THE ROMANCE OF GIOVANNI CALVOTTI. 

By David Christie Murray

From Coals Of Fire And Other StoriesBy David Christie MurrayIn Three Volumes Vol. II. 

Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly 1882

CHAPTER I. --IN THE ATTIC. 

I live in an attic. I am in the immediate neighbourhood of a greattavern and a famous place of amusement. The thoroughfare on which I canlook whilst I sit at my window is noisy with perpetual traffic. In themidst of London I am more of a hermit than is that pretentious humbugwho waves his flag at passing steamers from his rock in the Ægean. Iam not a hermit from any choice of mine, or from any dislike of men andwomen. I am not a hermit because of any dislike which men and womenmay entertain for me. In my time I have been popular, and have had manyfriends. If I could find it in my heart at this moment to face some oneof those friends, the necessity for a continued hermitage might pass. IfI could find it in my heart to write to one of them I might closethis lonely vigil to-morrow. Let me confess the truth. I am ashamed ofmyself, and I can appeal to nobody for assistance. I have gamed away thewhole of my substance, and I am a broken man. It would be possible to dosomething better for myself if I could venture into the streets. Butmy sole possessions in the way of outer clothing are one pair oftoo-ancient trousers, one pair of tattered slippers, one fez, and onepoor old dressing-gown. 

My estimable Uncle round the corner has the rest. Perhaps I am less ahermit than a prisoner--a prisoner over whom that sternest of janitors, Poverty, holds the key. 

I am a little proud of my English, and I do not think you can have yetdiscovered from my style of expression that I am not a native of thiscountry. Permit me to describe myself. 

I am an Italian and a gentleman, and my age is thirty. My main fault is, that I am able to do much in too many directions. I play admirably uponseveral instruments, and my little original compositions are admittedto show great undeveloped talent. My verses in four languages are alsoadmitted to show great undeveloped talent. As a painter or a sculptorI might have made fame certain. I am merry and generous, and slow tooffence, an unmeasured braggart, careless about money matters, withoutdignity, but the soul of honour. I am also your obedient servant. Permitme so to subscribe myself--Your obedient servant, Giovanni Calvotti. 

My attic is uncarpeted, and its general aspect is sordid. It containsa bed, a table, a chair, a chest of drawers, a grand piano, a violin, avioloncello, my pipes, my tobacco, my writing materials, and--me. Stay!Hidden for the moment from my glance beneath the grand piano are thetools by which I live: my easel, my porte-couleur, my palette, canvas, and brushes. My estimable uncle round the corner is not a judge of art. It is my weakness that I cannot paint bad pictures. I linger sometimesfor a whole day hungry--sometimes even without tobacco--touching andagain touching the ripened beauties of my canvas child, before I candare to leave it. I am a hungry amateur, but that is no reason why Ishould be false to the principles of art. Like my playing upon fourinstruments, and like my verses in four languages, my painting isadmitted to show great talent--as yet only partially developed. Uponeach of my works my estimable uncle advances me the sum of twelveshillings and sixpence. I paint one picture per week. In considerationof the restricted character of my wardrobe, my landlady is so obligingas to send my works to the only dealer with whom I can at present dobusiness. I had never known until this morning who it was that acted asmy ambassador. I have told you already that I am of a merry temperament. I snap my fingers at evil fortune. I despise the goddess Circumstance. Seeking to do me an evil turn this morning she has benefited me, and Iam contented in spite of her. Good gracious! Is a man to lose everythingbecause his stomach is empty? The goddess Circumstance shall not keepmy heart empty, let her keep my shelves as bare as she will. My Lady ofCircumstance, Giovanni Calvotti proffers to you a polite but irrevocabledefiance!

This morning my canvas child was a landscape. This afternoon it was aninglorious smudge. It is now on its way back to the landscape condition, and will have revived all its glories by to-morrow. It was noon when Irang my bell. 

'Madame, ' I said to my landlady, in my cheerful Italian manner, 'willyou again extend to me your courtesy?'

My landlady is not an educated woman, but she is a good creature, and has a delicate and refined susceptibility. She recognises in mea gentleman. She reveres in my person a genius to which I make nopretension. I am not a man of genius. A man of genius does one thingsupremely well. Some men of exceptional talent do many things admirably, but nothing supremely well. I am a man of exceptional talent. Pardon themodest candour which is compelled to assume the garb of egotism. 

My landlady looked at my canvas child, and then at me, and laughed. 

'To Mr. Aaron's, sir?' Asking this, she put her hands upon the edges ofthe framework of the canvas. 

'Yes, madame, ' I answered, for we have always the same formula onFridays at noon. 'To my estimable uncle round the corner. '

'Anything more than usual?' my landlady asked me. 

'No, madame, ' I answered. 'A loaf, a pound of coffee, half a pound ofbird's-eye tobacco, the ticket from my estimable uncle, a receipt forthe week's rent, and the change. '

My landlady laughed again and said, 'Very good, sir. ' Then she wentdownstairs with the picture, and I felt unhappy when my canvas child wasgone, and was fain (an idiom employed by your best writers) to solacemyself with my violin. So far there was nothing to mark this Fridaymorning from any other Friday morning for the last nine weeks. It is nownine weeks that I have been a hermit. I was very hungry, and was glad tothink of the coffee and the loaf. I should have told you that my habitsare very abstemious, and that I am admirably healthy on a low diet. My native cheerfulness, my piano, my violin, my violoncello, my canvaschildren, and my pipes, all nourish me like meat and wine. I playedupon my violin a little impromptu good-bye to my landscape--a melodiousfarewell to a sweet creation. The time seemed long before my landladyreturned, and when I put back my violin in its case, I heard a sound ofcrying on the stairs. I opened the door and looked out, and there wasa little English angel, whom I had never before seen, sitting upon thetopmost step, close to my attic door, crying as if her heart had broken. 

'What is the matter, my poor little maid?' I asked very tenderly, for Iknow that young girls are easily frightened by strangers. 

She looked up with eyes like the skies I was born under. The pretty palecheeks were all wet, and the pretty red lips were trembling, and thosebeautiful blue heavens were raining as no blue skies ought to rain. 

'Ah, come, my child, ' I said to her; 'how can I help you if you do nottell me what is the matter?'

'Oh, signor, ' she said, with many sobs and tears, 'I have spoiled yourbeautiful picture. '

She held it up--my canvas child--all besmeared with mud. I couldnot resist one exclamation of sorrow. The news was too sudden for myself-possession to remain. But when I saw that the little English angelbegan to weep afresh at this exclamation, I longed for one moment tobe able to get out of my own body, that I might chastise a poltroon soun-philosophical. I took her by the hand instead, and led her into thisroom and made her sit down, and, whilst I sponged the picture with coldwater, made her tell me how the accident had happened. For I thought, in my Machiavellian Italian way, 'If she should go away without havingquite familiarised herself with this unhappy incident, she will alwaysbe afraid of me. ' Therefore I lured her on. 

'Mrs. Hopkins asked me to take the picture to Mr. Aaron's, ' she began, still sobbing. 'I was just passing the corner when a gentleman leapedout of a cab. The cab was moving at the time, and I did not expect tosee anybody jump from it. The gentleman missed his footing and stumbledagainst me. I fell down and the picture fell face downwards on thepavement, and a man who was passing by trod upon it. '

Now, I invite you to observe that these sentences are in no wayremarkable. Yet I felt compelled to say--

'Most admirably and succinctly put!'

For the little girl was very pleasing, and she looked very pretty andinnocent and distressed. And if you had employed a professional oratorto make the statement, he would have been a thousand miles behind her ingrace and straightforwardness, and in everything that makes human speechbeautiful and admirable. When I had removed the mud from my canvas childI found that its countenance was badly scratched. So I busied myself inputting up my easel and in setting my palette. 

'Oh, signor, ' said the poor child, 'I am so sorry. '

Then she cried again. 

'Mademoiselle, ' I replied, with charming gaiety, 'it is not your faultat all. It is the doing of another lady, an old enemy of mine. The otherlady has been trying to spite me, mademoiselle, for several years. Sheis powerful; she has hosts of servants. She plunges me into all mannerof terrible scrapes, and for all this I laugh at her and snap myfingers--So. '

By the time I had said 'So' and snapped my fingers she had done crying, and being very intelligent she understood my parable, and when I laughedshe smiled. I will tell you exactly what her smile was like. I waspainting: in the Welsh hills three years ago, with plenty of money inmy pocket, and a very great enthusiasm for art in my soul. I strayedout from the hotel I was staying in one beautiful moonlight night. I hadrambled far, when it began to rain and grew very dark with clouds. I satunder a rock upon a big stone by the side of a little lake, and lit mypipe and waited for the rain to cease. And while it was still raining alittle, the clouds divided for one second, and the moonlight swam downthe lake from one end to the other. That was her smile; and when Isaw it I seemed to see the lake again, and to hear the rain and therustling of the trees, and smell the scent of the dead leaves. Themoonlight stayed on her face only a second. She grew grave and sadagain, and came timidly to me where I was at work. 'Will it be muchtrouble to you to mend it?' she asked. 'Will it take long?'

'Not long, mademoiselle, ' I answered; 'I shall finish it to-day. '

I am gifted by nature with a delicate organisation. It is not possiblefor a man to be a gentleman without something of the quality I desireto indicate. I observe intuitively. I saw that my distressed companiondesired to say something, and I saw also that what she desired to saywould be embarrassing to me. It was also plain to my refined observationthat she would be happier if she could only go gracefully. I relievedher of this trouble--

'We will challenge Madame Fortune again in the morning, mademoiselle. You and I will beat her this time. We will co-operate again. '

'Oh yes, ' she said, 'do let me take it in the morning. I _will_ becareful. '

'And now, ' I said, 'you will think me an ogre, and will fancy that I amgoing to imprison you unless I let you go. '

I opened the door, but she lingered, struggling with that embarrassmentwhich feared to embarrass me. For she is a lady just as certainly as Iam a gentleman, and fine natures understand each other. I could see hermake up her mind, and I resolved therefore not to be embarrassed. 

'But, signor, ' she said, with more firmness than I had expected, 'thetobacco and the coffee and the loaf?'

'Mademoiselle, ' I said, 'the coffee and the tobacco and the loaf loomdimly from the future. They will come in good time. '

But, oh, the little girl was brave and tender-hearted and honourable. She was a little Englishwoman, with beliefs in duty. And yet she wouldsooner have faced ten lions than me, with my Italian courtesy and myuncomplaining good temper. 

'Mrs. Hopkins, ' she said, 'will lend me a--a shilling, and I----'

From that moment I respected her. 

'Mademoiselle, ' I answered, 'you are a lady, I am a gentleman. We haveboth the misfortune to be poor. We have both the admirable good fortuneto be proud and honourable. You are brave and good, and your instinctsare delicate. You will permit me to ask you not to humiliate yourself. '

'But, signor, ' she urged, 'it is very hard for you to go----'

'My good-hearted, dutiful little English lady, ' I took the liberty tosay, for I was very much in earnest, ' it is not at all hard for me togo without the coffee and the tobacco and the loaf. Above all, I do notlose my self-respect or touch my pride when I go without the coffee andthe tobacco and the loaf. And now, mademoiselle, since it is our schemeto rout my lady enemy in the morning, we will despoil her of hertriumph now by not caring for her or it, and by snapping our fingers ather--So. '

Whilst we had talked I had closed the door, and now I crossed over to mypicture and began to work again. She still lingered, watching me whilstI painted. 

'Are you fond of pictures?' I asked her, to divert her thoughts. 

'I have not seen many, but I am very fond of some of them. '

'Would you like to look at those?' I said, pointing with my brush to aportfolio on the piano. 

