POISONED ARROWS
1
Do you remember, dear Mistress, those lovely days we had in February
this year? They were more like days of Spring than of Winter. For a
fortnight we revelled in sunshine and a temperature more fitting for May
than for one of the Winter months.
In London, Rich and Poor alike came out into the Air like flies; the
public Gardens and other Places of common resort were alive with
Promenaders; the Walks and Arbours in the Gray's Inn Walks or the
Mulberry Garden were astir with brilliant Company. All day, whether you
sauntered in Hyde Park, refreshed yourself with a collation in Spring
Gardens or strolled into the New Exchange, you would find such a crowd
of Men and Women of Mode, such a Galaxy of Beauty and Bevy of fair Maids
and gallant Gentlemen as had not been seen in the Town since that merry
month of May, nigh on two years ago now, when our beloved King returned
from Exile and all vied one with the other to give him a cheerful
Welcome.
To say that this period was one of unexampled Triumph for Mr. Betterton
would be but to repeat what You know just as well as I do. He made some
truly remarkable hits in certain Plays of the late Mr. William
Shakespeare, notably in "Macbeth," in "King Lear," and in "Hamlett."
Whether I like these Plays myself or not is beside the point; whatever I
thought of them I kept to myself, but was loud in my Admiration of the
great Actor, who indeed had by now conquered all Hearts, put every other
Performer in the Shade and raised the Status of the Duke's Company of
Players to a level far transcending that ever attained by Mr.
Killigrew's old Company.
This Opinion, at any rate, I have the Honour of sharing with all the
younger generation of Play-goers who flock to the Theatre in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, even while the King's House in Vere Street is receiving but
scanty Patronage. Of course my Judgment may not be altogether
impartial, seeing that in addition to Mr. Betterton, who is the finest
Actor our English Stage has ever known, the Duke's House also boasts of
the loveliest Actress that ever walked before the Curtain.
You, dear Mistress, were already then, as You are now, at the zenith of
your Beauty and Fame, and your damask Cheeks would blush, I know, if you
were to read for yourself some of the Eulogies which the aforementioned
Mr. Samuel Pepys in his Letters to Mr. Betterton bestows upon the
exquisite Mistress Saunderson--"Ianthe," as he has been wont to call you
ever since he saw You play that part in Sir William Davenant's "The
Siege of Rhodes."
Of course I know that of late no other sentimental tie hath existed
outwardly between Mr. Betterton and Yourself save that of Comradeship
and friendly Intercourse; but often when sitting in the Pit of the
Theatre I watched You and Him standing together before the curtain, and
receiving the Plaudits of an enthusiastic Audience, I prayed to God in
my Heart to dissipate the Cloud of Misunderstanding which had arisen
between You; aye! and I cursed fervently the Lady Barbara and her noble
Lover, who helped to make that Cloud more sombre and impenetrable.
2
I naturally heard a great deal more of Society Gossip these days than I
was wont to do during the time that I was a mere Clerk in the Employ of
Mr. Theophilus Baggs. My kind Employer treated me more as a Friend than
a Servant. I had fine Clothes to wear, accompanied him on several
Occasions when he appeared in Public, and was constantly in his
tiring-room at the Theatre, where he received and entertained a
never-ending Stream of Friends.
Thus, towards the end of the Month, I gathered from the Conversation of
Gentlemen around me that the Marquess of Sidbury had come up to Town in
the Company of his beautiful Daughter. He had, they said, taken
advantage of the fine Weather to make the Journey to London, as he
desired to consult the Court Physician on the Matter of his Health.
I shall never forget the strange Look that came into Mr. Betterton's
face when first the Subject was mentioned. He and some Friends--Ladies
as well as Gentlemen--were assembled in the small Reception Room which
hath lately been fitted up behind the Stage. Upholstered and curtained
with a pleasing Shade of Green, the Room is much frequented by Artists
and their Friends, and it is always crowded during the Performance of
those Plays wherein one of the leading Actors or Actresses has a part.
We have taken to calling the place the Green Room, and here on the
occasion of a performance of Mr. Webster's "Duchess of Malfy," in which
You, dear Mistress, had no part, a very brilliant Company was assembled.
