THE LION'S WRATH
1
His Majesty the King was, of course, inaccessible to such as I. And the time was short.
Did I say that the hour was even then after six? The streets were very dark, for overhead the sky was overcast, and as I walked rapidly down the Lane to the Temple Stairs, a thin, penetrating drizzle began to fall.
My first thought had been to take boat to Westminster and to go to the house of Mr. Betterton in Tothill Street, there to consult with him as to what would be my best course to pursue. But I feel sure that You, dear Mistress, will understand me when I say that I felt a certain pride in keeping my present Project to myself.
I was not egotistical enough to persuade myself that love of Country and loyalty to my King were the sole motive powers of my Resolve. My innermost Heart, my Conscience perhaps, told me that an ugly Desire for Revenge had helped to stimulate my patriotic Ardour. I had realized that it lay in my power to avenge upon an impious Malapert the hideous Outrage which he had perpetrated against the Man whom I loved best in all the World.
I had realized, in fact, that I could become the instrument of Mr. Betterton's revenge.
That my Denunciation of the abominable Conspiracy would involve the Disgrace—probably the Death—of others who were nothing to me, I did not pause to consider. They were all Traitors, anyhow, and all of them deserving of punishment.
So, on the whole, I decided to act for myself. When I had seen the Countess of Castlemaine and had put her on her guard, I would go to Mr. Betterton and tell him what I had done.
I beg you to believe, however, dear Mistress, that no thought of any reward had entered my mind, other than a Word of Appreciation from my Friend.
2
I had, as perhaps you know, a slight acquaintance with Mistress Floid, who is one of my Lady Castlemaine's tire-women. Through her, I obtained speech with her Ladyship.
It was not very difficult. I sent in the two Documents through Mistress Floid's hands. Five minutes later I was told that my Lady desired speech with me.
I was a little bewildered and somewhat dazzled to be in the presence of so great a lady. The richness of the House, the liveries of the Servants, the superciliousness of the Lacqueys, all tended to discompose me; whilst the subtle Scent of Spice and Perfumes which hung in the air and the chorus of bird-song which came from an unseen Aviary, helped to numb my Senses. I was thankful that I had not trusted to Speech and Memory, but had set documentary Evidence forward to prove what I had to say.
Of my interview with her Ladyship I have only a confused memory. I know that she asked many questions and listened to my stammering replies with obvious impatience; but I have only a very vague recollection of her flashing Eyes, of her Face, flaming with anger, of her jewelled Hand clutching the documents which I had brought, and of the torrent of vituperative abuse which she poured upon the Traitors, who she vowed would pay with their lives for their Infamy. I know that, in the end, I was allowed to kiss her hand and that she thanked me in her own Name and that of His Majesty for my Loyalty and my Discretion.
I went out of the room and out of the house like a Man in a dream. A whirl of conflicting Emotions was rending my heart and my brain, until sheer physical nausea caused me nigh to swoon.
Truly it was a terrible Experience for a simple-minded Clerk to go through, and it is a marvel to me that my brain did not give way under the Strain.
But my instinct—like that of a faithful dog seeking shelter—led me to the lodgings of Mr. Betterton in Tothill Street, the very house in which his father had lived before him.
He had not yet returned from the Theatre, where he was at Rehearsal; but his Servant knew me well and allowed me to go up into the parlour and to lie down upon the sofa for a moment's rest.
It was then nearing seven, and I knew that Mr. Betterton would soon be coming home. I now felt infinitely weary; numbness of body and brain had followed the conflicting Emotions of the past hours, and I was only conscious of an overwhelming desire to rest.
I closed my eyes. The place was warm and still; a veritable Haven of Quietude. And it was the place where dwelt the Man for whose sake I had just done so much. For awhile I watched the play of the firelight upon the various articles of furniture in the room; but soon a pleasing Torpor invaded my tired Brain, and I fell asleep.
3
The sound of Voices upon the landing outside, the opening and closing of one door and then another, recalled me to myself. The familiar sound of my Friend's footsteps gave me an infinity of Pleasure.
