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

out of the room. Coming back with a lamp, she paused for a moment, thinking that the Gadfly was asleep. As the light fell on his face he turned round.

“I have made you a cup of coffee,” she said, setting down the lamp.

“Put it down a minute. Will you come here, please.”

He took both her hands in his.

“I have been thinking,” he said. “You are quite right; it is an ugly tangle I have got my life into. But remember, a man does not meet every day a woman whom he can⁠—love; and I⁠—I have been in deep waters. I am afraid⁠—”

“Afraid⁠—”

“Of the dark. Sometimes I dare not be alone at night. I must have something living⁠—something solid beside me. It is the outer darkness, where shall be⁠—No, no! It’s not that; that’s a sixpenny toy hell;⁠—it’s the inner darkness. There’s no weeping or gnashing of teeth there; only silence⁠—silence⁠—”

His eyes dilated. She was quite still, hardly breathing till he spoke again.

“This is all mystification to you, isn’t it? You can’t understand⁠—luckily for you. What I mean is that I have a pretty fair chance of going mad if I try to live quite alone⁠—Don’t think too hardly of me, if you can help it; I am not altogether the vicious brute you perhaps imagine me to be.”

“I cannot try to judge for you,” she answered. “I have not suffered as you have. But⁠—I have been in rather deep water too, in another way; and I think⁠—I am sure⁠—that if you let the fear of anything drive you to do a really cruel or unjust or ungenerous thing, you will regret it afterwards. For the rest⁠—if you have failed in this one thing, I know that I, in your place, should have failed altogether⁠—should have cursed God and died.”

He still kept her hands in his.

“Tell me,” he said very softly; “have you ever in your life done a really cruel thing?”

She did not answer, but her head sank down, and two great tears fell on his hand.

“Tell me!” he whispered passionately, clasping her hands tighter. “Tell me! I have told you all my misery.”

“Yes⁠—once⁠—long ago. And I did it to the person I loved best in the world.”

The hands that clasped hers were trembling violently; but they did not loosen their hold.

“He was a comrade,” she went on; “and I believed a slander against him⁠—a common glaring lie that the police had invented. I struck him in the face for a traitor; and he went away and drowned himself. Then, two days later, I found out that he had been quite innocent. Perhaps that is a worse memory than any of yours. I would cut off my right hand to undo what it has done.”

Something swift and dangerous⁠—something that she had not seen before⁠—flashed into his eyes. He bent his head down with a furtive, sudden gesture and kissed the hand.

She drew back with a startled face. “Don’t!” she cried out piteously. “Please don’t ever do that again! You hurt me!”

“Do you think you didn’t hurt the man you killed?”

“The man I⁠—killed⁠—Ah, there is Cesare at the gate at last! I⁠—I must go!”

When Martini came into the room he found the Gadfly lying alone with the untouched coffee beside him, swearing softly to himself in a languid, spiritless way, as though he got no satisfaction out of it.

IX

A few days later, the Gadfly, still rather pale and limping more than usual, entered the reading room of the public library and asked for Cardinal Montanelli’s sermons. Riccardo, who was reading at a table near him, looked up. He liked the Gadfly very much, but could not digest this one trait in him⁠—this curious personal maliciousness.

“Are you preparing another volley against that unlucky Cardinal?” he asked half irritably.

“My dear fellow, why do you a-a-always attribute evil m-m-motives to people? It’s m-most unchristian. I am preparing an essay on contemporary theology for the n-n-new paper.”

“What new paper?” Riccardo frowned. It was perhaps an open secret that a new press-law was expected and that the Opposition was preparing to astonish the town with a radical newspaper; but still it was, formally, a secret.

“The Swindlers’ Gazette, of course, or the Church Calendar.”

“Sh-sh! Rivarez, we are disturbing the other readers.”

“Well then, stick to your surgery, if that’s your subject, and l-l-leave me to th-theology⁠—that’s mine. I d-d-don’t interfere with your treatment of broken bones, though I know a p-p-precious lot more about them than you do.”

He sat down to his volume of sermons with an intent and preoccupied face. One of the librarians came up to him.

“Signor Rivarez! I think you were in the Duprez expedition, exploring the tributaries of the Amazon? Perhaps you will kindly help us in a difficulty. A lady has been inquiring for the records of the expedition, and they are at the binder’s.”

“What does she want to know?”

“Only in what year the expedition started and when it passed through Ecuador.”

“It started from Paris in the autumn of 1837, and passed through Quito in April, 1838. We were three years in Brazil; then went down to Rio and got back to Paris in the summer of 1841. Does the lady want the dates of the separate discoveries?”

“No, thank you; only these. I have written them down. Beppo, take this paper to Signora Bolla, please. Many thanks, Signor Rivarez. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

The Gadfly leaned back in his chair with a perplexed frown. What did she want the dates for? When they passed through Ecuador⁠—

Gemma went home with the slip of paper in her hand. April, 1838⁠—and Arthur had died in May, 1833. Five years⁠—

She began pacing up and down her room. She had slept badly the last few nights, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

Five years;⁠—and an “overluxurious home”⁠—and “someone he had trusted had deceived him”⁠—had deceived him⁠—and he had found it out⁠—

She stopped and put up both hands to her head. Oh, this was utterly mad⁠—it was not possible⁠—it was