She opened the portfolio and looked through my sketches. I saw withpleasure that she did not race over them, but that she stopped andlooked long at some. I could see from where I stood that they were thebest, and I said, 'The young lady has taste and discernment. '

Suddenly she clapped her two hands together, and said--

'Oh!'

Then she came to me with a sketch in her hands, and her face wasbeautiful. 

'Did you paint this, signor?'

'Yes, mademoiselle, I painted that. Why do you ask?'

'Poor old place!' she said very softly, without knowing that she said itat all. 

It was a picturesque old house in Surrey. The house stood in a hollow, and the road wound up past it on to a long rolling wold. (That isthe beautiful word your poet Tennyson uses. The country-people, thepeasantry, use it also. ) She had cried so much that her eyes were readyfor tears again at almost anything. When she looked at me they werebrim-full, but they did not run over. 

'We lived here with papa, ' she said, 'till he died. '

Then two big tears brimmed over and ran down. I committed anindiscretion: I was sorry for her, and I kissed her. She drew away withmuch dignity and said--

'I have stayed too long. Good morning, signor. '

I blushed. She was so much a child, and I feel myself so old, that Ihad not thought it any indiscretion. And now I remember that I have beenwriting of her as a child. She is quite a grown girl--a young lady. Sheis perhaps more than seventeen years of age. I was a brute beast--aninsensate--to frighten her. Before I could say anything she was gone. 

I abused myself in my vehement Continental way, and then I began towork. The picture was but little hurt, and before daylight was overit was almost repaired. But I had heard the clock strike seven, and myestimable uncle round the corner retires at that hour into the country, and will have no business again until nine o'clock in the morning. So, to prevent myself from thinking too much of the coffee and the tobaccoand the loaf, I sat down to my piano and played. One would have thoughtthat my sitting down to play was a signal, for I had scarcely begun whenmy landlady tapped at my door and brought a note. She looked shyly atthe picture, and hoped it had not suffered much. I told her gaily thatit was all the better for the accident, as in reality it was. Then Iread my note. 

 'Miss Grammont presents her compliments to Signor Calvotti, and requests that he will oblige her by his company at tea this evening. Miss Grammont begs that Signor Calvotti will forgive this intrusion, and will forget that no formal introduction has taken place between them. '

I read this over twice, and then asked the landlady--

'Who is Miss Grammont?'

'She's the sister of the young lady who had the accident with yourpicture, sir, ' said the landlady. 'She's a middle-aged lady, sir, andvery badly lame. But she's got an angel temper, and ways that sweet as Inever saw anybody like her. I do hope you'll go, sir. She's on the floorbelow. '

'Present my most distinguished compliments, madame, and say that I willdo myself the honour to be there. At what hour?'

'Tea's getting ready now, sir, ' said the landlady. 

When she had gone, I washed myself and put on a clean shirt, and wentdownstairs. At a door at the foot of the stains stood the young lady whohad by misfortune brought about this adventure. She led me into theroom and to a lady who sat upon a sofa. The room was absolutely bare ofornament, and I knew that they were very poor. But it was not possibleto think for a moment that Miss Grammont was anything but a lady. Shewas old-fashioned and precise in her attire, and she is perhaps fortyyears of age, but her face is as beautiful as a seraph's. She is calmand sweet and quiet. She is like a Venetian night--sweet and venerable, and moving to touches of soft music. I took tea with them both--a simplemeal. We talked of art and of Italy. I brought down my sketches and myviolin at their request. I played to them--all manner of things--andthey did me the honour to be delighted. 

I am now in my own room again, and have expended my last candle whilstI have given myself the charming task to set down this day's adventures. My candle is so nearly burned out that it will not last another minute. I foresee that I shall go to bed in the----

CHAPTER II. --ON THE SECOND FLOOR. 

I have just found this manuscript among my music, and to charm a lonelyevening I will continue it. I remember that the candle went out sosuddenly that I lost the place of my pen, or I would have completed thesentence. In the morning I had other things to think of. My landladycame up for the picture and took it away. In five minutes I heard a stepupon the stairs, and opening my door I saw Cecilia--I have not told youmy little English angel's name until now--with the picture in her hands. For a moment I thought that my inestimable uncle had refused to acceptit, but I saw by her smiling face that it was no misfortune which hadbrought her back. 

'There is a gentleman downstairs, signor, who wishes to buy yourpicture. He is waiting in the hall. Shall I send him up? It is thegentleman who jumped from the cab yesterday and caused the accident. '

I besought her not to take so much trouble, and myself ran downstairs. There was an Englishman, broad-shouldered, ruddy, and iron-grey, withbushy eyebrows and blue eyes and a square chin. 

'Do you wish to see me, sir?' I asked him. 

'If you're the painter of the picture I saw just now--yes. '

'It is something of a climb upstairs, ' I warned him. 

He took the warning as an invitation, and went upstairs, stepping firmlyand solidly in his heavy boots. When he reached my room, he took his hatoff and I saw he was bald. He had a good face, and a high forehead, andhe was evidently of the prosperous middle classes. Mademoiselle had leftthe room, and had placed the picture upon the easel. He looked roundthe room, and then faced the picture, square and business-like--like anEnglishman. 

'Ah!' he said, 'that's the picture, is it? H'm. What do you want forit?'

I told him I had never yet sold a picture, and did not know what priceto set upon it. 

'What have you done with the rest?' he said, looking round the roomagain. 'This isn't the first you've painted. '

His bluntness amused me, and I laughed. He saw my circumstances, andthere could be no service in disguise. I told him of my estimable Uncle. 

'H'm?' he said, lifting his eyebrows. Then suddenly, 'What do you get on'em?'

'Twelve and sixpence each. '

'How many has he got?'

'Nine, ' I answered. 

'Got the tickets?' he said, examining the picture on the easel. 

I produced them from a drawer. 

'Five pounds fourteen, ' he said to himself. 'A pound 'll pay theinterest. Call it six ten, roughly. Got anybody you can send out for'em?'

I rang the bell, and by-and-by my landlady appeared. 

'Look here, ' said the stranger, taking out a purse. 'Take this sixpounds ten and that lot of pawn tickets, and send somebody to thepawnbroker's to bring the pictures out. '

My landlady took the money and went downstairs. In ten minutes she cameback again with a boy behind her, carrying all my canvas children homeagain. During this time the stranger said nothing. Now he took thechange in silver and copper from my landlady, said 'Eight, ' and nothingmore, and then set the pictures one by one on the easel and looked atthem all in turn. When he had satisfied himself, he turned on me again. 

'Now, Signor----'

'Calvotti'--I helped him with my name. 

'Now, Signor Calvotti, what do you want for the lot?'

I entered into his business humour as well as I could. 

'Permit me to ask what you are prepared to give?'

'Oh, ' he said emphatically, 'I can't be buyer _and_ seller. How much forthe lot?'

I thought it over. I knew the pictures were good--that they were betterthan many I had seen sold for high prices. I spoke quietly, but withinward desperation. 

'A hundred pounds. '

My landlady clasped her hands. 

'What?' said the stranger sharply. 'Say seventy-five. '

My landlady absolutely curtsied, with her hands clasped. 

'If you think that is a fair price, ' I said. 

The stranger looked at me for a minute, then turned to my landlady. 

'Pardon me a minute, ' he said, waving a backward hand to me. Then to thelandlady; 'What sort of gentleman is this? Dissipated dog, eh?'

'Lord bless you, no, sir, ' said the landlady; 'the steadiest gentleman Iever had in the house. '

'H'm, ' said the stranger, facing round on me. 'Want a hundred pounds for'em, eh? Very well. If I can't get 'em for less. Pen and ink anywhere?Ah, I see. '

He wrote a cheque standing at the table. Then he produced a card. 

'That's my address. Glad to see you, if you'll call. Any Friday eveningafter eight. I've got a cab at the door, and I'll take these away atonce. '

I was embarrassed by a terrible suspicion. I had read and heard much ofLondon fraud. 

'You will pardon me, sir. You are too much a man of the world not toforgive a little caution in a man who is selling all he has. ' Then Istumbled and could not go on. 

'Ah!' he said, 'quite right. Stupid of me, to be sure. Wait a minute. '

He seized the cheque and his hat, and went heavily downstairs. When hewas at the bottom of the first flight he shouted, 'Back directly, ' andso went down the other three flights, and out-of-doors. 

My landlady opened the window, and looked out. 

'He's gone into the bank, sir, ' she said; then ran to the head of thestairs and screamed for somebody to open the door. 

'He's coming out of the bank, sir, ' said the landlady after an intervalof renewed observation. He came upstairs, solidly, and into the room. 

'Count that, ' he said, and placed a small bag on the table. 

I counted the contents of the bag, but my fingers trembled, and I wasconfused. I made out one hundred and six pounds. 

'No, ' he said, 'make no mistakes at the bank?

He counted the money rapidly. 

'One hundred and five. '

'We agreed for one hundred, sir, ' I said pushing five pounds across thetable. 

'Guineas, ' he said brusquely. 'Always guineas in art. Don't know why, but always is. Oblige me, ma'am, by carrying these downstairs. '

My landlady took the pictures in her arms. 

They were defended from each other by strips of thin cork at thecorners, and they made a clumsy bundle. I had not looked at my client'scard until now. Whilst he gave his directions to the landlady I tookit up, and learned that his name was John Gregory; and that he livedin Westbourne Terrace. When my landlady had gone, he spoke to me, withanother glance round the room. 

'Been hard up?' he asked. 

'I have been totally without money, ' I answered him frankly, for I beganto understand him. 

'These things belong to you?' he asked again, waving his hand at thepiano and the violin and the violoncello. 

'Yes, ' I answered. 

'Why didn't you sell 'em? Better than starving. '

'I would sooner starve than part with any of them, ' I told him. 

He turned sharply upon me. 

'Why?'

'My mother played them. ' There seemed no reason, for all his brusquerie, why I should not tell him this. 

'Didn't play the fiddle, did she?' 'Divinely, ' I told him. 

'And the 'cello?' 'Yes. '

'Singular, ' he said. 'Oh, ah, foreign lady. Yes, of course. Not at allremarkable. Good morning. Don't forget the Fridays. Glad to see you. '

As he was going out he caught sight of the portfolio of sketches. Hestopped and turned them over without remark or apology until he came toone which pleased him. It was a large sketch, sixteen inches by twelve, in water-colour, and had some little finish. He held it up and took itto the light. 

'I meant to say just now, but I forgot it, he said, turning the pictureupside down and looking at it so--'I meant to tell you that you'remaking a mistake in painting so small. A larger canvas would suit yourstyle. Let me have this, now, in oil. Say eighty by sixty. Give youfifty pounds for it. What do you say?'

What was I likely to say? I told him I would do my best. 

'_I_ know that, ' he answered. 'Couldn't help it. Good morning. '

This time he really went away. I was confounded by my good fortune. Iscarcely knew what had happened, until my landlady came upstairs againand asked me if she should get me something to eat. Then I rememberedthat I was ravenous. She brought me eggs and ham and coffee; and when Ihad finished breakfast I despatched her for a portmanteau which lay inthe care of my estimable uncle, and for certain parcels of clothing andboots and jewellery. Twenty-three pounds went in this way. I spread myclothing about the room to freshen it after its long confinement. Then Idressed, and was delighted to feel once more like a gentleman. I clappedmy hands, and sang, and rattled gay things on the pianoforte. Then I puton my hat--newly recovered from my estimable uncle--and went out to buycanvas and materials for my new picture. I brought these things back ina cab, and carried them upstairs. When I got them there, I found thatI had no room for so large a canvas. I had managed to get the smallcanvases and the little field-easel on which I painted into a goodlight, but with this it was impossible. I spoke about it to thelandlady. 

