_Yet do I hold it very stuff of conscience_
_To do no contrived murder. I lack iniquity_
_Sometimes to do me service._
--_Othello, i, 2._
The excitement of watching the game of hazard, in which Frazer and
the two actors had become engaged, was not sufficient to absorb the
thoughts of the man who was simply an observer. At each lucky throw
of the dice, he longed to become a participator in the game; and at
length, smothering his early fears of being left penniless, he placed a
sum of money upon the table, and was soon rising and sinking with the
vicissitudes of chance.
His one angel rapidly grew into a brace of gold pieces, and with the
increase of his success the stakes were raised in proportion. Still
sweet fortune breathed her hot breath upon his cheeks and the other
players muttered morosely and swore savagely at each rattle of the cup
and roll of the cubes.
The business of the tapster had not been stayed by reason of the
excitement of the play, but on the contrary it led him back and forth
from the bar, to the round table under the lit lamps, with movements
which were scarcely interrupted by an interval of rest. All of this was
quietly observed by Dodsman, who, having lighted a pipe of long-leaf
and ensconced himself, with almost closed eyes, in a tilted chair near
at hand, kept repeating to himself the lines:
“Now let them drink, till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do,
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.”
Bartol had at length offered to pledge his long cloak, and after a
haggle about the sum to be raised, in which the repetition of the
drinking lines was interrupted, Dodsman had advanced the owner ten
shillings upon the article. Again the play went on, and the copper
clock had struck the hour of nine. Its strokes had been unnoted even
by the man who upon his late arrival had marked that hour as one of
joyful summons. There were hot heads, at that time, at the table, and
no sounds except those arising upon its upper surface and close around
its edges were noticed.
The door opposite to the outer entrance opened and a serving man
entered. He looked sharply at the four men at the table, and then,
limping across the floor, touched the man in scarlet doublet on the
shoulder. The latter turned his head and the menial said:
“A word with you, sir.”
It required no words for Marlowe to understand the nature of the
proposed communication; for the interruption had brought him to the
realization of matters outside of the circle he had just broken. But in
order to learn the exact import of the words tendered him, he withdrew
with the man to one side.
“I come to tell you,” said the servant, in a whisper, “that you are
expected.”
“Now?”
“At once.”
“At the door----”
“With the carved panels,” muttered the serving man, as Marlowe placed a
silver piece in his hand.
The rattle of the dice still continued.
“Take my place at the table,” said Marlowe, approaching the landlord,
and then he added to the players, “I will return immediately.”
He had no reason to believe that he would make a prompt return, but as
most of the money which had been wagered lay in his own pockets, he
felt it incumbent upon him to avoid any remonstrance by making this
statement. If he had noticed the changing color of the Count’s face,
and the determined expression that gathered upon it at this moment,
it might have caused him to have paused at some point along the line
of his proposed venture to ascertain the reason of this apparent
solicitude; but it had escaped his observation.
A moment after his departure from the tap-room he was hurriedly
ascending the stairway in the Golden Hind. His haste, although like
that of one pursued, was occasioned wholly by the force of attraction.
He had no cause to believe his time limited, nor that any one might be
enough interested in, or disturbed by, his presence there to attempt to
thwart him.
It was true that Tabbard had spoken of some one, who that day had
caused the lady to cut short her message for him; but such person
may have been merely a friend whom she did not desire to know of her
converse with the serving-man.
In his haste he had not stopped to make any inquiry of Dodsman
concerning the lady’s friend or friends at the tavern. If he had
considered for a moment, he would have remembered that both Manuel
Crossford and his daughter had been well known to the landlord, and
the occasion of her presence here could have been easily ascertained.
He had thought of making such inquiry prior to his entrance, but the
three men, and later the game of hazard, had diverted his mind. Besides
these diversions, the many cups of ale which he had drained were not
conducive to quick wit or sober thought. However, his failure to learn
more of his surroundings occurred to him as he climbed the stairs, but
no lover at the last step to the tryst ever yet turned back for an
answer which in any case could not have swerved him from his course.
