CHAPTER X.
TOWARDS the middle of February the Gadfly went to Leghorn. Gemma hadintroduced him to a young Englishman there, a shipping-agent of liberalviews, whom she and her husband had known in England. He had on severaloccasions performed little services for the Florentine radicals: hadlent money to meet an unforeseen emergency, had allowed his businessaddress to be used for the party's letters, etc.; but always throughGemma's mediumship, and as a private friend of hers. She was, therefore,according to party etiquette, free to make use of the connexion in anyway that might seem good to her. Whether any use could be got out of itwas quite another question. To ask a friendly sympathizer to lend hisaddress for letters from Sicily or to keep a few documents in a cornerof his counting-house safe was one thing; to ask him to smuggle over atransport of firearms for an insurrection was another; and she had verylittle hope of his consenting.
"You can but try," she had said to the Gadfly; "but I don't thinkanything will come of it. If you were to go to him with thatrecommendation and ask for five hundred scudi, I dare say he'd give themto you at once--he's exceedingly generous,--and perhaps at a pinch hewould lend you his passport or hide a fugitive in his cellar; but if youmention such a thing as rifles he will stare at you and think we're bothdemented."
"Perhaps he may give me a few hints, though, or introduce me to afriendly sailor or two," the Gadfly had answered. "Anyway, it's worthwhile to try."
One day at the end of the month he came into her study less carefullydressed than usual, and she saw at once from his face that he had goodnews to tell.
"Ah, at last! I was beginning to think something must have happened toyou!"
"I thought it safer not to write, and I couldn't get back sooner."
"You have just arrived?"
"Yes; I am straight from the diligence; I looked in to tell you that theaffair is all settled."
"Do you mean that Bailey has really consented to help?"
"More than to help; he has undertaken the whole thing,--packing,transports,--everything. The rifles will be hidden in bales ofmerchandise and will come straight through from England. His partner,Williams, who is a great friend of his, has consented to see thetransport off from Southampton, and Bailey will slip it through thecustom house at Leghorn. That is why I have been such a long time;Williams was just starting for Southampton, and I went with him as faras Genoa."
"To talk over details on the way?"
"Yes, as long as I wasn't too sea-sick to talk about anything."
"Are you a bad sailor?" she asked quickly, remembering how Arthur hadsuffered from sea-sickness one day when her father had taken them bothfor a pleasure-trip.
"About as bad as is possible, in spite of having been at sea so much.But we had a talk while they were loading at Genoa. You know Williams,I think? He's a thoroughly good fellow, trustworthy and sensible; so isBailey, for that matter; and they both know how to hold their tongues."
"It seems to me, though, that Bailey is running a serious risk in doinga thing like this."
"So I told him, and he only looked sulky and said: 'What business isthat of yours?' Just the sort of thing one would expect him to say. IfI met Bailey in Timbuctoo, I should go up to him and say: 'Good-morning,Englishman.'"
"But I can't conceive how you managed to get their consent; Williams,too; the last man I should have thought of."
"Yes, he objected strongly at first; not on the ground of danger,though, but because the thing is 'so unbusiness-like.' But I managed towin him over after a bit. And now we will go into details."
*****
When the Gadfly reached his lodgings the sun had set, and the blossomingpyrus japonica that hung over the garden wall looked dark in the fadinglight. He gathered a few sprays and carried them into the house. As heopened the study door, Zita started up from a chair in the corner andran towards him.
"Oh, Felice; I thought you were never coming!"
His first impulse was to ask her sharply what business she had in hisstudy; but, remembering that he had not seen her for three weeks, heheld out his hand and said, rather frigidly:
"Good-evening, Zita; how are you?"
She put up her face to be kissed, but he moved past as though he hadnot seen the gesture, and took up a vase to put the pyrus in. The nextinstant the door was flung wide open, and the collie, rushing into theroom, performed an ecstatic dance round him, barking and whining withdelight. He put down the flowers and stooped to pat the dog.
"Well, Shaitan, how are you, old man? Yes, it's really I. Shake hands,like a good dog!"
The hard, sullen look came into Zita's face.
"Shall we go to dinner?" she asked coldly. "I ordered it for you at myplace, as you wrote that you were coming this evening."
He turned round quickly.
"I am v-v-very sorry; you sh-should not have waited for me! I will justget a bit tidy and come round at once. P-perhaps you would not mindputting these into water."
When he came into Zita's dining room she was standing before a mirror,fastening one of the sprays into her dress. She had apparently made upher mind to be good-humoured, and came up to him with a little clusterof crimson buds tied together.
"Here is a buttonhole for you; let me put it in your coat."