'If you'll excuse me, sir, ' she said, 'I think I could propose anarrangement as would suit. The ladies below give warning last week, because the rooms they've got is too expensive. 

Now, this little room would do nicely for 'em, with the next, whichI shall be glad and thankful for a chance of giving Mr. Jinks hiswarning, ' (Jinks was a drunken tailor, my next-room neighbour. ) 'Now, sir, if the rooms below will suit you----'

I told her I was sure they would, and asked her if she would broach thequestion with the ladies. She went down at once, and came back shortlyto ask when it would be convenient for me to remove my things. I said'at any moment, ' There was so little property between us all three, thatit was transferred without much trouble in a few minutes. The landladyagreed that Mr. Jinks should have other accommodation secured for himin the house until the end of the next week; and for a single day theladies were to make themselves at home in this one old room of mine. Miss Grammont came up the stairs with difficulty, and asked--

'When shall you wish to remove your piano, signor?'

Now, I had already proposed to myself a great pleasure. 

'Permit me, madame, ' I answered, 'to leave it here for a little time, until I can arrange my rooms. '

'Certainly, ' the lady answered. 

'And if madame or her sister play, it will improve the piano to beplayed upon, and I shall be vastly gratified. '

Cecilia thanked me with so much energy that I was assured that she was adevotee to music. 

'Would she play?' I asked; and she consented. 

She was shy before me, but so eager to put her fingers on the keys thatshe conquered all diffidence and went at once to the piano. 

When she had played a Sonata of Haydn's, I turned in my enthusiasticway to her sister and said how I rejoiced to have been able to gratifygenius. 

'Genius is a very large word, ' said Miss Grammont. Cecilia was playingsomething else, and had not heard me. 

'Genius _is_ a large word, madame, ' I replied. 'But is not that a largestyle? Is it not a noble style?'

Cecilia, she allowed, played very finely. 

'Finely, madame? 'I respectfully protested--'she should play among theseraphs. You shall allow me, madame. I am no mean musician. As a criticI am exact and exacting. Permit me, madame, that I bring my violin, andplay once with Mademoiselle Cecilia. '

She consented. I brought my violin and we played. Cecilia's musicalmemory is prodigious. Mine is also retentive and precise. But she hadtoo much inventive genius for precision, unless the notes were beforeher, and sometimes I corrected her. Next, this delicious interlude over, I begged that the ladies would do me the honour to dine with me. 

'You must not be extravagant in your good fortune, signor, ' MissGrammont said. 

'Trust me, madame, ' I answered. 'If the day has dawned, I will hasten nonew night and make no artificial curtains. '

Then I went down to paint, and at seven o'clock they joined me atdinner. The meal was sent in from the famous tavern hard by, and I thinkI may say we all enjoyed it. And then came music, and for an hour wewere happy. 

CHAPTER III. --AT POSILIPO. 

Ay me, for one hour we were happy, and for many hours thereafter. Butwhen your heart is glad, when you drink the wine of joy, there is MadameCircumstance keeping the score, and she brings in the bill at the end ofthe banquet, and you pay it in coin of sorrow. She is my old enemy, thisMadame Circumstance, as I have told you. It is not always that I candefy her. Who is it that is always brave? Not I. But I shall be braveagain in the morning, and the battle will begin again, and I shallwin. Pah! I have won already. I have smoked my pipe, and the incense ofvictory curls about my head just now, at this moment. There is no friendlike your pipe. None. 

Ten minutes ago I was despondent when; I sat down to write. I broke offand smoked, and I am my own man again. (Regard once more the beautifulEnglish idiom, and the smiling soul which so soon after battle can takedelight in verbal felicities. )

Now I will go on with my story. It takes a long time to write. It willbe twelve months to-morrow since I last looked at the pages of thisnarrative. I may not touch it again after to-day for a year. Who knows?

I went to Mr. Gregory's house in West-bourne Terrace on Friday, and Icontinued to go there on Friday evenings until the close of the season. Mr. Gregory is no more my patron, only: he is now my friend, and hisfriendship is firm and true. I shall be honest in saying that to methose Friday evenings were very beautiful. It was so great a change fromthe hungry and lonely nights in my attic, to find myself back again withladies and gentlemen, myself well dressed and at home, and no longerhungry. There I was admired and _fêted_, and all people made much of me. I played and sang, and the people talked of my pictures, and everywhereI was asked out, until I could have spent my every hour in thosecalm social dissipations which make up so large a share of life in allrefined societies. For my friend Gregory is a man of refinement--withinhimself--and his friends are all artistic and literary. . But why shouldI talk about him? Everybody knows him. Gregory the millionaire; Gregorythe connoisseur in wines, in pictures, in old violins, in pottery; theConnoisseur in humanity at whose gatherings the wisest and the mostcharming meet each other. Gregory the ship-builder, iron-master, coal-owner; architect of himself--a splendid edifice. That such a manshould have bought my pictures was of itself a fortune to me. I am onmy way to get riches, and my balance at-the bank is already respectable. Why, then, should I be at battle with Madame Circumstance? You shallsee. 

One day at the beginning of this year he called to see me. I was hard atwork making the best of the few hours of light. He sat and watched for afull hour, talking very little. At last he said--

'I can trust you, Calvotti. I want you to do me a service. '

'I am very heartily glad to hear it, ' I answered. 

'You won't understand what I want you to do unless I tell you the wholestory, ' he said, after a pause. Then he remained silent for some time. 

'Put down your brushes and listen, ' he went on. 

I obeyed him. He lit a cigar, poured out a glass of claret, crossedhis legs, and talked easily, though at times I could see that he feltstrongly. 

'I have had a good many friendly acquaintances in my life, and onefriend: he died five years ago. I was abroad at the time, in Russia, laying down a railway. My friend, whom everybody supposed to be fairlywell-to-do, died poor. There was one lump sum of money in my hands, placed there by him for investment, and that was almost all he had. Bysome terrible mischance, the acknowledgment I had given for this lumpsum was lost, and his relatives were in ignorance of it. Six monthsafter his death I came home, and finding that nothing had been said ofthe money he had entrusted to my care, I went to his lawyer and spoke tohim about it. My friend had been a widower for the last dozen years. Hehad three children, and no other relatives in the world. After the saleof his effects, poor fellow, the two girls disappeared utterly. Theson, who was a reckless, good-for-nothing scamp, was my poor friend'sfavourite, and whatever the old man died possessed of went by will tohim with a mere injunction to look after his sisters. He had not beenheard of for more than a year, but was believed to be somewhere inItaly. The scoundrel professed to be a painter, and might have made adecent sign-writer, if he hadn't been a drunkard. I could not find evenhim, and the girls have been advertised for, vainly. Now, the lawyerhas just received a letter from this young ne'er-do-weel, who wantsto borrow money. I will tell you what I want you to do. If this scamplearns that ten thousand pounds belong to him, he will take every penny, though he left the girls to starve. But I want things so managed that heshall share with his sisters--a thing he will be very reluctant to do. Now, will you go to Naples, find this man out, get to know from him thewhereabouts of his sisters, manoeuvre him, and, if possible, induce himto accept half? Will you remember that there is absolutely no receiptin existence for the money which lies in my hand--that I am not legallybound to pay a penny of it? That is my only power over this fellow. Keepmy name dark. Let him know there is a certain sum of money--never mindtelling him how much--in the hands of a certain person in London, who iswilling, on his written undertaking to divide with his sisters whateverhis father may have left, to pay over to him his moiety. Let himunderstand distinctly that the person in whose hands the money lieswill not pay him one farthing without this bond unless he producesthe receipt given to his father. When you have secured his writtenundertaking, will you bring him to me? I will be answerable for all yourcharges in the matter. '

I had listened attentively to this story, and I said Yes, at once. Iadded, that it seemed to me a very easy task and an honourable one. 

'I want it done at once, ' he said, 'because I know the girls must be ina very poor position wherever they are. When can you start? There is atidal train at eight o'clock this evening, and the man is now in Naples. I have the papers here all ready: you can study them on the way. '

'I will start to-night, ' I answered. 

'Thank you, Calvotti, thank you, ' he said heartily. 'Do you remember howI excused myself for overturning that little girl who was carrying thefirst picture I ever saw of yours to your estimable uncle round thecorner, as you called him?'

'Yes. There was a man in the street you were anxious to speak to, andyou jumped from a cab to catch him, and lost sight of him through theaccident. '

'That was the man I want you to see--Charles Grammont. '

I had only time to catch at the name and weave Cecilia and her sisterinto this romance with one throw of the shuttle, when there came a knockat the door. 

'Come in, ' I said. The door opened, and a man entered. Seeing my patronand myself, he drew back. 

'I have made a mistake, ' he murmured awkwardly. 'I wish to find MissGrammont. I was told she lived here. '

'Talk of the devil!' cried my patron. 'Charles Grammont!'

'That is my name, ' said the new-comer, standing awkwardly in thedoorway. 'You have the advantage of me, sir. '

'H'm!' said my patron, returning to the manner he had first worn in mypresence. 'Likely to keep it too. Good-day, Calvotti. You'll rememberthat little commission. Things may perhaps be easier than I thought theywould be. ' He muttered this to himself so that the new-comer did nothear him. He pushed uncourteously past the young man and went out. 

'You will find Miss Grammont upstairs, sir, ' I said. 'If you are Mr. Charles Grammont, the brother of the ladies upstairs, I shall be glad tospeak to you in an hour's time, on a matter of much advantage to you. '

The young man had a disagreeable swagger and a bloated face. His swaggerwas intended to hide the discomfiture in the midst of which that sort ofman's soul lives always. 

'If you have any thing to say to me, ' he answered, still holding thehandle of the door, 'you can say it now, or save yourself the trouble ofsaying it at all. '

'Sir, ' I replied with some asperity, 'it is not a matter which concernsme at all, but you. 

Your late father left some money in which you are interested, that isall. '

He looked bewildered. 

'My father left no money, ' he stammered. 

'Your father left a considerable sum, ' I answered, 'and if you willcall upon me in one hour from now I will inform you of the conditionsattached to your receipt of it. Meantime, the stairs are dark, and Iwill give you a light. '

'No, thank you, ' he said. 'I won't trouble my sisters until I've heardwhat you have to say, I'll call again in an hour's time. '

He went away, closing the door behind him. I, sitting there, andlistening to his footsteps, heard him speak to somebody on the stairs, and heard two sets of footsteps blunder down the ill-lighted staircasetogether. I took the papers Mr. Gregory had left behind him and lookedthem through. They were short and simple, and I mastered them in fiveminutes. Then I went back to my painting and worked until I heard aknock at the door and admitted my new acquaintance. He had a companionwith him, and, since I must do him justice, I must say that hiscompanion was sevenfold worse than he. He was a countryman of my own, asI knew by his face and voice. They had both been drinking. 

'You know my name, it seems, ' said young Grammont, 'and I shall be gladto know yours. '

I was decided that nobody but our two selves should be present when Ispoke to him, lest any slip of mine before a witness should blunder thematter I had in charge. 

'My business with you, Mr. Grammont, is of a private nature, and Icannot discuss it in the presence of a third party. ' I was plain andoutspoken, because this kind of man does not comprehend innuendo. 

'This is a chum of mine, ' he answered. 'He's quite welcome to hearanything about _me_. '

'Pardon me, sir, ' I told him quietly; 'but I can only discuss thismatter in private. '

'All right, ' he hiccoughed. 'You'd better slide, Jack. Evado, youblackguard! Hidi! git! chabouk!'