“I suppose I shall run into the arms of her morose and irascible sire,
before I catch a glimpse of her face,” he thought.
He reached the second story, passed along the hall a short distance
and then halted. The door that stood before him was emblazoned with a
shield lying flat against two spears. They were carved on the center
panel, which occupied nearly the whole space between the posts. There
was no other portal displaying elaborate decoration. The walls and
ceiling of the passage were timbered with chestnut, without finish and
in striking contrast to the door. This was undoubtedly the entrance to
the room into which, as told by Tabbard, the woman had so hurriedly
disappeared. It stood ajar, as though speaking an invitation to enter
without knocking. Without hesitation he pushed it open.
The room revealed was at one end of the tavern and its two latticed
windows overlooked a side street. The walls were unrelieved except for
a red arras hanging against the center of one, a black chimney-mouth
breaking the dead surface of another, and the two windows setting deep
in the wall furthest from the door. The few pieces of furniture were
of antique manufacture, and a carpet--an unusual article for houses at
that period, except city inns and private mansions--lay upon the floor.
A table stood near the chimney, and on it was a candelabrum. All of its
lights were burning.
If the fact of the existence of these general outlines of the room and
its intimate belongings, were conveyed to the brain of the intruder,
he was unconscious of the same, for their projection upon his retina
was destroyed by the sight of one sole object. At the creak of the
hinges, a woman, seated on a chair beside the table, raised her eyes.
It was this living figure that rushed into his vision with a violence
productive of slight symptoms of syncope.
The eyes which caught and returned the glance of his own would have
glorified a face of even the meanest features, so wonderfully brilliant
were they, so tender in their expression; but the countenance that they
illumined was perfect in outline, and not dependent upon the eyes to
win the admiration of the dullest observer. The curve of her dark and
finely-pointed eyebrows could have successfully eluded the imitation of
a painter, and their color was in striking contrast with the wealth of
golden hair which crowned her low and broad forehead. If the chin and
nose gave evidence of determination and ability to control, they did
not detract one iota from the beauty of the whole. But the mouth was
as much the mirror of the soul as were the eyes. The pink lips bespoke
the keenest sensibilities, and their delicate contour proclaimed even
in repose that they were ready torches to convey the fiercest blaze of
passion.
While she remained seated, it could not be determined whether her
figure was in keeping with the beauty of her face. But that such
was the case could be assumed from the queenly poise of her head,
supported on a neck, which, if in marble, would have been attributed
to the execution of a Greek chisel. The latter was exposed, for the
high ruff, invariably worn at that period by ladies, had been removed
for the sake of comfort. This assumption of grace of proportion was
confirmed into absolute knowledge, when upon seeing the figure of a man
in full view upon the threshold, she rose from her chair.
It was her movements, perhaps, more than her figure that would have
drawn the concentrated gaze of a crowded drawing-room upon her. The
perfect symmetry of her form and rich eastern look, however, would have
held attention long after the magnetism created by the grace of her
carriage had lost its spell. If her movements, entirely aimless so far
as concerned an ordinary observer, could have exerted such influence
upon the latter, it would be difficult to imagine, much less describe,
the effect upon the one who unconsciously was the magnet that attracted
this veritable Cleopatra.
He may have trembled with emotion; a mist may have gathered in his
eyes; his dreams of eternal fame now assuming a definite mould may have
been shaken into mere figments of the brain in the presence of this, to
him, the only reality of life, of time, of eternity. But whatever were
his sensations, or their outward expressions, they were drowned and
hidden in the tumult of his passion as the woman threw herself into his
arms.
No words needed to be spoken in this sacred communion of minds. Even
a whisper would have jarred the perfect communication of thought and
feeling. Amid more auspicious surroundings, no disturbing element could
have intruded; but even in the faintness produced in the woman by his
impetuous assault upon her lips, she shook with apprehension of coming
evil.
“Cease, cease,” she gasped, endeavoring to disengage herself from his
arms. “Ah, you know not our unsteadfast footing.”