All through dinner-time he did his best to be amiable, and kept up aflow of small-talk, to which she responded with radiant smiles. Herevident joy at his return somewhat embarrassed him; he had grown soaccustomed to the idea that she led her own life apart from his, amongsuch friends and companions as were congenial to her, that it had neveroccurred to him to imagine her as missing him. And yet she must havefelt dull to be so much excited now.
"Let us have coffee up on the terrace," she said; "it is quite warm thisevening."
"Very well. Shall I take your guitar? Perhaps you will sing."
She flushed with delight; he was critical about music and did not oftenask her to sing.
On the terrace was a broad wooden bench running round the walls. TheGadfly chose a corner with a good view of the hills, and Zita, seatingherself on the low wall with her feet on the bench, leaned back againsta pillar of the roof. She did not care much for scenery; she preferredto look at the Gadfly.
"Give me a cigarette," she said. "I don't believe I have smoked oncesince you went away."
"Happy thought! It's just s-s-smoke I want to complete my bliss."
She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly.
"Are you really happy?"
The Gadfly's mobile brows went up.
"Yes; why not? I have had a good dinner; I am looking at one of them-most beautiful views in Europe; and now I'm going to have coffee andhear a Hungarian folk-song. There is nothing the matter with either myconscience or my digestion; what more can man desire?"
"I know another thing you desire."
"What?"
"That!" She tossed a little cardboard box into his hand.
"B-burnt almonds! Why d-didn't you tell me before I began to s-smoke?"he cried reproachfully.
"Why, you baby! you can eat them when you have done smoking. There comesthe coffee."
The Gadfly sipped his coffee and ate his burnt almonds with the graveand concentrated enjoyment of a cat drinking cream.
"How nice it is to come back to d-decent coffee, after the s-s-stuff onegets at Leghorn!" he said in his purring drawl.
"A very good reason for stopping at home now you are here."
"Not much stopping for me; I'm off again to-morrow."
The smile died on her face.
"To-morrow! What for? Where are you going to?"
"Oh! two or three p-p-places, on business."
It had been decided between him and Gemma that he must go in person intothe Apennines to make arrangements with the smugglers of the frontierregion about the transporting of the firearms. To cross the Papalfrontier was for him a matter of serious danger; but it had to be doneif the work was to succeed.
"Always business!" Zita sighed under her breath; and then ask
ed aloud:
"Shall you be gone long?"
"No; only a fortnight or three weeks, p-p-probably."
"I suppose it's some of THAT business?" she asked abruptly.
"'That' business?"
"The business you're always trying to get your neck broken over--theeverlasting politics."
"It has something to do with p-p-politics."
Zita threw away her cigarette.
"You are fooling me," she said. "You are going into some danger orother."
"I'm going s-s-straight into the infernal regions," he answeredlanguidly. "D-do you happen to have any friends there you want to sendthat ivy to? You n-needn't pull it all down, though."
She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber from the pillar, andnow flung it down with vehement anger.
"You are going into danger," she repeated; "and you won't even say sohonestly! Do you think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and jokedwith? You will get yourself hanged one of these days, and never somuch as say good-bye. It's always politics and politics--I'm sick ofpolitics!"
"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily; "and therefore we'll talkabout something else--unless you will sing."
"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"
"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice so well."
She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses firsthis horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himselfwith the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz field." The song wasone of the Gadfly's especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melodyand the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softermusic ever did.
Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came from her lips strong andclear, full of the vehement desire of life. She would have sung Italianor Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but she sang the Magyarfolk-songs splendidly.
The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and parted lips; he had neverheard her sing like this before. As she came to the last line, her voicebegan suddenly to shake.
"Ah, no matter! More was lost----"
She broke down with a sob and hid her face among the ivy leaves.
"Zita!" The Gadfly rose and took the guitar from her hand. "What is it?"
She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in both hands. He touchedher on the arm.
"Tell me what is the matter," he said caressingly.
"Let me alone!" she sobbed, shrinking away. "Let me alone!"
He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the sobs died away.Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck; she was kneeling on the floorbeside him.
"Felice--don't go! Don't go away!"
"We will talk about that afterwards," he said, gently extricatinghimself from the clinging arms. "Tell me first what has upset you so.Has anything been frightening you?"
She silently shook her head.
"Have I done anything to hurt you?"
"No." She put a hand up against his throat.
"What, then?"
"You will get killed," she whispered at last. "I heard one of those menthat come here say the other day that you will get into trouble--andwhen I ask you about it you laugh at me!"
