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 dinner
had been. Not because it looked so homelike; though in the early
morning the doors and windows were all open and the sunlight streaming
through on Mrs. Caxton's china cups and silver spoons. It all looked
foreign enough yet, among those palm-fern pillars, and on the Fijian
mat 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. But
the tea was unexceptionable, and there was a piece of fresh fish as
perfectly broiled as if it had been brought over by some genius or
fairy, smoking hot, from an English gridiron. And in the order and
arrangements of the table, there had been something more than native
skill and taste, Eleanor was sure.
"It seems to me, Mr. Rhys," she said, "that the Fijians are remarkably
good 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 and
abundance, than we have here."
"But I mean, it is broiled just like an English fish. Isaac Walton
himself would be satisfied with it."
"Isaac Walton never saw such fishing as is carried on here. The natives
are at home in the water from their childhood--men and women both;--and
the women do a good deal of the fishing. But the serious business is
the turtle fishing. It is a hand to hand conflict. The men plunge into
the water and grapple bodily with the turtle, after they have brought
them into an enclosure with their nets. Four or five men lay hold of
one, if it is a large fellow, and they struggle together under water
till the turtle thinks he has the worst of the bargain, and concludes
to 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, that
the 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 a
Fijian to me."
The lights on Eleanor's face were very pretty. With the same contained
smile 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 at
all."
"That is the most comical putting of the case that ever I heard," said
Eleanor, 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 you
please--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, or
something else? You are Rowland Rhys as truly as I am--only you are the
mistress, and I am the master."
Eleanor's look went over the table with something besides laughter in
the 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 make
it 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 with
a 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 the
head-carpenter, perhaps this morning you would let me see the chief
cook."
"That is not the first thing. You must have a lesson in Fijian; now
that I hope you are instructed in English."
He carried her off to his study to get it. The lesson was a matter of
amusement to Mr. Rhys, but Eleanor set herself earnestly to learn. Then
he 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 to
all that in Fiji could belong to a kitchen garden. English beans and
peas had been sown, and were flourishing; most of the luxuriance that
met the eye had a foreign character. Beautiful order was noticeable
everywhere. Mr. Rhys seemed to have forgotten all about the servants;
he pleased himself with leading Eleanor through the walks and shewing
her which were the plants of the yam and the kumera and other native
fruits and vegetables. Bananas were here too, and the graceful stems of
the sugar cane; and overhead the cocoa-nut trees waved their feathery
plumes 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 a
Christian, as I told you; and a true labourer in the great vineyard. I
believe he never misses an opportunity to speak to his countrymen in a
quiet way and tell them the truth. He has brought a great many to know
it. 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 was
very happy; he had enjoyed religion all the day. He said he rose early
in the morning and prayed that the Lord would greatly bless him and
keep him; and that it had been so, and generally was so when he
attended to religious duties early in the morning. 'But if I neglect
and rush into the world,' he said, 'without properly attending to my
religious duties, nothing goes right. I am wrong in my own heart, and
no one round me is right.'"
"Good testimony," said Eleanor. "Is he your cook as well as your
gardener?"
"I had forgotten all about the cook," said Mr. Rhys. "Come and see the
kitchen."
Near the main dwelling house, in this planted enclosure, were several
smaller houses. Mr. Rhys at last took Eleanor that way, and permitted
her to inspect them. The one nearest the main building was fitted for a
laundry. The furthest was a sleeping house for the servants. The middle
one was the kitchen. It was a Fijian kitchen. Here was a large
fireplace, of the original fashion which had moved Eleanor's wonder in
the dining-room; with a Fijian framework of wood at one side of it,
holding native vessels of pottery, larger and smaller, and variously
shaped, for cooking purposes. Some more homelike iron utensils were to
be seen also; with other kitchen appurtenances, water jars and so
forth. A fire had been in the fireplace, and the signs of cookery were
remaining; but in all the houses, nobody was anywhere visible.