He did not release her, but the sound of her voice broke down the
floodgates of his long voiceless thoughts. They came in a torrent.
“Why are you here? Why have you been silent? Didst thou not love me?
What is the meaning of thy splendid dress, thy demeanor that showeth
contact with more luxurious modes of life than those to which you were
late accustomed?”
“O, Marlowe, Marlowe!” she exclaimed in answer, “my life has been cast
amid rapids upon whose surface I have been as helpless as the drift.
Through all, thy image has been before me; but apparently with face
unresponsive to my silent appeals. The reconciliation for which I
prayed has come at length, but, ah, too late.”
“How? I do not understand. Why do you so speak? Too late? How is thy
situation changed? My love for thee is still the same as of old. And I
were dull of comprehension not to interpret this exhibition of feeling
on thy part as a symbol that the old love, which you once bore toward
me, remains.”
“Yes,” she answered, “but hopeless.”
“Why hopeless? Speak, speak!” he demanded.
“There is no safety,” she protested. “Danger lurks about us. Even now
we may be trifling with death. Frazer departed only an hour since
to see a friend on a vessel that lies at the wharf in the town. He
contemplates a voyage to Italy.”
“Frazer?” questioned Kit, still embracing her, not yet realizing the
real condition of affairs.
“Yes, the Count,” she answered.
And at that moment, as though in answer to his name so faintly spoken,
the Count appeared at the open doorway.
While sudden had been the passage of Marlowe from the lower room to
the one in which he now stood; while his pausing at the door and his
greeting of the woman had consumed but an additional moment, enough
time had passed for the so-called Count also to withdraw from the
tap-room, and make the same passage. It had taken longer, for he had
attempted to make it noiseless. His following of Marlowe had not
been occasioned by groundless suspicions of the latter’s purpose in
withdrawing from the tap-room. Although he had never had cause to
suspect his wife of infidelity, he was convinced when he noticed the
departure of the actor that a meeting was about to take place in which
he, himself, had a vital interest. This conviction was the result of
his having accidentally heard the words which his wife had spoken at
noon that day to Tabbard. This request of hers for a meeting with some
one, coming close, as it had, on the heels of a quarrel, concerning the
contemplated voyage to the continent, made him suspect an elopement.
With whom it was to be attempted he had obtained no knowledge. Soon
after their marriage, Anne had realized the intensely jealous nature
of the Count, and this had kept her from any mention of her old
lover. At the meeting between husband and wife, immediately after his
overhearing her words to Tabbard, the Count had kept his own counsel.
As night came on he had lulled all fears of discovery which she might
hate entertained, by departing with the announcement that he was going
aboard the “Petrel” and would return near midnight. He went no further
than the tap-room, where, awaiting developments, with the calmness of
one who knowingly holds a winning hand, he had met and watched the
three actors. It was not until Marlowe arose at the summons of the
serving-man that the Count’s suspicions became centered, and as the
lower door closed on the former’s withdrawal, the latter with hasty
remarks of disinclination to continue the game, also strode from the
room. He had not even paused to sheathe his sword, and with it held
in tense grasp pointing before him, with one, foot advanced into the
apartment and the other on the threshold, he stood a spectator of the
ardent meeting of the lovers.
It might be thought that the vitality of the mind’s picture of a scene
from human life depends upon the peculiarity or vigor in action of
the original. But that the duration and strength of existence of such
a picture is not to be measured by this criterion is shown in our
evanescent remembrance of even the most thrilling plays. Upon what
principle is it that a scene is perpetually held in unfading colors
in the shifting gallery of the mind? How is it that one particular
spectacle in the vast panorama of daily vision is alone singled
out, and swept into our dreams forever? It is never our voluntary
selection, for it is frequently a scene of direst woe, or horror almost
indescribable, all of which we would willingly forget.
In determining these questions we turn our thoughts from the object to
the recipient, and we find that the secret lies in the condition of
sensitiveness of the latter at the moment of impression. Thus, if at
that moment, the soul is at the point of supreme exaltation, or in the
lowest depths of despair, the object that brings about a sudden and
absolute change of feeling becomes one of the undying pictures of the
mind.
