confessed his sins in the market-place.' That is an advantage gained,
surely."
"Yes, I see. Still, I wish the thing could have been done without
fooling the Cardinal. He's too good to have that sort of trick played on
him."
"I thought myself he seemed fairly decent," the Gadfly lazily assented.
"Nonsense, Sandro! We don't want Cardinals here!" said Domenichino.
"And if Monsignor Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he had the
chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn't have fooled him." "He wouldn't take
it because he didn't want to leave his work here."
"More likely because he didn't want to get poisoned off by
Lambruschini's agents. They've got something against him, you may depend
upon it. When a Cardinal, especially such a popular one, 'prefers to stay'
in a God-forsaken little hole like this, we all know what that means--don't
we, Rivarez?"
The Gadfly was making smoke-rings. "Perhaps it is a c-c-case of a
'b-b-broken and contrite heart,'" he remarked, leaning his head back to
watch them float away. "And now, men, let us get to business."
They began to discuss in detail the various plans which had been formed
for the smuggling and concealment of weapons. The Gadfly listened with keen
attention, interrupting every now and then to correct sharply some
inaccurate statement or imprudent proposal. When everyone had finished
speaking, he made a few practical suggestions, most of which were adopted
without discussion. The meeting then broke up. It had been resolved that, at
least until he was safely back in Tuscany, very late meetings, which might
attract the notice of the police, should be avoided. By a little after ten
o'clock all had dispersed except the doctor, the Gadfly, and Domenichino,
who remained as a sub-committee for the discussion of special points. After
a long and hot dispute, Domenichino looked up at the clock.
"Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer or the night-watchman may
see us."
"When does he pass?" asked the Gadfly.
"About twelve o'clock; and I want to be home before he comes.
Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez, shall we walk together?"
"No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall see you again?"
"Yes; at Castel Bolognese. I don't know yet what disguise I shall be
in, but you have the passWord. You leave here to-morrow, I think?"
The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard and wig before the
looking-glass.
"To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims. On the next day I fall ill and
stop behind in a shepherd's hut, and then take a short cut across the hills.
I shall be down there before you will. Good-night!"
Twelve o'clock was striking from the Cathedral bell-tower as the Gadfly
looked in at the door of the great empty barn which had been thrown open as
a lodging for the pilgrims. The floor was covered with clumsy figures, most
of which were snoring lustily, and the air was insufferably close and foul.
He drew back with a little shudder of repugnance; it would be useless to
attempt to sleep in there; he would take a walk, and then find some shed or
haystack which would, at least, be clean and quiet.
It was a glorious night, with a great full moon gleaming in a purple
sky. He began to wander through the streets in an aimless way, brooding
miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing that he had never
consented to Domenichino's plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella. If at
the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous, some other place
would have been chosen; and both he and Montanelli would have been spared
this ghastly, ridiculous farce.
How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was not changed at all; it
was just the same as in the old days, when he used to say: "Carino."
The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at the other end of the
street, and the Gadfly turned down a narrow, crooked alley. After walking a
few yards he found himself in the Cathedral Square, close to the left wing
of the episcopal palace. The square was flooded with moonlight, and there
was no one in sight; but he noticed that a side door of the Cathedral was
ajar. The sacristan must have forgotten to shut it. Surely nothing could be
going on there so late at night. He might as well go in and sleep on one of
the benches instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in the
morning before the sacristan came; and even if anyone did find him, the
natural supposition would be that mad Diego had been saying his prayers in
some corner, and had got shut in.
He listened a moment at the door, and then entered with the noiseless
step that he had retained notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight
streamed through the windows, and lay in broad bands on the marble floor. In
the chancel, especially, everything was as clearly visible as by daylight.
At the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt alone, bare-headed,
with clasped hands.
The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should he slip away before
Montanelli saw him? That, no doubt, would be the wisest thing to do--perhaps
the most merciful. And yet, what harm could it do for him to go just a
little nearer--to look at the Padre's face once more, now that the crowd was
gone, and there was no need to keep up the hideous comedy of the morning?
Perhaps it would be his last chance--and the Padre need not see him; he
would steal up softly and look-- just this once. Then he would go back to
his work.
Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel
rails, and paused at the side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of
the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him, and he crouched down in
the darkness, holding his breath.
"My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!"
The broken whisper was full of such endless despair that the Gadfly
shuddered in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and he
saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain.
He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to
himself with bitter assurance: "I need not trouble about it; that wound was
healed long ago." Now, after all these years, it was laid bare before him,
and he saw it bleeding still. And how easy it would be to heal it now at
last! He need only lift his hand--only step forward and say: "Padre, it is
I." There was Gemma, too, with that white streak across her hair. Oh, if he
could but forgive! If he could but cut out from his memory the past that was
burned into it so deep--the Lascar, and the sugar-plantation, and the
variety show! Surely there was no other misery like this--to be willing to
forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that it was hopeless--that he could
not, dared not forgive.
Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the cross, and turned away
from the altar. The Gadfly shrank further back into the shadow, trembling
with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of his heart should
betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had passed him,
so close that the violet robe had brushed against his cheek,--had passed and
had not seen him.
Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done? This had been his last
chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He started up
and stepped into the light.
"Padre!"
The sound of his own voice, ringing up and dying away along the arches
of the roof, filled him with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into the
shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar, motionless, listening with
wide-open eyes, full of the horror of death. How long the silence lasted the
Gadfly could not tell; it might have been an instant, or an eternity. He
came to his senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning to sway as
though he would fall, and his lips moved, at first silently.
"Arthur!" the low whisper came at last; "yes, the water is deep----"
The Gadfly came forward.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it was one of the priests."
"Ah, it is the pilgrim?" Montanelli had at once recovered his
self-control, though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of the
sapphire on his hand, that he was still trembling. "Are you in need of
anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at night."
"I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done wrong. I saw the door
open, and came in to pray, and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in
meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this."
He held up the little tin cross that he had bought from Domenichino.
Montanelli took it from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it for
a moment on the altar.
"Take it, my son," he said, "and be at rest, for the Lord is tender and
pitiful. Go to Rome, and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy Father.
Peace be with you!"
The Gadfly bent his head to receive the benediction, and turned slowly
away.
"Stop!" said Montanelli.
He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.
"When you receive the Holy Eucharist in Rome," he said, "pray for one
in deep affliction-- for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy."
There were almost tears in his voice, and the Gadfly's resolution
wavered. Another instant and he would have betrayed himself. Then the
thought of the variety-show came up again, and he remembered, like Jonah,
that he did well to be angry.
"Who am I, that He should hear my prayers? A leper and an outcast! If I
could bring to His throne, as Your Eminence can, the offering of a holy
life--of a soul without spot or secret shame------"
Montanelli turned abruptly away.
"I have only one offering to give," he said; "a broken heart."
. . . . .
A few days later the Gadfly returned to Florence in the diligence from
Pistoja. He went straight to Gemma's lodgings, but she was out. Leaving a
message that he would return in the morning he went home, sincerely hoping
that he should not again find his study invaded by Zita. Her jealous
reproaches would act on his nerves, if he were to hear much of them
to-night, like the rasping of a dentist's file.
"Good-evening, Bianca," he said when the maid-servant opened the door.
"Has Mme. Reni been here to-day?"
She stared at him blankly
"Mme. Reni? Has she come back, then, sir?"
"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown, stopping short on the mat.
"She went away quite suddenly, just after you did, and left all her
things behind her. She never so much as said she was going."
"Just after I did? What, a f-fortnight ago?"
"Yes, sir, the same day; and her things are lying about
higgledy-piggledy. All the neighbours are talking about it."
He turned away from the door-step without speaking, and went hastily
down the lane to the house where Zita had been lodging. In her rooms nothing
had been touched; all the presents that he had given her were in their usual
places; there was no letter or scrap of writing anywhere.
"If you please, sir," said Bianca, putting her head in at the door,
"there's an old woman----"
He turned round fiercely.
"What do you want here--following me about?"
"An old woman wishes to see you."
"What does she want? Tell her I c-can't see her; I'm busy."
"She has been coming nearly every evening since you went away, sir,
always asking when you would come back."
"Ask her w-what her business is. No; never mind; I suppose I must go
myself."
The old woman was waiting at his hall door. She was very poorly
dressed, with a face as brown and wrinkled as a medlar, and a
bright-coloured scarf twisted round her head. As he came in she rose and
looked at him with keen black eyes.
