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 threw
herself again eagerly into all her aunt's labours and schemes for the
good and comfort of those around her. There was plenty to do; and she
was Mrs. Caxton's excellent helper. Powis came into requisition anew;
and as before, Eleanor traversed the dales and the hills on her various
errands, swift and busy. That was not the only business going. Her aunt
and she returned to their old literary habits, and read books and
talked; and it was hard if Eleanor in her rides over the hills and over
the meadows and along the streams did not bring back one hand full of
wild flowers. She dressed the house with them, getting help from the
garden when necessary; botanized a good deal; and began to grow as
knowing in plants almost as Mrs. Caxton herself. She would come home
loaded with wild thyme and gorse and black bryony and saxifrage and
orchis flowers, having scoured hill and meadow and robbed the
hedge-rows for them, which also gave her great tribute of wild roses.
Then later came crimson campion and eyebright, dog roses and
honeysuckles, columbine and centaury, grasses of all kinds, and
harebell, and a multitude impossible to name; though the very naming is
pleasant. Eleanor lived very much out of doors, and was likened by her
aunt to a rural Flora or Proserpine that summer; though when in the
house she was just the most sonsy, sensible, companionable little
earthly maiden that could be fancied. Eleanor was not under size
indeed; but so much like her own wild flowers in pure simpleness and
sweet natural good qualities that Mrs. Caxton was sometimes inclined to
bestow the endearing diminutive upon her; so sound and sweet she was.
"And what are all these?" said Mrs. Caxton one day stopping before an
elegant 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 is
the other kind; handsome things are they not?"
"And this?"
"That is the forked spleenwort. You don't know it? I rode away, away up
the mountain for it yesterday That is where I got those Woodsia's
too--aren't they beautiful? I was gay to find those; they are not
common."
"No. And this is not common, to me."
"Don't you know it, aunt Caxton? It grows just it the spray of a
waterfall--this and this; they are polypodies. That is another--that
came 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 to
the 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? they
are 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, remained
unused; and that a thing most likely, one would have thought, to be
applied to for help. The microscope stood on one side apparently
forgotten. It always stood there, in the sitting parlour, in full view;
but nobody seemed to be conscious of its existence. Eleanor never
touched it; Mrs. Caxton never spoke of it.
From home meantime, Eleanor heard little that was satisfactory. Julia
was the only one that wrote, and her letters gave painful subjects for
thought. Her father was very unlike himself, Julia said, and growing
more feeble and more ill every day; though by slow degrees. She wished
Eleanor would write her letters without any religion in them; for she
supposed _that_ was what her mother would not let her read; so she
never 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, and
of everything and everybody that interests me. What mamma does not like
comes in, of course, with it all; but I do very little preaching, aunt
Caxton."
"I would go on just so, my dear. I would not alter the style of my
letters."
So the flowers of June were replaced by the flowers of July; and the
beauties of July gave place to the purple "ling" of August, with
gentian and centaury and St. John's wort; and then came the Autumn
changes, with the less delicate blossoms of that later time, amidst
which the eclipsed meadow-sweet came quite into favour again. Still
Eleanor brought wild things from the hills and the streams, though she
applied more now to Mrs. Caxton's home store in the garden; wild mints
and Artemisias and the Michaelmas daisy still came home with her from
her rides and walks; the rides and walks in which Eleanor was a
ministering angel to many a poor house, many an ignorant soul and many
a failing or ailing body.
Then came October; and with the first days of October the news that her
father was dead.
It added much bitterness to Eleanor's grief, that Mrs. Powle entirely
declined to have her come home, even for a brief stay. If she chose to
submit to conditions, her mother wrote, she would be welcome; it was
not too late; but if she held to her perversity, she must bear the
consequences. She did not own her nor want her. She gave her up to her
aunt Caxton. Her remaining daughter was in her hands, and she meant to
keep her there. Eleanor, she knew, if she came home would come to sow
rebellion. She should not come to do that, either then or at all.
Mildly quiet and decided Mrs. Powle's letter was; very decided, and so
cool as to give every assurance the decision would be persisted in.
Eleanor felt this very much. She kept on her usual way of life without
any variation; but the radiant bright look of her face was permanently
saddened. She was just as sweet and companionable an assistant to her
aunt as ever; but from month to month Mrs. Caxton saw that a shadow lay
deep upon her heart. No shadow could have less of anything like hard
edges.
