Front matter (continued 5)

"The whole world would envy me to-night," he retorted, and gazed on her with such Ardour that she was forced to lower her Eyes and to hide their Expression behind the delicate Curtain of her Lashes.

I, who was the dumb Spectator of this cruel Game, saw that the Lady Barbara was feeling her way towards her Goal. There was so much Excitement in her, such palpitating Vitality, that her very Heart-beats seemed to find their Echo in my breast. Of course, I did not know yet what Game it was that she was playing. All that I knew was that it was both deadly and treacherous. Even now, when Mr. Betterton once more tried to approach her and she as instinctively as before recoiled before him, she contrived to put strange softness into her Voice, and a subtle, insidious Promise which helped to confuse his Brain.

"No—no!" she said. "Not just yet ... I pray you have pity on my Blushes. I—I still am affianced to my Lord Stour ... although..."

"You are right, my beloved," he rejoined simply. "I will be patient, even though I am standing on the Threshold of Paradise. But will You not be merciful? I cannot see you well. Will you not take off that Veil? ... It casts a dark shadow over your Brow."

This time she allowed him to come near her, and, quite slowly, she unwound the Veil from round her Head. He took it from her as if it were some hallowed Relic, too sacred to be polluted by earthly Touch. And, as her back was turned towards him, he crushed the Gossamer between his Hands and pressed its Fragrance to his Lips.

"There!" she said coolly. "'Tis done. Your magic, Sir Actor, has conquered again."

It seemed to me that she was more self-possessed now than she had been when first she entered the Room. Indeed, her Serenity appeared to grow as his waned perceptibly. She still was a little restless, wandering aimlessly about the Room, fingering the Books, the Papers, the Works of Art that lay everywhere about; but it seemed like the restlessness of Curiosity rather than of Excitement. In her own Mind she felt that she held the Winning Hand—of this I was convinced—and that she could afford to toy with and to befool the Man who had dared to measure his Power against hers.

After awhile, she sat down in her Chair which he had brought forward for her, and which stood close to the Desk.

"And now, Sir," she said with cool composure, "'tis You who must humour me. I have a fancy ... now, at this moment ... and my Desire is to be thoroughly spoiled."

"Every Whim of yours," he rejoined, "is a Command to your humble Slave."

"Truly?" she queried.

"Truly."

"Then will You let me see you ... sitting at your Desk ... Pen in hand ... writing something just for me?"

"All my work of late," he replied, "has been done because of You ... but I am no Poet. What I speak may have some Merit. What I write hath none."

"Oh!" she protested with well-simulated Coquetry, "what I desire You to write for me, Sir Actor, will have boundless Merit. It is just a couple of Lines designed to ... to ... prove your Love for me—Oh!" she added quickly, "I scarce dare believe in it, Sir ... I scare understood ... You remember, this morning in the Park, I was so excited, yet you asked me—to be—your Wife!"

"My Wife!" he cried, his Voice ringing with triumphant Passion. "And you would consent?——"

"And so I came," she riposted, evading a direct Answer, "to see if I had been dreaming ... if, indeed, the great and illustrious Mr. Betterton had stooped to love a Woman ... and for the sake of that Love would do a little Thing for Her."

Lies! Lies! I knew that every Word which she spoke was nothing but a Lie. My God! if only I could have unriddled her Purpose! If only I could have guessed what went on behind those marvellous Eyes of hers, deep and unfathomable as the Sea! All I knew—and this I did in the very Innermost of my Soul—was that the Lady Barbara Wychwoode had come here to-night in order to trick Mr. Betterton, and to turn his Love for her to Advantage for my Lord Stour. How carefully she had thought out the Part which she meant to play; how completely she meant to have him at her Mercy, only in order to mock and deride him in the End, I had yet to learn.

Even now she completed his Undoing, the Addling of his noble Mind, by casting Looks of shy Coquetry upon him. What Man is there who could have resisted them? What Man, who was himself so deeply infatuated as was Mr. Betterton, could believe that there was Trickery in those Glances? He sat down at his Desk, as she had desired him to do, and drew Pen, Ink and Paper closer to his Hand.

"An you asked my Life," he said simply, "I would gladly give it to prove my Love for You." Then, as she remained silent and meditative, he added: "What is your Ladyship's wish?"

"Oh!" she replied, "'tis a small matter ... It concerns the Earl of Stour ... We were Friends ... once ... Playmates when we were Children ... That Friendship ripened into a—a—Semblance of Love. No! No!" she went on rapidly, seeing that at her Words he had made a swift Movement, leaning towards her. "I pray you, listen. That Semblance of Love may have gone ... but Friendship still abides. My Lord Stour, the Playmate of my Childhood, is in sore trouble ... I, his Friend, would wish to help him, and cannot do this without your Aid. Will You—will You grant me this Aid, Sir," she queried shyly, "if I beg it of You?"

"Your Ladyship has but to command," he answered vaguely, for, in truth, his whole Mind was absorbed in the contemplation of her Loveliness.

"'Twas You," she asserted boldly, "who begged for his Lordship's pardon from the Countess of Castlemaine ... 'Twas not he who betrayed his Friends. That is a Fact, is it not?"

"A Fact. Yes," he replied.

"Then I pray you, Sir, write that down," she pleaded, with an ingenuous, childish Gesture, "and sign it with your Name ... just to please me."

She looked like a lovely Child begging for a Toy. To think of Guile in connection with those Eyes, with that Smile, seemed almost a Sacrilege. And my poor Friend was so desperately infatuated just then! Has any Man ever realized that Woman is fooling him, when she really sets her Wiles to entrap him? Surely not a Man of Mr. Betterton's keen, artistic and hot-blooded Temperament. I saw it all now, yet I dared not move. For one thing, the time had gone by when I might have done it with good Effect. Now it was too late. Any interference on my part would only have led to Ignominy for myself and the severance of a Friendship that I valued more than Life itself. Betwixt a Friend's warning and a Woman's Cajolery, what Man would hesitate? What could I, in any event, have done now, save to hold up the inevitable Catastrophe for a few Moments—a few Seconds, perhaps? Truly, my hour was past. I could but wait now in Silence and Misery until the End.

There she sat, pleading, speaking that eternal Phrase, which since the beginning of primeval times hath been used by wily Woman for the undoing of a generous-minded Man.

