THE LADY PLEADS
1
I am not able quite to determine in my own mind whether the Lady Barbara Wychwoode did hear and see something of the violent Scene which I have just attempted to describe.
I told You, dear Mistress, that fortunately for us all, this part of the Park where the Scene occurred was for the moment practically deserted. At any rate, no Crowd collected around us, for which, methinks, we were, every one of us, thankful. If a few of the Passers-by heard anything of the altercation, they merely hurried past, thinking no doubt, that it was only one or two young City Sparks, none too sober even at this morning hour, who were quarrelling among themselves.
When we walked away down the Avenue which leads in the direction of Knight's Bridge, Mr. Betterton's well-known, elegant figure was remarked by a few Pedestrians on their way to and fro, as was also the familiar one of the Duke of Albemarle, and some People raised their hats to the great Artist, whilst others saluted the distinguished General.
Presently His Grace and Sir William Davenant took leave of Mr. Betterton, and a few moments later the latter suggested that we should also begin to wend our way homewards.
We retraced our steps and turned back in the direction of Westminster. Mr. Betterton was silent; he walked quite calmly, with head bent and firm footsteps, and I, knowing his humour, walked along in silence by his side.
Then suddenly we came upon the Lady Barbara.
That she had sought this meeting I could not doubt for a moment. Else, how should a Lady of her Rank and Distinction be abroad, and in a public Park, unattended? Indeed, I was quite sure that she had only dismissed her maid when she saw Mr. Betterton coming along, and that the Wench was lurking somewhere behind one of the shrubberies, ready to accompany her Ladyship home when the interview was at an end.
I said that I am even now doubtful as to whether the Lady Barbara saw and heard something of the violent Altercation which had taken place a quarter of an hour ago between her Lover and the great Actor. If not, she certainly displayed on that occasion that marvellous intuition which is said to be the prerogative of every Woman when she is in love.
She was walking on the further side of Rosamond Pond when first I caught sight of her, and when she reached the Bridge, she came deliberately to a halt. There is no other way across the Pond save by the Bridge, so Mr. Betterton could not have escaped the meeting even if he would. Seeing the Lady, he raised his hat and made a deep bow of respectful salutation. He then crossed the Bridge and made as if he would pass by, but she held her Ground, in the very centre of the Path, and when he was quite near her, she said abruptly:
"Mr. Betterton, I desire a word with you."
He came at once to a halt, and replied with perfect deference:
"I await your Ladyship's commands.”
2
I was for hurrying away, thinking that my Presence would be irksome both to the Lady and to my Friend; but an unmistakable pressure of Mr. Betterton's hand on my arm caused me to stay where I was. As for the Lady, she appeared not to care whether I stayed or went, for immediately she retorted:
"My commands, Sir Actor? They are, that you at once and completely do Reparation for the wrong which you are trying to do to an innocent Man."
She looked proud and commanding as a Queen, looking through the veil of her lashes at Mr. Betterton as if he were a supplicating Slave rather than the great Artist whom cultured Europe delighted to honour. Never did I admire my Friend so much as I did then. His self-possession was perfect: his attitude just the right balance 'twixt deference due to a beautiful Woman and the self-assurance which comes of conscious Worth. He looked splendid, too—dressed in the latest fashion and with unerring taste. The fantastic cut of his modish clothes became his artistic Personality to perfection: the soft shade of mulberry of which his coat was fashioned made an harmonious note of colour in the soft grey mist of this late winter's morning. The lace at his throat and wrists was of unspeakable value, filmy and gossamer-like in texture as a cobweb; and in his cravat glittered a diamond, a priceless gift to the great English Artist from the King of France.
Indeed, the Lady Barbara Wychwoode might look the world-famous Actor up and down with well-studied superciliousness; she might issue her commands to him as if she were his royal Mistress and he but a Menial set there to obey her behest; but, whatever she did, she could not dwarf his Personality. He had become too great for disdain or sneers ever to touch him again; and the shafts of scorn aimed at him by those who would set mere Birth above the claims of Genius, would only find their points broken or blunted against the impenetrable armour of his Glory and his Fame.
For the nonce, I think that he was ready enough to parley with the Lady Barbara. He had not to my knowledge spoken with her since that never forgotten day last September; and I, not understanding the complex workings of an Artist's heart, knew not if his Love for her had outlived the crying outrage, or had since then turned to Hate.
