"'If you were going to stay in England,' I said, 'I would answer no such question. Every man must make his own observations and run his own risk. But these circumstances are different. And appealed to as a friend—and answering on my own observations simply—I should say, that I think your case not hopeless.'
"I could see the colour rise in his cheek; but he sat quite still and did not speak, till it faded again.
"'I have never heard a word on the subject,' I told him. 'I do not say I am certain of anything. I may mistake. Only, seeing you are going to the other end of the world, without the chance of finding out anything for yourself, I think it fair to tell you what, as a woman, I should judge of the case.'
"'Why do you tell me?' he said quickly.
"'I am but answering your question. You must judge whether the answer is worth anything.'
"He half laughed again, at himself; at least I could see the beginning of a smile; but he was too terribly in earnest to be anything but serious. He sat silent; got up and fidgetted round the room; then came and stood by the chimney piece looking down at me.
"'Mrs. Caxton,' he said, 'I am going to venture to ask something from you—to fulfil a contingent commission. When I am gone, if Miss Powle returns to you, or when you have otherwise opportunity,—will you, if you can, find out the truth of her feeling on these subjects, which I have failed to find out? You tempt me beyond my power of self-abnegation.'
"'What shall I do with the truth, if I find it, Mr. Rhys?'
"'In that case,' he said,—'if it is as you suppose it possible it may be, though I dare not and do not hope it;—if it be so, then you may tell her all I have confessed to you to-night.'
"'Why?'
"'You are uncommonly practical to-night,' he said. 'I could have but one motive in discovering it to her.'
"'To ask her to follow you to Fiji?'
"'I dare not put it in words. I do not believe the chance will ever come. But I am unable to go and leave the chance changed into an impossibility.'
"'We are talking of whatmaybe,' I said. 'But you do not suppose that she could follow you on my report of your words alone?'
"'I shall be too far off to speak them myself.'
"'You can write then,' I said.
"'Do you remember what the distances are, and the intervals of time that must pass between letter and letter? When should I write?'
"'Now—this evening. I am not thinking of such courtship as took place in the antediluvian days.'
"'I cannot write on such an utter uncertainty. I have not hope enough; although I cannot bear to leave the country without enlisting you to act for me.'
"'I shall reconsider the question of acting,' I said, 'if I have no credentials to produce. I cannot undertake to tell anything to Eleanor merely to give her pleasure—or merely to give her pain.'
"'Would you have me write to her here—now?' he asked.
"'Yes, I would,' I told him.
"He sat pondering the matter a little while, making up the fire as you did this morning—only with a very different face; and then with a half laugh he said I was making a fool of him, and he went off. I sat still—and in a few minutes he came down and handed me that note for you."
Eleanor's cheeks would have rivalled the scarlet Lobelia or Indian Mallow, or anything else that is brilliant. She kept profound silence. It was plain enough what Mr. Rhys expected her to do—that is, supposing he had any expectations. Now her question was, what would her mother say? And Eleanor in her secret heart looked at the probability of obstinate opposition in that quarter; and then of long, long waiting and delay; perhaps never to be ended but with the time and the power of doing what now her heart longed to do. The more she thought of it, the less she could imagine that her mother would yield her consent; or that her opposition would be anything but determined and unqualified. Then what could she do? Eleanor sighed.
"No," said Mrs. Caxton. "Have patience, my dear, and believe that all will go right—however it goes, Eleanor. We will do our part; but we must be content with our part. There is another part, which is the Lord's; let him do that, and let us say it is well, Eleanor. Till we have learnt that, we have not learnt our lesson."
"I do say it, and will, aunt Caxton," said the girl. But she said nothing more that night.
To tell the truth, they were rather silent days that followed. Mrs. Powle's letters of answer did not come speedily; indeed no one knew at Plassy just where she might be at this time, nor how far the Plassy letters might have to travel in order to reach her; for communication was not frequent between the two families. And till her answer came, Eleanor could not forget that the question of her life was undecided; nor Mrs. Caxton, that the decision might take away from her, probably for ever, the only living thing that was very dear to her. That was Eleanor now. They were very affectionate to each other those days, very tender and thoughtful for each other; not given to much talking. Eleanor was a good deal out of the house; partly busy with her errands of kindness, partly stilling her troublesome and impatient thoughts with long roamings on foot or on horseback over the mountains and moors.
"The spring has come, aunt Caxton," she said, coming in herself one day, fresh enough to be spring's impersonation. "I heard a blackbird and a wheat-ear; and I have found a violet for you."
"You must have heard blackbirds before. And you have got more than violets there."
"Yes, ma'am—not much. I found the Nepeta and the ivy-leaved Veronica under the hedge; and whitlow grass near the old tower. That's the willow catkin you know of course—and sloe. That's all—but it's spring."
A shade came over the faces of both. Where might another spring find her.
"I have got something more for you," said Mrs. Caxton.
"My letter, ma'am!—Had you one, aunt Caxton?"
"Yes."
Eleanor could not tell from her aunt's answer what the letter might be. She went off with her own, having parted suddenly with all the colour she had brought in with her. It returned again however soon.