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 sat
gravely poring into the red coals on the hearth; those
thought-provoking, life-stirring, strange things, glowing and sparkling
between life and death like ourselves. Eleanor's face was very sober.
"Aunt Caxton," she said at length,--"my life seems such a confusion to
me!"
"So everything seems that we do not understand," Mrs. Caxton said.
"But is it not, aunty? I seem taken from everything that I ought most
naturally to do--papa, Julia, mamma. I feel like a banished person, I
suppose; only I have the strange feeling of being banished from my
place 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, looking
still 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 not
doubt 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 do
not get letters there, often, till they are a year old."
"How impossible it used to be to me," said Eleanor, "to comprehend such
a life; how impossible to understand, that anybody should leave home
and friends and comfort, and take his place voluntarily in distance and
danger 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 not
ceased gazing into the coals;--"I see that Christ is all; and with him
one is never alone, and under his hand one can never be in danger. I
know now how his love keeps one even from fear."
"You are no coward naturally."
"No, aunt Caxton--not about ordinary things, except when conscience
made me so, some time ago."
"That is over now?"
Eleanor took her eyes from the fire, to give Mrs. Caxton a smile with
the words--"Thank the Lord!"
"Mr. Rhys is among scenes that might try any natural courage," said
Mrs. Caxton. "They are a desperate set of savages to whom he is
ministering."
"What a glory, to carry the name of Christ to them!"
"They are hearing it, too," said Mrs. Caxton. "But there is enough of
the devil's worst work going on there to try any tender heart; and
horrors enough to shock stout nerves. So it has been. I hope Mr. Rhys
finds it better."
"I don't know much about them," said Eleanor. "Are they much worse than
savages in general, aunt Caxton?"
"I think they are,--and better too, in being more intellectually
developed. Morally, I think I never read of a lower fallen set of human
beings. Human life is of no account; such a thing as respect to
humanity is unknown, for the eating of human bodies has gone on to a
most wonderful extent, and the destroying them for that purpose. With
all that, there is a very careful respect paid to descent and rank; but
it is the observance of fear. That one fact gives you the key to the
whole. Where a man is thought of no more worth than to be killed and
eaten, a woman is not thought worth anything at all; and society
becomes a lively representation of the infernal regions, without the
knowledge and without the remorse."
"Poor creatures!" said Eleanor.
"You comprehend that there must be a great deal of trial to a person of
fine sensibilities, in making a home amongst such a people, for an
indefinite 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 love
of 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 gravely
thoughtful a little while longer and then separated for the night. But
the next evening when they were seated at tea alone, Mrs. Caxton
recurred to the subject.
"You said last night, Eleanor, that you wished you could do a great
deal more work of a certain kind than you do."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did your words mean, my love, that you are discontented with your own
sphere of duty, or find it too narrow?"
Eleanor's eyes opened a little at that. "Aunt Caxton, I never thought
of such a thing. I do not remember that I was considering my own sphere
of duty at all. I was thinking of the pleasure of preaching
Christ--yes, and the glory and honour--to such poor wretches as those
we 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 any
place 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 of
Good Hope and teach the Hottentots?"
"I do not mean that, aunty," said Eleanor laughing a little. "Surely
you do not suspect me of any wandering romantic notion about doing the
Lord's work in one place rather than in another. I would rather teach
English people than Hottentots. But if I saw that my place was at the
Cape of Good Hope, I would go there. If my place were there, some way
would 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 my
Shepherd--' I have done with fear."
"My love, I should be very sorry to have you go to the Cape of Good
Hope. I am glad there is no prospect of it. But you are right about not
choosing. As soon as we go where we are not sent, we are at our own
charges."
The door here opened, and the party and the tea-table received an
accession of one to their number. It was an elderly, homely gentleman,
to whom Mrs. Caxton gave a very cordial reception and whom she
introduced 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 the
cold as he sat down. "I bring you letters from Brother Rhys."
"You are welcome without that, brother, as you know," Mrs. Caxton
answered. "But the letters are welcome. Of how late date are they?"
"Some pretty old--some not more than nine or ten months ago; when he
had 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 of
his work already."
"He would do that immediately."
"He studied the language on shipboard, all the way out; and he was able
to hold a service in it for the natives only a few weeks after he had
landed. 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 cold
out 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 from
its genial unbent look into formality as he turned to her,--"the place
itself I do not understand to be very disagreeable; it is the character
of the population which must make it a hard place to live in. They are
exceedingly 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's
refreshment had first to be attended to. Only fair; for he had come out
of his way on purpose to bring them to her; and being one of a certain
Committee he had it in his power to bring for her perusal and pleasure
more than her own letters from Mr. Rhys, and more than Mr. Rhys's own
letters 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-come
despatches were brought out on the green table-cloth under the light of
the lamp.
