His name, sir, was Matthew Price; mine is Benjamin Hardy. We were born
within a few days of each other; bred up in the same village; taught at the
same school. I cannot remember the time when we were not close friends. Even
as boys, we never knew what it was to quarrel. We had not a thought, we had
not a possession, that was not in common. We would have stood by each other,
fearlessly, to the death. It was such a friendship as one reads about
sometimes in books: fast and firm as the great Tors upon our native
moorlands, true as the sun in the heavens.
The name of our village was Chadleigh. Lifted high above the pasture flats
which stretched away at our feet like a measureless green lake and melted
into mist on the furthest horizon, it nestled, a tiny stone-built hamlet, in
a sheltered hollow about midway between the plain and the plateau. Above us,
rising ridge beyond ridge, slope beyond slope, spread the mountainous
moor-country, bare and bleak for the most part, with here and there a patch
of cultivated field or hardy plantation, and crowned highest of all with
masses of huge grey crag, abrupt, isolated, hoary, and older than the
deluge. These were the Tors - Druids' Tor, King's Tor, Castle Tor, and the
like; sacred places, as I have heard, in the ancient time, where crownings,
burnings, human sacrifices, and all kinds of bloody heathen rites were
performed. Bones, too, had been found there, and arrow-heads, and ornaments
of gold and glass. I had a vague awe of the Tors in those boyish days, and
would not have gone near them after dark for the heaviest bribe.
I have said that we were born in the same village. He was the son of a small
farmer, named William Price, and the eldest of a family of seven; I was the
only child of Ephraim Hardy, the Chadleigh blacksmith - a well-known man in
those parts, whose memory is not forgotten to this day. Just so far as a
farmer is supposed to be a bigger man than a blacksmith, Mat's father might
be said to have a better standing than mine; but William Price with his
small holding and his seven boys, was, in fact, as poor as many a
day-labourer; whilst, the blacksmith, well-to-do, bustling, popular, and
open-handed, was a person of some importance in the place. All this,
however, had nothing to do with Mat and myself. It never occurred to either
of us that his jacket was out at elbows, or that our mutual funds came
altogether from my pocket. It was enough for us that we sat on the same
school-bench, conned our tasks from the same primer, fought each other's
battles, screened each other's faults, fished, nutted, played truant, robbed
orchards and birds' nests together, and spent every half-hour, authorised or
stolen, in each other's society. It was a happy time; but it could not go on
for ever. My father, being prosperous, resolved to put me forward in the
world. I must know more, and do better, than himself. The forge was not good
enough, the little world of Chadleigh not wide enough, for me. Thus it
happened that I was still swinging the satchel when Mat was whistling at the
plough, and that at last, when my future course was shaped out, we were
separated, as it then seemed to us, for life. For, blacksmith's son as I
was, furnace and forge, in some form or other, pleased me best, and I chose
to be a working engineer. So my father by-and-by apprenticed me to a
Birmingham iron-master; and, having bidden farewell to Mat, and Chadleigh,
and the grey old Tors in the shadow of which I had spent all the days of my
life, I turned my face northward, and went over into "the Black Country."
I am not going to dwell on this part of my story. How I worked out the term
of my apprenticeship; how, when I had served my full time and become a
skilled workman, I took Mat from the plough and brought him over to the
Black Country, sharing with him lodging, wages, experience - all, in short,
that I had to give; how he, naturally quick to learn and brimful of quiet
energy, worked his way up a step at a time, and came by-and-by to be a
"first hand" in his own department; how, during all these years of change,
and trial, and effort, the old boyish affection never wavered or weakened,
but went on, growing with our growth and strengthening with our strength -
are facts which I need do no more than outline in this place.
