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The Fairfield news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1881-1900, February 01, 1882, Image 1

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Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/2012218613/1882-02-01/ed-1/seq-1/

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mrsrtck robe.
V- -'
Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting
nie to offer an opinion of some
sort. For the moment I was really unable
to speak. Stella's mother never
had a veiy high opinion of my abilities.
She now appeared to consider me the
cfmTvi/1 ocf. norcnr> in fKo nf Ii or nj^.
"Axe you a little deaf, Wicterfield 7".
6he asked.
"Not that I know of."
> " Do you understand me ?'
"Oh, yes."
" Then why can't yon say something ?
I want a man's opinion of our prospects.
Good gracious, how you fidget! Put
yourself in Eomayne's place and tell
me this. If you had left Stella?"
"I should never have left her, Mrs.
"Be quiet. You don't know what
you would have done. I insist on your
supposing yourself to be a -weak, superstitious.
conceited, fanatical fool. You
understand ? Now, tell me, then?
conid you keep away from your vrife
when you were called back to her in
the came of yonr first-born child ? j
Conld you resist that V
" Most assuredly not !w
I contrived to reply with an appearance
of tranquillity. It was not very
^asy to speak with composure. EnC
vious, selfish, contemptible?no language
is tocstrong to describe the tnrn
my thonghts now took. I never hated
any human being as I hated Romayne at
that moment. " Hang him, he will
come back!" There was my inmost
feeling expressed in words,
v-" In the meantime Mrs. Eyrecourt was
satisfied.' Sqj^dashed at the next sub:ject
as fluent and as confident as ever.
" Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain
+/-* rnnr mind fhaf. vnr> ' mncf nnf. coo
'la again, except -when I am present
t: * tie th'e tongue of scandal. My
daughter's conduct innst not allow lier
husband?if you only knew how I detest
that man!?must not, I say, allow
her husband the slightest excuse for
keeping away from her. If we give that
odious old Benwell the chance he will
make a priest of Ronrvyne before we
know where we are. Did Stella tell
you that he actually shook Bomayne's
belief in his own marriage ? Ah, I understand;
she kept that to herself, poor
dear, and with good reason, too."
I thought of the turned-down page in .
the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourtr readily re_
TT.>>of Tier ^ancrh?at'r r? pi i Afl v
IptRv forbidden me to read, including the
monstrous assumption "which, connected
ray marriage before the registrar with
her son-in-law's scruples.
"Now, tell me, Winterfield," she continued,
"don't you think?taking the
circumstances into consideration?that
you will act like a thoroughly sensible
man, if you go back to Devonshire
while we are in ouv present situation ?
What with foot-warmers in the carriage,
and newspapers and magazines to amuse
you, it isn't such a very long journey.
And then Beaupark?dear Beaupark?is
such a remarkably comfortable house
in the winter; and yon, you enviable
creature, are such a popular man in the
neighborhood. Oh, go back! go back!"
. I got up and took my hat. She patted
me on the shoulder. I could have
throttled her at that moment. And ret
she was right.
" Yon will make my excuses to Stella?'
I said.
"Yon dear, good fellow, I will do
more than make your excuses; I will
sing your praises, as the poet says."
In her ungovernable exultation at having
got rid of me, she burst into extravagant
language. "I feel like a
mother to you," she went on, as we
shook harids at parting. " I declare
could almost let you kiss me."
There was not a single kissable place
about Mrs. Eyrecourt unpainted, unAvarl
nr m-mnwdered. I resisted temp- -
~V ~~ X
tation and opened the door. There was
still one last request that I could not
help making.
"Will you let me know," I said,
" when you hear from Rome T
"With the greatest pleasure," Mrs.
Eyrecourt answered, briskly. "Goodbye,
you best of friends?good-bye."
I write these lines while the servant
is packing my portmanteau. Traveler
knows what that means. My dog is
glad, at any rate, to get away from
London. I think I shall hire a yacht
and try what a voyage around the world
will do for me. I wish to God I had
never seen Stella.
10$ February.?News at last from
Mrs. Eyreconrt.
Romayne has not even read the letter
that she addressed to him?it has actually
been returned to her by Father
Benwell. Mrs. Eyreconrt writes,
naturally enough, in a state of fury.
Her one consolation, under this insulting
treatment, is that her daughter
knows nothing of the circnmstanses.
She warns me Cauite needlessly) to keep
the secret, and sends me a copy of
Father BenwelTs letter.
r"peab Madam?Mr. Eomayne can
reSdlitrt&ag'fchat dive' 's his attention
from Ms preparation fc- the priesthood,
or that recalls past associations with
errors which he has renounced forever.
When a letter reaches him it is his wise
custom to look at the signature first.
He has handed your letter to me unread,
with a request that I will return
ic to you. In his presence I instantly
sealed it up. Neither he or I know, 01
wish to know, on what subject you have
addressed him. We respectfully advise
you not to write again."
In those terms lie expresses himself
I shall have lived long enough, if I onh
live to see that man canght in one o:
his own traps!
1M February.?I was disappointed a
not hearing from Stella yesterday. Thi
:r\ * /
f morning has made amends. It has
brought me a letter from her.
She is not well, and her mother's
conduct sadlv perplexes her. At one
time Mrs. Eyrecourt's sense of injury
urges her to indulge in violent measures.
She is eager to place her deserted
daughter under the protection of the
law; to insist on a restitution of conjugal
rights, or on a judicial separation.
At another time she sinks into a state of
abject depression; declares that it is
impossible for her, in Stella's deplorable
situation, to face society, and
recommends immediate retirement to
some place on tlie continent in which
they can live cheaply. This latter suggestion
Stella is not only ready but
eager to adopt. She proves it by asking
my advice in a postscript; no doubt,
remembering the happy days when I
courted her in Paris, and the many
foreign friends of mine who called at
our hotel.
