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

more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull

that there was nothing left to pray for—or against.

And then, what did Christ know about a trouble

of this kind—Christ, who had never suffered it?

He had only been betrayed, like Bolla; He had

never been tricked into betraying.

 

Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit.

Approaching the table, he saw lying upon it a

letter addressed to him, in Montanelli’s handwriting.

It was in pencil:

 

“My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment

to me that I cannot see you on the day of your

release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying

man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come

to me early to-morrow morning. In great haste,

 

“L. M.”

 

He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem

hard on the Padre.

 

How the people had laughed and gossiped in the

streets! Nothing was altered since the days when

he had been alive. Not the least little one of all

the daily trifles round him was changed because a

human soul, a living human soul, had been struck

down dead. It was all just the same as before.

The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows

had twittered under the eaves; just as they

had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow.

And as for him, he was dead—quite dead.

 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his

arms along the foot-rail, and rested his forehead

upon them. There was plenty of time; and his

head ached so—the very middle of the brain

seemed to ache; it was all so dull and stupid—so

utterly meaningless–-

 

… . .

 

The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started

up in a breathless agony of terror, with both hands

at his throat. They had come back—he had sat

there dreaming, and let the precious time slip

away—and now he must see their faces and hear

their cruel tongues—their sneers and comments—

If only he had a knife––

 

He looked desperately round the room. His

mother’s work-basket stood in a little cupboard;

surely there would be scissors; he might sever an

artery. No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he

had time.

 

He dragged the counterpane from his bed, and

with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The

sound of footsteps came up the stairs. No; the

strip was too wide; it would not tie firmly; and

there must be a noose. He worked faster as the

footsteps drew nearer; and the blood throbbed in

his temples and roared in his ears. Quicker—

quicker! Oh, God! five minutes more!

 

There was a knock at the door. The strip of

torn stuff dropped from his hands, and he sat quite

still, holding his breath to listen. The handle of

the door was tried; then Julia’s voice called:

 

“Arthur!”

 

He stood up, panting.

 

“Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting.”

 

He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it

into a drawer, and hastily smoothed down the

bed.

 

“Arthur!” This time it was James who called,

and the door-handle was shaken impatiently.

“Are you asleep?”

 

Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything

was hidden, and unlocked the door.

 

“I should think you might at least have obeyed

my express request that you should sit up for us,

Arthur,” said Julia, sweeping into the room in a

towering passion. “You appear to think it the

proper thing for us to dance attendance for half

an hour at your door–-”

 

“Four minutes, my dear,” James mildly corrected,

stepping into the room at the end of his

wife’s pink satin train. “I certainly think, Arthur,

that it would have been more—becoming if–-”

 

“What do you want?” Arthur interrupted. He

was standing with his hand upon the door, glancing

furtively from one to the other like a trapped

animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too

angry to notice the look.

 

Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat

down, carefully pulling up his new trousers at the

knees. “Julia and I,” he began, “feel it to be our

duty to speak to you seriously about–-”

 

“I can’t listen to-night; I—I’m not well. My

head aches—you must wait.”

 

Arthur spoke in a strange, indistinct voice, with

a confused and rambling manner. James looked

round in surprise.

 

“Is there anything the matter with you?” he

asked anxiously, suddenly remembering that Arthur

had come from a very hotbed of infection.

“I hope you’re not sickening for anything. You

look quite feverish.”

 

“Nonsense!” Julia interrupted sharply. “It’s

only the usual theatricals, because he’s ashamed to

face us. Come here and sit down, Arthur.”

Arthur slowly crossed the room and sat down on

the bed. “Yes?” he said wearily.

 

Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat,

smoothed his already immaculate beard, and began

the carefully prepared speech over again:

 

“I feel it to be my duty—my painful duty—to

speak very seriously to you about your extraordinary

behaviour in connecting yourself with—a—

law-breakers and incendiaries and—a—persons of

disreputable character. I believe you to have been,

perhaps, more foolish than depraved—a–-”

 

He paused.

 

“Yes?” Arthur said again.

 

“Now, I do not wish to be hard on you,” James

went on, softening a little in spite of himself

before the weary hopelessness of Arthur’s manner.

“I am quite willing to believe that you have been

led away by bad companions, and to take into

account your youth and inexperience and the—a—

a—imprudent and—a—impulsive character which

you have, I fear, inherited from your mother.”

 

Arthur’s eyes wandered slowly to his mother’s

portrait and back again, but he did not speak.

 

“But you will, I feel sure, understand,” James

continued, “that it is quite impossible for me to

keep any longer in my house a person who has

brought public disgrace upon a name so highly

respected as ours.”

 

“Yes?” Arthur repeated once more.

