The Gadfly by Ethel Voynich (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

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 stepbrothers; 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