The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (latest novels to read .txt) 📖

>had better write to him, and we will wait to hear

what he thinks. But you must not be impatient,

my son; it matters just as much what you do,

whether people hate you or love you.”

 

The rebuke was so gently given that Arthur

hardly coloured under it. “Yes, I know,” he

answered, sighing; “but it is so difficult–-”

 

“I was sorry you could not come to me on

Tuesday evening,” Montanelli said, abruptly introducing

a new subject. “The Bishop of Arezzo

was here, and I should have liked you to meet

him.”

 

“I had promised one of the students to go to a

meeting at his lodgings, and they would have been

expecting me.”

 

“What sort of meeting?”

 

Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question.

“It—it was n-not a rregular meeting,” he said

with a nervous little stammer. “A student had

come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us—

a-a sort of—lecture.”

 

“What did he lecture about?”

 

Arthur hesitated. “You won’t ask me his

name, Padre, will you? Because I promised–-”

 

“I will ask you no questions at all, and if you

have promised secrecy of course you must not tell

me; but I think you can almost trust me by this

time.”

 

“Padre, of course I can. He spoke about—us

and our duty to the people—and to—our own

selves; and about—what we might do to

help–-”

 

“To help whom?”

 

“The contadini—and–-”

 

“And?”

 

“Italy.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“Tell me, Arthur,” said Montanelli, turning to

him and speaking very gravely, “how long have

you been thinking about this?”

 

“Since—last winter.”

 

“Before your mother’s death? And did she

know of it?”

 

“N-no. I—I didn’t care about it then.”

 

“And now you—care about it?”

 

Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the

foxglove.

 

“It was this way, Padre,” he began, with his

eyes on the ground. “When I was preparing for

the entrance examination last autumn, I got to

know a good many of the students; you remember?

Well, some of them began to talk to me

about—all these things, and lent me books. But

I didn’t care much about it; I always wanted to

get home quick to mother. You see, she was quite

alone among them all in that dungeon of a house;

and Julia’s tongue was enough to kill her. Then,

in the winter, when she got so ill, I forgot all about

the students and their books; and then, you know,

I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have

talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went

right out of my head. Then I found out that she

was going to die–-You know, I was almost

constantly with her towards the end; often I would

sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would come

in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in

those long nights; I got thinking about the books

and about what the students had said—and wondering—

whether they were right and—what—

Our Lord would have said about it all.”

 

“Did you ask Him?” Montanelli’s voice was

not quite steady.

 

“Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to

Him to tell me what I must do, or to let me die

with mother. But I couldn’t find any answer.”

 

“And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I

hoped you could have trusted me.”

 

“Padre, you know I trust you! But there are

some things you can’t talk about to anyone. I—it

seemed to me that no one could help me—not

even you or mother; I must have my own answer

straight from God. You see, it is for all my life

and all my soul.”

 

Montanelli turned away and stared into the

dusky gloom of the magnolia branches. The

twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy

look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.

 

“And then?” he asked slowly.

 

“And then—she died. You know, I had been

up the last three nights with her–-”

 

He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli

did not move.

 

“All those two days before they buried her,”

Arthur went on in a lower voice, “I couldn’t think

about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill;

you remember, I couldn’t come to confession.”

 

“Yes; I remember.”

 

“Well, in the night I got up and went into

mother’s room. It was all empty; there was only

the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought

perhaps God would help me. I knelt down

and waited—all night. And in the morning

when I came to my senses—Padre, it isn’t any use;

I can’t explain. I can’t tell you what I saw—I

hardly know myself. But I know that God has

answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him.”

 

For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness.

Then Montanelli turned and laid his hand

on Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“My son,” he said, “God forbid that I should

say He has not spoken to your soul. But remember

your condition when this thing happened, and

do not take the fancies of grief or illness for His

solemn call. And if, indeed, it has been His will

to answer you out of the shadow of death, be sure

that you put no false construction on His word.

What is this thing you have it in your heart

to do?”

 

Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though

repeating a catechism:

 

“To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing

her from all this slavery and wretchedness, and in

driving out the Austrians, that she may be a

free republic, with no king but Christ.”

 

“Arthur, think a moment what you are saying!

You are not even an Italian.”

 

“That makes no difference; I am myself. I

have seen this thing, and I belong to it.”

 

There was silence again.

 

“You spoke just now of what Christ would have

said–-” Montanelli began slowly; but Arthur

interrupted him:

 

“Christ said: ‘He that loseth his life for my

sake shall find it.’”

 

Montanelli leaned his arm against a branch, and

shaded his eyes with one hand.

 

“Sit down a moment, my son,” he said at

last.