The next moment Mr. Betterton came into the room. He was preceded by his Servant, who brought in a couple of Candles which he placed upon the table. Apparently he had said nothing to his Master about my presence here, for Mr. Betterton seemed vastly surprised when he saw me. I had just jumped to my feet when I heard him entering the room, and I suppose that I must have looked somewhat wild and dishevelled, for he expressed great astonishment at my Appearance.
Astonishment, and also Pleasure.
"Why, friend Honeywood!" he exclaimed, and came to greet me with both hands outstretched. "What favourable Wind hath blown you to this port?"
He looked tired and very much aged, methought. He, a young Man, then in the prime of Life, looked harassed and weary; all the Elasticity seemed to have gone out of his Movements, all the Springiness from his Footstep. He sat down and rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his slender hands together and stared moodily into the fire.
I watched him for awhile. His clear-cut Profile was outlined like an Italian Cameo against the dark angle of the room; the firelight gave a strange glow to his expressive Eyes and to the sensitive Mouth with the firm lips pressed closely together, as if they would hold some Secret which was even then threatening to escape.
That look of dark and introspective Brooding sat more apparent now than ever upon his mobile face, and I marvelled if the News which I was about to impart would tend to dissipate that restless, searching glance, which seemed for ever to be probing into the future decrees of Fate.
"I have come to tell you news, Sir," I said after a while.
He started as from a Reverie, and said half-absently:
"News? What news, friend? Good, I hope."
"Yes," I replied very quietly, even though I felt that my heart was beating fast within my breast with excitement. "Good news of the Man You hate."
He made no reply for the moment, and even by the dim, uncertain light of the fire I could see the quick change in his face. I cannot explain it exactly, but it seemed as if something Evil had swept over it, changing every noble line into something that was almost repellent.
My heart beat faster still. I was beginning to feel afraid and a queer, choking Sensation gripped me by the throat and silenced the Words which were struggling to come to my lips.
"Well?" queried Mr. Betterton a second or two later, in a calm, dull, unemotional Voice. "What is thy news, friend Honeywood?"
"There is a plot," I replied, still speaking with an effort, "against His Majesty and the Countess of Castlemaine."
"I knew that," he rejoined. "'Tis no news. There is more than one plot, in fact, against the King and the Castlemaine. You surely haven't come out on this wet night," he added with a mirthless laugh, "in order to tell me that!"
After all that I had gone through, after my tussle with my conscience and my fight against myself, I felt nettled by his flippant tone.
"I know not," I said firmly, "if there is more than one plot against His Majesty the King. But I do know that there is one which aims at striking at his sacred Person to-night."
"That also is possible," he retorted, with still that same air of flippant Carelessness. "But even so, I do not see, my dear Friend, what You can do in the matter."
"I can denounce the Plot," I riposted warmly, "and help to save the life of His Majesty the King."
"So you can, my dear Honeywood," he said with a smile, amused at my vehemence. "So you can! And upon the King's gratitude you may lay the foundations of your future Fortune."
"I was not thinking of a Fortune," I retorted gruffly; "only of Revenge."
At this he looked up suddenly, leaned forward and in the firelight tried to read my face.
"Revenge?" he queried curtly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I replied earnestly, "that the Plot of which I speak is real, tangible and damnable. That a set of young Gallants have arranged between themselves to waylay His Majesty the King this night in the house of the Countess of Castlemaine, to kidnap his sacred person, force him to abdicate, then proclaim the Duke of Monmouth King and the Prince of Orange Regent of the Realm."
"How do you know all this, Honeywood?" Mr. Betterton rejoined quietly, dragged, meseemed, out of his former Cynicism by the earnestness of my manner.
"I was one of the first to know of it," I replied, "because on a certain day in September I was employed in copying the Manifesto wherewith that pack of Traitors hoped to rally distant Friends around their Standard. For awhile I heard nothing more of the Affair, thought the whole thing had sizzled out like a fire devoid of fuel; until to-day, when the Conspirators once more met in the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs and arranged to carry their execrable Project through to-night. Careless of my presence, they planned and discussed their Affairs in my hearing. They thought, I suppose, that I, like Mr. Baggs, was one of their Gang."