With her hand on her own particular packet of letters, as if so much
communication with them could not be put off, Mrs. Caxton sat and
listened to Mr. Morrison's reading. Eleanor had got her work. As the
particular interest which made the reading so absorbing to them may
possibly be shared in a slight degree by others, it is fair to give a
slight notion of the character of the news contained in those closely
written pages. The letters Mr. Morrison read were voluminous; from
different persons on different stations of the far-off mission field.
They told of difficulties great, and encouragements greater; of their
work and its results; and of their most pressing wants; especially the
want of more men to help. The work they said was spreading faster than
they could keep up with it. Thousands of heathen had given up
heathenism, who in miserable ignorance cried for Christian instruction;
children as wild as the wild birds, wanted teaching and were willing to
have it; native teachers needed training, who had the will without the
knowledge to aid in the service. Thirty of them, Mr. Lefferts said, he
had under his care. With all this, they told of the wonderful beauty of
the regions where their field of labour was. Mr. Lefferts wrote of a
little journey lately taken to another part of his island, which had
led him through almost every variety of natural luxuriance. Mountains
and hills and valleys, rivers and little streams, rich woods and
mangrove swamps. Mr. Lefferts' journey had been, like Paul's of old, to
establish the native churches formed at different small places by the
way. There he married couples and baptized children and met classes and
told the truth. At one place where he had preached, married several
couples, baptized over thirty, young and old, and met as many in
classes, Mr. Lefferts told of a walk he took. It led him to the top of
a little hill, from which a rich view was to be had, while a multitude
of exquisite shrubs in flower gave another refreshment in their
delicious fragrance. A little stream running down the side of the hill
was used by the natives to water their plantations of taro, for which
the side hill was formed into terraced beds. Paroquets and humming
birds flew about, and the sun was sinking brilliantly in the western
ocean line as he looked. So far, everything was fair, sweet, lovely; a
contrast to what he met when he reached the lower grounds again. There
the swarms of mosquitos compelled Mr. Lefferts to retreat for the night
within a curtain canopy for protection; and thither he was followed by
a fat savage who shared the protection with him all night long. Another
sort of experience! and another sort of neighbourhood from that of the
starry white _Gardenia_ flowers on the top of the hill.
Nevertheless, of a neighbouring station Mr. Rhys wrote that the people
were at war, and the most horrible heathen practices were going on. At
the principal town, he said, more people were eaten perhaps than
anywhere else in the islands. The cruelties and the horrors were
impossible to be told. A few days before he wrote, twenty-eight persons
had been killed and eaten in one day. They had been caught
fishing--taken prisoners and brought home--half killed, and in that
state thrown into the ovens; still having life enough left to try to
get away from the fire.
"The first time I saw anything of this kind," wrote Mr. Rhys, "was one
evening when we had just finished a class-meeting. The evening was most
fair and peaceful as we came out of the house; a fresh air from the sea
had relieved the heat of the day; the leaves of the trees were
glittering in the sunlight; the ocean all sparkling under the breeze;
when word came that some bodies of slain people were bringing from
Lauthala. I could hardly understand the report, or credit it; but
presently the horrible procession came in sight, and eleven dead bodies
were laid on the ground immediately before us. Eleven only were brought
to this village; but great numbers are said to have been killed. Their
crime was the killing of one man; and when they would have submitted
themselves and made amends, all this recompense of death was demanded
by the offended chief. The manner in which these wretched creatures
were treated is not a thing to be described; they were not handled with
the respect which we give to brute animals. The natives have looked
dark upon us since that time, and give us reason to know that as far as
they are concerned our lives are not safe. But we know in whose hands
our lives are; they are the Lord's; and he will do with them what he
pleases--not what the heathen please. So we are under no concern about
it."
That storm appeared to have passed away; for in later letters Mr. Rhys
and Mr. Lefferts spoke of acceptable services among the people and an
evidently manifested feeling of trust and good will on their part
towards the missionaries. Indeed these were often able to turn the
natives from their devilish purposes and save life. Not always. The old
king of that part of the country had died, and all the influence and
all the offers of compensation made by the missionaries, could not
prevent the slaughter of half a dozen women, his wives, to do him
honour in his burial. The scene as Mr. Lefferts described it was
heart-sickening.