 

Arthur sat down, and the Padre took both his

hands in a strong and steady clasp.

 

“I cannot argue with you to-night,” he said;

“this has come upon me so suddenly—I had not

thought—I must have time to think it over.

Later on we will talk more definitely. But, for

just now, I want you to remember one thing. If

you get into trouble over this, if you—die, you

will break my heart.”

 

“Padre–-”

 

“No; let me finish what I have to say. I told

you once that I have no one in the world but you.

I think you do not fully understand what that

means. It is difficult when one is so young; at

your age I should not have understood. Arthur,

you are as my—as my—own son to me. Do you

see? You are the light of my eyes and the desire

of my heart. I would die to keep you from making

a false step and ruining your life. But there

is nothing I can do. I don’t ask you to make any

promises to me; I only ask you to remember this,

and to be careful. Think well before you take an

irrevocable step, for my sake, if not for the sake

of your mother in heaven.”

 

“I will think—and—Padre, pray for me, and for

Italy.”

 

He knelt down in silence, and in silence Montanelli

laid his hand on the bent head. A moment

later Arthur rose, kissed the hand, and went

softly away across the dewy grass. Montanelli

sat alone under the magnolia tree, looking straight

before him into the blackness.

 

“It is the vengeance of God that has fallen upon

me,” he thought, “as it fell upon David. I, that

have defiled His sanctuary, and taken the Body of

the Lord into polluted hands,—He has been very

patient with me, and now it is come. ‘For thou

didst it secretly, but I will do this thing before all

Israel, and before the sun; THE CHILD THAT IS BORN

UNTO THEE SHALL SURELY DIE.’”

 

CHAPTER II.

 

MR. JAMES BURTON did not at all like the idea

of his young step-brother “careering about Switzerland”

with Montanelli. But positively to forbid

a harmless botanizing tour with an elderly professor

of theology would seem to Arthur, who knew

nothing of the reason for the prohibition, absurdly

tyrannical. He would immediately attribute it to

religious or racial prejudice; and the Burtons

prided themselves on their enlightened tolerance.

The whole family had been staunch Protestants

and Conservatives ever since Burton & Sons, shipowners,

of London and Leghorn, had first set up

in business, more than a century back. But they

held that English gentlemen must deal fairly, even

with Papists; and when the head of the house,

finding it dull to remain a widower, had married

the pretty Catholic governess of his younger children,

the two elder sons, James and Thomas, much

as they resented the presence of a step-mother

hardly older than themselves, had submitted with

sulky resignation to the will of Providence. Since

the father’s death the eldest brother’s marriage

had further complicated an already difficult position;

but both brothers had honestly tried to

protect Gladys, as long as she lived, from Julia’s

merciless tongue, and to do their duty, as they

understood it, by Arthur. They did not even pretend

to like the lad, and their generosity towards

him showed itself chiefly in providing him with

lavish supplies of pocket money and allowing him

to go his own way.

 

In answer to his letter, accordingly, Arthur received

a cheque to cover his expenses and a cold

permission to do as he pleased about his holidays.

He expended half his spare cash on botanical books

and pressing-cases, and started off with the Padre

for his first Alpine ramble.

 

Montanelli was in lighter spirits than Arthur

had seen him in for a long while. After the first

shock of the conversation in the garden he had

gradually recovered his mental balance, and now

looked upon the case more calmly. Arthur was

very young and inexperienced; his decision could

hardly be, as yet, irrevocable. Surely there was

still time to win him back by gentle persuasion and

reasoning from the dangerous path upon which

he had barely entered.

 

They had intended to stay a few days at Geneva;

but at the first sight of the glaring white streets

and dusty, tourist-crammed promenades, a little

frown appeared on Arthur’s face. Montanelli

watched him with quiet amusement.

 

“You don’t like it, carino?”

 

“I hardly know. It’s so different from what I

expected. Yes, the lake is beautiful, and I like the

shape of those hills.” They were standing on

Rousseau’s Island, and he pointed to the long,

severe outlines of the Savoy side. “But the town

looks so stiff and tidy, somehow—so Protestant;

it has a self-satisfied air. No, I don’t like it; it

reminds me of Julia.”

 

Montanelli laughed. “Poor boy, what a misfortune!

Well, we are here for our own amusement, so there

is no reason why we should stop. Suppose we take a

sail on the lake to-day, and go up into the mountains

to-morrow morning?”

 

“But, Padre, you wanted to stay here?”

 

“My dear boy, I have seen all these places a

dozen times. My holiday is to see your pleasure.

Where would you like to go?”

 

“If it is really the same to you, I should like to

follow the river back