"Solomon is gone to collect your servants," said Mr. Rhys. "That
explains the present solitude."
"Did he cook that fish?"
"I have not tried him in cooking," said Mr. Rhys with a gravity that
was 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 kept
back--as he answered, "Your servant."
"_You_, Rowland! And the dinner yesterday?"
"Do not praise me," he said with the same look, "lest I should spoil
the dinner to-day. I do not expect there will be anybody here till
afternoon."
"Then you shall see what I can do!"
"I do not believe you know how. I have been long enough in the
wilderness to learn all trades. You never learned how to cook at
Wiglands."
"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 will
take 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 be
servants this evening to attend to all you want; and for the present
you are my care."
"Rowland, I should like it."
Which view of the case did not seem to be material. At least it was
answered in a silencing kind of way, as with his arm about her he led
her in through the bananas to the house. It silenced Eleanor
effectually, in spite of being very serious in her wish. She put it
away to bide another opportunity.
Mr. Rhys gave her something else to do, as he had said. The boxes had
in part been brought from the schooner, and there was employment for
both of them. He drew out nails, and took off covers, and did the rough
unpacking; while the arranging and bestowing of the goods thus put
under her disposal kept Eleanor very busy. His part of the work was
finished long before hers, and Mr. Rhys withdrew to his study for some
other work. Eleanor, happy and busy, with touched thoughts of Mrs.
Caxton, put away blankets and clothes and linen and calicos, and
unpacked glass, and stowed on her shelves a whole store of home
comforts and necessaries; marvelling between whiles at Mr. Rhys's
varieties of power in making himself useful and wishing she could do
what she thought was better her work than his--the work to be done in
the kitchen before the servants came home. By and by, Mr. Rhys came out
of the study again, and found Eleanor sitting on the mat before a huge
round hamper, uncovered, filled with Australian fruit. This was a late
arrival, brought while he had been shut up at his work. Grapes and
peaches and pears and apricots were crowded side by side in rich and
beautiful abundance and confusion. Eleanor sat looking at it. She was
in 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 and
hoopless skirt did no wrong to a figure the soft outlines of which they
only disclosed. Mr. Rhys stopped and stood still. Eleanor looked up.
"Mr. Esthwaite has sent these on in the schooner unknown to me! What
shall I do with them all?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Rhys. "It is the penalty that attaches to
wealth."
"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 say
that 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 eyes
and imperturbable gravity at Eleanor. Perhaps _he_ liked to see the
scarlet bloom he could so easily call up in her cheeks, which was now
accompanied with a little impatient glance at him. "Nevertheless, I do
not consider myself to be within the scope of the gift. The disposition
of it remains with you. I do not like the responsibilities of other
people's wealth to rest on my shoulders."
"But this fruit is different from what we have on the island; is there
not something you would like to have done with it?"
"I should like you to give me one bunch of grapes--to be chosen by
yourself."
He looked on, with a satisfied expression of face, while Eleanor's
fingers separated and overhauled the fruit till she had got a bunch to
her mind; and stood still in his place to let her bring it to him. Then
took possession of her and the grapes at once, neglecting the latter
however entirely, to consider her.
"What would you like to have done with the rest, Rowland?" said
Eleanor, 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_ you
like to have done with that basket? Isn't there some meaning behind
your words about it?"
"What makes you think so?" said he, curling the corners of his mouth in
an 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 she
fancied that Mr. Rhys would not speak _because_ the fruit was hers. His
manner changed again, to the deep tenderness which he had shewn so
frequently; holding her close and looking down into her face; not
answering at once; half enjoying, half soothing, the feeling he had
raised.
"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 the
other 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 basket
over 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 a
little.
"No--you may not. I only want this bunch that I have in my hand, for a
poor 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 will
be well and gratefully used."
"But Rowland, why did you not tell me that just at first?" she said a
little wistfully.
"Do you feel as I do? Tell me that first."