About this time - it will be remembered that I speak of the days when Mat
and I were on the bright side of thirty - it happened that our firm
contracted to supply six first-class locomotives to run on the new line,
then in process of construction, between Turin and Genoa. It was the first
Italian order we had taken. We had had dealings with France, Holland,
Belgium, Germany; but never with Italy. The connection, therefore, was new
and valuable - all the more valuable because our Transalpine neighbours had
but lately begun to lay down the iron roads, and would be safe to need more
of our good English work as they went on. So the Birmingham firm set
themselves to the contract with a will, lengthened our working hours,
increased our wages, took on fresh hands, and determined, if energy and
promptitude could do it, to place themselves at the head of the Italian
labour-market, and stay there. They deserved and achieved success. The six
locomotives were not only turned out to time, but were shipped, despatched,
and delivered with a promptitude that fairly amazed our Piedmontese
consignee. I was not a little proud, you may be sure, when I found myself
appointed to superintend the transport of the engines. Being allowed a
couple of assistants, I contrived that Mat should be one of them; and thus
we enjoyed together the first great holiday of our lives.
It was a wonderful change for two Birmingham operatives fresh from the Black
Country. The fairy city, with its crescent background of Alps; the port
crowded with strange shipping; the marvellous blue sky and the bluer sea;
the painted houses on the quays; the quaint cathedral, faced with black and
white marble; the street of jewellers, like an Arabian Nights' bazaar; the
street of palaces, with its Moorish courtyards, its fountains and
orange-trees; the women veiled like brides; the galley-slaves chained two
and two; the processions of priests and friars; the everlasting clangour of
bells; the babble of a strange tongue; the singular lightness and brightness
of the climate - made, altogether, such a combination of wonders that we
wandered about, the first day, in a kind of bewildered dream, like children
at a fair. Before that week was ended, being tempted by the beauty of the
place and the liberality of the pay, we had agreed to take service with the
Turin and Genoa Railway Company, and to turn our backs upon Birmingham for
Then began a new life - a life so active and healthy, so steeped in fresh
air and sunshine, that we sometimes marvelled how we could have endured the
gloom of the Black Country. We were constantly up and down the line: now at
Genoa, now at Turin, taking trial trips with the locomotives, and placing
our old experiences at the service of our new employers.
In the meanwhile we made Genoa our headquarters, and hired a couple of rooms
over a small shop in a by-street sloping down to the quays. Such a busy
little street - so steep and winding that no vehicles could pass through it,
and so narrow that the sky looked like a mere strip of deep-blue ribbon
overhead! Every house in it, however, was a shop, where the goods encroached
on the footway, or were piled about the door, or hung like tapestry from the
balconies; and all day long, from dawn to dusk, an incessant stream of
passers-by poured up and down between the port and the upper quarter of the
Our landlady was the widow of a silver-worker, and lived by the sale of
filigree ornaments, cheap jewellery, combs, fans, and toys in ivory and jet.
She had an only daughter named Gianetta, who served in the shop, and was
simply the most beautiful woman I ever beheld. Looking back across this
weary chasm of years, and bringing her image before me (as I can and do)
with all the vividness of life, I am unable, even now, to detect a flaw in
her beauty. I do not attempt to describe her. I do not believe there is a
poet living who could find the words to do it; but I once saw a picture that
was somewhat like her (not half so lovely, but still like her), and, for
aught I know, that picture is still hanging where I last looked at it - upon
the walls of the Louvre. It represented a woman with brown eyes and golden
hair, looking over her shoulder into a circular mirror held by a bearded man
in the background. In this man, as I then understood, the artist had painted
his own portrait; in her, the portrait of the woman he loved. No picture
that I ever saw was half so beautiful, and yet it was not worthy to be named
in the same breath with Gianetta Coneglia.
You may be certain the widow's shop did not want for customers. All Genoa
knew how fair a face was to be seen behind that dingy little counter; and
Gianetta, flirt as she was, had more lovers than she cared to remember, even
by name. Gentle and simple, rich and poor, from the red-capped sailor buying
his ear-rings or his amulet, to the nobleman carelessly purchasing half the
filigrees in the window, she treated them all alike - encouraged them,
laughed at them, led them on and turned them off at her pleasure. She had no
more heart than a marble statue; as Mat and I discovered by-and-by, to our
I cannot tell to this day how it came about, or what first led me to suspect
how things were going with us both; but long before the waning of that
autumn a coldness had sprung up between my friend and myself. It was nothing
that could have been put into words. It was nothing that either of us could
have explained or justified, to save his life. We lodged together, ate
together, worked together, exactly as before; we even took our long
evening's walk together, when the day's labour was ended; and except,
perhaps, that we were more silent than of old, no mere looker-on could have
detected a shadow of change. Yet there it was, silent and subtle, widening
the gulf between us every day.