I The postscript gave me the excuse
that I wanted. I knew perfectly well
that it would be better for me not to see
her, and I "went to London, for the sole
purpose of seeing her, by the first train.
12tli February.?I fonnd mother and
danghter together in the drawing-room.
It was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's days of
depression. Her little twinkling eyes
tried to cast -on me a look of tragic reproach;
she shook her dyed head and
said: "Oh, Winterfield, I didn't think
you would have done this! Stella, fetch
me my smelling-bottle."
But Stella refused to take the hint.
She almost brought the tears to my
eyes, she received me so kindly. If her
mother had not been in the room?bnt
her mother was in the room; I had no
other choice th/ui to enter on my busi
ness, as if I had. been the family lawyer.
Mrs. Eyrecaurt began by reproving
Stella for asking my advice, and then
assured me that she had no intention of
leaving London. " How am I to get rid
of my hons? T she asked, irritably
: enongh. I knev that " her honse " (as
| she called it) was the furnished upper
part of a house belonging to another
person, and that she could leave it at a
short notice. But I said nothing. I
addressed myself to Stella.
"I have been thinking of two or
three places which you might like," I
went on. " The nearest place belongs
to an old French gentleman and his wife.
They have no children and they don't
let lodgings; but I believe they would
be glad to receive friends of mine, if
their spare rooms arc not already occupied.
They live at St. Germain, close
to Paris."
I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said
those last words?I was as sly as Father
Benwell himself. Paris justified my
confidence; the temptation was too
much for her. She not only gave way
but actually mentioned the amount of
rent which she could afford to pay.
Stella whispered her thanks to mc as I
went out.
"Myname is not mentioned, but mv
f ? ?- m-nTT" CV XJX clrcr xxxmr*
papers," she said. " Well-meaning
friends are calling and condoling -with
already. I shall die if you don't
help me to get away from among strangers
I start for Paris by the mail-train tonight.
Paris, 13th February.?It is evening.
I have just returned from St. Germain.
Everything is settled ? with
more slyness on mj pari.
My good friends, Monsieur and Madam
Raymond, will be only too glad to receive
English ladies, known to me for
many years. The spacions and handsome
first floor of their house (inherited
from once wealthy ancestors by Madam
Raymond) can be got ready to receive
Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter
in a week's time.
Our one difficulty related to the question
of money. Monsieur Raymond,
living on a government pension, was
modestly unwilling to ask terms, and I
was too absolutely ignorant of the subject
to be of the slightest assistance to
him. It ended in our appealing to a
house-agent at St. Germain. His estimate
appeared to me to be quite reasonable,
but it exceeded the pecuniary
limit mentioned by Mrs. Eyrecourt.
I had known the Raymonds
long enougn to De iu uu uaugei ui
offending them by proposing a secret
arrangement which permitted me to pay
! the difference. So that difficulty was
got over Li dne course of time.
We went into the large garden at the
back of the house, and there I committed
another act of duplicity.
In a nice sheltered corner I discovered
one of those essentially French buildings,
called a " pavilion;" a delightful
little toy house of three rooms. Another
private arrangement made me the
tenant of this place. Madam Raymoncl
"I bet you," she said to me, in her
very best English, " one of these ladies
is in her fascinating first youth."
"" * -1? 1 1^4. ?
xne gooa iauy nine vwo y>uiku <*
hopeless love affair mine is. I must see
Stella sometimes?I ask and hope for
no more. Never have I felt how lonely
my life is as I feel it now.
* * * * *
London, 1st March.?Stella and her
mother have set forth on their journey
to- St. Germain this morning -without
allowing me, as I had hoped and planned,
to be their escort.
Mrs. Evrecourt sefc up the old objection
of the claims of propriety. If that
were the only obstacle in my way I
should have set it aside by following
them to France. Where is the impropriety
of my seeing Stella as her friend
and brother, especially when I don't
live in the same house with her, and
when she has her mother on one side
and Madam Raymond on the other to
take care of her ?
No! the influence that keeps rae
away from St. Germain is the influence
of Stella herself.
"I will write to you often," she said
j' but I beg you for my sake not to accompany
us to France." Her look and
' tone reduced me to obedience. Stupid
! as I am I think (after what passed between
me and her mother) I can guess
what she meant.
r " Am I never to see you again ?" I
^ asked.
"Do you think I am hard and unfc
j grateful'?" she answered. " Do yor
a? . i ?ti ?I T "Ko rrlor? mfvrck fTior
* UOU Ufc kLiat X suau uv jiuu,
- ... "; - > >v.:.v^;;. - .
glad to see yon when? ?' She turned
?.wav from me and said no more.
It was time to take leave. "We were
under her mother's superintendence;
we shook hands?and that was all.
Matilda (Mrs Eyrecourt's maid) followed
me downstairs to open the door.
I suppose I looked, as I felt, wretchedly
enough. The good creature tried to
cheer me. "Don't be anxious about
them," she said ; "I am used to traveling,
sir, and I'll take care of them."
j She was a woman to be thoroughly depended
on, a faithful and attached servant.
I made her a little present at
parting, and I asked her if she would
write to me from time to time.
Sor;e people might consider this to
be rather an undignified proceeding on
my part. I can only say it came naturally
to me. I am not a dignified man;
and when a person means kindly toward
me I don't ask myself whether that person
is higher or lower, richer or poorer
than I am. We are, to my mind, on
the same level, when the same sympathy
unites us. Matilda was sufficiently
acquainted with all that had passed to
foresee, as I did, that there would be
certain reservations in Stella's letters
to me. "You shall have the whole
truth from me, sir, don't doubt it," she
whispered. I believed her. When my
heart is sore give me a woman for my
friend. "Whether she is lady or lady's
maid she is equally precious to me.
