THE HOUR
1
A quarter of an hour—perhaps less—later, we were speeding back, Mr. Betterton and I, down Canon's Row on our way to Westminster Stairs, intending to take boat for the City.
In the terrible mental upheaval which had followed on the renewed Outrage that had been put upon my beloved Friend, I had well-nigh forgotten that secret conspiracy which was even now threatening the stability of our Country, and in which my former Employer and his Spouse were so deeply involved.
The striking of Church Bells far and near, chiming the hour of eight, recalled me to the danger which threatened Mr. Baggs along with his more aristocratic co-traitors. And, strangely enough, Mr. Betterton thought of this at the very same time. He had been sunk in moody Reverie ever since my Silence had told him the grim tale of my unsuccessful Embassy to the Earl of Stour, and through the darkness it was impossible even for my devoted eyes to watch the Play of Emotions upon his tell-tale face, or to read in his eyes the dark thoughts which I knew must be coursing through his Brain.
In myself, I could not help but be satisfied at the turn of Events. The Conspirators, denounced by me to the Countess of Castlemaine, would of a certainty meet the Punishment which they so fully deserved. Lord Stour was one of them, so was Lord Douglas Wychwoode. The Scaffold, or at least, Banishment, would be their lot, and how could I grieve—I, who hated them so!—that the Earth would presently be rid of two arrogant and supercilious Coxcombs, Traitors to their King, vainglorious and self-seeking. True, the Lady Barbara would weep. But when I remembered the many bitter tears which you, dear Mistress, have shed these past months because she had enchained the fancy of the Man whom you loved, then had scorned his Ardour and left him a Prey to Humiliation and Shame at the hands of Men unworthy to lick the dust at his feet; when I remembered all that, I could find no Pity in my heart for the Lady Barbara, but rather a Hope that one so exquisitely fair would pass through Sorrow and Adversity the purer and softer for the Ordeal.
True again, that for some reason still unexplained Mr. Betterton appeared to desire with an almost passionate intensity that his successful Rival should escape the fate of his fellow-Conspirators. Such Magnanimity was beyond my Comprehension, and I felt that the Sentiment which engendered it could not be a lasting one. Mr. Betterton was for the moment angry with me—very angry—for what I had done; but his Anger I knew would soon melt in the Warmth of his own kindly Heart. He would forgive me, and anon forget the insolent Enemy after the latter had expiated his Treachery and his Arrogance upon the Scaffold. The whole of this hideous past Episode would then become a mere Memory, like unto a nightmare which the healthful freshness of the newly-born Day so quickly dispels.
2
So on the whole it was with a lightened heart that I stepped into the boat in the wake of Mr. Betterton. I thanked the Lord that the Rain had ceased for the moment, for truly I was chilled to the Marrow and could not have borne another wetting.
Every Angle and Stone and Stair and Landing Stage along the Embankment was of course familiar to me; and I could not help falling into a Reverie at sight of those great houses which were the City homes of some of the noblest Families in the Land. How many of these stately walls, thought I, sheltered a nest of Conspirators as vile and as disloyal as were Lord Douglas Wychwoode and his friends? Suffolk House and Yorke House, Salisbury House and Worster House, to mention but a few. How did the mere honest Citizen know what went on behind their Portals, what deadly secrets were whispered within their doors?
I had been taught all my life to respect those who are above me in Station and to reverence our titled Nobility; but truly my short Experience of these high-born Sparks was not calculated to enhance my Respect for their Integrity or my Admiration for their Intellect. Some older Gentlemen there were, such as the Lord Chancellor himself, who were worthy of Everybody's regard; but I must confess that the Behaviour of the younger Fops was oft blameworthy.
I might even instance our Experience this dark night after we had landed at the Temple Stairs, and were hurrying along our way up Middle Temple Lane in the wake of our linkmen. We were speeding on, treading carefully so as to avoid as much as was possible the mud which lay ankle-deep in the Lane, when we suddenly spied ahead of us a party of "Scourers"—young Gentlemen of high Rank, very much the worse for drink, who, being at their wits' end to know how to spend their evenings, did it in prowling about the Streets, insulting or maltreating peaceable Passers-by, molesting Women, breaking Tavern windows, stealing Signboards and otherwise rendering themselves noxious to honest Citizens, and helping to make the Streets of our great City an object of terror by night, in emulation of highway Robbers and other foul Marauders.
No doubt Mr. Betterton and I would—despite the aid of our two linkmen and of their stout Cudgels—have fallen a victim to these odious Miscreants, and the great Actor would of a surety have been very rudely treated, since he had so often denounced these Mal-practices from the Stage and held up to public Ridicule not only the young Rakes who took part in the riotous Orgies, but also our Nightwatchmen, who were too stupid or too cowardly to cope with them. But, knowing our danger, we avoided it, and hearing the young Mohocks coming our way we slipped up Hare Alley and bided our time until the noise of Revels and Riotings were well behind us.