'You are merry, my friend, ' said my unwholesome countryman, who was verydrunk indeed. 'But I am not a Hamal that you speak to me so. '

'There's half-a-crown, ' said young Grammont, throwing a coin on thecarpet. 'Wait at the Red Lion. It's all right. '

My unwholesome countryman took himself out of the room with thehalf-crown, and went downstairs in a series of dangerous slides andtumbles. 

'Now, then, ' said my client, throwing himself insolently upon the sofaand lighting a pipe. 'You can say what you have; to say, and get it overas soon as you like. '

One is not angry with this kind of person. 'If you are in a fitcondition to listen, sir, you may know all about the matter in fiveminutes. Your father just before his death invested a large sum ofmoney. The receipt for that sum of money was lost, but the gentlemanwith whom he invested it is honourable and is ready to pay it. He willonly pay it on one condition, and that is that it be divided into equalportions between your two sisters and yourself. '

He sat up with the pipe between his finger and thumb. 

'Whatever my father left, ' he said, 'belongs to me. '

'Then, ' I answered, 'claim it!'

He lay down again as suddenly as if I had shot him. 

'You will remember, ' I said, 'that the receipt is lost, and that youhave no legal claim upon the gentleman who now holds the money. Heis willing to pay it over at once, provided you divide it with yoursisters. '

'Who is he?'

I made no answer. 

'What right has he, whoever he is, to dictate terms to me? What righthas he to suppose that I shouldn't make fair terms with my sisters, andmake them a decent allowance, and all that sort of thing, if I had themoney?'

'I know nothing of the matter, sir, ' I answered, 'except that on yourwritten undertaking to divide whatever property your father may haveleft, you can take half of it, and that without such an undertaking youcan get nothing. '

'I'll sign no such undertaking!' he cried angrily. 'Why should I bejuggled out of money which belongs to me? If I choose to make my sistersa present, why, I'll do it, and if I don't, I won't. '

'Very good, sir, ' I said; 'when you have changed your mind, and wish todraw the money, you can apply to me again. '

'What's the amount?' he asked sulkily, after a time. 

'I am requested not to mention the amount, ' I answered, 'but it isconsiderable. '

'How do _you_ come to be mixed up with my affairs?' he asked. 'I don'teven know your name. You're not a lawyer. How do I know that the wholething isn't a stupid joke? How do I know there's not a trap of some sortin it?'

'All these things are for your own consideration, sir, ' I answered, ascoolly as I could. 'I am acting to oblige a friend, and if it were notfor my desire to oblige a friend----'

There I stayed. He glared at me, and rose-to his feet. . 'Well!' he said, 'what then?'. 

'I should take no trouble at all in the matter, and should be glad to berid of you. '

'Oh!' he said jeeringly, and then sat down again. By-and-by he lookedup and shook a forefinger at me with an air of drunken perspicacity andresolution which was amusing. 

'Don't think, ' he said, 'that I can't see through _your_ little game. You're living in the same house, are you? You've got my sister'saffairs into your own dirty fingers, eh, my boy? She's getting to anice manageable age, isn't she? And you've found out that some money iscoming to me after all, and you think me idiot enough to sign away halfof it for you and that young----'

'Stop, sir, if you please. You shall commit what folly you like inrespect to the business in hand, but I have no time or taste for adrunken brawl. You may call upon me in the morning. You will forgive meif I suggest that you are not quite fit for business at present. I havethe honour to bid you a good afternoon. '

'Oh!' said he, 'I'm quite fit for business, if there is any businessto be done. Have you any objection to my consulting a lawyer before Isign?'

I disregarded the sneer, and said that I could have no objection to sucha course. 

'Will you come with me?' he asked. 

'No, ' I told him. There was the case already in his hands. I waspowerless to alter its conditions. He could tell the story to his lawyerfor himself. 

'I will give you a reply to-morrow, he said. 

I gave him my card, and he went away. I had no doubt of his finalacceptance of the terms offered to him, and when on the morrow hereturned, he proclaimed himself willing to accept one-half of the sumleft in Mr. Gregory's hands. The lawyer he had consulted was the man whohad acted professionally for his father during the latter's lifetime, and it was he also to whom my directions ordered me. I telegraphed toMr. Gregory at his offices in the city, and then drove to Russell Squarewith young Grammont. At the lawyer's we were detained for a few minutes, and before wo could get to business Mr. Gregory arrived. The matter wasthen gone into, and everything was over in half-an-hour. Mr. Gregorygave young Grammont a cheque for five thousand pounds, and took thereceipt for it. Then we bade the lawyer good-day and went out together. Young Grammont took a cab and went away in high feather, whilst Mr. Gregory and I went to my rooms, and sent a message to Miss Grammont. In a few minutes we were admitted, and it was my felicity to make theannouncement of the pleasant change in their fortunes. Miss Grammontrecognised Mr. Gregory at once, and both she and Cecilia accepted thisstroke of good fortune with a calm gladness. 

'Why did you hide yourself in this way?' asked Mr. Gregory. 

'What could we do?' Miss Grammont answered him. 'We have never been inactual want, and you know that we were always very foolishly proud--weGrammonts. '

'Very foolishly proud, the lot of you, ' said Mr. Gregory. 'You knew verywell how much I owed to your father's help and advice when I was a youngman. You know that Lizzie would have given you a home, and have thoughtherself more than paid by your society and friendship. ' (Lizzie was thelate Mrs. Gregory. ) 'Forgive me, ' he said a minute later. 'Had I beenin your place, I should probably have done as you have done. But now tobusiness. Fifteen thousand pounds remain in my hands. Of this sum onlyten thousand honestly belongs to you two. '

'How is this?' asked Miss Grammont. 

'Mr. Calvotti told me just now that my father had left but ten thousandpounds in all. '

'For investment, madam--for investment. I am a business man and I haveinvested it and doubled it. That graceless brother of yours who has goneaway with his five thousand now will be back in a year's time to borrow. He will still have five thousand to draw upon, but I hold his dischargein full, and I shall cheat him for his own good and button himdown tightly to a weekly allowance. Money is cheap just now, MissGrammont--dirt cheap--and you can't do better than leave this in myhands at five per cent, interest. That's five hundred a year. But allthat we'll talk about, in future. Meantime, that's the first half-year'sallowance'--laying a cheque upon the table--'and the first thing to bedone is to leave this place and come straightway to my house until youcan look about you and settle where to live. '

'You are just as generous and just as imperious as you always were, 'said Miss Grammont. 'We will come this day week. '

'Come now, ' said Mr. Gregory. 'My sister will make you comfortable. PoorJane's an old maid still, and lives with me. '

'Not now, ' she said. 'There are many things to be seen to before we canleave here. '

I saw her glance at her own shabby dress, and he saw that also. 

'When you like, ' he said cheerfully. 'But this day week is a bargain. At what time? Say two o'clock. I'll be there to meet you. Good-day, Calvotti; good-day, Miriam. ' Then he turned and kissed Cecilia. 'Good-day, Baby. God bless my soul! it seems only the other day sinceyou _were_ a baby. And now I suppose you'll be getting married in a weekor two. '

Cecilia blushed and laughed, and Mr. Gregory turned round with adroll look to me, and then took his hat and went in his own solid anddetermined way out of the room. Even in his walk the determination ofhis character declared itself. He was strong and square and firm, but within very gentle. Oh, you English! you English! you are a greatpeople! Great in your stolidity and solidity, before which I, whoknow what lives beneath them, can only bow in a fluttering, butterflyrespect! Great in your passions, which you repress so splendidly thatto the superficial eye they look only like affections! Solid, stolid, much-enduring people, with corners all over you, accept my profoundestveneration!

Now it befalls me that I am impelled to tell why, with a reputationalready considerable and fast increasing, and with a balance at thebanker's in the same beautiful conditions, I yet remained in that poorstudio of mine, and in those unfashionable apartments. It was not thatI am penurious, although I have changed my old harum-scarum habits withregard to money. 

It was not--but why should I go on saying what it was not to pave theway to saying what it was? It was, then, that in that house had livedthat little English angel who is a woman, and Cecilia. I will set itdown in one line. She is all the joy I have and all the sorrow. Andnow I will set down one thing more that I may see it in plain black andwhite, and study it there until I drive its meaning into my thick headand my sore heart, and can at last smoke calm pipes over it, and be oncemore contented. There is no hope for me--there is no hope for me: nonein the world. For my little Cecilia is in love already, and I would notfor twenty thousand times my own sake have her in one thought untrue. 

I was walking upstairs one night a month before the events I have justrelated, when I met a man coming down in the dark. I did not at allknow who he was, but I knew that he had been to Miss Grammont's rooms, because I was already near my own door, and nobody but Miss Grammontlived above me. The stranger said Good-night as he passed me, and Ireturned his salutation. He stopped short. 

'Have I the honour to address Mr. Calvotti?' he asked. 

'That is my name, ' I answered, in some astonishment. 

'Ah, then, ' he said, turning back again, 'if you can spare me just aminute, I will deliver a letter I have for you. '

We went upstairs together, and into my studio. I lighted the gas andtook the letter. It came from Miss Grammont, and introduced Mr. ArthurClyde, an old friend who had found them out by accident, and who had anespecial desire to know me. 

'This is not a good time at night to make a call, ' he said, with a frankand winning smile; 'but I'm an artist myself. I've seen your work, andI've heard so much about you, that when I found that Miss Grammont knewyou I couldn't deny myself the pleasure of making your acquaintance. '

He was very frank and pleasant in his manner, very fresh and English inhis look, very handsome and self-possessed. Not self-possessed in thesense that he had assurance, but in the sense that he did not seemto think about himself at all, which is the most agreeable kind ofself-possession, both for those who have it and for those who meet them. 

We talked about indifferent things for a minute or two, and then he lita cigar and rose to go. 

'I have heard of your kindness to Miss Grammont and little Cecilia, ' hesaid, turning at the door. 'You'll forgive me for saying a word aboutit, but they're such dear old friends of mine, that I can't helpthanking anybody who has been good to them. Good-night, I'll run into-morrow, if I may. Good-night. '

He came again next evening, and we dined together. He is a fine youngfellow, and I got to like him greatly. He is fiery and enthusiastic andimpulsive, and all his adjectives are superlatives, after the mannerof earnest youth. But he is good-hearted and honourable to the core. Wetook to each other naturally, and he used to run up to my studio everyevening at dusk. Very frequently we used to go upstairs and spend anevening with the ladies. Then we had music, and sometimes young Clydewould sing, and we would all laugh at him, for he knew no more of musicthan a crow. And yet I could see that it was to him Cecilia played andsang, and to her he listened as though she had been an angel out ofheaven. When I played he had no great joy in the music, but when sheplayed---- ah! it was plain enough--then Love gave him ears, and themusic she created had power over him. This was hard for me, but I havemy consolations. 

I can stand up and say one or two things which it is well for a man tosay. It is one of them that I do not whine like a baby because I cannothave my own way. It is another that I have strangled jealous hateand buried deep the baseness which would have led me to endeavour toestrange these hearts for my own purpose. I tell myself at times, 'Youhave done well, my friend, and some day you will have your reward. Andif the reward should not come, or if it should not be worth having, why--you have still done well. ' For it came to pass one night when I wasquite convinced, that I came downstairs to my own room, and sat down andpulled a certain dream-house to pieces and beat the sawdust out of thefoolish dolls who had had their abiding place in it. But, oh me, myfriends, it is hard to pull down dream-houses; and Madame Circumstanceexults over the bare rafters and the dismantled walls. And, ah! I lovedher, and I love her still, and I shall love her till the day I die. ButI am going to be an Italian old bachelor, with no wife but my pipeand no family but my canvas children. Do you triumph, madame? Do youtriumph? Over my subdued heart? No! Over my broken life? No! Over anycowardly complaint of mine? Over any envy of this good young Englishman?No! no! no! No! madame, I was not born a cad, and you shall not remouldme. Accept, once more, my defiance!