Coves, 2d March.?I am in treaty
with an agent for the hire of a yacht.
I must do something and go somewhere.
Returning to Beaupark is out
of the question, People with tranquil
minds can find pleasure in the society
of their country neighbors. I am a
miserable creature, with a mind in a
state of incessant disturbance. Excellent
fathers of families talking politics
to me; exemplary mothers of families
offering me matrimonial opportunities
witli their daughters?that is what society
means if I go back to Devonshire.
No, I will go for a cruise in the Mediterranean,
and I will take one friend
with me whose company I never weary
of?my dog.
The vessel is discovered?a fine
schooner of three hundred tons, jnst returned
from a crnise to Madeira. The
sailing-master and crew only ask for a
few days on shore. In that time the
surveyor will have examined the vessel,
and the stores will be on board.
Zd March.?I have written to Stella,
with a list of addresses at which letters
will reach me, and I have sent another
list to my faithful ally the maid. When
we leave Gibraltar our course will be to
Naples; thence to Civita, Yecchia, Leghorn,
Genoa, Marseilles. From any of
those pla' * T am within easy traveling
distant Germain.
1th m xr < Sea.?It is half-past
six in tli-. ^ ning. "We have just
passed . * .ddystone Lighthouse with
the wind abeam. The log registers ten
knots an hour.
at the^beginning of my voyage has not
been fulfilled. O wing to contrary winds,
storms apd delay at Cadiz in repairing
damages, we have only arrived at
Naples this evening. Under trying
nil hQO
behaved admirably. A stouter and
finer sea-boat never was bnilt.
"We are too late to find the postoffica
open. I shall send ashore for letters
the first thing to-morrow morning. My
next move "will depend entirely on the
news I get from St.. Germain. If I
remain for any length of time in these
regions I shall give my crew the holiday
they have well earned at Civita
Yecchia. I am never weary of Eome;
but I always did, and always shall, dislike
11 lh May.?Mv plans are completely
changed. I am annoyed and angry.
The further I get away from France the
better I shall be pleased.
I have heard from Stella, and heard
from the maid. Both letters inform
me that the child is born, and that it is
a boy. Do they expect me to feel any
interest in the boy? He is my worst
enemy, before he is ont of his long
Stella writes kindly enough. Not a
line in her letter, hoover, invites me,
or holds out the prospect of inviting
me. to St. Germain. She refers to her
mother very briefly ; merely informing
me that Mrs. Eyrecourt is well, and is
already enjoying the gayeties of Paris.
Three-fourths of the letter are occupied
with the baby. When I wrote to her,
I signed myself, " Yours affectionately."
Stella signs, "Yours sincerely." It is a
trifle, I daresay; but I feel it, for all
Matilda is faithful toiler engagement;
Matilda's letter tells me the truth1
"Since tha birth of the baby," sac
writes, "Mrs. Eomayne has never once
mentioned your name; she can talk of
nothing, and think of nothing, but her
,1 T wwrkV/i rtVQVTT ol l/^VTT'Q-nr?C? T Tl ATI C*
C'JLULli* X nutao MHAV hmuvv^
for a lady in her melancholy situation.
Bat I do think it is net very gratefn'. to
have quite forgotten Mr. Winterfield,
who has done so much for her, and who
only asks to pass a few hours of his
day innocently in her society. Perhaps,
being a single woman, I write ignorantly
about mothers and babies. But I have
my feelings, and though I never liked
Mr. Romayne, I feel for you, sir, if yon
will forgive the familial Ity. In my
opinion, this new craza about the baby
will wear out. He is already a cause of
difference of opinion. My good mistiess,
who possesses knowledge of the
world, and a kind l*eart as well, advises
that Mr. Romayne should be informed i
of the birth of a son and heir. Mrs. j
Eyrecourt says, most truly, that the old
priest will get possession of Mr. Romayne's
money, to the prejudice of the
child, unless steps are taken to shame
him into doing justice to his own son.
Bnt Mrs. "Romavne is as -proud as Luci
fer; she will not hear of making the
fi:.-st advances, as she calls it. 'The
man who has deserted me,' she savs,
' has no heart to be touched either by
wife or child.' My mistress does not
agree with. her. There have been hard
words already, and the nice old French
gentleman and his wife try to make
peace. You will smile when I tell yon
tliat they offer sugar plums as a sort of
composing gift. My mistress accepts
the gift, and has been to the theater at
i Paris, with Monsieur and Madam Rayi
mond, more than once already. To con
elude, sir, if I might venture to advise
you, I should recommend trying the effect
on Mrs. E. of absence and silence."
A most sensibly-written letter. I shall
certainly take Matilda's advice. My
name is never mentioned by Stella, and
not a day has passed without my thinking
of her!
Well, I suppose a man can harden
his heart if he likes. Let me harden
my heart and forget her. The crew
shall have three days ashore at Naples,
and then we sail for Alexandria. In
I t.Vlftf. TVYrf. flip VO r>Tl f TLl'1 1 TY1T- mfrn-n
I have not vet 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 dusty daughter
of nature to keep house for me?
there is a new life a man who is
weary of the vapid civilization of Europe!
I shall begin bv letting my
beard grow.
Civitci Vecchia, 28th February, 1863.?