But as Eleanor was not ready with her answer to this question, of
course her own got the go-by. Mr. Rhys laughed at her a little, and
then told her she might get the house ready for dinner. Very much
Eleanor wished she could rather get the dinner ready for the house; yet
somehow she had an instinctive knowledge that it would be no use to ask
him; 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 it
is, but you are the only person I ever was afraid of, where my natural
courage had full play?"
"Does that sentiment possess you at present?"
"Yes--a little."
He laughed again, and said it was wholesome; and went off without
seeming in the least dismayed by the intelligence. If Eleanor had
ventured that remark as a feeler, she was utterly discomfited. She went
about her pretty work of getting the little table ready and acquainting
herself with the details of her cupboard arrangements, feeling a little
amused at herself, and with many deeper thoughts about Mr. Rhys and the
basket of fruit.
They were sitting in the study after dinner, alternately talking and
studying Fijian, when Mr. Rhys suddenly asked,
"Of whom have you ever been afraid, Eleanor, where your natural courage
did 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 do
as 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. I
was pressed into those engagements without my heart being in them, and
indeed very much against my will; but I was dazzled by a vision of
worldly glory that made me too weak to resist. Then thoughts of another
kind began to rise within me; I saw that worldly glory was not the
sufficient thing I had thought it; and as my eyes got clear, I found I
had given no love where I had given my promise. Then that consciousness
hampered 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 I
might do--what was right,--and I wanted to do right then; till I went
to Plassy. Aunt Caxton set me free."
Mr. Rhys was silent a little.
"Do you remember coming to visit the old window in the ruins, just
before you went to Plassy that time?" he said, looking round at her
with a smile.
His wife though she was, Eleanor could not help a warm flush of
consciousness 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 had
taken it into his head to become jealous of you."
She answered with a certain straightforward dignity, but Mr. Rhys had a
view 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 with
one or two kisses which to Eleanor's feeling, for she dared not look,
spoke him very full of satisfaction. But he never brought up the
subject again.
The thoughts raised by the talk about the basket of fruit recurred
again a few days later. Eleanor had got into full train of her island
life by this time. She was studying hard to learn the language, and
beginning 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 in
groups and singly, at all hours nearly on some days, to see the new
house and the new furniture and the new wife of "Misi Risi." Eleanor
could not talk to them; she could only be looked at, and answer through
an interpreter their questions and requests, and watch with unspeakable
interest these strange poor people, and admire with unceasing
admiration Mr. Rhys's untiring kindness, patience, and skill, in
receiving and entertaining them. They wanted to see and understand
every new thing and every new custom. They were polite in their
curiosity, but insatiable; and Mr. Rhys would shew and explain and
talk, and never seem annoyed or weary; and then, whenever he got a
chance, put in his own claim for attention, and tell them of the
Gospel. Eleanor always knew from his face and manner, and from theirs,
when this sort of talk was going on; and she listened strangely to the
unknown words in which her heart went along so blindly. When he thought
her not needed, or when he thought her tired, Mr. Rhys would dismiss
her to her own room, which he would not have invaded; and Eleanor's
reverence for her husband grew with every day, although she would not
at 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 door
let her in without much noise, and she stood still in the middle of the
room, in doubt whether to disturb him or no. He was busy at his
writing-table. But Mr. Rhys had good ears, even when he was busy. While
she stood there, he looked up at her. She was a pretty vision for a man
to see and call wife. She was in one of the white dresses that had
stirred Mrs. Esthwaite's admiration; its spotless draperies were in as
elegant order as ever they had been for Mrs. Powle's drawing room; the
rich banded brown hair was in as graceful order. She stood there very
bright, 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 still
bending 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 me
to 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 how
could you tell that it would be the last?"
"It would be so very disagreeable!" Mr. Rhys said, with a gravity so
dryly comic that Eleanor's gravity was destroyed.
"Mrs. Balliol says I shall find it, my hair, I mean, very much in my
way."