Young Clyde came on the evening of the day on which the good fortune ofthe ladies' had been declared. He received the news very joyfully, but after a while he sobered down greatly, and when we took our leavetogether he was very depressed, and had grown unlike himself, I asked noquestions, but he turned into my room and sat down and lit a cigar andheld silence for a few minutes. Then he said--

'I say, Calvotti, old man, have you noticed that I have never once askedyou to my rooms?'

I had never thought about it, and I told him so. 

'Will you come up to-morrow, in the daytime? Don't say No. I doparticularly want you to come. Say twelve o'clock. Will you?'

He seemed strangely eager about this simple matter, and I promisedto go. He went away a minute later, and next morning I walked to theaddress he had given me. He met me at the door, and I saw that he waspale and perturbed. I learned afterwards that he had not been to bed, but had sat up all night harassing himself with groundless misgivings. He led me to his studio, a fine spacious room, with a high north light. He had a chair set in the middle of the room, and on the easel a largeveiled picture. 

'Now, Calvotti, ' he said, speaking with a nervous haste which wasaltogether foreign to him, 'I have asked you here to settle a questionwhich I cannot settle for myself. Sometimes I'm brimfull of faith andhope, and sometimes I'm in a perfect abyss of despair. You know I'vebeen painting all my life, but I've never sold anything. Everything Ipaint goes to the governor. Some of the things he hangs about his ownplace, you know, and some of them--more than half, I suppose--he hascut into strips and sent back to me. He's a very singular man, and hasextraordinary ideas about pictures. But I've been working on one subjectnow for some months past, and now I've finished it, and---- Look here, Calvotti, I'll tell you everything. When I got here last night, I founda letter from my governor telling me that my allowance is stopped afternext quarter-day, and that I must get a living by painting. He alwayssaid he would give me the chance to make a living, and then leave meto make it. Well, I'm not afraid of that, but I want a candid judgment, because--because--Well, I'm engaged to be married, old man, and I can'tlive on my wife, you know. And I want you to tell me candidly whetherthere's any good stuff in me, and whether I can ever do anything, youknow. '

'You are engaged to Cecilia?' I asked him. 

'Yes, ' he said simply, 'I am engaged to Cecilia, and I want to beginwork in earnest now. '

'Let me look at your picture, ' I said, and took my seat in the chair hehad placed ready for me. 

He paused a minute as though he would have spoken, but checking himself, he turned to the picture, drew away the cloth by which it was covered, and passed behind me. The picture represented a garret room, through thewindow of which could be seen the far-reaching roofs of a great city. Against the window rose the figure of a girl who was seated at an oldgrand piano. Her fingers rested on the keys, and her eyes were lookinga great way off. The face and figure were Cecilia's, the garret was thatin which I myself had lived, and the piano was mine. The outer light ofthe picture was so subdued and calm that the face was allowed to revealitself quite clearly. I looked long and carefully, guarding myself froma too rapid judgment. Arthur, as by this time I had begun to call him, stood at the back of my chair. At last he laid a hand upon my shoulder--

'What do think about it?'

'Do you want my candid opinion?' I asked him. 

'Yes, your candid opinion. '

'You will not be offended at anything I shall say?'

'No. I want an honest judgment, and I can trust yours. '

I used the common slang of criticism. 

'Suppose, then, I were to say that the: composition is bad, the colourcrude, the whole work amateurish, the modelling thin and in places, false, the----'

'Don't say any more, Calvotti. I've been a fool, and the governor hasbeen right all the time. '

'If I said these things, you would believe them?'

'_If_ you said them?' he cried, coming from-behind my chair. 'But do yousay them?'

'Stand off!' I said, laughing. A man can rarely endure praise and blamewith equal fortitude. My young friend, you will some day paint greatpictures. In four or five hundred years' time great painters will lookat this and will reverently point out in it the faults of early manner;but they will read the soul in it--as I do now. You are a creature ofa hundred years--a painter, an artist. This is not paint, but a face--aface of flesh and blood, with soul behind. And this is not paint, buta faded brown silk. And this is not paint, but solid mahogany. You havedone more than paint a picture. You have made concrete an inspiration. Your technique is all masterly, but it does not overpower. It gives onlyfitting body to a beautiful idea--its soul!'

He blushed and trembled whilst I spoke. Englishmen do not often talkpoetry--off the stage. He answered--

'No, really, Calvotti, old man, that's rot, you know. But do you likeit?'

I spoke gravely then. 

'My dear young friend, so surely as that is your work, so surely willyou be a great artist if you choose. '

'You bet I choose, ' this young genius answered. He would sooner havedied, I suppose, than have put his emotions at that moment into words. This is another characteristic of you English. You will sooner look likefools than have it appear that you feel. You wear the rags of cynicismover the pure gold of nature. This is a foolish pride, but it is uselessto 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 regardedit, and then shook his head and once more said 'No. '

'Well, ' I answered, not trying to persuade him, 'I will ask Mr. Gregoryto look at it, and he will give you a commission for a work, and thenyou 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. Icould 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 manhoodhe was worthy, yet it was still hard to endorse a rival's triumph andto cut out all envy and stifle all pain. And now I had to go home and tolive beneath the same roof with Cecilia, and to see her sometimes, andto talk and look like a friend. If you resist the Devil, will he alwaysfly from you? Is it not sometimes safer to fly from him? And is thereanywhere a baser fiend than that which prompted me to throw myself uponmy knees before her and tell her everything, and so barter honour foran impulse? Brave or not, I know that I was wise when that afternoon Ipacked up everything and went to say good-bye. 

'I am ill, ' so I excused myself, 'and I am a child of impulse. Impulsesays to me "Go back to Italy--to the air of your childhood--to thescenes 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 whateverdisturbance my soul made within its own private residence, it was toowell-bred to let the outside people know of it. 

And so it came to pass that I continue this narrative at Posilipo, in mynative air, within sight of smoking Vesuvius and the glittering city andthe gleaming bay--old friends, who bear comfort to the soul. 

CHAPTER IV. --_NELLE CARCERI MUNICIPALE_

How do I come to be writing in a prison? How do I come to be living in aprison? How is it that I, who never lifted a hand in anger against evena dog, lie here under a charge of murder, execrated by the populace ofmy native town?

I can remember that I wrote, when I took up my story, that it might, foranything I knew, be a year before I should go on with it. It is twelvemonths to-day since I set those words upon paper. I take it up again, here and now, in dogged and determined defiance to that Circumstancewhich has pursued me through my life, and which shall not subdue me evenwith this last stroke--no, nor with any other. 

Let me premise, before I go on with my own narrative, that CharlesGrammont, with whose murder I lie charged, developed a remarkable andunexpected characteristic. A reckless spendthrift whilst penniless, hebecame a miser when he found himself possessor of five thousand pounds. He had returned to Naples, and had for some time engaged himself indrinking, to the exclusion of all other pursuits. But he drank sullenlyand alone, and had dismissed from his society that disreputablecompatriot of mine, Giovanni Fornajo, who had accompanied him to my roomon the evening of our first meeting. When I reached Naples I had sometrouble with this personage, who, with the peculiar faculty whichbelongs to the race of hangers-on and spongers, had somehow found meout, and came to borrow money. It was enough for his limitless impudenceto remember that he had once been within my walls in London. I knew thatto yield once would be to make myself a tributary to his necessities forever. I refused him, therefore, and dismissed him without ceremony. Heretired unabashed, and came to the charge again. I was strolling alongthe Chiaja, when I saw him and turned into the Caffè d'Italia to avoidhim. He had seen me and followed. I professed to be absorbed in thecontents of an English journal, but he sat down at the same table, andentered into conversation, or rather into talk, for I let him have itall 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 onlyjust 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 hiswrong; 'when I was the only man in Naples who could speak English andwould 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 nomore to do. '

'My good friend, ' I said, breaking in, 'I will have no more to do, sinceyou 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 towish you goodbye. '

He rose and retreated, but returned. 

'Signor Calvotti, ' he said, reseating himself, 'I shall ask you to do mea favour. You know Grammont and you know his friends. He will listen toyou where he will not look at me. Will you do me the favour to speak forme 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 quietlyuntil 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 owesme the sum of One Hundred Francs, and in consideration of this receiptSignor 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 owedyou anything, and if you come near me again I will use this document. Ihave a great mind to try it now. ' 'Ah, signor, sapete cosa vuol dire lafame?' I own that touched me. I _have_ known what hunger is, and I couldguess what it would do with a creature of this kind. 'Go your way, ' Isaid, 'and trouble me no more'--he bowed his head and spread out hishands in assent--'but remember!'

'Signor Calvotti, ' he said, 'I thank you, and I will trouble you nomore. '

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 neverbeen in Italy, and naturally proposed to join me in Naples. During thewhole ten months which had gone between my farewell to England andmy receipt of this letter from Arthur, I had striven, and notunsuccessfully, to banish from my mind all painful and regretfulthoughts of Cecilia. Love is a great passion, but, like everything elsebut 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 hasonce been planted, if the flower wither or can be rooted up. But a manwho gardens his soul with resolute and lofty hopes can train the firstpoor weed of passion to a glorious bloom, whose perfume is not pain butcomfort. This is a base thing, that a man shall say he loves a woman toowell to be happy whilst she can be happy with another. For me, my divineCecilia looks down upon me in my waking hours and in the dreams ofsleep, a thing so far away that I can but worship without a hope ofownership, or any longer a desire. I am content, I have loved, and Ihave not been unworthy. O mia santissima, mio amore no longer--my saintfor ever, my love no more--so you were happy, I were happy. But thereare clouds about you, though you know them not. 

Arthur had come to Naples by one of the boats of the MessagerieImpériale, and had come to share my little house at Posilipo. He broughtwith him kindest remembrances from Cecilia and from her sister. I hadmentioned them both freely in my letters, and had sent little thingsthrough 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 workshad 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 toplease me, they couldn't have done it more successfully than by hangingme next to you, old man. When I went in and saw it there, I was betterpleased at being next to you than I was at being on the line. I'mpainting Gregory's portrait for next' year--a splendid subject, isn'tit?'

I took him to walk that morning to the scene I had painted in the workhe spoke of, ' He recognised it with enthusiasm, and we walked backtogether full of friendship and enjoyment. He had one or two commissionsfor Charles Grammont from his sisters, and asked me to help in findinghim. When I learned that the young Englishman was living in the BassoPorto 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 helives in a hole like this?'

'I am told, ' I said, 'that he has become a miser, spending money onnothing but drink, and living in a continuous sullen debauchery. '

Clyde faced round upon me as we stood in the doorway of the housetogether. 

'I haven't seen the fellow for years, ' he exclaimed, 'but can you fancysuch 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, steppedinto 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 thememory of his unlucky speech, he plunged into an explanation of hisconcerns with Grammont, and I withdrew a little. But in a moment I heardGrammont's voice raised in high anger. 

'And what brings Arthur Clyde acting as my sister's messenger? Couldthey find nobody but a ------'

If I should repeat here on paper the epithets the man used, I shouldbe almost as great a blackguard as he was to use them. They were wordsabominable and horrible. I know by my anger at them now--then I had notime to feel for myself--that if a man had used them to me, and I hadheld a weapon in my hand, I should have killed him. Arthur raisedhis cane, and, but that I seized his wrist, he would have struck theinsulter across the face. It was an impulse only, and when I felt hiswrist relaxing I released it, and it fell down by his side. 

