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 toacknowledge Defeat.
"It will be your Word against his," she said with a disdainful curl ofher perfect lips. "No one would listen to such calumnies."
And he--the world-famed Artist--at least as proud as any high bornGentleman in the Land, retorted, equally haughtily:
"When Tom Betterton speaks upon the Stage, my Lady, England holds herbreath and listens spellbound."
I would I could render the noble Accent of his magnificent Voice as hesaid this. There was no self-glorification in it, no idle boasting; itwas the accent of transcendent Worth conscious of its Power.
And it had its effect upon the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. She lowered herEyes, but not before I had perceived that they were full of Tears; herLips were trembling still, but no longer with Disdain, and her handssuddenly dropped to her side with a pathetic gesture of Discouragementand of Anguish.
The next moment, however, she was again looking the great Actor fully inthe face. A change had come over her, quite suddenly methought--a greatChange, which had softened her Mood and to a certain extent lowered herPride. Whether this was the result of Mr. Betterton's forcefulEloquence or of her own Will-power, I could not guess; but I myselfmarvelled at the Tone of Entreaty which had crept into her Voice.
"You will not speak such Falsehoods in Public, Sir," she said withunwonted softness. "You will not thus demean your Art--the Art whichyou 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 withSentiments which are neither ignoble nor base."
"Nay!" he exclaimed, and this time did not strive to conceal the intenseBitterness which, as I knew well enough, had eaten into his very Soul;"but your Ladyship is pleased to forget. I am ignoble and base! Therecannot be Nobility in me. I am only the low-born Lout! Ask my Lord ofStour; ask your Brother! They will tell you that I have no Feelings, noPride, no Manhood--that I am only a despicable Varlet, whom everyGentleman may mock and insult and whip like a dog. To You and to yourCaste alone belong Nobility, Pride and Honour. Honour!!!"--and he brokeinto a prolonged laugh, which would have rent your Heart tohear--"Honour! Your false Fetish! Your counterfeit God!! Very well,then so be it!! That very Honour which he hath denied me, I will wrenchfrom him. And since he denied me Satisfaction by the Sword, I turn tomy own weapon--my Art--and with it I will exact from him to theuttermost fraction, Outrage for Outrage--Infamy for Infamy."
His wonderful Voice shook, broke almost into a sob at last. I felt achoking sensation in my Throat and my Eyes waxed hot with unshed Tears.As if through a mist, I could see the exquisite Lady Barbara Wychwoodebefore me, could see that she, too, was moved, her Pride crushed, herDisdain 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 thehot Blood to her pale Cheeks. "_I_ would have given my Life for oneSmile from your Lips."
Whereupon, womanlike, she shifted her ground, looked him straightbetween the Eyes, and, oh! I could have blushed to see the Wiles sheused in order to weaken his Resolve.
"You love me?" she queried softly, and there was now a tone of almosttender Reproach in her Voice. "You love me! yet you would drag the Manwho 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 herdelicate Hands together in a Gesture that was akin to Prayer. "I'll notbelieve it! You will tell the Truth, Mr. Betterton, publicly, and clearhim.... You will.... You will! For my sake--since You say You loveme."
But the more eager, the more appealing she grew, the calmer and morecalculating did he seem. Now it was his turn to draw away from Her, tomeasure Her, as it were, with a cold, appraising Look.
"For Your sake?" he said with perfect quietude, almost as if the matterhad become outside himself. I cannot quite explain the air of detachmentwhich he assumed--for it was an assumption, on that I would have stakedmy Life at the moment. I, who know him so well, felt that deep downwithin his noble Heart there still burned the fierce flames of an ardentPassion, 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, stillspeaking with that strange, abnormal Calm:
"Yes!" he said slowly, "for _Your_ love I would do what You ask ... Iwould forego that Feast of Satisfaction, the Thought of which hath alonekept me sane these past few months.... Yes! for the Love of LadyBarbara Wychwoode I could bring myself to forgive even his Lordship ofStour for the irreparable wrong which he hath done to Me. I wouldrestore to him his Honour, which now lies, a Forfeit, in my Hands: for Ishall then have taken Something from him which he holds well-nigh asdear."
He paused, and met with the same calm relentlessness the look of Horrorand of Scorn wherewith she regarded him.
"For my Love?" she exclaimed, and once more the warm Blood rushed up toher face, flooding her wan Cheeks, her pale Forehead, even her delicateThroat 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 theEarl of Stour, but the wish to entrap _me_ into becoming your Wife. Youare not content with Your Laurels. You want a Coat of Arms ... andhoped to barter one against Your Calumnies!"