Mrs. Powle declared that according to allherexperience and power of judging of the world, her daughter and her sister Mrs. Caxton were both entirely crazy. She had never, in her life, heard of anything so utterly absurd and ridiculous as the proposition upon which they had required her to give an opinion. Her opinion found no words in the English language strong enough in which to give it. That Eleanor should be willing to forego every earthly prospect of good or pleasure, was like Eleanor; that is, it was like the present Eleanor; an entirely infatuated, blind, fanatical, unreasonable thing. Mrs. Powle had given up the expectation of anything wiser or better from her, until years and the consequences of her folly should have taught her when it would be too late. Why Eleanor, if she wished to throw herself away, should pitch upon the South Seas for the place of her retirement, was a piece of the same mysterious fatuity which marked the whole proceeding. Why she could think of no pleasanter wedding journey than a voyage of twelve thousand miles in search of a husband, was but another incomprehensible point. Mrs. Powle had a curiosity to know what Eleanor expected to live upon out there, where she presumed the natives practised no agriculture and wheaten flour was a luxury unknown? And what she expected todo?However, having thus given her opinion, Mrs. Powle went on to say, that she must quite decline to give it. She regarded Eleanor as entirely the child of her aunt Caxton, as she understood was also Mrs. Caxton's own view; most justly, in Mrs. Powle's opinion, since conversion and adoption to Mrs. Caxton's own family and mind must be amply sufficient to supersede the accident of birth. At any rate, Mrs. Powle claimed no jurisdiction in the matter; did not choose to exercise any. She felt herself incompetent. One daughter she had still remaining, whom she hoped to keep her own, guarding her against the influences which had made so wide a separation between her eldest and the family and sphere to which she belonged. Julia, she hoped, would one day do her honour. As for the islands of the South Seas, or the peculiar views and habits of life entertained by those white people who chose them for their residence, Mrs. Powle declared she was incapable from very ignorance of understanding or giving judgment about them. She made the whole question, together with her daughter, over to her sister Mrs. Caxton, who she did not doubt would do wisely according to her notions. But as they were not the notions of the world generally, they were quite incomprehensible to the writer, and in a sphere entirely beyond and without her cognizance. She hoped Eleanor would be happy—if it were not absurd to hope an impossibility.
But on one point the letter was clear, if on no other. Eleanor should not come home. She had ruined her own prospects; Mrs. Powle could not help that; she should not ruin Julia's. Whether she stayed in England or whether she went on her fool's voyage,thiswas a certain thing. She should not see Julia, to infect her. Mrs. Powle desired to be informed of Eleanor's movements; that if she went she herself might meet her in London before she sailed. But she would not let her see Julia either then or at any time.
This cruel letter broke Eleanor down completely. It settled the question of her life indeed; and settled it according to her wish and against her fears; but for all that, it was a letter of banishment and renunciation. With something of the feeling which makes a wounded creature run to shelter, Eleanor gathered up her papers and went down to Mrs. Caxton; threw them into her lap, and kneeling beside her put herself in her arms.
"What is it, my child?" said Mrs. Caxton. "What does your mother say to you?"
"She gives her consent—but she gives me up to you, aunt Caxton. She counts me your child and not hers."
"My love, I asked her to do so. You have been mine, in my own mind, for a long time past. My Eleanor!"—And Mrs. Caxton's kiss and her warm clasping arms spoke more than her words.
"But she renounces me—and she will not let me see Julia."—Eleanor was in very great distress.
"She will by and by. She will not hold to that."
"She says she will not at all. O aunt Caxton, I want to see Julia again!"—
"Were you faithful to Julia while you were with her?"
"Yes—I think so—while I could. I had hardly any chance the last winter I was at home; we were never together; but I seized what I could."
"Your mother kept you apart?"
"I believe so."
"My child, remember, as one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, so one word is as a thousand words; he can make it do his work. All we have to do is to be faithful, and then trust. You recollect the words of that grand hymn on the Will of God—
"'I do the little I can do,And leave the rest to thee.'
"I don't think I know it."
Mrs. Caxton went on.
"'When obstacles and trials seemLike prison walls to be,I do the little I can do,And leave the rest to thee.
"'I know not what it is to doubt;My heart is ever gay;I run no risk, for, come what will,Thou always hast thy way.
"'I have no cares, O blessed will!For all my cares are thine.I live in triumph, Lord, for thouHast made thy triumphs mine.'"
Eleanor lifted up her face and pressed a long kiss on her aunt's lips."But I want to see Julia!"
"My love, I think you will. It will be some time yet before you can possibly leave England. I think your mother will withdraw her prohibition before that time. Meanwhile—"
Eleanor lay with her head on Mrs. Caxton's bosom, her brown eyes looking out with a sweet and sorrowful wistfulness towards the light. Mrs. Caxton read them.
"This gift would be very precious to me, my child," she said, tightening the pressure of the arms which still were wrapped round Eleanor,—"if I were not obliged so soon to make it over to somebody else. But I will not be selfish. It is unspeakably precious to me now. It gives me the right to take care of you. I asked your mother for it. I am greatly obliged to her. Now what are you going to do to-day?"
"Write—to Fiji," said Eleanor slowly and without moving.
"Right; and so will I. And do not you be overmuch concerned aboutJulia. There is another verse of that hymn, which I often think of—
"'I love to see thee bring to nought,The plans of wily men;When simple hearts outwit the wise,O thou art loveliest then!'"
"If Proteus like your journey, when you come,No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone;I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal."
The way was clear, and Eleanor wrote to Fiji as she had said. She could not however get rid of her surprise that her mother had permitted the tenor of these letters to be what it was. What had moved Mrs. Powle, so to act against all her likings and habits of action? How came she to allow her daughter to go to the South Seas and be a missionary?
