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

like you; I wish I were really

your nephew–-Padre, what is the matter?

How white you are!”

 

Montanelli was standing up, pressing one hand

to his forehead. “I am a little giddy,” he said in

a curiously faint, dull tone. “Perhaps I was too

much in the sun this morning. I will go and lie

down, carino; it’s nothing but the heat.”

 

… . .

 

After a fortnight beside the Lake of Lucerne

Arthur and Montanelli returned to Italy by the

St. Gothard Pass. They had been fortunate as

to weather and had made several very pleasant excursions;

but the first charm was gone out of their

enjoyment. Montanelli was continually haunted

by an uneasy thought of the “more definite talk”

for which this holiday was to have been the opportunity.

In the Arve valley he had purposely

put off all reference to the subject of which they

had spoken under the magnolia tree; it would be

cruel, he thought, to spoil the first delights of

Alpine scenery for a nature so artistic as Arthur’s

by associating them with a conversation which

must necessarily be painful. Ever since the day

at Martigny he had said to himself each morning;

“I will speak to-day,” and each evening: “I will

speak to-morrow;” and now the holiday was over,

and he still repeated again and again: “To-morrow,

to-morrow.” A chill, indefinable sense of

something not quite the same as it had been, of

an invisible veil falling between himself and

Arthur, kept him silent, until, on the last evening

of their holiday, he realized suddenly that

he must speak now if he would speak at all.

They were stopping for the night at Lugano,

and were to start for Pisa next morning. He

would at least find out how far his darling had

been drawn into the fatal quicksand of Italian

politics.

 

“The rain has stopped, carino,” he said after

sunset; “and this is the only chance we shall have

to see the lake. Come out; I want to have a talk

with you.”

 

They walked along the water’s edge to a quiet

spot and sat down on a low stone wall. Close

beside them grew a rose-bush, covered with scarlet

hips; one or two belated clusters of creamy

blossom still hung from an upper branch, swaying

mournfully and heavy with raindrops. On the

green surface of the lake a little boat, with white

wings faintly fluttering, rocked in the dewy breeze.

It looked as light and frail as a tuft of silvery

dandelion seed flung upon the water. High up

on Monte Salvatore the window of some shepherd’s

hut opened a golden eye. The roses hung

their heads and dreamed under the still September

clouds, and the water plashed and murmured

softly among the pebbles of the shore.

 

“This will be my only chance of a quiet talk

with you for a long time,” Montanelli began.

“You will go back to your college work and

friends; and I, too, shall be very busy this winter.

I want to understand quite clearly what our position

as regards each other is to be; and so, if

you–-” He stopped for a moment and then

continued more slowly: “If you feel that you can

still trust me as you used to do, I want you to tell

me more definitely than that night in the seminary

garden, how far you have gone.”

 

Arthur looked out across the water, listened

quietly, and said nothing.

 

“I want to know, if you will tell me,” Montanelli

went on; “whether you have bound yourself

by a vow, or—in any way.”

 

“There is nothing to tell, dear Padre; I have

not bound myself, but I am bound.”

 

“I don’t understand––”

 

“What is the use of vows? They are not what

binds people. If you feel in a certain way about

a thing, that binds you to it; if you don’t feel that

way, nothing else can bind you.”

 

“Do you mean, then, that this thing—this—

feeling is quite irrevocable? Arthur, have you

thought what you are saying?”

 

Arthur turned round and looked straight into

Montanelli’s eyes.

 

“Padre, you asked me if I could trust you.

Can you not trust me, too? Indeed, if there were

anything to tell, I would tell it to you; but there

is no use in talking about these things. I have

not forgotten what you said to me that night; I

shall never forget it. But I must go my way and

follow the light that I see.”

 

Montanelli picked a rose from the bush, pulled

off the petals one by one, and tossed them into

the water.

 

“You are right, carino. Yes, we will say no

more about these things; it seems there is indeed

no help in many words–-Well, well, let us go

in.”

 

CHAPTER III.

 

THE autumn and winter passed uneventfully.

Arthur was reading hard and had little spare time.

He contrived to get a glimpse of Montanelli once

or oftener in every week, if only for a few

minutes. From time to time he would come

in to ask for help with some difficult book; but

on these occasions the subject of study was

strictly adhered to. Montanelli, feeling, rather

than observing, the slight, impalpable barrier that

had come between them, shrank from everything

which might seem like an attempt to retain the

old close relationship. Arthur’s visits now caused

him more distress than pleasure, so trying was the

constant effort to appear at ease and to behave as

if nothing were altered. Arthur, for his part,

noticed, hardly understanding it, the subtle

change in the Padre’s manner; and, vaguely feeling

that it had some connection with the vexed

question of the “new ideas,” avoided all mention

of the subject with which his thoughts were constantly

filled. Yet he had never loved Montanelli

so deeply as now. The dim, persistent sense of

dissatisfaction, of spiritual emptiness, which he

had tried so hard to stifle under a load of theology

and ritual, had vanished into nothing at the touch

of Young Italy. All the unhealthy fancies born of

loneliness and sick-room watching had passed

away, and the doubts against which he used to

pray had gone without the need of exorcism.

