He blushed and trembled whilst I spoke. Englishmen do not often talk poetry—off the stage. He answered—
'No, really, Calvotti, old man, that's rot, you know. But do you like it?'
I spoke gravely then.
'My dear young friend, so surely as that is your work, so surely will you be a great artist if you choose.'
'You bet I choose,' this young genius answered. He would sooner have died, I suppose, than have put his emotions at that moment into words. This is another characteristic of you English. You will sooner look like fools than have it appear that you feel. You wear the rags of cynicism over the pure gold of nature. This is a foolish pride, but it is useless to crusade against national characteristics.
I was a little chilled, and I said in a business tone—
'Well, we will see about selling this at once.'
'No,' he answered. 'I will not sell this.'
'No?' I asked.
'No,' he said again; 'not this picture,' And for one minute he regarded it, and then shook his head and once more said 'No.'
'Well,' I answered, not trying to persuade him, 'I will ask Mr. Gregory to look at it, and he will give you a commission for a work, and then you will be fairly afloat.'
'Oh, thank you, Calvotti. What a good fellow you are!'
I was unsettled for work. My praise was hysterical and hyperbolical. I could have wept whilst I uttered it. For though I had given up all hope, and though I was glad to find that in art he was worthy as in manhood he was worthy, yet it was still hard to endorse a rival's triumph and to cut out all envy and stifle all pain. And now I had to go home and to live beneath the same roof with Cecilia, and to see her sometimes, and to talk and look like a friend. If you resist the Devil, will he always fly from you? Is it not sometimes safer to fly from him? And is there anywhere a baser fiend than that which prompted me to throw myself upon my knees before her and tell her everything, and so barter honour for an impulse? Brave or not, I know that I was wise when that afternoon I packed up everything and went to say good-bye.
'I am ill,' so I excused myself, 'and I am a child of impulse. Impulse says to me “Go back to Italy—to the air of your childhood—to the scenes you love best.” And I obey.'
'But you do not leave England in this way?' asked Cecilia.
'No, mademoiselle, I shall return. But, for a time, good-bye.'
They both bade me good-bye sorrowfully, and I went away. And whatever disturbance my soul made within its own private residence, it was too well-bred to let the outside people know of it.
And so it came to pass that I continue this narrative at Posilipo, in my native air, within sight of smoking Vesuvius and the glittering city and the gleaming bay—old friends, who bear comfort to the soul.
How do I come to be writing in a prison? How do I come to be living in a prison? How is it that I, who never lifted a hand in anger against even a dog, lie here under a charge of murder, execrated by the populace of my native town?
I can remember that I wrote, when I took up my story, that it might, for anything I knew, be a year before I should go on with it. It is twelve months to-day since I set those words upon paper. I take it up again, here and now, in dogged and determined defiance to that Circumstance which has pursued me through my life, and which shall not subdue me even with this last stroke—no, nor with any other.
Let me premise, before I go on with my own narrative, that Charles Grammont, with whose murder I lie charged, developed a remarkable and unexpected characteristic. A reckless spendthrift whilst penniless, he became a miser when he found himself possessor of five thousand pounds. He had returned to Naples, and had for some time engaged himself in drinking, to the exclusion of all other pursuits. But he drank sullenly and alone, and had dismissed from his society that disreputable compatriot of mine, Giovanni Fornajo, who had accompanied him to my room on the evening of our first meeting. When I reached Naples I had some trouble with this personage, who, with the peculiar faculty which belongs to the race of hangers-on and spongers, had somehow found me out, and came to borrow money. It was enough for his limitless impudence to remember that he had once been within my walls in London. I knew that to yield once would be to make myself a tributary to his necessities for ever. I refused him, therefore, and dismissed him without ceremony. He retired unabashed, and came to the charge again. I was strolling along the Chiaja, when I saw him and turned into the Caffè d'Italia to avoid him. He had seen me and followed. I professed to be absorbed in the contents of an English journal, but he sat down at the same table, and entered into conversation, or rather into talk, for I let him have it all to himself. He talked in English, which he really spoke very well, though with a marked accent. I paid but little heed to him, and only just made out that he complained of the conduct of his late associate, who had, so he said, borrowed money of him when they were poor together, and had thrown him over now without repaying him.