It was not his fault. He was too true and gentle-hearted to have willingly
brought about such a state of things between us. Neither do I believe -
fiery as my nature is - that it was mine. It was all hers - hers from first
to last - the sin, and the shame, and the sorrow.
If she had shown a fair and open preference for either of us, no real harm
could have come of it. I would have put any constraint upon myself, and,
Heaven knows! have borne any suffering, to see Mat really happy. I know that
he would have done the same, and more if he could, for me. But Gianetta
cared not one sou for either. She never meant to choose between us. It
gratified her vanity to divide us; it amused her to play with us. It would
pass my power to tell how, by a thousand imperceptible shades of coquetry -
by the lingering of a glance, the substitution of a word, the flitting of a
smile - she contrived to turn our heads, and torture our hearts, and lead us
on to love her. She deceived us both. She buoyed us both up with hope; she
maddened us with jealousy; she crushed us with despair. For my part, when I
seemed to wake to a sudden sense of the ruin that was about our path and I
saw how the truest friendship that ever bound two lives together was
drifting on to wreck and ruin, I asked myself whether any woman in the world
was worth what Mat had been to me and I to him. But this was not often. I
was readier to shut my eyes upon the truth than to face it; and so lived on,
wilfully, in a dream.
Thus the autumn passed away, and winter came - the strange, treacherous
Genoese winter, green with olive and ilex, brilliant with sunshine, and
bitter with storm. Still, rivals at heart and friends on the surface, Mat
and I lingered on in our lodging in the Vicolo Balba. Still Gianetta held us
with her fatal wiles and her still more fatal beauty. At length there came a
day when I felt I could bear the horrible misery and suspense of it no
longer. The sun, I vowed, should not go down before I knew my sentence. She
must choose between us. She must either take me or let me go. I was
reckless. I was desperate. I was determined to know the worst, or the best.
If the worst, I would at once turn my back upon Genoa, upon her, upon all
the pursuits and purposes of my past life, and begin the world anew. This I
told her, passionately and sternly, standing before her in the little
parlour at the back of the shop, one bleak December morning.
"If it's Mat whom you care for most," I said, "tell me so in one word, and I
will never trouble you again. He is better worth your love. I am jealous and
exacting; he is as trusting and unselfish as a woman. Speak, Gianetta; am I
to bid you good-bye for ever and ever, or am I to write home to my mother in
England, bidding her pray to God to bless the woman who has promised to be
"You plead your friend's cause well," she replied, haughtily. "Matteo ought
to be grateful. This is more than he ever did for you."
"Give me my answer, for pity's sake," I exclaimed, "and let me go!"
"You are free to go or stay, Signor Inglese," she replied. "I am not your
"Do you bid me leave you?"
"Beata Madre! not I."
"Will you marry me, if I stay?"
She laughed aloud - such a merry, mocking, musical laugh, like a chime of
"You ask too much," she said.
"Only what you have led me to hope these five or six months past!"
"That is just what Matteo says. How tiresome you both are!"
"O, Gianetta," I said, passionately, "be serious for one moment! I am a
rough fellow, it is true - not half good enough or clever enough for you;
but I love you with my whole heart, and an Emperor could do no more."
"I am glad of it," she replied; "I do not want you to love me less."
"Then you cannot wish to make me wretched! Will you promise me?"
"I promise nothing," said she, with another burst of laughter; "except that
I will not marry Matteo!"
Except that she would not marry Matteo! Only that. Not a word of hope for
myself. Nothing but my friend's condemnation. I might get comfort, and
selfish triumph, and some sort of base assurance out of that, if I could.
And so, to my shame, I did. I grasped at the vain encouragement, and, fool
that I was! let her put me off again unanswered. From that day, I gave up
all effort at self-control, and let myself drift blindly on - to
At length things became so bad between Mat and myself that it seemed as if
an open rupture must be at hand. We avoided each other, scarcely exchanged a
dozen sentences in a day, and fell away from all our old familiar habits. At
this time - I shudder to remember it! - there were moments when I felt that
I hated him.
