DOOM
When Marcian parted from Veranilda in the peristyle, and watched her as
she ascended to her chamber, he knew that sombre exultation which
follows upon triumph in evil. Hesitancies were now at end; no longer
could he be distracted between two desires. In his eye, as it pursued
the beauty for which he had damned himself, glowed the fire of an
unholy joy. Not without inner detriment had Marcian accustomed himself
for years to wear a double face; though his purpose had been pure, the
habit of assiduous perfidy, of elaborate falsehood, could not leave his
soul untainted. A traitor now for his own ends, he found himself moving
in no unfamiliar element, and, the irrevocable words once uttered, he
thrilled with defiance of rebuke. All the persistency of the man
centred itself upon the achievement of this crime, to him a crime no
longer from the instant that he had irreversibly willed it.
On fire to his finger-tips, he could yet reason with the coldest
clarity of thought. Having betrayed his friend thus far, he must needs
betray him to the extremity of traitorhood; must stand face to face
with him in the presence of the noble Totila, and accuse him even as he
had done to Veranilda. Only thus, as things had come about, could he
assure himself against the fear that Totila, in generosity, or policy,
or both, might give the Amal-descended maid to Basil. To defeat Basil's
love was his prime end, jealousy being more instant with him than
fleshly impulse. Yet so strong had this second motive now become, that
he all but regretted his message to the king: to hold Veranilda in his
power, to gratify his passion sooner or later, by this means or by
that, he would perhaps have risked all the danger to which such
audacity exposed him. But Marcian was not lust-bitten quite to madness.
For the present, enough to ruin the hopes of Basil. This done, the
field for his own attempt lay open. By skilful use of his advantages,
he might bring it to pass that Totila would grant him a supreme
reward--the hand of Veranilda.
Unless, indeed, the young king, young and warm-blooded however noble of
mind, should himself look upon Veranilda with a lover's eyes. It was
not the first time that Marcian had thought of this. It made him wince.
But he reminded himself that herein lay another safeguard against the
happiness of Basil, and so was able to disregard the fear.
He would let his victim repose during the heat of the day, and then,
towards evening, would summon her to another interview. Not much longer
could he hope to be with her in privacy; to-morrow, or the next day at
latest, emissaries of the Gothic king would come in response to his
letter. But this evening he should speak with her, gaze upon her, for a
long, long hour. She was gentle, meek, pious; in everything the
exquisite antithesis of such a woman as Heliodora. Out of very humility
she allowed herself to believe that Basil had ceased to love her. How
persuade her, against the pure loyalty of her heart, that he had even
plotted her surrender to an unknown fate? What proof of that could he
devise? Did he succeed in overcoming her doubts, would he not have gone
far towards winning her gratitude?
She would shed tears again; it gave him a nameless pleasure to see
Veranilda weep.
Thinking thus, he strayed aimlessly and unconsciously in courts and
corridors. Night would come again, and could he trust himself through
the long, still night after long speech with Veranilda? A blacker
thought than any he had yet nurtured began to stir in his mind, raising
its head like the viper of an hour ago. Were she but his--his
irredeemably? He tried to see beyond that, but his vision blurred.
Her nature was gentle, timid; the kind of nature, he thought, which
subdues itself to the irreparable. So soft, so sweet, so utterly woman,
might she not, thinking herself abandoned by Basil, yield heart and
soul to a man whom she saw helpless to resist a passionate love of her?
Or, if this hope deceived him, was there no artifice with which to
cover his ill-doing, no piece of guile subtle enough to cloak such
daring infamy?
He was in the atrium, standing on the spot where first he had talked
with her. As then, he gazed at the bronze group of the candelabrum; his
eyes were fixed on those of Proserpine.
A slave entered and announced to him a visit from one of the priests
whom he was going to see when the meeting at the bridge changed his
purpose. The name startled him. Was this man sent by God? He bade
introduce the visitor, and in a moment there entered a white-bearded,
shoulder-bowed ecclesiastic, perspiring from the sunshine, who greeted
him with pleasant cordiality. This priest it was--he bore the name
Gaudiosus--who had baptized Marcian, and had given him in childhood
religious teaching; a good, but timid man, at all times readier to
praise than to reprove, a well-meaning utterer of smooth things,
closing his eyes to evil, which confused rather than offended him. From
the same newsbearer, who told him of Marcian's arrival at the villa,
Gaudiosus had heard of a mysterious lady; but it was far from his
thought to meddle with the morals of one whose noble birth and
hereditary position of patron inspired him with respect; he came only
to gossip about the affairs of the time. They sat down together,
Marcian glad of the distraction. But scarce had they been talking for
five minutes, when again the servant presented himself.
'What now?' asked his master impatiently.
'My lord, at the gate is the lord Basil.'
