Front matter (continued 4)

We have taken to calling the place the Green Room, and here on the occasion of a performance of Mr. Webster's "Duchess of Malfy," in which You, dear Mistress, had no part, a very brilliant Company was assembled. Sir William Davenant was there, as a matter of course, so was Sir George Etherege, and that brilliant young dramatist Mr. Wycherley. In addition to that, there were one or two very great Gentlemen there, members of the Court Circle and enthusiastic Playgoers, who were also intimate Friends of Mr. Betterton. I am referring particularly to the Duke of Buckingham, to my Lord Rochester, Lord Orrery and others. A brilliant Assembly forsooth, which testified to the high Esteem in which the great Artist is held by all those who have the privilege of knowing him.

I told You that when first the Name of the Lady Barbara was mentioned in the Green Room, a strange Glance, which I was unable to interpret, shot out of Mr. Betterton's eyes, and as I gazed upon that subtle, impalpable Change which suddenly transformed his serene Expression of Countenance into one that was almost Evil, I felt a curious sinking of the Heart—a dread Premonition of what was to come. You know how his lips are ever ready to smile: now they appeared thin and set, while the sensitive Nostrils quivered almost like those of the wild Beasts which we have all of us frequently watched in the Zoological Gardens, when the Attendants bring along the food for the day and they, eager and hungry, know that the Hour of Satisfaction is nigh.

"The fair Lady Babs," one of the young Gallants was saying with studied Flippancy, "is more beautiful than ever, methinks; even though she goes about garbed in the Robes of Sorrow."

"Poor young thing!" commented His Grace of Buckingham kindly. "She has been hard hit in that last Affair."

"I wonder what has happened to Wychwoode," added Lord Rochester, who had been a known Friend of Lord Douglas.

"Oh! he reached Holland safely enough," another Gentleman whom I did not know averred. "I suppose he thinks that it will all blow over presently and that he will obtain a free pardon——"

"Like my Lord Stour," commented Mr. Betterton drily.

"Oh! that's hardly likely," interposed Sir George Etherege. "Wychwoode was up to the neck in the Conspiracy, whilst Stour was proved to be innocent of the whole affair."

"How do you know that?" Mr. Betterton asked quietly.

"How do I know it?" retorted Sir George. "Why? ... How do we all know it?"

"I was wondering," was Mr. Betterton's calm Rejoinder.

"I imagine," broke in another Gentleman, "that at the Trial——"

"Stour never stood his trial, now you come to think of it," here interposed my Lord of Rochester.

"He was granted a free Pardon," asserted His Grace of Buckingham, "two days after his Arrest."

"At the Instance of the Countess of Castlemaine, so I am told," concluded Mr. Betterton.

You see, he only put in a Word here and there, but always to some purpose; and oh! that Purpose I simply dared not guess. I was watching him, remember, watching him as only a devoted Friend or a fond Mother know how to watch; and I saw that set look on his Face grow harder and harder and a steely, glittering Light flash out of his Eyes.

My God! how I suffered! For with that Intuition which comes to us at times when those whom we love are in deadly peril, I had suddenly beheld the Abyss of Evil into which my Friend was about to plunge headlong. Yes! I understood now why Mr. Betterton had pleaded with my Lady Castlemaine for his Enemy's Life. It was not in order to confer upon him a lasting benefit and thus shame him by his Magnanimity; but rather in order to do him an Injury so irreparable that even Death could not wipe it away.

But you shall judge, dear Mistress; and thus judging You will understand much that has been so obscure in my dear Friend's Character and in his Actions of late. And to understand All is to forgive All. One thing you must remember, however, and that is that no Man of Mr. Betterton's Worth hath ever suffered in his Pride and his innermost Sensibilities as he hath done at the Hands of that young Jackanapes whom he hated—as I had good cause to know now—with an Intensity which was both cruel and relentless. He meant to be even with him, to fight him with his own Weapons, which were those of Contempt and of Ridicule. He meant to wound there, where he himself had suffered most, in Reputation and in Self-Respect.

I saw it all, and was powerless to do aught save to gaze in mute Heart-Agony on the marring of a noble Soul. Nay! I am not ashamed to own it: I did in my Heart condemn my Friend for what he had set out to do. I too hated Lord Stour, God forgive me! but two months ago I would gladly have seen his arrogant Head fall upon the Scaffold; but this subtle and calculating Revenge, this cold Intrigue to ruin a Man's Reputation and to besmirch his Honour, was beyond my ken, and I could have wept to see the great Soul of the Man, whom I admired most in all the World, a prey to such an evil Purpose.

"We all know," one of the young Sparks was saying even now, "that my Lady Castlemaine showed Stour marked favour from the very moment he appeared at Court."

"We also know," added Mr. Betterton with quiet Irony, "that the whisper of a beautiful Woman often drowns the loudest call of Honour."

"But surely you do not think——?" riposted Lord Rochester indignantly, "that—that——"

"That what, my lord?" queried Mr. Betterton calmly.

"Why, demme, that Stour did anything dishonourable?"

"Why should I not think that?" retorted Mr. Betterton, with a slight Elevation of the Eyebrows.

"Because he is a Stourcliffe of Stour, Sir," broke in Sir George Etherege in that loud, blustering way he hath at times; "and bears one of the greatest Names in the Land."

"A great Name is hereditary, Sir," rejoined the great Actor quietly. "Honesty is not."

"But what does Lady Castlemaine say about it all?" interposed Lord Orrery.

"Lady Castlemaine hath not been questioned on the subject, I imagine," interposed Sir William Davenant drily.

"Ah!" rejoined His Grace of Buckingham. "There you are wrong, Davenant. I remember speaking to her Ladyship about Stour one day—saying how glad I was that he, at any rate, had had nothing to do with that abominable Affair."

"Well?" came eagerly from every one. "What did she say?"

His Grace remained thoughtful for a time, as if trying to recollect Something that was eluding his Memory. Then he said, turning to Mr. Betterton:

"Why, Tom, you were there at the time. Do You recollect? It was at one of Her Ladyship's Supper Parties. His Majesty was present. We all fell to talking about the Conspiracy, and the King said some very bitter things. Then I thought I would say something about Stour. You remember?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Mr. Betterton.

"What did Lady Castlemaine say?"

"I don't think she said anything. Methinks she only laughed."

"So she did!" assented His Grace; "and winked at You, you Rogue! I recollect the Circumstance perfectly now, though I attached no importance to it at the time. But I can see it all before me. His Majesty frowned and continued to look glum, whilst the Countess of Castlemaine vowed with a laugh that, anyway, my lord Stour was the handsomest Gentleman in London, and that 'twere a pity to allow such a beautiful Head to fall on the Scaffold."

"It certainly sounds very strange," mused my Lord Rochester, and fell to talking in Whispers with Sir George Etherege, whilst His Grace of Buckingham went and sat down beside Mr. Betterton, and obviously started to discuss the Incident of the Supper Party all over again with the great Actor. Other isolated Groups also formed themselves, and I knew that my Lord Stour's Name was on every one's lips.

Traducement and Gossip is Meat and Drink to all these noble and distinguished Gentlemen, and here they had something to talk about, which would transcend in Scandal anything that had gone before. The story about my Lord Stour would spread with the Rapidity which only evil-loving Tongues can give. Alas! my poor Friend knew that well enough when he shot his poisoned Arrows into the Air. I was watching him whilst His Grace of Buckingham conversed with him: I saw the feverishly keen look in his eyes as he, in his turn, watched the Ball of Slander and Gossip being tossed about from one Group to another. He said but little, hardly gave Answer to His Grace; but I could see that he was on the alert, ready with other little poisoned Darts whenever he saw Signs of weakening in the Volume of Backbiting, which he had so deliberately set going.

"I liked Stour and I admired him," Lord Rochester said at one time. "I could have sworn that Nature herself had written 'honest man' on his face."

"Ah!——" interposed Mr. Betterton, with that quiet Sarcasm which I had learned to dread. "Nature sometimes writes with a very bad Pen."

3

It was not to be wondered at that the Scandal against my Lord Stour, which was started in the Green Room of the Theatre, grew in Magnitude with amazing Rapidity. I could not tell you, dear Mistress, what my innermost feelings were in regard to the Matter: being an humble and ignorant Clerk and devoted to the one Man to whom I owe everything that makes life pleasing. I had neither the Wish nor the mental Power to tear my Heart to Pieces, in order to find out whether it beat in Sympathy with my Friend, or with the Victim of such a complete and deadly Revenge.

My Lord Stour was not then in London. He too, like many of his Friends—notably the Marquis of Sidbury and others not directly accused of Participation in the aborted Plot—had retired to his Country Estate, probably unwilling to witness the gaieties of City Life, while those he cared for most were in such dire Sorrow. But now that the Lady Barbara and her Father were once more in Town, there was little doubt that he too would return there presently. Since he was a free Man, and Lord Douglas Wychwoode had succeeded in evading the Law, there was no doubt that the natural Elasticity of Youth coupled with the prospect of the happy future which lay before him, would soon enable him to pick up the Threads of Life, there where they had been so unexpectedly and ruthlessly entangled.

I imagine that when his Lordship first arrived in Town and once more established himself in the magnificent Mansion in Canon's Row which I had bitter cause to know so well, he did not truly visualize the Atmosphere of brooding Suspicion which encompassed him where e'er he went. If he did notice that one or two of his former Friends did give him something of a cold shoulder, I believe that he would attribute this more to political than to personal Reasons. He had undoubtedly been implicated in a Conspiracy which was universally condemned for its Treachery and Disloyalty, and no doubt for a time he would have to bear the brunt of public Condemnation, even though the free Pardon, which had so unexpectedly been granted him, proved that he had been more misguided than really guilty.

