[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885), _The Old Helmet_ (1864), Tauchnitz edition 1864, volume 2]

THE OLD HELMET. 

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE, WIDE WORLD. "

AUTHORIZED EDITION. 

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II. 

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1864. 

THE OLD HELMET. 

CHAPTER I. 

IN THE SPRING. 

 "Let no one ask me how it came to pass; It seems that I am happy, that to me A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, A purer sapphire melts into the sea. "

Eleanor could not stay away from the Wednesday meetings at Mrs. Powlis's house. In vain she had thought she would; she determined shewould; when the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind offascination towards the place. She went; and after that second timenever questioned at all about it. She went every week. 

It was with no relief to her mental troubles however. She was sometimestouched and moved; often. At other times she felt dull and hopeless. Yet it soothed her to go; and she came away generally feelinginspirited with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at leastthe comfort that she had taken a step in the right direction. It didnot seem to bring her much more comfort. Eleanor did not see how shecould be a Christian while her heart was so hard and so full of its ownwill. She found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing so much tobe different. What hope for her?

It was a great help, that during all this time Mrs. Caxton left herunquestioned and uncounselled. She made no remarks about Eleanor'sgoing to class-meeting; she took it as a perfectly natural thing; neverasked her anything about it or about her liking it. A contrary coursewould have greatly embarrassed Eleanor's action; as it was she feltperfectly free; unwatched, and at ease. 

The spring was flushing into mature beauty and waking up all theflowers on the hills and in the dales, when Eleanor one afternoon cameout to her aunt in the garden. A notable change had come over thegarden by this time; its comparatively barren-looking beds were allrejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of sweetness to the housewith every stir of the air that way. From the house to the river, terrace below terrace sloped down, brimfull already of blossoms andfragrance. The roses were making great preparations for their comingseason of festival; the mats which had covered some tender plants werelong gone. Tulips and hyacinths and polyanthuses and primroses were ina flush of spring glory now; violets breathed everywhere; thesnowy-flowered gooseberry and the red-flowered currant, and berberrywith its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the almond, and a magnificentmagnolia blossoming out in the arms of its evergreen sister, with manyanother flower less known to Eleanor, made the garden terraces a littlewilderness of loveliness and sweetness. Near the house some very fineauriculas in pots were displaying themselves. In the midst of all thisMrs. Caxton was busy, with one or two people to help her and work underdirection. Planting and training and seed-sowing were going on; and themistress of the place moved about among her floral subjects a verypleasant representation of a rural queen, her niece thought. Few queenshave a more queenly presence than Mrs. Caxton had; and with a trowel inhand just as much as if it were a sceptre. And few queens indeed carrysuch a calm mind under such a calm brow. Eleanor sighed and smiled. 

"Among your auriculas, aunty, as usual!"

"Among everything, " said Mrs. Caxton. "There is a great deal to do. Don't you want to help, Eleanor? You may plant gladiolus bulbs--or youmay make cuttings--or you may sow seeds. I can find you work. "

"Aunty, I am going down to the village. "

"O it is Wednesday afternoon!" said Mrs. Caxton. And she came close upto her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and theother held a trowel. "Well go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Eleanor?"--

There was so tender a tone in these last words that Eleanor could notreply. She dashed away without making any answer; and all along the wayto Plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "Not atpeace yet, Eleanor?"

She was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarksaddressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her totears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the wateringeyes. She did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys never askedher any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to makea troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thoughtin it. He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, thatwould give her any difficulty _there_, in the presence ofothers, --whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. To-day heasked her, "Have you found peace yet?"

"No, " said Eleanor. 

"What is the state of your mind--if you could give it in one word?"

"Confusion. "

"What is it confused about? Do you understand--clearly--the fact thatyou are a sinner? without excuse?"

"Fully!"

"Do you understand--clearly--that Christ has suffered for sins, thejust for the unjust, that he might bring us to God?"

"Yes. I understand it. "

"Is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms on which the Lordwill receive you?--forsaking your sins, and trusting in him to pardonand save you?"

"No--I see that. "

"Do you think there is any other condition besides those two?"

"No. "

"Why do you not accept them?"

Eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling almost of injustice. "Icannot!"--she said. 

"That makes no difference. God never gives a command that cannot withhis help be fulfilled. There was a man once brought to Jesus--carriedby foul men; he was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to movehimself at all. To this man the Lord said, 'Arise, take up thy bed, andwalk. ' Suppose he had looked up and said, 'I cannot?'"

Eleanor struggled with herself. Was this fair? Was it a parallel case?She could not tell. She kept silence. Mr. Rhys went on, with tonessubdued to great gentleness. 

"My friend, Jesus invites to no empty board--to no cold reception. Onhis part all is ready; the unreadiness lies somewhere with you, or theinvitation would be accepted. In your case it is not the bodily framethat is palsied; it is the heart; and the command comes to you, sweetas the invitation, --'_Give it to me_. ' If you are entirely willing, thething is done. If it be not done, it is because, somewhere, you are notwilling--or do not believe. If you can trust Jesus, as that poor mandid, you may rise up and stand upon your feet this very hour. 'Believeye that I am able to do this?' he asked of the blind man whom he cured. "

There was silence for an instant. And again, as he turned away fromher, Mr. Rhys broke out with the song, that Eleanor thought would breakher heart in twain this time, --

 "How lost was my condition Till Jesus made me whole; There is but one physician Can cure a sin-sick soul. There's balm in Gilead-- To make the wounded whole. There's power enough in Jesus To save a sin-sick soul. "

Eleanor had been the last one spoken to; the meeting soon was ended, and she was on her way home. But so broken-spirited and humiliated thatshe did not know what to do with herself. Could it be possible that shewas not _willing_--or that she wanted _faith_--or that there was somesecret corner of rebellion in her heart? It humbled her wonderfully tothink it. And yet she could not disprove the reasoning. God could notbe unfaithful; and if there were not somewhere on her part a failure tomeet the conditions, surely peace would have been made before now. Andshe had thought herself all this while a subject for pity, not forblame; nay, for blame indeed, but not in this regard. Her mouth wasstopped now. She rode home broken-hearted; would not see Mrs. Caxton atsupper; and spent the evening and much of the night in weeping andself-searching. They were very downcast days that followed this day. Mrs. Caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes; never interfered withher. 

Towards the end of the week there was preaching at Glanog, and thefamily went as usual. Eleanor rode by herself, going and coming, andheld no communication with her aunt by the way. But late at night, sometime after Mrs. Caxton had gone to bed, a white-robed figure came intoher room and knelt down by the bedside. 

"Is that you, Eleanor?"

"Aunt Caxton--it's all gone!"

"What?"

"My trouble. I came to tell you. It's all gone. I am so happy!"

"How is it, my dear child?"

"When Mr. Rhys was preaching to-night, it all came to me; I saweverything clearly. I saw how Jesus loves sinners. I saw I had nothingto do but to give myself to him, and he would do everything. I see howsins are forgiven through his blood; and I trust in it, and I am suremine are; and I feel as if I had begun a new life, aunt Caxton!"

Eleanor's tears flowed like summer rain. Mrs. Caxton rose up and puther arms round her. 

"The Lord be praised!" she said. "I was waiting for this, Eleanor. "

"Aunt Caxton, I had been trying and thinking to make myself good first. I thought I was unworthy and unfit to be Christ's servant; but now Isee that I can be nothing but unworthy, and only he can make me fit foranything; so I give up all, and I feel that he will do all for me. I amso happy! I was so blind before!"

Mrs. Caxton said little; she only rejoiced with Eleanor so tenderly asif she had been her own mother. Though that is speaking very coolly onthe present occasion. Mrs. Powle had never shewed her daughter so muchof that quality in her life, as Eleanor's aunt shewed now. 

The breakfast next morning was unusually quiet. Happiness does notalways make people talkative. 

"How do you do, my love?" said Mrs. Caxton when they were left alone. "After being up half the night?"

"More fresh than I have felt for a year, aunt Caxton. Did you hear thatnightingale last night?"

"I heard him. I listened to him and thought of you. "

"He sang--I cannot tell you what his song sounded like to me, auntCaxton. I could almost have fancied there was an angel out there. "

"There were a great many rejoicing somewhere else. What glory to thinkof it!" They were silent again till near the end of breakfast; thenMrs. Caxton said, --"Eleanor, I shall be engaged the whole of thismorning. This afternoon, if you will, I will go with you into thegarden. "

"This afternoon--is Wednesday, aunt Caxton. "

"So it is. Well, before or after you go to the village, I want you todress some dishes of flowers for me--will you?"

"With great pleasure, ma'am. And I can get some hawthorn blossoms, Iknow. I will do it before I go, ma'am. "

Was it pleasant, that morning's work? Eleanor went out early to get hersprays of May blossoms; and in the tender beauty of the day and seasonwas lured on and on, and tempted to gather other wild bits ofloveliness, till she at last found her hands full, and came home ladenwith tokens of where she had been. "O'er the muir, amang the heather, "Eleanor's walk had gone; and her basket was gay with gorse and broomjust opening; but from grassy banks on her way she had brought thebright blue speedwell; and clematis and bryony from the hedges, andfrom under them wild hyacinth and white campion and crane's-bill andprimroses; and a meadow she had passed over gave her one or two prettykinds of orchis, with daisies and cowslips, and grasses of variouskinds. Eleanor was dressing these in flower baskets and dishes, in theopen gallery that overlooked the meadows, when Mrs. Caxton passingthrough on her own business stopped a moment to look at her. 

"All those from your walk, my dear! Do you not mean to apply to thegarden?"

"Aunty, I could have got a great many more, if I could have gone intothe woods--but my walk did not lie that way. Yes, ma'am, I am goinginto the garden presently, when I have ordered these dishes well. Whereare they to go, aunt Caxton?"

"Some in one place and some in another. You may leave them here, Eleanor, when they are done, and I will take care of them. Shall I havethe garden flowers cut for you?"

"O no, ma'am, if you please!"

Mrs. Caxton stood a moment longer watching Eleanor; the pretty work andthe pretty worker; the confusion of fair and sweet things around herand under her fingers, with the very fine and fair human creature busyabout them. Eleanor's face was gravely happy; more bright than Mrs. Caxton had ever seen it; very much of kin to the flowers. She watchedher a moment, and then went nearer to kiss Eleanor's forehead. Theflowers fell from the fingers, while the two exchanged a look of mutesympathy; then on one part and on the other, business went forward. 

Eleanor's work held her all the morning. For after the wild beautieshad been disposed to her mind, there was another turn with their morepretentious sisters of the garden. Azaleas and honeysuckles, lilies ofthe valley, hyacinths and pomponium lilies, with Scotch roses and whitebroom, and others, made superb floral assemblages, out of doors or in;and Eleanor looked at her work lovingly when it was done. 

So went the morning of that day, and Eleanor's ride in the afternoonwas a fit continuation. May was abroad in the bursting leaves as wellas in opening flowers; the breath of Eden seemed to sweep down thevalley of Plassy. Ay, there is a partial return to the lost paradise, for those whom Christ leads thither, even before we get to theeverlasting hills. 

Eleanor this day was the first person addressed in the meeting. It hadnever happened so before. But now Mr. Rhys asked her first of all, "Howdo you do to-day?"

Eleanor looked up and answered, "Well. And all changed. "

"Will you tell us how you mean?"

"It was when you were preaching last night. It all I came to me. I sawmy mistake, when you told about I the love of Christ to sinners. I sawI had been trying to make myself good. "

"And how is it now?"

"Now, "--said Eleanor looking up again with full eyes, --"I will knownothing but Christ. "

The murmur of thanksgiving heard from one or two voices brought herhead down. It had nearly overcome her. But she controlled herself, andpresently went on; though not daring to look again into Mr. Rhys'sface, the expression of whose eyes of gladness was harder to meet thanthe spoken thanksgivings. 

"I see I have nothing, and am nothing, " she said. "I see that Christ isall, and will do all for me. I wish to be his servant. All is changed. The very hills are changed. I never saw such colours or such sunlight, as I have seen as I rode along this afternoon. "

"A true judgment, " said Mr. Rhys. "It has been often said, that the eyesees what the eye brings the means of seeing; and the love of Christputs a glory upon all nature that far surpasses the glory of the sun. It is a changed world, for those who know that love for the first time!Friends, most of us profess to have that knowledge. Do we have it sothat it puts a glory on all the outer world, in the midst of which welive and walk and attend to our business?"

"It does to me, sir, " said the venerable old man whom Eleanor hadnoticed;--"it does to me. Praise the Lord!" Instead of any other answerthey broke out singing, --

 "O how happy are they Who the Saviour obey, And have laid up their treasure above. Tongue can never express The sweet comfort and peace Of a soul in its earliest love. "

"The way to keep that joy, " said Mr. Rhys returning to Eleanor, "and toknow more of it, is to take every succeeding step in the Christian lifeexactly as you took the first one;--in self-renunciation, in entiredependence. As ye have received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye inhim. It is a simple and humble way, the way along which the heavenlylight shines. Do everything for Christ--do everything in hisstrength;--and you will soon know that the secret of the Lord is withthem that fear him. Blessed be his name! He giveth power to the faint, and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. "

It was easy to see that the speaker made a personal application here, with reference to himself; but after that there was no more saiddirectly to Eleanor. The subject went round the circle, receiving thevarious testimony of the persons there. Eleanor's heart gave quicksympathy to many utterances, and took home with intent interest theanswering counsels and remarks, which in some instances were framed toput a guard against self-deception or mistake. One or two of herneighbours when the exercises were over, came and took her hand, with awarm simple expression of feeling which made Eleanor's heart hot; andthen she rode home. 

"Did you have a pleasant time?" said her aunt. 

"Aunt Caxton, I think that room where we meet is the pleasantest placein the world!"

"What do you think of the chapel at Glanog?"

"I don't know. I believe that is as good or better. "

"Are you too tired to go out again?"

"Not at all. Who wants me?"

"Nanny Croghan is very sick. I have been with her all the afternoon;and Jane is going to sit up with her to-night; but Jane cannot go yet. "

"She need not. I will stay there myself. I like it, aunt Caxton. "

"Then I will send for you early in the morning. "

Nanny Croghan lived a mile or two from the farmhouse. Eleanor walkedthere, attended by John with a basket. The place was a narrow dellbetween two uprising hills covered with heather; as wild and secludedas it is possible to imagine. The poor woman who lived there alone wasdying of lingering disease. John delivered the basket, and left Eleanoralone with her charge and the mountains. 

It was not a night like that she had spent by the bedside of her oldnurse's daughter. Nanny was dying fast; and she needed something donefor her constantly. Through all the hours of the darkness Eleanor waskept on the watch or actively employed, in administering medicine, orfood, or comfort. For when Nanny wanted nothing else, she wanted that. 

"Tell me something I can fix my mind onto, " she would say. "It seemsslipping away from me, like. And then I gets cold with fear. "

Eleanor was new at the business; she had forgotten to bring her Biblewith her, and she could find none in the house; "her sister had beenthere, " Nanny said, "and had carried it away. " Eleanor was obliged todraw on the slender stores of her memory; and to make the most ofthose, she was obliged to explain them to Nanny, and go them over andover, and pick them to pieces, and make her rest upon each clause andalmost each word of a verse. There were some words that surely Eleanorbecame well acquainted with that night. For Nanny could sleep verylittle, and when she could not sleep she wanted talking incessantly. Eleanor urged her to accept the promises and she would have the peace. "The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him. "

"Ay, but I never did fear him, you see, --till a bit agone; and now it'sall fear. I fear furder'n I can see. "

"Nanny, Nanny, the blood of Christ will take all that fear away--ifonly you will trust in it. He shed it for you--to pay your debts tojustice. There is no condemnation to them which are in him. "

Nanny did not know exactly what so big a word as condemnation meant;Eleanor was obliged to explain it; then what was meant by being "inChrist. " Towards morning Nanny seemed somewhat soothed and fell into adoze. Eleanor went to the cottage door and softly opened it, to see howthe night went. 

The dawn was breaking fair over the hills, the tops of which shewed theunearthly brightness of coming day. It took Eleanor's eyes and thoughtsright up. O for the night of darkness to pass away from this wearyearth! Down in the valley the shadows lay thicker; how thick they layabout the poor head just now resting in sleep. How thick they lay but aday or two ago upon Eleanor herself! Now she looked up. The light wasflushing upon the mountain tops every moment stronger. The dewy scentsof the May morning were filling the air with their nameless andnumberless tokens of rich nature's bounty. The voice of a cataract, close at hand, made merry down the rocks along with the song of theblackbird, woodpecker and titmouse. And still, as Eleanor stood thereand looked and listened, the rush and the stir of sweet life grew moreand more; the spring breeze wakened up and floated past her facebringing the breath of the flowers fresher and nearer; and the hilltops ever kindled into more and more glow. "It is Spring! and it isDay!" thought Eleanor, --"and so it is in my heart. The darkness isgone; the light is like that light, --promising more; my life is full ofsweetness I never knew. Surely this month shall be the month of monthsto me for ever. O for this day--O for this morning--to waken over allthe world!"

She stood there, for Nanny still slept, till the sunbeams struck thehills and crept down the sides of them; and till John and Jane came insight round the angle of the road. John had brought the pony to takeEleanor home; and a few minutes' ride brought her there. Morningprayers were however done, before Eleanor could refresh herself withcold water and a change of dress. When she came down to thesitting-room Mrs. Caxton had stepped out on some business; and in herplace, sitting alone with a book, Eleanor was greatly surprised to seeMr. Rhys. 

He was not at all surprised to see her; rose up and gave her a verycordial grasp of the hand, and stirred up the wood fire; which, Maymorning though it was, the thick walls of the old stone house and theneighbourhood of the mountains made useful and agreeable. In silenceand with a good deal of skill Mr. Rhys laid the logs together so that afresh blaze sprang up; then after a remark upon the morning he wentback to his book. Eleanor sat down, also silent, feeling very muchdelighted to see him there, and to think that they would have hiscompany at breakfast; but not at all inclined, nor indeed competent, toopen a conversation. She looked into the fire and wondered at the turnsthat had brought about this meeting; wondered over the past year of herlife; remembered her longing for the "helmet of salvation" which heracquaintance with Mr. Rhys had begun; and sang for joy in her heartthat now she had it. Yes, it was hers, she believed; a deep rest andpeace had taken place of craving and anxiety, such as even nowdisturbed poor dying Nanny. Eleanor felt very happy, in the midst ofall her care for her. The fire burned beautifully. 

"I was not aware, " said Mr. Rhys looking up from his book, "I was notaware till last night that you lived with Mrs. Caxton. "

Very odd, Eleanor thought; most people would have found out; howevershe took it simply. 

"I am her niece. "

"So I find, --so I am glad to find. I can wish nothing better for anyone, in that kind, than to be connected with Mrs. Caxton. "

He sat with his finger between the leaves of his book, and Eleanoragain wondered at the silence; till Mrs. Caxton came in. It was notvery flattering; but Eleanor was not troubled with vanity; shedismissed it with a thought compounded of good-humour and humility. Atbreakfast the talk went on pretty briskly; it was all between the othertwo and left her on one side; yet it was good enough to listen to it. Eleanor was well satisfied. Mr. Rhys was the principal talker; he wastelling Mrs. Caxton of different people and things in the course of hislabours; which constantly gave a reflex gleam of light upon thoselabours themselves and upon the labourer. Unconsciously of course, andmerely from the necessity of the case; but it was very interesting toEleanor, and probably to Mrs. Caxton; she looked so. At last she turnedto her niece. 

"How did you leave Nanny?"

"A little easier towards morning, I think; at least she went to sleep, which all the night she could not do. "

"Nor you neither. "

"O that's nothing. I don't mind that at all. It was worth watching, tosee the dawn. "

"Was the woman in so much pain?" Mr. Rhys asked. 

"No; not bodily; she was uneasy in mind. "

"In what way. "

"Afraid of what lies before her; seeing dimly, if at all. "

"Was she comforted by what you told her?"

"I had very little to tell her, " said Eleanor; "I had no Bible; I hadforgotten to take it; and hers was gone. I had to get what I could frommemory, for I did not like to give her anything but the words of theBible itself to ground hope upon. "

"Yes, but a good warm testimony of personal experience, coming from theheart, often goes to the heart. I hope you tried that. "

Eleanor had not; she was silent. The testimony she had given in theclass-meeting somehow she had been shy of uttering unasked in the earof the dying woman. Was that humility--or something else? Again Mr. Rhys had done for her what he so often did for her and forothers--probed her thoughts. 

"It is a good plan, " said Mrs. Caxton, "to have a storehouse in one'smemory of such things as may be needed upon occasion; passages ofScripture and hymns; to be brought out when books are not at hand. Iwas made to learn a great deal out of the Bible when I was a girl; andI have often made a practice of it since; and it always comes intoplay. "

"I never set myself lessons to get by heart, " said Mr. Rhys. "I nevercould learn anything in that way. Or perhaps I should say, I never_liked_ to do it. I never did it. "

"What is your art, then?" said Mrs. Caxton, looking curious. 

"No art. It is only that when anything impresses itself strongly on myfeelings, the words seem to engrave themselves in my memory. It is anunconscious and purely natural operation. "

Eleanor remembered the multitudinous quoting of the Bible she had atdifferent times heard from Mr. Rhys; and again wondered mentally. Allthat, all those parts of the Bible, he had not set himself to study, but had _felt_ them into his memory! They had been put in like goldletters, with a hot iron. 

"Where is this woman?" Mr. Rhys went on. 

"She lives alone, in the narrow dell that stretches behind BengartenCastle--and nearly in a straight line with it, from here. Do not gothere this morning--you want rest, and it is too far for you to walk. Iam going to take you into my garden, to see how my flowers go. "

"Won't you take me into your dairy?"

"If you like it, " said Mrs. Caxton smiling. 

"I like it exceedingly. It is something like a musical box to me, MissPowle, to see Mrs. Caxton's cheese-making. It soothes my nerves, thenoiseless order of everything. Do you know that wonderful cheese-house, where they stand in ranks like yellow millstones? I never can get overmy surprise at going in there. Certainly we, as a nation, are fond ofcheese!"

"You think so because you are not, " said Mrs. Caxton. "It is too latefor the dairy to-day. You shall give me help in my garden, where I wantit. "

"I understand, " says Mr. Rhys. "But it is my business to make flowersgrow in the Lord's garden--wherever I can. I wish I could do more of_that_ gardening work!"

Eleanor gave a quick glance up at the speaker. His brow rested on hishand for the moment; she noticed the sharply drawn lines of the face, the thin cheeks, the complexion, which all witnessed to _over_-workalready attempted and done. The brow and eyes were marked with lines ofwatching and fatigue. It was but a glance, and Eleanor's eyes went downagain; with an additional lesson of unconscious testimony carried deephome. This man lived as he talked. The good of existence was not onething in his lips and another in his practice. Eleanor looked at herplate with her heart burning. In her old fancy for studying, or atleast reading, hands, she had noticed too in her glance the hand onwhich the head rested; and with surprise. It was almost a feminine handin make, with long slim fingers; white withal, and beautifully caredfor. Certain refinements were clearly necessary to this man, who wasready to plunge himself into a country of savages nevertheless, whereall the refinement would be his own. To some natures it would be easierto part with a hand altogether, than to forego the necessity of havingit clean. This was one. And he was going to give himself up toPolynesia and its practices. Eleanor eat with the rest of her breakfastand swallowed with her tea, the remembered words of the apostle--"Butwhat things were gain to me, those I counted loss forChrist. "--"Neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I mayfinish my course with joy, and the ministry, which I have received ofthe Lord Jesus, to be faithful. "--Eleanor's heart swelled. Tears werevery near. 

After breakfast, a large part of the morning was spent by her aunt andMr. Rhys in the garden; as Mrs. Caxton had said; and very busy theywere. Eleanor was not asked to join them, and she did not choose tovolunteer; she watched them from the house. They were very honestlybusy; planting and removing and consulting; in real garden work; yet itwas manifest their minds had also much more in common, in matters ofgreater interest; they stood and talked for long intervals when theflowers were forgotten. They were very near each other, those two, evidently, in regard and mutual confidence and probably mutualadmiration also. It was very strange Eleanor should never have come tothe knowledge of it till to-day. And yet, why should she? She had nevermentioned the name of Mr. Rhys to her aunt in any of her stories ofWiglands. 

He was away all the afternoon and the evening, and came back againlate; a tired and exhausted man. He said nothing, except to officiateat family prayers; but Eleanor was delighted that he was to spend thenight at the farm and they would have him at breakfast. Only to see himand hear him talk to others, only the tones of his voice, brought up toher everything that was good and strong and pure and happy. He did notseem inclined to advance at all upon their Wiglands acquaintance. Hemade no allusion to it. As far as she was concerned, Eleanor thoughtthat there was more reserve in his manner towards her than he hadshewed there. No matter. With Mrs. Caxton he was very much at home; andshe could study him at her ease all the better for not talking to him. 

CHAPTER II. 

WITH THE BASKET. 

 "The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace. "

"Mrs. Caxton, " said Mr. Rhys the next morning, when half the breakfasthad been passed in silence, "have you such a thing as a microscope inthe house?"

"I am afraid not. Why do you ask?"

"Only, that I have suddenly discovered myself to be very ignorant, in adepartment of knowledge where it would be very pleasant as well asproper to be otherwise. I have been reading a book on some of the formsof life which are only to be known through the help of glasses; and Ifind there is a world there I know nothing about. That book has made aboy of me. "

"How?" said Mrs. Caxton smiling. 

"You think I always retain more or less of that character! Well--it hasmade me doubly a boy then; in my eagerness to put myself to school, onthe one hand, and my desire to see something new on the other. MissPowle, have you ever studied the invisible inhabitants of pools, andponds, and sea-weeds?"

"Not at all, " said Eleanor. 

"You do not know much more than the names, then, of Infusoria, Rotifera, and Pedunculata, and such things?"

"Not so much as the names--except Infusoria. I hope they are betterthan they sound. "

"If the accounts are true--Mrs. Caxton, the world that we do not see, because of the imperfection of our organs, is even far more wonderfulthan the world that we do see. Perhaps it seems so, because of thefiniteness of our own powers. But I never had a single thing give mesuch a view of the infinite glory of God, as one of the things detailedin that book--one of the discoveries of the microscope. "

"His glory in creation, " said Mrs. Caxton. 

"More than that--There is to be sure the infiniteness of wisdom and ofpower, that makes your brain dizzy when you think of it; but there isan infinite moral glory also. "

"What was the thing that struck you so much?" Eleanor inquired. 

"It was a little fellow that lives in the water. He is not bigger thanthe diameter of the slenderest needle--and that is saying as much as Ican for his size. This fellow builds himself a house of bricks, whichhe makes himself; and under his head he carries a little cup mould inwhich the bricks are made. "

"Mr. Rhys, " said Eleanor, "I am wondering what is the slenderest needleof your acquaintance!"

"No, " said he laughing, "you are mistaken. I have seen my mother hemthin ruffles of muslin; and you know with what sort of a needle thatshould be done. "

"Aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor, "it is inconceivable!"

Mrs. Caxton did not make much answer, and the conversation turned. After breakfast, and after, as Eleanor judged, they had been a goodwhile in the dairy, the two went out together in the car. Eleanorsupposed it was to visit Nanny; and so she found when her aunt camehome. 

"I knew he would go, " said Mrs. Caxton; "and then we made another call. Nanny is hopeful, and comfortable; but the other---- Mr. Rhys came awayvery much agitated. He is not fit for it. I wish I could keep him fromwork for a few weeks. It's the best economy. But I will keep him hereas long as I can, at least. "

"Is he going to stay here?"

"Yes; he was not comfortably situated in the village; and now I willhave him at the farm, I hope, till he goes. I shall trust you to keepthe flowers fresh in his room, Eleanor. --No, my dear; Jane will staywith Nanny to-night. "

So Mr. Rhys stayed at the farm, and certainly wanted for no comfortthat the mistress of it could secure to him. Neither did Eleanorneglect the flowers. Mr. Rhys made his home there, and went out to hispreaching and visiting and teaching as vigorously as ever; and wasoften a tired man when he came home. Nevertheless he gained ground, toMrs. Caxton's great satisfaction. He grew stronger; and was less oftena silent, prostrated, done-over member of their little circle. At firsthe was very often that. But when he felt well he was exceedingly socialand conversational; and the Plassy farmhouse had never been sopleasant, nor the evenings and mornings and meal times so full ofinterest. In all which however Mrs. Caxton thought Eleanor took a veryquiet part. 

"You do not do your share, Eleanor, " she said one day; "you are becomenothing of a talker; and I can bear witness you had a tongue once. Hasreligion made you silent, my dear?"

"No, aunty, " said Eleanor laughing; "but you forget--you have somebodyelse to talk to now. "

"I am sure, and so have you. "

"No ma'am--Mr. Rhys does not talk to me generally. "

"I would return good for evil, then; and not silence for silence. "

"I can't, aunty. Don't you know, there are some people that have a sortof quieting effect upon one?"

"I don't think anybody ever did upon me, " said Mrs. Caxton; "and I amsure Mr. Rhys would be shocked if he knew the effect of his presence. "

One morning Mrs. Caxton asked Mr. Rhys at breakfast if he had leisureto unpack a box for her. He said yes, with great alacrity; and Mrs. Caxton had the box brought in. 

"What is it?" said Mr. Rhys as he began his work. "Am I to take care ofchina and glass--or to find gardener's plants nicely done up--or bestof all, books?"

"I hope, something better yet, " said Mrs. Caxton. 

"There is a good deal of it, whatever it is, " said Mr. Rhys, taking outone and another and another carefully wrapped up bit of something. "Curiosity can go no further!"

He stopped unpacking, and took the wrapping papers off one or twoodd-looking little pieces of brass; paused, --then suddenly exclaimed, "Mrs. Caxton!--"

"Well?" said that lady smiling. 

"It is just like you! I might have known the other morning what allthat talk would end in. "

Mrs. Caxton smiled in silence, and the gentleman went on with hisunpacking; with added zeal and tenderness now, it was evident. It stoodfull in view at last, an exquisitely made and mounted microscope of oneof the best London makers. Now was Mr. Rhys in his element; and provedhow justly he had declared himself a _boy_. He got the microscope allinto place and arranged, and then set himself to find out its powersand method of management.. There were some prepared objects sent withthe instrument, which gave him enough to work with; and over them hewas in an absorbed state for hours; not selfishly, however, for heallowed Eleanor to take her full share of the pleasure of looking, whenonce he had brought objects into view. At last he broke off and hurriedaway to an engagement. 

The next day at breakfast, Eleanor was a good deal surprised to beasked if she would take a walk?

"Now?" said Eleanor. "You mean immediately after breakfast?"

"It is the only time I have to-day. All the time before dinner, I have;but I supposed we should want the whole of it. I am going after objectsfor the microscope--and I thought it would be selfish to go alone. Besides, we may help one another. "

"I shall be very glad to go, " said Eleanor laughing; "but don't expectany _help_ of me; unless it be in the way of finding out such places asyou want. "

"I fancy I know those better than you do. Miss Powle, a small basketwould be desirable to hold phials of water. "

"And phials. "

"I will take care of those. "

Much amused, and a little excited, Eleanor made ready for the walk, andin the matter of the basket at least proved helpful. It was bright andearly when they set out. Among those mountains and valleys, the dew wasnot off the fields yet, while the air was freshly sweet from roses andwild thyme, and primroses lingering, and numberless other sweet things;for hedgerow and meadow and mountain side were gay and rich with amultitude of flowers. There was a mingling of shadow and sunshine too, at that early time in the morning; and as the two walkers passed alongthey were sometimes in one, sometimes in the other. There was littleconversation at first. Mr. Rhys went not with a lingering step, but asif with some purpose to reach a definite locality. Eleanor was musingto herself over the old walks taken with Julia by her presentcompanion; never but once Eleanor's walking companion till now. Howoften Julia had gone with him; what a new and strange pleasure it wasfor herself; and how oddly life changes about things; that theimpossible thing at Wiglands should be possible at Plassy. 

"What sort of places are you looking for, Mr. Rhys?" Eleanor inquiredat last. 

"All sorts of places, " he said smiling. "All sorts at least of wetplaces. But I know nothing about it, you know, except what I have read. They say, wherever water is found, some or other species of theseminute wonders may be met with; standing pools, and rivers, and ditchesall have them; and some particularly beautiful are to be found in bogwater; so with, I am afraid you will think, a not very commendableimpatience, I am pointing my steps towards a bog that I know--in thewish to get some of the best first. "

"That is being very impatient, " said Eleanor laughing. "I should besatisfied with almost anything, for the first. "

"So you will very probably have to be. I am by no means sure ofaccomplishing my design. Am I walking too fast for you, in themeanwhile?"

"Not at all. I am thinking, Mr. Rhys, how we are to bring home the bogwater when we have found it. "

In answer to which, he put his hand in his pocket and brought outthence and deposited in his basket one after another of half a dozen ormore little phials, all duly corked. Eleanor was very much amused. 

"And what is this stick to do, that you wanted me to bring?"

"You will see. "

The bog was reached in due time, after a walk over a most deliciouscountry, for the most part new to Eleanor. Water was found, though notexactly with the conditions Mr. Rhys desired; however a phial of it wasdipped up, corked and marked. Then they retraced their steps partially, diverging right and left. Just the right sort of pool was found atlast; covered with duck-weed. Here Mr. Rhys stopped and tied one of thephials to the end of the stick. With this he dipped water from thesurface, then he dipped from the bottom; he took from one side and fromanother side, where there was sunshine and where there was shade;pouring each dipping into a fresh phial, while Eleanor in a great stateof amusement corked and labelled each as it was filled. At last it wasdone. Mr. Rhys filled his last phial, looked at Eleanor's face, andsmiled. 

"You do not think much is going to come of all this?" he said. 

"Yes I do, " said Eleanor. "At least I hope so. "

"I know it. Look through that. "

He put a pocket lens into her hand and bade her survey one of thephials with it. Eleanor's scepticism fled. That _something_ was there, in pretty active life, was evident. Somethings. The kinds were plural. 

"It was like Mrs. Caxton, to order this lens with the microscope, " Mr. Rhys went on. "I suppose she made her order general--to includeeverything that would be necessary for a naturalist in making hisobservations. I not being a naturalist. Did you ever see the 'Bundle'of Helig?"

"I do not know what it is. "

"'Bundle' or 'Bandel'--I do not know how it got the name, I am sure;but I suppose it is a corruption of something. Would you like to go alittle out of your way to see it?"

"You can judge better than I, Mr. Rhys!" Eleanor said with her full, rich smile, which that gentleman had not often seen before. He answeredit with his own very peculiar one, sober and sweet. 

"I will take so much responsibility. You ought not to come so near andmiss it. "

Turning from the course of their return way, they followed a wild woodydell for a little distance; then making a sudden angle with that, a fewsteps brought them in sight of a waterfall. It poured over a rockybarrier of considerable height, the face of which was corrugated, as itwere, with great projecting ridges of rock. Separated of necessity bythese, the waters left the top of the precipice in four or fivedistinct bands or ribbands of bright wave and foam, soon dashed intowhiteness; and towards the bottom of the fall at last found their wayall together; which they celebrated with a rush and a dance and asparkle and a roar that filled all the rocky abyss into which theyplunged. The life, the brightness, the peculiar form, the wildsurroundings, of this cataract made it a noted beauty. In front of itthe rocks closed in so nearly that spectators could only look at itthrough a wild narrow gap. Above, beyond the top of the fall, thewaving branches could be seen of the trees and bushes that stood on theborders of the water; to reach which was a mere impossibility, unlessby taking a very long way round. At the foot, the waters turned offsuddenly and sought their course where the eye could not follow them. 

It was out of the question to talk in the presence of the shout ofthose glad waters. Mr. Rhys leaned against the rock, and looked atthem, so motionless that more than once the eye of Eleanor went fromthem to him with a little note-taking. When at last he turned away andthey got back into the stillness of the glen, he asked her, "howlooking at such a thing made her feel?"

"Nothing but surprise and pleasure, I think, " said Eleanor; "but agreat deal of both those. " Then as he still remained silent, she wenton, --"To tell the truth, Mr. Rhys, I think my mental eye is onlybeginning to get educated. I used always to enjoy natural beauty, but Ithink it was in a superficial kind of way. Since I have been atPlassy--and especially since a few weeks back, --all nature is much moreto me than it was. "

"It is sure to be so, " he said. "Nature without and nature within aremade for each other; and till the two are set to the same key, youcannot have a good tune. --There is a fellow who is in pretty goodorder! Do you hear that blackbird?"

"Sweet!" said Eleanor. "And what is that other note--'chee chee, chee, 'so many times?"

"That is a green wren. "

"You are _something_ of a naturalist, Mr. Rhys, " said Eleanor. 

"Not at all! no more than my acquaintance with you and Mrs. Caxtonmakes me a philosopher. "

Eleanor wanted to ask what looking at the cataract made _him_ think of;but as she had told her aunt, Mr. Rhys exercised a sort of quietinginfluence over her. No natural audacity, of which she had an innocentshare, remained to her in his company. She walked along in demuresilence. And to say the truth, the sun was now growing warm, and thetwo had walked not a few good miles that morning; which also has aquieting influence. Eleanor queried with herself whether all the brightpart of the walk were over. 

"I think it is time we varied our attention, " said Mr. Rhys breakingsilence. "We have been upon one class of subjects a goodwhile;--suppose we try another. Don't you want to rest?"

"I am not tired, --but I have no objection. "

"You are not easily tired?"

"Not about anything I like. "

"You have struck a great secret of power and usefulness, " he saidgravely. "What do you think of this bank?--it is dry, and it ispleasant. "

It would have been hardly possible to find a spot in all their way thatwould not have been pleasant; and from this bank they looked over awide rich valley bordered with hills. It was not the valley where thefarmhouse of Plassy stood, with its meadows and river; this wasdifferent in its features, and moreover some miles distant. Eleanor andMr. Rhys sat down on the moss at the foot of the trees, which gave bothshade and rest. It was the edge of a piece of woods, and a blackbirdwas again heard saluting them. 

"Now if you want refreshment, " said Mr. Rhys, "I can give it to you;but only of one kind. "

"I don't know--I should say of several kinds, " said Eleanor lookinginto the basket--"but the quality doubtful. "

"Did you think I meant _that?_"

Eleanor laughed at the earnest gravity of this speech. "Mr. Rhys, I sawno other refreshment you had to offer me; but indeed I do not wantany--more than I am taking. "

"I was going to offer it to you of another kind, but there is no kindlike it. What is your way of reading the Bible?"

"I have no particular 'way, '" said Eleanor in some surprise. "I readseveral chapters a day--or at least always a chapter at morning andanother at evening. What 'way' do you mean?"

"There are a great many ways; and it is good to use them all atdifferent times. But what way would be good for a half hour'srefreshment, at such a time as this?"

"I am sure, I don't know, " said Eleanor. "I have no way but the one. "

"Yes, but we should not have seen the 'Bandel' of Helig, if we had notturned aside to look at it; and you would not have heard the blackbirdand the wren perhaps, unless you had stopped to listen to them. Isuppose we have missed a million of other things, for want of looking. "

"Yes, but we could not look at everything all along these miles of ourway, " said Eleanor, her smile breaking forth again. 

"Very true. On the other hand, if we go but a very little way, we canexamine all around us. Have you a Bible with you?"

"No. I never carry one. "

"I am better off than you. Let us try a little of this--the firstchapter of Romans. Will you read the first verse, and consider it. "

He handed her his Bible and Eleanor read. 

"'Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, separatedunto the gospel of God'--"

"What do you find there?" said her companion. 

"Not much. This verse seems to be a sort of opening, or introduction tothe rest. Paul tells who he is, or what he is. "

"And what does he say he is?"

"A servant of Jesus Christ. "

"You think that is 'not much?'"

"Certainly it is much, in itself; but here I took it for a merestatement of fact. "

"But what a fact. _A servant of Jesus Christ_. Only that! Do you knowwhat a fact that is? What is it, to be a servant of Jesus Christ?"

Without waiting for the answer, which was not ready, Mr. Rhys rose upfrom his seat and began an abstracted exploration of the bit ofwoodland at the edge of which they had been sitting; wandering in andout among the trees, and stooping now and then to pluck a flower or afern or to examine one; apparently too full of his thoughts to bequiet. Eleanor heard him sometimes and watched him when she could; hewas very busy; she wished he I would give some of his thoughts to her. 

"I thought you wanted rest, Mr. Rhys, " she said boldly, when she got achance. "Please sit down here and take it, along with your otherrefreshment. "

He smiled and came immediately with a bunch of Myosotis in his hand, which he threw into Eleanor's lap; and turning to her he repeated veryseriously his question. 

"What is it, to be a servant of Jesus Christ?"

"I know very little, " said Eleanor timidly. "I am only just beginningto learn. "

"You know the words bring for our refreshment only the meaning that weattach to them--except so far as the Holy Spirit answering our prayersand endeavours shews us new meaning and depth that we had not knownbefore. "

"Of course--but I suppose I know very little. These words convey onlythe mere fact to me. "

"Let us weight the words. A servant is a follower. Christ said, 'If aman serve me, let him _follow me_. '"

"Yes, --I know. "

"A follower must know where his Master goes. How did Christ walk?"

"He went about doing good. "

"He did; but mark, there are different ways of doing that. Get to theroot of the matter. The young man who kept all the commandments fromhis youth, was not following Christ; and when it came to the pinch heturned his back upon him. "

"How then, Mr. Rhys? You mean heart-following?"

"That is what the Lord means. Look here--Paul says in the ninthverse, --'Whom I serve _with my spirit_ in the gospel'--Following cannothave a different end in view from that of the person followed. And whatwas Christ's?--'My meat is to do the will of him that sent me, and tofinish his work. ' Are we servants of Christ after that rule, MissPowle?"

The question had a singular intonation, as if the questioner werecharging it home upon himself. Yet Eleanor knew he could answer it inthe affirmative and that she could not; she sat silent without lookingup. The old contrast of character recurred to her, in spite of the factthat her own had changed so much. She hung over the book, while hercompanion half abstractedly repeated, "'My meat is to do the will of him that sent me. '--That makes a way oflife of great simplicity. "

"Is it always easy to find?" ventured Eleanor. 

"Very!--if his will is all that we desire. "

"But that is a very searching, deep question. "

"Let it search, then. 'My meat is to do the will of him--' No matterwhat that may be, Miss Powle; our choice lies in this--that it is hiswill. And as soon as we set our hearts upon one or the other particularsort of work, or labour in any particular place, or even upon any givenmeasure of success attending our efforts, so that we are not willing tohave him reverse our arrangements, --we are getting to have too muchwill about it. "

Eleanor looked up with some effort. 

"You are making it a great matter, to be a true servant of Christ, Mr. Rhys. "

"Would you have it a little matter?" he said with a smile of greatsweetness and brightness. "Let the Lord have all! He was among us 'asone that serveth'--amid discouragements and disappointments, and abuse;and he has warned us that the servant is not greater than his Lord. Itis not a little thing, to be the minister of Jesus Christ!"

"Now you are getting out of the general into the particular. "

"No--I am not; a 'minister' is but a servant; what we call a minister, is but in a more emphatic degree the servant of all. The rules ofservice are the same for him and for others. Let us look at anotherone. Here it is--in John--"

And the fingers that Eleanor had watched the other morning, and withwhich she had a curious association, came turning over the leaves. 

"'Ye call me Master, and Lord: and ye say well; for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash oneanother's feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as Ihave done to you. '--One thing is plain from that, Miss Eleanor--we arenot to consider ourselves too good for anything. "

"No--" said Eleanor;--"but I suppose that does not forbid a justjudgment of ourselves or of others, in respect of their adaptations andqualifications. "

"Yes it does, " he said quickly. "The only question is, Has the Lord putthat work in your hands? If he has, never ask whether your hands arethe right ones. He knows. What our Lord stooped to do, well may we!"

Eleanor dared not say any more; she knew of what he was thinking;whether he had a like intuition with respect to her thoughts she didnot know, and would not risk them any nearer discovery. 

"There is another thing about being a servant of Christ, " he presentlywent on;--"it ensures some kind and degree of persecution. "

"Do you think so?" said Eleanor; "in these days? Why, it is thoughtpraiseworthy and honourable, is it not, through all the land, to begood? to be a member of the Church, and to fulfil the requirements ofreligion? Does anybody lose respect or liking from such a cause?"

"No. But he suffers persecution. My dear friend, what are the'requirements of religion?' We are just considering them. Can youremember a servant of Christ, such as we have seen the name means, inyour knowledge, whom the world allowed to live in peace?"

Eleanor was silent. 

"'Remember the word that I said unto you, the servant is not greaterthan his Lord. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecuteyou; if they have kept my saying, they will keep yours also. '"

"But in _these_ days, Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor doubtfully. 

"I can only say, that if you are of the world, the world will love hisown. I know no other way of securing that result. 'Because ye are notof the world, ' Jesus said, 'but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you. ' And it is declared, elsewhere, thatall that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution. Canyou remember any instance to the contrary?"

Eleanor looked up and gave Mr. Rhys a good view of her honest eyes;they looked very intent now and somewhat sorrowful. 

"Mr. Rhys, except in Plassy, I do not know such a person as you ask meabout. "

"Is it possible!" he said. 

"Mr. Rhys, I was thinking the servants of Christ have good need of that'helmet of salvation' I used to wish for. "

"Well, they have it!" he said brightly. "'If any man serve me, let himfollow me; _and where I am, there shall also my servant be_. ' That isthe end of all. But there is another point of service that occurs tome. We have seen that we must not lease ourselves; I recollect that inanother place Paul says that if he pleased men, he would not be theservant of Christ. There is a point where he and the world would comein contact of opposition. "

"But I thought we ought to please everybody as much as we could?"

He smiled, put his hand over and turned two or three leaves of theBible which she kept open at the first of Romans, and pointed to a wordin the fifteenth chapter. "Let every one of us please his neighbour forhis good, to edification. "

"There is your limit, " said he. "So far thou mayest go, but no further. And to do that you will find requires quite sufficiently that youshould not please yourself. And now how shall we do all this?--howshall we be all this?"

"You are asking the very question!" said Eleanor gravely. 

"We must come to the root and spring of all this service andfollowing--it is our love of the Lord himself. That will do it, andnothing else will. 'What things were gain to me, those I counted lossfor Christ. '"

"But suppose, " said Eleanor, with some difficulty commanding hervoice, --"suppose one is deficient in that very thing? suppose one wantsthat love?"

"Ay!" he said, looking into her face with his eyes of light, --"supposeone does; what then?"

Eleanor could not bear them; her own eyes fell. "What is one todo?"--Mr. Rhys had risen up before he answered, in his deliberateaccents, "'Seek him, that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth theshadow of night into morning. '"

He paced slowly up and down before Eleanor; then went off upon arambling search through the wood again; seeming to be busy with littlethings in his way. Eleanor sat still. After a little he came and stoodbefore her with a bunch of ferns and Melic grass and lilies of thevalley, which he was ordering in his hands as he spoke. 

"The effect of our following Christ in this way, Miss Powle, will be, that we shall bear testimony to the world that He is our King, and whatsort of a king he is. We shall proclaim that Jesus Christ is Lord, tothe glory of God the Father. We shall have the invisible army of angelsfor our fellow-servants and co-workers; and we shall be passing on withthe whole redeemed world to the day of full triumph and finalrestoration; when Christ will come to be glorified in his saints and tobe admired in them that believe--because our testimony among you wasbelieved. But now our business is to give the testimony. "

He walked up and down, up and down, before Eleanor for some minutes, ina thoughtful, abstracted way. Eleanor felt his manner as much as hiswords; the subject had clearly gone home to himself. She felt both somuch that she did not like to interrupt the silence, nor to look up. Atlast he stopped again before her and said in quite a different tone, "What are the next words, Miss Powle?"

"'Called to be an apostle. '"

"We shall not get home to dinner, if we go into that, " he said smiling. 

"You have preached a sermon to me, Mr. Rhys. "

"I do that very often to myself, " he answered. 

"To yourself?" said Eleanor. 

"Yes. Nobody needs it more. "

"But when you have so much real preaching to do--I should think itwould be the last thing you would wish to do in private, --at othertimes. "

"For that very reason. I need to have a sermon always ready, and to bealways ready myself. Now, let us get home and look at our'rotifera'--if we have any. "

However, there was to be no microscopical examination that morning. 

"The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft agley. "

They had gone but half a mile further homeward when their course wasagain stopped. They came up with a man and a horse; the horse standingstill, the man lying on the ground beside him. At first sight theythought it was a case of drunkenness, for the face of the man was veryred and he was unable to give any account of himself; but they weresoon convinced it was sudden illness, not intoxication, which was thematter. He had fallen from his horse evidently, and now was notunconscious but in great pain; the red in his face alternating withsudden changes of colour. Apparently his condition was that of a smallfarmer or upper farm servant, who had been overtaken on some businesserrand by this attack of severe sickness. His horse stood quietlybeside him. 

"This is no case for a lancet, " said Mr. Rhys after making a slightexamination. "It calls for greater skill than mine. How will you do? Imust take the horse and ride for it. But the first thing is to findwhere I ought to go--if I can--"

For this information he sought in the man's pockets; and foundpresently a pocket-book with one or two bills, which gave the name hewanted. It was a name not unknown to Mr. Rhys; and let him know alsothe direction in which he must ride; not towards the valley of Plassy. 

"What will you do, Miss Powle?--will you be afraid to find your wayhome alone?"

"I will stay here till you come back. "

"Will you? But I may be gone some time--and I must tell you, " he saidgravely, "the man is very ill. "

"There is the more reason then, I am sure. I will stay and do anythingfor him I can, Mr. Rhys. You go--I will stay here. "

Mr. Rhys said nothing more, though Eleanor felt sure from his face thathe did not disapprove of her conclusion. He mounted the horseimmediately. 

"I will send help from the way if I can, though I doubt it. The way islonely, till I get almost there. "

He rode off at a sharp pace, and Eleanor was left quite alone. Herattention came back to the sick person at her feet. So near thelight-hearted pleasure of ten minutes ago had been to pain and death!And Mr. Rhys's sermon was nearer still. The first thing to consider, was what she could do for the man. 

He had fallen and lay on the grass in the broad sunshine. The sun hadmounted high now; its beams fell hot and full on the sufferer's face. At a little distance was a grove of oaks and beeches, and good shelter;but Eleanor's strength could not move the man thither; he was a great, thickset, burly fellow. Yet it was miserable to see the sun beatingupon his face where the sweat of pain already stood. Eleanor went tothe wood, and with much trouble and searching managed to find or breakoff two or three sticks of a few feet in length. She planted these fora frame near the sick man's head and spread her light summer shawl overthem to make a screen. It was a light screen; nevertheless much betterthan nothing. Then Eleanor kneeled down by the man to see what more shecould do. Red and pale changed fast and fearfully upon his face; bigdrops stood on the brow and cheeks. Eleanor doubted whether he wereconscious, he lay so still. She took her pocket-handkerchief to wipethe wet brow. A groan answered her at that. It startled her, for it wasthe first sound she had heard the sick person utter. Putting down herface to receive if possible some intimation of a wish, she thought hesaid or tried to say something about "drink. " Eleanor rose up andsought to recollect where last and nearest she had seen water. It wassome distance behind; a little spring that had crossed their foot-waywith its own bright track. Then what could she bring some in? Thephials! Quick the precious pond water and bog water was poured out, with one thought of the nameless treasures for Mr. Rhys's microscopethat she was spilling upon the ground; and Eleanor took the basketagain and set off on the backward way. She was in a hurry, the sun waswarm, the distance was a good quarter of a mile; by the time she hadfound the stream and filled her phial and retraced again her steps towhere the sick man lay, she was heated and weary; for every step washurried with the thought of that suffering which the water mightalleviate. This was pure, sparkling, good water with which the phialswere now filled. But when Eleanor got back to him, the man could notopen his lips to take it. She feared he would die, and suddenly. 

It was a wild uncultivated place they were in. No signs of humanhabitation were to be seen, except far up away on a hillside in thedistance, where smoke went up from a farmhouse or some sort of a house;towards which Eleanor looked with earnest longings that the human helpwhich was there could be brought within available distance. It wasgreatly too far for that. How soon would Mr. Rhys be back? Impossibleto say; she could not tell what length of road he might have to travel. And the man seemed dying. Eleanor knelt down again, and with theprecious contents of one of the phial bathed the brow and the lips thatshe thought would never return to their natural colour again. She didit perseveringly; it was all she could do. Perhaps it gave comfort. ButEleanor grew tired, and felt increasingly lonely and desirous that someone should come. No one did come by that way, nor was likely to come, until the return of Mr. Rhys; the place was not near a highway; only ona wild mountain track. It struck Eleanor then that the sufferer's headlay too low, upon the ground. She could not move him to a betterposition; and finally placing herself on the grass beside him, shecontrived with great exertion to lift his head upon her lap. He couldnot thank her; she did not know if he were aware of what she did; butthen Eleanor had done all. She schooled herself to sit patiently andwipe the brow that lay upon her knee, and wait; knowing that deathmight come to take her charge before any other arrival relieved her ofit. Eleanor had a great many thoughts meanwhile; and as she sat thererevolved Mr. Rhys's 'sermon' in her mind over and over, and from oneend to the other and back again. 

So at last Mr. Rhys found her. He came as he had gone, full speed;jumped off his horse, and took a very grave survey of the group on theground. It was not early. Mr. Rhys had been a long time away; it seemedhalf a day's length to Eleanor. 

"Have you been there all this time?" was his question. 

"O no. "

"I will take your place, " said he kneeling down and lifting theunconscious head from Eleanor's lap. "There is a waggon coming. It willbe here directly. "

Eleanor got up, trembling and stiff from her long constrained position. The waggon presently came in sight; a huge covered wain which had needto move slowly. Mr. Rhys had stayed by it to guide it, and only spurredforward when near enough to the place. Into it they now lifted the sickman, and the horses' heads were turned again. Mr. Rhys had not beenable to bring a doctor. 

"Why here is Powis!" exclaimed Eleanor, as on the waggon coming roundshe discovered her pony hitched to the back of it. Mr. Rhys unhitchedhim. Powis was saddled. 

"I thought you would have done enough for to-day, " said he; "and I wentround by the farm to bring him. Now you will ride home as fast as youplease. "

"But I thought the farm was out of your way?"

"I had time to gallop over there and meet the waggon again; it went soslowly. "

"O thank you! But I do not need Powis--I can walk perfectly well. I amsure you need him more than I do, Mr. Rhys. I do not need him at all. "

"Come, mount!" said he. "I cannot ride on a side saddle, child. "

Eleanor mounted in silence, a little surprised to find that Mr. Rhyshelped her not awkwardly; and not knowing exactly whence came a curiouswarm glow that filled her heart like a golden reflection. But it kepther silent too; and it did not go away even when Mr. Rhys said in hisusual manner, "I beg your pardon, Miss Powle--I live among the hills till I growunceremonious. "

Eleanor did not make any answer, and if she rode home as fast as shepleased, it was her pleasure to ride slowly; for Mr. Rhys walked besideher all the way. But she was too tired perhaps to talk much; and he wasin one of his silent moods. 

"What have you done with the phials?" said he looking into the basketas they neared home. 

"I am very sorry, Mr. Rhys! I had to empty them to get water for thatpoor man. I wasn't quite sure, but I thought he asked for it. "

"Oh!--And where did you go to find water?"

"Back--don't you remember?--some distance back of where we found him, we had passed a little brook of running clear water. I had to go there. "

"Yes--I know. Well, we shall have to make another expedition. "

CHAPTER III. 

AT HOME. 

 "I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields! I will have humble thoughts instead Of silent, dewy fields! My spirit and my God shall be My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea. "

The promised expedition came off; and a number of others; not toofrequently however, for Mr. Rhys continued to be one of the world'sbusy people, and was often engaged and often weary. The walks afternatural history came between times; when he was not under the immediatepressure of duty, and felt that he needed recreation to fit him for it. Eleanor was his companion generally, and grew to be as much interestedin his objects as he was himself. Perhaps that is saying too much. Inthe house certainly Mr. Rhys bestowed an amount of patient time andinvestigation upon his microscopical studies which Eleanor did notemulate; time and pains which made him presently a capital manipulator, and probably stowed away quantities of knowledge under that quiet browof his. Many an hour Mr. Rhys and his microscope were silentcompanions, during which he was rapt and absorbed in his contemplationsor his efforts--whichever it might be; but then at other times, andbefore and after these times, Eleanor and Mrs. Caxton were constantlyinvited to a share in some of the results at least of what was going on. 

Perhaps three people rarely enjoy more comfort together in themselvesand in each other, than these three did for some weeks following thedate of the last chapter. Mr. Rhys was a wonderful pleasant addition tothe family. He was entirely at home, and not a person be trammelled byany ordinary considerations. He was silent when he felt like it; hekept alone when he was busy; he put no unnatural force upon himselfwhen he was fatigued; but silent, or weary, or busy, there was alwaysand at all times where he was, the feeling of the presence of one whowas never absent from God. It was in the atmosphere about him; it wasin the look that he wore, free and simple as that always was, in itsgravity; it was in the straightforward doing of duty, all little thingsas much as in great things; the little things never forgotten, thegreat things never waived. It was an unconscious testimony that Mr. Rhys carried about with him; and which his companions seeing, theymoved about with softened steps and strengthened hearts all the while. But he was not always tired and silent; and when he was not, he was amost delightful companion, as free to talk as a child and as full ofmatter as a wise man; and entirely social and sympathetic too in hiswhole temper and behaviour. He would not enjoy his natural historicaldiscoveries alone; Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor were made to take their fullshare. The family circle was, quietly, a very lively one; there was nostagnating anywhere. He and Mrs. Caxton had many subjects and interestsin common of which they talked freely, and Eleanor was only too glad tolisten. There were books and reviews read aloud sometimes, with verypithy discussion of the same; in fact, there was conversation, trulydeserving the name; such as Eleanor never listened to before she cameto Plassy, and which she enjoyed hugely. Then the walks after naturalobjects were on the whole frequent; and Mr. Rhys was sure to ask her togo along; and they were full of delightful pleasure and of nice talktoo, though it never happened that they sat down under a tree again tosermonize and Mr. Rhys never forgot himself again to speak to her bythe undignified appellation he once had given her. But Eleanor had gotover her shyness of him pretty well, and was inclined to think it quitehonour and pleasure enough to be allowed to share his walks; waitedvery contentedly when he was wrapped up in his own thoughts; wrappedherself up in hers; and was all ready for the talk when it came. Withall this she observed that he never distinguished her by any morefamiliarity than Mrs. Caxton's niece and his daily neighbour at thetable and in the family, might demand from a gentleman and Mrs. Caxton's friend and guest. The hills and the valleys around Plassy werevery beautiful that summer. 

So was Mrs. Caxton's garden. The roses flushed out into bloom, with alltheir contemporaries; the terraces down to the river were aglow withrichness and profusion of blossoms, and sweet with many fragrances. Theold farmhouse itself had become an object of admiration to Eleanor. Long and low, built of dark red stone and roofed with slate, it was nowin different parts wreathed and draped in climbing roses andhoneysuckle as well as in the ivy which did duty all winter. To standunder these roses at the back of the house, and look down over thegorgeous terraces, to the river and the bridge and the outspreadmeadows on the other side, stretching away down and up the valley andreaching to the foot of the hills which rose beyond them; to see allthis, was to see a combination of natural features rare even inEngland, though words may not make it seem so. 

Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor were there one evening. It was towards the endof the season of "June roses, " though indeed it was later than themonth of June. Mr. Rhys had been called away to some distance bybusiness, and been detained a week; and this evening he might beexpected home. They had missed him very much, Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor. They had missed him exceedingly at prayer-time; they had missed himdesolately at meals. To-night the tea-table was spread where he lovedto have it; on the tiled floor under the projecting roof beforementioned. A dish was crowned with red and white strawberries in themiddle of the table, and Eleanor stood decorating it slowly with ivyleaves and blossoms of white heath. 

"It is not certain, my dear, he will come home to-night, " Mrs. Caxtonsaid as she watched her. 

"No, aunty, "--said Eleanor with a slight start, but then going on withher occupation. "What about it?"

"Nothing. We will enjoy the flowers ourselves. "

"But he thought he would be at home to-night, aunt Caxton?"

"He could not be sure. He might easily be detained. You have got overyour fear of Mr. Rhys, Eleanor?"

"Aunt Caxton, I don't think I ever feared him!"

"He used to have a 'quieting influence' upon you, " Mrs. Caxton saidsmiling. 

"Well, --he does now, ma'am. At least I am sure Mr. Rhys is one of thepersons I should never care to contradict. "

"I should think not, " said Mrs. Caxton quietly. Eleanor had coloured alittle. 

"But that is not because, merely, I do not think myself wise; becausethere are other persons before whom I think myself no wiser, whom I_would_ contradict--I mean, in a polite way--if it came into my head. "

"We shall miss him when he goes, " said Mrs. Caxton with a little bit ofa sigh. Eleanor wanted to ask a question, but the words did not come. The ornamenting of the strawberry dish was finished. She turned fromit, and looked down where the long train of cows came winding throughthe meadows and over the bridge. Pretty, peaceful, lovely, was thisgentle rural scene; what was the connection that made but a step inEleanor's thoughts between the meadows of Plassy and some far-offislands in distant Polynesia? Eleanor had changed since some time ago. She could understand now why Mr. Rhys wanted to go there; she couldcomprehend it; she could understand how it was that he was not afraidto go and did not shrink from leaving all this loveliness at her feet. All that was no mystery now; but her thoughts fastened on her aunt'swords--how they would "miss him. " She was very still, and so was Mrs. Caxton; till a step brought both heads round to the door. 

It was only a servant that came out, bringing letters; one for Eleanor, one for Mrs. Caxton. Standing where she was, Eleanor broke hers open. It was from her mother, and it contained something both new andunexpected; an urgent injunction on her to return immediately home. Thefamily were going at once to Brighton, the letter said; Mrs. Powlewished Eleanor to lose no time, in order that her wardrobe might beproperly cared for. Thomas was sent with the letter, and her motherdesired that Eleanor would immediately on the receipt of it, "withoutan hour's delay, " set off to come home with him. Reasons for thissudden proceeding there were none given; and it came with thesuddenness of a hurricane upon Eleanor. Up to this time there had beenno intimation of her mother's wish to have her at home again ever; aninterval of several weeks had elapsed since any letters; now Mrs. Powlesaid "she had been gone long enough, " and they all wanted her, and musthave her at once to go to Brighton. So suddenly affectionate?

Eleanor stood looking at her letter some time after she had ceased toread it, with a face that shewed turmoil. Mrs. Caxton came up to her. Eleanor dropped the letter in her hand, but her eye avoided her aunt's. 

"What is all this haste, Eleanor?" Mrs. Caxton said gravely. 

"I don't know, ma'am. "

"At any rate, my child, you cannot leave me to-night. It is too late. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Does your mother assign no reason for this sudden demand of you? Shegives me none. "

"She gives me none, ma'am. "

"Eleanor--"

It brought Eleanor's eye up, and that brought her head down on Mrs. Caxton's shoulder. Her aunt clasped her tenderly for a moment, and thensaid, "Had you not better see your mother's servant, my dear, and give yourorders?--and then we will have tea. "

Eleanor steadied herself immediately; went out and had an interviewwith old Thomas, which however brought her no enlightenment; made herarrangements with him, and returned to her aunt. Mrs. Caxton orderedtea; they would not wait for Mr. Rhys any longer. The aunt and niecesat down to the table behind the honeysuckle drapery of the pillars;the sunlight had left the landscape; the breath of the flowers floatedup cool and sweet from the terraced garden and waved about them withevery stir of the long rose and honeysuckle sprays. Eleanor sat by thetable and looked out. Mrs. Caxton poured out the tea and looked at her. 

"Aren't you going to take some strawberries, my love?"

"Shall I give you some, aunt Caxton?"

"And yourself, my dear. "

She watched while Eleanor slowly broke up the heath and ivy adornmentof the strawberry dish, and carefully afterwards replaced the spraysand leaves she had dislodged. It is no harm for a lady's hand to bewhite; but travelling from the hand to the face, Mrs. Caxton's eyefound too little colour there. Eleanor's cheeks were not generallywanting in a fine healthy tinge. The tinge was fainter than usualto-night. Nevertheless she was eating strawberries with apparentregularity. 

"Eleanor, I do not understand this sudden recall. Have you any clue?"

"No ma'am, not the least. "

"What arrangements have you made, my dear?"

"For to-morrow morning, ma'am. I had no choice. "

"No, my dear, you had not; and I have not a word to say. I hope Mr. Rhys will come back before you go. "

Absolute silence on Eleanor's part. 

"You would like to bid him good bye before you leave Plassy. "

There was a cessation of any attention to the strawberries, andEleanor's hand took a position which rather hindered observations ofher face. You might have heard a slight little sigh come from behindMrs. Caxton's tea-pot. 

"Eleanor, have you learned that the steps of a good man are ordered bythe Lord? My love, they are not left to our own disposal, and we shouldnot know how to manage it. You are going to do the Lord's work, are younot, wherever you may be?"

"I hope so. "

"Then trust him to place you where he wants the work to be done. Canyou, Eleanor?"

Eleanor left her seat, came round and knelt down by Mrs. Caxton's side, putting her face in her lap. 

"It is not like a good soldier, dear, to wish to play general. You havesomething now to do at home--perhaps not more for others than foryourself. Are you willing to do it?"

"Don't ask me if I am willing, aunt Caxton! I have been too happy--ButI shall be willing. "

"That is all we live for, my dear--to do the Lord's work; and I am surethat in service as in everything else, God loves a cheerful giver. Letus give him that now, Eleanor; and trust him for the rest. My child, you are not the only one who has to give up something. "

And though Mrs. Caxton said little more than that word on the subjectof what Eleanor's departure cost herself, she manifested it in adifferent way by the kind incessant solicitude and care with which shewatched over Eleanor and helped her and kept with her that night andthe next morning. Eleanor made her preparations and indulged in veryfew words. There was too much to think of, in the last evening'ssociety, the last night in her happy room, the last morning hours. Andyet Eleanor did very little thinking. She was to go immediately afterbreakfast. The early prayers were over, and the aunt and niece wereleft by themselves a moment before the meal was served. 

"And what shall I say to Mr. Rhys?" enquired Mrs. Caxton, as they stoodsilent together. Eleanor hesitated, and hesitated; and finally said, "I believe, nothing, ma'am. "

"You have given me messages for so many other people, you know, " saidMrs. Caxton quietly. 

"Yes, ma'am. I don't know how to make a message for him. "

"I think he will feel it, " said Mrs. Caxton in the same manner. 

Then she saw, for her eyes were good, the lightning flash of emotionwhich worked in Eleanor's face. Proud self-control kept it down, andshe stood motionless, though it did not prevent the perceptible palingof her cheek which Mrs. Caxton had noticed last night. She stoodsilent, then she said slowly, --

"If I thought _that_--You may give him any message for me that youthink good, aunt Caxton. "

The breakfast arrived, and few more words passed on any topic. Anotherhour, and Eleanor was on her journey. 

She felt in a confusion of spirits and would not let herself think, till they reached her stopping place for the night. And then, insteadof thinking, Eleanor to say the truth could do nothing but weep. It washer time for tears; to-morrow would end such an indulgence. At an earlyhour the next day she met her father's carriage which had been sent sofar for her; and the remaining hours of her way Eleanor did think. Herthoughts are her own. But at the bottom of some that were sorrowful layone deep subject of joy. That she was not going helmet-less into thefight which she felt might be before her. Of that she had an inwardpresentiment, though what form it would take she was entirely uncertain. 

Julia was the first person that met her, and that meeting was rapturous. 

"O Nell! it has been so dreadful and dull since you have been gone! I'mso glad to have you home! I'm so glad to have you home!"--she repeated, with her arms round Eleanor's neck. 

"But what are you going to Brighton for?" said Eleanor after the firstsalutations had satisfied the first eagerness of the sisters. 

"O I don't know. Papa isn't just well, I believe; and mamma thought itwould do him good. Mamma's in here. "

It was to Eleanor's relief that her reception in this quarter also wasperfectly cordial. Mrs. Powle seemed to have forgotten, or to bedisposed to forget, old causes of trouble; and to begin again as ifnothing had happened. 

"You look well, Eleanor. Bless me, I never saw your complexion better!but how your hair is dressed! That isn't the way now; but you'll get torights soon. I've got a purple muslin for you that will be beautiful. Your whole wardrobe will want attention, but I have everythingready--dress-maker and all--only waiting for you. Think of your beinggone seven months and more! But never mind--we'll let bygones bebygones. I am not going to rake up anything. We'll go to Brighton andhave everything pleasant. "

"How soon, mamma?"

"Just as soon as I can get you dressed. And Eleanor! I wish you wouldimmediately take a review of all your wardrobe and all I have got foryou, and see if I have omitted anything. "

"What has put you into the notion of Brighton, mamma?"

"Everybody is there now--and we want a change. I think it will do yourfather good. "

To see her father was the next thing; and here there was some comfort. The squire was undoubtedly rejoiced to see his daughter and welcomedher back right heartily. Made much of her in his way. He was the onlyone too who cared much to hear of Mrs. Caxton and her way of life andher farm. The squire did care. Eleanor was kept a long time answeringquestions and giving details. It cost her some hard work. 

"She is a good woman, is my sister Caxton, " said the Squire; "and shehas pluck enough for half a dozen. The only thing I have against her isher being a Methodist. She hasn't made a Methodist of you, hey, Eleanor?"

"I don't think she has, papa, " Eleanor answered slowly. 

"That's the only fault _I_ have to find with her, " the Squire went on;"but I suppose women must have an empty corner of their heads, wherethey will stick fancies if they don't stick flowers. I think flowersare the most becoming of the two. Wears a brown gown always, don't she?"

"No, sir. "

"I thought they did, " said the Squire; "but she's a clever woman, forall that, or she wouldn't carry on that business of the farm as shedoes. Your mother don't like the farm; but I think my sister is right. Better be independent and ask leave of nobody. Well, you must getdressed, must you. I am glad to have you home, child!"

"Why are we going to leave home, papa?"

"St. George and the Dragon! Ask your mother. "

So Eleanor did not get much wiser on the subject till dinner-time; northen either, though it was nearly the only thing talked about, bothdirectly and indirectly. A great weariness came over her, as thecontrast rose up of Mrs. Caxton's dinner-table and the three facesround it; with the sweet play of talk, on things natural orphilosophical, religious or civil, but always sensible, fresh, andoriginal and strong. Always that; the party might lapse into silence;if one of them was tired it often did; but when the words came again, they came with a ready life and purpose--with a sort of perfume of loveand purity--that it made Eleanor's heart ache now to think of. Hermother was descanting on lodgings, on the people already at Brighton, or coming there; on dresses ready and unready; and to vary this topicthe Squire complained that his wine was not cooled properly. Eleanorsank into silence and then into extreme depression of spirits; whichgrew more and more, until she caught her little sister's eye looking ather wistfully. Julia had hardly said a word all dinner-time. The looksmote Eleanor's conscience. "Is this the way I am doing the work givenme?" she thought; "this selfish forgetting of all others in myself? AmI standing in my post like a good soldier? Is _this_ 'pleasing all menfor their good?'" Conscience thumped like a hammer; and Eleanor rousedup, entered into what was going, talked and made herself pleasant toboth father and mother, who grew sunshiny under the influence. Mrs. Powle eat the remainder of her dinner with more appetite; and theSquire declared Eleanor had grown handsome and Plassy had done her noharm. But Julia looked and listened and said never a word. It was veryhard work to Eleanor, though it brought its reward as she went along, not only in comments but in the sense of duty performed. She would notrun away from her post; she kept at it; when her father had gone awayto smoke she stayed by her mother; till Mrs. Powle dropped off into herusual after dinner nap in her chair. Eleanor sat still a minute or twolonger, then made an escape. She sought her old garden, by the way ofher old summer parlour. Things were not changed there, except that thegarden was a little neglected. It brought painful things back, thoughthe flowers were sweet and the summer sunset glow was over them all. Soit used to be in old times. So it used to be in nearer times, lastsummer. And now was another change. Eleanor paced slowly down one walkand up another, looking sorrowfully at her old friends, the roses, carnations and petunias, which looked at her as cheerfully as ever;when a hand touched hers and she found Julia at her side. 

"Eleanor, " she said wistfully, "are you _sorry_ to be at home again?"

"I am glad to see you, darling; and papa, and mamma. "

"But you don't look glad. Was it so much pleasanter where you havebeen?"

Eleanor struggled with herself. 

"It was very different, Julia--and there were things that you and Iboth love, that there are not here. "

"What?"

"Here all is for the world, Julia; there, at Plassy, nothing is for theworld. I feel the difference just at first--I suppose I shall get alittle used to it presently. "

"I have not thought so much about all that, " said Julia soberly, "sinceMr. Rhys went away. But you must have loved aunt Caxton very much, Eleanor, to make you sorry to come home. "

Julia spoke almost sadly. Eleanor felt bitterly reproached. Was therenot work at home here for her to do! Yet she could hardly speak atfirst. Putting her arm round Julia she drew her down beside her on agreen bank and took her little sister in her arms. 

"You and I will help each other, Julia, will we not?"

"In what?"

"To love Christ, and please him. "

"Why, do you love him?" said Julia. "Are you like Mr. Rhys?"

"Not much. But I do love the same Master he loves, Julia; and I havecome home to serve him. You will help me?"

"Mamma don't like all that, " remarked Julia. 

Eleanor sighed. The burden on her heart seemed growing heavy. Juliahalf rose up and putting both arms round her neck covered her lips withkisses. 

"You don't seem like yourself!" she said; "and you look as grave as ifyou had found us all dead. Eleanor--are you afraid?" she said with anearnest look. 

"Afraid of what, dear?"

"Of that man--afraid of Mr. Carlisle?"

"No, I am not afraid of him, or of anything. Besides, he is hundreds ofmiles away, in Switzerland or somewhere. "

"No he isn't; he is here. "

"What do you mean by 'here?'"

"In England, I mean. He isn't at the Priory; but he was here at theLodge the other day. "

Eleanor's heart made two or three springs one way and another. 

"No dear, I am not afraid of him, " she repeated, with a quietness thatwas convincing; and Julia passed to other subjects. Eleanor did notforget that one; and as Julia ran on with her talk, she pondered it, and made a secret thanksgiving that she was so escaped both from dangerand from fear. Nevertheless she could not help thinking about thesubject. It seemed that Mr. Carlisle's wound had healed very rapidly. And moreover she had not given him credit for finding any attraction inthat house, beyond her own personal presence in it. However, shereflected that Mr. Carlisle was busy in politics, and perhapscultivated her father. They went in again, to take up the subject ofBrighton. 

And what followed? Muslins, flowers, laces, bonnets and ribbands. Theywere very irksome days to Eleanor, that were spent in getting ready forBrighton; and the thought of the calm purity of Plassy with itsdifferent occupations sometimes came over her and for the momentunnerved her hands for the finery they had to handle. Once Eleanor tooka long rambling ride alone on her old pony; she did not try it again. Business and bustle was better, at least was less painful, than such atime for thinking and feeling. So the dresses were made, and they wentto Brighton. 

CHAPTER IV. 

AT A WATERING-PLACE. 

 "In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!"

Eleanor was at once plunged into a whirl of engagements, withacquaintances new and old. And the former class multiplied veryrapidly. Mrs. Powle's fair curls hung on either side of her face withalmost their full measure of complacency, as she saw and beheld herdaughter's successful attractions. It was true. Eleanor was found tohave something unique about her; some said it was her beauty, some saidit was her manners; some insisted it was neither, but had a deeperorigin; at any rate she was fresh. Something out of the common line andthat piqued curiosity, was delightful; and in despite of her verymoderate worldly advantages, compared with many others who were there, Eleanor Powle seemed likely to become in a little while the belle ofBrighton. Certain rumours which were afloat no doubt facilitated andexpedited this progress of things. Happily Eleanor did not hear them. 

The rush of engagements and whirl of society at first was very wearyingand painful to her. No heart had Eleanor to give to it. Only by puttinga force upon herself, to please her father and mother, she managed toenter with some spirit into the amusements going forward, in which shewas expected to take an active part. Perhaps this very fact hadsomething to do with the noble and sweet disengagedness of manner whichmarked her unlike those about her, in a world where self-interest ofsome sort is the ruling motive. It was not Eleanor's world; it hadnothing to do with the interests that were dear in her regard; andsomething of that carelessness which she brought to it conferred agrace that the world imitates in vain. Eleanor found however after alittle, that the rush and hurry of her life and of all the people abouther had a contagion in it; her own thoughts were beginning to beabsorbed in what absorbed everybody; her own cherished interests weregetting pushed into a corner. Eleanor resolved to make a stand then, and secure time enough to herself to let her own inner life have playand breathing room. But it was very difficult to make such a stand. Mrs. Powle ever stood like a watchman at the door to drive Eleanor outwhen she wanted to be in. Time! there seemed to be no time. 

Eleanor had heard that Mr. Carlisle was expected at Brighton; so shewas not greatly surprised one evening to find herself in the same roomwith him. It was at a public assembly. The glances that her curiositycast, found him moving about among people very like, and in veryexactly the manner of his old self. No difference that she could see. She wondered whether he would have the audacity to come and speak toher. Audacity was not a point in which Mr. Carlisle was failing. Hecame; and as he came others scattered away; melted off, and left heralone. 

He came with the best air in the world; a little conscious, a littleapologetic, wholly respectful, not altogether devoid of the oldfamiliarity. He offered his hand; did not to be sure detain hers, whichwould have been inconvenient in a public assembly; but he detained_her_, falling into talk with an ease or an effrontery which it wasimpossible not to admire. And Eleanor admired him involuntarily. Certainly this man had capacities. He did not detain her too long;passed away as easily as he had come up; but returned again in thecourse of the evening to offer her some civility; and it was Mr. Carlisle who put her mother and herself into their carriage. Eleanorlooked for a remark from her mother on the subject during their drivehome; but Mrs. Powle made none. 

The next evening he was at Mrs. Powle's rooms, where a small companywas gathered every Tuesday. He might be excused if he watched, morethan he wished to be seen watching, the sweet unconscious grace andease with which Eleanor moved and spoke. Others noticed it, but Mr. Carlisle drew comparisons; and found to his mystification that her sixmonths on a cheese-farm had returned Eleanor with an added charm of eyeand manner, for which he could not account; which he could notimmediately define. She was not expecting to see him this time, for shestarted a little when he presented himself. He came with the samepleasant expression that he had worn last night. 

"Will you excuse me for remarking, that your winter has done you good?"he said. 

"Yes. I know it has, " Eleanor answered. 

"With your old frankness, you acknowledge it?"

"Willingly. "

Her accent was so simple and sweet, the attraction was irresistible. Hesat down by her. 

"I hope you are as willing as I am to acknowledge that all our lastwinter's work was not good. We exchanged letters. "

"Hardly, Mr. Carlisle. "

"Will you allow me to say, that I am ashamed of my part in thattransaction. Eleanor, I want you to forget it, and to receive me as ifit had not happened. "

Eleanor was in a mixture of astonishment and doubt, as to how far hiswords might be taken. In the doubt, she hesitated one instant. Anotherperson, a lady, drew near, and Mr. Carlisle yielded to her the place hehad been occupying. The opportunity for an answer was gone. And thoughhe was often near her during the evening, he did not recur again to thesubject, and Eleanor could not. But the little bit of dialogue left hersomething to think of. 

She had occasion often to think of it. Mr. Carlisle was everywhere, ofcourse, in Brighton; at least he was in Eleanor's everywhere; she sawhim a great deal and was a little struck and puzzled by his manner. Hewas very often in her immediate company; often attending upon her; itconstantly happened, she could not tell how, that his arm was the oneto which she was consigned, in walks and evening escorts. In a measure, he assumed his old place beside her; his attentions were constant, gracefully and freely paid; they just lacked the expression which wouldhave obliged and enabled her to throw them off. It was rather themanner of a brother than of a lover; but it was familiar andconfidential beyond what those assume that are not brothers. Whateverit meant, it dissatisfied Eleanor. The world, perhaps the gentlemanhimself, might justly think if she permitted this state of things thatshe allowed the conclusions naturally to be drawn from it. Shedetermined to withdraw herself. It was curiously and inexplicablydifficult. Too easily, too gracefully, too much as a matter of course, things fell into train, for Eleanor often to do anything to alter thetrain. But she was determined. 

"Eleanor, do you know everybody is waiting?" Mrs. Powle exclaimed onemorning bursting into Eleanor's room. "There's the whole ridingparty--and you are not ready!"

"No, mamma. I am not going. "

"Not going! Just put on your riding-habit as quick as you can--Julia, get her hat!--you said you would go, and I have no notion ofdisappointing people like that. Get yourself ready immediately--do youhear me?"

"But, mamma--"

"Put on your habit!--then talk if you like. It's all nonsense. What areyou doing? studying? Nonsense! there's time enough for studying whenyou are at home. Now be quick!"

"But, mamma--"

"Well? Put your hair lower, Eleanor; that will not do. "

"Mamma, isn't Mr. Carlisle there?"

"Mr. Carlisle? What if he is? I hope he is. You are well in that hat, Eleanor. "

"Mamma, if Mr. Carlisle is there, --"

"Hold your tongue, Eleanor!--take your whip and go. They are allwaiting. You may talk to me when you come back, but now you must go. Ishould think Mr. Carlisle would like to be of the party, for thereisn't such another figure on the ride. Now kiss me and go. You are agood girl. "

Mrs. Powle said it with some feeling. She had never found Eleanor soobediently tractable as since her return; she had never got from hersuch ready and willing cooperation, even in matters that her motherknew were not after Eleanor's heart, as now when her heart was less inthem than ever. And at this moment she was gratified by the quiet graveobedience rendered her, in doing what she saw plainly enough Eleanordid not like to do. She followed her daughter down stairs with a proudheart. 

It happened again, as it was always happening, that Mr. Carlisle wasEleanor's special attendant. Eleanor meditated possible ways ofhindering this in future; but for the present there was no remedy. Mr. Carlisle put her on her horse; it was not till she was taking the reinsin her left hand that something struck her with a sense of familiarity. 

"What horse is this?" she asked. 

"No other than your old friend and servant--I hope you have notforgotten her. She has not forgotten you. "

Eleanor perceived that. As surely as it was Black Maggie, Maggie knewher; and displeased though Eleanor was with the master, she could notforbear a little caress of recognition to the beautiful creature he hadonce given her. Maggie was faultless; she and Eleanor were accustomedto each other; it was an undeniable pleasure to be so mounted again, asEleanor could not but acknowledge to herself during the first fewdainty dancing steps that Maggie made with her wonted burden. Nevertheless it was a great deal too much like old times that weredestroyed; and glancing at Mr. Carlisle Eleanor saw that he was onTippoo, and furthermore that there was a sparkle in his eye which meanthope, or triumph. Something put Eleanor on her mettle; she rode wellthat day. She rode with a careless grace and ease that even drew acompliment from Mr. Carlisle; but beyond that, his companion at firstgave him little satisfaction. She was grave and cold to all hisconversational efforts. However, there she was on his black mare; andMr. Carlisle probably found an antidote to whatever discouragement shethrew in his way. Chance threw something else in his way. 

They had turned into one of the less frequented streets of the town, intheir way to get out of it, when Eleanor's eye was seized by a figureon the sidewalk. It startled her inexpressibly; and before she could besure her eyes did not deceive her the figure had almost passed, or theyhad almost passed the person. But in passing he had raised his bat; sheknew then he had recognized her, as she had known him; and he hadrecognized her in such company. And he was in Brighton. Without amoment for thought or delay, Eleanor wheeled her horse's head sharplyround and in one or two smart steps brought herself alongside of Mr. Rhys. He stopped, came up to her stirrup and shook hands. He lookedgrave, Eleanor thought. She hastened to speak. 

"I could not pass you, Mr. Rhys. I had to leave Plassy without biddingyou good bye. "

"I am glad to meet you now, " he said, --"before I go. "

"Do you leave Brighton very soon?"

"To-morrow. I go up to London, and in a few days I expect to sail fromthere. "

"For--?"

"Yes, --for my post in the Southern Ocean. I have an unexpectedopportunity. "

Eleanor was silent. She could not find anything to say. She knew alsothat Mr. Carlisle had wheeled his horse after her, and that Tippoo wastaking steps somewhere in her close neighbourhood. But she satmotionless, unable to move as well as to speak. 

"I must not detain you, " said Mr. Rhys. "Do you find it as easy to livewell at Brighton as at Plassy?"

Eleanor answered a low and grave "no;" bending down over her saddlebow. 

"Keep that which is committed to thy charge, " he said gently. "Farewell--and the Lord bless you!"

Eleanor had bared her gauntleted hand; he gave it the old earnestgrasp, lifted his hat, and went on his way. Eleanor turned her horse'shead again and found herself alongside of Mr. Carlisle. She rode onbriskly, pointing out to him how far ahead were the rest of the party. 

"Was not your friend somebody that I know?" he enquired as soon asthere was a convenient pause. 

"I am sure I do not know, " said Eleanor. "I do not know how good yourmemory may be. He is the gentleman that was my brother's tutor athome--some time ago. "

"I thought I remembered. Is he tutoring some one else now?"

"I should think not. He just tells me he is about to sail for the SouthSeas. Mr. Carlisle, Maggie has a very nice mouth. "

"Her mistress has a very nice hand, " he answered, bending forward toMaggie's bridle so that he could look up in Eleanor's face. "Only youlet her rein be too slack, as of old. You like her better than Tippoo?"

"Tippoo is beyond my management. "

"I am not going to let you say that. You shall mount Tippoo next time, and become acquainted with your own powers. You are not afraid ofanything?"

"Yes, I am. "

"You did not use it. "

"Well I have not grown cowardly, " said Eleanor; "but I am afraid ofmounting Tippoo; and what I am afraid of, Mr. Carlisle, I will not do. "

"Just the reverse maxim from that which I should have expected fromyou. Do you say your friend there is going to the South Seas?"

"Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor, turning her face full upon him. 

"If that is his name--yes. Why does he not stick to tutoring?"

"Does anybody stick to tutoring that can help it?"

"I should think not; but then as a tutor he would be in the way ofbetter things; he could mount to something higher. "

"I believe he has some expectation of that sort in going to thePacific, " said Eleanor. She spoke it with a most commonplace coolness. 

"Seems a very roundabout road to promotion, " said Mr. Carlisle, watching Eleanor's hand and stealthily her face; "but I suppose heknows best. Your friend is not a Churchman, is he?"

"No. "

"I remember him as a popular orator of great powers. What is he leavingEngland for?"

"You assume somewhat too much knowledge on my part of people'sdesigns, " said Eleanor carelessly. "I must suppose that he likes workon the other side of the world better than to work here;--for somereason or other. "

"How the reason should be promotion, puzzles me, " said her companion;"but that may be owing to prejudice on my part. I do not know how toconceive of promotion out of the regular line. In England and in theChurch. To be sent to India to take a bishopric seems to me a descentin the scale. Have you this feeling?"

"About bishoprics?" said Eleanor smiling. "They are not in my line, youknow. "

"Don't be wicked! Have you this feeling about England?"

"If a bishopric in India were offered me?--"

"Well, yes! Would you accept it?"

"I really never had occasion to consider the subject before. It is sucha very new thought, you see. But I will tell you, I should think thehumblest curacy in England to be chosen rather, --unless for the sake ofa wider sphere of doing good. "

"Do you know, " said Mr. Carlisle, looking very contented, and coming upcloser, "your bridle hand has improved? It is very nearly faultless. What have you been riding this winter?"

"A wiry little pony. "

"Honour, Eleanor!" said Mr. Carlisle laughing and bringing his handagain near enough to throw over a lock of Maggie's mane which hadfallen on the wrong side. "I am really curious. "

"Well I tell you the truth. But Mr. Carlisle, I wonder you people inparliament do not stir yourselves up to right some wrongs. People oughtto live, if they are curates; and there was one where I was lastwinter--an excellent one--living, or starving, I don't know which youwould call it, on thirty pounds a year. "

Mr. Carlisle entered into the subject; and questions moral, legislative, and ecclesiastical, were discussed by him and Eleanor withgreat earnestness and diligence; by him at least with singular delight. Eleanor kept up the conversation with unflagging interest; it wasbroken by a proposal on Mr. Carlisle's part for a gallop, to which shewillingly agreed; held her part in the ensuing scamper with perfectgrace and steadiness, and as soon as it was over, plunged Mr. Carlisledeep again into reform. 

"Nobody has had such honour, as I to-day, " he assured her as he tookher down from her horse. "I shall see you to-night, of course?"

"Of course. I suppose, " said Eleanor. 

It cannot be said that Eleanor made any effort to change the "ofcourse, " though the rest of the day as usual was swallowed up in around of engagements. There was no breathing time, and the eveningoccasion was a public one. Mrs. Powle was in a great state ofsatisfaction with her daughter to-day; Eleanor had shunned no companynor exertion, had carried an unusual spirit into all; and a minute withMr. Carlisle after the ride had shewed him in a sort of exultant mood. She looked over Eleanor's dress critically when they were about leavinghome for the evening's entertainment. It was very simple indeed; yetMrs. Powle in the depth of her heart could not find that anything waswanting to the effect. 

Nor could a yet more captious critic, Mr. Carlisle; who was on theground before them and watched and observed a little while from adistance. Admiration and passion were roused within him, as he watchedanew what he had already seen in Eleanor's manner since she came toBrighton; that grace of absolute ease and unconsciousness, which onlythe very highest breeding can successfully imitate. No Lady Rythdale, he was obliged to confess, that ever lived, had better advanced thehonours of her house, than would this one; could she be persuaded toaccept the position. This manner did not use to be Eleanor's; how hadshe got it on the borders of Wales? Neither was the sweetness of thatsmile to be seen on her lip in the times gone by; and a little gravitywas wanting then, which gave a charm of dignity to the exquisite poisewhich whether of character or manner was so at home with her now. Wasshe too grave? The question rose; but he answered it with a negative. Her smile came readily, and it was the sweeter for not being alwaysseen. His meditations were interrupted by a whisper at his elbow. 

"She will not dance!"

"Who will not?" said he, finding himself face to face with Mrs. Powle. 

"Eleanor. She will not. I am afraid it is one of her new notions. "

Mr. Carlisle smiled a peculiar smile. "Hardly a fault, I think, Mrs. Powle. I am not inclined to quarrel with it. "

"You do not see any faults at all, I believe, " said the lady. "Now I ammore discerning. "

Mr. Carlisle did not speak his thoughts, which were complimentary onlyin one direction, to say truth. He went off to Eleanor, and preventedany more propositions of dancing for the rest of the evening. He couldnot monopolize her, though. He was obliged to see her attention dividedin part among other people, and to take a share which though perfectlyfree and sufficiently gracious, gave him no advantage in that respectover several others. The only advantage he could make sure of was thatof attending Eleanor home. The evening left him an excited man, nothappy in his mind. 

Eleanor, having quitted her escort, went slowly up the stairs; bade hermother good night; went into her own room and locked the door. Thenmethodically she took off the several parts of her evening attire andlaid them away; put on a dressing-gown, threw her window open, andknelt down by it. 

The stars kept watch over the night. A pleasant fresh breeze blew infrom the sea. They were Eleanor's only companions, and they nevermissed her from the window the whole night long. I am bound to say, that the morning found her there. 

But nights so spent make a heavy draft on the following day. In spiteof all that cold water could do in the way of refreshment, in spite ofall that the morning cup of tea could do, Eleanor was obliged toconfess to a headache. 

"Why Eleanor, child, you look dreadfully!" said Mrs. Powle, who cameinto her room and found her lying down. "You are as white!--and blackrings under your eyes. You will never be able to go with the ridingparty this morning. "

"I am afraid not, mamma. I am sorry. I would go if I could; but Ibelieve I must lie still. Then I shall be fit for this evening, perhaps. "

She was not; but that one day of solitude and silence was all thatEleanor took for herself. The next day she joined the riders again; andfrom that time held herself back from no engagement to which her motheror Mr. Carlisle urged her. 

Mr. Carlisle felt it with a little of his old feeling of pride. It wasthe only thing in which Eleanor could be said to give the feeling muchchance; for while she did not reject his attendance, which she couldnot easily do, nor do at all without first vanquishing her mother; andwhile she allowed a certain remains of the old wonted familiarity, sheat the same never gave Mr. Carlisle any reason to think that he hadregained the least power over her. She received him well, but as shereceived a hundred others. He was her continual attendant, but he neverfelt that it was by Eleanor's choice; and he knew sometimes that it wasby her choice that he was thrown out of his office. She bewildered himwith her sweet dignity, which was more utterly unmanageable than anyform of pride or passion. The pride and passion were left to be Mr. Carlisle's own. Pride was roused, that he was stopped by so gentle abarrier in his advances; and passion was stimulated, by uncertainty notmerely, but by the calm grace and indefinable sweetness which he didnot remember in Eleanor, well as he had loved her before. He loved herbetter now. That charm of manner was the very thing to captivate Mr. Carlisle; he valued it highly; and did not appreciate it the lessbecause it baffled him. 

"He's ten times worse than ever, " Mrs. Powle said exultingly to herhusband. "I believe he'd go through fire and water to make sure of her. "

"And how's she?" growled the Squire. 

"She's playing with him, girl-fashion, " said Mrs. Powle chuckling. "Sheis using her power. "

"What is she using it for?" said the Squire threateningly. 

"O to enjoy herself, and make him value her properly. She will comeround by and by. "

How was Eleanor? The world had opportunities of judging most of thetime, as far as the outside went; yet there were still a few times ofthe day which the world did not intrude upon; and of those there was anhour before breakfast, when Eleanor was pretty secure againstinterruption even from her mother. Mrs. Powle was a late riser. Julia, who was very much cast away at Brighton and went wandering about like arudderless vessel, found out that Eleanor was dressed and using thesunshine long before anybody else in the house knew the day was begun. It was a golden discovery. Eleanor was alone, and Julia could have herto herself a little while at least. Even if Eleanor was bent on readingor writing, still it was a joy to be near her, to watch her, to smoothher soft hair, and now and then break her off from other occupations tohave a talk. 

"Eleanor, " said Julia one day, a little while after these oases in timehad been discovered by her, "what has become of Mr. Rhys? do you know?"

"He has gone, " said Eleanor. She was sitting by her open window, a bookopen on her lap. She looked out of the window as she spoke. 

"Gone? Do you mean he has gone away from England? You don't mean that?"

"Yes. "

"To that dreadful place?"

"What dreadful place?"

"Where he was going, you know, --somewhere. Are you sure he has gone, Eleanor?"

"Yes. I saw it in the paper--the mention of his going--He and twoothers. "

"And has he gone to that horrible place?"

"Yes, I suppose so. That is where he wished to go. "

"I don't see how he could!" said Julia. "How could he! where the peopleare so bad!--and leave England?"

"Why Julia, have you forgotten? Don't you know whose servant Mr. Rhysis?"

"Yes, " said Julia mutteringly, --"but I should think he would be afraid. Why the people there are as wicked as they can be. "

"That is no reason why he should be afraid. What harm could they do tohim?"

"Why!--they could kill him, easily, " said Julia. 

"And would that be great harm to Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor looking roundat her. "What if they did, and he were called quick home to the courtof his King, --do you think his reception there would be a sorrowfulthing?"

"Why Nell, " said Julia, "do you mean heaven?"

"Do you not think that is Mr. Rhys's home?"

"I haven't thought much about it at all, " said Julia laying her headdown on Eleanor's shoulder. "You see, nobody talked to me ever since hewent away; and mamma talks everything else. "

"Come here in the mornings, and we'll talk about it, " said Eleanor. Hervoice was a little husky. 

"Shall we?" said Julia rousing up again. "But Eleanor, what are youreyes full for? Did you love Mr. Rhys too?"

It was an innocent question; but instead of answering, Eleanor turnedagain to the window. She sat with her hand pressed upon her mouth, while the full eyes brimmed and ran over, and filled again; and dropafter drop plashed upon the window-sill. It was impossible to help it, for that minute; and Julia looked on wonderingly. 

"O Nell, " she repeated almost awe-struck, "what is it? What has madeyou sorry too?--" But she had to wait a little while for her answer. 

"He was a good friend to me, " said Eleanor at last, wiping her eyes;"and I suppose it is not very absurd to cry for a friend that is gone, that one will never see again. "

"Maybe he will come back some time, " said Julia sorrowfully. 

"Not while there is work there for him to do, " said Eleanor. She waiteda little while. There was some difficulty in going on. When she didspeak her tone was clear and firm. 

"Julia, shall we follow the Lord as Mr. Rhys does?"

"How?"

"By doing whatever Jesus gives us to do. "

"What has he given us to do?" said Julia. 

"If you come to my room in the mornings, we will read and find out. Andwe will pray, and ask to be taught. "

Julia's countenance lightened and clouded with alternate changes. 

"Will you, Eleanor! But what have we got to do?"

"Love Jesus. "

"Well I--O I did use to, Eleanor! and I think I do now; only I haveforgotten to think about anything, this ever so long. "

"Then if we love him, we shall find plenty of things to do for him. "

"What, Eleanor? I would like to do something. "

"Just whatever he gives us, Julia. Come, darling, --have you not duties?"

"Duties?"

"Have you not things that it is your duty to do?--or not to do?"

"Studies!" said Julia. "But I don't like them. "

"For Jesus' sake?"

Julia burst into tears. Eleanor's tone was so loving and gentle, itreached the memories that had been slumbering. 

"How can I do them for him, Eleanor?" she asked, half perversely still. 

"'Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus. ' So he hastold us. "

"But my studies, Eleanor? how can I?"

"Who gave you the opportunity, Julia?"

"Well--I know. "

"Well, if God has given you the opportunity, do you think he means itfor nothing? He has work for you to do, Julia, some time, for which youwill want all these things that you have a chance of learning now; ifyou miss the chance, you will certainly not be ready for the work. "

"Why, Eleanor!--that's funny. "

"What is it?"

"Why I never thought of such a thing. "

"What did you think?"

"I thought I had French and German to study, for instance, becauseeverybody else learned French and German. I did not think there was anyuse in it. "

"You forgot who had given you them to learn. "

"No, mamma would have it. Just her notion. Papa didn't care. "

"But dear Julia, you forget who has made it your duty to please mamma'snotions. And you forget who it is that has given you your place in theworld. You might have been born in poverty, with quite other lessons tolearn, and quite other work in the world. "

"You talk just as queer as if you were Mr. Rhys himself, " said Julia. "I never heard of such things. Do you suppose all the girls who arelearning French and German at school--all the girls in England--havethe same sort of work to do? that they will want it for?"

"No, not all the same. But God never gives the preparation without theoccasion. "

"Then suppose they do not make the preparation?"

"Then when the occasion comes, they will not be ready for it. Whentheir work is given them to do, they will be found wanting. "

"It's so queer!" said Julia. 

"What?"

"To think such things about lessons. "

"You may think such things about everything. Whatever God gives you, hegives you to use in some way for him. "

"But how can I possibly know _how_, Eleanor?"

"Come to me in the mornings, and you and I will try to find out. "

"Did you say, I must please all mamma's notions?"

"Certainly--all you can. "

"But I like papa's notions a great deal better than mamma's. "

"You must try to meet both, " said Eleanor smiling. 

"I do not like a great many of mamma's notions. I don't think there isany sense in them. "

"But God likes obedience, Julia. He has bid you honour mamma and papa. Do it for him. "

"Do you mean to please all mamma's notions?" said Julia sharply. 

"All that I can, certainly. "

"Well it is one of her notions that Mr. Carlisle should get you to thePriory after all. Are you going to let her? Are you going to let him, Imean?"

"No. "

"Then if it is your duty to please mamma's notions, why mustn't youplease this one?"

"Because here I have my duty to others to think of. "

"To whom?" said Julia as quick as lightning. 

"To myself--and to Mr. Carlisle. "

"Mr. Carlisle!" said Julia. "I'll be bound he thinks your duty to himwould make you do whatever he likes. "

"It happens that I take a different view of the subject. "

"But Eleanor, what work do you suppose I have to do in the world, thatI shall want French and German for? real work, I mean?"

"I can't tell. But I know _now_ you have a beautiful example to set?"

"Of what? learning my lessons well?"

"Of whatever is lovely and of good report. Of whatever will pleaseJesus. "

Julia put her arms round her sister's neck and hid her face there. 

"I am going to give you a word to remember to-day; keep it with you, dear. 'Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus. ' Justthink of that, whether you are busy or not busy. And we will ask theLord to make us so full of his love, that we cannot help it. "

They knelt and prayed together; after which Julia gave her sister agreat many earnest caresses; and they went down to breakfast a muchcomforted pair. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN LONDON. 

 "London makes mirth! but I know God hears The sobs i' the dark, and the dropping of tears. "

The morning meetings were kept up. Julia had always been very fond ofher sister; now she almost worshipped her. She would get as close aspossible, put her arm round Eleanor's waist, and sometimes lay her headon her shoulder; and so listen to the reading and join in the talking. The talks were always finished with prayer; and at first it not seldomhappened that Eleanor's prayer became choked with tears. It happened sooften that Julia remarked upon it; and after that it never happenedagain. 

"Eleanor, can you see much use in my learning to dance?" was a questionwhich Julia propounded one morning. 

"Not much. "

"Mamma says I shall go to dancing school next winter. "

"Next winter! What, at Brompton?"

"O we are going to London after we go from here. So mamma says. Whydidn't you know it?"

Eleanor remained silent. 

"Now what good is that going to do?" Julia went on. "What work is thatto fit me for, Eleanor?--dancing parties?"

"I hope it will not fit you for those, " the elder sister repliedgravely. 

"Why not? don't you go to them?"

"I am obliged to go sometimes--I never take part. "

"Why not Eleanor? Why don't you? you can dance. "

"Read, " said Eleanor, pointing to the words. Julia read. 

"'Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus; giving thanksto God and the Father by him. '--Well Eleanor?"

"I cannot find anything I can do in the Lord's service at such places, except to stand by and say by my manner that I do not enjoy them norapprove of them. "

"That won't hinder other people enjoying them, though. "

"I do not think people enjoy them much. You and I have a hundred timesas much fun in one good scamper over the moor. Dear old moor! I wish wewere back again. But other people's doing is not my business. "

"Then what makes you go, Eleanor?"

"Mamma would be so exceedingly vexed if I did not. I mean to get out ofit soon--as soon as I can. "

"Do you think you will, in London?"

Eleanor was silent, and thoughtful. 

"Well, I know one thing, " said Julia, --"I am not going to dancingschool. Mamma says it will make me graceful; and I think I am asgraceful as other people now--as most other people. I don't think I amas graceful as you are. Don't you think so, Eleanor?"

Eleanor smiled, soberly enough. 

"Eleanor, must I go to dancing school?"

"Why do you wish not to go?"

"Because you think it is wrong. "

"Darling, you cannot displease mamma for such a reason. You must alwayshonour every wish of hers, except you thought that honouring her wouldbe to dishonour or displease the Lord. "

The words were spoken and listened to with intense feeling andearnestness on both sides; and the tears came back in Eleanor's prayerthat morning. 

With the world at large, things maintained a very unaltered positionduring the rest of the stay at Brighton. Mr. Carlisle kept hisposition, advancing a little where it seemed possible. Eleanor kepthers; neither advancing nor retreating. She was very good to Mr. Carlisle; she did not throw him off; she gave him no occasion tocomplain of an unready talker or an unwilling companion. A littleparticular kindness indeed she had for him, left from the old times. Julia would have been much mystified by the brightness and life andspirit Eleanor shewed in company, and in his company especially; whichher little sister did not see in their private intercourse alone. Nevertheless, Mr. Carlisle's passion was rather stimulated bydifficulty than fed by hope; though hope lived high sometimes. All thatEleanor gave him she gave shim readily, and as readily gave to others;she gave coolly too, as coolly as she gave to others. Mr. Carlisle tookin many things the place of an accepted suitor; but never in Eleanor'smanner, he knew. It chafed him, it piqued him; it made him far morethan ever bent on obtaining her hand; her heart he could manage then. Just now it was beyond his management; and when Mrs. Powle smiledcongratulation, Mr. Carlisle bit his lip. However, he had strong aids;he did not despair. He hoped something from London. 

So they all went to London. Eleanor could gain no satisfactoryexplanation why. Only her mother asserted that her father's health musthave the advice of London physicians. The Squire himself was not muchmore explicit. That his health was not good, however, was true; theSquire was very unlike his hearty, boisterous, independent self. Hemoped, and he suffered too. Eleanor could not help thinking he wouldhave suffered less, as he certainly would have moped less, at home; andan unintelligible grunt and grumble now and then seemed to confirm herview of the case; but there they were, fixed in London, and Eleanor wascalled upon to enter into all sorts of London gaieties, of which alwaysMr. Carlisle made part and parcel. 

Eleanor made a stand, and declined to go to places where she could notenjoy nor sympathize with what was done. She could not think it duty togo to the opera, or the theatre, or to great routs, even to please hermother. Mrs. Powle made a stand too, and insisted, and was very angry;but Eleanor stood firm; and the end was, she gained her point. Mr. Carlisle was disappointed, but counselled acquiescence; and Mrs. Powlewith no very good grace acquiesced; for though a woman, she did notlike to be foiled. Eleanor gained one point only; she was not obligedto go where she could not go with a good conscience. She did notthereby get her time to herself. London has many ways of spending time;nice ways too; and in one and another of these Eleanor found hers allgone. Day by day it was so. Nothing was left but those hours beforebreakfast. And what was worse, Mr. Carlisle was at her elbow in everyplace; and Eleanor became conscious that she was in spite of herselfappearing before the world as his particular property, and that theconclusion was endorsed by her mother. She walked as straight as shecould; but the days grew to be heavy days. 

She devoted herself to her father as much as possible; and in thatfound a refuge. The Squire was discontented and unwell; a good dealdepressed in spirits as a consequence; he delighted to have Eleanorcome and sit with him and read to him after dinner. She escaped many anengagement by that means. In vain Mrs. Powle came in with her appeal, about Eleanor's good requiring him to do without her; the Squirelistened, struggled, and selfishness got the better. 

"St. George and the Dragon!" he exclaimed, --"she shall do as she likes, and as I like, for one hour in the twenty-four. You may haul her aboutthe rest of the time--but from dinner for a while or so you may spareher. I choose she shall be with me. "

The "while" was often three hours. Eleanor enjoyed repose then, andenjoyed ministering to her father; who speedily became exceedinglywedded to her services, and learned to delight in her presence after anew manner. He would have her read to him; she might read everythingshe pleased except what had a religious bearing. That he disposed of atonce, and bade her seek another book. He loved to have her brush hishair, when his head ached, by the half hour together; at other times heengaged her in a game of chess and a talk about Plassy. The poor Squirewas getting a good deal tamed down, to take satisfaction in such quietpleasures; but the truth was that he found himself unable for what heliked better. Strength and health were both failing; he was oftensuffering; drives in the park wearied him almost as much as sittingalone in his room; he swore at them for the stupidest entertainment manever pleased himself with. What he did with the lonely hours he spententirely by himself, nobody knew; Eleanor knew that he was rejoicedevery time to see her come in. His eye brightened when she opened thedoor, and he settled himself in his easy chair to have a good time; andthen even the long columns of the newspaper, read from one end to theother, up and down, were pleasant to Eleanor too. It was soothingrepose, in contrast with the whirl of all the rest of her life. Untilthe time came when Mr. Carlisle began to join the party. How he did itEleanor hardly knew; but he did it. He actually contrived to make oneat those evening entertainments, which admitted but two others; andwith his usual adroitness and skill he made his presence so acceptablethat Eleanor felt it would be quite in vain to attempt to hinder him. And so her rest was gone, and her opportunity; for she had cherishedfond hopes of winning not only her own way into her father's heart, butwith that, in time, a hearing for truths the Squire had always pushedout of his path. 

Mr. Carlisle was very pleasant; there was no question. He did not atall usurp her office, nor interfere with it. But when he saw hergetting weary of a parliamentary discussion, or a long discourse onpolitics or parties, his hand would gently draw away the paper fromhers and his voice carry on the reading. And his voice was agreeable toher father; Eleanor saw it; the Squire would turn his head a littletowards the new reader, and an expression of anything butdissatisfaction steal over his features. Eleanor sat by, halfmortified, half feeling real good-will towards Mr. Carlisle for hisgrace and kindness. Or if a game of chess were on foot, Mr. Carlislewould sit by, he generally declined playing himself, and make the playvery lively with his talk; teaching Eleanor, whose part he invariablytook, and keeping a very general's watch over her as if she had been asubordinate officer. Mr. Powle liked that too; it made his fightingbetter fun; he chuckled a good deal over Mr. Carlisle's play by proxy. Eleanor could not help it, nor withdraw herself. She knew what broughtMr. Carlisle there, and she could not avoid him, nor the very easyfamiliar terms on which they all sat round the chess table. She wasadmirably quiet and cool; but then it is true she felt no unkindnesstowards Mr. Carlisle, and sometimes she feared she shewed kindness toofrankly. It was very difficult to help that too. Nevertheless it wasplain the gentleman did not dare trust anything to his present powerover her, for he never tried it. He evidently relied on somewhat elsein his advances. And Eleanor felt that the odds were rather hardagainst her. Father and mother, and such a suitor!

She was cut off from her evening refreshment; and the next step was, that her morning pleasure with Julia was also denied her. Mrs. Powlehad been in a state of gratulation with reference to Julia'simprovement; Julia had become latterly so docile, so decorous, and sodiligent. One unlucky day it came to Mrs. Powle's knowledge that Juliaobjected to going to dancing school; objected to spending money on theaccomplishment, and time on the acquisition; and furthermore, whenpressed, avowed that she did not believe in the use of it whenattained. It seemed to Mrs. Powle little less than a judgment upon her, to have the second of her daughters holding such language; it wastraced to Eleanor's influence of course; and further and diligentquestioning brought out the fact of the sisters' daily studies incompany. They should happen no more, Mrs. Powle immediately decided. Julia was forbidden to go to her sister's room for such purposes; andto make matters sure she was provided with other and abundantoccupation to keep her engaged at the dangerous hour. With Eleanorherself Mrs. Powle held no communication on the subject; having forcertain reasons an unwillingness to come into unnecessary collisionwith her; but Eleanor found her little sister's society was no more tobe had. Mrs. Powle would assuredly have sent Julia quite out of thehouse to get her away from mischievous influences, but that she couldnot prevail on her husband. No daughter of his, he declared, should bemade a fool of in a boarding-school, while he had a foot above groundto prevent it. 

"Why Mrs. Powle, " he said, "don't you know yourself that Eleanor is theonly sensible girl in London? That's growing up at home, just as youdidn't want. "

"If she only had not some notions--" said Mrs. Powle dubiously. Forbetween her husband and Mr. Carlisle she was very much _held in_ onEleanor's subject; both insisting that she should let her alone. It wasdifficult for Eleanor to be displeased with Mr. Carlisle in thesetimes; his whole behaviour was so kind and gentlemanly. The only faultto be found with him was his pursuit of her. That was steady andincessant; yet at the same time so brotherly and well-bred in mannerthat Eleanor sometimes feared she gave him unconsciously too muchencouragement. Feeling really grateful to him, it was a little hard notto shew it. For although Mr. Carlisle was the cause of her trouble, hewas also a shield between her and its more active manifestations. Hefavoured her not dancing; _that_ was like a jealous man, Mrs. Powlesaid. He smiled at Eleanor's charities, and would have helped them ifhe could. He would not have her scolded on the score of religiousduties; he preferred administering the antidote to them as quietly aspossible. 

"Eleanor!" said Mrs. Powle, putting her head out of the drawing-roomdoor one Sunday evening as she heard somebody come in--"Eleanor! isthat you? come here. Where have you been? Here is Mr. Carlisle waitingthis hour to go with you to hear the Bishop of London preach. "

Eleanor came into the room. She was dressed with extreme plainness, andlooking so calm and sweet that it was no wonder Mr. Carlisle's eyesrested on her as on a new object of admiration. Few of his acquaintancelooked so; and Eleanor did not use it, in times past. 

"Now here you are, child, almost too late. Make haste and get yourselfready. Where have you been?"

"She cannot be more ready than she is, " remarked the other member ofthe party. 

"I think, mamma, I will not go to-night. I am a little tired. "

"That's nonsense, Eleanor! When were you ever too unwell to go tochurch, this winter? Go and get ready. What Mr. Carlisle says is allvery well, but he does not see you with my eyes. "

"I shall not take her if she is tired, " said Mr. Carlisle gently. AndEleanor sat still. 

"Where have you been then, child, to tire yourself? You do try me, Eleanor. What can you have found to do?"

"All London, mamma, " said Eleanor pleasantly. 

"All London! I should like to know what that means. All wrong, Isuppose, according to you. Well, what part of London have you beenattacking to-day? I should think the best thing for London would be tohear its Bishop. What have you been about, Eleanor?"

"Only to school, mamma--Sunday school. "

"But you went there this morning?"

"That was another. "

Mrs. Powle looked appealingly to Mr. Carlisle, as saying, How longwould you let this go on? Turned her dissatisfied face again to Eleanor, "What school is this, mistress? and where?"

"Mamma, if I tell you where it is, I am afraid you will be frightened. It is a Ragged school. "

"A Ragged school! What does that mean, Eleanor? What is a Raggedschool?"

"A school to teach ragged children, mamma. Or rather, for raggedpeople--they are not most of them children; and perhaps I should notsay they are ragged; for though some of them are, others of them arenot. They are some of the wretchedest of the ragged class, at any rate. "

"And Eleanor Powle can find nothing more suitable to do, than to go andteach such a set! Why you ought to have a policeman there to take careof you. "

"We have several. "

"Policemen!"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"And it is not safe without them!"

"It is safe with them, mamma. "

"Mr. Carlisle, what do you think of such doings?" said Mrs. Powle, appealing in despair. 

"They move my curiosity, " he said quietly. "I hope Eleanor will go onto gratify it. "

"And can you really find nothing better than that to do, of a Sunday?"her mother went on. 

"No, mamma, I do not think I can. "

"What do they learn?" Mr. Carlisle inquired. 

"A little reading, some of them; but the main thing to teach them isthe truths of the Bible. They never heard them before, anywhere, --norcan hear them anywhere else. "

"Do you think they will hear them there?"

"I am sure they do. "

"And remember?"

The tears filled Eleanor's eyes, as she answered, "I am sure some ofthem will. "

"And suppose you lose your life in this Ragged teaching?" said Mrs. Powle. "You might catch your death of some horrid disease, Eleanor. Doyou think that right?"

"Mamma, there was One who did lay down his life for you and for me. Iam not going to offer mine needlessly. But I do not think it is in anydanger here. Many go besides me. "

"She is a confirmed Methodist!" said Mrs. Powle, turning to Mr. Carlisle. He smiled. 

"Where does your school meet, Eleanor?"

"I am afraid of terrifying mamma, if I tell you. "

"We will take care of her in case she faints. I am in no danger. "

"It is the Field-Lane school, Mr. Carlisle. "

"The Field-Lane? Won't you enlighten me?"

"Carter's Field-Lane; but it is only called Field-Lane. Did you neverhear of it? It was in a wretched place in Saffron Hill at first--now itis removed to an excellent room in a better street. "

"Where?"

"You know where Clerkenwell is?"

This name gave no intelligence whatever to Mrs. Powle, but Mr. Carlislelooked enlightened. His face changed and grew dark with something verylike horror and alarm. 

"Do you know that is one of the worst parts of London?" he said. 

"Pretty bad, " said Eleanor, "and the school used to be. It iswonderfully improved now. "

"There, you see, Eleanor, Mr. Carlisle thinks it is a very improperplace for you to be; and I hope you will go there no more. I do notmean you shall. "

Eleanor was silent, looking a little anxious, though not cast down. Mr. Carlisle marked her. 

"It is not safe for you, Eleanor, " he said. 

"It is perfectly safe, " she answered with a smile that had a curiousbrightness in it. "I run no risk whatever. "

"You are a bold creature, " said her mother, "and always were; but thatis no reason why you should be allowed to go your own crazy ways. Iwill have no more of this, Eleanor. "

"Mamma, I am perfectly safe. I have nothing at all to fear. I would notfail of going for anything in the world. " She spoke with an earnest andshadowed face now. She felt it. 

"Who goes with you? or do you go alone?"

"No, ma'am--Thomas is with me always. "

"How came you to get into such a strange place?"

"I heard of it--and there is sure to be more to do in such a work thanthere are hands for. I know one or two of the gentlemen that teachthere also. "

"Methodists, I suppose?" said Mrs. Powle sneeringly. 

"One of them is, mamma; the other is a Churchman. "

"And do you _teach_ there?"

"Yes, ma'am--a large class of boys. " Eleanor's smile came again--andwent. 

"I'll have no more of it, Eleanor. I will not. It is just absurdity andfanaticism, the whole thing. Why shouldn't those boys go to the regularschools, instead of your giving your time and risking your life toteach them Sundays? _You_ indeed!"

"You do not know what sort of boys they are, mamma; or you would notask that. "

"I suppose they have learned some things too well already?" said Mr. Carlisle. 

"Well, I'll have no more of it!" said Mrs. Powle. "I am disgusted withthe whole thing. If they are not good boys, the House of Correction isthe best place for them. Mr. Carlisle, do you not say so?"

Mr. Carlisle's knowledge of the limits of Houses of Correction and thenumber of boys in London who were not good boys, forbade him to give anaffirmative answer; his character as a reformer also came up beforehim. More than all, Eleanor's face, which was somewhat sad. 

"Mrs. Powle, I am going to petition you to suspend judgment, andreconsider the case of the Ragged schools. I confess to a selfishmotive in my request--I have a desire to go there myself and see thislady with her scholars around her. The picturesque effect, I shouldsay, must be striking. "

Mrs. Powle looked at him as a very unwise and obstinate man, who wasbewitched into false action. 

"If you have a fancy for such effects, " she said; "I suppose you mustdo as you please. To me the effect is striking and not picturesque. Just look at her!"

Mr. Carlisle did so, and the expression on his face was sounsatisfactory that Mrs. Powle gave up the matter; laughed, and wentout of the room. 

"I will be less striking, " said Eleanor, "if you will excuse me. " Andshe left the room to change her dress. But when she came back an hourafter, Mr. Carlisle was still there. 

"Eleanor, " said he, coming and standing before her, "may I go with youthe next time you go to Field Lane?"

"No, I think not. You would not know what to do in such a place, Mr. Carlisle. "

"Do you think so?"

"They are a set of people whom you do not like; people who you thinkought to be fined--and imprisoned--and transported; and all that sortof thing. "

"And what do you think ought to be done with them?"

"I would try a different regimen. "

"Pray what would it be?"

"I would tell them of the love of One who died for them. And I wouldshew them that the servants of that One love them too. "

She spoke quietly, but there was a light in her eye. 

"How, for heaven's sake, Eleanor?"

"Mr. Carlisle, I would never condemn a man or boy very severely forstealing, when I had left him no other way to live. "

"So you would make the rest of the world responsible?"