"It would be in _my way_, if it was cut off."
"She says it will take a great deal of precious time. She thinks that
your 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 to
let your beard grow, and to cut off my hair. 'It's unekal'--as Sam
Weller says."
Eleanor was laughing; she could not see Mr. Rhys's face very well; it
was somewhat bent over his papers; but the side view was of
unprovokable gravity. A gravity however which she had learned to know
covered a wealth of amusement or of mischief, as the case might be. She
knelt 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 a
different character; but she could not refrain from carrying the matter
further; she could not let it rest there.
"Do you mean," she said a little timidly, but persistently, "that you
are 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 to
talk to you; yours and my own."
"And of others you think it is wrong, then, to speak even so privately
and 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 almost
stunned with surprise and discomfort. This was the second time, in the
few days that she had been with him, that he had found her wrong in
something. It troubled her strangely; and the sense of how much he was
better than she--how much higher his sphere of living than the one she
moved in--pressed her heart down almost to the ground. She stood by the
writing-table where she had risen to her feet, with her eyes brimful of
tears, but so still even to her eyelids that the tears had not
overflowed. She supposed Mr. Rhys had gone out. In another moment
however she heard his step returning and he entered the study. Eleanor
moved instantly to leave it, but he met and stayed her with a look
infinitely sweet; turned her about, and made her kneel down with him.
And then he poured out a prayer for charity; not merely the kindness
that throws a covering over the failings of others, or that holds back
the report of what they have been; but the overabounding heavenly love
that will send its brightness into the dark places of human society and
with its own richness fill the barren spots; and above all, for that
love of Jesus the King, that makes all his servants dear, for that
spirit of Christ that looks with his own love and forbearance on all
that need it. And so, as the speaker prayed, he shewed his own
possession of that which he asked for; so revealed the tender and high
walk of his own mind and its near familiarity with heavenly things,
that Eleanor thought her heart would break. The feeling, how far he
stood above her in knowledge and in goodness, while it was a secret and
deep 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 its
strength from the thought of having done or shewn something that he did
not like. But Mr. Rhys went on to pray for her alone; and Eleanor was
conquered then. Tears came and she cried like a little child, and all
the hard pain of pride or of fear was washed away; like the dust from
the leaves in a summer shower.
She was so far healed, but she would have run way when they rose from
their knees if he had permitted her. He had no such intention. Keeping
fast hold of her hand he brought her to a seat by the window, opened
it, for the day was now cooling off and the sea-breeze was fresh; and
taking the book of their studies he put her into a lesson of Fijian
practice; till Eleanor's spirits were thoroughly restored. Then
throwing away the book and taking her in his arms he almost kissed the
tears back again.
"Eleanor----" he said, when he saw that her eyes were wet, and her
colour and her voice were fluttering together.
"What?"
"You must bear the inconvenience of your hair for my sake. Tell sister
Balliol you wear it by my express orders."
Eleanor's look was lovely. She saw that the gentleness of this speech
was intended to give her back just that liberty she might think was
forbidden. 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 have
those jalousie blinds at these windows. You want them here much more
than 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 in
earnest.
"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 want
them."
"But the shade of them is much more needed here."
"I could have had it. You need not disturb yourself. There is a whole
stack 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 for
it.
"I do not want to fare too much better than my brethren," he answered
with a smile of infinite pleasantness at her. Eleanor's face shewed a
sudden accession of intelligence.
"Then, Rowland, let us send the other jalousies to Mr. Balliol to shade
his study--with all my heart; and you put up mine here. I did not think
about 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 the
benefit of my neighbours"--he said, with the provoking smile in the
corners of his mouth.
"But it is yours now."
"Well, I make it over to you, to be offered and presented as it seems
good to you, to brother Balliol, or to sister Balliol, for his use and
behoof."
"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 she
laid 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 or
another? 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 with
me?"