In answer to her peremptory command, he assumed an air of innocent surprise.
"I?" he queried. "Your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles."
"Nay!" she retorted. "'Tis you, Sir, who choose not to understand. But I'll speak more plainly, an you wish. I am a woman, Mr. Actor, and I love the Earl of Stour. Now, you know just as well as I do, that his Lordship's honour has of late been impugned in a manner that is most mysterious. His Friends accuse him of treachery; even mere Acquaintances prefer to give him the cold shoulder. And this without any definite Indictment being levelled against him. Many there are who will tell You that they have not the faintest conception of what crime my Lord Stour stands accused. Others aver that they'll not believe any Slander that may be levelled against so high-souled a Gentleman. Nevertheless, the Slander continues. Nay! it gathers volume as it worms its way from one house to another, shedding poison in its wake as it drifts by; and more and more People now affect to look another way when the Earl of Stour comes nigh them, and to be otherwise engaged when he desires to shake them by the hand."
She paused for a moment, obviously to regain her Composure, which was threatening to leave her. Her cheeks were pale as ashes, her breath came and went in quick, short gasps. The Picture which she herself had drawn of her Lover's plight caused her heart to ache with bitterness. She seemed for the moment to expect something—a mere comment, perhaps, or a word of Sympathy, from Mr. Betterton. But none came. He stood there, silent and deferential, with lips firmly set, his slender Hand clutched upon the gold knob of his stick, till the knuckles shone creamy-white, like ivory. He regarded her with an air of Detachment rather than Sympathy, and though by her silence she appeared to challenge him now, he did not speak, and after awhile she resumed more calmly:
"My Lord of Stour himself is at his wits' ends to interpret the attitude of his Friends. Nothing tangible in the way of a spoken Calumny hath as yet reached his ears. And his life has been rendered all the more bitter that he feels that he is being struck by a persistent but mysterious Foe in what he holds dearer than aught else on earth, his Integrity and his Honour."
"'Tis a sad case," here rejoined Mr. Betterton, for her Ladyship had paused once more. "But, by your leave, I do not see in what way it concerns me."
"Nay! but I think you do, Sir Actor," Lady Barbara riposted harshly. "Love and Hate, remember, see clearly where mere Friendship and Indifference are blind. Love tells me that the Earl of Stour's Integrity is Unstained, his Honour unsullied. But the Hatred which you bear him," added her Ladyship almost fiercely, "makes me look to You for the cause of his Disgrace."
No one, however, could have looked more utterly astonished, more bland and uncomprehending, as Mr. Betterton did at that moment. He put up his hand and regarded the Lady with an indulgent smile, such as one would bestow on a hot-headed Child.
"Nay, your Ladyship!" he said courteously. "I fear that you are attributing to an humble Mountebank a power he doth not possess. To disgrace a noble Gentleman?" he exclaimed with well-feigned horror. "I?—a miserable Varlet—an insolent cur whom one thrashes if he dares to bark!"
"Ah!" she broke in, with a swift exclamation. "Then I have guessed the truth! This is your Revenge!"
"Revenge?" he queried blandly. "For what?"
"You hate the Earl of Stour," she retorted.
Once more his well-shaped hand went up, as if in gentle protest, and he uttered a kind and deprecating "Oh!"
"You look upon the Earl of Stour as your enemy!" she insisted.
"I have so many, your Ladyship," he riposted with a smile.
"'Twas you who obtained his Pardon from my Lady Castlemaine."
"The inference is scarcely logical," he retorted. "A man does not as a rule sue for pardon for his Enemy."
"I think," she rejoined slowly, "that in this case Mr. Betterton did the illogical thing."
"Then I do entreat your Ladyship," he protested with mock terror, "not to repeat this calumny. I, accused of a noble action! Tom Betterton pardoning his Enemies! Why, my friends might believe it, and it is so difficult these days to live down a good Reputation."
"You choose to sharpen your wit at my expense, Sir Actor," the lady rejoined with her former haughtiness, "and to evade the point."
"What is the point, your Ladyship?" he queried blandly.
"That you set an end to all these Calumnies which are levelled against the Earl of Stour."
