The face of the former appeared unusually complacent; and nothing,
through the medium of his eyes alone could have disturbed his supreme
felicity, for thou knoweth the richness of the tapestries of that
pleasing den of the opulent manager of the Rose; the works of art upon
its walls; the grand display of his costly libraries of unread books;
the softness of its Turkish carpets and of its upholstered furniture.
The insidious workings of canary wine were for peace and rest.
“I would fain have withdrawn, but being there on thy behalf, I put on a
face of unconcern, and sat with back toward Jonson. Methinks the wine
had stirred his wits and made him keen for controversy.”
“And fairly gifted he is in such line.”
“As I soon discovered, for before I had time to say to Henslowe the
words, ‘To thy good health,’ as I drank, Jonson said, ‘And what cares
he for blood when wine will quench his thirst.’ Thus beginning with a
sly sneer at Tamburlaine.”
“He evidently considers Shakespere an imitator of the dead Marlowe,”
said Peele, looking at Marlowe.
“Not necessarily,” remarked Marlowe, “I hardly think that the passage
from Tamburlaine was in his mind. He had evidently just read the first
scene of Romeo and Juliet, where the prince rebukes his subjects
for quenching their rage ‘With purple fountains issuing from your
veins.’”[29]
“Ah! there it is again,” exclaimed Peele.
“Well, I paid no attention to Jonson, but addressed myself to Henslowe.
The upshot of the matter was that he wanted no more plays with plots
laid in foreign lands.”
“You are right,” interrupted Marlowe, “he is under Jonson’s influence.”
“Jonson had much to say in the conversation. At one time he asked me
if I did not think I was following too closely the ‘mighty lines’ of
Marlowe to ever be deemed anything more than a mere imitator, and
he whipped out this paper, which he said I might keep for future
reference, and as a warning that his eyes were open. He either knew
that what he had read of Romeo and Juliet was written by thee, Marlowe,
or he wanted no thefts to be made from his own plays. This is his
arraignment:
‘If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.’
--Romeo and Juliet, ii, 1.
Love moderately, long love doth so.
--Romeo and Juliet, ii, 6.
Love goes toward love.
--Romeo and Juliet, ii, 2.
And what love can do, that dares love attempt.
--Romeo and Juliet, ii, 2.
Whoever loved that loved not at first sight.
--Hero and Leander.
Love me little, love me long.
--Jew of Malta, iv.
With love and patience let your true love die.
--II Tamburlaine, ii, 4.
‘Poor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chief,
Whose works are e’en the frippery of wit,
From brockage is become so bold a thief,
As we, the robbed, leave rage, and pity it.’
* * * * *
He marks not whose ’twas first; and after-times
May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
Fool! as if half eyes will not know a fleece
From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole piece!
--Ben. Jonson.”
“Then following this exhibition, Jonson said, ’Thou hast not yet begun
to put thyself forward publicly as a dramatist, Mr. Shakespere, for I
notice that Titus Andronicus has been printed with no name of author on
the title page. Art thou afraid of acknowledging it? Edward II is also
out, but Marlowe’s name is on it’ [notes 27 and 28]. At this I turned
upon him and said, ‘I like not thy insinuations; and thy questions are
impertinent. It is too plain that this rejection of my play is due to
your influence. Some one is blind to his own interests, and that is
you, Henslowe.’ The latter did not stir, and I continued, ‘I know what
enormous profits have been reaped upon plays of this character, and
there are other theatrical managers, thank God! in London.’”
“Good,” exclaimed Peele.
“And what manager hadst thou in mind,” asked Marlowe.
“Myself,” said Shakespere, quietly.
“Thou!” exclaimed the others.
“Yes. I shall at once lease the Green Curtaine that is now closed, and
produce thy plays there, Marlowe. A fortune can soon be reaped from
such venture” [note 43].
At this moment the sound of a key turning in the lock of the door came
to their ears. It was Tamworth returning, they thought. Then, the door
swung back, and the figures of four men appeared at the open threshold
and crowded into the room.
DEATH TO THY CLIENT OR MINE.
