He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix.
"Almighty and merciful God----" he began aloud; and with that broke off and said no more.
Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left to pray for--or against.
And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this kind--Christ, who had never suffered it?
He had only been betrayed, like Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.
Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit.
Approaching the table, he saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's handwriting. It was in pencil:
"My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man.
I shall not get back till late at night.
Come to me early to-morrow morning.
In great haste,
"L.
M."
He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.
How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets!
Nothing was altered since the days when he had been alive.
Not the least little one of all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a living human soul, had been struck down dead.
It was all just the same as before.
The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow.
And as for him, he was dead--quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them.
There was plenty of time; and his head ached so--the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it was all so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless---- . . . . .
The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless agony of terror, with both hands at his throat.
They had come back--he had sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now he must see their faces and hear their cruel tongues--their sneers and comments-- If only he had a knife------
He looked desperately round the room.
His mother's work-basket stood in a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an artery.
No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had time.
He dragged the counterpane from his bed, and with frantic haste began tearing off a strip.
The sound of footsteps came up the stairs.
No; the strip was too wide; it would not tie firmly; and there must be a noose.
He worked faster as the footsteps drew nearer; and the blood throbbed in his temples and roared in his ears.
Quicker-- quicker!
Oh, God! five minutes more!
There was a knock at the door.
The strip of torn stuff dropped from his hands, and he sat quite still, holding his breath to listen.
The handle of the door was tried; then Julia's voice called:
"Arthur!"
He stood up, panting.
"Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting."
He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it into a drawer, and hastily smoothed down the bed.
"Arthur!" This time it was James who called, and the door-handle was shaken impatiently. "Are you asleep?"
Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything was hidden, and unlocked the door.
"I should think you might at least have obeyed my express request that you should sit up for us, Arthur," said Julia, sweeping into the room in a towering passion. "You appear to think it the proper thing for us to dance attendance for half an hour at your door----"
"Four minutes, my dear," James mildly corrected, stepping into the room at the end of his wife's pink satin train. "I certainly think, Arthur, that it would have been more--becoming if----"
"What do you want?" Arthur interrupted.
He was standing with his hand upon the door, glancing furtively from one to the other like a trapped animal.
But James was too obtuse and Julia too angry to notice the look.
Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat down, carefully pulling up his new trousers at the knees.
"Julia and I," he began, "feel it to be our duty to speak to you seriously about----"
"I can't listen to-night; I--I'm not well.