'Come away, Calvotti, ' he said, 'or I shall disgrace myself and do thisman a mischief. '

But if I could share at the moment in the feeling of anger whichGrammont's hideous insults had inspired, I could not and I cannotunderstand the bitter and passionate resentment with which Arthurnourished the memory of them. For days after, not a waking hour passedby without a break of sudden anger from him when he recalled the wordsto mind. I did my best to calm him, and in each case succeeded inpersuading him that it was less than useless to retain the memory ofinsult so conveyed by such a man. But in a little while he broke outagain, and after a time I allowed him to rage himself out. 

'Why did you restrain me?' he cried one day as we walked together. 'Theruffian deserved a thrashing. I care nothing for what he said of me, buta man who could speak of his sister in that way is not fit to live. ForGod'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 thenand there. '

'My dear Arthur, ' I said at last, 'this is childish, and unworthy ofyou. 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 disappearsfrom 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'sPalace by moonlight. A blow on the bay would do me good, and you mightfind an inspiration for a picture. Who knows? Will you go?'

I consented, and we walked back to the town at once to makearrangements. We secured a boat, and a bottle or two of wine and ahandful of cigars having been laid in as store, we started. On the wayto the boat, by bitter misfortune, we met Grammont. This wretched man'sdrunkenness 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 insistedupon accompanying us, and I could see the passion gathering in Arthur'sface, until I knew that if some check were not put upon him there wouldbe 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 leaveyou 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 Itook him by the sleeve and said I had something to say to him. He stoodwith drunken gravity to listen, and whilst I beat about in my own mindfor some trifle which could be made to assume a moment's importance, heforgot 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. Lookhere! English notes. I don't care who sees 'em. There you are. There'smore than four thousand in that thundering book. Look here. '

He took from his pocket-book a number of English bank-notes for onehundred pounds, and flourished them about and thumbed them over, andlaughed above them with drunken cunning and triumph. A man lounged byus this minute, and took such special notice of us both that I wascompelled to notice him. He was a swarthy bearded fellow in a blouse, like that of a French ouvrier. He did not look so particularly honestthat I had any pleasure in knowing that he saw the great bundle of notesin Grammont's hands, and I said to Grammont hurriedly--

'It is not wise to exhibit so much money in this public place. Put itup. '

The man still regarded us, until at last he attracted the attentionof my unwelcome companion, who turned round upon him, and cursed himvolubly 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 movedaway, still turning his eyes curiously upon us at intervals. 

'Look here, ' said my unwelcome companion, 'I am going to have a sleep onthis bench, ' He pointed to a stone seat on the quay, and rolled towardsit. 

'You are not so mad as to sleep in the open air with all that moneyabout you, ' I urged. Heaven knows I disliked the man, but one did notwant even him to be robbed. 

'Oh, ' he answered drunkenly, 'I'm all right, ' and so lay down at fulllength with his felt hat under his head, and fell asleep. 

The man in the blouse still lingered, and I, knowing that he had seenthe 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 sonear to six o'clock that I was afraid of missing Clyde. I tore a leaffrom 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 tothe Caffè d' Italia, and there give it to the person to whom it wasaddressed. Regarding the man's dress and the foreign accent with whichhe had spoken just now, I addressed him in French. 

'Pas du tout!' he responded. 'Je ne suis pas un blooming idiot. C'estimpossible. Allez-vous donc. '

'Ah!' I said, 'you are English. I beg your pardon. I suppose you did notunderstand. I wish you to be so good as to take this note to the Caffèd' 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, toresign myself as best I could. My efforts to awaken Grammont had provedquite fruitless. I lit a cigar, and walked to and fro. The man in theblouse also lit a. Cigar, and paced to and fro, passing in every journeythe bench on which Grammont lay asleep. Suspecting him as I did, I nevertook my eyes from him for a moment when he was near Grammont, and he, inhis catlike watch of me, was equally vigilant. At last, growing tired ofthis watchful promenade, I addressed him--

'It is of no use for you to linger here. You will not tire me out. Ishall 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, hadformed a new idea. 

This man suspected me of designs upon those bank-notes, I began tothink, and was possibly lingering here to guard a stranger, from somesuch 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 mefor a minute and then amazed me, but I continued my promenade as if nosuch thought had occurred to me. So we went on until my watch markedhalf past seven o'clock, when Grammont awoke. We were not far from thecabstand, and I led him thither, assisted him to enter the vehicle, gavethe driver his half-franc, and bade him drive to the Basso Porto. Theman in the blouse followed, and watched closely all the time, and mylater belief concerning him was quite confirmed. Dismissing him from mymind, I entered a biroccio and drove to the Caffè. Arthur had left longsince, with a message for me to the effect that he would be at home atPosilipo 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. Theevening was very beautiful, and I changed my mind. I would roam along bythe bay and enjoy the sunset, and give myself up to the delights of thecountry. As I wandered on, my thoughts ran back to Cecilia, and I hadanother inward battle with myself. I found myself, in the excitement ofmy 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, andup at the full, before the sun was down; and so soon as the gatheringtwilight gave her power, she bathed the landscape in so lovely a lightthat even my sore and troubled heart grew tranquil to behold it. I stoodnear an abrupt turning in the lane, and watched the tremor in the softlustre of the bay, which looked as though innumerable great jewels roseslowly to its surface and there melted and were lost, whilst allthe time innumerable others took the place of these dissolving gems, themselves dissolving in their turn, whilst countless others slowlyrose. Here and there was a light upon the water, and here and there theshadow of a boat. And, far away, like the audible soul of the sea, wasthe soft, soft sound of music, where some boating party sang together. 

To say that the cry came suddenly would be to say nothing. There camea 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 ofcarriage wheels at a distance, and not another sound, but that of thefaint music far away. Then came a foot-step at racing pace nearer andnearer, then a trip and a long stagger, as though the runner had nearlyfallen, and then the headlong pace again. And then, with the soft broadmoon-light full upon his face, a man came darting round the corner ofthe lane. I strove to move aside, but before I could lift a foot he wasupon me like an avalanche. I knew that we fell together, and that theman 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 asickly shudder ran through me, and I fainted. 

 * * * * *

Out of a sort of vaporous dream came the slow sound of carriage wheelsbumping along the ruts of the road; then a light which was not of themoon; then a sudden pause in the noise of wheels and the sound of acoarse, 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 theLord! That's the man!'

The voices both grew dim, and though they still talked, they soundedlike the noise of running water, wordless and indistinct. Then I feltmyself lifted into a carriage, and until I awoke here I knew nothing. Itwas the jar of bolts, and the rattling fall of a chain, and the gratingnoise of a key in a lock which awoke me. I turned and recognised theman who entered--an officer, by name Ratuzzi, to whom I had done someservice in old days. I asked him feebly where I was and how I camethere. 

'In the town gaol, ' he answered gravely, and the solemnity of his faceand 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 Ican serve you, you may command me. Shall I give orders to send for adoctor?'

'Why was I brought here?' I asked again. 

He made no reply, and weak and shaken as I was, I sat up and reiteratedmy 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, andthe moonlight had shown to me, oh! too, too clearly, the blood thatsmeared his brow. 

CHAPTER V. --_LA TEMPESTA VA CRESCENDO_. 

I am remanded for trial. 

There is a depth below all possibilities of pain and grief, even beforeone reaches the grave. I am in that depth already, and I do not believethat there is anything in the world which could touch me with sympathyor with sorrow. I am not even annoyed at myself and my own mentalcondition, as I surely have a right to be. My bodily health istolerable. I sleep well at night, and during the day I eat with fairappetite. Some of my belongings have been brought from Posilipo here;amongst them a small mirror. I am so much a stranger to myself in thisnew-found calm and indifference, that I am almost surprised to findmyself unaltered outwardly. I am a little paler than common--that isall. My mind finds natural employment in the most trivial speculationsand fancies, and it is chiefly to save myself from this vanity ofthought 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 theplain white paper before me is my only fitting confidant. Will thereever come a day when I shall be able to read all its record gladly? Pastjoys are a grief--griefs gone by are a joy to us. Who knows what maycome?

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 onspeaking terms any longer. 

I have not been plagued with any official severities, for Ratuzzi ismindful of old favours. He has told me only this morning that my fatherextended some such kindness to his father as that for which he bearssuch grateful memory to me. It was a small affair; a mere matter ofmoney. Against my wish he brought to me a doctor and an advocate. Isubmitted 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 remarkabledecision and sweetness, and eyes of black fire. The most noticeablething about him is his voice, which is not easily to be characterised. You know the sub-acid flavour in a generous Burgundy--so nicelyproportioned that it does but give the wine a grip on the tongue andpalate. That is the nearest thing I can think of to the singular qualityof this man's voice. The voice is rich and full; but there is a tartflavour in it which emphasises all it says just as the acid emphasisesthe riper flavours of wine. It takes the kind of grip upon the ear thata file takes upon steel. Or, better than all, it takes just that holdupon the ear which the violin bow takes upon the strings. Ecco. Thereis my meaning at last. It is not possible that you should escape fromlistening to this young man when he speaks. He is, further, a young manwhom nothing can abash. It is not singular, then, since I am indifferentto all things now that although I declined to listen to him, he stayedand 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 helpyourself? Permit me. No man ever did God's work in the world by refusingto help himself. You have some reason for your refusal? What possiblereasons exist? Guilt? We will dismiss that at once. 

Despair of establishing innocence? No. When the salt mines of Sardiniaare on one side a man and liberty is on the other, he does not yield todespair. Ha! The impossibility, signor, of defending oneself unlessone criminates another? And that other a friend--a lover? I am right, signor. No gestures of denial can throw down a conclusion so obviouslyfirm. And now, suppose that it should not be necessary to criminateanother. Would you then consent to be defended? No? Well, signor, I amnot the accusatore pubblico, and it is no business of mine to hunt downcriminals. But, whether you will or not, I will get to the bottom ofthis matter. '

'Are you so eager for a case, signor?' I asked him. 'I will pay you moreto 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 evenflush at the insult. 

'I am engaged by my friend Ratuzzi, signor. Ratuzzi tells me it isbeyond dreaming that you should be guilty of murder and theft. He cameto me and besought me to make him grateful for all eternity by takingup 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 willobserve, therefore, signor, that whatsoever is done in this matter isindependent of your will, if you choose to have it so. I shall know whocommitted this murder in a fortnight from now, and I shall only retirefrom your defence if I prove you guilty in my own mind. '

'Signor, ' I said in answer, 'I apologise for the insult I offered youjust now. But in this matter I am resolute. If it be the will of Godthat I suffer innocently, I suffer. I am not anxious on that score. Itis not at all a matter for my consideration. I do not care whether I amacquitted or found guilty. '

'Is it your wish that I should consult the other prisoner's interest atall?'

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 toshield?'

'Who is he?'

The advocate drew forth a bundle of memoranda, and turned them overcarefully 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 thetable which stood before us. I tried to read, but all my pulses seemedthrobbing round my eyes, and I was dazzled and blind. He took the paperup 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. Isbelieved to be by birth an Italian, but a naturalised British subject. Aperson of notoriously evil character. '

This at least was not Arthur. I breathed again, and for a moment a wildhope sprang up in my heart. It died again directly. Ah, if I could havebelieved that he was innocent! But the evidence of which I was the solerepository was beyond all doubt, beyond all hope. 

'No, ' I said. 'I know nothing of this man. What is the evidence againsthim?'

'The evidence against him is the knowledge that he was poor until thenight of the murder, and has since suddenly become rich. Further, thata pocket-book found in his possession was smeared with blood. The bookcontains a large sum of money in English notes, and is believed to havebelonged 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 ofsilence, 'what punishment will fall upon this man?'

