ARTHUR went back to his lodgings feeling as
though he had wings. He was absolutely, cloudlessly
happy. At the meeting there had been
hints of preparations for armed insurrection; and
now Gemma was a comrade, and he loved her.
They could work together, possibly even die together,
for the Republic that was to be. The
blossoming time of their hope was come, and the
Padre would see it and believe.
The next morning, however, he awoke in a
soberer mood and remembered that Gemma was
going to Leghorn and the Padre to Rome. January,
February, March--three long months to
Easter! And if Gemma should fall under "Protestant"
influences at home (in Arthur's vocabulary
"Protestant" stood for "Philistine")------
No, Gemma would never learn to flirt and simper
and captivate tourists and bald-headed shipowners,
like the other English girls in Leghorn; she was
made of different stuff. But she might be very
miserable; she was so young, so friendless, so
utterly alone among all those wooden people. If
only mother had lived----
In the evening he went to the seminary, where
he found Montanelli entertaining the new Director
and looking both tired and bored. Instead
of lighting up, as usual, at the sight of Arthur, the
Padre's face grew darker.
"This is the student I spoke to you about," he
said, introducing Arthur stiffly. "I shall be much
obliged if you will allow him to continue using the
library."
Father Cardi, a benevolent-looking elderly
priest, at once began talking to Arthur about the
Sapienza, with an ease and familiarity which
showed him to be well acquainted with college
life. The conversation soon drifted into a discussion
of university regulations, a burning question
of that day. To Arthur's great delight, the new
Director spoke strongly against the custom
adopted by the university authorities of constantly
worrying the students by senseless and vexatious
restrictions.
"I have had a good deal of experience in guiding
young people," he said; "and I make it a
rule never to prohibit anything without a good
reason. There are very few young men who will
give much trouble if proper consideration and respect
for their personality are shown to them.
But, of course, the most docile horse will kick if
you are always jerking at the rein."
Arthur opened his eyes wide; he had not expected
to hear the students' cause pleaded by the
new Director. Montanelli took no part in the discussion;
its subject, apparently, did not interest
him. The expression of his face was so unutterably
hopeless and weary that Father Cardi broke
off suddenly.
"I am afraid I have overtired you, Canon. You
must forgive my talkativeness; I am hot upon this
subject and forget that others may grow weary
of it."
"On the contrary, I was much interested."
Montanelli was not given to stereotyped politeness,
and his tone jarred uncomfortably upon
Arthur.
When Father Cardi went to his own room
Montanelli turned to Arthur with the intent and
brooding look that his face had worn all the
evening.
"Arthur, my dear boy," he began slowly; "I
have something to tell you."
"He must have had bad news," flashed through
Arthur's mind, as he looked anxiously at the haggard
face. There was a long pause.
"How do you like the new Director?" Montanelli
asked suddenly.
The question was so unexpected that, for a moment,
Arthur was at a loss how to reply to it.
"I--I like him very much, I think--at least--
no, I am not quite sure that I do. But it is difficult
to say, after seeing a person once."
Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the
arm of his chair; a habit with him when anxious
or perplexed.
"About this journey to Rome," he began again;
"if you think there is any--well--if you wish it,
Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go."
"Padre! But the Vatican------"
"The Vatican will find someone else. I can
send apologies."
"But why? I can't understand."
Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead.
"I am anxious about you. Things keep coming
into my head--and after all, there is no need
for me to go------"
"But the bishopric----"
"Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a
bishopric and lose----"
He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like
this before, and was greatly troubled.
"I can't understand," he said. "Padre, if you
could explain to me more--more definitely, what
it is you think------"
"I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible
fear. Tell me, is there any special danger?"
"He has heard something," Arthur thought,
remembering the whispers of a projected revolt.
But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely
answered: "What special danger should there be?"
"Don't question me--answer me!" Montanelli's
voice was almost harsh in its eagerness.
"Are you in danger? I don't want to know your
secrets; only tell me that!"
"We are all in God's hands, Padre; anything
may always happen. But I know of no reason
why I should not be here alive and safe when you
come back."
"When I come back----Listen, carino; I will
leave it in your hands. You need give me no
reason; only say to me, 'Stay,' and I will give up
this journey. There will be no injury to anyone,
and I shall feel you are safer if I have you
beside me."
This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign
to Montanelli's character that Arthur looked at
him with grave anxiety.
"Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course
you must go to Rome, and try to have a thorough
rest and get rid of your sleeplessness and headaches."
"Very well," Montanelli interrupted, as if tired
of the subject; "I will start by the early coach
to-morrow morning."
Arthur looked at him, wondering.
"You had something to tell me?" he said.
"No, no; nothing more--nothing of any consequence."
There was a startled, almost terrified
look in his face.