His Arrival in London, his Appearance in Public Places, his obvious ignorance of the Cloud which was hanging over his fair Name, were the subject of constant Discussion and Comment in the Green Room of the Theatre as well as elsewhere. And I take it that his very Insouciance, the proud Carelessness wherewith he met the cold Reception which had been granted him, would soon have got over the scandalous tale which constant Gossip alone kept alive, except that one tongue—and one alone—never allowed that Gossip to rest.

And that Tongue was an eloquent as well as a bitter one, and more cunning than even I could ever have believed.

How oft in the Green Room, in the midst of a brilliant Company, have I listened to the flippant talk of gay young Sparks, only to hear it drifting inevitably toward the Subject of my Lord Stour, and of that wholly unexplainable Pardon, which had left him a free Man, whilst all his former Associates had either perished as Traitors, or were forced to lead the miserable life of an Exile, far from Home, Kindred and Friends.

Drifting, did I say? Nay, the Talk was invariably guided in that direction by the unerring Voice of a deeply outraged Man who, at last, was taking his Revenge. A word here, an Insinuation there, a witty Remark or a shrug of the shoulders, and that volatile sprite, Public Opinion, would veer back from any possible doubt or leniency to the eternally unanswered Riddle: "When so many of his Friends perished upon the Scaffold, how was it that my Lord Stour was free?"

How it had come about I know not, but it is certain that very soon it became generally known that his Lordship had been entrusted by his Friends with the distribution of Manifestos which were to rally certain Waverers to the cause of the Conspirators. And it was solemnly averred that it was in consequence of a Copy of this same Manifesto, together with a list of prominent Names, coming into the hands of my Lady Castlemaine, that so many Gentlemen were arrested and executed, and my Lord Stour had been allowed to go scot-free.

How could I help knowing that this last Slander had emanated from the Green Room, with the object of laying the final stone to the edifice of Calumnies, which was to crush an Enemy's Reputation and fair Fame beyond the hope of Retrieval?

4

A day or two later my Lord Stour, walking with a Friend in St. James's Park, came face to face with Mr. Betterton, who had Sir William Davenant and the Duke of Albemarle with him as well as one or two other Gentlemen, whilst he leaned with his wonted kindness and familiarity on my arm. Mr. Betterton would, I think, have passed by; but my Lord Stour, ignoring him as if he were dirt under aristocratic feet, stopped with ostentatious good-will to speak with the General.

But his Grace did in truth give the young Lord a very cold shoulder and Sir William Davenant, equally ostentatiously, started to relate piquant Anecdotes to young Mr. Harry Wordsley, who was just up from the country.

I saw my Lord Stour's handsome face darken with an angry frown. For awhile he appeared to hesitate as to what he should do, then with scant Ceremony he took the Duke of Albemarle by the coat-sleeve and said hastily:

"My Lord Duke, You and my Father fought side by side on many occasions. Now, I like not your Attitude towards me. Will you be pleased to explain?"

The General tried to evade him, endeavoured to disengage his coat-sleeve, but my Lord Stour was tenacious. A kind of brooding Obstinacy sat upon his good-looking face, and after awhile he reiterated with almost fierce Insistence:

"No! no! you shall not go, my Lord, until You have explained. I am tired," he added roughly, "of suspicious looks and covert smiles, an atmosphere of ill-will which greets me at every turn. Politically, many may differ from Me, but I have yet to learn that a Gentleman hath not the right to his own Opinions without being cold-shouldered by his Friends."

The Duke of Albemarle allowed him to talk on for awhile. His Grace obviously was making up his mind to take a decisive step in the matter. After a while he did succeed in disengaging his coat-sleeve from the persistent Clutch of his young Friend, and then, looking the latter straight between the eyes, he said firmly:

"My Lord, as You say, your Father and I were Friends and Comrades in Arms. Therefore You must forgive an old Man and a plain Soldier a pertinent question. Will you do that?"

"Certainly," was my Lord Stour's quiet Reply.

"Very well then," continued His Grace, while all of us who were there held our breath, feeling that this Colloquy threatened to have a grave issue. "Very well. I am glad that You have given me this opportunity of hearing some sort of Explanation from You, for in truth, Rumour of late hath been over busy with your Name."

"An Explanation, my Lord?" the young Man said, with an added frown.

"Aye!" replied His Grace. "That's just the Word. An Explanation. For I, my Lord, as your Father's Friend, will ask You this: how is it that while Teammouth, Campsfield and so many of your Associates perished upon the Scaffold, You alone, of those implicated in that infamous Plot, did obtain an unconditional Pardon?"

Lord Stour stepped back as if he had been hit in the face. Boundless Astonishment was expressed in the Gaze which he fixed upon the General, as well as wrathful indignation.

"My Lord!" he exclaimed, "that Question is an insult!"

"Make me swallow mine own Words," retorted His Grace imperturbably, "by giving me a straight Answer."

"Mine Answer must be straight," rejoined Lord Stour firmly, "since it is based on Truth. I do not know."

The Duke shrugged his Shoulders, and there came a sarcastic laugh from more than one of the Gentlemen there.

"I give your Lordship my Word of Honour," Lord Stour insisted haughtily. Then, as His Grace remained silent, with those deep-set eyes of his fixed searchingly upon the young Man, the latter added vehemently: "Is then mine Honour in question?"

Whereupon Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had remained silent, interposed very quietly:

"The honour of some Gentlemen, my Lord, is like the Manifestation of Ghosts—much talked of ... but always difficult to prove!"

You know his Voice, dear Mistress, and that subtle carrying Power which it has, although he never seems to raise it. After he had spoken You could have heard the stirring of every little twig in the trees above us, for no one said another Word for a moment or two. We all stood there, a compact little Group: Lord Stour facing the Duke of Albemarle and Mr. Betterton standing a step or two behind His Grace, his fine, expressive Face set in a mask of cruel Irony. Sir William Davenant and the other Gentlemen had closed in around those three. They must have felt that some strange Storm of Passions was brewing, and instinctively they tried to hide its lowering Clouds from public gaze.

Fortunately there were not many Passers-by just then, and the little Scene remained unnoted by the idly curious, who are ever wont to collect in Crowds whenever anything strange to them happens to attract their Attention.

My Lord Stour was the first to recover Speech. He turned on Mr. Betterton with unbridled Fury.

"What!" he cried, "another sting from that venomous Wasp? I might have guessed that so miserable a Calumny came from such a vile Caitiff as this!"

"Abuse is not Explanation, my Lord," interposed the Duke of Albemarle firmly. "And I must remind you that you have left my Question unanswered."

"Put it more intelligibly, my Lord," retorted Lord Stour haughtily. "I might then know how to reply."

"Very well," riposted His Grace, still apparently unmoved. "I will put it differently. I understand that your Associates entrusted their treasonable Manifestos to you. Is that a fact?"

"I'll not deny it."

"You cannot," rejoined the Duke drily. "Sir James Campsfield, in the course of his Trial, admitted that he had received his Summons through You. But a Copy of that Manifesto came into the hands of my Lady Castlemaine just in time to cause the Conspiracy to abort. How was that?"

"Some Traitor," replied Lord Stour hotly, "of whom I have no Cognizance."

"Yet it was You," riposted the General quietly, "who received a free Pardon ... no one else. How was that?" he reiterated more sternly.

"I have sworn to You that I do not know," protested my Lord Stour fiercely.

He looked now like a Man at Bay, trapped in a Net which was closing in around him and from which he was striving desperately to escape. His face was flushed, his eyes glowed with an unnatural fire. And always his restless gaze came back to Mr. Betterton, who stood by, calm and impassive, apparently disinterested in this Colloquy wherein a man's Honour was being tossed about to the Winds of Slander and of Infamy. Now Lord Stour gazed around him, striving to find one line of genuine Sympathy on the stern Faces which were confronting him.

"My word of Honour, Gentlemen," he exclaimed with passionate Earnestness, "that I do not know."

Honestly, I think that one or two of them did feel for him and were inclined to give him Credence. After all, these young Fops are not wicked; they are only mischievous, as Children or young Puppies are wont to be, ready to snarl at one another, to yap and to tear to pieces anything that happens to come in their way. Moreover, there was the great bond of Caste between these People. They were, in their innermost Hearts, loth to believe that one of themselves—a Gentleman, one bearing a great Name—could be guilty of this type of foul Crime which was more easily attributable to a Plebeian. It was only their Love of Scandal-monging and of Backbiting that had kept the Story alive all these weeks. Even now there were one or two sympathetic Murmurs amongst those present when my Lord Stour swore by his Honour.

But just then Mr. Betterton's voice was heard quite distinctly above that Murmur:

"Honour is a strangely difficult word to pronounce on the Stage," he was saying to Sir William Davenant, apparently á propos of something the latter had remarked just before. "You try and say it, Davenant; you will see how it always dislocates your Jaw, yet produces no effect."

"Therefore, Mr. Actor," Lord Stour broke in roughly, "it should only be spoken by those who have a glorious Ancestry behind them to teach them its true Significance."

"Well spoken, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined placidly. "But you must remember that but few of His Majesty's Servants have a line of glorious Ancestry behind them. In that way they differ from many Gentlemen who, having nothing but their Ancestry to boast of, are very like a Turnip—the best of them is under the ground."

This Sally was greeted with loud Laughter, and by a subtle process which I could not possibly define, the wave of Sympathy which was setting in the direction of my Lord Stour, once more receded from him, leaving him wrathful and obstinate, His Grace of Albemarle stern, and the young Fops flippant and long-tongued as before.

"My Lord Stour," the General now broke in once more firmly, "'tis You sought this Explanation, not I. Now You have left my Question unanswered. Your Friends entrusted their Manifestos to You. How came one of these in Lady Castlemaine's hands?"