Sir William Davenant was there, as a matter of course, so was Sir George
Etherege, and that brilliant young dramatist Mr. Wycherley. In addition
to that, there were one or two very great Gentlemen there, members of
the Court Circle and enthusiastic Playgoers, who were also intimate
Friends of Mr. Betterton. I am referring particularly to the Duke of
Buckingham, to my Lord Rochester, Lord Orrery and others. A brilliant
Assembly forsooth, which testified to the high Esteem in which the great
Artist is held by all those who have the privilege of knowing him.
I told You that when first the Name of the Lady Barbara was mentioned in
the Green Room, a strange Glance, which I was unable to interpret, shot
out of Mr. Betterton's eyes, and as I gazed upon that subtle, impalpable
Change which suddenly transformed his serene Expression of Countenance
into one that was almost Evil, I felt a curious sinking of the Heart--a
dread Premonition of what was to come. You know how his lips are ever
ready to smile: now they appeared thin and set, while the sensitive
Nostrils quivered almost like those of the wild Beasts which we have all
of us frequently watched in the Zoological Gardens, when the Attendants
bring along the food for the day and they, eager and hungry, know that
the Hour of Satisfaction is nigh.
"The fair Lady Babs," one of the young Gallants was saying with studied
Flippancy, "is more beautiful than ever, methinks; even though she goes
about garbed in the Robes of Sorrow."
"Poor young thing!" commented His Grace of Buckingham kindly. "She has
been hard hit in that last Affair."
"I wonder what has happened to Wychwoode," added Lord Rochester, who had
been a known Friend of Lord Douglas.
"Oh! he reached Holland safely enough," another Gentleman whom I did not
know averred. "I suppose he thinks that it will all blow over presently
and that he will obtain a free pardon----"
"Like my Lord Stour," commented Mr. Betterton drily.
"Oh! that's hardly likely," interposed Sir George Etherege. "Wychwoode
was up to the neck in the Conspiracy, whilst Stour was proved to be
innocent of the whole affair."
"How do you know that?" Mr. Betterton asked quietly.
"How do I know it?" retorted Sir George. "Why? ... How do we all know
it?"
"I was wondering," was Mr. Betterton's calm Rejoinder.
"I imagine," broke in another Gentleman, "that at the Trial----"
"Stour never stood his trial, now you come to think of it," here
interposed my Lord of Rochester.
"He was granted a free Pardon," asserted His Grace of Buckingham, "two
days after his Arrest."
"At the Instance of the Countess of Castlemaine, so I am told,"
concluded Mr. Betterton.
You see, he only put in a Word here and there, but always to some
purpose; and oh! that Purpose I simply dared not guess. I was watching
him, remember, watching him as only a devoted Friend or a fond Mother
know how to watch; and I saw that set look on his Face grow harder and
harder and a steely, glittering Light flash out of his Eyes.
My God! how I suffered! For with that Intuition which comes to us at
times when those whom we love are in deadly peril, I had suddenly beheld
the Abyss of Evil into which my Friend was about to plunge headlong.
Yes! I understood now why Mr. Betterton had pleaded with my Lady
Castlemaine for his Enemy's Life. It was not in order to confer upon
him a lasting benefit and thus shame him by his Magnanimity; but rather
in order to do him an Injury so irreparable that even Death could not
wipe it away.
But you shall judge, dear Mistress; and thus judging You will understand
much that has been so obscure in my dear Friend's Character and in his
Actions of late. And to understand All is to forgive All. One thing
you must remember, however, and that is that no Man of Mr. Betterton's
Worth hath ever suffered in his Pride and his innermost Sensibilities as
he hath done at the Hands of that young Jackanapes whom he hated--as I
had good cause to know now--with an Intensity which was both cruel and
relentless. He meant to be even with him, to fight him with his own
Weapons, which were those of Contempt and of Ridicule. He meant to
wound there, where he himself had suffered most, in Reputation and in
Self-Respect.