Thus, with the trouble deepening and widening between us day by day, another
month or five weeks went by; and February came; and, with February, the
Carnival. They said in Genoa that it was a particularly dull carnival; and
so it must have been; for, save a flag or two hung out in some of the
principal streets, and a sort of festa look about the women, there were no
special indications of the season. It was, I think, the second day when,
having been on the line all the morning, I returned to Genoa at dusk, and,
to my surprise, found Mat Price on the platform. He came up to me, and laid
his hand on my arm.
"You are in late," he said. "I have been waiting for you three-quarters of
an hour. Shall we dine together to-day?"
Impulsive as I am, this evidence of returning goodwill at once called up my
"With all my heart, Mat," I replied; "shall we go to Gozzoli's?"
"No, no," he said, hurriedly. "Some quieter place - some place where we can
talk. I have something to say to you."
I noticed now that he looked pale and agitated, and an uneasy sense of
apprehension stole upon me. We decided on the "Pescatore," a little
out-of-the-way trattoria, down near the Molo Vecchio. There, in a dingy
salon, frequented chiefly by seamen, and redolent of tobacco, we ordered our
simple dinner. Mat scarcely swallowed a morsel; but, calling presently for a
bottle of Sicilian wine, drank eagerly.
"Well, Mat," I said, as the last dish was placed on the table, "what news
"I guessed that from your face."
"Bad for you - bad for me. Gianetta."
"What of Gianetta?"
He passed his hand nervously across his lips.
"Gianetta is false - worse than false," he said, in a hoarse voice. "She
values an honest man's heart just as she values a flower for her hair -
wears it for a day, then throws it aside for ever. She has cruelly wronged
"In what way? Good Heavens, speak out!"
"In the worst way that a woman can wrong those who love her. She has sold
herself to the Marchese Loredano."
The blood rushed to my head and face in a burning torrent. I could scarcely
see, and dared not trust myself to speak.
"I saw her going towards the cathedral," he went on, hurriedly. "It was
about three hours ago. I thought she might be going to confession, so I hung
back and followed her at a distance. When she got inside, however, she went
straight to the back of the pulpit, where this man was waiting for her. You
remember him - an old man who used to haunt the shop a month or two back.
Well, seeing how deep in conversation they were, and how they stood close
under the pulpit with their backs towards the church, I fell into a passion
of anger and went straight up the aisle, intending to say or do something: I
scarcely knew what; but, at all events, to draw her arm through mine, and
take her home. When I came within a few feet, however, and found only a big
pillar between myself and them, I paused. They could not see me, nor I them;
but I could hear their voices distinctly, and - and I listened."
"Well, and you heard - - "
"The terms of a shameful bargain - beauty on the one side, gold on the
other; so many thousand francs a year; a villa near Naples - - - Pah! it
makes me sick to repeat it."
And, with a shudder, he poured out another glass of wine and drank it at a
"After that," he said, presently, "I made no effort to bring her away. The
whole thing was so cold-blooded, so deliberate, so shameful, that I felt I
had only to wipe her out of my memory, and leave her to her fate. I stole
out of the cathedral, and walked about here by the sea for ever so long,
trying to get my thoughts straight. Then I remembered you, Ben; and the
recollection of how this wanton had come between us and broken up our lives
drove me wild. So I went up to the station and waited for you. I felt you
ought to know it all; and - and I thought, perhaps, that we might go back to
"The Marchese Loredano!"
It was all that I could say; all that I could think. As Mat had just said of
himself, I felt "like one stunned."
"There is one other thing I may as well tell you," he added, reluctantly,
"if only to show you how false a woman can be. We - we were to have been
married next month."
"We? Who? What do you mean?"
"I mean that we were to have been married - Gianetta and I."
A sudden storm of rage, of scorn, of incredulity, swept over me at this, and
seemed to carry my senses away.
"You!" I cried. "Gianetta marry you! I don't believe it."
"I wish I had not believed it," he replied, looking up as if puzzled by my
vehemence. "But she promised me; and I thought, when she promised it, she
"She told me, weeks ago, that she would never be your wife!"