"You are the lame gentleman," she said, inspecting him critically from
head to foot. "I have brought you a message from Zita Reni."
He opened the study door, and held it for her to pass in; then followed
her and shut the door, that Bianca might not hear.
"Sit down, please. N-now, tell me who you are."
"It's no business of yours who I am. I have come to tell you that Zita
Reni has gone away with my son."
"With--your--son?"
"Yes, sir; if you don't know how to keep your mistress when you've got
her, you can't complain if other men take her. My son has blood in his
veins, not milk and water; he comes of the Romany folk."
"Ah, you are a gipsy! Zita has gone back to her own people, then?"
She looked at him in amazed contempt. Apparently, these Christians had
not even manhood enough to be angry when they were insulted.
"What sort of stuff are you made of, that she should stay with you? Our
women may lend themselves to you a bit for a girl's fancy, or if you pay
them well; but the Romany blood comes back to the Romany folk."
The Gadfly's face remained as cold and steady as before.
"Has she gone away with a gipsy camp, or merely to live with your son?"
The woman burst out laughing.
"Do you think of following her and trying to win her back? It's too
late, sir; you should have thought of that before!"
"No; I only want to know the truth, if you will tell it to me."
She shrugged her shoulders; it was hardly worth while to abuse a person
who took it so meekly.
"The truth, then, is that she met my son in the road the day you left
her, and spoke to him in the Romany tongue; and when he saw she was one of
our folk, in spite of her fine clothes, he fell in love with her bonny face,
as OUR men fall in love, and took her to our camp. She told us all her
trouble, and sat crying and sobbing, poor lassie, till our hearts were sore
for her. We comforted her as best we could; and at last she took off her
fine clothes and put on the things our lasses wear, and gave herself to my
son, to be his woman and to have him for her man. He won't say to her: 'I
don't love you,' and: 'I've other things to do.' When a woman is young, she
wants a man; and what sort of man are you, that you can't even kiss a
handsome girl when she puts her arms round your neck?"
"You said," he interrupted, "that you had brought me a message from
her."
"Yes; I stopped behind when the camp went on, so as to give it. She
told me to say that she has had enough of your folk and their hair-splitting
and their sluggish blood; and that she wants to get back to her own people
and be free. 'Tell him,' she said, 'that I am a woman, and that I loved him;
and that is why I would not be his harlot any longer.' The lassie was right
to come away. There's no harm in a girl getting a bit of money out of her
good looks if she can--that's what good looks are for; but a Romany lass has
nothing to do with LOVING a man of your race."
The Gadfly stood up.
"Is that all the message?" he said. "Then tell her, please, that I
think she has done right, and that I hope she will be happy. That is all I
have to say. Good-night!"
He stood perfectly still until the garden gate closed behind her; then
he sat down and covered his face with both hands.
Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of pride to be left him--no shred
of self-respect? Surely he had suffered everything that man can endure; his
very heart had been dragged in the mud and trampled under the feet of the
passers-by; there was no spot in his soul where someone's contempt was not
branded in, where someone's mockery had not left its iron trace. And now
this gipsy girl, whom he had picked up by the wayside-- even she had the
whip in her hand.
Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly rose to let him in. The dog
rushed up to his master with his usual frantic manifestations of delight,
but soon, understanding that something was wrong, lay down on the rug beside
him, and thrust a cold nose into the listless hand.
An hour later Gemma came up to the front door. No one appeared in
answer to her knock; Bianca, finding that the Gadfly did not want any
dinner, had slipped out to visit a neighbour's cook. She had left the door
open, and a light burning in the hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time,
decided to enter and try if she could find the Gadfly, as she wished to
speak to him about an important message which had come from Bailey. She
knocked at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered from within: "You
can go away, Bianca. I don't want anything."
She softly opened the door. The room was quite dark, but the passage
lamp threw a long stream of light across it as she entered, and she saw the
Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his breast, and the dog asleep at his
feet.
"It is I," she said.
He started up. "Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
Before she could speak he was kneeling on the floor at her feet and
hiding his face in the folds of her dress. His whole body was shaken with a
convulsive tremor that was worse to see than tears.
She stood still. There was nothing she could do to help him--nothing.
This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on passively
-- she who would have died to spare him pain. Could she but dare to stoop
and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her heart and shield
him, were it with her own body, from all further harm or wrong; surely then
he would be Arthur to her again; surely then the day would break and the
shadows flee away.
Ah, no, no! How could he ever forget? Was it not she who had cast him
into hell--she, with her own right hand?
She had let the moment slip by. He rose hastily and sat down by the
table, covering his eyes with one hand and biting his lip as if he would
bite it through.
Presently he looked up and said quietly:
"I am afraid I startled you."
She held out both her hands to him. "Dear," she said, "are we not
friends enough by now for you to trust me a little bit? What is it?"
"Only a private trouble of my own. I don't see why you should be
worried over it."
"Listen a moment," she went on, taking his hand in both of hers to
steady its convulsive trembling. "I have not tried to lay hands on a thing
that is not mine to touch. But now that you have given me, of your own free
will, so much of your confidence, will you not give me a little more--as you
would do if I were your sister. Keep the mask on your face, if it is any
consolation to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul, for your own sake."
He bent his head lower. "You must be patient with me," he said. "I am
an unsatisfactory sort of brother to have, I'm afraid; but if you only
knew---- I have been nearly mad this last week. It has been like South
America again. And somehow the devil gets into me and----" He broke off.
"May I not have my share in your trouble?" she whispered at last.
His head sank down on her arm. "The hand of the Lord is heavy."
THE next five weeks were spent by Gemma and the Gadfly in a whirl of
excitement and overwork which left them little time or energy for thinking
about their personal affairs. When the arms had been safely smuggled into
Papal territory there remained a still more difficult and dangerous task:
that of conveying them unobserved from the secret stores in the mountain
caverns and ravines to the various local centres and thence to the separate
villages. The whole district was swarming with spies; and Domenichino, to
whom the Gadfly had intrusted the ammunition, sent into Florence a messenger
with an urgent appeal for either help or extra time. The Gadfly had insisted
that the work should be finished by the middle of June; and what with the
difficulty of conveying heavy transports over bad roads, and the endless
hindrances and delays caused by the necessity of continually evading
observation, Domenichino was growing desperate. "I am between Scylla and
Charybdis," he wrote. "I dare not work quickly, for fear of detection, and I
must not work slowly if we are to be ready in time. Either send me efficient
help at once, or let the Venetians know that we shall not be ready till the
first week in July."
The Gadfly carried the letter to Gemma and, while she read it, sat
frowning at the floor and stroking the cat's fur the wrong way.
"This is bad," she said. "We can hardly keep the Venetians waiting for
three weeks."
"Of course we can't; the thing is absurd. Domenichino m-might
unders-s-stand that. We must follow the lead of the Venetians, not they
ours."
"I don't see that Domenichino is to blame; he has evidently done his
best, and he can't do impossibilities."
"It's not in Domenichino that the fault lies; it's in the fact of his
being one person instead of two. We ought to have at least one responsible
man to guard the store and another to see the transports off. He is quite
right; he must have efficient help."
"But what help are we going to give him? We have no one in Florence to
send."
"Then I m-must go myself."
She leaned back in her chair and looked at him with a little frown.
"No, that won't do; it's too risky."
"It will have to do if we can't f-f-find any other way out of the
difficulty."
"Then we must find another way, that's all. It's out of the question
for you to go again just now."
An obstinate line appeared at the corners of his under lip.
"I d-don't see that it's out of the question."
"You will see if you think about the thing calmly for a minute. It is
only five weeks since you got back; the police are on the scent about that
pilgrim business, and scouring the country to find a clue. Yes, I know you
are clever at disguises; but remember what a lot of people saw you, both as
Diego and as the countryman; and you can't disguise your lameness or the
scar on your face."
"There are p-plenty of lame people in the world."
"Yes, but there are not plenty of people in the Romagna with a lame
foot and a sabre-cut across the cheek and a left arm injured like yours, and
the combination of blue eyes with such dark colouring."
"The eyes don't matter; I can alter them with belladonna."
"You can't alter the other things. No, it won't do. For you to go there
just now, with all your identification-marks, would be to walk into a trap
with your eyes open. You would certainly be taken."
"But s-s-someone must help Domenichino."
"It will be no help to him to have you caught at a critical moment like
this. Your arrest would mean the failure of the whole thing."