I saw it all, and was powerless to do aught save to gaze in mute
Heart-Agony on the marring of a noble Soul. Nay! I am not ashamed to
own it: I did in my Heart condemn my Friend for what he had set out to
do. I too hated Lord Stour, God forgive me! but two months ago I would
gladly have seen his arrogant Head fall upon the Scaffold; but this
subtle and calculating Revenge, this cold Intrigue to ruin a Man's
Reputation and to besmirch his Honour, was beyond my ken, and I could
have wept to see the great Soul of the Man, whom I admired most in all
the World, a prey to such an evil Purpose.
"We all know," one of the young Sparks was saying even now, "that my
Lady Castlemaine showed Stour marked favour from the very moment he
appeared at Court."
"We also know," added Mr. Betterton with quiet Irony, "that the whisper
of a beautiful Woman often drowns the loudest call of Honour."
"But surely you do not think----?" riposted Lord Rochester indignantly,
"that--that----"
"That what, my lord?" queried Mr. Betterton calmly.
"Why, demme, that Stour did anything dishonourable?"
"Why should I not think that?" retorted Mr. Betterton, with a slight
Elevation of the Eyebrows.
"Because he is a Stourcliffe of Stour, Sir," broke in Sir George
Etherege in that loud, blustering way he hath at times; "and bears one
of the greatest Names in the Land."
"A great Name is hereditary, Sir," rejoined the great Actor quietly.
"Honesty is not."
"But what does Lady Castlemaine say about it all?" interposed Lord
Orrery.
"Lady Castlemaine hath not been questioned on the subject, I imagine,"
interposed Sir William Davenant drily.
"Ah!" rejoined His Grace of Buckingham. "There you are wrong, Davenant.
I remember speaking to her Ladyship about Stour one day--saying how glad
I was that he, at any rate, had had nothing to do with that abominable
Affair."
"Well?" came eagerly from every one. "What did she say?"
His Grace remained thoughtful for a time, as if trying to recollect
Something that was eluding his Memory. Then he said, turning to Mr.
Betterton:
"Why, Tom, you were there at the time. Do You recollect? It was at one
of Her Ladyship's Supper Parties. His Majesty was present. We all fell
to talking about the Conspiracy, and the King said some very bitter
things. Then I thought I would say something about Stour. You
remember?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Mr. Betterton.
"What did Lady Castlemaine say?"
"I don't think she said anything. Methinks she only laughed."
"So she did!" assented His Grace; "and winked at You, you Rogue! I
recollect the Circumstance perfectly now, though I attached no
importance to it at the time. But I can see it all before me. His
Majesty frowned and continued to look glum, whilst the Countess of
Castlemaine vowed with a laugh that, anyway, my lord Stour was the
handsomest Gentleman in London, and that 'twere a pity to allow such a
beautiful Head to fall on the Scaffold."
"It certainly sounds very strange," mused my Lord Rochester, and fell to
talking in Whispers with Sir George Etherege, whilst His Grace of
Buckingham went and sat down beside Mr. Betterton, and obviously started
to discuss the Incident of the Supper Party all over again with the
great Actor. Other isolated Groups also formed themselves, and I knew
that my Lord Stour's Name was on every one's lips.
Traducement and Gossip is Meat and Drink to all these noble and
distinguished Gentlemen, and here they had something to talk about,
which would transcend in Scandal anything that had gone before. The
story about my Lord Stour would spread with the Rapidity which only
evil-loving Tongues can give. Alas! my poor Friend knew that well
enough when he shot his poisoned Arrows into the Air. I was watching
him whilst His Grace of Buckingham conversed with him: I saw the
feverishly keen look in his eyes as he, in his turn, watched the Ball of
Slander and Gossip being tossed about from one Group to another. He
said but little, hardly gave Answer to His Grace; but I could see that
he was on the alert, ready with other little poisoned Darts whenever he
saw Signs of weakening in the Volume of Backbiting, which he had so
deliberately set going.
"I liked Stour and I admired him," Lord Rochester said at one time. "I
could have sworn that Nature herself had written 'honest man' on his
face."
"Ah!----" interposed Mr. Betterton, with that quiet Sarcasm which I had
learned to dread. "Nature sometimes writes with a very bad Pen."