"Are they not? These fellows never heard a word of right or oftruth--never had a word of kindness--never were brought under a goodinfluence, --until they found it in the Ragged school. What could youexpect? May I illustrate?"

"Pray do. "

"There is a boy in a class neighbouring to mine in the room, whoseteacher I know. The boy is thirteen or fourteen years old now; he cameto the school first some four or five years ago, when he was a littlebit of a fellow. Then he had already one brother transported forstealing, and another in prison for stealing--both only a little olderthan he. They had often no other way of getting food but stealing it. The father and mother were both of them drunkards and swallowed upeverything in liquor. This little fellow used to come to the morningschool, which was held every day, without any breakfast; many a time. Barefooted, over the cold streets, and no breakfast to warm him. Butafter what he heard at the school he promised he would never do as hisbrothers had done; and he had some very hard times in keeping hispromise. At last he came to his teacher and asked him for a loan ofthreepence; if he had a loan of threepence he thought he could make aliving. "

Mr. Carlisle half turned on his heel, but instantly resumed his lookand attitude of fixed attention. 

"Mr. Morrison lent him threepence. And Jemmy has supported himselfrespectably ever since, and is now in honest employment as an errandboy. "

"I hope you can tell me how he managed it? I do not understand doingbusiness on such a capital. "

"The threepence bought twelve boxes of matches. Those were sold for ahalfpenny each--doubling his capital at once. So he carried on thatbusiness for two years. All day he went to school. In the end of theday he went out with twelve boxes of matches and hawked them aboutuntil they were disposed of. That gave him threepence for the nextday's trade, and threepence to live upon. He spent one penny forbreakfast, he said; another for dinner, and another for supper. So hedid for two years; now he does better. "

"He deserves it, if anybody in London does. Is not this a strangeinstance, Eleanor?--on honour?"

"If you like--but not solitary. "

"What has been done for the mass of these boys in these schools? whathas been accomplished, I mean?"

"I have given you but one instance out of many, many individualinstances. "

"Then you can afford to be generous and give me another. "

Perhaps he said this only because he wanted to have her go on talking;perhaps Eleanor divined that; however she hesitated a moment and wenton. 

"Lord Cushley, with some other friends, has just provided for theemigration to Australia of near a dozen promising cases of these boys. "

"Was Eleanor Powle another of the friends?"

"No; I had not that honour. These are reclaimed boys, mind; reclaimedfrom the very lowest and most miserable condition; and they are goingout with every prospect of respectability and every promise of doingwell. Do you want to know the antecedents of one among them?"

"By all means!"

"Notice them. First, slavery under two drunken people, one of them hismother, who sent him out to steal for them; and refused him even theshelter of their wretched home if he came to it with empty hands. Atsuch times, thrust out houseless and hungry, to wander where he could, he led a life of such utter wretchedness, that at length he determinedto steal for himself, and to go home no more. Then came years ofstruggling vagrancy--during which, Mr. Carlisle, the prison was hispleasantest home and only comfortable shelter; and whenever he wasturned out of it he stood in London streets helpless and hopeless butto renew his old ways of thieving and starvation. Nobody had told himbetter; no one had shewed the child kindness; was he to blame?"

"Somebody shewed him kindness at last, " said Mr. Carlisle, looking intothe lustrous eyes which were so full of their subject. 

"Who, do you think?"

"Impossible for me to guess--since you were not here. "

"One of the most noted thieves in London went to one of the citymissionaries and told him of the boy and recommended him to hiskindness. "

"Impelled by what earthly motive?"

"The misery of the case. "

"Why did he not teach him his own trade?"

"The question the missionary put to him. The thief answered that heknew a thief's life too well. "

"I should like to see you before a committee of the House of Commons, "said Mr. Carlisle, taking two or three steps away and then returning. "Well?"

"Well--the missionary put the child with some decent people, where hewas washed and clothed. But it is impossible for met to tell, as it wastoo bad to be told to me, the state to which squalor, starvation, andall that goes with it, had brought the child. He went to school; andtwo years after was well, healthy, flourishing, intelligent, one of thebest and most useful lads at the establishment where he was employed. Now Lord Cushley has sent him to Australia. "

"Eleanor, I will never say anything against Ragged schools again. "

"Then I have not spoken in vain, " said Eleanor rising. 

He took her hand, held it, bowed his lips to it, held it still, toofirmly for Eleanor to disengage it without violence. 

"Will you grant me one little favour?"

"You take without asking, Mr. Carlisle!"

He smiled and kissed her hand again, not releasing it, however. 

"Let me go with you to Field-Lane in future. "

"What would you do there?"

"Take care of you. "

"As I do not need it, you would be exceedingly bored; finding yourselfwithout either business or pleasure. "

"Do you think that what interests you will not interest me?"

A change came over her face--a high grave light, as she answered, --"Nottill you love the Master I do. Not till his service is your delight, asit is mine. --Mr. Carlisle, if you will allow me, I will ring the bellfor tea. "

He rang the bell for her instantly, and then came to her side again, and waited till the servant was withdrawn. 

"Eleanor, seriously, I am not satisfied to have you go to that placealone. "

"I do not. I am always attended. "

"By a servant. Have you never been frightened?"

"Never. "

"Do you not meet a very ugly sort of crowd sometimes, on your way?"

"Yes--sometimes. "

"And never feel afraid?"

"No. Mr. Carlisle, would you like a cup of tea, if you could get it?"

She had met his questions with a full clear look of her eyes, in whichcertainly there lay no lurking shadow. He read them, and drank his tearather moodily. 

"So, Eleanor, " said Mrs. Powle the next day, "you have enlisted Mr. Carlisle on your side as usual, and he will have you go to your absurdschool as you want to do. How did people get along before Raggedschools were invented, I should like to know?"

"You would not like to know, mamma. It was in misery and ignorance andcrime, such as you would be made sick to hear of. "

"Well, they live in it yet, I suppose; or are they all reclaimedalready?"

"They live in it yet--many a one. "

"And it is among such people you go! Well, I wash my hands of it. Mr. Carlisle will not have you molested. He must have his own way. "

"What has he to do with it, mamma?" Eleanor asked, a little indignantly. 

"A good deal, I should say. You are not such a fool as not to know whathe is with you all the time for, Eleanor. "

A hot colour came up in Eleanor's cheeks. 

"It is not by my wish, mamma. "

"It is rather late to say so. Don't you like him, Eleanor?"

"Yes, ma'am--very much--if only he would be content with that. "

"Answer me only one thing. Do you like any one else better? He is asjealous as a bear, and afraid you do. "

"Mamma, " said Eleanor, a burning colour again rising to her brow, --"youknow yourself that I see no one that I favour more than I do Mr. Carlisle. I do not hold him just in the regard he wishes, nevertheless. "

"But do you like any one else better? tell me that. I just want thatquestion answered. "

"Mamma, why? Answering it will not help the matter. In all Englandthere is not a person out of my own family whom I like so well;--butthat does not put Mr. Carlisle in the place where he wishes to be. "

"I just wanted that question answered, " said Mrs. Powle. 

CHAPTER VI. 

AT FIELD-LANE. 

 "Still all the day the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. "

"She declares there is not anybody in the world she likes better thanshe does you--nor so well. "

Mrs. Powle's fair curls hung on either side of a perplexed face. Mr. Carlisle stood opposite to her. His eye brightened and fired, but hemade no answer. 

"It is only her absurd fanaticism that makes all the trouble. "

"There will be no trouble to fear, my dear madam, if that is true. "

"Well I asked her the question, and she told me in so many words; andyou know Eleanor. What she says she means. "

Mr. Carlisle was silent, and Mrs. Powle went on. He was seldomloquacious in his consultations with her. 

"For all that, she is just as fixed in her ways as a mountain; and Idon't know how to manage her. Eleanor always was a hard child tomanage; and now she has got these fanatical notions in her head she isworse than ever. "

There was a slight perceptible closing in of the fingers of Mr. Carlisle's hand, but his words were quiet. 

"Do not oppose them. Fanaticism opposed grows rigid, and dies a martyr. Let her alone; these things will all pass away by and by. I am notafraid of them. "

"Then you would let her go on with her absurd Ragged schools and suchflummery? I am positively afraid she will bring something dreadful intothe house, or be insulted herself some day. I do think charity beginsat home. I wish Lord Cushley, or whoever it is, had been in betterbusiness. Such an example of course sets other people wild. "

"I will be there myself, and see that no harm comes to Eleanor. I thinkI can manage that. "

"Eleanor of all girls!" said Mrs. Powle. "That she should be infectedwith religious fanaticism! She was just the girl most unlike it thatcould possibly be; none of these meek tame spirits, that seem to havenothing better to do. "

"No, you are wrong, " said Mr. Carlisle. "It is the enthusiasticcharacter, that takes everything strongly, that is strong in this as inall the rest. Her fanaticism will give me no trouble--if it will oncelet her be mine!"

"Then you would let her alone?" said Mrs. Powle. 

"Let her alone. "

"She is spoiling Julia as fast as she can; but I stopped that. Wouldyou believe it? the minx objected to taking lessons in dancing, becauseher sister had taught her that dancing assemblies were not good placesto go to! But I take care that they are not together now. Julia iscompletely under her influence. "

"So am I, " said Mr. Carlisle laughing; "so much that I believe I cannotbear to hear any more against her than is necessary. I will be with herat Field-Lane next Sunday. "

He did not however this time insist on going with her. He went byhimself. It is certain that the misery of London disclosed to him bythis drive to Field-Lane, the course of which gave him a good sample ofit, did almost shake him in his opinion that Eleanor ought to be letalone. Mr. Carlisle had not seen such a view of London in his lifebefore; he had not been in such a district of crime and wretchedness;or if by chance he had touched upon it, he had made a principle of notseeing what was before him. Now he looked; for he was going whereEleanor was accustomed to go, and what he saw she was obliged to meetalso. He reached the building where the Field-Lane school was held, ina somewhat excited state of mind. 

He found at the door several policemen, who warned him to guard welland in a safe place anything of value he might have about his person. Then he was ushered up stairs to the place where the school was held. He entered a very large room, looking like a factory room, with barebeams and rough sides, but spacious and convenient for the purpose itwas used for. Down the length of this room ran rows of square forms, with alleys left between the rows; and the forms were in good measurefilled with the rough scholars. There must have been hundreds collectedthere; three-fourths of them perhaps were girls, the rest boys andyoung men, from seven years old and upwards. But the roughness of thescholars bore no proportion to the roughness of the room. _That_ hadorder, shape, and some decency of preparation. The poor young humancreatures that clustered within it were in every stage of squalor, rags, and mental distortion. With a kind of wonder Mr. Carlisle's eyewent from one to another to note the individual varieties of thegeneral character; and as it took in the details, wanderedhorror-stricken, from the nameless dirt and shapeless rags whichcovered the person, to the wild or stupid or cunning or devilishexpression of vice in the face. Beyond description, both. There weremany there who had never slept in a bed in their lives; many who neverhad their clothes off from one month's end to another; the very largeproportion lived day and night by a course of wickedness. There theywere gathered now, these wretches, eight or ten in a form, listeningwith more or less of interest to the instructions of their teachers whosat before them; and many, Mr. Carlisle saw, were shewing deep interestin face and manner. Others were full of mischief, and shewed that too. And others, who were interested, were yet also restless; and wouldmanifest it by the occasional irregularity of jumping up and turning asomerset in the midst of the lesson. That frequently happened. Suddenly, without note or warning, in the midst of the most earnestdeliverances of the teacher, a boy would leap up and throw himselfover; come up all right; and sit down again and listen, as if he hadonly been making himself comfortable; which was very likely the realstate of the case in some instances. When however a general prevalenceof somersets throughout the room indicated that too large a proportionof the assemblage were growing uneasy in their minds, or their seats, the director of the school stood up and gave the signal for singing. Instantly the whole were on their feet, and some verse or two of a hymnwere shouted heartily by the united lungs of the company. That seemedto be a great safety valve; they were quite brought into order, andsomersets not called for, till some time had passed again. 

In the midst of this great assemblage of strange figures, small andlarge, Mr. Carlisle's eye sought for Eleanor. He could not immediatelyfind her, standing at the back of the room as he was; and he did notchoose the recognition to be first on her side, so would not goforward. No bonnet or cloak there recalled the image of Eleanor; he hadseen her once in her school trim, it is true, but that signifiednothing. He had seen her only, not her dress. It was only by a carefulscrutiny that he was able to satisfy himself which bonnet and whichoutline of a cloak was Eleanor's. But once his attention had alightedon the right figure, and he was sure, by a kind of instinct. The turnsof the head, the fine proportions of the shoulders, could be none buther's; and Mr. Carlisle moved somewhat nearer and took up a position alittle in the rear of that form, so that he could watch all that wenton there. 

He scanned with infinite disgust one after another of the miserablefigures ranged upon it. They were well-grown boys, young thieves someof them, to judge by their looks; and dirty and ragged so as to beobjects of abhorrence much more than of anything else to his eye. Yetto these squalid, filthy, hardened looking little wretches, scarcelydecent in their rags, Eleanor was most earnestly talking; there was noavoidance in her air. Her face he could not see; he could guess at itsexpression, from the turns of her head to one and another, and themotions of her hands, with which she was evidently helping out themeaning of her words; and also from the earnest gaze that herunpromising hearers bent upon her. He could hear the soft varying playof her voice as she addressed them. Mr. Carlisle grew restless. Therewas a more evident and tremendous gap between himself and her than hehad counted upon. Was she doing this like a Catholic, for penance, orto work out good deeds to earn heaven like a philanthropist? While hepondered the matter, in increasing restlessness, mind and body helpingeach other; for the atmosphere of the room was heavy and stifling fromthe foul human beings congregated there, and it must require a verystrong motive in anybody to be there at all; he could hardly bear ithimself; an incident occurred which gave a little variety to histhoughts. As he stood in the alley, leaning on the end of a form whereno one sat, a boy came in and passed him; brushing so near that Mr. Carlisle involuntarily shrank back. Such a looking fellow-creature hehad never seen until that day. Mr. Carlisle had lived in the other halfof the world. This was a half-grown boy, inexpressibly forlorn in hisrags and wretchedness. An old coat hung about him, much too large andlong, that yet did not hide a great rent in his trowsers which shewedthat there was no shirt beneath. But the face! The indescribablebrutalized, stolid, dirty, dumb look of badness and hardness! Mr. Carlisle thought he had never seen such a face. One round portion of ithad been washed, leaving the dark ring of dirt all circling it like aborder, where the blessed touch of water had not come. The boy movedon, with a shambling kind of gait, and to Mr. Carlisle's horror, pausedat the form of Eleanor's class. Yes, --he was going in there, hebelonged there; for she looked up and spoke to him; Mr. Carlisle couldhear her soft voice saying something about his being late. Then came atransformation such as Mr. Carlisle would never have believed possible. A light broke upon that brutalized face; actually a light; a smile thatwas like a heavenly sunbeam in the midst of those rags and dirtirradiated; as a rough thick voice spoke out in answer to her--"Yes--ifI didn't come, I knowed you would be disappointed. "

Evidently they were friends, Eleanor and that boy; young thief, youngrascal, though Mr. Carlisle's eye pronounced him. They were on goodterms, even of affection; for only love begets love. The lesson wenton, but the gentleman stood in a maze till it was finished. The notesof Eleanor's voice in the closing hymn, which he was sure he coulddistinguish, brought him quite back to himself. Now he might speak toher again. He had felt as if there were a barrier between them. Now hewould test it. 

He had to wait yet a little while, for Eleanor was talking to one ortwo elderly gentlemen. Nobody to move his jealousy however; so Mr. Carlisle bore the delay with what patience he could; which in thatstifling atmosphere was not much. How could Eleanor endure it? As atlast she came down the room, he met her and offered his arm. Eleanortook it, and they went out together. 

"I did not know you were in the school, " she said. 

"I would not disturb you. Thomas is not here--Mrs. Powle wanted him athome. "

Which was Mr. Carlisle's apology for taking his place. Or somewhat morethan Thomas's place; for he not only put Eleanor in a carriage, buttook a seat beside her. The drive began with a few moments of silence. 

"How do you do?" was his first question. 

"Very well. "

"Must I take it on trust? or do you not mean I shall see for myself?"said he. For there had been a hidden music in Eleanor's voice, and shehad not turned her face from the window of the carriage. At thisrequest however she gave him a view of it. The hidden sweetness wasthere too; he could not conceive what made her look so happy. Yet thelook was at once too frank and too deep for his personal vanity to getany food from it; no surface work, but a lovely light on brow and lipthat came from within. It had nothing to do with him. It was somethingthough, that she was not displeased at his being there; his own facelightened. 

"What effect does Field-Lane generally have upon you?" said he. 

"It tires me a little--generally. Not to-day. "

"No, I see it has not; and how you come out of that den, looking as youdo, I confess is an incomprehensible thing to me. What has pleased youthere?"

A smile came upon Eleanor's face, so bright as shewed it was but theoutbreaking of the light he had seen there before. His question she metwith another. 

"Did nothing there please you?"

"Do you mean to evade my inquiry?"

"I will tell you what pleased me, " said Eleanor. "Perhaps youremarked--whereabouts were you?"

"A few feet behind you and your scholars. "

"Then perhaps you remarked a boy who came in when the lesson was partlydone--midway in the time--a boy who came in and took his seat in myclass. "

"I remarked him--and you will excuse me for saying, I do not understandhow pleasure can be connected in anybody's mind with the sight of him. "

"Of course you do not. That boy has been a most notorious pickpocketand thief. "

"Exactly what I should have supposed. "

"Did you observe that he had washed his face?"

"I think I observed how imperfectly it was done. "

"Ah, but it is the first time probably in years that it has touchedwater, except when his lips touched it to drink. Do you know, that is asign of reformation?"

"Water?"

"Washing. It is the hardest thing in the world to get them to foregothe seal and the bond of dirt. It is a badge of the community of guilt. If they will be brought to wash, it is a sign that the bond isbroken--that they are willing to be out of the community; which will Isuppose regard them as suspected persons from that time. Now you canunderstand why I was glad. "

Hardly; for the fire and water sparkling together in Eleanor's eyesexpressed so much gladness that it quite went beyond Mr. Carlisle'spower of sympathy. He remained silent a few moments. 

"Eleanor, I wish you would answer one question, which puzzles me. Whydo you go to that place?"

"You do not like it?"

"No, nor do you. What takes you there?"

"There are more to be taught than there are teachers for, " said Eleanorlooking at her questioner. "They want help. You must have seen, thereare none too many to take care of the crowds that come; and many ofthose teachers are fatigued with attendance in the week. "

"Do you go in the week?"

"No, not hitherto. "

"You must not think of it! It is as much as your life is worth to goSundays. I met several companies of most disorderly people on myway--do you not meet such?"

"Yes. "

"What takes you there, Eleanor, through such horrors?"

"I have no fear. "

"No, I suppose not; but will you answer my question?"

"You will hardly be able to understand me, " said Eleanor hesitating. "Ilike to go to these poor wretches, because I love them. And if you askme why I love them, --I know that the Lord Jesus loves them; and he isnot willing they should be in this forlorn condition; and so I go totry to help get them out of it. "

"If the Supreme Ruler is not willing there should be this class ofpeople, Eleanor, how come they to exist?"

"You are too good a philosopher, Mr. Carlisle, not to know that men arefree agents, and that God leaves them the exercise of their freeagency, even though others as well as themselves suffer by it. Isuppose, if those a little above them in the social scale had livedaccording to the gospel rule, this class of people never would haveexisted. "

"What a reformer you would make, Eleanor!"

"I should not suit you? Yes--I do not believe in any radical way ofreform but one. "

"And that is, what?--counsellor. "

"Do unto others as you would that others should do unto you. "

"Radical enough! You must reform the reformers first, I suppose youknow. "

"I know it. "

"Then, hard as it is for me to believe it, you do not go to Field-Laneby way of penance?"

"The penance would be, to make me stay away. "

"Mrs. Powle will do that, unless I contrive to disturb the action ofher free agency; but I think I shall plunge into the question ofreform, Eleanor. Speaking of that, how much reformation has beeneffected by these Ragged institutions?"

"Very much; and they are only as it were beginning, you must remember. "

"Room for amendment still, " said Mr. Carlisle. "I never saw such adisorderly set of scholars in my life before. How do you find anoccasional somersault helps a boy's understanding of his lesson?"

"Those things were constant at first; not occasional, " said Eleanorsmiling; "somersaults, and leaping over the forms, and shouts andcatcalls, and all manner of uproarious behaviour. That was before Iever knew them. But now, think of that boy's washed face!"

"That was the most partial reformation I ever saw rejoiced in, " saidMr. Carlisle. 

"It gives hope of everything else, though. You have no idea what a bondthat community of dirt is. But there are plenty of statistics, if youwant those, Mr. Carlisle. I can give you enough of them; shewing whathas been done. "

"Will you shew them to me to-night?"

"To-night? it is Sunday. No, but to-morrow night, Mr. Carlisle; or anyother time. "

"Eleanor, you are very strict!"

"Not at all. That is not strictness; but Sunday is too good to wasteupon statistics. "

She said it somewhat playfully, with a shilling of her old arch smile, which did not at all reassure her companion. 

"Besides, Mr. Carlisle, you like strictness a great deal better than Ido. There is not a law made in our Queen's reign or administered underher sceptre, that you would not have fulfilled to the letter--even downto the regulations that keep little boys off the grass. It is only thelaws of the Great King which you do not think should be strictly kept. "

She was grave enough now, and Mr. Carlisle swallowed the reproof asbest he might. 

"Eleanor, you are going to turn preacher too, as well as reformer?Well, I will come to you, dear, and put myself under your influences. You shall do what you please with me. "

Too much of a promise, and more of a responsibility than Eleanor choseto take. She went into the house with a sober sense that she had adifficult part to play; that between Mr. Carlisle and her mother, shemust walk very warily or she would yet find herself entangled beforeshe was aware. And Mr. Carlisle too had a sober sense that Eleanor'sreligious character was not of a kind to exhale, like a volatile oil, under the sun of prosperity or the breezes of flattery. Nevertheless, the more hard to reach the prize, the more of a treasure when reached. He never wanted her more than now; and Mr. Carlisle had always, byskill and power, obtained what he wanted. He made no doubt he wouldfind this instance like the others. 

For the present, the thing was to bring a bill into parliament "for thereformation of juvenile offenders"--and upon its various provisions Mr. Carlisle came daily to consult Eleanor, and take advice and receiveinformation. Doubtless there was a great deal to be considered aboutthe bill, to make it just what it should be; to secure enough and notinsist upon too much; its bearings would be very important, and everypoint merited well the deepest care and most circumspect management. Itenlisted Eleanor's heart and mind thoroughly; how should it not? Shespent hours and hours with Mr. Carlisle over it; wrote for him, readfor him, or rather for those the bill wrought for; talked and discussedand argued, for and against various points which she felt would makefor or against its best success. Capital for M. Carlisle. All thisbrought him into constant close intercourse with her, and gave himopportunities of recommending himself. And not in vain. Eleanor saw andappreciated the cool, clear business head; the calm executive talent, which seeing its ends in the distance, made no hurry but took the stepsand the measures surest to attain them, with patient foresight. Sheadmired it, and sometimes also could almost have trembled when shethought of its being turned towards herself. And was it not, all thewhile? Was not Eleanor tacitly, by little and little, yielding theground she fought so hard to keep? Was she not quietly giving heraffirmative to the world's question, --and to Mr. Carlisle's too? To theformer, yes; for the latter, she knew and Mr. Carlisle knew that sheshewed him no more than the regard that would not satisfy him. Butthen, if this went on indefinitely, would not he, and the world, andher mother, all say that she had given him a sort of prescriptive rightto her? Ay, and Eleanor must count her father too now as among heradversaries' ranks. She saw it and felt it somewhat bitterly. She hadbegun to gain his ear and his heart; by and by he might have listenedto her on what subject she pleased, and she might have won him to theknowledge of the truth that she held dearest. Now, she had gained hislove certainly, in a measure, but so had Mr. Carlisle. Gently, skilfully, almost unconsciously it seemed, he was as much domiciled inher father's room as she was; and even more acceptable. The Squire hadcome to depend on him, to look for him, to delight in him; and withvery evident admission that he was only anticipating by a little therights and privileges of sonship. Eleanor could not absent herselfneither; she tried that; her father would have her there; and there wasMr. Carlisle, as much at home, and sharing with her in filial officesas a matter of rule, and associating with her as already one of thefamily. It is true, in his manner to Eleanor herself he did not so stepbeyond bounds as to give her opportunity to check him; yet even overthis there stole insensibly a change; and Eleanor felt herself gettingdeeper and deeper in the toils. Her own manner meanwhile was nearlyperfect in its simple dignity. Except in the interest of third partymeasures, which led her sometimes further than she wanted to go, Eleanor kept a very steady way, as graceful as it was steady. Sofriendly and frank as to give no cause of umbrage; while it was so cooland self-poised as to make Mr. Carlisle very uneasy and very desperate. It was just the manner he admired in a woman; just what he would liketo see in his wife, towards all the rest of the world. Eleanor charmedhim more by her high-bred distance, than ever she had done by theaffection or submissiveness of former days. But he was pretty sure ofhis game. Let this state of things go on long enough, and she wouldhave no power to withdraw; and once his own, let him have once againthe right to take her to his breast and whisper love or authority, andhe knew he could win that fine sweet nature to give him back love aswell as obedience, --in time. And so the bill went on in its progresstowards maturity. It did not go very fast. 

All this while the sisters saw very little of each other. One morningEleanor waylaid Julia as she was passing her door, drew her in, andturned the key in the lock. The first impulse of the two was to springto each other's arms for a warm embrace. 

"I never have a chance to speak to you, darling, " said the eldersister. "What has become of you?"

"O I am so busy, you see--all the times except when you are gone out, or talking in the drawing-room to people, or in papa's room. Then I amout, and you are out too; somewhere else. "

"Out of what?"

"Out of my studies, and teachers, and governesses. I must go now in twominutes. "

"No you must not. Sit down; I want to see you. Are you remembering whatwe have learnt together?"

"Sometimes--and sometimes it is hard, you see. Everything is soscratchy. O Eleanor, are you going to marry Mr. Carlisle?"

"No. I told you I was not. "

"Everybody says you are, though. Are you _sure_ you are not?"

"Quite sure. "

"I almost wish you were; and then things would go smooth again. "

"What do you mean by their being 'scratchy'? that is a new word. "

"Well, everything goes cross. I am in ever so many dictionaries besidesEnglish--and shut up to learn 'em--and mamma don't care what becomes ofme if she can only keep me from you; and I don't know what you aredoing; and I wish we were all home again!"

Eleanor sighed. 

"I call it _scratchy_, " said Julia. "Everybody is trying to do whatsomebody else don't like. "

"I hope you are not going on that principle, "--said her sister, with asmile which made Julia spring to her neck again and load her lips withkisses over and over. 

"I'll try to do what you like, Eleanor--only tell me what. Tell mesomething, and I will remember it. "

"Julia, are you going to be a servant of Christ? have you forgottenthat you said you loved him?"

"No, and I do, Eleanor! and I want to do right; but I am so busy, andthen I get so vexed!"

"That is not like a servant of Jesus, darling. "

"No. If I could only see you, Eleanor! Tell me something to remember, and I will keep it in my head, in spite of all the dictionaries. "

"Keep it in your life, Julia. Remember what Jesus said his servantsmust be and how they must do--just in this one little word--'And yeyourselves like them that wait for their Lord. '"

"How, Eleanor?"

"That is what we are, dear. We are the Lord's servants, put here towork for him, put just in the post where he wishes us to be, till hecomes. Now let us stand in our post and do our work, 'like them thatwait for their Lord. ' You know how that would be. "

Julia again kissed and caressed her, not without some tears. 

"I know, " she said; "it is like Mr. Rhys, and it is like you; and Idon't believe it is like anybody else. "

"Shall it be like you, Julia?"

"Yes, Eleanor, yes! I will never forget it. O Eleanor, are you sure youare not going to Rythdale?"

"What makes you ask me?"

"Why everybody thinks so, and everybody says so; and you--you are withMr. Carlisle all the time, talking to him. "

"I have so many thoughts to put into his head, " said Eleanor gravely. 

"What are you so busy with him about?"

"Parliament business. It is for the poor of London, Julia. Mr. Carlisleis preparing a bill to bring into the House of Commons, and I know moreabout the matter than he does; and so he comes to me. "

"Don't you think he is glad of his ignorance?" said Julia shrewdly. Eleanor leaned her head on her hand and looked thoughtfully down. 

"What do you give him thoughts about?"

"My poor boys would say, 'lots of things. ' I have to convince Mr. Carlisle that it would cost the country less to reform than to punishthese poor children, and that reforming them is impossible unless wecan give them enough to keep them from starvation; and that the commonprison is no place for them; and then a great many questions besidesthese and that spring out of these have to be considered and talkedover. And it is important beyond measure; and if I should let italone, --the whole might fall to the ground. There are two objectionsnow in Mr. Carlisle's mind--or in other people's minds--to one thingthat ought to be done, and must be done; and I must shew Mr. Carlislehow false the objections are. I have begun; I must go through with it. The whole might fall to the ground if I took away my hand; and it wouldbe such an incalculable blessing to thousands and thousands in thisdreadful place--"

"Do you think London is a dreadful place?" said Julia doubtfully. 

"There are very few here who stand 'like them that wait for theirLord, '"--said Eleanor, her face taking a yearning look ofthoughtfulness. 

"There aren't anywhere, _I_ don't believe. Eleanor--aren't you happy?"

"Yes!"

"You don't always look--just--so. "

"Perhaps not. But to live for Jesus makes happy days--be sure of that, Julia; however the face looks. "

"Are you bothered about Mr. Carlisle?"

"What words you use!" said Eleanor smiling. "'Bother, ' and 'scratchy. 'No, I am not bothered about him--I am a little troubled sometimes. "

"What's the difference?"

"The difference between seeing one's way clear, and not seeing it; andthe difference between having a hand to take care of one, and nothaving it. "

"Well why do you talk to him so much, if he troubles you?" said Julia, reassured by her sister's smile. 

"I must, " said Eleanor. "I must see through this business of thebill--at all hazards. I cannot let that go. Mr. Carlisle knows I do notcompromise myself. "

"Well, I'll tell you what, " said Julia getting up to go, --"mamma meansyou shall go to Rythdale; and she thinks you are going. "

With a very earnest kiss to Eleanor, repeated with an emphasis whichset the seal upon all the advices and promises of the morning, Juliawent off. Eleanor sat a little while thinking; not long; and met Mr. Carlisle the next time he came, with precisely the same sweetself-possession, the unchanged calm cool distance, which drove thatgentleman to the last verge of passion and patience. But he was masterof himself and bided his time, and talked over the bill as usual. 

It was not Eleanor alone who had occasion for the exercise ofadmiration in these business consultations. Somewhat to his surprise, Mr. Carlisle found that his quondam fair mistress was good for muchmore than a plaything. With the quick wit of a woman she joined apatience of investigation, an independent strength of judgment, aclearness of rational vision, that fairly met him and obliged him to bethe best man he could in the business. He could not get her into asophistical maze; she found her way through immediately; he could notpuzzle her, for what she did not understand one day she had studied outby the next. It is possible that Mr. Carlisle would not have fallen inlove with this clear intelligence, if he had known it in the front ofEleanor's qualities; for he was one of those men who do not care for anequal in a wife; but his case was by this time beyond cure. Nay, whatmight have alienated him once, bound him now; he found himself matchedwith Eleanor in a game of human life. The more she proved herself hisequal, the nobler the conquest, and the more the instinct of victorystirred within him; for pride, a poor sort of pride, began to bestirred as well as love. 

So the bill went on; and prisons and laws and reformatory measures andpenal enactments and industrial schools, and the question ofinterfering with the course of labour, and the question of offering apremium upon crime, and a host of questions, were discussed andrediscussed. And partly no doubt from policy, partly from anintelligent view of the subject, but wholly moved thereto by Eleanor, Mr. Carlisle gradually gave back the ground and took just the position(on paper) that she wished to see him take. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN APRIL. 

 "Why, how one weeps When one's too weary! Were a witness by, He'd say some folly--"

So the bill went on. And the season too. Winter merged into spring; thechange of temperature reminded Eleanor of the changing face of theearth out of London; and even in London the parks gave testimony of it. She longed for Wiglands and the Lodge; but there was no token of thefamily's going home at present. Parliament was in session; Mr. Carlislewas busy there every night almost; which did not in the least hinderhis being busied with Eleanor as well. Where she and her mother went, for the most part he went; and at home he was very much at home indeed. Eleanor began to feel that the motions of the family depended on him;for she could find no sufficient explanation in her father's health orher mother's pleasure for their continued remaining in town. The Squirewas much as he had been all winter; attended now and then by aphysician, and out of health and spirits certainly; yet Eleanor couldnot help thinking he would be better at home, and somewhat suspectedher father thought so. Mrs. Powle enjoyed London, no doubt; still, shewas not a woman to run mad after pleasure, or after anything else; notso much but that the pleasure of her husband would have outweighedhers. Nevertheless, both the Squire and she were as quietly fixed inLondon, to judge by all appearance, as if they had no other place to goto; and the rising of parliament was sometimes hinted at as giving theonly clue to the probable time of their departure. 

Did you ever lay brands together on a hearth, brands with little lifein them too, seemingly; when with no breath blown or stirring of air tofan them, gradually, by mere action and reaction upon each other, thecold grey ends began to sparkle and glow, till by and by the fire burstforth and flame sprang up? Circumstances may be laid together so, andwith like effect. 

Everything went on in a train at the house in Cadogan Square; nobodychanged his attitude or behaviour with respect to the others, except asby that most insensible, unnoticeable, quiet action of elements atwork; yet the time came when Eleanor began to feel that things weredrawing towards a crisis. Her place was becoming uncomfortable. Shecould not tell how, she did not know when it began, but a change in thehome atmosphere became sensible to her. It was growing to beoppressive. Mother, father, and friends seemed by concert to say thatshe was Mr. Carlisle's; and the gentleman himself began to look it, Eleanor thought, though he did not say it. A little tacit allowance ofthis mute language of assignment, and either her truth would beforfeited or her freedom. She must make a decided protest. Yet alsoEleanor felt that quality in the moral atmosphere which threatened thatif any clouds came up they would be stormy clouds; and she dreaded tomake any move. Julia's society would have been a great solace now; whenshe never could have it. Julia comforted her, whenever they weretogether in company or met for a moment alone, by her energeticwhisper--"I remember, Eleanor!--" but that was all. Eleanor could getno further speech of her. At the Ragged school Mr. Carlisle was prettysure to be, and generally attended her home. Eleanor remonstrated withher mother, and got a sharp answer, that it was only thanks to Mr. Carlisle she went there at all; if it were not for him Mrs. Powlecertainly would put a stop to it. Eleanor pondered very earnestly thequestion of putting a stop to it herself; but it was at Mr. Carlisle'sown risk; the poor boys in the school wanted her ministrations; and the"bill" was in process of preparation. Eleanor's heart was set on thatbill, and her help she knew was greatly needed in its construction; shecould not bear to give it up. So she let matters take their course; andtalked reform diligently to Mr. Carlisle all the time they were drivingfrom West-Smithfield home. 

At last to Eleanor's joy, the important paper was drawn up according toher mind. It satisfied her. And it was brought to a reading in theHouse and ordered to be printed. So much was gained. The very next dayMr. Carlisle came to ask Eleanor to drive out with him to Richmond, which she had never seen. Eleanor coolly declined. He pressed thecharms of the place, and of the country at that season. Eleanor withthe same coolness of manner replied that she hoped soon to enjoy thecountry at home; and that she could not go to Richmond. Mr. Carlislewithdrew his plea, sat and talked some time, making himself veryagreeable, though Eleanor could not quite enjoy his agreeableness thatmorning; and went away. He had given no sign of understanding her or ofbeing rebuffed; and she was not satisfied. The next morning early hermother came to her. 

"Eleanor, what do you say to a visit to Hampton Court to-day?"

"Who is going, mamma?"

"Half the world, I suppose--there or somewhere else--such a day; butwith you, your friend in parliament. "

"I have several friends in parliament. "

"Pshaw, Eleanor! you know I mean Mr. Carlisle. You had better dressimmediately, for he will be here for you early. He wants to have thewhole day. Put on that green silk which becomes you so well. How itdoes, I don't know; for you are not blonde; but you look as handsome asa fairy queen in it. Come, Eleanor!"

"I do not care about going, mamma. "

"Nonsense, child; you do care. You have no idea what Bushy Park is, Eleanor. It is not like Rythdale--though Rythdale will do in its way. Come, child, get ready. You will enjoy it delightfully. "

"I do not think I should, mamma. I do not think I ought to go with Mr. Carlisle. "

"Why not?"

"You know, mamma, " Eleanor said calmly, though her heart beat; "youknow what conclusions people draw about me and Mr. Carlisle. If I wentto Hampton Court or to Richmond with him, I should give them, and himtoo, a right to those conclusions. "

"What have you been doing for months past, Eleanor? I should like toknow. "

"Giving him no right to any conclusions whatever, mamma, that would befavourable to him. He knows that. "

"He knows no such thing. You are a fool, Eleanor. Have you not said toall the world all this winter, by your actions, that you belonged tohim? All the world knows it was an engagement, and you have beentelling all the world that it is. Mr. Carlisle knows what to expect. "

Eleanor coloured. 

"I cannot fulfil his expectations, mamma. He has no right to them. "

"I tell you, you have given him a right to them, by your behaviourthese months past. Ever since we were at Brighton. Why how youencouraged him there!"

A great flush rose to Eleanor's cheeks. 

"Mamma, --no more than I encouraged others. Grace given to all is favourto none. "

"Ay, but there was the particular favour in his case of a promise tomarry him. "

"Broken off, mamma. "

"The world did not know that, and you did not tell them. You rode, youwalked, you talked, you went hither and thither with Mr. Carlisle, andsuffered him to attend you. "

"Not alone, mamma; rarely alone. "

"Often alone, child; often of evenings. You are alone with a gentlemanin the street, if there is a crowd before and behind you. "

"Mamma, all those things that I did, and that I was sorry to do, Icould hardly get out of or get rid of; they were Mr. Carlisle's doingand yours. "

"Granted; and you made them yours by acceptance. Now Eleanor, you are agood girl; be a sensible girl. You have promised yourself to Mr. Carlisle in the eye of all the world; now be honest, and don't be shy, and fulfil your engagements. "

"I have made none, " said Eleanor getting up and beginning to walkbackwards and forwards in the room. "Mr. Carlisle has been tolddistinctly that I do not love him. I will never marry any man whom Ihave not a right affection for. "

"You did love him once, Eleanor. "

"Never! not the least; not one bit of real--Mamma, I _liked_ him, and Ido that now; and then I did not know any better; but I will never, forI ought never, to marry any man upon mere liking. "

"How come you to know any better now?"

Eleanor's blush was beautiful again for a minute; then it faded. Shedid not immediately speak. 

"Is Mr. Carlisle right after all, and has he a rival?"

"Mamma, you must say what you please. Surely it does not follow that awoman must love all the world because she does not love one. "

"And you may say what you please; I know you like Mr. Carlisle quitewell enough, for you as good as told me so. This is only girl's talk;but you have got to come to the point, Eleanor. I shall not suffer youto make a fool of him in my house; not to speak of making a fool ofyourself and me, and ruining--forever ruining--all your prospects. Youcan't do it, Eleanor. You have said yea, and you can't draw back. Puton your green gown and go to Hampton Court, and come back with the dayfixed--for that I know is what Mr. Carlisle wants. "

"I cannot go, mamma. "

"Eleanor, you would not forfeit your word?"

"I have not given it. "

"Do not contradict me! You have given it all these months. Everybodyhas understood it so. Your father looks upon Mr. Carlisle as his sonalready. You would be everlastingly disgraced if you play false. "

"I will play true, mamma. I will not say I give my heart where I do notgive it. "

"Give your hand then. All one, " said Mrs. Powle laughing. "Come! Iorder you to obey me, Eleanor!"

"I must not, mamma. I will not go to Hampton Court with Mr. Carlisle. "

"What is the reason?"

"I have told you. "

"Do you mean, absolutely, that you will not fulfil your engagement, norobey me, nor save us all from dishonour, nor make your friend happy?"

Eleanor grew paler than she had been, but answered, "I mean not tomarry Mr. Carlisle, mamma. "

"I understand it then, " said Mrs. Powle rising. "It is not your heartbut your head. It is your religious fanaticism I will put that out ofthe way!"

And without another word she departed. 

Eleanor was much at a loss what would be the next move. Neverthelessshe was greatly surprised when it came. The atmosphere of the house washeavy that day; they did not see Mr. Carlisle in the evening. The nextday, when Eleanor went to her father's room after dinner she found, notMr. Carlisle, but her mother with him. "Waiting for me"--thoughtEleanor. The air of Mrs. Powle said so. The squire was gathered up intoa kind of hard knot, hanging his head over his knees. When he spoke, and was answered by his daughter, the contrast of the two voices wasstriking, and in character; one gruff, the other sweet but steady. 

"What's all this, Eleanor? what's all this?" he said abruptly. 

"What, papa?"

"Have you refused Mr. Carlisle?"

"Long ago, sir. "

"Yes, that's all past; and now this winter you have been accepting himagain; are you going to throw him over now?"

"Papa--"

"Only one thing!" roared the Squire, --"are you going to say no to him?tell me that. "

"I must, papa. "

"I command you to say yes to him! What do you say now?"

"I must say the same, sir. If you command me, I must disobey you. "

"You will disobey me, hey?"

"I must, papa. "

"Why won't you marry him? what's the reason?" said the Squire, lookingangry and perplexed at her, but very glum. 

"Papa--"

"I have seen you here myself, all winter, in this very room; you haveas good as said to him every day that you would be his wife, and he hasas good as said to you that he expected it. Has he not, now?"

"Yes, sir, --but--"

"Now why won't you have him, hey?"

"Papa, I do not like him well enough to marry him. That is reasonenough. "

"Why did you tell him all the winter that you _did?_"

"Sir, Mr. Carlisle knows I did not. He has never been deceived. "

"Why don't you like him well enough, then? that's the question; whatfool's nonsense! Eleanor, I am going to have you at the Priory andmistress of it before the world is three months older. Tell me that youwill be a good girl, and do as I say. "

"I cannot, papa. That is all past. I shall never be at the Priory. "

"What's the reason?" roared her father. 

"I have told you, sir. "

"It's a lie! You do like him. I have seen it. It's some fool'snonsense. "

"Let me ask one question, " said Mrs. Powle, looking up and down fromher work. "If it had not been for your religious notions, Eleanor, would you not have married Mr. Carlisle more than a year ago? beforeyou went to Wales?"

"I suppose I should, mamma. "

"And if you had no religious notions, would you have any difficultyabout marrying him now? You will speak the truth, I know. "

"Mamma--"

"Speak!" the Squire burst out violently--"speak! truth or falsehood, whichever you like. Speak out, and don't go round about. Answer yourmother's question. "

"Will you please to repeat it, mamma?" Eleanor said, a littlefaintheartedly. 

"If you had never been in a Methodist Chapel, or had anything to dowith Methodists, --would you have any difficulty now about being thewife of Mr. Carlisle, and lady of Rythdale?"

Eleanor's colour rose gradually and grew deep before she ceasedspeaking. 

"If I had never had anything to do with Methodists, mamma, I should beso very different from what I am now, that perhaps, it would be as yousay. "

"That's enough!" said the Squire, in a great state of rage anddetermination. "Now, Eleanor Powle, take notice. I am as good as theMethodists any day, and as well worth your minding. You'll mind me, orI'll have nothing to do with you. Do you go to their chapels?"

"Sometimes. "

"You don't go any more! St. George and the Dragon fly away with all theMethodist Chapels that ever were built! they shall hold no daughter ofmine. And hark ye, --you shall give up this foolery altogether and tellme you will marry Mr. Carlisle, or I won't have you in my family. Youmay go where you like, but you shall not stay with me as long as Ilive. I give you a month to think of it, Eleanor;--a month? what'sto-day?--the tenth? Then I give you till the first of next month. Youcan think of it and make up your mind to give yourself to Mr. Carlisleby that time; or you shall be no daughter of mine. St. George and theDragon! I have said it, and you will find I mean it. Now go away. "

Eleanor went, wondering whether her ears had served her right; sounnaturally strange seemed this turn of affairs. She had had no time tothink of it yet, when passing the drawing-room door a certain impulseprompted her to go in. Mr. Carlisle was there, as something had toldher he might be. Eleanor came in, looking white, and advanced towardshim with a free steady step eyeing him fully. She was in a mood to meetanything. 

"Mr. Carlisle, " she said, "you are the cause of all the trouble thathas come upon me. "

He did not ask her what trouble. He only gently and gravely disclaimedthe truth of her assertion. 

"Mr. Carlisle, " said Eleanor facing him, "do you want the hand withoutthe heart?" There was brave beauty in her face and air. 

"Yes!" he said. "You do not know yourself, Eleanor--you do not seeyourself at this moment--or you would know better how impossible it isto give other than one answer to such a question. "

His look had faced hers as frankly; there was no evil expression in it. Eleanor's head and her gaze sank a little. She hesitated, and thenturned away. But Mr. Carlisle with a quick motion intercepted her. 

"Eleanor, have you nothing kind to say to me?" he asked, taking herhand. And he said it well. 

"Not just now, " said Eleanor slowly; "but I will try not to thinkunkindly of you, Mr. Carlisle. "

Perhaps he understood that differently from her meaning; perhaps hechose to misinterpret it; at all events he stooped forward and kissedher. It brought a flash of colour into Eleanor's face, and she went upstairs much more angry with her suitor than her last words had spokeher. The angry mood faded fast when she reached her own room and couldbe alone and be still. She sat down and thought how, while he stoodthere and held her hand, there had been a swift presentation to hermind, swift and clear, of all she would be giving up when she turnedaway from him. In one instant the whole view had come; the rank, theease, the worldly luxury, the affection; and the question came too, waywardly, as impertinent questions will come, whether she was afterall giving it up for sufficient cause? She was relinquishing if shequitted him, all that the world values. Not quite that, perhaps; ifturned out from her father's family even, she was in no danger ofwanting food or shelter or protection; for she would be sure of thoseand more in Mrs. Caxton's house. But looking forward into the course offuture years that might lie before her, the one alternative offered forher choice presented all that is pleasant in worldly estimation; and onthe other side there was a lonely life, and duty, and the affection ofone old woman. But though the two views came with startling clearnessbefore Eleanor just at this moment, the more attractive one brought noshadow of temptation with it. She saw it, that was all, and turned awayfrom it to consider present circumstances. 

Would her father keep to his word? It seemed impossible; yet coollyreflecting, Eleanor thought from what she knew of him that he would; sofar at least as to send her into immediate banishment. That suchbanishment would be more than temporary she did not believe. Mr. Carlisle would get over his disappointment, would marry somebody else;and in course of time her mother and father, the latter of whomcertainly loved her, would find out that they wanted her at home again. But how long first? That no one could tell, nor what might happen inthe interval; and when she had got so far in her thoughts, Eleanor'stears began to flow. She let them flow; it relieved her; and somehowthere was a good fountain head of them. And again those two pictures offuture life rose up before her; not as matters of choice, to take oneand leave the other--but as matters of contrast, in somewhat thatentered the spring of tears and made them bitter. Was something gonefrom her life, that could never be got back again? had she lostsomething that could never be found again? Was there a "bloom andfragrance" waving before her on the one hand, though unattainable, which the other path of life with all its beauty did not offer? Tojudge by Eleanor's tears she had some such thoughts. But after a timethe tears cleared away, and her bowed face looked up as fair as a bluesky after a storm. And Eleanor never had another time of weeping duringthe month. 

It was a dull month to other people. It would have been a dreary one toher, only that there is a private sunshine in some hearts that defiescloudy weather. There is an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast, bywhich one rides contentedly in rough water; there is a hope of glory, in the presence of which no darkness can abide; and there is a wordwith which Eleanor dried her tears that day and upon which she steadiedher heart all the days after. It was written by one who knew trouble. "The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. "It is hard to take that portion away from a man, or to make him poorwhile he has it. 

Eleanor had little else the remaining twenty-one days of that month. What troubled her much, she could by no means see Julia; and she foundthat her sister had been sent home, to the Lodge at Wiglands, undercharge of a governess; Mrs. Powle averring that it was time she shouldbe in the country. London was not good for Julia. Was it good for anyof them, Eleanor thought? But parliament was still sitting; Mr. Carlisle was in attendance; it was manifest they must be so too. Everything went on much as usual. Eleanor attended her father after hisearly dinner, for Mr. Powle would not come into London hours; and Mr. Carlisle as usual shared her office with her, except when he wasobliged to be in the House. When he was, Mrs. Powle now took his place. The Squire was surly and gloomy; only brought out of those moods by Mr. Carlisle himself. That gentleman held his ground, with excellent graceand self-control, and made Eleanor more than ever feel his power. Butshe kept her ground too; not without an effort and a good deal of thatold arm of defence which is called "all-prayer;" yet she kept it; wasgentle and humble and kind to them all, to Mr. Carlisle himself, whilehe was sensible her grave gentleness had no yielding in it. How headmired her, those days! how he loved her; with a little fierce desireof triumph mingling, it must be confessed, with his love andadmiration, and heightened by them; for now pride was touched, and someother feeling which he did not analyse. He had nobody to be jealous of, that he knew; unless it were Eleanor herself; yet her indifferencepiqued him. He could not brook to be baffled. He shewed not a symptomof all this; but every line of her fine figure, every fold of her rich, beautiful hair, every self-possessed movement, at times was torment tohim. Her very dress was a subject of irritation. It was so plain, soevidently unworldly in its simplicity, that unreasonably enough, forEleanor looked well in it, it put Mr. Carlisle in a fume every day. Sheshould not dress so when he had control of her; and to get the controlseemed not easy; and the dress kept reminding him that he had it not. On the whole probably all parties were glad when the sweet month of Mayfor that season came to an end. Even Eleanor was glad; for though shehad made up her mind what June would bring her, it is easier to grasp afear in one's hand, like a nettle, than to touch it constantly byanticipation. So the first of June came. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

IN MAY. 

 "Come spur away! I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down, And leave the changeable noise of this great town; I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in grey, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. "

Although Eleanor's judgment had said what the issue would be of thatday's conference, she had made no preparation to leave home. That shecould not do. She could not make certain before it came the wearyforeboding that pressed upon her. She went to her father's room afterdinner as usual, leaning her heart on that word which had been herwalking-staff for three weeks past. "The Lord is my portion, saith mysoul; therefore will I hope in him!"

Mrs. Powle was there, quietly knitting. The Squire had gathered himselfup into a heap in his easy chair, denoting a contracted state of mind;after that curious fashion which bodily attitudes have, of repeatingthe mental. Eleanor took the newspaper and sat down. 

"Is there anything there particular?" growled the Squire. 

"I do not see anything very particular, sir. Here is the continuationof the debate on--"

"How about that bill of yours and Mr. Carlisle's?" broke in Mrs. Powle. 

"It was ordered to be printed, mamma--it has not reached the secondreading yet. It will not for some time. "

"What do you suppose will become of it then?"

"What the Lord pleases. I do not know, " said Eleanor with a pang at herheart. "I have done my part--all I could--so far. "

"I suppose you expect Mr. Carlisle will take it up as his own cause, after it has ceased to be yours?"

Eleanor understood this, and was silent. She took up the paper again tofind where to read. 

"Put that down, Eleanor Powle, " said her father who was evidently in avery bad humour, as he had cause, poor old gentleman; there is nobodyso bad to be out of humour with as yourself;--"put that down! until weknow whether you are going to read to me any more or no. I should liketo know your decision. "

Eleanor hesitated, for it was difficult to speak. 

"Come!--out with it. Time's up. Now for your answer. Are you going tobe an obedient child, and give Mr. Carlisle a good wife? Hey? Speak!"

"An obedient child, sir, in everything but this. I can give Mr. Carlisle nothing, any more than he has. "

"Any more than he has? What is that?"

"A certain degree of esteem and regard, sir--and perhaps, forgiveness. "

"Then you will not marry him, as I command you?"

"No--I cannot. "

"And you won't give up being a Methodist?"

"I cannot help being what I am. I will not go to church, papa, anywherethat you forbid me. "

She spoke low, endeavouring to keep calm. The Squire got up out of hischair. He had no calmness to keep, and he spoke loud. 

"Have you taught your sister to think there is any harm in dancing?"

"In dancing parties, I suppose I have. "

"And you think they are wicked, and won't go to them?"

"I do not like them. I cannot go to them, papa; for I am a servant ofChrist; and I can do no work for my Master there at all; but if I go, Ibear witness that they are good. "

"Now hear me, Eleanor Powle--" the Squire spoke with suppressedrage--"No such foolery will I have in my house, and no such disrespectto people that are better than you. I told you what would come of allthis if you did not give it up--and I stand to my word. You come hereto-morrow morning, prepared to put your hand in Mr. Carlisle's and lethim know that you will be his obedient servant--or, you quit my house. To-morrow morning you do one thing or the other. And when you go, youwill stay. I will never have you back, except as Mr. Carlisle's wife. Now go! I don't want your paper any more. "

Eleanor went slowly away. She paused in the drawing-room; there was noone there this time; rang the bell and ordered Thomas to be sent toher. Thomas came, and received orders to be in readiness and haveeverything in readiness to attend her on a journey the next day. Theorders were given clearly and distinctly as usual; but Thomas shook hishead as he went down from her presence at the white face his youngmistress had worn. "She don't use to look that way, " he said tohimself, "for she is one of them ladies that carry a hearty bravecolour in their cheeks; and now there wasn't a bit of it. " But the oldservant kept his own counsel and obeyed directions. 

Eleanor went through the evening and much of the night without givingherself a moment to think. Packing occupied all that time and the earlyhours of the next day; she was afraid to be idle, and even dreaded thetimes of prayer; because whenever she stopped to think, the tears wouldcome. But she grew quiet; and was only pale still, when at an earlyhour in the morning she left the house. She could not bear to gothrough a parting scene with her father; she knew him better than totry it; and she shrank from one with her mother. She bid nobodygood-bye, for she could not tell anybody that she was going. Londonstreets looked very gloomy to Eleanor that morning as she drove throughthem to the railway station. 

She had still another reason for slipping away, in the fear that elseshe would be detained to meet Mr. Carlisle again. The evening beforeshe had had a note from him, promising her all freedom for all herreligious predilections and opinions--leave to do what she would, ifshe would only be his wife. She guessed he would endeavour to see her, if she staid long enough in London after the receipt of that note. Eleanor made her escape. 

Thomas was sorry at heart to see her cheeks so white yet when they setoff; and he noticed that his young mistress hid her face during thefirst part of the journey. He watched to see it raised up again; andthen saw with content that Eleanor's gaze was earnestly fixed on thethings without the window. Yes, there was something there. She felt shewas out of London; and that whatever might be before her, one sorrowfuland disagreeable page of life's book was turned over. London was gone, and she was in the midst of the country again, and the country was atthe beginning of June. Green fields and roses and flowery hedge-rows, and sweet air, all wooed her back to hopefulness. Hopefulness for themoment stole in. Eleanor thought things could hardly continue so bad asthey seemed. It was not natural. It could not be. And yet--Mr. Carlislewas in the business, and mother and father were set on her making asplendid match and being a great lady. It might be indeed, that therewould be no return for Eleanor, that she must remain in banishment, until Mr. Carlisle should take a new fancy or forget her. How longwould that be? A field for calculation over which Eleanor's thoughtsroamed for some time. 

One comfort she had promised herself, in seeing Julia on the way; soshe turned out of her direct course to go to Wiglands. She wasdisappointed. Julia and her governess had left the Lodge only the daybefore to pay a visit of a week at some distance. By order, Eleanorcould not help suspecting it had been; of set purpose, to prevent thesisters meeting. This disappointment was bitter. It was hard to keepfrom angry thoughts. Eleanor fought them resolutely, but she felt moredesolate than she had ever known in her life before. The old place ofher home, empty and still, had so many reminders of childish and happytimes; careless times; days when nobody thought of great marriages orsettlements, or when such thoughts lay all hidden in Mrs. Powle's mind. Every tree and room and book was so full of good and homelyassociations of the past, that it half broke Eleanor's heart. Homeassociations now so broken up; the family divided, literally andotherwise; and worst of all, and over which Eleanor's tears flowedbitterest, her own ministrations and influence were cut off from thosewho most needed them and whom she most wished to benefit. Eleanor's dayat home was a day of tears; it was impossible to help it. The roseswith their sweet faces looked remonstrance at her; the roads and walksand fields where she had been so happy invited her back to them; thevery grey tower of the Priory rising above the trees held out worldlytemptation and worldly reproof, with a mocking embodiment of her causesof trouble. Eleanor could not bear it; she spent one night at home;wrote a letter to Julia which she entrusted to a servant's hands forher; and the next morning set her face towards Plassy. Julia lay on herheart. That conversation they had held together the morning whenEleanor waylaid her--it was the last that had been allowed. They hadnever had a good talk since then. Was that the last chance indeed, forever? It was impossible to know. 

In spite of June beauty, it was a dreary journey to her from home toher aunt's; and the beautiful hilly outlines beyond Plassy rose uponher view with a new expression. Sterner, and graver; they seemed tosay, "It is life work, now, my child; you must be firm, and ifnecessary rugged, like us; but truth of action has its own beauty too, and the sunlight of Divine favour rests there always. " A shadowlesssunlight lay on the crowns and shoulders of the mountains as Eleanordrew near. She got out of the carriage to walk the last few steps andlook at the place. Plassy never was more lovely. An aromatic breath, pure and strong, came from the hills and gathered the sweetness of thevalleys. Roses and honeysuckles and jessamines and primroses, with athousand others, loaded the air with their gifts to it, from Mrs. Caxton's garden and from all the fields and hedge-rows around. And oneafter another bit of hilly outline reminded Eleanor that off _there_went the narrow valley that led to the little church at Glanog; _there_went the road to the village, where she and Powis had gone so often ofWednesday afternoons; and in _that_ direction lay the little cot whereshe had watched all night by the dying woman. Not much time for suchremembrances was just now; for the farmhouse stood just before her. Thedear old farmhouse! looking as pretty as everything else in its darkred stone walls and slate roof; stretching along the ground at thatrambling, picturesque, and also opulent style. Eleanor would not knocknow, and the door was not fastened to make her need it. Softly sheopened it, went in, and stood upon the tiled floor. 

No sound of anything in particular; only certain tokens of life in thehouse. Eleanor went on, opened the door of the sitting parlour andlooked in. Nobody there; the room in its summer state of neatness andcoolness as she had left it. Eleanor's heart began to grow warm. Shewould not yet summon a servant; she left that part of the house andwound about among the passages till she came to the back door that ledout into the long tiled porch where supper was wont to be spread. Andthere was the table set this evening; and the wonted glow from thesunny west greeted her there, and a vision of the gorgeousflower-garden. But Eleanor hardly saw the one thing or the other; forMrs. Caxton was there also, standing by the tea-table, alone, puttingsomething on it. Eleanor moved forward without a word. Her voice wouldnot come out of her throat very well. 

"Eleanor!" exclaimed Mrs. Caxton. "My dear love! what has given me thishappiness?"

Very strong language for Mrs. Caxton to use. Eleanor felt it, everyword of it, as well as the embrace of those kind arms and her aunt'skisses upon her lips; but she was silent. 

"How come you here, my darling?"

