  "And the magic charm of foreign lands, It was but the next day, and Eleanor was sitting as usual on deck looking over the waters in a lovely bright morning, when a sound was heard which almost stopped her heart's beating for a moment. It was the cry, rung out from the mast-head, "Land, ho!" "Where is it?" she said to the captain, who was behind her. "I do not see it anywhere." "You will see it in a little while. Wait a bit. If you could go aloft I could 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 who can take the ripe side of the cherry; poorer folks had better come here, if they want any chance at all." The lucky sailor was coming down from the mast-head, and the captain went off to join those who were giving him sundry rewarding tokens of their joy for his news. Eleanor looked over the waste of waters eastward, 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; yet the physical possibility would assert itself in spite of all the well-allowed moral impossibility. But at any rate at Sydney she would find letters; at Sydney she would find, perhaps very soon, the means of making the remainder of her voyage; at Sydney she could no longer prevent herself from thinking. Eleanor had staved off thought all the way by wisely saying and insisting to herself "Time enough when I get to Sydney." Yes; she was nearing home now. So deep, so engrossing, were her meditations and sensations, that Mr. Amos who had come up to congratulate her on the approaching termination of the voyage, spoke to her once and again without being heard. He could not see her face, but the little straw bonnet was as motionless as if its wearer had been in a 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 was the land, beyond doubt; the coast of New Holland itself, as the captain informed Eleanor; and going on and passing through Bass's Strait the vessel soon directed her course northward. Little remained then before reaching port. It was under a fair and beautiful sunlight morning that they were at last approaching Sydney. Mr. Amos was on deck as well as Eleanor, the captain standing with them; for a pilot had come on board; the captain had given up his charge, and was in command no longer. Before the watching three stretched a low unpromising shore of sandstone cliffs and sand. "It is good to see it," said Mr. Amos; "but in this first view it don't shew for much." "Don't shew for anything," said Captain Fox. "Wait till we get inside the Heads. It don't shew for anything; but it's the most glorious land the sun shines on!" "In what particular respects?" said Mr. Amos. "In every respect of making a living and enjoying it," said the captain. "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 Fox went on;—"that's what Miss Powle thinks of. I wish this was Melbourne we 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 the most glorious country, sir, you ever saw! hundreds of square miles of it are as handsome as a duke's park; and good for something, which a duke'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 rolling ground without a stone on it, as nice as ever you saw; and spotted with the trees they call she-oaks—beautiful trees; and they don't grow in a wood, 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 see miles off more of just the same, till it gets blue in the distance; and mountains beyond all. And when you put here and there a flock of thousands of sheep spotting the country with their white backs—I ain't poetical, sir, but I tell you! when I saw that country first, I thought maybe I was; but it's likely I was mistaken," said the captain laughing, "for the fit has never come back since. Miss Powle thinks there's as much poetry in the water as on the land." Still Eleanor did not move to answer; and Mr. Amos, perhaps for her sake, 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 of that too; but I'd as lieve make my money some other way. Victoria is the country for wool-growing, sir. I've a brother there—Stephen Fox—he went with little more than nothing; and now he has a flock of sheep—well, I'm afraid to say how many; but I know he needs and uses a tract of twelve thousand acres of land for them." "That is being a pretty large land-owner, as well as sheep-owner," Mr. "O he don't own it. That wouldn't do, you know. The interest of the money 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? He pays a license fee to Government for the privilege of using the land for a year—wherever he pitches upon a place; then he stocks it, and goes on occupying by an annual license fee, until he has got too many neighbours 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 a new settlement; and he sells off his stock and claim to him, packs up his traps, pokes off through the bush with his compass till he has found a new location somewhere; then he comes back, pays a new license fee, and stocks the new place with flocks and shepherds and begins again. And I never saw in my life anything so fine as one of those Victoria 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 to Stephen and he can be of use to me. And I'm a little of this lady's opinion." "How is it in this colony we are coming to?" "Well, they are