'It comes to this,' he said, after a long and rambling discursion on his wrong; 'when I was the only man in Naples who could speak English and would have to do with him, he used me; and now that he is at home here, and can speak the language, and has plenty of money, he will have no more to do.'
'My good friend,' I said, breaking in, 'I will have no more to do, since you prefer to put it so, I am tired of you. I do not desire to know you. Oblige me by not knowing me in future.'
'Maledizione!' he said. 'But you are impolite, Signor Calvotti.'
'And you, Signor Fornajo, are only unbearable. I have the pleasure to wish you goodbye.'
He rose and retreated, but returned.
'Signor Calvotti,' he said, reseating himself, 'I shall ask you to do me a favour. You know Grammont and you know his friends. He will listen to you where he will not look at me. Will you do me the favour to speak for me to ask him to pay me?'
I thought I saw a way to be rid of him.
'How much does he owe you?' I asked him.
'Cento franchi,' he answered.
'Very good. Bring me pen, ink, and paper.'
He called one of the camerieri and ordered these, and I read quietly until they came.
'Now,' I said, 'write to my dictation.'
He took the pen and wrote—
'I have this day informed Signor Calvotti that Mr. Charles Grammont owes me the sum of One Hundred Francs, and in consideration of this receipt Signor Calvotti has discharged Mr. Grammont's debt.'
This he signed, and I gave him a bank-note for the amount.
'Now,' I told him, 'I do not in the least believe that Mr. Grammont owed you anything, and if you come near me again I will use this document. I have a great mind to try it now.' 'Ah, signor, sapete cosa vuol dire la fame?' I own that touched me. Ihaveknown what hunger is, and I could guess what it would do with a creature of this kind. 'Go your way,' I said, 'and trouble me no more'—he bowed his head and spread out his hands in assent—'but remember!'
'Signor Calvotti,' he said, 'I thank you, and I will trouble you no more.'
Young Clyde had written to me saying that he was tired and overworked, and that he needed a month's holiday, and meant to take it. He had never been in Italy, and naturally proposed to join me in Naples. During the whole ten months which had gone between my farewell to England and my receipt of this letter from Arthur, I had striven, and not unsuccessfully, to banish from my mind all painful and regretful thoughts of Cecilia. Love is a great passion, but, like everything else but fate, it is capable of subjection by a resolute will. That soul, believe me, is of a barren soil indeed, wherein the flower of love has once been planted, if the flower wither or can be rooted up. But a man who gardens his soul with resolute and lofty hopes can train the first poor weed of passion to a glorious bloom, whose perfume is not pain but comfort. This is a base thing, that a man shall say he loves a woman too well to be happy whilst she can be happy with another. For me, my divine Cecilia looks down upon me in my waking hours and in the dreams of sleep, a thing so far away that I can but worship without a hope of ownership, or any longer a desire. I am content, I have loved, and I have not been unworthy. O mia santissima, mio amore no longer—my saint for ever, my love no more—so you were happy, I were happy. But there are clouds about you, though you know them not.
Arthur had come to Naples by one of the boats of the Messagerie Impériale, and had come to share my little house at Posilipo. He brought with him kindest remembrances from Cecilia and from her sister. I had mentioned them both freely in my letters, and had sent little things through his hand to both of them now and then. My old patron, Mr. Gregory, had given Arthur two or three commissions, and one of his works had been hung on the line at Burlirgton House, side by side with mine. In his old, frank, charming way he said—
'If those old buffers on the committee had laid their heads together to please me, they couldn't have done it more successfully than by hanging me next to you, old man. When I went in and saw it there, I was better pleased at being next to you than I was at being on the line. I'm painting Gregory's portrait for next' year—a splendid subject, isn't it?'
I took him to walk that morning to the scene I had painted in the work he spoke of,' He recognised it with enthusiasm, and we walked back together full of friendship and enjoyment. He had one or two commissions for Charles Grammont from his sisters, and asked me to help in finding him. When I learned that the young Englishman was living in the Basso Porto I was amazed, and when Clyde saw the place he was amazed also.
'Has he got through all his money already,' Arthur asked me, 'that he lives in a hole like this?'
'I am told,' I said, 'that he has become a miser, spending money on nothing but drink, and living in a continuous sullen debauchery.'
Clyde faced round upon me as we stood in the doorway of the house together.
'I haven't seen the fellow for years,' he exclaimed, 'but can you fancy such an animal being a brother of Cecilia's?'
