The Gadfly, E. L. Voynich [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗
- Author: E. L. Voynich
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that there was nothing left to pray for—or against.
And then, what did Christ know about a trouble
of this kind—Christ, who had never suffered it?
He had only been betrayed, like Bolla; He had
never been tricked into betraying.
Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit.
Approaching the table, he saw lying upon it a
letter addressed to him, in Montanelli’s handwriting.
It was in pencil:
“My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment
to me that I cannot see you on the day of your
release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying
man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come
to me early to-morrow morning. In great haste,
“L. M.”
He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem
hard on the Padre.
How the people had laughed and gossiped in the
streets! Nothing was altered since the days when
he had been alive. Not the least little one of all
the daily trifles round him was changed because a
human soul, a living human soul, had been struck
down dead. It was all just the same as before.
The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows
had twittered under the eaves; just as they
had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow.
And as for him, he was dead—quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his
arms along the foot-rail, and rested his forehead
upon them. There was plenty of time; and his
head ached so—the very middle of the brain
seemed to ache; it was all so dull and stupid—so
utterly meaningless–-
… . .
The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started
up in a breathless agony of terror, with both hands
at his throat. They had come back—he had sat
there dreaming, and let the precious time slip
away—and now he must see their faces and hear
their cruel tongues—their sneers and comments—
If only he had a knife––
He looked desperately round the room. His
mother’s work-basket stood in a little cupboard;
surely there would be scissors; he might sever an
artery. No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he
had time.
He dragged the counterpane from his bed, and
with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The
sound of footsteps came up the stairs. No; the
strip was too wide; it would not tie firmly; and
there must be a noose. He worked faster as the
footsteps drew nearer; and the blood throbbed in
his temples and roared in his ears. Quicker—
quicker! Oh, God! five minutes more!
There was a knock at the door. The strip of
torn stuff dropped from his hands, and he sat quite
still, holding his breath to listen. The handle of
the door was tried; then Julia’s voice called:
“Arthur!”
He stood up, panting.
“Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting.”
He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it
into a drawer, and hastily smoothed down the
bed.
“Arthur!” This time it was James who called,
and the door-handle was shaken impatiently.
“Are you asleep?”
Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything
was hidden, and unlocked the door.
“I should think you might at least have obeyed
my express request that you should sit up for us,
Arthur,” said Julia, sweeping into the room in a
towering passion. “You appear to think it the
proper thing for us to dance attendance for half
an hour at your door–-”
“Four minutes, my dear,” James mildly corrected,
stepping into the room at the end of his
wife’s pink satin train. “I certainly think, Arthur,
that it would have been more—becoming if–-”
“What do you want?” Arthur interrupted. He
was standing with his hand upon the door, glancing
furtively from one to the other like a trapped
animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too
angry to notice the look.
Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat
down, carefully pulling up his new trousers at the
knees. “Julia and I,” he began, “feel it to be our
duty to speak to you seriously about–-”
“I can’t listen to-night; I—I’m not well. My
head aches—you must wait.”
Arthur spoke in a strange, indistinct voice, with
a confused and rambling manner. James looked
round in surprise.
“Is there anything the matter with you?” he
asked anxiously, suddenly remembering that Arthur
had come from a very hotbed of infection.
“I hope you’re not sickening for anything. You
look quite feverish.”
“Nonsense!” Julia interrupted sharply. “It’s
only the usual theatricals, because he’s ashamed to
face us. Come here and sit down, Arthur.”
Arthur slowly crossed the room and sat down on
the bed. “Yes?” he said wearily.
Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat,
smoothed his already immaculate beard, and began
the carefully prepared speech over again:
“I feel it to be my duty—my painful duty—to
speak very seriously to you about your extraordinary
behaviour in connecting yourself with—a—
law-breakers and incendiaries and—a—persons of
disreputable character. I believe you to have been,
perhaps, more foolish than depraved—a–-”
He paused.
“Yes?” Arthur said again.
“Now, I do not wish to be hard on you,” James
went on, softening a little in spite of himself
before the weary hopelessness of Arthur’s manner.
“I am quite willing to believe that you have been
led away by bad companions, and to take into
account your youth and inexperience and the—a—
a—imprudent and—a—impulsive character which
you have, I fear, inherited from your mother.”
Arthur’s eyes wandered slowly to his mother’s
portrait and back again, but he did not speak.
“But you will, I feel sure, understand,” James
continued, “that it is quite impossible for me to
keep any longer in my house a person who has
brought public disgrace upon a name so highly
respected as ours.”
