“The sun came up upon the left,
  Out of the sea came he! 
  And he shone bright, and on the right
  Went down into the sea.”

And the Tuesday came, and was fair; and under a bright sky the steamer ran down to Gravesend with Eleanor and her friends on board.  Not Julia; Eleanor had given up all hopes of that; but Mrs. Caxton was beside her, and on the other side of her was Mrs. Powle.  It was a terribly disagreeable journey to the latter; every feeling in her somewhat passionless nature was in a state of fretful rebellion.  The other stronger and deeper characters were ready for the time and met it bravely.  Met it cheerfully too.  The crisping breeze that curled the waters of the river, the blue sky and fair sunlight, the bright and beautiful of the scene around them, those two saw and tasted; with hopeful though very grave hearts.  The other poor lady saw nothing but a dirty steamboat and a very unpropitious company.  Among these however were Eleanor’s fellow-voyagers, Mr. Amos and his wife; and she was introduced to them now for the first time.  Various circumstances had prevented their meeting in London.

“A very common-looking man,” ­whispered Mrs. Powle to Eleanor.

“I don’t know, mamma, ­but very good,” Eleanor returned.

“You are mad on goodness!” said Mrs. Powle.  “Don’t you see anything else in a man, or the want of anything else?  I do; a thousand things; and if a man is ever so good, I want him to be a gentleman too.”

“So do I,” said Eleanor smiling.  “But much more, mamma, if a man is ever so much a gentleman, I want him to be good.  Isn’t that the more important of the two?”

“No!” said Mrs. Powle.  “I don’t think it is; not for society.”

Eleanor thought of Paul’s words ­“Henceforth know I no man after the flesh” ­What was the use of talking? she and her mother must have the same vision before they could see the same things.  And she presently forgot Mr. Amos and all about him; for in the distance she discerned signs that the steamer was approaching Gravesend; and knew that the time of parting drew near.

It came and was gone, and Eleanor was alone on the deck of the “Diana;” and in that last moment of trial Mrs. Powle had been the most overcome of the three.  Eleanor’s sweet face bore itself strongly as well; and Mrs. Caxton was strong both by life-habit and nature; and the view of each of them was far above that little ship-deck.  Mrs. Powle saw nothing else.  Her distress was very deep.

“I wish I had taken Julia to her!” was the outburst of her penitent relentings; and Mrs. Caxton was only thankful, since they had come too late, that they were uttered too late for Eleanor to hear. She went home like a person whose earthly treasure is all lodged away from her; not lost at all, indeed, but yet only to be enjoyed and watched over from a distance.  Even then she reckoned herself rich beyond what she had been before Eleanor ever came to her.

For Eleanor, left on the ship’s deck, at first it was hard to realize that she had any earthly treasure at all.  One part of it quitted, perhaps for ever, with the home and the country of her childhood; the other, so far, so vague, so uncertainly grasped in this moment of distraction, that she felt utterly broken-hearted and alone.  She had not counted upon this; she had not expected her self-command would so completely fail her; but it was so; and although without one shadow of a wish to turn back or in any wise alter her course, the first beginning of her journey was made amidst mental storms.  Julia was the particular bitter thought over which her tears poured; but they flooded every image that rose of home things, and childish things and things at Plassy.  Mr. Amos came to her help.

“It is nothing,” Eleanor said as well as she could speak, ­“it is nothing but the natural feeling which will have its way.  Thank you ­don’t be concerned.  I don’t want anything ­if I only could have seen my sister!”

“Mrs. Amos is about as bad,” said her comforter with a sigh.  “Ah well! feeling must have its way, and better it should.  You will both be better by and by, I hope.”

They were worse before they were better.  For in a few hours sickness took its place among present grievances; and perhaps on the whole it acted as a relief by effecting a diversion from mental to bodily concerns.  It seemed to Eleanor that she felt them both together; nevertheless, when at the end of a few days the sea-sickness left her and she was able to get up again, it was with the sweet fresh quietness of convalescence in mind as well as in body.  She was herself again.  Things took their place.  England was behind indeed ­but Fiji was forward ­and Heaven was over all.

