The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (phonics readers .txt) 📗

mechanical.

 

His greatest comfort was the head warder of the

prison. This was a little old man, fat and bald,

who at first had tried his hardest to wear a severe

expression. Gradually the good nature which

peeped out of every dimple in his chubby face conquered

his official scruples, and he began carrying

messages for the prisoners from cell to cell.

 

One afternoon in the middle of May this

warder came into the cell with a face so scowling

and gloomy that Arthur looked at him in

astonishment.

 

“Why, Enrico!” he exclaimed; “what on earth

is wrong with you to-day?”

 

“Nothing,” said Enrico snappishly; and, going

up to the pallet, he began pulling off the rug,

which was Arthur’s property.

 

“What do you want with my things? Am I to

be moved into another cell?”

 

“No; you’re to be let out.”

 

“Let out? What—to-day? For altogether?

Enrico!”

 

In his excitement Arthur had caught hold of the

old man’s arm. It was angrily wrenched away.

 

“Enrico! What has come to you? Why don’t

you answer? Are we all going to be let out?”

 

A contemptuous grunt was the only reply.

 

“Look here!” Arthur again took hold of the

warder’s arm, laughing. “It is no use for you to

be cross to me, because I’m not going to get

offended. I want to know about the others.”

 

“Which others?” growled Enrico, suddenly

laying down the shirt he was folding. “Not Bolla,

I suppose?”

 

“Bolla and all the rest, of course. Enrico, what

is the matter with you?”

 

“Well, he’s not likely to be let out in a hurry,

poor lad, when a comrade has betrayed him.

Ugh!” Enrico took up the shirt again in disgust.

 

“Betrayed him? A comrade? Oh, how dreadful!”

Arthur’s eyes dilated with horror. Enrico

turned quickly round.

 

“Why, wasn’t it you?”

 

“I? Are you off your head, man? I?”

 

“Well, they told him so yesterday at interrogation,

anyhow. I’m very glad if it wasn’t you, for I

always thought you were rather a decent young

fellow. This way!” Enrico stepped out into the

corridor and Arthur followed him, a light breaking

in upon the confusion of his mind.

 

“They told Bolla I’d betrayed him? Of course

they did! Why, man, they told me he had betrayed

me. Surely Bolla isn’t fool enough to

believe that sort of stuff?”

 

“Then it really isn’t true?” Enrico stopped at

the foot of the stairs and looked searchingly at

Arthur, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Of course it’s a lie.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, my lad, and I’ll tell

him you said so. But you see what they told him

was that you had denounced him out of—well, out

of jealousy, because of your both being sweet on

the same girl.”

 

“It’s a lie!” Arthur repeated the words in a

quick, breathless whisper. A sudden, paralyzing

fear had come over him. “The same girl—jealousy!”

How could they know—how could they know?

 

“Wait a minute, my lad.” Enrico stopped in

the corridor leading to the interrogation room,

and spoke softly. “I believe you; but just tell me

one thing. I know you’re a Catholic; did you

ever say anything in the confessional––”

 

“It’s a lie!” This time Arthur’s voice had risen

to a stifled cry.

 

Enrico shrugged his shoulders and moved on

again. “You know best, of course; but you

wouldn’t be the only young fool that’s been taken

in that way. There’s a tremendous ado just now

about a priest in Pisa that some of your friends

have found out. They’ve printed a leaflet saying

he’s a spy.”

 

He opened the door of the interrogation room,

and, seeing that Arthur stood motionless, staring

blankly before him, pushed him gently across the

threshold.

 

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Burton,” said the colonel,

smiling and showing his teeth amiably. “I have

great pleasure in congratulating you. An order

for your release has arrived from Florence. Will

you kindly sign this paper?”

 

Arthur went up to him. “I want to know,” he

said in a dull voice, “who it was that betrayed

me.”

 

The colonel raised his eyebrows with a smile.

 

“Can’t you guess? Think a minute.”

 

Arthur shook his head. The colonel put out

both hands with a gesture of polite surprise.

 

“Can’t guess? Really? Why, you yourself,

Mr. Burton. Who else could know your private

love affairs?”

 

Arthur turned away in silence. On the wall

hung a large wooden crucifix; and his eyes wandered

slowly to its face; but with no appeal in

them, only a dim wonder at this supine and patient

God that had no thunderbolt for a priest who betrayed

the confessional.

 

“Will you kindly sign this receipt for your

papers?” said the colonel blandly; “and then I

need not keep you any longer. I am sure you

must be in a hurry to get home; and my time is

very much taken up just now with the affairs of

that foolish young man, Bolla, who tried your

Christian forbearance so hard. I am afraid he

will get a rather heavy sentence. Good-afternoon!”