"Will You do this, Sir—just to please me?"

"I swear to You that it shall be done," he rejoined with passionate fervour. "But will you not let me tell you first——"

"No!—No!" she said quickly, clasping her delicate hands. "I pray You—not just yet. I—I so long to see You write ... there ... at this Desk, where lie piled letters from every illustrious Person and every crowned Head in Europe. And now You will write," she entreated, in the tone of an indulged and wayward Child. "You will? Just one little Document for me, because ... because You say You love me, and ... because ... I..."

"Barbara!" he cried in an Ecstasy of Happiness. "My Beloved!"

He was on the point of falling on his Knees, but once more a demure Gesture, a drawing back of her whole Figure, restrained him.

"No! No!" she reiterated firmly. "When you have written, I will listen——"—another Glance, and he was vanquished. Then she completed her Phrase—"to all you have to say."

He drew back with a sigh, and took up his Pen.

"As you command," he said simply, and made ready to write.

3

Even now, whene'er I close mine Eyes, I can see those twain as a vivid Picture before me. The Massive Desk, littered with papers, the Candles flickering in their Sconces, illumining with their elusive Light the Figure of the great Actor, sitting with shoulders slightly bent forward, one Arm resting upon the Desk, half buried in the filmy folds of her Ladyship's Veil, his Face upturned towards the Enchantress, who held him at this Hour an absolute Slave to her Will. She had risen from her Chair and stood immediately behind him; her Face I could not see, for her back was towards me, but the light caught the loose Tendrils of her fair Hair, and from where I stood watching, this looked just like a golden Aureole around her small Head, bent slightly towards him. She too was leaning forward, over him, with her Hand extended, giving him Directions as to what he should write.

"Oh, I pray You," she said with an impatient little Sigh, "do not delay! I will watch You as You write. I pray You write it as a Message addressed to the Court of White Hall. Not in Poetry," she added, with a nervous little Laugh; "but in Prose, so that all may understand."

He bent to his task and began to write, and she straightened out her elegant Figure and murmured, as if oppressed: "How hot this room is!"

Slowly, as if in Absence of Mind, She wandered towards the Window.

"I have heard it said," she remarked, "that Mr. Betterton's worst enemy is the cold. But a fire! ... on such a glorious Evening. The first Kiss of awakening Spring."

She had reached the Window now, and stood for awhile in the Bay, leaning against the Mullion; and I could not help but admire her Duplicity and her Pluck. For, indeed, She had risked Everything that Woman holds most dear, for the sake of the Man she loved. And She could not help but know that She herself and her fair Name would anon be at the mercy of a Man whom her Cajoleries and her Trickery would have rendered desperate.

Anon, as if quite overcome by the Heat, she threw open the Casement, and then leaned out, peering into the Darkness beyond. Ensconced in my Corner at some distance from the Window, I was conscious of the Movement and subdued Noise which came up from the still crowded Park. A number of People appeared to be moving out there, and even as I strained my Ears to listen, I caught the sweet sound of the selfsame Song of awhile ago, wafted hither on the cool night Air:

"You are my Life! You ask me why?

Because my Hope is in Your Love."

I caught myself marvelling if the Ladies and Gallants of the Court had strolled out into the Park at this hour, drawn thither by the amorous Melodies sung by the unknown Minstrel; or by the balmy Air of Spring; or merely by the passing Whim of some new Fashion or Fancy. I even strained my Ears so that I might recognise the sound of Voices that were familiar to me. I heard my Lord of Rochester's characteristic Laugh, Sir William Davenant's dictatorial tones and the high-pitched Cackle of Mr. Killigrew.

So doth our Mind oft dwell on trivial Thoughts at times of gravest Stress. Her Ladyship had sat down on a low Stool beside the Window. I could only see the vague outline of her—the Expression of her Face, the very Poise of her Head, were wrapt in the surrounding Gloom.

For awhile there was perfect Silence in the Room, save for the monotonous ticking of the old Clock and the scratching of Mr. Betterton's Pen as he wrote with a rapid and unhesitating Hand.

The Minutes sped on, and anon he had completed his Task. I saw him lay down his Pen, then raise the Paper and read through very carefully all that he had written, and finally strew Sand upon the momentous Document. For awhile after that he remained perfectly still, and I observed his clear-cut Face, with Eyes fixed as it were inwards into his own Soul, and sensitive Lips pressed tightly one against the other. The Hand which held the Document was perfectly steady, an obedient slave to his Will. And yet that Sign-manual, as directed by her Ladyship, was a direct Avowal of a dastardly Deed, of the gratuitous Slandering of an innocent Man's Honour, without Provocation or Justification, seeing that no mention was made in the Confession of the abominable Outrage which had brought about this grim Retaliation, or of the Refusal on the part of his Lordship to grant the Satisfaction that is customary between Gentlemen. It was, in fact, his own Integrity and his own Honour that the eminent Actor was even now bartering for a Woman's Love. This will prove to You, dear Mistress, that Mr. Betterton's Love for the Lady Barbara Wychwoode did not at any time resemble true Affection, which, of all the Passions to which the human Heart is apt to become Slave, is the one that leads the Mind to the highest and noblest Thoughts; whereas an Infatuation can only be compared to a Fever. Man hath no more control over the one than he hath over the other, and cannot curb its Violence or the Duration of its Attack.

4

The next thing that I remember most clearly is seeing Mr. Betterton put the fateful Paper down again, take up her Ladyship's Veil and bury his Face in its cloudy Folds. I heard him murmur faintly, after awhile:

"Now, if I dared, I would believe myself almost happy!"

Then he rose, picked up the Paper, and with it went up to the Lady Barbara.

"'Tis done, as you did command," he said quite quietly, and placed the Document in her Hand. She took it from him and rose to her Feet.

"A Light, I pray You," she said coldly.

He brought one of the Candles across and stood beside her, holding it aloft. She read the Paper through with great Deliberation, nodding Approval from time to time as she did so. Then she folded it into a very small Compass, while she thanked him coldly and guardedly. He then went back to the Desk with the Candle and put it down. During these few Seconds, whilst his back was turned to her, I noticed that the Lady Barbara took a heavy, jewelled Brooch from her Gown and fastened it by its pin to the Document. Her movements were methodical but very quick, and my own Mind worked too slowly to guess at her Intention.