This explains why it was that Anne’s view of the Count in the doorway,
at the moment of her surrender to Marlowe, shot every feature, every
line, every shade of the face of the former, as he then appeared to
her, into the chambers of her brain and fastened them there forever.
Even at her dying hour, obscuring the visions of the then wished-for
countenances of those she loved, was that face with its gleaming eyes,
its air of desperation and insolent command, its cheeks on which
the flush of wine and the pallor of suppressed rage contended for
exhibition, its nostrils expanded into a sneer, and its lips expressive
of determined violence. It was the picture of an avenger gloating over
the assured prospect of the near fulfillment of a murderous vow.
The woman in her fright had disengaged herself from the embrace, and
with the apprehension of coming disaster written plainly on her face,
stood at one side gazing at the two men. As she did so, she could not
restrain an exclamation of wonder at the striking resemblance between
them. They were of much the same height and figure; both faces were
devoid of beard; their features seemed to have been cast in the same
mold; their flashing eyes of somewhat similar color, and the dark hair
of each hung heavy and luxuriantly. She had thought of this resemblance
before, and it was the first attraction she had discovered in Frazer,
and the last that had continued to bind her to him. But at no time had
she considered this resemblance so pronounced as this meeting proved it
to be. They seemed like two brothers in appearance, and the impending
combat was like a horrible travesty of life furnished solely to excite
her commiseration.
Marlowe had turned and half drawn his rapier, while his cloak,
hurriedly unclasped at his throat, had fallen to the floor. It was the
Count who first broke the oppressive silence.
“My suspicions were right,” he said, looking at the woman. “And thou,”
he hissed, glaring at the man, “draw thy sword. I could kill thee
like a rat, but the boldness of thy entry here entitles thee to more
consideration. Thou art not a coward in every sense of the word.”
He deliberately turned like one who had a grave, but not a dangerous
task on hand, shut the door and bolted it. As he turned he calmly
rolled back the ruff from his sword hand, and threw his hat whirling
from his head.
Marlowe, in the meantime, with his eyes glancing from one to the other
of the two persons thus confined with himself, had drawn his weapon.
Not yet did he understand the cause of the woman’s alarm, nor why
this man with rude intrusion and with an air of injured dignity and
violence, faced and threatened him at the sword’s point. His face was
blanched, his hand trembled and he involuntarily retreated for a step
or two. He knew the expertness of the man before him in handling a
foil, and he could not prevent the knowledge of his critical situation
from displaying itself by outward symbols.
Frazer smiled at his evident distress.
“You fear me,” he said.
The other did not respond, but he made a further effort to conceal his
anxiety, and more attentively observed every movement of the man who
was thus forcing him to mortal combat. From what he had previously seen
of Frazer he had not been impressed with the idea that he was possessed
of a superabundance of courage, and he could not but entertain the
opinion that the confidence and bravery now displayed arose from the
fact that his own inexpertness was thoroughly known. He is probably a
coward at heart, he thought, and with this he regained confidence in
himself.
“I did not know,” again said the Count, “which one of the three was
expected here. The exhibition of my trusty sword was no warning, it
seems.”
“You must hold the characters of those with whom you come into contact
in light consideration, if you think that merely the showing of a sword
would keep one in awe,” retorted Marlowe, ruffled by the remark.
“What! I thought you had swallowed your tongue in your fright!”
exclaimed the other, with a sneer.
“Look to it that yours is not wagging its last,” returned Marlowe,
sternly.
The lights of the candelabrum on the table burned as steadily as those
of a death-chamber. They threw the shadow of the Count against the red
arras, behind which, in the alcove, stood the bed for the apartment;
and more darkly projected the figure of his antagonist upon the white
wall between the latticed windows. They showed the colorless face of
the woman which, with its sad expression, was of such striking beauty,
that in the momentary glimpse afforded at the point of non-action, one
would have scarcely noted the grace of her carriage or the elegance of
her attire.