'Odd, isn't it?' said an English voice from the darkness of the stairs. 'Infernally odd!'
And Charles Grammont, bearded, bloated, unclean, unwholesome, stepped into the sunlight and poisoned it.
'Who is this fellow?' asked Arthur quietly.
'Charles Grammont,' I answered.
'Charles Grammont?' he repeated; and then, hastening to obliterate the memory of his unlucky speech, he plunged into an explanation of his concerns with Grammont, and I withdrew a little. But in a moment I heard Grammont's voice raised in high anger.
'And what brings Arthur Clyde acting as my sister's messenger? Could they find nobody but a ———'
If I should repeat here on paper the epithets the man used, I should be almost as great a blackguard as he was to use them. They were words abominable and horrible. I know by my anger at them now—then I had no time to feel for myself—that if a man had used them to me, and I had held a weapon in my hand, I should have killed him. Arthur raised his cane, and, but that I seized his wrist, he would have struck the insulter across the face. It was an impulse only, and when I felt his wrist relaxing I released it, and it fell down by his side.
'Come away, Calvotti,' he said, 'or I shall disgrace myself and do this man a mischief.'
But if I could share at the moment in the feeling of anger which Grammont's hideous insults had inspired, I could not and I cannot understand the bitter and passionate resentment with which Arthur nourished the memory of them. For days after, not a waking hour passed by without a break of sudden anger from him when he recalled the words to mind. I did my best to calm him, and in each case succeeded in persuading him that it was less than useless to retain the memory of insult so conveyed by such a man. But in a little while he broke out again, and after a time I allowed him to rage himself out.
'Why did you restrain me?' he cried one day as we walked together. 'The ruffian deserved a thrashing. I care nothing for what he said of me, but a man who could speak of his sister in that way is not fit to live. For God's sake, Calvotti, let us go away somewhere out of reach of this man. I am not safe. I hardly know myself. If I met him I should kill him then and there.'
'My dear Arthur,' I said at last, 'this is childish, and unworthy of you. The man is a ruffian by nature, and was mad with drink. Forget him, and any mad and drunken thing he may have said.'
'Well,' said Arthur, with a visible effort, 'the blackguard disappears from my scheme of things. I have done with him. There! It's all over. What shall we do to-night? Let us go out together and look at Giovanna's Palace by moonlight. A blow on the bay would do me good, and you might find an inspiration for a picture. Who knows? Will you go?'
I consented, and we walked back to the town at once to make arrangements. We secured a boat, and a bottle or two of wine and a handful of cigars having been laid in as store, we started. On the way to the boat, by bitter misfortune, we met Grammont. This wretched man's drunkenness had three phases—the genial, the morose, and the violent. He was at the first when we were so unhappy as to meet him. He insisted upon accompanying us, and I could see the passion gathering in Arthur's face, until I knew that if some check were not put upon him there would be an outbreak.
I took upon myself to get rid of the intruder.
'Well, Clyde,' I said, 'at the Caffe d' Italia at six. Till then I leave you to your appointment. Good afternoon. Will you walk with me a minute, Grammont?'
Arthur took my hint and went away. Grammont lurched after him, but I took him by the sleeve and said I had something to say to him. He stood with drunken gravity to listen, and whilst I beat about in my own mind for some trifle which could be made to assume a moment's importance, he forgot everything that had passed, and himself began to talk.
'You thought I should be through my five thou, before now, didn't you, old Stick-in-the-Mud? Well, I've got the best part of it now, my boy. They can't suck me in Naples, I can tell you. Not much they can't. Look here! English notes. I don't care who sees 'em. There you are. There's more than four thousand in that thundering book. Look here.'
He took from his pocket-book a number of English bank-notes for one hundred pounds, and flourished them about and thumbed them over, and laughed above them with drunken cunning and triumph. A man lounged by us this minute, and took such special notice of us both that I was compelled to notice him. He was a swarthy bearded fellow in a blouse, like that of a French ouvrier. He did not look so particularly honest that I had any pleasure in knowing that he saw the great bundle of notes in Grammont's hands, and I said to Grammont hurriedly—
'It is not wise to exhibit so much money in this public place. Put it up.'
The man still regarded us, until at last he attracted the attention of my unwelcome companion, who turned round upon him, and cursed him volubly in Italian.