As he drew near the door of the king's house, with the intent to
prevail for the right or to protest against the wrong, he saw the biers
standing ready; and so knew that all the efforts previously made to
hinder the barbarous rites had been unavailing. The house as he entered
was in the hush of death. One woman lay strangled. Another sitting on
the floor, covered with a large veil, was in the hands of her
murderers. A cord was passed twice round her neck, and the ends were
held on each side of her by a group of eight or ten strong men, the two
groups pulling opposite ways. She was dead, the poor victim underneath
the veil, in a minute or two after the missionaries entered; and the
veil being taken off they saw that it was a woman who had professed
Christianity. Her sons were among those who had strangled her. Another
woman came forward with great shew of bravery when her name was called;
offered her hand to the missionaries as she passed them; and with great
pride of bearing submitted herself to the death which probably she knew
she could not avoid. Everybody was quiet and cheerful, and the whole
thing went on with the undisturbed order of a recognized and accustomed
necessity; only the old king's son, the reigning chief for a long time
back, was very uneasy at the part he was playing before the
missionaries; he was the only trembling or doubtful one there. Yet he
would not yield the point. Pride before all; his father must not be
buried without the due honours of his position. Mr. Rhys and Mr.
Lefferts had staid to make their protest and offer their entreaties and
warnings, to the very last; and then heart-sick and almost faint with
the disgusting scene, had returned home.
Yet the influence of the truth was increasing and the good work was
spreading and growing around them, steadily and in every direction. A
great many had renounced heathenism; not a small number were earnest
Christians and shewed the truth of their religion in their changed
lives. 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 of
his hearers made him any answer. Mrs. Caxton sat opposite to him,
deeply attentive but silent, with her hand always lying upon her own
particular packet. Eleanor had turned a little away and sat with her
side face towards Mr. Morrison, looking into the fire. Her work was
dropped; she sat motionless.
"I have a letter to read you now of a later date," Mr. Morrison went
on,--"from Mr. Rhys, which shews how well he has got hold of the people
and how much he is regarded by them already. It shews the influence
gained by the truth, too, which is working there fast."
After giving some details of business and of his labours, Mr. Rhys
wrote--"My last notable piece of work, has been in the character of an
ambassador of peace--not heavenly but earthly. News was brought four or
five days ago that the heathen inhabitants of two neighbouring
districts had engaged in open hostilities. Home business claimed me one
day; the next morning I set out on my mission, with one or two
Christian natives. The desolations of war soon met our eyes, in
destroyed crops and a deserted village. Nobody was to be seen. I and
those who were with me sat down in the shade of some trees, while a
native went to find the inhabitants who had hid themselves in a thicket
of mangroves. As soon as the chief heard that I was there, and what I
had come for, he declared he would be a Christian forthwith; and four
or five of his principal men followed his example. They came to me, and
entered fully into my object; and it was decided that we should go on
immediately to the fortress where those who wished to carry on war had
intrenched themselves. We got there just as the sun was setting; and
from that time till midnight I was engaged in what I saw now for the
first time; a savage council of war. Grim black warriors covered with
black powder sat or stood about, on a little clear spot of ground where
the moon shone down; muskets and clubs and spears lay on the glass and
were scattered about among the boles of the trees; a heathen-looking
scene. Till midnight we talked, and hard talking too; then it was ended
as I had prayed it might. The party with whom I was had suffered
already in battle and had not had their revenge; it was difficult to
give that up; but at last the chief got up and put his hand in mine. 'I
should like to be a heathen a little longer,' he said, 'but I will
_lotu_ as you so earnestly entreat me.' _Lotu_ is their name for
embracing Christianity. Another young warrior joined him; and there
under the midnight moon, we worshipped God; those two and those who
were with me. In another part of the village a dozen women for the
first time bowed the knee in the same worship.
"So far was well; but it yet remained to induce the opposite hostile
party to agree to peace; you understand only one side was yet
persuaded. Early the next morning I set about it. Here a difficulty met
me. The Christian chiefs made no objection to going with me to parley
with their enemies; but I wanted the company also of another, the chief
of this district; knowing it very important. And he was afraid to go.
