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

of risking his neck, and his tendency

to run into unnecessary peril seemed to her

a form of intemperance which should be quietly

but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments

unavailing against his dogged resolve to go his

own way, she fired her last shot.

 

“Let us be honest about it, anyway,” she said;

“and call things by their true names. It is not

Domenichino’s difficulty that makes you so determined

to go. It is your own personal passion for–-”

 

“It’s not true!” he interrupted vehemently.

“He is nothing to me; I don’t care if I never see

him again.”

 

He broke off, seeing in her face that he had

betrayed himself. Their eyes met for an instant,

and dropped; and neither of them uttered the

name that was in both their minds.

 

“It—it is not Domenichino I want to save,” he

stammered at last, with his face half buried in the

cat’s fur; “it is that I—I understand the danger

of the work failing if he has no help.”

 

She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and

went on as if there had been no interruption:

 

“It is your passion for running into danger

which makes you want to go there. You have

the same craving for danger when you are worried

that you had for opium when you were ill.”

 

“It was not I that asked for the opium,” he said

defiantly; “it was the others who insisted on giving

it to me.”

 

“I dare say. You plume yourself a little on

your stoicism, and to ask for physical relief would

have hurt your pride; but it is rather flattered than

otherwise when you risk your life to relieve the

irritation of your nerves. And yet, after all, the

distinction is a merely conventional one.”

 

He drew the cat’s head back and looked down

into the round, green eyes. “Is it true, Pasht?”

he said. “Are all these unkind things true that

your mistress is ssaying about me? Is it a case

of mea culpa; mea m-maxima culpa? You wise

beast, you never ask for opium, do you? Your

ancestors were gods in Egypt, and no man t-trod

on their tails. I wonder, though, what would become

of your calm superiority to earthly ills if I

were to take this paw of yours and hold it in the

c-candle. Would you ask me for opium then?

Would you? Or perhaps—for death? No,

pussy, we have no right to die for our personal

convenience. We may spit and s-swear a bit, if

it consoles us; but we mustn’t pull the paw away.”

 

“Hush!” She took the cat off his knee and

put it down on a footstool. “You and I will

have time for thinking about those things later

on. What we have to think of now is how to get

Domenichino out of his difficulty. What is it,

Katie; a visitor? I am busy.”

 

“Miss Wright has sent you this, ma’am, by

hand.”

 

The packet, which was carefully sealed, contained

a letter, addressed to Miss Wright, but

unopened and with a Papal stamp. Gemma’s

old school friends still lived in Florence, and

her more important letters were often received,

for safety, at their address.

 

“It is Michele’s mark,” she said, glancing

quickly over the letter, which seemed to be about

the summer-terms at a boarding house in the

Apennines, and pointing to two little blots on a

corner of the page. “It is in chemical ink; the

reagent is in the third drawer of the writing-table.

Yes; that is it.”

 

He laid the letter open on the desk and passed

a little brush over its pages. When the real message

stood out on the paper in a brilliant blue line,

he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.

 

“What is it?” she asked hurriedly. He

handed her the paper.

 

“DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE.”

 

She sat down with the paper in her hand and

stared hopelessly at the Gadfly.

 

“W-well?” he said at last, with his soft, ironical

drawl; “are you satisfied now that I must go?”

 

“Yes, I suppose you must,” she answered, sighing.

“And I too.”

 

He looked up with a little start. “You too? But–-”

 

“Of course. It will be very awkward, I know,

to be left without anyone here in Florence; but

everything must go to the wall now except the

providing of an extra pair of hands.”

 

“There are plenty of hands to be got there.”

 

“They don’t belong to people whom you can

trust thoroughly, though. You said yourself just

now that there must be two responsible persons

in charge; and if Domenichino couldn’t manage

alone it is evidently impossible for you to do so.

A person as desperately compromised as you are

is very much handicapped, remember, in work of

that kind, and more dependent on help than anyone

else would be. Instead of you and Domenichino,

it must be you and I.”

 

He considered for a moment, frowning.

 

“Yes, you are quite right,” he said; “and the

sooner we go the better. But we must not start

together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say,

the afternoon coach to-morrow.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“That we must discuss. I think I had b-b-better

go straight in to Faenza. If I start late to-night

and ride to Borgo San Lorenzo I can get

my disguise arranged there and go straight on.”

 

“I don’t see what else we can do,” she said, with

an anxious little frown; “but it is very risky, your

going off in such a hurry and trusting to the smugglers

finding you a disguise at Borgo. You ought

to have at least three clear days to double on your

trace before you cross the frontier.”