"How can we stay the Sun in his orbit?" he retorted; "or the Stars in their course?"
"You mean that your Campaign of Slander has already gone too far? But remember this, Mr. Betterton: that poisoned darts sometimes wound the hand that throws them. You may pursue the Earl of Stour with your Hatred and your Calumnies, but God will never allow an innocent Man to suffer unjustly."
Just for a few seconds Mr. Betterton was silent. He was still regarding the Lady with that same indulgent smile which appeared to irritate her nerves. To me, the very air around seemed to ring as if with a clash of ghostly arms—the mighty clash of two Wills and two Temperaments, each fighting for what it holds most dear: she for the Man whom she loved, he for his Dignity which had been so cruelly outraged.
"God will never allow," she reiterated with slow emphasis, "an innocent Man to suffer at the hands of a Slanderer."
"Ah!" riposted Mr. Betterton suavely. "Is your Ladyship not reckoning over-confidently on Divine interference?"
"I also reckon," she retorted, "on His Majesty's sense of justice—and on the Countess of Castlemaine, who must know the truth of the affair."
"His Majesty's senses are very elusive," he rejoined drily, "and are apt to play him some wayward tricks when under the influence of the Countess of Castlemaine. The Earl of Stour, it seems, disdained the favours which that Lady was willing to bestow on him. He preferred the superior charms and intellect of the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. A very natural preference, of course," he added, with elaborate gallantry. "But I can assure your Ladyship that, as Helpmeets to heavenly Interference, neither His Majesty nor the Countess of Castlemaine are to be reckoned with."
She bit her lip and cast her eyes to the ground. I could see that her lovely face expressed acute disappointment and that she was on the verge of tears. I am not versed in the ways of gentle Folk nor yet in those of Artists, but I could have told the Lady Barbara Wychwoode that if she wanted to obtain Sympathy or Leniency from Mr. Betterton, she had gone quite the wrong way to work.
Even now, I think if she had started to plead ... but the thought of humbling herself before a Man whom she affected to despise was as far from this proud Woman's heart, as are thoughts of self-glorification from mine.
A second or two later she had succeeded in forcing back the tears which had welled to her eyes, and she was able once more to look her Adversary straight in the face.
"And will you tell me, Sir Actor," she queried with cold aloofness, "how far you intend to carry on this Infamy?"
And Mr. Betterton replied, equally coldly and deliberately:
"To the uttermost limits of the Kingdom, Madam."
"What do you mean?" she riposted.
He drew a step or two nearer to her. His face too was pale by now, his lips trembling, his eyes aglow with Passion masterfully kept under control. His perfect voice rose and fell in those modulated Cadences which we have all learned to appreciate.
"Only this, your Ladyship," he began quite slowly. "For the present, the History of the Earl of Stour's treachery is only guessed at by a few. It is a breath of Scandal, born as you say somewhat mysteriously, wafted through Palaces and noble Mansions to-day—dead, mayhap, to-morrow. But I have had many opportunities for thought of late," he continued—and it seemed to me as if in his quivering voice I could detect a tone of Threat as well as of Passion—"and have employed my leisure moments in writing an Epilogue which I propose to speak to-morrow, after the Play, His Majesty and all the Court being present, and many Gentlemen and Ladies of high degree, as well as Burgesses and Merchants of the City, and sundry Clerks and other humbler Folk. A comprehensive Assembly, what? and an attentive one; for that low-born Mountebank, Tom Betterton, will be appearing in a new play and the Playhouse will be filled to the roof in order to do him honour. May I hope that the Lady Barbara Wychwoode herself——"
"A truce on this foolery, Sir," she broke in harshly. "I pray you come to the point."
She tried to look brave and still haughty, but I knew that she was afraid—knew it by the almost unearthly pallor of her skin, and the weird glitter in her eyes as she regarded him, like a Bird fascinated by a Snake.