His colour rose, his brow darkened; but when his answer came, it was as calm
as the last.
"Indeed!" he said. "Then it is only one baseness more. She told me that she
had refused you; and that was why we kept our engagement secret."
"Tell the truth, Mat Price," I said, well-nigh beside myself with suspicion.
"Confess that every word of this is false! Confess that Gianetta will not
listen to you, and that you are afraid I may succeed where you have failed.
As perhaps I shall - as perhaps I shall, after all!"
"Are you mad?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"That I believe it's just a trick to get me away to England - that I don't
credit a syllable of your story. You're a liar, and I hate you!"
He rose, and, laying one hand on the back of his chair, looked me sternly in
"If you were not Benjamin Hardy," he said, deliberately, "I would thrash you
within an inch of your life."
The words had no sooner passed his lips than I sprang at him. I have never
been able distinctly to remember what followed. A curse - a blow - a
struggle - a moment of blind fury - a cry - a confusion of tongues - a
circle of strange faces. Then I see Mat lying back in the arms of a
bystander; myself trembling and bewildered - the knife dropping from my
grasp; blood upon the floor; blood upon my hands; blood upon his shirt. And
then I hear those dreadful words:
"O, Ben, you have murdered me!"
He did not die - at least, not there and then. He was carried to the nearest
hospital, and lay for some weeks between life and death. His case, they
said, was difficult and dangerous. The knife had gone in just below the
collar-bone, and pierced down into the lungs. He was not allowed to speak or
turn - scarcely to breathe with freedom. He might not even lift his head to
drink. I sat by him day and night all through that sorrowful time. I gave up
my situation on the railway; I quitted my lodging in the Vicolo Balba; I
tried to forget that such a woman as Gianetta Coneglia had ever drawn
breath. I lived only for Mat; and he tried to live more, I believe, for my
sake than his own. Thus, in the bitter silent hours of pain and penitence,
when no hand but mine approached his lips or smoothed his pillow, the old
friendship came back with even more than its old trust and faithfulness. He
forgave me, fully and freely; and I would thankfully have given my life for
At length there came one bright spring morning, when, dismissed as
convalescent, he tottered out through the hospital gates, leaning on my arm,
and feeble as an infant. He was not cured; neither, as I then learned to my
horror and anguish, was it possible that he ever could be cured. He might
live, with care, for some years; but the lungs were injured beyond hope of
remedy, and a strong or healthy man he could never be again. These, spoken
aside to me, were the parting words of the chief physician, who advised me
to take him further south without delay.
I took him to a little coast-town called Rocca, some thirty miles beyond
Genoa - a sheltered lonely place along the Riviera, where the sea was even
bluer than the sky, and the cliffs were green with strange tropical plants,
cacti, and aloes, and Egyptian palms. Here we lodged in the house of a small
tradesman; and Mat, to use his own words, "set to work at getting well in
good earnest." But, alas! it was a work which no earnestness could forward.
Day after day he went down to the beach, and sat for hours drinking the sea
air and watching the sails that came and went in the offing. By-and-by he
could go no further than the garden of the house in which we lived. A little
later, and he spent his days on a couch beside the open window, waiting
patiently for the end. Ay, for the end! It had come to that. He was fading
fast, waning with the waning summer, and conscious that the Reaper was at
hand. His whole aim now was to soften the agony of my remorse, and prepare
me for what must shortly come.
"I would not live longer, if I could," he said, lying on his couch one
summer evening. and looking up to the stars. "If I had my choice at this
moment, I would ask to go. I should like Gianetta to know that I forgave
"She shall know it," I said, trembling suddenly from head to foot.
He pressed my hand.
"And you'll write to father?"
I had drawn a little back, that he might not see the tears raining down my
cheeks; but he raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.
"Don't fret, Ben," he whispered; laid his head back wearily upon the pillow
- and so died.