Several things which Eleanor knew nothing of, and which so affected the drift of Mrs. Powle's current of life that she was only, according to custom, sailing with it and not struggling against it. When people seem to act unlike themselves, it is either that you do not know themselves, or do not know some other things which they know. So in this case. For one thing, to name the greatest first, Mr. Carlisle was unmistakeably turning his attention to another lady, a new star in the world of society; an earl's daughter and an heiress. Whether heart-whole or not, which was best known to himself, Mr. Carlisle was prosecuting his addresses in this new quarter with undoubted zeal and determination. It was not the time for Eleanor now to come home! Let her do anything else,—was the dictate of pride.Nowto come home, or even not to come home, remaining Eleanor Powle, was to confess in the world's eye a lamentably lost game; to take place as a rejected or vainly ambitious girl; thewould-have-beenlady of Rythdale. Anything but that! Eleanor might almost better die at once. She would not only have ruined her own prospects, but would greatly injure those of Julia, on whom her mother's hopes and pride were now all staked. Alfred was taken from her and put under guardians; Mrs. Powle did not build anything on him; he was a boy, and when he was a man he would be only Alfred Powle. Julia promised to be a beauty; on her making a fine match rested all Mrs. Powle's expectations from this world; and she was determined to spare no pains, expense, nor precautions. Therefore she resolved that the sisters should not be together, cost what it might. Good bye to all her cares or hopes on Julia's behalf, looking to a great establishment, if Julia became a Methodist! She might go on a farm like her aunt and sell cheeses. The thought of those cheeses froze the blood in Mrs. Powle's veins; that was a characteristic of good blood, she firmly believed. Therefore on every account, for every reason, nothing better could happen than that Eleanor should go to the South Seas. She would escape the shame of coming home; Julia would be out of danger of religious contamination; and she herself would be saved from the necessary odium of keeping one daughter in banishment and the other in seclusion; which odium she must incur if both of them remained in England and neither of them ever saw the other. All this would be cleverly saved. Then also, if Eleanor married a missionary and went to the other end of the world, her case could be very well dismissed as one of a religious enthusiasm—a visionary, fanatical excitement. Nay, there could be made even a littleéclatabout it. There would be no mortification, at any rate, comparable to that which must attend supposed overthrown schemes and disappointed ambition. Eleanor had chosen her own course, backed by her wealthy relation, Mrs. Caxton, who had adopted her; and whose views were entirely not of this world. Mrs. Powle deplored it, of course, but was unable to help it. Besides, Mrs. Caxton had answered, on her own knowledge, for the excellent character and superior qualities of the gentleman Eleanor was to marry; there was no fault to be found with him at all, except that he was a fanatic; and as Eleanor was a fanatic herself, that was only a one-sided objection.
Yes, Mrs. Caxton had answered for all that, on her own knowledge, of many years' standing; and she had said something more, which also weighed with Mrs. Powle and which Mrs. Powle could also mention among the good features of the case, without stating that it had had the force of an inducement with herself. Mrs. Caxton had asked indeed to be permitted to consider Eleanor her own, and had promised in that case to make Eleanor entirely her own care, both during Mrs. Caxton's life and afterwards; leaving Mrs. Powle free to devote all her fortune to Julia that would have been shared with Julia's sister. Mrs. Powle's means were not in her estimation large; she wanted every penny of them for the perfecting and carrying out of her plans which regarded her youngest daughter; she consented that the elder should own another mother and guardian. Mrs. Powle agreed to it all. But not satisfied with any step of the whole affair nevertheless, which all displeased her, from beginning to end, her own action included, she expressed her determination to Eleanor in terms which half broke Eleanor's heart; and left a long, lingering, sore spot there. To Mrs. Caxton Mrs. Powle's writing was much better worded; civil if not kind, and well mannered if not motherly.
The thing was done, at all events; Eleanor was formally made over to another mother and left free to do whatever her new guardian pleased. Letters of a different sort of temper were sent off upon their long journey to the South Seas; and there began a busy time at Plassy, in anticipation of Eleanor's following them. It was still very uncertain when that might be; opportunities must be waited for; such an opportunity as would satisfy Mrs. Caxton. In the mean while a great deal of business was on hand. Mrs. Caxton even made a journey up to London and took Eleanor with her; for the sake of inquiries and arrangements which could not be attended to from a distance. For the sake of purchases too, which could be made nowhere but in London. For Mrs. Caxton was bent, not only on supplying Eleanor with all that could be thought of in the way of outfit; but also on getting together to accompany or precede her everything that could be sent that might be useful or helpful to Mr. Rhys or comfortable in the household; in short, to transfer England as nearly as possible to Fiji. As freights of course were expensive, all these matters must be found and compressed in the smallest compass they could possibly know as their limits; and Mrs. Caxton was very busy. London did not hold them but a fortnight; the rest of the time work was done at Plassy.
And the months rolled on. Cheeses were turned off as usual, and Mrs. Caxton's business was as brisk as ever. Eleanor's outfit gradually got ready; and before and after that was true, Eleanor's visits among her neighbours and poor people were the same as ever. She had strength and spirit enough for all calls upon either; and her sweet diligence seemed to be even more than ever, now that work at Plassy was drawing towards a close. Still Eleanor gathered the spoils of the moors and the hedge-rows, as she went and came on her errands; climbed the mountain on Powis and explored the rocks and the waterfalls on her way. As usual her hands came home full. The house was gay with broom again in its season; before that the violets and wood anemone had made the tea-table and the breakfast table sweet with their presence. Blue-bells and butter-cups and primroses had their time, and lovely they looked, helped out by the yellow furze blossoms which Eleanor was very fond of. Then the scorpion grass, of both kinds, proclaimed that it was summer; and borage was bright in the sitting-room. Eleanor could hardly look at it without an inward smile and sigh, remembering the cheering little couplet which attached to it by old usage; and Julia from whose lips she had first heard it; and the other lips that had given it to Julia. Corn-marigold was gay again in July, and the white blackberry blossoms came with crane's bill and flax, campion and willow-herb, speedwell and vetchling. Any one well acquainted with the wild things that grow and blossom in the land, might have known any day what time of the year it was by going into Mrs. Caxton's sitting parlour and using his eyes. Until the purple ling and loosestrife, gave place to mint and maiden pink and late meadow-sweet; and then the hop vine and meadow saffron proclaimed that summer was over. But ferns had their representatives at all times.
Summer was over; and no chance for Eleanor's sailing had yet presented itself. Preparations were all made; and the two ladies lived on in waiting and in the enjoyment of each other, and doubtless with a mixture of thoughts that were not enjoyment. But a very sweet even glow of love and peace and patience filled the house. Letters were written; and once and again letters had arrived, even from Mr. Rhys. They told of everything going on at his station; of his work and pleasures; of the progress the truth was making; and the changes coming even while he looked, upon the population of the islands, their manners and character. There never were letters, I suppose, more thoroughly read and studied and searched out in every detail, than all those letters were by Eleanor; for every fact was of importance to her; and the manner of every word told her something. They told her what made her eyes fill and her pulse beat quick. But among them there was not a word to herself. No, and not even a word about herself. In vain Eleanor hoped for it and searched for it. There was not even an allusion that looked her way.
