The Gadfly, E. L. Voynich [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

you

from thinking of it. And I have tried to, dear,

though I may not have succeeded—I have,

indeed.”

 

“I know you have,” she answered softly, raising

her eyes for a moment; “I should have been

badly off without your friendship. But—Giovanni

did not tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?”

 

“No, I didn’t know that he had anything to

do with it. What he told me was about—all that

affair with the spy, and about–-”

 

“About my striking Arthur and his drowning

himself. Well, I will tell you about Montanelli.”

 

They turned back towards the bridge over which

the Cardinal’s carriage would have to pass.

Gemma looked out steadily across the water as

she spoke.

 

“In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was

Director of the Theological Seminary at Pisa, and

used to give Arthur lessons in philosophy and read

with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They

were perfectly devoted to each other; more like

two lovers than teacher and pupil. Arthur almost

worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on,

and I remember his once telling me that if he lost

his ‘Padre’—he always used to call Montanelli so

—he should go and drown himself. Well, then

you know what happened about the spy. The

next day, my father and the Burtons—Arthur’s

step-brothers, most detestable people—spent the

whole day dragging the Darsena basin for the

body; and I sat in my room alone and thought of

what I had done–-”

 

She paused a moment, and went on again:

 

“Late in the evening my father came into my

room and said: ‘Gemma, child, come downstairs;

there’s a man I want you to see.’ And when we

went down there was one of the students belonging

to the group sitting in the consulting room,

all white and shaking; and he told us about Giovanni’s

second letter coming from the prison to

say that they had heard from the jailer about

Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked in the

confessional. I remember the student saying to

me: ‘It is at least some consolation that we know

he was innocent’ My father held my hands and

tried to comfort me; he did not know then about

the blow. Then I went back to my room and

sat there all night alone. In the morning my

father went out again with the Burtons to see the

harbour dragged. They had some hope of finding

the body there.”

 

“It was never found, was it?”

 

“No; it must have got washed out to sea; but

they thought there was a chance. I was alone in

my room and the servant came up to say that a

‘reverendissimo padre’ had called and she had

told him my father was at the docks and he had

gone away. I knew it must be Montanelli; so I

ran out at the back door and caught him up at

the garden gate. When I said: ‘Canon Montanelli,

I want to speak to you,’ he just stopped and

waited silently for me to speak. Oh, Cesare, if

you had seen his face—it haunted me for months

afterwards! I said: ‘I am Dr. Warren’s daughter,

and I have come to tell you that it is I who have

killed Arthur.’ I told him everything, and he

stood and listened, like a figure cut in stone, till

I had finished; then he said: ‘Set your heart at

rest, my child; it is I that am a murderer, not you.

I deceived him and he found it out.’ And with

that he turned and went out at the gate without

another word.”

 

“And then?”

 

“I don’t know what happened to him after that;

I heard the same evening that he had fallen down

in the street in a kind of fit and had been carried

into a house near the docks; but that is all

I know. My father did everything he could for

me; when I told him about it he threw up

his practice and took me away to England at

once, so that I should never hear anything that

could remind me. He was afraid I should end in

the water, too; and indeed I believe I was near it

at one time. But then, you know, when we found

out that my father had cancer I was obliged to

come to myself—there was no one else to nurse

him. And after he died I was left with the little

ones on my hands until my elder brother was able

to give them a home. Then there was Giovanni.

Do you know, when he came to England we were

almost afraid to meet each other with that frightful

memory between us. He was so bitterly

remorseful for his share in it all—that unhappy

letter he wrote from prison. But I believe,

really, it was our common trouble that drew us

together.”

 

Martini smiled and shook his head.

 

“It may have been so on your side,” he said;

“but Giovanni had made up his mind from the

first time he ever saw you. I remember his coming

back to Milan after that first visit to Leghorn

and raving about you to me till I was perfectly

sick of hearing of the English Gemma. I thought

I should hate you. Ah! there it comes!”

 

The carriage crossed the bridge and drove up to

a large house on the Lung’Arno. Montanelli was

leaning back on the cushions as if too tired to

care any longer for the enthusiastic crowd which

had collected round the door to catch a glimpse of

him. The inspired look that his face had worn

in the Cathedral had faded quite away and the

sunlight showed the lines of care and fatigue.

When he had alighted and passed, with the heavy,

spiritless tread of weary and heart-sick old age,

into the house, Gemma turned away and walked

slowly to the bridge. Her face seemed for a moment

to reflect the withered, hopeless look of his.

Martini walked beside her in silence.

 

“I have so often wondered,” she began again

after a little pause; “what he meant about the

deception. It has sometimes occurred to me–-”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Well, it is very strange; there was the

most extraordinary personal resemblance between

them.”