The man, speaking with a very un-Italian accent, though fluently enough, answered that he had as much right there as Grammont, and then moved away, still turning his eyes curiously upon us at intervals.
'Look here,' said my unwelcome companion, 'I am going to have a sleep on this bench,' He pointed to a stone seat on the quay, and rolled towards it.
'You are not so mad as to sleep in the open air with all that money about you,' I urged. Heaven knows I disliked the man, but one did not want even him to be robbed.
'Oh,' he answered drunkenly, 'I'm all right,' and so lay down at full length with his felt hat under his head, and fell asleep.
The man in the blouse still lingered, and I, knowing that he had seen the notes, felt it impossible to leave Grammont alone in his company. The Chiaja was very lonely just there.
At last an idea occurred to me, and I called the man. It was growing so near to six o'clock that I was afraid of missing Clyde. I tore a leaf from my pocket-book, scrawled a line to Clyde asking him to wait for me, took a franc from my purse, and asked the man to take a 'message to the Caffè d' Italia, and there give it to the person to whom it was addressed. Regarding the man's dress and the foreign accent with which he had spoken just now, I addressed him in French.
'Pas du tout!' he responded. 'Je ne suis pas un blooming idiot. C'est impossible. Allez-vous donc.'
'Ah!' I said, 'you are English. I beg your pardon. I suppose you did not understand. I wish you to be so good as to take this note to the Caffè d' Italia for Mr. Arthur Clyde. I will give you——'
'I am not anybody's messenger,' the man answered, and walked away again.
There was nobody else within call, and I was compelled, therefore, to resign myself as best I could. My efforts to awaken Grammont had proved quite fruitless. I lit a cigar, and walked to and fro. The man in the blouse also lit a. cigar, and paced to and fro, passing in every journey the bench on which Grammont lay asleep. Suspecting him as I did, I never took my eyes from him for a moment when he was near Grammont, and he, in his catlike watch of me, was equally vigilant. At last, growing tired of this watchful promenade, I addressed him—
'It is of no use for you to linger here. You will not tire me out. I shall stay until my friend awakes.'
'Oh!' he said, removing his cigar, and taking a steady look at me. 'You'll stay until your friend awakes, will you? Then—so will I.'
He began his walk again, and I, regarding the man more closely, had formed a new idea.
This man suspected me of designs upon those bank-notes, I began to think, and was possibly lingering here to guard a stranger, from some such motive as my own. Still, it was scarcely safe to trust him alone, and I was not disposed to do so. The idea of his suspecting me amused me for a minute and then amazed me, but I continued my promenade as if no such thought had occurred to me. So we went on until my watch marked half past seven o'clock, when Grammont awoke. We were not far from the cabstand, and I led him thither, assisted him to enter the vehicle, gave the driver his half-franc, and bade him drive to the Basso Porto. The man in the blouse followed, and watched closely all the time, and my later belief concerning him was quite confirmed. Dismissing him from my mind, I entered a biroccio and drove to the Caffè. Arthur had left long since, with a message for me to the effect that he would be at home at Posilipo at eleven o'clock. Perhaps he had gone to the Opera, I thought, and with the intention of discovering him I wandered from the Caffè. The evening was very beautiful, and I changed my mind. I would roam along by the bay and enjoy the sunset, and give myself up to the delights of the country. As I wandered on, my thoughts ran back to Cecilia, and I had another inward battle with myself. I found myself, in the excitement of my thoughts, walking faster and faster until I was far from the city, and alone in a country lane with the moonlight. The moon was up, and up at the full, before the sun was down; and so soon as the gathering twilight gave her power, she bathed the landscape in so lovely a light that even my sore and troubled heart grew tranquil to behold it. I stood near an abrupt turning in the lane, and watched the tremor in the soft lustre of the bay, which looked as though innumerable great jewels rose slowly to its surface and there melted and were lost, whilst all the time innumerable others took the place of these dissolving gems, themselves dissolving in their turn, whilst countless others slowly rose. Here and there was a light upon the water, and here and there the shadow of a boat. And, far away, like the audible soul of the sea, was the soft, soft sound of music, where some boating party sang together.
