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

fastening one of the sprays into her dress. She had apparently made up her mind to be good-humoured, and came up to him with a little cluster of crimson buds tied together.

“Here is a buttonhole for you; let me put it in your coat.”

All through dinnertime he did his best to be amiable, and kept up a flow of small-talk, to which she responded with radiant smiles. Her evident joy at his return somewhat embarrassed him; he had grown so accustomed to the idea that she led her own life apart from his, among such friends and companions as were congenial to her, that it had never occurred to him to imagine her as missing him. And yet she must have felt dull to be so much excited now.

“Let us have coffee up on the terrace,” she said; “it is quite warm this evening.”

“Very well. Shall I take your guitar? Perhaps you will sing.”

She flushed with delight; he was critical about music and did not often ask her to sing.

On the terrace was a broad wooden bench running round the walls. The Gadfly chose a corner with a good view of the hills, and Zita, seating herself on the low wall with her feet on the bench, leaned back against a pillar of the roof. She did not care much for scenery; she preferred to look at the Gadfly.

“Give me a cigarette,” she said. “I don’t believe I have smoked once since you went away.”

“Happy thought! It’s just s-s-smoke I want to complete my bliss.”

She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly.

“Are you really happy?”

The Gadfly’s mobile brows went up.

“Yes; why not? I have had a good dinner; I am looking at one of the m-most beautiful views in Europe; and now I’m going to have coffee and hear a Hungarian folksong. There is nothing the matter with either my conscience or my digestion; what more can man desire?”

“I know another thing you desire.”

“What?”

“That!” She tossed a little cardboard box into his hand.

“B-burnt almonds! Why d-didn’t you tell me before I began to s-smoke?” he cried reproachfully.

“Why, you baby! you can eat them when you have done smoking. There comes the coffee.”

The Gadfly sipped his coffee and ate his burnt almonds with the grave and concentrated enjoyment of a cat drinking cream.

“How nice it is to come back to d-decent coffee, after the s-s-stuff one gets at Leghorn!” he said in his purring drawl.

“A very good reason for stopping at home now you are here.”

“Not much stopping for me; I’m off again tomorrow.”

The smile died on her face.

“Tomorrow! What for? Where are you going to?”

“Oh! two or three p-p-places, on business.”

It had been decided between him and Gemma that he must go in person into the Apennines to make arrangements with the smugglers of the frontier region about the transporting of the firearms. To cross the Papal frontier was for him a matter of serious danger; but it had to be done if the work was to succeed.

“Always business!” Zita sighed under her breath; and then asked aloud:

“Shall you be gone long?”

“No; only a fortnight or three weeks, p-p-probably.”

“I suppose it’s some of that business?” she asked abruptly.

“ ‘That’ business?”

“The business you’re always trying to get your neck broken over⁠—the everlasting politics.”

“It has something to do with p-p-politics.”

Zita threw away her cigarette.

“You are fooling me,” she said. “You are going into some danger or other.”

“I’m going s-s-straight into the infernal regions,” he answered languidly. “D-do you happen to have any friends there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn’t pull it all down, though.”

She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.

“You are going into danger,” she repeated; “and you won’t even say so honestly! Do you think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of these days, and never so much as say goodbye. It’s always politics and politics⁠—I’m sick of politics!”

“S-so am I,” said the Gadfly, yawning lazily; “and therefore we’ll talk about something else⁠—unless you will sing.”

“Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?”

“The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice so well.”

She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses first his horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with the reflection that “more was lost at Mohacz field.” The song was one of the Gadfly’s especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softer music ever did.

Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement desire of life. She would have sung Italian or Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but she sang the Magyar folksongs splendidly.

The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this before. As she came to the last line, her voice began suddenly to shake.

“Ah, no matter! More was lost⁠—”

She broke down with a sob and hid her face among the ivy leaves.

“Zita!” The Gadfly rose and took the guitar from her hand. “What is it?”

She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in both hands. He touched her on the arm.

“Tell me what is the matter,” he said caressingly.

“Let me alone!” she sobbed, shrinking away. “Let me alone!”

He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the sobs died away. Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.

“Felice⁠—don’t go! Don’t go away!”

“We will talk about that afterwards,” he said, gently extricating himself from the clinging arms. “Tell me first what has upset you so. Has anything been frightening you?”

She silently shook her head.

“Have I done anything to hurt you?”

“No.” She put a hand up against his throat.

“What, then?”

“You will get killed,” she whispered at last. “I heard one of those men that come here say the