His Majesty's Well-Beloved Part 26

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 att.i.tude just the right balance 'twixt deference due to a beautiful Woman and the self-a.s.surance 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 a.s.sumed 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 k.n.o.b 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 att.i.tude 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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...o...b..t?" 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 G.o.d 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.

"G.o.d 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 a.s.sure 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 Pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 Pa.s.sion-"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 a.s.sembly, 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.