As soon as she was able to be up she went upon deck.  Strength came immediately with the fresh breeze.  It was a cool cloudy day; the ship speeding along under a good spread of canvas; the sea in a beautiful state of life, but not boisterous.  Nobody was on deck but some of the sailors.  Eleanor took a seat by the guards, and began to drink in refreshment.  It stole in fast, on mind as well as body, she hardly knew how; only both were braced up together.  She felt now a curious gladness that the parting was over, the journey begun, and England fairly out of sight.  The going away had been like death; a new life was rising upon her now; and Eleanor turned herself towards it with the same sweet readiness as the good ship whose head is laid upon a new course.

There is a state of mind in which the soul may be aptly called the garden of the Lord; when answering to his culture it brings forth flowers and fruits for his pleasure.  In such a state, the paradise which Adam lost is half re-entered again; the moral victory is won over “the works of the devil” which Christ came to destroy.  The body is dead, no doubt, because of sin; but the spirit is life, because of righteousness.  The air of that garden is peace; no hurricanes blow there; the sunshine dwells therein; the odours of sweet things come forth, and make known all abroad whose garden it is.

Eleanor had sat awhile very still, very busy looking over into the sea, when she heard a step near her on the deck.  She looked up, and saw a man whom she recognized as the master of the vessel.  A rather hard-featured man, tall and strong set, with a pair of small eyes that did not give forth their expression readily.  What there was struck her as not pleasant.

“So you’ve got up!” said he, in a voice which was less harsh than his looks.  “Do you feel better?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Hearty, eh?”

“Pretty well,” said Eleanor smiling, “since I have got this salt air into my lungs.”

“Ah! you’ll have enough of that.  ’Tother lady is down yet, eh?  She has not got up.”

“No.”

“Are you all going to the same place?”

“I believe so.”

“Missionaries, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Think you’ll get those dark fellows to listen to you?”

“Why not?” said Eleanor brightly.

“It’s all make-believe.  They only want to get your axes and hatchets, and such things.”

“Well, we want their yams and potatoes and fish and labour,” said Eleanor; “so it is a fair bargain; and no make-believe on either side.”

“Why don’t you stay in the Colonies? there is work enough to be done; people enough that need it; and a fine country.  Everything in the world that you need; and not so far from home either.”

Eleanor made no answer.

“Why don’t you stay in the Colonies?”

“One can only be in one place,” said Eleanor lightly.

“And that must always be the place where somebody else is,” said the captain maliciously.  “That’s the way people will congregate together, instead of scattering where they are wanted.”

“Do you know the Colonies well?” said Eleanor coolly, in answer to this rude speech.

“I ought.  I have spent about a third of my life in them.  I have a brother at Melbourne too, as rich in flocks and herds almost as Job was.  That’s the place!  That’s a country!  But you are going to Sydney?”

“Yes.”

“Friends there?”

“I have one friend there who expects me.”

“Who’s he?  Maybe I know him.”

“Egbert Esthwaite is his name.”

“Don’t know him, though.  And so you have left England to find yourself a new home in the wilderness?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty tough change you’ll find it.  Don’t you find it already?”

“No.  Don’t you know,” said Eleanor giving him a good look, “when one’s real home is in heaven, it does not make so much difference?”

The captain would have answered the words fast enough; but in the strong sweet eye that had looked into his so full, there was something that silenced him.  He turned off abruptly, with the internal conviction ­“That girl thinks what she says, anyhow!”

Eleanor’s eyes left contemplating the waters, and were busy for some time with the book which had lain in her lap until her colloquy with the captain.  Somebody came and sat down beside her.

“Mr. Amos!  I am glad to see you,” said Eleanor.