He told me so plainly. 'If I do as you ask me,' said he, 'I am a dead
man this day.' I did my best to make him think differently; a hundred
men declared that they would die in defence of him; and at last I
gained my point. Tui Mbua agreed to go to the neighbourhood of the
hostile town, if I would bring its principal men to meet him at an
appointed place. So we went. This chosen place was a fine plot of
ground enclosed by magnificent chestnut trees. I went on to the town,
with a few unarmed men. The people received us well; but it was
difficult to make the old heathen, brought up on treachery and
falsehood, believe that I was to be trusted. But in the end the chief
and twenty of his men consented to go with us, and left their arms at
home. They did it with forebodings, for I overheard an old man say, as
we set out from the place,--'We shall see death to-day.' I lifted my
voice and cried, 'To-day we live!' They took up the words, and heart at
the same time, and repeated, 'To-day we live'--to encourage themselves,
I suppose, as we went towards the chestnut-tree meeting ground.
"I felt that the peace of the whole region depended on what was to be
done there, and for my part went praying that all might go well. It was
an anxious moment when we entered the open place; any ill-looks in
either party would chase away trust front the other. As we went in I
watched the chief who accompanied me. He gently bowed to Tui Mbua and
approached him with due and evidently honest respect. My heart leaped
at that moment. Tui Mbua looked at him keenly, sprang to his feet, and
casting his arms about his enemy's neck gave him a warm embrace. The
people around shouted for joy; I was still, I believe, for the very
depth of mine. One of the Christian chiefs spoke out and cried, 'We
thank thee, O Lord, for thus bringing thy creatures into the way of
life;' and he wept aloud for very gladness.
"After that we had speechifying; and I returned home very full of
thankful joy."
This was the last letter read. Mr. Morrison folded up his packet amid a
great silence. Mrs. Caxton seemed thoughtful; Eleanor was motionless.
"He is doing good work," remarked Mr. Morrison; "but it is hard work.
He is the right sort of man to go there--fears nothing, shirks nothing.
So are they all, I believe; but almost all the rest of them have their
wives with them. How came Rhys to go alone?"
"He does not write as if he felt lonely," said Mrs. Caxton.
"It is better for a man to take a wife, though," said Mr. Morrison. "He
wants so much of comfort and home as that. They get tired, and they get
sick, and to have no woman's hand about is something to be missed at
such times. O we are all dependent. Mr. Rhys is domesticated now with
Brother Lefferts and his family. I suppose he feels it less, because he
has not had a home of his own in a good while; that makes a difference."
"He knows he has a home of his own too," said Mrs. Caxton; "though he
has not reached it yet. I suppose the thought of that makes him
content."
"Of course. But in a heathen land, with heathen desolation and dark
faces all around one, you have no idea how at times one's soul longs
for a taste of England. Brother Rhys too is a man to feel all such
things. He has a good deal of taste, and what you might call
sensitiveness to externals."
"A good deal," said Mrs. Caxton quietly. "Then he has some beautiful
externals around him."
"So they say. But the humanity is deplorable. Well, they will get their
reward when the Master comes. A man leaves everything indeed when he
goes to the South Seas as Rhys has done. He would have been very
popular in England."
"So he will in the islands."
"Well so it seems," said Mr. Morrison. "He has got the ear of those
wild creatures evidently. That's the man."
It was time for evening prayers; and afterwards the party separated;
Mrs. Caxton carrying off with her her packet of letters unbroken. The
morning brought its own business; the breakfast was somewhat hurried;
Mr. Morrison took his departure; and nothing more was said on the
subject of South Sea missionaries till the evening. Then the two ladies
were again alone together.
"Are you well to-day, Eleanor?" was Mrs. Caxton's first question at the
tea-table.
"Some headache, aunt Caxton."
"How is that? And I have noticed that your eyes were heavy all day."
"There is no harm, ma'am. I did not sleep very well."
"Why not?"
"I think the reading of those letters excited me, aunt Caxton."
Mrs. Caxton looked at a line of faint crimson which was stealing up
into Eleanor's cheeks, and for a moment stayed her words.
"My dear, there is as good work to be done here, as ever in Polynesia."
"I do not know, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor leaning her head on her hand
in thoughtful wise. "England has had the light a great while; it must
be grand to be the first torch-bearers into the darkness."
"So Mr. Rhys feels. But then, my dear, I think we are to do the work
given us--one here and one there;--and let the Lord place his servants,
and our service, as he will."
"I do not think otherwise, aunt Caxton."
"Would you like, to hear some of what Mr. Rhys has written to me? there
is a little difference between what is sent to a Committee and what is
for the private eye of a friend."
