"BUT c-c-can't I meet him somewhere in the
hills? Brisighella is a risky place for me."
"Every inch of ground in the Romagna is
risky for you; but just at this moment Brisighella
is safer for you than any other place."
"Why?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. Don't let that man
with the blue jacket see your face; he's dangerous.
Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don't remember to
have seen the vines so bad for a long time."
The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and
laid his face upon them, like a man overcome with
fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in
the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only
two farmers discussing their crops over a flask of
wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head on
the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in
little places like Marradi; and the owner of the
blue jacket apparently made up his mind that
nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank
his wine at a gulp and sauntered into the outer
room. There he stood leaning on the counter and
gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every
now and then out of the corner of one eye through
the open door, beyond which sat the three figures
at the table. The two farmers went on sipping
their wine and discussing the weather in the local
dialect, and the Gadfly snored like a man whose
conscience is sound.
At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that
there was nothing in the wine-shop worth further
waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and,
lounging out of the house, sauntered away down
the narrow street. The Gadfly, yawning and
stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed
the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes.
"Pretty sharp practice that," he said, pulling
a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a
chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. "Have
they been worrying you much lately, Michele?"
"They've been worse than mosquitos in August.
There's no getting a minute's peace; wherever
one goes, there's always a spy hanging about.
Even right up in the hills, where they used to be
so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming
in bands of three or four--haven't they, Gino?
That's why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino
in the town."
"Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town
is always full of spies."
"Brisighella just now is a capital place. It's
swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country."
"But it's not on the way to anywhere."
"It's not far out of the way to Rome, and many
of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear
Mass there."
"I d-d-didn't know there was anything special
in Brisighella."
"There's the Cardinal. Don't you remember
his going to Florence to preach last December?
It's that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he
made a great sensation."
"I dare say; I don't go to hear sermons."
"Well, he has the reputation of being a saint,
you see."
"How does he manage that?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's because he gives
away all his income, and lives like a parish priest
with four or five hundred scudi a year."
"Ah!" interposed the man called Gino; "but
it's more than that. He doesn't only give away
money; he spends his whole life in looking after
the poor, and seeing the sick are properly treated,
and hearing complaints and grievances from morning
till night. I'm no fonder of priests than you
are, Michele, but Monsignor Montanelli is not like
other Cardinals."
"Oh, I dare say he's more fool than knave!"
said Michele. "Anyhow, the people are mad after
him, and the last new freak is for the pilgrims to
go round that way to ask his blessing. Domenichino
thought of going as a pedlar, with a basket
of cheap crosses and rosaries. The people like to
buy those things and ask the Cardinal to touch
them; then they put them round their babies'
necks to keep off the evil eye."
"Wait a minute. How am I to go--as a pilgrim?
This make-up suits me p-pretty well, I think; but
it w-won't do for me to show myself in Brisighella
in the same character that I had here; it would be
ev-v-vidence against you if I get taken."
"You won't get taken; we have a splendid
disguise for you, with a passport and all complete."
"What is it?"
"An old Spanish pilgrim--a repentant brigand
from the Sierras. He fell ill in Ancona last year,
and one of our friends took him on board a trading-vessel
out of charity, and set him down in Venice, where he had
friends, and he left his papers with us to show his
gratitude. They will just do for you."
"A repentant b-b-brigand? But w-what about
the police?"
"Oh, that's all right! He finished his term of
the galleys some years ago, and has been going
about to Jerusalem and all sorts of places saving
his soul ever since. He killed his son by mistake
for somebody else, and gave himself up to the
police in a fit of remorse."
"Was he quite old?"
"Yes; but a white beard and wig will set that
right, and the description suits you to perfection
in every other respect. He was an old soldier,
with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across the face
like yours; and then his being a Spaniard, too--
you see, if you meet any Spanish pilgrims, you can
talk to them all right."
"Where am I to meet Domenichino?"
"You join the pilgrims at the cross-road that
we will show you on the map, saying you had lost
your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the
town, you go with the rest of them into the marketplace,
in front of the Cardinal's palace."
"Oh, he manages to live in a p-palace, then,
in s-spite of being a saint?"
"He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the
rest into a hospital. Well, you all wait there for
him to come out and give his benediction, and
Domenichino will come up with his basket and
say: "Are you one of the pilgrims, father?" and
you answer: 'I am a miserable sinner.' Then he
puts down his basket and wipes his face with his
sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary."
"Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?"
"Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you
the address of the meeting-place while the people
are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but
if you don't like it, we can let Domenichino know
and arrange something else."
"No; it will do; only see that the beard and
wig look natural."
. . . . .
"Are you one of the pilgrims, father?"
The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal
palace, looked up from under his ragged white
locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling
voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino
slipped the leather strap from his shoulder,
and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the
step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting
on the steps and lounging about the market-place
was taking no notice of them, but for precaution's
sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino
speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in
broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.
"His Eminence! His Eminence is coming
out!" shouted the people by the door. "Stand
aside! His Eminence is coming!"
They both stood up.
"Here, father," said Domenichino, putting into
the Gadfly's hand a little image wrapped in paper;
"take this, too, and pray for me when you get to
Rome."
The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned
to look at the figure in the violet Lenten robe and
scarlet cap that was standing on the upper step
and blessing the people with outstretched arms.
Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the
people crowding about him to kiss his hands.
Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock
to their lips as he passed.
"Peace be with you, my children!"
At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the
Gadfly bent his head, so that the white hair fell
across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the
quivering of the pilgrim's staff in his hand, said to
himself with admiration: "What an actor!"
A woman standing near to them stooped down
and lifted her child from the step. "Come,
Cecco," she said. "His Eminence will bless you
as the dear Lord blessed the children."
The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped.
Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders--these pilgrims
and mountaineers--could go up and speak
to him, and he would lay his hand on their children's
hair. Perhaps he would say "Carino" to
that peasant boy, as he used to say----
The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning
away that he might not see. If only he could
shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut
out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man
should have to bear--to be so close, so close that
he could have put out his arm and touched the
dear hand.
"Will you not come under shelter, my friend?"
the soft voice said. "I am afraid you are chilled."
The Gadfly's heart stood still. For a moment
he was conscious of nothing but the sickening
pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would
tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling
and burning through all his body, and he
looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew
suddenly tender with divine compassion at the
sight of his face.
"Stand bark a little, friends," Montanelli said,
turning to the crowd; "I want to speak to him."
The people fell slowly back, whispering to each
other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with
teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the
gentle touch of Montanelli's hand upon his
shoulder.
"You have had some great trouble. Can I do
anything to help you?"
The Gadfly shook his head in silence.
"Are you a pilgrim?"
"I am a miserable sinner."
The accidental similarity of Montanelli's question
to the password came like a chance straw,
that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at, answering
automatically. He had begun to tremble
under the soft pressure of the hand that seemed
to burn upon his shoulder.
The Cardinal bent down closer to him.
"Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone?
If I can be any help to you----"
For the first time the Gadfly looked straight
and steadily into Montanelli's eyes; he was already
recovering his self-command.
"It would be no use," he said; "the thing is
hopeless."
A police official stepped forward out of the
crowd.
"Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I
think the old man is not quite sound in his mind.
He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in
order, so we don't interfere with him. He has
been in penal servitude for a great crime, and is
now doing penance."
"A great crime," the Gadfly repeated, shaking
his head slowly.
"Thank you, captain; stand aside a little,
please. My friend, nothing is hopeless if a man
has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me
this evening?"
"Would Your Eminence receive a man who is
guilty of the death of his own son?"
The question had almost the tone of a challenge,
and Montanelli shrank and shivered under it as
under a cold wind.
"God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever
you have done!" he said solemnly. "In His
sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness
is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will
receive you as I pray that He may one day receive me."
The Gadfly stretched out his hands with a sudden
gesture of passion.
"Listen!" he said; "and listen all of you,
Christians! If a man has killed his only son--his
son who loved and trusted him, who was flesh of
his flesh and bone of his bone; if he has led his son
into a death-trap with lies and deceit--is there
hope for that man in earth or heaven? I have
confessed my sin before God and man, and I have
suffered the punishment that men have laid on
me, and they have let me go; but when will God
say, 'It is enough'? What benediction will take
away His curse from my soul? What absolution
will undo this thing that I have done?"
In the dead silence that followed the people
looked at Montanelli, and saw the heaving of the
cross upon his breast.
He raised his eyes at last, and gave the benediction
with a hand that was not quite steady.
"God is merciful," he said. "Lay your burden
before His throne; for it is written: 'A
broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise.'"