The next moment, Mr. Betterton was once more by her side. Eager, alert, and with the glow of Triumph in his Eyes, he flung himself at her Feet. She was his now!—his by Right of Conquest! He had won her by measureless Self-Sacrifice, and now he meant to hold the Guerdon for which he had paid so heavy a Price.

"Because you deigned to cross this humble Threshold," he said, and his arms encircled her Waist with the masterful and passionate Gesture of a Victor, "the poor Actor places his Name and Fame, his Pride and baffled Revenge, at your feet."

"At the World's Feet, Sir Mountebank!" she cried exultantly, and with a swift movement she flung the weighted Paper far out through the Window. Then, leaning out into the Darkness, she called at the top of her Voice: "To me, Adela! Here is the Message from Mr. Betterton. Take it to my Lord Sidbury at once!"

But Mr. Betterton was no longer in a mental State to care what happened after this; I doubt if he realized just what was impending. He was still on his Knees, holding on to her with both Arms.

"Nay!" he said wildly. "That is as You please. Let the whole World think me base and abject. What care I for Honour, Fame or Integrity now that You are here, and that You will be my Wife?"

Ah! the poor, deluded Fool! How could he be so blind? Already the Lady Barbara had turned on him with flashing Eyes, and a loud, hysterical Laugh of measureless Contempt broke from her Lips.

"Your Wife!" she exclaimed, and that harsh laugh echoed through the Silence of the House. "So, Mr. Actor, you thought to entrap the Daughter of the Marquis of Sidbury into becoming your Wife! ... Nay! you miserable Fool! 'Twas I entrapped and cheated you.... Your Wife! Ye Saints in Heaven, hear him! His Wife! The Wife of Thomas Betterton, the Mountebank!! I!!!"

Her Words, her Laughter, the Bitterness of her Contempt, stung him like a Whip-lash. In an instant, he was on his Feet, staggered back till he came in contact with the Desk, to which he clung with both hands, while he faced her, his Cheeks pale as Ashes, his Eyes glowing with a Light that appeared almost maniacal.

"You cheated me?" he murmured inarticulately. "You lied to me? ... You ... I'll not believe it ... I'll not believe it...."

She appeared not to heed him, was gazing out of the Window, shouting directions to some one—her waiting-maid, no doubt, or other Confidante—who was searching for the Paper down below.

"There, Adela!" she called out eagerly. "Dost see ... just by those bushes ... something white ... my brooch.... Dost see?"

Suddenly she gave a Cry of Triumph, and then turned back exultantly to her baffled Foe.

"My maid," she said, somewhat wildly, and panting as if she were exhausted with fast running. "We had planned it all ... She is devoted to me ... She has been on the Watch ... She has the paper now ... There!" she added, and with outstretched arm pointed out into the Gloom beyond. "There; Do you see?"

Can You wonder that her Trickery, her Contempt had made him mad? Indeed, even I felt that at that moment I could have held her slender throat between my two Hands and crushed the Life out of her. To a Man of Mr. Betterton's temperament, the Provocation was obviously beyond his Powers of Endurance. Even in the dim Light, I could see a positive Fury of Passion akin to Hate literally distorting his Face. The next second he was once more by her side, and whilst she still cried wildly: "Do you see? Do you see? Run, Adela, run!" he seized her in his arms and retorted roughly:

"I see nothing now but your Beauty, and that has made me mad."

"Run, Adela! Run!" she cried again. "That message from Mr. Betterton is for the whole World to see!"

But he held her tightly round the Shoulders now, and she, probably realizing her Danger for the first time, strove to struggle against his Embrace.

"Let me go!" she commanded. "Let me go! or I swear by God in Heaven that I will find the Strength to kill myself and You."

"I love You," was his only reply to her Threat. "Nay!" he added, speaking in rapid, jerky Phrases, the while she continued to struggle with ever growing loss of Power. "You shall kill me later if You will, but not till I have lived. My Dear, my Love, my Saint! Have I not worshipped you for days and months? Have I not held You in Dream in my Arms? You are my Muse, my Divinity, my Hope! Mine! Mine! Exquisite, adorable Lady Barbara! No! No! You cannot escape, struggle how You might. This is my hour! 'Tis you who gave it me, and I defy Heaven itself to rob me of a single instant!"

My God! what could I do? More and more did I curse the Folly and Cowardice which had kept me riveted to this Spot all this while. Now there was nothing for it but to reveal my Presence, to draw upon my foolish Head the Contempt and Anger of a Man for whom I would gladly have laid down my Life. My Brain became confused. I ceased to see clearly. A ruddy Mist was gathering before my Eyes. I was on the Verge of losing Consciousness and was struggling pitifully to retain Command over my Senses. Through this fast approaching Swoon I could hear, as through an intervening Veil, the hoarse and broken Accents of the Voice that I loved so well:

"You are here alone with me. The last shred of my Reason is scattered to the Winds. England, Fame, the World, are empty Words to me. Do you not see that now I am ready to die an hundred Deaths, for at last I shall have lived ... I shall have held You in my Arms."

And one great and pitiful Appeal from her Lips: "Oh, God! If there is Justice in Heaven—defend me now——"

And, even half conscious as I was, I saw her—yes, saw her quite distinctly give a sudden wrench which freed her right Arm. She plunged her Hand into the bosom of her Gown, and the next instant the flickering light of the Candle flashed a vivid gleam upon the narrow steel blade of a dagger which she held. This, with the swiftness of lightning, brought me back to the Consciousness of the present, grim Reality. With a loud and sudden Cry, I darted out of my Hiding Place and stood there before them both, pale no doubt with a well-nigh unearthly Pallor, which must have given me the Appearance of a Ghost.

It was now the Lady Barbara who was nigh to Swooning. But, with that coolness which comes at times to the Helpless and the Weak, I had already snatched her Veil from the Desk, and whilst she tottered and almost fell into my Arms, I wrapped it around her Head.

"Quick! The Door!" I said. "You are quite safe!"

I dared not look at Mr. Betterton. Indeed, I could not even now tell You in what Attitude or with what Expression of Face he watched me whilst I seemed thus to take Command of the Situation. The Lady Barbara was trembling so violently that some few moments elapsed before she was able to walk across the Room. When she finally did so, her Foot kicked against the Dagger which had dropped from her Hand when I so suddenly appeared before her. She gave a faint Cry of Horror, and I stooped and picked up the Dagger and placed it back in her Hand without looking at her.