But the Gadfly was difficult to convince, and the discussion went on
and on without coming nearer to any settlement. Gemma was beginning to
realize how nearly inexhaustible was the fund of quiet obstinacy in his
character; and, had the matter not been one about which she felt strongly,
she would probably have yielded for the sake of peace. This, however, was a
case in which she could not conscientiously give way; the practical
advantage to be gained from the proposed journey seemed to her not
sufficiently important to be worth the risk, and she could not help
suspecting that his desire to go was prompted less by a conviction of grave
political necessity than by a morbid craving for the excitement of danger.
He had got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency to run into
unnecessary peril seemed to her a form of intemperance which should be
quietly but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments unavailing against
his dogged resolve to go his own way, she fired her last shot.
"Let us be honest about it, anyway," she said; "and call things by
their true names. It is not Domenichino's difficulty that makes you so
determined to go. It is your own personal passion for----"
"It's not true!" he interrupted vehemently. "He is nothing to me; I
don't care if I never see him again." He broke off, seeing in her face that
he had betrayed himself. Their eyes met for an instant, and dropped; and
neither of them uttered the name that was in both their minds.
"It--it is not Domenichino I want to save," he stammered at last, with
his face half buried in the cat's fur; "it is that I--I understand the
danger of the work failing if he has no help."
She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and went on as if there
had been no interruption:
"It is your passion for running into danger which makes you want to go
there. You have the same craving for danger when you are worried that you
had for opium when you were ill."
"It was not I that asked for the opium," he said defiantly; "it was the
others who insisted on giving it to me."
"I dare say. You plume yourself a little on your stoicism, and to ask
for physical relief would have hurt your pride; but it is rather flattered
than otherwise when you risk your life to relieve the irritation of your
nerves. And yet, after all, the distinction is a merely conventional one."
He drew the cat's head back and looked down into the round, green eyes.
"Is it true, Pasht?" he said. "Are all these unkind things true that your
mistress is s-saying about me? Is it a case of mea culpa; mea m-maxima
culpa? You wise beast, you never ask for opium, do you? Your ancestors were
gods in Egypt, and no man t-trod on their tails. I wonder, though, what
would become of your calm superiority to earthly ills if I were to take this
paw of yours and hold it in the c-candle. Would you ask me for opium then?
Would you? Or perhaps--for death? No, pussy, we have no right to die for our
personal convenience. We may spit and s-swear a bit, if it consoles us; but
we mustn't pull the paw away."
"Hush!" She took the cat off his knee and put it down on a footstool.
"You and I will have time for thinking about those things later on. What we
have to think of now is how to get Domenichino out of his difficulty. What
is it, Katie; a visitor? I am busy."
"Miss Wright has sent you this, ma'am, by hand."
The packet, which was carefully sealed, contained a letter, addressed
to Miss Wright, but unopened and with a Papal stamp. Gemma's old school
friends still lived in Florence, and her more important letters were often
received, for safety, at their address.
"It is Michele's mark," she said, glancing quickly over the letter,
which seemed to be about the summer-terms at a boarding house in the
Apennines, and pointing to two little blots on a corner of the page. "It is
in chemical ink; the reagent is in the third drawer of the writing-table.
Yes; that is it."
He laid the letter open on the desk and passed a little brush over its
pages. When the real message stood out on the paper in a brilliant blue
line, he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
"What is it?" she asked hurriedly. He handed her the paper.
"DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE."
She sat down with the paper in her hand and stared hopelessly at the
Gadfly.
"W-well?" he said at last, with his soft, ironical drawl; "are you
satisfied now that I must go?"
"Yes, I suppose you must," she answered, sighing. "And I too."
He looked up with a little start. "You too? But----"
"Of course. It will be very awkward, I know, to be left without anyone
here in Florence; but everything must go to the wall now except the
providing of an extra pair of hands."
"There are plenty of hands to be got there."
"They don't belong to people whom you can trust thoroughly, though. You
said yourself just now that there must be two responsible persons in charge;
and if Domenichino couldn't manage alone it is evidently impossible for you
to do so. A person as desperately compromised as you are is very much
handicapped, remember, in work of that kind, and more dependent on help than
anyone else would be. Instead of you and Domenichino, it must be you and I."
He considered for a moment, frowning.
"Yes, you are quite right," he said; "and the sooner we go the better.
But we must not start together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say, the
afternoon coach to-morrow."
"Where to?"
"That we must discuss. I think I had b-b-better go straight in to
Faenza. If I start late to-night and ride to Borgo San Lorenzo I can get my
disguise arranged there and go straight on."
"I don't see what else we can do," she said, with an anxious little
frown; "but it is very risky, your going off in such a hurry and trusting to
the smugglers finding you a disguise at Borgo. You ought to have at least
three clear days to double on your trace before you cross the frontier."
"You needn't be afraid," he answered, smiling; "I may get taken further
on, but not at the frontier. Once in the hills I am as safe as here; there's
not a smuggler in the Apennines that would betray me. What I am not quite
sure about is how you are to get across."
"Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa Wright's passport and go
for a holiday. No one knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you."
"F-fortunately, so does every smuggler."
She took out her watch.
"Half-past two. We have the afternoon and evening, then, if you are to
start to-night."
"Then the best thing will be for me to go home and settle everything
now, and arrange about a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it will
be safer."
"But it won't be safe at all to hire a horse. The owner will-----"
"I shan't hire one. I know a man that will lend me a horse, and that
can be trusted. He has done things for me before. One of the shepherds will
bring it back in a fortnight. I shall be here again by five or half-past,
then; and while I am gone, I w-want you to go and find Martini and exp-plain
everything to him."
"Martini!" She turned round and looked at him in astonishment.
"Yes; we must take him into confidence--unless you can think of anyone
else."
"I don't quite understand what you mean."
"We must have someone here whom we can trust, in case of any special
difficulty; and of all the set here Martini is the man in whom I have most
confidence. Riccardo would do anything he could for us, of course; but I
think Martini has a steadier head. Still, you know him better than I do; it
is as you think."
"I have not the slightest doubt as to Martini's trustworthiness and
efficiency in every respect; and I think he would probably consent to give
us any help he could. But----"
He understood at once.
"Gemma, what would you feel if you found out that a comrade in bitter
need had not asked you for help you might have given, for fear of hurting or
distressing you? Would you say there was any true kindness in that?"
"Very well," she said, after a little pause; "I will send Katie round
at once and ask him to come; and while she is gone I will go to Louisa for
her passport; she promised to lend it whenever I want one. What about money?
Shall I draw some out of the bank?"
"No; don't waste time on that; I can draw enough from my account to
last us for a bit. We will fall back on yours later on if my balance runs
short. Till half-past five, then; I shall be sure to find you here, of
course?"
"Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then."
Half an hour after the appointed time he returned, and found Gemma and
Martini sitting on the terrace together. He saw at once that their
conversation had been a distressing one; the traces of agitation were
visible in both of them, and Martini was unusually silent and glum.
"Have you arranged everything?" she asked, looking up.
"Yes; and I have brought you some money for the journey. The horse will
be ready for me at the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night."
"Is not that rather late? You ought to get into San Lorenzo before the
people are up in the morning."
"So I shall; it's a very fast horse; and I don't want to leave here
when there's a chance of anyone noticing me. I shan't go home any more;
there's a spy watching at the door, and he thinks me in."
"How did you get out without his seeing you?"
"Out of the kitchen window into the back garden and over the
neighbour's orchard wall; that's what makes me so late; I had to dodge him.
I left the owner of the horse to sit in the study all the evening with the
lamp lighted. When the spy sees the light in the window and a shadow on the
blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing at home this evening."
"Then you will stay here till it is time to go to the barrier?"
"Yes; I don't want to be seen in the street any more to-night. Have a
cigar, Martini? I know Signora Bolla doesn't mind smoke."
"I shan't be here to mind; I must go downstairs and help Katie with the
dinner."
When she had gone Martini got up and began to pace to and fro with his
hands behind his back. The Gadfly sat smoking and looking silently out at
the drizzling rain.
"Rivarez!" Martini began, stopping in front of him, but keeping his
eyes on the ground; "what sort of thing are you going to drag her into?"
The Gadfly took the cigar from his mouth and blew away a long trail of
smoke.
"She has chosen for herself," he said, "without compulsion on anyone's
part."
"Yes, yes--I know. But tell me----"
He stopped.
"I will tell you anything I can."
"Well, then--I don't know much about the details of these affairs in
the hills,--are you going to take her into any very serious danger?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then--yes."
Martini turned away and went on pacing up and down. Presently he
stopped again.
