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  CHAPTER IV.

  ARTHUR went back to his lodgings feeling as though he had wings. He wasabsolutely, cloudlessly happy. At the meeting there had been hints ofpreparations for armed insurrection; and now Gemma was a comrade, and heloved her. They could work together, possibly even die together, for theRepublic that was to be. The blossoming time of their hope was come, andthe Padre would see it and believe.

  The next morning, however, he awoke in a soberer mood and rememberedthat Gemma was going to Leghorn and the Padre to Rome. January,February, March--three long months to Easter! And if Gemma shouldfall under "Protestant" influences at home (in Arthur's vocabulary"Protestant" stood for "Philistine")------No, Gemma would never learn toflirt and simper and captivate tourists and bald-headed shipowners, likethe other English girls in Leghorn; she was made of different stuff. Butshe might be very miserable; she was so young, so friendless, so utterlyalone among all those wooden people. If only mother had lived----

  In the evening he went to the seminary, where he found Montanellientertaining the new Director and looking both tired and bored. Insteadof lighting up, as usual, at the sight of Arthur, the Padre's face grewdarker.

  "This is the student I spoke to you about," he said, introducing Arthurstiffly. "I shall be much obliged if you will allow him to continueusing the library."

  Father Cardi, a benevolent-looking elderly priest, at once began talkingto Arthur about the Sapienza, with an ease and familiarity which showedhim to be well acquainted with college life. The conversation soondrifted into a discussion of university regulations, a burning questionof that day. To Arthur's great delight, the new Director spoke stronglyagainst the custom adopted by the university authorities of constantlyworrying the students by senseless and vexatious restrictions.

  "I have had a good deal of experience in guiding young people," he said;"and I make it a rule never to prohibit anything without a good reason.There are very few young men who will give much trouble if properconsideration and respect for their personality are shown to them. But,of course, the most docile horse will kick if you are always jerking atthe rein."

  Arthur opened his eyes wide; he had not expected to hear the students'cause pleaded by the new Director. Montanelli took no part in thediscussion; its subject, apparently, did not interest him. Theexpression of his face was so unutterably hopeless and weary that FatherCardi broke off suddenly.

  "I am afraid I have overtired you, Canon. You must forgive mytalkativeness; I am hot upon this subject and forget that others maygrow weary of it."

  "On the contrary, I was much interested." Montanelli was not given tostereotyped politeness, and his tone jarred uncomfortably upon Arthur.

  When Father Cardi went to his own room Montanelli turned to Arthur withthe intent and brooding look that his face had worn all the evening.

  "Arthur, my dear boy," he began slowly; "I have something to tell you."

  "He must have had bad news," flashed through Arthur's mind, as he lookedanxiously at the haggard face. There was a long pause.

  "How do you like the new Director?" Montanelli asked suddenly.

  The question was so unexpected that, for a moment, Arthur was at a losshow to reply to it.

  "I--I like him very much, I think--at least--no, I am not quite surethat I do. But it is difficult to say, after seeing a person once."

  Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the arm of his chair; a habitwith him when anxious or perplexed.

  "About this journey to Rome," he began again; "if you think there isany--well--if you wish it, Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go."

  "Padre! But the Vatican------"

  "The Vatican will find someone else. I can send apologies."

  "But why? I can't understand."

  Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead.

  "I am anxious about you. Things keep coming into my head--and after all,there is no need for me to go------"

  "But the bishopric----"

  "Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a bishopric and lose----"

  He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like this before, and wasgreatly troubled.

  "I can't understand," he said. "Padre, if you could explain to memore--more definitely, what it is you think------"

  "I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible fear. Tell me, is thereany special danger?"

  "He has heard something," Arthur thought, remembering the whispers ofa projected revolt. But the secret was not his to tell; and he merelyanswered: "What special danger should there be?"

  "Don't question me--answer me!" Montanelli's voice was almost harsh inits eagerness. "Are you in danger? I don't want to know your secrets;only tell me that!"

  "We are all in God's hands, Padre; anything may always happen. But Iknow of no reason why I should not be here alive and safe when you comeback."

  "When I come back----Listen, carino; I will leave it in your hands. Youneed give me no reason; only say to me, 'Stay,' and I will give up thisjourney. There will be no injury to anyone, and I shall feel you aresafer if I have you beside me."

  This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign to Montanelli'scharacter that Arthur looked at him with grave anxiety.

  "Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course you must go to Rome,and try to have a thorough rest and get rid of your sleeplessness andheadaches."

  "Very well," Montanelli interrupted, as if tired of the subject; "I willstart by the early coach to-morrow morning."

  Arthur looked at him, wondering.

  "You had something to tell me?" he said.

  "No, no; nothing more--nothing of any consequence." There was astartled, almost terrified look in his face.