“By what pretended infringement of any rights of thine do you force
this duel?” asked Marlowe.
“Pretended!” sneered Frazer. “Is not your presence here a violation of
all the sacred rights of a home?”
“What, are you this lady’s husband?” asked Marlowe, and with amazement
he looked at the woman, who did not endeavor to return an answer.
“Your question is ill-timed,” exclaimed Frazer, advancing. “Defend
yourself!”
He lunged forward, but Marlowe had thrown himself on guard, and the
thrust was skillfully parried. The blades rang sharply, and it seemed
that the candles blazed upward with a fiercer light. The Count assumed
the aggressive from the first; but if his demeanor indicated his real
feelings, it was that of an executioner rather than an avenger. He was
cool and deliberate, showing neither passion nor fury. As contrasted
with this, his opponent fought with the strength of despair. Whether
it was that the woman read these expressions, or that the moves of the
combatants interpreted to her the situation and its probable final
issue, she felt that nothing but a miracle could avert the impending
calamity. She saw, as in a glass darkly, the bleeding body of her
lover, and with a cry she fell forward on her knees at Frazer’s feet.
“Spare him, Count,” she moaned.
She had clasped his knee; but never taking his eyes from those of the
man before him, he rudely shook her off.
“So, it is I you would see slain,” he muttered, savagely.
His opponent was showing greater skill than he had anticipated, and
his face grew graver in its expression. Clash, clash, clash, rang the
blades, and the stamp of feet upon the checkered carpet grew quicker
and heavier. Still the actor retreated in curves around the room, and
still the Count pressed him.
Suddenly the unforeseen happened. The Count found his foot entangled in
the folds of the cloak which Marlowe had let fall upon the floor. He
endeavored to kick it aside but lost his equilibrium. The other became
the aggressor, and with a desperate lunge, as the Count stumbled, he
thrust his rapier blade deep into the eye and brain of the latter.
The stricken swordsman gave utterance to a savage but suppressed cry
of pain. The temporary check to his fall only increased its impetus
when the rapier was wrenched from its lodgment, and with a crash he
descended to the floor.
All sounds lay hushed with the fall. The living man looked speechlessly
at his antagonist outstretched with face downward on the carpet, and
still retaining a dying clutch upon the hilt of his sword. The end had
come so unexpectedly that for a moment the survivor did not grasp the
full extent of his victory nor the consequences of the deed. He leaned
over the unfortunate man and turned him on his back. He saw that he was
beyond the aid of earthly power. He heard him breathe in gasps, and
then, trembling like an aspen, he dropped his own rapier upon the floor
and leaned back against the wall.
THE COVER OF HIS FAME.
_Come death and with thy fingers close my eyes,_
_Or if I live, let me forget myself:_
--_Edward the Second, v, 1._
_Oh God!--Horatio, what a wounded name,_
_Things standing thus unknown, shall leave behind me!_
--_Hamlet, v, 2._
The termination of the combat awakened feelings in the woman varied
in their character and following one another with the speed of
successive thoughts. She was stunned with the suddenness of the close;
horror-stricken with the violence of the catastrophe; elated with the
escape of Marlowe, find tremulous with sympathy for the unfortunate
slain. In her silent prayer for the deliverance of Marlowe, she had
only thought of it through deliberate truce, or interference from
without. No idea of his escape through the death of his antagonist had
occurred to her. She could not have prayed for such catastrophe, and
even the wish was foreign to her mind. All the confidence that Fraser
had displayed had been impressed upon her, and there had been nothing
in the prolonged, though skillful, resistance of Marlowe that had
raised a doubt over the dreaded outcome.
Faint with her loss of hope for mercy on the part of Frazer, she had
crept to the door with the idea of throwing it open and alarming the
house. With one hand on the bolt and the other on the knob she had
turned her face for a last look at the combatants. It was at this
moment that the coup de grace was given. She turned about and started
forward with a low cry, partly of relief, partly of anguish, partly of
horror.