"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 his
papers 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 Class
before this, we were so few; but we met to talk and think together, and
usually considered some given subject. To-night it is, the 'glory to be
revealed.'"
"That is what Mr. Amos and I used to do on board the schooner; and we
had 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 you
choose."
Eleanor chose, and told him so. While he was gone she sat at the door
of the house watching and thinking; thinking of him especially, and of
things that his talk that afternoon had brought up. It was a pleasant
hour or two. The sea-breeze fresh from the sea; the waving broad banana
leaves; the sweet perfume of flowers, which were rarely profuse and
beautiful in their garden; the beautiful southern sky of night, with
the stars which Eleanor had learned to know as strangers coming over in
the ship, and now loved as the companions of her new home. Stillness,
and flapping of leaves, and sweet thoughts; until it was time to be
expecting Mr. Rhys back again, and Eleanor made the tea, that he might
at least not miss so much refreshment. She knew his step rods off, and
long before she could see him; his cup was all ready for him when he
stepped in. He drank it, looking at Eleanor over it; would stop for
nothing else, and carried her off.
"I had a happy time," he said as they went through the plantations. "I
have been to see an old man who lies there dying, or very near it. He
has 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 he
wants to keep his thoughts fixed on God; and if he listened to these
people they would talk to him of village affairs, and turn his mind
off."
"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 that
bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace! Think of old Caesar,
going to glory from the darkness of Fiji. He said to me to-night--'I am
weak, 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 I
wish 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 not
wish to eat; his word is my food; I think on it, and lean entirely on
Jesus.'--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 more
than a common welcome, Eleanor saw, that was given to them. She did not
wonder at it. After exchanging warm greetings all round, she sat down;
but Mr. Rhys began walking the floor. The rest were silent. There was a
somewhat dim light from a lamp in the room; the windows and doors were
open; the air, sweet with flowers and fresh from the sea, came in
gently; the soft sounds of leaves and insects could be heard through
the fall of Mr. Rhys's steps upon the matted floor. The hour had a
strange charm to Eleanor.
Silence lasted, until Mr. Rhys interrupted it with kneeling down for
prayer. Then followed one of those prayers, in which it always seemed
to Eleanor as if somebody had taken her hand, who was leading her where
she could almost look in at the gates of that city which Bunyan called
the Celestial. Somewhere above earth it took her, and rapt her up as
Milton's angel is said to have descended, upon a sunbeam. One came to
earth again at the end of the prayer; but not without a remembrance of
where one had been.
"Sister Balliol," said Mr. Rhys, "will you put us in mind concerning
our subject this evening?"
"It is the glory to be revealed; and I find that it is a glory to be
revealed in us," Mrs. Balliol made answer. "Sufferings come first. It
is a glory that goes along with sufferings in the present life; but it
is so much greater than the sufferings, that no comparison can be made
of them. For my part, I do not think the glory would be half so much
glory, 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 man
suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but rather let him
glorify God on this behalf. Those be tears that Christ's own hand will
wipe 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 prepared
to receive it. Surely, being such heirs, none of us has a right to call
himself poor? we are heirs of an inheritance incorruptible, and
undefiled, and not subject to decadence or failure. We may well be
content with our penny earnest in this life, who have such an estate
coming in."
"I feel poor very often," said gentle Mrs. Amos; "and I suppose that
must be my own fault; for the word says, 'Riches and honour are with
me; yea, durable riches, and righteousness.'"
"Those are riches that none but the poor come into possession of," said
Mr. Rhys. "The poor in spirit inherit the kingdom, and nobody else. It
is our very emptiness, that fits us for receiving those unsearchable
riches. But having those, sister Amos, it is no deprivation of this
world'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 to
rejoice. For when his glory is revealed, the word is, that we shall be
glad also, and with exceeding joy. When his glory is revealed here, a
little, now, we are glad; our joy seems to be exceeding, now, brother
Rhys. 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 starting
Eleanor, whose voice she knew in it, began softly the song, "Burst, ye
emerald gates!" She had her success, for Eleanor with the others took
up the words, and carried it--Mrs. Amos thought--where Mr. Rhys's
prayer had been. When the song ceased, there was silence; till Mr. Rhys
said, "Eleanor!"--It was her turn to speak.