"Do you want to know what I am doing?" Mr. Rhys wrote in one of these letters. "You see by my date that I am not in the place I last wrote from. I am alone on this island, which has never had a resident missionary and which has people enough that need the care of one; so it has been decided that I should pitch my tent here for some months. There is not a large population—not quite five hundred people in the whole island; but almost all of them that are grown up are professing Christian—members of the church, and not disgracing their profession. The history of the church in this place is wonderful and even of romantic interest. One of their chiefs, being in another part of Fiji, fell in with a chief who was a Christian. From him he learned something of the new religion, and carried back to Ono thus much of truth—that Jehovah is the only God and that all worship and praise is his due. Further than this, and the understanding that the seventh day should be especially spent in his service, the Ono chief knew nothing. Was not that a little seed for a great tree to grow from? But his island had just been ravaged by disease and by war; in their distress the people had applied in vain to their old gods to save them; they were convinced now from what they heard that help is in the Lord alone, and they resolved to seek him. But they knew not the Lord, nor his ways, and there was no one to teach them. Fancy that company of heathens renouncing heathenism—setting apart the seventh day for worship, preparing food beforehand so that the day might be hallowed, putting on their best dresses and fresh oil, and meeting to seek the unknown God! Oh kingdom of Christ, come, come!—
"When they were met, they did not know how to begin their service. However, as old custom referred them to their priests for intercourse with heaven, they bethought them to apply to one now, and told him what I they wanted. I do not understand what influenced the man; but however, heathen priest of a heathen god as he was, he consented to officiate for this Christian service. The priest came; the assembly sat down; and the priest made a prayer, after this fashion as it has been reported to me.Hedid not then renounce heathenism, you understand.
"'Lord, Jehovah! here are thy people; they worship thee. I turn my back on thee for the present, and am on another tack, worshipping another god. But do thou bless these thy people; keep them from harm, and do them good.'
"That was the beginning; and doubtless the Lord hearkened and heard it. For awhile they went on as they had begun; then wanting something more, they sent messengers to Tonga to beg for teachers. Now, as I said, the people are nearly all Christians, and not in name only; and all the children are brought to be taught. Here am I; don't you think I am in a good place? But I am here only for a little while; more cannot be spared to so small a population at this time.
"To get here, one has to shoot something such a gulf as I described to you at Vulanga. The barrier reef has a small opening. At particular times of tide a boat can go through; but with the rush of waves from without, meeting the tremendous current from within, it is an exciting business; somewhat dangerous as well as fearful. The ships cannot get inside the barrier. The night I came, canoes came out to meet me, bringing a present of yams as their contribution to our fund; they brought as many as the vessel could find room for. In the canoe with the Ono people I felt myself with friends; I had visited the place before, and they knew me. The current made fearfully hard work for them; but it was love's labour; they felt about me, I suppose, something as the Galatians did towards Paul. The next day was Sunday. I preached to an attentive congregation, and had a happy time. Now I will give you a notion of my run of employments at the present time.
"First. Playing bookbinder. Fact. One has to play all sorts of things here—and the more the better. My work was to stitch, fold, (fold first) and cover, so many copies of the New Testament as I had brought with me—printed, but in sheets. I did them strong! more than that I will not answer for; but I wish I could send you a copy. It would be only a curiosity in art, though; you could not read it. It is an admirable translation in Fijian. As I have had but very slight previous practice in bookbinding, my rate of progress was at first somewhat slow; and after a few days of solitary labour I was glad to accept the offer of help from four or five native apprentices—some of our local preachers. They took to the work kindly; and in five weeks we finished the edition—sixty copies. I could do the next sixty quicker. These are the first Fijian testaments in Ono, and you can understand—or you cannot—what a treasure. The natives who came to purchase them found no fault with the binding, I assure you. So you see I have been bookseller as well as the other thing; and I received pay for my testaments insinnet—you know what that is. It is as good as money for the mission use here in Fiji. During these bookbinding weeks I was making excursions hither and thither, to preach and baptize. Twice a week I took a time to see the local preachers and teachers and examine them and hear them read and talk to them and be talked to by them. Every Tuesday and Friday I did this. The whole course of the week's work is now something like the following:
"Sunday begins with a prayer-meeting. Afterwards old and young have a catechism exercise together. Morning and afternoon, preaching.
"Monday, the morning there is a children's school, and the afternoon a school for grown people. I question both classes on the sermons of the preceding day; and I hope English people have as good memories. The afternoon school is followed by a prayer-meeting. Tuesdays and Fridays I have the teachers' meeting in addition.
"Wednesday I preach, have leaders' meeting, and give out work for the week to come.
"Thursday, preaching at one of the neighbouring towns, and a sort of young class-meeting.
"Friday, I have said what I do.
"Saturday has a prayer-meeting.
"So much for the regular work. Then there are the sick to look after, and my own private studies; and there is not a minute to spare. A few that cannot be spared are claimed by the mosquitos, which hold their high court and revel here at Ono; of all places on the earth that I know, their headquarters. When I was here before with Brother Lefferts and others, two of them could not sit still to read something that wanted to be read; they walked the floor, one holding the candle, the other the paper; both fighting mosquitos with both hands. I am of a less excitable temperament—for I contrive to live a little more quietly.
"Shall I tell you some of these native testimonies of Christians who a little while ago worshipped idols? At our love-feast lately some thirty or forty spoke. They did my heart good. So may they yours. These people said but few words, full of feeling; my report cannot all give the effect. I wish it could.
