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

>“When does he pass?” asked the Gadfly.

 

“About twelve o’clock; and I want to be home

before he comes. Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez,

shall we walk together?”

 

“No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall

see you again?”

 

“Yes; at Castel Bolognese. I don’t know yet

what disguise I shall be in, but you have the passWord.

You leave here to-morrow, I think?”

 

The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard

and wig before the looking-glass.

 

“To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims. On

the next day I fall ill and stop behind in a shepherd’s

hut, and then take a short cut across the hills. I shall

be down there before you will. Good-night!”

 

Twelve o’clock was striking from the Cathedral

bell-tower as the Gadfly looked in at the door of

the great empty barn which had been thrown open

as a lodging for the pilgrims. The floor was

covered with clumsy figures, most of which were

snoring lustily, and the air was insufferably close

and foul. He drew back with a little shudder of

repugnance; it would be useless to attempt to

sleep in there; he would take a walk, and then

find some shed or haystack which would, at least,

be clean and quiet.

 

It was a glorious night, with a great full moon

gleaming in a purple sky. He began to wander

through the streets in an aimless way, brooding

miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing

that he had never consented to Domenichino’s

plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella. If at

the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous,

some other place would have been chosen;

and both he and Montanelli would have been

spared this ghastly, ridiculous farce.

 

How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was

not changed at all; it was just the same as in the

old days, when he used to say: “Carino.”

 

The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at

the other end of the street, and the Gadfly turned

down a narrow, crooked alley. After walking a

few yards he found himself in the Cathedral

Square, close to the left wing of the episcopal

palace. The square was flooded with moonlight,

and there was no one in sight; but he noticed that

a side door of the Cathedral was ajar. The sacristan

must have forgotten to shut it. Surely nothing

could be going on there so late at night. He

might as well go in and sleep on one of the benches

instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in

the morning before the sacristan came; and even

if anyone did find him, the natural supposition

would be that mad Diego had been saying his

prayers in some corner, and had got shut in.

 

He listened a moment at the door, and then

entered with the noiseless step that he had retained

notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight

streamed through the windows, and lay in broad

bands on the marble floor. In the chancel, especially,

everything was as clearly visible as by daylight. At

the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt

alone, bare-headed, with clasped hands.

 

The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should

he slip away before Montanelli saw him? That,

no doubt, would be the wisest thing to do—perhaps

the most merciful. And yet, what harm

could it do for him to go just a little nearer—to

look at the Padre’s face once more, now that the

crowd was gone, and there was no need to keep

up the hideous comedy of the morning? Perhaps

it would be his last chance—and the Padre need

not see him; he would steal up softly and look—

just this once. Then he would go back to his work.

 

Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept

softly up to the chancel rails, and paused at the

side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of

the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover

him, and he crouched down in the darkness, holding

his breath.

 

“My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!”

 

The broken whisper was full of such endless

despair that the Gadfly shuddered in spite of himself.

Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and

he saw Montanelli wring his hands together like

a man in bodily pain.

 

He had not thought it would be so bad as

this. How often had he said to himself with bitter

assurance: “I need not trouble about it; that

wound was healed long ago.” Now, after all these

years, it was laid bare before him, and he saw it

bleeding still. And how easy it would be to heal

it now at last! He need only lift his hand—only

step forward and say: “Padre, it is I.” There

was Gemma, too, with that white streak across her

hair. Oh, if he could but forgive! If he could

but cut out from his memory the past that

was burned into it so deep—the Lascar, and the

sugar-plantation, and the variety show! Surely

there was no other misery like this—to be willing

to forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that

it was hopeless—that he could not, dared not forgive.

 

Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the

cross, and turned away from the altar. The Gadfly

shrank further back into the shadow, trembling

with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very

beating of his heart should betray him; then he

drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had

passed him, so close that the violet robe had

brushed against his cheek,—had passed and had

not seen him.

 

Had not seen him–- Oh, what had he done?

This had been his last chance—this one precious

moment—and he had let it slip away. He started

up and stepped into the light.

 

“Padre!”

 

The sound of his own voice, ringing up and

dying away along the arches of the roof, filled him

with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into

the shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar,

motionless, listening with wide-open eyes, full

of the horror of death. How long the silence

lasted the Gadfly could not tell; it might have

been an instant, or an eternity. He came to his

senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning

to sway as though he would fall, and his

lips moved, at first silently.