And the young Man, driven to bay, facing half a dozen pairs of eyes that held both Contempt and Enmity in their glance, reiterated hoarsely:

"I have sworn to You that I do not know." Then he added: "Hath Loyalty then left this unfortunate Land, that You can all believe such a vile thing of me?"

And in the silence that ensued, Mr. Betterton's perfectly modulated Voice was again raised in quietly sarcastic accents:

"As You say, my Lord," he remarked. "Loyalty hath left this unfortunate Country. Perhaps," he added with a light shrug of the shoulders, "to take Refuge with your glorious Ancestry."

This last Gibe, however, brought my Lord Stour's exasperation to a raging Fury. Pushing unceremoniously past His Grace of Albemarle, who stood before him, he took a step forward and confronted Mr. Betterton eye to eye and, drawing himself up to his full Height, he literally glowered down upon the great Artist, who stood his Ground, placid and unmoved.

"Insolent Varlet!" came in raucous tones from the young Lord's quivering lips. "If you had a spark of chivalry or of honour in You——"

At the arrogant Insult every one drew their breath. A keen Excitement flashed in every eye. Here was at last a Quarrel, one that must end in bloodshed. Just what was required—so thought these young Rakes, I feel sure—to clear the Atmosphere and to bring abstruse questions of Suspicion and of Honour to a level which they could all of them understand. Only the Duke of Albemarle, who, like a true and great Soldier, hath the greatest possible Abhorrence for the gentlemanly Pastime of Duelling, tried to interpose. But Mr. Betterton, having provoked the Quarrel, required no interference from any one. You know his way, dear Mistress, as well as I do—that quiet Attitude which he is wont to assume, that fraction of a second's absolute Silence just before he begins to speak. I know of no Elocutionist's trick more telling than that. It seems to rivet the Attention, and at the same time to key up Excitement and Curiosity to its greatest strain.

"By your leave, my Lord," he said slowly, and his splendid Voice rose just to a sufficient pitch of Loudness to be distinctly heard by those immediately near him, but not one yard beyond. "By your leave, let us leave the word 'honour' out of our talk. It hath become ridiculous and obsolete, now that every Traitor doth use it for his own ends."

But in truth my Lord Stour now was beside himself with Fury.

"By gad!" he exclaimed with a harsh laugh. "I might have guessed that it was your pestilential Tongue which stirred up this Treason against me. Liar!—Scoundrel!——"

He was for heaping up one Insult upon the other, lashing himself as it were into greater Fury still, when Mr. Betterton's quietly ironical laugh broke in upon his senseless ebullitions.

"Liar?—Scoundrel, am I?" he said lightly, and, still laughing, he turned to the Gentlemen who stood beside him. "Nay! if the sight of a Scoundrel offends his Lordship, he should shut himself up in his own Room ... and break his Mirror!"

At this, my Lord Stour lost the last vestige of his self-control, seized Mr. Betterton by the Shoulder and verily, I thought, made as if he would strike him.

"You shall pay for this Insolence!" he cried.

But already, with perfect sang-froid, the great Artist had arrested his Lordship's uplifted hand and wrenched it away from his shoulder.

"By your leave, my Lord," he said, and with delicate Fingers flicked the dust from off his coat. "This coat was fashioned by an honest tailor, and hath never been touched by a Traitor's hand."

I thought then that I could see Murder writ plainly on My Lord's face, which was suddenly become positively livid. The Excitement around us was immense. In truth I am convinced that every Gentleman there present at the moment, felt that something more deep and more intensely bitter lay at the Root of this Quarrel, between the young Lord and the great and popular Artist. Even now some of them would have liked to interfere, whilst the younger ones undoubtedly enjoyed the Spectacle and were laying, I doubt not, imaginary Wagers as to which of the two Disputants would remain Master of the Situation.

His Grace of Albemarle tried once more to interpose with all the Authority of his years and of his distinguished Position, for indeed there was something almost awesome in Lord Stour's Wrath by now. But Mr. Betterton took the Words at once out of the great General's mouth.

"Nay, my Lord," he said with quiet Firmness, "I pray You, do not interfere. I am in no danger, I assure You. My Lord Stour would wish to kill me, no doubt. But, believe me, Fate did not ordain that Tom Betterton should die by such a hand ... the fickle Jade hath too keen a Sense of Humour."

Whereupon he made a movement, as if to walk away. I felt the drag upon my arm where his slender hand was still resting. The Others were silent. What could they say? Senseless Numskulls though they were for the most part, they had enough Perception to realize that between these two Men there was Hatred so bitter that no mere Gentlemanly Bloodshed could ever wipe it away.

But ere Mr. Betterton finally turned to go, my Lord of Stour stepped out in front of him. All the Rage appeared to have died out of him. He was outwardly quite calm, only a weird twitching of his lips testified to the Storm of Passion which he had momentarily succeeded in keeping under control.

"Mr. Actor," he said slowly, "but a few Weeks ago You asked me to cross swords with You.... I refused then, for up to this hour I have never fought a Duel save with an Equal. But now, I accept," he added forcefully, even while the Words came veiled and husky from his throat. "I accept. Do You hear me? ... for the laws of England do not permit a Murder, and as sure as there's a Heaven above me, I am going to kill You."

Mr. Betterton listened to him until the end. You know that Power which he hath of seeming to tower above every one who stands nigh him? Well! he exercised that Power now. He stepped quite close to my Lord Stour, and though the latter is of more than average height, Mr. Betterton literally appeared to soar above him, with the sublime Magnificence of an outraged Man coming into his own at last.

"My Lord of Stour," he said, with perfect quietude, "a few weeks ago you insulted me as Man never dared to insult Man before. With every blow dealt upon my shoulders by your Lacqueys, You outraged the Majesty of Genius ... yes! its Majesty! ... its Godhead! ... You raised your insolent hand against me—against me, the Artist, whom God Himself hath crowned with Immortality. For a moment then, my outraged Manhood clamoured for satisfaction. I asked You to cross swords with me, for You seemed to me ... then ... worthy of that Honour. But to-day, my Lord of Stour," he continued, whilst every Word he spoke seemed to strike upon the ear like Blows from a relentless Hammer; "Traitor to your Friends, Liar and Informer!!!! Bah! His Majesty's Well-Beloved Servant cannot fight with such as You!"

In truth I do not remember what happened after that. The unutterable Contempt, the Disgust, the Loathing expressed in my Friend's whole Attitude, seemed to hit even me between the eyes. I felt as if some giant Hands had thrown a kind of filmy grey veil over my Head, for I heard and saw nothing save a blurred and dim Vision of uplifted Arms, of clenched Fists and of a general Scrimmage, of which my Lord Stour appeared to be the Centre, whilst my ears only caught the veiled Echo of Words flung hoarsely into the air:

"Let me go! Let me go! I must kill him! I must!"

Mr. Betterton, on the other hand, remained perfectly calm. I felt a slight pressure on my arm and presently realized that he and I had turned and were walking away down the Avenue of the Park, and leaving some way already behind us, a seething mass of excited Gentlemen, all intent on preventing Murder being committed then and there.

What the outcome of it all would be, I could not visualize. Mr. Betterton had indeed been able to give Insult for Insult and Outrage for Outrage at last. For this he had schemed and worked and planned all these weeks. Whether God and Justice were on his side in this terrible Revenge, I dared not ask myself, nor yet if the Weapon which he had chosen were worthy of his noble Character and of his Integrity. That public Opinion was on his side, I concluded from the fact that the Duke of Albemarle and Sir William Davenant both walked a few yards with him after he had turned his back on my Lord, and that His Grace constituting himself Spokesman for himself and Sir William, offered their joint Services to Mr. Betterton in case he changed his mind and agreed to fight my Lord Stour in duel.

"I thank your Grace," was Mr. Betterton's courteous reply; "but I am not like to change my Mind on that Score."

CHAPTER XIII

THE LADY PLEADS

1

I am not able quite to determine in my own mind whether the Lady Barbara Wychwoode did hear and see something of the violent Scene which I have just attempted to describe.

I told You, dear Mistress, that fortunately for us all, this part of the Park where the Scene occurred was for the moment practically deserted. At any rate, no Crowd collected around us, for which, methinks, we were, every one of us, thankful. If a few of the Passers-by heard anything of the altercation, they merely hurried past, thinking no doubt, that it was only one or two young City Sparks, none too sober even at this morning hour, who were quarrelling among themselves.

When we walked away down the Avenue which leads in the direction of Knight's Bridge, Mr. Betterton's well-known, elegant figure was remarked by a few Pedestrians on their way to and fro, as was also the familiar one of the Duke of Albemarle, and some People raised their hats to the great Artist, whilst others saluted the distinguished General.

Presently His Grace and Sir William Davenant took leave of Mr. Betterton, and a few moments later the latter suggested that we should also begin to wend our way homewards.

We retraced our steps and turned back in the direction of Westminster. Mr. Betterton was silent; he walked quite calmly, with head bent and firm footsteps, and I, knowing his humour, walked along in silence by his side.

Then suddenly we came upon the Lady Barbara.

That she had sought this meeting I could not doubt for a moment. Else, how should a Lady of her Rank and Distinction be abroad, and in a public Park, unattended? Indeed, I was quite sure that she had only dismissed her maid when she saw Mr. Betterton coming along, and that the Wench was lurking somewhere behind one of the shrubberies, ready to accompany her Ladyship home when the interview was at an end.

I said that I am even now doubtful as to whether the Lady Barbara saw and heard something of the violent Altercation which had taken place a quarter of an hour ago between her Lover and the great Actor. If not, she certainly displayed on that occasion that marvellous intuition which is said to be the prerogative of every Woman when she is in love.