With the awakening of a new enthusiasm, a

clearer, fresher religious ideal (for it was more in

this light than in that of a political development

that the students’ movement had appeared to

him), had come a sense of rest and completeness,

of peace on earth and good will towards men; and

in this mood of solemn and tender exaltation all

the world seemed to him full of light. He found

a new element of something lovable in the persons

whom he had most disliked; and Montanelli, who

for five years had been his ideal hero, was now in

his eyes surrounded with an additional halo, as a

potential prophet of the new faith. He listened

with passionate eagerness to the Padre’s sermons,

trying to find in them some trace of inner kinship

with the republican ideal; and pored over the

Gospels, rejoicing in the democratic tendencies of

Christianity at its origin.

 

One day in January he called at the seminary to

return a book which he had borrowed. Hearing

that the Father Director was out, he went up to

Montanelli’s private study, placed the volume on

its shelf, and was about to leave the room when

the title of a book lying on the table caught his

eyes. It was Dante’s “De Monarchia.” He

began to read it and soon became so absorbed that

when the door opened and shut he did not hear.

He was aroused from his preoccupation by Montanelli’s

voice behind him.

 

“I did not expect you to-day,” said the Padre,

glancing at the title of the book. “I was just

going to send and ask if you could come to me

this evening.”

 

“Is it anything important? I have an engagement

for this evening; but I will miss it if––”

 

“No; to-morrow will do. I want to see you

because I am going away on Tuesday. I have

been sent for to Rome.”

 

“To Rome? For long?”

 

“The letter says, ‘till after Easter.’ It is from

the Vatican. I would have let you know at once,

but have been very busy settling up things about

the seminary and making arrangements for the new

Director.”

 

“But, Padre, surely you are not giving up the

seminary?”

 

“It will have to be so; but I shall probably come

back to Pisa, for some time at least.”

 

“But why are you giving it up?”

 

“Well, it is not yet officially announced;

but I am offered a bishopric.”

 

“Padre! Where?”

 

“That is the point about which I have to go to

Rome. It is not yet decided whether I am to

take a see in the Apennines, or to remain here as

Suffragan.”

 

“And is the new Director chosen yet?”

 

“Father Cardi has been nominated and arrives

here to-morrow.”

 

“Is not that rather sudden?”

 

“Yes; but–-The decisions of the Vatican

are sometimes not communicated till the last

moment.”

 

“Do you know the new Director?”

 

“Not personally; but he is very highly spoken

of. Monsignor Belloni, who writes, says that he

is a man of great erudition.”

 

“The seminary will miss you terribly.”

 

“I don’t know about the seminary, but I am sure

you will miss me, carino; perhaps almost as much

as I shall miss you.”

 

“I shall indeed; but I am very glad, for all

that.”

 

“Are you? I don’t know that I am.” He sat

down at the table with a weary look on his face;

not the look of a man who is expecting high

promotion.

 

“Are you busy this afternoon, Arthur?” he said

after a moment. “If not, I wish you would stay

with me for a while, as you can’t come to-night.

I am a little out of sorts, I think; and I want to

see as much of you as possible before leaving.”

 

“Yes, I can stay a bit. I am due at six.”

 

“One of your meetings?”

 

Arthur nodded; and Montanelli changed the

subject hastily.

 

“I want to speak to you about yourself,” he

said. “You will need another confessor in my

absence.”

 

“When you come back I may go on confessing

to you, may I not?”

 

“My dear boy, how can you ask? Of course I

am speaking only of the three or four months that

I shall be away. Will you go to one of the

Fathers of Santa Caterina?”

 

“Very well.”

 

They talked of other matters for a little while;

then Arthur rose.

 

“I must go, Padre; the students will be waiting

for me.”

 

The haggard look came back to Montanelli’s

face.

 

“Already? You had almost charmed away

my black mood. Well, good-bye.”

 

“Good-bye. I will be sure to come to-morrow.”

 

“Try to come early, so that I may have time

to see you alone. Father Cardi will be here.

Arthur, my dear boy, be careful while I am gone;

don’t be led into doing anything rash, at least before

I come back. You cannot think how anxious

I feel about leaving you.”

 

“There is no need, Padre; everything is quite

quiet. It will be a long time yet.”

 

“Good-bye,” Montanelli said abruptly, and sat

down to his writing.

 

The first person upon whom Arthur’s eyes fell,

as he entered the room where the students’ little

gatherings were held, was his old playmate, Dr.

Warren’s daughter. She was sitting in a corner

by the window, listening with an absorbed and

earnest face to what one of the “initiators,” a tall

young Lombard in a