And this was the end of it. This was the end of all that made life life to
me. I buried him there, in hearing of the wash of a strange sea on a strange
shore. I stayed by the grave till the priest and the bystanders were gone. I
saw the earth filled in to the last sod, and the gravedigger stamped it down
with his feet. Then, and not till then, I felt that I had lost him for ever
- the friend I had loved, and hated, and slain. Then, and not till then, I
knew that all rest, and joy, and hope were over for me. From that moment my
heart hardened within me, and my life was filled with loathing. Day and
night, land and sea, labour and rest, food and sleep, were alike hateful to
me. It was the curse of Cain, and that my brother had pardoned me made it
lie none the lighter. Peace on earth was for me no more, and goodwill
towards men was dead in my heart for ever. Remorse softens some natures; but
it poisoned mine. I hated all mankind; but above all mankind I hated the
woman who had come between us two, and ruined both our lives.
He had bidden me seek her out, and be the messenger of his forgiveness. I
had sooner have gone down to the port of Genoa and taken upon me the serge
cap and shotted chain of any galley-slave at his toil in the public works;
but for all that I did my best to obey him. I went back, alone and on foot.
I went back, intending to say to her, "Gianetta Coneglia, he forgave you;
but God never will." But she was gone. The little shop was let to a fresh
occupant; and the neighbours only knew that mother and daughter had left the
place quite suddenly, and that Gianetta was supposed to be under the
"protection " of the Marchese Loredano. How I made inquiries here and there
- how I heard that they had gone to Naples - and how, being restless and
reckless of my time, I worked my passage in a French steamer, and followed
her - how, having found the sumptuous villa that was now hers, I learned
that she had left there some ten days and gone to Paris, where the Marchese
was ambassador for the Two Sicilies - how, working my passage back again to
Marseilles, and thence, in part by the river and in part by the rail, I made
my way to Paris - how, day after day, I paced the streets and the parks,
watched at the ambassador's gates, followed his carriage, and at last, after
weeks of waiting, discovered her address - how, having written to request an
interview, her servants spurned me from her door and flung my letter in my
face - how, looking up at her windows, I then, instead of forgiving,
solemnly cursed her with the bitterest curses my tongue could devise - and
how, this done, I shook the dust of Paris from my feet, and became a
wanderer upon the face of the earth, are facts which I have now no space to
The next six or eight years of my life were shifting and unsettled enough. A
morose and restless man, I took employment here and there, as opportunity
offered, turning my hand to many things, and caring little what I earned, so
long as the work was hard and the change incessant. First of all I engaged
myself as chief engineer in one of the French steamers plying between
Marseilles and Constantinople. At Constantinople I changed to one of the
Austrian Lloyd's boats, and worked for some time to and from Alexandria,
Jaffa, and those parts After that, I fell in with a party of Mr. Layard's
men at Cairo, and so went up the Nile and took a turn at the excavations of
the mound of Nimroud. Then I became a working engineer on the new desert
line between Alexandria and Suez; and by-and-by I worked my passage out to
Bombay, and took service as an engine fitter on one of the great Indian
railways. I stayed a long time in India; that is to say, I stayed nearly two
years, which was a long time for me; and I might not even have left so soon,
but for the war that was declared just then with Russia. That tempted me.
For I loved danger and hardship as other men love safety and ease; and as
for my life, I had sooner have parted from it than kept it, any day. So I
came straight back to England; betook myself to Portsmouth, where my
testimonials at once procured me the sort of berth I wanted. I went out to
the Crimea in the engine-room of one of her Majesty's war steamers.
I served with the fleet, of course, while the war lasted; and when it was
over, went wandering off again, rejoicing in my liberty. This time I went to
Canada, and after working on a railway then in progress near the American
frontier. I presently passed over into the States; journeyed from north to
south; crossed the Rocky Mountains; tried a month or two of life in the gold
country; and then, being seized with a sudden, aching, unaccountable longing
to revisit that solitary grave so far away on the Italian coast, I turned my
face once more towards Europe.
Poor little grave! I found it rank with weeds, the cross half shattered, the
inscription half effaced. It was as if no one had loved him, or remembered
him. I went back to the house in which we had lodged together. The same
people were still living there, and made me kindly welcome. I stayed with
them for some weeks. I weeded, and planted, and trimmed the grave with my
own hands, and set up a fresh cross in pure white marble. It was the first
season of rest that I had known since I laid him there; and when at last I
shouldered my knapsack and set forth again to battle with the world, I
promised myself that, God willing, I would creep back to Rocca, when my days
drew near to ending, and be buried by his side.
