I have not yet visited the cataracts of the Nile; I have not yet seen the magnificent mouse-colored women of Nubia.
A tent in the desert, and a dusky daughter of Nature to keep house for me—there is a new life for a man who is weary of the vapid civilization of Europe!
I shall begin by letting my beard grow.
Fifth Extract.
Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.—Back again on the coast of Italy—after an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine months!
What have my travels done for me?
They have made me browner and thinner; they have given me a more patient mind, and a taste for mild tobacco.
Have they helped me to forget Stella?
Not the least in the world—I am more eager than ever to see her again.
When I look back at my diary I am really ashamed of my own fretfulness and impatience.
What miserable vanity on my part to expect her to think of me, when she was absorbed in the first cares and joys of maternity; especially sacred to her, poor soul, as the one consolation of her melancholy life!
I withdraw all that I wrote about her—and from the bottom of my heart I forgive the baby.
Rome, March 1.—I have found my letters waiting for me at the office of my banker.
The latest news from St. Germain is all that I could wish.
In acknowledging the receipt of my last letter from Cairo (I broke my rash vow of silence when we got into port, after leaving Naples) Stella sends me the long desired invitation.
“Pray take care to return to us, dear Bernard, before the first anniversary of my boy’s birthday, on the twenty-seventh of March.”
After those words she need feel no apprehension of my being late at my appointment.
Traveler—the dog has well merited his name by this time—will have to bid good-by to the yacht (which he loves), and journey homeward by the railway (which he hates).
No more risk of storms and delays for me.
Good-by to the sea for one while.
I have sent the news of my safe return from the East, by telegraph.
But I must not be in too great a hurry to leave Rome, or I shall commit a serious error—I shall disappoint Stella’s mother.
Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly, requesting, if I return by way of Italy, that I will get her some information about Romayne.
She is eager to know whether they have made him a priest yet.
I am also to discover, if I can, what are his prospects—whether he is as miserable as he deserves to be—whether he has been disappointed in his expectations, and is likely to be brought back to his senses in that way—and, above all, whether Father Benwell is still at Rome with him.
My idea is that Mrs. Eyrecourt has not given up her design of making Romayne acquainted with the birth of his son.
The right person to apply to for information is evidently my banker.
He has been a resident in Rome for twenty years—but he is too busy a man to be approached, by an idler like myself, in business hours.
I have asked him to dine with me to-morrow.
March 2.—My guest has just left me.
I am afraid Mrs. Eyrecourt will be sadly disappointed when she hears what I have to tell her.
The moment I mentioned Romayne’s name, the banker looked at me with an expression of surprise.
“The man most talked about in Rome,” he said;
“I wonder you have not heard of him already.”
“Is he a priest?”
“Certainly!
And, what is more, the ordinary preparations for the priesthood were expressly shortened by high authority on his account.
The Pope takes the greatest interest in him; and as for the people, the Italians have already nicknamed him ‘the young cardinal.’
Don’t suppose, as some of our countrymen do, that he is indebted to his wealth for the high position which he has already attained.
His wealth is only one of the minor influences in his favor.
The truth is, he unites in himself two opposite qualities, both of the greatest value to the Church, which are very rarely found combined in the same man.
He has already made a popular reputation here, as a most eloquent and convincing preacher—”
“A preacher!” I exclaimed.
“And a popular reputation!
How do the Italians understand him?”
The banker looked puzzled.
“Why shouldn’t they understand a man who addresses them in their own language?” he said.
“Romayne could speak Italian when he came here—and since that time he has learned by constant practice to think in Italian.
While our Roman season lasts, he preaches alternately in Italian and in English.
But I was speaking of the two opposite accomplishments which this remarkable man possesses.