"The point is the Epilogue, my Lady," Mr. Betterton replied blandly. "And after I have spoken it to-morrow, I shall speak it again and yet again, until its purport is known throughout the length and breadth of the Land. The subject of that Epilogue, Madam, will be the secret History of a certain aborted Conspiracy, and how it was betrayed in exchange for a free Pardon by one of our noblest Gentlemen in England. Then, I pray your Ladyship to mark what will happen," he continued, and his melodious voice became as hard and trenchant as the clang of metal striking metal. "After that Epilogue has been spoken from the Stage half a dozen times after His Majesty has heard it and shrugged his shoulders, after my Lady Castlemaine has laughed over it and my Lord of Rochester aped it in one of his Pasquinades, there will be a man whose Name will be a by-word for everything that is most infamous and most false—a Name that will be bandied about in Taverns and in drinking Booths, quipped, decried, sneered at, anathematized; a Name that will be the subject of every lampoon and every scurrilous rhyme that finds over-ready purchasers—a Name, in fact, that will for ever be whispered with bated breath or bandied about in a drunken brawl, whene'er there is talk of treachery and of dishonour!"
At this, she—great Lady to her finger tips—threw up her head proudly, still defying him, still striving to hide her Fears and unwilling to acknowledge Defeat.
"It will be your Word against his," she said with a disdainful curl of her perfect lips. "No one would listen to such calumnies."
And he—the world-famed Artist—at least as proud as any high born Gentleman in the Land, retorted, equally haughtily:
"When Tom Betterton speaks upon the Stage, my Lady, England holds her breath and listens spellbound."
I would I could render the noble Accent of his magnificent Voice as he said this. There was no self-glorification in it, no idle boasting; it was the accent of transcendent Worth conscious of its Power.
And it had its effect upon the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. She lowered her Eyes, but not before I had perceived that they were full of Tears; her Lips were trembling still, but no longer with Disdain, and her hands suddenly dropped to her side with a pathetic gesture of Discouragement and of Anguish.
The next moment, however, she was again looking the great Actor fully in the face. A change had come over her, quite suddenly methought—a great Change, which had softened her Mood and to a certain extent lowered her Pride. Whether this was the result of Mr. Betterton's forceful Eloquence or of her own Will-power, I could not guess; but I myself marvelled at the Tone of Entreaty which had crept into her Voice.
"You will not speak such Falsehoods in Public, Sir," she said with unwonted softness. "You will not thus demean your Art—the Art which you love and hold in respect. Oh, there must be some Nobility in You! else you were not so talented. Your Soul must in truth be filled with Sentiments which are neither ignoble nor base."
"Nay!" he exclaimed, and this time did not strive to conceal the intense Bitterness which, as I knew well enough, had eaten into his very Soul; "but your Ladyship is pleased to forget. I am ignoble and base! There cannot be Nobility in me. I am only the low-born Lout! Ask my Lord of Stour; ask your Brother! They will tell you that I have no Feelings, no Pride, no Manhood—that I am only a despicable Varlet, whom every Gentleman may mock and insult and whip like a dog. To You and to your Caste alone belong Nobility, Pride and Honour. Honour!!!"—and he broke into a prolonged laugh, which would have rent your Heart to hear—"Honour! Your false Fetish! Your counterfeit God!! Very well, then so be it!! That very Honour which he hath denied me, I will wrench from him. And since he denied me Satisfaction by the Sword, I turn to my own weapon—my Art—and with it I will exact from him to the uttermost fraction, Outrage for Outrage—Infamy for Infamy."
His wonderful Voice shook, broke almost into a sob at last. I felt a choking sensation in my Throat and my Eyes waxed hot with unshed Tears. As if through a mist, I could see the exquisite Lady Barbara Wychwoode before me, could see that she, too, was moved, her Pride crushed, her Disdain yielding to involuntary Sympathy.
"But he is innocent!" she pleaded, with an accent verging on Despair.
"And so was I!" was his calm retort.
"He——" she entreated, "he loves me——"
"And so do I!" he exclaimed, with a depth of Passion which brought the hot Blood to her pale Cheeks. "I would have given my Life for one Smile from your Lips."
Whereupon, womanlike, she shifted her ground, looked him straight between the Eyes, and, oh! I could have blushed to see the Wiles she used in order to weaken his Resolve.
"You love me?" she queried softly, and there was now a tone of almost tender Reproach in her Voice. "You love me! yet you would drag the Man who is dearer to me than Life to Dishonour and to Shame. You trap him, like a Fowler does a Bird, then crush him with Falsehoods and Calumnies! No, no!" she exclaimed—came a step or two nearer to him and clasped her delicate Hands together in a Gesture that was akin to Prayer. "I'll not believe it! You will tell the Truth, Mr. Betterton, publicly, and clear him.... You will.... You will! For my sake—since You say You love me."