“I am glad to see you, sister,” he replied; “and glad to see you able to be here.  You look well again.”

“O I am.”

“Mrs. Amos cannot raise her head.  What are you doing? ­if I may ask so blunt a question upon so short an acquaintance.”

“This is the first time I have been on deck.  I was studying the sea, in the first place; ­and then something drove me to study the Bible.”

“Ah, we are driven to that on every hand,” he answered.  “Now go on, and tell me the point of your studies, will you?”

There was something in the utmost genial and kind in his look and way; he was not a person from whom one would keep back anything he wanted to know; as also evidently he was not one to ask anything he should not.  The request did not even startle Eleanor.  She looked thoughtfully over the heaving sea while she answered.

“I had been taking a great new view of the glory of creation ­over the ship’s side here.  Then I had the sorrow to find ­or fear ­that we have an unbeliever in our captain.  From that, I suppose, I took hold of Paul’s reasoning ­how without excuse people are in unbelief; how the invisible things of God from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made; even his eternal power and Godhead.  And those glorious last words were what my heart fixed upon.”

“‘His eternal power and Godhead.’”

Eleanor looked round without speaking; a look full of the human echo to those words; the joy of weakness, the strength of ignorance, the triumph of humility.

“What a grand characterizing Paul gives in those other words,” said Mr. Amos ­“‘the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God.’  Unto him be honour and glory forever!”

“And then those other words,” said Eleanor low, ­“’The eternal God is thy refuge.’”

“That is a good text for us to keep,” said Mr. Amos.  “But really, with that refuge, I don’t see what we should be afraid of.”

“Not even of want of success,” said Eleanor.

“No.  If faith didn’t fail.  Paul could give thanks that he was made always to triumph in Christ, ­and by the power that wrought with him, so may we.”  He spoke very gravely, as if looking into himself and pondering his own responsibilities and privileges and short-comings.  Eleanor kept silence.

“How do you like this way of life?” Mr. Amos said presently.

“The sea is beautiful.  I have hardly tried the ship.”

“Haven’t you?” said Mr. Amos smiling.  “That speaks a candid good traveller.  Another would have made the first few days the type of the whole.”

And he also took to his book, and the silence lasted this time.

Mrs. Amos continued prostrated by sea-sickness; unable to raise her head from her pillow.  Eleanor could do little for her.  The evil was remediless, and admitted of very small amelioration.  But the weather was very fine and the ship’s progress excellent; and Eleanor spent great part of her time on deck.  All day, except when she was at the side of Mrs. Amos, she was there.  The sailors watched the figure in the dark neat sea-dress and cloak and the little close straw bonnet with chocolate ribbands; and every now and then made pretences to get near and see how the face looked that was hidden under it.  The report of the first venturers was so favourable that Eleanor had an unconscious sort of levee the next day or two; and then, the fresh sweet face that was so like a flower was found to have more attractions when known than it had before when unknown.  There was not a hand on board but seized or made opportunities every day and as often as he could to get near her; if a chance offered and he could edge in a word and have a smile and word in answer, that man went away esteemed both by himself and his comrades a lucky fellow.  Eleanor awoke presently to the sense of her opportunities, though too genuinely humble to guess at the cause of them; and she began to make every one tell for her work.  Every sailor on board soon knew what Eleanor valued more than all other things; every one knew, “sure as guns,” as he would have expressed it, that if she had a chance of speaking to him, she would one way or another contrive before it was ended to make him think of his duty and to remember to whom it was owed; and yet ­strange to say ­there was not one of them that for any such reason was willing to lose or to shun one of those chances.  “If all were like she” ­was the comment of one Jack tar; and the rest were precisely of his opinion.  The captain himself was no exception.  He could not help frequently coming to Eleanor’s side, to break off her studies or her musings with some information or some suggestion of his own and have a bit of a talk.  His manners mended.  He grew thoroughly civil to her.