"I do not believe," she said speaking low and slowly,--"that either
sufferings, or premises, or duties, will bring the hope of glory into
the heart; until Jesus himself brings it there. And if he brings it, it
hardly seems to me that sufferings will enhance it--except in so far as
they lead to greater knowledge of him or are the immediate fruit of
love to him; and then, as Mr. Rhys says, they are honour themselves
already. 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 had
told him. At that whisper, Eleanor would have steadily gone through the
fire if necessary; this was not quite as hard; and though not for her
own sake caring to do it, she told the story and told it freely and
well. She told it so that every head there was bowed. And then there
was silence again; till Mr. Rhys began, or rather went on with what she
had 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. Do
we know what honour that is? 'Whosoever shall receive this child in my
name, receiveth me; and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth him that
sent me.' That is honour under which we may tremble!"--And standing
there at the back of Eleanor's chair, Mr. Rhys began to talk; on the
joy of carrying Christ's message, the honour of being his servants and
co-workers, and the gladness of bringing the water of life to lips dry
and failing in death. He told the instance of that evening which he had
told to Eleanor; and leaving his station behind her, he walked up and
down again, speaking as she had sometimes heard him speak, till every
head was raised and turned, and every eye followed him. With fire and
tears, speaking of the work to be done and the joy of doing it, and the
need of more to do it; and of the carelessness people have of that
glory which will make men shine as the stars for ever and ever.
"Ay, we shall know then, brother Balliol, when the great supper is
served, and Christ shall gird himself, and make his faithful servants
sit down to meat, and he shall come forth and serve them--we shall know
then, if we are there, what glory means! And we shall know what it
means to have no want unsatisfied and no joy left out!--when the Lamb
that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them
to living fountains of waters."
Mr. Balliol answered--
"If any man serve me, let him follow me; and where I am, there shall
also 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 the
oversight thereof, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy
lucre, but of a ready mind; neither as being lords over God's heritage,
but being ensamples to the flock. And when the chief Shepherd shall
appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away."
They knelt together again, and then separated; and the tropical moon
lighted 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 no
information?"=
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 what
I think,"=
Chapter 2: =colored verbenas= silently corrected as =coloured verbenas=
Chapter 5: =nothing to signify= silently corrected as ="nothing to
signify=
Chapter 5: ="Much' is comparative= silently corrected as ="'Much' is
comparative=
Chapter 7: =pushed her hair= silently corrected as =pushed her chair=
Chapter 10: =And I am glad Autumn= silently corrected as ="And I am
glad 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 a
desperate=
Chapter 10: =no doubt he could.= silently corrected as =no doubt he
could."=
Chapter 10: =My dear Eleanor: --= silently corrected as ="My dear
Eleanor --=
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's
hearts,'=
Chapter 11: ="Suppose that she have= silently corrected as ='Suppose
that she have=
Chapter 11: =unhappy for nothing.= silently corrected as =unhappy for
nothing.'=
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 was
the 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 the
lord! --"=
Chapter 15: ='Amen!'= silently corrected as ="Amen!"=
Chapter 16: =should have seen her= silently corrected as =should have
seen 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 =quantities
with me.=
Chapter 19: =sinners adore.'"= silently corrected as =sinners adore.'=
Chapter 19: =These, were the heathen= silently corrected as =These were
the heathen=
Chapter 20: =in the same manner.= silently corrected as =in the same
manner,=
Chapter 20: ="Whom having= silently corrected as ="'Whom having=
Chapter 20: =full of glory."= silently corrected as =full of glory.'=
End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Helmet, Volume II, by Susan Warner