Gradually, while I spoke, I could see the Dawn of Comprehension illumining Mr. Betterton's face. He still was silent, and let me speak on to the end. He was once more gazing into the fire; his arms were resting on his knees, but his hands were beating one against the other, fist to palm, with a violent, intermittent Gesture, which proclaimed his growing Impatience.
Then suddenly he raised his head, looked me once more straight in the eyes, and said slowly, reiterating some of my words:
"The Conspirators met in the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs—then—he——"
I nodded.
"My Lord Stour," I said, deliberately measuring my words, "is up to his neck in the damnable Conspiracy."
Still his searching gaze was fixed upon me; and now he put out his hand and clutched my forearm. But he did not speak.
"I was burning with rage," I said, "at the insult put upon you by my Lord Stour ... I longed to be revenged..."
His clutch upon my arm tightened till it felt like a Vice of Steel, and his Voice came to my ear, hoarse and almost unrecognizable.
"Honeywood," he murmured, "what do You mean? What have You done?"
I tried to return his gaze, but it seemed to sear my very Soul. Terror held me now. I scarce could speak. My voice came out in a husky whisper.
"I had the copy of the Manifesto," I said, "and I knew the names of the Conspirators. I wrote these out and placed them with the Manifesto in the hands of my Lady Castlemaine."
Dear Mistress, you know the beautiful picture by the great Italian artist Michael Angelo which represents Jove hurling his thunderbolt at some puny human Creature who hath dared to defy him. The flash of Anger expressed by the Artist in the mighty god's eyes is truly terrifying. Well! that same Expression of unbounded and prodigious Wrath flashed out in one instant from the great Actor's eyes. He jumped to his feet, towered above me like some Giant whom I, in my presumption, had dared to defy. The flickering candle light, warring with the fireglow, and its play of ruddy Lights and deep phantasmagoric Shadows, lent size and weirdness to Mr. Betterton's figure and enhanced the dignity and magnitude of his Presence. His lips were working, and I could see that he had the greatest difficulty in forcing himself to speak coherently.
"You have done that?" he stammered. "You...?"
"To avenge the deadly insult——" I murmured, frightened to death now by his violence.
"Silence, you fool!" he riposted hoarsely. "Is it given to the Mouse to avenge the hurt done to the Lion?"
I guessed how deeply he was moved by these Words which he spoke, more even than by his Attitude. Never, had he been in his normal frame of mind, would he have said them, knowing how their cruel intent would hurt and wound me.
He was angry with me. Very angry. And I, as yet, was too ignorant, too unsophisticated, to know in what way I had injured him. God knows it had been done unwittingly. And I could not understand what went on in that noble and obviously tortured Brain. I could only sit there and gaze upon him in helpless Bewilderment, as he now started to pace up and down the narrow room in very truth like a caged Lion that hath been teased till it can endure the irritation no longer.
"You are angry with me?" I contrived to stammer at last; and indeed I found much difficulty in keeping the tears which were welling up to mine eyes.
But my timid query only appeared to have the effect of bringing his Exasperation to its highest pitch. He did in truth turn on me as if he were ready to strike me, and I slid down on my Knees, for I felt now really frightened, as his fine voice smote mine ears in thunderous Accents of unbridled Wrath.
"Angry?" he exclaimed. "Angry...? I..."
Then he paused abruptly, for he had caught sight of me, kneeling there, an humble and, I doubt not, a pathetic Figure; and, as you know, Mr. Betterton's heart is ever full of Pity for the Lowly and the Weak. By the flickering candle light I could distinguish his noble Features, a moment ago almost distorted with Passion, but now, all of a sudden, illumined by tender Sympathy.
He pulled himself together. I almost could see the Effort of Will wherewith he curbed that turbulent Passion which had threatened to overmaster him. He passed his hand once or twice across his brow, as if he strove to chase away, by sheer physical Force, the last vestige of his own Anger.
"No—no——," he murmured gently, bent down to me and helped me to my feet. "No, my dear Friend; I am not angry with You ... I—I forgot myself just now ... something seemed to snap in my Brain when you told me that ... When you told me that——" he reiterated slowly; then threw back his head and broke into a laugh. Oh! such a laugh as I never wish to hear again. It was not only mirthless, but the Sound of it did rend my heart until the tears came back to mine eyes; but this time through an overwhelming feeling of Pity.