"I want to ask you another question. If you don't choose to answer it,
you needn't, of course; but if you do answer, then answer honestly. Are you
in love with her?"
The Gadfly deliberately knocked the ash from his cigar and went on
smoking in silence.
"That means--that you don't choose to answer?"
"No; only that I think I have a right to know why you ask me that."
"Why? Good God, man, can't you see why?"
"Ah!" He laid down his cigar and looked steadily at Martini. "Yes," he
said at last, slowly and softly. "I am in love with her. But you needn't
think I am going to make love to her, or worry about it. I am only going
to----"
His voice died away in a strange, faint whisper. Martini came a step
nearer.
"Only going--to----"
"To die."
He was staring straight before him with a cold, fixed look, as if he
were dead already. When he spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless and
even.
"You needn't worry her about it beforehand," he said; "but there's not
the ghost of a chance for me. It's dangerous for everyone; that she knows as
well as I do; but the smugglers will do their best to prevent her getting
taken. They are good fellows, though they are a bit rough. As for me, the
rope is round my neck, and when I cross the frontier I pull the noose."
"Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it's dangerous, and particularly
so for you; I understand that; but you have often crossed the frontier
before and always been successful."
"Yes, and this time I shall fail."
"But why? How can you know?"
The Gadfly smiled drearily.
"Do you remember the German legend of the man that died when he met his
own Double? No? It appeared to him at night in a lonely place, wringing its
hands in despair. Well, I met mine the last time I was in the hills; and
when I cross the frontier again I shan't come back."
Martini came up to him and put a hand on the back of his chair.
"Listen, Rivarez; I don't understand a word of all this metaphysical
stuff, but I do understand one thing: If you feel about it that way, you are
not in a fit state to go. The surest way to get taken is to go with a
conviction that you will be taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts somehow,
to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose I go instead of you? I
can do any practical work there is to be done, and you can send a message to
your men, explaining------"
"And let you get killed instead? That would be very clever."
"Oh, I'm not likely to get killed! They don't know me as they do you.
And, besides, even if I did------"
He stopped, and the Gadfly looked up with a slow, inquiring gaze.
Martini's hand dropped by his side.
"She very likely wouldn't miss me as much as she would you," he said in
his most matter-of-fact voice. "And then, besides, Rivarez, this is public
business, and we have to look at it from the point of view of utility--the
greatest good of the greatest number. Your 'final value'---isn't that what
the economists call it?--is higher than mine; I have brains enough to see
that, though I haven't any cause to be particularly fond of you. You are a
bigger man than I am; I'm not sure that you are a better one, but there's
more of you, and your death would be a greater loss than mine."
From the way he spoke he might have been discussing the value of shares
on the Exchange. The Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.
"Would you have me wait till my grave opens of itself to swallow me up?
"If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride----
Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense."
"You are, certainly," said Martini gruffly.
"Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't let's go in for romantic
self-sacrifice, like Don Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth
century; and if it's my business to die, I have got to do it."
"And if it's my business to live, I have got to do that, I suppose.
You're the lucky one, Rivarez."
"Yes," the Gadfly assented laconically; "I was always lucky."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then began to talk of
business details. When Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither of them
betrayed in face or manner that their conversation had been in any way
unusual. After dinner they sat discussing plans and making necessary
arrangements till eleven o'clock, when Martini rose and took his hat.
"I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of mine, Rivarez. I think
you will be less recognizable in it than in your light suit. I want to
reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no spies about before we
start."
"Are you coming with me to the barrier?"
"Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in case of anyone following
you. I'll be back by twelve. Be sure you don't start without me. I had
better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake anyone by ringing."
She raised her eyes to his face as he took the keys. She understood
that he had invented a pretext in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.
"You and I will talk to-morrow," she said. "We shall have time in the
morning, when my packing is finished." "Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There are
two or three little things I want to ask you about, Rivarez; but we can talk
them over on our way to the barrier. You had better send Katie to bed,
Gemma; and be as quiet as you can, both of you. Good-bye till twelve, then."
He went away with a little nod and smile, banging the door after him to
let the neighbours hear that Signora Bolla's visitor was gone.
Gemma went out into the kitchen to say good-night to Katie, and came
back with black coffee on a tray.
"Would you like to lie down a bit?" she said. "You won't have any sleep
the rest of the night."
"Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo while the men are getting my
disguise ready."
"Then have some coffee. Wait a minute; I will get you out the
biscuits."
As she knelt down at the side-board he suddenly stooped over her
shoulder.
"Whatever have you got there? Chocolate creams and English toffee! Why,
this is l-luxury for a king!"
She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.
"Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them for Cesare; he is a perfect
baby over any kind of lollipops."
"R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some more to-morrow and give me
these to take with me. No, let me p-p-put the toffee in my pocket; it will
console me for all the lost joys of life. I d-do hope they'll give me a bit
of toffee to suck the day I'm hanged."
"Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at least, before you put it
in your pocket! You will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in, too?"
"No, I want to eat them now, with you."
"But I don't like chocolate, and I want you to come and sit down like a
reasonable human being. We very likely shan't have another chance to talk
quietly before one or other of us is killed, and------"
"She d-d-doesn't like chocolate!" he murmured under his breath. "Then I
must be greedy all by myself. This is a case of the hangman's supper, isn't
it? You are going to humour all my whims to-night. First of all, I want you
to sit on this easy-chair, and, as you said I might lie down, I shall lie
here and be comfortable."
He threw himself down on the rug at her feet, leaning his elbow on the
chair and looking up into her face.
"How pale you are!" he said. "That's because you take life sadly, and
don't like chocolate----"
"Do be serious for just five minutes! After all, it is a matter of life
and death."
"Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life nor death is worth it."
He had taken hold of both her hands and was stroking them with the tips
of his fingers.
"Don't look so grave, Minerva! You'll make me cry in a minute, and then
you'll be sorry. I do wish you'd smile again; you have such a d-delightfully
unexpected smile. There now, don't scold me, dear! Let us eat our biscuits
together, like two good children, without quarrelling over them --for
to-morrow we die."
He took a sweet biscuit from the plate and carefully halved it,
breaking the sugar ornament down the middle with scrupulous exactness.
"This is a kind of sacrament, like what the goody-goody people have in
church. 'Take, eat; this is my body.' And we must d-drink the wine out of
the s-s-same glass, you know--yes, that is right. 'Do this in
remembrance----'"
She put down the glass.
"Don't!" she said, with almost a sob. He looked up, and took her hands
again.
"Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit. When one of us dies, the
other will remember this. We will forget this loud, insistent world that
howls about our ears; we will go away together, hand in hand; we will go
away into the secret halls of death, and lie among the poppy-flowers. Hush!
We will be quite still."
He laid his head down against her knee and covered his face. In the
silence she bent over him, her hand on the black head. So the time slipped
on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.
"Dear, it is almost twelve," she said at last. He raised his head.
"We have only a few minutes more; Martini will be back presently.
Perhaps we shall never see each other again. Have you nothing to say to me?"
He slowly rose and walked away to the other side of the room. There was
a moment's silence.
"I have one thing to say," he began in a hardly audible voice; "one
thing--to tell you----"
He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding his face in both hands.
"You have been a long time deciding to be merciful," she said softly.
"I have not seen much mercy in my life; and I thought--at first--you
wouldn't care----"
"You don't think that now."
She waited a moment for him to speak and then crossed the room and
stood beside him.
"Tell me the truth at last," she whispered. "Think, if you are killed
and I not--I should have to go through all my life and never know--never be
quite sure----"
He took her hands and clasped them tightly.
"If I am killed---- You see, when I went to South America---- Ah,
Martini!" He broke away with a violent start and threw open the door of the
room. Martini was rubbing his boots on the mat.
"Punctual to the m-m-minute, as usual! You're an an-n-nimated
chronometer, Martini. Is that the r-r-riding-cloak?"
"Yes; and two or three other things. I have kept them as dry as I
could, but it's pouring with rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride,
I'm afraid."
"Oh, that's no matter. Is the street clear?"
"Yes; all the spies seem to have gone to bed. I don't much wonder
either, on such a villainous night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to have
something hot before he goes out into the wet, or he will catch cold."
"It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil some milk."
She went into the kitchen, passionately clenching her teeth and hands
to keep from breaking down. When she returned with the milk the Gadfly had
put on the riding-cloak and was fastening the leather gaiters which Martini
had brought. He drank a cup of coffee, standing, and took up the
broad-brimmed riding hat.