To say that the cry came suddenly would be to say nothing. There came a shriek of appalling fear close by, which tore the air with terror. I took one step and listened. For a second I heard the rumbling of carriage wheels at a distance, and not another sound, but that of the faint music far away. Then came a foot-step at racing pace nearer and nearer, then a trip and a long stagger, as though the runner had nearly fallen, and then the headlong pace again. And then, with the soft broad moon-light full upon his face, a man came darting round the corner of the lane. I strove to move aside, but before I could lift a foot he was upon me like an avalanche. I knew that we fell together, and that the man arose and resumed his headlong course. I tried to call after him, but found no voice. I tried to rise, but could not move a limb. Then a sickly shudder ran through me, and I fainted.
Out of a sort of vaporous dream came the slow sound of carriage wheels bumping along the ruts of the road; then a light which was not of the moon; then a sudden pause in the noise of wheels and the sound of a coarse, strong voice speaking in tones of great excitement.
'Body of Bacchus! What a night for adventures! Here is another of them!'
The light came nearer, and another voice burst out in English, 'By the Lord! That's the man!'
The voices both grew dim, and though they still talked, they sounded like the noise of running water, wordless and indistinct. Then I felt myself lifted into a carriage, and until I awoke here I knew nothing. It was the jar of bolts, and the rattling fall of a chain, and the grating noise of a key in a lock which awoke me. I turned and recognised the man who entered—an officer, by name Ratuzzi, to whom I had done some service in old days. I asked him feebly where I was and how I came there.
'In the town gaol,' he answered gravely, and the solemnity of his face and tone chilled me.
'In the town gaol?' I repeated. 'Why was I brought here?'
'I am very sorry, signor,' he said in the same tone. 'In whatsoever I can serve you, you may command me. Shall I give orders to send for a doctor?'
'Why was I brought here?' I asked again.
He made no reply, and weak and shaken as I was, I sat up and reiterated my question.
'You are charged with the murder of Carlo Grammont.'
'Charles Grammont? Murder?' I repeated.
'Would you wish to see a doctor or an avvocato?'
I could only moan in answer.
'Charles Grammont murdered! Oh, my poor Cecilia! My angel and my love!'
For the face of the man in the lane was the face of Arthur Clyde, and the moonlight had shown to me, oh! too, too clearly, the blood that smeared his brow.
There is a depth below all possibilities of pain and grief, even before one reaches the grave. I am in that depth already, and I do not believe that there is anything in the world which could touch me with sympathy or with sorrow. I am not even annoyed at myself and my own mental condition, as I surely have a right to be. My bodily health is tolerable. I sleep well at night, and during the day I eat with fair appetite. Some of my belongings have been brought from Posilipo here; amongst them a small mirror. I am so much a stranger to myself in this new-found calm and indifference, that I am almost surprised to find myself unaltered outwardly. I am a little paler than common—that is all. My mind finds natural employment in the most trivial speculations and fancies, and it is chiefly to save myself from this vanity of thought that I write now of myself and my own concernings.
I have written at this little story of my own in poverty and in success, in happiness and in sorrow, and it has come at last to seem that the plain white paper before me is my only fitting confidant. Will there ever come a day when I shall be able to read all its record gladly? Past joys are a grief—griefs gone by are a joy to us. Who knows what may come?
And so, poor Hope, you would spread your peacock wings even here? Ah, go your way! You forget. Our companionship is dissolved. We are not on speaking terms any longer.
I have not been plagued with any official severities, for Ratuzzi is mindful of old favours. He has told me only this morning that my father extended some such kindness to his father as that for which he bears such grateful memory to me. It was a small affair; a mere matter of money. Against my wish he brought to me a doctor and an advocate. I submitted myself to the first, but to the advocate I declined to listen.
He is a pale young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, this advocate. He has a cleanshaven face of rare mobility, a mouth of remarkable decision and sweetness, and eyes of black fire. The most noticeable thing about him is his voice, which is not easily to be characterised. You know the sub-acid flavour in a generous Burgundy—so nicely proportioned that it does but give the wine a grip on the tongue and palate. That is the nearest thing I can think of to the singular quality of this man's voice. The voice is rich and full; but there is a tart flavour in it which emphasises all it says just as the acid emphasises the riper flavours of wine. It takes the kind of grip upon the ear that a file takes upon steel. Or, better than all, it takes just that hold upon the ear which the violin bow takes upon the strings. Ecco. There is my meaning at last. It is not possible that you should escape from listening to this young man when he speaks. He is, further, a young man whom nothing can abash. It is not singular, then, since I am indifferent to all things now that although I declined to listen to him, he stayed and talked, and after much trouble brought me to talk with him.