"Nay, your Ladyship!" he rejoined simply, "in effect, I was actuallylaying 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 yourSincerity. Mine I have placed beyond question, seeing that I amprepared to drag my Genius in the dust before Your Pride and theArrogance of Your Caste. An Artist is a Slave of his Sensibilities, andI feel that if, in the near Future, I could see a Vision of your perfecthand resting content in mine, if, when You pleaded again for my LordStour, You did so as my promised Wife--not his--I would do all that Youasked."
She drew herself up to her full height and glanced at him with all thePride which awhile ago had seemed crushed beyond recall.
"Sir Actor," she said coldly, "shame had gripped me by the throat, or Ishould not have listened so long to such an Outrage. The Bargain Youpropose is an Infamy and an Insult."
And she gathered up her Skirts around her, as if their very contact withthe Soil on which he trod were a pollution. Then she half turned as ifready to go, cast a rapid glance at the Shrubberies close by, no doubtin search of her Attendant. Why it was that she did not actually go, Icould not say, but guessed that, mayhap, she would not vacate the Fieldof Contention until quite sure that there was not a final Chance tosoften the Heart of the Enemy. She had thrown down yet another Challengewhen she spoke of his proposed Bargain as an Infamy; but he took up theGage with the same measured Calm as before.
"As you will," he said. "It was in Your Ladyship's name that the Earlof Stour put upon Me the deadliest Insult which any Man hath ever put onMan before. Since then, every Fibre within Me has clamoured forSatisfaction. My Work hath been irksome to me ... I scarce could think... My Genius lay writhing in an agony of Shame. But now the hour ismine--for it I have schemed and lied--aye, lied--like the low-born curYou say I am. A thousand Devils of Hate and of Rage are unchainedwithin me. I cannot grapple with them alone. They would only yield--toyour 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 YourLadyship. Remember that I do not speak my Epilogue until to-morrow.When I do, it will be too late. I have called my Phan
tasy 'The Comedieof Traitors.'"
Whereupon he bowed low before her, in the most approved Fashion. Butalready she was fleeing up the path in the direction of Westminster.Soon her graceful Figure was lost to our sight behind an interveningclump of Laurels. Here no doubt her Ladyship's Attendant was waitingfor 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, onehand still clutching the knob of his Stick, the other thrust in thepocket of his capacious Coat. I could not see his Face, since his Backwas turned towards me, and I did not dare move lest I should beinterrupting his Meditations. But to Me, even that Back was expressive.There was a listlessness, hardly a stoop, about it, so unlike myFriend's usual firm and upright Carriage. How could this be otherwise,seeing what he had just gone through--Emotions that would have sweptmost Men off their mental balance. Yet he kept his, had never once lostcontrol of himself. He had met Disdain with Disdain in the end, hadkept sufficient control over his Voice to discuss with absolute calm,that Bargain which the Lady Barbara had termed infamous. There had beena detachment about his final Ultimatum, a "take it or leave it" air,which must have been bitterly galling to the proud Lady who had stoopedto entreat. He was holding the winning Hand and did not choose toyield.
And it was from his attitude on that Day that I, dear Mistress, drew anunerring inference. Mr. Betterton had no Love for the Lady Barbara, nogenuine, lasting Affection such as, I maintain, he has never ceased tofeel for You. Passion swayed him, because he has, above all, thatunexplainable artistic Temperament which cannot be measured by everydayStandards. Pride, Bitterness, Vengefulness--call it what you will; butthere was not a particle of Love in it all. I verily believe that hischief Desire, whilst he stood pondering there at the bridgehead, was tohumiliate the Lady Barbara Wychwoode by forcing her into a Marriagewhich she had affected to despise. He was not waiting for her withopen, loving Arms, ready to take her to his Heart, there to teach her toforget the Past in the safe haven of his Love. He was not waiting tolay his Service at her feet, and to render her happy as the cherishedWife and Helpmate of the great Artist whom all England delighted tohonour. He was only waiting to make her feel that She had beensubjected to his Will and her former Lover brought down to Humiliation,through the Power of the miserable Mountebank whom they had both deemedless than a Man.
Thus meditating, I stood close to my Friend, until Chance or a fleetingThought brought him back to the realities of Life. He sighed and lookedabout him, as a Man will who hath just wakened from a Dream. Then hespied me, and gave me his wonted kindly smile and glance.
"Good old John!" he said, with a self-deprecating shrug of theshoulders. "'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 aFool crushing every Noble Instinct within him for the sake of gettingeven 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 thiswrangle, and pine to find solace among the Poets."