"Yes ma'am, I would like it," Eleanor said; but she did not say so at
all eagerly; and Mrs. Caxton looked at her once or twice before she
changed the subject and spoke of something else. She held to her offer,
however; and when the green cloth and the lamp were again in readiness,
she brought out the letters. Eleanor took some work and bent her head
over it.
"This is one of the latest dates," Mrs. Caxton said as she opened the
paper; "written after he had been there a good many months and had got
fairly acquainted with the language and with the people. It seems to me
he has been very quick about it."
"Yes, I think so," Eleanor answered; "but that is his way."
Mrs. Caxton read.
"My dear friend,
"In spite of the world of ocean rolling between us, I yet have a
strange and sweet feeling of taking your hand, when I set myself to
write to you. Spirit and matter seem at odds; and far away as I am,
with the vegetation and the air of the tropics around me, as soon as I
begin upon this sheet of paper I seem to stand in Plassy again. The
dear old hills rear their wild outlines before me; the green wealth of
vegetation is at my feet, but cool and fresh as nothing looks to me
under the northerly wind which is blowing now; and your image is so
distinct, that I almost can grasp your hand, and almost hear you speak;
_see_ you speak, I do. Blessed be the Lord for imagination, as well as
for memory! Without it, how slowly we should mount to the conception of
heavenly things and the understanding of himself; and the distance
between friends would be a sundering of them indeed. But I must not
waste time or paper in telling you what you know already.
"By which you will conclude that I am busy. I am as busy as I can
possibly be. That is as I wish it. It is what I am here for. I would
not have a moment unused. On Sunday I have four or five services, of
different sorts. Week days I have an English school, a writing school,
one before and the other after mid-day; and later still, a school for
regular native instruction. Every moment of time that is free, or would
be, is needed for visiting the sick, whose demands upon us are
constant. But this gives great opportunity to preach the gospel and win
the hearts of the people.
"Some account of a little preaching and teaching journey in which I
took part some few months ago, I have a mind to give you. Our object
was specially an island between one and two hundred miles away, where
many have become Christians, and not in name only; but where up to this
time no missionary has been stationed. We visit them when we can. This
time we had the advantage of a brig to make the voyage in; the mission
ship was here with the Superintendent and he desired to visit the
place. We arrived at evening in the neighbourhood; at a little island
close by, where all the people are now Christian. Mr. Lefferts went
ashore in a canoe to make arrangements; and the next day we followed.
It was a beautiful day and as beautiful a sight as eyes could see. We
visited the houses of the native teachers, who were subjects of
admiration in every respect; met candidates for baptism and examined
them; married a couple; and Bro. Griffiths preached. There is a new
chapel, of very neat native workmanship; with a pulpit carved out of a
solid piece of wood, oiled to give it colour and gloss. In the chapel
the whole population of the island was assembled, dressed in new
dresses, attentive, and interested. So were we, you may believe, when
we remembered that only two years ago all these people were heathens. O
these islands are a glorious place now and then, in spots where the
devil's reign is broken. I wish you could have seen us afterwards, my
dear friend, at our native feast spread on the ground under the trees;
you who never saw a table set but with exact and elegant propriety. We
had no table; believe me, we were too happy and hungry to mind that. I
do not think you would have quarrelled with our dishes; they were no
other and no worse than the thick broad glossy leaves of the banana. No
fault could be found with their elegance; and our napkins were of the
green rind of the same tree. Cocoanut shells were our substitute for
flint glass, and I like it very well; especially when cocoanut milk is
the refreshment to be served in them. Knives and forks we had none!
What would you have said to that? Our meat was boiled fowls and baked
yams and fish dressed in various ways; and the fingers of the natives,
or our own, were our only dividers. But I have seen less pleasant
entertainments; and I only could wish you had been there,--so you might
have whisked back to England the next minute after it was over, on some
convenient fairy carpet such as I used to read of in Eastern tales when
I was a boy. For us, we had to make our way in haste back to the ship,
which lay in the offing, and could not come near on account of the reef
barrier. We got on board safely, passing the reefs where once an
American ship was wrecked and her crew killed and eaten by the people
of these parts.
"The next day we made the land we sought; and got ashore through a
tremendous surf. Here we found the island had lately been the seat of
war--some of the heathen having resolved to put an end by violence to
the Christian religion there, or as they call it, the _lotu_. The
Christians had gained the victory, and then had treated their enemies
with the utmost kindness; which had produced a great effect upon them.
The rest of the day after our landing was spent in making thorough
inquiry into this matter; and in a somewhat extended preaching service.