"They have sent me away from home. "

Mrs. Caxton saw that there was some difficulty of speech, and she wouldnot press matters. She put Eleanor into a seat, and looked at her, andtook off her bonnet with her own hands; stooped down and kissed herbrow. Eleanor steadied herself and looked up. 

"It is true, aunt Caxton. I come to you because I have nowhere else tobe. "

"My love, it is a great happiness to have you, for any cause. Wait, andtell me what the matter is by and by. "

She left Eleanor for a moment, only a moment; gave some orders, andreturned to her side. She sat down and took Eleanor's hand. 

"What is it, my dear?"

And then Eleanor's composure, which she had thought sure, gave way allof a sudden; and she cried heartily for a minute, laying her head inits old resting-place. But that did her good; and then she kissed Mrs. Caxton over and over before she began to speak. 

"They want me to make a great match, aunty; and will not be satisfiedwith anything else. "

"What, Mr. Carlisle?"

"Yes. "

"And is that all broken off?" said Mrs. Caxton, a little tone ofeagerness discernible under her calm manner. 

"It was broken off a year ago, " said Eleanor--"more than a year ago. Ithas always been broken since. "

"I heard that it was all going on again. I expected to hear of yourmarriage. "

"It was not true. But it is true, that the world had a great deal ofreason to think so; and I could not help that. "

"How so, Eleanor?"

"Mamma, and papa, and Mr. Carlisle. They managed it. "

"But in such a case, my dear, a woman owes it to herself and to hersuitor and to her parents too, to be explicit. "

"I do not think I compromised the truth, aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor, passing her hand somewhat after a troubled fashion over her brow. "Mr. Carlisle knew I never encouraged him with more favour than I gaveothers. I could not help being with him, for mamma and he had it so;and they were too much for me. I could not help it. So the report grew. I had a difficult part to play, " said Eleanor, repeating her troubledgesture and seeming ready to burst into tears. 

"In what way, my love?"

Eleanor did not immediately answer; sat looking off over the meadow asif some danger existed to self-control; then, still silent, turned andmet with an eloquent soft eye the sympathizing yet questioning glancethat was fixed on her. It was curious how Eleanor's eye met it; how hereye roved over Mrs. Caxton's face and looked into her quiet grey eyes, with a kind of glinting of some spirit fire within, which could almostbe seen to play and flicker as thought and feeling swayed to and fro. Her eye said that much was to be said, looked into Mrs. Caxton's facewith an intensity of half-speech, --and the lips remained silent. Therewas consciousness of sympathy, consciousness of something that requiredsympathy; and the seal of silence. Perhaps Mrs. Caxton's response tothis strange look came half unconsciously; it came wholly naturally. 

"Poor child!"--

The colour rose on Eleanor's cheek at that; she turned her eyes away. 

"I think Mr. Carlisle's plan--and mamma's--was to make circumstancestoo strong for me; and to draw me by degrees. And they would, perhaps, but for all I learned here. "

"For what you learned here, my dear?"

"Yes, aunty; if they could have got me into a whirl society--if theycould have made me love dancing parties and theatres and the opera, andI had got bewildered and forgotten that a great worldly establishmentnot the best thing--perhaps temptation would have been too much forme. --Perhaps it would. I don't know. "

There was a little more colour in Eleanor's cheeks than her wordsaccounted for, as Mrs. Caxton noticed. 

"Did you ever feel in danger from the temptation, Eleanor?"

"Never, aunty. I think it never so much as touched me. "

"Then Mr. Carlisle has been at his own risk, " said Mrs. Caxton. "Let usdismiss him, my love. "

"Aunt Caxton, I have a strange homeless, forlorn feeling. "

For answer to that, Mrs. Caxton put her arms round Eleanor and gave herone or two good strong kisses. There was reproof as well as affectionin them; Eleanor felt both, even without her aunt's words. 

"Trust the Lord. You know who has been the dwelling-place of hispeople, from all generations. They cannot be homeless. And for therest, remember that whatever brings you here brings a great boon to me. My love, do you wish to go to your room before you have tea?"

Eleanor was glad to get away and be alone for a moment. How homelikeher old room seemed!--with the rose and honeysuckle breath of the aircoming in at the casements. How peaceful and undisturbed the oldfurniture looked. The influence of the place began to settle down uponEleanor. She got rid of the dust of travel, and came down presently tothe porch with a face as quiet as a lamb. 

Tea went on with the same soothing influence. There was much to tellEleanor, of doings in and about Plassy the year past; for the fact was, that letters had not been frequent. Who was sick and who was well; whohad married, and who was dead; who had set out on a Christian walk, andwho were keeping up such a walk to the happiness of themselves and ofall about them. Then how Mrs. Caxton's own household had prospered; howthe dairy went on; and there were some favourite cows that Eleanordesired to hear of. From the cows they got to the garden. And all thewhile the lovely meadow valley lay spread out in its greenness beforeEleanor; the beautiful old hills drew the same loved outline across thesunset sky; the lights and shadows were of June; and the garden at handwas a rich mass of beauty sloping its terraced sweetness down to theriver. Just as it was a year ago, when the summons came for Eleanor toleave it; only the garden seemed even more gorgeously rich than then. Just the same; even to the dish of strawberries on the table. But thatwas not wreathed with ivy and myrtle now. 

"Aunt Caxton, this is like the very same evening that I was here last. "

"It is almost a year, " said Mrs. Caxton. 

Neither added anything to these two very unremarkable remarks; andsilence fell with the evening light, as the servants were clearing awaythe table. Perhaps the mountains with the clear paling sky beyond them, were suggestive. Both the ladies looked so. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Caxton then, "let me understand a little betterabout this affair that gives you to me. Do you come, or are you sent?"

"It is formal banishment, aunt Caxton. I am sent from them at home; butsent to go whither I will. So I come, to you. "

"What is the term assigned to this banishment?"

"None. It is absolute--unless or until I will grant Mr. Carlisle'swishes, or giving up being, as papa says, a Methodist. But that makesit final--as far as I am concerned. "

"They will think better of it by and by. "

"I hope so, " said Eleanor faintly. "It seems a strange thing to me, aunt Caxton, that this should have happened to me--just now when I amso needed at home. Papa is unwell--and I was beginning to get hisear, --and I have great influence over Julia, who only wants leading togo in the right way. And I am taken away from all that. I cannot helpwondering why. "

"Let it be to the glory of God, Eleanor; that is all your concern. Therest you will understand by and by. "

"But that is the very thing. It is hard to see how it can be to hisglory. "

"Do not try, " said Mrs. Caxton smiling. "The Lord never puts hischildren anywhere where they cannot glorify him; and he never sendsthem where they have not work to do or a lesson to learn. Perhaps thisis your lesson, Eleanor--to learn to have no home but in him. "

Eleanor's eyes filled very full; she made no answer. 

But one thing is certain; peace settled down upon her heart. It wouldbe difficult to help that at Plassy. We all know the effect of goinghome to the place of our childhood after a time spent in otheratmosphere; and there is a native air of the spirit, in which it feelsthe like renovating influence. Eleanor breathed it while they sat atthe table; she felt she had got back into her element. She felt it moreand more when at family prayer the whole household were met together, and she heard her aunt's sweet and high petitions again. And theblessing of peace fully settled down upon Eleanor when she was gone upto her room and had recalled and prayed over her aunt's words. She wentto sleep with that glorious saying running through her thoughts--"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. "

CHAPTER IX. 

IN CORRESPONDENCE. 

 "But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sunbursts shine, And there be million hearts athirst for Love's immortal wine; This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above, And if we did our duty, it might be full of love. "

Peace had unbroken reign at Plassy from that time. Eleanor threwherself again eagerly into all her aunt's labours and schemes for thegood and comfort of those around her. There was plenty to do; and shewas Mrs. Caxton's excellent helper. Powis came into requisition anew;and as before, Eleanor traversed the dales and the hills on her variouserrands, swift and busy. That was not the only business going. Her auntand she returned to their old literary habits, and read books andtalked; and it was hard if Eleanor in her rides over the hills and overthe meadows and along the streams did not bring back one hand full ofwild flowers. She dressed the house with them, getting help from thegarden when necessary; botanized a good deal; and began to grow asknowing in plants almost as Mrs. Caxton herself. She would come homeloaded with wild thyme and gorse and black bryony and saxifrage andorchis flowers, having scoured hill and meadow and robbed thehedge-rows for them, which also gave her great tribute of wild roses. Then later came crimson campion and eyebright, dog roses andhoneysuckles, columbine and centaury, grasses of all kinds, andharebell, and a multitude impossible to name; though the very naming ispleasant. Eleanor lived very much out of doors, and was likened by heraunt to a rural Flora or Proserpine that summer; though when in thehouse she was just the most sonsy, sensible, companionable littleearthly maiden that could be fancied. Eleanor was not under sizeindeed; but so much like her own wild flowers in pure simpleness andsweet natural good qualities that Mrs. Caxton was sometimes inclined tobestow the endearing diminutive upon her; so sound and sweet she was. 

"And what are all these?" said Mrs. Caxton one day stopping before anelegant basket. 

"Don't you like them?"

"Very much. Why you have got a good many kinds here. "

"That is Hart's Tongue, you know--that is wall spleenwort, and that isthe other kind; handsome things are they not?"

"And this?"

"That is the forked spleenwort. You don't know it? I rode away, away upthe mountain for it yesterday That is where I got those Woodsia'stoo--aren't they beautiful? I was gay to find those; they are notcommon. "

"No. And this is not common, to me. "

"Don't you know it, aunt Caxton? It grows just it the spray of awaterfall--this and this; they are polypodies. That is another--thatcame from the old round tower. "

"And where did you get these?--these waterfall ferns?"

"I got them at the Bandel of Helig. "

"There? My dear child! how could you, without risk?"

"Without much risk, aunty. "

"How did you ever know the Bandel?"

"I have been there before, aunt Caxton. "

"I think I never shewed it to you?"

"No ma'am;--but Mr. Rhys did. "

His name had scarcely been mentioned before since Eleanor had come tothe farm. It was mentioned now with a cognizance of that fact. Mrs. Caxton was silent a little. 

"Why have you put these green things here without a rose or two? theyare all alone in their greenness. "

"I like them better so, aunty. They are beautiful enough by themselves;but if you put a rose there, you cannot help looking at it. "

Mrs. Caxton smiled and turned away. 

One thing in the midst of all these natural explorations, remainedunused; and that a thing most likely, one would have thought, to beapplied to for help. The microscope stood on one side apparentlyforgotten. It always stood there, in the sitting parlour, in full view;but nobody seemed to be conscious of its existence. Eleanor nevertouched it; Mrs. Caxton never spoke of it. 

From home meantime, Eleanor heard little that was satisfactory. Juliawas the only one that wrote, and her letters gave painful subjects forthought. Her father was very unlike himself, Julia said, and growingmore feeble and more ill every day; though by slow degrees. She wishedEleanor would write her letters without any religion in them; for shesupposed _that_ was what her mother would not let her read; so shenever had the comfort of seeing Eleanor's letters for herself, but Mrs. Powle read aloud bits from them. "Very little bits, too, " added Julia, "I guess your letters have more religion in them than anything else. But you see it is no use. " Eleanor read this passage aloud to Mrs. Caxton. 

"Is that true, Eleanor?"

"No, ma'am. I write to Julia of everything that I do, all day long, andof everything and everybody that interests me. What mamma does not likecomes in, of course, with it all; but I do very little preaching, auntCaxton. "

"I would go on just so, my dear. I would not alter the style of myletters. "

So the flowers of June were replaced by the flowers of July; and thebeauties of July gave place to the purple "ling" of August, withgentian and centaury and St. John's wort; and then came the Autumnchanges, with the less delicate blossoms of that later time, amidstwhich the eclipsed meadow-sweet came quite into favour again. StillEleanor brought wild things from the hills and the streams, though sheapplied more now to Mrs. Caxton's home store in the garden; wild mintsand Artemisias and the Michaelmas daisy still came home with her fromher rides and walks; the rides and walks in which Eleanor was aministering angel to many a poor house, many an ignorant soul and manya failing or ailing body. 

Then came October; and with the first days of October the news that herfather was dead. 

It added much bitterness to Eleanor's grief, that Mrs. Powle entirelydeclined to have her come home, even for a brief stay. If she chose tosubmit to conditions, her mother wrote, she would be welcome; it wasnot too late; but if she held to her perversity, she must bear theconsequences. She did not own her nor want her. She gave her up to heraunt Caxton. Her remaining daughter was in her hands, and she meant tokeep her there. Eleanor, she knew, if she came home would come to sowrebellion. She should not come to do that, either then or at all. 

Mildly quiet and decided Mrs. Powle's letter was; very decided, and socool as to give every assurance the decision would be persisted in. Eleanor felt this very much. She kept on her usual way of life withoutany variation; but the radiant bright look of her face was permanentlysaddened. She was just as sweet and companionable an assistant to heraunt as ever; but from month to month Mrs. Caxton saw that a shadow laydeep upon her heart. No shadow could have less of anything like hardedges. 

They had been sitting at work one night late in the winter, those two, the aunt and the niece; and having at last put up her work Eleanor satgravely poring into the red coals on the hearth; thosethought-provoking, life-stirring, strange things, glowing and sparklingbetween life and death like ourselves. Eleanor's face was very sober. 

"Aunt Caxton, " she said at length, --"my life seems such a confusion tome!"

"So everything seems that we do not understand, " Mrs. Caxton said. 

"But is it not, aunty? I seem taken from everything that I ought mostnaturally to do--papa, Julia, mamma. I feel like a banished person, Isuppose; only I have the strange feeling of being banished from myplace in the world. "

"What do you think of such a life as Mr. Rhys is leading?"

"I think it is straight, and beautiful, "--Eleanor answered, lookingstill into the fire. "Nothing can be further from confusion. He is in_his_ place. "

"He is in a sort of banishment, however. "

"Not from that! And it is voluntary banishment--for his Master's sake. _That_ is not sorrowful, aunt Caxton. "

"Not when the Lord's banished ones make their home in him. And I do notdoubt but Mr. Rhys does that. "

"Have you ever heard from him, aunt Caxton. "

"Not yet. It is almost time, I think. "

"It is almost a year and a half since he went. "

"The communication is slow and uncertain, " said Mrs. Caxton. "They donot get letters there, often, till they are a year old. "

"How impossible it used to be to me, " said Eleanor, "to comprehend sucha life; how impossible to understand, that anybody should leave homeand friends and comfort, and take his place voluntarily in distance anddanger and heathendom. It was an utter enigma to me. "

"And you understand it now?"

"O yes, aunty, " Eleanor went on in the same tone; and she had notceased gazing into the coals;--"I see that Christ is all; and with himone is never alone, and under his hand one can never be in danger. Iknow now how his love keeps one even from fear. "

"You are no coward naturally. "

"No, aunt Caxton--not about ordinary things, except when consciencemade me so, some time ago. "

"That is over now?"

Eleanor took her eyes from the fire, to give Mrs. Caxton a smile withthe words--"Thank the Lord!"

"Mr. Rhys is among scenes that might try any natural courage, " saidMrs. Caxton. "They are a desperate set of savages to whom he isministering. "

"What a glory, to carry the name of Christ to them!"

"They are hearing it, too, " said Mrs. Caxton. "But there is enough ofthe devil's worst work going on there to try any tender heart; andhorrors enough to shock stout nerves. So it has been. I hope Mr. Rhysfinds it better. "

"I don't know much about them, " said Eleanor. "Are they much worse thansavages in general, aunt Caxton?"

"I think they are, --and better too, in being more intellectuallydeveloped. Morally, I think I never read of a lower fallen set of humanbeings. Human life is of no account; such a thing as respect tohumanity is unknown, for the eating of human bodies has gone on to amost wonderful extent, and the destroying them for that purpose. Withall that, there is a very careful respect paid to descent and rank; butit is the observance of fear. That one fact gives you the key to thewhole. Where a man is thought of no more worth than to be killed andeaten, a woman is not thought worth anything at all; and societybecomes a lively representation of the infernal regions, without theknowledge and without the remorse. "

"Poor creatures!" said Eleanor. 

"You comprehend that there must be a great deal of trial to a person offine sensibilities, in making a home amongst such a people, for anindefinite length of time. "

"Yes, aunty, --but the Lord will make it all up to him. "

"Blessed be the name of the Lord!" it was Mrs. Caxton's turn to answer;and she said it with deep feeling and emphasis. 

"It seems the most glorious thing to me, aunt Caxton, to tell the loveof Christ to those that don't know it. I wish I could do it. "

"My love, you do. "

"I do very little, ma'am. I wish I could do a thousand times more!"

The conversation stopped there. Both ladies remained very gravelythoughtful a little while longer and then separated for the night. Butthe next evening when they were seated at tea alone, Mrs. Caxtonrecurred to the subject. 

"You said last night, Eleanor, that you wished you could do a greatdeal more work of a certain kind than you do. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Did your words mean, my love, that you are discontented with your ownsphere of duty, or find it too narrow?"

Eleanor's eyes opened a little at that. "Aunt Caxton, I never thoughtof such a thing. I do not remember that I was considering my own sphereof duty at all. I was thinking of the pleasure of preachingChrist--yes, and the glory and honour--to such poor wretches as thosewe were talking of, who have never had a glimpse of the truth before. "

"Then for your part you are satisfied with England?"

"Why yes, ma'am. I am satisfied, I think, --I mean to be, --with anyplace that is given me. I should be sorry to choose for myself. "

"But if you had a clear call, you would like it, to go to the Cape ofGood Hope and teach the Hottentots?"

"I do not mean that, aunty, " said Eleanor laughing a little. "Surelyyou do not suspect me of any wandering romantic notion about doing theLord's work in one place rather than in another. I would rather teachEnglish people than Hottentots. But if I saw that my place was at theCape of Good Hope, I would go there. If my place were there, some waywould be possible for me to get there, I suppose. "

"You would have no fear?" said Mrs. Caxton. 

"No aunty; I think not. Ever since I can say 'The Lord is myShepherd--' I have done with fear. "

"My love, I should be very sorry to have you go to the Cape of GoodHope. I am glad there is no prospect of it. But you are right about notchoosing. As soon as we go where we are not sent, we are at our owncharges. "

The door here opened, and the party and the tea-table received anaccession of one to their number. It was an elderly, homely gentleman, to whom Mrs. Caxton gave a very cordial reception and whom sheintroduced to Eleanor as the Rev. Mr. Morrison. He had a pleasant face, Eleanor saw, and as soon as he spoke, a pleasant manner. 

"I ought to be welcome, ma'am, " he said, rubbing his hands with thecold as he sat down. "I bring you letters from Brother Rhys. "

"You are welcome without that, brother, as you know, " Mrs. Caxtonanswered. "But the letters are welcome. Of how late date are they?"

"Some pretty old--some not more than nine or ten months ago; when hehad been stationed a good while. "

"How is he?"

"Well, he says; never better. "

"And happy?"

"I wish I was as happy!" said Mr. Morrison. --"He had got fast hold ofhis work already. "

"He would do that immediately. "

"He studied the language on shipboard, all the way out; and he was ableto hold a service in it for the natives only a few weeks after he hadlanded. Don't you call that energy?"

"There is energy wherever he is, " said Mrs. Caxton. 

"Yes, you know him pretty well. I suppose they never have it so coldout there as we have it to-night, " Mr. Morrison said rubbing his hands. "It's stinging! That fire is the pleasantest thing I have seen to-day. "

"Where is Mr. Rhys stationed?"

"I forget--one of the islands down there, with an unintelligible name. Horrid places!"

"Is the place itself disagreeable?" Eleanor asked. 

"The place itself, ma'am, " said Mr. Morrison, his face stiffening fromits genial unbent look into formality as he turned to her, --"the placeitself I do not understand to be very disagreeable; it is the characterof the population which must make it a hard place to live in. They areexceedingly debased. Vile people!"

"Mr. Rhys is not alone on his station?" said Mrs Caxton. 

"No, he is with Mr. And Mrs. Lefferts. His letters will tell you. "

For the letters Mrs. Caxton was evidently impatient; but Mr. Morrison'srefreshment had first to be attended to. Only fair; for he had come outof his way on purpose to bring them to her; and being one of a certainCommittee he had it in his power to bring for her perusal and pleasuremore than her own letters from Mr. Rhys, and more than Mr. Rhys's ownletters to the Committee. It was a relief to two of the party when Mr. Morrison's cups of tea were at last disposed of, and the far-comedespatches were brought out on the green table-cloth under the light ofthe lamp. 

With her hand on her own particular packet of letters, as if so muchcommunication with them could not be put off, Mrs. Caxton sat andlistened to Mr. Morrison's reading. Eleanor had got her work. As theparticular interest which made the reading so absorbing to them maypossibly be shared in a slight degree by others, it is fair to give aslight notion of the character of the news contained in those closelywritten pages. The letters Mr. Morrison read were voluminous; fromdifferent persons on different stations of the far-off mission field. They told of difficulties great, and encouragements greater; of theirwork and its results; and of their most pressing wants; especially thewant of more men to help. The work they said was spreading faster thanthey could keep up with it. Thousands of heathen had given upheathenism, who in miserable ignorance cried for Christian instruction;children as wild as the wild birds, wanted teaching and were willing tohave it; native teachers needed training, who had the will without theknowledge to aid in the service. Thirty of them, Mr. Lefferts said, hehad under his care. With all this, they told of the wonderful beauty ofthe regions where their field of labour was. Mr. Lefferts wrote of alittle journey lately taken to another part of his island, which hadled him through almost every variety of natural luxuriance. Mountainsand hills and valleys, rivers and little streams, rich woods andmangrove swamps. Mr. Lefferts' journey had been, like Paul's of old, toestablish the native churches formed at different small places by theway. There he married couples and baptized children and met classes andtold the truth. At one place where he had preached, married severalcouples, baptized over thirty, young and old, and met as many inclasses, Mr. Lefferts told of a walk he took. It led him to the top ofa little hill, from which a rich view was to be had, while a multitudeof exquisite shrubs in flower gave another refreshment in theirdelicious fragrance. A little stream running down the side of the hillwas used by the natives to water their plantations of taro, for whichthe side hill was formed into terraced beds. Paroquets and hummingbirds flew about, and the sun was sinking brilliantly in the westernocean line as he looked. So far, everything was fair, sweet, lovely; acontrast to what he met when he reached the lower grounds again. Therethe swarms of mosquitos compelled Mr. Lefferts to retreat for the nightwithin a curtain canopy for protection; and thither he was followed bya fat savage who shared the protection with him all night long. Anothersort of experience! and another sort of neighbourhood from that of thestarry white _Gardenia_ flowers on the top of the hill. 

Nevertheless, of a neighbouring station Mr. Rhys wrote that the peoplewere at war, and the most horrible heathen practices were going on. Atthe principal town, he said, more people were eaten perhaps thananywhere else in the islands. The cruelties and the horrors wereimpossible to be told. A few days before he wrote, twenty-eight personshad been killed and eaten in one day. They had been caughtfishing--taken prisoners and brought home--half killed, and in thatstate thrown into the ovens; still having life enough left to try toget away from the fire. 

"The first time I saw anything of this kind, " wrote Mr. Rhys, "was oneevening when we had just finished a class-meeting. The evening was mostfair and peaceful as we came out of the house; a fresh air from the seahad relieved the heat of the day; the leaves of the trees wereglittering in the sunlight; the ocean all sparkling under the breeze;when word came that some bodies of slain people were bringing fromLauthala. I could hardly understand the report, or credit it; butpresently the horrible procession came in sight, and eleven dead bodieswere laid on the ground immediately before us. Eleven only were broughtto this village; but great numbers are said to have been killed. Theircrime was the killing of one man; and when they would have submittedthemselves and made amends, all this recompense of death was demandedby the offended chief. The manner in which these wretched creatureswere treated is not a thing to be described; they were not handled withthe respect which we give to brute animals. The natives have lookeddark upon us since that time, and give us reason to know that as far asthey are concerned our lives are not safe. But we know in whose handsour lives are; they are the Lord's; and he will do with them what hepleases--not what the heathen please. So we are under no concern aboutit. "

That storm appeared to have passed away; for in later letters Mr. Rhysand Mr. Lefferts spoke of acceptable services among the people and anevidently manifested feeling of trust and good will on their parttowards the missionaries. Indeed these were often able to turn thenatives from their devilish purposes and save life. Not always. The oldking of that part of the country had died, and all the influence andall the offers of compensation made by the missionaries, could notprevent the slaughter of half a dozen women, his wives, to do himhonour in his burial. The scene as Mr. Lefferts described it washeart-sickening. 

As he drew near the door of the king's house, with the intent toprevail for the right or to protest against the wrong, he saw the biersstanding ready; and so knew that all the efforts previously made tohinder the barbarous rites had been unavailing. The house as he enteredwas in the hush of death. One woman lay strangled. Another sitting onthe floor, covered with a large veil, was in the hands of hermurderers. A cord was passed twice round her neck, and the ends wereheld on each side of her by a group of eight or ten strong men, the twogroups pulling opposite ways. She was dead, the poor victim underneaththe veil, in a minute or two after the missionaries entered; and theveil being taken off they saw that it was a woman who had professedChristianity. Her sons were among those who had strangled her. Anotherwoman came forward with great shew of bravery when her name was called;offered her hand to the missionaries as she passed them; and with greatpride of bearing submitted herself to the death which probably she knewshe could not avoid. Everybody was quiet and cheerful, and the wholething went on with the undisturbed order of a recognized and accustomednecessity; only the old king's son, the reigning chief for a long timeback, was very uneasy at the part he was playing before themissionaries; he was the only trembling or doubtful one there. Yet hewould not yield the point. Pride before all; his father must not beburied without the due honours of his position. Mr. Rhys and Mr. Lefferts had staid to make their protest and offer their entreaties andwarnings, to the very last; and then heart-sick and almost faint withthe disgusting scene, had returned home. 

Yet the influence of the truth was increasing and the good work wasspreading and growing around them, steadily and in every direction. Agreat many had renounced heathenism; not a small number were earnestChristians and shewed the truth of their religion in their changedlives. A great number of reports proved this. 

"It is work that tries what stuff men's hearts are of, however, "remarked Mr. Morrison as he folded up one packet of letters. Neither ofhis hearers made him any answer. Mrs. Caxton sat opposite to him, deeply attentive but silent, with her hand always lying upon her ownparticular packet. Eleanor had turned a little away and sat with herside face towards Mr. Morrison, looking into the fire. Her work wasdropped; she sat motionless. 

"I have a letter to read you now of a later date, " Mr. Morrison wenton, --"from Mr. Rhys, which shews how well he has got hold of the peopleand how much he is regarded by them already. It shews the influencegained by the truth, too, which is working there fast. "

After giving some details of business and of his labours, Mr. Rhyswrote--"My last notable piece of work, has been in the character of anambassador of peace--not heavenly but earthly. News was brought four orfive days ago that the heathen inhabitants of two neighbouringdistricts had engaged in open hostilities. Home business claimed me oneday; the next morning I set out on my mission, with one or twoChristian natives. The desolations of war soon met our eyes, indestroyed crops and a deserted village. Nobody was to be seen. I andthose who were with me sat down in the shade of some trees, while anative went to find the inhabitants who had hid themselves in a thicketof mangroves. As soon as the chief heard that I was there, and what Ihad come for, he declared he would be a Christian forthwith; and fouror five of his principal men followed his example. They came to me, andentered fully into my object; and it was decided that we should go onimmediately to the fortress where those who wished to carry on war hadintrenched themselves. We got there just as the sun was setting; andfrom that time till midnight I was engaged in what I saw now for thefirst time; a savage council of war. Grim black warriors covered withblack powder sat or stood about, on a little clear spot of ground wherethe moon shone down; muskets and clubs and spears lay on the glass andwere scattered about among the boles of the trees; a heathen-lookingscene. Till midnight we talked, and hard talking too; then it was endedas I had prayed it might. The party with whom I was had sufferedalready in battle and had not had their revenge; it was difficult togive that up; but at last the chief got up and put his hand in mine. 'Ishould like to be a heathen a little longer, ' he said, 'but I will_lotu_ as you so earnestly entreat me. ' _Lotu_ is their name forembracing Christianity. Another young warrior joined him; and thereunder the midnight moon, we worshipped God; those two and those whowere with me. In another part of the village a dozen women for thefirst time bowed the knee in the same worship. 

"So far was well; but it yet remained to induce the opposite hostileparty to agree to peace; you understand only one side was yetpersuaded. Early the next morning I set about it. Here a difficulty metme. The Christian chiefs made no objection to going with me to parleywith their enemies; but I wanted the company also of another, the chiefof 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 deadman this day. ' I did my best to make him think differently; a hundredmen declared that they would die in defence of him; and at last Igained my point. Tui Mbua agreed to go to the neighbourhood of thehostile town, if I would bring its principal men to meet him at anappointed place. So we went. This chosen place was a fine plot ofground enclosed by magnificent chestnut trees. I went on to the town, with a few unarmed men. The people received us well; but it wasdifficult to make the old heathen, brought up on treachery andfalsehood, believe that I was to be trusted. But in the end the chiefand twenty of his men consented to go with us, and left their arms athome. They did it with forebodings, for I overheard an old man say, aswe set out from the place, --'We shall see death to-day. ' I lifted myvoice and cried, 'To-day we live!' They took up the words, and heart atthe 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 bedone there, and for my part went praying that all might go well. It wasan anxious moment when we entered the open place; any ill-looks ineither party would chase away trust front the other. As we went in Iwatched the chief who accompanied me. He gently bowed to Tui Mbua andapproached him with due and evidently honest respect. My heart leapedat that moment. Tui Mbua looked at him keenly, sprang to his feet, andcasting his arms about his enemy's neck gave him a warm embrace. Thepeople around shouted for joy; I was still, I believe, for the verydepth of mine. One of the Christian chiefs spoke out and cried, 'Wethank thee, O Lord, for thus bringing thy creatures into the way oflife;' and he wept aloud for very gladness. 

"After that we had speechifying; and I returned home very full ofthankful joy. "

This was the last letter read. Mr. Morrison folded up his packet amid agreat 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. "Hewants so much of comfort and home as that. They get tired, and they getsick, and to have no woman's hand about is something to be missed atsuch times. O we are all dependent. Mr. Rhys is domesticated now withBrother Lefferts and his family. I suppose he feels it less, because hehas 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 hehas not reached it yet. I suppose the thought of that makes himcontent. "

"Of course. But in a heathen land, with heathen desolation and darkfaces all around one, you have no idea how at times one's soul longsfor a taste of England. Brother Rhys too is a man to feel all suchthings. He has a good deal of taste, and what you might callsensitiveness to externals. "

"A good deal, " said Mrs. Caxton quietly. "Then he has some beautifulexternals around him. "

"So they say. But the humanity is deplorable. Well, they will get theirreward when the Master comes. A man leaves everything indeed when hegoes to the South Seas as Rhys has done. He would have been verypopular in England. "

"So he will in the islands. "

"Well so it seems, " said Mr. Morrison. "He has got the ear of thosewild 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. Themorning brought its own business; the breakfast was somewhat hurried;Mr. Morrison took his departure; and nothing more was said on thesubject of South Sea missionaries till the evening. Then the two ladieswere again alone together. 

"Are you well to-day, Eleanor?" was Mrs. Caxton's first question at thetea-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 upinto 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 handin thoughtful wise. "England has had the light a great while; it mustbe 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 workgiven 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? thereis a little difference between what is sent to a Committee and what isfor the private eye of a friend. "

"Yes ma'am, I would like it, " Eleanor said; but she did not say so atall eagerly; and Mrs. Caxton looked at her once or twice before shechanged 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 headover it. 

"This is one of the latest dates, " Mrs. Caxton said as she opened thepaper; "written after he had been there a good many months and had gotfairly acquainted with the language and with the people. It seems to mehe 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 astrange and sweet feeling of taking your hand, when I set myself towrite 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 Ibegin upon this sheet of paper I seem to stand in Plassy again. Thedear old hills rear their wild outlines before me; the green wealth ofvegetation is at my feet, but cool and fresh as nothing looks to meunder the northerly wind which is blowing now; and your image is sodistinct, that I almost can grasp your hand, and almost hear you speak;_see_ you speak, I do. Blessed be the Lord for imagination, as well asfor memory! Without it, how slowly we should mount to the conception ofheavenly things and the understanding of himself; and the distancebetween friends would be a sundering of them indeed. But I must notwaste 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 canpossibly be. That is as I wish it. It is what I am here for. I wouldnot have a moment unused. On Sunday I have four or five services, ofdifferent sorts. Week days I have an English school, a writing school, one before and the other after mid-day; and later still, a school forregular native instruction. Every moment of time that is free, or wouldbe, is needed for visiting the sick, whose demands upon us areconstant. But this gives great opportunity to preach the gospel and winthe hearts of the people. 

"Some account of a little preaching and teaching journey in which Itook part some few months ago, I have a mind to give you. Our objectwas specially an island between one and two hundred miles away, wheremany have become Christians, and not in name only; but where up to thistime no missionary has been stationed. We visit them when we can. Thistime we had the advantage of a brig to make the voyage in; the missionship was here with the Superintendent and he desired to visit theplace. We arrived at evening in the neighbourhood; at a little islandclose by, where all the people are now Christian. Mr. Lefferts wentashore 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. Wevisited the houses of the native teachers, who were subjects ofadmiration in every respect; met candidates for baptism and examinedthem; married a couple; and Bro. Griffiths preached. There is a newchapel, of very neat native workmanship; with a pulpit carved out of asolid piece of wood, oiled to give it colour and gloss. In the chapelthe whole population of the island was assembled, dressed in newdresses, attentive, and interested. So were we, you may believe, whenwe remembered that only two years ago all these people were heathens. Othese islands are a glorious place now and then, in spots where thedevil's reign is broken. I wish you could have seen us afterwards, mydear 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. Wehad no table; believe me, we were too happy and hungry to mind that. Ido not think you would have quarrelled with our dishes; they were noother and no worse than the thick broad glossy leaves of the banana. Nofault could be found with their elegance; and our napkins were of thegreen rind of the same tree. Cocoanut shells were our substitute forflint glass, and I like it very well; especially when cocoanut milk isthe 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 bakedyams and fish dressed in various ways; and the fingers of the natives, or our own, were our only dividers. But I have seen less pleasantentertainments; and I only could wish you had been there, --so you mighthave whisked back to England the next minute after it was over, on someconvenient fairy carpet such as I used to read of in Eastern tales whenI 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 reefbarrier. We got on board safely, passing the reefs where once anAmerican ship was wrecked and her crew killed and eaten by the peopleof these parts. 

"The next day we made the land we sought; and got ashore through atremendous surf. Here we found the island had lately been the seat ofwar--some of the heathen having resolved to put an end by violence tothe Christian religion there, or as they call it, the _lotu_. TheChristians had gained the victory, and then had treated their enemieswith the utmost kindness; which had produced a great effect upon them. The rest of the day after our landing was spent in making thoroughinquiry 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 mythoughts were too busy; and the clear night sky was witness to a greatmany restless movements, I am afraid, before I lost them inforgetfulness. The occasion of which, I suppose, was the near prospectof sending letters home to England by the ship. At any rate, Englandand the South Seas were very near together that night; and I was fainto remember that heaven is nearer yet. But the remembrance carne, andwith it sleep. The next day was a day of business. Marrying couples(over forty of them) baptizing converts, preaching; then meeting theteachers and class-leaders and examining them as to their Christianexperience, etc. From dawn till long past mid-day we were busy so; andthen were ready for another feast in the open air like that one Idescribed to you--for we had had no breakfast. We had done all the workwe could do at that time at One, and sought our ship immediately afterdinner; passing through a surf too heavy for the canoes to weather. 

"Let me tell you some of the testimony given by these converts fromheathenism; given simply and heartily, by men who have not learnedtheir religion by book nor copied it out of other men's mouths. It wasa very thrilling thing to hear them, these poor enterers into thelight, who have but just passed the line of darkness. One said, 'I lovethe Lord, and I know he loves me; not for anything in me, or foranything I have done; but for Christ's sake alone. I trust in Christand am happy. I listen to God, that he may do with me as he pleases. Iam thankful to have lived until the Lord's work has begun. I feel it inmy 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. Idesire nothing else. '

"Another, --'I know that God has justified me through the sacred bloodof Jesus. I know assuredly that I am reconciled to God. I know of thework of God in my soul. The sacred Spirit makes it clear to me. I wishto preach the gospel, that others also may know Jesus. '

"All these have been engaged the past year in teaching or proclaimingthe truth in various ways. Another of their number who was dying, oneor 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. TheLord'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 a_Saviour_ below the skies. '

"So there is a helmet of salvation for the poor Fijian as well as forthe favoured people at home. Praise be to the Lord! Did I tell you, mydear friend, I was restless at the thought of sending letters home? Letme tell you now, I am happy; as happy as I could be in any place in theworld; and I would not be in any other place, by my own choice, for allthe things in the world. I need only to be made more holy. Just inproportion as I am that, I am happy and I am useful. I want to beperfectly holy. But there is the same way of trusting for the poorFijian and for me; and I believe in that same precious blood I shall bemade clean, even as they. I want to preach Christ a thousand times morethan I do. I long to make his love known to these poor people. Irejoice in being here, where every minute may tell actively for him. Mydear friend, when we get home, do what we will, we shall not think wehave done enough. 

"Our life here is full of curious contrasts. Within doors, what our oldhabits have stereotyped as propriety, is sadly trenched upon. Beforethe ship came, Mrs. Lefferts' stock of comfort in one line was reducedto a single tea-cup; and in other stores, the demands of the nativeshad caused us to run very short. You know it is only by payment ofvarious useful articles that we secure any service done or purchase anynative 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 ofthings needed by ourselves; and blankets and hardware come to be minus. Then, forgetting this, which it is easy to do, all the world without isa world of glorious beauty. How I wish I could shew it to you! Theseislands are of very various character, and many of them like the gardenof Eden for natural loveliness; shewing almost every kind of scenerywithin a small area. Most of them are girdled more or less entirely bywhat is called a _barrier reef_--an outside and independent coralformation, sometimes narrow, sometimes miles in width, on the outeredge of which the sea breaks in an endless line of white foam. Withinthe reef the lagoon, as it is called, is perfectly still and clear; andsuch glories of the animal and vegetable world as lie beneath itssurface I have no time to describe to you now. I have had little timeto examine them; but once or twice I have taken a canoe and a piece ofrest, gliding over this submarine garden, and rejoicing in the Lord whohas made everything so beautiful in its time. My writing hour is overfor to-day. I am going five or six miles to see a man who is said to bevery ill. 

"Feb. 16. The man had very little the matter with him. I had my walkfor 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 thedescription of one that I visited a short time ago. It is one of ourout-stations--too small to have a teacher given it; so it is visitedfrom time to time by Mr. Lefferts and myself. With a fair wind thedistance is hardly a day's journey; but sometimes as in this case itconsumes two days. The voyage was made in a native canoe, manned bynative 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 delicatematter. Our voyage proceeded very well, until we got to the entrance ofthe island. That seems a strange sentence; but the island itself is acircle, nearly; a band of volcanic rock, not very wide, enclosing alake or lagoon within its compass. There is only a rather narrowchannel of entrance. Here we were met by difficulty. The surf breakingshorewards was tremendously high; and meeting and struggling with itcame a rush of the current from within. Between the two opposing watersthe 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 andexertions of the men, who felt the danger of their position, added tothe roar and the power of the waters, which tossed us hither andthither as a thing of no consequence, made it a strange wildminute, --till we emerged from all that struggle and roar into the stillbeautiful quiet of the lagoon inside. Imagine it, surrounded with itsborder of rocky land covered with noble trees, and spotted with isletscovered in like manner. The whole island is of volcanic formation, andits rocks are of black scoria. The theory is, I believe, that a volcanoonce occupied the whole centre of such islands; which sinkingafterwards away left its place to the occupancy of a lake instead. However produced, the effect is singular in its wild beauty. The soilof this island is poor for any purpose but growing timber; theinhabitants consequently are not many, and they live on roots and fishand what we should think still poorer food--a great wood maggot, whichis 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; andit was a good time to me. The day after I returned home. O sweet gospelof Christ! which is lighting up these dark places; and O my blessedMaster, who stands by his servants and gives them his own presence andlove, when they are about his work and the world is far from them, andmen would call them lonely. There is no loneliness where Christ is. Imust finish this long letter with giving you the dying testimony of aTongan preacher who has just gone to his home. He came here as amissionary from his own land, and has worked hard and successfully. Hesaid to Mr. Calvert the day before his death, 'I have long _enjoyed_religion and felt its _power_. In my former illness I was happy; butnow I am greatly blessed. The Lord has come down with mighty power intomy soul, and I feel the blessedness of _full rest of soul_ in God. Ifeel religion to be peculiarly sweet, and my rejoicing is great. I seemore fully and clearly the truth of the word and Spirit of God, and thesuitableness of the Saviour. The whole of Christianity I see asexceedingly excellent. '

"With this testimony I close, my dear friend. It is mine; I can ask nobetter for you than that it may be yours. "

Mrs. Caxton ended her reading and looked at Eleanor. She had done thatseveral times in the course of the reading. Eleanor was always bentover her work, and busily attentive to it; but on each cheek a spot ofcolour had been fixed and deepening, till now it had reached a broadflush. 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 akind of subdued sigh that at last she turned from the table and put herpapers 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 manylabours 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 atrest on that point. "

"How happened it that he did not marry, like everybody else, beforegoing there?"

"He is a fastidious man, " said Mrs. Caxton; "one of those men that arerather difficult to please, I fancy; and that are apt enough to meetwith 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 tojudge by his letters he has and enjoys as he is. He seems to me, andalways did, a very enviable person. "

"Can you tell why?"

"Good--happy--and useful, " said Eleanor. But her voice was a littlechoked. 

"You know grace is free, " said Mrs. Caxton. "He would tell you so. Ringthe bell, my dear. And a sinner saved in England is as precious as onesaved in Fiji. Let us work where our place is, and thank the Lord!"

CHAPTER X. 

IN NEWS. 

 "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 thesubject of South Sea missions had passed out of sight, for all thatappeared. Mrs. Caxton did not bring it up again after that evening, andEleanor did not. The household went on with its quiet ways. PerhapsMrs. Caxton was a trifle more silent and ruminative, and Eleanor morepersistently busy. She had been used to be busy; in these weeks sheseemed to have forgotten how to rest. She looked tired accordinglysometimes; 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 withopposition. "

"And fell through?"

"I suppose so--for the present. Its time will come, I hope; the timefor 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 mybill. 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 speakssomething like weariness. "

"I do not feel it, aunt Caxton. "

"Eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your decision and actionwith 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 puther arms about her; kissing her with kisses that certainly carriedconviction with them. 

"It is the most wicked word I ever heard you say, aunt Caxton. I lovePlassy beyond all places in the world, that I have ever been in. Nopart of my life has been so pleasant as the part spent here. If I amweary, I sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off from itsnatural duties and stranded somehow, all alone; but that is anunbelieving thought, and I do not give it harbour at all. I am verycontent--very happy. "

Mrs. Caxton brought her hand tenderly down the side of the smooth cheekbefore her, and her eyes grew somewhat misty. But that was a rareoccurrence, and the exhibition of it immediately dismissed. She kissedEleanor and returned to her ordinary manner. 

"Talking about stranded lives, " she said; "to take another subject, youmust 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 mustfeel, I should think, in his circumstances, that he has put an immensedistance 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 seehim here, that there was somebody, somewhere, who had a piece of hisheart?"

"No, ma'am, --never!" Eleanor said with some energy. "I never thought heseemed like it. "

"I did not know anything about it, " Mrs. Caxton went on slowly, "untila little while before he went away--some time after you were here. ThenI learned that it was the truth. "

Eleanor worked away very diligently and made no answer. Mrs. Caxtonfurtively watched her; Eleanor's head was bent down over her sewing;but when she raised it to change the position of her work, Mrs. Caxtonsaw 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, awoman, --that she would have gone with him. "

"You forget where he was bound to go. Do you think many women wouldhave chosen to go with him to such a home--perhaps for the remainder oftheir lives? I think many would have hesitated. "

"But _you_ forget for what he was going; and any woman whom he wouldhave liked, would have liked his object too. "

"You think so, " said Mrs. Caxton; "but I cannot wonder at his havingdoubted. 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 andspeaking 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 gowithout giving her the chance of saying what she would do. "

"Well, he is gone, " said Mrs. Caxton; "and he went alone. I think menmake 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. Caxtonwatched 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 fancied _you?_"

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 overwhelmedconfusion. "One day, for a little time--aunt Caxton, how can you ask mesuch a thing?"

"I had a little story to tell you, my dear; and I wanted to make surethat I should do no harm in telling it. What is there so dreadful insuch a question?"

But Eleanor only brushed away a hot tear from her flushed face and wenton with her sewing. Or essayed to do it, for Mrs. Caxton thought hervision seemed to be not very clear. 

"What made you think so that time, Eleanor? and what is the matter, mydear?"

"It hurts me, aunt Caxton, the question. You know we were friends, andI liked him very much, as I had reason; but I _never_ had cause tofancy that he thought anything of me--only once I fancied it withoutcause. "

"On what occasion, my love?"

"It was only a little thing--a nothing--a chance word. I sawimmediately that I was mistaken. "

"Did the thought displease you?"

"Aunt Caxton, why should you bring up such a thing now?" said Eleanorin 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; Ithought I did; but it was best to bring it out openly, for I could notelse have executed my commission. I lave a message from Mr. Rhys toyou, 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 wasa light of fire, like the touch the summer sun gives to the mountaintops 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 asthe 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 merenothing--made you think that Mr. Rhys liked you. "

"But, aunty, " said Eleanor, a scarlet flood refilling the cheeks whichhad 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 hideit; she turned it a little away from her aunt's fill view and sat verystill, while the intense flush passed away and left only a namelessrosy glow, that almost reminded Mrs. Caxton of the perfume as well asof the colour of the flower it was likened to. There was a certainunfolding sweetness in Eleanor's face, that was most like the openingof a rosebud just getting into full blossom; but the lips, unbent intohappy lines, were a little shame-faced, and would not open to speak aword or ask another question. So they both sat still; the younger andelder lady. 

"Do you want me to tell you any more, Eleanor?"

"Why do you tell me this at all now, aunt Caxton?" Eleanor said veryslowly and without stirring. 

"Mr. Rhys desired I should. "

"Why, aunt Caxton?"

"Why do gentlemen generally desire such things to be made known toyoung 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 astudy, for its changing lights; too quick, too mingled, too subtle intheir expression, to be described. So it was at this instant. Halfeager, and half shame-faced; an unmistakeable glow of delight, and yetsomething that was very like shrinking. 

"No, my love, " Mrs. Caxton made answer--"I do not mean that. He wouldnot 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 anyregret--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 avery practical question which I must now put to you. If Mr. Rhys werestationed in England and could tell you all this himself, what wouldyou say to him in answer?"

"I could give him but one, aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor in the samemanner. 

"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 neversaid one word to me of his liking for me, nor to draw out my feelingtowards 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 saidin a subdued way, "May I have it, aunt Caxton?"

"My dear, I was not to give them to you except I found that you werefavourably disposed towards the object of them. If you ask me for themagain, it must be upon that understanding. "

"Will you please to give them to me, aunt Caxton, " Eleanor said in thesame subdued tone. 

Mrs. Caxton rose and went to a secretary in the room for one or twopapers, which she brought and put in Eleanor's hand. Then folding herarms round her, stooped down and kissed the turned-away face. Eleanorrose up to meet the embrace, and they held each other fast for a littlewhile, 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 youdo the Lord's will in this business--not your own. "

"Aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor presently, "why was this not told me longago--before Mr. Rhys went away?" She spoke the words with difficulty. 

"It is too long a story to tell to-night, " Mrs. Caxton said afterhesitating. "He was entirely ignorant of what your feeling might betowards him--ignorant too how far you might be willing to do and darefor Christ's sake--and doubtful how far the world and Mr. Carlislemight be able to prevail with you if they had a fair chance. He couldnot 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 saidwith 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 youabout them to-morrow. It is too long a story for to-night; and you havequite 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 wentto her own room. Eleanor's was cosy and bright in winter as well as insummer; a fire of the peculiar fuel used in the region of theneighbourhood, made of cakes of coal and sand, glowed in the grate, andthe whole colouring of the drapery and the furniture was of that warmrich cast which comforts the eye and not a little disposes the mind tobe comfortable in conformity. The only wood fire used in the house wasthe one in the sitting parlour. Before her grate-full of glowing coalsEleanor sat down; and looked at the two letters she held in her hand. Looked at the handwriting too, with curious scrutiny, before sheventured to open and read either paper. Wondered too, with an odd sidethought, why her fingers should tremble so in handling these, when noletter of Mr. Carlisle's writing had ever reminded her that her fingershad 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 thehand of Mrs. Caxton, for Miss Eleanor Powle. " That note Eleanor'slittle 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 forwhom they are written, unless she be favourably inclined both to themand to me; yet in the extreme doubt which possesses me whether thatcondition will be ever fulfilled, and consequently whether I am notwriting what no one will ever read, I find it very difficult to sayanything. Something charges me with foolhardiness, and something withpresumption; but there is a something else, which is stronger, thatoverthrows the charges and bids me go on. 

"If you ever see these lines, dear Eleanor, you will know already whatthey have to tell you; but it is fit you should have it in my ownwords; 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 thanyou--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 inreply?

"When you read this I shall be at a distance--before I can read youranswer I shall be at the other side of the globe. I am not writing togratify a vague sentiment, but with a definite purpose--and even, though it mocks me, a definite hope. It is much to ask--I hardly dareput it in words--it is hardly possible--that you should come to me. Butif you are ready to do and venture anything in the service ofChrist--and if you are willing to share a life that is wholly given toGod to be spent where and how he pleases, and that is to take up itsportion for the present, and probably for long, in the depths of SouthSea barbarism--let your own heart tell you what welcome you willreceive. 

"I can say no more. May my Lord bless and keep you. May you know thefulness of joy that Jesus can give his beloved. May you want nothingthat 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 fromthis far-away place. I say to myself that it is presumption; and yet Iyield to the impulse. Perhaps it is partly the wish to enjoy once atleast even this fancied communion with you, before some news comeswhich 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 thatI see from my window, the banana tree with its bunches of fruit andbroad bright leaves just before my door--this very hot north wind thatis blowing and making it so difficult to do anything and almost tobreathe--all remind me that I am in another land, and by the very forceof contrast, the fresh Welsh mountains, the green meadows, the coolsweet air of Plassy--and your face--come before me. Your face, most ofall. My mind can think of nothing it would be so refreshing to see. Iwill write what I please; for you will never read it if the readingwould be impertinent; and something tells me you _will_ read it. 

"This is one of the hot months, when exertion is at times verydifficult. The heat is oppressive and takes away strength andendurance. But it is for my Master. That thought cures all. To be wearyfor Christ, is not to be weary; it is better than any delights withouthim. So each day is a boon; and each day that I have been able to fillup well with work for God, I rejoice and give thanks. There is no limithere to the work to be done; it presses upon us at all points. Wecannot teach all that ask for teaching; we can hardly attend to thecalls of the sick; hundreds and hundreds stand stretching out theirhands to us with the prayer that we would come and tell them aboutreligion, and we cannot go! Our hands are already full; our heartsbreak 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 wecould work all night as well as all day. Above all _I_ want to be morelike my Lord. When I am all Christ's, _then_ I shall be to the praiseof 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 youare, you are satisfied with less than satisfies Christ. Find out whereyou 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 tobe holy. But around them all is darkness--blacker than you can evenconceive. Where the Sun of righteousness has shined, there the goldenbeams of Fiji's morning lie; it is a bright spot here and there; butour eyes long for the day. We know and believe it is coming. But when?I understand out here the meaning of that recommendation--'Pray yetherefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourersinto the harvest. ' You can hardly understand it in England. Do you praythat prayer, Eleanor?

"Before I left England I wrote you a note. Amid the exquisite pleasureand pain of which lurked a hope--without which it would not have beenwritten, but which I now see to have been very visionary. It ispossible that circumstances may be so that the note may have been readby you; in that case Mrs. Caxton will give you this; but at thedistance of space and time that intervenes now, and with coolerthoughts and better knowledge, I feel it to be scarcely possible thatyou 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. Ithink I was unreasonable to ask--and I will never think youunreasonable for refusing--so extravagant a demand. Even if you werewilling, your friends would not allow it. And I would not disguise fromyou that the difficulties and dangers to be met in coming here, aremore and greater than can possibly have been represented to you. Humanly speaking, that is; I have myself no fear, and never have feltany. But the evils that surround us--that come to our knowledge andunder our very eyes--are real and tangible and dreadful. So much themore reason for our being here;--but so much the less likely that you, gently reared and delicately cared for, will be allowed to risk yourdelicate nurture in this land of savages. There is cannibalism here, and to the most dreadful extent; there is all the defilement of lifeand manners that must be where human beings have no respect forhumanity; and all this must come more or less under the immediateknowledge and notice of those that live here. The Lord God is a sun andshield; we dwell in him and not in the darkness; nevertheless our eyessee what our hearts grieve over. I could not shield you from itentirely were you here; you would have to endure what in England youcould not endure. There are minor trials many and often to beencountered; some of which you will have learned from other letters ofthe mission. 

"The heathen around us are not to be trusted, and will occasionally laytheir hands upon something we need very much, and carry it off. Notlong ago the house of Mr. Thomas, on a neighbouring station, wasentered at night and robbed of almost all the wearing apparel itcontained. The entrance was effected silently, by cutting into the thinreed and grass wall of the house; and nobody knew anything of thematter till next morning. Then the signs shewed that the depredatorshad been prepared to commit violence if resisted. I do not know--but Iam inclined to think such a thing would not happen in my house. I havebeen enabled to gain the good will of the people very generally, bykindness to the sick, &c. ; and two or three of the most powerful chiefsin this vicinity have declared themselves each formally my 'friend'--atitle of honour which I scrupulously give and take with them. Nevertheless they are not to be relied upon. What of that? The eternalGod 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 herewho does not love Christ well enough to suffer the loss of all thingsfor his sake, if necessary; for it may be demanded of him. He wants thehelmet of salvation on his head; but with that, it does not matterwhere we are--glory to the Captain of our salvation! Fiji is very nearheaven, Eleanor; nearer than England; and if I dared, I would say, Iwish you were here;--but I do not dare. I do not know what is best. Ileave you to your own judgment of what you ought to do, and to thatbetter direction which will tell you. For me, I know that I shall notwant; not so but that I can find my supply; and soon I shall be where Ishall not want at all. Meanwhile every day is a glad day to me, for itis given to my Lord; and Jesus is with me. The people hear the wordgladly, and with some fruit of it continually our hearts are cheered. Iwould not be anywhere else than I am. My choice would be, if I had mychoice, to live and die in Fiji. 

"I dare not trust myself to say the thoughts that come surging up forutterance; 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 resignedthe expectations of a moment. But it is no harm for me to say I loveyou as well as ever; _that_ I shall do, I think, till I die; although Ishall never see you again, and dare not promise myself I shall everagain write to you. It may be it will be best not, even as a friend, todo that. Perhaps as a friend I could not. It is not as a friend, that Isign myself now, "Rowland Rhys. "

Poor Eleanor! She was of all people in the world the least given to besentimental or soft-hearted in a foolish way; but strong as she was, there was something in these letters--or some mixture of things--thatentered her heart like an arrow through the joints of an armour, andfound her as defenceless. Tears came with that resistless, ceaseless, measureless flow, as when the secret nerve of tenderness has beenreached, and every barrier of pride or self-consideration is brokendown or passed over. So keen the touch was to Eleanor, that weepingcould not quiet it. After all it was only a heavy summer shower--not awinter storm. Eleanor hushed her sobs at last to begin her prayers; andthere the rest of the night left her. The morning was dawning grey inthe 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 beforeher; Mrs. Caxton watched her as she came in; she was ceremoniouslyputting the fire in best burning condition, and brushing up the ashesfrom the hearth. As Mrs. Caxton came near, Eleanor looked up and asilent greeting passed between them; very affectionate, but silentevidently of purpose. Neither of them was ready to speak. The bell wasrung, the servants were gathered; and immediately after prayersbreakfast was brought in. It was a silent meal for the first half ofit. Mrs. Caxton still watched Eleanor, whose eyes did not readily meethers. What about her? Her manner was as usual, one would have said, yetit was not; nor was she. A little delicate undefined difference madeitself felt; and that Mrs. Caxton was studying. A little added grace; alittle added deftness and alacrity; Mrs. Caxton had seen it in thatorder 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 toperceive it. Though her face was grave enough, there was a beauty inthe lines of it that yesterday had not seen; a nameless witness in thecorners of her mouth, that told tales the tongue would not. Mrs. Caxtonlooked on and saw it and read it, for half the breakfast time, beforeshe spoke. Maybe she had a secret sigh or two to cover; but at any ratethere 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 blushgrowing universal. 

"Have you decided, my love?"

Eleanor leaned her head upon her hand, as if with the question came theremembrance of last night's burden of thoughts; but her answer was aquiet low "yes. "

"May I know--for I feel myself responsible to a degree in thismatter, --may I know, on what ground?"

Eleanor's look was worth five hundred pounds. The little glance ofsurprise and consciousness--the flash of hidden light, there was noneed to ask from what magazine, answered so completely, soinvoluntarily. She cast down her eyes immediately and answered in wordssedate enough--

"Because I am unable to come to any other decision, ma'am. "

"But Eleanor, my dear, " said Mrs. Caxton, --"do you know, Mr. Rhyshimself would be unwilling you should come to him for his own sakealone--in Fiji. "

Eleanor turned away from the table at that and covered her face withher hands; a perfect rush of confusion bringing over face and neck andalmost 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 aswell as I can. I think I would go anywhere and do anything where I sawclearly my work and my place were put for me. I do not know anythingmore about it. "

"My love, that is enough. I believe you. I entirely approve yourdecision. I spoke, because I needed to ask the question _he_ would haveasked if he had been here. Mr. Rhys has written to me very stringentlyon the subject. "

"So he has to me, ma'am. "

"If you have settled that question with your conscience, my dear, thereis no more necessary to be said about it. Conscience should be clear onthat point, and the question settled securely. If it is not, you hadbetter 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 solepurpose of taking her in her arms and kissing her. Grave, earnestkisses, on brow and cheek, speaking a heart full of sympathy, full oftenderness, full of appreciation of all that this decision of Eleanor'sinvolved, full of satisfaction with it too. A very unusual sort ofdemonstration from Mrs. Caxton, as was the occasion that called for it. Eleanor received it as the seal of the whole business between them. Heraunt's arms detained her lovingly while she pressed her lips to everypart of Eleanor's face; then Mrs. Caxton went back to her place andpoured herself out another cup of coffee. Sentiment she had plenty; shewas not in the least bit sentimental. She creamed her coffeethoughtfully and broke bread and eat it, before she came out withanother 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 beovercome. 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 shedoes not oppose, or that her opposition is set aside, I come back to myquestion. When will you go?"

Eleanor looked up doubtfully again. "I don't know, ma'am--I supposeopportunities of going only occur now and then. "

"That is all--with long intervals sometimes. Opportunities for _your_going would come only rarely. You must think about it, Eleanor; for wemust 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 andsend it, we may get an answer from him possibly in twentymonths--possibly in twenty-four months. Then if you wait four or fivemonths for an opportunity to make the voyage, and have a reasonablygood passage, you may see your friend in three years from now. But itmight well happen that letters might be delayed, and that you mightwait much longer than four or five months for a ship and company inwhich you could sail; so that the three years might be nearer four. "

"I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton, " Eleanor said, while thecolour which had been varying in her cheeks fixed itself in two deepcrimson spots. 