"I think it's time to start, Martini; we must make a round before we go
surely."
"Yes, I see. Still, I wish the thing could have been done without
fooling the Cardinal. He's too good to have that sort of trick played on
him."
"I thought myself he seemed fairly decent," the Gadfly lazily assented.
"Nonsense, Sandro! We don't want Cardinals here!" said Domenichino.
"And if Monsignor Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he had the
chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn't have fooled him." "He wouldn't take
it because he didn't want to leave his work here."
"More likely because he didn't want to get poisoned off by
Lambruschini's agents. They've got something against him, you may depend
upon it. When a Cardinal, especially such a popular one, 'prefers to stay'
in a God-forsaken little hole like this, we all know what that means--don't
we, Rivarez?"
The Gadfly was making smoke-rings. "Perhaps it is a c-c-case of a
'b-b-broken and contrite heart,'" he remarked, leaning his head back to
watch them float away. "And now, men, let us get to business."
They began to discuss in detail the various plans which had been formed
for the smuggling and concealment of weapons. The Gadfly listened with keen
attention, interrupting every now and then to correct sharply some
inaccurate statement or imprudent proposal. When everyone had finished
speaking, he made a few practical suggestions, most of which were adopted
without discussion. The meeting then broke up. It had been resolved that, at
least until he was safely back in Tuscany, very late meetings, which might
attract the notice of the police, should be avoided. By a little after ten
o'clock all had dispersed except the doctor, the Gadfly, and Domenichino,
who remained as a sub-committee for the discussion of special points. After
a long and hot dispute, Domenichino looked up at the clock.
"Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer or the night-watchman may
see us."
"When does he pass?" asked the Gadfly.
"About twelve o'clock; and I want to be home before he comes.
Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez, shall we walk together?"
"No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall see you again?"
"Yes; at Castel Bolognese. I don't know yet what disguise I shall be
in, but you have the passWord. You leave here to-morrow, I think?"
The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard and wig before the
looking-glass.
"To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims. On the next day I fall ill and
stop behind in a shepherd's hut, and then take a short cut across the hills.
I shall be down there before you will. Good-night!"
Twelve o'clock was striking from the Cathedral bell-tower as the Gadfly
looked in at the door of the great empty barn which had been thrown open as
a lodging for the pilgrims. The floor was covered with clumsy figures, most
of which were snoring lustily, and the air was insufferably close and foul.
He drew back with a little shudder of repugnance; it would be useless to
attempt to sleep in there; he would take a walk, and then find some shed or
haystack which would, at least, be clean and quiet.
It was a glorious night, with a great full moon gleaming in a purple
sky. He began to wander through the streets in an aimless way, brooding
miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing that he had never
consented to Domenichino's plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella. If at
the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous, some other place
would have been chosen; and both he and Montanelli would have been spared
this ghastly, ridiculous farce.
How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was not changed at all; it
was just the same as in the old days, when he used to say: "Carino."
The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at the other end of the
street, and the Gadfly turned down a narrow, crooked alley. After walking a
few yards he found himself in the Cathedral Square, close to the left wing
of the episcopal palace. The square was flooded with moonlight, and there
was no one in sight; but he noticed that a side door of the Cathedral was
ajar. The sacristan must have forgotten to shut it. Surely nothing could be
going on there so late at night. He might as well go in and sleep on one of
the benches instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in the
morning before the sacristan came; and even if anyone did find him, the
natural supposition would be that mad Diego had been saying his prayers in
some corner, and had got shut in.
He listened a moment at the door, and then entered with the noiseless
step that he had retained notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight
streamed through the windows, and lay in broad bands on the marble floor. In
the chancel, especially, everything was as clearly visible as by daylight.
At the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt alone, bare-headed,
with clasped hands.
The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should he slip away before
Montanelli saw him? That, no doubt, would be the wisest thing to do--perhaps
the most merciful. And yet, what harm could it do for him to go just a
little nearer--to look at the Padre's face once more, now that the crowd was
gone, and there was no need to keep up the hideous comedy of the morning?
Perhaps it would be his last chance--and the Padre need not see him; he
would steal up softly and look-- just this once. Then he would go back to
his work.
Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel
rails, and paused at the side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of
the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him, and he crouched down in
the darkness, holding his breath.
"My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!"
The broken whisper was full of such endless despair that the Gadfly
shuddered in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and he
saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain.
He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to
himself with bitter assurance: "I need not trouble about it; that wound was
healed long ago." Now, after all these years, it was laid bare before him,
and he saw it bleeding still. And how easy it would be to heal it now at
last! He need only lift his hand--only step forward and say: "Padre, it is
I." There was Gemma, too, with that white streak across her hair. Oh, if he
could but forgive! If he could but cut out from his memory the past that was
burned into it so deep--the Lascar, and the sugar-plantation, and the
variety show! Surely there was no other misery like this--to be willing to
forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that it was hopeless--that he could
not, dared not forgive.
Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the cross, and turned away
from the altar. The Gadfly shrank further back into the shadow, trembling
with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of his heart should
betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had passed him,
so close that the violet robe had brushed against his cheek,--had passed and
had not seen him.
Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done? This had been his last
chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He started up
and stepped into the light.
"Padre!"
The sound of his own voice, ringing up and dying away along the arches
of the roof, filled him with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into the
shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar, motionless, listening with
wide-open eyes, full of the horror of death. How long the silence lasted the
Gadfly could not tell; it might have been an instant, or an eternity. He
came to his senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning to sway as
though he would fall, and his lips moved, at first silently.
"Arthur!" the low whisper came at last; "yes, the water is deep----"
The Gadfly came forward.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it was one of the priests."
"Ah, it is the pilgrim?" Montanelli had at once recovered his
self-control, though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of the
sapphire on his hand, that he was still trembling. "Are you in need of
anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at night."
"I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done wrong. I saw the door
open, and came in to pray, and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in
meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this."
He held up the little tin cross that he had bought from Domenichino.
Montanelli took it from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it for
a moment on the altar.
"Take it, my son," he said, "and be at rest, for the Lord is tender and
pitiful. Go to Rome, and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy Father.
Peace be with you!"
The Gadfly bent his head to receive the benediction, and turned slowly
away.
"Stop!" said Montanelli.
He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.
"When you receive the Holy Eucharist in Rome," he said, "pray for one
in deep affliction-- for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy."
There were almost tears in his voice, and the Gadfly's resolution
wavered. Another instant and he would have betrayed himself. Then the
thought of the variety-show came up again, and he remembered, like Jonah,
that he did well to be angry.
"Who am I, that He should hear my prayers? A leper and an outcast! If I
could bring to His throne, as Your Eminence can, the offering of a holy
life--of a soul without spot or secret shame------"
Montanelli turned abruptly away.
"I have only one offering to give," he said; "a broken heart."
. . . . .
A few days later the Gadfly returned to Florence in the diligence from
Pistoja. He went straight to Gemma's lodgings, but she was out. Leaving a
message that he would return in the morning he went home, sincerely hoping
that he should not again find his study invaded by Zita. Her jealous
reproaches would act on his nerves, if he were to hear much of them
to-night, like the rasping of a dentist's file.
"Good-evening, Bianca," he said when the maid-servant opened the door.
"Has Mme. Reni been here to-day?"
She stared at him blankly
"Mme. Reni? Has she come back, then, sir?"
"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown, stopping short on the mat.
"She went away quite suddenly, just after you did, and left all her
things behind her. She never so much as said she was going."
"Just after I did? What, a f-fortnight ago?"
"Yes, sir, the same day; and her things are lying about
higgledy-piggledy. All the neighbours are talking about it."
He turned away from the door-step without speaking, and went hastily
down the lane to the house where Zita had been lodging. In her rooms nothing
had been touched; all the presents that he had given her were in their usual
places; there was no letter or scrap of writing anywhere.
"If you please, sir," said Bianca, putting her head in at the door,
"there's an old woman----"
He turned round fiercely.
"What do you want here--following me about?"
"An old woman wishes to see you."
"What does she want? Tell her I c-can't see her; I'm busy."
"She has been coming nearly every evening since you went away, sir,
always asking when you would come back."
"Ask her w-what her business is. No; never mind; I suppose I must go
myself."
The old woman was waiting at his hall door. She was very poorly
dressed, with a face as brown and wrinkled as a medlar, and a
bright-coloured scarf twisted round her head. As he came in she rose and
looked at him with keen black eyes.
"You are the lame gentleman," she said, inspecting him critically from
head to foot. "I have brought you a message from Zita Reni."
