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.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362