 

“Between whom?”

 

“Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I

who noticed it. And there was something mysterious

in the relationship between the members

of that household. Mrs. Burton, Arthur’s mother,

was one of the sweetest women I ever knew. Her

face had the same spiritual look as Arthur’s, and

I believe they were alike in character, too. But

she always seemed half frightened, like a detected

criminal; and her step-son’s wife used to treat

her as no decent person treats a dog. And then

Arthur himself was such a startling contrast to

all those vulgar Burtons. Of course, when one

is a child one takes everything for granted; but

looking back on it afterwards I have often wondered

whether Arthur was really a Burton.”

 

“Possibly he found out something about his

mother—that may easily have been the cause of

his death, not the Cardi affair at all,” Martini

interposed, offering the only consolation he could

think of at the moment. Gemma shook her

head.

 

“If you could have seen his face after I struck

him, Cesare, you would not think that. It may

be all true about Montanelli—very likely it is—

but what I have done I have done.”

 

They walked on a little way without speaking,

 

“My dear,” Martini said at last; “if there were

any way on earth to undo a thing that is once

done, it would be worth while to brood over our

old mistakes; but as it is, let the dead bury their

dead. It is a terrible story, but at least the

poor lad is out of it now, and luckier than some

of those that are left—the ones that are in exile

and in prison. You and I have them to think of,

we have no right to eat out our hearts for the

dead. Remember what your own Shelley says:

‘The past is Death’s, the future is thine own.’

Take it, while it is still yours, and fix your mind,

not on what you may have done long ago to hurt,

but on what you can do now to help.”

 

In his earnestness he had taken her hand. He

dropped it suddenly and drew back at the sound

of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.

 

“Monsignor Montan-n-nelli,” murmured this

languid voice, “is undoubtedly all you say, my

dear doctor. In fact, he appears to be so much

too good for this world that he ought to be politely

escorted into the next. I am sure he would

cause as great a sensation there as he has done

here; there are p-p-probably many old-established

ghosts who have never seen such a thing as an

honest cardinal. And there is nothing that ghosts

love as they do novelties–-”

 

“How do you know that?” asked Dr. Riccardo’s

voice in a tone of ill-suppressed irritation.

 

“From Holy Writ, my dear sir. If the Gospel

is to be trusted, even the most respectable of all

Ghosts had a f-f-fancy for capricious alliances.

Now, honesty and c-c-cardinals—that seems to

me a somewhat capricious alliance, and rather an

uncomfortable one, like shrimps and liquorice.

Ah, Signor Martini, and Signora Bolla! Lovely

weather after the rain, is it not? Have you been

to hear the n-new Savonarola, too?”

 

Martini turned round sharply. The Gadfly,

with a cigar in his mouth and a hot-house flower

in his buttonhole, was holding out to him a slender,

carefully-gloved hand. With the sunlight reflected

in his immaculate boots and glancing back

from the water on to his smiling face, he looked

to Martini less lame and more conceited than

usual. They were shaking hands, affably on the

one side and rather sulkily on the other, when

Riccardo hastily exclaimed:

 

“I am afraid Signora Bolla is not well!”

 

She was so pale that her face looked almost livid

under the shadow of her bonnet, and the ribbon

at her throat fluttered perceptibly from the violent

beating of the heart.

 

“I will go home,” she said faintly.

 

A cab was called and Martini got in with her

to see her safely home. As the Gadfly bent down

to arrange her cloak, which was hanging over the

wheel, he raised his eyes suddenly to her face, and

Martini saw that she shrank away with a look of

something like terror.

 

“Gemma, what is the matter with you?” he

asked, in English, when they had started. “What

did that scoundrel say to you?”

 

“Nothing, Cesare; it was no fault of his. I—

I—had a fright–-”

 

“A fright?”

 

“Yes; I fancied–-” She put one hand over

her eyes, and he waited silently till she should

recover her self-command. Her face was already

regaining its natural colour.

 

“You are quite right,” she said at last, turning

to him and speaking in her usual voice; “it is

worse than useless to look back at a horrible past.

It plays tricks with one’s nerves and makes one

imagine all sorts of impossible things. We will

NEVER talk about that subject again, Cesare, or I

shall see fantastic likenesses to Arthur in every

face I meet. It is a kind of hallucination, like

a nightmare in broad daylight. Just now, when

that odious little fop came up, I fancied it was

Arthur.”

 

CHAPTER V.

 

THE Gadfly certainly knew how to make personal

enemies. He had arrived in Florence in

August, and by the end of October three-fourths

of the committee which had invited him shared

Martini’s opinion. His savage attacks upon Montanelli

had annoyed even his admirers;