 

Arthur signed the receipt, took his papers, and

went out in dead silence. He followed Enrico to

the massive gate; and, without a word of farewell,

descended to the water’s edge, where a ferryman

was waiting to take him across the moat. As he

mounted the stone steps leading to the street, a

girl in a cotton dress and straw hat ran up to him

with outstretched hands.

 

“Arthur! Oh, I’m so glad—I’m so glad!”

 

He drew his hands away, shivering.

 

“Jim!” he said at last, in a voice that did not

seem to belong to him. “Jim!”

 

“I’ve been waiting here for half an hour. They

said you would come out at four. Arthur, why do

you look at me like that? Something has happened!

Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!”

 

He had turned away, and was walking slowly

down the street, as if he had forgotten her presence.

Thoroughly frightened at his manner, she

ran after him and caught him by the arm.

 

“Arthur!”

 

He stopped and looked up with bewildered eyes.

She slipped her arm through his, and they walked

on again for a moment in silence.

 

“Listen, dear,” she began softly; “you mustn’t

get so upset over this wretched business. I know

it’s dreadfully hard on you, but everybody understands.”

 

“What business?” he asked in the same dull

voice.

 

“I mean, about Bolla’s letter.”

 

Arthur’s face contracted painfully at the name.

 

“I thought you wouldn’t have heard of it,”

Gemma went on; “but I suppose they’ve told

you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined

such a thing.”

 

“Such a thing–-?”

 

“You don’t know about it, then? He has

written a horrible letter, saying that you have told

about the steamers, and got him arrested. It’s

perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows

you sees that; it’s only the people who don’t know

you that have been upset by it. Really, that’s what

I came here for—to tell you that no one in our

group believes a word of it.”

 

“Gemma! But it’s—it’s true!”

 

She shrank slowly away from him, and stood

quite still, her eyes wide and dark with horror, her

face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great

icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round

them both, shutting them out, in a world apart,

from the life and movement of the street.

 

“Yes,” he whispered at last; “the steamers—

I spoke of that; and I said his name—oh, my God!

my God! What shall I do?”

 

He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence

and the mortal terror in her face. Yes, of

course, she must think––

 

“Gemma, you don’t understand!” he burst out,

moving nearer; but she recoiled with a sharp cry:

 

“Don’t touch me!”

 

Arthur seized her right hand with sudden

violence.

 

“Listen, for God’s sake! It was not my fault;

I–-”

 

“Let go; let my hand go! Let go!”

 

The next instant she wrenched her fingers away

from his, and struck him across the cheek with her

open hand.

 

A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little

while he was conscious of nothing but Gemma’s

white and desperate face, and the right hand which

she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton

dress. Then the daylight crept back again, and he

looked round and saw that he was alone.

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

IT had long been dark when Arthur rang at the

front door of the great house in the Via Borra. He

remembered that he had been wandering about

the streets; but where, or why, or for how long, he

had no idea. Julia’s page opened the door, yawning,

and grinned significantly at the haggard,

stony face. It seemed to him a prodigious joke to

have the young master come home from jail like

a “drunk and disorderly” beggar. Arthur went

upstairs. On the first floor he met Gibbons coming

down with an air of lofty and solemn disapproval.

He tried to pass with a muttered “Good

evening”; but Gibbons was no easy person to get

past against his will.

 

“The gentlemen are out, sir,” he said, looking

critically at Arthur’s rather neglected dress and

hair. “They have gone with the mistress to an

evening party, and will not be back till nearly

twelve.”

 

Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o’clock.

Oh, yes! he would have time—plenty of time––

 

“My mistress desired me to ask whether you

would like any supper, sir; and to say that she

hopes you will sit up for her, as she particularly

wishes to speak to you this evening.”

 

“I don’t want anything, thank you; you can

tell her I have not gone to bed.”

 

He went up to his room. Nothing in it had

been changed since his arrest; Montanelli’s portrait

was on the table where he had placed it, and

the crucifix stood in the alcove as before. He

paused a moment on the threshold, listening; but

the house was quite still; evidently no one was

coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the

room and locked the door.

 

And so he had come to the end. There was

nothing to think or trouble about; an importunate

and useless consciousness to get rid of—and nothing

more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of

thing, somehow.

 

He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide,

nor indeed had he thought much about it;

the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He

had even no definite idea as to what manner of

death to choose; all that mattered was to be done

with it quickly—to have it over and forget. He

had no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife;

but that was of no consequence—a towel

would do, or a sheet torn into strips.

 

There was a large nail just over the window.

That would do; but it must be firm to bear his

weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it

was not quite firm, and he stepped down again and

took a hammer from a drawer. He knocked in the

nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his bed,

when he suddenly remembered that he had not

said his prayers. Of course, one must pray before

dying; every Christian does that. There are even

special prayers for a departing soul.

 

He went into the alcove and knelt down before

the crucifix. “Almighty and merciful God–-”

he began aloud; and with that broke off and said

no