3
It was not to be wondered at that the Scandal against my Lord Stour,
which was started in the Green Room of the Theatre, grew in Magnitude
with amazing Rapidity. I could not tell you, dear Mistress, what my
innermost feelings were in regard to the Matter: being an humble and
ignorant Clerk and devoted to the one Man to whom I owe everything that
makes life pleasing. I had neither the Wish nor the mental Power to
tear my Heart to Pieces, in order to find out whether it beat in
Sympathy with my Friend, or with the Victim of such a complete and
deadly Revenge.
My Lord Stour was not then in London. He too, like many of his
Friends--notably the Marquis of Sidbury and others not directly accused
of Participation in the aborted Plot--had retired to his Country Estate,
probably unwilling to witness the gaieties of City Life, while those he
cared for most were in such dire Sorrow. But now that the Lady Barbara
and her Father were once more in Town, there was little doubt that he
too would return there presently. Since he was a free Man, and Lord
Douglas Wychwoode had succeeded in evading the Law, there was no doubt
that the natural Elasticity of Youth coupled with the prospect of the
happy future which lay before him, would soon enable him to pick up the
Threads of Life, there where they had been so unexpectedly and
ruthlessly entangled.
I imagine that when his Lordship first arrived in Town and once more
established himself in the magnificent Mansion in Canon's Row which I
had bitter cause to know so well, he did not truly visualize the
Atmosphere of brooding Suspicion which encompassed him where e'er he
went. If he did notice that one or two of his former Friends did give
him something of a cold shoulder, I believe that he would attribute this
more to political than to personal Reasons. He had undoubtedly been
implicated in a Conspiracy which was universally condemned for its
Treachery and Disloyalty, and no doubt for a time he would have to bear
the brunt of public Condemnation, even though the free Pardon, which had
so unexpectedly been granted him, proved that he had been more misguided
than really guilty.
His Arrival in London, his Appearance in Public Places, his obvious
ignorance of the Cloud which was hanging over his fair Name, were the
subject of constant Discussion and Comment in the Green Room of the
Theatre as well as elsewhere. And I take it that his very Insouciance,
the proud Carelessness wherewith he met the cold Reception which had
been granted him, would soon have got over the scandalous tale which
constant Gossip alone kept alive, except that one tongue--and one
alone--never allowed that Gossip to rest.
And that Tongue was an eloquent as well as a bitter one, and more
cunning than even I could ever have believed.
How oft in the Green Room, in the midst of a brilliant Company, have I
listened to the flippant talk of gay young Sparks, only to hear it
drifting inevitably toward the Subject of my Lord Stour, and of that
wholly unexplainable Pardon, which had left him a free Man, whilst all
his former Associates had either perished as Traitors, or were forced to
lead the miserable life of an Exile, far from Home, Kindred and Friends.
Drifting, did I say? Nay, the Talk was invariably guided in that
direction by the unerring Voice of a deeply outraged Man who, at last,
was taking his Revenge. A word here, an Insinuation there, a witty
Remark or a shrug of the shoulders, and that volatile sprite, Public
Opinion, would veer back from any possible doubt or leniency to the
eternally unanswered Riddle: "When so many of his Friends perished upon
the Scaffold, how was it that my Lord Stour was free?"
How it had come about I know not, but it is certain that very soon it
became generally known that his Lordship had been entrusted by his
Friends with the distribution of Manifestos which were to rally certain
Waverers to the cause of the Conspirators. And it was solemnly averred
that it was in consequence of a Copy of this same Manifesto, together
with a list of prominent Names, coming into the hands of my Lady
Castlemaine, that so many Gentlemen were arrested and executed, and my
Lord Stour had been allowed to go scot-free.
How could I help knowing that this last Slander had emanated from the
Green Room, with the object of laying the final stone to the edifice of
Calumnies, which was to crush an Enemy's Reputation and fair Fame beyond
the hope of Retrieval?