very prosperous; it's a good place to get rich. They have contrived to get along with their gold mines without ruining every other interest, as the other colonies have done for a time. But I think Victoria is the queen of them all; Victoria sends home more wool than either 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 a great 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 assumed more dignity of elevation and feature as they were nearer seen; the rocks rising some two or three hundred feet high, with the sea foaming at their foot. Passing swiftly onward, the vessel by and by doubled Bradley's Head, and the magnificent sheet of water that forms the harbour 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 shores with spots of white that marked where people had pretty country homes, the quiet water glittering in the light; the view to the sea-tossed travellers was nothing short of enchanting. Mrs. Amos had come on deck, though scarce able to stand; a quiet, gentle, sweet-looking person; her eyes were full of tears now. Her husband's arm was round her, supporting her strength that she might keep up; his face was moved and grave. Eleanor was afraid to shew anybody her face; yet it was outwardly in good order enough; she felt as if her heart would never get back to its accustomed beat. She sat still, breathlessly drinking in the scene, rejoicing and trembling at once. She heard Mrs. Amos's softly whispered, "Praise the Lord!—" and her husband's firm "Amen!" It had like to have overset her. She pressed her hands tight together to 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. "The pilot telegraphed to the South Head, and from the South Head the news has gone all over Sydney and Paramatta. Pretty good-looking city, is Sydney." 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; with forts and windmills, and fair looking country seats in its neighbourhood. "Where is Paramatta?" said Eleanor, "and what is it?" "It's a nice little pleasure place, up the Paramatta river; fifteen miles 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 the hill?" "No great things of a hill," said the captain. "That's the "How beautiful it is!" said Mrs. Amos almost with a sigh. "It is almost like a Scottish lake!" said her husband. "I remember one that this scene reminds me of at this moment." "A little of this is worth all Scotland," said the captain. "There's pretty 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 people enough here that want teaching, worse than the savages. I declare, I think they do." "Somebody else will have to teach them," said Mr. Amos. "What an array of ships and sails of all sorts! This gives one an idea of the business of the place." "Business, and growing business," said the captain. "Sydney is getting ahead as fast as it can." "How sweet the air is!" said Eleanor. "Ay!" said the captain. "Now you smell green things again. I'll wager you won't want to put to sea any more, after you once get a firm foot on land. Why this is the very place for you. Enough to do, and every luxury 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 I couldn'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, and turned again to the contemplation of the scene they had in view. The captain 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 as desired. Mr. Amos joined her, in somewhat subdued tones, and Mrs. Amos gave a still gentler seconding; while the rich notes of her own voice filled the air; so mellow that their full power was scarcely recognized; so powerful that the mellow sound seemed to fill the ship's rigging. 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 and there 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 company to whom memory would never cease to bring a reminder that 'there is balm in Gilead;' for some reason or other that was one of Eleanor's favourite songs. Now she gave another—sweet, clear, and wild;—the furthest-off sailors stood still to hearken. They had heard it often enough to know what the words were. "O who's like Jesus! From sins and fears he frees us. He died for you, The chorus floated all over after each verse of the hymn was ended; it went clear to the ship's bows; but Eleanor sat quite still in her old position, clasping her hands fast on the rail and not moving her head. During the singing the captain came back and stood behind them listening; while people on the vessels that they passed, suspended their work and looked up to hear. Just as the singing was finished, a little boat was seen swiftly coming alongside; and in another minute they 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 whole appearance 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, is there a Miss Powle on board of your ship?" Captain Fox silently stepped on one side and made a motion of his hand towards Eleanor. Eleanor hearing herself called, slowly rose and faced the new-comer. There was a second's pause, as the two confronted each other; then the gentleman bowed very low and advanced to touch the lady'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 somebody speak 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. "Identity proved. Captain, I am going to take charge of this lady. Will you see that her luggage, personal effects and so on, are brought on deck?"