Mrs. Caxton was now silent on her part, slowly finishing her coffee andputting the cups together on the tray. She left it for her niece tospeak next. 

"I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton, " Eleanor repeated after alittle while, --"and--"

"Well my love?"

"Aunt Caxton, " said the girl, looking up now while her cheeks and browwere all one crimson flush--"is it unmaidenly in me--would it be--to goso, 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, --"Idid that last night; I have thought of everything about it; and myfeeling was--"

"Well, my love?"

"My feeling, as far as I am concerned--was to take the first goodopportunity that offered. "

"My love, that is just what I thought you would do. And what I wouldhave you do, if you go at all. It is not unmaidenly. Simple honestfrankness, is the most maidenly thing in the world, when it is awoman's time to speak. The fact that your speaking must be action doesnot alter the matter. When it takes two years for people to hear fromeach other, life would very soon be spent in the asking of a fewquestions and getting the answers to them. I am a disinterestedwitness, Eleanor; for when you are gone, all I care for in this worldis 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. Rhyswants you even more than I do; and I have known for some time that youwanted something. And besides--I shall only be separated from you inbody. "

Eleanor made no response. 

"What are you going to do now?" was Mrs. Caxton's question in her usualcalm tone. 

"Write to mamma. "

"Very well. Do not send your letter to her without letting mine go withit. "

"But aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor lifting up her head, --"my only fearis--I am quite satisfied in my own mind, and I do not care forpeople--my only fear is, lest Mr. Rhys himself should think I come tooeasily. You know, he is fastidious in his notions. " She spoke withgreat difficulty and with her face a flame. 

"Your fear will go away when you have heard my story, " said Mrs. Caxtontranquilly. "I will give you that to-night. He is fastidious; but he isa sensible man. "

Quieted with which suggestion, Eleanor went off to her desk. 

CHAPTER XI. 

IN CHANGES. 

 "But never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground, Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her. "

Various letters were written that day. In the evening the two ladiescame together again cheerfully. The time between had not all been spentin letter-writing, for the world does not stand still for love matters. Eleanor had been out the whole afternoon on visits of kindness and helpto sick and poor people. Mrs. Caxton had been obliged to attend to theless interesting company of one or two cheese-factors. At the tea-tablethe 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. Icannot fancy it. "

"Well, we shall see. The world is a curious world; and the wind doesnot always blow from the quarter whence we expect it. We must wait andpray. "

"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. Howcame you to know what I never knew?"

"That is my story, " said Mrs. Caxton. "We will let the table be clearedfirst, my dear. "

So it was done. But Eleanor left her work by her side to-night, andlooked into her aunt's face to listen. 

"I never should have known about it, child, till you had, if you hadbeen 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 onthe subject than we were then. It is very possible. "

"How, ma'am?"

"You disappeared, you know, in one night, and were gone. When Mr. Rhyscame home, the next day or the same day, I saw that he was very muchdisappointed. That roused my suspicions of him; they had been onlydoubtful before. He is not a person to shew what he thinks, unless hechooses. "

"So I knew; that made me surprised. "

"I saw that he was very much disappointed, and looked very sober; buthe said hardly anything about it, and I was forced to be silent. Thenin 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 thenin a very few days; for he wanted some time in London and elsewhere. Isaw there was something more than leaving Plassy, upon his mind; he wasgraver than that could make him, I knew; and he was giving up somethingmore than England, I knew by is prayers. 

"One night we were sitting here by the fire--it was a remarkably chillevening 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; toobusy with his own thoughts to talk to me. I was taken with a spirit ofmeddling which does not very often possess me; and asked him how muchlonger he had to stay. He said how long, in so many words; they wereshort, as pain makes words. 

"'How comes it, ' I asked, plunging into the matter, 'that you do nottake a wife with you? like everybody else. '

"He answered, in dry phrases, 'that it would be presumption in him tosuppose that anybody would go with him, if he were to ask. '

"I said quietly, I thought he was mistaken; that anybody who was worthyof him would go; and it could not be _presumption_ to ask anybody else. 

"'You do not realize, Mrs. Caxton, how much it would be asking of anyone, ' 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 regardfor me, ' he said. 

"I can't tell what in his manner and words told me there was morebehind. They were a little short and dry; and his ordinary way ofspeaking is short sometimes, but never with a sort of edge like this--ahard edge. You know it is as frank and simple when he speaks short aswhen his words come out in the gentlest way. It hurt me, for I saw thatsomething hurt him. 

"I asked if there was not anybody in England good enough for him? Hesaid there were a great many too good. 

"'Mr. Rhys, ' said I, --I don't know what possessed me to be so bold, --'Ihope you are not going to leave your heart behind with somebody, whenyou go to Fiji?'

"He got up and walked once or twice through the room, went out andpresently came back again. I was afraid I had offended him, and I was agood deal troubled; but I did not know what to say. He sat down againand spoke first. 

"'Mrs. Caxton, ' said he, 'since you have probed the truth, I may aswell 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 and _not_ speak toher?'

"'Why should I tell her?' he said. 

"'There might be several answers given to that, ' I said; 'but the bestone at present seems to be, why should you _not?_'

"'For several reasons, ' he said. 'In the first place I do not know atall whether Miss Powle has that degree of love to Christ that she wouldbe willing to forsake all her earthly prospects--home and friends--forhard work in his service. In the second place, even if she have that, Ihave not the slightest reason to believe that she--that she caresenough 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 shehave the same secret feeling towards you that you have towards her. Shecannot 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 thecertainties--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 yoursupposition. Her friends would never permit her to marry a man with mylot in life;--and I do not know that I ought to ask her, even if theywould. 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 worldcould 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 aspossible immediately after. 

"'I have not meant to be selfish, ' he said; 'But I could not take awoman to Fiji, who had not thoroughly considered the matter and countedthe cost. That could not be done in a little while. The world has afair chance now to see if it can weaken Miss Powle's principles orovercome her faithfulness to them. It is better that she should tryherself 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 knowanything 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 takentowards this subject. Is it proper for me to ask, whether you have anyfoundation for them beyond your general knowledge of human nature andyour good will towards me? I mean--whether you, as a friend, see anyground of hope for me?'

"'If you were going to stay in England, ' I said, 'I would answer nosuch question. Every man must make his own observations and run his ownrisk. But these circumstances are different. And appealed to as afriend--and answering on my own observations simply--I should say, thatI think your case not hopeless. '

"I could see the colour rise in his cheek; but he sat quite still anddid not speak, till it faded again. 

"'I have never heard a word on the subject, ' I told him. 'I do not sayI am certain of anything. I may mistake. Only, seeing you are going tothe other end of the world, without the chance of finding out anythingfor yourself, I think it fair to tell you what, as a woman, I shouldjudge of the case. '

"'Why do you tell me?' he said quickly. 

"'I am but answering your question. You must judge whether the answeris worth anything. '

"He half laughed again, at himself; at least I could see the beginningof a smile; but he was too terribly in earnest to be anything butserious. He sat silent; got up and fidgetted round the room; then cameand stood by the chimney piece looking down at me. 

"'Mrs. Caxton, ' he said, 'I am going to venture to ask something fromyou--to fulfil a contingent commission. When I am gone, if Miss Powlereturns to you, or when you have otherwise opportunity, --will you, ifyou can, find out the truth of her feeling on these subjects, which Ihave failed to find out? You tempt me beyond my power ofself-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 maybe, though I dare not and do not hope it;--if it be so, then you maytell her all I have confessed to you to-night. '

"'Why?'

"'You are uncommonly practical to-night, ' he said. 'I could have butone 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 evercome. But I am unable to go and leave the chance changed into animpossibility. '

"'We are talking of what _may_ be, ' I said. 'But you do not supposethat 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 timethat must pass between letter and letter? When should I write?'

"'Now--this evening. I am not thinking of such courtship as took placein 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 toact for me. '

"'I shall reconsider the question of acting, ' I said, 'if I have nocredentials to produce. I cannot undertake to tell anything to Eleanormerely 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 youdid this morning--only with a very different face; and then with a halflaugh he said I was making a fool of him, and he went off. I satstill--and in a few minutes he came down and handed me that note foryou. "

Eleanor's cheeks would have rivalled the scarlet Lobelia or IndianMallow, 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 hermother say? And Eleanor in her secret heart looked at the probabilityof obstinate opposition in that quarter; and then of long, long waitingand delay; perhaps never to be ended but with the time and the power ofdoing what now her heart longed to do. The more she thought of it, theless she could imagine that her mother would yield her consent; or thather opposition would be anything but determined and unqualified. Thenwhat could she do? Eleanor sighed. 

"No, " said Mrs. Caxton. "Have patience, my dear, and believe that allwill go right--_however it goes_, Eleanor. We will do our part; but wemust be content with our part. There is another part, which is theLord's; let him do that, and let us say it is well, Eleanor. Till wehave learnt that, we have not learnt our lesson. "

"I do say it, and will, aunt Caxton, " said the girl. But she saidnothing 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 atPlassy just where she might be at this time, nor how far the Plassyletters might have to travel in order to reach her; for communicationwas 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, probablyfor ever, the only living thing that was very dear to her. That wasEleanor now. They were very affectionate to each other those days, verytender and thoughtful for each other; not given to much talking. Eleanor was a good deal out of the house; partly busy with her errandsof kindness, partly stilling her troublesome and impatient thoughtswith long roamings on foot or on horseback over the mountains and moors. 

"The spring has come, aunt Caxton, " she said, coming in herself oneday, fresh enough to be spring's impersonation. "I heard a blackbirdand a wheat-ear; and I have found a violet for you. "

"You must have heard blackbirds before. And you have got more thanviolets there. "

"Yes, ma'am--not much. I found the Nepeta and the ivy-leaved Veronicaunder the hedge; and whitlow grass near the old tower. That's thewillow catkin you know of course--and sloe. That's all--but it'sspring. "

A shade came over the faces of both. Where might another spring findher. 

"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 colourshe had brought in with her. It returned again however soon. 

Mrs. Powle declared that according to all _her_ experience and power ofjudging of the world, her daughter and her sister Mrs. Caxton were bothentirely crazy. She had never, in her life, heard of anything soutterly absurd and ridiculous as the proposition upon which they hadrequired her to give an opinion. Her opinion found no words in theEnglish language strong enough in which to give it. That Eleanor shouldbe willing to forego every earthly prospect of good or pleasure, waslike Eleanor; that is, it was like the present Eleanor; an entirelyinfatuated, blind, fanatical, unreasonable thing. Mrs. Powle had givenup the expectation of anything wiser or better from her, until yearsand the consequences of her folly should have taught her when it wouldbe too late. Why Eleanor, if she wished to throw herself away, shouldpitch upon the South Seas for the place of her retirement, was a pieceof the same mysterious fatuity which marked the whole proceeding. Whyshe could think of no pleasanter wedding journey than a voyage oftwelve thousand miles in search of a husband, was but anotherincomprehensible point. Mrs. Powle had a curiosity to know what Eleanorexpected to live upon out there, where she presumed the nativespractised no agriculture and wheaten flour was a luxury unknown? Andwhat she expected to _do?_ However, having thus given her opinion, Mrs. Powle went on to say, that she must quite decline to give it. Sheregarded Eleanor as entirely the child of her aunt Caxton, as sheunderstood was also Mrs. Caxton's own view; most justly, in Mrs. Powle's opinion, since conversion and adoption to Mrs. Caxton's ownfamily and mind must be amply sufficient to supersede the accident ofbirth. At any rate, Mrs. Powle claimed no jurisdiction in the matter;did not choose to exercise any. She felt herself incompetent. Onedaughter she had still remaining, whom she hoped to keep her own, guarding her against the influences which had made so wide a separationbetween her eldest and the family and sphere to which she belonged. Julia, she hoped, would one day do her honour. As for the islands ofthe South Seas, or the peculiar views and habits of life entertained bythose white people who chose them for their residence, Mrs. Powledeclared she was incapable from very ignorance of understanding orgiving judgment about them. She made the whole question, together withher daughter, over to her sister Mrs. Caxton, who she did not doubtwould do wisely according to her notions. But as they were not thenotions of the world generally, they were quite incomprehensible to thewriter, and in a sphere entirely beyond and without her cognizance. Shehoped Eleanor would be happy--if it were not absurd to hope animpossibility. 

But on one point the letter was clear, if on no other. Eleanor shouldnot come home. She had ruined her own prospects; Mrs. Powle could nothelp that; she should not ruin Julia's. Whether she stayed in Englandor whether she went on her fool's voyage, _this_ was a certain thing. She should not see Julia, to infect her. Mrs. Powle desired to beinformed of Eleanor's movements; that if she went she herself mightmeet her in London before she sailed. But she would not let her seeJulia either then or at any time. 

This cruel letter broke Eleanor down completely. It settled thequestion of her life indeed; and settled it according to her wish andagainst her fears; but for all that, it was a letter of banishment andrenunciation. With something of the feeling which makes a woundedcreature run to shelter, Eleanor gathered up her papers and went downto Mrs. Caxton; threw them into her lap, and kneeling beside her putherself in her arms. 

"What is it, my child?" said Mrs. Caxton. "What does your mother say toyou?"

"She gives her consent--but she gives me up to you, aunt Caxton. Shecounts me your child and not hers. "

"My love, I asked her to do so. You have been mine, in my own mind, fora long time past. My Eleanor!"--And Mrs. Caxton's kiss and her warmclasping arms spoke more than her words. 

"But she renounces me--and she will not let me see Julia. "--Eleanor wasin 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 Juliaagain!"--

"Were you faithful to Julia while you were with her?"

"Yes--I think so--while I could. I had hardly any chance the lastwinter I was at home; we were never together; but I seized what Icould. "

"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 wehave to do is to be faithful, and then trust. You recollect the wordsof 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 seem Like 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 thou Hast 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 canpossibly leave England. I think your mother will withdraw herprohibition before that time. Meanwhile--"

Eleanor lay with her head on Mrs. Caxton's bosom, her brown eyeslooking 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 roundEleanor, --"if I were not obliged so soon to make it over to somebodyelse. 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!'"

CHAPTER XII. 

IN WAITING. 

 "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 couldnot however get rid of her surprise that her mother had permitted thetenor of these letters to be what it was. What had moved Mrs. Powle, soto act against all her likings and habits of action? How came she toallow her daughter to go to the South Seas and be a missionary?

Several things which Eleanor knew nothing of, and which so affected thedrift of Mrs. Powle's current of life that she was only, according tocustom, sailing with it and not struggling against it. When people seemto 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. Forone thing, to name the greatest first, Mr. Carlisle was unmistakeablyturning his attention to another lady, a new star in the world ofsociety; an earl's daughter and an heiress. Whether heart-whole or not, which was best known to himself, Mr. Carlisle was prosecuting hisaddresses in this new quarter with undoubted zeal and determination. Itwas not the time for Eleanor now to come home! Let her do anythingelse, --was the dictate of pride. _Now_ to come home, or even not tocome home, remaining Eleanor Powle, was to confess in the world's eye alamentably lost game; to take place as a rejected or vainly ambitiousgirl; the _would-have-been_ lady of Rythdale. Anything but that!Eleanor might almost better die at once. She would not only have ruinedher own prospects, but would greatly injure those of Julia, on whom hermother's hopes and pride were now all staked. Alfred was taken from herand put under guardians; Mrs. Powle did not build anything on him; hewas a boy, and when he was a man he would be only Alfred Powle. Juliapromised to be a beauty; on her making a fine match rested all Mrs. Powle's expectations from this world; and she was determined to spareno pains, expense, nor precautions. Therefore she resolved that thesisters should not be together, cost what it might. Good bye to all hercares or hopes on Julia's behalf, looking to a great establishment, ifJulia became a Methodist! She might go on a farm like her aunt and sellcheeses. The thought of those cheeses froze the blood in Mrs. Powle'sveins; that was a characteristic of good blood, she firmly believed. Therefore on every account, for every reason, nothing better couldhappen than that Eleanor should go to the South Seas. She would escapethe shame of coming home; Julia would be out of danger of religiouscontamination; and she herself would be saved from the necessary odiumof keeping one daughter in banishment and the other in seclusion; whichodium she must incur if both of them remained in England and neither ofthem 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 religiousenthusiasm--a visionary, fanatical excitement. Nay, there could be madeeven a little _éclat_ about it. There would be no mortification, at anyrate, comparable to that which must attend supposed overthrown schemesand disappointed ambition. Eleanor had chosen her own course, backed byher wealthy relation, Mrs. Caxton, who had adopted her; and whose viewswere entirely not of this world. Mrs. Powle deplored it, of course, butwas unable to help it. Besides, Mrs. Caxton had answered, on her ownknowledge, for the excellent character and superior qualities of thegentleman Eleanor was to marry; there was no fault to be found with himat all, except that he was a fanatic; and as Eleanor was a fanaticherself, that was only a one-sided objection. 

Yes, Mrs. Caxton had answered for all that, on her own knowledge, ofmany years' standing; and she had said something more, which alsoweighed with Mrs. Powle and which Mrs. Powle could also mention amongthe good features of the case, without stating that it had had theforce of an inducement with herself. Mrs. Caxton had asked indeed to bepermitted to consider Eleanor her own, and had promised in that case tomake Eleanor entirely her own care, both during Mrs. Caxton's life andafterwards; leaving Mrs. Powle free to devote all her fortune to Juliathat would have been shared with Julia's sister. Mrs. Powle's meanswere not in her estimation large; she wanted every penny of them forthe perfecting and carrying out of her plans which regarded heryoungest daughter; she consented that the elder should own anothermother and guardian. Mrs. Powle agreed to it all. But not satisfiedwith any step of the whole affair nevertheless, which all displeasedher, from beginning to end, her own action included, she expressed herdetermination to Eleanor in terms which half broke Eleanor's heart; andleft a long, lingering, sore spot there. To Mrs. Caxton Mrs. Powle'swriting was much better worded; civil if not kind, and well mannered ifnot motherly. 

The thing was done, at all events; Eleanor was formally made over toanother mother and left free to do whatever her new guardian pleased. Letters of a different sort of temper were sent off upon their longjourney to the South Seas; and there began a busy time at Plassy, inanticipation of Eleanor's following them. It was still very uncertainwhen that might be; opportunities must be waited for; such anopportunity as would satisfy Mrs. Caxton. In the mean while a greatdeal of business was on hand. Mrs. Caxton even made a journey up toLondon and took Eleanor with her; for the sake of inquiries andarrangements which could not be attended to from a distance. For thesake of purchases too, which could be made nowhere but in London. ForMrs. Caxton was bent, not only on supplying Eleanor with all that couldbe thought of in the way of outfit; but also on getting together toaccompany or precede her everything that could be sent that might beuseful or helpful to Mr. Rhys or comfortable in the household; inshort, to transfer England as nearly as possible to Fiji. As freightsof course were expensive, all these matters must be found andcompressed in the smallest compass they could possibly know as theirlimits; and Mrs. Caxton was very busy. London did not hold them but afortnight; 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 gotready; and before and after that was true, Eleanor's visits among herneighbours and poor people were the same as ever. She had strength andspirit enough for all calls upon either; and her sweet diligence seemedto be even more than ever, now that work at Plassy was drawing towardsa close. Still Eleanor gathered the spoils of the moors and thehedge-rows, as she went and came on her errands; climbed the mountainon Powis and explored the rocks and the waterfalls on her way. As usualher hands came home full. The house was gay with broom again in itsseason; before that the violets and wood anemone had made the tea-tableand the breakfast table sweet with their presence. Blue-bells andbutter-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 atit without an inward smile and sigh, remembering the cheering littlecouplet which attached to it by old usage; and Julia from whose lipsshe 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 blossomscame with crane's bill and flax, campion and willow-herb, speedwell andvetchling. Any one well acquainted with the wild things that grow andblossom in the land, might have known any day what time of the year itwas by going into Mrs. Caxton's sitting parlour and using his eyes. Until the purple ling and loosestrife, gave place to mint and maidenpink and late meadow-sweet; and then the hop vine and meadow saffronproclaimed that summer was over. But ferns had their representatives atall times. 

Summer was over; and no chance for Eleanor's sailing had yet presenteditself. Preparations were all made; and the two ladies lived on inwaiting and in the enjoyment of each other, and doubtless with amixture of thoughts that were not enjoyment. But a very sweet even glowof love and peace and patience filled the house. Letters were written;and once and again letters had arrived, even from Mr. Rhys. They toldof everything going on at his station; of his work and pleasures; ofthe progress the truth was making; and the changes coming even while helooked, upon the population of the islands, their manners andcharacter. There never were letters, I suppose, more thoroughly readand studied and searched out in every detail, than all those letterswere by Eleanor; for every fact was of importance to her; and themanner of every word told her something. They told her what made hereyes fill and her pulse beat quick. But among them there was not a wordto herself. No, and not even a word about herself. In vain Eleanorhoped for it and searched for it. There was not even an allusion thatlooked her way. 

"Do you want to know what I am doing?" Mr. Rhys wrote in one of theseletters. "You see by my date that I am not in the place I last wrotefrom. I am alone on this island, which has never had a residentmissionary and which has people enough that need the care of one; so ithas been decided that I should pitch my tent here for some months. There is not a large population--not quite five hundred people in thewhole island; but almost all of them that are grown up are professingChristian--members of the church, and not disgracing their profession. The history of the church in this place is wonderful and even ofromantic interest. One of their chiefs, being in another part of Fiji, fell in with a chief who was a Christian. From him he learned somethingof the new religion, and carried back to Ono thus much of truth--thatJehovah is the only God and that all worship and praise is his due. Further than this, and the understanding that the seventh day should beespecially spent in his service, the Ono chief knew nothing. Was notthat a little seed for a great tree to grow from? But his island hadjust been ravaged by disease and by war; in their distress the peoplehad applied in vain to their old gods to save them; they were convincednow from what they heard that help is in the Lord alone, and theyresolved to seek him. But they knew not the Lord, nor his ways, andthere was no one to teach them. Fancy that company of heathensrenouncing heathenism--setting apart the seventh day for worship, preparing food beforehand so that the day might be hallowed, putting ontheir 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 intercoursewith heaven, they bethought them to apply to one now, and told him whatI they wanted. I do not understand what influenced the man; buthowever, heathen priest of a heathen god as he was, he consented toofficiate for this Christian service. The priest came; the assembly satdown; and the priest made a prayer, after this fashion as it has beenreported to me. _He_ did not then renounce heathenism, you understand. 

"'Lord, Jehovah! here are thy people; they worship thee. I turn my backon thee for the present, and am on another tack, worshipping anothergod. But do thou bless these thy people; keep them from harm, and dothem 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, thepeople are nearly all Christians, and not in name only; and all thechildren are brought to be taught. Here am I; don't you think I am in agood place? But I am here only for a little while; more cannot bespared to so small a population at this time. 

"To get here, one has to shoot something such a gulf as I described toyou at Vulanga. The barrier reef has a small opening. At particulartimes of tide a boat can go through; but with the rush of waves fromwithout, meeting the tremendous current from within, it is an excitingbusiness; somewhat dangerous as well as fearful. The ships cannot getinside the barrier. The night I came, canoes came out to meet me, bringing a present of yams as their contribution to our fund; theybrought as many as the vessel could find room for. In the canoe withthe Ono people I felt myself with friends; I had visited the placebefore, and they knew me. The current made fearfully hard work forthem; but it was love's labour; they felt about me, I suppose, something as the Galatians did towards Paul. The next day was Sunday. Ipreached to an attentive congregation, and had a happy time. Now I willgive you a notion of my run of employments at the present time. 

"First. Playing bookbinder. Fact. One has to play all sorts of thingshere--and the more the better. My work was to stitch, fold, (foldfirst) and cover, so many copies of the New Testament as I had broughtwith me--printed, but in sheets. I did them strong! more than that Iwill not answer for; but I wish I could send you a copy. It would beonly a curiosity in art, though; you could not read it. It is anadmirable translation in Fijian. As I have had but very slight previouspractice in bookbinding, my rate of progress was at first somewhatslow; and after a few days of solitary labour I was glad to accept theoffer of help from four or five native apprentices--some of our localpreachers. They took to the work kindly; and in five weeks we finishedthe edition--sixty copies. I could do the next sixty quicker. These arethe first Fijian testaments in Ono, and you can understand--or youcannot--what a treasure. The natives who came to purchase them found nofault with the binding, I assure you. So you see I have been bookselleras well as the other thing; and I received pay for my testaments in_sinnet_--you know what that is. It is as good as money for the missionuse here in Fiji. During these bookbinding weeks I was makingexcursions hither and thither, to preach and baptize. Twice a week Itook a time to see the local preachers and teachers and examine themand hear them read and talk to them and be talked to by them. EveryTuesday and Friday I did this. The whole course of the week's work isnow something like the following:

"Sunday begins with a prayer-meeting. Afterwards old and young have acatechism exercise together. Morning and afternoon, preaching. 

"Monday, the morning there is a children's school, and the afternoon aschool for grown people. I question both classes on the sermons of thepreceding day; and I hope English people have as good memories. Theafternoon school is followed by a prayer-meeting. Tuesdays and FridaysI have the teachers' meeting in addition. 

"Wednesday I preach, have leaders' meeting, and give out work for theweek to come. 

"Thursday, preaching at one of the neighbouring towns, and a sort ofyoung 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 fewthat cannot be spared are claimed by the mosquitos, which hold theirhigh court and revel here at Ono; of all places on the earth that Iknow, their headquarters. When I was here before with Brother Leffertsand others, two of them could not sit still to read something thatwanted to be read; they walked the floor, one holding the candle, theother the paper; both fighting mosquitos with both hands. I am of aless excitable temperament--for I contrive to live a little morequietly. 

"Shall I tell you some of these native testimonies of Christians who alittle while ago worshipped idols? At our love-feast lately some thirtyor forty spoke. They did my heart good. So may they yours. These peoplesaid but few words, full of feeling; my report cannot all give theeffect. I wish it could. 

"One old chief, who could hardly speak for feeling, said, 'These arenew things to me in these days;' (he meant the love-feasts) 'I did notknow 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. , directme) 'I desire not to govern myself. I know that I am a child of God: Iknow that God is my father. My friends wrote for me to go to Tonga; butI 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 inmy work. I love all men. I do not fear death; one thing I fear, theLord. "

"Leva Soko, a female class-leader, a very holy woman, said, --this isbut 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 thatdeath would only unite me to God. '

"A teacher, a native of Ono, who had gone to a much less pleasant placeto 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 thatI might preach Christ. I was struck with stones twice while in my ownhouse; but I could bear it. When the canoes came, they pillaged mygarden; 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 thatI 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 ourteachers' meeting we were reading the nineteenth chapter of John. Anold teacher read the eighteenth verse in his turn--the words, 'Wherethey crucified him, and two other with him, on either side one, andJesus in the midst. ' He could hardly get through it, and then burstinto tears and wept aloud. This man was a cannibal once. And now hislife speaks for the truth of his tears. 

"Good night. The mosquitos are not favourable to epistle writing. I amwell. Remember me, as I remember you. 

"R. R. "

"Aunt Caxton, " said Eleanor after reading this letter for the second orthird time, --"have we a supply of mosquito netting among my boxes? Icould get the better of the mosquitos, I think. "

"How would you like to help bind books?" said Mrs. Caxton. "Ortranslate? Mr. Rhys seems to be about that business, by what he says inthe 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 yourletters could receive an answer by this time. They have perhaps butbarely got to Mr. Rhys this minute. And reason would tell you furtherthat there is no ground for supposing he is in any different mind fromthat expressed when he wrote to you. "

"But--you know--since then he does not say one word about it, nor aboutme, " said Eleanor flushing pretty deep. 

"There is reason for that, too. He would not allow himself to indulgehope; and therefore he would not act as if he had any. That sight ofyou 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 forhis letters; he saw the world was closing its nets around you fast; howfar they were already successful he could not know; but he was glad hehad seen what forbade him in time to indulge vain anticipations. "

"Oh aunt Caxton!" said Eleanor--"Oh aunt Caxton! what a strange worldthis is, for the way people's lives cross each other, and the work thatis done without people's knowing it! If you knew--what that meetingcost me!--"

"My dear child! I can well believe it. "

"And it aroused Mr. Carlisle's suspicions instantly, I knew. If I madeany mistake--if I erred at all, in my behaviour with regard to him, itwas then and in consequence of that. If I had faltered a bitthen--looked grave or hung back from what was going on, I should haveexposed myself to most cruel interpretation. I could not risk it. Ithrew myself right into whatever presented itself--went into thewhirl--welcomed everybody and everything--only, I hoped, with sogeneral and impartial a welcome as should prove I preferred noneexclusively. "

Eleanor stopped and the tears came into her eyes. 

"My child! if I had known what danger you were in, I should have spenteven more time than I did in praying for you. "

"I suppose I was in danger, " said Eleanor thoughtfully. "It was adifficult winter. Then do you think--Mr. Rhys gave me up?"

"No, " said Mrs. Caxton smiling. "You remember he wrote to you afterthat, from Fiji; but I suppose he tried to make himself give you up, asfar as hope went. "

"For all that appears, I may be here long enough yet to have lettersbefore I go. We have heard of no opportunity that is likely to presentitself 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--_after_ that, I do not think you will. "

The conversation made Eleanor rather more anxious than she had beenbefore to hear of a ship; but October and November passed, and theprospect of her voyage was as misty as ever. 

Again and again, all summer, both she and Mrs. Caxton had writtenbegging that Mrs. Powle would make a visit to Plassy and bring or sendJulia. In vain. Mrs. Powle would not come. Julia could not. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

IN MEETINGS. 

 "A wild dedication of yourselves To 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. Caxtonand Eleanor. Eleanor however soon left her seat and took post at thewindow; and silence reigned in the room unbroken for some length timeexcept by the soft rustle of Mrs. Caxton's work. Her fingers wererarely idle. Nor were Eleanor's hands often empty; but to-day she stoodstill as a statue before the window, while now and then a tear softlyroll down and dropped on her folded hands. There were no signs of thetears 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; butEleanor's face was only still and pale. The next moment the dooropened, and for all the world as in old times the fair face and faircurls of Mrs. Powle appeared. Just the same; unless just now sheappeared a trifle frightened. The good lady felt so. Two fanatics. Shehardly knew how to encounter them. And then, her own action, though shecould not certainly have called it fanatical, had been peculiar, andmight be judged divers ways. Moreover, Mrs. Powle was Eleanor's mother. 

There was one in the company who remembered that, witness the stillclose embrace which Eleanor threw around her, and the still hiding ofthe girl's face on her mother's bosom. Mrs. Powle returned the embraceheartily enough; but when Eleanor's motionless clasp had lasted as longas she knew how to do anything with it and longer than she felt to begraceful, 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 oneof the two ladies an exquisite grace in the way she performed therequired office of making them known to each other. The gentleness of achastened heart, the strength of a loving one, the dignity of an humbleone, made her face and manner so lovely that Mrs. Caxton involuntarilywished Mr. Rhys could have seen it. "But he will have chance enough, "she thought, somewhat incongruously, as she met and returned hersister-in-law's greetings. Mrs. Powle made them with ceremoniousrespect, not make believe, and with a certain eagerness which welcomeda diversion from Eleanor's somewhat troublesome agitation. Eleanor'sagitation troubled no one any more, however; she sat down calm andquiet; and Mrs. Powle had leisure, glancing at her from time to time, to get into smooth sailing intercourse with Mrs. Caxton. She took offher bonnet, and talked about indifferent things, and sipped chocolate;for it was just luncheon time. Ever and anon her eyes came back toEleanor; evidently as to something which troubled her and which puzzledher; 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 ofmeeting for both uneasy feelings to concentrate their forces. It wouldcome out in words soon, Mrs. Caxton knew. But how lovely Eleanor seemedto her. There was not even a cloud upon her brow now; fair as it waspure and strong. 

"And so you are going?" Mrs. Powle began at last, in a somewhatconstrained voice. Eleanor smiled. 

"And _when_ are 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 withme. "

"Who are they?"

"A Mr. Amos and his wife. "

"_What_ are 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 youknow?"

"_Australia!_ Are you going there? To Botany Bay?"

"No, mamma; not to Botany Bay. And I only take Australia by the way. Igo further. "

"_Further_ than 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 youngdays. What do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady taking voyagefive months long after her husband, instead of her husband taking itfor 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 athing cannot be done properly, I should say it was better not to do itat all. However, I suppose it is too late to speak now. I would nothave my daughter hold herself so lightly as to confer such an honour onany man; but I gave her to you to dispose of, so no doubt it is allright. I hope Mr. What's-his-name is worthy of it. "

"Mamma, let me give you another cup of chocolate, " said Eleanor. Andshe served her with the chocolate and the toast and the hung beef, in away that gave Mrs. Caxton's heart a feast. There was the beautiful calmand high grace with which Eleanor used to meet her social difficultiestwo years ago, and baffle both her trials and her tempters. Mrs. Caxtonhad never seen it called for. Her face shewed not the slightestembarrassment at her mother's words; not a shade of rising colour diddishonour to Mr. Rhys by proving that she so much as even felt theslurs against him or the jealousy professed on her own behalf. Eleanor's calm sweet face was an assertion both of his dignity and herown. Perhaps Mrs. Powle felt herself in a hopeless case. 

"What do you expect to live on out there?" she said, changing herground, as she dipped her toast into chocolate. "You won't have thissort of thing. "

"I have never thought much about it, " said Eleanor smiling. "Whereother people live and grow strong, I suppose I can. "

"No, it does not follow at all, " replied her mother. "You areaccustomed to certain things, and you would feel the want of them. Forinstance, 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 wedo 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 otherday, that in New Zealand they never had them till we sent them out. SoI wondered directly whether they had in this place. "

"I fancy not, mamma. You will have to think of me as drinking my teawithout cream. "

"So you will take tea there with you?"

"Why not?"

"I have got the impression, " said Mrs. Powle, "somehow, that you woulddo nothing as other people do. You will drink tea, will you? I'll giveyou a box. "

"Thank you, mamma, " said Eleanor, but the colour flushed now to theroots 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, largeand small, scattered over some hundreds of miles of ocean; but they areso many and near each other often, and so surrounded with interlacingcoral reefs, that navigation there is in a kind of network of channels. The islands are of many varieties, and of fairy-land beauty; rich invegetation 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 Christiansalready might teach those that are not. But Eleanor, who will marryyou?"

A bright rose-colour came upon the girl's cheeks. "Mamma, there areclergymen 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 Caxtonhave 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 theislands 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 morethan enough. "

"What, pray?"

"The general great business, you know, is to carry light to those thatsit in darkness. "

"Yes, but you do not expect to preach, do you?"

Eleanor smiled, she could not help it, at the bewildered air with whichthis question was put. "I don't know, mamma. Do not you think I couldpreach to a class of children?"

"But Eleanor! such horrid work. Such work for _you!_"

"Why, mamma?"

"Why? With your advantages and talents and education. Mr. --no matterwho, but who used to be a good judge, said that your talents would giveanybody else's talents enough to do;--and that you should throw themaway 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 itthat they are not wasted. "

"Mamma, I think you do not understand this matter, " Eleanor saidgently. "Whoever made that speech flattered me; but I wish my talentswere ten times so much as they are, that I might give them to thiswork. "

"To this gentleman, you mean!" Mrs. Powle said tartly. 

A light came into Eleanor's eyes; she was silent a minute and then withthe colour rising all over her face she said, "He is abundantly worthyof all and much more than I am. "

"Well I do not understand this matter, as you said, " Mrs. Powleanswered 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, " Eleanoranswered, good-humouredly. 

"No such thing--you will want it all the more. Sister Caxton, is it notso?"

"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 hisservants when they are about his work; and I never heard that any onewho had that society, pined greatly for want of other. "

Mrs. Powle opened her eyes at Mrs. Caxton's quiet face; she set thisspeech down in her mind as uncontaminated fanaticism. She turned toEleanor. 

"Do the people there wear clothes?"

"The Christians clothe themselves, mamma; the heathen portion of thepeople hardly do, I believe. The climate requires nothing. They have afashion of dress of their own, but it is not much. "

"And can you help seeing these heathen?"

"No, of course not. "

"Well you _are_ changed!" said Mrs. Powle. "I would never have thoughtyou 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 noteasy to answer, moreover. 

"I cannot help it, " she said. "You and I take different views on thesubject. Do let us talk of something else; I am always getting onsomething 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 thewalls are made of different thicknesses of reeds, laid different waysand laced together with sinnet. "

"What's _sinnet?_"

"A strong braid made of the fibre of the cocoa-nut--of the husk of thecocoanut. It is made of more and less size and strength, and is usedinstead of iron to fasten a great many sorts of things; carpentry andboat building among them. "

"Goodness! what a place. Well go on with your house. "

"That is all, " said Eleanor smiling; "except that it is thatched withpalm leaves, or grass, or cane leaves. Sometimes the walls are coveredwith grass; and the braid work done in patterns, so as to have a veryartistic effect. "

"And what is inside?"

"Not much beside the people. "

"Well, tell me what, for instance. There is something, I suppose. Thewalls are not bare?"

"Not quite. There are apt to be mats, to sit and lie on;--and pots forcooking, 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 shedid not know. 

"It will have some chairs for her to sit upon, " said Mrs. Caxton; "andI shall send some china cups, that she may not have to drink out of acocoa-nut shell. "

"But I should like that very well, " said Eleanor; "and I certainlythink a Fijian wooden dish, spread with green leaves, is as nice avessel for food as can be. "

Mrs. Powle rose up and began to arrange her shawl, with an air whichsaid, "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 tohim, 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 amongthose creatures? and to take all that voyage first, alone? Are you notafraid?"

There was that in the very simpleness and quietness of Eleanor's answerthat put her negative beyond a question. Mrs. Powle sat down again forvery bewilderment. 

"Why are you not afraid?" she said. "You never were afraid of littlethings, I know; but those houses--Are there no thieves among thoseheathen?"

"A good many. "

"What is to keep them out of your house? Anybody could cut through areed wall with a knife--and make no noise about it. Where is yoursecurity?"

Alas, in the one face there was such ignorance, in the other suchsorrowful consciousness of that ignorance, that the two faces at firstlooked mutely into each other across the gulf between them. 

"Mamma, " said Eleanor, "why will you not understand me? Do you notknow, --the Eternal God is our refuge!"

The still, grand expression of faith Mrs. Powle could not receive; butthe speaking of Eleanor's eyes she did. She turned from them. 

"Good morning, sister Caxton, " she said. "I will go. I cannot bear itany 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 bythat 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 isdisagreeable. I do not want to say anything about Julia. You have takenyour way--and I do not mean to unsettle you in it; but Julia is inanother line, and I cannot have you interfere with her. I am very sorryit is so, --but it is not my doing. I cannot help it. I do not want togive 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 shespoke. 

"I shall never see her again!"

"My love, " said Mrs. Caxton pityingly, --"I hardly know how to believeit 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 thatwill live godly in Christ Jesus, shall suffer persecution. ' So surelyas we walk like Christ, so surely the world will call us odd andstrange 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 armsaround her and straining her close;--"but--this is something I cannothelp just now--"

It was a natural sorrow not to be struggled with successfully; andEleanor 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 thenext day. Eleanor met her mother most cheerfully, and contrivedadmirably to keep her from the gulf of discussion into which she hadbeen continually plunging at her first visit. With so much of grace andskill, and of that poise of her own mind which left her free to extendhelp to another's vacillations and uncertainties, Eleanor guided theconversation and bore herself generally that day, that Mrs. Powle'ssighing commentary as she went away, was, "Ah, Eleanor!--you might havebeen a duchess!"

But the paleness of sorrow came over her duchess's face again so soonas she was gone. Mrs. Caxton saw that if the struggle was ended, thepain was not; and her heart bled for Eleanor. These were days not to beprolonged. 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 herselfclose and making no needless advertisement of her proceedings, Eleanorcould not escape many an encounter with old friends or acquaintances. They heard of her from her mother; learned her address; and thencuriosity was enough, without affection, to bring several; andaffection mingled with curiosity to bring a few. Among others, the twoMiss Broadus's, Eleanor's friends and associates at Wiglands ever sinceshe had been a child, could not keep away from her and could not bedenied when they came; though they took precious time, and though theytried Eleanor sorely. They wanted to know everything; if their wisheshad sufficed, they would have learned the whole history of Mr. Rhys'scourtship. Failing that, their inquiries went to everything else, pastand future, to which Eleanor's own knowledge could be supposed toextend. What she had been doing through the year which was gone, andwhat she expected the coming year would find her to do; when she wouldget to her place of destination, and what sort of a life she would haveof it when once there. Houses, and horses, and cows and sheep, were asinteresting to these good ladies as they were to Mrs. Powle; andfeeling less concern in the matter they were free to take moreamusement, and so no side feeling or hidden feeling disturbed theirsatisfaction in the flow of information they were receiving. ForEleanor gratified them patiently, in all which did not touchimmediately herself; but when they were gone she sighed. Even Mrs. Powle was less trying; for her annoyances were at least of a moredignified kind. Eleanor could meet them better. 

"And this is the end of you!" she exclaimed the evening before Eleanorwas to sail. "This is the end of your life and expectations! To look atyou 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 thatgirl and see what she is. She might be presented at Court now, andreigning like a princess in her own house; yes, she might; andto-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 thesame thing. And you, Eleanor, you are so handsome, and you have themanners of a queen--Sister Caxton, you have no notion what admirationthis girl excited, and what admiration she could command!"

Mrs. Caxton looked from the calm face of the girl, certainly handsomeenough, to the vexed countenance of the mother; whose fair curls failedto look complacent for once. 

"I suppose Eleanor thinks of another day, " she said; "when the Lordwill come to be admired in his saints and to be glorified in all themthat believe. _That_ will be admiration worth having--if Eleanor thinksso, I confess I think so too. "

"Dear sister Caxton, " said Mrs. Powle restraining herself, "what hasthe one thing to do with the other?"

"Nothing, " said Mrs. Caxton. "To seek both is impossible. "

"_Do_ you think it is wicked to receive admiration? I did not think youwent so far. "

"No, " said Mrs. Caxton, with her genial smile. "We were talking ofseeking it. "

Mrs. Powle was silent, and went away in a very ill humour. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

IN PARTINGS. 

 "The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. "

And the Tuesday came, and was fair; and under a bright sky the steamerran down to Gravesend with Eleanor and her friends on board. Not Julia;Eleanor had given up all hopes of that; but Mrs. Caxton was beside her, and on the other side of her was Mrs. Powle. It was a terriblydisagreeable journey to the latter; every feeling in her somewhatpassionless nature was in a state of fretful rebellion. The otherstronger and deeper characters were ready for the time and met itbravely. Met it cheerfully too. The crisping breeze that curled thewaters of the river, the blue sky and fair sunlight, the bright andbeautiful of the scene around them, those two saw and tasted; withhopeful though very grave hearts. The other poor lady saw nothing but adirty steamboat and a very unpropitious company. Among these howeverwere Eleanor's fellow-voyagers, Mr. Amos and his wife; and she wasintroduced to them now for the first time. Various circumstances hadprevented their meeting in London. 

"A very common-looking man, "--whispered Mrs. Powle to Eleanor. 

"I don't know, mamma, --but very good, " Eleanor returned. 

"You are mad on goodness!" said Mrs. Powle. "Don't you see anythingelse in a man, or the want of anything else? I do; a thousand things;and if a man is ever so good, I want him to be a gentleman too. "

"So do I, " said Eleanor smiling. "But much more, mamma, if a man isever so much a gentleman, I want him to be good. Isn't that the moreimportant of the two?"

"No!" said Mrs. Powle. "I don't think it is; not for society. "

Eleanor thought of Paul's words--"Henceforth know I no man after theflesh"--What was the use of talking? she and her mother must have thesame vision before they could see the same things. And she presentlyforgot Mr. Amos and all about him; for in the distance she discernedsigns that the steamer was approaching Gravesend; and knew that thetime of parting drew near. 

It came and was gone, and Eleanor was alone on the deck of the "Diana;"and in that last moment of trial Mrs. Powle had been the most overcomeof the three. Eleanor's sweet face bore itself strongly as well; andMrs. Caxton was strong both by life-habit and nature; and the view ofeach of them was far above that little ship-deck. Mrs. Powle sawnothing else. Her distress was very deep. 

"I wish I had taken Julia to her!" was the outburst of her penitentrelentings; and Mrs. Caxton was only thankful, since they had come toolate, that they were uttered too late for Eleanor to hear. _She_ wenthome like a person whose earthly treasure is all lodged away from her;not lost at all, indeed, but yet only to be enjoyed and watched overfrom a distance. Even then she reckoned herself rich beyond what shehad been before Eleanor ever came to her. 

For Eleanor, left on the ship's deck, at first it was hard to realizethat she had any earthly treasure at all. One part of it quitted, perhaps for ever, with the home and the country of her childhood; theother, so far, so vague, so uncertainly grasped in this moment ofdistraction, that she felt utterly broken-hearted and alone. She hadnot counted upon this; she had not expected her self-command would socompletely fail her; but it was so; and although without one shadow ofa wish to turn back or in any wise alter her course, the firstbeginning of her journey was made amidst mental storms. Julia was theparticular bitter thought over which her tears poured; but they floodedevery image that rose of home things, and childish things and things atPlassy. Mr. Amos came to her help. 

"It is nothing, " Eleanor said as well as she could speak, --"it isnothing but the natural feeling which will have its way. Thankyou--don't be concerned. I don't want anything--if I only could haveseen my sister!"

"Mrs. Amos is about as bad, " said her comforter with a sigh. "Ah well!feeling must have its way, and better it should. You will both bebetter by and by, I hope. "

They were worse before they were better. For in a few hours sicknesstook its place among present grievances; and perhaps on the whole itacted as a relief by effecting a diversion from mental to bodilyconcerns. It seemed to Eleanor that she felt them both together;nevertheless, when at the end of a few days the sea-sickness left herand she was able to get up again, it was with the sweet fresh quietnessof convalescence in mind as well as in body. She was herself again. Things took their place. England was behind indeed--but Fiji wasforward--and Heaven was over all. 

As soon as she was able to be up she went upon deck. Strength cameimmediately with the fresh breeze. It was a cool cloudy day; the shipspeeding along under a good spread of canvas; the sea in a beautifulstate of life, but not boisterous. Nobody was on deck but some of thesailors. Eleanor took a seat by the guards, and began to drink inrefreshment. It stole in fast, on mind as well as body, she hardly knewhow; only both were braced up together. She felt now a curious gladnessthat the parting was over, the journey begun, and England fairly out ofsight. The going away had been like death; a new life was rising uponher now; and Eleanor turned herself towards it with the same sweetreadiness as the good ship whose head is laid upon a new course. 

There is a state of mind in which the soul may be aptly called thegarden of the Lord; when answering to his culture it brings forthflowers and fruits for his pleasure. In such a state, the paradisewhich Adam lost is half re-entered again; the moral victory is won over"the works of the devil" which Christ came to destroy. The body isdead, no doubt, because of sin; but the spirit is life, because ofrighteousness. The air of that garden is peace; no hurricanes blowthere; the sunshine dwells therein; the odours of sweet things comeforth, and make known all abroad whose garden it is. 

Eleanor had sat awhile very still, very busy looking over into the sea, when she heard a step near her on the deck. She looked up, and saw aman whom she recognized as the master of the vessel. A ratherhard-featured man, tall and strong set, with a pair of small eyes thatdid not give forth their expression readily. What there was struck heras not pleasant. 

"So you've got up!" said he, in a voice which was less harsh than hislooks. "Do you feel better?"

"Much better, thank you. "

"Hearty, eh?"

"Pretty well, " said Eleanor smiling, "since I have got this salt airinto my lungs. "

"Ah! you'll have enough of that. 'Tother lady is down yet, eh? She hasnot got up. "

"No. "

"Are you all going to the same place?"

"I believe so. "

"Missionaries, eh?"

"Yes. "

"Think you'll get those dark fellows to listen to you?"

"Why not?" said Eleanor brightly. 

"It's all make-believe. They only want to get your axes and hatchets, and such things. "

"Well, we want their yams and potatoes and fish and labour, " saidEleanor; "so it is a fair bargain; and no make-believe on either side. "

"Why don't you stay in the Colonies? there is work enough to be done;people enough that need it; and a fine country. Everything in the worldthat you need; and not so far from home either. "

Eleanor made no answer. 

"Why don't you stay in the Colonies?"

"One can only be in one place, " said Eleanor lightly. 

"And that must always be the place where somebody else is, " said thecaptain maliciously. "That's the way people will congregate together, instead of scattering where they are wanted. "

"Do you know the Colonies well?" said Eleanor coolly, in answer to thisrude speech. 

"I ought. I have spent about a third of my life in them. I have abrother at Melbourne too, as rich in flocks and herds almost as Jobwas. That's the place! That's a country! But you are going to Sydney?"

"Yes. "

"Friends there?"

"I have one friend there who expects me. "

"Who's he? Maybe I know him. "

"Egbert Esthwaite is his name. "

"Don't know him, though. And so you have left England to find yourselfa new home in the wilderness?"

"Yes. "

"Pretty tough change you'll find it. Don't you find it already?"

"No. Don't you know, " said Eleanor giving him a good look, "when one'sreal home is in heaven, it does not make so much difference?"

The captain would have answered the words fast enough; but in thestrong sweet eye that had looked into his so full, there was somethingthat silenced him. He turned off abruptly, with the internalconviction--"_That_ girl thinks what she says, anyhow!"

Eleanor's eyes left contemplating the waters, and were busy for sometime with the book which had lain in her lap until her colloquy withthe captain. Somebody came and sat down beside her. 

"Mr. Amos! I am glad to see you, " said Eleanor. 

"I am glad to see you, sister, " he replied; "and glad to see you ableto be here. You look well again. "

"O I am. "

"Mrs. Amos cannot raise her head. What are you doing?--if I may ask soblunt a question upon so short an acquaintance. "

"This is the first time I have been on deck. I was studying the sea, inthe first place;--and then something drove me to study the Bible. "

"Ah, we are driven to that on every hand, " he answered. "Now go on, andtell me the point of your studies, will you?"

There was something in the utmost genial and kind in his look and way;he was not a person from whom one would keep back anything he wanted toknow; as also evidently he was not one to ask anything he should not. The request did not even startle Eleanor. She looked thoughtfully overthe heaving sea while she answered. 

"I had been taking a great new view of the glory of creation--over theship's side here. Then I had the sorrow to find--or fear--that we havean unbeliever in our captain. From that, I suppose, I took hold ofPaul's reasoning--how without excuse people are in unbelief; how theinvisible things of God from the creation of the world are clearlyseen, being understood by the things that are made; even his eternalpower and Godhead. And those glorious last words were what my heartfixed upon. "

"'His eternal power and Godhead. '"

Eleanor looked round without speaking; a look full of the human echo tothose words; the joy of weakness, the strength of ignorance, thetriumph of humility. 

"What a grand characterizing Paul gives in those other words, " said Mr. Amos--"'the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God. ' Untohim be honour and glory forever!"

"And then those other words, " said Eleanor low, --"'The eternal God isthy refuge. '"

"That is a good text for us to keep, " said Mr. Amos. "But really, withthat refuge, I don't see what we should be afraid of. "

"Not even of want of success, " said Eleanor. 

"No. If faith didn't fail. Paul could give thanks that he was madealways to triumph in Christ, --and by the power that wrought with him, so may we. " He spoke very gravely, as if looking into himself andpondering his own responsibilities and privileges and short-comings. Eleanor kept silence. 

"How do you like this way of life?" Mr. Amos said presently. 

"The sea is beautiful. I have hardly tried the ship. "

"Haven't you?" said Mr. Amos smiling. "That speaks a candid goodtraveller. Another would have made the first few days the type of thewhole. "

And he also took to his book, and the silence lasted this time. 

Mrs. Amos continued prostrated by sea-sickness; unable to raise herhead from her pillow. Eleanor could do little for her. The evil wasremediless, and admitted of very small amelioration. But the weatherwas very fine and the ship's progress excellent; and Eleanor spentgreat part of her time on deck. All day, except when she was at theside of Mrs. Amos, she was there. The sailors watched the figure in thedark neat sea-dress and cloak and the little close straw bonnet withchocolate ribbands; and every now and then made pretences to get nearand see how the face looked that was hidden under it. The report of thefirst venturers was so favourable that Eleanor had an unconscious sortof levee the next day or two; and then, the fresh sweet face that wasso like a flower was found to have more attractions when known than ithad before when unknown. There was not a hand on board but seized ormade opportunities every day and as often as he could to get near her;if a chance offered and he could edge in a word and have a smile andword in answer, that man went away esteemed both by himself and hiscomrades a lucky fellow. Eleanor awoke presently to the sense of heropportunities, though too genuinely humble to guess at the cause ofthem; and she began to make every one tell for her work. Every sailoron board soon knew what Eleanor valued more than all other things;every one knew, "sure as guns, " as he would have expressed it, that ifshe had a chance of speaking to him, she would one way or anothercontrive before it was ended to make him think of his duty and toremember to whom it was owed; and yet--strange to say--there was notone of them that for any such reason was willing to lose or to shun oneof those chances. "If all were like she"--was the comment of one Jacktar; and the rest were precisely of his opinion. The captain himselfwas no exception. He could not help frequently coming to Eleanor'sside, to break off her studies or her musings with some information orsome suggestion of his own and have a bit of a talk. His mannersmended. He grew thoroughly civil to her. 

Meanwhile the vessel was speeding southwards. Fast, fast, every daythey lowered their latitude. Higher and higher rose the sun; the starsthat had been Eleanor's familiars ever since she had eyes to see them, sank one by one below the northern horizon; and the beauty of the new, strange, brilliant constellations of the southern sky began to tell herin curious language of her approach to her new home. They had a mostmagical charm for Eleanor. She studied and watched them unweariedly;they had for her that curious interest which we give to any things thatare to be our life-companions. Here Mr. Amos could render her somehelp; but with or without help, Eleanor nightly studied the southernstars, watched and pondered them till she knew them well; and then shewatched them because she knew them, as well as because she was to knowthem all the rest of her life. 

By day she studied other things; and the days were not weary. The oceanwas a storehouse of pleasure for her; and Captain Fox declared his shiphad never carried such a clever passenger; "a girl who had plenty ofstuff, and knew what to do with herself. " Certainly the last piece ofpraise was true; for Eleanor had no weary moments. She had interests onboard, as well as outside the ship. She picked up the sailors' legendsand superstitions; ay, and many a little bit of life history came intoo, by favour of the sympathy and friendliness they saw in those finebrown eyes. Never a voyage went better; and the sailors if not thecaptain were very much of the mind that they had a good angel on board. 

"Well how do you like _this?_" said Mr. Amos coming up one day. N. B. Itwas the seventh day of a calm in the tropics. 

"I would like a wind better, " Eleanor said smiling. 

"Can you possess your soul in patience?"

"Yes, " she said, but gently and with a slight intonation that spoke ofseveral latent things. 

"We are well on our way now, --if a wind would come!"

"It will come. "

"I have never asked you, " said Mr. Amos. "How do you expect to findlife in the islands?"

"In what respect? In general, I should say, as unlike this as possible. "

"Of course. I understand there is no stagnation there. But as tohardships--as to the people?"

"The people are part Christianized and part unchristianized; that givesevery variety of experience among them, I suppose. The unchristianizedare as bad as they can be, very nearly; the good, very good. As tohardships, I have no expectation. "

"You have not data to form one?"

"I cannot say that; but things are so different according tocircumstances; and there is so great a change going on continually inthe character of the people. "

"How do you feel about leaving behind you all the arts and refinementsand delights of taste in the old world?"

"Will you look over the side of the ship, Mr. Amos?--down belowthere--do you see anything?"

"Dolphin--, " said Mr. Amos. 

"What do you think of them?"

"Beautiful!" said Mr. Amos. "Beautiful, undoubtedly! as brilliant as ifthey had just come out of the jeweller's shop, polished silver. Howclear the water is! I can see them perfectly--far below. "

"Isn't the sea better than a jeweller's shop?"

"I never thought of it before, " said Mr. Amos laughing; "but itcertainly is; though I think it is the first time the comparison hasbeen made. "

"Did you ever go to Tenby?"

"I never did. "

"Nor I; but I have heard the sea-caves in its neighbourhood describedas more splendid in their natural treasures of vegetable and animalgrowth, than any jeweller's shop could be--were he the richest inLondon. "

"_Splendid?_" said Mr. Amos. 

"Yes--for brilliance and variety of colour. "

"Is it possible? These are things that I do not know. "

"You will be likely to know them. The lagoons around the Polynesianislands--the still waters within the barrier-reefs, you understand--arelined with most gorgeous and wonderful displays of this kind. One seemsto be sailing over a mine of gems--only not in the rough, but alreadycut and set as no workman of earth could do them. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Amos, "I fancy you have had advantages of hearing aboutthese islands, that I have not enjoyed. "

Eleanor was checked, and coloured a little; then rallied herself. 

"Look now over yonder, Mr. Amos--at those clouds. "

"I have looked at them every evening, " he said. 

Their eyes were turned towards the western heavens, where the settingsun was gathering his mantle of purple and gold around him beforesaying good night to the world. Every glory of light and colouring wasthere, among the thick folds of his vapourous drapery; and changing andblending and shifting softly from one hue of richness to another. 

"I suppose you will tell me now, " said Mr. Amos with a smile of somehumour, "that no upholsterer's hangings can rival that. I give up--asthe schoolboys say. Yet we do lose some things. What do you say to aland without churches?"

"O it is not, " said Eleanor. "Chapels are rising everywhere--in everyvillage, on some islands; and very neat ones. "

"I am afraid, " said Mr. Amos with his former look of quiet humour, "youwould not be of the mind of a lady I heard rejoicing once over thecelebration of the church service at Oxford. She remarked, that it wasa subject of joyful thought and remembrance, to know that praise sonear perfection was offered somewhere on the earth. There was themusic, you know, and the beautiful building in which we heard it, andall the accessories. You will have nothing like that in Fiji. "

"She must have forgotten those words, " said Eleanor--"'Where is thehouse that ye build unto me, and where is the place of my rest? ... _tothis man_ will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contritespirit, and trembleth at my word. ' You will find _that_ in Fiji. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Amos, --"I see. My friend will have a safe wife in you. Do you know, when I first saw you I stood in doubt. I thought youlooked like--Well, never mind! It's all right. "

"Right!" said Captain Fox coming up behind them. "I am glad somebodythinks so. Right!--lying broiling here all day, and sleeping all nightas if we were in port and had nothing to do--when we're a long way fromthat. Drove you down to-day, didn't it?" said he turning to Eleanor. 

"It was so hot; I could not get a bit of permanent shade anywhere. Iwent below for a little while. "

"And yet it's all right!" said the captain. "I am afraid you are not ina hurry to get to the end of the voyage. "

Mr. Amos smiled and Eleanor blushed. The truth was, she never letherself think of the end of the voyage. The thought would come--theimage standing there would start up--but she always put it aside andkept to the present; and that was one reason certainly why Eleanor'smind was so quiet and free and why the enjoyable and useful things ofthe hour were not let slip and wasted. So her spirits maintained theirhealthy tone; no doubt spurred to livelier action by the abidingconsciousness of that spot of brightness in the future towards whichshe would not allow herself to look in bewildering imaginations. 

Meanwhile the calm came to an end, as all things will; the beneficenttrade wind took charge of the vessel again, and they sped on, south, south; till the sky over Eleanor's head was a new one from that all herlife had known, and the bright stars at night looked at her asstrangers. For study them as she would, she could not but feel theirswere new faces. The captain one day shewed her St. Helena in thedistance; then the Cape of Good Hope was neared--and rounded--and inthe Indian Ocean the travellers ploughed their way eastward. The islandof St. Paul was passed; and still the ship sailed on and on to the east. 