'The salt mines will not be enough for him, ' the advocate answered. 'Hewill 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 falseproofs. This man has, perhaps, robbed a dead body, but he has notcommitted murder. '

'Signor Calvotti, ' said the advocate, the black fire burning slowlyin his eyes, and a slow flush creeping to his pale forehead whilst hespoke, 'what mystery surrounds your share of this matter I can onlyfaintly guess. But I know that it is not a mystery to you. I have foundout 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, Iwarn you that if you deny me your confidence, I will convict the realman, whosoever he may be. '

He fixed those slow-burning eyes upon me as he said this, and waitedfor an answer. I responded to his words and to the fixity of his gaze bysilence. 

'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 hiseyes were shadowed by his drooping brows, 'you shall trust me yet. Any secret suspicion given to me is buried in the grave. Any secretcertainty of knowledge is buried equally. A confession of your ownguilt, the declaration of a friend's, shall be entombed here'--he laidhis 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 formyself. Given freely, it would be used for your own cause. Wrested frommystery, it shall be used for mine. '

'Come here again, ' I answered, 'three hours later, and I will answer youin one way or the other. '

'Good, ' he responded, and signalled for the door to be opened. Ratuzzihimself answered the loud knock he gave, and my friendly gaoler asked mehow 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 Iheard the footsteps of the two grow fainter and fainter until silencecame. Then I lit my pipe and poured out a glass of wine--for in theserespects I am allowed what I choose--and sat down to think. But I foundit hard to give my thoughts to anything. There was a hollow somewherein my mind into which all serious thoughts fell jumbled. I felt neitherpained nor confused, but only vacuous. I battled with this feeling untilI 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 ownsoul? There is only one answer to that question: Cecilia's happiness!How to secure that here?--how to save it from the horrible perils whicheverywhere surround it? Is it to be done by securing her union for lifewith her brother's murderer? If I know one thing of Arthur Clyde--whomI 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 unionwith such a man she must not suffer, whatsoever else she suffer. Andthat she, like the rest of us, _must_ suffer, is too clear. But of thisI am assured: To learn that her lover is her brother's murderer, and notonly 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. Thatshall not be. 

It seemed little more than an hour when I heard footsteps againapproaching my door. They paused on reaching it, and the jar of bolt andchain and lock succeeded. The door opened and closed again. I did notturn or look round until a hand was laid on me, and a voice, strange tome 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 ringingwith 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 andCecilia?'

'They are with me here, ' he answered quickly. 'They know that you arearrested for murder, and scout the idea, of course. But they don't knowof their brother's death yet. I want to run them both away and let themlearn the news more tenderly than they will do here, but I must seeyou 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 directlyafter 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 amood 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 downthe road as if he were flying for his life. He ran against me, and wefell together. I fainted, and never fully recovered consciousness untilI found myself here. '

'Who do you suppose the man to be? No clue to him, I suppose, in yourown 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 custodythe next day! How very absurd!'

'I was stunned, remember. There were good reasons for silence. The trialtakes 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 amremanded for trial. '

'You bear it well, Calvotti, ' he said, taking me by both shoulders, andlooking kindly at me. 

'I do not feel my own share much, ' I told him truly. 'I am mostaggrieved for the others. It is a terrible business. '

'Give me young Clyde's address. I must bring him to comfort Cecilia whenshe learns the truth. She was fond of that poor scapegrace, with all hisfaults and follies. He paid bitterly for em'--poor ne'er-do-weel!--verybitterly. '

'Bitterly, indeed, ' I answered absently, looking for a way to escapefrom 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 asI can. But now I must go for the present. Let me see--Clyde's living atyour place, isn't he?'

'Yes, ' I answered, 'he was living at the address from which I alwaysdated. ' 'Has he been here to-day?' Oh! It was all too bitter, and Icould endure no longer. I turned my face away. My old patron laid agentle hand upon my shoulder, and strove to turn me round. I cast myselfupon the bed, and broke into tears. Gran Dio! I am not ashamed. But thatoutbreak cost me bodily agony, and I wept and sobbed whilst I cursedmyself for weeping. Sacred Heaven! how I wrestled with this devil ofweakness, which held me so strongly. When I had fought him down, heleapt upon me afresh, and subdued me by sheer torture until I let naturetake her way, and cried like a woman! Then, when it was all over, Istood up and spoke with a new resolve. 

'Sir, you are a just man and a wise man, and you shall know the wholetruth. But first you shall swear to me that what I tell you is for everburied 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 backwardstep. 

'There is a reason for my silence, but with you that reason dies. Ihave 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 hislips 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 heasked, 'What was the ground of quarrel?'

I told him then the story of Clyde's meeting with Grammont, and ofArthur's passion afterwards, and of our next encounter with Grammont atthe end of the Chiaja on the day of the murder. 

'And you are sacrificing yourself that Clyde may escape, trusting tochances 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 thetruth? 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 couldnot 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 isdearer to me than anybody in the world. I could not love my sister or mymother more tenderly. '

'H'm!' he said in his old way, when thinking. 'And what have events ledyou 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 doneright. You have done well. You have done nobly. There is no evidenceagainst 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 himoff--trust me. Time will console Cecilia, and you will have averted atragedy. Here is somebody at the door. '

Chain and lock creaked and jangled. The door swung inwards, and Ratuzziappeared with the advocate. 

'Signor l'Avvocato, ' I said, 'this gentleman will tell you everything itconcerns 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 morechoicely worded than his English, one language is pretty much thesame to me as another, so long as it _is_ a language, and is spokenin Europe. I have been a mercantile adventurer in Europe for more thanthirty years, and have found a knowledge of languages a necessity. '

'Then, sir, ' I said in English, 'deal with this gentleman according toyour 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 didnot know that I had a hero to defend. But I know it now. You are in nodanger. It is weary waiting, but two weeks do not make up eternity; andwe shall march out of the court with the drums beating. '

I could not share his joy. The weight which is upon me now oppressed methen; and when the door closed upon the advocate, I could only sit uponmy bed and think, with a heart that ached and burned, of the terrorwhich waited on Cecilia. 

CHAPTER VI. --THE END. 

Whilst I lay waiting for the day of trial, I learned from my counselthat my fellow-prisoner was identified as one Giovanni Fornajo, an oldcompanion of Charles Grammont. This man was known to have rifled hisdead friend's clothing, and the popular impression appeared to be that Ihad either committed the murder from some other motive than cupidity, orhad been disturbed, and that this poor scoundrel had striven to profitby my crime. Against us both the popular feeling was intense. It wasnoted by the crowd that both Fornajo and myself were naturalised Britishsubjects, and that fact alone might have created considerable prejudiceagainst us, because to the ignorant mind it bespoke the repudiation ofour native land--a thing from which I am utterly afar in my own mind. I am proud of Italy, and I am proud of Naples, and I have no ideaof pretending to be other than a Neapolitan. One can be cosmopolitanwithout losing one's patriotism, I venture respectfully to hope. But Iwould not have cared then to set myself right with the populace of mynative city, either on that or any other point, though I could have doneit with a word. It was natural and illogical to scorn the people forbelieving in my guilt, whilst I allowed them to believe it. Yet I feltagainst them a sort of lofty anger, and felt myself affronted to thinkthat anybody could regard me as being even likely to commit a murder. Ratuzzi was kind throughout, even when he believed me guilty; and Mr. Gregory after his first visit never failed me. I asked him news ofClyde, but he had no news to bring me until two days before my trial, when he came into my cell with a grave but not uncheerful countenance. 

'Calvotti, ' he said, 'can you tell me with any precision the hour atwhich you saw Arthur on that fatal night?'

'I can only guess the time, ' I answered. 'But why do you ask?' Iquestioned in my turn. 

'Because, ' he replied, 'I believe it possible that you may have mistakensomebody else for Arthur, and because I have evidence that he could notbe near the place at the time at which we know that the murder must havebeen committed. '

For one moment hope beamed within my heart, but in a second, likea scene beheld by the light of heaven's fire, the sight of thathorror-stricken, blood-stained face was with me. I could read againevery line and tint of it, and I knew it too well to be mistaken. 

'My friend, ' I said sorrowfully--'my best friend--do not comfortyourself with any false hope on that matter. I saw him, and there is nohope of a doubt in all my mind. '

'Arthur, ' he replied, 'is lying ill of fever at this moment in yourhouse at Posilipo. Your housekeeper tells me that she saw him enter hisroom. He made her understand that he was unwell, and that he wished tolie down. She gave him a cup of coffee, and he retired to his room. Nextmorning she found him there raving with fever and lying on the floor. Only one point in her narrative accords with your belief, and that is, when she raised him she found him badly cut across the forehead, andfound that his arms were bruised as if by a fall. The doctor who attendshim tells me that the crisis is over, but sternly forbids that anyquestions should be asked him at present. The patient must see nobodyfor a week to come, but I have hopes that we shall yet clear up aterrible mystery, and shall find that Arthur is as innocent as I believeyou to be. '

I told him I would give all in my world to share his hopes. How could Idoubt my own eyes? A vision, moreover, does not dash against a man andknock him down and stun him for hours. In all that Mr. Gregory couldtell me I found no hope, but only vague suspicions of a plan to divertsuspicion. Yet I found some comfort in one belief which would intrudeitself upon me. He was yet guilty though this story of the fever wereall true, but if it were true he was less base than I had feared, andhad not willingly left one who loved him to suffer for his crime. Mr. Gregory went away sensibly subdued by my fixed refusal to accept thehope he offered. 

'There is a mystery in all this, Calvotti, ' he said at parting, 'and itmust be cleared. '

'There is no mystery to my eyes, ' I answered, 'and you will find beforelong that I am right, though I would give the world to know that I amwrong. '

Then came the day. I had little fear of being found guilty, and I had, indeed, but very little care to be acquitted. When I thought ofmyself, it was as though I reflected on the affairs of some troublesomestranger, of whose interest I was weary. I am not learned in law forms, and I cannot tell you the precise forms of the several indictmentsagainst me. These things are managed in Italy pretty much as they are inEngland, except that here you have no accusatore pubblico. The place ofthat functionary would, in an English Court, be filled by a temporarilyappointed counsel for the Crown. When I was placed in the dock, I lookedabout with an interest no more vivid than that of any spectator there. Mr. Gregory sat beside my counsel, and nodded to me gravely. There wasno one else whom I knew, although the place was crowded. There was amurmur on my entrance, and I heard many words of hatred and loathingmuttered here and there. For a moment no one spoke or moved, and theCourt seemed to await something. I saw what that something was whenGiovanni Fornajo was placed in the dock by my side, and we were jointlyand severally arraigned. The accustore pubblico arose, and, gatheringhis gown about him, spoke. 

Had I been one of the crowd who listened, I should have believed myselfguilty. The evidence against me, as he set it forth, seemed a webclosely woven enough to hold anything. I had been seen by two or morepeople engaged in a quarrel with the deceased in the Basso Porto. I hadbeen seen on the Chiaja with him at a time when he was the worse fordrink, and when my conduct and appearance were so suspicious that aperfect stranger was impelled to watch me for two hours lest I should dothe man a mischief in his drunken sleep. Two or three hours later, thisperfect stranger to us both had found the dead body of Charles Grammontin the road with all the pockets of his garments turned inside out, and had put the body into a cart he was then driving from Posilipo toNaples. A hundred yards nearer the city he found me lying bruised as ifin a struggle, and with the marks of a hand wet with blood upon my whiteshirt-front. The marks of the hand had been found to correspond in sizewith the hand of the deceased. My companion in the dock was probably, sothe accusatore said, an accessory before the fact, and it was probablethat, whilst I had committed the crime to gratify my own evil passionfor revenge, I had engaged this desperate and notorious character topillage the body in order to give the murder the appearance of havingbeen committed from a purely sordid motive. He set forth all his factsand all his theories about them with great calmness, but when he came tothe close of his indictment he burst into an impassioned protest againstcertain articles which had appeared in a French journal on the questionof Italian Brigandage, citing this case as an argument to show thatcrimes of violence were committed by born Neapolitans within the cityradius, and expressing a sarcastic wonder that the authorities shouldhave troubled themselves to arrest the criminals though the proofsagainst them both were overwhelming. 