Back again on the coast of Italy, after
an absence, at sea and ashore, rf nint
What have my travels done for me V
They have made me browner aid thinner
; they have given me a more patient
mind and a taste for mild tobacco
Have they helped me to forget Stella't
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 od
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, lsi March.?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
ar*\ fifallo con ^ c ma
lA/iiui 0^/juvco J-U. Z> tuu IV/U^*
desired Invitation. " Pray take care to
return to us, clear Bernard, before the
first anniversary of my boy's birthday
on the twenty-seventh of March." After
those words she need feel no apprehen?ion
of my being late at my appointment.
Traveler?the dog has well
merited his name by this time?will
have tobid good-bye 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-bye
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
Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly
- , ^ /-.I . _ J. - 1 I
about .Komayne. one is eajer ou tutw
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 ha3 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 l>e
approached by an idler like myself in
business hours. I have asked him to
dine with me to-morrow.
2d March.?My guest Las 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 sin
expression of surprise.
"The man most talked about in
Rome," he said; " I wonder you have
not heard ox him already."
"Is he a priest?"
" Certainly! And, what is more, t'b.e
ordinary preparations for the priest
hood were expressly shortened, by high
authority, on his acconnfc. The Pope
takes the greatest interest in him, and,
as for the people, the Italians have
already nicknamed him, " the youug
cardinal." Don't suppose, as some of
your countrymen do, that he is indebted
to his wealth for the high position he
has already attained. !Bis 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 iouna com Dined m me same
man. He lias already mMe a popular
reputation liere as a mosit eloqent and
convincing preacber "
"Apreacher!" 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. "Komayne 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 English. But
I was speaking of the two opposite accomplisnments
this remarkable
man possesses. Out of the pulpit he is
capable of applying his mind success,
fnlly to the political necessities of the
church. As I am told his intellect has
had severe practical training, by means
of historical studies, in the past rears of
| his life. Anyhow, in one of the diplomatic
difficulties here between the
church and the state, he wrote a memorial
on the subject which the cardinalsecretary
declared to be a model--of
ability in applying the experience oi
the past to the need of the present time.
If he doesn't wear himself out his Ital
ian nickname may prove propheticsdlj
true. We may live to see the new convert
Cardinal Bomayue.
"Are you acquainted with him yourself?"
I asked.
" No Englishman is acquainted with
him," the banker answered. "There is
a report of some romantic event in hi?
life which has led to hi3 leaving England,
and which makes him recoil from
intercourse "with Ids own nation.
Whether this is true or false it is certain
that the English in Rome find him unapproachable.
-1 have even heard that
; he refuses to receive letters from England.
If you wish to see him you must
do as I have done?you must go to
church and look at him in the pulpit.
He preaches in English?I think for the
last time season?on Thursday
evening nert^'^Shall I call here and
j lase you. iu uxcn:
If I had fowled my inclinations I
should have xtsfased. I feel no sort of
interest in Roihayne; I might even say
I feel a downright antipathy toward
him. But I have no wish to appear insensible
to the banker's kindness; and
my reception at St. Germain depends
greatly on the attention I show to Mrs.
Eyrecourt's request. So it was arranged
that I should hear the great preacher?
with a mental reservation on my part
which contemplated my departure from
the church before, the end of his sermon.
Bat, beforefeim, .1 feel-assured
of one thing?itter what the
banker has toi?i*^ae. Stella's view of
his character is the right one. The
man tcVia Tins rSesp.rtAd her has Tin hearf
tr be touched by wife cr child. They
are separated forever.
Marck 3d?I have just seen the land
lord of the hotel; he can help me tc
answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's questions.
A nephew of his holds some employment
at the Jesuit headquarters
here, adjoining their famous church
H Gesu. I have requested the young
man to ascertain if Father Eenwell was
still in Rome.
4th March.?Good nevrs this time foi
Mrs. Eyrecourt, so far as it goes.
Father Ben well has long since left
Rome, and has returned to his regulai
duties in England. If he exercises any
further influence over Romayne, it must
be done by letter.
oth March,?I have returned from Eomayne's
sermon. This double renegade?has
he not deserted his religion
and his wife??has failed to convince
my reason. But he has so completely
npset my nerves that I ordered a bottle
of champagne (to the great amusement
of my friend the banker) the moment
we got back to the hotel.
We drove through the scantily-lighted
streets of Rome to a small church in the
neighborhood of the Piazzi Navona. To
a more imaginative man than myself,
the scene when we entered the building
would have been too impressive to be
described in words, though it might,
perhaps, ha^e been painted. The one
light in the place glimmered mysteriously
from a great wax candle, burning
in front of a drapery of black cloth, and
illnminofinnf o
/* " '"V ? OVUi|IUU15U 1C|;1C- j
sentation, iu white marble, of the cruci- ]
fied Christ, wrought to the size of life. ;
Tn frnnf, nf this gJmstTv pmhlAm p py. J
cloth. We ?oul<l penetrate no further <
than to the space just inside the door of
the church. Everywhere else the build- i
ing was filled withstanding, sitting and
kneeling figures, shadowy and mysterious,
fading away in far corners into im- 1
penetrable gloom. The only sounds
were the low wailing notes of the organ,
accompanied at intervals by the muffled
thump of worshipers penitentially beating
their breasts. On a sudden the
organ ceased; the self-inflicted blows of
the penitents wore heard no more. In
the breathless silence that followed, a
man robed in black mounted the black
platform, and faced the congregation.