 

“You needn’t be afraid,” he answered, smiling;

“I may get taken further on, but not at the frontier.

Once in the hills I am as safe as here; there’s

not a smuggler in the Apennines that would betray me.

What I am not quite sure about is how you are to get across.”

 

“Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa

Wright’s passport and go for a holiday. No one

knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you.”

 

“F-fortunately, so does every smuggler.”

 

She took out her watch.

 

“Half-past two. We have the afternoon and

evening, then, if you are to start to-night.”

 

“Then the best thing will be for me to go home

and settle everything now, and arrange about

a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it

will be safer.”

 

“But it won’t be safe at all to hire a horse. The

owner will–—”

 

“I shan’t hire one. I know a man that will lend

me a horse, and that can be trusted. He has done

things for me before. One of the shepherds will

bring it back in a fortnight. I shall be here again

by five or half-past, then; and while I am gone,

I w-want you to go and find Martini and exp-plain

everything to him.”

 

“Martini!” She turned round and looked at

him in astonishment.

 

“Yes; we must take him into confidence—unless

you can think of anyone else.”

 

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

 

“We must have someone here whom we can

trust, in case of any special difficulty; and of all

the set here Martini is the man in whom I have

most confidence. Riccardo would do anything he

could for us, of course; but I think Martini has

a steadier head. Still, you know him better than

I do; it is as you think.”

 

“I have not the slightest doubt as to Martini’s

trustworthiness and efficiency in every respect; and

I think he would probably consent to give us any

help he could. But–-”

 

He understood at once.

 

“Gemma, what would you feel if you found out

that a comrade in bitter need had not asked you

for help you might have given, for fear of hurting

or distressing you? Would you say there was any

true kindness in that?”

 

“Very well,” she said, after a little pause; “I

will send Katie round at once and ask him to

come; and while she is gone I will go to Louisa

for her passport; she promised to lend it whenever

I want one. What about money? Shall I draw

some out of the bank?”

 

“No; don’t waste time on that; I can draw

enough from my account to last us for a bit. We

will fall back on yours later on if my balance runs

short. Till half-past five, then; I shall be sure to

find you here, of course?”

 

“Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then.”

 

Half an hour after the appointed time he returned,

and found Gemma and Martini sitting on

the terrace together. He saw at once that their

conversation had been a distressing one; the traces

of agitation were visible in both of them, and Martini

was unusually silent and glum.

 

“Have you arranged everything?” she asked,

looking up.

 

“Yes; and I have brought you some money for

the journey. The horse will be ready for me at

the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night.”

 

“Is not that rather late? You ought to get

into San Lorenzo before the people are up in the

morning.”

 

“So I shall; it’s a very fast horse; and I don’t

want to leave here when there’s a chance of anyone

noticing me. I shan’t go home any more;

there’s a spy watching at the door, and he thinks

me in.”

 

“How did you get out without his seeing

you?”

 

“Out of the kitchen window into the back garden

and over the neighbour’s orchard wall; that’s

what makes me so late; I had to dodge him. I

left the owner of the horse to sit in the study all

the evening with the lamp lighted. When the spy

sees the light in the window and a shadow on the

blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing

at home this evening.”

 

“Then you will stay here till it is time to go to

the barrier?”

 

“Yes; I don’t want to be seen in the street any

more to-night. Have a cigar, Martini? I know

Signora Bolla doesn’t mind smoke.”

 

“I shan’t be here to mind; I must go downstairs

and help Katie with the dinner.”

 

When she had gone Martini got up and began

to pace to and fro with his hands behind his back.

The Gadfly sat smoking and looking silently out

at the drizzling rain.

 

“Rivarez!” Martini began, stopping in front of

him, but keeping his eyes on the ground; “what

sort of thing are you going to drag her into?”

 

The Gadfly took the cigar from his mouth and

blew away a long trail of smoke.

 

“She has chosen for herself,” he said, “without

compulsion on anyone’s part.”

 

“Yes, yes—I know. But tell me–-”

 

He stopped.

 

“I will tell you anything I can.”

 

“Well, then—I don’t know much about the

details of these affairs in the hills,—are you going

to take her into any very serious danger?”

 

“Do you want the truth?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then—yes.”

 

Martini turned away and went on pacing up and

down. Presently he stopped again.

 

“I want to ask you another question. If you

don’t choose to answer it, you needn’t, of course;

but if you do answer, then answer honestly. Are

you in love with her?”

 

The Gadfly deliberately knocked the ash from

his cigar and went on smoking in silence.

 

“That means—that