Past Santa Andrea, the Forte a Mare of the harbor of Brindisi, the
steamer crept slowly through the narrow channel connecting the outer
bay with the splendid and well-protected inner waterway, and drew up
alongside the fine stone Molo di San Giovanni across the heart of the
town.
Morton, standing on deck aloof from his fellow passengers, extended
his silent greetings to Europe. His heart beat with gladness and
expectation. The last days had seemed never-ending, so eager was he to
begin the adventure on which he had now set his heart. He had made his
adieus to the ship’s company and passengers. Friendships easily and
quickly formed on board a ship are, as a rule, built on the slender
foundation of the ennui of the moment; the boon companions of the
smoking room soon become merely pictures for the memory to paint in,
after days; even the charming lady whose deck chair adjoins yours fades
into the hazy past--“Out of sight, out of mind!”
Morton’s first care on landing, after meeting his agent from Rome who
had come to the ship, was to see that Count Rondell had been safely and
comfortably housed in a hotel. The old man was very feeble and it was
with difficulty that he was removed from the ship. The ship’s doctor
had seen to it that a good physician was in attendance to give him all
the necessary attention and care. This done to Morton’s satisfaction,
he promised the Count to return in a short time and went himself to a
nearby _osteria_ for any cables or letters which might have arrived for
him. He learned that all his orders and instructions had been properly
carried out and, what was more pleasing, that none of the cables or
letters awaiting him called for any alterations in the plans he had
made with Count Rondell.
Learning that a fast train left Brindisi for the North in a couple of
hours, he gave Donald his final instructions and the letters he had
prepared for him and saw him off for Kronstadt, promising to meet him
there the day after his arrival.
With his agent Morton then went to the hotel and met the American
Consul who had come from Naples to offer his services. The Consul
turned out to be a pleasant and bright young man who was fairly well
acquainted with the Balkan countries. He provided Morton with passports
and letters of introduction to American Consuls in the section which
he expected to visit. He suggested that Morton should travel under his
own name as an American capitalist interested in oil lands and as being
also interested in purchasing some of the highly bred horses for which
Roumelia was noted. The rest must be left to Morton’s own quick wit, he
said, and the length of his purse--especially the latter. The political
state of the country was not quiet; but he thought that Morton, as an
American trader, should meet with few or no difficulties. The people of
the Balkans were tradesmen and loved to meet anyone by whom they could
profit. With this parting advice he left.
Returning to the Count’s hotel, Morton found him in bed, weak but
cheerful, with his valet and a newly engaged nurse in attendance.
Dr. Brown, who was in the adjoining apartment, had telephoned for a
prominent specialist from Rome who was expected to arrive within a few
hours.
Morton took a chair, and begging the nurse to leave him alone with her
invalid, sat down by the Count’s bedside. He told him in detail of what
he had done since leaving the ship. The information cheered the sick
man and brought a brighter look into his tired eyes. He pressed the
young man’s hand gratefully. “I trust you implicitly, dear friend,” he
murmured.
Morton smiled and promised that he would wire and write whenever he
could do so without endangering the attainment of his ultimate object.
He begged him to be of good cheer and to be patient--all would end
well. His father’s agent had instructions to be at the Count’s service.
Mr. Kelly, Morton’s agent, would call on him from time to time, and he
begged Count Rondell to make liberal use of his time.
The old man could not speak, so overcome was he with emotion; but he
pressed Morton’s hands and looked the gratitude he felt.
The hour had now approached when Morton must leave. The doctor also
had come in and whispered that the patient was being overtaxed. Morton
therefore rose:
“Count Rondell, my dear friend, I know what is in your mind. Let me
assure you, that come what may, I shall do my best to look after your
daughter. If you should not be here to protect her--I will. If she does
not find a suitable home at the court,--I shall bring her to my mother,
who will be her friend. Have no anxiety, dear friend. Think only of
yourself--think only of getting well again. But, again, whatever
happens she will never want a friend so long as I live.” He reached
for the sick man’s hand and as a final word, said earnestly, “I will
succeed.”
Count Rondell’s eyes had been closed while Morton was speaking. He
now opened them wide, and a wan, happy smile irradiated his face. He
pressed with feverish clasp the hand held out to him and whispered
rather than spoke: “May God reward you, my son. If I get well--I shall
be your debtor for life; if I die before your return--I shall die
happy. May God bless you, my boy--Good-bye!”
“Au revoir, Count--be of good courage and get well!”
Morton withdrew hastily, afraid to trust himself any longer because of
the stress of his emotions, and glad to relieve his mind in discussing
the final arrangements for the Count’s care with Dr. Brown. To his
agent, who was also waiting in the hotel, he entrusted the moneys the
Count had given him with the request that they be deposited at the
local branch of the “Banca Nationale” in the name and to the order of
the Count. He was to draw on Morton’s funds for all that was needed for
the Count’s comfort and to stop at no expense, if necessary.
Leaving the hotel, he threaded his way through the narrow and crowded
streets and arrived at the railway station, very tired and hungry. A
nearby _osteria_ invited him with its cheerful aspect. In the sunny
back-room the brown-faced comely hostess served him a bountiful meal
of which he ate heartily. When he had finished, he looked at his watch
and found he had still plenty of time. He thought of the cables he had
received and took them from his pocket. “Father rather unwell but not
serious according Brooks. Delay permissible. All well and send love,
Mother.” His father had cabled more laconically: “Go ahead. Christmas
will do. Agency has orders.”
