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!”