_Go, wander, free from fear of tyrant’s rage,_
_Removed from the torments and the hell,_
_Wherewith he may excruciate thy soul._
--_I Tamburlaine, iii, 3._
_Go cross the seas,_
_And live with Richmond from the reach of hell._
_Go, hie thee, hie thee, from this slaughter house_
_Lest thou increase the number of the dead._
--_Richard III, iv, 1._
Although the jury had decided against Bame, their verdict had not
swayed his counsel, Eliot, in his opinion that the prisoner was
innocent and that there was still an avenue of escape. But this avenue
must be opened. The key would undoubtedly be found in newly discovered
evidence. None could be produced except that of the mysterious man who
was in the chantry with Bame. It might be that he had lost his life
amid the flames of the church, but Eliot was hopeful of the contrary.
As narrated, the barrister had sought this absent witness before the
trial, but without avail. Now, having procured a stay of the execution
of the sentence, pending proceedings for a new trial, he began an
exhaustive search. The sexton of the church stated that the door to the
burial plot had been locked on the night of the fire, and so had the
front entrance on the Old Jewry. There had been no other outer doors.
The windows had been too high for entrance and most difficult for exit.
Had there been any other passage way? The sexton knew of none. A search
was instituted for the body of the missing man. None was discovered in
the chantry, whose marble floor still remained intact. Here the matter
rested for a short time. What the searching party failed to discover, a
blundering workman brought to light. In clearing the ruins, he broke,
with a blow of his pick, a marble slab into a hundred pieces. This was
in the chancel and was the slab covering the passage to the Prince’s
wardrobe. Eliot was at once informed of the discovery, and he succeeded
in keeping the matter quiet while he placed a sleepless watcher at the
further end of the passage. The report was soon made to Eliot that some
stranger inhabited with Tamworth the apartments wherein the passageway
terminated. The reason of this stranger’s seclusion was not apparent;
but Eliot became fixed in his idea that the witness for Bame was within
reach. He laid his plans accordingly, and one evening he entered
the Red Lion ordinary on Cattes street, where he had been informed
that Tamworth was eating a late supper. Presuming upon a slight
acquaintance, Eliot accosted him and accepted his invitation to sit and
drink. Two men, who had closely followed him in, seated themselves at a
table at some distance directly behind him.
The barristers had been talking for some time on town and state
topics, and Tamworth had nearly finished his repast, when Eliot
suddenly dropped their discussion over a late rigorous enactment of
Parliament, and said:
“Who is the man who lives with you in the Prince’s Wardrobe?”
If a cocked pistol had been presented at the head of Tamworth by this
man who sat opposite him across the narrow table, it would have created
in his mind little, if any, more commotion. He lost his grasp on his
knife and fork and gazed fixedly at his fellow barrister. The latter’s
frame was joggled by a low explosion of satisfaction which sounded like
“Huh!”
He returned Tamworth’s gaze, and asked: “Well?”
“Pardon me,” said Tamworth, “I failed to hear your remark or question.
I just noticed the Duke of Essex drive by in his imported carriage.
Hark the cries you now hear are from workingmen cursing the patronage
of foreign manufacturers.”
“Are you sure it was not my question that disconcerted you?” asked
Eliot, with a smile.
“You are amusing,” returned Tamworth. “Do you not notice the open door
behind you? Look, and you will see the link lights borne above the
passing carriage.”
“That is of no importance,” responded Eliot. “There is little need to
ask again who is with thee at the wardrobe, for thy face shows that the
subject is of much concern.”
“There is no one with me there except on occasions when friends drop
in,” answered Tamworth, who had not recovered from the effect of
Eliot’s startling question. Then he asked with composure:
“Why do you ask?”
“Have you ever heard of Richard Bame?” returned Eliot.
“Yes,” answered Tamworth, feeling as though the table were sinking
under his elbows, “as I have heard of his late trial in the Old
Bailey. In what way is that name connected with the subject of our
conversation?”
“I am his counsel,” answered Eliot.
“And!--” ejaculated Tamworth.
“As such I am looking for the sole witness who can testify to his
innocence.”
“From the report of the trial,” said Tamworth, “I suppose that the man
you seek is the one who was within the lighted chantry, as seen by the
boy witness. Is it not more than probable that he did not escape from
the burning church?”
“He did escape,” interrupted Eliot, and with a face upon which a
knowing expression was displayed, he continued looking at Tamworth.
“Then why did the police not capture him?” inquired Tamworth, as though
the question were a poser.
“He did not pass out by the front entrance,” said Eliot.
“Ah, by a window, then? Or by the door into the church-yard.”