—then turning to Eleanor with real deference and cordiality in his manner, he went on,—"Mrs. Esthwaite is longing to see you. It is such a pleasure to have a cousin come from England, as you can but feebly appreciate; she hopes to learn the new fashions from you, and all that sort of thing; and she has been dressing your room with flowers, I believe, for these three months past. If you please, we will not wait for the ship's slow motions, but I will carry you straight to land in my boat; and glad you will be! Will you signify your assent to this arrangement?—as I perceive the captain is a servant of yours and will do nothing without you bid him." "Thank you," said-Eleanor,—"I will go with you;—but what will be done with all my boxes in the hold?" This enquiry was addressed to the captain. "Don't you fear anything," said Mr. Esthwaite, "now you have overcome so many troubles and got to this haven of rest. We will take care of your boxes. I suppose you have brought enough to stock the whole Navigator's group—or Fiji, is it, you are going to? I would go to any other one rather—but never mind; the boxes shall be stored; and maybe you'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 the baggage; 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 I should like to take care of you in turn. Will you go to my house, and make 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 friends have the best claim. By the way! didn't I hear some sweet Methodist singing as I came up? was it on this ship? You haven't got any Methodists 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 one to 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 the grandeur of the horizon, that calls for the finest form of words mortals could put together; and when you have got such a form, why not use 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 a cathedral roof over it, one of those voices would have lifted the rafters and gone on; and that would not have been reverential, you know. Now, my young cousin!—" "Mr. Amos," said Eleanor aside to him and colouring deeply, "if there are any letters for me at the house where you are going, or at the post-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 half full 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 a good bye to everybody on board. Mr. Esthwaite looked on smiling, until he was permitted to hand her down the vessel's side, and lodged her in the wherry. "Now you are out of the ship," said he looking keenly at her. "Aren't you glad?" "I have some good friends in her," said Eleanor. "Friends! I should think so. Those were salt tears that were shed for your coming away. Positively, I don't think a man of them could see clear to take his last look at you." Neither were Eleanor's feelings quite unmixed at this moment. She expected to see Mr. and Mrs. Amos again; with the rest her intercourse was finished; and it had been of that character which leaves longing and tender memories behind. She felt all that now. And she felt much more. With the end of her voyage in the "Diana" came, at least for the present, an end to her inward tranquillity. Now there were letters awaiting her; letters for which she had wished nervously so long; now she was near Fiji and her new life; now she dared to realize, she could not help it, what all the voyage she had refused to think of, as still in a hazy distance of the future. Here it was, nigh at hand, looming up through the haze, taking distinctness and proportions; and Eleanor's heart was in a state of agitation to which that sound little member was very little accustomed. However, the outward effect of all this was to give her manner even an unwonted degree of cool quietness; and Mr. Esthwaite was in a state between daunted and admiring. Both of them kept silence for a little while after leaving the ship, while the wherry pulled along in the beautiful bay, passing among a crowd of vessels of all sorts and descriptions, moving and still. The scene was lively, 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 of vessels 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. "I understand 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 a new world. Wait till you see what I will shew you to-morrow. Now look at that wooded point, with the white houses spotting it; those are fine seats; beautiful view and all that; and at Sydney you can have everything you want, almost at command." "You know," said Eleanor, "that is not absolutely a new experience to me. In England, we have not far to seek." "O you say so! Much you know about it. You have been in such a nest of a place as my cousin Caxton spreads her wings over. I never was in a nest, till I made one for myself. How is my good cousin?" The talk ran upon home things now until they reached the town and landed at a fine stone quay. Then to the Custom House, where business was easily despatched; then Mr. Esthwaite put Eleanor into a cab and they drove away through the streets for his house in the higher part of the city. Eleanor's eyes were full of business. How strange it was! So far