The Romance Of Giovanni Calvotti Part 9

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 gla.s.s 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 rect.i.tude 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sured: 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.'

'G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 n.o.bly. 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?'