“Nay,” said Eliot, “his escape could possibly have been by such means
of exit, but there was another avenue for flight and he used it.”
“So,” exclaimed Tamworth, “this is interesting; go on!”
“Not as interesting as the recital would be to the ignorant,” said
Eliot, with voice which did not, like his expanded nostrils, give
evidence of his superior position in the discussion.
“What do you mean?” demanded Tamworth, indignantly.
“I have already gone too far,” answered Eliot. “May I accompany you to
your lodgings?”
Excellent actor though he was, Tamworth could not prevent his face
displaying the disconcertion of his mind. A pallid hue spread over his
forehead and cheeks. It was evident to him that either the keepers of
the building, of which he was a tenant, had been gossiping concerning
their suspicions that he was not alone in the chamber of the king, or
the workmen amid the ruins of the leveled church had discovered the
secret passage. In either case, was Eliot talking upon actual knowledge
that Marlowe was within the Prince’s Wardrobe, or was he seeking
for such knowledge? There was no doubt that Eliot had well founded
suspicions. In this state of mind, Tamworth answered:
“You say you have proceeded too far. If you mean in talk, it is idle
to dispute such assertion, for there is nothing yet to talk about; if,
on the contrary, you refer to the distance that you have come from your
home to this ordinary, there is still no answer necessary, for in the
latter case you speak truth.”
Eliot returned no answer, but looking over his shoulder, motioned to
the two men who had followed him in and were seated at a distant table.
They seemed on the alert for this signal, for they immediately arose
and came toward him. They were attired in the garb of the police, or
watchmen, only upon this occasion they wore short swords instead of
carrying halberds, and a heavy pistol was strapped to the waist of
each. Tamworth saw them approach, and attempting a smile, he asked
Eliot:
“What does this mean?”
“Oh, not for thee, most assuredly,” answered Eliot. “I asked if I
might go with you to your quarters. The purpose is to find the man who
was with Bame in the church of St. Olave. The secret passageway was
discovered a few days ago, and it has been explored to the heavy door
which closes it, and which I have ascertained is directly below your
windows. I also know that a man answering to Bame’s description of his
companion on that eventful night is one of the occupants of the king’s
ancient chamber. We have fair information as to just how the corridors
run and the rooms are located, and could proceed without thee. You
will come with us, will you not?”
During this recital Tamworth’s face became the picture of despair, and
at the close he exclaimed, decidedly, “Not one step!”
“Then we go alone, and shall use force if necessary.”
“At your peril,” responded Tamworth, “I do not propose to have my home
ransacked on such frivolous pretext. And, again, you have no warrant
for such proposed outrage.”
“Here is the search warrant,” said one of the officers, displaying the
writ.
At this exhibition, Tamworth was taken aback. “So,” he said, losing his
repellent front, and speaking lower, “You have armed yourselves, have
you? Well, we will go.”
There was still a chance that the search would not reveal the presence
of Marlowe. The clock marked the hour of eleven. It was more than
probable that his friend would be securely shut in the oratory, the
existence of which was surely not yet suspected. In any case there was
but one course to avert suspicion, and Tamworth arose and passed out
of the ordinary with the three men. The distance between the Red Lion
and the Prince’s Wardrobe was soon covered. A few moments after, they
had traversed the long upper corridor of the ancient building, and were
standing at the closed entrance to the king’s chamber. A round autumn
moon was riding through the heavens, and its bright light poured
through the near window of the corridor.
Tamworth unlocked the door and threw it open. The brass lamp under the
dragon’s head shed its radiance into every corner of the inviting room.
The three strangers gazed in amazement at the unexpected display of
richness and splendor. Tamworth threw his open hands forcibly against
his head and shut his eyes with their palms, to hide a vision that
filled him with direct apprehension of evil. Peele, Shakespere and
Marlowe were seated under the great lamp and about the massive center
table!
The disturbed occupants of the apartment had arisen at sight of the
strangers, and gazed in astonishment at Tamworth, who now entered in
advance of the others. He said calmly, but distinctly enough for every
one to hear: “These men have forced themselves upon me and into this
room for the purpose of learning if the man is here who entered the
church of St. Olave on the night of its destruction.”
“And there he is,” exclaimed Eliot, pointing at Marlowe.
Several voices gave utterance to conflicting statements, so that it was
impossible to distinguish their substance or force; and then Marlowe
asked: “And what is wanted of me, if I am the man?”