“Yes?” Arthur repeated once more.
“Well?” said Julia sharply, closing her fan with
a snap and laying it across her knee. “Are you
going to have the goodness to say anything but
‘Yes,’ Arthur?”
“You will do as you think best, of course,” he
answered slowly, without moving. “It doesn’t
matter much either way.”
“Doesn’t—matter?” James repeated, aghast;
and his wife rose with a laugh.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t it? Well, James,
I hope you understand now how much gratitude
you may expect in that quarter. I told you what
would come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses
and their–-”
“Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!”
“It’s all nonsense, James; we’ve had more than
enough of this sentimentality! A love-child setting
himself up as a member of the family—it’s
quite time he did know what his mother was!
Why should we be saddled with the child of
a Popish priest’s amourettes? There, then—
look!”
She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her
pocket and tossed it across the table to Arthur.
He opened it; the writing was in his mother’s
hand, and was dated four months before his birth.
It was a confession, addressed to her husband, and
with two signatures.
Arthur’s eyes travelled slowly down the page,
past the unsteady letters in which her name was
written, to the strong, familiar signature: “Lorenzo
Montanelli.” For a moment he stared at
the writing; then, without a word, refolded the
paper and laid it down. James rose and took his
wife by the arm.
“There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs
now; it’s late, and I want to talk a little business
with Arthur. It won’t interest you.”
She glanced up at her husband; then back at
Arthur, who was silently staring at the floor.
“He seems half stupid,” she whispered.
When she had gathered up her train and left the
room, James carefully shut the door and went back
to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as before,
perfectly motionless and silent.
“Arthur,” James began in a milder tone, now
Julia was not there to hear, “I am very sorry that
this has come out. You might just as well not
have known it. However, all that’s over; and I
am pleased to see that you can behave with such
self-control. Julia is a—a little excited; ladies
often—anyhow, I don’t want to be too hard on
you.”
He stopped to see what effect the kindly words
had produced; but Arthur was quite motionless.
“Of course, my dear boy,” James went on after
a moment, “this is a distressing story altogether,
and the best thing we can do is to hold our tongues
about it. My father was generous enough not to
divorce your mother when she confessed her fall to
him; he only demanded that the man who had led
her astray should leave the country at once; and,
as you know, he went to China as a missionary.
For my part, I was very much against your having
anything to do with him when he came back; but
my father, just at the last, consented to let him
teach you, on condition that he never attempted to
see your mother. I must, in justice, acknowledge
that I believe they both observed that condition
faithfully to the end. It is a very deplorable
business; but–-”
Arthur looked up. All the life and expression
had gone out of his face; it was like a waxen
mask.
“D-don’t you think,” he said softly, with a curious
stammering hesitation on the words, “th-that—all
this—is—v-very—funny?”
“FUNNY?” James pushed his chair away from
the table, and sat staring at him, too much petrified
for anger. “Funny! Arthur, are you mad?”
Arthur suddenly threw back his head, and burst
into a frantic fit of laughing.
“Arthur!” exclaimed the shipowner, rising with
dignity, “I am amazed at your levity!”
There was no answer but peal after peal of
laughter, so loud and boisterous that even James
began to doubt whether there was not something
more the matter here than levity.
“Just like a hysterical woman,” he muttered,
turning, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders,
to tramp impatiently up and down the room.
“Really, Arthur, you’re worse than Julia; there,
stop laughing! I can’t wait about here all night.”
He might as well have asked the crucifix to come
down from its pedestal. Arthur was past caring
for remonstrances or exhortations; he only
laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.
“This is absurd!” said James, stopping at last
in his irritated pacing to and fro. “You are evidently
too much excited to be reasonable to-night.
I can’t talk business with you if you’re going on
that way. Come to me to-morrow morning after
breakfast. And now you had better go to bed.
Good-night.”
He went out, slamming the door. “Now for the
hysterics downstairs,” he muttered as he tramped
noisily away. “I suppose it’ll be tears there!”
… . .
The frenzied laughter died on Arthur’s lips.
He snatched up the hammer from the table and
flung himself upon the crucifix.
With the crash that followed he came suddenly
to his senses, standing before the empty pedestal,
the hammer still in his hand, and the fragments of
the broken image scattered on the floor about his
feet.
He threw down the hammer. “So easy!” he
said, and turned away. “And what an idiot
I am!”
He sat down by the table, panting heavily for
breath, and rested his forehead on both hands.
Presently he rose, and, going to the wash-stand,
poured a jugful of cold water over his head and
face. He came back quite composed, and sat down
to think.
And it was for such things
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