He turned away and walked through the market-place,
stopping everywhere to speak to the
people, and to take their children in his arms.
In the evening the Gadfly, following the directions
written on the wrapping of the image, made
his way to the appointed meeting-place. It was
the house of a local doctor, who was an active
member of the "sect." Most of the conspirators
were already assembled, and their delight at the
Gadfly's arrival gave him a new proof, if he had
needed one, of his popularity as a leader.
"We're glad enough to see you again," said the
doctor; "but we shall be gladder still to see you
go. It's a fearfully risky business, and I, for one,
was against the plan. Are you quite sure none of
those police rats noticed you in the market-place
this morning?"
"Oh, they n-noticed me enough, but they
d-didn't recognize me. Domenichino m-managed
the thing capitally. But where is he? I don't see
him."
"He has not come yet. So you got on all
smoothly? Did the Cardinal give you his blessing?"
"His blessing? Oh, that's nothing," said Domenichino,
coming in at the door. "Rivarez,
you're as full of surprises as a Christmas cake.
How many more talents are you going to astonish
us with?"
"What is it now?" asked the Gadfly languidly.
He was leaning back on a sofa, smoking a cigar.
He still wore his pilgrim's dress, but the white
beard and wig lay beside him.
"I had no idea you were such an actor. I never
saw a thing done so magnificently in my life. You
nearly moved His Eminence to tears."
"How was that? Let us hear, Rivarez."
The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. He was in
a taciturn and laconic mood, and the others, seeing
that nothing was to be got out of him,
appealed to Domenichino to explain. When the
scene in the market-place had been related, one
young workman, who had not joined in the laughter
of the rest, remarked abruptly:
"It was very clever, of course; but I don't see
what good all this play-acting business has done
to anybody."
"Just this much," the Gadfly put in; "that I
can go where I like and do what I like anywhere
in this district, and not a single man, woman, or
child will ever think of suspecting me. The story
will be all over the place by to-morrow, and when
I meet a spy he will only think: 'It's mad Diego,
that confessed his sins in the market-place.' That
is an advantage gained, surely."
"Yes, I see. Still, I wish the thing could have
been done without fooling the Cardinal. He's
too good to have that sort of trick played on
him."
"I thought myself he seemed fairly decent,"
the Gadfly lazily assented.
"Nonsense, Sandro! We don't want Cardinals
here!" said Domenichino. "And if Monsignor
Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he
had the chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn't have
fooled him."
"He wouldn't take it because he didn't want to
leave his work here."
"More likely because he didn't want to get
poisoned off by Lambruschini's agents. They've
got something against him, you may depend upon
it. When a Cardinal, especially such a popular
one, 'prefers to stay' in a God-forsaken little hole
like this, we all know what that means--don't we,
Rivarez?"
The Gadfly was making smoke-rings. "Perhaps
it is a c-c-case of a 'b-b-broken and contrite
heart,'" he remarked, leaning his head back to
watch them float away. "And now, men, let us
get to business."
They began to discuss in detail the various plans
which had been formed for the smuggling and concealment
of weapons. The Gadfly listened with
keen attention, interrupting every now and then
to correct sharply some inaccurate statement or
imprudent proposal. When everyone had finished
speaking, he made a few practical suggestions,
most of which were adopted without discussion.
The meeting then broke up. It had been resolved
that, at least until he was safely back in Tuscany,
very late meetings, which might attract the notice
of the police, should be avoided. By a little after
ten o'clock all had dispersed except the doctor, the
Gadfly, and Domenichino, who remained as
a sub-committee for the discussion of special
points. After a long and hot dispute, Domenichino
looked up at the clock.
"Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer
or the night-watchman may see us."
"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
maid-servant 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 door-step 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
to the Romany folk."
The Gadfly's face remained as cold and steady
as before.
"Has she gone away with a gipsy camp, or
merely to live with your son?"
The woman burst out laughing.
"Do you think of following her and trying to
win her back? It's too late, sir; you should have
thought of that before!"
"No; I only want to know the truth, if you will
tell it to me."
She shrugged her shoulders; it was hardly
worth while to abuse a person who took it so
meekly.