 

“Well?” said Julia sharply, closing her fan with

a snap and laying it across her knee. “Are you

going to have the goodness to say anything but

‘Yes,’ Arthur?”

 

“You will do as you think best, of course,” he

answered slowly, without moving. “It doesn’t

matter much either way.”

 

“Doesn’t—matter?” James repeated, aghast;

and his wife rose with a laugh.

 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t it? Well, James,

I hope you understand now how much gratitude

you may expect in that quarter. I told you what

would come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses

and their–-”

 

“Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!”

 

“It’s all nonsense, James; we’ve had more than

enough of this sentimentality! A love-child setting

himself up as a member of the family—it’s

quite time he did know what his mother was!

Why should we be saddled with the child of

a Popish priest’s amourettes? There, then—

look!”

 

She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her

pocket and tossed it across the table to Arthur.

He opened it; the writing was in his mother’s

hand, and was dated four months before his birth.

It was a confession, addressed to her husband, and

with two signatures.

 

Arthur’s eyes travelled slowly down the page,

past the unsteady letters in which her name was

written, to the strong, familiar signature: “Lorenzo

Montanelli.” For a moment he stared at

the writing; then, without a word, refolded the

paper and laid it down. James rose and took his

wife by the arm.

 

“There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs

now; it’s late, and I want to talk a little business

with Arthur. It won’t interest you.”

 

She glanced up at her husband; then back at

Arthur, who was silently staring at the floor.

 

“He seems half stupid,” she whispered.

 

When she had gathered up her train and left the

room, James carefully shut the door and went back

to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as before,

perfectly motionless and silent.

 

“Arthur,” James began in a milder tone, now

Julia was not there to hear, “I am very sorry that

this has come out. You might just as well not

have known it. However, all that’s over; and I

am pleased to see that you can behave with such

self-control. Julia is a—a little excited; ladies

often—anyhow, I don’t want to be too hard on

you.”

 

He stopped to see what effect the kindly words

had produced; but Arthur was quite motionless.

 

“Of course, my dear boy,” James went on after

a moment, “this is a distressing story altogether,

and the best thing we can do is to hold our tongues

about it. My father was generous enough not to

divorce your mother when she confessed her fall to

him; he only demanded that the man who had led

her astray should leave the country at once; and,

as you know, he went to China as a missionary.

For my part, I was very much against your having

anything to do with him when he came back; but

my father, just at the last, consented to let him

teach you, on condition that he never attempted to

see your mother. I must, in justice, acknowledge

that I believe they both observed that condition

faithfully to the end. It is a very deplorable

business; but–-”

 

Arthur looked up. All the life and expression

had gone out of his face; it was like a waxen

mask.

 

“D-don’t you think,” he said softly, with a curious

stammering hesitation on the words, “th-that—all

this—is—v-very—funny?”

 

“FUNNY?” James pushed his chair away from

the table, and sat staring at him, too much petrified

for anger. “Funny! Arthur, are you mad?”

 

Arthur suddenly threw back his head, and burst

into a frantic fit of laughing.

 

“Arthur!” exclaimed the shipowner, rising with

dignity, “I am amazed at your levity!”

 

There was no answer but peal after peal of

laughter, so loud and boisterous that even James

began to doubt whether there was not something

more the matter here than levity.

 

“Just like a hysterical woman,” he muttered,

turning, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders,

to tramp impatiently up and down the room.

“Really, Arthur, you’re worse than Julia; there,

stop laughing! I can’t wait about here all night.”

 

He might as well have asked the crucifix to come

down from its pedestal. Arthur was past caring

for remonstrances or exhortations; he only

laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.

 

“This is absurd!” said James, stopping at last

in his irritated pacing to and fro. “You are evidently

too much excited to be reasonable to-night.

I can’t talk business with you if you’re going on

that way. Come to me to-morrow morning after

breakfast. And now you had better go to bed.

Good-night.”

 

He went out, slamming the door. “Now for the

hysterics downstairs,” he muttered as he tramped

noisily away. “I suppose it’ll be tears there!”

 

… . .

 

The frenzied laughter died on Arthur’s lips.

He snatched up the hammer from the table and

flung himself upon the crucifix.

 

With the crash that followed he came suddenly

to his senses, standing before the empty pedestal,

the hammer still in his hand, and the fragments of

the broken image scattered on the floor about his

feet.

 

He threw down the hammer. “So easy!” he

said, and turned away. “And what an idiot

I am!”

 

He sat down by the table, panting heavily for

breath, and rested his forehead on both hands.

Presently he rose, and, going to the wash-stand,

poured a jugful of cold water over his head and

face. He came back quite composed, and sat down

to think.

 

And it was for such things