From hence, being, perhaps, a little less inclined than formerly for very
distant parts, and willing to keep within reach of that grave, I went no
further than Mantua, where I engaged myself as an engine-driver on the line,
then not long completed, between that city and Venice. Somehow, although I
had been trained to the working engineering, I preferred in these days to
earn my bread by driving. I liked the excitement of it, the sense of power,
the rush of the air, the roar of the fire, the flitting of the landscape.
Above all, I enjoyed to drive a night express. The worse the weather, the
better it suited with my sullen temper. For I was as hard, and harder than
ever. The years had done nothing to soften me. They had only confirmed all
that was blackest and bitterest in my heart.
I continued pretty faithful to the Mantua line, and had been working on it
steadily for more than seven months when that which I am now about to relate
It was in the month of March. The weather had been unsettled for some days
past, and the nights stormy; and at one point along the line, near Ponte di
Brenta, the waters had risen and swept away some seventy yards of
embankment. Since this accident, the trains had all been obliged to stop at
a certain spot between Padua and Ponte di Brenta, and the passengers, with
their luggage, had thence to be transported in all kinds of vehicles, by a
circuitous country road, to the nearest station on the other side of the
gap, where another train and engine awaited them. This, of course, caused
great confusion and annoyance, put all our time-tables wrong, and subjected
the public to a large amount of inconvenience. In the mean while an army of
navvies was drafted to the spot, and worked day and night to repair the
damage. At this time I was driving two through trains each day; namely, one
from Mantua to Venice in the early morning, and a return train from Venice
to Mantua in the afternoon - a tolerably full days' work, covering about one
hundred and ninety miles of ground, and occupying between ten and eleven
hours. I was therefore not best pleased when, on the third or fourth day
after the accident, I was informed that, in addition to my regular allowance
of work, I should that evening be required to drive a special train to
Venice. This special train, consisting of an engine, a single carriage, and
a break-van, was to leave the Mantua platform at eleven; at Padua the
passengers were to alight and find post-chaises waiting to convey them to
Ponte di Brenta; at Ponte di Brenta another engine, carriage, and break-van
were to be in readiness, I was charged to accompany them throughout.
"Corpo di Bacco," said the clerk who gave me my orders, "you need not look
so black, man. You are certain of a handsome gratuity. Do you know who goes
"Not you, indeed! Why, it's the Duca Loredano, the Neapolitan ambassador."
"Loredano!" I stammered. "What Loredano? There was a Marchese - - "
"Certo. He was the Marchese Loredano some years ago; but he has come into
his dukedom since then."
"He must be a very old man by this time."
"Yes, he is old; but what of that? He is as hale, and bright, and stately as
ever. You have seen him before?"
"Yes," I said, turning away; "I have seen him - years ago."
"You have heard of his marriage?"
I shook my head.
The clerk chuckled, rubbed his hands, and shrugged his shoulders.
"An extraordinary affair," he said. "Made a tremendous esclandre at the
time. He married his mistress - quite a common, vulgar girl - a Genoese -
very handsome; but not received, of course. Nobody visits her."
"Married her!" I exclaimed. "Impossible."
"True, I assure you."
I put my hand to my head. I felt as if I had had a fall or a blow.
"Does she - does she go to-night?" I faltered.
"O dear, yes - goes everywhere with him - never lets him out of her sight.
You'll see her - la bella Duchessa!"
With this my informant laughed, and rubbed his hands again, and went back to
The day went by, I scarcely know how, except that my whole soul was in a
tumult of rage and bitterness. I returned from my afternoon's work about
7.25, and at 10.30 I was once again at the station. I had examined the
engine; given instructions to the Fochista, or stoker, about the fire; seen
to the supply of oil; and got all in readiness, when, just as I was about to
compare my watch with the clock in the ticket-office, a hand was laid upon
my arm, and a voice in my ear said:
"Are you the engine-driver who is going on with this special train?"
I had never seen the speaker before. He was a small, dark man, muffled up
about the throat, with blue glasses, a large black beard, and his hat drawn
low upon his eyes.