She was walking on the further side of Rosamond Pond when first I caught sight of her, and when she reached the Bridge, she came deliberately to a halt. There is no other way across the Pond save by the Bridge, so Mr. Betterton could not have escaped the meeting even if he would. Seeing the Lady, he raised his hat and made a deep bow of respectful salutation. He then crossed the Bridge and made as if he would pass by, but she held her Ground, in the very centre of the Path, and when he was quite near her, she said abruptly:

"Mr. Betterton, I desire a word with you."

He came at once to a halt, and replied with perfect deference:

"I await your Ladyship's commands."

2

I was for hurrying away, thinking that my Presence would be irksome both to the Lady and to my Friend; but an unmistakable pressure of Mr. Betterton's hand on my arm caused me to stay where I was. As for the Lady, she appeared not to care whether I stayed or went, for immediately she retorted:

"My commands, Sir Actor? They are, that you at once and completely do Reparation for the wrong which you are trying to do to an innocent Man."

She looked proud and commanding as a Queen, looking through the veil of her lashes at Mr. Betterton as if he were a supplicating Slave rather than the great Artist whom cultured Europe delighted to honour. Never did I admire my Friend so much as I did then. His self-possession was perfect: his attitude just the right balance 'twixt deference due to a beautiful Woman and the self-assurance which comes of conscious Worth. He looked splendid, too—dressed in the latest fashion and with unerring taste. The fantastic cut of his modish clothes became his artistic Personality to perfection: the soft shade of mulberry of which his coat was fashioned made an harmonious note of colour in the soft grey mist of this late winter's morning. The lace at his throat and wrists was of unspeakable value, filmy and gossamer-like in texture as a cobweb; and in his cravat glittered a diamond, a priceless gift to the great English Artist from the King of France.

Indeed, the Lady Barbara Wychwoode might look the world-famous Actor up and down with well-studied superciliousness; she might issue her commands to him as if she were his royal Mistress and he but a Menial set there to obey her behest; but, whatever she did, she could not dwarf his Personality. He had become too great for disdain or sneers ever to touch him again; and the shafts of scorn aimed at him by those who would set mere Birth above the claims of Genius, would only find their points broken or blunted against the impenetrable armour of his Glory and his Fame.

For the nonce, I think that he was ready enough to parley with the Lady Barbara. He had not to my knowledge spoken with her since that never forgotten day last September; and I, not understanding the complex workings of an Artist's heart, knew not if his Love for her had outlived the crying outrage, or had since then turned to Hate.

In answer to her peremptory command, he assumed an air of innocent surprise.

"I?" he queried. "Your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles."

"Nay!" she retorted. "'Tis you, Sir, who choose not to understand. But I'll speak more plainly, an you wish. I am a woman, Mr. Actor, and I love the Earl of Stour. Now, you know just as well as I do, that his Lordship's honour has of late been impugned in a manner that is most mysterious. His Friends accuse him of treachery; even mere Acquaintances prefer to give him the cold shoulder. And this without any definite Indictment being levelled against him. Many there are who will tell You that they have not the faintest conception of what crime my Lord Stour stands accused. Others aver that they'll not believe any Slander that may be levelled against so high-souled a Gentleman. Nevertheless, the Slander continues. Nay! it gathers volume as it worms its way from one house to another, shedding poison in its wake as it drifts by; and more and more People now affect to look another way when the Earl of Stour comes nigh them, and to be otherwise engaged when he desires to shake them by the hand."

She paused for a moment, obviously to regain her Composure, which was threatening to leave her. Her cheeks were pale as ashes, her breath came and went in quick, short gasps. The Picture which she herself had drawn of her Lover's plight caused her heart to ache with bitterness. She seemed for the moment to expect something—a mere comment, perhaps, or a word of Sympathy, from Mr. Betterton. But none came. He stood there, silent and deferential, with lips firmly set, his slender Hand clutched upon the gold knob of his stick, till the knuckles shone creamy-white, like ivory. He regarded her with an air of Detachment rather than Sympathy, and though by her silence she appeared to challenge him now, he did not speak, and after awhile she resumed more calmly:

"My Lord of Stour himself is at his wits' ends to interpret the attitude of his Friends. Nothing tangible in the way of a spoken Calumny hath as yet reached his ears. And his life has been rendered all the more bitter that he feels that he is being struck by a persistent but mysterious Foe in what he holds dearer than aught else on earth, his Integrity and his Honour."

"'Tis a sad case," here rejoined Mr. Betterton, for her Ladyship had paused once more. "But, by your leave, I do not see in what way it concerns me."

"Nay! but I think you do, Sir Actor," Lady Barbara riposted harshly. "Love and Hate, remember, see clearly where mere Friendship and Indifference are blind. Love tells me that the Earl of Stour's Integrity is Unstained, his Honour unsullied. But the Hatred which you bear him," added her Ladyship almost fiercely, "makes me look to You for the cause of his Disgrace."

No one, however, could have looked more utterly astonished, more bland and uncomprehending, as Mr. Betterton did at that moment. He put up his hand and regarded the Lady with an indulgent smile, such as one would bestow on a hot-headed Child.

"Nay, your Ladyship!" he said courteously. "I fear that you are attributing to an humble Mountebank a power he doth not possess. To disgrace a noble Gentleman?" he exclaimed with well-feigned horror. "I?—a miserable Varlet—an insolent cur whom one thrashes if he dares to bark!"

"Ah!" she broke in, with a swift exclamation. "Then I have guessed the truth! This is your Revenge!"

"Revenge?" he queried blandly. "For what?"

"You hate the Earl of Stour," she retorted.

Once more his well-shaped hand went up, as if in gentle protest, and he uttered a kind and deprecating "Oh!"

"You look upon the Earl of Stour as your enemy!" she insisted.

"I have so many, your Ladyship," he riposted with a smile.

"'Twas you who obtained his Pardon from my Lady Castlemaine."

"The inference is scarcely logical," he retorted. "A man does not as a rule sue for pardon for his Enemy."

"I think," she rejoined slowly, "that in this case Mr. Betterton did the illogical thing."

"Then I do entreat your Ladyship," he protested with mock terror, "not to repeat this calumny. I, accused of a noble action! Tom Betterton pardoning his Enemies! Why, my friends might believe it, and it is so difficult these days to live down a good Reputation."

"You choose to sharpen your wit at my expense, Sir Actor," the lady rejoined with her former haughtiness, "and to evade the point."

"What is the point, your Ladyship?" he queried blandly.

"That you set an end to all these Calumnies which are levelled against the Earl of Stour."

"How can we stay the Sun in his orbit?" he retorted; "or the Stars in their course?"

"You mean that your Campaign of Slander has already gone too far? But remember this, Mr. Betterton: that poisoned darts sometimes wound the hand that throws them. You may pursue the Earl of Stour with your Hatred and your Calumnies, but God will never allow an innocent Man to suffer unjustly."

Just for a few seconds Mr. Betterton was silent. He was still regarding the Lady with that same indulgent smile which appeared to irritate her nerves. To me, the very air around seemed to ring as if with a clash of ghostly arms—the mighty clash of two Wills and two Temperaments, each fighting for what it holds most dear: she for the Man whom she loved, he for his Dignity which had been so cruelly outraged.

"God will never allow," she reiterated with slow emphasis, "an innocent Man to suffer at the hands of a Slanderer."

"Ah!" riposted Mr. Betterton suavely. "Is your Ladyship not reckoning over-confidently on Divine interference?"

"I also reckon," she retorted, "on His Majesty's sense of justice—and on the Countess of Castlemaine, who must know the truth of the affair."

"His Majesty's senses are very elusive," he rejoined drily, "and are apt to play him some wayward tricks when under the influence of the Countess of Castlemaine. The Earl of Stour, it seems, disdained the favours which that Lady was willing to bestow on him. He preferred the superior charms and intellect of the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. A very natural preference, of course," he added, with elaborate gallantry. "But I can assure your Ladyship that, as Helpmeets to heavenly Interference, neither His Majesty nor the Countess of Castlemaine are to be reckoned with."

She bit her lip and cast her eyes to the ground. I could see that her lovely face expressed acute disappointment and that she was on the verge of tears. I am not versed in the ways of gentle Folk nor yet in those of Artists, but I could have told the Lady Barbara Wychwoode that if she wanted to obtain Sympathy or Leniency from Mr. Betterton, she had gone quite the wrong way to work.

Even now, I think if she had started to plead ... but the thought of humbling herself before a Man whom she affected to despise was as far from this proud Woman's heart, as are thoughts of self-glorification from mine.

A second or two later she had succeeded in forcing back the tears which had welled to her eyes, and she was able once more to look her Adversary straight in the face.

"And will you tell me, Sir Actor," she queried with cold aloofness, "how far you intend to carry on this Infamy?"

And Mr. Betterton replied, equally coldly and deliberately:

"To the uttermost limits of the Kingdom, Madam."

"What do you mean?" she riposted.

He drew a step or two nearer to her. His face too was pale by now, his lips trembling, his eyes aglow with Passion masterfully kept under control. His perfect voice rose and fell in those modulated Cadences which we have all learned to appreciate.

"Only this, your Ladyship," he began quite slowly. "For the present, the History of the Earl of Stour's treachery is only guessed at by a few. It is a breath of Scandal, born as you say somewhat mysteriously, wafted through Palaces and noble Mansions to-day—dead, mayhap, to-morrow. But I have had many opportunities for thought of late," he continued—and it seemed to me as if in his quivering voice I could detect a tone of Threat as well as of Passion—"and have employed my leisure moments in writing an Epilogue which I propose to speak to-morrow, after the Play, His Majesty and all the Court being present, and many Gentlemen and Ladies of high degree, as well as Burgesses and Merchants of the City, and sundry Clerks and other humbler Folk. A comprehensive Assembly, what? and an attentive one; for that low-born Mountebank, Tom Betterton, will be appearing in a new play and the Playhouse will be filled to the roof in order to do him honour. May I hope that the Lady Barbara Wychwoode herself——"

"A truce on this foolery, Sir," she broke in harshly. "I pray you come to the point."