I heard afterwards that those Abominable Debauchees—who surely should have known better, seeing that they were all Scions of great and noble Families—had indeed "scoured" that night with some purpose. They broke into Simond's Inn in Fleet Street, smashed every Piece of Crockery they could find there, assaulted the Landlord, beat the Customers about, broke open the money-box, stole some five pounds in hard cash and insulted the waiting-maids. Finally they set a seal to their Revels by falling on the Nightwatchmen who had come to disperse them, beating them with their own halberts and with sticks, and wounding one so severely that he ultimately died in Hospital, while the Miscreants themselves got off scot-free.
Truly a terrible state of Affairs in such a noble City as London!
3
As for Mr. Betterton and myself, we reached the corner of Chancery Lane without serious Adventure. As we neared the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs, however, I felt my Courage oozing down into my shoes. Truly I could not then have faced my former Employer, whom I had just betrayed, and the mean side of my Action in the Matter came upon me with a shaming force.
I begged Mr. Betterton, therefore, to go and speak with Mr. Baggs whilst I remained waiting outside upon the doorstep.
Of all that miserable day, this was perhaps to me the most painful moment. From the instant that Mr. Betterton was admitted into the house until he returned to me some twenty minutes later, I was in a cold sweat, devoured with Apprehension and fighting against Remorse. I could not forget that Mr. Baggs had been my Master and Employer—if not too kind an one—for years, and if he had been sent to the Tower and accompanied his fellow Conspirators upon the Scaffold, I verily believe that I should have felt like Judas Iscariot and, like him, would have been unable to endure my life after such a base Betrayal.
Fortunately, however, Mr. Betterton was soon able to reassure me. He had, he said, immediately warned Mr. Baggs that something of the Secret of the Conspiracy had come to the ears of the Countess of Castlemaine, and that all those who were in any way mixed up in the Affair would be wise to lie low as far as possible, at any rate for a while.
Mr. Baggs, it seems, was at first terrified, and was on the point of losing his Head and committing some act of Folly through sheer fright. But Mr. Betterton's quieting Influence soon prevailed. The worthy Attorney, on thinking the matter over, realized that if he destroyed certain Documents which might prove incriminating to himself, he would have little else to fear. He himself had never written a compromising Letter—he was far too shrewd to have thus committed himself—and there was not a scrap of paper in any one else's possession which bore his Name or might mark his Identity, whilst he had not the slightest fear that the other Conspirators—who were all of them Gentlemen—would betray the Complicity of an humble Attorney who had rendered them loyal Service.
Strangely enough, Mr. Baggs never suspected me of having betrayed the whole thing; or, if he did, he never said so. So many People plotted these days, so many Conspiracies were hatched then blown upon, that I for one imagine that Mr. Baggs had a hand in several of these and was paid high Fees for his share in them. Then, when anything untoward happened, when mere Chance, or else a Traitor among the Traitors, caused the Conspiracy to abort, the worthy Attorney would metaphorically shake the dust of political Intrigue from his shabby shoes, and make a bonfire of every compromising Document that might land him in the Tower and further. After which, he was no doubt ready to begin all over again.
So it had occurred in this instance. Mr. Betterton did not wait to see the bonfire, which was just beginning to blaze merrily in the old-fashioned hearth. He told me all about it when he joined me once more upon the doorstep, and for the first time that day I heard him laugh quite naturally and spontaneously while he recounted to me Mr. Baggs' Terrors and Mistress Euphrosine's dignified Fussiness.
"She would have liked to find some Pretext," he said quite gaily, "for blaming me in the Matter. But on the whole, I think that they were both thankful for my timely Warning.”
4
But, as far as I was concerned, this ended once and for all my Connection with the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs, and since that memorable night I have never once slept under his roof.
I went back with Mr. Betterton to his House in Tothill Street. By the time we reached it, it was close on ten o'clock. Already he had intimated to me that henceforth I was to make my home with him; and as soon as we entered the House he ordered his Servant to make my room and bed ready for me. My Heart was filled with inexpressible gratitude at his Kindness. Though I had, in an altogether inexplicable manner, run counter to his Plans, he was ready to forgive me and did not withdraw his Friendship from me.
As time went on, I was able to tell him something of the Emotions which coursed through my Heart in recognition of his measureless Kindness to me; but on that first evening I could not speak of it. When I first beheld the cosy room which he had assigned to me, with its clean and comfortable bed and substantial furniture, I could only bow my Head, take his Hand and kiss it reverently. He withdrew it as if he had been stung.
"Keep such expressions of Respect," he said almost roughly, "for one who is worthy."
"You," I riposted simply, "are infinitely worthy, because You are good."
Then once again his harsh, mirthless Laugh—so unlike his usual light-hearted Merriment—grated upon mine ear.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "Nay, friend Honeywood, You are not, meseems, a master of intuition. Few Hearts in London this night," he added earnestly, "harbour such evil Desires as mine."