'Thus it is, ' said the accusatore, speaking with a stern passion ofemphasis, 'that these traitors to their country first cast off theirnatal ties in order to lead lives of unrestricted profligacy abroad, and having, in other lands, done all within them to disgrace the landof their birth, return to it to inflict a wound still deeper upon thenational reputation; and thus it is that these villains, though theyonce did their country the honour to repudiate it, return to lay a finaldisgrace upon it. '

He pressed with a passionate insistence for the extremest rigour ofthe law against us both, and it was plain from the angry murmurs ofthe court that this appeal to the national sentiment had told heavilyagainst me. Then he called his witnesses. The first three were from theBasso Porto--fit inhabitants of the place. They told substantially thesame story, and all swore that I was engaged in an angry broil withGrammont and another Englishman whom they did not know. They admittedthat the conversation was carried on in English, but my advocate'shalf-contemptuous cross-examination could not set aside the fact thata quarrel, in which I had taken some part, had taken place. After thesethree, Matthew Hollis was called, and the man whom I had watched uponthe quay presented himself. He told, in fair though foreign-soundingItalian, a plain story. He had been an engine-fitter, and had worked inFrance and Italy. He was settled down in business on his own accountin Naples, and on the day to which his story related had work to doat Posilipo. On his way thither he observed Grammont and myself, andsuspected me of evil designs and watched me. He told how I tried to getrid of him by sending him upon a message to the Caffe d' Italia, and howhe declined to leave the place. He related how, having seen us part, hehad gone his way to Posilipo, and how, returning thence in the eveningwith a workman of his own, he had found the dead body of Grammont on theroad, and had found me lying insensible at a little distance from it. A close cross-examination only served to prove the absolute solidity ofthis man's story. Then an officer produced a bundle, and, untying it, displayed the shirt I had worn, with the rust-coloured mark of a handdistinct upon the front. 'Did that mark correspond with the size ofthe hand of the murdered man?' So asked the accusatore pubblico. 'Yes, 'answered the official, 'accurately. ' 'Did it correspond with the handof the prisoner Giovanni Câlvotti?' 'No, ' he responded, and stated trulythat I was a man of much larger build than Grammont, and my hand atleast an inch longer. So far as I was-concerned the case closed with hisevidence, and the case against Fornajo was then gone into. There is noneed to go over that ground: again. All that was proved against him was;the possession of Grammont's money. He failed totally to establishan alibi, and so far as participation in the crime went the evidence;seemed clear enough against him. 

Then arose my advocate, with pale face and coal-black eyes. 

'This world, ' he said, 'is full of strange and curious contrasts, but Ido not think that any contrast so strange as this has been seen by anyman who now hears my voice. Side by side, companions in your thoughtsof them, stand two men so utterly unlike each other in; appearanceand character, that to see them thus commonly arraigned is in itself anamazement. The one a gentleman and descended from gentlemen, the other aperson of the lowest class--the one famous in the annals of contemporaryart, the other known for nothing but his love for vulgar dissipation. Asthey stand there before you they present a spectacle tragic and unique. As I know them--and as you will see them when I have called the onewitness I have to call--they present a spectacle yet more amazing. Oneman stands there a monument of honour, a glory to his country, and alesson to mankind. The other stands there a murderer in fact already, and in his heart a murderer again; since, knowing the innocence of theman beside him, he seeks at the expense of innocence to shield his ownguilt from the sword of justice. It is my pride and my delight to-dayto heal one broken and heroic heart, and it is my duty to bring onemiserable criminal to justice. '

Whilst the young advocate spoke thus, I stood in amazed agony. Was heabout to denounce Clyde in order to free me? It would be a professionaltour de force, and the melodramatic power of the situation would havemade him notorious for life. He looked round upon me slowly when hehad ceased to speak, and I saw that his dark eyes were burning withtriumphant fire. He sat down, and for a moment there was a dead hushin the crowded place, and then a buzz of excited speech, and then aclamour. In the midst of it an officer placed a chair before the judge, immediately between the judicial seat and the railed space in which Istood. If I had been amazed at the speech of the young advocate, you mayguess how I felt when Arthur Clyde came forward and took the seat. Hiseyes met mine once, and I saw that they were brimmed with tears, andthere was such a smile upon his face as I never saw before. Was I mad, or lost in some fantastic dream? This man voluntarily here, of allmen--and smiling upon _me!_ It was at once incredible and true. Iwaited, dizzy and breathless, to hear and see the end. 

The customary oath administered, my advocate arose, and, in the midst ofa deathlike silence, questioned Arthur Clyde. He first drew from him thestory of the Basso Porto, and at its close begged to recall the threewitnesses who had deposed to my participation in the quarrel. They came, and each identified Arthur as the third party in the fracas. Arthurgave his evidence in English, through the sworn interpreter of thecourt, and Mr. Gregory once or twice gave hints to the advocate whenquestion or answer missed precise translation. He told of our secondmeeting with Grammont, and of his own departure. Then came a story whichamazed me, and riveted the ears of every creature there. That story Ireproduce from the columns of the 'Giorno. '

Advocate: Where did you go next?

Witness: To the Caffe d' Italia to await my friend. 

Advocate: How long did you stay?

Witness: Only half-an-hour. I felt suddenly unwell, and walked again onthe Chiaja. 

Advocate: Did you see your friend again?

Witness: Yes. He was still engaged in talk with Mr. Grammont; and sinceI had no wish to meet him then, I walked along the road to Posilipo. 

Advocate: Did anything happen upon the road?

Witness: I was violently sick, and, feeling very faint afterwards, laydown upon a slope at the side of the road under the shade of a tree, andrested there. 

Advocate: What happened next?

Witness: I heard voices in the lane below me. 

Advocate: Relate now what happened. 

Witness: I saw two men--Mr. Grammont and another--talking together. Theyspoke in English. The man asked for money, and said he knew perfectlywell that Mr. Grammont had more than four thousand pounds in Englishnotes about him at that moment. 

The Judge: What was Grammont's condition at this time?

Witness: He was partially sobered, as I should judge, but notaltogether. 

Advocate: Pray proceed with your story. 

Witness: There was a good deal of angry talk between the two andGrammont's companion threatened that, if he were not allowed a part ofthe money, he would try to take all. 

Advocate: Did Grammont take any notice of that threat?

Witness: He laughed, and the two walked on together. 

Advocate: Did you see them again?

Witness: I passed them on my way to Posilipo, when they were laughingand chatting together quite amicably. 

Advocate: Did you then see Mr. Grammont's companion clearly?

Witness: I did. 

Advocate: Can you point him out?

Witness: That is the man (rising and pointing to the prisoner Fornajo). 

Advocate: Continue your narrative. 

Witness: I went on to Posilipo, and there took a cup of coffee andretired to my bedroom. Feeling then a little better, and thinking thatmy friend Calvotti would wonder at my absence, I walked back towards thecity, hoping to meet him. It was then broad moonlight. Where I had lastseen Grammont and the prisoner Fornajo I saw them both again. Grammontwas lying motionless upon the ground, and Fornajo was bending above him. I suspected foul play, and ran forward. Fornajo arose and turned uponme. I don't know who first attacked the other. We struggled together, and he broke away. I then turned to Grammont. 

The Witness here gave signs of deep emotion. 

Advocate: Had any suspicion of murder up to this time occurred to you?

Witness: None. 

Advocate: I must trouble you by reviving a painful memory. You had abrother who died in your childhood?

Witness (speaking with a great effort): I had. 

Advocate: How did he die?

Witness: By his own hand. 

Advocate: I must ask the indulgence of the court for this gentleman, whois recovering now from the effects of recent fever, and who actsagainst the advice of his doctor by coming to do his duty here. (To theWitness): Who first discovered the body of your brother?

Witness: I did. 

Advocate: I will try you as little as I can. Compose yourself. Thatdiscovery naturally shocked you terribly?

Witness: Terribly. 

Advocate: And left upon your mind an indelible impression?

Witness: An indelible impression. 

Advocate: When you first turned to Mr. Grammont, what did you do?

Witness: I stooped down and took his head in my hands. 

Advocate: And what did you see?

Witness: That his head was nearly severed from his body. 

Advocate: And what effect had this spectacle upon you?

The Witness returned no answer to the interpreter, and on the questionbeing repeated: fainted, and was removed from court. 

The Judge: Is it necessary to prolong this painful scene?

Advocate: With all submission to the Court--for one moment only. (Aftera pause, the Witness returned. ) Are you strong enough to go on, Mr. Clyde?

Witness: I think so. 

Advocate: We are then to understand that at this terrible sight theshock given you in your childhood by the discovery of your brother wasrevived?

Witness: Yes. 

Advocate: What did you do?

Witness: I am not quite clear, but I remember running from the place. 

Advocate: Did you see any living man near there?

Witness: Yes. I ran against a man close by. We fell together. 

Advocate: In what condition were your hands?

Witness: They were covered with blood. 

The Advocate here asked for the shirt of the prisoner Giovanni Calvotti. It was produced. 

Advocate: You observe upon the breast of that shirt the mark of a hand?

Witness: Yes. 

Advocate: Lay your hand upon it, and see if it corresponds in size?

Witness: Exactly. 

Advocate: One question more. Was Mr. Grammont dead when you saw him?

Witness: I believe that he was not quite dead. I believe that I saw hishand move upon his breast. 

Advocate: One word more. Could you identify the man against whom youran?

Witness: I was too agitated at the time to recognise him. 

In this wise the story came out. Ah me! how I accused myself in my heartfor my suspicions. The tears of joy were in my eyes so thickly that Icould scarcely see. I had my friend back again, and my love was savedthis overwhelming horror which had seemed to threaten her. 

The Public Accuser rose and cross-examined Arthur Clyde, for form'ssake, I suppose. But the jury professed themselves satisfied with theevidence before them, and before I quite knew what had happened I was ina chariot in the street--a chariot with no horses at all, but a thousandmen, to draw it. The story was abroad. The city rang with it. I hadrisked my life to save a friend from suspicion, and those who cursed mein the morning cheered me in the afternoon, until they were too hoarseto cheer me longer. Happily, Cecilia's name was kept out of this noisychorus of applause which roared so in my ears. I was glad and excited, and had no objection to be made a hero. As soon as I could be rescued, Mr. Gregory bore me away to Posilipo, where I found Arthur quiteworn out with the fatigue and excitement of the day. Those influencesretarded his recovery for a week or two, but before the autumn camehe was well and strong again. I begged hard of Mr. Gregory and theAdvocate, and at last they came to agree with me, and to this day Arthurdoes not know of my suspicions of him. He regards my reception by thepopulace as a curious illustration of the excitability of an Italianmob--as no doubt it was. 

Giovanni Fornajo, otherwise John Baker, went to the Sardinian salt minesfor the term of his natural life, and is serving there now. 

I am godfather to Cecilia's boy, and I am an Italian old bachelor. I shall never marry, but I am contented. My last news is that my oldpatron, at the age of fifty-five, has proposed to Miss Grammont, andthat she has not refused him. 

If you will look into the little churchyard at Posilipo you will finda flat marble slab with a name on it, and no more. The name it bears isthat of Alberto Lezzi, who but for his early death would have been oneof the great legal orators of Europe. The case which first brought himinto note was mine. I have not told you his name before, but my advocatewas the great Alberto Lezzi. It was his hand which averted the tragedyof my life, and it is to his memory that I dedicate this story.