Meanwhile the vessel was speeding southwards.  Fast, fast, every day they lowered their latitude.  Higher and higher rose the sun; the stars that had been Eleanor’s familiars ever since she had eyes to see them, sank one by one below the northern horizon; and the beauty of the new, strange, brilliant constellations of the southern sky began to tell her in curious language of her approach to her new home.  They had a most magical charm for Eleanor.  She studied and watched them unweariedly; they had for her that curious interest which we give to any things that are to be our life-companions.  Here Mr. Amos could render her some help; but with or without help, Eleanor nightly studied the southern stars, watched and pondered them till she knew them well; and then she watched them because she knew them, as well as because she was to know them all the rest of her life.

By day she studied other things; and the days were not weary.  The ocean was a storehouse of pleasure for her; and Captain Fox declared his ship had never carried such a clever passenger; “a girl who had plenty of stuff, and knew what to do with herself.”  Certainly the last piece of praise was true; for Eleanor had no weary moments.  She had interests on board, as well as outside the ship.  She picked up the sailors’ legends and superstitions; ay, and many a little bit of life history came in too, by favour of the sympathy and friendliness they saw in those fine brown eyes.  Never a voyage went better; and the sailors if not the captain were very much of the mind that they had a good angel on board.

“Well how do you like this?” said Mr. Amos coming up one day.  N.B.  It was the seventh day of a calm in the tropics.

“I would like a wind better,” Eleanor said smiling.

“Can you possess your soul in patience?”

“Yes,” she said, but gently and with a slight intonation that spoke of several latent things.

“We are well on our way now, ­if a wind would come!”

“It will come.”

“I have never asked you,” said Mr. Amos.  “How do you expect to find life in the islands?”

“In what respect?  In general, I should say, as unlike this as possible.”

“Of course.  I understand there is no stagnation there.  But as to hardships ­as to the people?”

“The people are part Christianized and part unchristianized; that gives every variety of experience among them, I suppose.  The unchristianized are as bad as they can be, very nearly; the good, very good.  As to hardships, I have no expectation.”

“You have not data to form one?”

“I cannot say that; but things are so different according to circumstances; and there is so great a change going on continually in the character of the people.”

“How do you feel about leaving behind you all the arts and refinements and delights of taste in the old world?”

“Will you look over the side of the ship, Mr. Amos? ­down below there ­do you see anything?”

“Dolphin ­,” said Mr. Amos.

“What do you think of them?”

“Beautiful!” said Mr. Amos.  “Beautiful, undoubtedly! as brilliant as if they had just come out of the jeweller’s shop, polished silver.  How clear the water is!  I can see them perfectly ­far below.”

“Isn’t the sea better than a jeweller’s shop?”

“I never thought of it before,” said Mr. Amos laughing; “but it certainly is; though I think it is the first time the comparison has been made.”

“Did you ever go to Tenby?”

“I never did.”

“Nor I; but I have heard the sea-caves in its neighbourhood described as more splendid in their natural treasures of vegetable and animal growth, than any jeweller’s shop could be ­were he the richest in London.”

“Splendid?” said Mr. Amos.

“Yes ­for brilliance and variety of colour.”

“Is it possible?  These are things that I do not know.”

“You will be likely to know them.  The lagoons around the Polynesian islands ­the still waters within the barrier-reefs, you understand ­are lined with most gorgeous and wonderful displays of this kind.  One seems to be sailing over a mine of gems ­only not in the rough, but already cut and set as no workman of earth could do them.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Amos, “I fancy you have had advantages of hearing about these islands, that I have not enjoyed.”

Eleanor was checked, and coloured a little; then rallied herself.

“Look now over yonder, Mr. Amos ­at those clouds.”

“I have looked at them every evening,” he said.

Their eyes were turned towards the western heavens, where the setting sun was gathering his mantle of purple and gold around him before saying good night to the world.  Every glory of light and colouring was there, among the thick folds of his vapourous drapery; and changing and blending and shifting softly from one hue of richness to another.