But the more eager, the more appealing she grew, the calmer and more calculating did he seem. Now it was his turn to draw away from Her, to measure Her, as it were, with a cold, appraising Look.
"For Your sake?" he said with perfect quietude, almost as if the matter had become outside himself. I cannot quite explain the air of detachment which he assumed—for it was an assumption, on that I would have staked my Life at the moment. I, who know him so well, felt that deep down within his noble Heart there still burned the fierce flames of an ardent Passion, but whether of Love or Hate, I could not then have told You.
She had recoiled at the coolness of his Tone; and he went on, still speaking with that strange, abnormal Calm:
"Yes!" he said slowly, "for Your love I would do what You ask ... I would forego that Feast of Satisfaction, the Thought of which hath alone kept me sane these past few months.... Yes! for the Love of Lady Barbara Wychwoode I could bring myself to forgive even his Lordship of Stour for the irreparable wrong which he hath done to Me. I would restore to him his Honour, which now lies, a Forfeit, in my Hands: for I shall then have taken Something from him which he holds well-nigh as dear."
He paused, and met with the same calm relentlessness the look of Horror and of Scorn wherewith she regarded him.
"For my Love?" she exclaimed, and once more the warm Blood rushed up to her face, flooding her wan Cheeks, her pale Forehead, even her delicate Throat with crimson. "You mean that I? ... Oh! ... what Infamy! ... So, Mr. Actor, that was your reckoning!" she went on with supreme Disdain. "It was not the desire for Vengeance that prompted You to slander the Earl of Stour, but the wish to entrap me into becoming your Wife. You are not content with Your Laurels. You want a Coat of Arms ... and hoped to barter one against Your Calumnies!"
"Nay, your Ladyship!" he rejoined simply, "in effect, I was actually laying a Name famed throughout the cultured world humbly at your feet. You made an appeal to my Love for You—and I laid a test for your Sincerity. Mine I have placed beyond question, seeing that I am prepared to drag my Genius in the dust before Your Pride and the Arrogance of Your Caste. An Artist is a Slave of his Sensibilities, and I feel that if, in the near Future, I could see a Vision of your perfect hand resting content in mine, if, when You pleaded again for my Lord Stour, You did so as my promised Wife—not his—I would do all that You asked."
She drew herself up to her full height and glanced at him with all the Pride which awhile ago had seemed crushed beyond recall.
"Sir Actor," she said coldly, "shame had gripped me by the throat, or I should not have listened so long to such an Outrage. The Bargain You propose is an Infamy and an Insult."
And she gathered up her Skirts around her, as if their very contact with the Soil on which he trod were a pollution. Then she half turned as if ready to go, cast a rapid glance at the Shrubberies close by, no doubt in search of her Attendant. Why it was that she did not actually go, I could not say, but guessed that, mayhap, she would not vacate the Field of Contention until quite sure that there was not a final Chance to soften the Heart of the Enemy. She had thrown down yet another Challenge when she spoke of his proposed Bargain as an Infamy; but he took up the Gage with the same measured Calm as before.
"As you will," he said. "It was in Your Ladyship's name that the Earl of Stour put upon Me the deadliest Insult which any Man hath ever put on Man before. Since then, every Fibre within Me has clamoured for Satisfaction. My Work hath been irksome to me ... I scarce could think ... My Genius lay writhing in an agony of Shame. But now the hour is mine—for it I have schemed and lied—aye, lied—like the low-born cur You say I am. A thousand Devils of Hate and of Rage are unchained within me. I cannot grapple with them alone. They would only yield—to your kiss."
"Oh!" she cried in uttermost despair, "this is horrible!"
"Then let the Man you love," he rejoined coldly, "look to himself."
"Conscious of his Innocence, my Lord Stour and I defy you!"
"Ah, well!" he said imperturbably, "the Choice is still with Your Ladyship. Remember that I do not speak my Epilogue until to-morrow. When I do, it will be too late. I have called my Phantasy 'The Comedie of Traitors.'"