And yet I did not understand. Neither his Anger nor his obvious Despair were clear to my Comprehension. I hoped he would soon explain, feeling that if he spoke of it, it would ease his heartache. Mine was almost unendurable. I felt that I could cry like a child, Remorse warring with Anxiety in my heart.
Then suddenly Mr. Betterton came close to me, sat down on the sofa beside me and said, with a Recrudescence of his former Vehemence:
"Friend Honeywood, you must go straightway back to my Lady Castlemaine."
"Yes," I replied meekly, for I was ready to do anything that he desired.
"Either to my Lady Castlemaine," he went on, his voice trembling with agitation, "or to her menial first, but ultimately to my Lady Castlemaine. Go on your hands and knees, Honeywood; crawl, supplicate, lick the dust, swear that the Conspiracy had no existence save in your own disordered brain ... that the Manifesto is a forgery ... the list of Conspirators a fictitious one ... swear above all that my Lord Stour had no part in the murderous Plot——"
I would, dear Lady, that mine was the pen of a ready Writer, so that I might give you a clear idea of Mr. Betterton's strange aspect at that moment. His face was close to mine, yet he did not seem like himself. You know how serene and calm is the Glance of his Eyes as a rule. Well! just then they were strangely luminous and restless; there was a glitter in them, a weird, pale Light that I cannot describe, but which struck me as coming from a Brain that, for the moment, was almost bereft of Reason.
That he was not thinking coherently was obvious to me from what he said. I, who was ready and prepared to do anything that might atone for the Injury, as yet inexplicable, which I had so unwittingly done to him, felt, nevertheless, the entire Futility of his Suggestion. Indeed, was it likely that my Lady Castlemaine's Suspicions, once roused, could so easily be allayed? Whatever I told her now, she would of a surety warn the King—had done so, no doubt, already. Measures would be taken—had already been taken—to trap the infamous Plotters, to catch them red-handed in the Act; if indeed they were guilty. Nay! I could not very well imagine how such great Personages would act under the Circumstances that had come about. But this much I did know; that not one of them would be swayed by the Vagaries of a puny Clerk, who had taken it upon himself to denounce a number of noble Gentlemen for Treason one moment and endeavoured to exonerate them the next. So I could only shake my head and murmur:
"Alas, Sir! all that now would be too late."
He looked at me searchingly for a second or two. The strange glitter died out from his eyes, and he gave a deep sigh of weariness and of disappointment.
"Aye!" he said. "True! true! It is all too late!"
Imagine, dear Mistress, how puzzled I was. What would You have thought of it all, yourself, had your sweet Spirit been present then at that hour, when a truly good, yet deeply injured Man bared his Soul before his Friend?
Just for a second or two the Suspicion flashed through my mind that Mr. Betterton himself was in some secret and unaccountable manner mixed up with the abominable Conspiracy. But almost at once my saner Judgment rejected this villainous Suggestion; for of a truth it had no foundation save in Foolishness engendered by a bewildered brain. In truth, I had never seen Mr. Betterton in the Company of any of those Traitors whose names were indelibly graven upon the tablets of my Memory, save on that one occasion—that unforgettable afternoon in September, when he entered the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs at the hour when Lord Douglas Wychwoode had just entrusted his Manifesto to me. What was said then and what happened afterwards should, God help me! have convinced me that no sort of intimate Connection, political or otherwise, could ever exist between my Lord Stour, Lord Douglas Wychwoode or their Friends, and Mr. Betterton.
4
Even while all these Thoughts and Conjectures were coursing through my brain, my innermost Consciousness kept my attention fixed upon my friend.
He had once more resumed his restless pacing up and down the narrow room. His slender hands were closely linked together behind his back, and at times he strode quite close to me, so close that the skirts of his fashionably cut coat brushed against my knee. From time to time disconnected Phrases came to his lips. He was talking to himself, a thing which I had never known him do before.
"I, who wished to return Taunt for Taunt and Infamy for Infamy!" he said at one time. And at another: "To-day ... in a few hours perhaps, that young Coxcomb will be in the Tower ... and then the Scaffold!"