5

Her Ladyship then went on towards the door. But suddenly she came to a halt, and I, who was close to her heels, paused likewise, for I felt that every drop of Blood within me had turned to Ice. From the Hall below there had come the sound of angry Altercation and a Man's voice was raised loudly and peremptorily, saying:

"Let me pass, man! I will speak with Mr. Betterton."

The voice was that of my Lord Stour.

The Lady Barbara stood quite still for a moment, rigid as a carved Statue. Then a low, inexpressibly pathetic Moan rose to her Lips.

"Oh! for the Earth to open!" she cried pitiably, "and bury me and this Shame——"

She was overwrought and weak with Emotion, but in any Event it was a terrible Position for any Lady of Rank to be found in, at this late hour, and alone. Overcome no doubt with the superabundance of harrowing Sensations, she tottered as if about to swoon. Mr. Betterton caught her as she fell.

"My Divinity! My Queen!" he murmured quickly. "No one shall harm you, I swear it! No one shall!" Then he added under his breath: "Heaven above me, help me to protect her!"

Whereupon he lifted her up in his Arms as if she were a Child, and carried her as far as the Embrasure of the Window. Then, with one of those quick movements which were so characteristic of him, he drew the Curtains together, which shut off the Bay from the rest of the Room and screened its fair Occupant completely from view.

He was a different Man now to the Passion-racked Creature of awhile ago; absolutely calm; the Man I had known and loved and respected all these years. Though my whole Being was still convulsed in an Agony of Apprehension, I felt that from him now would come moral Comfort for me and Protection for the unfortunate Lady, whose Burden of Sorrow had at last touched his Heart. And I do verily believe, dear Lady, that in that Instant of supreme Danger for us all, his Passion fell from him like a Curtain from before his Eyes. It had gone through its culminating Anguish when he discovered that she whom he loved had lied to him and cheated him. Now, when she stood here before him, utterly helpless and utterly crushed, his Infatuation appeared to writhe for one Moment in the Crucible of his own Manliness and Chivalry, and then to emerge therefrom hallowed and purified.

6

In the meanwhile, less than a minute had elapsed. My Lord Stour had ascended the Stairs, undeterred by the Protestations of Mr. Betterton's Servant. The next moment he had violently wrenched the Door open and now stood before us, pale, trembling with Rage or Excitement, hatless, his Mantle thrown back from his Shoulders. His right Hand clutched his naked Sword, and in his Left he had a crushed ball of paper, held together by her Ladyship's brooch. His entire Attitude was one of firm and deadly Menace.

"I heard a Voice!" he exclaimed, staring wildly around him. "I saw a Face—a Form.... This Paper was flung out from yonder Window ... was picked up by a serving Wench.... What does it mean?" he queried harshly, and advanced threateningly towards Mr. Betterton, who was standing midway between him and the curtained Bay.

"How can I tell?" riposted the great Actor blandly, with a careless Shrug of his Shoulders. "I was not moon-gazing, as your Lordship appears to have done. A paper, did You say?"

"You are not alone," retorted my Lord roughly. "I heard a voice ... just now...."

"We are all apt to hear voices in the moonlight, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined simply. "The Artist hears his Muse, the Lover his Mistress, the Criminal his Conscience."

His unruffled calm seemed to exasperate his Lordship's fury, for he now appeared even more menacing than before.

"And did You perchance hear a Voice to-night, Sir Actor," he queried, his voice hoarse with Passion, "warning You of Death?"

"Nay!" replied Mr. Betterton. "That Voice whispers to Us all, and always, my Lord, even in our Cradles."

"Then hear it for the last time now, and from my Lips, you abominable Mountebank!" my Lord cried, beside himself in truth. "For unless You draw aside that Curtain, I am going to kill You."

"That is as you please," retorted Mr. Betterton simply.

"Stand aside!" commanded his Lordship.

But Mr. Betterton looked him calmly up and down and did not move one inch.

"This is a most unwarrantable Interference," he said quietly, "with the Freedom of His Majesty's well-beloved Servant. Your Lordship seems to forget that every inch of this Floor is mine, and that I stand on it where I please. I pray you, take that Paper—that Message—elsewhere. An it came down from Heaven, read it—but leave me in Peace."

"I'll not go," asserted my Lord harshly, "till you have drawn aside that Curtain."

"Then we'll see whose Legs will weary first, my Lord, yours or mine," was Mr. Betterton's unruffled rejoinder.

"Draw then and defend yourself!" cried my Lord, who before his Enemy's unbroken Calm, had lost what Semblance of Self-Control he still possessed.

"I am unarmed," riposted Mr. Betterton simply.

"Then let Satan have his due," exclaimed the young Hothead, and raised his Sword ready to strike, "for your Soul shall go down to Hell at last!"

In a moment, of course, I was on him. But he had the vigour of a trained Soldier, enhanced by an overwhelming Passion of Enmity and of Rage; and though I seized him unawares—I doubt if he had realized that I was in the Room—he shook me off in an instant, as a Dog might shake off an importunate Rat. Before I had time to recover my breath from his quick and furious Defence, he had turned on me and dealt me such a vigorous Blow with his Fist between the Eyes, that the whole Room began to gyrate around me and the Atmosphere became peopled with Stars. I staggered and half fell against the Dresser that had sheltered me awhile ago. For the space of half a dozen seconds mine Eyes were closed.

7

When I opened them again, the Scene had indeed changed. Her Ladyship had pushed the Curtains aside and stood there in the window Embrasure, revealed to her irate Lover. And he, though he must have known that she was there all the Time, appeared so staggered by her Apparition that his Arm dropped by his side and his Sword fell with a clatter to the Ground, while he murmured as if in the last Throes of mental Suffering:

"Barbara ... my Barbara .. here—alone—at night ... with this Man!..."

Her Ladyship, however, appeared perfectly composed. The light of the Candles revealed her exquisite Face, pale but serene, and her small Head crowned with the Aureole of her golden Hair, held up proudly as one who hath naught to fear, naught for which she need be ashamed. She pointed with perfect steadiness to the Paper which my Lord still held tightly clasped in his left Hand.

