The Gadfly

CHAPTER XI.

“BUT c-c-can't I meet him somewhere in the hills? Brisighella is a risky place for me.”

“Every inch of ground in the Romagna is risky for you; but just at this moment Brisighella is safer for you than any other place.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. Don't let that man with the blue jacket see your face; he's dangerous. Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don't remember to have seen the vines so bad for a long time.”

The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and laid his face upon them, like a man overcome with fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only two farmers discussing their crops over a flask of wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head on the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in little places like Marradi; and the owner of the blue jacket apparently made up his mind that nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank his wine at a gulp and sauntered into the outer room. There he stood leaning on the counter and gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every now and then out of the corner of one eye through the open door, beyond which sat the three figures at the table. The two farmers went on sipping their wine and discussing the weather in the local dialect, and the Gadfly snored like a man whose conscience is sound.

At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that there was nothing in the wine-shop worth further waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and, lounging out of the house, sauntered away down the narrow street. The Gadfly, yawning and stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes.

“Pretty sharp practice that,” he said, pulling a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. “Have they been worrying you much lately, Michele?”

“They've been worse than mosquitos in August. There's no getting a minute's peace; wherever one goes, there's always a spy hanging about. Even right up in the hills, where they used to be so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming in bands of three or four—haven't they, Gino? That's why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino in the town.”

“Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town is always full of spies.”

“Brisighella just now is a capital place. It's swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country.”

“But it's not on the way to anywhere.”

“It's not far out of the way to Rome, and many of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear Mass there.”

“I d-d-didn't know there was anything special in Brisighella.”

“There's the Cardinal. Don't you remember his going to Florence to preach last December? It's that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he made a great sensation.”

“I dare say; I don't go to hear sermons.”

“Well, he has the reputation of being a saint, you see.”

“How does he manage that?”

“I don't know. I suppose it's because he gives away all his income, and lives like a parish priest with four or five hundred scudi a year.”

“Ah!” interposed the man called Gino; “but it's more than that. He doesn't only give away money; he spends his whole life in looking after the poor, and seeing the sick are properly treated, and hearing complaints and grievances from morning till night. I'm no fonder of priests than you are, Michele, but Monsignor Montanelli is not like other Cardinals.”

“Oh, I dare say he's more fool than knave!” said Michele. “Anyhow, the people are mad after him, and the last new freak is for the pilgrims to go round that way to ask his blessing. Domenichino thought of going as a pedlar, with a basket of cheap crosses and rosaries. The people like to buy those things and ask the Cardinal to touch them; then they put them round their babies' necks to keep off the evil eye.”

“Wait a minute. How am I to go—as a pilgrim? This make-up suits me p-pretty well, I think; but it w-won't do for me to show myself in Brisighella in the same character that I had here; it would be ev-v-vidence against you if I get taken.”

“You won't get taken; we have a splendid disguise for you, with a passport and all complete.”

“What is it?”

“An old Spanish pilgrim—a repentant brigand from the Sierras. He fell ill in Ancona last year, and one of our friends took him on board a trading-vessel out of charity, and set him down in Venice, where he had friends, and he left his papers with us to show his gratitude. They will just do for you.”

“A repentant b-b-brigand? But w-what about the police?”

“Oh, that's all right! He finished his term of the galleys some years ago, and has been going about to Jerusalem and all sorts of places saving his soul ever since. He killed his son by mistake for somebody else, and gave himself up to the police in a fit of remorse.”

“Was he quite old?”

“Yes; but a white beard and wig will set that right, and the description suits you to perfection in every other respect. He was an old soldier, with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across the face like yours; and then his being a Spaniard, too—you see, if you meet any Spanish pilgrims, you can talk to them all right.”

“Where am I to meet Domenichino?”

“You join the pilgrims at the cross-road that we will show you on the map, saying you had lost your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the town, you go with the rest of them into the marketplace, in front of the Cardinal's palace.”

“Oh, he manages to live in a p-palace, then, in s-spite of being a saint?”

“He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the rest into a hospital. Well, you all wait there for him to come out and give his benediction, and Domenichino will come up with his basket and say: 'Are you one of the pilgrims, father?' and you answer: 'I am a miserable sinner.' Then he puts down his basket and wipes his face with his sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary.”

“Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?”

“Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you the address of the meeting-place while the people are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but if you don't like it, we can let Domenichino know and arrange something else.”

“No; it will do; only see that the beard and wig look natural.”

---

“Are you one of the pilgrims, father?”

The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal palace, looked up from under his ragged white locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino slipped the leather strap from his shoulder, and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting on the steps and lounging about the market-place was taking no notice of them, but for precaution's sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.

“His Eminence! His Eminence is coming out!” shouted the people by the door. “Stand aside! His Eminence is coming!”

They both stood up.

“Here, father,” said Domenichino, putting into the Gadfly's hand a little image wrapped in paper; “take this, too, and pray for me when you get to Rome.”

The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned to look at the figure in the violet Lenten robe and scarlet cap that was standing on the upper step and blessing the people with outstretched arms.

Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the people crowding about him to kiss his hands. Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock to their lips as he passed.

“Peace be with you, my children!”

At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the Gadfly bent his head, so that the white hair fell across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the quivering of the pilgrim's staff in his hand, said to himself with admiration: “What an actor!”

A woman standing near to them stooped down and lifted her child from the step. “Come, Cecco,” she said. “His Eminence will bless you as the dear Lord blessed the children.”

The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped. Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders—these pilgrims and mountaineers—could go up and speak to him, and he would lay his hand on their children's hair. Perhaps he would say “Carino” to that peasant boy, as he used to say——

The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning away that he might not see. If only he could shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man should have to bear—to be so close, so close that he could have put out his arm and touched the dear hand.

“Will you not come under shelter, my friend?” the soft voice said. “I am afraid you are chilled.”

The Gadfly's heart stood still. For a moment he was conscious of nothing but the sickening pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling and burning through all his body, and he looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew suddenly tender with divine compassion at the sight of his face.

“Stand bark a little, friends,” Montanelli said, turning to the crowd; “I want to speak to him.”

The people fell slowly back, whispering to each other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the gentle touch of Montanelli's hand upon his shoulder.

“You have had some great trouble. Can I do anything to help you?”

The Gadfly shook his head in silence.

“Are you a pilgrim?”

“I am a miserable sinner.”

The accidental similarity of Montanelli's question to the password came like a chance straw, that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at, answering automatically. He had begun to tremble under the soft pressure of the hand that seemed to burn upon his shoulder.

The Cardinal bent down closer to him.

“Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone? If I can be any help to you——”

For the first time the Gadfly looked straight and steadily into Montanelli's eyes; he was already recovering his self-command.

“It would be no use,” he said; “the thing is hopeless.”

A police official stepped forward out of the crowd.

“Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I think the old man is not quite sound in his mind. He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in order, so we don't interfere with him. He has been in penal servitude for a great crime, and is now doing penance.”

“A great crime,” the Gadfly repeated, shaking his head slowly.

“Thank you, captain; stand aside a little, please. My friend, nothing is hopeless if a man has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me this evening?”

“Would Your Eminence receive a man who is guilty of the death of his own son?”

The question had almost the tone of a challenge, and Montanelli shrank and shivered under it as under a cold wind.

“God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever you have done!” he said solemnly. “In His sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will receive you as I pray that He may one day receive me.”

The Gadfly stretched out his hands with a sudden gesture of passion.

“Listen!” he said; “and listen all of you, Christians! If a man has killed his only son—his son who loved and trusted him, who was flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone; if he has led his son into a death-trap with lies and deceit—is there hope for that man in earth or heaven? I have confessed my sin before God and man, and I have suffered the punishment that men have laid on me, and they have let me go; but when will God say, 'It is enough'? What benediction will take away His curse from my soul? What absolution will undo this thing that I have done?”

In the dead silence that followed the people looked at Montanelli, and saw the heaving of the cross upon his breast.

He raised his eyes at last, and gave the benediction with a hand that was not quite steady.

“God is merciful,” he said. “Lay your burden before His throne; for it is written: 'A broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise.'”

He turned away and walked through the market-place, stopping everywhere to speak to the people, and to take their children in his arms.

In the evening the Gadfly, following the directions written on the wrapping of the image, made his way to the appointed meeting-place. It was the house of a local doctor, who was an active member of the “sect.” Most of the conspirators were already assembled, and their delight at the Gadfly's arrival gave him a new proof, if he had needed one, of his popularity as a leader.

“We're glad enough to see you again,” said the doctor; “but we shall be gladder still to see you go. It's a fearfully risky business, and I, for one, was against the plan. Are you quite sure none of those police rats noticed you in the market-place this morning?”

“Oh, they n-noticed me enough, but they d-didn't recognize me. Domenichino m-managed the thing capitally. But where is he? I don't see him.”

“He has not come yet. So you got on all smoothly? Did the Cardinal give you his blessing?”

“His blessing? Oh, that's nothing,” said Domenichino, coming in at the door. “Rivarez, you're as full of surprises as a Christmas cake. How many more talents are you going to astonish us with?”

“What is it now?” asked the Gadfly languidly. He was leaning back on a sofa, smoking a cigar. He still wore his pilgrim's dress, but the white beard and wig lay beside him.

“I had no idea you were such an actor. I never saw a thing done so magnificently in my life. You nearly moved His Eminence to tears.”

“How was that? Let us hear, Rivarez.”

The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. He was in a taciturn and laconic mood, and the others, seeing that nothing was to be got out of him, appealed to Domenichino to explain. When the scene in the market-place had been related, one young workman, who had not joined in the laughter of the rest, remarked abruptly:

“It was very clever, of course; but I don't see what good all this play-acting business has done to anybody.”

“Just this much,” the Gadfly put in; “that I can go where I like and do what I like anywhere in this district, and not a single man, woman, or child will ever think of suspecting me. The story will be all over the place by to-morrow, and when I meet a spy he will only think: 'It's mad Diego, that 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.”