Tamworth turned about, and, reaching the door, slammed it shut. Eliot
regarded this movement with suspicion, and noticing it, Tamworth said:
“This disturbance should be confined to closed walls.”
“There is to be none,” responded Eliot.
“And so I pray,” answered Tamworth; “for is not the purpose of thy
entrance accomplished?”
“Not fully,” answered Eliot, and then addressing Marlowe: “I must have
thy written and sworn statement of the events of the night you stood
with Bame in the chantry of the church.”
“For what purpose?” demanded Marlowe.
“To save an innocent man from the gallows.”
“Of whom dost thou speak?”
“Of Bame,” answered Eliot.
“Never!” came the response of several voices.
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed Marlowe, “if one unjustly accused may be saved by
such simple means, I will give it. Is this all?”
“For the present,” answered Eliot. “Thy affidavit is sufficient for my
immediate purpose; but later thou must appear as a witness upon a new
trial of Bame, if the same shall be granted.”
“And for what has he been tried?” asked Marlowe.
“For the burglary of the church.”
“A false accusation,” exclaimed Marlowe.
“Good!” responded Eliot.
“And who here has authority to take the oath which must be affixed to
the statement of thy proposed witness?” inquired Tamworth.
“That is a matter easily attended to,” answered Eliot. “A justice is
not far distant. We can attend before him; or if you prefer, send one
of your friends for him. Here is the statement.”
Throwing back his heavy cloak with these words, the barrister drew from
his pocket a white roll. He then thrust his gloves under his belt, and
spread out the paper upon the table.
“Have you a quill and ink here?” he asked.
“I have,” answered Tamworth, “but what is the character of this written
statement?”
“See for thyself; and you,” he continued, directing his eyes upon
Peele, “can you not go to the justice at the corner of this street and
the Poultry, and bring him here, or if he refuses to stir abroad at
this late hour, demand that he light his candle and wait our presence?”
“You are in haste,” remarked Tamworth, “and not at all diffident in
making requests of strangers.”
“There is occasion for it.”
“We certainly prefer the justice to attend here,” said Peele, “but why
not send one of these watchmen?”
“They may not be as persuasive as a man of dignified bearing,” returned
Eliot, bowing slightly.
“Well, Peele,” said Tamworth, “a word with you.”
He drew him and Shakespere into the distant alcove.
“Is the situation serious?” asked Peele.
“Not so far as immediate results are concerned, unless the justice
knows and recognizes Marlowe. It is evident that Eliot never saw him
before, but thinks he fills Bame’s description of the man who was with
him in St. Olave. All that he can demand now is an affidavit. They have
no power to take him into custody.”
“Unless by unlawful force,” suggested Peele.
“True,” answered Tamworth, “but the danger lies in the future. The
order, upon Eliot’s motion for a new trial, may be made to-morrow,
and Marlowe would be detained as a witness. Further concealment here,
except for the night, is hopeless. There is no safety for him in
London. He must leave for the continent before twenty-four hours have
passed over his head.”
“And now, what?” asked Peele.
“There is no occasion for either of you remaining here, and you must
leave as though in answer to Eliot’s request to call the justice, whom
we do not want here. His presence might be fatal. If you do not depart
on this pretense, a watchman may be sent. In the tedious delay which
will ensue, I shall find time to outwit this presumptuous barrister
and his watchmen. Repair to Shakespere’s quarters and there await our
coming.”
The three came forth from behind the portieres.
“Well,” remarked Eliot, quietly, “what is the result of this
uncalled-for conference?”
His manner of looking at Tamworth, more than his words, showed that
their withdrawal had raised his suspicions.
“Peele will go for the justice,” said Tamworth.
“And I with him,” continued Shakespere.
“So,” said Eliot, “I have no desire to break up this family meeting;
but if you will have it that way, it is well.”
“Midnight is not an early hour for departure,” said one of the group.
The two men had departed when Tamworth began reading aloud for his own
and Marlowe’s benefit the paper unrolled upon the table. At the head
was the customary title of court and cause with venue following. Then
came the pronoun “I,” with a blank space for the insertion of a name.
