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

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“Perhaps he may give me a few hints, though,

or introduce me to a friendly sailor or two,” the

Gadfly had answered. “Anyway, it’s worth while

to try.”

 

One day at the end of the month he came into

her study less carefully dressed than usual, and she

saw at once from his face that he had good news

to tell.

 

“Ah, at last! I was beginning to think something

must have happened to you!”

 

“I thought it safer not to write, and I couldn’t

get back sooner.”

 

“You have just arrived?”

 

“Yes; I am straight from the diligence; I

looked in to tell you that the affair is all settled.”

 

“Do you mean that Bailey has really consented

to help?”

 

“More than to help; he has undertaken the

whole thing,—packing, transports,—everything.

The rifles will be hidden in bales of merchandise

and will come straight through from England.

His partner, Williams, who is a great friend of his,

has consented to see the transport off from Southampton,

and Bailey will slip it through the

custom house at Leghorn. That is why I have

been such a long time; Williams was just starting

for Southampton, and I went with him as far as

Genoa.”

 

“To talk over details on the way?”

 

“Yes, as long as I wasn’t too sea-sick to talk

about anything.”

 

“Are you a bad sailor?” she asked quickly, remembering

how Arthur had suffered from sea-sickness one day when her

father had taken them both for a pleasure-trip.

 

“About as bad as is possible, in spite of having

been at sea so much. But we had a talk

while they were loading at Genoa. You know

Williams, I think? He’s a thoroughly good fellow,

trustworthy and sensible; so is Bailey, for

that matter; and they both know how to hold

their tongues.”

 

“It seems to me, though, that Bailey is running

a serious risk in doing a thing like this.”

 

“So I told him, and he only looked sulky and

said: ‘What business is that of yours?’ Just the

sort of thing one would expect him to say. If I

met Bailey in Timbuctoo, I should go up to him

and say: ‘Good-morning, Englishman.’”

 

“But I can’t conceive how you managed to get

their consent; Williams, too; the last man I

should have thought of.”

 

“Yes, he objected strongly at first; not on the

ground of danger, though, but because the thing

is ‘so unbusiness-like.’ But I managed to win

him over after a bit. And now we will go into

details.”

 

… . .

 

When the Gadfly reached his lodgings the sun

had set, and the blossoming pyrus japonica that

hung over the garden wall looked dark in the fading

light. He gathered a few sprays and carried

them into the house. As he opened the study

door, Zita started up from a chair in the corner and

ran towards him.

 

“Oh, Felice; I thought you were never coming!”

 

His first impulse was to ask her sharply what

business she had in his study; but, remembering

that he had not seen her for three weeks, he held

out his hand and said, rather frigidly:

 

“Good-evening, Zita; how are you?”

 

She put up her face to be kissed, but he moved

past as though he had not seen the gesture, and

took up a vase to put the pyrus in. The next

instant the door was flung wide open, and the

collie, rushing into the room, performed an ecstatic

dance round him, barking and whining with delight.

He put down the flowers and stooped to pat the dog.

 

“Well, Shaitan, how are you, old man? Yes,

it’s really I. Shake hands, like a good dog!”

 

The hard, sullen look came into Zita’s face.

 

“Shall we go to dinner?” she asked coldly. “I

ordered it for you at my place, as you wrote that

you were coming this evening.”

 

He turned round quickly.

 

“I am v-v-very sorry; you sh-should not have

waited for me! I will just get a bit tidy and

come round at once. P-perhaps you would not

mind putting these into water.”

 

When he came into Zita’s dining room she was

standing before a mirror, fastening one of the

sprays into her dress. She had apparently made

up her mind to be good-humoured, and came up to

him with a little cluster of crimson buds tied

together.

 

“Here is a buttonhole for you; let me put it in

your coat.”

 

All through dinner-time he did his best to be

amiable, and kept up a flow of small-talk, to which

she responded with radiant smiles. Her evident

joy at his return somewhat embarrassed him;

he had grown so accustomed to the idea that she

led her own life apart from his, among such friends

and companions as were congenial to her, that it

had never occurred to him to imagine her as missing

him. And yet she must have felt dull to be

so much excited now.

 

“Let us have coffee up on the terrace,” she said;

“it is quite warm this evening.”

 

“Very well. Shall I take your guitar? Perhaps

you will sing.”

 

She flushed with delight; he was critical about

music and did not often ask her to sing.

 

On the terrace was a broad wooden bench running

round the walls. The Gadfly chose a corner

with a good view of the hills, and Zita, seating herself

on the low wall with her feet on the bench,

leaned back against a pillar of the roof. She did

not care much for scenery; she preferred to look at

the Gadfly.

