The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (ebook reader android TXT) 📕

fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with

the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same

shadow of indefinable dread. Presently he began

to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful, familiar

dream that had been a terror to him for

years. And even as he dreamed he recognized

that he had been through it all before.

 

He was wandering about in a great empty place,

trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie

down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,

walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting;

praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments

together. Sometimes he would get away

to a little distance from the noise, and would lie

down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench,

now on some slab of stone. He would shut his

eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out

the light; and would say to himself: “Now I

will get to sleep.” Then the crowds would come

sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him

by name, begging him: “Wake up! Wake up,

quick; we want you!”

 

Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous

rooms, with beds and couches and low soft

lounges. It was night, and he said to himself:

“Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep.”

But when he chose a dark room and lay down,

someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless

light into his eyes, and said: “Get up; you are wanted.”

 

He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling

like a creature wounded to death; and heard

the clocks strike one, and knew that half the night

was gone already—the precious night that was so

short. Two, three, four, five—by six o’clock the

whole town would wake up and there would be

no more silence.

 

He went into another room and would have lain

down on a bed, but someone started up from the

pillows, crying out: “This bed is mine!” and he

shrank away with despair in his heart.

 

Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered

on and on, from room to room, from house to

house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible

gray dawn was creeping near and nearer; the

clocks were striking five; the night was gone and

he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day

—another day!

 

He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low,

vaulted passage that seemed to have no end. It

was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers;

and through its grated roof came the sounds of

dancing and laughter and merry music. Up there,

in the world of the live people overhead, there

was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place

to hide and sleep; some little place, were it even

a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an

open grave. An open grave, smelling of death

and rottenness–- Ah, what matter, so he could

but sleep!

 

“This grave is mine!” It was Gladys; and she

raised her head and stared at him over the rotting

shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out

his arms to her.

 

“Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me;

let me creep into this narrow space and sleep. I

do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you,

will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside

you and sleep! Oh, love, it is so long since I have

slept! I cannot bear another day. The light

glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my

brain to dust. Gladys, let me come in here and

sleep!”

 

And he would have drawn her shroud across his

eyes. But she shrank away, screaming:

 

“It is sacrilege; you are a priest!”

 

On and on he wandered, and came out upon the

sea-shore, on the barren rocks where the fierce

light struck down, and the water moaned its low,

perpetual wail of unrest. “Ah!” he said; “the

sea will be more merciful; it, too, is wearied unto

death and cannot sleep.”

 

Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried

aloud:

 

“This sea is mine!”

 

… . .

 

“Your Eminence! Your Eminence!”

 

Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant

was knocking at the door. He rose mechanically

and opened it, and the man saw how wild and

scared he looked.

 

“Your Eminence—are you ill?”

 

He drew both hands across his forehead.

 

“No; I was asleep, and you startled me.”

 

“I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you

moving early this morning, and I supposed––”

 

“Is it late now?”

 

“It is nine o’clock, and the Governor has called.

He says he has very important business, and knowing

Your Eminence to be an early riser––”

 

“Is he downstairs? I will come presently.”

 

He dressed and went downstairs.

 

“I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to

call upon Your Eminence,” the Governor began.

 

“I hope there is nothing the matter?”

 

“There is very much the matter. Rivarez has

all but succeeded in escaping.”

 

“Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded

there is no harm done. How was it?”

 

“He was found in the courtyard, right against

the little iron gate. When the patrol came in to

inspect the courtyard at three o’clock this morning

one of the men stumbled over something on

the ground; and when they brought the light up

they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious.

They raised an alarm at once and called

me up; and when I went to examine his cell I

found all the window-bars filed through and a rope

made of torn body-linen hanging from one of

them. He had let himself down and climbed along

the wall. The iron gate, which leads into the

subterranean tunnels, was found to be unlocked.

That looks as if the guards had been suborned.”

 

“But how did he come to be lying across the

path? Did he fall from the rampart and hurt

himself?”

 

“That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence;

but the prison surgeon can’t find any trace

of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday

says that Rivarez looked very ill last night when

he brought in the supper, and did not eat anything.