His hair had become prematurely gray;
his face was of the ghastly paleness of
the great crucifix by his side. The light
of the candle, falling on him as he
slowly turned his head, cast shadows
into the hollows of his cheeks, and glittered
in his gleaming eyes. In tones,
low and trembling at first, he stated the
subject of his address- A woek since
two noteworthy persons had died in
Kome on the same day. One of them
was a woman of exemplary piety, whose
funeral obsequies had been celebrated
in that church. The other was a criminal,
charged with homicide under provocation,
who had died in prison, refusing
the services of the priest?impenitent
to the last. The sermon followed
the spirit of the absolved woman
to its eternal reward in heaven, and de
scribed the meeting of dear ones who
had gone before, in terms so devout and
touching that the women near us, and
even some of the men, burst into tears.
Far different was the effect produced
when tha preacher, filled with the same
overpowering sincerity of belief which
had inspired his description of the joys
cf heaven, traced the downward progress
Gjc iia last 22222, from his impenitent
deathbed to his doom in heii. He
described the retributive voices of
mother and son, bereaved of husband
snd father by the fatal deed, ringing incessantly
in the ears of the homicide.
" I, who speak to you, hear the voices,'he
cried. " Assassin! assassin ! where
are you? I see him?I see the assassin
hurled into his place in the sleepless
ranks of the damned?I see him, drip
ping with the flames tnat ourn iorever, j
writhing under the torments that are
without respite and without end." The
climax of this terrible effort of imagination
was reached when he fell on his
knees and prajed with sobs and cries oi
entreaty?prayed, pointi ng to the crucifix
at his side?that he and all who
heard him might die the death of penii
tent sinners, absolved i:i the divinelyatoning
name of Christ. The hysterical
shrieks of women rang through the
chnrch. I could endare it no longer.
I hurried into the street, and breathed
again freely when I looked up at the
cloudless beauty of the night sky, j
bright with the peaceful radiance of the
And this man was Komayne! I bad
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.
" Yes," said my companion, " the Ancient
Church not only finds ont the
men who can best serve it, but develops
qualities in those men of which thej
have been themselves unconscious."
I listened without making any remark.
To tell the troth .I was thinking
of Stella.
Gtk March.?I have been to Civita
Vecchia, to give a little farewell entertainment
to the officers and crew before
thej take the yacht back to England.
In the few words I said at parting I
mentioned that it was mv purpose to
make an offer for the purchase of the
vessel, and that my guests should hear
from me again on the subject. The
announcement "was received with enthusiasm.
I really liked mj 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. These are three good
reasons for buying the yacht.
.Ketunnng to JKome in tne evening I
found waiting for me a letter from
Slie writes (immediately on the receipt
of my telegram) to make a similar
r^;^ijest to the request addressed to me
by her mother. Now that I am at
Bome, she too wants to hear news of a
Jesuit priest. He is absent on a foreign
mission, and his name is Penrose.
"Yon shall hear what obligations I owe
to his kindness," she writes, "when wc
meet. In the meantime I will onlysav
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 exnressions
of gratitude ? If anvborlv hnd
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 farther enlightenment, and
apply to the landlord's nephew once
7Ik Marck.?There is small prospect,
I fear, of my being able to appreciate
the merit 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
T> - j.* f t _ .1
xvome ueiore me missionaries naa sauea
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
bad first attempted the conversion of <
the Indian tribes two hundred years f
3ince?and had failed. Their mission- e
bouse and chapel are now a heap of i
ruins, and the ferocious Apache Indians c
keen the fprtilq vnllpy ry hvfho C
omened place Penrose anaTns cairrpinx--p:
ions have made their daring pilgrimage, i
and they are now risking their lives in ?
the attempt to open the hearts of these (
bloodthirsty savages to the influence of I
Christianity. Nothing has yet been i
heard of them. At the best, no trust- *
.? _ _ 1. _ T 1* i.T i. ~ 4
wortliy news is expected ior mourns iu
come. 1
What will Stella say to this ? Any- !
how, I begin to understand her interest
in Penrose now. He is one of a com- !
pany of heroes. I am already anxious '
fo hear more of him.
To-morrow will be a memorable day '<
in my calendar. To-morrow I leave j
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
/>orn fTiot. T Vionr nf it, in t.}iA event of
news reaching Home from the mission I
at Arizona. )
* * * * * * ;
St. Geimain, 1 ilh March.?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 diar.
when I retired for the night.
She is more irresistibly beautiful than
ever. Her figure (a little too slender
as I remember it) has filled out. Her
lovely face has lost its haggard, careworn
look; her complexion has recovered
its delicacy; I see again in her
eyes the pure serenity of expression
which first fascinated me, years since.
It may be due to the consoling influence
of the child?assisted, perhaps, by
- * ? ' ? t aI- - ? Z lif.
tae lapse 01 time ana tne peaceim juie
which she now leads?but this at least
is certain, such a change for the better
I never could have imagined as the
change I find in Stella after a year's abBence.
As for the babv, he is a bright, goodhumored
little fellow; and he has one
great merit in my estimation?he bears
no resemblance to his father. I saw his
mother's features when I first took him
on my knee and looked at his face, lifted
to mine in grave surprise. The baby
and I are sure to get on well together.
Even Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to have
improved in the French air and under
the French diet. She has a better surface
to lay the paint on; her nimble
tongue runs faster than ever, and she
has so completely recovered her good
spirits that Monsieur and Madam Raymond
declare she must have French
blood in her veins. They were all so
unaffectedly glad to see me (Matilda included)
that it was really like returning
to one's home. As for Traveler, I must
interfere (in the interests of his figure
and his health) to prevent everybody in
the house from feeding him with every
eatable thing from plain bread to pate
de foie gras.
My experience to-day will, as Stella
tells me, be my general eiperjience of
the family life ac St. Germain.
