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

“Let go; let my hand go! Let go!”

The next instant she wrenched her fingers away from his, and struck him across the cheek with her open hand.

A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little while he was conscious of nothing but Gemma’s white and desperate face, and the right hand which she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton dress. Then the daylight crept back again, and he looked round and saw that he was alone.

It had long been dark when Arthur rang at the front door of the great house in the Via Borra. He remembered that he had been wandering about the streets; but where, or why, or for how long, he had no idea. Julia’s page opened the door, yawning, and grinned significantly at the haggard, stony face. It seemed to him a prodigious joke to have the young master come home from jail like a “drunk and disorderly” beggar. Arthur went upstairs. On the first floor he met Gibbons coming down with an air of lofty and solemn disapproval. He tried to pass with a muttered “Good evening”; but Gibbons was no easy person to get past against his will.

“The gentlemen are out, sir,” he said, looking critically at Arthur’s rather neglected dress and hair. “They have gone with the mistress to an evening party, and will not be back till nearly twelve.”

Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o’clock. Oh, yes! he would have time⁠—plenty of time⁠—

“My mistress desired me to ask whether you would like any supper, sir; and to say that she hopes you will sit up for her, as she particularly wishes to speak to you this evening.”

“I don’t want anything, thank you; you can tell her I have not gone to bed.”

He went up to his room. Nothing in it had been changed since his arrest; Montanelli’s portrait was on the table where he had placed it, and the crucifix stood in the alcove as before. He paused a moment on the threshold, listening; but the house was quite still; evidently no one was coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked the door.

And so he had come to the end. There was nothing to think or trouble about; an importunate and useless consciousness to get rid of⁠—and nothing more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.

He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He had even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that mattered was to be done with it quickly⁠—to have it over and forget. He had no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no consequence⁠—a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.

There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it was not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a drawer. He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his bed, when he suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of course, one must pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are even special prayers for a departing soul.

He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. “Almighty and merciful God⁠—” he began aloud; and with that broke off and said no more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left to pray for⁠—or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this kind⁠—Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been betrayed, like Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.

Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table, he saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli’s handwriting. It was in pencil:

“My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early tomorrow morning.

“In great haste,

“L. M.”

He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.

How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one of all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a living human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same as before. The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do tomorrow. And as for him, he was dead⁠—quite dead.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was plenty of time; and his head ached so⁠—the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it was all so dull and stupid⁠—so utterly meaningless⁠—

The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless agony of terror, with both hands at his throat. They had come back⁠—he had sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away⁠—and now he must see their faces and hear their cruel tongues⁠—their sneers and comments⁠—If only he had a knife⁠—

He looked desperately round the room. His mother’s workbasket stood in a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an artery. No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had time.

He dragged the counterpane from his bed, and with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The sound of footsteps came up the stairs. No; the strip was too wide; it would not tie firmly; and