Nor did he mention the name of the Lady Barbara again to me, and I wasleft to ponder what was going on in his Mind and whether his cruellyvengeful Scheme for the final undoing of my Lord Stour would indeed cometo maturity on the following day. I knew that a great and brilliantRepresentation of the late Mr. William Shakespeare's play, "TwelfthNight," was to be given at the Duke's Theatre, with some of the newScenery and realistic scenic Effects brought over last Autumn from Parisby Mr. Betterton. His Majesty had definitely promised that he would bepresent and so had the Countess of Castlemaine, and there woulddoubtless be a goodly and gorgeous Company present to applaud the greatActor, whose Performance of Sir Toby Belch was one of the Marvels ofhistrionic Art, proclaiming as it did his wonderful versatility, bycontrast with his equally remarkable exposition of the melancholyHamlett, Prince of Denmark.
That I now awaited that Day with Sorrow in my Heart and with measurelessAnxiety, You, dear Mistress, will readily imagine. Until this morning Ihad no idea of the terrible Thunderbolt which my Friend had inpreparation for those who had so shamefully wronged him; and I stillmarvelled whether in his talk with the Lady Barbara there had not lurkedsome idle Threats rather than a serious Warning. How could I think ofthe Man whom I had learned to love and to reverence as one who wouldnurture such cruel Schemes? And yet, did not the late Mr. Shakespearewarn us that "Pleasure and Revenge have ears more deaf than Adders tothe 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 whereinhappened that which causes You so much heart-ache at this Hour.
I know that the Occurrences of that Night have been brought to yourNotice in a garbled Version, and that Mr. Betterton's Enemies haveplaced the Matter before You in a manner calculated to blacken hisIntegrity. But, as there is a living Judge above Us all, I swear toYou, beloved Mistress, that what I am now purposing to relate is nothingbut the Truth. Remember that, in this miserable Era of Scandal andBackbiting, of loose Living and Senseless Quarrels, Mr. Betterton'sCharacter has always stood unblemished, even though the evil Tongue ofMalice hath repeatedly tried to attack his untarnished Reputation.Remember also that the great Actor's few but virulent Enemies are allMen who have made Failures of their Lives, who are Idlers, Sycophants orProfligates, and therefore envious of the Fame and Splendour of one whois 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. Bettertonsettled down to his Desk in the afternoon, telling me that he had somewriting to do.
I, too, had some of his Correspondence to attend to, and presentlyrepaired to my room, my Heart still aching with Sorrow. Did I not guesswhat Work was even now engrossing the Attention of my Friend? He wasdeep in the Composition of that cruel Lampoon which he meant to speak onthe Stage to-morrow, in the presence of His Majesty and of a large andbrilliant Assembly. Strive as I might, I could not to myself minimizethe probable Effect of the Lampoon upon the Mind of the Public. It isnot for me, dear Mistress, to remind You of the amazing Popularity ofMr. Betterton--a Popularity which hath never been equalled ere this byany Actor, Artist or Poet in England. Whatever he spoke from the Stagewould be treasured and reiterated and commented upon, until everyCitizen of London and Westminster became himself a storehouse of Mudthat would be slung at the unfortunate Earl of Stour. And the latter,by refusing to fight Mr. Betterton when the Latter had been the injuredParty, had wilfully cast aside any Weapon of Redress which he mightafter 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 beenabove interpolating some in their Plays, for the Confusion of theirEnemies; and many a Gentleman's or a Lady's Reputation has been made tosuffer through the Vindictiveness of a noted Actor or Playwright. But,as you know, Mr. Betterton had never hitherto lent himself to suchScandal-monging; he stood far above those petty Quarrels betwixtGentlemen and Poets that could be settled by wordy Warfare across theFootlights. All the more Weight, therefore, would the Public attach toan 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 veryclinging Nature.
"Then let the Man you love look to himself!" the outraged Artist hadsaid coldly, when confronted for the last time by the Lady Barbara'sDisdain. And in my Mind I had no doubt that, for Good or for Evil, ifTom Betterton
set out to do a Thing, he would carry it through to itsbitter End.
3
When, having finished my work, I went into Mr. Betterton's study, Ifound him sitting beside his Desk, though no longer writing. He wasleaning back against the cushions of his chair with eyes closed, hisface set and hard. Some loose papers, covered with his neat, carefulCaligraphy, lay in an orderly heap upon the Desk.
His Work was evidently finished. Steeped in Bitterness and inVengeance, his Pen had laboured and was now at rest. The Eloquence ofthe incomparable Actor would now do the rest.