He opened the study door, and held it for her to pass in; then followed
her and shut the door, that Bianca might not hear.
"Sit down, please. N-now, tell me who you are."
"It's no business of yours who I am. I have come to tell you that Zita
Reni has gone away with my son."
"With--your--son?"
"Yes, sir; if you don't know how to keep your mistress when you've got
her, you can't complain if other men take her. My son has blood in his
veins, not milk and water; he comes of the Romany folk."
"Ah, you are a gipsy! Zita has gone back to her own people, then?"
She looked at him in amazed contempt. Apparently, these Christians had
not even manhood enough to be angry when they were insulted.
"What sort of stuff are you made of, that she should stay with you? Our
women may lend themselves to you a bit for a girl's fancy, or if you pay
them well; but the Romany blood comes back to the Romany folk."
The Gadfly's face remained as cold and steady as before.
"Has she gone away with a gipsy camp, or merely to live with your son?"
The woman burst out laughing.
"Do you think of following her and trying to win her back? It's too
late, sir; you should have thought of that before!"
"No; I only want to know the truth, if you will tell it to me."
She shrugged her shoulders; it was hardly worth while to abuse a person
who took it so meekly.
"The truth, then, is that she met my son in the road the day you left
her, and spoke to him in the Romany tongue; and when he saw she was one of
our folk, in spite of her fine clothes, he fell in love with her bonny face,
as OUR men fall in love, and took her to our camp. She told us all her
trouble, and sat crying and sobbing, poor lassie, till our hearts were sore
for her. We comforted her as best we could; and at last she took off her
fine clothes and put on the things our lasses wear, and gave herself to my
son, to be his woman and to have him for her man. He won't say to her: 'I
don't love you,' and: 'I've other things to do.' When a woman is young, she
wants a man; and what sort of man are you, that you can't even kiss a
handsome girl when she puts her arms round your neck?"
"You said," he interrupted, "that you had brought me a message from
her."
"Yes; I stopped behind when the camp went on, so as to give it. She
told me to say that she has had enough of your folk and their hair-splitting
and their sluggish blood; and that she wants to get back to her own people
and be free. 'Tell him,' she said, 'that I am a woman, and that I loved him;
and that is why I would not be his harlot any longer.' The lassie was right
to come away. There's no harm in a girl getting a bit of money out of her
good looks if she can--that's what good looks are for; but a Romany lass has
nothing to do with LOVING a man of your race."
The Gadfly stood up.
"Is that all the message?" he said. "Then tell her, please, that I
think she has done right, and that I hope she will be happy. That is all I
have to say. Good-night!"
He stood perfectly still until the garden gate closed behind her; then
he sat down and covered his face with both hands.
Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of pride to be left him--no shred
of self-respect? Surely he had suffered everything that man can endure; his
very heart had been dragged in the mud and trampled under the feet of the
passers-by; there was no spot in his soul where someone's contempt was not
branded in, where someone's mockery had not left its iron trace. And now
this gipsy girl, whom he had picked up by the wayside-- even she had the
whip in her hand.
Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly rose to let him in. The dog
rushed up to his master with his usual frantic manifestations of delight,
but soon, understanding that something was wrong, lay down on the rug beside
him, and thrust a cold nose into the listless hand.
An hour later Gemma came up to the front door. No one appeared in
answer to her knock; Bianca, finding that the Gadfly did not want any
dinner, had slipped out to visit a neighbour's cook. She had left the door
open, and a light burning in the hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time,
decided to enter and try if she could find the Gadfly, as she wished to
speak to him about an important message which had come from Bailey. She
knocked at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered from within: "You
can go away, Bianca. I don't want anything."
She softly opened the door. The room was quite dark, but the passage
lamp threw a long stream of light across it as she entered, and she saw the
Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his breast, and the dog asleep at his
feet.
"It is I," she said.
He started up. "Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
Before she could speak he was kneeling on the floor at her feet and
hiding his face in the folds of her dress. His whole body was shaken with a
convulsive tremor that was worse to see than tears.
She stood still. There was nothing she could do to help him--nothing.
This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on passively
-- she who would have died to spare him pain. Could she but dare to stoop
and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her heart and shield
him, were it with her own body, from all further harm or wrong; surely then
he would be Arthur to her again; surely then the day would break and the
shadows flee away.
Ah, no, no! How could he ever forget? Was it not she who had cast him
into hell--she, with her own right hand?
She had let the moment slip by. He rose hastily and sat down by the
table, covering his eyes with one hand and biting his lip as if he would
bite it through.
Presently he looked up and said quietly:
"I am afraid I startled you."
She held out both her hands to him. "Dear," she said, "are we not
friends enough by now for you to trust me a little bit? What is it?"
"Only a private trouble of my own. I don't see why you should be
worried over it."
"Listen a moment," she went on, taking his hand in both of hers to
steady its convulsive trembling. "I have not tried to lay hands on a thing
that is not mine to touch. But now that you have given me, of your own free
will, so much of your confidence, will you not give me a little more--as you
would do if I were your sister. Keep the mask on your face, if it is any
consolation to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul, for your own sake."
He bent his head lower. "You must be patient with me," he said. "I am
an unsatisfactory sort of brother to have, I'm afraid; but if you only
knew---- I have been nearly mad this last week. It has been like South
America again. And somehow the devil gets into me and----" He broke off.
"May I not have my share in your trouble?" she whispered at last.
His head sank down on her arm. "The hand of the Lord is heavy."
THE next five weeks were spent by Gemma and the Gadfly in a whirl of
excitement and overwork which left them little time or energy for thinking
about their personal affairs. When the arms had been safely smuggled into
Papal territory there remained a still more difficult and dangerous task:
that of conveying them unobserved from the secret stores in the mountain
caverns and ravines to the various local centres and thence to the separate
villages. The whole district was swarming with spies; and Domenichino, to
whom the Gadfly had intrusted the ammunition, sent into Florence a messenger
with an urgent appeal for either help or extra time. The Gadfly had insisted
that the work should be finished by the middle of June; and what with the
difficulty of conveying heavy transports over bad roads, and the endless
hindrances and delays caused by the necessity of continually evading
observation, Domenichino was growing desperate. "I am between Scylla and
Charybdis," he wrote. "I dare not work quickly, for fear of detection, and I
must not work slowly if we are to be ready in time. Either send me efficient
help at once, or let the Venetians know that we shall not be ready till the
first week in July."
The Gadfly carried the letter to Gemma and, while she read it, sat
frowning at the floor and stroking the cat's fur the wrong way.
"This is bad," she said. "We can hardly keep the Venetians waiting for
three weeks."
"Of course we can't; the thing is absurd. Domenichino m-might
unders-s-stand that. We must follow the lead of the Venetians, not they
ours."
"I don't see that Domenichino is to blame; he has evidently done his
best, and he can't do impossibilities."
"It's not in Domenichino that the fault lies; it's in the fact of his
being one person instead of two. We ought to have at least one responsible
man to guard the store and another to see the transports off. He is quite
right; he must have efficient help."
"But what help are we going to give him? We have no one in Florence to
send."
"Then I m-must go myself."
She leaned back in her chair and looked at him with a little frown.
"No, that won't do; it's too risky."
"It will have to do if we can't f-f-find any other way out of the
difficulty."
"Then we must find another way, that's all. It's out of the question
for you to go again just now."
An obstinate line appeared at the corners of his under lip.
"I d-don't see that it's out of the question."
"You will see if you think about the thing calmly for a minute. It is
only five weeks since you got back; the police are on the scent about that
pilgrim business, and scouring the country to find a clue. Yes, I know you
are clever at disguises; but remember what a lot of people saw you, both as
Diego and as the countryman; and you can't disguise your lameness or the
scar on your face."
"There are p-plenty of lame people in the world."
"Yes, but there are not plenty of people in the Romagna with a lame
foot and a sabre-cut across the cheek and a left arm injured like yours, and
the combination of blue eyes with such dark colouring."
"The eyes don't matter; I can alter them with belladonna."
"You can't alter the other things. No, it won't do. For you to go there
just now, with all your identification-marks, would be to walk into a trap
with your eyes open. You would certainly be taken."
"But s-s-someone must help Domenichino."
"It will be no help to him to have you caught at a critical moment like
this. Your arrest would mean the failure of the whole thing."