She tried to look brave and still haughty, but I knew that she was afraid—knew it by the almost unearthly pallor of her skin, and the weird glitter in her eyes as she regarded him, like a Bird fascinated by a Snake.

"The point is the Epilogue, my Lady," Mr. Betterton replied blandly. "And after I have spoken it to-morrow, I shall speak it again and yet again, until its purport is known throughout the length and breadth of the Land. The subject of that Epilogue, Madam, will be the secret History of a certain aborted Conspiracy, and how it was betrayed in exchange for a free Pardon by one of our noblest Gentlemen in England. Then, I pray your Ladyship to mark what will happen," he continued, and his melodious voice became as hard and trenchant as the clang of metal striking metal. "After that Epilogue has been spoken from the Stage half a dozen times after His Majesty has heard it and shrugged his shoulders, after my Lady Castlemaine has laughed over it and my Lord of Rochester aped it in one of his Pasquinades, there will be a man whose Name will be a by-word for everything that is most infamous and most false—a Name that will be bandied about in Taverns and in drinking Booths, quipped, decried, sneered at, anathematized; a Name that will be the subject of every lampoon and every scurrilous rhyme that finds over-ready purchasers—a Name, in fact, that will for ever be whispered with bated breath or bandied about in a drunken brawl, whene'er there is talk of treachery and of dishonour!"

At this, she—great Lady to her finger tips—threw up her head proudly, still defying him, still striving to hide her Fears and unwilling to acknowledge Defeat.

"It will be your Word against his," she said with a disdainful curl of her perfect lips. "No one would listen to such calumnies."

And he—the world-famed Artist—at least as proud as any high born Gentleman in the Land, retorted, equally haughtily:

"When Tom Betterton speaks upon the Stage, my Lady, England holds her breath and listens spellbound."

I would I could render the noble Accent of his magnificent Voice as he said this. There was no self-glorification in it, no idle boasting; it was the accent of transcendent Worth conscious of its Power.

And it had its effect upon the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. She lowered her Eyes, but not before I had perceived that they were full of Tears; her Lips were trembling still, but no longer with Disdain, and her hands suddenly dropped to her side with a pathetic gesture of Discouragement and of Anguish.

The next moment, however, she was again looking the great Actor fully in the face. A change had come over her, quite suddenly methought—a great Change, which had softened her Mood and to a certain extent lowered her Pride. Whether this was the result of Mr. Betterton's forceful Eloquence or of her own Will-power, I could not guess; but I myself marvelled at the Tone of Entreaty which had crept into her Voice.

"You will not speak such Falsehoods in Public, Sir," she said with unwonted softness. "You will not thus demean your Art—the Art which you love and hold in respect. Oh, there must be some Nobility in You! else you were not so talented. Your Soul must in truth be filled with Sentiments which are neither ignoble nor base."

"Nay!" he exclaimed, and this time did not strive to conceal the intense Bitterness which, as I knew well enough, had eaten into his very Soul; "but your Ladyship is pleased to forget. I am ignoble and base! There cannot be Nobility in me. I am only the low-born Lout! Ask my Lord of Stour; ask your Brother! They will tell you that I have no Feelings, no Pride, no Manhood—that I am only a despicable Varlet, whom every Gentleman may mock and insult and whip like a dog. To You and to your Caste alone belong Nobility, Pride and Honour. Honour!!!"—and he broke into a prolonged laugh, which would have rent your Heart to hear—"Honour! Your false Fetish! Your counterfeit God!! Very well, then so be it!! That very Honour which he hath denied me, I will wrench from him. And since he denied me Satisfaction by the Sword, I turn to my own weapon—my Art—and with it I will exact from him to the uttermost fraction, Outrage for Outrage—Infamy for Infamy."

His wonderful Voice shook, broke almost into a sob at last. I felt a choking sensation in my Throat and my Eyes waxed hot with unshed Tears. As if through a mist, I could see the exquisite Lady Barbara Wychwoode before me, could see that she, too, was moved, her Pride crushed, her Disdain yielding to involuntary Sympathy.

"But he is innocent!" she pleaded, with an accent verging on Despair.

"And so was I!" was his calm retort.

"He——" she entreated, "he loves me——"

"And so do I!" he exclaimed, with a depth of Passion which brought the hot Blood to her pale Cheeks. "I would have given my Life for one Smile from your Lips."

Whereupon, womanlike, she shifted her ground, looked him straight between the Eyes, and, oh! I could have blushed to see the Wiles she used in order to weaken his Resolve.

"You love me?" she queried softly, and there was now a tone of almost tender Reproach in her Voice. "You love me! yet you would drag the Man who is dearer to me than Life to Dishonour and to Shame. You trap him, like a Fowler does a Bird, then crush him with Falsehoods and Calumnies! No, no!" she exclaimed—came a step or two nearer to him and clasped her delicate Hands together in a Gesture that was akin to Prayer. "I'll not believe it! You will tell the Truth, Mr. Betterton, publicly, and clear him.... You will.... You will! For my sake—since You say You love me."

But the more eager, the more appealing she grew, the calmer and more calculating did he seem. Now it was his turn to draw away from Her, to measure Her, as it were, with a cold, appraising Look.

"For Your sake?" he said with perfect quietude, almost as if the matter had become outside himself. I cannot quite explain the air of detachment which he assumed—for it was an assumption, on that I would have staked my Life at the moment. I, who know him so well, felt that deep down within his noble Heart there still burned the fierce flames of an ardent Passion, but whether of Love or Hate, I could not then have told You.

She had recoiled at the coolness of his Tone; and he went on, still speaking with that strange, abnormal Calm:

"Yes!" he said slowly, "for Your love I would do what You ask ... I would forego that Feast of Satisfaction, the Thought of which hath alone kept me sane these past few months.... Yes! for the Love of Lady Barbara Wychwoode I could bring myself to forgive even his Lordship of Stour for the irreparable wrong which he hath done to Me. I would restore to him his Honour, which now lies, a Forfeit, in my Hands: for I shall then have taken Something from him which he holds well-nigh as dear."

He paused, and met with the same calm relentlessness the look of Horror and of Scorn wherewith she regarded him.

"For my Love?" she exclaimed, and once more the warm Blood rushed up to her face, flooding her wan Cheeks, her pale Forehead, even her delicate Throat with crimson. "You mean that I? ... Oh! ... what Infamy! ... So, Mr. Actor, that was your reckoning!" she went on with supreme Disdain. "It was not the desire for Vengeance that prompted You to slander the Earl of Stour, but the wish to entrap me into becoming your Wife. You are not content with Your Laurels. You want a Coat of Arms ... and hoped to barter one against Your Calumnies!"

"Nay, your Ladyship!" he rejoined simply, "in effect, I was actually laying a Name famed throughout the cultured world humbly at your feet. You made an appeal to my Love for You—and I laid a test for your Sincerity. Mine I have placed beyond question, seeing that I am prepared to drag my Genius in the dust before Your Pride and the Arrogance of Your Caste. An Artist is a Slave of his Sensibilities, and I feel that if, in the near Future, I could see a Vision of your perfect hand resting content in mine, if, when You pleaded again for my Lord Stour, You did so as my promised Wife—not his—I would do all that You asked."

She drew herself up to her full height and glanced at him with all the Pride which awhile ago had seemed crushed beyond recall.

"Sir Actor," she said coldly, "shame had gripped me by the throat, or I should not have listened so long to such an Outrage. The Bargain You propose is an Infamy and an Insult."

And she gathered up her Skirts around her, as if their very contact with the Soil on which he trod were a pollution. Then she half turned as if ready to go, cast a rapid glance at the Shrubberies close by, no doubt in search of her Attendant. Why it was that she did not actually go, I could not say, but guessed that, mayhap, she would not vacate the Field of Contention until quite sure that there was not a final Chance to soften the Heart of the Enemy. She had thrown down yet another Challenge when she spoke of his proposed Bargain as an Infamy; but he took up the Gage with the same measured Calm as before.

"As you will," he said. "It was in Your Ladyship's name that the Earl of Stour put upon Me the deadliest Insult which any Man hath ever put on Man before. Since then, every Fibre within Me has clamoured for Satisfaction. My Work hath been irksome to me ... I scarce could think ... My Genius lay writhing in an agony of Shame. But now the hour is mine—for it I have schemed and lied—aye, lied—like the low-born cur You say I am. A thousand Devils of Hate and of Rage are unchained within me. I cannot grapple with them alone. They would only yield—to your kiss."

"Oh!" she cried in uttermost despair, "this is horrible!"

"Then let the Man you love," he rejoined coldly, "look to himself."

"Conscious of his Innocence, my Lord Stour and I defy you!"

"Ah, well!" he said imperturbably, "the Choice is still with Your Ladyship. Remember that I do not speak my Epilogue until to-morrow. When I do, it will be too late. I have called my Phantasy 'The Comedie of Traitors.'"

Whereupon he bowed low before her, in the most approved Fashion. But already she was fleeing up the path in the direction of Westminster. Soon her graceful Figure was lost to our sight behind an intervening clump of Laurels. Here no doubt her Ladyship's Attendant was waiting for her Mistress, for anon I spied two figures hurrying out of the Park.

3

For a long time Mr. Betterton remained standing just where he was, one hand still clutching the knob of his Stick, the other thrust in the pocket of his capacious Coat. I could not see his Face, since his Back was turned towards me, and I did not dare move lest I should be interrupting his Meditations. But to Me, even that Back was expressive. There was a listlessness, hardly a stoop, about it, so unlike my Friend's usual firm and upright Carriage. How could this be otherwise, seeing what he had just gone through—Emotions that would have swept most Men off their mental balance. Yet he kept his, had never once lost control of himself. He had met Disdain with Disdain in the end, had kept sufficient control over his Voice to discuss with absolute calm, that Bargain which the Lady Barbara had termed infamous. There had been a detachment about his final Ultimatum, a "take it or leave it" air, which must have been bitterly galling to the proud Lady who had stooped to entreat. He was holding the winning Hand and did not choose to yield.