 

“Give me a cigarette,” she said. “I don’t believe

I have smoked once since you went away.”

 

“Happy thought! It’s just s-s-smoke I want

to complete my bliss.”

 

She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly.

 

“Are you really happy?”

 

The Gadfly’s mobile brows went up.

 

“Yes; why not? I have had a good dinner; I

am looking at one of the m-most beautiful views

in Europe; and now I’m going to have coffee and

hear a Hungarian folk-song. There is nothing the

matter with either my conscience or my digestion;

what more can man desire?”

 

“I know another thing you desire.”

 

“What?”

 

“That!” She tossed a little cardboard box

into his hand.

 

“B-burnt almonds! Why d-didn’t you tell me

before I began to s-smoke?” he cried reproachfully.

 

“Why, you baby! you can eat them when you

have done smoking. There comes the coffee.”

 

The Gadfly sipped his coffee and ate his burnt

almonds with the grave and concentrated enjoyment

of a cat drinking cream.

 

“How nice it is to come back to d-decent coffee,

after the s-s-stuff one gets at Leghorn!” he said

in his purring drawl.

 

“A very good reason for stopping at home now

you are here.”

 

“Not much stopping for me; I’m off again

to-morrow.”

 

The smile died on her face.

 

“To-morrow! What for? Where are you going to?”

 

“Oh! two or three p-p-places, on business.”

 

It had been decided between him and Gemma

that he must go in person into the Apennines to

make arrangements with the smugglers of the

frontier region about the transporting of the firearms.

To cross the Papal frontier was for him a

matter of serious danger; but it had to be done if

the work was to succeed.

 

“Always business!” Zita sighed under her

breath; and then asked aloud:

 

“Shall you be gone long?”

 

“No; only a fortnight or three weeks, p-p-probably.”

 

“I suppose it’s some of THAT business?” she

asked abruptly.

 

“‘That’ business?”

 

“The business you’re always trying to get your

neck broken over—the everlasting politics.”

 

“It has something to do with p-p-politics.”

 

Zita threw away her cigarette.

 

“You are fooling me,” she said. “You are

going into some danger or other.”

 

“I’m going s-s-straight into the inf-fernal regions,”

he answered languidly. “D-do you happen to have any friends

there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn’t pull it

all down, though.”

 

She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber

from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.

 

“You are going into danger,” she repeated;

“and you won’t even say so honestly! Do you

think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and

joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of

these days, and never so much as say good-bye.

It’s always politics and politics—I’m sick of

politics!”

 

“S-so am I,” said the Gadfly, yawning lazily;

“and therefore we’ll talk about something else—

unless you will sing.”

 

“Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?”

 

“The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice

so well.”

 

She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of

the man who loses first his horse, then his home,

and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with

the reflection that “more was lost at Mohacz

field.” The song was one of the Gadfly’s especial

favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the

bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as

no softer music ever did.

 

Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came

from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement

desire of life. She would have sung Italian or

Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but

she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.

 

The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and

parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this

before. As she came to the last line, her voice

began suddenly to shake.

 

“Ah, no matter! More was lost–-”

 

She broke down with a sob and hid her face

among the ivy leaves.

 

“Zita!” The Gadfly rose and took the guitar

from her hand. “What is it?”

 

She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in

both hands. He touched her on the arm.

 

“Tell me what is the matter,” he said caressingly.

 

“Let me alone!” she sobbed, shrinking away.

“Let me alone!”

 

He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the

sobs died away. Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck;

she was kneeling on the floor beside him.

 

“Felice—don’t go! Don’t go away!”

 

“We will talk about that afterwards,” he said,

gently extricating himself from the clinging arms.

“Tell me first what has upset you so. Has anything

been frightening you?”

 

She silently shook her head.

 

“Have I done anything to hurt you?”

 

“No.” She put a hand up against his throat.

 

“What, then?”

 

“You will get killed,” she whispered at last.

“I heard one of those men that come here say the

other day that you will get into trouble—and

when I ask you about it you laugh at me!”

 

“My dear child,” the Gadfly said, after a little

pause of astonishment, “you have got some exaggerated

notion into your head. Very likely I shall

get killed some day—that is the natural consequence

of being a revolutionist. But there is no

reason to suppose I am g-g-going to get killed

just now. I am running no more risk than other

people.”

 

“Other people—what are other people to me?

If you loved me you wouldn’t go off this way and

leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whether

you’re arrested, or dream you are dead whenever

I go to sleep. You don’t care as much for me as

for that dog there!”

 

The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other

end of the terrace. He was quite unprepared for

such a scene as this and at a loss