But the Gadfly was difficult to convince, and the discussion went on
and on without coming nearer to any settlement. Gemma was beginning to
realize how nearly inexhaustible was the fund of quiet obstinacy in his
character; and, had the matter not been one about which she felt strongly,
she would probably have yielded for the sake of peace. This, however, was a
case in which she could not conscientiously give way; the practical
advantage to be gained from the proposed journey seemed to her not
sufficiently important to be worth the risk, and she could not help
suspecting that his desire to go was prompted less by a conviction of grave
political necessity than by a morbid craving for the excitement of danger.
He had got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency to run into
unnecessary peril seemed to her a form of intemperance which should be
quietly but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments unavailing against
his dogged resolve to go his own way, she fired her last shot.
"Let us be honest about it, anyway," she said; "and call things by
their true names. It is not Domenichino's difficulty that makes you so
determined to go. It is your own personal passion for----"
"It's not true!" he interrupted vehemently. "He is nothing to me; I
don't care if I never see him again." He broke off, seeing in her face that
he had betrayed himself. Their eyes met for an instant, and dropped; and
neither of them uttered the name that was in both their minds.
"It--it is not Domenichino I want to save," he stammered at last, with
his face half buried in the cat's fur; "it is that I--I understand the
danger of the work failing if he has no help."
She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and went on as if there
had been no interruption:
"It is your passion for running into danger which makes you want to go
there. You have the same craving for danger when you are worried that you
had for opium when you were ill."
"It was not I that asked for the opium," he said defiantly; "it was the
others who insisted on giving it to me."
"I dare say. You plume yourself a little on your stoicism, and to ask
for physical relief would have hurt your pride; but it is rather flattered
than otherwise when you risk your life to relieve the irritation of your
nerves. And yet, after all, the distinction is a merely conventional one."
He drew the cat's head back and looked down into the round, green eyes.
"Is it true, Pasht?" he said. "Are all these unkind things true that your
mistress is s-saying about me? Is it a case of mea culpa; mea m-maxima
culpa? You wise beast, you never ask for opium, do you? Your ancestors were
gods in Egypt, and no man t-trod on their tails. I wonder, though, what
would become of your calm superiority to earthly ills if I were to take this
paw of yours and hold it in the c-candle. Would you ask me for opium then?
Would you? Or perhaps--for death? No, pussy, we have no right to die for our
personal convenience. We may spit and s-swear a bit, if it consoles us; but
we mustn't pull the paw away."
"Hush!" She took the cat off his knee and put it down on a footstool.
"You and I will have time for thinking about those things later on. What we
have to think of now is how to get Domenichino out of his difficulty. What
is it, Katie; a visitor? I am busy."
"Miss Wright has sent you this, ma'am, by hand."
The packet, which was carefully sealed, contained a letter, addressed
to Miss Wright, but unopened and with a Papal stamp. Gemma's old school
friends still lived in Florence, and her more important letters were often
received, for safety, at their address.
"It is Michele's mark," she said, glancing quickly over the letter,
which seemed to be about the summer-terms at a boarding house in the
Apennines, and pointing to two little blots on a corner of the page. "It is
in chemical ink; the reagent is in the third drawer of the writing-table.
Yes; that is it."
He laid the letter open on the desk and passed a little brush over its
pages. When the real message stood out on the paper in a brilliant blue
line, he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
"What is it?" she asked hurriedly. He handed her the paper.
"DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE."
She sat down with the paper in her hand and stared hopelessly at the
Gadfly.
"W-well?" he said at last, with his soft, ironical drawl; "are you
satisfied now that I must go?"
"Yes, I suppose you must," she answered, sighing. "And I too."
He looked up with a little start. "You too? But----"
"Of course. It will be very awkward, I know, to be left without anyone
here in Florence; but everything must go to the wall now except the
providing of an extra pair of hands."
"There are plenty of hands to be got there."
"They don't belong to people whom you can trust thoroughly, though. You
said yourself just now that there must be two responsible persons in charge;
and if Domenichino couldn't manage alone it is evidently impossible for you
to do so. A person as desperately compromised as you are is very much
handicapped, remember, in work of that kind, and more dependent on help than
anyone else would be. Instead of you and Domenichino, it must be you and I."
He considered for a moment, frowning.
"Yes, you are quite right," he said; "and the sooner we go the better.
But we must not start together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say, the
afternoon coach to-morrow."
"Where to?"
"That we must discuss. I think I had b-b-better go straight in to
Faenza. If I start late to-night and ride to Borgo San Lorenzo I can get my
disguise arranged there and go straight on."
"I don't see what else we can do," she said, with an anxious little
frown; "but it is very risky, your going off in such a hurry and trusting to
the smugglers finding you a disguise at Borgo. You ought to have at least
three clear days to double on your trace before you cross the frontier."
"You needn't be afraid," he answered, smiling; "I may get taken further
on, but not at the frontier. Once in the hills I am as safe as here; there's
not a smuggler in the Apennines that would betray me. What I am not quite
sure about is how you are to get across."
"Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa Wright's passport and go
for a holiday. No one knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you."
"F-fortunately, so does every smuggler."
She took out her watch.
"Half-past two. We have the afternoon and evening, then, if you are to
start to-night."
"Then the best thing will be for me to go home and settle everything
now, and arrange about a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it will
be safer."
"But it won't be safe at all to hire a horse. The owner will-----"
"I shan't hire one. I know a man that will lend me a horse, and that
can be trusted. He has done things for me before. One of the shepherds will
bring it back in a fortnight. I shall be here again by five or half-past,
then; and while I am gone, I w-want you to go and find Martini and exp-plain
everything to him."
"Martini!" She turned round and looked at him in astonishment.
"Yes; we must take him into confidence--unless you can think of anyone
else."
"I don't quite understand what you mean."
"We must have someone here whom we can trust, in case of any special
difficulty; and of all the set here Martini is the man in whom I have most
confidence. Riccardo would do anything he could for us, of course; but I
think Martini has a steadier head. Still, you know him better than I do; it
is as you think."
"I have not the slightest doubt as to Martini's trustworthiness and
efficiency in every respect; and I think he would probably consent to give
us any help he could. But----"
He understood at once.
"Gemma, what would you feel if you found out that a comrade in bitter
need had not asked you for help you might have given, for fear of hurting or
distressing you? Would you say there was any true kindness in that?"
"Very well," she said, after a little pause; "I will send Katie round
at once and ask him to come; and while she is gone I will go to Louisa for
her passport; she promised to lend it whenever I want one. What about money?
Shall I draw some out of the bank?"
"No; don't waste time on that; I can draw enough from my account to
last us for a bit. We will fall back on yours later on if my balance runs
short. Till half-past five, then; I shall be sure to find you here, of
course?"
"Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then."
Half an hour after the appointed time he returned, and found Gemma and
Martini sitting on the terrace together. He saw at once that their
conversation had been a distressing one; the traces of agitation were
visible in both of them, and Martini was unusually silent and glum.
"Have you arranged everything?" she asked, looking up.
"Yes; and I have brought you some money for the journey. The horse will
be ready for me at the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night."
"Is not that rather late? You ought to get into San Lorenzo before the
people are up in the morning."
"So I shall; it's a very fast horse; and I don't want to leave here
when there's a chance of anyone noticing me. I shan't go home any more;
there's a spy watching at the door, and he thinks me in."
"How did you get out without his seeing you?"
"Out of the kitchen window into the back garden and over the
neighbour's orchard wall; that's what makes me so late; I had to dodge him.
I left the owner of the horse to sit in the study all the evening with the
lamp lighted. When the spy sees the light in the window and a shadow on the
blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing at home this evening."
"Then you will stay here till it is time to go to the barrier?"
"Yes; I don't want to be seen in the street any more to-night. Have a
cigar, Martini? I know Signora Bolla doesn't mind smoke."
"I shan't be here to mind; I must go downstairs and help Katie with the
dinner."
When she had gone Martini got up and began to pace to and fro with his
hands behind his back. The Gadfly sat smoking and looking silently out at
the drizzling rain.
"Rivarez!" Martini began, stopping in front of him, but keeping his
eyes on the ground; "what sort of thing are you going to drag her into?"
The Gadfly took the cigar from his mouth and blew away a long trail of
smoke.
"She has chosen for herself," he said, "without compulsion on anyone's
part."
"Yes, yes--I know. But tell me----"
He stopped.
"I will tell you anything I can."
"Well, then--I don't know much about the details of these affairs in
the hills,--are you going to take her into any very serious danger?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then--yes."
Martini turned away and went on pacing up and down. Presently he
stopped again.