Eleanor had observed for a day or two that there was an unusual degreeof activity among the sailors. They seemed to be getting things intonew trim; clearing up and cleaning; and the chain cable one day madeits appearance on deck, where room had been made for it. Eleanor lookedon at the proceedings, with a half guess at their meaning that made herheart beat. 

"What is it?" she asked Captain Fox. 

"What's all this rigging up? Why, we expect to see land soon. You likethe sea so well, you'll be sorry. "

"How soon?"

"I shouldn't wonder, in a day or two. You will stop in Sydney till youget a chance to go on?"

"Yes. "

"I wish I could take you the whole way, I declare! but I would not takean angel into those awful islands. Why if you get shipwrecked there, they will kill and eat you. "

"There would be little danger of that now, Captain Fox; none at all inmost of the islands. Instead of killing and eating, they relieve andcomfort their shipwrecked countrymen. "

"Believe that?" said the captain. 

"I know it. I know instances. "

"Whereabouts are you going among them?" said he looking at her. "If Iget driven out of my reckoning ever and find myself in those latitudes, I'd like to know which way to steer. Where's your place?"

He was not uncivil; but he liked to see, when he could manage to bringit, that beautiful tinge of rose in Eleanor's cheeks which answeredsuch an appeal as this. 

CHAPTER XV. 

IN PORT. 

 "And the magic charm of foreign lands, With shadows of palm, and shining sands, Where the tumbling surf O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, Washes the feet of the swarthy 'Lascar. '--"

It was but the next day, and Eleanor was sitting as usual on decklooking over the waters in a lovely bright morning, when a sound washeard which almost stopped her heart's beating for a moment. It was thecry, rung out from the mast-head, "Land, ho!"

"Where is it?" she said to the captain, who was behind her. "I do notsee it anywhere. "

"You will see it in a little while. Wait a bit. If you could go aloft Icould shew it you now. "

"What land? do you know?"

"Australia--the finest land the sun shines upon!"

"I suppose you mean, besides England. "

"No, I don't, begging your pardon. England is very well for those whocan take the ripe side of the cherry; poorer folks had better comehere, if they want any chance at all. "

The lucky sailor was coming down from the mast-head, and the captainwent off to join those who were giving him sundry rewarding tokens oftheir joy for his news. Eleanor looked over the waste of waterseastward, feeling as if her breath had been taken away. 

So much of her journey done! The rest seemed, and was, but little. Australia was almost--_home_. And what sort of a home? And could Mr. Rhys possibly be at Sydney to meet her? Eleanor knew he could not; yetthe physical possibility would assert itself in spite of all thewell-allowed moral impossibility. But at any rate at Sydney she wouldfind letters; at Sydney she would find, perhaps very soon, the means ofmaking the remainder of her voyage; at Sydney she could no longerprevent herself from _thinking_. Eleanor had staved off thought all theway by wisely saying and insisting to herself "Time enough when I getto Sydney. " Yes; she was nearing home now. So deep, so engrossing, wereher meditations and sensations, that Mr. Amos who had come up tocongratulate her on the approaching termination of the voyage, spoke toher once and again without being heard. He could not see her face, butthe little straw bonnet was as motionless as if its wearer had been ina dream. He smiled and went away. 

Then appeared on the distant horizon somewhat like a low blue cloud, which gathered distinctness and strength of outline by degrees. It wasthe land, beyond doubt; the coast of New Holland itself, as the captaininformed Eleanor; and going on and passing through Bass's Strait thevessel soon directed her course northward. Little remained then beforereaching port. 

It was under a fair and beautiful sunlight morning that they were atlast approaching Sydney. Mr. Amos was on deck as well as Eleanor, thecaptain standing with them; for a pilot had come on board; the captainhad given up his charge, and was in command no longer. Before thewatching three stretched a low unpromising shore of sandstone cliffsand sand. 

"It is good to see it, " said Mr. Amos; "but in this first view it don'tshew for much. "

"Don't shew for anything, " said Captain Fox. "Wait till we get insidethe Heads. It don't shew for anything; but it's the most glorious landthe sun shines on!"

"In what particular respects?" said Mr. Amos. 

"In every respect of making a living and enjoying it, " said thecaptain. "That makes a good land, don't it?"

Mr. Amos allowed that it did. 

"It's the most beautiful country, if you come to that, " Captain Foxwent on;--"that's what Miss Powle thinks of. I wish this was Melbournewe were coming to, instead of Sydney. I'd like to have her look at it. "

"Better than this?" said Mr. Amos, for Eleanor was silent. 

"A better colony, for beauty and riches, " said the captain. "It's themost glorious country, sir, you ever saw! hundreds of square miles ofit are as handsome as a duke's park; and good for something, which aduke's park ain't. There's a great tract of country up round Mt. Macedon--thirty or forty miles back into the land--its softly rollingground without a stone on it, as nice as ever you saw; and spotted withthe trees they call she-oaks--beautiful trees; and they don't grow in awood, but just stand round in clumps and ones or twos here and there, like a picture; and then through the openings in the ground you can seemiles off more of just the same, till it gets blue in the distance; andmountains beyond all. And when you put here and there a flock ofthousands of sheep spotting the country with their white backs--I ain'tpoetical, sir, but I tell you! when I saw that country first, I thoughtmaybe I was; but it's likely I was mistaken, " said the captainlaughing, "for the fit has never come back since. Miss Powle thinksthere's as much poetry in the water as on the land. "

Still Eleanor did not move to answer; and Mr. Amos, perhaps for hersake, went on. 

"What is it that country is so good for? gold? or sheep?"

"Sheep, sir, sheep! the gold grows in another part. There's enough ofthat too; but I'd as lieve make my money some other way. Victoria isthe country for wool-growing, sir. I've a brother there--StephenFox--he went with little more than nothing; and now he has a flock ofsheep--well, I'm afraid to say how many; but I know he needs and uses atract of twelve thousand acres of land for them. "

"That is being a pretty large land-owner, as well as sheep-owner, " Mr. Amos said with a smile. 

"O he don't own it. That wouldn't do, you know. The interest of themoney would buy all the wool on his sheep's backs. "

"How then?"

"He has the use of it, --that's all. Don't you know how they work it? Hepays a license fee to Government for the privilege of using the landfor a year--wherever he pitches upon a place; then he stocks it, andgoes on occupying by an annual license fee, until he has got too manyneighbours and the land is getting all taken up in his neighbourhood. Then some one comes along who has money and don't want the plague of anew settlement; and he sells off his stock and claim to him, packs uphis traps, pokes off through the bush with his compass till he hasfound a new location somewhere; then he comes back, pays a new licensefee, and stocks the new place with flocks and shepherds and beginsagain. And I never saw in my life anything so fine as one of thoseVictoria sheep or cattle farms. "

"Why don't you go into it?"

"Well--it's best to divide the business just now. I can be of use toStephen and he can be of use to me. And I'm a little of this lady'sopinion. "

"How is it in this colony we are coming to?"

"Well, they are very prosperous; it's a good place to get rich. Theyhave contrived to get along with their gold mines without ruining everyother interest, as the other colonies have done for a time. But I thinkVictoria is the queen of them all; Victoria sends home more wool thaneither of the others; and she has gold, and she has other mines;different. She has copper equal to Burla-Burra--and she has coal, within a few miles of Melbourne, and other things; but the coal is agreat matter here, you see. "

The ship all the while was rapidly approaching the Heads, which mark, and make, the entrance to the harbour of Port Jackson. They assumedmore dignity of elevation and feature as they were nearer seen; therocks rising some two or three hundred feet high, with the sea foamingat their foot. Passing swiftly onward, the vessel by and by doubledBradley's Head, and the magnificent sheet of water that forms theharbour was suddenly revealed to the strangers' gaze. Full of islands, full of sailing craft, bordered with varying shores of "promontory, creek, and bay, " pleasantly wooded, and spotted along its woody shoreswith spots of white that marked where people had pretty country homes, the quiet water glittering in the light; the view to the sea-tossedtravellers was nothing short of enchanting. Mrs. Amos had come on deck, though scarce able to stand; a quiet, gentle, sweet-looking person; hereyes were full of tears now. Her husband's arm was round her, supporting her strength that she might keep up; his face was moved andgrave. Eleanor was afraid to shew anybody her face; yet it wasoutwardly in good order enough; she felt as if her heart would neverget back to its accustomed beat. She sat still, breathlessly drinkingin the scene, rejoicing and trembling at once. She heard Mrs. Amos'ssoftly whispered, "Praise the Lord!--" and her husband's firm "Amen!"It had like to have overset her. She pressed her hands tight togetherto keep her heart still. 

"They know we are coming, " said the captain. 

"Who?" said Eleanor quickly. 

Mr. Amos pressed his wife's arm; the captain's eyes twinkled. 

"Is there anybody there on the look-out for you?" he asked. 

"I suppose there may be, " said Eleanor calmly. 

"Well, he bas got notice then, some hours ago, " said the captain. "Thepilot telegraphed to the South Head, and from the South Head the newshas gone all over Sydney and Paramatta. Pretty good-looking city, isSydney. "

It was far more than that. It had been the point of the travellers'attention for some time. From the water up, one height above another, the white buildings of the town rose and spread; a white city; withforts and windmills, and fair looking country seats in itsneighbourhood. 

"Where is Paramatta?" said Eleanor, "and what is it?"

"It's a nice little pleasure place, up the Paramatta river; fifteenmiles above Sydney. Fine scenery; it's as good as going to Richmond, "added the captain. 

"What is that splendid large white building?" Mrs. Amos asked, "on thehill?"

"No great things of a hill, " said the captain. "That's theGovernment-house. Nice gardens and pleasure grounds there too. "

"How beautiful it is!" said Mrs. Amos almost with a sigh. 

"It is almost like a Scottish lake!" said her husband. "I remember onethat this scene reminds me of at this moment. "

"A little of this is worth all Scotland, " said the captain. "There'spretty much everything here that a man wants--and not hard to come by, either. O you'll stay in Sydney! why shouldn't you? There's peopleenough here that want teaching, worse than the savages. I declare, Ithink they do. "

"Somebody else will have to teach them, " said Mr. Amos. "What an arrayof ships and sails of all sorts! This gives one an idea of the businessof the place. "

"Business, and growing business, " said the captain. "Sydney is gettingahead as fast as it can. "

"How sweet the air is!" said Eleanor. 

"Ay!" said the captain. "Now you smell green things again. I'll wageryou won't want to put to sea any more, after you once get a firm footon land. Why this is the very place for you. Enough to do, and everyluxury a man need want, at hand when your work is done. "

"When is one's work done?" said Eleanor. 

"I should say, when one has worked enough and got what one is after, "said the captain. "That's my idea. I never was for working till Icouldn't enjoy. "

"What are we after? do you think--" said Eleanor looking round at him. 

"What everybody else is!" the captain answered somewhat shortly. 

"Luxury, namely?"

"Yes! it comes to that. Everybody is seeking happiness in his own way;and when he has got it, then it is luxury. "

Eleanor only looked at him; she did not say anything further, andturned again to the contemplation of the scene they had in view. Thecaptain bustled off and was gone a few minutes. 

"I wish you'd sing, sister Powle, " said Mr. Amos in that interval. 

"Do!" said his wife. "Please do!"

Whether Eleanor was precisely in a singing mood or no, she began asdesired. Mr. Amos joined her, in somewhat subdued tones, and Mrs. Amosgave a still gentler seconding; while the rich notes of her own voicefilled the air; so mellow that their full power was scarcelyrecognized; so powerful that the mellow sound seemed to fill the ship'srigging. The sailors moved softly. They were accustomed to that music. All the way out, on every Sunday service or any other that was held, Eleanor had served for choir to the whole company, joined by here andthere a rough voice that broke in as it could, and just backed by Mr. Amos's steady support. There was more than one in that ship's companyto whom memory would never cease to bring a reminder that 'there isbalm in Gilead;' for some reason or other that was one of Eleanor'sfavourite songs. Now she gave another--sweet, clear, and wild;--thefurthest-off sailors stood still to hearken. They had heard it oftenenough to know what the words were. 

"O who's like Jesus! From sins and fears he frees us. He died for you, He died for me, He died to set poor sinners free. O who's like Jesus!"

The chorus floated all over after each verse of the hymn was ended; itwent clear to the ship's bows; but Eleanor sat quite still in her oldposition, clasping her hands fast on the rail and not moving her head. During the singing the captain came back and stood behind themlistening; while people on the vessels that they passed, suspendedtheir work and looked up to hear. Just as the singing was finished, alittle boat was seen swiftly coming alongside; and in another minutethey were boarded by the gentleman who had been its solitary passenger. The captain turned to meet him. He was a man rather under middle size, black hair curling all round his head, eyes quick and bright, and wholeappearance handsome at once and business-like. He came forward briskly, and so he spoke. 

"Have you got anybody here that belongs to me?" he said. "Captain, isthere a Miss Powle on board of your ship?"

Captain Fox silently stepped on one side and made a motion of his handtowards Eleanor. Eleanor hearing herself called, slowly rose and facedthe new-comer. There was a second's pause, as the two confronted eachother; then the gentleman bowed very low and advanced to touch thelady's hand, which however when he touched he held. 

"Is this Miss Powle? Miss _Eleanor_ Powle?"

"Yes. "

"I am honoured in having such a cousin! I hope you have heard somebodyspeak of a Mr. Esthwaite in these parts?"

"I have heard Mrs. Caxton speak of Mr. Esthwaite--very often. "

"All right!" said the gentleman letting go Eleanor's hand. "Identityproved. Captain, I am going to take charge of this lady. Will you seethat her luggage, personal effects and so on, are brought ondeck?"--then turning to Eleanor with real deference and cordiality inhis manner, he went on, --"Mrs. Esthwaite is longing to see you. It issuch a pleasure to have a cousin come from England, as you can butfeebly appreciate; she hopes to learn the new fashions from you, andall that sort of thing; and she has been dressing your room withflowers, I believe, for these three months past. If you please, we willnot wait for the ship's slow motions, but I will carry you straight toland in my boat; and glad you will be! Will you signify your assent tothis arrangement?--as I perceive the captain is a servant of yours andwill do nothing without you bid him. "

"Thank you, " said-Eleanor, --"I will go with you;--but what will be donewith all my boxes in the hold?" This enquiry was addressed to thecaptain. 

"Don't you fear anything, " said Mr. Esthwaite, "now you have overcomeso many troubles and got to this haven of rest. We will take care ofyour boxes. I suppose you have brought enough to stock the wholeNavigator's group--or Fiji, is it, you are going to? I would go to anyother one rather--but never mind; the boxes shall be stored; and maybeyou'll unpack them here after all. Captain, what about that luggage?--"

Eleanor went down to give directions, and presently came on deck again, all ready to go ashore. There was a little delay on account of thebaggage; and meanwhile Mr. Esthwaite was introduced to Mr. And Mrs. Amos. 

"I am very much obliged to you for taking care of this cousin of mine, "he said to them. "I am sure she is worth taking care of. And now Ishould like to take care of you in turn. Will you go to my house, andmake us happy?"

They explained that they were going elsewhere. 

"Well, come and see her then; for she will be wanting to see somebody. We will do the best for her we can; but still--you know--absent friendshave the best claim. By the way! didn't I hear some sweet Methodistsinging as I came up? was it on this ship? You haven't got anyMethodists on board, captain; have you?"

"I've been one myself, this voyage!" said the captain. 

"I wouldn't, " said Mr. Esthwaite. "The Church service is the only oneto be used at sea. Every other sounds--I don't know how--incompatible. There is something in the gentle swell of the rolling waves, and in thegrandeur of the horizon, that calls for the finest form of wordsmortals could put together; and when you have got such a form, why notuse it?"

"You did not like the form of the singing then?" said Mr. Amos smiling. 

"No, " said Mr. Esthwaite drily, --"it struck me that if there had been acathedral roof over it, one of those voices would have lifted therafters and gone on; and that would not have been reverential, youknow. Now, my young cousin!--"

"Mr. Amos, " said Eleanor aside to him and colouring deeply, "if thereare any letters for me at the house where you are going, or at thepost-office, will you send them to me?"

"I will certainly make it my care, and bring them to you myself. "

"I'll send for anything you want, " said Mr. Esthwaite. "What's that?letters? We'll get all there is in Sydney, and there is a good deal, waiting for this young lady. I've had one floor of my warehouse halffull for some months back already. No use of it for myself. "

At last they got off; and it was not quickly, for Eleanor had to give agood bye to everybody on board. Mr. Esthwaite looked on smiling, untilhe was permitted to hand her down the vessel's side, and lodged her inthe wherry. 

"Now you are out of the ship, " said he looking keenly at her. "Aren'tyou glad?"

"I have some good friends in her, " said Eleanor. 

"Friends! I should think so. Those were salt tears that were shed foryour coming away. Positively, I don't think a man of them could seeclear to take his last look at you. "

Neither were Eleanor's feelings quite unmixed at this moment. Sheexpected to see Mr. And Mrs. Amos again; with the rest her intercoursewas finished; and it had been of that character which leaves longingand tender memories behind. She felt all that now. And she felt muchmore. With the end of her voyage in the "Diana" came, at least for thepresent, an end to her inward tranquillity. Now there were lettersawaiting her; letters for which she had wished nervously so long; nowshe was near Fiji and her new life; now she dared to realize, she couldnot help it, what all the voyage she had refused to think of, as stillin a hazy distance of the future. Here it was, nigh at hand, looming upthrough the haze, taking distinctness and proportions; and Eleanor'sheart was in a state of agitation to which that sound little member wasvery little accustomed. However, the outward effect of all this was togive her manner even an unwonted degree of cool quietness; and Mr. Esthwaite was in a state between daunted and admiring. Both of themkept silence for a little while after leaving the ship, while thewherry pulled along in the beautiful bay, passing among a crowd ofvessels of all sorts and descriptions, moving and still. The scene waslively, picturesque, pleasant, in the highest degree. 

"How does my cousin like us on a first view?"

"It is a beautiful scene!" said Eleanor. "What a great variety ofvessels are here!"

"And isn't this just the finest harbour in the world?"

"I have heard a great deal of Port Philip, " said Eleanor smiling. "Iunderstand there is a second Bay of Naples there. "

"I don't care for the Bay of Naples! We have sunk all that. We are in anew world. Wait till you see what I will shew you to-morrow. Now lookat that wooded point, with the white houses spotting it; those are fineseats; beautiful view and all that; and at Sydney you can haveeverything you want, almost at command. "

"You know, " said Eleanor, "that is not absolutely a new experience tome. In England, we have not far to seek. "

"O you say so! Much you know about it. You have been in such a nest ofa place as my cousin Caxton spreads her wings over. I never was in anest, till I made one for myself. How is my good cousin?"

The talk ran upon home things now until they reached the town andlanded at a fine stone quay. Then to the Custom House, where businesswas easily despatched; then Mr. Esthwaite put Eleanor into a cab andthey drove away through the streets for his house in the higher part ofthe city. Eleanor's eyes were full of business. How strange it was! Sofar away from home, and so long living on the sea, now on landing to begreeted by such a multitude of familiar sounds and sights. The very cabshe was driving in; the omnibuses and carts they passed; theEnglish-cut faces; the same street cries; the same trades revealingthemselves, as she had been accustomed to in London. But now and thenthere came a difference of Australasia. There would be a dray drawn bythree or four pair of bullocks; London streets never saw that turn-out;and then Eleanor would start at seeing a little group of the natives ofthe country, dressed in English leavings of costume. Those made herfeel where she was; otherwise the streets and houses and shops had verymuch of a home air. Except indeed when a curious old edifice built oflogs peeped in among white stone fronts and handsome shop windows; therelics, Mr. Esthwaite told her, of that not so very far distant timewhen the town first began to grow up, and the "bush" covered almost allthe ground now occupied by it. Eleanor was well pleased to be so busiedin looking out that she had little leisure for talking; and Mr. Esthwaite sat by and smiled in satisfaction. But this blessed immunitycould not last. The cab stopped before a house in George street. 

"Has she come?" exclaimed a voice as the door opened; and a head fullof curls put itself out into the hall;--"have you brought her? Oh howdelightful! How glad I am!--" and the owner of the curls came near tobe introduced, hardly waiting for the introduction, and to give Eleanorthe most gleeful sort of a welcome. 

"And she was on that ship, the 'Diana, ' Egbert? how nice! Just as youthought; and I was so afraid it was nothing but another disappointment. I was afraid to look out when the cab came. Now come up stairs, cousinEleanor, and I will take you to your room. You must be tired to death, are you not?"

"Why should I?" said Eleanor as she tripped up stairs after herhostess. "I have done nothing for four months. "

"Look here!" shouted Mr. Esthwaite from the hall--"Louisa, don't stopto talk over the fashions now--it is dinner-time. How soon will you bedown?"--

"Don't mind him, " said pretty Mrs. Esthwaite, leading the way into alight pleasant room overlooking the bay;--"sit down and rest yourself. Would you like anything before you dress? Now just think you are athome, will you? It's too delightful to have you here!"

Eleanor went to the window, which overlooked a magnificent view of theharbour. Very oddly, the thought in her mind at that moment was, howsoon an opportunity could be found for her to make the rest of hervoyage. Scarce landed, she wanted to see the means of getting awayagain. Her way she saw, over the harbour; where was her conveyance?While she stood looking, her new-found cousin was considering her; theerect beautiful figure, in all the simplicity of its dress; the closelittle bonnet with chocolate ribbands, the fine grave face under it, lastly the little hand which rested on the back of the chair, forEleanor's sea-glove was off. And a certain awe grew up in Mrs. Esthwaite's mind. 

"Cousin Eleanor, " said she, "shall I leave you to dress? Dinner will beready presently, and Egbert will be impatient, I know, till you comedown stairs again. "

"Thank you. I will be but a few minutes. How beautiful this is! O howbeautiful, --to my eyes that have seen no beauty but sea beauty for solong. And the air is so good. "

"I am glad you like it. Is it prettier than England?"

"Prettier than England!" Eleanor looked round smiling. "Nothing couldbe that. "

"Well I didn't know. Mr. Esthwaite is always running down England, yousee, and I don't know how much of it he means. I came away when I wasso little, I don't remember anything of course--"

Here came such a shout of "Louisa!--Louisa!"--from below, that Mrs. Esthwaite laughing was obliged to obey it and go, and Eleanor was left. There was not much time then for anything; yet a minute Eleanor washeld at the window by the bay with its wooded shores and islandsglittering in the evening light; then she turned from it to pray, forher heart needed strength, and a great sense of loneliness had suddenlycome over her. Fighting this feeling, and dressing, both eagerly, in alittle time she was ready to descend and encounter Mr. Esthwaite anddinner. 

An encounter it was to Mr. Esthwaite. He had put himself in verycareful order; though that, to do him justice, was an habitual weaknessof his; and he met his guest when she appeared with a bow of profoundrecognition and appreciation. Yet Eleanor was only in the simplest ofall white dresses; without lace or embroidery. No matter. The rich hairwas in perfect arrangement; the fine figure and fine carriage in theirunconscious ease were more imposing than anything pretentious can everbe, even to such persons as Mr. Esthwaite. He measured his young guestcorrectly and at once. His wife took the measure of Eleanor's gownmeanwhile, and privately studied what it was that made it so graceful;a problem she had not solved when they sat down to dinner. 

The dinner was sumptuous, and well served. Mr. Esthwaite took delightevidently in playing his part of host, and some pride both housekeepingand patriotic in shewing to Eleanor all the means he had to play itwith. The turtle soup he declared was good, though she might have seenbetter; the fish from Botany Bay, the wild fowl from the interior, thegame of other kinds from the Hunter river, he declared she could nothave known surpassed anywhere. Then the vegetables were excellent; thepotatoes from Van Dieman's Land, were just better than all others inthe world; and the dessert certainly in its abundance of treasuresjustified his boasting that Australia was a grand country for anybodythat liked fruit. The growth of the tropics and of the cooler latitudesof England met together in confusion of beauty and sweetness on Mr. Esthwaite's table. There were oranges and pineapples on one hand, peaches, plums, melons, from the neighbouring country; with all sortsof English-grown fruits from Van Dieman's Land; gooseberries, pears andgrapes. Native wines also he pressed on his guest, assuring her thatsome of them were as good as Sauterne, and others very fair claret andchampagne. Eleanor took the wines on credit; for the rest, her eyesenabled her to give admiration where her taste fell short. Andadmiration was expected of her. Mr. Esthwaite was in a great state ofsatisfaction, having very much to do in the admiring way himself. 

"Did Louisa keep you up stairs to begin upon the fashions?" said he, ashe pulled a pineapple to pieces. 

"I see you have very little appreciation of that subject, " said Eleanor. 

"Yes!" said Mrs. Esthwaite, --"just ask him whether he thinks itimportant that _his_ clothes should be cut in the newest pattern, andhow many good hats he has thrown away because he got hold of somethingnew that he liked better. Just ask him! He never will hear me. "

"I am going to ask her something, " said Mr. Esthwaite. "See here;--youare not going to those savage and inhospitable islands, are you?"

Eleanor's smile and answer were as cool as if her whole nature had notbeen in a stir of excitement. 

"What in the world do _you_ expect to do there?" said her host with astrong tone of disapprobation. "'Wasting sweetness on the desert air'is nothing to it; this is positive desecration!"

Eleanor let the opinion pass, and eat the pineapple which he gave herwith an apparently unimpaired relish. 

"You don't know what sort of a place it is!" he insisted. 

"I cannot know, I suppose, without going. "

"Suppose you stay here, " said Mr. Esthwaite; "and we'll send foranybody in the world you please! to make you comfortable. Seriously, wewant good people in this colony; we have got a supply of all othersorts, but those are in a deficient minority. "

"In that case, I think everybody that stays here is bound to supplyone. "

"See here--who is that gentleman that is so fortunate as to beexpecting you? what is his name?"

"Mr. Esthwaite! for shame!" said his wife. "I think you are a verypresuming cousin. "

Mr. Esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he smiled to himselfwith satisfaction to see the answer his question had called up intoEleanor's cheeks. The rich dye of crimson was pretty to behold; herwords were delayed long enough to mark either difficulty of speaking ordispleasure at the necessity for it. Mr. Esthwaite did not care whichit was. At last Eleanor answered, with calm distinctness though withoutfacing him. 

"Do you not know the name?"

"I--I believe Mrs. Caxton must have mentioned it in one of her letters. She ought, and I think she did. "

An impatient throb of displeasure passed through Eleanor's veins. Itdid not appear. She said composedly, "The name is Rhys--it is a Welshname--spelled R, h, y, s. "

"Hm! I remember. What sort of a man is he?"

Eleanor looked up, fairly startled with the audacity of her host; andonly replied gravely, "I am unable to say. "

Mr. Esthwaite at least had a sense of humour in him; for he smiled, andhis lips kept pertinaciously unsteady for some time, even while he wenton talking. 

"I mean--is he a man calculated for savage, or for civilized life?"

"I hope so, " said Eleanor wilfully. 

"Mr. Esthwaite! you astonish me!" said his wife. 

Mr. Esthwaite seemed however highly amused. "Do you know what savagelife is?" he said to Eleanor. "It is not what you think. It is not agarden of roses, with a pineapple tucked away behind every bush. Now ifyou would come here--here is a grand opening. Here is every sort ofwork wanting you--and Mr. Rhys--whatever the line of his talents maybe. We'll build him a church, and we'll go and hear him, and we'll makemuch of you. Seriously, if my good cousin had known what she wassending you to, she would have wished the 'Diana' should sink with youon board, rather than get to the end of her voyage. It is quiteself-denial enough to come here--when one does not expect to gainanything by it. "

"Mr. Esthwaite! Egbert!" cried his wife. "Now you are caught!Self-denial to come here! That is what you mean by all your talk aboutthe Colonies and England!"

"Don't be--silly, --my dear, " said her husband. "These people wouldthink it so. I don't; but I am addressing myself to their prejudices. Self-denial is what they are after. "

"It is not what I am after, " said Eleanor laughing. "I must break upyour prejudices. "

"What are you after, then. Seriously, what are you going to thosebarbarous islands for--putting friendship and all such regards out ofthe question? Wheat takes you there, --without humbug? You must excuseme--but you are a very extraordinary person to look at, --as amissionary. "

Eleanor could hardly help laughing. She doubted whether or no this wasa question to be answered; discerning a look of seriousness, as shethought, beneath the gleam in her host's eyes, she chose to run therisk of answering. She faced him, and them, as she spoke. 

"I love Jesus. And I love to do his work, wherever he gives it to me;or, as I am a woman and cannot do much, I am glad to help those whocan. "

Mr. Esthwaite was put out a little. He had words on his lips that hedid not speak; and piled Eleanor's plate with various fruit dainties, and drank one or two glasses of his Australian claret before he saidanything more; an interval occupied by Eleanor in cooling down afterher last speech, which had flushed her cheeks prodigiously. 

"That's a sort of work to be done anywhere, " he said finally, as ifEleanor had but just spoken. "I am sure it can be done here, and muchbetter for you. Now see here--I like you. Don't you suppose, if youwere to try, you could persuade this Mr. Rhys to quit those regions ofdarkness and come and take the same sort of work at Sydney that he isdoing there?"

"No. "

"Seems decided!--" said Mr. Esthwaite humourously, looking towards hiswife. "I am afraid this gentleman is a positive sort of character. Well!--there is no use in struggling against fate. My dear, take yourcousin off and give her some coffee. I will be there directly. "

The ladies left him accordingly; and in the pretty drawing-room Mrs. Esthwaite plied Eleanor with questions relating to her voyage, herdestination, and above all, the England of which she had heard so muchand knew so little. Her curiosity was huge, and extended to thesmallest of imaginable details; and one thing followed another withvery little of congruous nature between them. And Eleanor answered, andrelated, and described, and the while thought--where her letters were?Nevertheless she gave herself kindly to her hostess's gratification, and patiently put her own by; and the evening ended with Mrs. Esthwaitebeing in a state of ecstatic delight with her new-found relation. Mr. Esthwaite had kept silence and played the part of listener for thelarger portion of the evening, using his eyes and probably his judgmentfreely during that time. As they were separating, he asked Eleanorwhether she could get up at six o'clock?

Eleanor asked what for?

"Do, for once; and I will take you a drive in the Domain. "

"What Domain? yours, do you mean?"

"Not exactly. I have not got so far as that. No; it's the GovernmentDomain--everybody rides and drives there, and almost everybody goes atsix o'clock. It's worth going; botanical gardens, and all that sort ofthing. "

Eleanor swiftly thought, that it was scarce likely Mr. Amos would haveher letters for her, or at least bring them, so early as that; and shemight as well indulge her host's fancy if not her own. She agreed tothe proposal, and Mrs. Esthwaite went rejoicing with her to her room. 

"You'll like it, " she said. "The botanical gardens are beautiful, and Idare say you will know a great deal more about them than I do. O it'sdelightful to have you here! I only cannot bear to think you must goaway again. "

"You are very kind to me, " said Eleanor gratefully. "My dear auntCaxton will be made glad to know what friends I have found amongstrangers. "

"Don't speak about it!" said Mrs. Esthwaite, her eyes fairly glisteningwith earnestness. "I am sure if Egbert can do anything he will be tooglad. Now won't you do just as if you were at home? I want you to becompletely at home with us--now and always. You must feel very much thewant of your old home in England! being so far from it, too. "

"Heaven is my home, " said Eleanor cheerfully; "I do not feel the lossof England so much as you think. That other home always seems near. "

"Does it?" said Mrs. Esthwaite. "It seems such an immense way off, tome!"

"I used to think so; but it is near to me now. So it does not so muchmatter whereabouts on the earth I am. "

"It must be nice to feel so!" said Mrs. Esthwaite with an unconscioussigh. 

"Do you not feel so?" Eleanor asked. 

"O no. I do not know anything about it. I am not good--like you. "

"It is not goodness--not my goodness--that makes heaven my home, " saidEleanor smiling at her and taking her hands. 

"But I am sure you are good?" said Mrs. Esthwaite earnestly. 

"Just as you are, --except for the grace of God, which is free to all. "

"But, " said Mrs. Esthwaite looking at her as if she were somethinghardly of earth like ordinary mortals, --"I have not given up the worldas you have. I cannot. I like it too well. "

"I have not given it up either, " said Eleanor smiling again; "not inthe sense you mean. I have not given up anything but sin. I enjoyeverything else in the world as much as you do. "

"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Esthwaite, much bewildered. 

"Only this, " said Eleanor, with very sweet gravity now. "I do not loveanything that my King hates. All that I have given up, and all thatleads to it; but I am all the more free to enjoy everything that isreally worth enjoying, quite as well as you can, or any body else. "

"But--you do not go to parties and dances, and you do not drink wine, and the theatre, and all that sort of thing; do you?"

"I do not love anything that my King hates, " said Eleanor shaking herhead gently. 

"But dancing, and wine, --what harm is in them?"

"Think what they lead to!--"

"Well wine--excuse me, I know so little about these things! and I wantto know what you think;--wine, I know, if people will drink toomuch, --but what harm is in dancing?"

"None that I know of, " said Eleanor, --"if it were always suited towomanly delicacy, and if it took one into the society of those thatlove Christ--or helped one to witness for him before those who do not. "

"Well, I will tell you the truth, " said Mrs. Esthwaite with a sort ofpenitent laugh, --"I love dancing. "

"Ay, but I love Christ, " said Eleanor; "and whatever is not for hishonour I am glad to give up. It is no cross to me. I used to like somethings too; but now I love Him; and his will is my will. "

"Ah, that is what I said! you are good, that is the reason. I can'thelp doing wrong things, even if I want to do it ever so much, and whenI know they are wrong; and I shouldn't like to give up anything. "

"Listen, " said Eleanor, holding her hands fast. "It is not that I amgood. It is that I love Jesus and he helps me. I cannot do anything ofmyself--I cannot give up anything--but I trust in my Lord and he doesit for me. It is he that does all in me that you would call good. "

"Ah, but you love him. "

"Should I not?" said Eleanor, "when he loved me, and gave himself forme, that he might bring me from myself and sin to know him and behappy. "

"And you are happy, are you not?" said Mrs. Esthwaite, looking at heras if it were something that she had come to believe against evidence. There was good evidence for it now, in Eleanor's smile; which wouldbear studying. 

"There is nothing but happiness where Christ is. "

"But I couldn't understand it--those places where you are going are sodreadful;--and why you should go there at all--"

"No, you do not understand, and cannot till you try it. I have such joyin the love of Christ sometimes, that I wish for nothing so much in theworld, as to bring others to know what I know!"

There was power in the lighting face, which Mrs. Esthwaite gazed at andwondered. 

"I think I am willing to go anywhere and do anything, which my King maygive me, in that service. "

"To be sure, " said Mrs. Esthwaite, as if adding a convincing corollaryfrom her own mind, --"you have some other reason to wish to getthere--to the Islands, I mean. "

That brought a flood of crimson over Eleanor's face; she let go herhostess's hands and turned away. 

"But there was something else I wanted to ask, " said Mrs. Esthwaitehastily. "Egbert said--Are you very tired, my dear?"

"Not at all, I assure you. "

"Egbert said there was some most beautiful singing as he came upalongside the ship to-day--was it you?"

"In part it was I. "

"He said it was hymns. Won't you sing me one?"

Eleanor liked it very well; it suited her better than talking. They satdown together, and Eleanor sang:

 "'There's balm in Gilead, To make the wounded whole. There's power enough in Jesus To save a sin-sick soul. '"

And somewhat to her surprise, before the hymn had gone far, hercompanion was weeping; and kept her face hidden in her handkerchieftill the last words were sung. 

 "'Come then to this physician; His help he'll freely give. He asks no hard condition, -- 'Tis only, look, and live. For there's balm in Gilead, To make the wounded whole. There's power enough in Jesus To save a sin-sick soul. '"

"I never heard anything so sweet in all my life!" said Mrs. Esthwaiteas she got up and wiped her eyes. "I've been keeping you up. But dotell me, " said she looking at her innocently, --"are all Methodists likeyou?"

"No, " said Eleanor laughing; and then she was vexed at herself that thelaugh changed to a sob and the tears came. Was _she_ hysterical? It wasvery unlike her, but this seemed something like it. Neither could sheimmediately conquer the strangling sensation, between laughter andcrying, which threatened her. 

"My dear! I'm very sorry, " said Mrs. Esthwaite. "You are tootired!--and it is my fault. Egbert will be properly angry with me. "

But Eleanor conquered the momentary oppression, threw off her tears, and gave her hostess a peaceful kiss for good night; with which thelittle lady went off comforted. Then Eleanor sat down by her window, and with tears wet on her eyelashes yet, looked off to the beautifulmoonlit harbour in the distance--and thought. Her thoughts were herown. Only some of them had a reference to certain words that speak of"sowing beside all waters, " and a tender earnest remembrance of theseed she had just been scattering. "Beside all waters"--yes; and asEleanor looked over towards the fair, peace-speaking view of PortJackson, in New South Wales, she recollected the prayer that labourersmight be sent forth into the vineyard. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

IN VIEWS. 

 "Know well, my soul, God's hand controls Whate'er thou fearest; Round Him in calmest music rolls Whate'er thou hearest. "

"That girl is the most lovely creature!" said Mrs. Esthwaite when sherejoined her husband. 

"What have you been talking to her about? Now she will not be up intime to take a drive in the Domain. "

"Yes, she will. She has got plenty of spirit. But oh, Egbert! to thinkof that girl going to put herself in those savage islands, where shewon't see anybody!"

"It is absurd?" said her husband, but somewhat faintly. 

"I couldn't but think to-night as I looked at her--you should have seenher. --Something upset her and set her to crying; then she wouldn't cry;and the little white hand she brushed across her eyes and then restedon the chair-back to keep herself steady--I looked at it, and Icouldn't bear to think of her going to teach those barbarians. And hereyes were all such a glitter with tears and her feelings--I've fallenin love with her, Egbert. "

"She's a magnificent creature, " said Mr. Esthwaite. "Wouldn't she setSydney a fire, if she was to be here a little while! But somebody hasbeen beforehand with Sydney--so it's no use talking. "

Eleanor was ready in good time for the drive, and with spirits entirelyrefreshed by the night's sleep and the morning's renewing power. Thingslooked like new things, unlike those which yesterday saw. All feelingof strangeness and loneliness was gone; her spirits were primed forenjoyment. Mr. And Mrs. Esthwaite both watched eagerly to see theeffect of the drive and the scene upon her; one was satisfied, theother was not. The intent delight in Eleanor's eyes escaped Mrs. Esthwaite; she looked for more expression in words; her husband wascontent that Eleanor's mind was full of what he gave it to act upon. The Domain was an exquisite place for a morning drive; and the morestylish inhabitants of Sydney found it so; there was a good display ofequipages, varying in shew and pretension. To Mrs. Esthwaite'sdisappointment neither these nor their owners drew Eleanor's attention;she did not even seem to see them; while the flowers in the woodsthrough which part of the drive was cut, the innumerable, gorgeous, novel and sweet flowers of a new land, were a very great delight toher. All of them were new, or nearly so; how Eleanor contrasted themwith the wild things of Plassy which she knew so well. And instead ofthe blackbird and green wren, there were birds of brilliant hues, almost as gay as the flowers over which their bright wings went, andyet stranger than they. It was a sort of drive of enchantment toEleanor; the air was delightful, though warm; with no feeling oflassitude or oppression resulting from the heat. 

There were other pleasures. From point to point, as they drove throughthe "bush, " views opened upon them of the harbour and its islands, glittering in the morning sun. Changes of beauty; for every view was alittle unlike the others and revealed the loveliness with a difference. Eleanor felt herself in a new world. She was quite ready for thegardens, when they got through the "bush. "

The gardens were fine. Here she had a feast which neither of hercompanions could enjoy with her in anything like fellowship. Eleanorhad not lived so long with Mrs. Caxton, entering into all her pursuits, without becoming somewhat well acquainted with plants; and now she wasalmost equally charmed at seeing her dear old home friends, and atmaking acquaintance with the glorious beauties that outshone them butcould never look so kindly. Slowly Eleanor went through the gardens, followed by her host and hostess who took their enjoyment in observingher. In the Botanical Gardens Mr. Esthwaite came up alongside again, totell her names and discuss specimens; he found Eleanor knew more aboutthem than he did. 

"All this was a wild 'bush'--nothing but rocks and trees, a few yearsago, " he remarked. 

"_This?_ this garden?"

"Yes, only so long ago as 1825. "

"Somebody has deserved well of the community, then, " said Eleanor. "Itis a delicious place. "

"General Sir Ralph Darling had that good desert. It is a fine thing tobe in high place and able to execute great plans; isn't it?"

Eleanor rose up from a flower and gave Mr. Esthwaite one of herthoughtful glances. 

"I don't know, " she said. "His gardeners did the work, after all. "

"They don't get the thanks. "

"_That_ is not what one works for, " said Eleanor smiling. "So the thingis done--what matter?"

"If it _isn't_ done, --what matter? No, no! I want to get the good ofwhat I do, --in praise or in something else. "

"What is Sir Ralph Darling the better of my thanks now?"

"Well, he's dead!" said Mr. Esthwaite. 

"So I was thinking. "

"Well, what do you mean? Do you mean that you would do nothing whileyou are alive, for fear you would not hear of it after you have leftthe world?"

"Not exactly. "

"What then? I don't know what you are after. "

"You say this was all a wilderness a few years ago--why should youdespair of what you call the 'black islands?'"

"O ho!" said Mr. Esthwaite, --"we are there, are we? By a hop, skip, andjump--leaving the argument. That's like a woman. "

"Are you sure?" said Eleanor. 

"Like all the women I ever saw. Not one of them can stick to the point. "

"Then I will return to mine, " said Eleanor laughing--"or rather bringyou up to it. I referred--and meant to refer you--to another sort ofgardening, in which the labourer receives wages and gathers fruit; butthe beauty of it is, that his wages go with him--he does not leave thembehind--and the fruit is unto life eternal. "

"That's fair, " said Mr. Esthwaite. "See here--you don't preach, do you?"

"I will not, to you, " said Eleanor. "Mr. Esthwaite, I will look at nomore flowers I believe, this morning, since you leave the time of ourstay to me. "

Mr. Esthwaite behaved himself, and though a speech was on his tongue hewas silent, and attended Eleanor home in an unexceptionable manner. Mrs. Esthwaite was in a dissatisfied mood of mind. 

"I hope it will be a great while before you find a good chance to go toFiji!" she said. 

"Do not wish that, " said Eleanor: "for in that case I may have to takea chance that is not good. "

"Ah but, you are not the sort of person to go there. "

"I should be very sorry to think that, " said Eleanor smiling. 

"Well it is clear you are not. Just to look at you! I am sure you areexactly a person to look always as nice as you do now. "

"I hope never to look less nice than I do now, " said Eleanor, ratheropening her eyes. 

"What, in that place?"

"Why yes, certainly. Why not?"

"But you will not wear that flat there?"

Eleanor and Mr. Esthwaite here both gave way in a fit of laughter. 

"Why yes I will; if I find it, as I suppose I shall, the mostcomfortable thing. "

"But you cannot wear white dresses there?"

"If I cannot, I will submit to it, but, my dear cousin, I have broughtlittle else but white dresses with me. For such a climate, what else isso good?"

"Not like that you wore yesterday?"

"They are all very much alike, I believe. What was the matter withthat?"

"Why, it was so--" Mrs. Esthwaite paused. "But how can you get themwashed? do you expect to have servants there?"

"There are plenty of servants, I believe; not very well trained, indeed, or it would not be necessary to have so many. At any rate, theycan wash, whatever else they can do. "

"I don't believe they would know how to wash your dresses. "

"Then I can teach them, " said Eleanor merrily. 

"_You!_ To wash a cambrick dress!"

"That, or any other. "

"Eleanor, do not talk so!"

"Certainly not, if you do not wish it. I was only putting you to reston the score of my laundry work. "

"With those hands!" said Mrs. Esthwaite expressively. 

Eleanor looked down at her hands, for a moment a higher and graverexpression flitted over her face, then she smiled again. 

"I should be ashamed of my hands if they were good for nothing. "

"Capital!" said Mr. Esthwaite. "That's what I like. That is what I callhaving spirit. I like to see a woman have some character of her own;something besides hands, in fact. "

"But Eleanor, I do not understand. I am serious. You never washed; howcan you know how?"

"That was precisely my reasoning; so I learned. "

"Learned to _wash?_ _You?"_

"Yes. "

"You did it with your own hands?"

"The dress you were so good as to approve, " said Eleanor smiling, "itwas washed and done up by myself. "

"Do you expect to have to do it for yourself?" said Mrs. Esthwaitelooking intensely horrified. 

"No, not generally; but to teach somebody, or upon occasion, you know. You see, " she said smiling again her full rich smile, "I am bent uponhaving my white dresses. "

Mrs. Esthwaite was too full for speech, and her husband looked at hisnew cousin with an eye of more absolute admiration than he had yetbestowed on her. Eleanor's thoughts were already on something else;springing forward to meet Mr. Amos and his letters. 

Breakfast was over however before he arrived. Much to her chagrin, shewas obliged to receive him in the company of Mr. And Mrs. Esthwaite; noprivate talk was possible. Mr. Esthwaite engaged him immediately in anearnest but desultory conversation, about Sydney, Eleanor, and themission, and the prospect of their getting to their destination; whichMr. Esthwaite prophesied would not be within any moderate limits oftime. Mr. Amos owned that he had heard of no opportunity, near or far. The talk lasted a good while and it was not till he was taking leavethat Eleanor contrived to follow him out and gain a word to herself. 

"There are no letters for you, " said Mr. Amos, speaking under hisbreath, and turning a cheerful but concerned face towards Eleanor. "Ihave made every enquiry--at the post-office, and of everybody likely toknow about such things. There are none, and they know of none. "

Eleanor said nothing; her face grew perceptibly white. 

"There is nothing the matter with brother Rhys, " said Mr. Amos hastily;"we have plenty of news from him--all right--he is quite well, and fora year past has been on another station; different from the one he wason when you last heard from him. There is nothing the matter--onlythere are no letters for you; and there must be some explanation ofthat. "

He paused, but Eleanor was silent, only her colour returned a little. 

"We want to get away from here as soon as possible, I suppose, " Mr. Amos went on half under breath; "but as yet I see no opening. It willcome. "

"Yes, " said Eleanor somewhat mechanically. "You will let me know--"

"Certainly--as soon as I know anything myself; and I will continue tomake enquiry for those letters. Mr. Armitage is away in the country--hemight know something about them, but nobody else does; and he ought tohave left them with somebody else if he had them. But there can benothing wrong about it; there is only some mistake, or mischance; theletters from Vuliva where brother Rhys is, are quite recent andeverything is going on most prosperously; himself included. And we areto proceed to the same station. I am very glad for ourselves and foryou. "

"Thank you--" Eleanor said; but she was not equal to saying much. Shelistened quietly, and with her usual air, and Mr. Amos never discoveredthe work his tidings wrought; he told his wife, sister Powle looked alittle blank, he thought, at missing her expected despatches, and nowonder. It was an awkward thing. 

Eleanor slowly made her way up to her room and sat down, feeling as ifthe foundations of the earth, to _her_ standing, had given way. She wasmore overwhelmed with dismay than she would have herself anticipated inEngland, if she could have looked forward to such a catastrophe. Reasonsaid there was not sufficient cause; but poor Eleanor was to feel thetruth of Mrs. Caxton's prediction, that she would find out again thatcertain feelings might be natural that were not reasonable. Nay, reasonsaid on this occasion that the failure of letters proved too much tojustify the distress she felt; it proved a combination of things, thatno carelessness nor indifference nor unwillingness to write, on thepart of Mr. Rhys, could possibly have produced. Let him feel how hewould, he would have written, he _must_ have written to meet her there;all his own delicacy and his knowledge of hers affirmed and reaffirmedthat letters were in existence somewhere, though it might be at thebottom of the ocean. Reason fought well; to what use, when naturetrembled, and shivered, and shrank. Poor Eleanor! she felt alone now, without a mother and without shelter; and the fair shores of PortJackson looked very strange and desolate to her; a very foreign land, far from home. What if Mr. Rhys, with his fastidious notions ofdelicacy, did not fancy so bold a proceeding as her coming out to him?what if he disapproved? What if, on further knowledge of the place andthe work, he had judged both unfit for her; and did not, for his ownsake only in a selfish point of view, choose to encourage her coming?in that case her being _come_ would make no difference; he would notshelter himself from a judgment displeasing to him, because the escapefrom its decisions was rendered easy. What if _for his own sake_ hisfeeling had changed, and he wanted her no longer? years had gone bysince he had seen her; it must have been a wayward fancy that couldever have made him think of her at first; and now, about his grave workin a distant land, and with leisure to correct blunders of fancy, perhaps he had settled into the opinion that it was just as well thathis coming away had separated them; and did not feel able to welcomeher appearance in Australia, and was too sincere to write what he didnot feel; so wrote nothing? Not very like Mr. Rhys, reason whispered;but reason's whisper, though heard, could not quiet the sensitivedelicacy which trembled at doubt. So miserable, so chilled, so forlorn, Eleanor had never felt in her life; not when the 'Diana' first carriedher away from the shores of her native land. 

What was she to do? that question throbbed at her heart; but itanswered itself soon. Stay in Australia she could not; go home toEngland she could not; no, not upon this mere deficiency of testimony. There was only one alternative left; she must go on whenever Mr. AndMrs. Amos should move. Nature might tremble and quiver, and allEleanor's nerves did; but there was no other course to pursue. "I cantell, " she thought, --"I shall know--the first word, the first look, will tell me the whole; I cannot be deceived. I must go on and meetthat word and look, whatever it costs me--I must; and then, if itis--if it is not satisfying to me, then aunt Caxton shall have me! Ican go back, as well as I have come. Shame and misery would not hinderme--they would not be so bad as my staying here then. "

So the question of action was settled; but the question of feeling notso soon. Eleanor's enjoyment was gone, of all the things she hadenjoyed those first twenty-four hours, and of all others which herentertainers brought forward for her pleasure. Yet Eleanor kept her owncounsel, and as they did not know the cause she had for trouble, soneither did they discover any tokens of it. She did not withdrawherself from their kind efforts to please her, and they spared nopains. They took her in boat excursions round the beautiful harbour. They shewed her the pretty environs of the Parramatta river. Nay, though it was not very easy for him to leave his business, Mr. Esthwaite went with her and his wife to the beautiful Illawarradistrict; put the whole party on horses, and shewed Eleanor a land oftropical beauty under the clear, bracing, delicious warm weather ofAustralia. Fern trees springing up to the dimensions of trees indeed, with the very fern foliage she was accustomed to in low herbaceousgrowth at home; only magnified superbly. There were elegant palms, too, with other evergreens, and magnificent creepers; and floating out andin among them in great numbers were gay red-crested cockatoos and othertropical birds. The character of the scenery was exquisite. Eleanor sawone or two of the fair lake-like lagoons of that district, eat of thefish from them; for they made a kind of gypsey expedition, camping outand providing for themselves fascinatingly; and finally returned in thesteamer from Wollongong to Sydney. Her friends would have taken her tosee the gold diggings if it had been possible. But Eleanor saw it all, all they could shew her, with half a heart. She had learned long ago toconceal what she felt. 

"I think she wants to get away, " said Mrs. Esthwaite one night, halfvexed, wholly sorry. 

"That's what it is to be in love!" said her husband. "You won't keepher in Sydney. Do you notice she has given up smiling?"

"No!" said his wife indignantly; "I notice no such thing. She is asready to smile as anybody I ever saw. "--And I wish I had as goodreason! was the mental conclusion; for Eleanor and she had had many anevening talk by that time, and many a hymn had been listened to. 

"All very well, " said Mr. Esthwaite; "but she don't smile as she did atfirst. Don't you remember?--that full smile she used to give once in awhile, with a little world of mischief in the corners? I would like tosee it the next time!--"

"I declare, " said Mrs. Esthwaite, "I think you take quite animpertinent interest in people's concerns. She wouldn't let you see it, besides. "

At which Mr. Esthwaite laughed. 

So near people came to it; and Eleanor covered up her troublesomethoughts within her own heart, and gave Mr. Esthwaite the benefit ofthat impenetrable coolness and sweetness of manner which a good whileago had used to bewitch London circles. In the effort to hide her realthoughts and feelings she did not quite accommodate it to the differentlatitude of New South Wales; and Mr. Esthwaite was a good deal struckand somewhat bewildered. 

"You have mistaken your calling, " he said one evening, standing beforeEleanor and considering her. 

"Do you think so?"

"There! Yes, I do. I think you were born to govern. "

"I am sadly out of my line then, " said Eleanor laughing. 

"Yes. You are. That is what I say. You ought to be this minute aduchess--or a governor's lady--or something else in the imperial line. "

"You mistake my tastes, if you think so. "

"I do not mistake something else, " muttered Mr. Esthwaite; and then Mr. Amos entered the room. 

"Here, Amos, " said he, "you have made an error in judging of thislady--she is no more fit to go a missionary than I am. She--she goesabout with the air of a princess!"

Mrs. Esthwaite exclaimed, and Mr. Amos took a look at the supposedprincess's face, as if to reassure or inform his judgment. Apparentlyhe saw nothing to alarm him. 

"I am come to prove the question, " he said composedly; then turning toEleanor, --"I have heard at last of a schooner that is going to Fiji, orwill go, if we desire it. "

This simple announcement shot through Eleanor's head and heart with theforce of a hundred pounder. An extreme and painful flush of colouranswered it; nobody guessed at the pain. 

"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Esthwaite getting up again and standingbefore Mr. Amos, --"you have found a vessel, you say?"

"Yes. A small schooner, to sail in a day or two. "

"What schooner? whom does she belong to? Lawsons, or Hildreth?"

"To nobody, I think, but her master. I believe he sails the vessel forhis own ends and profits. "

"What schooner is it? what name?"

"The 'Queen Esther, ' I think. "

"You cannot go in that!" said Mr. Esthwaite turning off. "The 'QueenEsther'!--I know her. She's not fit for you; she's a leaky old thing, that that man Hawkins sails on all sorts of petty business; she'll goto pieces some day. She ain't sea-worthy, I don't believe. "

"It is not as good a chance as might be, but it is the first that hasoffered, and the first that is likely to offer for an unknown time, "Mr. Amos said, looking again to Eleanor. 

"When does she sail?"

"In two days. She is small, and not in first-rate order; but the voyageis not for very long. I think we had better go in her. "

"Certainly. How long is the voyage, regularly?"

"A fortnight in a good ship, and a month in a bad one, " struck in Mr. Esthwaite. "You'll never get there, if you depend on the 'Queen Esther'to bring you. "

"We go to Tonga first, " said Mr. Amos. "The 'Queen Esther' sails withstores for the stations at Tonga and the neighbourhood; and will carryus further only by special agreement; but the master is willing, and Icame to know your mind about it. "

"I will go, " said Eleanor. "Tell Mrs. Amos I will meet her onboard--when?"

"Day after to-morrow morning. "

"Very well. I will be there. Will she take the additional lading of myboxes?"

"O yes; no difficulty about that. It's all right. "

"How can I do with the things you have stored for me?" Eleanor said toMr. Esthwaite. "Can the schooner take them too?"

"What things?"

"Excuse me--perhaps I misunderstood you. I thought you said you hadhalf your warehouse, one loft of it, taken up with things for me?"

"Those things are gone, long ago, " said Mr. Esthwaite, in a dogged kindof mood which did not approve of the proposed journey or conveyance. 

"Gone?"

"Yes. According to order. Mrs. Caxton wrote, Forward as soon aspossible; so I did. "

Again Eleanor's brow and cheeks and her very throat were covered with arush of crimson; but when Mr. Amos took her hand on going away itstouch made him ask involuntarily if she were well?

"Perfectly well, " Eleanor answered, with something in her manner thatreminded Mr. Amos, though he could not tell why, of the charge Mr. Esthwaite had brought. Another look into Eleanor's eyes quieted thethought. 

"Your hand is very cold!" he said. 

"It's a sign of"--Mr. Esthwaite would have said "fever, " but Eleanorhad composedly faced him and he was silent; only busied himself inshewing Mr. Amos out, without a word that he ought not to have spoken. Mr. Amos went home and told his wife. 

"I think she is all right, " he said; "but she does not look to me justas she did before we landed. I dare say she has had a great deal ofadmiration here--"

"I dare say she feels bad, " said good Mrs. Amos. 

"Why?"

"If you were not a man, you would know, " Mrs. Amos said laughing. "Sheis in a very trying situation. "

"Is she? O, those letters! It is unfortunate, to be sure. But theremust be some explanation. "

"The explanation will be good when she gets it, " Mrs. Amos remarked. "Ihope somebody who is expecting her is worthy of her. Poor thing! Icouldn't have done it, I believe, even for you. "

CHAPTER XVII. 

IN SMOOTH WATER. 

 "But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. "

The morning came for the "Queen Esther" to sail. Mr. And Mrs. Amos wereon board first, and watched with eyes both kind and anxious to seeEleanor when she should come. The little bonnet with chocolate ribbandsdid not keep them waiting and the first smile and kiss to Mrs. Amosmade _her_ sure that all was right. She had been able to see scarceanything of Eleanor during the weeks on shore; it was a refreshment tohave her near again. But Eleanor had turned immediately to attend toMr. Esthwaite. 

"This is the meanest, most abominable thing of a vessel, " he said, "that ever Christians travelled in! It is an absurd proceedingaltogether. Why if the boards don't part company and go to piecesbefore you get to Tonga--which I think they will--they don't give roomfor all three of you to sit down in the cabin at once. "

"The deck is of better capacity, " Eleanor told him briskly. 

"Such a deck! I wonder _you_, cousin Eleanor, can make up your mind toendure it. There is not a man living who is worth such a sacrifice. Horrid!"

"We hope it won't last a great while, " Mr. Amos told him. 

"It won't! That's what I say. You will all be deposited in the bottomof the ocean, to pay you for not having been contented on shore. Iwould not send a dog to sea in such a ship!"

"Cousin Esthwaite, you had better not stay in a situation sodisagreeable to you. You harass yourself for nothing. Shake hands. Yousee the skipper is going to make sail directly. "

Eleanor with a little play in the manner of this dismissal, was enoughin earnest to secure her point. Mr. Esthwaite felt in a mannerconstrained to take his departure. He presumed however in thecircumstances to make interest for a cousinly kiss for good bye; whichwas refused him with a cooler demonstration of dignity than he had yetmet with. It nettled him. 

"There was the princess, " whispered Mr. Amos to his wife. 

"Good!" said Mrs. Amos. 

"Good bye!" cried Mr. Esthwaite, disappearing over the schooner's side. "_You_ are not fit for a missionary! I told you so before. "

Eleanor turned to Mrs. Amos, ignoring entirely this little transaction, and smiled at her. "I hope he has not made you nervous, " she said. 

"No, " said Mrs. Amos; "I am not nervous. If I did not get sick I shouldenjoy it; but I suppose I shall be sick as soon as we get out of theharbour. "

"Let us take the good of it then, until we are out of the harbour, "said Eleanor. "If the real 'Queen Esther' was at all like her namesake, Ahasuerus must have had a disorderly household. "

They sat down together on the little vessel's deck, and watched thebeautiful shores from which they were gliding away. Eleanor was glad tobe off. The stay at Sydney had become oppressive to her; she wanted tobe at the end of her journey and know her fate; and hope and reasonwhispered that she had reason to be glad. For all that, the poor childhad a great many shrinkings of heart. A vision of Mr. Rhys never cameup in one of its aspects, --that of stern and fastidiousdelicacy, --without her heart seeming to die away within her. She couldnot talk now. She watched the sunny islands and promontories of thebay, changing and passing as the vessel slowly moved on; watched thewhite houses of Sydney, grateful for the home she had found there, longing exceedingly for a home once again that should be hers by right;hope and tremulousness holding her heart together. This was a conflictthat prayer and faith did not quell; she could only come to a state ofhumble submissiveness; and she never thought of reaching Vuliva withouta painful thrill that almost took away her breath. But she was glad tobe on the way. 

