The Gadfly Ethel Voynich (e reader manga TXT) đ
- Author: Ethel Voynich
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âYou should not have gone up to college so soon; you were tired out with sick-nursing and being up at night. I ought to have insisted on your taking a thorough rest before you left Leghorn.â
âOh, Padre, whatâs the use of that? I couldnât stop in that miserable house after mother died. Julia would have driven me mad!â
Julia was his eldest stepbrotherâs wife, and a thorn in his side.
âI should not have wished you to stay with your relatives,â Montanelli answered gently. âI am sure it would have been the worst possible thing for you. But I wish you could have accepted the invitation of your English doctor friend; if you had spent a month in his house you would have been more fit to study.â
âNo, Padre, I shouldnât indeed! The Warrens are very good and kind, but they donât understand; and then they are sorry for meâ âI can see it in all their facesâ âand they would try to console me, and talk about mother. Gemma wouldnât, of course; she always knew what not to say, even when we were babies; but the others would. And it isnât only thatâ ââ
âWhat is it then, my son?â
Arthur pulled off some blossoms from a drooping foxglove stem and crushed them nervously in his hand.
âI canât bear the town,â he began after a momentâs pause. âThere are the shops where she used to buy me toys when I was a little thing, and the walk along the shore where I used to take her until she got too ill. Wherever I go itâs the same thing; every market-girl comes up to me with bunches of flowersâ âas if I wanted them now! And thereâs the churchyardâ âI had to get away; it made me sick to see the placeâ ââ
He broke off and sat tearing the foxglove bells to pieces. The silence was so long and deep that he looked up, wondering why the Padre did not speak. It was growing dark under the branches of the magnolia, and everything seemed dim and indistinct; but there was light enough to show the ghastly paleness of Montanelliâs face. He was bending his head down, his right hand tightly clenched upon the edge of the bench. Arthur looked away with a sense of awestruck wonder. It was as though he had stepped unwittingly on to holy ground.
âMy God!â he thought; âhow small and selfish I am beside him! If my trouble were his own he couldnât feel it more.â
Presently Montanelli raised his head and looked round. âI wonât press you to go back there; at all events, just now,â he said in his most caressing tone; âbut you must promise me to take a thorough rest when your vacation begins this summer. I think you had better get a holiday right away from the neighborhood of Leghorn. I canât have you breaking down in health.â
âWhere shall you go when the seminary closes, Padre?â
âI shall have to take the pupils into the hills, as usual, and see them settled there. But by the middle of August the subdirector will be back from his holiday. I shall try to get up into the Alps for a little change. Will you come with me? I could take you for some long mountain rambles, and you would like to study the Alpine mosses and lichens. But perhaps it would be rather dull for you alone with me?â
âPadre!â Arthur clasped his hands in what Julia called his âdemonstrative foreign way.â âI would give anything on earth to go away with you. Onlyâ âI am not sureâ ââ He stopped.
âYou donât think Mr. Burton would allow it?â
âHe wouldnât like it, of course, but he could hardly interfere. I am eighteen now and can do what I choose. After all, heâs only my stepbrother; I donât see that I owe him obedience. He was always unkind to mother.â
âBut if he seriously objects, I think you had better not defy his wishes; you may find your position at home made much harder ifâ ââ
âNot a bit harder!â Arthur broke in passionately. âThey always did hate me and always willâ âit doesnât matter what I do. Besides, how can James seriously object to my going away with youâ âwith my father confessor?â
âHe is a Protestant, remember. However, you 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.â
The rebuke was so gently given that Arthur hardly coloured under it. âYes, I know,â he answered, sighing; âbut it is so difficultâ ââ
âI was sorry you could not come to me on Tuesday evening,â Montanelli said, abruptly introducing a new subject. âThe Bishop of Arezzo was here, and I should have liked you to meet him.â
âI had promised one of the students to go to a meeting at his lodgings, and they would have been expecting me.â
âWhat sort of meeting?â
Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question. âItâ âit was n-not a r-regular meeting,â he said with a nervous little stammer. âA student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to usâ âa-a sort ofâ âlecture.â
âWhat did he lecture about?â
Arthur hesitated. âYou wonât ask me his name, Padre, will you? Because I promisedâ ââ
âI 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.â
âPadre, of course I can. He spoke aboutâ âus and our duty to the peopleâ âand toâ âour own selves; and aboutâ âwhat we might do to helpâ ââ
âTo help whom?â
âThe contadiniâ âandâ ââ
âAnd?â
âItaly.â
There was a long silence.
âTell me, Arthur,â said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very gravely, âhow long have you been thinking about this?â
âSinceâ âlast winter.â
âBefore your motherâs death? And did she know of it?â
âN-no. Iâ âI didnât care about it then.â
âAnd now youâ âcare about it?â
Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.
âIt was this way, Padre,â he began, with his eyes on
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