At night we slept on a mat laid for us, or tried to sleep; but my
thoughts were too busy; and the clear night sky was witness to a great
many restless movements, I am afraid, before I lost them in
forgetfulness. The occasion of which, I suppose, was the near prospect
of sending letters home to England by the ship. At any rate, England
and the South Seas were very near together that night; and I was fain
to remember that heaven is nearer yet. But the remembrance carne, and
with it sleep. The next day was a day of business. Marrying couples
(over forty of them) baptizing converts, preaching; then meeting the
teachers and class-leaders and examining them as to their Christian
experience, etc. From dawn till long past mid-day we were busy so; and
then were ready for another feast in the open air like that one I
described to you--for we had had no breakfast. We had done all the work
we could do at that time at One, and sought our ship immediately after
dinner; passing through a surf too heavy for the canoes to weather.
"Let me tell you some of the testimony given by these converts from
heathenism; given simply and heartily, by men who have not learned
their religion by book nor copied it out of other men's mouths. It was
a very thrilling thing to hear them, these poor enterers into the
light, who have but just passed the line of darkness. One said, 'I love
the Lord, and I know he loves me; not for anything in me, or for
anything I have done; but for Christ's sake alone. I trust in Christ
and am happy. I listen to God, that he may do with me as he pleases. I
am thankful to have lived until the Lord's work has begun. I feel it in
my heart! I hold Jesus! I am happy! My heart is full of love to God!'
"Another said, 'One good thing I know,--the sacred blood of Jesus. I
desire nothing else.'
"Another,--'I know that God has justified me through the sacred blood
of Jesus. I know assuredly that I am reconciled to God. I know of the
work of God in my soul. The sacred Spirit makes it clear to me. I wish
to preach the gospel, that others also may know Jesus.'
"All these have been engaged the past year in teaching or proclaiming
the truth in various ways. Another of their number who was dying, one
or two of us went to see. One of us asked him if he was afraid to die?
'No,' he said, 'I am sheltered. The great Saviour died for me. The
Lord's wrath is removed. I am his.' And another time he remarked,
'Death is a fearfully great thing, but I fear it not. There is a
_Saviour_ below the skies.'
"So there is a helmet of salvation for the poor Fijian as well as for
the favoured people at home. Praise be to the Lord! Did I tell you, my
dear friend, I was restless at the thought of sending letters home? Let
me tell you now, I am happy; as happy as I could be in any place in the
world; and I would not be in any other place, by my own choice, for all
the things in the world. I need only to be made more holy. Just in
proportion as I am that, I am happy and I am useful. I want to be
perfectly holy. But there is the same way of trusting for the poor
Fijian and for me; and I believe in that same precious blood I shall be
made clean, even as they. I want to preach Christ a thousand times more
than I do. I long to make his love known to these poor people. I
rejoice in being here, where every minute may tell actively for him. My
dear friend, when we get home, do what we will, we shall not think we
have done enough.
"Our life here is full of curious contrasts. Within doors, what our old
habits have stereotyped as propriety, is sadly trenched upon. Before
the ship came, Mrs. Lefferts' stock of comfort in one line was reduced
to a single tea-cup; and in other stores, the demands of the natives
had caused us to run very short. You know it is only by payment of
various useful articles that we secure any service done or purchase any
native produce. Money is unknown. Fruit and vegetables, figs, fish,
crabs, fowls, we buy with iron tools, pieces of calico, and the like;
and if our supply of these gives out, we have to draw upon the store of
things needed by ourselves; and blankets and hardware come to be minus.
Then, forgetting this, which it is easy to do, all the world without is
a world of glorious beauty. How I wish I could shew it to you! These
islands are of very various character, and many of them like the garden
of Eden for natural loveliness; shewing almost every kind of scenery
within a small area. Most of them are girdled more or less entirely by
what is called a _barrier reef_--an outside and independent coral
formation, sometimes narrow, sometimes miles in width, on the outer
edge of which the sea breaks in an endless line of white foam. Within
the reef the lagoon, as it is called, is perfectly still and clear; and
such glories of the animal and vegetable world as lie beneath its
surface I have no time to describe to you now. I have had little time
to examine them; but once or twice I have taken a canoe and a piece of
rest, gliding over this submarine garden, and rejoicing in the Lord who
has made everything so beautiful in its time. My writing hour is over
for to-day. I am going five or six miles to see a man who is said to be
very ill.