Whereupon he bowed low before her, in the most approved Fashion. But already she was fleeing up the path in the direction of Westminster. Soon her graceful Figure was lost to our sight behind an intervening clump of Laurels. Here no doubt her Ladyship's Attendant was waiting for her Mistress, for anon I spied two figures hurrying out of the Park.
3
For a long time Mr. Betterton remained standing just where he was, one hand still clutching the knob of his Stick, the other thrust in the pocket of his capacious Coat. I could not see his Face, since his Back was turned towards me, and I did not dare move lest I should be interrupting his Meditations. But to Me, even that Back was expressive. There was a listlessness, hardly a stoop, about it, so unlike my Friend's usual firm and upright Carriage. How could this be otherwise, seeing what he had just gone through—Emotions that would have swept most Men off their mental balance. Yet he kept his, had never once lost control of himself. He had met Disdain with Disdain in the end, had kept sufficient control over his Voice to discuss with absolute calm, that Bargain which the Lady Barbara had termed infamous. There had been a detachment about his final Ultimatum, a "take it or leave it" air, which must have been bitterly galling to the proud Lady who had stooped to entreat. He was holding the winning Hand and did not choose to yield.
And it was from his attitude on that Day that I, dear Mistress, drew an unerring inference. Mr. Betterton had no Love for the Lady Barbara, no genuine, lasting Affection such as, I maintain, he has never ceased to feel for You. Passion swayed him, because he has, above all, that unexplainable artistic Temperament which cannot be measured by everyday Standards. Pride, Bitterness, Vengefulness—call it what you will; but there was not a particle of Love in it all. I verily believe that his chief Desire, whilst he stood pondering there at the bridgehead, was to humiliate the Lady Barbara Wychwoode by forcing her into a Marriage which she had affected to despise. He was not waiting for her with open, loving Arms, ready to take her to his Heart, there to teach her to forget the Past in the safe haven of his Love. He was not waiting to lay his Service at her feet, and to render her happy as the cherished Wife and Helpmate of the great Artist whom all England delighted to honour. He was only waiting to make her feel that She had been subjected to his Will and her former Lover brought down to Humiliation, through the Power of the miserable Mountebank whom they had both deemed less than a Man.
Thus meditating, I stood close to my Friend, until Chance or a fleeting Thought brought him back to the realities of Life. He sighed and looked about him, as a Man will who hath just wakened from a Dream. Then he spied me, and gave me his wonted kindly smile and glance.
"Good old John!" he said, with a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders. "'Twas not an edifying Scene You have witnessed, eh?"
"'Twas a heartrending one," I riposted almost involuntarily.
"Heartrending?" he queried, in a tone of intense bitterness, "to watch a Fool crushing every Noble Instinct within him for the sake of getting even with a Man whom he neither honours nor esteems?"
He sighed again, and beckoned to me to follow him.
"Let us home, good Honeywood," he said. "I am weary of all this wrangle, and pine to find solace among the Poets."
Nor did he mention the name of the Lady Barbara again to me, and I was left to ponder what was going on in his Mind and whether his cruelly vengeful Scheme for the final undoing of my Lord Stour would indeed come to maturity on the following day. I knew that a great and brilliant Representation of the late Mr. William Shakespeare's play, "Twelfth Night," was to be given at the Duke's Theatre, with some of the new Scenery and realistic scenic Effects brought over last Autumn from Paris by Mr. Betterton. His Majesty had definitely promised that he would be present and so had the Countess of Castlemaine, and there would doubtless be a goodly and gorgeous Company present to applaud the great Actor, whose Performance of Sir Toby Belch was one of the Marvels of histrionic Art, proclaiming as it did his wonderful versatility, by contrast with his equally remarkable exposition of the melancholy Hamlett, Prince of Denmark.
That I now awaited that Day with Sorrow in my Heart and with measureless Anxiety, You, dear Mistress, will readily imagine. Until this morning I had no idea of the terrible Thunderbolt which my Friend had in preparation for those who had so shamefully wronged him; and I still marvelled whether in his talk with the Lady Barbara there had not lurked some idle Threats rather than a serious Warning. How could I think of the Man whom I had learned to love and to reverence as one who would nurture such cruel Schemes? And yet, did not the late Mr. Shakespeare warn us that "Pleasure and Revenge have ears more deaf than Adders to the voice of any true decision"? Ah, me! but I was sick at heart.