The vessel was very small, not of so much as eighty tons burthen; itsaccommodations were of course a good deal as Mr. Esthwaite had said;and more than that, the condition of the vessel and of its appointmentswas such that Mrs. Amos felt as if she could hardly endure to shutherself up in the cabin. Eleanor resolved immediately that _she_ wouldnot; the deck was a better plate; and she prevailed to have a mattressbrought there for Mrs. Amos, where the good lady, though miserably illas soon as they were upon the ocean roll, yet could be spared the closeair and other horrors of the place below deck. Eleanor wrapped herselfin her sea cloak, and lived as she could on deck with her; having afine opportunity to read the stars at night, and using it. The weatherwas very fine; the wind favouring and steady; and in the SouthernOcean, under such conditions, there were some good things to be had, even on board the "Queen Esther. " There were glorious hymn-singings inthe early night-time; and Eleanor had never sung with more power on the"Diana. " There were beautiful Bible discussions between her and Mr. Amos--Bible contemplations, rather; in which they brought Scripture toScripture to illustrate their point; until Mr. Amos declared he thoughtit would be a grand way of holding a Bible-class; and poor Mrs. Amoslistened, delighted, though too sick to put in more than a word now andthen. And Eleanor's heart gave a throb every time she recollected thatanother day had gone, --so many more miles were travelled over, --theywere so much nearer the journey's end. Her companions found no fault inher. There was nothing of the princess now, but a gentle, thoughtful, excellent nurse, and capital cook. On board the "Diana" there had beenlittle need of her services for Mrs. Amos; little indeed that could bedone. Now, in the fresh air on the open deck of the little schooner, Mrs. Amos suffered less in one way; but all the party were sharers inthe discomforts of close accommodations and utter want of nicety inanything done or furnished on board. The condition of everything wassuch that it was scarcely possible to eat at all for well people. PoorMrs. Amos would have had no chance except for Eleanor's helpfulness andclever management. As on board the "Diana, " there was nobody in theschooner that would refuse her anything; and Mr. Amos smiled to himselfto see where she would go and what she would do to secure some littlecomfort for her sick friend, and how placidly she herself munched seabiscuit and bad bread, after their little stock of fruit from Sydneyhad given out. She would bring a cup of tea and a bit of toast to Mrs. Amos, and herself take a crust with the equanimity of a philosopher. Eleanor did not care much what she eat, those days. Her own good timeswere when everybody else was asleep except the man at the wheel; andshe would kneel by the guards and watch the strange constellations, andpray, and sometimes weep a flood of tears. Julia, her mother andAlfred, Mrs. Caxton, her own intense loneliness and shrinking delicacyin the uncertainty of her position, they were all well watered in tearsat some of those watching hours when nobody saw. 

The "Queen Esther" made the Friendly Islands in something less than amonth, notwithstanding Mr. Esthwaite's unfavourable predictions. AtTonga she was detained a week and more; unlading and taking in stores. The party improved the time in a survey of the island and missionpremises and in pleasant intercourse with their friends stationedthere. Or what would have been pleasant intercourse; it was impossiblefor Eleanor to enjoy it. So near her destination now, she was impatientto be off; and drew short breaths until the days of delay were ended, and the little schooner once more made sail and turned her head towardsVuliva. She had seen Tonga with but half an eye. 

Two or three days would finish their journey now. The weather and windcontinued fair; they dipped Tonga in the salt wave, and stood on and ontowards the unseen haven of their hopes and duties. A new change cameover Eleanor. It could not be reason, for reason had striven in vain. Perhaps it was nature, which turning a corner took a new view of thesubject. But from the time of their leaving Tonga, she was unable toentertain such troublesome apprehensions of what the end of the voyagemight have in store for her. Something whispered it could be nothingvery bad; and that point that she had so dreaded began to gather a glowof widely different promise. A little nervousness and trepidationremained about the thought of it; the determination abode fast to seethe very first word and look and know what they portended; but in placeof the rest of Eleanor's downhearted fear, there came now anoverwhelming sense of shamefacedness. This was something quite new andunexpected; she had never known in her life more than a slight touch ofit before; and now it consumed her. Even before Mr. And Mrs. Amos shefelt it; and her eyes shunned theirs the last day or two as if she hadbeen a shy child. Why was it? She could not help it. This seemed to beas natural and as unreasonable as the other; and in her lonely nightwatches, instead of trembling and sinking of heart, Eleanor wasconscious that her cheeks dyed themselves with that unconquerablefeeling of shame. Very inconsistent indeed with her former state offeeling; and that was according to Mrs. Caxton's words; not beingreasonable, reason could not be expected from them in anything. Herfriends had not penetrated her former mood; this they saw and smiledat; and indeed it made Eleanor very lovely. There was a shy, blushinggrace about her the last day or two of the voyage which touched all shedid; indeed Mrs. Amos declared she could see it through the littleclose straw bonnet, and it made her want to take Eleanor in her armsand keep her there. Mr. Amos responded in his way of subdued fun, thatit was lucky she could not; as it would be likely to be a disputedpossession, and he did not want to get into a quarrel with his brethrenthe first minute of his getting to land. 

Up came Eleanor with some trifle for Mrs. Amos which she had beenpreparing. 

"We are almost in, sister Eleanor!" said Mr. Amos. "The captain says hesees the land. "

Eleanor's start was somewhat prompt, to look in the direction of 'QueenEsther's' figure-head. 

"The light is failing--I don't believe you can see it, " said Mr. Amos;"not to know it from the clouds. The captain says he shall stand offand on through the night, so as to have daylight to go in. The entranceis narrow. I suppose, if all is well, we shall have a weddingto-morrow?"

Eleanor asked Mrs. Amos somewhat hastily, if what she had brought herwas good?

"Delicious!" Mrs. Amos said; and pulling Eleanor's face down to her shegave it a kiss which spoke more things than her mere thanks. She wasrewarded with the sight of that crimson veil which spread itself overEleanor's cheeks, which most people thought it was a pleasure to see. 

Eleanor thought she should get little sleep that night; but she wasdisappointed. She slept long and sweetly on her mattress; and awoke tofind it quite day, with fair wind, and the schooner setting her headfull on the land which rose up before her fresh and green, yes, andexceeding lovely. Eleanor got up and shook herself out; her companionswere still sleeping. She rolled her mattress together and sat down uponit, to watch the approaches to the land. Fresher and fairer and greenerevery moment it lifted itself to her view; she could hardly bear tolook steadily; her head went down for a minute often under the pressureof the thoughts that crowded together. And when she raised it up, thelovely hills of the island, with their novel outline and greenluxuriance, were nearer and clearer and higher than they had been aminute before. Now she could discern here and there, she thought, something that must be a dwelling-house; then trees began to detachthemselves from the universal mass; she saw smoke rising; and shebecame aware too, that along the face of the island, fronting theapproach of the schooner, was a wall of surf; and a line of breakersthat seemed to stretch right and left and to be without an interval intheir white continuity. Eleanor did not see how the schooner was goingto get in; for the surf did not break evidently on the shore of theisland, but on a reef extending around the shore and at some littledistance from it. Yet the vessel stood straight on; and the sweet smellof the land began to come with the freshness of the morning air. 

"Is this Vuliva before us?" she asked of the skipper whom she foundstanding near. 

"Ay, ay!"

"Where are you going to get in? I see no opening. "

"Ay, ay! There _is_ an opening, though. "

And soon, looking keenly, Eleanor thought she could discern it. Notuntil they were almost upon it however; and then it was a place ofrough water enough, though the regular fall of the surf was interruptedand there was only a general upheaving and commotion of the waves amongthemselves. It was nothing very terrific; the tide was in a good state;and presently Eleanor saw that they had passed the barrier, they werein smooth water, and making for an opening in the land immediatelyopposite which might be either the mouth of a river or an inlet of thesea. They neared it fast, sailed up into it; and there to Eleanor'smortification the skipper dropped anchor and swung to. She saw nosettlement. Some few scattered houses were plain enough now to be seen;but nothing even like a village. Tufts of trees waved gracefully; rockand hill and rich-coloured lowland spread out a variety of beauty;where was Vuliva, the station? This might be the island. Where were thepeople? Could they come no nearer than this?

Mr. Amos made enquiry. The village, the skipper said, was "round thepint;" in other words, behind a woody headland which just before thembent the course of the river into a sharp angle. The schooner would gono further; passengers and effects were to be transported the rest ofthe way in boats. People they would see soon enough; so the master ofthe "Queen Esther" advised them. 

"I suppose the natives will carry the news of the schooner being here, and our friends will come and look after us, " Mr. Amos said. 

Eleanor changed colour, and sat with a beating heart looking at thefair fresh landscape which was to be--perhaps--the scene of her futurehome. The scene was peace itself. Still water after the upheavings ofthe ocean; the smell and almost the fluttering sound of the greenleaves in the delicious wind; the ripple on the surface of the littleriver; the soft stillness of land sounds, with the heavy beat of thesurf left behind on the reef outside. Eleanor drew a long breath. People would find them out soon, the skipper had said. She wasexceedingly disposed to get rid of her sea dress and put on somethingthat looked like the summer morning; for without recollecting what theseasons were in the Southern Ocean, that was what the time seemed liketo her. She looked round at Mrs. Amos, who was sitting up and beginningto realize that she had done with the sea for the present. 

"How do you do?" said Eleanor. 

"I should feel better if I could get on something clean. "

"Come, then!"

The two ladies disappeared down the companion way, into one of the mostsorry tiring rooms, surely, that ever nicety used for that purpose. Butit served two purposes with Eleanor just now; and the second was ahiding place. She did not want to be taken unawares, nor to be seenbefore she could see. So under the circumstances she made both Mrs. Amos and herself comfortable, and was as helpful as usual in a newline. Then she went to look out; but nobody was in sight yet, gentle orsavage; all was safe; she went back to Mrs. Amos and fastened the door. 

"Let us kneel down and pray together, will you?" she said. "I cannotget my breath freely till we have done that. "

Mrs. Amos's lips trembled as she knelt. And Eleanor and she joined inmany petitions there, while the very stillness of their little cabinfloor reminded them they were come to their desired haven, and the longsea journey was over. They rose up and kissed each other. 

"I am so glad I have known you!" said Mrs. Amos. "What a blessing youhave been to us! I wish we might be stationed somewhere together. "

"I suppose that would be too good to hope for, " said Eleanor. "I amgoing to reconnoitre again. "

Mrs. Amos half guessed why, and smiled to herself at Eleanor's blushingshyness. "Poor child, her hands were all trembling too, " she said inher thoughts. They were broken off by a low summons to the cabin door, which Eleanor held slightly ajar. Through the crack of the door theyhad a vision. 

On the deck of the "Queen Esther" stood a specimen of the nativeinhabitants of the land. A man of tall stature, nobly developed inlimbs and muscles, he looked in his native undress almost of giantproportions. His clothing was only a long piece of figured native clothwound about his loins, one end falling like a train to the very sloop'sdeck. A thorough black skin was the only covering of the rest of hisperson, and shewed his breadth of shoulder and strength of muscle togood advantage; as if carved in black marble; only there was sufficientgraceful mobility and dignified ease of carriage and attitude; nomarble rigidity. Black he was, this savage, but not negro. The featureswere well cut and good. What the hair might be naturally could only beguessed at; the work of a skilful hair-dresser had left it somethingfor the uninitiated to marvel at. A band of three or four inches inbreadth, completely white, bordered the face; the rest, a veryluxuriant head, was jet black and dressed into a perfectly regular andsmooth roundish form, projecting everywhere beyond the white innerborder. He had an uncouth necklace, made of what it was impossible tosay, except that part of it looked like shells and part like someanimal's teeth; rings of one or two colours were on his fingers; hecarried no weapon. But in his huge, powerful black frame, uncouthhair-dressing, and strange uncoveredness, he was a sufficientlyterrible object to unused eyes. In Tonga the ladies had seen no suchsight. 

"Do shut the door!" said Mrs. Amos. "He may come this way, and there isnobody that knows how to speak to him. "

Eleanor shut the door, and looked round at her friend with a smile. 

"I am foolish!" said Mrs. Amos laughing; "but I don't want to see himjust yet--till there is somebody to talk to him. "

The door being fast, Eleanor applied herself to a somewhat largeknot-hole she had long ago discovered in it; one which she stronglysuspected the skipper had fostered, if not originated, for his ownconvenience of spying what was going on. Through this knot-hole Eleanorhad a fair view of a good part of the deck, savage and all. He wasgesticulating now and talking, evidently to the captain and Mr. Amos, the former of whom either did not understand or did not agree with him. Mr. Amos, of course, was in the former condition. Eleanor watched themwith absorbed interest; when suddenly this vision was crossed byanother, that looked to her eyes much as a white angel might, comingacross a cloud of both moral and physical blackness. Mr. Rhys himself;his very self, and looking very much like it; only in a white dressliterally, which in England she had never seen him wear. But the whitedress alone did not make the impression to her eyes; there was that airof freshness and purity which some people always carry about with them, and which has to do with the clear look of temperance as well as withgreat particularity of personal care, and in part also grows out of themoral condition. In three breathless seconds Eleanor took note of itall, characteristics well known, but seen now with the novelty of longdisuse and with the background of that huge black savage, to whom Mr. Rhys was addressing some words, of explanation or exhortation--Eleanorcould not tell which. She noticed the quiet pleasant manner of hisspeech, which certainly looked not as if Mrs. Amos had any reason forher fears; but he was speaking earnestly, and she observed too theunbending look of the savage in answer and a certain pleasant deferencewith which he appeared to be listening. Mr. Rhys had taken off his hatfor a moment--it hung in his hand while the other brushed the hair fromhis forehead. Eleanor's eye even in that moment fell to the hand whichcarried the hat; it was the same, --she recognized it with a curioussense of bringing great and little things together, --it was the samewhite and carefully looked-after hand that she remembered it inEngland. Mr. Rhys's own personal civilization went about with him. 

Eleanor did not hear any of Mrs. Amos's words to her, which wereseveral; and though Mrs. Amos, half alarmed by her deafness, did notknow but she might be witnessing something dreadful on deck, and spokewith some importunity. Eleanor was thinking she had not a minute tolose. Beyond the time of Mr. Rhys's talking to the other visitor on theschooner's deck, there could be but small interval before he wouldlearn all about her being on board; two words to the skipper or Mr. Amos would bring it out; and if she wished to gain that first minute'stestimony of look and word, she must be beforehand with them. Shethought of all that with a beating heart in one instant's flash ofthought, hastily caught up her ship cloak without daring to stop to putit on, slipped back the bolt of the door, and noiselessly passed outupon the deck. She neither heard nor saw anybody else; she wasconscious of an intense and pitiful shame at being there and at thuspresenting herself; but everything else was second to that necessity, to know from Mr. Rhys's look, with an absolute certainty, where _he_stood. She was not at that moment much afraid; yet the look she mustsee. She went forward while he was yet speaking to his black neighbour, she stood still a little behind him, and waited. She longed to hide hereyes, yet she looked steadfastly. _How_ she looked, neither she norperhaps anybody else knew. There was short opportunity for observation. 

Mr. Rhys had no sooner finished his business with his sable friend, when he turned the other way; and of course the motionless figurestanding so near his elbow, the woman's bonnet and drapery, caught hisfirst glance. Eleanor was watching, with eyes that were strainedalready with the effort; they got leave to go down now. The flash ofjoy in those she had been looking at, the deep tone of the low uttered, "Oh, Eleanor!" which burst from him, made her feel on the instant as ifshe were paid to the full, not only for all she had done, but for allthat life might have of disagreeable in store for her. Her eyes fell;she stood still in a sudden trance of contentment which made her asblind and deaf as another feeling had made her just before. Those twowords--there had been such a depth in them, of tenderness and gladness;and somehow she felt in them too an appreciation of all she had doneand gone through. Eleanor was satisfied. She felt it as well in thehold of her hand, which was taken and kept in a clasp as who shouldsay, 'This is mine. '

Perhaps it was out of consideration for her state, that without anyfurther reference to her he turned to Mr. Amos and claimed acquaintanceand brotherhood with him; and for a little while talked, informinghimself of various particulars of their journey and welfare; never allthe while loosing his hold of that hand, though not bringing her intothe conversation, and indeed standing so as somewhat to shield her. Thequestion of landing came up and was discussed. The skipper objected tosend the schooner's boat, on the score that it would leave too few menon board to take care of the vessel. Mr. Rhys had only a small canoewith him, manned by a single native. So he decided forthwith to returnto the village and despatch boats large enough to bring themissionaries and their effects to land; but about that there might besome delay. Then for the first time he bent down and spoke to Eleanor;again that subdued, tender tone. 

"Are you ready to go ashore?"

"Yes. "

"I will take you with me. Do you want anything out of this big ship?The canoes may not be immediately obtained, for anything but the livefreight. "

He took the grey ship cloak from Eleanor's arm and put it round hershoulders. She felt that she was alone and forlorn no more; she had gothome. She was a different creature that went into the cabin to kissMrs. Amos, from the Eleanor that had come out. 

"I've seen him!" whispered Mrs. Amos. "Eleanor! you will not be marriedtill we come, will you?"

"I hope not--I don't know, " said Eleanor hurriedly seizing her bag andpassing out again. Another minute, and it and she were taken down theside of the schooner and lodged in the canoe; and their dark oarsmanpaddled off. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

AT DINNER. 

 "Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it. "

Eleanor's shamefacedness was upon her in full force when she foundherself in the canoe pushing off from the schooner and her friendsthere. She felt exceeding shy and strange, and with that a feeling verylike awe of her companion. A feeling not quite unknown to her in formerdays with the same person, and in tenfold force now. There was no doubtto be sure of the secret mind of them both towards each other;nevertheless, he had never spoken to her of his affection, nor givenher the least sign of it, except on paper, up to that day; and now hesat for all she could see as cool and grave as ever by her side. Theold and the new state of things it was hard to reconcile all at once. To do Eleanor justice, she saw as one sees without looking; she was tooshame-faced to look; she bent her outward attention upon their boatman. He was another native, of course, but attired in somewhat morecivilized style, though in no costume of civilized lands. What he worewas more like a carman's frock at home than anything else it could belikened to. He was of pleasant countenance, and paddled along withgreat activity and skill. 

They had been silent for the first few minutes since leaving theschooner, till at length Mr. Rhys asked her, with a little of the sweetarch smile she remembered so well, "how she had liked the first sightof a Fijian?" It brought such a rush upon Eleanor of past things andpresent, old times and changes, that it was with the utmost difficultyshe could make any answer at all. 

"I was too much interested to think of liking or disliking. "

"You were not startled?"

"No. "

"That was a heathen chief, of the opposite village. "

"He wanted something, did he not?"

"Yes; that the captain of the schooner should accommodate him insomething he thought would be for his advantage. It was impossible, andso I told him. "

Eleanor looked again towards the oarsman. 

"This is one of our Christian brethren. "

"Are there many?" she asked, though feeling as if she had no breath toask. 

"Yes. And we have cause to be thankful every day at hearing of more. Wewant ten times as many hands as we, have got. How has the long voyagebeen to you?"

Eleanor answered briefly; but then she was obliged to go on and tell ofMrs. Caxton, and of Mr. And Mrs. Amos, and of various other matters; toall which still she answered in as few words as possible. She could notbe fluent, with that sense of strangeness upon her; conscious not onlythat one of her hands was again in Mr. Rhys's hold, but that his eyeswere never off her face. He desisted at last from questions, and theyboth sat silent; until the headland was rounded, and "There is Vuliva!"came from Mr. Rhys's lips. 

In a little bay curve of the river, behind the promontory, lay thevillage; looking pretty and foreign enough. But very pretty it was. Theodd, or rather the strange-looking houses, sitting apart from eachother, some large and some small, intermingled gracefully with treeswhose shape and leafage were as new, made a sweet picture. One house inparticular as they neared the shore struck Eleanor; it had a neatcolonnade of slender pillars in front, and a high roof, almost like aMansard in form, but thatched with native thatch. A very neat palingfence stretched along in front of this. Very near it, a little furtheroff, rose another building that made Eleanor almost give a start ofjoy; so homelike and pleasant it looked, as well as surprising. Thiswas an exceeding pretty chapel; again with a high thatched roof, andalso with a neat slight bell-tower rising from one end. In front twodoors at each side were separated by a large and not inelegant window;other windows and doors down the side of the building promised lightand airiness; and the walls were wrought into a curious pattern;reminding Eleanor of the fanciful brick work of a past style ofarchitecture. Near the shore and back behind the chapel and houses, reared themselves here and there the slender stems of palm andcocoa-nut trees, with their graceful tufts of feathery foliage wavingat top; other trees of various kinds were mingled among them. Figureswere seen moving about, in the medium attire worn by their oarsman. Itwas a pretty scene; cheerful and home-like, though so unlike home. Further back from the river, on the opposite shore, other houses couldbe seen; the houses of the heathen village; but Eleanor's eyes werefastened on this one. Mr. Rhys said not one word; only he held her handin a still closer grasp which was not meaningless. 

"How pretty it is!" Eleanor forced herself to say. He only answered, "Do you like it?" but it was in such a satisfied tone of preoccupationthat Eleanor blushed and thought she might as well leave hismeditations alone. 

Yet though full of content in her heart, Mr. Rhys and his affectionseemed both at a distance. It was so exactly the Mr. Rhys of Plassy, that Eleanor could not in a moment realize their changed relations andfind her own place. A little thing administered a slight corrective tothis reckoning. 

The little canoe had come to land. Eleanor was taken out of it safely, and then for a moment left to herself; for Mr. Rhys was engaged in acolloquy with his boatman and another native who had come up. Not beingable to understand a word of what was going on, though from the tonesand gestures she guessed it had reference to the disembarkation of theschooner's party, and a little ready to turn her face from view, Eleanor stood looking landward; in a maze of strangeness that was notat all unhappy. The cocoa-nut tops waved gently a welcome to her; shetook it so; the houses looked neat and inviting; glimpses of otherunknown foliage helped to assure her she had got home; the countryoutlines, so far as she could see them, looked fair and bright. Eleanorwas taking note of details in a dreamy way, when she was surprised bythe sudden frank contact of lips with hers; lips that had nostrangeness of their own to contend with. Turning hastily, she saw thatthe natives with whom Mr. Rhys had been talking had run off differentways, and they two were alone. Eleanor trembled as much as she had donewhen she first read Mr. Rhys's note at Plassy. And his words when hespoke did not help her, they were spoken so exactly like the Mr. Rhysshe had known there. Not exactly, neither, though he only said, "Do you want this cloak on any longer?"

"Yes, thank you, " said Eleanor stammering, --"I do not feel it. "

Which was most literally true, for at that moment she did not feelanything external. He looked at her, and exercising his own judgmentproceeded to unclasp the cloak from her shoulders and hang it on hisarm, while he put her hand on the other. 

"There is no need for you to be troubled with this now, " said he. "Ionly put it round you to protect your dress. " And with her bag in hishand, they went up from the river-side and past the large house withthe colonnade. "Whither now?" thought Eleanor, but she asked nothing. One or two more houses were passed; then a little space without houses;then came a paling enclosure, of considerable size, apparently, filledwith trees and vines. A gate opened in this and let them through, andMr. Rhys led Eleanor up a walk in the garden-like plantation, to ahouse which stood encompassed by it. "Not at home yet!" he remarked toher as they stood at the door; with a slight smile which again broughtthe blood to her cheeks. He opened the door and they went in. 

"The good news is true, sister Balliol!" he said to somebody that metthem. "I have brought you one of our friends, and there are more tocome, that I must go and look after. Is brother Balliol at home?"

"No, he is not; he has gone over the river. "

"Then I will leave this lady in your care, and I will go and see if Ican find canoes. I meant to have pressed him into my service. This isMiss Powle, sister Balliol. "

The lady so called had come forward to meet them, and now took Eleanorby the hand and kissed her cordially. Mr. Rhys took her hand then, whenshe was released, and explained. 

"I am going back to the schooner after our friends--if I can find acanoe. "

And without more words, off he went. Eleanor and Mrs. Balliol were leftto look at each other. 

This latter was a lady of middle height, and kindly if not finefeatures. A pair of good black eyes too. But what struck Eleanor mostabout her was her air; the general style of her figure and dress, whichto Miss Powle's eyes was peculiar. She wore her hair in a crop; andthat seemed to Eleanor a characteristic of the whole make up. Her dresswas not otherwise than neat, and yet that epithet would never haveoccurred to one in describing it; all graces of style or attire were soignored. Her gown sat without any; so did her collar; both were ratheruncivilized, without partaking of the picturesqueness of savagecostume. The face was by no means disagreeable; lacking neither insense, nor in spirit nor in kindliness; but Eleanor perceived at oncethat the mind must have a serious want somewhere, in refinement ordiscernment: the exterior was so ruthlessly abandoned to ungainliness. 

Mrs. Balliol took her to an inner room, where the cloak and the bonnetwere left; and returned then to her occupations in the other apartment, while Eleanor set herself down at the window to make observations. Theroom was large and high, cheerful and airy, with windows at two sides. The one where she sat commanded a view of little beside the garden, with its luxuriant growth of fruit trees and shrubs and flowers. Atropical looking garden; for the broad leaves of the banana waved therearound its great bunches of fruit; the canopy of a cocoa-nut palmfluttered slightly overhead; and various fruits that Eleanor did notknow displayed themselves along with the pine-apples that she did know. This garden view seemed very interesting to Eleanor, to judge by herintentness; and so it was for its own qualities, besides that a bit ofthe walk could be seen by which she had come and the wicket which hadlet her in and by which Mr. Rhys had gone out; but in good truth, asoften as she turned her eyes to the scene within, she had such a senseof being herself an object of observation and perhaps of speculation, that she was fain to seek the garden again. And it was true, that whileMrs. Balliol plied her needle she used her eyes as well, and herthoughts with her needle flew in and out, as she surveyed Eleanor'sfigure in her neat fresh print dress. And the lady's eyebrows grewprophetical, not to say ominous. 

"She's too handsome!"--that was the first conclusion. "She is quite toohandsome; she cannot have those looks without knowing it. Better havebrought a plain face to Fiji, than a spirit of vanity. Hair done as ifshe was just come out of a hair-dresser's!--hum--ruffle all down theneck of her dress--flowing sleeves too, and ruffles round _them_. And abuckle in her belt--a gold buckle, I do believe. And shoes?"

The shoes were unexceptionable, but they fitted well on a nice foot;and the hands--were too small and white and delicate ever to have doneanything, or ever to be willing to do anything. That was the point. Noharm in small hands, Mrs. Balliol allowed, if they did not betray theirowner into daintiness of living. She pursued her lucubrations for sometime without interrupting those of Eleanor. 

"Are you from England, sister?"

"From England--yes; but we made some stay in Australia by the way, "said Eleanor turning from the window to take a more sociable positionnearer her hostess. 

"A long voyage?"

"Not remarkably long. I had good companions. "

"From what part of England?"

"The borders of Wales, last. "

"Brother Rhys is from Wales--isn't he?"

"I do not know, " said Eleanor, vexed to feel the flush of blood to hercheeks. 

"Ah? You have known brother Rhys before?" with a searching look. 

"Yes. "

"And how do you think you shall like it in Fiji?"

"You can hardly expect me to tell under such short trial, " said Eleanorsmiling. 

"There are trials enough. I suppose you expect those, do you not?"

"I do not mean to expect them till they come, " said Eleanor, stillsmiling. 

"Do you think that is wise?" said the other gravely. "They will come, Iassure you, fast enough; do you not think it is well to prepare themind for what it has to go through, by looking at it beforehand?"

"You never know beforehand what is to be gone through, " said Eleanor. 

"But you know some things; and it is well, I think, to harden oneselfagainst what is coming. I have found that sort of discipline veryuseful. Sister, may I ask you a searching questions?"

"Certainly! If you please, " said Eleanor. 

"You know, we should be ready to give every one a reason of the hopethat is in us. I want to ask you, sister, what moved you to go on amission?"

Astonishment almost kept Eleanor silent; then noticing the quick eyesof Mrs. Balliol repeating the enquiry at her face, the difficulty ofanswering met and joined with a small tide of indignation at its beingdemanded of her. She did not want to be angry, and she was very nearbeing ready to cry. Her mind was in that state of overwrought fulnesswhen a little stir is more than the feelings can bear. Amongconflicting tides, the sense of the ludicrous at last got theuppermost; and she laughed, as one laughs whose nerves are not justunder control; heartily and merrily. Mrs. Balliol was confounded. 

"I should not have thought it was a laughing matter, "--she remarked atlength. But the gravity of that threw Eleanor off again; and the littlehands and ruffled sleeves were reviewed under new circumstances. Andwhen Eleanor got command of herself, she still kept her hand over hereyes, for she found that she was just trembling into tears. She held itclose pressed upon them. 

"Perhaps you are fatigued, sister?" said Mrs. Balliol, in utterincapacity to account for this demonstration. 

"Not much. I beg your pardon!" said Eleanor. "I believe I am a littleunsettled at first getting here. If you please, I will try being quitequiet for awhile--if you will let me be so discourteous?"

"Do so!" said Mrs. Balliol. "Anything to rest you. " And Eleanor wentback to her window, and turning her face to the garden again rested herhead on her hand; and there was a hush. Mrs. Balliol worked and mused, probably. Eleanor did as she had said; kept quiet. The quiet lasted along time, and the tropical day grew up into its meridian heats; yet itwas not oppressive; a fine breeze relieved it and made it no other thanpleasant. Home at last! This great stillness and quiet, after the oceantossings, and months of voyaging, and change, and heart-uncertainty. The peace of heart now was as profound; but so profound, and sothankfully recognized, that Eleanor's mood was a little unsteady. Sheneeded to be still and recollect herself, as she could looking out intothe leaves of a great banana tree there in the garden, and forgettingthe house and Mrs. Balliol. 

The quiet lasted a long time, and was broken then by the entrance ofMr. Balliol. His wife introduced him; and after learning that he couldnow render no aid to Mr. Rhys, he immediately entered into a briskconversation with the new comer Mr. Rhys had brought. That went well, and was also strengthening. Eleanor was greatly pleased with him. Hewas evidently a man of learning and sense and spirit; a man ofexcellent parts, in good cultivation, and filled with a most benign andgentle temper of goodness. It was a pleasure to talk to him; and whilethey were talking the party from the schooner arrived. 

Eleanor felt her "shamefacedness" return upon her, while all the restwere making acquaintance, welcoming and receiving welcome. She stoodaside. Did they know her position? While she was thinking, Mr. Rhyscame to her and put her again in her chair by the window. Mrs. Amos hadbeen carried off by Mrs. Balliol. The two other gentlemen were inearnest converse. Mr. Rhys took a seat in front of Eleanor and asked ina low voice if she wished for any delay?

"In what?" said Eleanor, though she knew the answer. 

"Coming home. "

He was almost sorry for her, to see the quick blood flash into herface. But she caught her breath and said "No. "

"You know, " he said; how exactly like the Mr. Rhys of Plassy!--"I wouldnot hurry you beyond your pleasure. If you would like to remain here aday or two, domiciled with Mrs. Balliol, and rest, and see theland--you have only to say what you wish. "

"I do not wish it, " said Eleanor, finding it very difficult to answerat all--"I wish it to be just as you please. "

"You must know what my pleasure is. Does your heart not fail you, nowyou are here?" he asked still lower and in a very gentle way. 

"No. "

"Eleanor, have you had any doubts or failings of heart at any time, since you left England?"

"No. Yes!--I did, once--at Sydney. "

"At Sydney?"--repeated Mr. Rhys in a perceptibly graver tone. 

"Yes--at Sydney--when I did not get any letters from you. "

"You got no letters from me?"

"No. "

"At Sydney?"

"No, " said Eleanor venturing to look up. 

"Did you not see Mr. Armitage?"

"Mr. Armitage! O he was in the back country--I remember now Mr. Amossaid that; and he never returned to Sydney while we were there. "

An inarticulate sound came from Mr. Rhys's lips, between indignationand impatience; the strongest expression of either that Eleanor hadever heard from him. 

"Then Mr. Armitage had the letters?"

"Certainly! and I am in the utmost surprise at his carelessness. Heought to have left them in somebody else's charge, if he was quittingthe place himself. When did you hear from me?"

The flush rose again, not so vividly, to Eleanor's face. 

"I heard in England--those letters--you know. "

"Those letters I trusted to Mrs. Caxton?"

"Yes. "

"And not since! Well, you are excused for your heart failing that once. Who is to do it, Eleanor?--Mr. Amos?"

"If you please--I should like--"

He left her for a moment to make his arrangements; and for that momentEleanor's thoughts leaped to those who should have been by her side atsuch a time, with a little of a woman's heart-longing. Mrs. Caxton, orher mother! If one of them might have stood by her then! Eleanor's headbent with the moment's poor wish. But with the touch of Mr. Rhys's handwhen he returned to her, with the sound of his voice, there came as italways did to Eleanor, healing and strength. The one little word"Come, " from his lips, drove away all mental hobgoblins. He saidnothing more, but there was a great tenderness in the manner of histaking her upon his arm. His look Eleanor dared not meet. She felt verystrange yet; she could not get accustomed to the reality of things. This man had never spoken one word of love to her, and now she wasstanding up to be married to him. 

The whole little party stood together, while the marriage service ofthe English church was read. It was preceded however by a prayer thatwas never read nor written. After the service was over, and afterEleanor had been saluted by the two ladies who were all therepresentatives of mother and sister and friends for her on theoccasion, Mr. Rhys whispered to her to get her bonnet. Eleanor gladlyobeyed. But as soon as it appeared, there was a general outcry andprotest. What were they going to do?"

"Take her to see how her house looks, " said Mr. Rhys. "You forget Ihave something to shew. "

"But you will bring her back to dinner? do, brother Rhys. We shall havedinner presently. You'll be back?"

"If the survey is over in time--but I do not think it will, " heanswered gravely. 

"Then tea--you will come then? Let us all be together at tea. Will you?"

"It is a happiness we have had no visitors before dinner! I will seeabout it, sister Balliol, thank you; and take advice. "

And glad was Eleanor when they got away; which was immediately, for Mr. Rhys's motions were prompt. He led her now not to the wicket by whichshe had come, but another way, through the garden wilderness still, till another slight paling with a wicket in it was passed and thewilderness took a somewhat different character. The same plants andtrees were to be seen, but order and pleasantness of arrangement werein place of vegetable confusion; neat walks ran between the luxuriantgrowing bananas, and led gradually nearer to the river; till anotherhouse came in view; and passing round the gable end of it, Eleanorcould cast her eye along the building and take the effect. It was longand low, with a high picturesque thatched roof, and the wallsfancifully wrought in a pattern, making a not unpretty appearance. Thedoor was in the middle; she had no time to see more, for Mr. Rhysunlocked it and led her in. 

The interior was high, wide, and cool and pleasant after the hot sunwithout; but again she had no time to make observations. Mr. Rhys ledher immediately on to an inner room. Eleanor's eyes were dazed and herheart was beating; she could hardly see anything, except, as one takesimpressions without seeing, that this answered to the inner room atMrs. Balliol's, and had far more the air of being furnished andpleasantly habitable. What gave it the air she could not tell; for Mr. Rhys was unfastening her bonnet and throwing it off, and then takingher sea-cloak from his arm and casting that somewhat carelessly away;and then his arms enfolded her. It was the first time they had beenreally alone since her coming; and now he was silent, so silent thatEleanor could scarcely bear it. She was aware his eyes were studyingher fixedly, and she felt as if they could see nothing beside theconscious mounting of the blood from cheek to brow, which reached whatto her was a painful flush. Probably he saw it, for the answer came ina little closer pressure of the arms that were about her. She venturedto look up at last; she was unable to endure this silent inspection;and then she saw that his face was full of emotion that wrought toodeep for words, too deep even for caresses, beyond the one or two gravekisses with which he had welcomed her. It overcame Eleanor completely. She could not meet the look. It was much more than mere joy oraffection; there was an expression of the sort of tenderness with whicha mother would clasp a lost child; a full keen sympathy for all she haddone and gone through and ventured for him, for all her loneliness andforlornness that had been, and that was still with respect to all theguardians of her childhood or womanhood up to that hour. Eleanor's headsank down. She felt none of that now for which his looks expressed suchkeen regard; she had got to her resting-place, not the less for all theawe and strangeness of it, which were upon her yet. She could havecried for a very different feeling; but she would not; it did not suither. Mr. Rhys let her be still for a few minutes. When he did speak, his voice was gravely tender indeed, as it had been to her all day, butthere was no sentimentality about it. He spoke clear and abrupt, as heoften did. 

"Do you want to go back to the other house to dinner?"

"Do you wish it?" said Eleanor looking up to find out. 

"I wish to see nothing earthly, this afternoon, but your face. "

"Then do let it be so!" said Eleanor. 

He laughed and kissed her, more gaily this time, without seeming ableto let her out of his arms; and left her at last with the injunction tokeep still a minute till he should return, and on no account to beginan examination of the house by herself. Very little danger there was!Eleanor had not the free use of her eyes yet for anything. Presently hecame back, put her hand on his arm, and led her out into the middleapartment. 

"Do you know, " he said as he passed through this, keeping her hand inhis own, and looking down at her face, --"what is the first lesson youhave to learn?"

"No, " said Eleanor, most unaffectedly frightened; she did not know why. 

"The first thing we have to do, on taking possession here to-day is, togive our thanks and offer our prayers in company. Do not you think so?"

"Yes--" said Eleanor breathlessly. "But what then?"

"I mean together, --not that it should be all on one side. You with me, as well as I with you. "

"Oh no, Mr. Rhys!"

"Why not?--Mrs. Rhys?"

"Do not ask me! That would be dreadful!"

"I do not think you will find it so. "

Eleanor stopped short, near the other end of the great apartment. "Icannot do it!" she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, but spoke gravely. 

"One can always do what is right. "

"Not to-day--" whispered Eleanor. 

"One can always do right to-day, " he answered smiling. "And it is bestto begin as we are going on. Come!"

He took her hand and led her forward into the room at the other end ofthe house; his study, Eleanor saw with half a glance by the books andpapers and tables that were there. Still keeping her hand fast in his, they knelt together; and certainly the prayer that followed was goodfor nervousness, and like the sunshine to dispel all manner of clouds. Eleanor was quieted and subdued; she could not help it; all sorts ofmemories and associations of Plassy and Wiglands gathered in her mind, back of the thoughts that immediately filled it. Hallowed, precious, soothing and joyful, those minutes of prayer were while Mr. Rhys spoke;in spite of the minutes to follow that Eleanor dreaded. And though herown words were few, and stammering, they were different from what shewould have thought possible a quarter of an hour before; and notunhappy to look back upon. 

Detaining her when they arose, Mr. Rhys asked with something of his oldcomical look, whether she thought she could eat a dinner of hisordering? Eleanor had no doubt of it. 

"You think you could eat anything by this time!" said he. "Poor child!But my credit is at stake--suppose you wait here a few minutes, until Isee whether all is right. "

He went off, and Eleanor sat still, feeling too happy to want to lookabout her. He came again presently, to lead Eleanor to the dining-room. 

In the lofty, spacious, and by no means inelegant middle apartment ofthe house, a little table stood spread, looking exceeding diminutive incontrast with the wide area and high ceiling of the room. Here Mr. Rhyswith a very bright look established Eleanor, and proceeded to makeamends for keeping her so long from Mrs. Balliol's table. Much to herastonishment there was a piece of broiled chicken and a dish of eggsnicely cooked, and Mr. Rhys was pouring out for her some tea indelicate little cups of china. 

"You see aunt Caxton, do you not?" he said. 

"O aunt Caxton! in these cups. I thought so. But I had no idea you hadsuch cooks in Fiji?"

"They will learn--in time, " said he shortly. "You perceive this is anunorganized establishment. I have not indulged in tablecloths yet; butyou will put things to rights. "

"Tablecloths?" said Eleanor. 

"Yes--you have such things lying in wait for you. You have a great dealto do. And in the first place, you are to find out the good qualitiesof these fruits of the land, " he said, giving her portions of severalvegetable preparations with which and with fruits the table was filled. 

"What is this?" said Eleanor. 

"Taro; one of the valuable things with which nature has blessed Fiji. The natives cultivate it well and carefully. That is yam; and came froma root five and a half feet long. Eleanor--I do not at all comprehendhow you come to be sitting there!"

It was so strange and new to Eleanor, and Mr. Rhys was such a compoundof things new and things old to her, that a little chance word likethis was enough to make her flutter and change colour. He perceived it, and bent his attention to amuse her with the matters of the table; andtold her wonders of the natural productions of Fiji. But in the midstof this Mr. Rhys's hand would come abstracting her tea-cup to fill itagain; and then Eleanor watched while he did it; and he made himself alittle private amusement about getting it sugared right and finding howshe liked it; and Eleanor wondered at him and her tea-cup together, andstirred her tea in a subdued state of mind. 

"One hardly expects to see such a nice little teaspoon in Fiji, " sheremarked. 

"Aunt Caxton, again, " said Mr. Rhys. 

"But Mr. Rhys, your Fijians must be remarkable cooks! Or have youtaught them?"

"I have taught nobody in that line. "

"Then are they not remarkable for their skill in cookery?"

"As a nation, I think they are; and it is one evidence of their mentaldevelopment. They have a great variety of native dishes, some of which, I believe, are not despicable. "

"But these are English dishes. "

"Do justice to them, then, like a good Englishwoman. "

Eleanor's praise was not undeserved; for the chicken and yam wereexcellent, and the sweet potatoe which Mr. Rhys put upon her plate wasroasted very like one that had been in some hot ashes at home. Buteverything except the dishes was strange, Mr. Rhys's hand included. Through the whole length of the house, and of course through the middleapartment, ran a double row of columns, upholding the roof. IfEleanor's eye followed them up, there was no ceiling, but the loftyroof of thatch over her head. Under her foot was a mat, of nativeworkmanship; substantial and neat, and very foreign looking. And herewere aunt Caxton's cups; and if she lifted her eyes--Eleanor felt moststrange then, although most at home. 

The taro and yam and sweet potatoe were only an introduction to thefruit, which was beautiful as a shew. A native servant came in andremoved the dishes, and then set on the table a large basket, in whichthe whole dessert was very simply served. Cocoanuts and bananas, oranges and wild plums, bread-fruit and Malay apples, came piledtogether in beautiful mingling. Mr. Rhys went himself to a sort ofbeaufet in the room and brought plates. 

"Servants cannot be said to be in complete training, " he said with ahumourous look as he seated himself. "It would be strange if they were, when there has been no one to train them. And in Fiji. "

"I do not understand, " said Eleanor. "Have you been keeping house heall by yourself? I thought not, from what Mrs. Balliol said. "

"You may trust sister Balliol for being always correct. No, for thelast few months, until lately, I have been building this house. Sinceit was finished I have lived in it, partly; but I have taken myprincipal meals at the other house. "

"_You_ have been building it?"

"Or else you would not be in it at this moment. There is no carpenterto be depended on in Fiji but yourself. You have got to go over thehouse presently and see how you like it. Are you ready for a banana? oran orange? I think you must try one of these cocoanuts. "

"But you had people to help you?"

"Yes. At the rate of two boards a day. "

"But, Mr. Rhys, if you cannot get carpenters, where can you getcooks?--or do the people have _this_ by nature?"

"When you ask me properly, I will tell you, " he said, with a littlepucker in the corners of his mouth that made Eleanor take warning anddraw off. She gave her attention to the cocoanut, which she found shemust learn how to eat. Mr. Rhys played with an orange in the mean time, but she knew was really busy with nothing but her and her cocoanut. When she would be tempted by no more fruit, he went off and brought alittle wooden bowl of water and a napkin, which he presented for herfingers, standing before her to hold it. Eleanor dipped in her fingers, and then looked up. 

"You should not do this for me, Mr. Rhys!" she said half earnestly. 

But he stooped down and took his own payment; and on the whole Eleanordid not feel that she had greatly the advantage of him. Indeed Mr. Rhyshad payment of more sorts than one; for cheeks were rosy as the fingerswere white which she was drying, as she had risen and stood before him. She looked on then with great edification, to see his fingersdeliberately dipped in the same bowl and dried on the same napkin; forvery well Eleanor knew they would have done it for no mortal besideher. And then she was carried off to look at the walls of her house. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

IN THE HOUSE. 

 "Thou hast found .... Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, And homestall thatched with leaves. "

The walls of the house were, to an Englishwoman, a curiosity. They weremade of reeds; three layers or thicknesses of them being placeddifferent ways, and bound and laced together with sinnet; the strongbraid made of the fibre of the cocoanut-husk. It was this braid, wovenin and out, which produced the pretty mosaic effect Eleanor hadobserved upon the outside. Mr. Rhys took her to a doorway, where shecould examine from within and from without this novel construction; andexplained minutely how it was managed. 

"This looks like a foreign land, " said Eleanor. "You had described it, and I thought I had imagined it; but sight and feeling are quite adifferent matter. "

"I did not describe it to you?"

"No--O no; you described it to aunt Caxton. "

He drew her back a step or two and laid her hand upon the post of thedoor. 

"What is this?" said Eleanor. 

"That is a piece of the stem of the palm-fern. "

"And these are its natural mouldings and markings! It is like elegantcarved work! It is natural, is it not?" she said suddenly. 

"Certainly. The natives do execute very marvellous carving in wood, with tools that would drive a workman at home to despair; but I havenot learned the art. Come here--the pillars that hold up the roof ofyour house are of the same wood. "

A double row of pillars through the whole length of the house gave itstability; they were stems of the same palm fern, and as they had beenchosen and placed with a careful eye to size and position, the effectof them was not at all inelegant. The building itself was of generouslength and width; and with a room cut off at each end, as the fashionwas, the centre apartment was left of really noble proportions; broad, roomy, and lofty; with its palm columns springing up to its high roofof thatch. Standing beside one of them, Eleanor looked up and declaredit a beautiful room. 

"Do not look at the doors and windows, " said Mr. Rhys. "I did not makethose--they were sent out framed. I had only the pleasure of puttingthem in. "

"And how did that agree with all your other work?"

"Well, " he said decidedly. "That was my recreation. "

"There is the prettiest mixture of wild and tame in this house, " saidEleanor, speaking a little timidly; for she was conscious all the whilehow little Mr. Rhys was thinking of anything but herself. "Are thesemats made here?"

"Pure Fijian!"

The one at which Eleanor was looking, her eyes having fallen to thefloor, was both large and elegant. It was very substantially and neatlymade, and had a border fancifully wrought all round it, a few inches inwidth. The pattern of the border was made with bits of worsted andlittle white feathers. This mat covered all the centre of the room;under it the whole floor was spread with other and coarser ones; andothers of a still different manufacture lined the walls of the room. 

"One need not want a prettier carpet, " said Eleanor, keeping her eyeson the mat. Mr. Rhys put his arm round her and drew her off to one sideof the room, where he made her pause before a large square space whichwas sunk a foot deep in the earth and bordered massively with a frameof logs of hard wood. 

"What do you think of that?"

"Mr. Rhys, what is it?"

"You would not take it for a fireplace?" he said with a comical look. 

"But is it a fireplace?"

"That is what it is intended for. The Fijians make their fireplaces inthis manner. "

"And you are a Fijian, I suppose. "

"So are you. "

"But Mr. Rhys, can a fireplace of this sort be useful in an Englishhouse?"

"No. But in a Fijian house it may--as I have proved. The natives wouldhave a wooden frame here, at one side, to hold cooking vessels. You donot need that, for you have a kitchen. "

"With a fireplace like this?"

"Yes, " he said, with a smile that had some raillery in it, whichEleanor would not provoke. 

"Suppose you come and look at something that is not Fijian, " he wenton. "You must vary your attention. "

He drew her before a little unostentatious piece of furniture, thatlooked certainly as if it was made out of a good bit of English oak. What it was, did not appear; it was very plain and rather massivelymade. Now Mr. Rhys produced keys, and opened first doors; then adrawer, which displayed all the characteristic contents andarrangements of a lady's work-box on an extended scale. Love's work;Eleanor could see her adopted mother in every carefully disposed supplyof needles and silks and braids and glittering Sheffield ware, and thethousand and one appliances and provisions for one who was to be at avery large distance from Sheffield and every home source of needlefurniture. Love recognized love's work, as Eleanor looked into thedrawer. 

"Now you are ready to say this is a small thread and needle shop, " saidMr. Rhys; "but you will be mistaken if you do. Look further. "

And that she might, he unlocked a pair of smaller inner doors; thelittle piece of furniture developed itself immediately into a capitalsecretary. As thoroughgoing as the work-box, but still morecomprehensive, here were more than mere materials and conveniences forwriting; it was a depository for several small but very precioustreasures of a scientific and other kinds; and even a few books laynestling among them, and there was room for more. 

"What is this!" Eleanor exclaimed when she had got her breath. 

"This is--Mrs. Caxton! I do not know whether she expected you to turnsempstress immediately for the colony--or whether she intended you foranother vocation, as I do. "

"She sent this from England!"

"It was made by nobody worse than a London cabinet-maker. I did notknow whether you would choose to have it stand in this place, or in theonly room that can properly be called your own. Come in here;--theother part of the house is, you will find, pretty much public. "

"Even your study?"

"That is no exception, sometimes. I am a public man, myself. "

The partition wall of this room was nicely lined with mats; the doorwas like a piece of the wall, swinging to noiselessly, but Mr. Rhysshewed Eleanor how she could fasten it securely on the inside. Eleanorhad been taken into this room on her first arrival; but had then beenunable to see anything. Now her eyes were in requisition. Here therewas even more attention paid to comfort and appearances than in thedining-room. In the simplest possible manner; but somebody had been atwork there who knew that elegance is attainable without the help ofopulence; and that eye and hand can do what money cannot. Eye and handhad been busy everywhere. Very pretty and soft native mats were on thefloor; the windows were shaded with East Indian _jalousies;_ and notonly personal convenience but tastes were regarded in the variousarticles of furniture and the arrangement of them. Good sense wasregarded too. Camp chairs and tables were useful for packing andmoving, as well as neat to the eye; white draperies relieved theirsimplicity; shelves were hung against the wall in one place for books, and filled; and in the floor stood an easy chair of excellentworkmanship, into which Mr. Rhys immediately put Eleanor. But shestarted up to look at it. 

"Did aunt Caxton send all these things?" she said with a tear in hereye. 

"She has sent almost too many. These are but the beginning, Look here, Eleanor. "

He opened a door at one end of the room, hidden under mat hangings likethe other, which disclosed a large space lined with shelves; severalarticles reposing on them, and on the floor below sundry chests andboxes. 

"This is your storeroom. Here you may revel in the riches you do notimmediately wish to display. This is yours; I have a storeroom on myown part. "

"And what is in those chests and boxes, Mr. Rhys?"

"I don't know! except that it is aunt Caxton again. You will findtablecloths and napkins--I can certify that--for I stumbled upon them;but I thought they had best not see the light till their owner came. SoI locked them up--and here are the keys. "

"And who put up all these nice shelves?"

"Your head carpenter. "

"And have you been doing all this for me?" said Eleanor. 

He laughed and took her in his arms again, looking at her with thatmixture of expressions. 

"I wish I could give you some of my content!" he said. 

"I do not want it!" said Eleanor laughing. 

"Is that declaration entirely generous?"

Eleanor had no mind, like a wise woman, to answer this question; butshe was held under the inspection of an eye that she knew of old clearand keen beyond all others to untie the knot of anybody's meaning. Sheflushed up very much and tried to turn it off, for she saw he had amind to have the answer. 

"You do not want me to give account of every idle word after thatfashion?" she said lightly. 

"Hush--hush, " he said, with a gravity that had much sweetness in it. "Icannot have you speak in that way. "

"I will not--" said Eleanor, suddenly much more sober than he was. 

"There are too many that have the habit of using their Master's wordsto point their own sentences. Do not let us use it. Come to mystudy--you did not see it before dinner, I think. "

Eleanor was glad he could smile again, for at that minute she couldnot. She felt whirled back to Plassy, and to Wiglands, to the time oftheir old and very different relations. She could not realize the new, nor quietly understand her own happiness; and a very fresh vivid senseof his character made her feel almost as much awe of him as affection. That was according to old habit too. But if she felt shy and strange, she was the only one; for Mr. Rhys was in a very gay mood. As they wentthrough the dining-room he stopped to shew and display to her numerousodd little contrivances and arrangements; here a cupboard of rustic, and very pretty too, native work; or at least native materials. There amore sophisticated beaufet, which had come from Sydney by Mrs. Caxton'sorder. "Dear Mrs. Caxton!" said Mr. Rhys, --"she has forgotten nothing. I am only in astonishment what she can have found to fill your newinvoice of boxes. "

"Why there are not many, " said Eleanor. 

He looked at her and laughed. "You will be doing nothing but unpackingfor days to come, " he said. "I have done what I never thought I shoulddo--married a rich wife. "

"Why aunt Caxton sends the things quite as much to you as to me. "

"Does she?"

"I am sure, if anybody is poor, I am. "

"If that speech means _me_, " said Mr. Rhys with a little bit ofprovokingness in the corners of his mouth, --"I don't take it. I do notfeel poor; and never did. Not to-day certainly, with whole shiploadscoming in. "

"I do not know of a single unnecessary thing but your microscope. "

"Have you brought that?" he said with a change of tone. "It would bejust like Mrs. Caxton to come out and make us a visit some day! Icannot think of anything else she could give us, that she has notgiven. Look at my book-cases. "

Eleanor did, thinking of their owner. They were of plainestconstruction, but so made that they would take to pieces in fiveminutes and become packing cases with the books packed, all ready fortravel; or at pleasure, as now, stand up in their place in the study inthe form of very neat bookcases. They were not large; a Fijianmissionary's library had need be not too extensive; but Eleanor lookedover their contents with hurried delight. 

The rest of the room also spoke of Mrs. Caxton; in light neat tablesand chairs and other things. Here too, though not a hand's turn hadapparently been wasted, everything, simple as it was, had a sort ofpleasantness of order and fitness which left the eye gratified. Eleanorread that and the meaning of it. Here were contrivances again that Mr. Rhys had done; shelves, and brackets, and pins to hang things; nothingout of use, but all so contrived as to give a certain elegant effect tothis plain work-room. Even the book and paper disorder was not that ofa careless man. Still it was not like the room at the other end of thehouse. The mats that floored and lined it were coarser; there were no_jalousies_ at the windows; and no easy chair anywhere. One thing ithad like the other; a storeroom cut off from it. This was a large one, like Eleanor's, and filled. His money-drawer, Mr. Rhys called it. Allsorts of articles valued by the natives were there; Mrs. Caxton hadtaken care to send a large supply. These were to serve the purposes ofbarter. Mr. Rhys displayed to Eleanor the stores of iron tools, cottonprints, blankets, and articles of clothing, that were stowed awaythere; stowed away with an absolute order and method which again shelooked at as significant of one side at least of Mr. Rhys's character. He amused himself with displaying everything; shewed her the whole ofthe new and strangely appointed establishment over which she had cometo preside, so far at least as the house contained it; and when he hadbrought her to something like an apparent share in his own gay mood, atlast placed her in a camp chair in the dining-room, which he had set inthe middle of the floor, and opened the door of the house. It gaveEleanor a lovely view. The plantations had been left open, so that theeye had a fair range down to the river and to the opposite shore, whereanother village stood. It was seen under bright sunshine now. Mr. Rhyslet her look a moment, then shut the door, and came and sat down beforeher, taking both her hands in his own; and Eleanor knew from a glanceat his face that the same thoughts were working within him that hadwrought that moved look before dinner--when she first came. She felther colour mounting; it tried her to be silent under his eye in thatway. 

"Mr. Rhys, do you remember preaching to me one day at Plassy--when wewere out walking?"

"Yes, " he said with a half laugh. 

"I wish you would do it again. "

"I will preach you a sermon every morning if you like. "

"No, but now. I wish you would, so as to make me realize that you arethe same person. "

"I am not the same person at all!" he said. 

"Why are you not?" said Eleanor opening her eyes at him. 

"In those days I was your pastor and friend simply. The difference is, that I have acquired the right to love you--take care of you--and scoldyou. "

"It seems to me that last was a privilege you exercised occasionally inthose times, " said Eleanor archly. 

"Not at all! In those days I was a poor fellow that did not dare say aword to you. "

Eleanor's recollections were of sundry exceptions to this rule, somarked and prominent in her memory that she could not help laughing. 

"O Mr. Rhys, don't you remember--"

"What?" said he with the utmost gravity. 

But Eleanor had stopped, and coloured now brilliantly. 

"It seems that your recollections are of a questionable character, " hesaid. Eleanor did not deny it. 

"What is it you wish me _not_ to remember?"

"It was a time when you said I was very wrong, " said Eleanor meekly, "so do not call it back. "

He bent forward to kiss her, which did not steady Eleanor's thoughts atall. 

"Do you want preaching?" he said. 

"Yes indeed! It will do me good. "

"I will give you some words to think of, that I lived in all yesterday. 'Beloved of God. ' They are wonderful words, that Paul says belong toall the saints; and they were about me yesterday like a halo of glory, from morning to night. "

Now Eleanor was all right; now she recognized Mr. Rhys and herself, andlistened to every word with her old delight in them. Now she could useher eyes and look at him, though she well saw that he was consideringher with that full, moved tenderness that she had felt in him all day;even when he was talking and thinking of other things he did not ceaseto remember _her_. 

"Eleanor, what do you know about the meaning of those words?"

"Little!" she said. "And yet, a little. "

"You know that _we_ were Gentiles, carried away unto these dumbidols--or after others in our own hearts--as helplessly as the poorheathen around us. But we have got the benefit of that word, --'I willcall them my people, which were not my people; and her beloved, whichwas not beloved. '"

"Yes!"

"Then look at our privileges--'The beloved of the Lord shall dwell insafety by him; and the Lord shall cover him all the day long, and heshall dwell between is shoulders. '--Heavenly security; unearthly joy; ahiding-place where the troubles of earth cannot reach us. "

Mr. Rhys left his position before Eleanor at this, and with a brow allalight with its thoughts began to pace up and down in front of her;just as he had done at Plassy, she remembered. She ventured not a word. Her heart was very full. 

"Then look how we are bidden to increase our rejoicing and to delightourselves in the store laid up for us; we are not only safe and happy, but fed with dainties. All things are ready; Christ says he will supwith us; and we are bidden--'Eat, O friends; drink, yea, drinkabundantly, O beloved. ' 'He that cometh to me shall never hunger, andhe that believeth on me shall never thirst. '

"And then, Eleanor, if we are the elect of God, holy and beloved, whatbowels of mercies should be in us; how precious all other beloved ofhim should be to us; how we should be constrained by his love. Are you?I am. I am willing to spend and be spent for these people among whom weare. I am sure there are many, many children of God among them, comeand coming. I seek no better than to labour for them. It is the delightof my soul! Eleanor, how is it with you?"

He had stood still before her during these last words, and now sat downagain, taking her hands and looking with his undeceivable gaze into herface. 

"I desire the same thing. I dare not say, I desire it as strongly asyou do, --but it is my very wish. "

"Is it for the love of Christ--or for love of these poor creatures? orfor any other reason?"

"I can hardly separate the first two, " said Eleanor, looking a littlewistfully. "The love of Christ is at the bottom of it all. "

"There is no other motive, " he said; "no other that will do the work;nothing else that will work true love to them. But when I think of myMaster--I am willing to do or be anything, I think, in his service!"