4
A day or two later my Lord Stour, walking with a Friend in St. James's
Park, came face to face with Mr. Betterton, who had Sir William Davenant
and the Duke of Albemarle with him as well as one or two other
Gentlemen, whilst he leaned with his wonted kindness and familiarity on
my arm. Mr. Betterton would, I think, have passed by; but my Lord Stour,
ignoring him as if he were dirt under aristocratic feet, stopped with
ostentatious good-will to speak with the General.
But his Grace did in truth give the young Lord a very cold shoulder and
Sir William Davenant, equally ostentatiously, started to relate piquant
Anecdotes to young Mr. Harry Wordsley, who was just up from the country.
I saw my Lord Stour's handsome face darken with an angry frown. For
awhile he appeared to hesitate as to what he should do, then with scant
Ceremony he took the Duke of Albemarle by the coat-sleeve and said
hastily:
"My Lord Duke, You and my Father fought side by side on many occasions.
Now, I like not your Attitude towards me. Will you be pleased to
explain?"
The General tried to evade him, endeavoured to disengage his
coat-sleeve, but my Lord Stour was tenacious. A kind of brooding
Obstinacy sat upon his good-looking face, and after awhile he reiterated
with almost fierce Insistence:
"No! no! you shall not go, my Lord, until You have explained. I am
tired," he added roughly, "of suspicious looks and covert smiles, an
atmosphere of ill-will which greets me at every turn. Politically, many
may differ from Me, but I have yet to learn that a Gentleman hath not
the right to his own Opinions without being cold-shouldered by his
Friends."
The Duke of Albemarle allowed him to talk on for awhile. His Grace
obviously was making up his mind to take a decisive step in the matter.
After a while he did succeed in disengaging his coat-sleeve from the
persistent Clutch of his young Friend, and then, looking the latter
straight between the eyes, he said firmly:
"My Lord, as You say, your Father and I were Friends and Comrades in
Arms. Therefore You must forgive an old Man and a plain Soldier a
pertinent question. Will you do that?"
"Certainly," was my Lord Stour's quiet Reply.
"Very well then," continued His Grace, while all of us who were there
held our breath, feeling that this Colloquy threatened to have a grave
issue. "Very well. I am glad that You have given me this opportunity of
hearing some sort of Explanation from You, for in truth, Rumour of late
hath been over busy with your Name."
"An Explanation, my Lord?" the young Man said, with an added frown.
"Aye!" replied His Grace. "That's just the Word. An Explanation. For
I, my Lord, as your Father's Friend, will ask You this: how is it that
while Teammouth, Campsfield and so many of your Associates perished upon
the Scaffold, You alone, of those implicated in that infamous Plot, did
obtain an unconditional Pardon?"
Lord Stour stepped back as if he had been hit in the face. Boundless
Astonishment was expressed in the Gaze which he fixed upon the General,
as well as wrathful indignation.
"My Lord!" he exclaimed, "that Question is an insult!"
"Make me swallow mine own Words," retorted His Grace imperturbably, "by
giving me a straight Answer."
"Mine Answer must be straight," rejoined Lord Stour firmly, "since it is
based on Truth. I do not know."
The Duke shrugged his Shoulders, and there came a sarcastic laugh from
more than one of the Gentlemen there.
"I give your Lordship my Word of Honour," Lord Stour insisted haughtily.
Then, as His Grace remained silent, with those deep-set eyes of his
fixed searchingly upon the young Man, the latter added vehemently: "Is
then mine Honour in question?"
Whereupon Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had remained silent, interposed
very quietly:
"The honour of some Gentlemen, my Lord, is like the Manifestation of
Ghosts--much talked of ... but always difficult to prove!"
You know his Voice, dear Mistress, and that subtle carrying Power which
it has, although he never seems to raise it. After he had spoken You
could have heard the stirring of every little twig in the trees above
us, for no one said another Word for a moment or two. We all stood
there, a compact little Group: Lord Stour facing the Duke of Albemarle
and Mr. Betterton standing a step or two behind His Grace, his fine,
expressive Face set in a mask of cruel Irony. Sir William Davenant and
the other Gentlemen had closed in around those three. They must have
felt that some strange Storm of Passions was brewing, and instinctively
they tried to hide its lowering Clouds from public gaze.