"That paper!" she said, and only a slight veiling of her Voice betrayed the Emotion which she felt. "I sent it. 'Tis for you, my Lord. It will clear your Honour, and proclaim your Innocence."

But his Lordship did not appear to hear her. He continued to murmur to himself mechanically, and in tones of the deepest Despair:

"Barbara ... alone ... with him!"

"Read that Paper, my dear Lord," her Ladyship insisted with calm dignity, "ere with another Thought you further dare to wrong me!"

These simple Words, however, so full of conscious Worth and of Innocence, let loose the Floodgates of my Lord's pent-up, insensate jealousy.

"Wrong you!" he cried, and a harsh, almost maniacal laugh broke from his choking Throat. "Wrong you! Nay! I suppose I must be grateful and thank Heaven on my Knees that You, my promised Bride, deigned to purchase mine Honour at the Price of your Kisses!"

At this gross Insult her Ladyship uttered a pitiful Moan; but ere she could give Reply, Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had not interfered between the Twain, now did so, and in no measured Tone.

"Silence, Madman!" he commanded, "ere You blaspheme."

But my Lord had apparently lost his last Shred of Reason. Jealousy was torturing him in a manner that even Hatred had failed to do.

"God!" he exclaimed repeatedly, calling to the Almighty to witness his Soul-Misery. "I saw her at that Window.... Who else saw her?... How many Varlets and jabbering Coxcombs know at the present moment that the Lady Barbara Wychwoode spends the night alone with a Mountebank?" In an excess of ungoverned Rage he tore the Paper to shreds and threw the Scraps almost into her Ladyship's Face. "Take back your Proofs!" he cried. "I'll not take mine Honour from Your hands! Ah!" he added, and now turned once more toward Mr. Betterton, who, I could see, was calmly making up his Mind what next to do. "Whoever you are—Man or Devil—are you satisfied with your Revenge? Was it not enough to cover me with Infamy; what need had You to brand Her with Dishonour?"

Overcome with Emotion, his Soul on the Rack, his Heart wounded and bleeding, he appeared like a lost Spirit crying out from an Abyss of Torment. But these last Ravings of his, these final, abominable Insults, levelled against the Woman who had done so much for him, and whom he should have been the first to protect, lashed Mr. Betterton's ire and contempt into holy Fury.

"Ye gods in Heaven, hear him!" he cried, with an outburst of Rage at least as great as that of the other Man. "He loves her, and talks of Dishonour, whilst I love her and only breathe of Worship! By all the Devils in Hell, my Lord Stour, I tell you that you lie!"

And before any of us there realized what he meant to do, he ran to the Window, threw open all the Casements with such violence that the glass broke and fell clattering down upon the gravelled place below.

"Hallo!" he called in a stentorian Voice. "Hallo, there!"

My Lord Stour, bewildered, un-understanding, tried to bluster.

"What are you doing, man?" he queried roughly. "Silence! Silence, I say!"

But Mr. Betterton only shouted the louder.

"Hallo, there! Friends! Enemies! England! Here!"

I could hear the Tumult outside. People were running hither from several directions, thinking, no doubt, that a Fire had broken out or that Murder was being done. I could hear them assembling beneath the window, which was not many feet from the Ground. "Why! it's Tom Betterton!" some of them said. And others added: "Hath he gone raving mad?"

"Is any one there who knows me?" queried Mr. Betterton loudly.

"Yes! Yes!" was the ready response.

"Who is it?" he asked, peering into the darkness below.

I heard Sir William Davenant's voice give reply.

"Killigrew and I are down here, Tom. What in the Name of —— is the matter?"

"Come round to my rooms, Davenant," Mr. Betterton replied; "and bring as many friends with you as you can."

He was standing in the Bay of the Window, and his Figure, silhouetted against the Light in the Room, must have been plainly visible to the crowd outside. That a number of People had assembled by now was apparent by the Hum and Hubbub which came to us from below. Unable to restrain my Curiosity, I too approached the open Casements and peered out into the Gloom. Just as I thought, quite a Crowd had collected down there, some of whom were making ready to climb up to the Window by way of the Gutter-pipes or the solid stems of the Ivy, whilst others were trooping down the narrow little Alley which connects Tothill Street with the Park at the base of Mr. Betterton's house. There was a deal of talking, laughing and shouting. "Tom Betterton is up to some Prank," I heard more than one Person say.

8

Perhaps You will wonder what was my Lord's Attitude during the few minutes—it was less than five—which elapsed between the Instant when Mr. Betterton first threw open the Casements, and that when the Crowd, headed by Sir William Davenant and Mr. Killigrew, trooped down the Alley on their Way to this House. To me he seemed at first wholly uncomprehending, like a Man who has received a Blow on the Head—just as I did from his Fist a moment ago—and before whose Eyes the Walls of the Room, the Furniture, the People, are all swimming in an Ocean of Stars. I imagine that at one time the Thought flashed as Lightning through his Mind that this was but the culminating Outrage, wherewith his Enemy meant to pillory him and his Bride before a jeering Public. That was the moment when he turned to her Ladyship and, uttering a hoarse Cry, called to her by Name. She was, just then, leaning in semi-consciousness against the Angle of the Bay. She did not respond to his Call, and Mr. Betterton, quick in his Movements, alert now like some Feline on the prowl, stepped immediately in front of Her, facing my Lord and screening Her against his Approach.

"Stand back, Man," he commanded. "Stand back, I tell You! You shall not come nigh Her save on bended Knees, with Head bowed in the Dust, suing for Pardon in that you dared to Insult her."

Everything occurred so quickly, Movements, Events, High Words, threatening Gestures from both sides, followed one another in such rapid Succession, that I, overcome with Agitation and the Effect of the stunning Blow which I had received, was hardly able to take it all in. Much less is it in my Power to give You a faithful Account of it all. Those five Minutes were the most spirit-stirring ones I have ever experienced throughout my Life—every Second appeared surcharged with an exciting Fluid which transported Me to supernal Regions, to Lands of Unrealities akin to vivid Dreams.

At one Moment, I remember seeing my Lord Stour make a rapid and furtive movement in the direction of his Sword, which lay some little Distance from him on the Ground, but Mr. Betterton was quicker even than his Foe, more alert, and with one bound he had reached the Weapon, ere my Lord's Hand was nigh it, had picked it up and, with a terrific Jerk, broke it in half across his Knee. Then he threw the mangled Hilt in one direction, the Point in another, and my Lord raised his Fists, ready, methinks, to fly at his Throat.