  A few days after Montanelli's departure Arthur went to fetch a book fromthe seminary library, and met Father Cardi on the stairs.

  "Ah, Mr. Burton!" exclaimed the Director; "the very person I wanted.Please come in and help me out of a difficulty."

  He opened the study door, and Arthur followed him into the room witha foolish, secret sense of resentment. It seemed hard to see this dearstudy, the Padre's own private sanctum, invaded by a stranger.

  "I am a terrible book-worm," said the Director; "and my first act when Igot here was to examine the library. It seems very interesting, but I donot understand the system by which it is catalogued."

  "The catalogue is imperfect; many of the best books have been added tothe collection lately."

  "Can you spare half an hour to explain the arrangement to me?"

  They went into the library, and Arthur carefully explained thecatalogue. When he rose to take his hat, the Director interfered,laughing.

  "No, no! I can't have you rushing off in that way. It is Saturday, andquite time for you to leave off work till Monday morning. Stop and havesupper with me, now I have kept you so late. I am quite alone, and shallbe glad of company."

  His manner was so bright and pleasant that Arthur felt at ease with himat once. After some desultory conversation, the Director inquired howlong he had known Montanelli.

  "For about seven years. He came back from China when I was twelve yearsold."

  "Ah, yes! It was there that he gained his reputation as a missionarypreacher. Have you been his pupil ever since?"

  "He began teaching me a year later, about the time when I firstconfessed to him. Since I have been at the Sapienza he has still gone onhelping me with anything I wanted to study that was not in the regularcourse. He has been very kind to me--you can hardly imagine how kind."

  "I can well believe it; he is a man whom no one can fail to admire--amost noble and beautiful nature. I have met priests who were out inChina with him; and they had no words high enough to praise his energyand courage under all hardships, and his unfailing devotion. You arefortunate to have had in your youth the help and guidance of such a man.I understood from him that you have lost both parents."

  "Yes; my father died when I was a child, and my mother a year ago."

  "Have you brothers and sisters?"

 
"No; I have step-brothers; but they were business men when I was in thenursery."

  "You must have had a lonely childhood; perhaps you value CanonMontanelli's kindness the more for that. By the way, have you chosen aconfessor for the time of his absence?"

  "I thought of going to one of the fathers of Santa Caterina, if theyhave not too many penitents."

  "Will you confess to me?"

  Arthur opened his eyes in wonder.

  "Reverend Father, of course I--should be glad; only----"

  "Only the Director of a theological seminary does not usually receivelay penitents? That is quite true. But I know Canon Montanelli takesa great interest in you, and I fancy he is a little anxious on yourbehalf--just as I should be if I were leaving a favourite pupil--andwould like to know you were under the spiritual guidance of hiscolleague. And, to be quite frank with you, my son, I like you, andshould be glad to give you any help I can."

  "If you put it that way, of course I shall be very grateful for yourguidance."

  "Then you will come to me next month? That's right. And run in to seeme, my lad, when you have time any evening."

  *****

  Shortly before Easter Montanelli's appointment to the little see ofBrisighella, in the Etruscan Apennines, was officially announced. Hewrote to Arthur from Rome in a cheerful and tranquil spirit; evidentlyhis depression was passing over. "You must come to see me everyvacation," he wrote; "and I shall often be coming to Pisa; so I hope tosee a good deal of you, if not so much as I should wish."

  Dr. Warren had invited Arthur to spend the Easter holidays with him andhis children, instead of in the dreary, rat-ridden old place where Julianow reigned supreme. Enclosed in the letter was a short note, scrawledin Gemma's childish, irregular handwriting, begging him to come ifpossible, "as I want to talk to you about something." Still moreencouraging was the whispered communication passing around from studentto student in the university; everyone was to be prepared for greatthings after Easter.

  All this had put Arthur into a state of rapturous anticipation, in whichthe wildest improbabilities hinted at among the students seemed to himnatural and likely to be realized within the next two months.

  He arranged to go home on Thursday in Passion week, and to spend thefirst days of the vacation there, that the pleasure of visiting theWarrens and the delight of seeing Gemma might not unfit him for thesolemn religious meditation demanded by the Church from all her childrenat this season. He wrote to Gemma, promising to come on Easter Monday;and went up to his bedroom on Wednesday night with a soul at peace.

  He knelt down before the crucifix. Father Cardi had promised to receivehim in the morning; and for this, his last confession before the Eastercommunion, he must prepare himself by long and earnest prayer. Kneelingwith clasped hands and bent head, he looked back over the month, andreckoned up the miniature sins of impatience, carelessness, hastinessof temper, which had left their faint, small spots upon the whiteness ofhis soul. Beyond these he could find nothing; in this month he hadbeen too happy to sin much. He crossed himself, and, rising, began toundress.