We begin the morning with the customary
cup of coffee. At 11 o'clock I
am summoned from my "pavilion" of
three rooms to one of those delicious
and artfully varied breakfasts which are
only to be found in France and in Scot
land. An interval 01 aoout mree cours
follows, during which the child takes
his siesta, and his elders occupy themselves
as they please. At 3 o'clock we '
all go out?'with, a pony-chaise which
carries t:;e weaker members of the
household?for a ramble in the forest.
At 6 o'clock we assemble at the dinnertable.
At coffee-time some of the
neighbors drop in for a game at cards.
At 10 we all wish each other goodnight.
Such is the domestic programme,
varied by excursions in the country and
by occasional visits to Paris. I am
naturally a man of quiet, stay-at-home
habits. It is only when my mind is
disturbed that I get restless and feel
longings for change. Surely the quiet
routine of St. Germain ought to be welcome
to me now! I have been looking
forward to this life tiirough a long
year of travel. What more can I wish
Nothing more, of course.
And yet?and yet?Stella has innocently
made it harder than ever to play
the part of her " brother." The recovery
of her beauty is a subject of congratulation
to her mother and her
friends. How does it affect me?
I had better not think of my hard
fateT~"Ca?sJ-help thinking of it? Can
I dismiss from memory the unmerited
misfortunes which have taken from me,
in the prime of her charms, the woman
whom I love ? At least I can try.
The good old moral must be my
moral: " lie content with such things
as ye have."
15th March.?It is eight in the morning,
and I scarcely know how to employ
myself. Having finished my coffee I
have just looked again at my diary.
It strikes me that I am falling into a
bad habit of writing too rnnch abont
myself. The cnstom of keeping a jonrnal
ccrtainly has this drawback?it enconrages
egotism. Well, the remedy
ic easy. From this date I lock np my
book, only to open it again when some
event has happened which has a claim
to be recorded for its own sake. As for
myself and my feelings, they have made
their last appearance in these pages.
* * * * * *
It'/iJune.? The occasion for opening
my diary once more has presented itself
this morning.
News has reached me of Romayne,
which i3 too important to be passed
over without notice. He has been appointed
one of the pope's chamberlains.
It is also reported, on good anthority,
that he will be attached to a papal embassy
when a vacancy occurs. These
honors, present and to come, seem to
remove him further from the possibility
of a return to his wife and child.
Slh June.?In regard to Romayne
Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to be of my opinion.
Being in Paris to-day, at a morning
joncert, she there met with her old
riend, Dr. Wybrow. The famous phytician
is suffering from overwork, and
s on his way to Italy for a few months j
>f rest and recreation. They took a
jriffs together after the performance, in ;
'reely as usual on the subject of Stella
md the child. He entirely agreed
'speaking in the future interests of the
joj) that precious time has been lost
n informing Romayne of the birth of
?q heir; and he has promised, no matter
what obstacles may be placed in his
,vay, to make the announcement him- ;
self, when he reaches Eome.
9th June.?Madam Raymond has been 1
speaking to me confidentially on a very
delicate subject.
- i j.- a;
iam piccigecx 10 ciibuuiiouiuc niiuui^ I
ibcut mjself. But in these private
pages I may note the substance of what
my good friend said to me. If I only
look back often enough at this little
record I may gather the resolution to
profit by her advice. In brief these
vrere her words:
" Stella has spoken to me in confidence
since she met you accidentally in
the garden yesterday. She cannot be
guilty of the poox affectation of concealing
what you must have already
discovered for yourself. But she prefers
to say the words that must be said i
to you through me. Her husband's conduct
to her is an outrage that she can
never forget. She looks back with sentiments
of repulsion which she dare not
describe to that 'love at first sight' (cs
you call it in England), conceived on
the day when thej first met, and she
remembers regretfully that other love,
of years since, which was love of stead'
* ll- rr~ 1 ?-k
ler ana sxower growm. xu net B-uume
slie confesses that she failed to sei von
the example of duty and self-restraint
when you two were alone. She leaves
it to my discretion to tell you that you
must see her for the future always
in the presence of some other person.
Make no reference to this when you
next meet; and understand that she has
only spoken to me instead of to her
mother, because she fears that Mrs.
Ejreconr; might use harsh words ano.
distress you again as she once distressed
you in England. If you will take my
advice you will ask permission to go
away again on your travels."
It matters nothing what I said in re- I
pij. Let me only relate that we were
interrupted by the appearance of the
nursemaid at the pavilion door.
Sue led the child by the hand. Among
his first efforts at speaking, under his
mother's instruction, had been the effort
to call me Uncle Bernard. He had
now got as far as the first syllable of
my Christian name, and he had come tc
me to repeat his lesson. EestiDg his
little hands on my knees he looked up
at me, with his mother's eyes, and said:
" Uncle Ber\" A trifling incident, but
at that moment it cut me to the heart.
I could only take the boy in my arms
and look at Madam Raymond. The
good woman felt for me. I saw tears in
her eyes.
No! no more writing about myself.
I close the book again.
3d July.?A letter has reached Mrs.
Eyrecourt this morning from Dr. Wyhrow.
It is dated, " Castel Gandolpho
near Rome." Here the doctor is established
during the hot months, and here
he has seen Romayne, in attendance on
the Holy Father, in the famous summer
palace of the pojes. How he obtained
the interview Mrs. Eyrecourt is not informed.
