The Gadfly | Page 6

think you can almost trust me by this
time."
"Padre, of course I can. He spoke about--us and our duty to the
people--and to--our own selves; and about--what we might do to
help----"
"To help whom?"
"The contadini--and----"
"And?"
"Italy."
There was a long silence.
"Tell me, Arthur," said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very
gravely, "how long have you been thinking about this?"
"Since--last winter."
"Before your mother's death? And did she know of it?"
"N-no. I--I didn't care about it then."
"And now you--care about it?"
Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.
"It was this way, Padre," he began, with his eyes on the ground. "When
I was preparing for the entrance examination last autumn, I got to know
a good many of the students; you remember? Well, some of them
began to talk to me about--all these things, and lent me books. But I
didn't care much about it; I always wanted to get home quick to mother.

You see, she was quite alone among them all in that dungeon of a
house; and Julia's tongue was enough to kill her. Then, in the winter,
when she got so ill, I forgot all about the students and their books; and
then, you know, I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have
talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went right out of my head.
Then I found out that she was going to die----You know, I was almost
constantly with her towards the end; often I would sit up the night, and
Gemma Warren would come in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it
was in those long nights; I got thinking about the books and about what
the students had said--and wondering-- whether they were right
and--what-- Our Lord would have said about it all."
"Did you ask Him?" Montanelli's voice was not quite steady.
"Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to Him to tell me what I must
do, or to let me die with mother. But I couldn't find any answer."
"And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I hoped you could have
trusted me."
"Padre, you know I trust you! But there are some things you can't talk
about to anyone. I--it seemed to me that no one could help me--not
even you or mother; I must have my own answer straight from God.
You see, it is for all my life and all my soul."
Montanelli turned away and stared into the dusky gloom of the
magnolia branches. The twilight was so dim that his figure had a
shadowy look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.
"And then?" he asked slowly.
"And then--she died. You know, I had been up the last three nights with
her----"
He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli did not move.
"All those two days before they buried her," Arthur went on in a lower
voice, "I couldn't think about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill;
you remember, I couldn't come to confession."
"Yes; I remember."
"Well, in the night I got up and went into mother's room. It was all
empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought
perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited--all night. And in
the morning when I came to my senses--Padre, it isn't any use; I can't
explain. I can't tell you what I saw--I hardly know myself. But I know
that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him."

For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli
turned and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder.
"My son," he said, "God forbid that I should say He has not spoken to
your soul. But remember your condition when this thing happened, and
do not take the fancies of grief or illness for His solemn call. And if,
indeed, it has been His will to answer you out of the shadow of death,
be sure that you put no false construction on His word. What is this
thing you have it in your heart to do?"
Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though repeating a catechism:
"To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing her from all this slavery
and wretchedness, and in driving out the Austrians, that she may be a
free republic, with no king but Christ."
"Arthur, think a moment what you are saying! You are not even an
Italian."
"That makes no difference; I am myself. I have seen this thing, and I
belong to it."
There was silence again.
"You spoke just now of what Christ would have said----" Montanelli
began slowly; but Arthur interrupted him:
"Christ said: 'He