He was right, after all.
'You are innocent, signor, and you decline to do anything to help yourself? Permit me. No man ever did God's work in the world by refusing to help himself. You have some reason for your refusal? What possible reasons exist? Guilt? We will dismiss that at once.
Despair of establishing innocence? No. When the salt mines of Sardinia are on one side a man and liberty is on the other, he does not yield to despair. Ha! The impossibility, signor, of defending oneself unless one criminates another? And that other a friend—a lover? I am right, signor. No gestures of denial can throw down a conclusion so obviously firm. And now, suppose that it should not be necessary to criminate another. Would you then consent to be defended? No? Well, signor, I am not the accusatore pubblico, and it is no business of mine to hunt down criminals. But, whether you will or not, I will get to the bottom of this matter.'
'Are you so eager for a case, signor?' I asked him. 'I will pay you more to leave me alone than you can ask if you defend me.'
I had meant to sting him into leaving me. But his pale face did not even flush at the insult.
'I am engaged by my friend Ratuzzi, signor. Ratuzzi tells me it is beyond dreaming that you should be guilty of murder and theft. He came to me and besought me to make him grateful for all eternity by taking up this case and clearing you from the suspicions which rest upon you. I have promised him that I will do all in my power, and I will. You will observe, therefore, signor, that whatsoever is done in this matter is independent of your will, if you choose to have it so. I shall know who committed this murder in a fortnight from now, and I shall only retire from your defence if I prove you guilty in my own mind.'
'Signor,' I said in answer, 'I apologise for the insult I offered you just now. But in this matter I am resolute. If it be the will of God that I suffer innocently, I suffer. I am not anxious on that score. It is not at all a matter for my consideration. I do not care whether I am acquitted or found guilty.'
'Is it your wish that I should consult the other prisoner's interest at all?'
I looked at him blankly, whilst my heart stood still.
'The other prisoner?' I asked.
'The other prisoner,' he answered calmly. 'Is it he whom you desire to shield?'
'Who is he?'
The advocate drew forth a bundle of memoranda, and turned them over carefully and at his leisure. I did not dare to question him further, and waited in an agony of suspense.
'That is the name,' he said—'an English name.'
He placed his thumb and leisurely turned round the paper to me on the table which stood before us. I tried to read, but all my pulses seemed throbbing round my eyes, and I was dazzled and blind. He took the paper up again, but I reached out my hand for it.
'I did not read the name,' I said. 'Permit me once more.'
He passed the paper again towards me, and I read—
'John Baker. Claims to be an Englishman, and speaks in English only. Is believed to be by birth an Italian, but a naturalised British subject. A person of notoriously evil character.'
This at least was not Arthur. I breathed again, and for a moment a wild hope sprang up in my heart. It died again directly. Ah, if I could have believed that he was innocent! But the evidence of which I was the sole repository was beyond all doubt, beyond all hope.
'No,' I said. 'I know nothing of this man. What is the evidence against him?'
'The evidence against him is the knowledge that he was poor until the night of the murder, and has since suddenly become rich. Further, that a pocket-book found in his possession was smeared with blood. The book contains a large sum of money in English notes, and is believed to have belonged to the murdered man.'
I had never supposed that Arthur had robbed the body of his dead enemy.
'If this be proved, Signor l'Avvocato,' I said, after some time of silence, 'what punishment will fall upon this man?'
'The salt mines will not be enough for him,' the advocate answered. 'He will probably be shot. You see, signor, he has denied his nationality, and that of itself will embitter the national feeling against him.'
'Then,' I answered, 'these suspicions must not be bolstered by false proofs. This man has, perhaps, robbed a dead body, but he has not committed murder.'
'Signor Calvotti,' said the advocate, the black fire burning slowly in his eyes, and a slow flush creeping to his pale forehead whilst he spoke, 'what mystery surrounds your share of this matter I can only faintly guess. But I know that it is not a mystery to you. I have found out this, at least, since I have been here—that you know the murderer, and that you determine to shield him, even at your own expense. Now, I warn you that if you deny me your confidence, I will convict the real man, whosoever he may be.'
He fixed those slow-burning eyes upon me as he said this, and waited for an answer. I responded to his words and to the fixity of his gaze by silence.