away from home, and so long living on the sea, now on landing to be greeted by such a multitude of familiar sounds and sights. The very cab she was driving in; the omnibuses and carts they passed; the English-cut faces; the same street cries; the same trades revealing themselves, as she had been accustomed to in London. But now and then there came a difference of Australasia. There would be a dray drawn by three 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 of the country, dressed in English leavings of costume. Those made her feel where she was; otherwise the streets and houses and shops had very much of a home air. Except indeed when a curious old edifice built of logs peeped in among white stone fronts and handsome shop windows; the relics, Mr. Esthwaite told her, of that not so very far distant time when the town first began to grow up, and the "bush" covered almost all the ground now occupied by it. Eleanor was well pleased to be so busied in looking out that she had little leisure for talking; and Mr. Esthwaite sat by and smiled in satisfaction. But this blessed immunity could not last. The cab stopped before a house in George street. "Has she come?" exclaimed a voice as the door opened; and a head full of curls put itself out into the hall;—"have you brought her? Oh how delightful! How glad I am!—" and the owner of the curls came near to be introduced, hardly waiting for the introduction, and to give Eleanor the most gleeful sort of a welcome. "And she was on that ship, the 'Diana,' Egbert? how nice! Just as you thought; 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, cousin Eleanor, 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 her hostess. "I have done nothing for four months." "Look here!" shouted Mr. Esthwaite from the hall—"Louisa, don't stop to talk over the fashions now—it is dinner-time. How soon will you be down?"— "Don't mind him," said pretty Mrs. Esthwaite, leading the way into a light pleasant room overlooking the bay;—"sit down and rest yourself. Would you like anything before you dress? Now just think you are at home, will you? It's too delightful to have you here!" Eleanor went to the window, which overlooked a magnificent view of the harbour. Very oddly, the thought in her mind at that moment was, how soon an opportunity could be found for her to make the rest of her voyage. Scarce landed, she wanted to see the means of getting away again. Her way she saw, over the harbour; where was her conveyance? While she stood looking, her new-found cousin was considering her; the erect beautiful figure, in all the simplicity of its dress; the close little bonnet with chocolate ribbands, the fine grave face under it, lastly the little hand which rested on the back of the chair, for Eleanor'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 be ready presently, and Egbert will be impatient, I know, till you come down stairs again." "Thank you. I will be but a few minutes. How beautiful this is! O how beautiful,—to my eyes that have seen no beauty but sea beauty for so long. 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 could be that." "Well I didn't know. Mr. Esthwaite is always running down England, you see, and I don't know how much of it he means. I came away when I was so 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 was held at the window by the bay with its wooded shores and islands glittering in the evening light; then she turned from it to pray, for her heart needed strength, and a great sense of loneliness had suddenly come over her. Fighting this feeling, and dressing, both eagerly, in a little time she was ready to descend and encounter Mr. Esthwaite and dinner. An encounter it was to Mr. Esthwaite. He had put himself in very careful order; though that, to do him justice, was an habitual weakness of his; and he met his guest when she appeared with a bow of profound recognition and appreciation. Yet Eleanor was only in the simplest of all white dresses; without lace or embroidery. No matter. The rich hair was in perfect arrangement; the fine figure and fine carriage in their unconscious ease were more imposing than anything pretentious can ever be, even to such persons as Mr. Esthwaite. He measured his young guest correctly and at once. His wife took the measure of Eleanor's gown meanwhile, 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 delight evidently in playing his part of host, and some pride both housekeeping and patriotic in shewing to Eleanor all the means he had to play it with. The turtle soup he declared was good, though she might have seen better; the fish from Botany Bay, the wild fowl from the interior, the game of other kinds from the Hunter river, he declared she could not have known surpassed anywhere. Then the vegetables were excellent; the potatoes from Van Dieman's Land, were just better than all others in the world; and the dessert certainly in its abundance of treasures justified his boasting that Australia was a grand country for anybody that liked fruit. The growth of the tropics and of the cooler latitudes of 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 sorts of English-grown fruits from Van Dieman's Land; gooseberries, pears