"You are a poor man, I suppose," he said, in a quick, eager whisper, "and,
like other poor men, would not object to be better off. Would you like to
earn a couple of thousand florins?"
"In what way?"
"Hush! You are to stop at Padua, are you not, and to go on again at Ponte di
"Suppose you did nothing of the kind. Suppose, instead of turning off the
steam, you jump off the engine, and let the train run on?"
"Impossible. There are seventy yards of embankment gone, and - - "
"Basta! I know that. Save yourself, and let the train run on. It would be
nothing but an accident."
I turned hot and cold; I trembled; my heart beat fast, and my breath failed.
"Why do you tempt me?" I faltered.
"For Italy's sake," he whispered; "for liberty's sake. I know you are no
Italian; but, for all that, you may be a friend. This Loredano is one of his
country's bitterest enemies. Stay, here are the two thousand florins."
I thrust his hand back fiercely.
"No - no," I said. "No blood-money. If I do it, I do it neither for Italy
nor for money; but for vengeance."
"For vengeance!" he repeated.
At this moment the signal was given for backing up to the platform. I sprang
to my place upon the engine without another word. When I again looked
towards the spot where he had been standing, the stranger was gone.
I saw them take their places - Duke and Duchess, secretary and priest, valet
and maid. I saw the station-master bow them into the carriage, and stand,
bareheaded, beside the door. I could not distinguish their faces; the
platform was too dusk, and the glare from the engine fire too strong; but I
recognised her stately figure, and the poise of her head. Had I not been
told who she was, I should have known her by those traits alone. Then the
guard's whistle shrilled out, and the station-master made his last bow; I
turned the steam on; and we started.
My blood was on fire. I no longer trembled or hesitated. I felt as if every
nerve was iron, and every pulse instinct with deadly purpose. She was in my
power, and I would be avenged. She should die - she, for whom I had stained
my soul with my friend's blood! She should die, in the plenitude of her
wealth and her beauty, and no power upon earth should save her!
The stations flew past. I put on more steam; I bade the fireman heap in the
coke, and stir the blazing mass. I would have outstripped the wind, had it
been possible. Faster and faster - hedges and trees, bridges, and stations,
flashing past - villages no sooner seen than gone - telegraph wires
twisting, and dipping, and twining themselves in one, with the awful
swiftness of our pace! Faster and faster, till the fireman at my side looks
white and scared, and refuses to add more fuel to the furnace. Faster and
faster, till the wind rushes in our faces and drives the breath back upon
I would have scorned to save myself. I meant to die with the rest. Mad as I
was - and I believe from my very soul that I was utterly mad for the time -
I felt a passing pang of pity for the old man and his suite. I would have
spared the poor fellow at my side, too, if I could; but the pace at which we
were going made escape impossible.
Vicenza was passed - a mere confused vision of lights. Pojana flew by. At
Padua, but nine miles distant, our passengers were to alight. I saw the
fireman's face turned upon me in remonstrance; I saw his lips move, though I
could not hear a word; I saw his expression change suddenly from
remonstrance to a deadly terror, and then - merciful Heaven! then, for the
first time, I saw that he and I were no longer alone upon the engine.
There was a third man - a third man standing on my right hand, as the
fireman was standing on my left - a tall, stalwart man, with short curling
hair, and a flat Scotch cap upon his head. As I fell back in the first shock
of surprise, he stepped nearer; took my place at the engine, and turned the
steam off. I opened my lips to speak to him; he turned his head slowly, and
looked me in the face.
I uttered one long wild cry, flung my arms wildly up above my head, and fell
as if I had been smitten with an axe.
I am prepared for the objections that may be made to my story. I expect, as
a matter of course, to be told that this was an optical illusion, or that I
was suffering from pressure on the brain, or even that I laboured under an
attack of temporary insanity. I have heard all these arguments before, and,
if I may be forgiven for saying so, I have no desire to hear them again. My
own mind has been made up upon this subject for many a year. All that I can
say - all that I know is - that Matthew Price came back from the dead, to
save my soul and the lives of those whom I, in my guilty rage, would have
hurried to destruction. I believe this as I believe in the mercy of Heaven
and the forgiveness of repentant sinners.