It was evident that Eliot had not placed any faith in Bame’s statement
that this man was Christopher Marlowe. Cases of mistaken identity were
not of infrequent occurrence, and this was evidently one; but whatever
his name might be, he was none the less the witness upon whom Bame’s
cause depended. Such had been the reasoning of the barrister while
drawing the paper. Tamworth finished his reading. It was the true
recital of the night’s events, but Tamworth shook his head impressively
and then asked:
“Upon this you hope for a re-trial?”
“Most assuredly,” answered Eliot.
“And upon such trial, expect my noble friend to appear?”
“How else could it be accomplished?” answered the other, in amazement,
and then, as though a seed of fear had grown into gigantic form within
him, he straightened himself up and said, sententiously: “And I
demand thy assurance of his presence when required--thy assurance as a
lawyer--or he must be taken into custody.”
“Thy closing threat is a mockery of law,” said Tamworth quietly. “With
neither the warrant for his seizure, nor the justifiable ground of a
crime committed in the presence of an officer, we may laugh at thy
proposed action.”
“Laugh or not,” said Eliot, in measured tones, “we will await the
coming of the justice.” And then, looking at Marlowe, he suddenly
asked: “And now what is thy name?”
“We will wait for the justice, as you suggest,” interrupted Tamworth,
apparently not noticing the question. Then he nodded to Marlowe, who
was showing signs of agitation, and the two moved to the wall beyond
which lay the secret oratory.
“We must strike at once,” whispered Tamworth.
“Aye,” murmured Marlowe, “but how?”
“The oratory is thine only refuge for the present. Later I will tell my
plans.”
“The ink!” demanded Eliot, in loud voice, and then almost inaudibly he
spoke to one of the watchmen: “Guard the stairs. Stand there near the
railing.”
Tamworth whispered once more in the ear of his friend: “Remain here
ready to act.”
At the same time he pointed to the spot where, behind the tapestry, the
entrance to the oratory was concealed. Marlowe nodded his head, and
then Tamworth crossed the room to a desk in the alcove. He returned
with an inkhorn. His plan of action had been clearly conceived and he
was about to attempt its execution. He and his companion could have
adopted violent means, for with their swords they were more than a
match for Eliot and the watchmen; but in the train of such violence,
complete and irretrievable disaster might follow. Such attack was not
to be made unless all other efforts failed.
As Tamworth handed the inkhorn to Eliot, he stepped upon a chair
beside him and then on the table. The movement was so sudden that none
understood his purpose, until he had raised the lamp bodily from its
suspended basket. He was about to extinguish its flame but before it
could be accomplished, Eliot, who was still sitting beside the table,
grabbed with both arms the legs which stood before him. The attempt to
extinguish the flame failed; Tamworth, with a cry, lost his balance,
and as he fell he threw his blazing burden toward the empty fire-place.
A wave of black smoke followed its course across the room and
then--darkness. Not a spark of light shone anywhere. Marlowe would fain
have waited to learn the culmination of the train of action thus set in
motion, but he knew that every move had been for his benefit; and so,
as darkness enveloped him, he drew back the tapestry and pressed upon
a mullion of the walled window. It was not the one he wanted. He felt
again and ran his hands across the entire surface. Ah! he had it, and
the wall moved; but at that instant, which was but the second instant
in the flight of time since darkness had descended, a sword of light
flashed upward from the chimney-place, and instantaneously a violent
explosion shook the room. Flaming oil shot outward from the chimney for
a distance of twenty feet. It ran like snakes with flashing and darting
tongues along every exposed seam of the ancient floor. It curled around
the splendid supports of the mantel. It fastened its destroying fangs
in the scattered pieces of oriental carpet, and crawled over and fed
upon the unconscious form of the man who had met his death in his
efforts to save his friend. There he lay where he had fallen with face
upward on the hearth-stone. How the black smoke was rising from the
burning oil! Everything inanimate and unconscious within the king’s
chamber, nay, within the ancient palace, was doomed.
Eliot and the watchman fled through the open door and the smoke
followed them, as though thus seeing an exit for its increasing volume.
Marlowe, still holding to the folds of the tapestry, which he had
grasped as the explosion swayed his body, cried loudly, “Tamworth,
Tamworth!”
There was no answer. He staggered from his place, reached the center
table, circled it, and the flames leaped at his feet and drove him
backward. His heel struck the raised marble of the first of the
descended steps of the stairway, and the heat filled his nostrils.
He turned and, hiding his face in his hands, groped his way down
the secret stairway, threw open its narrow door and passed into the
darkness.