"He must have had bad news," flashed through Arthur's mind, as he looked anxiously 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 loss how to reply to it.
"I--I like him very much, I think--at least-- no, I am not quite sure that 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 habit with him when anxious or perplexed.
"About this journey to Rome," he began again; "if you think there is any--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 was greatly troubled.
"I can't understand," he said. "Padre, if you could explain to me more--more definitely, what it is you think------"
"I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible fear.
Tell me, is there any special danger?"
"He has heard something," Arthur thought, remembering the whispers of a projected revolt.
But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely answered:
"What special danger should there be?"
"Don't question me--answer me!" Montanelli's voice was almost harsh in its 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 I know of no reason why I should not be here alive and safe when you come back."
"When I come back----Listen, carino; I will leave it in your hands.
You need give me no reason; only say to me,
'Stay,' and I will give up this journey.
There will be no injury to anyone, and I shall feel you are safer if I have you beside me."
This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign to Montanelli's character 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 and headaches."
"Very well," Montanelli interrupted, as if tired of the subject; "I will start 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 a startled, almost terrified look in his face.
A few days after Montanelli's departure Arthur went to fetch a book from the 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 with a foolish, secret sense of resentment.
It seemed hard to see this dear study, the Padre's own private sanctum, invaded by a stranger.
"I am a terrible book-worm," said the Director; "and my first act when I got here was to examine the library.
It seems very interesting, but I do not understand the system by which it is catalogued."