"The truth, then, is that she met my son in the
road the day you left her, and spoke to him in the
Romany tongue; and when he saw she was one of
our folk, in spite of her fine clothes, he fell in love
with her bonny face, as OUR men fall in love, and
took her to our camp. She told us all her trouble,
and sat crying and sobbing, poor lassie, till our
hearts were sore for her. We comforted her as
best we could; and at last she took off her fine
clothes and put on the things our lasses wear, and
gave herself to my son, to be his woman and to
have him for her man. He won't say to her: 'I
don't love you,' and: 'I've other things to do.'
When a woman is young, she wants a man; and
what sort of man are you, that you can't even
kiss a handsome girl when she puts her arms round
your neck?"
"You said," he interrupted, "that you had
brought me a message from her."
"Yes; I stopped behind when the camp went
on, so as to give it. She told me to say that she
has had enough of your folk and their hair-splitting
and their sluggish blood; and that she wants
to get back to her own people and be free. 'Tell
him,' she said, 'that I am a woman, and that I
loved him; and that is why I would not be his
harlot any longer.' The lassie was right to come
away. There's no harm in a girl getting a bit of
money out of her good looks if she can--that's
what good looks are for; but a Romany lass has
nothing to do with LOVING a man of your race."
The Gadfly stood up.
"Is that all the message?" he said. "Then tell
her, please, that I think she has done right, and
that I hope she will be happy. That is all I have
to say. Good-night!"
He stood perfectly still until the garden gate
closed behind her; then he sat down and covered
his face with both hands.
Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of
pride to be left him--no shred of self-respect?
Surely he had suffered everything that man can
endure; his very heart had been dragged in the
mud and trampled under the feet of the passers-by;
there was no spot in his soul where someone's contempt
was not branded in, where someone's mockery
had not left its iron trace. And now this gipsy
girl, whom he had picked up by the wayside--
even she had the whip in her hand.
Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly
rose to let him in. The dog rushed up to his master
with his usual frantic manifestations of delight,
but soon, understanding that something was
wrong, lay down on the rug beside him, and thrust
a cold nose into the listless hand.
An hour later Gemma came up to the front door.
No one appeared in answer to her knock; Bianca,
finding that the Gadfly did not want any dinner,
had slipped out to visit a neighbour's cook. She
had left the door open, and a light burning in the
hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time, decided
to enter and try if she could find the Gadfly, as she
wished to speak to him about an important message
which had come from Bailey. She knocked
at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered
from within: "You can go away, Bianca. I don't
want anything."
She softly opened the door. The room was
quite dark, but the passage lamp threw a long
stream of light across it as she entered, and she saw
the Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his
breast, and the dog asleep at his feet.
"It is I," she said.
He started up. "Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh,
I have wanted you so!"
Before she could speak he was kneeling on the
floor at her feet and hiding his face in the folds of
her dress. His whole body was shaken with a convulsive
tremor that was worse to see than tears.
She stood still. There was nothing she could
do to help him--nothing. This was the bitterest
thing of all. She must stand by and look on passively
--she who would have died to spare him
pain. Could she but dare to stoop and clasp her
arms about him, to hold him close against her
heart and shield him, were it with her own body,
from all further harm or wrong; surely then he
would be Arthur to her again; surely then the day
would break and the shadows flee away.
Ah, no, no! How could he ever forget? Was
it not she who had cast him into hell--she, with
her own right hand?
She had let the moment slip by. He rose
hastily and sat down by the table, covering his
eyes with one hand and biting his lip as if he would
bite it through.
Presently he looked up and said quietly:
"I am afraid I startled you."
She held out both her hands to him. "Dear,"
she said, "are we not friends enough by now for
you to trust me a little bit? What is it?"
"Only a private trouble of my own. I don't
see why you should be worried over it."
"Listen a moment," she went on, taking his
hand in both of hers to steady its convulsive
trembling. "I have not tried to lay hands on a
thing that is not mine to touch. But now that
you have given me, of your own free will, so much
of your confidence, will you not give me a little
more--as you would do if I were your sister.
Keep the mask on your face, if it is any consolation
to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul,
for your own sake."
He bent his head lower. "You must be patient
with me," he said. "I am an unsatisfactory sort
of brother to have, I'm afraid; but if you only
knew---- I have been nearly mad this last week.
It has been like South America again. And somehow
the devil gets into me and----" He broke off.
"May I not have my share in your trouble?"
she whispered at last.
His head sank down on her arm. "The hand of
the Lord is heavy."