 

“Arthur!” the low whisper came at last; “yes,

the water is deep–-”

 

The Gadfly came forward.

 

“Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it

was one of the priests.”

 

“Ah, it is the pilgrim?” Montanelli had at

once recovered his self-control, though the Gadfly

could see, from the restless glitter of the sapphire

on his hand, that he was still trembling. “Are

you in need of anything, my friend? It is late, and

the Cathedral is closed at night.”

 

“I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done

wrong. I saw the door open, and came in to pray,

and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in meditation,

I waited to ask a blessing on this.”

 

He held up the little tin cross that he had

bought from Domenichino. Montanelli took it

from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it

for a moment on the altar.

 

“Take it, my son,” he said, “and be at rest,

for the Lord is tender and pitiful. Go to Rome,

and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy

Father. Peace be with you!”

 

The Gadfly bent his head to receive the benediction,

and turned slowly away.

 

“Stop!” said Montanelli.

 

He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.

 

“When you receive the Holy Eucharist in

Rome,” he said, “pray for one in deep affliction—

for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy.”

 

There were almost tears in his voice, and the

Gadfly’s resolution wavered. Another instant and

he would have betrayed himself. Then the

thought of the variety-show came up again, and

he remembered, like Jonah, that he did well to

be angry.

 

“Who am I, that He should hear my prayers?

A leper and an outcast! If I could bring to His

throne, as Your Eminence can, the offering of a

holy life—of a soul without spot or secret

shame––”

 

Montanelli turned abruptly away.

 

“I have only one offering to give,” he said; “a

broken heart.”

 

… . .

 

A few days later the Gadfly returned to Florence

in the diligence from Pistoja. He went

straight to Gemma’s lodgings, but she was out.

Leaving a message that he would return in the

morning he went home, sincerely hoping that he

should not again find his study invaded by Zita.

Her jealous reproaches would act on his nerves,

if he were to hear much of them to-night, like the

rasping of a dentist’s file.

 

“Good-evening, Bianca,” he said when the

maidservant opened the door. “Has Mme. Reni

been here to-day?”

 

She stared at him blankly

 

“Mme. Reni? Has she come back, then, sir?”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown,

stopping short on the mat.

 

“She went away quite suddenly, just after you

did, and left all her things behind her. She never

so much as said she was going.”

 

“Just after I did? What, a f-fortnight ago?”

 

“Yes, sir, the same day; and her things are

lying about higgledy-piggledy. All the neighbours

are talking about it.”

 

He turned away from the doorstep without

speaking, and went hastily down the lane to the

house where Zita had been lodging. In her rooms

nothing had been touched; all the presents that

he had given her were in their usual places; there

was no letter or scrap of writing anywhere.

 

“If you please, sir,” said Bianca, putting her

head in at the door, “there’s an old woman–-”

 

He turned round fiercely.

 

“What do you want here—following me

about?”

 

“An old woman wishes to see you.”

 

“What does she want? Tell her I c-can’t see

her; I’m busy.”

 

“She has been coming nearly every evening

since you went away, sir, always asking when you

would come back.”

 

“Ask her w-what her business is. No; never

mind; I suppose I must go myself.”

 

The old woman was waiting at his hall door.

She was very poorly dressed, with a face as brown

and wrinkled as a medlar, and a bright-coloured

scarf twisted round her head. As he came in

she rose and looked at him with keen black

eyes.

 

“You are the lame gentleman,” she said, inspecting

him critically from head to foot. “I have

brought you a message from Zita Reni.”

 

He opened the study door, and held it for her

to pass in; then followed her and shut the door,

that Bianca might not hear.

 

“Sit down, please. N-now, tell me who you

are.”

 

“It’s no business of yours who I am. I have

come to tell you that Zita Reni has gone away

with my son.”

 

“With—your—son?”

 

“Yes, sir; if you don’t know how to keep your

mistress when you’ve got her, you can’t complain

if other men take her. My son has blood in his

veins, not milk and water; he comes of the

Romany folk.”

 

“Ah, you are a gipsy! Zita has gone back to

her own people, then?”

 

She looked at him in amazed contempt. Apparently,

these Christians had not even manhood

enough to be angry when they were insulted.

 

“What sort of stuff are you made of, that she

should stay with you? Our women may lend

themselves to you a bit for a girl’s fancy, or if you

pay them well; but the Romany blood comes back