A few days after Montanelli's departure Arthur
went to fetch a book from the seminary library,
and met Father Cardi on the stairs.
"Ah, Mr. Burton!" exclaimed the Director;
"the very person I wanted. Please come in and
help me out of a difficulty."
He opened the study door, and Arthur followed
him into the room with a foolish, secret sense of
resentment. It seemed hard to see this dear
study, the Padre's own private sanctum, invaded
by a stranger.
"I am a terrible book-worm," said the Director;
"and my first act when I got here was to examine
the library. It seems very interesting, but I do
not understand the system by which it is catalogued."
"The catalogue is imperfect; many of the
best books have been added to the collection
lately."
"Can you spare half an hour to explain the arrangement
to me?"
They went into the library, and Arthur carefully
explained the catalogue. When he rose to
take his hat, the Director interfered, laughing.
"No, no! I can't have you rushing off in that
way. It is Saturday, and quite time for you to
leave off work till Monday morning. Stop and
have supper with me, now I have kept you so
late. I am quite alone, and shall be glad of
company."
His manner was so bright and pleasant that Arthur
felt at ease with him at once. After some
desultory conversation, the Director inquired how
long he had known Montanelli.
"For about seven years. He came back from
China when I was twelve years old."
"Ah, yes! It was there that he gained his reputation
as a missionary preacher. Have you been
his pupil ever since?"
"He began teaching me a year later, about the
time when I first confessed to him. Since I have
been at the Sapienza he has still gone on helping
me with anything I wanted to study that was not
in the regular course. He has been very kind to
me--you can hardly imagine how kind."
"I can well believe it; he is a man whom no one
can fail to admire--a most noble and beautiful
nature. I have met priests who were out in China
with him; and they had no words high enough to
praise his energy and courage under all hardships,
and his unfailing devotion. You are fortunate to
have had in your youth the help and guidance of
such a man. I understood from him that you have
lost both parents."
"Yes; my father died when I was a child, and
my mother a year ago."
"Have you brothers and sisters?"
"No; I have step-brothers; but they were business
men when I was in the nursery."
"You must have had a lonely childhood; perhaps
you value Canon Montanelli's kindness the
more for that. By the way, have you chosen a
confessor for the time of his absence?"
"I thought of going to one of the fathers of
Santa Caterina, if they have not too many
penitents."
"Will you confess to me?"
Arthur opened his eyes in wonder.
"Reverend Father, of course I--should be glad;
only----"
"Only the Director of a theological seminary
does not usually receive lay penitents? That is
quite true. But I know Canon Montanelli takes
a great interest in you, and I fancy he is a little
anxious on your behalf--just as I should be if I
were leaving a favourite pupil--and would like to
know you were under the spiritual guidance of his
colleague. And, to be quite frank with you, my
son, I like you, and should be glad to give you
any help I can."
"If you put it that way, of course I shall be
very grateful for your guidance."
"Then you will come to me next month?
That's right. And run in to see me, my lad, when
you have time any evening."
. . . . .
Shortly before Easter Montanelli's appointment
to the little see of Brisighella, in the Etruscan
Apennines, was officially announced. He
wrote to Arthur from Rome in a cheerful and
tranquil spirit; evidently his depression was passing
over. "You must come to see me every vacation,"
he wrote; "and I shall often be coming to
Pisa; so I hope to see a good deal of you, if not
so much as I should wish."
Dr. Warren had invited Arthur to spend the
Easter holidays with him and his children, instead
of in the dreary, rat-ridden old place where Julia
now reigned supreme. Enclosed in the letter was
a short note, scrawled in Gemma's childish, irregular
handwriting, begging him to come if possible,
"as I want to talk to you about something."
Still more encouraging was the whispered communication
passing around from student to student in the university;
everyone was to be prepared for great things after Easter.
All this had put Arthur into a state of rapturous
anticipation, in which the wildest improbabilities
hinted at among the students seemed to
him natural and likely to be realized within the
next two months.
He arranged to go home on Thursday in Passion
week, and to spend the first days of the
vacation there, that the pleasure of visiting the
Warrens and the delight of seeing Gemma might
not unfit him for the solemn religious meditation
demanded by the Church from all her children at
this season. He wrote to Gemma, promising to
come on Easter Monday; and went up to his bedroom
on Wednesday night with a soul at peace.
He knelt down before the crucifix. Father
Cardi had promised to receive him in the morning;
and for this, his last confession before the
Easter communion, he must prepare himself by
long and earnest prayer. Kneeling with clasped
hands and bent head, he looked back over the
month, and reckoned up the miniature sins of
impatience, carelessness, hastiness of temper,
which had left their faint, small spots upon the
whiteness of his soul. Beyond these he could find
nothing; in this month he had been too happy
to sin much. He crossed himself, and, rising, began
to undress.