"One old chief, who could hardly speak for feeling, said, 'These are new things to me in these days;' (he meant the love-feasts) 'I did not know them formerly. My soul is humbled. I rejoice greatly in the Lord. I rejoice greatly for sending his servants.'
"A Tongan teacher—'I desire that God may rule over me,' (i. e., direct me) 'I desire not to govern myself. I know that I am a child of God: I know that God is my father. My friends wrote for me to go to Tonga; but I wondered at it. I wish to obey the Father of my soul.'
"A local preacher—'I know that God is near, and helps me sometimes in my work. I love all men. I do not fear death; one thing I fear, the Lord."
"Leva Soko, a female class-leader, a very holy woman, said,—this is but a part of what she said,—'My child died, but I loved God the more. My body has been much afflicted, but I love him the more. I know that death would only unite me to God.'
"A teacher, a native of Ono, who had gone to a much less pleasant place to preach the gospel, and was home on a visit, spoke exceedingly well. 'I did not leave Ono that I might have more food. I desired to go that I might preach Christ. I was struck with stones twice while in my own house; but I could bear it. When the canoes came, they pillaged my garden; but my mind was not pained at it: I bore it only.'
"A local preacher—'I am a very bad man; there is no good thing in me; but I know the love of God There are not two great things in my mind; there is one only,—the love of God for the sake of Christ. I know that I am a child of God. I wish to repent and believe every day till I die.'
"These are but a specimen, my dear friend. The other day, in our teachers' meeting we were reading the nineteenth chapter of John. An old teacher read the eighteenth verse in his turn—the words, 'Where they crucified him, and two other with him, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst.' He could hardly get through it, and then burst into tears and wept aloud. This man was a cannibal once. And now his life speaks for the truth of his tears.
"Good night. The mosquitos are not favourable to epistle writing. I am well. Remember me, as I remember you.
"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor after reading this letter for the second or third time,—"have we a supply of mosquito netting among my boxes? I could get the better of the mosquitos, I think."
"How would you like to help bind books?" said Mrs. Caxton. "Or translate? Mr. Rhys seems to be about that business, by what he says in the other letter."
"He would not want help in that," said Eleanor, musing and flushing."Aunt Caxton—is it foolish in me to wish I could hear once more fromMr. Rhys before I go?"
"Only a little foolish, my love; and very natural."
"Then why is it foolish?"
"Because reason would tell you that it is simply impossible your letters could receive an answer by this time. They have perhaps but barely got to Mr. Rhys this minute. And reason would tell you further that there is no ground for supposing he is in any different mind from that expressed when he wrote to you."
"But—you know—since then he does not say one word about it, nor about me," said Eleanor flushing pretty deep.
"There is reason for that, too. He would not allow himself to indulge hope; and therefore he would not act as if he had any. That sight of you at Brighton threw him off a good deal, I judge."
"He told you he saw me?"
"He wrote to me about it."
"Did he tell you how he saw me?"
"Yes."
"What more?"
"He said he thought there was little chance I would have any use for his letters; he saw the world was closing its nets around you fast; how far they were already successful he could not know; but he was glad he had seen what forbade him in time to indulge vain anticipations."
"Oh aunt Caxton!" said Eleanor—"Oh aunt Caxton! what a strange world this is, for the way people's lives cross each other, and the work that is done without people's knowing it! If you knew—what that meeting cost me!—"
"My dear child! I can well believe it."
"And it aroused Mr. Carlisle's suspicions instantly, I knew. If I made any mistake—if I erred at all, in my behaviour with regard to him, it was then and in consequence of that. If I had faltered a bit then—looked grave or hung back from what was going on, I should have exposed myself to most cruel interpretation. I could not risk it. I threw myself right into whatever presented itself—went into the whirl—welcomed everybody and everything—only, I hoped, with so general and impartial a welcome as should prove I preferred none exclusively."
Eleanor stopped and the tears came into her eyes.
"My child! if I had known what danger you were in, I should have spent even more time than I did in praying for you."
"I suppose I was in danger," said Eleanor thoughtfully. "It was a difficult winter. Then do you think—Mr. Rhys gave me up?"
"No," said Mrs. Caxton smiling. "You remember he wrote to you after that, from Fiji; but I suppose he tried to make himself give you up, as far as hope went."
"For all that appears, I may be here long enough yet to have letters before I go. We have heard of no opportunity that is likely to present itself soon. Aunt Caxton, if my feeling is foolish, why is it natural?"
"Because you are a woman, my dear."
"And foolish?"
"Not at all; but feeling takes little counsel of reason in some cases.I am afraid you will find that out again before you get to Mr.Rhys—afterthat, I do not think you will."
The conversation made Eleanor rather more anxious than she had been before to hear of a ship; but October and November passed, and the prospect of her voyage was as misty as ever.
Again and again, all summer, both she and Mrs. Caxton had written begging that Mrs. Powle would make a visit to Plassy and bring or send Julia. In vain. Mrs. Powle would not come. Julia could not.
"A wild dedication of yourselvesTo unpath'd waters, undream'd shores; most certain,To miseries enough."
In a neat plain drawing-room in a plain part of London, sat Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor. Eleanor however soon left her seat and took post at the window; and silence reigned in the room unbroken for some length time except by the soft rustle of Mrs. Caxton's work. Her fingers were rarely idle. Nor were Eleanor's hands often empty; but to-day she stood still as a statue before the window, while now and then a tear softly roll down and dropped on her folded hands. There were no signs of the tears however, when the girl turned round with the short announcement,
"She's here."
Mrs. Caxton looked up a little bit anxiously at her adopted child; but Eleanor's face was only still and pale. The next moment the door opened, and for all the world as in old times the fair face and fair curls of Mrs. Powle appeared. Just the same; unless just now she appeared a trifle frightened. The good lady felt so. Two fanatics. She hardly knew how to encounter them. And then, her own action, though she could not certainly have called it fanatical, had been peculiar, and might be judged divers ways. Moreover, Mrs. Powle was Eleanor's mother.