But in spite of what he said, in spite of that strange look in his eyes, that Laugh which proclaimed a perturbed Soul, I could not bring myself to believe that his noble Heart was a Prey to aught but noble Desires, and that those awful and subtle Schemes of deadly Revenge which have subsequently threatened to ruin his own Life were even now seething in his Brain.
For the moment, I only remembered that when first he had requested me to accompany him on his evening Peregrinations, it had been with a view to visiting the Countess of Castlemaine, and I now reminded him of his Purpose, thinking that his desire had been to beg for my Lord Stour's pardon. I did so, still insisting upon her Ladyship's avowed Predilection for himself, and I noticed that while I spoke thus he smiled grimly to himself and presently said with slow Deliberation:
"Aye! Her Ladyship hath vowed that out of Gratitude for his public Eulogy of her Virtue and her Beauty, she would grant Mr. Thomas Betterton any Favour he might ask of her."
"Aye! and her Ladyship is not like to go back on her word," I assented eagerly.
"Therefore," he continued, not heeding me, "the Countess of Castlemaine, who in her turn can obtain any Favour she desires from His Majesty the King, will at my request obtain a full and gracious Pardon for the Earl of Stour."
"She will indeed!" I exclaimed, puzzled once more at this strange trait of Magnanimity—Weakness, I called it—on the part of a Man who had on two occasions been so monstrously outraged. "You are a hero, Sir," I added in an awed whisper, "to think of a pardon for your most deadly Enemy."
He turned and looked me full in the eyes. I could scarce bear his Glance, for there seemed to dwell within its glowing depths such a World of Misery, of Hatred and of thwarted Passion, that my Soul was filled with dread at the sight. And he said very slowly:
"You are wrong there, my Friend. I was not thinking of a pardon for mine Enemy, but of Revenge for a deadly Insult, which it seems cannot be wiped out in Blood.”
5
I would have said something more after that, for in truth my Heart was full of Sympathy and of Love for my Friend and I longed to soothe and console him, as I felt I could do, humble and unsophisticated though I was. Thoughts of You, dear Mistress, were running riot in my Brain. I longed at this momentous hour, when the Fate of many Men whom I knew was trembling in the balance, to throw myself at Mr. Betterton's feet and to conjure him in the name of all his most noble Instincts to give up all thoughts of the proud Lady who had disdained him and spurned his Affections, and to turn once more to the early and pure Love of his Life—to You, dear Mistress, whose Devotion had been so severely tried and yet had not been found wanting, and whose influence had always been one of Gentleness and of Purity.
But, seeing him sitting there brooding, obviously a Prey to Thoughts both deep and dark, I did not dare speak, and remained silent in the hope that, now that I was settled under his roof, an Opportunity would occur for me to tell him what weighed so heavily on my Heart.
Presently the Servant came in and brought Supper, and Mr. Betterton sat down to it, bidding me with perfect Grace and Hospitality to sit opposite to him. But we neither of us felt greatly inclined to eat. I was hungry, it is true; yet every Morsel which I conveyed to my mouth cost me an effort to swallow. This was all the more remarkable as at the moment my whole Being was revelling in the Succulence of the fare spread out before me, the Excellence of the Wine, the snowy Whiteness of the Cloths, the Beauty of Crystal and of Silver, all of which bore testimony to the fastidious Taste and the Refinement of the great Artist.
Of the great Events which were even then shaping themselves in White Hall, we did not speak. We each knew that the Other's mind was full of what might be going on even at this hour. But Mr. Betterton made not a single Reference to it, and I too, therefore, held my tongue. In fact, we spoke but little during Supper, and as I watched my dearly loved Friend toying with his food, and I myself felt as if the next mouthful would choke me, I knew his Mind was far away.
It was fixed upon White Hall and its stately Purlieus and upon the house of the Countess of Castlemaine, which overlooked the Privy Gardens, and of His Majesty the King. His senses, I knew, were strained to catch the sound of distant Murmurs, of running Footsteps, of the grinding of Arms or of pistol shots.
But not a Sound came to disturb the peaceful Silence of this comfortable Abode. The Servant came and went, bringing food, then clearing it away, pouring Wine into our glasses, setting and removing the silver Utensils.
Anon Mr. Betterton and I both started and furtively caught one another's Glance. The tower clock of Westminster was striking eleven.
"For Good or for Evil, all is over by now," Mr. Betterton said quietly. "Come, friend Honeywood; let's to bed."
I went to bed, but not to sleep. For hours I lay awake, wondering what had happened. Had the Conspirators succeeded and was His Majesty a Prisoner in their hands? or were they themselves Captives in that frowning Edifice by the Water, which had witnessed so many Deaths and such grim Tragedies, and from which the only Egress led straight to the Scaffold?