Fortunately there were not many Passers-by just then, and the little
Scene remained unnoted by the idly curious, who are ever wont to collect
in Crowds whenever anything strange to them happens to attract their
Attention.
My Lord Stour was the first to recover Speech. He turned on Mr.
Betterton with unbridled Fury.
"What!" he cried, "another sting from that venomous Wasp? I might have
guessed that so miserable a Calumny came from such a vile Caitiff as
this!"
"Abuse is not Explanation, my Lord," interposed the Duke of Albemarle
firmly. "And I must remind you that you have left my Question
unanswered."
"Put it more intelligibly, my Lord," retorted Lord Stour haughtily. "I
might then know how to reply."
"Very well," riposted His Grace, still apparently unmoved. "I will put
it differently. I understand that your Associates entrusted their
treasonable Manifestos to you. Is that a fact?"
"I'll not deny it."
"You cannot," rejoined the Duke drily. "Sir James Campsfield, in the
course of his Trial, admitted that he had received his Summons through
You. But a Copy of that Manifesto came into the hands of my Lady
Castlemaine just in time to cause the Conspiracy to abort. How was
that?"
"Some Traitor," replied Lord Stour hotly, "of whom I have no
Cognizance."
"Yet it was You," riposted the General quietly, "who received a free
Pardon ... no one else. How was that?" he reiterated more sternly.
"I have sworn to You that I do not know," protested my Lord Stour
fiercely.
He looked now like a Man at Bay, trapped in a Net which was closing in
around him and from which he was striving desperately to escape. His
face was flushed, his eyes glowed with an unnatural fire. And always
his restless gaze came back to Mr. Betterton, who stood by, calm and
impassive, apparently disinterested in this Colloquy wherein a man's
Honour was being tossed about to the Winds of Slander and of Infamy.
Now Lord Stour gazed around him, striving to find one line of genuine
Sympathy on the stern Faces which were confronting him.
"My word of Honour, Gentlemen," he exclaimed with passionate
Earnestness, "that I do not know."
Honestly, I think that one or two of them did feel for him and were
inclined to give him Credence. After all, these young Fops are not
wicked; they are only mischievous, as Children or young Puppies are wont
to be, ready to snarl at one another, to yap and to tear to pieces
anything that happens to come in their way. Moreover, there was the
great bond of Caste between these People. They were, in their innermost
Hearts, loth to believe that one of themselves--a Gentleman, one bearing
a great Name--could be guilty of this type of foul Crime which was more
easily attributable to a Plebeian. It was only their Love of
Scandal-monging and of Backbiting that had kept the Story alive all
these weeks. Even now there were one or two sympathetic Murmurs amongst
those present when my Lord Stour swore by his Honour.
But just then Mr. Betterton's voice was heard quite distinctly above
that Murmur:
"Honour is a strangely difficult word to pronounce on the Stage," he was
saying to Sir William Davenant, apparently _a propos_ of something the
latter had remarked just before. "You try and say it, Davenant; you
will see how it always dislocates your Jaw, yet produces no effect."
"Therefore, Mr. Actor," Lord Stour broke in roughly, "it should only be
spoken by those who have a glorious Ancestry behind them to teach them
its true Significance."
"Well spoken, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined placidly. "But you must
remember that but few of His Majesty's Servants have a line of glorious
Ancestry behind them. In that way they differ from many Gentlemen who,
having nothing but their Ancestry to boast of, are very like a
Turnip--the best of them is under the ground."
This Sally was greeted with loud Laughter, and by a subtle process which
I could not possibly define, the wave of Sympathy which was setting in
the direction of my Lord Stour, once more receded from him, leaving him
wrathful and obstinate, His Grace of Albemarle stern, and the young Fops
flippant and long-tongued as before.
"My Lord Stour," the General now broke in once more firmly, "'tis You
sought this Explanation, not I. Now You have left my Question
unanswered. Your Friends entrusted their Manifestos to You. How came one
of these in Lady Castlemaine's hands?"
