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

it.

 

“I—I like him very much, I think—at least—

no, I am not quite sure that I do. But it is difficult

to say, after seeing a person once.”

 

Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the

arm of his chair; a habit with him when anxious

or perplexed.

 

“About this journey to Rome,” he began again;

“if you think there is any—well—if you wish it,

Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go.”

 

“Padre! But the Vatican––”

 

“The Vatican will find someone else. I can

send apologies.”

 

“But why? I can’t understand.”

 

Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead.

 

“I am anxious about you. Things keep coming

into my head—and after all, there is no need

for me to go––”

 

“But the bishopric–-”

 

“Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a

bishopric and lose–-”

 

He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like

this before, and was greatly troubled.

 

“I can’t understand,” he said. “Padre, if you

could explain to me more—more definitely, what

it is you think––”

 

“I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible

fear. Tell me, is there any special danger?”

 

“He has heard something,” Arthur thought,

remembering the whispers of a projected revolt.

But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely

answered: “What special danger should there be?”

 

“Don’t question me—answer me!” Montanelli’s

voice was almost harsh in its eagerness.

“Are you in danger? I don’t want to know your

secrets; only tell me that!”

 

“We are all in God’s hands, Padre; anything

may always happen. But I know of no reason

why I should not be here alive and safe when you

come back.”

 

“When I come back–-Listen, carino; I will

leave it in your hands. You need give me no

reason; only say to me, ‘Stay,’ and I will give up

this journey. There will be no injury to anyone,

and I shall feel you are safer if I have you

beside me.”

 

This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign

to Montanelli’s character that Arthur looked at

him with grave anxiety.

 

“Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course

you must go to Rome, and try to have a thorough

rest and get rid of your sleeplessness and headaches.”

 

“Very well,” Montanelli interrupted, as if tired

of the subject; “I will start by the early coach

to-morrow morning.”

 

Arthur looked at him, wondering.

 

“You had something to tell me?” he said.

 

“No, no; nothing more—nothing of any consequence.”

There was a startled, almost terrified

look in his face.

 

A few days after Montanelli’s departure Arthur

went to fetch a book from the seminary library,

and met Father Cardi on the stairs.

 

“Ah, Mr. Burton!” exclaimed the Director;

“the very person I wanted. Please come in and

help me out of a difficulty.”

 

He opened the study door, and Arthur followed

him into the room with a foolish, secret sense of

resentment. It seemed hard to see this dear

study, the Padre’s own private sanctum, invaded

by a stranger.

 

“I am a terrible book-worm,” said the Director;

“and my first act when I got here was to examine

the library. It seems very interesting, but I do

not understand the system by which it is catalogued.”

 

“The catalogue is imperfect; many of the

best books have been added to the collection

lately.”

 

“Can you spare half an hour to explain the arrangement

to me?”

 

They went into the library, and Arthur carefully

explained the catalogue. When he rose to

take his hat, the Director interfered, laughing.

 

“No, no! I can’t have you rushing off in that

way. It is Saturday, and quite time for you to

leave off work till Monday morning. Stop and

have supper with me, now I have kept you so

late. I am quite alone, and shall be glad of

company.”

 

His manner was so bright and pleasant that Arthur

felt at ease with him at once. After some

desultory conversation, the Director inquired how

long he had known Montanelli.

 

“For about seven years. He came back from

China when I was twelve years old.”

 

“Ah, yes! It was there that he gained his reputation

as a missionary preacher. Have you been

his pupil ever since?”

 

“He began teaching me a year later, about the

time when I first confessed to him. Since I have

been at the Sapienza he has still gone on helping

me with anything I wanted to study that was not

in the regular course. He has been very kind to

me—you can hardly imagine how kind.”

 

“I can well believe it; he is a man whom no one

can fail to admire—a most noble and beautiful

nature. I have met priests who were out in China

with him; and they had no words high enough to

praise his energy and courage under all hardships,

and his unfailing devotion. You are fortunate to

have had in your youth the help and guidance of

such a man. I understood from him that you have

lost both parents.”

 

“Yes; my father died when I was a child, and

my mother a year ago.”

 

“Have you brothers and sisters?”

 

“No; I have step-brothers; but they were business

men when I was in the nursery.”

 

“You must have had a lonely childhood; perhaps

you value Canon Montanelli’s kindness the

more for that. By the way, have you chosen a

confessor for the time of his absence?”

 

“I thought of going to one of the fathers of

Santa Caterina, if they have not too many

penitents.”

 

“Will you confess to me?”

 

Arthur opened his eyes in wonder.

 

“Reverend Father, of course I—should be glad;

only–-”

 

“Only the Director of a theological seminary

does not usually receive lay penitents? That is

quite true. But I know Canon Montanelli takes

a great interest in you, and I fancy he is a little

anxious on your behalf—just as I should be if I

were leaving a favourite pupil—and would like to

know you were under the spiritual guidance of his

colleague. And, to be quite frank with you, my

son, I like you, and should be glad to give you

any help I can.”

