then if you wait four or five months for an opportunity to make the voyage, and have a reasonably good passage, you may see your friend in three years from now. But it might well happen that letters might be delayed, and that you might wait much longer than four or five months for a ship and company in which you could sail; so that the three years might be nearer four."
"I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton," Eleanor said, while the colour which had been varying in her cheeks fixed itself in two deep crimson spots.
Mrs. Caxton was now silent on her part, slowly finishing her coffee and putting the cups together on the tray. She left it for her niece to speak next.
"I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton," Eleanor repeated after a little while,—"and—"
"Well my love?"
"Aunt Caxton," said the girl, looking up now while her cheeks and brow were all one crimson flush—"is it unmaidenly in me—would it be—to go so, without being asked?"
"Has he not asked you?"
"Yes ma'am. But—"
"What?"
"Not since he got there."
"Have you reason to think his mind is altered on the subject?"
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor, drooping her head.
"What does your own feeling bid you do, my love?"
"I have thought it all over, aunt Caxton," said the girl slowly,—"I did that last night; I have thought of everything about it; and my feeling was—"
"Well, my love?"
"My feeling, as far as I am concerned—was to take the first good opportunity that offered."
"My love, that is just what I thought you would do. And what I would have you do, if you go at all. It is not unmaidenly. Simple honest frankness, is the most maidenly thing in the world, when it is a woman's time to speak. The fact that your speaking must be action does not alter the matter. When it takes two years for people to hear from each other, life would very soon be spent in the asking of a few questions and getting the answers to them. I am a disinterested witness, Eleanor; for when you are gone, all I care for in this world is gone. You are my own child to me now."
Eleanor's head bent lower.
"But I am glad to have you go, nevertheless, my child. I think Mr. Rhys wants you even more than I do; and I have known for some time that you wanted something. And besides—I shall only be separated from you in body."
Eleanor made no response.
"What are you going to do now?" was Mrs. Caxton's question in her usual calm tone.
"Write to mamma."
"Very well. Do not send your letter to her without letting mine go with it."
"But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor lifting up her head,—"my only fear is—I am quite satisfied in my own mind, and I do not care for people—my only fear is, lest Mr. Rhys himself should think I come too easily. You know, he is fastidious in his notions." She spoke with great difficulty and with her face a flame.
"Your fear will go away when you have heard my story," said Mrs. Caxton tranquilly. "I will give you that to-night. He is fastidious; but he is a sensible man."
Quieted with which suggestion, Eleanor went off to her desk.
"But never light and shadeCoursed one another more on open ground,Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and paleAcross the face of Enid hearing her."
Various letters were written that day. In the evening the two ladies came together again cheerfully. The time between had not all been spent in letter-writing, for the world does not stand still for love matters. Eleanor had been out the whole afternoon on visits of kindness and help to sick and poor people. Mrs. Caxton had been obliged to attend to the less interesting company of one or two cheese-factors. At the tea-table the subject of the morning came back.
"You posted your letter and mine, Eleanor?"
"Yes, ma'am. But I cannot think mamma's answer will be favourable. I cannot fancy it."
"Well, we shall see. The world is a curious world; and the wind does not always blow from the quarter whence we expect it. We must wait and pray."
"I am puzzled to imagine, aunt Caxton," Eleanor said after some pause, "how you came to know all about this matter in the first place. How came you to know what I never knew?"
"That is my story," said Mrs. Caxton. "We will let the table be cleared first, my dear."
So it was done. But Eleanor left her work by her side to-night, and looked into her aunt's face to listen.
"I never should have known about it, child, till you had, if you had been here. You remember how you went away in a hurry. Who knows? Perhaps, but for that, none of us would have been any wiser to-day on the subject than we were then. It is very possible."
"How, ma'am?"
"You disappeared, you know, in one night, and were gone. When Mr. Rhys came home, the next day or the same day, I saw that he was very much disappointed. That roused my suspicions of him; they had been only doubtful before. He is not a person to shew what he thinks, unless he chooses."
"So I knew; that made me surprised."
"I saw that he was very much disappointed, and looked very sober; but he said hardly anything about it, and I was forced to be silent. Then in a little while—a few weeks, I think—he received his appointment, with the news that he must sail very soon. He had to leave Plassy then in a very few days; for he wanted some time in London and elsewhere. I saw there was something more than leaving Plassy, upon his mind; he was graver than that could make him, I knew; and he was giving up something more than England, I knew by is prayers.