And the young Man, driven to bay, facing half a dozen pairs of eyes that
held both Contempt and Enmity in their glance, reiterated hoarsely:
"I have sworn to You that I do not know." Then he added: "Hath Loyalty
then left this unfortunate Land, that You can all believe such a vile
thing of me?"
And in the silence that ensued, Mr. Betterton's perfectly modulated
Voice was again raised in quietly sarcastic accents:
"As You say, my Lord," he remarked. "Loyalty hath left this unfortunate
Country. Perhaps," he added with a light shrug of the shoulders, "to
take Refuge with your glorious Ancestry."
This last Gibe, however, brought my Lord Stour's exasperation to a
raging Fury. Pushing unceremoniously past His Grace of Albemarle, who
stood before him, he took a step forward and confronted Mr. Betterton
eye to eye and, drawing himself up to his full Height, he literally
glowered down upon the great Artist, who stood his Ground, placid and
unmoved.
"Insolent Varlet!" came in raucous tones from the young Lord's quivering
lips. "If you had a spark of chivalry or of honour in You----"
At the arrogant Insult every one drew their breath. A keen Excitement
flashed in every eye. Here was at last a Quarrel, one that must end in
bloodshed. Just what was required--so thought these young Rakes, I feel
sure--to clear the Atmosphere and to bring abstruse questions of
Suspicion and of Honour to a level which they could all of them
understand. Only the Duke of Albemarle, who, like a true and great
Soldier, hath the greatest possible Abhorrence for the gentlemanly
Pastime of Duelling, tried to interpose. But Mr. Betterton, having
provoked the Quarrel, required no interference from any one. You know
his way, dear Mistress, as well as I do--that quiet Attitude which he is
wont to assume, that fraction of a second's absolute Silence just before
he begins to speak. I know of no Elocutionist's trick more telling than
that. It seems to rivet the Attention, and at the same time to key up
Excitement and Curiosity to its greatest strain.
"By your leave, my Lord," he said slowly, and his splendid Voice rose
just to a sufficient pitch of Loudness to be distinctly heard by those
immediately near him, but not one yard beyond. "By your leave, let us
leave the word 'honour' out of our talk. It hath become ridiculous and
obsolete, now that every Traitor doth use it for his own ends."
But in truth my Lord Stour now was beside himself with Fury.
"By gad!" he exclaimed with a harsh laugh. "I might have guessed that it
was your pestilential Tongue which stirred up this Treason against me.
Liar!--Scoundrel!----"
He was for heaping up one Insult upon the other, lashing himself as it
were into greater Fury still, when Mr. Betterton's quietly ironical
laugh broke in upon his senseless ebullitions.
"Liar?--Scoundrel, am I?" he said lightly, and, still laughing, he
turned to the Gentlemen who stood beside him. "Nay! if the sight of a
Scoundrel offends his Lordship, he should shut himself up in his own
Room ... and break his Mirror!"
At this, my Lord Stour lost the last vestige of his self-control, seized
Mr. Betterton by the Shoulder and verily, I thought, made as if he would
strike him.
"You shall pay for this Insolence!" he cried.
But already, with perfect _sang-froid_, the great Artist had arrested
his Lordship's uplifted hand and wrenched it away from his shoulder.
"By your leave, my Lord," he said, and with delicate Fingers flicked the
dust from off his coat. "This coat was fashioned by an honest tailor,
and hath never been touched by a Traitor's hand."
I thought then that I could see Murder writ plainly on My Lord's face,
which was suddenly become positively livid. The Excitement around us
was immense. In truth I am convinced that every Gentleman there present
at the moment, felt that something more deep and more intensely bitter
lay at the Root of this Quarrel, between the young Lord and the great
and popular Artist. Even now some of them would have liked to
interfere, whilst the younger ones undoubtedly enjoyed the Spectacle and
were laying, I doubt not, imaginary Wagers as to which of the two
Disputants would remain Master of the Situation.
His Grace of Albemarle tried once more to interpose with all the
Authority of his years and of his distinguished Position, for indeed
there was something almost awesome in Lord Stour's Wrath by now. But
Mr. Betterton took the Words at once out of the great General's mouth.