I listened as attentively as I could, without seeming to do so, thinking that, if I only caught more of these confused Mutterings, the Puzzle, such as it was, would become more clear to me. Picture the two of us then, dear Mistress, in the semi-darkness, with only fitful candle light to bring into occasional bold relief the fine Figure of the great Actor pacing up and down like a restless and tortured Beast; and mine own meagre Form cowering in an angle of the sofa, straining mine ears to catch every syllable that came from my Friend's lips, and mine eyes to note every Change of his Countenance.
"She will think 'twas I who spied upon him," I heard him say quite distinctly through his clenched teeth. "I who betrayed him, her Friends, her Brother."
"He will die a Martyr to the cause she loves," he murmured a few moments later. "A Hero to his friends—to her a demi-god whose Memory she will worship."
Then he paused, and added in a loud and firm voice, apostrophizing, God knows what Spirits of Hate and of Vengeance whom he had summoned:
"And that is to be my Revenge for the deadliest Insult Man ever put upon Man! ... Ha! ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, with weird Incontinence. "God above us, save me from my Friends and let me deal alone with mine Enemies!"
He fell back into the nearest chair and, resting his elbows on his knees, he pressed his forehead against his clenched fists. I stared at him, mute, dumbfounded. For now I understood. I knew what I had done, knew what he desired, what he had striven for and planned all these past weary weeks. His Hopes, his Desires, I had frustrated. I, his Friend, who would have given my Life for his welfare!
I had been heart-broken before. I was doubly so now. I slid from the sofa once more on my knees and, not daring to touch him, I just remained there, sobbing and moaning in helpless Dejection and Remorse.
"What can I do?—what can I do?"
He looked at me, obviously dazed, had apparently become quite oblivious of my presence. Once more that look of tender Commiseration came into his eyes, and he said with a gently ironical smile:
"You? Poor little, feeble Mouse, who has gnawed at the Giant's prey—what can you do? ... Why, nothing. Go back to our mutual Friend, Mr. Theophilus Baggs, and tell him to make his way—and quickly too—to some obscure corner of the Country, for he also is up to the neck in that damnable Conspiracy."
This set my mind to a fresh train of thought.
"Shall I to my Lord Stour by the same token?" I asked eagerly.
"To my Lord Stour?" he queried, with a puzzled frown. "What for?"
"To warn him," I replied. "Give him a chance of escape. I could tell him you sent me," I added tentatively.
He laughed.
"No, no, my Friend," he said drily. "We'll not quite go to that length. Give him a chance of Escape?" he reiterated. "And tell him I sent You? No, no! He would only look upon my supposed Magnanimity as a sign of cringing Humility, Obsequiousness and Terror of further Reprisals. No, no, my Friend; I'll not give the gay young Spark another chance of insulting me.... But let me think ... let me think ... Oh, if only I had a few days before me, instead of a mere few hours! ... And if only my Lady Castlemaine..."
He paused, and I broke in on the impulse of the moment.
"Oh, Sir! hath not the Countess of Castlemaine vowed often of late that she would grant any Favour that the great Mr. Betterton would ask of her?"
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I regretted them. It must have been Instinct, for they seemed innocent enough at the time. My only thought in uttering them was to suggest that at Mr. Betterton's request the Traitors would be pardoned. My Lady Castlemaine in those days held the King wholly under her Domination. And I still believed that my Friend desired nothing so much at this moment than that my Lord Stour should not die a Hero's death—a Martyr to the cause which the beautiful Lady Barbara had at heart.
But since that hour, whenever I have looked back upon the Sequence of Events which followed on my impulsive Utterance, I could not help but think that Destiny had put the words into my mouth. She had need of me as her tool. What had to be, had to be. You, dear Mistress, can now judge whether Mr. Betterton is still worthy of your Love, whether he is still worthy to be taken back into your heart. For verily my words did make the turning point in the workings of his Soul. But I should never have dared to tell you all that happened, face to face, and I desired to speak of the matter impartially. Therefore I chose the medium of a pen, so that I might make You understand and, understanding, be ready to forgive.