"My dear child," the Gadfly said, after a little pause of astonishment,"you have got some exaggerated notion into your head. Very likely Ishall get killed some day--that is the natural consequence of being arevolutionist. But there is no reason to suppose I am g-g-going to getkilled just now. I am running no more risk than other people."
"Other people--what are other people to me? If you loved me you wouldn'tgo off this way and leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whetheryou're arrested, or dream you are dead whenever I go to sleep. You don'tcare as much for me as for that dog there!"
The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other end of the terrace.He was quite unprepared for such a scene as this and at a loss how toanswer her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into a tangle thathe would have hard work to undo.
"Sit down and let us talk about it quietly," he said, coming back aftera moment. "I think we have misunderstood each other; of course I shouldnot have laughed if I had thought you were serious. Try to tellme plainly what is troubling you; and then, if there is anymisunderstanding, we may be able to clear it up."
"There's nothing to clear up. I can see you don't care a brass farthingfor me."
"My dear child, we had better be quite frank with each other. I havealways tried to be honest about our relationship, and I think I havenever deceived you as to----"
"Oh, no! you have been honest enough; you have never even pretendedto think of me as anything else but a prostitute,--a trumpery bit ofsecond-hand finery that plenty of other men have had before you--"
"Hush, Zita! I have never thought that way about any living thing."
"You have never loved me," she insisted sullenly.
"No, I have never loved you. Listen to me, and try to think as littleharm of me as you can."
"Who said I thought any harm of you? I----"
"Wait a minute. This is what I want to say: I have no belief whatever inconventional moral codes, and no respect for them. To me the relationsbetween men and women are simply questions of personal likes anddislikes------"
"And of money," she interrupted with a harsh little laugh. He winced andhesitated a moment.
"That, of course, is the ugly part of the matter. But believe me, if Ihad thought that you disliked me, or felt any repulsion to the thing,I would never have suggested it, or taken advantage of your position topersuade you to it. I have never done that to any woman in my life, andI have never told a woman a lie about my feeling for her. You may trustme that I am speaking the truth----"
He paused a moment, but she did not answer.
"I thought," he went on; "that if a man is alone in the world and feelsthe need of--of a woman's presence about him, and if he can find a womanwho is attractive to him and to whom he is not repulsive, he has a rightto accept, in a grateful and friendly spirit, such pleasure as thatwoman is willing to give him, without entering into any closer bond. Isaw no harm in the thing, provided only there is no unfairness or insultor deceit on either side. As for your having been in that relation withother men before I met you, I did not think about that. I merely thoughtthat the connexion would be a pleasant and harmless one for both of us,and that either was free to break it as soon as it became irksome. If Iwas mistaken--if you have grown to look upon it differently--then----"
He paused again.
"Then?" she whispered, without looking up.
"Then I have done you a wrong, and I am very sorry. But I did not meanto do it."
"You 'did not mean' and you 'thought'----Felice, are you made of castiron? Have you never been in love with a woman in your life that youcan't see I love you?"
A sudden thrill went through him; it was so long since anyone had saidto him: "I love you." Instantly she started up and flung her arms roundhim.
"Felice, come away with me! Come away from this dreadful country and allthese people and their politics! What have we got to do with them? Comeaway, and we will be happy together. Let us go to South America, whereyou used to live."
The physical horror of association startled him back into self-control;he unclasped her hands from his neck and held them in a steady grasp.
"Zita! Try to understand what I am saying to you. I do not love you; andif I did I would not come away with you. I have my work in Italy, and mycomrades----"
"And someone else that you love better than me!" she cried out fiercely."Oh, I could kill you! It is not your comrades you care about; it's----I know who it is!"
"Hush!" he said quietly. "You are excited and imagining things that arenot true."
"You suppose I am thinking of Signora Bolla? I'm not so easily duped!You only talk politics with her; you care no more for her than you dofor me. It's that Cardinal!"
The Gadfly started as if he had been shot.
"Cardinal?" he repeated mechan
ically.
"Cardinal Montanelli, that came here preaching in the autumn. Do youthink I didn't see your face when his carriage passed? You were as whiteas my pocket-handkerchief! Why, you're shaking like a leaf now because Imentioned his name!"
He stood up.
"You don't know what you are talking about," he said very slowly andsoftly. "I--hate the Cardinal. He is the worst enemy I have."
"Enemy or no, you love him better than you love anyone else in theworld. Look me in the face and say that is not true, if you can!"
He turned away, and looked out into the garden. She watched himfurtively, half-scared at what she had done; there was somethingterrifying in his silence. At last she stole up to him, like afrightened child, and timidly pulled his sleeve. He turned round.
"It is true," he said.