But, as I have already told You, dear Mistress, the whole Episode stands but as a confused Mirage before my Mind; and through it all I seemed to see a mere Vision of her Ladyship, pale and ethereal, leaning against the Angle of the Bay; one delicate Hand was clutching the heavy Curtain, drawing it around her as it were, as if in a pathetic and futile Desire to shield herself from view.

CHAPTER XVI

THE GAME OF LOVE

1

In the meanwhile, the Crowd all round the House had visibly swelled. Some People were still standing immediately beneath the Bow-window, whilst Others swarmed into Tothill Street; the foremost amongst the Latter had given a vigorous Tug at the Bell-pull, and the front Door being opened for them by the bewildered Servant, they had made a noisy Irruption into the House. We could hear them clattering up the Stairs, to the Accompaniment of much Laughing and Talking, and the oft-reiterated Refrain: "Tom Betterton is up to some Prank! Hurrah!"

Some few again, more venturesome and certainly more Impudent than most, had indeed succeeded in scrambling up to the Window, and, one after another, Heads and Shoulders began to appear in the Framework of the open Casements.

Her Ladyship had no doubt realized from the first that Escape became impossible, within two Minutes of Mr. Betterton's first Summons to the Public. Just at first, perhaps, if my Lord had preserved his entire Presence of Mind, he might have taken her by the Hand and fled with Her out of the House, before the unruly Crowd had reached Tothill Street. But my Lord, blinded by jealous Rage, had not thought of Her quickly enough, and now the Time was past, and he remained impotent, gasping with Fury, hardly conscious of his Actions. He had been literally swept off his Feet by Mr. Betterton's eagle-winged coup de main, which left him puzzled and the prey to a nameless Terror as to what was about to follow.

Now, when he saw a number of Gentlemen trooping in by the Door, he could but stare at them in utter Bewilderment. Most of these Gallants were personally known to him: Sir William Davenant was in the forefront with Mr. Thomas Killigrew of the King's Theatre, and the Earl of Rochester was with them, as well as Mr. Wycherley. I also recognized Sir Charles Sedley and old Sir John Denham, as well as my Lord Roscommon, among the crowd.

They had all rushed in through the Door, laughing and jesting, as was the wont of all these gay and courtly Sparks; but at sight of the Lady Barbara, they halted. Gibes and unseemly Jokes broke upon their Lips, and for the most part their Hands went up to their Hats, and they made her Ladyship a deep obeisance. Indeed, just then she looked more like a Wraith than a living Woman, and the Light of the Candles, which flickered wildly in the Draught, accentuated the Weirdness of her Appearance.

"What is it, Tom? What is amiss?" Sir William Davenant was thus the first to speak.

"We thought You were playing some Prank."

"You did call from that Window, did You not, Tom?" my Lord Rochester insisted.

And one or two of the Gentlemen nodded somewhat coldly to my Lord Stour.

"Yes. I did call," Mr. Betterton replied, quite firmly. "But 'twas no Whim on my Part thus to drag You into my House. It was not so much my Voice that you heard as the Trumpet blast of Truth."

At this, my Lord Stour broke into one of those harsh, mirthless Fits of Laughter which betokened the perturbation of his Spirit.

"The Truth!" he exclaimed with a cutting Sneer. "From You?"

"Aye! the Truth!" Mr. Betterton rejoined with perfect calm, even whilst his Friends glanced, puzzled and inquiring, from my Lord Stour to him, and thence to her Ladyship's pale face, and even to Me. "The Truth," he added with a deep Sigh as of intense Relief; "The Truth, at Last!"

He stood in the centre of the Room, with one Hand resting upon the Desk, his Eyes fixed fearlessly upon the Sea of Faces before him. Not the slightest Tremor marred the perfect Harmony of his Voice, or the firm poise of his manly Figure. You know as well as I do, dear Mistress, the marvellous Magnetism of Mr. Betterton's Personality, the Way he hath of commanding the Attention of a Crowd, whenever he chooseth to speak. Think of him then, dear Lady, with Head thrown back, his exquisite Voice rising and falling in those subtle and impressive Cadences wherewith he is wont to hold an Audience enthralled. Of a truth, no experienced Manager in Stage-Craft could have devised so thrilling an Effect, as the Picture which Mr. Betterton—the greatest Actor of this or of any Time—presented at that Moment, standing alone, facing the Crowd which was thrilled into deadly Silence, and with the wraith-like Figure of that exquisitely beautiful Woman as a Foil to his own self-possessed, virile Appearance.

"Gentlemen," he began, with slow, even Emphasis, "I pray you bear with me; for what I have to say will take some time in telling. Awhile ago his Lordship of Stour put upon me such an Insult as the Mind of Man can hardly conceive. Then, on the Pretence that I was not a born Gentleman as he was, he refused me Satisfaction by the Sword. For this I hated him and swore that I would be even with him, that I would exact from his Arrogance, Outrage for Outrage, and Infamy for Infamy." He then turned to my Lord Stour and spoke to him directly. "You asked me just now, my Lord, if my Revenge was satisfied. My answer to that is: not yet! Not until I see You on Your bended Knees here, before these Gentlemen—my Friends and Yours—receiving from the miserable Mountebank whom you mocked, the pitiful cur whom You thrashed, that which you hold—or should hold—more precious than all the Treasures of this earth: your Honour and the good Name of the Lady who honours You with her Love! Gentlemen!" he went on, and once more faced the Crowd. "You know the Aspersions which have been cast on my Lord Stour's Loyalty. Rumours have been current that the late aborted Conspiracy was betrayed by him to the Countess of Castlemaine, and that She obtained his Pardon, whilst all or most of his Associates were driven into Exile or perished on the Scaffold. Well, Gentlemen, 'twas I who begged for my Lord's pardon from the Countess of Castlemaine. His Degradation, his Obloquy, was the Revenge which I had studiously planned. Nay! I pray you, hear me unto the End," he continued, as a loud Murmur of Horror and of Indignation followed on this Self-Accusation. "My Lord Stour is no Traitor, save to Her whom he loves and whom in his Thoughts he hath dared to outrage. The Lady Barbara Wychwoode deigned to plead with me for the Man whom she honoured with her Love. She pleaded with me this afternoon, in the Park, in sight of many Passers-by; but I in my Obstinacy and Arrogance would not, God forgive me, listen to her."

