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 that port the yacht will wait my return.  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.