There was one in the company who remembered that, witness the still close embrace which Eleanor threw around her, and the still hiding of the girl's face on her mother's bosom. Mrs. Powle returned the embrace heartily enough; but when Eleanor's motionless clasp had lasted as long as she knew how to do anything with it and longer than she felt to be graceful, Mrs. Powle whispered,
"Won't you introduce me to your aunt, my dear,—if this is she."
Eleanor released her mother, but sobbed helplessly for a few minutes; then she raised her head and threw off her tears; and there was to one of the two ladies an exquisite grace in the way she performed the required office of making them known to each other. The gentleness of a chastened heart, the strength of a loving one, the dignity of an humble one, made her face and manner so lovely that Mrs. Caxton involuntarily wished Mr. Rhys could have seen it. "But he will have chance enough," she thought, somewhat incongruously, as she met and returned her sister-in-law's greetings. Mrs. Powle made them with ceremonious respect, not make believe, and with a certain eagerness which welcomed a diversion from Eleanor's somewhat troublesome agitation. Eleanor's agitation troubled no one any more, however; she sat down calm and quiet; and Mrs. Powle had leisure, glancing at her from time to time, to get into smooth sailing intercourse with Mrs. Caxton. She took off her bonnet, and talked about indifferent things, and sipped chocolate; for it was just luncheon time. Ever and anon her eyes came back to Eleanor; evidently as to something which troubled her and which puzzled her; and Mrs. Caxton saw, which had also the effect of irritation too. Very likely, Mrs. Caxton thought! Conscience on one hand not satisfied, and ambition on the other hand disappointed, and Eleanor the point of meeting for both uneasy feelings to concentrate their forces. It would come out in words soon, Mrs. Caxton knew. But how lovely Eleanor seemed to her. There was not even a cloud upon her brow now; fair as it was pure and strong.
"And so you are going?" Mrs. Powle began at last, in a somewhat constrained voice. Eleanor smiled.
"Andwhenare you going?"
"My letter said, Next Tuesday the ship sails."
"And pray, Eleanor, you are not going alone?"
"No, mamma. A gentleman and his wife are going the whole voyage with me."
"Who are they?"
"A Mr. Amos and his wife."
"Whatare they then? missionaries?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Going to that same place?"
"Yes, ma'am—very nicely for me."
"Pray how long do you expect the voyage will take you?"
"I am not certain—it is made, or can be made, in four or five months; but then we may have to stop awhile at Sydney."
"Sydney? what Sydney? Where is that?"
"Australia, mamma," said Eleanor smiling. "New South Wales. Don't you know?"
"Australia!Are you going there? To Botany Bay?"
"No, mamma; not to Botany Bay. And I only take Australia by the way. I go further."
"Furtherthan Botany Bay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well certainly," said Mrs. Powle with an accent of restrained despair, "the present age is enterprising beyond what was ever known in my young days. What do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady taking voyage five months long after her husband, instead of her husband taking it for her? He ought to be a grateful man, I think!"
"Certainly; but not too grateful," Mrs. Caxton answered composedly; "for in this case necessity alters the rule."
"I do not understand such necessities," said Mrs. Powle; "at least if a thing cannot be done properly, I should say it was better not to do it at all. However, I suppose it is too late to speak now. I would not have my daughter hold herself so lightly as to confer such an honour on any man; but I gave her to you to dispose of, so no doubt it is all right. I hope Mr. What's-his-name is worthy of it."
"Mamma, let me give you another cup of chocolate," said Eleanor. And she served her with the chocolate and the toast and the hung beef, in a way that gave Mrs. Caxton's heart a feast. There was the beautiful calm and high grace with which Eleanor used to meet her social difficulties two years ago, and baffle both her trials and her tempters. Mrs. Caxton had never seen it called for. Her face shewed not the slightest embarrassment at her mother's words; not a shade of rising colour did dishonour to Mr. Rhys by proving that she so much as even felt the slurs against him or the jealousy professed on her own behalf. Eleanor's calm sweet face was an assertion both of his dignity and her own. Perhaps Mrs. Powle felt herself in a hopeless case.
"What do you expect to live on out there?" she said, changing her ground, as she dipped her toast into chocolate. "You won't have this sort of thing."
"I have never thought much about it," said Eleanor smiling. "Where other people live and grow strong, I suppose I can."
"No, it does not follow at all," replied her mother. "You are accustomed to certain things, and you would feel the want of them. For instance, will you have bread like this out there? wheat bread?"
"I shall not want chocolate," said Eleanor. "The climate is too hot."
"But bread?"
"Wheat flour is shipped for the use of the mission families," said Mrs. Caxton. "It is known that many persons would suffer without it; and we do not wish unnecessary suffering should be undergone."
"Have they cows there?"
"Mamma!" said Eleanor laughing.
"Well, have they? Because Miss Broadus or somebody was saying the other day, that in New Zealand they never had them till we sent them out. So I wondered directly whether they had in this place."
"I fancy not, mamma. You will have to think of me as drinking my tea without cream."
"So you will take tea there with you?"
"Why not?"
"I have got the impression," said Mrs. Powle, "somehow, that you would do nothing as other people do. You will drink tea, will you? I'll give you a box."
"Thank you, mamma," said Eleanor, but the colour flushed now to the roots of her hair,—"aunt Caxton has given me a great stock already."
"And coffee?"
"Yes, mamma—for great occasions—and concentrated milk for that."
"Do tell me what sort of a place it is, Eleanor."
"It is a great many places, mamma. It is a great many islands, large and small, scattered over some hundreds of miles of ocean; but they are so many and near each other often, and so surrounded with interlacing coral reefs, that navigation there is in a kind of network of channels. The islands are of many varieties, and of fairy-land beauty; rich in vegetation and in all sorts of natural stores."
"Not cows."