 

“If you put it that way, of course I shall be

very grateful for your guidance.”

 

“Then you will come to me next month?

That’s right. And run in to see me, my lad, when

you have time any evening.”

 

… . .

 

Shortly before Easter Montanelli’s appointment

to the little see of Brisighella, in the Etruscan

Apennines, was officially announced. He

wrote to Arthur from Rome in a cheerful and

tranquil spirit; evidently his depression was passing

over. “You must come to see me every vacation,”

he wrote; “and I shall often be coming to

Pisa; so I hope to see a good deal of you, if not

so much as I should wish.”

 

Dr. Warren had invited Arthur to spend the

Easter holidays with him and his children, instead

of in the dreary, rat-ridden old place where Julia

now reigned supreme. Enclosed in the letter was

a short note, scrawled in Gemma’s childish, irregular

handwriting, begging him to come if possible,

“as I want to talk to you about something.”

Still more encouraging was the whispered communication

passing around from student to student in the university;

everyone was to be prepared for great things after Easter.

 

All this had put Arthur into a state of rapturous

anticipation, in which the wildest improbabilities

hinted at among the students seemed to

him natural and likely to be realized within the

next two months.

 

He arranged to go home on Thursday in Passion

week, and to spend the first days of the

vacation there, that the pleasure of visiting the

Warrens and the delight of seeing Gemma might

not unfit him for the solemn religious meditation

demanded by the Church from all her children at

this season. He wrote to Gemma, promising to

come on Easter Monday; and went up to his bedroom

on Wednesday night with a soul at peace.

 

He knelt down before the crucifix. Father

Cardi had promised to receive him in the morning;

and for this, his last confession before the

Easter communion, he must prepare himself by

long and earnest prayer. Kneeling with clasped

hands and bent head, he looked back over the

month, and reckoned up the miniature sins of

impatience, carelessness, hastiness of temper,

which had left their faint, small spots upon the

whiteness of his soul. Beyond these he could find

nothing; in this month he had been too happy

to sin much. He crossed himself, and, rising, began

to undress.

 

As he unfastened his shirt a scrap of paper

slipped from it and fluttered to the floor. It was

Gemma’s letter, which he had worn all day upon

his neck. He picked it up, unfolded it, and kissed

the dear scribble; then began folding the paper

up again, with a dim consciousness of having done

something very ridiculous, when he noticed on

the back of the sheet a postscript which he had

not read before. “Be sure and come as soon as

possible,” it ran, “for I want you to meet Bolla.

He has been staying here, and we have read together

every day.”

 

The hot colour went up to Arthur’s forehead as

he read.

 

Always Bolla! What was he doing in Leghorn

again? And why should Gemma want to read

with him? Had he bewitched her with his smuggling?

It had been quite easy to see at the meeting

in January that he was in love with her; that

was why he had been so earnest over his propaganda.

And now he was close to her—reading

with her every day.

 

Arthur suddenly threw the letter aside and knelt

down again before the crucifix. And this was the

soul that was preparing for absolution, for the

Easter sacrament—the soul at peace with God and

itself and all the world! A soul capable of sordid

jealousies and suspicions; of selfish animosities and

ungenerous hatred—and against a comrade! He covered

his face with both hands in bitter humiliation. Only

five minutes ago he had been dreaming of martyrdom; and

now he had been guilty of a mean and petty thought like this!

 

When he entered the seminary chapel on Thursday

morning he found Father Cardi alone. After

repeating the Confiteor, he plunged at once into

the subject of his last night’s backsliding.

 

“My father, I accuse myself of the sins of jealousy

and anger, and of unworthy thoughts against

one who has done me no wrong.”

 

Farther Cardi knew quite well with what kind of

penitent he had to deal. He only said softly:

 

“You have not told me all, my son.”

 

“Father, the man against whom I have thought

an unchristian thought is one whom I am

especially bound to love and honour.”

 

“One to whom you are bound by ties of

blood?”

 

“By a still closer tie.”

 

“By what tie, my son?”

 

“By that of comradeship.”

 

“Comradeship in what?”

 

“In a great and holy work.”

 

A little pause.

 

“And your anger against this—comrade, your

jealousy of him, was called forth by his success in

that work being greater than yours?”

 

“I—yes, partly. I envied him his experience—

his usefulness. And then—I thought—I feared—

that he would take from me the heart of the girl

I—love.”

 

“And this girl that you love, is she a daughter

of the Holy Church?”

 

“No; she is a Protestant.”

 

“A heretic?”

 

Arthur clasped his hands in great distress.

“Yes, a heretic,”