"One night we were sitting here by the fire—it was a remarkably chill evening and we had kindled a blaze in he chimney and shut the windows. Mr. Rhys sat silent, watching the fire and keeping up the blaze; too busy with his own thoughts to talk to me. I was taken with a spirit of meddling which does not very often possess me; and asked him how much longer he had to stay. He said how long, in so many words; they were short, as pain makes words.
"'How comes it,' I asked, plunging into the matter, 'that you do not take a wife with you? like everybody else.'
"He answered, in dry phrases, 'that it would be presumption in him to suppose that anybody would go with him, if he were to ask.'
"I said quietly, I thought he was mistaken; that anybody who was worthy of him would go; and it could not bepresumptionto ask anybody else.
"'You do not realize, Mrs. Caxton, how much it would be asking of any one,' he said; 'you do not know what sacrifices it would call for.'
"'Love does not care for sacrifices,' I reminded him.
"'I have no right to suppose that anybody has such a degree of regard for me,' he said.
"I can't tell what in his manner and words told me there was more behind. They were a little short and dry; and his ordinary way of speaking is short sometimes, but never with a sort of edge like this—a hard edge. You know it is as frank and simple when he speaks short as when his words come out in the gentlest way. It hurt me, for I saw that something hurt him.
"I asked if there was not anybody in England good enough for him? He said there were a great many too good.
"'Mr. Rhys,' said I,—I don't know what possessed me to be so bold,—'I hope you are not going to leave your heart behind with somebody, when you go to Fiji?'
"He got up and walked once or twice through the room, went out and presently came back again. I was afraid I had offended him, and I was a good deal troubled; but I did not know what to say. He sat down again and spoke first.
"'Mrs. Caxton,' said he, 'since you have probed the truth, I may as well confess it. I am going to do the unwise thing you have mentioned.'
"'Who are you going to leave your heart with, Mr. Rhys?' I asked.
"'With the lady who has just left you.'
"'Eleanor?'
"'Yes,' he said.
"'Have you told her, Mr. Rhys?' I asked.
"He said no.
"'You are not going to do her the injustice to go andnotspeak to her?'
"'Why should I tell her?' he said.
"'There might be several answers given to that,' I said; 'but the best one at present seems to be, why should younot?'
"'For several reasons,' he said. 'In the first place I do not know at all whether Miss Powle has that degree of love to Christ that she would be willing to forsake all her earthly prospects—home and friends—for hard work in his service. In the second place, even if she have that, I have not the slightest reason to believe that she—that she cares enough for me to go with me at my asking.'
"'And do you mean to go in ignorance?' I said.
"'Yes—I must.'
"I waited a little, and then I told him I thought he was wrong.
"'Why?' he asked quickly.
"'People cannot see each other's hearts,' I said. 'Suppose that she have the same secret feeling towards you that you have towards her. She cannot speak; you will not; and so both would be unhappy for nothing.
"'I never saw the least thing like it,' he said.
"'I suppose she might say the same of you—might she not?'
"'Yes and with truth; for knowing the uncertainties—or rather the certainties—of my position, I have not given her the least cause.'
"'You could hardly expect demonstrations from her in that case,' I said.
"'There is no chance, Mrs. Caxton, even if it were according to your supposition. Her friends would never permit her to marry a man with my lot in life;—and I do not know that I ought to ask her, even if they would. She has a very fair prospect for this world's happiness.'
"'What do you think of your own lot in life?' I asked him.
"'I would not exchange it, you know,' he said, 'for any other the world could offer me. It is brighter and better.'
"'It strikes me you are selfish,—' I told him.
"He laughed a little, for the first time; but he grew as grave as possible immediately after.
"'I have not meant to be selfish,' he said; 'But I could not take a woman to Fiji, who had not thoroughly considered the matter and counted the cost. That could not be done in a little while. The world has a fair chance now to see if it can weaken Miss Powle's principles or overcome her faithfulness to them. It is better that she should try herself perhaps, before having such a question asked of her.'
"'And suppose she comes clear out of the trial?' I said.
"'Then I shall be in Fiji.'
"We were both silent a while. He began then.
"'Mrs. Caxton, without invading any confidences or seeking to know anything that should not be known,—may I ask you a question?'
"'Certainly,' I said. 'I reserve the discretion of answering.'
"'Of course. Your words look like a rebuke of the attitude I have taken towards this subject. Is it proper for me to ask, whether you have any foundation for them beyond your general knowledge of human nature and your good will towards me? I mean—whether you, as a friend, see any ground of hope for me?'