And it was from his attitude on that Day that I, dear Mistress, drew an unerring inference. Mr. Betterton had no Love for the Lady Barbara, no genuine, lasting Affection such as, I maintain, he has never ceased to feel for You. Passion swayed him, because he has, above all, that unexplainable artistic Temperament which cannot be measured by everyday Standards. Pride, Bitterness, Vengefulness—call it what you will; but there was not a particle of Love in it all. I verily believe that his chief Desire, whilst he stood pondering there at the bridgehead, was to humiliate the Lady Barbara Wychwoode by forcing her into a Marriage which she had affected to despise. He was not waiting for her with open, loving Arms, ready to take her to his Heart, there to teach her to forget the Past in the safe haven of his Love. He was not waiting to lay his Service at her feet, and to render her happy as the cherished Wife and Helpmate of the great Artist whom all England delighted to honour. He was only waiting to make her feel that She had been subjected to his Will and her former Lover brought down to Humiliation, through the Power of the miserable Mountebank whom they had both deemed less than a Man.

Thus meditating, I stood close to my Friend, until Chance or a fleeting Thought brought him back to the realities of Life. He sighed and looked about him, as a Man will who hath just wakened from a Dream. Then he spied me, and gave me his wonted kindly smile and glance.

"Good old John!" he said, with a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders. "'Twas not an edifying Scene You have witnessed, eh?"

"'Twas a heartrending one," I riposted almost involuntarily.

"Heartrending?" he queried, in a tone of intense bitterness, "to watch a Fool crushing every Noble Instinct within him for the sake of getting even with a Man whom he neither honours nor esteems?"

He sighed again, and beckoned to me to follow him.

"Let us home, good Honeywood," he said. "I am weary of all this wrangle, and pine to find solace among the Poets."

Nor did he mention the name of the Lady Barbara again to me, and I was left to ponder what was going on in his Mind and whether his cruelly vengeful Scheme for the final undoing of my Lord Stour would indeed come to maturity on the following day. I knew that a great and brilliant Representation of the late Mr. William Shakespeare's play, "Twelfth Night," was to be given at the Duke's Theatre, with some of the new Scenery and realistic scenic Effects brought over last Autumn from Paris by Mr. Betterton. His Majesty had definitely promised that he would be present and so had the Countess of Castlemaine, and there would doubtless be a goodly and gorgeous Company present to applaud the great Actor, whose Performance of Sir Toby Belch was one of the Marvels of histrionic Art, proclaiming as it did his wonderful versatility, by contrast with his equally remarkable exposition of the melancholy Hamlett, Prince of Denmark.

That I now awaited that Day with Sorrow in my Heart and with measureless Anxiety, You, dear Mistress, will readily imagine. Until this morning I had no idea of the terrible Thunderbolt which my Friend had in preparation for those who had so shamefully wronged him; and I still marvelled whether in his talk with the Lady Barbara there had not lurked some idle Threats rather than a serious Warning. How could I think of the Man whom I had learned to love and to reverence as one who would nurture such cruel Schemes? And yet, did not the late Mr. Shakespeare warn us that "Pleasure and Revenge have ears more deaf than Adders to the voice of any true decision"? Ah, me! but I was sick at heart.

CHAPTER XIV

THE RULING PASSION

1

And now, dear Mistress, I come to that memorable Evening wherein happened that which causes You so much heart-ache at this Hour.

I know that the Occurrences of that Night have been brought to your Notice in a garbled Version, and that Mr. Betterton's Enemies have placed the Matter before You in a manner calculated to blacken his Integrity. But, as there is a living Judge above Us all, I swear to You, beloved Mistress, that what I am now purposing to relate is nothing but the Truth. Remember that, in this miserable Era of Scandal and Backbiting, of loose Living and Senseless Quarrels, Mr. Betterton's Character has always stood unblemished, even though the evil Tongue of Malice hath repeatedly tried to attack his untarnished Reputation. Remember also that the great Actor's few but virulent Enemies are all Men who have made Failures of their Lives, who are Idlers, Sycophants or Profligates, and therefore envious of the Fame and Splendour of one who is thought worthy to be the Friend of Kings.

2

We spoke but little together that day on our way home from the Park. Mr. Betterton was moody, and I silent. We took our dinner in quietude. There being no Performance at the Theatre that day, Mr. Betterton settled down to his Desk in the afternoon, telling me that he had some writing to do.

I, too, had some of his Correspondence to attend to, and presently repaired to my room, my Heart still aching with Sorrow. Did I not guess what Work was even now engrossing the Attention of my Friend? He was deep in the Composition of that cruel Lampoon which he meant to speak on the Stage to-morrow, in the presence of His Majesty and of a large and brilliant Assembly. Strive as I might, I could not to myself minimize the probable Effect of the Lampoon upon the Mind of the Public. It is not for me, dear Mistress, to remind You of the amazing Popularity of Mr. Betterton—a Popularity which hath never been equalled ere this by any Actor, Artist or Poet in England. Whatever he spoke from the Stage would be treasured and reiterated and commented upon, until every Citizen of London and Westminster became himself a storehouse of Mud that would be slung at the unfortunate Earl of Stour. And the latter, by refusing to fight Mr. Betterton when the Latter had been the injured Party, had wilfully cast aside any Weapon of Redress which he might after this have called to his Aid.

Well! we all know the Effect of scurrilous Quips spoken from the Stage; even the great Mr. Dryden or the famous Mr. Wycherley have not been above interpolating some in their Plays, for the Confusion of their Enemies; and many a Gentleman's or a Lady's Reputation has been made to suffer through the Vindictiveness of a noted Actor or Playwright. But, as you know, Mr. Betterton had never hitherto lent himself to such Scandal-monging; he stood far above those petty Quarrels betwixt Gentlemen and Poets that could be settled by wordy Warfare across the Footlights. All the more Weight, therefore, would the Public attach to an Epilogue specially written and spoken by him on so great an occasion. And, alas! the Mud-slinging was to be of a very peculiar and very clinging Nature.

"Then let the Man you love look to himself!" the outraged Artist had said coldly, when confronted for the last time by the Lady Barbara's Disdain. And in my Mind I had no doubt that, for Good or for Evil, if Tom Betterton set out to do a Thing, he would carry it through to its bitter End.

3

When, having finished my work, I went into Mr. Betterton's study, I found him sitting beside his Desk, though no longer writing. He was leaning back against the cushions of his chair with eyes closed, his face set and hard. Some loose papers, covered with his neat, careful Caligraphy, lay in an orderly heap upon the Desk.

His Work was evidently finished. Steeped in Bitterness and in Vengeance, his Pen had laboured and was now at rest. The Eloquence of the incomparable Actor would now do the rest.

As I entered the Room, the tower clock of Westminster was just striking seven. The deep bay Window which gave on a solitary corner of St. James's Park, was wide open, and through it there came from afar, wafted upon the evening breeze, the strains of a masculine Voice, warm and mellow, singing to the accompaniment of one of those stringed Instruments which have been imported of late from Italy.

The Voice rose and fell in pleasing Cadences, and some of the Words of the Song reached mine Ear.

"You are my Life. You ask me why?

Because my hope is in your love."

Whether Mr. Betterton heard them or not, I could not say. He sat there so still, his slender Hands—white and tapering, the veritable Hands of an Artist—rested listlessly upon the arms of his chair.

"Through gloomy Clouds to sunlit Skies,

To rest in Faith and your dear Eyes."

So sang the sweet Minstrel out there in the fast gathering Gloom. I went up to the window and gazed out into the open Vista before me. Far away I could see the twinkling lights from the windows of St. James's Palace, and on my right those of White Hall. The Singer I could not see. He appeared to be some distance away. But despite the lateness of the hour, the Park was still alive with people. And indeed as I leaned my Head further out of the Window, I was struck by the animated spectacle which it presented.

No doubt that the unwonted mildness of this early spring evening had induced young Maids and Gallants, as well as more sober Folk and Gentlemen, to linger out in the open. The charm of the Minstrel and his Song, too, must have served as an additional Attraction, for as I watched the People passing to and fro, I heard snatches of Conversation, mostly in praise of the Singer or of the Weather.

Anon I espied Sir William Davenant walking with Mr. Killigrew, and my Lord of Rochester dallying with a pretty Damsel; one or two more Gentlemen did I recognize as I gazed on the moving Sight, until suddenly I saw that which caused me to draw my Head back quickly from the Window and to gaze with added Anxiety on the listless Figure of my Friend.

What I had seen down below had indeed filled my Heart with Dread. It was the Figure of my Lord Stour. I could have sworn to it, even though his Lordship was wrapped in a mantle from Head to Foot and wore a broad-rimmed Hat, both of which would indeed have disguised his Person completely before all Eyes save those of Love, of Hate, or of an abiding Friendship.

What was my Lord Stour doing at this Hour, and in disguise, beneath the Window of his bitterest Foe? My Anxiety was further quickened by the Certainty which I had that neither he nor the Lady Barbara would allow Mr. Betterton's Schemes to mature without another Struggle. Even as I once more thrust my Head out of the Window, in order to catch another glimpse of the moody and solitary Figure which I had guessed to be Lord Stour, methought that close by the nearest Shrubbery I espied the Figure of the Lady Barbara, in close conversation with her Attendant. Both Women were wrapped in dark Mantles and wore thick veils to cover their Hair.