Marcian started up.
'Basil? How equipped and attended?'
'Armed, on horseback, and with a number of armed horsemen.'
'Withdraw, and wait outside till I call you.'
Marcian turned to the presbyter. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes
strangely bright.
'Here,' he said, in low, hurried tones, 'comes an evil man, a deep-dyed
traitor, with the aspect of friendliest integrity. I am glad you are
with me. I have no leisure now to tell you the story; you shall hear it
afterwards. What I ask of you, reverend father, is to bear me out in
all I say, to corroborate, if asked to do so, all I state to him. You
may rely upon the truth of every word I shall utter; and may be assured
that, in doing this, you serve only the cause of good. Let it not
surprise you that I receive the man with open arms. He was my dear
friend; I have only of late discovered his infamy, and for the gravest
reasons, which you shall learn, I am obliged to mask my knowledge.
Beloved father, you will give me your countenance?'
'I will, I will,' replied Gaudiosus nervously. 'You would not deceive
me, I well know, dear son.'
'God forbid!'
Marcian summoned the waiting servant, and ordered that the traveller
should be straightway admitted. A few minutes passed in absolute
silence, then, as the two stood gazing towards the entrance, they saw
the gleam of a casque and of a breastplate, and before them stood
Basil. His arms extended, Marcian stepped forward.
'So soon, O brave Basil!' he exclaimed. 'What speed you must have made!
How long is it since my letter reached you?'
There passed the semblance of an embrace between them. Basil was death
pale; he spoke in hollow tones, as though his tongue were parched, and
looked with bloodshot eyes from Marcian to the ecclesiastic.
'I am travel-worn. Your hospitality must restore me.'
'That it shall,' replied Marcian. 'Or, better still,' he added, 'the
hospitality of my father Gaudiosus.' He touched the priest's arm, as if
affectionately. 'For here there is little solace; barely one chamber
habitable. You have often heard me describe, O Basil, my poor, ruinous
island villa, and now at length you behold it. I did not think you
would pass this way, or I would have prepared for your fitting
reception. By the greatest chance you find me here; and to-morrow I
must be gone. But scarce two thousand paces from here is the dwelling
of this reverend man, who will entertain you fittingly, and give you
the care you need; for it seems to me, dear Basil, that you are more
than wearied.'
The listener nodded, and let himself drop upon a seat near to where
Marcian was standing.
'What have you to tell me?' he asked under his breath.
'Nothing good, alas!' was the murmured reply.
'Shall we speak in private?'
'Nay, it is needless. All my secrets lie open to Gaudiosus.'
Again Basil cast a glance at the presbyter, who had seated himself and
appeared to be absorbed in thought.
'Do you mean,' he asked, 'that something new has befallen?'
His eyes were upon Marcian, and Marcian's upon those of Proserpine.
'Yes, something new. The deacon of whom you know has left Rome,
accompanying the Pope on his journey eastward. And with him he has
taken--'
A name was shaped upon the speaker's lips, but whether of purpose, or
because his voice failed him, it found no utterance.
'Veranilda?'
As Basil spoke, his eye was caught by the movement of a curtain at the
back of the room. The curtain was pushed aside, and there appeared the
figure of a maiden, pale, beautiful. Marcian did not see her, nor yet
did the priest.
'Veranilda?' repeated Basil, in the same questioning tone. He leaned
forward, his hand upon his wrist.
'She--alas!' was Marcian's reply.
'Liar! traitor! devil!'
At each word, Basil's dagger drank blood up to the hilt. With his
furious voice blended a yell of terror, of agony, a faint cry of horror
from Gaudiosus, and a woman's scream. Then came silence.
The priest dropped to his knees by Marcian's prostrate form. Basil, the
stained weapon in his crimson hand, stared at Veranilda, who also had
fallen.
'Man! What hast thou done?' gasped Gaudiosus.
The trembling, senile tones wakened Basil as if from a trance. He
thrust his dagger into its sheath, stepped to the back of the room, and
bent over the white loveliness that lay still.
'Is it death?' he murmured.
'Death! death!' answered the priest, who had just heard Marcian's last
sob.
'I speak not of that perjured wretch,' said Basil. 'Come hither.'
Gaudiosus obeyed, and looked with wonder at the unconscious face.
'Who is this?' he asked.
'No matter who. Does she live?'
Basil had knelt, and taken one of the little hands in both his own,
staining it with the blood of Marcian.
'I can feel no throb of life,' he said, speaking coldly, mechanically.
The priest bent, and put his cheek to her lips.
'She lives. This is but a swoon. Help me to bear her to the couch.'
But Basil took the slender body in his arms, and carried it like that
of a child. When he had laid it down, he looked at Gaudiosus sternly.