"No, ma'am. I meant, the things that grow out of the ground," saidEleanor smiling again. "Cows and sheep and horses are not among them."
"Nor horses either? How do you go when you travel?"
"In a canoe, I suppose."
"With savages?" exclaimed Mrs. Powle.
"Not necessarily. Many of them are Christians."
"The natives?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then I don't see what you are going for. Those that are Christians already might teach those that are not. But Eleanor, who will marry you?"
A bright rose-colour came upon the girl's cheeks. "Mamma, there are clergymen enough there."
"Clergymen?of the Church?"
"I beg your pardon, mamma; no. That is not essential?"
"Well, that is as you look at things. I know you and my sister Caxton have wandered away,—but for me, I should feel lost out of the Church. It would be very essential to me. Are there no Church people in the islands at all?"
"I believe not, mamma."
"And what on earth do you expect to do there, Eleanor?"
"I cannot tell you yet, mamma; but I understand everybody finds more than enough."
"What, pray?"
"The general great business, you know, is to carry light to those that sit in darkness."
"Yes, but you do not expect to preach, do you?"
Eleanor smiled, she could not help it, at the bewildered air with which this question was put. "I don't know, mamma. Do not you think I could preach to a class of children?"
"But Eleanor! such horrid work. Such work foryou!"
"Why, mamma?"
"Why? With your advantages and talents and education. Mr.—no matter who, but who used to be a good judge, said that your talents would give anybody else's talents enough to do;—and that you should throw them away upon a class of half-naked children at the antipodes!"——
"There will be somebody else to take the benefit of them first," Mrs. Caxton said very composedly. "I rather think Mr. Rhys will see to it that they are not wasted."
"Mamma, I think you do not understand this matter," Eleanor said gently. "Whoever made that speech flattered me; but I wish my talents were ten times so much as they are, that I might give them to this work."
"To this gentleman, you mean!" Mrs. Powle said tartly.
A light came into Eleanor's eyes; she was silent a minute and then with the colour rising all over her face she said, "He is abundantly worthy of all and much more than I am."
"Well I do not understand this matter, as you said," Mrs. Powle answered in some discomfiture. "Tell me of something I do understand. What society will you have where you are going, Eleanor?"
"I shall be too busy to have much time for society, mamma," Eleanor answered, good-humouredly.
"No such thing—you will want it all the more. Sister Caxton, is it not so?"
"People do not go out there without consenting to forego many things," Mrs. Caxton answered; "but there is One who has promised to be with his servants when they are about his work; and I never heard that any one who had that society, pined greatly for want of other."
Mrs. Powle opened her eyes at Mrs. Caxton's quiet face; she set this speech down in her mind as uncontaminated fanaticism. She turned to Eleanor.
"Do the people there wear clothes?"
"The Christians clothe themselves, mamma; the heathen portion of the people hardly do, I believe. The climate requires nothing. They have a fashion of dress of their own, but it is not much."
"And can you help seeing these heathen?"
"No, of course not."
"Well youarechanged!" said Mrs. Powle. "I would never have thought you would have consented to such degradation."
"I go that I may help mend it, mamma."
"Yes, you must stoop yourself first."
"Think how Jesus stooped—to what degradation—for us all."
Mrs. Powle paused, at the view of Eleanor's glistening eyes. It was not easy to answer, moreover.
"I cannot help it," she said. "You and I take different views on the subject. Do let us talk of something else; I am always getting on something where we cannot agree. Tell me about the place, Eleanor."
"What, mamma? I have not been there."
"No, but of course you know. What do you live in? houses or tents?"
"I do not know which you would call them; they are not stone or wood. There is a skeleton frame of posts to uphold the building; but the walls are made of different thicknesses of reeds, laid different ways and laced together with sinnet."
"What'ssinnet?"
"A strong braid made of the fibre of the cocoa-nut—of the husk of the cocoanut. It is made of more and less size and strength, and is used instead of iron to fasten a great many sorts of things; carpentry and boat building among them."
"Goodness! what a place. Well go on with your house."
"That is all," said Eleanor smiling; "except that it is thatched with palm leaves, or grass, or cane leaves. Sometimes the walls are covered with grass; and the braid work done in patterns, so as to have a very artistic effect."
"And what is inside?"
"Not much beside the people."
"Well, tell me what, for instance. There is something, I suppose. The walls are not bare?"
"Not quite. There are apt to be mats, to sit and lie on;—and pots for cooking, and baskets and a chest perhaps, and a great mosquito curtain."
"Are you going to live in a house like that, Eleanor?"
Mrs. Powle's face expressed distress. Eleanor laughed and declared she did not know.
"It will have some chairs for her to sit upon," said Mrs. Caxton; "and I shall send some china cups, that she may not have to drink out of a cocoa-nut shell."
"But I should like that very well," said Eleanor; "and I certainly think a Fijian wooden dish, spread with green leaves, is as nice a vessel for food as can be."
Mrs. Powle rose up and began to arrange her shawl, with an air which said, "I do not understand it!"
"Mamma, what are you about?"
"Eleanor, you make me very uncomfortable."
"Do I? Why should I, mamma?"
"It is no use talking." Then suddenly facing round on Eleanor she said,"What are you going to do for servants in that dreadful place?"
"Mr. Rhys says he has a most faithful servant—who is much attached to him, and does as well as he can desire."
"One of those native savages?"
"He was; he is a Christian now, and a good one."
Mrs. Powle looked as if she did not know how to believe her daughter.
"Aren't you afraid of what you are about, Eleanor—to venture among those creatures? and to take all that voyage first, alone? Are you not afraid?"
There was that in the very simpleness and quietness of Eleanor's answer that put her negative beyond a question. Mrs. Powle sat down again for very bewilderment.
"Why are you not afraid?" she said. "You never were afraid of little things, I know; but those houses—Are there no thieves among those heathen?"
"A good many."