A dark presentiment of Evil now took possession of my Soul. I felt like a Watch-dog scenting Danger from afar. The Man whom I loved better than any other on Earth was in peril of his Life, at the hands of an Enemy driven mad by an impending Doom—of that I felt suddenly absolutely convinced. And somehow, I felt equally convinced at the moment that we—I, the poor, insignificant Clerk, as well as my illustrious Friend—were standing on the Brink of an overwhelming Catastrophe.

I had thought to warn him then and there, yet dared not do so in so many words. Men in the prime of Life and the plentitude of their mental Powers are wont to turn contemptuous and obstinate if told to be on their guard against a lurking Enemy. And I feared that, in his utter contempt for his Foe, Mr. Betterton might be tempted to do something that was both unconsidered and perilous.

So I contented myself for the nonce with turning to my Friend, seeing that he had wakened from his reverie and was regarding me with that look of Confidence and Kindliness which always warmed my heart when I was conscious of it, I merely remarked quite casually:

"The Park is still gay with Ladies and Gallants. 'Tis strange at this late hour. But a Minstrel is discoursing sweet Music somewhere in the distance. Mayhap people have assembled in order to listen to him."

And, as if to confirm my Supposition, a merry peal of laughter came ringing right across the Park, and we heard as it were the hum and murmur of Pedestrians moving about. And through it all the echo of the amorous Ditty still lingering upon the evening air:

"For you are Love—and I am yours!"

"Close that window, John," Mr. Betterton said, with an impatient little sigh. "I am in no mood for sentimental Ballads."

I did as he desired, and whilst in the act of closing the Window, I said guardedly:

"I caught sight of my Lord Stour just now, pacing the open Ground just beneath this Window. He appeared moody and solitary, and was wrapped from head to foot in a big Mantle, as if he wished to avoid Recognition."

"I too am moody and solitary, good Honeywood," was Mr. Betterton's sole comment on my remark. Then he added, with a slight shiver of his whole body: "I prithee, see to the Fire. I am perished with the cold."

I went up to the Hearth and kicked the dying embers into a Blaze; then found some logs and threw them on the Fire.

"The evening is warm, Sir," I said; "and you complained of the Heat awhile ago."

"Yes," he rejoined wearily. "My head is on fire and my Spine feels like ice."

It was quite dark in the Room now, save for the flickering and ruddy firelight. So I went out and bade the Servant give me the candles. I came back with them myself and set them on the Desk. As I did so, I glanced at Mr. Betterton. He had once more taken up his listless Attitude; his Head was leaning against the back of his Chair, and I could not fail to note how pallid his Face looked and how drawn, and there was a frown between his Brows which denoted wearying and absorbing Thoughts. Wishing to distract him from his brooding Melancholy, I thought of reminding him of certain artistic and social Duties which were awaiting his Attention.

"Will you send an Answer, Sir," I asked him with well-assumed indifference, "to the Chancellor? It is on the Subject of the Benefit Performance in aid of the Indigent Poor of the City of Westminster. His Lordship again sent a messenger this afternoon."

"Yes!" Mr. Betterton replied readily enough, and sought amongst his Papers for a Letter which he had apparently written some time during the Day. "If His Lordship's Messenger calls again, let him have this Note. I must arrange for the Benefit Performance, of course. But I doubt if many members of the Company will care to give their Services."

"I think that Mr. Robert Noakes would be willing," I suggested. "Also Mr. Lilleston."

"Perhaps, perhaps!" he broke in listlessly. "But we must have Actresses too, and they——"

He shrugged his shoulders, and I rejoined with great alacrity:

"Oh! I feel sure that Mistress Saunderson would be ready to join in any benevolent Scheme for the betterment of the Poor."

"Ah! but she is an Angel!" Mr. Betterton exclaimed. And, believe me, dear Mistress, that those words came as if involuntarily to his Lips, out of the Fulness of his Heart. And even when he had spoken, a Look of infinite Sadness swept over his Face and he rested his Head against his Hand, shading his Eyes from the light of the Candles, lest I should read the Thoughts that were mirrored therein.

"There came a messenger, too, this afternoon," I reminded him, "from Paris, with an autograph Letter from His Majesty the King of France."

"Yes!" he replied, and nodded his Head, I thought, uncomprehendingly.

"Also a letter from the University of Stockholm. They propose that You should visit the City in the course of the Summer and——"

"Yes, yes! I know!" he rejoined impatiently. "I will attend to it all another time ... But not to-night, good Honeywood," he went on almost appealingly, like a Man wearied with many Tasks. "My mind is like a squeezed Orange to-night."

Then he held out his Hand to me—that beautiful, slender Hand of his, which I had so often kissed in the excess of my Gratitude—and added with gentle Indulgence:

"Let me be to-night, good Friend. Leave me to myself. I am such poor Company and am best alone."

I took his hand. It was burning hot, as if with inward Fever. All my Friendship for him, all my Love, was at once on the alert, dreading the ravages of some inward Disease, brought on mayhap by so much Soul-worry.

"I do not relish leaving You alone to-night," I said, with more gruffness than I am wont to display. "This room is easy of Access from the Park."

He smiled, a trifle sadly.

"Dost think," he asked, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, "that a poor Mountebank would tempt a midnight Robber?"

"No!" I replied firmly. "But my Lord Stour, wrapped to the eyes in his Mantle, hath prowled beneath these Windows for an hour." Then, as he made no comment, I continued with some Fervour: "A determined Man, who hates Another, can easily climb up to a first floor Window——"

"Tush, friend!" he broke in sharply. "I am not afraid of his Lordship ... I am afraid of nothing to-night, my good Honeywood," he added softly, "except of myself."

4

You certainly will not wonder, dear Mistress, that after that I did not obey his Commands to leave him to himself. I am nothing of an Eavesdropper, God knows, nor yet would I pry into the Secrets of the Soul of the one Man whom I reverence above all others. But, even as I turned reluctantly away from him in order to go back to my Room, I resolved that, unless he actually shut the Door in my Face, I would circumvent him and would remain on the watch, like a faithful Dog who scents Danger for his Master. In this I did not feel that I was doing any Wrong. God saw in my Heart and knew that my Purpose was innocent. I thank Him on my Knees in that He strengthened me in my Resolve. But for that Resolve, I should not have been cognizant of all the details of those Events which culminated in such a dramatic Climax that night, and I would not have been able to speak with Authority when placing all the Facts before You. Let me tell You at once that I was there, in Mr. Betterton's Room, during the whole of the time that the Incident occurred which I am now about to relate.

He had remained sitting at his Desk, and I went across the Room in the direction of the communicating Door which gave on my own Study. But I did not go through that Door. I just opened and shut it noisily, and then slipped stealthily behind the tall oaken Dresser, which stands in a dark Angle of the Room. From this point of Vantage I could watch closely and ceaselessly, and at the slightest Suspicion of immediate Danger to my Friend I would be free to slip out of my Hiding-place and to render him what Assistance he required. I had to squat there in a cramped Position, and I felt half suffocated with the closeness of the Atmosphere behind so heavy a Piece of Furniture; but this I did not mind. From where I was I could command a view of Mr. Betterton at his Desk, and of the Window, which I wished now that I had taken the Precaution to bar and bolt ere I retired to my Corner behind the Dresser.

For awhile, everything was silent in the Room; only the great Clock ticked loudly in its case, and now and again the blazing logs gave an intermittent Crackle. I just could see the outline of Mr. Betterton's Shoulder and Arm silhouetted against the candle light. He sat forward, his elbow resting upon the Desk, his Head leaning against his Hand, and so still that presently I fell to thinking that he must have dropped to sleep.

But suddenly he gave that quick, impatient Sigh of his, which I had learned to know so well, pushed back his chair, and rose to his Feet. Whereupon, he began pacing up and down the Room, in truth like some poor, perturbed Spirit that is denied the Solace of Rest.

Then he began to murmur to himself. I know that mood of his and believe it to be peculiar to the artistic Temperament, which, when it feels itself untrammelled by the Presence of Others, gives vent to its innermost Thoughts in mumbled Words.

From time to time I caught Snatches of what he said—wild Words for the most part, which showed the Perturbation of his Spirit. He, whose Mind was always well-ordered, whose noble Calling had taught him to co-ordinate his Thoughts and to subdue them to his Will, was now murmuring incoherent Phrases, disjointed Sentences that would have puzzled me had I not known the real Trend of his Mood.

"Barbara!..." he said at one time. "Beautiful, exquisite, innocent Lady Babs; the one pure Crystal in that Laboratory of moral Decomposition, the Court of White Hall...." Then he paused, struck his Forehead with his Hand, and added with a certain fierce Contempt: "But she will yield ... she is ready now to yield. She will cast aside her Pride, and throw herself into the arms of a Man whom she hates, all for the sake of that young Coxcomb, who is not worthy to kiss the Sole of her Shoe!"

Again he paused, flung himself back into his Chair, and once more buried his Face in his Hands.

"Oh, Woman, Woman!" I could hear him murmuring. "What an Enigma! How can the mere Man attempt to understand thee?"

Then he laughed. Oh! I could not bear the sound of that laugh: there was naught but Bitterness in it. And he said slowly muttering between his Teeth:

"The Philosopher alone knows that Women are like Melons: it is only after having tasted them that one knows if they are good."

Of course, he said a great deal more during the course of that dreary, restless hour, which seemed to me like a Slice out of Eternity. His Restlessness was intense. Every now and then he would jump up and walk up and down, up and down, until his every Footstep had its counterpart in the violent beatings of my Heart. Then he would fling himself into a Chair and rest his Head against the Cushions, closing his Eyes as if he were in bodily Pain, or else beat his Forehead with his Fists.