'Have you authority in this house?'
'Some little, perhaps. I know not. What is your will?'
Utterly confounded, his eyes dropping moisture, his limbs shaken as if
with palsy, the priest babbled his reply.
'Use any power you have,' continued Basil, 'to prevent more bloodshed.
Outside the gates are men of mine. Bid the porter admit them to the
outer court. Then call thither two servants, and let them bear away
_that_--whither you will. After, you shall hear more.'
Like an obedient slave, Gaudiosus sped on his errand. Basil the while
stood gazing at Veranilda; but he did not go very near to her, and his
look had nothing of tenderness. He saw the priest return, followed by
two men, heard him whisper to them, saw them take up and carry away
their master's corpse; all this as if it did not regard him. Again he
turned his gaze upon Veranilda. It seemed to him that her lips, her
eyelids moved. He bent forward, heard a sigh. Then the blue eyes
opened, but as yet saw nothing.
Gaudiosus reappeared, and Basil beckoned him.
'You do not know her?' he asked in a low voice.
'I never looked upon her face till now,' was the reply.
At the sound of their voices Veranilda stirred, tried to rouse herself,
uttered a sound of distress.
'Speak to her,' said Basil.
Gaudiosus approached the couch, and spoke soothing words.
'What dreadful thought is this?' said Veranilda. 'What have I seen?'
The priest whispered an adjuration to prayer. But she, raising her
head, cast terrified glances about the hall. Basil had moved further
away, and she did not seem to be aware of his presence.
'How long is it,' he asked, with his eyes upon Gaudiosus, 'since
Marcian came from Rome?'
'This is the fourth day. So I have been told. I myself saw him for the
first time not an hour--nay, not half an hour ago.'
'You knew not that he brought _her_ with him?'
Basil, without looking in that direction, signalled with his head
towards Veranilda.
'I had heard of some companion unnamed.'
'He had not spoken of her to you?'
'Not a word.'
On the tesselated floor where Marcian had fallen was a pool of blood.
Basil only now perceived it, and all at once a violent shudder went
over him.
'Man of God!' he exclaimed in a voice of sudden passion, terribly
resonant after the dull, hard accents of his questioning. 'You look
upon me with abhorrence, and, perhaps, with fear. Hearken to my
vindication. He whom I have slain was the man I held in dearest
friendship. I believed him true to the heart's core. Yesterday--was it
but yesterday?--O blessed Christ!--it seems to me so long ago--I
learned that his heart was foul with treachery. Long, long, he has lied
to me, pretending to seek with me for one I had lost, my plighted love.
In secret he robbed me of her. Heard you not his answer when, to catch
the lie on his very lips, I asked what news he could give me of her. I
knew that she was here; his own servant had secretly avowed the truth
to me. And you heard him say that she was gone on far travel. Therefore
it was that he would not harbour me in his house--me, his friend. In
the name of the Crucified, did I not well to lay him low?'
Somewhat recovered from the emotions which had enfeebled him, Gaudiosus
held up his head, and made solemn answer.
'Not yours was it to take vengeance. The God to whom you appeal has
said: "Thou shalt do no murder."'
'Consider his crime,' returned the other. 'In the moment when he swore
falsely I lifted up my eyes, and behold, she herself stood before me.
She whom I loved, who had pledged herself to me, who long ago would
have been my wife but for the enemy who came between us--she, hidden
here with him, become a wanton in his embraces--'
A low cry of anguish interrupted him. He turned. Veranilda had risen
and drawn near.
'Basil! You know not what you say.'
'Nor what I _could_ say,' he replied, his eyes blazing with scorn.
'You, who were truth itself have you so well learned to lie? Talk on.
Tell me that he held you here perforce, and that you passed the days
and the nights in weeping. Have I not heard of your smiles and your
contentment? Whither did you stray this morning? Did you go into the
wood to say your orisons?'
Veranilda turned to the priest.
'Servant of God I Hear me, unhappy that I am!'
With a gesture of entreaty she flung out her hands, and, in doing so,
saw that one of them was red. Her woebegone look changed to terror.
'What is this? His blood is upon me--on my hand, my garment. When did I
touch him? Holy father, whither has he gone? Does he live? Oh, tell me
if he lives!'
'Come hence with me,' said Gaudiosus. 'Come where I may hear you utter
the truth before God.'
But Veranilda was as one distraught. She threw herself on to her knees.
'Tell me he lives. He is but sorely hurt? He can speak? Whither have
they carried him?'
Confirmed in his damning thought by every syllable she uttered, Basil
strode away.
'Lead her where you will,' he shouted. 'I stay under this abhorred roof
only till my men have eaten and taken rest.'
Without knowing it, he had stepped into the pool of blood, and a red
track was left behind him as he went forth from the hall.