He paused, and I could see the beads of Perspiration glittering upon his Forehead, white now like Italian Alabaster. They all stood before him, subdued and silent. Think of Sir William Davenant, dear Mistress, and his affection for Mr. Betterton; think of my Lord Roscommon and of Sir Charles Sedley and his Lordship of Rochester, whose Admiration for Mr. Betterton's Talent was only equalled by their Appreciation for His Worth! It was before them all, before all these fastidious Gentlemen, that the great and sensitive Artist had elected to humble his Pride to the dust.

But you shall judge.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Betterton went on after a brief while; "We all know that Love is a Game at which one always cheats. I loved the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. I had the presumption to dream of her as my future Wife. Angered at her Scorn of my Suit, I cheated her into coming here to-night, luring her with the Hope that I would consent to right the Man for whose sake she was willing to risk so much, for whom she was ready to sacrifice even her fair Name. Now I have learned to my hurt that Love, the stern little god, will not be trifled with. When we try to cheat him, he cheats us worse at the last; and if he makes Kings of us, he leaves us Beggars in the End. When my Lord Stour, burning with sacrilegious jealousy, made irruption into my Room, the Lady Barbara had just succeeded in wringing from me an Avowal which proclaimed his Integrity and my Shame. She was about to leave me, humbled and crushed in my Pride, she herself pure and spotless as the Lilies, unapproachable as the Stars."

2

Mr. Betterton had ceased speaking for some time; nevertheless, Silence profound reigned in the dark, wainscotted Room for many seconds after the final echo of that perfect Voice had ceased to reverberate. Indeed, dear Mistress, I can assure You that, though there were at least fifty Persons present in the Room, including those unknown to Me who were swarming around the Framework of the Casements, you might have heard the proverbial Pin drop just then. A tense Expression rested on every Face. Can You wonder that I scanned them all with the Eagerness born of my Love for the great Artist, who had thus besmirched his own fair Name in order to vindicate that of his bitterest Foe? That I read Condemnation of my Friend in many a Glance, I'll not deny, and this cut me to the Quick.

True! Mr. Betterton's Scheme of Vengeance had been reprehensible if measured by the high Standards of Christian Forbearance. But remember how he had been wronged, not once, but repeatedly; and even when I saw the Frown on my Lord Roscommon's brow, the Look of Stern Reproof in Sir Charles Sedley's Face, there arose before mine Eyes the Vision of the great and sensitive Artist, of the high-souled Gentleman, staggering beneath the Blows dealt by a band of hired Ruffians at the Bidding of this young Coxcomb, whose very Existence was as naught in the Eyes of the cultured World beside the Genius of the inimitable Mr. Betterton.

I said that the Silence was tense. Meseemed that no one dared to break it. Even those idly Curious who had swarmed up the Rainpipes of this House in order to witness one of Tom Betterton's Pranks, felt awed by the Revelation of this Drama of a great Man's Soul. Indeed, the Silence became presently oppressive. I, for one, felt a great Buzzing in mine Ears. The Lights from the Candles assumed weird and phantasmagoric Proportions till they seared my aching Eyes.

Then slowly my Lord Stour approached her Ladyship, sank on his Knees before Her and raised the Hem of her Robe to his Lips. A sob broke from her Throat; she tried to smother it by pressing her Handkerchief into her Mouth. It took Her a second or two to regain her Composure. But Breeding and Pride came to her Aid. I saw the stiffening of her Figure, the studied and deliberate Movement wherewith She readjusted her Mantle and her Veil.

My Lord Stour was still on his Knees. At a sign from her Ladyship he rose. He held out his left Arm and she placed her right Hand on it, then together they went out of the Room. The Crowd of Gentlemen parted in order to make way for the Twain, then when they had gone through, some of the Gentlemen followed them immediately; others lingered for awhile, hesitating. Sir William Davenant, Mr. Killigrew, my Lord Rochester, all of Mr. Betterton's Friends, appeared at first inclined to remain in order to speak with him. They even did me the Honour of consulting me with a Look, asking of my Experience of the great Actor whether they should stay. I slowly shook my Head, and they wisely acted on my Advice. I knew that my Friend would wish to be alone. He, so reserved, so proud, had laid his Soul bare before the Public, who was wont to belaud and to applaud him. The Humiliation and the Effort must have been a terrible Strain, which only Time and Solitude could effectually cure.

He had scarce moved from his Position beside the Desk, still stood there with one slender Hand resting upon it, his Gaze fixed vaguely upon the Door through which his Friends were slowly filing out.

Within two minutes or less after the Departure of my Lord Stour and her Ladyship, the last of the Crowd of Gentlemen and of Idlers had gone. Anon I went across the Room and closed the Door behind them. When I turned again, I saw that the knot of quidnuncs no longer filled the Casements, and a protracted hum of Voices, a crackling of Ivy twigs and general sound of Scrimmage and of Scrambling outside the Window, proclaimed the Fact that even they had had the Sense and the Discretion to retire quietly from this Spot, hallowed by the Martyrdom of a great Man's Soul.

3

Thus I was left alone with my Friend.

He had drawn his habitual Chair up to the Desk and sat down. Just for a few Moments he rested both his Elbows on the Desk and buried his Face in his Hands. Then, with that familiar, quick little Sigh of His, He drew the Candles closer to him and, taking up a Book, he began to read.

I knew what it was that he was reading, or, rather, studying. He had been absorbed in the Work many a time before now, and had expressed his ardent Desire to give public Readings of it one day when it was completed. It was the opening Canto of a great Epic Poem, the manuscript of which had been entrusted to Mr. Betterton for Perusal by the author, Mr. John Milton, who had but lately been liberated from prison through the untiring Efforts of Sir William Davenant on his behalf. Mr. Milton hoped to complete the Epic in the next half-dozen years. Its Title is "Paradise Lost."

I remained standing beside the open Window, loath to close it as the Air was peculiarly soft and refreshing. Below me, in the Park, the idle, chattering Crowd had already dispersed. From far away, I still could hear the sweet, sad Strains of the amorous Song, and through the Stillness of the Evening, the Words came to mine Ear, wafted on the Breeze:

"You are my Faith, my Hope, my All!