He quitted her hands and began slowly walking up and down again. 

"Mr. Rhys, " said Eleanor, "what can I do?"

"Are you ready to encounter disagreeablenesses, and hardships, andprivations, in the work?"

"Yes; and discouragements. "

"There are no such things. There ought to be no such things. I neverfeel nor have felt discouraged. That is want of faith. Do you remember, Eleanor, 'The clouds are the dust of his feet?' Think--our eyes areblinded by the dust, we look at nothing else, and we do not see theglory of the steps that are taken. "

"That is true. O Mr. Rhys, that is glorious!"

"Then you are not afraid? I forewarn you, little annoyances aresometimes harder to bear than great ones. It is one of the most tryingthings that I have to meet, " said Mr. Rhys standing still with a funnyface, --"to have Ra Mbombo's beard sweep my plate when I am at dinner. "

"What does he do that for?"

"He is so fond of me. "

"That is being too fond, certainly. "

"It is an excess of affectionate attention, --he gets so close to methat we have a community of things. And you will have, Eleanor, somedays, a perpetual levee of visitors. But what is all that, for Christ?"

"I am not afraid, " said Eleanor with a most unruffled smile. 

"I wrote to frighten you. "

"But I was not frightened. Are things no better in the islands thanwhen you wrote?"

"Changing--changing every day; from darkness to light, and from thepower of Satan to God. Literally. There are heathen temples here, inwhich a few years ago if a woman or a child had dared cross thethreshold they would have been done to death immediately. Now thosevery temples are used as our schools. On our way to the chapel we shallpass almost over a place where there used to be one of the ovens forcooking human bodies; now the grass and wild tomatoes are growing overit. I can take you to house after house, where men and women used to beeaten, where now if you stand to listen you may hear hymns of praise toJesus and prayer going up in his name. Praise the Lord! It is grand tobe permitted to live in Fiji now!"--

Eleanor was hushed and silent a few minutes, while Mr. Rhys walkedslowly up and down. Then she spoke with her eyes full of sympathetictears. 

"Mr. Rhys, what can I do?"

"What you have to do at present, " he said with a change of tone, "is totake care of me and learn the language, --both languages, I should say!And in the mean while you had better take care of your pins, "--hestooped as he spoke, to pick up one at her feet and presented it withcomical gravity. "You must remember you are not in England. Here youcould not spend pin-money even if you had it. "

"If I were inclined to be extravagant, " said Eleanor laughing at him, "your admonition would be thrown away; I have brought such quantitieswith me. "

"Of pins?"

"Yes. "

"I hope you will not ever use them!"

"Why not?"

"I do not see what a properly made dress has to do with pins. "

But at this confession of masculine ignorance Eleanor first looked andthen laughed and covered her face, till he came and sat down again andby forcible possession took her hands away. 

"You have no particular present occasion to laugh at me, " he said. "Eleanor, what made you first willing to quit England and go anywhere?"

The answer to this was first an innocent look, and then an extremescarlet flush. She could not hide it, with her hands prisoners; she satin a pretty state of abashment. A slight giving way of the mouth borewitness that he read and understood it, though his immediate words werereassuringly grave and unchanged in tone. 

"I remember, you did not comprehend such a thing as possible, at onetime. When was that changed? You used to have a great fear. "

"I lost part of that at Plassy. "

"Where did you lose the rest of it, Eleanor?"

"It was in London. "

He saw by the light in Eleanor's eyes, which looked at him now, thatthere was something behind. Yet she hesitated. 

"Sealed lips?" said he bending forward again to her face. "You mustunseal them, Eleanor. "

"Do you want me to tell you all that?" she asked questioningly. 

"I want you to tell me everything. "

"It is only a long story. "

"Do not make it short. "

An easy matter! to go on and tell it with her two hands prisoners, andthose particularly clear eyes looking into her face. It served to shewthe grace that belonged to Eleanor, the way that in these circumstancesshe began what she had to say. Where another woman would have beenawkward, she spoke with the simple sweet poise of manner that had beenthe admiration of many a company, and that made Mr. Rhys now press thelittle hands closer in his own. A little evident shy reluctance onlyadded to the grace. 

"It is a good while ago--I felt, Mr. Rhys, that I wanted, --just thatwhich makes one willing to go anywhere and do anything; though not forthat reason. I expected to live in England always. I wanted to knowmore of Christ. I wanted it, not for work's sake but for happiness'sake. I was a Christian, I suppose; but I knew--I had seen andfelt--that there were things, --there was a height of Christian life andattainment, that I had not reached; but where I had seen other people, with a light upon their brows that I knew never shined upon mine. Iknew whence it came--I knew what I wanted--more knowledge of Christ, more love of him. "

"When was this?"

"It is a good while ago. It is--it was, --time seems so confused tome!--I know it was the winter after you went away. I think it was nearthe spring. We were in London. "

"Yes. "

"I was cold at the heart of religion. I was not happy. I knew what Iwanted--more love to Christ. "

"You did love him. "

"Yes; but you know what it is just to love him a little. I went as dutybade me; but the love of him did not make all duty happy. I had seenyou live differently--I saw others--and I could not be content as I was. 

"We were in town then. One night I sat up all night, and gave the wholenight to it. "

"To seeking Jesus?"

"I wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!"

"And you found him?"

"Not soon. I spent the night in it. I prayed--and I walked the floorand prayed--and I shed a great many tears over the Bible. I felt as ifI must have what I wanted--but I could not seem to get any nearer toit. The whole night passed away--and I had wearied myself--and I hadgot nothing. 

"The dawn was just breaking, when I got up from my knees the last time. I was almost giving up in despair. I had done all I could--what could Ido more? I went to the window and opened it. The light was justcreeping up in the sky--there was a little streak of brightness alongthe horizon, or of light rather, but it was the herald of brightness. Ifelt desolate and tired, and like giving up hope and quest together. The dull grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. I cannot tellyou how enviously I looked at the eastern dawn, wishing the light wouldbreak upon my own horizon. I shall never forget it. It was dusky yetdown in the streets and over the housetops; the city had not waked upin our quarter; it was still yet, and the breath of the morning'sfreshness came to me and revived me and mocked me both at once. I couldhave cried for sadness, if I had not been too down-hearted and weary. 

"While I stood there, hearing the morning's promise, I suppose, withoutknowing it--there came up from the streets somewhere below me, andnear, the song of a chimney-sweep. I can never tell you how it came! Itcame--but not yet; at first I only knew what he was singing by thenotes of the air; but the next verse he began came up clear and strongto me at the window. He was singing those words--

 "'Twas a heaven below My Redeemer to know; And the angels could do nothing more, Than to fall at his feet, And the story repeat, And the Lover of sinners adore. '

"I thought, it seemed that a band of angels came and carried thosewords up past my window! And the dawn came in my heart. I cannot tellyou how, --I seemed to see everything at once. I saw what a heaven belowit is, to know the love of Christ. I think my heart was something likethe Ganges when the tide is coming in. I thought, if the angels coulddo nothing more than praise him, neither could I! I fell at his feetthen--I do not think I have ever really left them since--not for longat a time; and since then my great wish has been to be allowed toglorify him. I have had no fears of anything in the way. "

Eleanor had not been able to get through her "long story" withouttears; but they came very much against her will. She could not see, yetsomehow she felt the strong sympathetic emotion with which she waslistened to. She could hear it, in the subdued intonation of Mr. Rhys'swords. 

"'Keep yourselves in the love of God. ' How shall we do it, Eleanor?"

She answered without raising her eyes--"'The Lord is good unto themthat wait for him. '"

"And, 'if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love. '"

There was silence a moment. 

"That commandment must take me away for a while, Eleanor. " She lookedup. 

"I thought, " he said, with his sweet arch smile, "I might take so muchof a honeymoon as one broken day--but there is a poor sick man a mileoff who wants me; and brother Balliol has had the schooner affairs toattend to. I shall be gone an hour. Will you stay here? or shall I takeyou to the other house?"

"May I stay here?"

"Certainly. You can fasten the door, and then if any visiters come theywill think I am not at home. I will give Solomon directions. "

"Who is Solomon?"

"Solomon is--I will introduce him to you!" and with a very bright faceMr. Rhys went off into his study, coming back again in a moment andwith his hat. He went to a door opposite that by which Eleanor hadentered the house, and blew a shrill whistle. 

"Solomon is my fast friend and very faithful servant, " he saidreturning to Eleanor. "You saw him at dinner--but it is time he shouldknow you. "

In came Solomon; a very black specimen of the islanders, in a dresssomething like that which Eleanor had noticed on the man in the canoe. Solomon's features were undeniably good, if somewhat heavy; they hadsense and manliness; and his eye was mildly quiet and genial in itsexpression. It brightened, Eleanor saw, as he listened to Mr. Rhys'swords; to which she also listened without being able to understandthem, and wondering at the warm feeling of her cheeks. Solomon'sgratulations were mainly given with his face, for all the English wordshe could get out were, "glad--see--Misi Risi"--Mr. Rhys laughed anddismissed him, and went off himself. 

Eleanor was half glad to be left alone for a time. She fastened thedoor, not for fear, but that her solitude might not be intruded upon;then walked up and down over the soft mats of the centre room and triedto bring her spirits to some quiet of realization. But she could not. The change had been so sudden, from her wandering state of uncertaintyand expectation to absolute content and rest, of body and mind at once, that her mental like her actual footing seemed to sway and heave yetwith the upheavings that were past. She could not settle down toanything like a composed state of mind. She could not get accustomedyet to Mr. Rhys in his new character. As the children say, it was "toogood to be true. "

A little unready to be still, she went off again into the roomspecially prepared for her, where the green jalousies shaded thewindows. One window here was at the end; a direction in which Eleanorhad not looked. She softly raised the jalousies a little, expecting tosee just the waving bananas and other plants of the tropical gardenthat surrounded the house; or perhaps servants' offices, about whichshe had a good deal of curiosity. 

Instead of that, the window revealed a landscape of such beauty thatEleanor involuntarily pulled up the blind and sat entranced before it. No such thing as servants or servants' offices. A wide receding stretchof broken country, rising in the distance to the dignity of blueprecipitous hills; a gorge of which opened far away, to delight anddraw the eye into its misty depth; a middle distance of lordly forest, with patches of clearing; bits of tropical vegetation at hand, and overthem and over it all a tropical sky. In one direction the view was veryopen. Eleanor could discern a bit of a pathway winding through it, andonce or twice a dark figure moving along its course. This was Vuliva!this was her foreign home! the region where darkness and light werestruggling foot by foot for the mastery; where heathen temples werefalling and heathen misery giving place to the joy of the gospel, butwhere the gospel had to fight them yet. Eleanor looked till her heartwas too full to look any longer; and then turned aside to get the onlypossible relief in prayer. 

The hour was near gone when she went to her window again. The day wascooling towards the evening. Well she guessed that this window had beenspecially arranged for her. In everything that had been done in thehouse she had seen that same watchful care for her pleasure andcomfort. There never was a house that seemed to be so love's work; Mr. Rhys's own hand had most manifestly been everywhere; and the furniturethat Mrs. Caxton had sent he had placed. But Mrs. Caxton had not sentall. Eleanor's eye rested on a dressing-table that certainly never camefrom England. It was pretty enough; it was very pretty, even to hernotions; yet it had cost nothing, and was as nearly as possible made ofnothing. Yes, for she looked; the frame was only some native reeds orcanes and a bit of board; the rest was white muslin drapery, whichwould pack away in a very few square inches of room, but now hung inpretty folds around the glass and covered the frame. Eleanor justlooked and wondered; no more; for the hour was up, and she went to herwindow and raised the jalousies again. She was more quiet now, shethought; but her heart throbbed with the thought of Mr. Rhys and hisreturn. 

She looked over the beautiful wild country, watching for him. The lightwas fair on the blue hills; the sea-breeze fluttered the leaves of thecocoanut trees and waved the long thick leaves of the banana. She heardno other sound near or far, till the quick swift tread she waslistening for came to her ear. Nobody was to be seen; but the step wasnot to be mistaken. Eleanor got to the front door and had it open justin time to see him come. 

They stood then together in the doorway, for the view was fair on theriver side too. The opposite shore was beautiful, and the houses of theheathen village had a great interest for Eleanor, aside from theireffect as part of the landscape; but her shyness was upon her again, and she had a thorough consciousness that Mr. Rhys did not see how thelight fell on either shore. At last he put his arm round her and drewher up to his side, saying, "And so you did not get my letters in Sydney. --Poor little dove!"

It struck Eleanor with a curious pleasure, these words. They would havebeen true, she knew, in the lips of no other mortal, as also certainlyto no other mortal would it have occurred to use them. She was not thesort of person by any means to whom such an appellation would generallybe given. To be sure her temper was of the finest, but then also it hada body to it. Yet here she knew it was true; and he knew; it was spokennot by any arrogance, but by a purely frank and natural understandingof their mutual natures and relations. She answered by a smile, exceeding sweet and sparkling, as well as conscious, to the face thatwas looking down at her with a little bit of provoking archness uponits gravity; and their lips met in a long sealing kiss. Husband andwife understood each other. 

Perhaps Mr. Rhys knew it, for it seemed as if his lips could hardlyleave hers; and Eleanor's face was all manner of lights. 

"What has become of Alfred?" he asked, in an irrelevant kind of manner, by way of parenthesis. 

"I have not seen him--hardly--since you left England. He is not undermamma's care now. "

"And my friend Julia? You have told me but a mite yet about everybody. "

"Julia is your friend still. But Julia--I have not seen her in a long, long time. "

"How is that?"

"Mamma would not let me. O Mr. Rhys!--we have been kept apart. I couldnot even see her when I came away. "

"Why?"

"Mamma--she was afraid of my influence over her. "

"Is it possible!"

"Julia was going on well--setting her face to do right. Now--I do notknow how it will be. Even our letters are overlooked. "

"I need not ask how your mother is. I suppose she is trying to save oneof her daughters for the world. "

Eleanor's thoughts swept a wide course in a few minutes; rememberedwhose hand instrumentality had saved her from such a fate and hadstriven for Julia. With a sigh that was part sorrow and part gratitude, Eleanor laid her head softly on Mr. Rhys's shoulder. With suchtenderness as one gives to a child, and yet rarer, because deeper andgraver, she was made at home there. 

"Don't you want to take a walk to the chapel?"

"O yes!"--But she was held fast still. 

"And shall we give sister Balliol the pleasure of our company to tea, as we come back?"

"If you please--if you like. "

"I do not like it at all, " said Mr. Rhys frankly--"but I suppose wemust. "

"Think of finding the restraints of society even in Fiji!" said Eleanortrying to laugh, as she brought her bonnet and they set out. 

"You must find them everywhere--unless you live to please yourself;"said Mr. Rhys, with his sweet grave look; and Eleanor was consoled. 

The walk to the church was not very long, and she could have desired itlonger. The river shore, and the view on the other side, and thevillage by which they passed, the trees and the vegetable gardens andthe odd thatched roofs--everything was pretty and new to Eleanor'seyes. They passed all they had seen in coming from the landing thatmorning, taking this time a path outside the mission premises. Past thehouse with the row of pillars in front, which Eleanor learned was abuilding for the use of the various schools. A little further on stoodthe chapel. It was neat and tasteful enough to please even an Englisheye; and indeed looked more English than foreign on a distant view; andstanding there in the wilderness, with its little bell-tower risinglike a witness for all that was good in the midst of a heathen land, the feelings of those who looked upon it had need be very tender andvery deep. 

"This chapel is dear to our eyes, " said Mr. Rhys. "Everything is, thatcosts such pains. This poor people have made it; and it is one of thebest pieces of work in Fiji. It was all done by the labour of theirhearts and hands. "

"That seems to be the style of carpentry in this country, " said Eleanor. 

"The chief made up his mind on a good principle--that for a house ofthe true God, neither time nor material could be too precious. On thatprinciple they went to work. The timber used in the building is what wecall green-heart--the best there is in Fiji. To find it, they had totravel over many a mile of the country; and remember, there are no oxenhere, no horses; they had no teams to help them. All must be done bythe labour of the hands. I think there were about eighty beams ofgreen-heart timber needed for the house--some of them twelve and someof them fifty feet long. In about three months these were collected;found and brought in from the woods and hills, sometimes from ten milesaway. While the young men were doing this, the old men at home were allday beating cocoanut husk, to separate the fibre for making sinnet. Allday long I used to hear their beaters going; it was good music; andwhen at the end of every few days the woodcutters came home with theirtimber--so soon as they were heard shouting the news of theircoming--there was a general burst and cry and every creature in thevillage set off to meet them and help drag the logs home. Women andchildren and all went; and you never saw people so happy. 

"Then the building was done in the same spirit. Many a time when I wasbusy with them, overlooking their work, I have heard them chanting toeach other words from the Bible--band against band. One side wouldsing--'But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven ofheavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that I havebuilded. '--Then the other side would answer, 'The Lord hath chosenZion; he hath desired it for his habitation. ' I cannot tell you howsweet it was. There was another chant they were very fond of. A fewwould begin with Solomon's petition--'Have thou respect unto the prayerof thy servant, and to his supplication, O Lord my God, to hearken untothe cry and to the prayer, which thy servant prayeth before theeto-day: that thine eyes may be open toward this house night and day, even toward the place of which thou hast said, My name shall be there:that thou mayest hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall maketoward this place, '--and here a number of the other builders would joinin with their cry--'Hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shallmake!' And so in the next verse, when it came near the end the otherswould join in--'And when thou hearest, forgive!'--"

"I should think you would love it!" said Eleanor, with her eyes full oftears. "And I should think the Lord would love it. "

"Come in, and see how it looks on the inside. "

The inside was both simple and elegant, after a quaint fashion; for itwas Fijian elegance and Fijian simplicity. A double row of columns leddown the centre of the building; they looked like mahogany, but it wasonly native wood; and the ornamental work at top which served for theircapitals, was done in sinnet. Over the doors and windows triangularpediments were elaborately wrought in black with the same sinnet. Theroof was both quaint and elegant. It was done in alternate open andclose reed-work, with broad black lines dividing it; and ornamentallashings and bandings of sinnet were used about the fastenings andgroinings of spars and beams. Then the wings of the communion rail weremade of reed-work, ornamented; the rail was a beautiful piece of nuttimber, and the balusters of sweet sandal wood. The whole effectexceeding pretty and graceful, though produced with such simple means. 

"Mr. Ruskin ought to have had this as an illustration of his 'Lamp ofSacrifice, '" said Eleanor. "How beautiful!--"

"The 'Lamp of Truth, ' too, " said Mr. Rhys. "It is all honest work. Thatside was done by our heathen neighbours. The heathen chief sent us hiscompliments, said he heard we were engaged in a great work, and if wepleased he would come and help us. So he did. They built that side ofthe wall and the roof. "

"Did they do it well?"

"Heartily. "

"Do they come to attend worship in it?"

"The chapel is a great attraction. Strangers come to see--if not toworship, --and then we get a chance to tell the truth to them. "

"And Mr. Rhys, how is the truth prospering generally?"

"Eleanor, we want men!--and that seems to be all we want. My heartfeels ready to break sometimes, for the want of helpers. I am glad ofbrother Amos coming--very glad!--but we want a hundred where we haveone. It is but a few weeks since a young man came over from one of theislands, a large and important island, bringing tidings that a numberof towns there had given up heathenism--all wanting teachers--and therewere no teachers for them. In one place the people had built a chapel;they had gone so far as that; it was at Koroivonu--and they gatheredtogether the next Sunday after it was finished, great numbers of thepeople, filled the chapel and stood under some bread-fruit trees infront of it, and stood there waiting to have some one come and tellthem the truth--and there was no one. My heart is ready to weep bloodwhen I think of these things! The Tongan who came with the news camewith his eyes full of tears. And this is no strange nor solitary caseof Koroivonu. "

Mr. Rhys walked the floor of the little chapel, his features working, his breast heaving. Eleanor sat thinking how little she could do--howmuch she would!

"You have native helpers--?" she said gently. 

"Praise the Lord for what they are! but we want missionaries. We wanthelp from England. We cannot get it from the Colonies--not fast enough. Eleanor, "--and he stopped short and faced her--"a few months ago, togive you another instance, I was beholder of such a scene as this. Iwas to preach to a community that were for the first time publiclyrenouncing heathenism. It was Sunday. "--Mr. Rhys spoke slowly, evidently exercising some control over himself; how often Eleanor hadseen him do that in the pulpit!--

"I stood on the shores of a bay, reefed in from the ocean. I wish Icould put the scene before you! On the land side, one of the mostmagnificent landscapes stretched back into the country, with almostevery sort of natural beauty. Before me the bay, with ten large canoesmoored in it. An island in the bay, I remember, caught the lightbeautifully; and beyond that there was the white fence of breakers onthe reef barrier. The smallest of the canoes would hold a hundred men;they were the fleet of Thakomban, one of Fiji's fiercest kingsformerly, with himself and his warriors on board. 

"My preaching place was on what had been the dancing grounds of avillage. I had a mat stretched on three poles for an awning--such a matas they make for sails;--and around me were nine others prepared inlike manner. This was my chapel. Just at my left hand was a spot ofground where were ten boiling springs; and until that Sunday, one ofthem had been the due appointed place for cooking human bodies. Thatwas the place and the preparation I looked at in the still Sundaymorning, before service time. 

"At that time, the time appointed for service, a drum was beat and theconch shell blown; the same shell which had been used to give the warcall. Directly all those canoes were covered with men, and they wereplunging into the water and wading to shore. These were Thakomban andhis warriors. Not blacked and stripped and armed for fighting, butwashed and clothed. They were stopping in that place on their waysomewhere else, and now coming and gathering to hear the preaching. Onthe other side came a procession from the village; and down everyhillside and along every path, I could see scattering groups and linesof comers from the neighbouring country. _These_ were the heatheninhabitants, coming up now to hear the truth and profess by a publicact of worship that they were heathens no longer. They all gatheredround me there under the mat awnings, and sat on the grass looking upto hear, while I told them of Jesus. "

Mr. Rhys's voice was choked and he broke off abruptly. Eleanor guessedhow he had talked to that audience; she could see it in his flushingface and quivering lip. She could not find a word to say, and let himlead her in silence and slowly away from the chapel and towards themission house. Before entering the plantation again, Eleanor stoppedand said in a low voice, "What can I do?"

He gave her a look of that moved sweetness she had seen in him all day, and answered with his usual abruptness, "You can pray. "

"I do that. "

"Pray as Paul prayed--for your mother, and for Julia, and for Fiji, andfor me. Do you know how that was?"

"I know what some of his prayers were. "

"Yes, but I never thought how Paul prayed, until the other day. Youmust put the scattered hints together. Wait until we are at home--Iwill shew you. "

He pushed open the wicket and they went in; and the rest of the eveningEleanor talked to Mrs. Amos or to Mr. Balliol; she sheered off a littlefrom his wife. There was plenty of interesting conversation going onwith one and another; but Eleanor had a little the sense of being tothat lady an object of observation, and drew into a corner or into theshade as much as she could. 

"Your wife is very handsome, brother Rhys, " Mrs. Balliol remarked in anaside, towards the end of the evening. 

"That is hardly much praise from you, sister Balliol, " he answeredgravely. "I know you do not set much store by appearances. "

"She is very young!"

Both looked over to the opposite corner where Eleanor was talking toMrs. Amos, sitting on a low seat and looking up; a little drawn backinto the shade, yet not so shaded but that the womanly modest sweetnessof her face could be seen well enough. Mr. Rhys made no answer. 

"I judge, brother Rhys, that she has been brought up in the greatworld, "--Mrs. Balliol went on, looking across to the ruffled sleeve. 

"She is not in it now, " Mr. Rhys observed quietly. 

"No;--she is in good hands. But, brother Rhys, do you think our sisterunderstands exactly what sort of work she has come to do here?"

"She is teachable, " he answered with great imperturbability. 

"Well, you will be able to train her, if she wants it. I am glad toknow she is in such good hands. I think she has hardly yet a justnotion of what lies before her, brother Rhys. "

"When did you make your observations?"

"She was with me, you know--you left her with me this morning. We werealone, and we had a little conversation. "

"Mrs. Balliol, do you think a just notion of _anything_ call be formedin half an hour?"

His question was rather grave, and the lady's eyes wavered from meetinghis. She fidgeted a little. 

"O you know best, of course, " she said; "I have had very littleopportunity--I only judged from the want of seriousness; but that mighthave been from some other cause. You must excuse me, if I spoke toofrankly. "

"You can never do that to me, " he said. "Thank you, sister Balliol. Iwill take care of her. "

Mrs. Balliol was reassured. But neither during their walk home nor everafter, did Mr. Rhys tell Eleanor of this little bit of talk that hadconcerned her. 

CHAPTER XX. 

AT WORK. 

 "My Lady comes; my Lady goes; he can see her day by day, And bless his eyes with her beauty, and with blessings strew her way. "

The breakfast-table was as much of a mystery to Eleanor as the dinnerhad been. Not because it looked so homelike; though in the earlymorning the doors and windows were all open and the sunlight streamingthrough on Mrs. Caxton's china cups and silver spoons. It all lookedforeign enough yet, among those palm-fern pillars, and on the Fijianmat with its border made of red worsted ends and little white feathers. The basket of fruit, too, on the table, did not look like England. Butthe tea was unexceptionable, and there was a piece of fresh fish asperfectly broiled as if it had been brought over by some genius orfairy, smoking hot, from an English gridiron. And in the order andarrangements of the table, there had been something more than nativeskill and taste, Eleanor was sure. 

"It seems to me, Mr. Rhys, " she said, "that the Fijians are remarkablygood cooks!"

"Uncommon, for savages, " said Mr. Rhys with perfect gravity. 

"This fish is excellent. "

"There is no better fish-market in the world, for variety andabundance, than we have here. "

"But I mean, it is broiled just like an English fish. Isaac Waltonhimself would be satisfied with it. "

"Isaac Walton never saw such fishing as is carried on here. The nativesare at home in the water from their childhood--men and women both;--andthe women do a good deal of the fishing. But the serious business isthe turtle fishing. It is a hand to hand conflict. The men plunge intothe water and grapple bodily with the turtle, after they have broughtthem into an enclosure with their nets. Four or five men lay hold ofone, if it is a large fellow, and they struggle together under watertill the turtle thinks he has the worst of the bargain, and concludesto come to the surface. "

"Does not the turtle sometimes get the better?"

"Sometimes. "

"Mr. Rhys, have you any particular duty to-day?"

"I don't see how you can keep up that form of expression!" said he, with a comic gravity of dislike. 

"Why not?"

"It is not treating me with proper confidence. "

Her look in reply was so very pretty, both blushing and winsome, thatthe corners of his mouth were obliged to give way. 

"You know what my first name is, do not you?"

"Yes, " said Eleanor. 

"The people about call me 'Misi Risi'--I am not going to have my wife aFijian to me. "

The lights on Eleanor's face were very pretty. With the same containedsmile he went on. 

"I gave you my name yesterday. It is yours to do what you like with;but the greatest dishonour you can shew to a gift, is not to use it atall. "

"That is the most comical putting of the case that ever I heard, " saidEleanor, quite unable to retain her own gravity. 

"Very good sense, " said Mr. Rhys, with a dry preservation of his. 

"But after all, " said Eleanor, "you gave me your second name, if youplease--I do not know what I have to do with the first. "

"You do not? Is it possible you think your name is Henry or James, orsomething else? You are Rowland Rhys as truly as I am--only you are themistress, and I am the master. "

Eleanor's look went over the table with something besides laughter inthe brown eyes, which made them a gentle thing to see. 

"Mr. Rhys, I am thinking, what you will do to this part of you to makeit like the other?"

He gave her a glance, at which her eyes went down instantly. 

"I do not know, " he said with infinite gravity. "I will think about it. Preaching does not seem to do you any good. "

Eleanor bent her attention upon her bread and fruit. He spoke next witha change of tone, giving up his gravity. 

"Do you know _your_ particular duty to-day?"

"I thought, " said Eleanor, --"that as yesterday you shewed me thehead-carpenter, perhaps this morning you would let me see the chiefcook. "

"That is not the first thing. You must have a lesson in Fijian; nowthat I hope you are instructed in English. "

He carried her off to his study to get it. The lesson was a matter ofamusement to Mr. Rhys, but Eleanor set herself earnestly to learn. Thenhe said he supposed she might as well see her establishment at once, and took her out to the side of the house where she had not been. 

It was a plantation wilderness here too, though particularly devoted toall that in Fiji could belong to a kitchen garden. English beans andpeas had been sown, and were flourishing; most of the luxuriance thatmet the eye had a foreign character. Beautiful order was noticeableeverywhere. Mr. Rhys seemed to have forgotten all about the servants;he pleased himself with leading Eleanor through the walks and shewingher which were the plants of the yam and the kumera and other nativefruits and vegetables. Bananas were here too, and the graceful stems ofthe sugar cane; and overhead the cocoa-nut trees waved their featheryplumes in the air. 

"Who did all this?" Eleanor asked admiringly. 

"Solomon--with a head gardener over him. "

"Solomon is--I saw him yesterday?"

"Yes. He came with me from Vulanga. He is a nice fellow. He is aChristian, as I told you; and a true labourer in the great vineyard. Ibelieve he never misses an opportunity to speak to his countrymen in aquiet way and tell them the truth. He has brought a great many to knowit. In my service he is very faithful. "

"No wonder this garden looks nice, " said Eleanor. 

"I asked Solomon one day about his religious experience. He said he wasvery happy; he had enjoyed religion all the day. He said he rose earlyin the morning and prayed that the Lord would greatly bless him andkeep him; and that it had been so, and generally was so when heattended to religious duties early in the morning. 'But if I neglectand rush into the world, ' he said, 'without properly attending to myreligious duties, nothing goes right. I am wrong in my own heart, andno one round me is right. '"

"Good testimony, " said Eleanor. "Is he your cook as well as yourgardener?"

"I had forgotten all about the cook, " said Mr. Rhys. "Come and see thekitchen. "

Near the main dwelling house, in this planted enclosure, were severalsmaller houses. Mr. Rhys at last took Eleanor that way, and permittedher to inspect them. The one nearest the main building was fitted for alaundry. The furthest was a sleeping house for the servants. The middleone was the kitchen. It was a Fijian kitchen. Here was a largefireplace, of the original fashion which had moved Eleanor's wonder inthe dining-room; with a Fijian framework of wood at one side of it, holding native vessels of pottery, larger and smaller, and variouslyshaped, for cooking purposes. Some more homelike iron utensils were tobe seen also; with other kitchen appurtenances, water jars and soforth. A fire had been in the fireplace, and the signs of cookery wereremaining; but in all the houses, nobody was anywhere visible. 

"Solomon is gone to collect your servants, " said Mr. Rhys. "Thatexplains the present solitude. "

"Did he cook that fish?"

"I have not tried him in cooking, " said Mr. Rhys with a gravity thatwas perfect. "I do not know what he could do if he was tried. "

"Who did it then?"

His smile was wonderfully pleasant--now that it could be no longer keptback--as he answered, "Your servant. "

"_You_, Rowland! And the dinner yesterday?"

"Do not praise me, " he said with the same look, "lest I should spoilthe dinner to-day. I do not expect there will be anybody here tillafternoon. "

"Then you shall see what I can do!"

"I do not believe you know how. I have been long enough in thewilderness to learn all trades. You never learned how to cook atWiglands. "

"But at Plassy I did. "

"Did aunt Caxton let you into her kitchen?"

"Yes. "

"I shall not let you into mine. "

"She went with me there. I have not come out here to be useless. I willtake care of the dinner to-day. "

"No, you shall not, " said Mr. Rhys, drawing her away from the kitchen. "You have got enough to do to-day in unpacking boxes. There will beservants this evening to attend to all you want; and for the presentyou are my care. "

"Rowland, I should like it. "

Which view of the case did not seem to be material. At least it wasanswered in a silencing kind of way, as with his arm about her he ledher in through the bananas to the house. It silenced Eleanoreffectually, in spite of being very serious in her wish. She put itaway to bide another opportunity. 

Mr. Rhys gave her something else to do, as he had said. The boxes hadin part been brought from the schooner, and there was employment forboth of them. He drew out nails, and took off covers, and did the roughunpacking; while the arranging and bestowing of the goods thus putunder her disposal kept Eleanor very busy. His part of the work wasfinished long before hers, and Mr. Rhys withdrew to his study for someother work. Eleanor, happy and busy, with touched thoughts of Mrs. Caxton, put away blankets and clothes and linen and calicos, andunpacked glass, and stowed on her shelves a whole store of homecomforts and necessaries; marvelling between whiles at Mr. Rhys'svarieties of power in making himself useful and wishing she could dowhat she thought was better her work than his--the work to be done inthe kitchen before the servants came home. By and by, Mr. Rhys came outof the study again, and found Eleanor sitting on the mat before a hugeround hamper, uncovered, filled with Australian fruit. This was a latearrival, brought while he had been shut up at his work. Grapes andpeaches and pears and apricots were crowded side by side in rich andbeautiful abundance and confusion. Eleanor sat looking at it. She wasin a working dress, of the brown stuff her aunt's maids wore at home;short sleeves left her arms bare to the elbow; and the full jacket andhoopless skirt did no wrong to a figure the soft outlines of which theyonly disclosed. Mr. Rhys stopped and stood still. Eleanor looked up. 

"Mr. Esthwaite has sent these on in the schooner unknown to me! Whatshall I do with them all?"

"I don't know, " said Mr. Rhys. "It is the penalty that attaches towealth. "

"But you said you never were poor?" said Eleanor, laughing at his look. 

"I never was, in feeling. I never was in an embarrassment of riches, either. I can't help you!"

"But these are yours, Rowland. What are you talking of?"

"Are you going to make me a present of the whole?" said Mr. Rhys, stooping down for a grape. 

"No, Mr. Esthwaite has done that. The embarrassment is yours. "

"I am in no embarrassment; you are mistaken. By what right do you saythat Mr. Esthwaite has sent these to me?"

"Because he sent them to me, " said Eleanor. "It is the same thing. "

"That is dutiful, and loyal, and all that sort of thing, " said Mr. Rhys, helping himself to another grape, and looking with his keen eyesand imperturbable gravity at Eleanor. Perhaps _he_ liked to see thescarlet bloom he could so easily call up in her cheeks, which was nowaccompanied with a little impatient glance at him. "Nevertheless, I donot consider myself to be within the scope of the gift. The dispositionof it remains with you. I do not like the responsibilities of otherpeople's wealth to rest on my shoulders. "

"But this fruit is different from what we have on the island; is therenot something you would like to have done with it?"

"I should like you to give me one bunch of grapes--to be chosen byyourself. "

He looked on, with a satisfied expression of face, while Eleanor'sfingers separated and overhauled the fruit till she had got a bunch toher mind; and stood still in his place to let her bring it to him. Thentook possession of her and the grapes at once, neglecting the latterhowever entirely, to consider her. 

"What would you like to have done with the rest, Rowland?" saidEleanor, while her face glowed under his caresses and examination. 

"This is a very becoming dress you have on!"

"I did not know you noticed ladies' dresses. "

"I always notice my own. "

Eleanor's head drooped a little, to hide the rush of pleasure and shame. 

"But, Rowland, " she said with gentle persistence, "what _would_ youlike to have done with that basket? Isn't there some meaning behindyour words about it?"

"What makes you think so?" said he, curling the corners of his mouth inan amused way. 

"I thought so. Please tell it me! You have something to tell me. "

"The fruit is yours, Eleanor. "

"And what am I?"

The tears came into her eyes with a little vexed earnestness, for shefancied that Mr. Rhys would not speak _because_ the fruit was hers. Hismanner changed again, to the deep tenderness which he had shewn sofrequently; holding her close and looking down into her face; notanswering at once; half enjoying, half soothing, the feeling he hadraised. 

"Eleanor, " he said, "I do not want that fruit. "

"Tell me what to do with it. "

"If you like to send some of those grapes to sister Balliol, at theother house, I think they would do a great deal of good. "

"I will just take out a few for you, and I will send the whole basketover there just as it is. Is there anybody to take it?"

"Do not save any for me. "

"Why not?"

"Because I do not want anything more than I have got. "

"I suppose I may do about that as I please?" said Eleanor, laughing alittle. 

"No--you may not. I only want this bunch that I have in my hand, for apoor sick fellow whom I think they will comfort. If you feel as I do, and like to send the rest over to the mission house, I think they willbe well and gratefully used. "

"But Rowland, why did you not tell me that just at first?" she said alittle wistfully. 

"Do you feel as I do? Tell me that first. "

But as Eleanor was not ready with her answer to this question, ofcourse her own got the go-by. Mr. Rhys laughed at her a little, andthen told her she might get the house ready for dinner. Very muchEleanor wished she could rather get the dinner ready for the house; yetsomehow she had an instinctive knowledge that it would be no use to askhim; and she had a curious unwillingness to make the request. 

"Do you know, " she said, looking up in his face, "I do not know how itis, but you are the only person I ever was afraid of, where my naturalcourage had full play?"

"Does that sentiment possess you at present?"

"Yes--a little. "

He laughed again, and said it was wholesome; and went off withoutseeming in the least dismayed by the intelligence. If Eleanor hadventured that remark as a feeler, she was utterly discomfited. She wentabout her pretty work of getting the little table ready and acquaintingherself with the details of her cupboard arrangements, feeling a littleamused at herself, and with many deeper thoughts about Mr. Rhys and thebasket of fruit. 

They were sitting in the study after dinner, alternately talking andstudying Fijian, when Mr. Rhys suddenly asked, "Of whom have you ever been afraid, Eleanor, where your natural couragedid not have full play?"

"Mr. Carlisle. "

"How was that?"

"I was in a false position. "

"I feared that, at one time, " said Mr. Rhys thoughtfully. 

"I was a bond woman--under engagements that tied me--I did not dare doas I felt. I understand it all now. "

"Do you like to tell me how it happened?"

"I like it very much. I want that you should know just how it was. Iwas pressed into those engagements without my heart being in them, andindeed very much against my will; but I was dazzled by a vision ofworldly glory that made me too weak to resist. Then thoughts of anotherkind began to rise within me; I saw that worldly glory was not thesufficient thing I had thought it; and as my eyes got clear, I found Ihad given no love where I had given my promise. Then that consciousnesshampered me in every action. "

"But you did not break with him--with Mr. Carlisle?"

"Because I was such a bondwoman, as I told you. I did not know what Imight do--what was right, --and I wanted to do right then; till I wentto Plassy. Aunt Caxton set me free. "

Mr. Rhys was silent a little. 

"Do you remember coming to visit the old window in the ruins, justbefore you went to Plassy that time?" he said, looking round at herwith a smile. 

His wife though she was, Eleanor could not help a warm flush ofconsciousness coming over her at the recollection. 

"I remember, " she said demurely. "It was in December. "

"What were you afraid of at that time?"

"Mr. Carlisle. "

"Did you think it was _he_ whom you heard?'

"No. I thought it was you. "

"Then why were you afraid?"

"I had reason enough, " said Eleanor, in a low voice. "Mr. Carlisle hadtaken it into his head to become jealous of you. "

She answered with a certain straightforward dignity, but Mr. Rhys had aview of dyed cheeks and a face which shrank from his eye. He beheld it, no doubt, for a little while; at least he was silent; and ended withone or two kisses which to Eleanor's feeling, for she dared not look, spoke him very full of satisfaction. But he never brought up thesubject again. 

The thoughts raised by the talk about the basket of fruit recurredagain a few days later. Eleanor had got into full train of her islandlife by this time. She was studying hard to learn the language, andbeginning to speak words of it with her strange muster of servants. Housekeeping duties were fairly in hand. She had begun to find out, too, what Mr. Rhys had foretold her respecting visitors. They came ingroups and singly, at all hours nearly on some days, to see the newhouse and the new furniture and the new wife of "Misi Risi. " Eleanorcould not talk to them; she could only be looked at, and answer throughan interpreter their questions and requests, and watch with unspeakableinterest these strange poor people, and admire with unceasingadmiration Mr. Rhys's untiring kindness, patience, and skill, inreceiving and entertaining them. They wanted to see and understandevery new thing and every new custom. They were polite in theircuriosity, but insatiable; and Mr. Rhys would shew and explain andtalk, and never seem annoyed or weary; and then, whenever he got achance, put in his own claim for attention, and tell them of theGospel. Eleanor always knew from his face and manner, and from theirs, when this sort of talk was going on; and she listened strangely to theunknown words in which her heart went along so blindly. When he thoughther not needed, or when he thought her tired, Mr. Rhys would dismissher to her own room, which he would not have invaded; and Eleanor'sreverence for her husband grew with every day, although she would notat the beginning have thought that possible. 

At the end of these first few days, Eleanor went one afternoon into Mr. Rhys's study. He was in full tide of work now. The softly swinging doorlet her in without much noise, and she stood still in the middle of theroom, in doubt whether to disturb him or no. He was busy at hiswriting-table. But Mr. Rhys had good ears, even when he was busy. Whileshe stood there, he looked up at her. She was a pretty vision for a manto see and call wife. She was in one of the white dresses that hadstirred Mrs. Esthwaite's admiration; its spotless draperies were in aselegant order as ever they had been for Mrs. Powle's drawing room; therich banded brown hair was in as graceful order. She stood there verybright, very still, looking at him. 

"You have been working a long time, Rowland. You want to stop and rest. "

"Come here, and rest me, " he answered stretching out his hand. 

"Rowland, " said Eleanor when she had been standing a minute beside him. "Mrs. Balliol wants me to cut off my hair. "

Mr. Rhys looked up at her, for with one arm round her he was stillbending attention upon his work. He glanced up as if in doubt or wonder. 

"I have been over to see her, " Eleanor repeated, "and she counsels meto cut off my hair; cut it short. "

"See you don't!" he said sententiously. 

"Why?" said Eleanor. 

"It would be the cause of our first and last quarrel. "

"Our first, " said Eleanor stifling some hidden amusement; "but howcould you tell that it would be the last?"

"It would be so very disagreeable!" Mr. Rhys said, with a gravity sodryly comic that Eleanor's gravity was destroyed. 

"Mrs. Balliol says I shall find it, my hair, I mean, very much in myway. "

"It would be in _my way_, if it was cut off. "

"She says it will take a great deal of precious time. She thinks thatyour razor would be better applied to my head. "

"Than to what other object?"

"Than to its legitimate use and application. She wants me to get you tolet your beard grow, and to cut off my hair. 'It's unekal'--as SamWeller says. "

Eleanor was laughing; she could not see Mr. Rhys's face very well; itwas somewhat bent over his papers; but the side view was ofunprovokable gravity. A gravity however which she had learned to knowcovered a wealth of amusement or of mischief, as the case might be. Sheknelt down to bring herself within better speaking and seeing distance. 

"Rowland, what sort of people are your coadjutors?"

"They are the Lord's people, " he answered. 

Eleanor felt somewhat checked; the gravity of this answer was of adifferent character; but she could not refrain from carrying the matterfurther; she could not let it rest there. 

"Do you mean, " she said a little timidly, but persistently, "that youare not willing to speak of them as they are, _to me?_"

He was quite silent half a minute, and Eleanor grew increasingly sober. He said then, gently but decidedly, "There are two persons in the field, of whose faults I am willing totalk to you; yours and my own. "

"And of others you think it is wrong, then, to speak even so privatelyand kindly as we are speaking?" Eleanor was very much chagrined. Mr. Rhys waited a moment, and then said, in the same manner, "I cannot do it, Eleanor. "

He got up a moment after and went out of the room. Eleanor felt almoststunned with surprise and discomfort. This was the second time, in thefew days that she had been with him, that he had found her wrong insomething. It troubled her strangely; and the sense of how much he wasbetter than she--how much higher his sphere of living than the one shemoved in--pressed her heart down almost to the ground. She stood by thewriting-table where she had risen to her feet, with her eyes brimful oftears, but so still even to her eyelids that the tears had notoverflowed. She supposed Mr. Rhys had gone out. In another momenthowever she heard his step returning and he entered the study. Eleanormoved instantly to leave it, but he met and stayed her with a lookinfinitely sweet; turned her about, and made her kneel down with him. And then he poured out a prayer for charity; not merely the kindnessthat throws a covering over the failings of others, or that holds backthe report of what they have been; but the overabounding heavenly lovethat will send its brightness into the dark places of human society andwith its own richness fill the barren spots; and above all, for thatlove of Jesus the King, that makes all his servants dear, for thatspirit of Christ that looks with his own love and forbearance on allthat need it. And so, as the speaker prayed, he shewed his ownpossession of that which he asked for; so revealed the tender and highwalk of his own mind and its near familiarity with heavenly things, that Eleanor thought her heart would break. The feeling, how far hestood above her in knowledge and in goodness, while it was a secret anddeep joy, yet gave her acute pain such as she never had felt before. She would not weep; it was a dry aching pain, that took part of itsstrength from the thought of having done or shewn something that he didnot like. But Mr. Rhys went on to pray for her alone; and Eleanor wasconquered then. Tears came and she cried like a little child, and allthe hard pain of pride or of fear was washed away; like the dust fromthe leaves in a summer shower. 

She was so far healed, but she would have run way when they rose fromtheir knees if he had permitted her. He had no such intention. Keepingfast hold of her hand he brought her to a seat by the window, openedit, for the day was now cooling off and the sea-breeze was fresh; andtaking the book of their studies he put her into a lesson of Fijianpractice; till Eleanor's spirits were thoroughly restored. Thenthrowing away the book and taking her in his arms he almost kissed thetears back again. 

"Eleanor----" he said, when he saw that her eyes were wet, and hercolour and her voice were fluttering together. 

"What?"

"You must bear the inconvenience of your hair for my sake. Tell sisterBalliol you wear it by my express orders. "

Eleanor's look was lovely. She saw that the gentleness of this speechwas intended to give her back just that liberty she might think wasforbidden. Humbleness and affection danced in her face together. 

"And you do not object to white dresses, Rowland?"

"Never--when they are white--" he said with one of his peculiar smiles. 

"Rowland, " said Eleanor, now completely happy again, "you ought to havethose jalousie blinds at these windows. You want them here much morethan I do. "

"How will you prove that?"

"By putting them here; and then you will confess it. "

"Don't you do it!" said he smiling, seeing that Eleanor's eye was inearnest. 

"Please let me! Do let me! You want them much more than I do, Rowland. "

"Then you will have to let them stand; for they are just where I wantthem. "

"But the shade of them is much more needed here. "

"I could have had it. You need not disturb yourself. There is a wholestack of them lying under the shelves in your store-room. "

"Why are they lying there?" said Eleanor in great surprise. 

"I did not want them. I left them for you to dispose of. "

"For me! Then I shall dispose some of them here. "

"Not with my leave. "

"May I not know why?" said Eleanor putting her hand in his to plead forit. 

"I do not want to fare too much better than my brethren, " he answeredwith a smile of infinite pleasantness at her. Eleanor's face shewed asudden accession of intelligence. 

"Then, Rowland, let us send the other jalousies to Mr. Balliol to shadehis study--with all my heart; and you put up mine here. I did not thinkabout that before. Will you do it?"

"There are plenty of them without taking yours, child. "

"Then, O Rowland, why did you not do it before?"

"I have an objection to using other people's property--even for thebenefit of my neighbours"--he said, with the provoking smile in thecorners of his mouth. 

"But it is yours now. "

"Well, I make it over to you, to be offered and presented as it seemsgood to you, to brother Balliol, or to sister Balliol, for his use andbehoof. "

"Do you mean that I must do it?"

"If it is your pleasure. "

"Then I will speak of it immediately. "

"You can have an opportunity to-night. But Eleanor, --you must call her, sister Balliol. "

"I can't, Rowland!"

Silence fell between the parties. Mr. Rhys's face was impenetrable. Eleanor glanced at it and again glanced at it; got no help. Finally shelaid her hand on his shoulder and spoke a little apprehensively. 

"Rowland--are you serious?"

"Perfectly. " So he was, outwardly. 

"Do you think it matters really whether I call her one thing oranother? If it were Mrs. Amos, I should not have the least difficulty. I could call her sister Amos. What does it matter?"

"Why can't you use a Christian form of address with her as well as withme?"

"Do you consider it a matter of _principle?_"

"Only as it regards the feelings of the individual, in either case. "Mr. Rhys's mouth was looking very comical. 

"Would she care, Rowland?"

"I should like to have you try, " he said, getting up and arranging hispapers to leave. And Eleanor saw he was not going to tell her any more. 

"What is the opportunity you spoke of, Rowland?"

"This is our evening for being together--it has hardly been a Classbefore this, we were so few; but we met to talk and think together, andusually considered some given subject. To-night it is, the 'glory to berevealed. '"

"That is what Mr. Amos and I used to do on board the schooner; and wehad that subject too, just after we left Tonga. So we shall be ready. "

"We ought to go there to tea; but I have to go over first to Nawaile;it will keep me till after tea-time. Do not wait for me, unless youchoose. "

Eleanor chose, and told him so. While he was gone she sat at the doorof the house watching and thinking; thinking of him especially, and ofthings that his talk that afternoon had brought up. It was a pleasanthour or two. The sea-breeze fresh from the sea; the waving broad bananaleaves; the sweet perfume of flowers, which were rarely profuse andbeautiful in their garden; the beautiful southern sky of night, withthe stars which Eleanor had learned to know as strangers coming over inthe ship, and now loved as the companions of her new home. Stillness, and flapping of leaves, and sweet thoughts; until it was time to beexpecting Mr. Rhys back again, and Eleanor made the tea, that he mightat least not miss so much refreshment. She knew his step rods off, andlong before she could see him; his cup was all ready for him when hestepped in. He drank it, looking at Eleanor over it; would stop fornothing else, and carried her off. 

"I had a happy time, " he said as they went through the plantations. "Ihave been to see an old man who lies there dying, or very near it. Hehas been a Christian two years. He is very glad to see me when I come, and ready to talk; but he will not talk with his neighbours. He says hewants to keep his thoughts fixed on God; and if he listened to thesepeople they would talk to him of village affairs, and turn his mindoff. "

"Then, if you had a happy time, I suppose _he_ is happy?"

"He is happy. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him thatbringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace! Think of old Caesar, going to glory from the darkness of Fiji. He said to me to-night--'I amweak, and I am old; my time is come, but I am not afraid to die;through Jesus I feel courageous for death. Jesus is my Chief, and Iwish to obey him: if he says I am yet to lie here, I will praise him;and if he says I am to go above to him, I will praise him. I do notwish to eat; his word is my food; I think on it, and lean entirely onJesus. '--Do you know how good it is to be a missionary, Eleanor?"

They exchanged looks; that was all; they were at the door, and went in. The party there were expecting and waiting for them, and it was morethan a common welcome, Eleanor saw, that was given to them. She did notwonder at it. After exchanging warm greetings all round, she sat down;but Mr. Rhys began walking the floor. The rest were silent. There was asomewhat dim light from a lamp in the room; the windows and doors wereopen; the air, sweet with flowers and fresh from the sea, came ingently; the soft sounds of leaves and insects could be heard throughthe fall of Mr. Rhys's steps upon the matted floor. The hour had astrange charm to Eleanor. 

Silence lasted, until Mr. Rhys interrupted it with kneeling down forprayer. Then followed one of those prayers, in which it always seemedto Eleanor as if somebody had taken her hand, who was leading her whereshe could almost look in at the gates of that city which Bunyan calledthe Celestial. Somewhere above earth it took her, and rapt her up asMilton's angel is said to have descended, upon a sunbeam. One came toearth again at the end of the prayer; but not without a remembrance ofwhere one had been. 

"Sister Balliol, " said Mr. Rhys, "will you put us in mind concerningour subject this evening?"

"It is the glory to be revealed; and I find that it is a glory to berevealed in us, " Mrs. Balliol made answer. "Sufferings come first. Itis a glory that goes along with sufferings in the present life; but itis so much greater than the sufferings, that no comparison can be madeof them. For my part, I do not think the glory would be half so muchglory, if it were not for the sufferings going before. "

"To suffer with Christ, and for him, that is glory now, " said Mr. Rhys;"to have been so honoured will always be part of our joy. If any mansuffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but rather let himglorify God on this behalf. Those be tears that Christ's own hand willwipe off; and what glory will that be!"

"The word of God fails to express it, " said Mr. Amos, "and calls it'riches of glory. ' Riches of glory, to be poured into vessels preparedto receive it. Surely, being such heirs, none of us has a right to callhimself poor? we are heirs of an inheritance incorruptible, andundefiled, and not subject to decadence or failure. We may well becontent with our penny earnest in this life, who have such an estatecoming in. "

"I feel poor very often, " said gentle Mrs. Amos; "and I suppose thatmust be my own fault; for the word says, 'Riches and honour are withme; yea, durable riches, and righteousness. '"

"Those are riches that none but the poor come into possession of, " saidMr. Rhys. "The poor in spirit inherit the kingdom, and nobody else. Itis our very emptiness, that fits us for receiving those unsearchableriches. But having those, sister Amos, it is no deprivation of thisworld's good things that would make you feel poor?"

"O no, indeed!" said Mrs. Amos. "I did not mean that sort of poor. "

"The rich he will send empty away"--Mr. Rhys went on. 

"So in the matter of suffering, " said Mr. Balliol taking up the word. "If we are partakers of Christ's sufferings now, we are told torejoice. For when his glory is revealed, the word is, that we shall beglad also, and with exceeding joy. When his glory is revealed here, alittle, now, we are glad; our joy seems to be exceeding, now, brotherRhys. I wonder what it will be when God calls it exceeding joy!"

There was a pause; and then Mrs. Amos, for the sake simply of startingEleanor, whose voice she knew in it, began softly the song, "Burst, yeemerald gates!" She had her success, for Eleanor with the others tookup the words, and carried it--Mrs. Amos thought--where Mr. Rhys'sprayer had been. When the song ceased, there was silence; till Mr. Rhyssaid, "Eleanor!"--It was her turn to speak. 

"I do not believe, " she said speaking low and slowly, --"that eithersufferings, or premises, or duties, will bring the hope of glory intothe heart; until Jesus himself brings it there. And if he brings it, ithardly seems to me that sufferings will enhance it--except in so far asthey lead to greater knowledge of him or are the immediate fruit oflove to him; and then, as Mr. Rhys says, they are honour themselvesalready. The riches of the glory of this mystery, is _Christ in you, the hope of glory_. "

Mr. Rhys was standing at the back of Eleanor's chair, leaning upon it. He bent his head and whispered to her to tell her story that she hadtold him. At that whisper, Eleanor would have steadily gone through thefire if necessary; this was not quite as hard; and though not for herown sake caring to do it, she told the story and told it freely andwell. She told it so that every head there was bowed. And then therewas silence again; till Mr. Rhys began, or rather went on with what shehad been saying; in a voice that seemed to come from every heart. 

"'Whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. '

"Friends, we have the present honour, of being Christ's ambassadors. Dowe know what honour that is? 'Whosoever shall receive this child in myname, receiveth me; and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth him thatsent me. ' That is honour under which we may tremble!"--And standingthere at the back of Eleanor's chair, Mr. Rhys began to talk; on thejoy of carrying Christ's message, the honour of being his servants andco-workers, and the gladness of bringing the water of life to lips dryand failing in death. He told the instance of that evening which he hadtold to Eleanor; and leaving his station behind her, he walked up anddown again, speaking as she had sometimes heard him speak, till everyhead was raised and turned, and every eye followed him. With fire andtears, speaking of the work to be done and the joy of doing it, and theneed of more to do it; and of the carelessness people have of thatglory which will make men shine as the stars for ever and ever. 

"Ay, we shall know then, brother Balliol, when the great supper isserved, and Christ shall gird himself, and make his faithful servantssit down to meat, and he shall come forth and serve them--we shall knowthen, if we are there, what glory means! And we shall know what itmeans to have no want unsatisfied and no joy left out!--when the Lambthat is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead themto living fountains of waters. "

Mr. Balliol answered--

"If any man serve me, let him follow me; and where I am, there shallalso my servants be: if any man serve me, him will my Father honour. "

Mr. Rhys went on--"Feed the flock of God which is among you, taking theoversight thereof, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthylucre, but of a ready mind; neither as being lords over God's heritage, but being ensamples to the flock. And when the chief Shepherd shallappear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away. "

They knelt together again, and then separated; and the tropical moonlighted home the two who did not belong to Mrs. Balliol's household. 

THE END. 

PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. 

Typographical errors silently corrected:

volume 1

Chapter 1: =is no information?= silently corrected as =is noinformation?"=

Chapter 1: the following sentence is lacking in the Tauchnitz edition:"Who is that Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor. 

Chapter 2: =that is what I think, = silently corrected as =that is whatI think, "=

Chapter 2: =colored verbenas= silently corrected as =coloured verbenas=

Chapter 5: =nothing to signify= silently corrected as ="nothing tosignify=

Chapter 5: ="Much' is comparative= silently corrected as ="'Much' iscomparative=

Chapter 7: =pushed her hair= silently corrected as =pushed her chair=

Chapter 10: =And I am glad Autumn= silently corrected as ="And I amglad Autumn=

Chapter 10: ='Let not your heart be troubled. '"= silently corrected as="Let not your heart be troubled. "=

Chapter 11: =he said gravely. = silently corrected as =he said gravely, =

Chapter 11: =couteque coute= silently corrected as =coûte que coûte=

Chapter 13: =You must do it= silently corrected as ="You must do it=

Chapter 17: =to keep her, --= silently corrected as =to keep her. =

volume 2

Chapter 2: ='drink. '= silently corrected as ="drink. "=

Chapter 3: =cotemporaries= silently corrected as =contemporaries=

Chapter 4: =Do you find it= silently corrected as ="Do you find it=

Chapter 6: =said her sister:= silently corrected as =said her sister, =

Chapter 9: =They are a desperate= silently corrected as ="They are adesperate=

Chapter 10: =no doubt he could. = silently corrected as =no doubt hecould. "=

Chapter 10: =My dear Eleanor: --= silently corrected as ="My dearEleanor --=

Chapter 10: =do all things. '"= silently corrected as =do all things. '=

Chapter 10: =prayer, Eleanor?"= silently corrected as =prayer, Eleanor?=

Chapter 11: =each other's hearts, "= silently corrected as =each other'shearts, '=

Chapter 11: ="Suppose that she have= silently corrected as ='Supposethat she have=

Chapter 11: =unhappy for nothing. = silently corrected as =unhappy fornothing. '=

Chapter 11: ="for any other= silently corrected as ='for any other=

Chapter 12: ="Lord, Jehovah= silently corrected as ="'Lord, Jehovah=

Chapter 12: =do them good. "= silently corrected as =do them good. '=

Chapter 12: =That was the beginning= silently corrected as ="That wasthe beginning=

Chapter 12: =R. R. = silently corrected as ="R. R. "=

Chapter 13: =letter said. Next= silently corrected as =letter said, Next=

Chapter 15: ='Praise the lord! --'= silently corrected as ="Praise thelord! --"=

Chapter 15: ='Amen!'= silently corrected as ="Amen!"=

Chapter 16: =should have seen her= silently corrected as =should haveseen her. =

Chapter 16: =like a woman?= silently corrected as =like a woman. =

Chapter 19: =never thirst. '"= silently corrected as =never thirst. '=

Chapter 19: =quantities with me?= silently corrected as =quantitieswith me. =

Chapter 19: =sinners adore. '"= silently corrected as =sinners adore. '=

Chapter 19: =These, were the heathen= silently corrected as =These werethe heathen=

Chapter 20: =in the same manner. = silently corrected as =in the samemanner, =

Chapter 20: ="Whom having= silently corrected as ="'Whom having=

Chapter 20: =full of glory. "= silently corrected as =full of glory. '=