Of course he thought himself unobserved, for Mr. Betterton is, as You know, a Man of great mental Reserve. Not even before me—his faithful and devoted Friend—would he wittingly have displayed such overmastering Emotion. To say that an equally overwhelming Sorrow filled my Heart would be but to give You, dear Mistress, a feeble Statement of what I really felt. To see a Man of Mr. Betterton's mental and physical Powers so utterly crushed by an insane Passion was indeed heartrending. Had he not everything at his Feet that any Man could wish for?—Fame, Honours, the Respect and Admiration of all those who mattered in the World. Women adored him, Men vied with one another to render him the sincerest Flattery by striving to imitate his Gestures, his Mode of Speech, the very Cut of his Clothes. And, above all—aye, I dare assert it, and You, beloved Mistress will, I know, forgive me—above all, he had the Love of a pure and good Woman, of a talented Artist—yours, dear Lady—an inestimable Boon, for which many a Man would thank his Maker on his Knees.

Ah! he was blind then, had been blind since that fatal Hour when the Lady Barbara Wychwoode crossed his Path. I could endorse the wild Words which he had spoken to her this forenoon. A thousand devils were indeed unchained within him; but 'tis not to her Kiss that they would yield, but rather to the gentle Ministration of exquisite Mistress Saunderson.

CHAPTER XV

MORE DEAF THAN ADDERS

1

I felt so cramped and numb in my narrow hiding-place that I verily believe I must have fallen into a kind of trance-like Slumber.

From this I was suddenly awakened by the loud Clang of our front-door Bell, followed immediately by the Footsteps of the Serving Man upon the Landing, and then by a brief Colloquy between him and the belated Visitor.

Seriously, at the moment I had no Conception of who this might be, until I glanced at Mr. Betterton. And then I guessed. Guessed, just as he had already done. Every line of his tense and expectant Attitude betrayed the Fact that he had recognized the Voice upon the Landing, and that its sound had thrilled his very Soul and brought him back from the Land of Dreams and Nightmare, where he had been wandering this past hour.

You remember, dear Lady, the last time Mr. Betterton played in a Tragedy called "Hamlett," wherein there is a Play within a Play, and the melancholy Prince of Denmark sets a troupe of Actors to enact a Representation of the terrible Crime whereof he accuses both his Uncle and his Mother? It is a Scene which, when played by Mr. Betterton, is wont to hold the Audience enthralled. He plays his Part in it by lying full length on the Ground, his Body propped up by his Elbow and his Chin supported in his Hand. His Eyes—those wonderful, expressive Eyes of his—he keeps fixed upon the guilty Pair: his Mother and his Uncle. He watches the play of every Emotion upon their faces—Fear, Anger, and then the slowly creeping, enveloping Remorse; and his rigid, stern Features express an Intensity of Alertness and of Expectancy, which is so poignant as to be almost painful.

Just such an Expression did my dear Friend's Face wear at this Moment. He had pushed his Chair back slightly, so that I had a fuller view of him, and the flickering light of the wax Candles illumined his clear-cut Features and his Eyes, fixed tensely upon the door.

2

The next moment the serving Man threw open the door and the Lady Barbara walked in. I could not see her until she had advanced further into the middle of the Room. Then I beheld her in all her Loveliness. Nay! I'll not deny it. She was still incomparably beautiful, with, in addition, that marvellous air of Breeding and of Delicacy, which rendered her peerless amongst her kind. I hated her for the infinite wrong which she had done to my Friend, but I could not fail to admire her. Her Mantle was thrown back from her Shoulders and a dark, filmy Veil, resembling a Cloud, enveloped her fair Hair. Beneath her Mantle she wore a Dress of something grey that shimmered like Steel in the Candlelight. A few tendrils of her ardent Hair had escaped from beneath her Veil, and they made a kind of golden Halo around her Face. She was very pale, but of that transparent, delicate Pallor that betokens Emotion rather than ill-health, and her Eyes looked to me to be as dark as Sloes, even though I knew them to be blue.

For the space of one long Minute, which seemed like Eternity, these two remained absolutely still, just looking at one another. Methought that I could hear the very heart-beats within my breast. Then the Lady said, with a queer little catch in her Throat and somewhat hesitatingly:

"You are surprised to see me, Sir, no doubt ... but ..."

She was obviously at a loss how to begin. And Mr. Betterton, aroused no doubt by her Voice from his absorption, rose quickly to his Feet and made her a deep and respectful Obeisance.

"The Angels from Heaven sometimes descend to Earth," he said slowly; "yet the Earth is more worthy of their Visit than is the humble Artist of the Presence of his Muse." Then he added more artlessly: "Will You deign to sit?"

He drew a Chair forward for her, but She did not take it, continued to speak with a strange, obviously forced Gaiety and in a halting Manner.

"I thank you, Sir," she said. "That is ... no ... not yet ... I like to look about me."

She went close up to the Desk and began to finger idly the Books and Papers which lay scattered pell-mell upon it, he still gazing on her as if he had not yet realized the Actuality of her Presence. Anon she looked inquiringly about her.

"What a charming room!" she said, with a little cry of wonder. "So new to me! I have never seen an Artist's room before."

"For weeks and months," Mr. Betterton rejoined simply, "this one has been a temple, hallowed by thoughts of You. Your Presence now, has henceforth made it a Sanctuary."

She turned full, inquiring Eyes upon him and riposted with childlike Ingenuousness:

"Yet must You wonder, Sir, at my Presence here ... alone ... and at this hour."

"In my heart," he replied, "there is such an Infinity of Happiness that there is no Room for Wonder."

"An Infinity of Happiness?" she said with a quaint little sigh. "That is what we are all striving for, is it not? The Scriptures tell us that this Earth is a Vale of Tears. No wonder!" she added naïvely, "since we are so apt to allow Happiness to pass us by."

Oh! how I wished I had the Courage then and there to reveal myself to these Twain, to rush out of my Hiding-place and seize that wily Temptress who, I felt sure, was here only for the undoing of a Man whom she hated with unexampled Bitterness. Oh, why hath grudging Nature made me weak and cowardly and diffident, when my whole Soul yearns at times to be resourceful and bold? Believe me, dear Mistress, that my Mind and my Will-power were absolutely torn between two Impulses—the one prompting me to put a stop to this dangerous and purposeless Interview, this obvious Trap set to catch a great and unsuspecting Artist unawares; and the other urging me not to interfere, but rather to allow Destiny, Fate or the Will of God alone to straighten out the Web of my Friend's Life, which had been embroiled by such Passions as were foreign to his noble Nature.

And now I am thankful that I allowed this latter Counsel to prevail. The Will of God did indeed shape the Destinies of Men this night for their Betterment and ultimate Happiness. But, for the moment, the Threads of many a Life did appear to be most hopelessly tangled: the Lady Barbara Wychwoode, daughter of the Marquis of Sidbury, the fiancée of the Earl of Stour, was in the house of Tom Betterton, His Majesty's Well-Beloved Servant, and he was passionately enamoured of her and had vowed Vengeance against the Man she loved. As he gazed on her now there was no Hatred in his Glance, no evil Passion disturbed the Look of Adoration wherewith he regarded her.

"Barbara," he pleaded humbly, "be merciful to me.... For pity's sake, do not mock me with your smile! My dear, do you not see that I scarce can believe that I live ... and that you are here? ... You! ... You!" he went on, with passionate Earnestness. "My Divinity, whom I only dare approach on bended Knees, whose Garment I scarce dare touch with my trembling Lips!"

He bent the Knee and raised the long, floating End of her cloudlike Veil to his Lips. I could have sworn at that Moment that she recoiled from him and that she made a Gesture to snatch away the Veil, as if his very Touch on it had been Pollution. That Gesture and the Recoil were, however, quite momentary. The next second, even whilst he rose once more to his Feet, she had already recovered herself.

"Hush!" she said gently, and drew herself artlessly away from his Nearness. "I want to listen.... People say that Angels wait upon Mr. Betterton when he studies his Part ... and I want to hear the flutter of their Wings."

"The Air vibrates with the Echo of your sweet Name," he rejoined, and his exquisite Voice sounded mellow and vibrant as a sensitive Instrument touched by a Master's Hand. "Your name, which with mad longing I have breathed morning, noon and eve. And now ... now ... I am not dreaming ... You are near me! ... You, the perfect Lady Barbara ... my Lady Babs.... And you look—almost happy!"

She gave him a Look—the true Look of a Siren set to enchain the Will of Man.

"Happy?" she queried demurely. "Nay, Sir ... puzzled, perhaps."

"Puzzled?" he echoed. "Why?"

"Wondering," she replied, "what magic is in the air that could make a Woman's Heart ... forsake one Love ... for ... for Another."

Yes! She said this, and looked on him straight between the Eyes as she spoke. Yet I knew that she lied, could have screamed the Accusation at her, so convinced was I that she was playing some subtle and treacherous Game, designed to entrap him and to deliver him helpless and broken into her Power. But he, alas! was blinded by his Passion. He saw no Siren in her, no Falsehood in her Smile. At her Words, I saw a great Light of Happiness illumine his Face.

"Barbara!" he pleaded. "Have pity on me, for my Reason wanders. I dare not call it back, lest this magic hour should prove to be a Dream."

He tried to take her in his Arms, but she evaded him, ran to the other side of the Desk, laughing merrily like a Child. Once again her delicate Fingers started to toy with the Papers scattered there.

"Oh, ho!" she exclaimed, with well-feigned astonishment. "Your desk! Why, this," she said, placing her Hand upon the neat pile before her, "must be that very Thunderbolt wherewith to-morrow you mean to crush an arrogant Enemy!"

"Barbara!" he rejoined with ever growing passion, and strove to take her Hand. "Will you not let me tell You——"

"Yes, yes!" she replied archly, and quietly withdrew her Hand from his grasp. "You shall speak to me anon some of those Speeches of our great Poets, which your Genius hath helped to immortalize. To hear Mr. Betterton recite will be an inestimable Privilege ... which your many Admirers, Sir, will envy me."