What e'er the Future may unfold,

No trial too great—no Thing too small.

Your whispered Words shall make me bold

To win at last for Your dear Sake

A worthy Place in Future's World."

I felt my Soul enwrapt in a not unpleasant reverie; an exquisite Peace seemed to have descended on my Mind, lately so agitated by Thoughts of my dear, dear Friend.

Suddenly a stealthy Sound behind Me caused me to turn; and, in truth, I am not sure even now if what I saw was Reality, or the Creation of mine own Dreams.

The Lady Barbara had softly and surreptitiously re-entered the Room. She walked across it on tip-toe, her silken Skirts making just the softest possible frou-frou as she walked. Her cloud-like Veil wrapped her Head entirely, concealing her fair Hair, and casting a grey Shadow over her Eyes. Mr. Betterton did not hear her, or, if he did, he did not choose to look up. When her Ladyship was quite close to the Desk, I noticed that she had a Bunch of white Roses in her Hand such as are grown in the Hot-houses of rich Noblemen.

For a few Seconds she stood quite still. Then she raised the Roses slowly to her Lips, and laid them down without a word upon the Desk.

After which, she glided out of the Room as silently, as furtively, as she came.

4

And thus, dear Mistress, have I come to the end of my long Narrative. I swear to You by the living God that everything which I have herein related is the Truth and Naught but the Truth.

There were many People present in Mr. Betterton's room during that memorable Scene, when he sacrificed his Pride and his Revenge in order to right the Innocent. Amongst these Witnesses there were some, whom Malice and Envy would blind to the Sublimity of so noble an Act. Do not listen to them, honoured Mistress, but rather to the promptings of your own Heart and to that unerring Judgment of Men and of Events which is the Attribute of good and pure Women.

Mr. Betterton hath never forfeited your Esteem by any Act or Thought. The Infatuation which momentarily dulled his Vision to all save to the Beauty of the Lady Barbara, hath ceased to exist. Its course was ephemeral and hath gone without a Trace of Regret or Bitterness in its wake. The eminent Actor, the high-souled Artist, whom all cultured Europe doth reverence and admire, stands as high to-day in that same World's Estimation as he did, before a young and arrogant Coxcomb dared to measure his own Worth against that of a Man as infinitely above him as are the Stars. But, dear Mistress, Mr. Betterton now is lonely and sad. He is like a Man who hath been sick and weary, and is still groping after Health and Strength. Take pity on his Loneliness, I do conjure You. Give him back the inestimable Boon of your Goodwill and of your Friendship, which alone could restore to him that Peace of Mind so necessary for the furtherance of his Art.

And if, during the Course of my Narrative, I have seemed to you over-presumptuous, then I do entreat your Forgiveness. Love for my Friend and Reverence for your Worth have dictated every Word which I have written. If, through my Labours, I have succeeded in turning away some of the just Anger which had possessed your Soul against the Man whom, I dare aver, you still honour with your Love, then, indeed, I shall feel that even so insignificant a Life as mine hath not been wholly wasted.

I do conclude, dear and honoured Mistress, with a Prayer to Almighty God for your Welfare and that of the Man whom I love best in all the World. I am convinced that my Prayer will find Favour before the Throne of Him who is the Father of us All. And He who reads the innermost Secrets of every Heart, knows that your Welfare is coincident with that of my Friend. Thus am I content to leave the Future in His Hands.

And I myself do remain, dear Mistress,

Your humble and obedient Servant, JOHN HONEYWOOD.

EPILOGUE

Ring down the Curtain. The Play is ended. The Actors have made their final Bow before You and thanked You for your Plaudits. The chief Player—a sad and lonely Man—has for the nonce spoken his last upon the Stage.

All is Silence and Mystery now. The Lights are out. And yet the Audience lingers on, loath to bid Farewell to the great Artist and to his minor Satellites who have helped to wile away a few pleasant Hours. You, dear Public, knowing so much about them, would wish to know more. You wish to know—an I am not mistaken—whether the Labour of Love wrought by good Master Honeywood did in due course bear its Fruitfulness. You wish to know—or am I unduly self-flattered—whether the Play of Passion, of Love and of Revenge, set by the worthy Clerk before You, had an Epilogue—one that would satisfy your Sense of Justice and of Mercy.

Then, I pray You, turn to the Pages of History, of which Master Honeywood's Narrative forms an integral and pathetic Part. One of these Pages will reveal to You that which You wish to know. Thereon You will see recorded the Fact that, after a brief and distinguished Visit during that Summer to the City and University of Stockholm, where Honours without number were showered upon the great English Actor, Mr. Betterton came back to England, to the delight of an admiring Public, for he was then in the very Plenitude of his Powers.

Having read of the Artist's triumph, I pray You then to turn over the Page of the faithful Chronicle of his Career, and here You will find a brief Chapter which deals with his private Life and with his Happiness. You will see that at the End of this self-same year 1662, the Register of St. Giles', Cripplegate, contains the Record of a Marriage between Thomas Betterton, Actor, of the parish of St. Margaret's, Westminster, and Mary Joyce Saunderson, of the aforesaid parish of St. Giles'.

That this Marriage was an exceptionally happy one we know from innumerable Data, Minutes and Memoranda supplied by Downes and others; that Master John Honeywood was present at the Ceremony itself we may be allowed to guess. Those of us who understand and appreciate the artistic Temperament, will readily agree with the worthy Clerk when he said that it cannot be judged by ordinary Standards. The long and successful Careers of Thomas Betterton and of Mistress Saunderson his Wife testify to the Fact that their Art in no way suffered, while their Souls passed through the fiery Ordeal of Passion and of Sorrow; but rather that it became ennobled and purified, until they themselves took their place in the Heart and Memory of the cultured World, among the Immortals.

THE END

――――

By BARONESS ORCZY

His Majesty's Well-Beloved The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel Flower o' the Lily The Man in Grey Lord Tony's Wife A Sheaf of Bluebells Leatherface The Bronze Eagle A Bride of the Plains The Laughing Cavalier "Unto Cæsar" El Dorado Meadowsweet The Noble Rogue The Heart of a Woman Petticoat Rule

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

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