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

the ground. “When I was preparing for the entrance examination last autumn, I got to know a good many of the students; you remember? Well, some of them began to talk to me about⁠—all these things, and lent me books. But I didn’t care much about it; I always wanted to get home quick to mother. You see, she was quite alone among them all in that dungeon of a house; and Julia’s tongue was enough to kill her. Then, in the winter, when she got so ill, I forgot all about the students and their books; and then, you know, I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went right out of my head. Then I found out that she was going to die⁠—You know, I was almost constantly with her towards the end; often I would sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would come in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in those long nights; I got thinking about the books and about what the students had said⁠—and wondering⁠—whether they were right and⁠—what⁠—Our Lord would have said about it all.”

“Did you ask Him?” Montanelli’s voice was not quite steady.

“Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to Him to tell me what I must do, or to let me die with mother. But I couldn’t find any answer.”

“And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I hoped you could have trusted me.”

“Padre, you know I trust you! But there are some things you can’t talk about to anyone. I⁠—it seemed to me that no one could help me⁠—not even you or mother; I must have my own answer straight from God. You see, it is for all my life and all my soul.”

Montanelli turned away and stared into the dusky gloom of the magnolia branches. The twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.

“And then?” he asked slowly.

“And then⁠—she died. You know, I had been up the last three nights with her⁠—”

He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli did not move.

“All those two days before they buried her,” Arthur went on in a lower voice, “I couldn’t think about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill; you remember, I couldn’t come to confession.”

“Yes; I remember.”

“Well, in the night I got up and went into mother’s room. It was all empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited⁠—all night. And in the morning when I came to my senses⁠—Padre, it isn’t any use; I can’t explain. I can’t tell you what I saw⁠—I hardly know myself. But I know that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him.”

For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli turned and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“My son,” he said, “God forbid that I should say He has not spoken to your soul. But remember your condition when this thing happened, and do not take the fancies of grief or illness for His solemn call. And if, indeed, it has been His will to answer you out of the shadow of death, be sure that you put no false construction on His word. What is this thing you have it in your heart to do?”

Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though repeating a catechism:

“To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing her from all this slavery and wretchedness, and in driving out the Austrians, that she may be a free republic, with no king but Christ.”

“Arthur, think a moment what you are saying! You are not even an Italian.”

“That makes no difference; I am myself. I have seen this thing, and I belong to it.”

There was silence again.

“You spoke just now of what Christ would have said⁠—” Montanelli began slowly; but Arthur interrupted him:

“Christ said: ‘He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.’ ”

Montanelli leaned his arm against a branch, and shaded his eyes with one hand.

“Sit down a moment, my son,” he said at last.

Arthur sat down, and the Padre took both his hands in a strong and steady clasp.

“I cannot argue with you tonight,” he said; “this has come upon me so suddenly⁠—I had not thought⁠—I must have time to think it over. Later on we will talk more definitely. But, for just now, I want you to remember one thing. If you get into trouble over this, if you⁠—die, you will break my heart.”

“Padre⁠—”

“No; let me finish what I have to say. I told you once that I have no one in the world but you. I think you do not fully understand what that means. It is difficult when one is so young; at your age I should not have understood. Arthur, you are as my⁠—as my⁠—own son to me. Do you see? You are the light of my eyes and the desire of my heart. I would die to keep you from making a false step and ruining your life. But there is nothing I can do. I don’t ask you to make any promises to me; I only ask you to remember this, and to be careful. Think well before you take an irrevocable step, for my sake, if not for the sake of your mother in heaven.”

“I will think⁠—and⁠—Padre, pray for me, and for Italy.”

He knelt down in silence, and in silence Montanelli laid his hand on the bent head. A moment later Arthur rose, kissed the hand, and went softly away across the dewy grass. Montanelli sat alone under the magnolia tree, looking straight before him into the blackness.

“It is the vengeance of God that has fallen upon me,” he thought, “as it fell upon David. I, that have defiled His sanctuary, and taken the Body of the Lord into polluted hands⁠—He has been very