I am remanded for trial.
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, _must_ suffer, 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 suspect
_you_, 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. What _is_ the 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 it _is_ a 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.