THE GAME OF LOVE
1
In the meanwhile, the Crowd all round the House had visibly swelled.
Some People were still standing immediately beneath the Bow-window,
whilst Others swarmed into Tothill Street; the foremost amongst the
Latter had given a vigorous Tug at the Bell-pull, and the front Door
being opened for them by the bewildered Servant, they had made a noisy
Irruption into the House. We could hear them clattering up the Stairs,
to the Accompaniment of much Laughing and Talking, and the
oft-reiterated Refrain: "Tom Betterton is up to some Prank! Hurrah!"
Some few again, more venturesome and certainly more Impudent than most,
had indeed succeeded in scrambling up to the Window, and, one after
another, Heads and Shoulders began to appear in the Framework of the
open Casements.
Her Ladyship had no doubt realized from the first that Escape became
impossible, within two Minutes of Mr. Betterton's first Summons to the
Public. Just at first, perhaps, if my Lord had preserved his entire
Presence of Mind, he might have taken her by the Hand and fled with Her
out of the House, before the unruly Crowd had reached Tothill Street.
But my Lord, blinded by jealous Rage, had not thought of Her quickly
enough, and now the Time was past, and he remained impotent, gasping
with Fury, hardly conscious of his Actions. He had been literally swept
off his Feet by Mr. Betterton's eagle-winged _coup de main_, which left
him puzzled and the prey to a nameless Terror as to what was about to
follow.
Now, when he saw a number of Gentlemen trooping in by the Door, he could
but stare at them in utter Bewilderment. Most of these Gallants were
personally known to him: Sir William Davenant was in the forefront with
Mr. Thomas Killigrew of the King's Theatre, and the Earl of Rochester
was with them, as well as Mr. Wycherley. I also recognized Sir Charles
Sedley and old Sir John Denham, as well as my Lord Roscommon, among the
crowd.
They had all rushed in through the Door, laughing and jesting, as was
the wont of all these gay and courtly Sparks; but at sight of the Lady
Barbara, they halted. Gibes and unseemly Jokes broke upon their Lips,
and for the most part their Hands went up to their Hats, and they made
her Ladyship a deep obeisance. Indeed, just then she looked more like a
Wraith than a living Woman, and the Light of the Candles, which
flickered wildly in the Draught, accentuated the Weirdness of her
Appearance.
"What is it, Tom? What is amiss?" Sir William Davenant was thus the
first to speak.
"We thought You were playing some Prank."
"You did call from that Window, did You not, Tom?" my Lord Rochester
insisted.
And one or two of the Gentlemen nodded somewhat coldly to my Lord Stour.
"Yes. I did call," Mr. Betterton replied, quite firmly. "But 'twas no
Whim on my Part thus to drag You into my House. It was not so much my
Voice that you heard as the Trumpet blast of Truth."
At this, my Lord Stour broke into one of those harsh, mirthless Fits of
Laughter which betokened the perturbation of his Spirit.
"The Truth!" he exclaimed with a cutting Sneer. "From You?"
"Aye! the Truth!" Mr. Betterton rejoined with perfect calm, even whilst
his Friends glanced, puzzled and inquiring, from my Lord Stour to him,
and thence to her Ladyship's pale face, and even to Me. "The Truth," he
added with a deep Sigh as of intense Relief; "The Truth, at Last!"
He stood in the centre of the Room, with one Hand resting upon the Desk,
his Eyes fixed fearlessly upon the Sea of Faces before him. Not the
slightest Tremor marred the perfect Harmony of his Voice, or the firm
poise of his manly Figure. You know as well as I do, dear Mistress, the
marvellous Magnetism of Mr. Betterton's Personality, the Way he hath of
commanding the Attention of a Crowd, whenever he chooseth to speak.
Think of him then, dear Lady, with Head thrown back, his exquisite Voice
rising and falling in those subtle and impressive Cadences wherewith he
is wont to hold an Audience enthralled. Of a truth, no experienced
Manager in Stage-Craft could have devised so thrilling an Effect, as the
Picture which Mr. Betterton--the greatest Actor of this or of any
Time--presented at that Moment, standing alone, facing the Crowd which
was thrilled into deadly Silence, and with the wraith-like Figure of
that exquisitely beautiful Woman as a Foil to his own self-possessed,
virile Appearance.
"Gentlemen," he began, with slow, even Emphasis, "I pray you bear with
me; for what I have to say will take some time in telling. Awhile ago
his Lordship of Stour put upon me such an Insult as the Mind of Man can
hardly conceive. Then, on the Pretence that I was not a born Gentleman
as he was, he refused me Satisfaction by the Sword. For this I hated him
and swore that I would be even with him, that I would exact from his
Arrogance, Outrage for Outrage, and Infamy for Infamy." He then turned
to my Lord Stour and spoke to him directly. "You asked me just now, my
Lord, if my Revenge was satisfied. My answer to that is: not yet! Not
until I see You on Your bended Knees here, before these Gentlemen--my
Friends and Yours--receiving from the miserable Mountebank whom you
mocked, the pitiful cur whom You thrashed, that which you hold--or
should hold--more precious than all the Treasures of this earth: your
Honour and the good Name of the Lady who honours You with her Love!