and grapes. Native wines also he pressed on his guest, assuring her that some of them were as good as Sauterne, and others very fair claret and champagne. Eleanor took the wines on credit; for the rest, her eyes enabled her to give admiration where her taste fell short. And admiration was expected of her. Mr. Esthwaite was in a great state of satisfaction, having very much to do in the admiring way himself. "Did Louisa keep you up stairs to begin upon the fashions?" said he, as he 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 it important that his clothes should be cut in the newest pattern, and how many good hats he has thrown away because he got hold of something new that he liked better. Just ask him! He never will hear me." "I am going to ask her something," said Mr. Esthwaite. "See here;—you are not going to those savage and inhospitable islands, are you?" Eleanor's smile and answer were as cool as if her whole nature had not been in a stir of excitement. "What in the world do you expect to do there?" said her host with a strong 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 her with 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 for anybody in the world you please! to make you comfortable. Seriously, we want good people in this colony; we have got a supply of all other sorts, but those are in a deficient minority." "In that case, I think everybody that stays here is bound to supply one." "See here—who is that gentleman that is so fortunate as to be expecting you? what is his name?" "Mr. Esthwaite! for shame!" said his wife. "I think you are a very presuming cousin." Mr. Esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he smiled to himself with satisfaction to see the answer his question had called up into Eleanor's cheeks. The rich dye of crimson was pretty to behold; her words were delayed long enough to mark either difficulty of speaking or displeasure at the necessity for it. Mr. Esthwaite did not care which it was. At last Eleanor answered, with calm distinctness though without facing him. "Do you not know the name?" "I—I believe Mrs. Caxton must have mentioned it in one of her letters. An impatient throb of displeasure passed through Eleanor's veins. It did not appear. She said composedly, "The name is Rhys—it is a Welsh name—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; and only replied gravely, "I am unable to say." Mr. Esthwaite at least had a sense of humour in him; for he smiled, and his lips kept pertinaciously unsteady for some time, even while he went on 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 savage life is?" he said to Eleanor. "It is not what you think. It is not a garden of roses, with a pineapple tucked away behind every bush. Now if you would come here—here is a grand opening. Here is every sort of work wanting you—and Mr. Rhys—whatever the line of his talents may be. We'll build him a church, and we'll go and hear him, and we'll make much of you. Seriously, if my good cousin had known what she was sending you to, she would have wished the 'Diana' should sink with you on board, rather than get to the end of her voyage. It is quite self-denial enough to come here—when one does not expect to gain anything 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 about the Colonies and England!" "Don't be—silly,—my dear," said her husband. "These people would think 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 up your prejudices." "What are you after, then. Seriously, what are you going to those barbarous islands for—putting friendship and all such regards out of the question? Wheat takes you there,—without humbug? You must excuse me—but you are a very extraordinary person to look at,—as a missionary." Eleanor could hardly help laughing. She doubted whether or no this was a question to be answered; discerning a look of seriousness, as she thought, beneath the gleam in her host's eyes, she chose to run the risk 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 who can." Mr. Esthwaite was put out a little. He had words on his lips that he did not speak; and piled Eleanor's plate with various fruit dainties, and drank one or two glasses of his Australian claret before he said anything more; an interval occupied by Eleanor in cooling down after her last speech, which had flushed her cheeks prodigiously. "That's a sort of work to be done anywhere," he said finally, as if Eleanor had but just spoken. "I am sure it can be done here, and much better for you. Now see here—I like you. Don't you suppose, if you were to try, you could persuade this Mr. Rhys to quit those regions of darkness and come and take the same sort of work at Sydney that he is doing there?" "No." "Seems decided!—" said Mr. Esthwaite humourously, looking towards his wife. "I am afraid this gentleman is a positive sort of character. Well!