'Give me your confidence, and I will serve your turn,' he said again. 'Are you the guilty man?'
'I? No.'
'Signor Calvotti,' he began again, after another pause, during which his eyes were shadowed by his drooping brows, 'you shall trust me yet. Any secret suspicion given to me is buried in the grave. Any secret certainty of knowledge is buried equally. A confession of your own guilt, the declaration of a friend's, shall be entombed here'—he laid his hand upon his breast—'and know no resurrection.'
I answered nothing, and he rose to go.
'That which you hide,' he said as a last word,' I will discover for myself. Given freely, it would be used for your own cause. Wrested from mystery, it shall be used for mine.'
'Come here again,' I answered, 'three hours later, and I will answer you in one way or the other.'
'Good,' he responded, and signalled for the door to be opened. Ratuzzi himself answered the loud knock he gave, and my friendly gaoler asked me how I fared, and if I stood in need of anything.
'Nothing just now but time to think a little.'
He closed the door, and locked and chained and bolted it, and then I heard the footsteps of the two grow fainter and fainter until silence came. Then I lit my pipe and poured out a glass of wine—for in these respects I am allowed what I choose—and sat down to think. But I found it hard to give my thoughts to anything. There was a hollow somewhere in my mind into which all serious thoughts fell jumbled. I felt neither pained nor confused, but only vacuous. I battled with this feeling until I subdued it. Then I grasped the situation firmly. What object have I, here and now, and everywhere and always, next to the rectitude of my own soul? There is only one answer to that question: Cecilia's happiness! How to secure that here?—how to save it from the horrible perils which everywhere surround it? Is it to be done by securing her union for life with her brother's murderer? If I know one thing of Arthur Clyde—whom I know well—it is this: that such a crime as that I charge him with, committed under whatsoever provocation, will weigh him down for ever, and make life a perpetual hell to him. The hideous injustice of a union with such a man she must not suffer, whatsoever else she suffer. And that she, like the rest of us,mustsuffer, is too clear. But of this I am assured: To learn that her lover is her brother's murderer, and not only that, but that by his silence he accuses a friend who is innocent, would break her heart beyond all the remedy of hope and years. That shall not be.
It seemed little more than an hour when I heard footsteps again approaching my door. They paused on reaching it, and the jar of bolt and chain and lock succeeded. The door opened and closed again. I did not turn or look round until a hand was laid on me, and a voice, strange to me for a year, called me by my name. Then I was indeed amazed.
'Mr. Gregory! You here?'
'My poor fellow! I reached Naples last night, and found the town ringing with the news of an arrest for murder. But what I can't understand is, that now they've got the real fellow, they don't let you go.'
'Never mind me,' I answered. 'Do they know in England—Miss Grammont and Cecilia?'
'They are with me here,' he answered quickly. 'They know that you are arrested for murder, and scout the idea, of course. But they don't know of their brother's death yet. I want to run them both away and let them learn the news more tenderly than they will do here, but I must see you through this miserable business. How did the fools come to suspectyou, of all men in the world?'
'Suspicion was natural,' I answered. 'I was found near the spot directly after the discovery of the body.'
'What brought you there?'
'I was on my way home to Posilipo. The night was fine, and I was in a mood for walking.'
'But you were found insensible, or something of the sort, weren't you?'
'I was standing still in the road, looking at the moonlight on the bay, when I heard a terrible cry. Before I could move, a man came racing down the road as if he were flying for his life. He ran against me, and we fell together. I fainted, and never fully recovered consciousness until I found myself here.'
'Who do you suppose the man to be? No clue to him, I suppose, in your own mind? What do the authorities say to this?'
'I have offered no defence, and made no statement.'
'God bless my soul, what folly! When you might have been out of custody the next day! How very absurd!'
'I was stunned, remember. There were good reasons for silence. The trial takes place in a fortnight.'
'A fortnight! But you can't stop here a fortnight!'
'I must!' I answered, smiling even then at his impetuosity. 'I am remanded for trial.'
'You bear it well, Calvotti,' he said, taking me by both shoulders, and looking kindly at me.
'I do not feel my own share much,' I told him truly. 'I am most aggrieved for the others. It is a terrible business.'