“I suppose you will tell me now,” said Mr. Amos with a smile of some humour, “that no upholsterer’s hangings can rival that.  I give up ­as the schoolboys say.  Yet we do lose some things.  What do you say to a land without churches?”

“O it is not,” said Eleanor.  “Chapels are rising everywhere ­in every village, on some islands; and very neat ones.”

“I am afraid,” said Mr. Amos with his former look of quiet humour, “you would not be of the mind of a lady I heard rejoicing once over the celebration of the church service at Oxford.  She remarked, that it was a subject of joyful thought and remembrance, to know that praise so near perfection was offered somewhere on the earth.  There was the music, you know, and the beautiful building in which we heard it, and all the accessories.  You will have nothing like that in Fiji.”

“She must have forgotten those words,” said Eleanor ­“’Where is the house that ye build unto me, and where is the place of my rest? ... to this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word.’  You will find that in Fiji.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Amos, ­“I see.  My friend will have a safe wife in you.  Do you know, when I first saw you I stood in doubt.  I thought you looked like ­Well, never mind!  It’s all right.”

“Right!” said Captain Fox coming up behind them.  “I am glad somebody thinks so.  Right! ­lying broiling here all day, and sleeping all night as if we were in port and had nothing to do ­when we’re a long way from that.  Drove you down to-day, didn’t it?” said he turning to Eleanor.

“It was so hot; I could not get a bit of permanent shade anywhere.  I went below for a little while.”

“And yet it’s all right!” said the captain.  “I am afraid you are not in a hurry to get to the end of the voyage.”

Mr. Amos smiled and Eleanor blushed.  The truth was, she never let herself think of the end of the voyage.  The thought would come ­the image standing there would start up ­but she always put it aside and kept to the present; and that was one reason certainly why Eleanor’s mind was so quiet and free and why the enjoyable and useful things of the hour were not let slip and wasted.  So her spirits maintained their healthy tone; no doubt spurred to livelier action by the abiding consciousness of that spot of brightness in the future towards which she would not allow herself to look in bewildering imaginations.

Meanwhile the calm came to an end, as all things will; the beneficent trade wind took charge of the vessel again, and they sped on, south, south; till the sky over Eleanor’s head was a new one from that all her life had known, and the bright stars at night looked at her as strangers.  For study them as she would, she could not but feel theirs were new faces.  The captain one day shewed her St. Helena in the distance; then the Cape of Good Hope was neared ­and rounded ­and in the Indian Ocean the travellers ploughed their way eastward.  The island of St. Paul was passed; and still the ship sailed on and on to the east.

Eleanor had observed for a day or two that there was an unusual degree of activity among the sailors.  They seemed to be getting things into new trim; clearing up and cleaning; and the chain cable one day made its appearance on deck, where room had been made for it.  Eleanor looked on at the proceedings, with a half guess at their meaning that made her heart beat.

“What is it?” she asked Captain Fox.

“What’s all this rigging up?  Why, we expect to see land soon.  You like the sea so well, you’ll be sorry.”

“How soon?”

“I shouldn’t wonder, in a day or two.  You will stop in Sydney till you get a chance to go on?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could take you the whole way, I declare! but I would not take an angel into those awful islands.  Why if you get shipwrecked there, they will kill and eat you.”

“There would be little danger of that now, Captain Fox; none at all in most of the islands.  Instead of killing and eating, they relieve and comfort their shipwrecked countrymen.”

“Believe that?” said the captain.

“I know it.  I know instances.”

“Whereabouts are you going among them?” said he looking at her.  “If I get driven out of my reckoning ever and find myself in those latitudes, I’d like to know which way to steer.  Where’s your place?”

He was not uncivil; but he liked to see, when he could manage to bring it, that beautiful tinge of rose in Eleanor’s cheeks which answered such an appeal as this.