"Feb. 16. The man had very little the matter with him. I had my walk
for nothing, so far as my character of doctor or nurse was concerned.
"I will give you a little notion of the beauty of these islands, in the
description of one that I visited a short time ago. It is one of our
out-stations--too small to have a teacher given it; so it is visited
from time to time by Mr. Lefferts and myself. With a fair wind the
distance is hardly a day's journey; but sometimes as in this case it
consumes two days. The voyage was made in a native canoe, manned by
native sailors, some Christian, some heathen. They are good navigators,
for savages; and need to be, for the character of the seas here,
threaded with a network of coral reefs, makes navigation a delicate
matter. Our voyage proceeded very well, until we got to the entrance of
the island. That seems a strange sentence; but the island itself is a
circle, nearly; a band of volcanic rock, not very wide, enclosing a
lake or lagoon within its compass. There is only a rather narrow
channel of entrance. Here we were met by difficulty. The surf breaking
shorewards was tremendously high; and meeting and struggling with it
came a rush of the current from within. Between the two opposing waters
the canoe was tossed and swayed like a reed. It was, for a few moments,
a scene to be remembered, and not a little terrific. The shoutings and
exertions of the men, who felt the danger of their position, added to
the roar and the power of the waters, which tossed us hither and
thither as a thing of no consequence, made it a strange wild
minute,--till we emerged from all that struggle and roar into the still
beautiful quiet of the lagoon inside. Imagine it, surrounded with its
border of rocky land covered with noble trees, and spotted with islets
covered in like manner. The whole island is of volcanic formation, and
its rocks are of black scoria. The theory is, I believe, that a volcano
once occupied the whole centre of such islands; which sinking
afterwards away left its place to the occupancy of a lake instead.
However produced, the effect is singular in its wild beauty. The soil
of this island is poor for any purpose but growing timber; the
inhabitants consequently are not many, and they live on roots and fish
and what we should think still poorer food--a great wood maggot, which
is found in plenty. There are but four villages, two of them Christian.
I staid there one night and the next day, giving them all I could; and
it was a good time to me. The day after I returned home. O sweet gospel
of Christ! which is lighting up these dark places; and O my blessed
Master, who stands by his servants and gives them his own presence and
love, when they are about his work and the world is far from them, and
men would call them lonely. There is no loneliness where Christ is. I
must finish this long letter with giving you the dying testimony of a
Tongan preacher who has just gone to his home. He came here as a
missionary from his own land, and has worked hard and successfully. He
said to Mr. Calvert the day before his death, 'I have long _enjoyed_
religion and felt its _power_. In my former illness I was happy; but
now I am greatly blessed. The Lord has come down with mighty power into
my soul, and I feel the blessedness of _full rest of soul_ in God. I
feel religion to be peculiarly sweet, and my rejoicing is great. I see
more fully and clearly the truth of the word and Spirit of God, and the
suitableness of the Saviour. The whole of Christianity I see as
exceedingly excellent.'
"With this testimony I close, my dear friend. It is mine; I can ask no
better for you than that it may be yours."
Mrs. Caxton ended her reading and looked at Eleanor. She had done that
several times in the course of the reading. Eleanor was always bent
over her work, and busily attentive to it; but on each cheek a spot of
colour had been fixed and deepening, till now it had reached a broad
flush. Silence fell as the reading ceased; Eleanor did not look up;
Mrs. Caxton did not take her eyes from her niece's face. It was with a
kind of subdued sigh that at last she turned from the table and put her
papers away.
"Mr. Morrison is not altogether in the wrong," she remarked at length.
"It is better for a man in those far-off regions, and amidst so many
labours and trials, to have the comfort of his own home."
"Do you think Mr. Rhys writes as if he felt the want?"
"It is hard to tell what a man wants, by his writing. I am not quite at
rest on that point."
"How happened it that he did not marry, like everybody else, before
going there?"
"He is a fastidious man," said Mrs. Caxton; "one of those men that are
rather difficult to please, I fancy; and that are apt enough to meet
with hindrances because of the very nice points of their own nature."
"I don't think you need wish any better for him, aunt Caxton, than to
judge by his letters he has and enjoys as he is. He seems to me, and
always did, a very enviable person."
"Can you tell why?"
"Good--happy--and useful," said Eleanor. But her voice was a little
choked.
"You know grace is free," said Mrs. Caxton. "He would tell you so. Ring
the bell, my dear. And a sinner saved in England is as precious as one
saved in Fiji. Let us work where our place is, and thank the Lord!"