'Give me young Clyde's address. I must bring him to comfort Cecilia when she learns the truth. She was fond of that poor scapegrace, with all his faults and follies. He paid bitterly for em'—poor ne'er-do-weel!—very bitterly.'
'Bitterly, indeed,' I answered absently, looking for a way to escape from a renewed mention of Clyde's name, and finding none.
'I shall come to see you as often as they'll let me, and stay as long as I can. But now I must go for the present. Let me see—Clyde's living at your place, isn't he?'
'Yes,' I answered, 'he was living at the address from which I always dated.' 'Has he been here to-day?' Oh! It was all too bitter, and I could endure no longer. I turned my face away. My old patron laid a gentle hand upon my shoulder, and strove to turn me round. I cast myself upon the bed, and broke into tears. Gran Dio! I am not ashamed. But that outbreak cost me bodily agony, and I wept and sobbed whilst I cursed myself for weeping. Sacred Heaven! how I wrestled with this devil of weakness, which held me so strongly. When I had fought him down, he leapt upon me afresh, and subdued me by sheer torture until I let nature take her way, and cried like a woman! Then, when it was all over, I stood up and spoke with a new resolve.
'Sir, you are a just man and a wise man, and you shall know the whole truth. But first you shall swear to me that what I tell you is for ever buried in your own heart!'
He looked at me with stern inquiry.
'I am not an informer,' he said, 'and you may speak safely.'
I stepped towards him, but he waved me back, and himself took a backward step.
'There is a reason for my silence, but with you that reason dies. I have your promise, and I trust it. The man who overthrew me in the lane, whose hands and face were red with Grammont's blood, was——'
'Go on,' he said, standing there still in rough-hewn dignity, though his lips trembled and his face was pale.
'That man,' I said, 'was Arthur Clyde.'
'Ah!' The sound escaped him without his knowing it. A minute later he asked, 'What was the ground of quarrel?'
I told him then the story of Clyde's meeting with Grammont, and of Arthur's passion afterwards, and of our next encounter with Grammont at the end of the Chiaja on the day of the murder.
'And you are sacrificing yourself that Clyde may escape, trusting to chances to clear yourself?'
I answered nothing.
'What is your motive in all this?' he asked me.
What right had I to withhold it, then? what right to be ashamed of the truth? Yet I paused.
'It is not friendship for Clyde. Whatisthe motive?'
'I was silent because I waited here for events to decide what I could not decide for myself.'
'And what was that?'
'How to give Cecilia least pain.'
'Are you in love with Cecilia?' he asked me.
'No,' I answered honestly, 'I am not in love with Cecilia, but she is dearer to me than anybody in the world. I could not love my sister or my mother more tenderly.'
'H'm!' he said in his old way, when thinking. 'And what have events led you to?'
'They lead me nowhere,' I cried; 'I am helpless.'
'And so Clyde has never been here, of course. Has he escaped?'
'I cannot say.'
'It is a terrible business, Calvotti, but it is better so. You have done right. You have done well. You have done nobly. There is no evidence against you which is not so flimsy that a fly could break through it. Clyde will disappear. If he should come back again, I will warn him off—trust me. Time will console Cecilia, and you will have averted a tragedy. Here is somebody at the door.'
Chain and lock creaked and jangled. The door swung inwards, and Ratuzzi appeared with the advocate.
'Signor l'Avvocato,' I said, 'this gentleman will tell you everything it concerns you to know. Or—stay. Do you speak English?'
'I speak no language but my own,' said the young advocate.
'My dear Calvotti,' said my old patron, in Italian smoother and more choicely worded than his English, one language is pretty much the same to me as another, so long as itisa language, and is spoken in Europe. I have been a mercantile adventurer in Europe for more than thirty years, and have found a knowledge of languages a necessity.'
'Then, sir,' I said in English, 'deal with this gentleman according to your discretion. If you think it wise, let him know all.'
'Trust to me,' he answered, and bade me a cheery adieu.
In another hour the advocate was back, again.
'Signor Calvotti,' he exclaimed, holding out his hand for mine, 'I did not know that I had a hero to defend. But I know it now. You are in no danger. It is weary waiting, but two weeks do not make up eternity; and we shall march out of the court with the drums beating.'
I could not share his joy. The weight which is upon me now oppressed me then; and when the door closed upon the advocate, I could only sit upon my bed and think, with a heart that ached and burned, of the terror which waited on Cecilia.