To a man of his celebrity
doors are no donbi opened which remain
closed to persons less widely
jo ?ISO aq; 03 urnj pa^itcnitoo j *tnrq ,
?a^3[ 0} am 03 StnoSis Ajqaaj POT Jreqo
srq ui 3[0sq SunniTiqs 'aspid srq pa;
0; ptrsq stq aqs} 0; pau} j uaqA 'ia.ia
-jiorj 'psAora ajj -asB9srp jo rmoj ijBqj
jo orjsuaiotMBTp si qorq.ii AlPJ^H 0^1
-an^cjs aq; pa;nasaid squnj ptre Xpoq
'aotj sig -Xsda^TJO jo gij ? qijm pazxas
aaaq p?q auXsra03 qqSnoqij. j ijuanioui
aq? aoj -ara papains b ijpisai aqj,
uop)ireoa.id pjpaen Xia^a q?m aijods j
lUlll J.UJ. AUO ACUl j_ J/IIO ., oo^i*a
eq <('0sinioid ?ra pauuojied ?A?q j?
fiis servant. The next day I received a
letter from one of his priestly colleagues,
informing me that he was
slowly recovering after the shock that 3
had inflicted, and requesting me to
hold no further communication with
him, either persoLally or by letter, i
wish I could have sent to you amoie
favorable report of my interference iv?
this painful matter. Perhaps you os
your daughter may hear from him."
ilhto 9tk July.?Tso letter has been
received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy.
Stella, on the contrary, seems to be re
liev^d.. _ . ,
10$ July.?A letter has arrived from
London, addressed to Stella by Bo
mayne's Eng^iair "lawyers. iTlreTtMess- which
Mrs. Romayne has refused for
herself is to be legally settled on her
child. Technical particulars follow
which it is needless to repeat here.
By return of post Stella has answered
the lawyers, declaring that so long as
she lives, and has any influence over
her son, he shall not tonch the offered
income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur and
Madam Raymond?and even Matilda?
entreated her not to send the letter. To
my thinking Stella had acted with becoming
spirit. Though Vange Abbey
is not entailed, still the estate is morally
the boy's birthright?it is a cruel
wrong to offer him anything else.
llthjuly.?For the second time I
have proposed to leave St. Germain.
The presence of the third person, whenever
I am in her company, is becoming ,
unendurable to me. She still uses her
influence to deter my departure. " No- ,
body sympathizes with me," she said, <
"but you."
x am lulling tu rnj promise to
myself, not to write about myself. B^t i
there is some littl > excuse this time. I
For the relief of my own conscience I
may surely place it on record that I :
have tried to do right. It is not my <
fault if I remain at St. Germain, insen- s
Bible to Madam Raymond's warning. 1
***** j
13111 September.?Terrible news from (
Rome of the Jesuit mission to Arizona. (
The Apache Indians have made a
night attack on the mission-house. The *
building is burnt to the ground and the
missionaries have been massacred, with ^
the exception of two priests, carried *
away captive. The names of the priests '
are not known. News of the atrocity
has been delayed for months on its way 1
frnrhg-'n/rp.a in Central America. "1
Looking at the Times (which we re* ceive
regularly at St. Germain), I found 1
this statement is confirmed in a short ;
paragraph, but here also the names oi J
xv ~ TI/VWO foil ad +/\ irmaar
Lite iinu uus .
Our one present hope of getting any I
farther infoimaticn seems to me to depend
on our English newspaper. The
Times stands alone as the one public ,
journal which has the whole English
nation for volunteer contributors. In
their troubles at home they appeal to
che editor. In their travels abroad over
civilized and savage regions alike, if
they meet with an adventure worth
mentioning, they tell it to the editor,
[f any of our countrymen knows anything
of this dreadful massacre, I foresee
with certainty where we shall find
the information in print.
Soon after my arrival here Stella had 1
told me of her memorable conversation
with Penrose in the garden at Ten
Acres Lodge. I was well acquainted 1
with the nature of her obligation to the '
young priest, but I was not prepared
for the outbreak of grief which escaped
her wlien she had read the telegram
from Rome. She actually went to the
length of saying: " I shall never enjoy
another happy moment till I know
whether Penrose is one of the two living
priests !"
The inevitable third person with us
this morning was Monsieur RaymondSitting
at the window with a book in
his hand?sometimes reading, sometimes
looking at the garden with the eye
of a fond horticulturist?he discovered
a strange cat among his flower beds.
Forgetful of every other consideration,
the old gentleman hobble i out to drive
?A? 1 A^r Tin 4 ll QV
away me iulluuvl, nu. uiu? iu
I spoke to Stella in words which I
would now give everything I possess to
recall. A detestable jealousy took possession
of me. I meanly hinted that
Penrose conld claim no great merit for
yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful
woman who had fascinated him, though
he might be afraid to own it. She protested
against my unworthy insinuation
?but she failed to make me ashamed of
myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of
the influence which her beauty exercises
over a man ? I went on, like the miserable
creature that I was, from bad to
" Excuse me," I said, " if I have, unintentionally,
made you angry. I ought
to have known that I was treading on
delicate ground. Your interest in Pen
rose may be duo to a wanner motive
than a sense of obligation."
She turned away from me?sadly, not
angrily?intending, as it appeared, to
leave the room in silence. Arrived at
the door, she altered her mind and came
" Even if yon insnlt me, Bernard, I
am not able to resent ?*,** sne said, very
gently. "I once wronged you?I have
no right to complain of yournow wrongiDg
me. I will try to forget it."
She held ont her hand. She raised
her eves, and looked at me.
It was not her fault; I am alone to
blame. In another moment she was in
mv arms. I held her to my breast?I
felt the quick beating of her heart ot
me?I poured out the wild confession
of my sorrow, my sname, my love?i
tasted again and again and again the
sweetness of her lips. She put hei
arms round my neck and drew her head
back with a long, low sigh. " Be mer
cifnl to my weakness," she whispered. Vffp
" We must meet no more."
She put me back from her with a '::j
trembling hand and left the room.
