"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!"