"I want to ask you another question. If you don't choose to answer it,
you needn't, of course; but if you do answer, then answer honestly. Are you
in love with her?"
The Gadfly deliberately knocked the ash from his cigar and went on
smoking in silence.
"That means--that you don't choose to answer?"
"No; only that I think I have a right to know why you ask me that."
"Why? Good God, man, can't you see why?"
"Ah!" He laid down his cigar and looked steadily at Martini. "Yes," he
said at last, slowly and softly. "I am in love with her. But you needn't
think I am going to make love to her, or worry about it. I am only going
to----"
His voice died away in a strange, faint whisper. Martini came a step
nearer.
"Only going--to----"
"To die."
He was staring straight before him with a cold, fixed look, as if he
were dead already. When he spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless and
even.
"You needn't worry her about it beforehand," he said; "but there's not
the ghost of a chance for me. It's dangerous for everyone; that she knows as
well as I do; but the smugglers will do their best to prevent her getting
taken. They are good fellows, though they are a bit rough. As for me, the
rope is round my neck, and when I cross the frontier I pull the noose."
"Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it's dangerous, and particularly
so for you; I understand that; but you have often crossed the frontier
before and always been successful."
"Yes, and this time I shall fail."
"But why? How can you know?"
The Gadfly smiled drearily.
"Do you remember the German legend of the man that died when he met his
own Double? No? It appeared to him at night in a lonely place, wringing its
hands in despair. Well, I met mine the last time I was in the hills; and
when I cross the frontier again I shan't come back."
Martini came up to him and put a hand on the back of his chair.
"Listen, Rivarez; I don't understand a word of all this metaphysical
stuff, but I do understand one thing: If you feel about it that way, you are
not in a fit state to go. The surest way to get taken is to go with a
conviction that you will be taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts somehow,
to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose I go instead of you? I
can do any practical work there is to be done, and you can send a message to
your men, explaining------"
"And let you get killed instead? That would be very clever."
"Oh, I'm not likely to get killed! They don't know me as they do you.
And, besides, even if I did------"
He stopped, and the Gadfly looked up with a slow, inquiring gaze.
Martini's hand dropped by his side.
"She very likely wouldn't miss me as much as she would you," he said in
his most matter-of-fact voice. "And then, besides, Rivarez, this is public
business, and we have to look at it from the point of view of utility--the
greatest good of the greatest number. Your 'final value'---isn't that what
the economists call it?--is higher than mine; I have brains enough to see
that, though I haven't any cause to be particularly fond of you. You are a
bigger man than I am; I'm not sure that you are a better one, but there's
more of you, and your death would be a greater loss than mine."
From the way he spoke he might have been discussing the value of shares
on the Exchange. The Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.
"Would you have me wait till my grave opens of itself to swallow me up?
"If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride----
Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense."
"You are, certainly," said Martini gruffly.
"Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't let's go in for romantic
self-sacrifice, like Don Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth
century; and if it's my business to die, I have got to do it."
"And if it's my business to live, I have got to do that, I suppose.
You're the lucky one, Rivarez."
"Yes," the Gadfly assented laconically; "I was always lucky."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then began to talk of
business details. When Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither of them
betrayed in face or manner that their conversation had been in any way
unusual. After dinner they sat discussing plans and making necessary
arrangements till eleven o'clock, when Martini rose and took his hat.
"I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of mine, Rivarez. I think
you will be less recognizable in it than in your light suit. I want to
reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no spies about before we
start."
"Are you coming with me to the barrier?"
"Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in case of anyone following
you. I'll be back by twelve. Be sure you don't start without me. I had
better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake anyone by ringing."
She raised her eyes to his face as he took the keys. She understood
that he had invented a pretext in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.
"You and I will talk to-morrow," she said. "We shall have time in the
morning, when my packing is finished." "Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There are
two or three little things I want to ask you about, Rivarez; but we can talk
them over on our way to the barrier. You had better send Katie to bed,
Gemma; and be as quiet as you can, both of you. Good-bye till twelve, then."
He went away with a little nod and smile, banging the door after him to
let the neighbours hear that Signora Bolla's visitor was gone.
Gemma went out into the kitchen to say good-night to Katie, and came
back with black coffee on a tray.
"Would you like to lie down a bit?" she said. "You won't have any sleep
the rest of the night."
"Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo while the men are getting my
disguise ready."
"Then have some coffee. Wait a minute; I will get you out the
biscuits."
As she knelt down at the side-board he suddenly stooped over her
shoulder.
"Whatever have you got there? Chocolate creams and English toffee! Why,
this is l-luxury for a king!"
She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.
"Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them for Cesare; he is a perfect
baby over any kind of lollipops."
"R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some more to-morrow and give me
these to take with me. No, let me p-p-put the toffee in my pocket; it will
console me for all the lost joys of life. I d-do hope they'll give me a bit
of toffee to suck the day I'm hanged."
"Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at least, before you put it
in your pocket! You will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in, too?"
"No, I want to eat them now, with you."
"But I don't like chocolate, and I want you to come and sit down like a
reasonable human being. We very likely shan't have another chance to talk
quietly before one or other of us is killed, and------"
"She d-d-doesn't like chocolate!" he murmured under his breath. "Then I
must be greedy all by myself. This is a case of the hangman's supper, isn't
it? You are going to humour all my whims to-night. First of all, I want you
to sit on this easy-chair, and, as you said I might lie down, I shall lie
here and be comfortable."
He threw himself down on the rug at her feet, leaning his elbow on the
chair and looking up into her face.
"How pale you are!" he said. "That's because you take life sadly, and
don't like chocolate----"
"Do be serious for just five minutes! After all, it is a matter of life
and death."
"Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life nor death is worth it."
He had taken hold of both her hands and was stroking them with the tips
of his fingers.
"Don't look so grave, Minerva! You'll make me cry in a minute, and then
you'll be sorry. I do wish you'd smile again; you have such a d-delightfully
unexpected smile. There now, don't scold me, dear! Let us eat our biscuits
together, like two good children, without quarrelling over them --for
to-morrow we die."
He took a sweet biscuit from the plate and carefully halved it,
breaking the sugar ornament down the middle with scrupulous exactness.
"This is a kind of sacrament, like what the goody-goody people have in
church. 'Take, eat; this is my body.' And we must d-drink the wine out of
the s-s-same glass, you know--yes, that is right. 'Do this in
remembrance----'"
She put down the glass.
"Don't!" she said, with almost a sob. He looked up, and took her hands
again.
"Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit. When one of us dies, the
other will remember this. We will forget this loud, insistent world that
howls about our ears; we will go away together, hand in hand; we will go
away into the secret halls of death, and lie among the poppy-flowers. Hush!
We will be quite still."
He laid his head down against her knee and covered his face. In the
silence she bent over him, her hand on the black head. So the time slipped
on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.
"Dear, it is almost twelve," she said at last. He raised his head.
"We have only a few minutes more; Martini will be back presently.
Perhaps we shall never see each other again. Have you nothing to say to me?"
He slowly rose and walked away to the other side of the room. There was
a moment's silence.
"I have one thing to say," he began in a hardly audible voice; "one
thing--to tell you----"
He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding his face in both hands.
"You have been a long time deciding to be merciful," she said softly.
"I have not seen much mercy in my life; and I thought--at first--you
wouldn't care----"
"You don't think that now."
She waited a moment for him to speak and then crossed the room and
stood beside him.
"Tell me the truth at last," she whispered. "Think, if you are killed
and I not--I should have to go through all my life and never know--never be
quite sure----"
He took her hands and clasped them tightly.
"If I am killed---- You see, when I went to South America---- Ah,
Martini!" He broke away with a violent start and threw open the door of the
room. Martini was rubbing his boots on the mat.
"Punctual to the m-m-minute, as usual! You're an an-n-nimated
chronometer, Martini. Is that the r-r-riding-cloak?"
"Yes; and two or three other things. I have kept them as dry as I
could, but it's pouring with rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride,
I'm afraid."
"Oh, that's no matter. Is the street clear?"
"Yes; all the spies seem to have gone to bed. I don't much wonder
either, on such a villainous night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to have
something hot before he goes out into the wet, or he will catch cold."
"It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil some milk."
She went into the kitchen, passionately clenching her teeth and hands
to keep from breaking down. When she returned with the milk the Gadfly had
put on the riding-cloak and was fastening the leather gaiters which Martini
had brought. He drank a cup of coffee, standing, and took up the
broad-brimmed riding hat.
"I think it's time to start, Martini; we must make a round before we go