"What is to keep them out of your house? Anybody could cut through a reed wall with a knife—and make no noise about it. Where is your security?"
Alas, in the one face there was such ignorance, in the other such sorrowful consciousness of that ignorance, that the two faces at first looked mutely into each other across the gulf between them.
"Mamma," said Eleanor, "why will you not understand me? Do you not know,—the Eternal God is our refuge!"
The still, grand expression of faith Mrs. Powle could not receive; but the speaking of Eleanor's eyes she did. She turned from them.
"Good morning, sister Caxton," she said. "I will go. I cannot bear it any longer to-day."
"You will come to-morrow, sister Powle?"
"Yes. O yes. I'll be here to-morrow. I will get my feelings quieted by that time. Good bye, Eleanor."
"Mamma," said the girl trembling, "when will you bring Julia?"
"Now Eleanor, don't let us talk about anything more that is disagreeable. I do not want to say anything about Julia. You have taken your way—and I do not mean to unsettle you in it; but Julia is in another line, and I cannot have you interfere with her. I am very sorry it is so,—but it is not my doing. I cannot help it. I do not want to give you pain."
Mrs. Powle departed. Eleanor came back from attending her to the door, stopped in the middle of the room, and her cheeks grew white as she spoke.
"I shall never see her again!"
"My love," said Mrs. Caxton pityingly,—"I hardly know how to believe it possible."
"I knew it all along," said Eleanor. She sat down and covered her face.Mrs. Caxton sighed.
"It is as true now as it was in the old time," she said,—"'He that will live godly in Christ Jesus, shall suffer persecution.' So surely as we walk like Christ, so surely the world will call us odd and strange and fanatical, and treat us accordingly."
Eleanor's head was bent low.
"And Jesus is our only refuge—and our sufficient consolation."
"O yes!—but—"
"And he can make our silent witness-bearing bring fruits for his glory, and for our dear ones' good, as much as years of talking to them, Eleanor."
"You are good comfort, aunt Caxton," said the girl putting her arms around her and straining her close;—"but—this is something I cannot help just now—"
It was a natural sorrow not to be struggled with successfully; and Eleanor took it to her own room. So did Mrs. Caxton take it to hers. But the struggle was ended then and there. No trace of it remained the next day. Eleanor met her mother most cheerfully, and contrived admirably to keep her from the gulf of discussion into which she had been continually plunging at her first visit. With so much of grace and skill, and of that poise of her own mind which left her free to extend help to another's vacillations and uncertainties, Eleanor guided the conversation and bore herself generally that day, that Mrs. Powle's sighing commentary as she went away, was, "Ah, Eleanor!—you might have been a duchess!"
But the paleness of sorrow came over her duchess's face again so soon as she was gone. Mrs. Caxton saw that if the struggle was ended, the pain was not; and her heart bled for Eleanor. These were days not to be prolonged. It was good for everybody that Tuesday, the day of sailing, was so near.
They were heavy, the hours that intervened. In spite of keeping herself close and making no needless advertisement of her proceedings, Eleanor could not escape many an encounter with old friends or acquaintances. They heard of her from her mother; learned her address; and then curiosity was enough, without affection, to bring several; and affection mingled with curiosity to bring a few. Among others, the two Miss Broadus's, Eleanor's friends and associates at Wiglands ever since she had been a child, could not keep away from her and could not be denied when they came; though they took precious time, and though they tried Eleanor sorely. They wanted to know everything; if their wishes had sufficed, they would have learned the whole history of Mr. Rhys's courtship. Failing that, their inquiries went to everything else, past and future, to which Eleanor's own knowledge could be supposed to extend. What she had been doing through the year which was gone, and what she expected the coming year would find her to do; when she would get to her place of destination, and what sort of a life she would have of it when once there. Houses, and horses, and cows and sheep, were as interesting to these good ladies as they were to Mrs. Powle; and feeling less concern in the matter they were free to take more amusement, and so no side feeling or hidden feeling disturbed their satisfaction in the flow of information they were receiving. For Eleanor gratified them patiently, in all which did not touch immediately herself; but when they were gone she sighed. Even Mrs. Powle was less trying; for her annoyances were at least of a more dignified kind. Eleanor could meet them better.
"And this is the end of you!" she exclaimed the evening before Eleanor was to sail. "This is the end of your life and expectations! To look at you and think of it!" Despondency could no further go.
"Not the end of either, mamma, I hope," Eleanor responded cheerfully.
"The expectation of the righteous shall be for ever, you forget," saidMrs. Caxton smiling. "There is no fall nor failure to that."
"O yes, I know!" said Mrs. Powle impatiently; "but just look at that girl and see what she is. She might be presented at Court now, and reigning like a princess in her own house; yes, she might; and to-morrow she is going off as if she were a convict, to Botany Bay!"
"No, mamma," said Eleanor smiling. "I never can persuade you ofAustralian geography."
"Well it's New South Wales, isn't it?" said Mrs. Powle.
Eleanor assented.
"Very well. The girl that brings you your luncheon when you get there, may be the very one that stole my spoons three years ago. It's all the same thing. And you, Eleanor, you are so handsome, and you have the manners of a queen—Sister Caxton, you have no notion what admiration this girl excited, and what admiration she could command!"
Mrs. Caxton looked from the calm face of the girl, certainly handsome enough, to the vexed countenance of the mother; whose fair curls failed to look complacent for once.
"I suppose Eleanor thinks of another day," she said; "when the Lord will come to be admired in his saints and to be glorified in all them that believe.Thatwill be admiration worth having—if Eleanor thinks so, I confess I think so too."
"Dear sister Caxton," said Mrs. Powle restraining herself, "what has the one thing to do with the other?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Caxton. "To seek both is impossible."
"Doyou think it is wicked to receive admiration? I did not think you went so far."
"No," said Mrs. Caxton, with her genial smile. "We were talking of seeking it."
Mrs. Powle was silent, and went away in a very ill humour.