  As he unfastened his shirt a scrap of paper slipped from it andfluttered to the floor. It was Gemma's letter, which he had worn allday upon his neck. He picked it up, unfolded it, and kissed thedear scribble; then began folding the paper up again, with a dimconsciousness of having done something very ridiculous, when he noticedon the back of the sheet a postscript which he had not read before."Be sure and come as soon as possible," it ran, "for I want you to meetBolla. He has been staying here, and we have read together every day."

  The hot colour went up to Arthur's forehead as he read.

  Always Bolla! What was he doing in Leghorn again? And why should Gemmawant to read with him? Had he bewitched her with his smuggling? It hadbeen quite easy to see at the meeting in January that he was in lovewith her; that was why he had been so earnest over his propaganda. Andnow he was close to her--reading with her every day.

  Arthur suddenly threw the letter aside and knelt down again before thecrucifix. And this was the soul that was preparing for absolution, forthe Easter sacrament--the soul at peace with God and itself and all theworld! A soul capable of sordid jealousies and suspicions; of selfishanimosities and ungenerous hatred--and against a comrade! He covered hisface with both hands in bitter humiliation. Only five minutes ago hehad been dreaming of martyrdom; and now he had been guilty of a mean andpetty thought like this!

  When he entered the seminary chapel on Thursday morning he found FatherCardi alone. After repeating the Confiteor, he plunged at once into thesubject of his last night's backsliding.

  "My father, I accuse myself of the sins of jealousy and anger, and ofunworthy thoughts against one who has done me no wrong."

  Farther Cardi knew quite well with what kind of penitent he had to deal.He only said softly:

  "You have not told me all, my son."

  "Father, the man against whom I have thought an unchristian thought isone whom I am especially bound to love and honour."

  "One to whom you are bound by ties of blood?"

  "By a still closer tie."

  "By what tie, my son?"

  "By that of comradeship."

  "Comradeship in what?"

  "In a great and holy work."

  A little pause.

  "And your anger against this--comrade, your jealousy of him, was calledforth by his success in that work being greater than yours?"

  "I--yes, partly. I envied him his experience--his usefulness. Andthen--I thought--I feared--that he would take from me the heart of thegirl I--love."

  "And this girl that you love, is she a daughter of the Holy Church?"

  "No; she is a Protestant."

  "A heretic?"

  Arthur clasped his hands in great distress. "Yes, a heretic," herepeated. "We were brought up together; our mothers werefriends--and I--envied him, because I saw that he loves her, too, andbecause--because----"

  "My son," said Father Cardi, speaking after a moment's silence, slowlyand gravely, "you have still not told me all; there is more than thisupon your soul."

  "Father, I----" He faltered and broke off again.

  The priest waited silently.

  "I envied him because the society--the Young Italy--that I belongto------"

  "Yes?"

  "Intrusted him with a work that I had hoped--would be given to me, thatI had thought myself--specially adapted for."

  "What work?"

  "The taking in of books--political books--from the steamers that bringthem--and finding a hiding place for them--in the town------"

  "And this work was given by the party to your rival?"

  "To Bolla--and I envied him."

  "And he gave you no cause for this feeling? You do not accuse him ofhaving neglected the mission intrusted to him?"

  "No, father; he has worked bravely and devotedly; he is a true patriotand has deserved nothing but love and respect from me."

  Father Cardi pondered.

  "My son, if there is within you a new light, a dream of some great workto be accomplished for your fellow-men, a hope that shall lighten theburdens of the weary and oppressed, take heed how you deal with the mostprecious blessing of God. All good things are of His giving; and of Hisgiving is the new birth. If you have found the way of sacrifice, the waythat leads to peace; if you have joined with loving comrades to bringdeliverance to them that weep and mourn in secret; then see to it thatyour soul be free from envy and passion and your heart as an altar wherethe sacred fire burns eternally. Remember that this is a high and holything, and that the heart which would receive it must be purified fromevery selfish thought. This vocation is as the vocation of a priest;it is not for the love of a woman, nor for the moment of a fleetingpassion; it is FOR GOD AND THE PEOPLE; it is NOW AND FOREVER."

  "Ah!" Arthur started and clasped his hands; he had almost burst outsobbing at the motto. "Father, you give us the sanction of the Church!Christ is on our side----"

  "My son," the priest answered
solemnly, "Christ drove the moneychangersout of the Temple, for His House shall be called a House of Prayer, andthey had made it a den of thieves."

  After a long silence, Arthur whispered tremulously:

  "And Italy shall be His Temple when they are driven out----"

  He stopped; and the soft answer came back:

  "'The earth and the fulness thereof are mine, saith the Lord.'"