The climax of this terrible effort of imagination was reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with sobs and cries of entreaty—prayed, pointing to the crucifix at his side—that he and all who heard him might die the death of penitent sinners, absolved in the divinely atoning name of Christ.
The hysterical shrieks of women rang through the church.
I could endure it no longer. I hurried into the street, and breathed again freely, when I looked up at the cloudless beauty of the night sky, bright with the peaceful radiance of the stars.
And this man was Romayne!
I had last met with him among his delightful works of art; an enthusiast in literature; the hospitable master of a house filled with comforts and luxuries to its remotest corner.
And now I had seen what Rome had made of him.
“Yes,” said my companion, “the Ancient Church not only finds out the men who can best serve it, but develops qualities in those men of which they have been themselves unconscious.
The advance which Roman Catholic Christianity has been, and is still, making has its intelligible reason.
Thanks to the great Reformation, the papal scandals of past centuries have been atoned for by the exemplary lives of servants of the Church, in high places and low places alike.
If a new Luther arose among us, where would he now find abuses sufficiently wicked and widely spread to shock the sense of decency in Christendom?
He would find them nowhere—and he would probably return to the respectable shelter of the Roman sheepfold.”
I listened, without making any remark.
To tell the truth, I was thinking of Stella.
March 6.—I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little farewell entertainment to the officers and crew before they take the yacht back to England.
In a few words I said at parting, I mentioned that it was my purpose to make an offer for the purchase of the vessel, and that my guests should hear from me again on the subject.
This announcement was received with enthusiasm.
I really like my crew—and I don’t think it is vain in me to believe that they return the feeling, from the sailing-master to the cabin-boy.
My future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a roving life, unless—No!
I may think sometimes of that happier prospect, but I had better not put my thoughts into words.
I have a fine vessel; I have plenty of money; and I like the sea. There are three good reasons for buying the yacht.
Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a letter from Stella.
She writes (immediately on the receipt of my telegram) to make a similar request to the request addressed to me by her mother.
Now that I am at Rome, she too wants to hear news of a Jesuit priest. He is absent on a foreign mission, and his name is Penrose.
“You shall hear what obligations I owe to his kindness,” she writes, “when we meet.
In the meantime, I will only say that he is the exact opposite of Father Benwell, and that I should be the most ungrateful of women if I did not feel the truest interest in his welfare.”
This is strange, and, to my mind, not satisfactory.
Who is Penrose? and what has he done to deserve such strong expressions of gratitude?
If anybody had told me that Stella could make a friend of a Jesuit, I am afraid I should have returned a rude answer.
Well, I must wait for further enlightenment, and apply to the landlord’s nephew once more.
March 7.—There is small prospect, I fear, of my being able to appreciate the merits of Mr. Penrose by personal experience.
He is thousands of miles away from Europe, and he is in a situation of peril, which makes the chance of his safe return doubtful in the last degree.
The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined to find its field of work in Central America.
Rumors of more fighting to come, in that revolutionary part of the world, reached Rome before the missionaries had sailed from the port of Leghorn.
Under these discouraging circumstances, the priestly authorities changed the destination of the Mission to the territory of Arizona, bordering on New Mexico, and recently purchased by the United States.
Here, in the valley of Santa Cruz, the Jesuits had first attempted the conversion of the Indian tribes two hundred years since, and had failed.
Their mission-house and chapel are now a heap of ruins, and the ferocious Apache Indians keep the fertile valley a solitude by the mere terror of their name.
To this ill-omened place Penrose and his companions have made their daring pilgrimage; and they are now risking their lives in the attempt to open the hearts of these bloodthirsty savages to the influence of Christianity.
Nothing has been yet heard of them. At the best, no trustworthy news is expected for months to come.
What will Stella say to this?
Anyhow, I begin to understand her interest in Penrose now.
He is one of a company of heroes.
I am already anxious to hear more of him.
To-morrow will be a memorable day in my calendar.
To-morrow I leave Rome for St. Germain.
If any further information is to be gained for Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter, I have made the necessary arrangements for receiving it.
The banker has promised to write to me, if there is a change in Romayne’s life and prospects.
And my landlord will take care that I hear of it, in the event of news reaching Rome from the Mission at Arizona.
Sixth Extract.
St. Germain, March 14.—I arrived yesterday.
Between the fatigue of the journey and the pleasurable agitation caused by seeing Stella again, I was unfit to make the customary entry in my diary when I retired for the night.