"Nay, my Lord," he said with quiet Firmness, "I pray You, do not
interfere. I am in no danger, I assure You. My Lord Stour would wish
to kill me, no doubt. But, believe me, Fate did not ordain that Tom
Betterton should die by such a hand ... the fickle Jade hath too keen a
Sense of Humour."
Whereupon he made a movement, as if to walk away. I felt the drag upon
my arm where his slender hand was still resting. The Others were
silent. What could they say? Senseless Numskulls though they were for
the most part, they had enough Perception to realize that between these
two Men there was Hatred so bitter that no mere Gentlemanly Bloodshed
could ever wipe it away.
But ere Mr. Betterton finally turned to go, my Lord of Stour stepped out
in front of him. All the Rage appeared to have died out of him. He was
outwardly quite calm, only a weird twitching of his lips testified to
the Storm of Passion which he had momentarily succeeded in keeping under
control.
"Mr. Actor," he said slowly, "but a few Weeks ago You asked me to cross
swords with You.... I refused then, for up to this hour I have never
fought a Duel save with an Equal. But now, I accept," he added
forcefully, even while the Words came veiled and husky from his throat.
"I accept. Do You hear me? ... for the laws of England do not permit a
Murder, and as sure as there's a Heaven above me, I am going to kill
You."
Mr. Betterton listened to him until the end. You know that Power which
he hath of seeming to tower above every one who stands nigh him? Well!
he exercised that Power now. He stepped quite close to my Lord Stour,
and though the latter is of more than average height, Mr. Betterton
literally appeared to soar above him, with the sublime Magnificence of
an outraged Man coming into his own at last.
"My Lord of Stour," he said, with perfect quietude, "a few weeks ago you
insulted me as Man never dared to insult Man before. With every blow
dealt upon my shoulders by your Lacqueys, You outraged the Majesty of
Genius ... yes! its Majesty! ... its Godhead! ... You raised your
insolent hand against me--against me, the Artist, whom God Himself hath
crowned with Immortality. For a moment then, my outraged Manhood
clamoured for satisfaction. I asked You to cross swords with me, for
You seemed to me ... then ... worthy of that Honour. But to-day, my
Lord of Stour," he continued, whilst every Word he spoke seemed to
strike upon the ear like Blows from a relentless Hammer; "Traitor to
your Friends, Liar and Informer!!!! Bah! His Majesty's Well-Beloved
Servant cannot fight with such as You!"
In truth I do not remember what happened after that. The unutterable
Contempt, the Disgust, the Loathing expressed in my Friend's whole
Attitude, seemed to hit even me between the eyes. I felt as if some
giant Hands had thrown a kind of filmy grey veil over my Head, for I
heard and saw nothing save a blurred and dim Vision of uplifted Arms, of
clenched Fists and of a general Scrimmage, of which my Lord Stour
appeared to be the Centre, whilst my ears only caught the veiled Echo of
Words flung hoarsely into the air:
"Let me go! Let me go! I must kill him! I must!"
Mr. Betterton, on the other hand, remained perfectly calm. I felt a
slight pressure on my arm and presently realized that he and I had
turned and were walking away down the Avenue of the Park, and leaving
some way already behind us, a seething mass of excited Gentlemen, all
intent on preventing Murder being committed then and there.
What the outcome of it all would be, I could not visualize. Mr.
Betterton had indeed been able to give Insult for Insult and Outrage for
Outrage at last. For this he had schemed and worked and planned all
these weeks. Whether God and Justice were on his side in this terrible
Revenge, I dared not ask myself, nor yet if the Weapon which he had
chosen were worthy of his noble Character and of his Integrity. That
public Opinion was on his side, I concluded from the fact that the Duke
of Albemarle and Sir William Davenant both walked a few yards with him
after he had turned his back on my Lord, and that His Grace constituting
himself Spokesman for himself and Sir William, offered their joint
Services to Mr. Betterton in case he changed his mind and agreed to
fight my Lord Stour in duel.
"I thank your Grace," was Mr. Betterton's courteous reply; "but I am not
like to change my Mind on that Score."