I have broken my resolution not to . '|Jj
write about myself; but there is no ego- :'M
tism, there is a sincere sense of humili- '
ation in me when I record this oonfession
of misconduct. I can make but
one atonement?I must at once leave j;||
St Germain. Now, when it is too late,
I feel how hard for me this life of con-. -?il
stant repression has been.
Thus far I had written when the ^
nursemaid, brought me a little note ad- .
dressed in pencil. No answer was reThe
few lines were in Stella's hand- ":i.
" You must not leave us too suddenly M
or you will excite my mother's suspicions.
Wait until you receive letters
from England, and make them the pre- .
text for your departure. S." ; _ ;-|||
I never thought of her mother. She * : ;
is right. Even if she were wrong I '
must obey her.
14th September.?The. letters fromEngland
have arrived. One of them
presents me with the necessary excuse
for my departure, ready made. My pro- is
accepted. The sailing-master and crew'i.T^^i
have refused all offers of engagement,4 :$9|B
and are waiting at Cowes for my orders.
Here is an absolute necessity for my re- x-|||!
turn to England.
The newspaper arrived with the let- . '
ters. My anticipations have been real- -">|||
ized. Yesterday's paragraph Las produced
another volunteer contributor. :|*|
An Englishman, just returned from
Central America, after traveling in \-^38
Arizona, writes to the Times. He pub-. vjlg
lishes his name and address, and he
declares that he has himself seen the
two captive priests. ;;^|w
The name of the Times correspondent p
carries its own guarantee with it.. He
is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite, * fMSt
the well-known traveler in India, who
discovered the lost diamond called
" The Moonstone," set in the forehead of
a Hindoo idoL He writes to the
editor as follows:
" Sib?I can tell you something of the g:|g|
two Jesuit priests, who were the sole
survivors of the massacre in the Santa ~
Cruz valley four months since.
" I was traveling at the time in Ari- sona,
tinder the protection of an Apache M
;hief, bribed to show me his conntzy f,
md his nation (instead of cutting my :^|i^
ihroat and tearing off my scalp) by a
present tribute of whisky and gunpowier,
and by the promise of more when
3ur association came to an end.
"About twelve miles northward of
;he little silver mining town of Tubac .
ye came upon an Apache encampment. i
[ at,once discovered two whito men ^
imong the Indians. These were the -vjPl
ssptive priests.
"One of them was a Frenchman
lamed L'Herbier. The other was an
JuwluJ^ ii Ttwui Tliit
[ndians. unnappy xj xxeruier xwo ??n ?^
senses under the horror of the night ?sfa
massacre. Insanity, as yon may have ^
beard, is a sacred thing in the estima- -Ml
bion of the American savages?they re- :Y-&4
jard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired
person- The otherpriesfc, Pen
rose, had been in charge of the mission 3jH|
medicine-chest, and had successfully
treated cases of illness among the ^~?|j
Apaches. Asa * great medicine-man,'
be, too, is a privileged person?under '.JsqI
the strong protection of their interest in
their own health- The lives of the
prisoners are in no danger, provided >
they can endure the hardship of their
wandering existence among the Indians. :
Penrose snoke to me with the resigns- j
fcion of a true liero. ' I am in the hands
of God,' he said, 'and if I die, I die is '
God's service.'
"I was entirely unprovided with the dpgpf
means of ransoming the missionaries,
and nothing that I could say or that I
could promise had the smallest effect .
on the savages. But for severe and --Jlgl
tedious illness I should long since have
been on my way back to Arizona with
the necessary ransom. As it is, I am barely
strong enough to write this letter.
But I can head a subscription to
pay expenses, and I can give instruc- Jl
tions to any person viho is willing to i|
attempt the deliverance of the priests."
So the letter ended.
Before I had read it I was at a loss to I]
know where to go or what to do when
I leave St. Germain. I am now at no
loss. I have fonnd an object in life ana ;4|
a means of making atonement to Stella
for my own ungracious and. uiiAorthy
words. Already I have communicated
by telegraph with Mr. Morihwaite, and
with my sailing-master. The first is
informed that I his^fcto be with him in ' M
London to-morrow"
ond is instructed to have
ted out immediately for a long voyage. H
If I can save these men?especially x j
Penrose?I shall not have lived in vain. j
London, 15th September.?No. I have I
resolution enough to go to Arizona, but :fl
1 nave no courage to recoru ue psvctjuug
scene when it was time to say good-bye.
I had intended to keep the coming ^|1
enterprise a secret, aiid only to make vp?
the disclosure in writing when the yes-sel
was ready to sail. But, after reading
the letter to the Times, Stella saw .. ^
something in my face (as I suppose) I
that betrayed me. Well, it's over now.
As long as I don't think of it my mind
is calm.
Mr. Murthwaite has not only given
me valuable instructions, he ha3 pro- I
vided me with letters of introduction to
persons in office; and to the padres (or '
priests) in Mexico, which will be of in- . 1
calculable use in such an expedition as '
mine. In the present disturbed condi- iI
tion of the United States he recom- 3
xlieiiua jluc iv anu. xkjl a pu uu wo jm
ern coast of Mexico, and then to travel
northward overland and make my first
inquiries in Arizona at the town of JiiB
Tubac. Time is of such importance, in >jj
his opinion, that he suggests making
inquiries in London and Liverpool for ~'$M
a merchant vessel under immediate '^8
sailing orders for Vera Ccaz or Tam- .^|
pico. The fiiting out of the yacht cannot
be accomplished, I find, in le3S ^
than a fortnight or three weeks. I have, |
therefore, taken Mr. Murth?aiie's adPro
be contested.]

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