As he unfastened his shirt a scrap of paper
slipped from it and fluttered to the floor. It was
Gemma's letter, which he had worn all day upon
his neck. He picked it up, unfolded it, and kissed
the dear scribble; then began folding the paper
up again, with a dim consciousness of having done
something very ridiculous, when he noticed on
the back of the sheet a postscript which he had
not read before. "Be sure and come as soon as
possible," it ran, "for I want you to meet Bolla.
He has been staying here, and we have read together
every day."
The hot colour went up to Arthur's forehead as
he read.
Always Bolla! What was he doing in Leghorn
again? And why should Gemma want to read
with him? Had he bewitched her with his smuggling?
It had been quite easy to see at the meeting
in January that he was in love with her; that
was why he had been so earnest over his propaganda.
And now he was close to her--reading
with her every day.
Arthur suddenly threw the letter aside and knelt
down again before the crucifix. And this was the
soul that was preparing for absolution, for the
Easter sacrament--the soul at peace with God and
itself and all the world! A soul capable of sordid
jealousies and suspicions; of selfish animosities and
ungenerous hatred--and against a comrade! He covered
his face with both hands in bitter humiliation. Only
five minutes ago he had been dreaming of martyrdom; and
now he had been guilty of a mean and petty thought like this!
When he entered the seminary chapel on Thursday
morning he found Father Cardi alone. After
repeating the Confiteor, he plunged at once into
the subject of his last night's backsliding.
"My father, I accuse myself of the sins of jealousy
and anger, and of unworthy thoughts against
one who has done me no wrong."
Farther Cardi knew quite well with what kind of
penitent he had to deal. He only said softly:
"You have not told me all, my son."
"Father, the man against whom I have thought
an unchristian thought is one whom I am
especially bound to love and honour."
"One to whom you are bound by ties of
blood?"
"By a still closer tie."
"By what tie, my son?"
"By that of comradeship."
"Comradeship in what?"
"In a great and holy work."
A little pause.
"And your anger against this--comrade, your
jealousy of him, was called forth by his success in
that work being greater than yours?"
"I--yes, partly. I envied him his experience--
his usefulness. And then--I thought--I feared--
that he would take from me the heart of the girl
I--love."
"And this girl that you love, is she a daughter
of the Holy Church?"
"No; she is a Protestant."
"A heretic?"
Arthur clasped his hands in great distress.
"Yes, a heretic," he repeated. "We were brought
up together; our mothers were friends--and I
--envied him, because I saw that he loves her,
too, and because--because----"
"My son," said Father Cardi, speaking after a
moment's silence, slowly and gravely, "you have
still not told me all; there is more than this upon
your soul."
"Father, I----" He faltered and broke off
again.
The priest waited silently.
"I envied him because the society--the Young
Italy--that I belong to------"
"Yes?"
"Intrusted him with a work that I had hoped
--would be given to me, that I had thought myself
--specially adapted for."
"What work?"
"The taking in of books--political books--from
the steamers that bring them--and finding a hiding
place for them--in the town------"
"And this work was given by the party to your
rival?"
"To Bolla--and I envied him."
"And he gave you no cause for this feeling?
You do not accuse him of having neglected the
mission intrusted to him?"
"No, father; he has worked bravely and devotedly;
he is a true patriot and has deserved nothing
but love and respect from me."
Father Cardi pondered.
"My son, if there is within you a new light, a
dream of some great work to be accomplished for
your fellow-men, a hope that shall lighten the burdens
of the weary and oppressed, take heed how
you deal with the most precious blessing of God.
All good things are of His giving; and of His giving
is the new birth. If you have found the way
of sacrifice, the way that leads to peace; if you have
joined with loving comrades to bring deliverance
to them that weep and mourn in secret; then see
to it that your soul be free from envy and passion
and your heart as an altar where the sacred fire
burns eternally. Remember that this is a high and
holy thing, and that the heart which would receive
it must be purified from every selfish thought.
This vocation is as the vocation of a priest; it is
not for the love of a woman, nor for the moment
of a fleeting passion; it is FOR GOD AND THE PEOPLE;
it is NOW AND FOREVER."
"Ah!" Arthur started and clasped his hands;
he had almost burst out sobbing at the motto.
"Father, you give us the sanction of the Church!
Christ is on our side----"
"My son," the priest answered solemnly,
"Christ drove the moneychangers out of the
Temple, for His House shall be called a House
of Prayer, and they had made it a den of thieves."
After a long silence, Arthur whispered tremulously:
"And Italy shall be His Temple when they are
driven out----"
He stopped; and the soft answer came back:
"'The earth and the fulness thereof are mine,
saith the Lord.'"