—there is no use in struggling against fate. My dear, take your cousin 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, her destination, and above all, the England of which she had heard so much and knew so little. Her curiosity was huge, and extended to the smallest of imaginable details; and one thing followed another with very little of congruous nature between them. And Eleanor answered, and related, 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. Esthwaite being in a state of ecstatic delight with her new-found relation. Mr. Esthwaite had kept silence and played the part of listener for the larger portion of the evening, using his eyes and probably his judgment freely during that time. As they were separating, he asked Eleanor whether 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 Government Domain—everybody rides and drives there, and almost everybody goes at six o'clock. It's worth going; botanical gardens, and all that sort of thing." Eleanor swiftly thought, that it was scarce likely Mr. Amos would have her letters for her, or at least bring them, so early as that; and she might as well indulge her host's fancy if not her own. She agreed to the proposal, and Mrs. Esthwaite went rejoicing with her to her room. "You'll like it," she said. "The botanical gardens are beautiful, and I dare say you will know a great deal more about them than I do. O it's delightful to have you here! I only cannot bear to think you must go away again." "You are very kind to me," said Eleanor gratefully. "My dear aunt Caxton will be made glad to know what friends I have found among strangers." "Don't speak about it!" said Mrs. Esthwaite, her eyes fairly glistening with earnestness. "I am sure if Egbert can do anything he will be too glad. Now won't you do just as if you were at home? I want you to be completely at home with us—now and always. You must feel very much the want of your old home in England! being so far from it, too." "Heaven is my home," said Eleanor cheerfully; "I do not feel the loss of England so much as you think. That other home always seems near." "Does it?" said Mrs. Esthwaite. "It seems such an immense way off, to me!" "I used to think so; but it is near to me now. So it does not so much matter whereabouts on the earth I am." "It must be nice to feel so!" said Mrs. Esthwaite with an unconscious sigh. "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," said "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 something hardly of earth like ordinary mortals,—"I have not given up the world as you have. I cannot. I like it too well." "I have not given it up either," said Eleanor smiling again; "not in the sense you mean. I have not given up anything but sin. I enjoy everything 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 love anything that my King hates. All that I have given up, and all that leads to it; but I am all the more free to enjoy everything that is really 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 her head 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 want to know what you think;—wine, I know, if people will drink too much,—but what harm is in dancing?" "None that I know of," said Eleanor,—"if it were always suited to womanly delicacy, and if it took one into the society of those that love 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 of penitent laugh,—"I love dancing." "Ay, but I love Christ," said Eleanor; "and whatever is not for his honour I am glad to give up. It is no cross to me. I used to like some things 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't help doing wrong things, even if I want to do it ever so much, and when I 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 am good. It is that I love Jesus and he helps me. I cannot do anything of myself—I cannot give up anything—but I trust in my Lord and he does it 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 for me, that he might bring me from myself and sin to know him and be happy." "And you are happy, are you not?" said Mrs. Esthwaite, looking at her as if it were something that she had come to believe against evidence. There was good evidence for it now, in Eleanor's smile; which would bear studying. "There is nothing but happiness where Christ is." "But I couldn't understand it—those places where you are going are so dreadful;—and why you should go there at all—" "No, you do not understand, and cannot till you try it. I have such joy in the love of Christ sometimes, that I wish for nothing so much in the world, as to bring others to know what I know!" There was power in the lighting face, which Mrs. Esthwaite gazed at and wondered. "I think I am willing to go anywhere and do anything, which my King may give me, in that service." "To be sure," said Mrs. Esthwaite, as if adding a convincing corollary from her own mind,—"you have some other reason to wish to get there—to the Islands, I mean." That brought a flood of crimson over Eleanor's face; she let go her hostess's hands and turned away. "But there was something else I wanted to ask," said Mrs. Esthwaite hastily. "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 up alongside 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 sat down together, and Eleanor sang: "'There's balm in Gilead, And somewhat to her surprise, before the hymn had gone far, her companion was weeping; and kept her face hidden in her handkerchief till the last words were sung. "'Come then to this physician; |
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