But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn’t

file those bars through and climb along that roof.

It’s not in reason.”

 

“Does he give any account of himself?”

 

“He is unconscious, Your Eminence.”

 

“Still?”

 

“He just half comes to himself from time to

time and moans, and then goes off again.”

 

“That is very strange. What does the doctor

think?”

 

“He doesn’t know what to think. There is no

trace of heart-disease that he can find to account

for the thing; but whatever is the matter with

him, it is something that must have come on

suddenly, just when he had nearly managed to

escape. For my part, I believe he was struck

down by the direct intervention of a merciful

Providence.”

 

Montanelli frowned slightly.

 

“What are you going to do with him?” he

asked.

 

“That is a question I shall settle in a very few

days. In the meantime I have had a good lesson.

That is what comes of taking off the irons—with

all due respect to Your Eminence.”

 

“I hope,” Montanelli interrupted, “that you

will at least not replace the fetters while he is ill.

A man in the condition you describe can hardly

make any more attempts to escape.”

 

“I shall take good care he doesn’t,” the Governor

muttered to himself as he went out. “His

Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples

for all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight

now, and is going to stop so, ill or not.”

 

… . .

 

“But how can it have happened? To faint

away at the last moment, when everything was

ready; when he was at the very gate! It’s like

some hideous joke.”

 

“I tell you,” Martini answered, “the only thing

I can think of is that one of these attacks must

have come on, and that he must have struggled

against it as long as his strength lasted and have

fainted from sheer exhaustion when he got down

into the courtyard.”

 

Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his

pipe.

 

“Well. anyhow, that’s the end of it; we can’t

do anything for him now, poor fellow.”

 

“Poor fellow!” Martini echoed, under his

breath. He was beginning to realise that to him,

too, the world would look empty and dismal without

the Gadfly.

 

“What does she think?” the smuggler asked,

glancing towards the other end of the room, where

Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap,

her eyes looking straight before her into blank

nothingness.

 

“I have not asked her; she has not spoken since

I brought her the news. We had best not disturb

her just yet.”

 

She did not appear to be conscious of their presence,

but they both spoke with lowered voices, as though

they were looking at a corpse. After a dreary little

pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.

 

“I will come back this evening,” he said; but

Martini stopped him with a gesture.

 

“Don’t go yet; I want to speak to you.” He

dropped his voice still lower and continued in

almost a whisper:

 

“Do you believe there is really no hope?”

 

“I don’t see what hope there can be now. We

can’t attempt it again. Even if he were well

enough to manage his part of the thing, we

couldn’t do our share. The sentinels are all being

changed, on suspicion. The Cricket won’t get

another chance, you may be sure.”

 

“Don’t you think,” Martini asked suddenly;

“that, when he recovers, something might be

done by calling off the sentinels?”

 

“Calling off the sentinels? What do you

mean?”

 

“Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to

get in the Governor’s way when the procession

passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day

and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come

rushing to get hold of me, and some of you fellows

could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion.

It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came

into my head.”

 

“I doubt whether it could be managed,” Marcone

answered with a very grave face. “Certainly it

would want a lot of thinking out for

anything to come of it. But”—he stopped and

looked at Martini—“if it should be possible—

would you do it?”

 

Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times;

but this was not an ordinary time. He looked

straight into the smuggler’s face.

 

“Would I do it?” he repeated. “Look at her!”

 

There was no need for further explanations;

in saying that he had said all. Marcone turned

and looked across the room.

 

She had not moved since their conversation

began. There was no doubt, no fear, even no

grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the

shadow of death. The smuggler’s eyes filled with

tears as he looked at her.

 

“Make haste, Michele!” he said, throwing open

the verandah door and looking out. “Aren’t you

nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and

fifty things to do!”

 

Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the

verandah.

 

“I am ready now,” he said. “I only want to

ask the signora–-”

 

He was moving towards her when Martini

caught him by the arm.

 

“Don’t disturb her; she’s better alone.”

 

“Let her be!” Marcone added. “We shan’t do

any good by meddling. God knows, it’s hard enough

on all of us; but it’s