He rang the bell and asked for pen, ink and paper. The smiling landlady
bowed and returned with a green and orange striped penholder and a tiny
bottle partly filled with a pale bluish fluid. What should he write?
He leaned over the table and played with the penholder idly, sipping
occasionally the chianti from a many-colored glass goblet. The slanting
rays of the October sun lighted up the plainly furnished room with its
whitewashed walls on which hung a chromo of a rosy-cheeked Madonna
and child, and a dark crucifix. The wax flowers on the mantelpiece
attracted a bee which buzzed noisily against the bell-shaped glass
covering. Occasionally Morton would look up and glance through the
open window through which he dreamily noticed the little brick-paved
garden, deeply shaded by the high wall and the buildings enclosing
it. A few brilliantly colored dahlias, some clumps of chrysanthemums,
and a few tomato plants despoiled of their crimson glory waved gently
in the wind. A solitary starling skipped in and out from between the
beds furtively glancing about with bright eyes and seemingly quite
unenthusiastic over the place in which he found himself. Even in sunny
Italy, the autumnal season has its sad forebodings.
Morton felt he owed his mother some reason for the change he had made
in his original plans. She would certainly expect an explanation.
What should he say without betraying the confidence imposed in him
by Count Rondell? And yet he longed to tell her of what was really
impelling him. Should he send her the photograph? And if he did what
could he say? No--he must say nothing about the girl. He must write
generalities,--perhaps drop a hint or so, and let it go at that.
The monotonous regular ticking of the clock in the adjoining public
room reminded him forcibly that time was passing and that the train
would not wait. Dipping the pen into the bottle, he began and wrote
rapidly:
BRINDISI, October ----, 189--.
MY DEAREST MOTHER:
Since leaving Port Said I have had time to reflect on my lengthened
stay here, of which I advised you by cable from Suez.
In Port Said I received your reply saying that father’s illness was
not serious and my further stay in Europe permissible. Also that you
and Sis were well. Here in Brindisi I received further confirmation
by cable from you and father.
Of course I am very happy that dear father’s ailment (I can’t imagine
what it can be) is not serious and fervently hope that you will be
getting him into fine shape soon. I hope by the time I get home, he
will be his old self again. I am equally glad that you and Ruth are
well and happy.
As to myself--physically I am disgracefully fine, mentally I have
nothing to worry me. I am more than anxious to get home, to embrace
you and kiss you, and tell you of my work, my adventures, and what I
have learned and done. I want to settle down, do anything you want
me to do, mater dear, either in business, in society or even as a
husband! Yes, dear mother, I am willing to do what you always hinted
I should do--take unto myself a wife, emulate father’s example and be
a good American business man and--a “paterfamilias.”
I didn’t intend to write all this, but since the cat is out o’ the
bag, I may as well confess it. I can imagine you now going over the
list of eligible girls; for of course there isn’t a girl living who
would not jump at the chance of marrying your boy, your handsome
John--all we have to do is to pick the best!
Seriously, mother, I feel it is time for me to cease wandering and
to look for happiness and satisfaction in a home. It is time for me
to be a true Morton (tempered, of course, with the blue blood of the
Randolphs) and try my best to carry out father’s wishes and work with
him.
I have seen and learned a great deal, but all that I have learned
only confirms me in my conviction that all work is ennobling, that
all true labor is equally honorable to a man. And I will do all I can
to make you proud of me. I am going to show you a trick or two! So
you’d better sit up and take notice!
To come back to the subject of girls--don’t smile, mater--I have
gotten a glimpse of a girl I want to know better. If she is what I
believe her to be, I shall try to win her. If all goes well, and _my_
ideal is realized--I am sure, dearest mother, you will love her. I do
not think I can lose my heart to one not worthy of your regard, and I
am too much your son not to have my judgment swayed by feelings and
sentiments like yours.
My taste has never been impugned--I must take after father, who
certainly had an eye for beauty if his choice of a wife is to be
anything to go by. This, between you and me, dearest mother, is a
confession.
Just think of it, in a few hours I shall have shaken the dust of
Italy (and with it the nasty little fleas that accompany it); in two
weeks both Africa and Europe will have become a memory, and I shall
be on the water sailing for my beloved home, eager to breathe the
free air of America, greet the star spangled glory of our own land
and be with you my dears--for better and for worse--for worse for
you, eh?
Tell Ruth to be good, not to eat too much turkey or pudding on
Thanksgiving and keep up her French. I shall bring her some new books
and, perhaps, a poodle to talk to. And give her my love--and for
goodness sake don’t tell her about the nonsense I have written on the
previous page.
To father give my dearest love and best wishes. If his work and
health permit we might, after New Year, run down to the Everglades
while you and Sis stay in St. Augustine, and get some sport.
You, dearest mother, I embrace many, many times.
I kiss and greet you all, my dears,
Your loving son,
JOHN.
The letter sealed and addressed, John gathered up his belongings, paid
his modest reckoning to the buxom lady of the _osteria_ and walked
briskly to the station, whence now shone the first lights of the
evening against the yellowish sky.
Dr. Brown and Mr. Kelly were both there to see him off. Soon the song
of the wheels kept time to his thoughts as the train sped on its way to
the North--to the new land of his adventure.
It was a relief to be once again entirely alone, alone with his
thoughts and his romance. His hand stole to the inner pocket of his
coat. From among the papers he carefully selected the photograph and
held it at arm’s length, contemplating it with happy anticipation.
“It seems like a fool’s errand, but, by Jove, you are a beautiful
girl! May success attend me--and may I bring you back with me, to my
people--my sweetheart--my wife!”