Gentlemen!" he went on, and once more faced the Crowd. "You know the
Aspersions which have been cast on my Lord Stour's Loyalty. Rumours
have been current that the late aborted Conspiracy was betrayed by him
to the Countess of Castlemaine, and that She obtained his Pardon, whilst
all or most of his Associates were driven into Exile or perished on the
Scaffold. Well, Gentlemen, 'twas I who begged for my Lord's pardon from
the Countess of Castlemaine. His Degradation, his Obloquy, was the
Revenge which I had studiously planned. Nay! I pray you, hear me unto
the End," he continued, as a loud Murmur of Horror and of Indignation
followed on this Self-Accusation. "My Lord Stour is no Traitor, save to
Her whom he loves and whom in his Thoughts he hath dared to outrage.
The Lady Barbara Wychwoode deigned to plead with me for the Man whom she
honoured with her Love. She pleaded with me this afternoon, in the
Park, in sight of many Passers-by; but I in my Obstinacy and Arrogance
would not, God forgive me, listen to her."
He paused, and I could see the beads of Perspiration glittering upon his
Forehead, white now like Italian Alabaster. They all stood before him,
subdued and silent. Think of Sir William Davenant, dear Mistress, and
his affection for Mr. Betterton; think of my Lord Roscommon and of Sir
Charles Sedley and his Lordship of Rochester, whose Admiration for Mr.
Betterton's Talent was only equalled by their Appreciation for His
Worth! It was before them all, before all these fastidious Gentlemen,
that the great and sensitive Artist had elected to humble his Pride to
the dust.
But you shall judge.
"Gentlemen," Mr. Betterton went on after a brief while; "We all know
that Love is a Game at which one always cheats. I loved the Lady
Barbara Wychwoode. I had the presumption to dream of her as my future
Wife. Angered at her Scorn of my Suit, I cheated her into coming here
to-night, luring her with the Hope that I would consent to right the Man
for whose sake she was willing to risk so much, for whom she was ready
to sacrifice even her fair Name. Now I have learned to my hurt that
Love, the stern little god, will not be trifled with. When we try to
cheat him, he cheats us worse at the last; and if he makes Kings of us,
he leaves us Beggars in the End. When my Lord Stour, burning with
sacrilegious jealousy, made irruption into my Room, the Lady Barbara had
just succeeded in wringing from me an Avowal which proclaimed his
Integrity and my Shame. She was about to leave me, humbled and crushed
in my Pride, she herself pure and spotless as the Lilies, unapproachable
as the Stars."
2
Mr. Betterton had ceased speaking for some time; nevertheless, Silence
profound reigned in the dark, wainscotted Room for many seconds after
the final echo of that perfect Voice had ceased to reverberate. Indeed,
dear Mistress, I can assure You that, though there were at least fifty
Persons present in the Room, including those unknown to Me who were
swarming around the Framework of the Casements, you might have heard the
proverbial Pin drop just then. A tense Expression rested on every Face.
Can You wonder that I scanned them all with the Eagerness born of my
Love for the great Artist, who had thus besmirched his own fair Name in
order to vindicate that of his bitterest Foe? That I read Condemnation
of my Friend in many a Glance, I'll not deny, and this cut me to the
Quick.
True! Mr. Betterton's Scheme of Vengeance had been reprehensible if
measured by the high Standards of Christian Forbearance. But remember
how he had been wronged, not once, but repeatedly; and even when I saw
the Frown on my Lord Roscommon's brow, the Look of Stern Reproof in Sir
Charles Sedley's Face, there arose before mine Eyes the Vision of the
great and sensitive Artist, of the high-souled Gentleman, staggering
beneath the Blows dealt by a band of hired Ruffians at the Bidding of
this young Coxcomb, whose very Existence was as naught in the Eyes of
the cultured World beside the Genius of the inimitable Mr. Betterton.
I said that the Silence was tense. Meseemed that no one dared to break
it. Even those idly Curious who had swarmed up the Rainpipes of this
House in order to witness one of Tom Betterton's Pranks, felt awed by
the Revelation of this Drama of a great Man's Soul. Indeed, the Silence
became presently oppressive. I, for one, felt a great Buzzing in mine
Ears. The Lights from the Candles assumed weird and phantasmagoric
Proportions till they seared my aching Eyes.
Then slowly my Lord Stour approached her Ladyship, sank on his Knees
before Her and raised the Hem of her Robe to his Lips. A sob broke from
her Throat; she tried to smother it by pressing her Handkerchief into
her Mouth. It took Her a second or two to regain her Composure. But
Breeding and Pride came to her Aid. I saw the stiffening of her Figure,
the studied and deliberate Movement wherewith She readjusted her Mantle
and her Veil.
My Lord Stour was still on his Knees. At a sign from her Ladyship he
rose. He held out his left Arm and she placed her right Hand on it,
then together they went out of the Room. The Crowd of Gentlemen parted
in order to make way for the Twain, then when they had gone through,
some of the Gentlemen followed them immediately; others lingered for
awhile, hesitating. Sir William Davenant, Mr. Killigrew, my Lord
Rochester, all of Mr. Betterton's Friends, appeared at first inclined to
remain in order to speak with him. They even did me the Honour of
consulting me with a Look, asking of my Experience of the great Actor
whether they should stay. I slowly shook my Head, and they wisely acted
on my Advice. I knew that my Friend would wish to be alone. He, so
reserved, so proud, had laid his Soul bare before the Public, who was
wont to belaud and to applaud him. The Humiliation and the Effort must
have been a terrible Strain, which only Time and Solitude could
effectually cure.
He had scarce moved from his Position beside the Desk, still stood there
with one slender Hand resting upon it, his Gaze fixed vaguely upon the
Door through which his Friends were slowly filing out.
Within two minutes or less after the Departure of my Lord Stour and her
Ladyship, the last of the Crowd of Gentlemen and of Idlers had gone.
Anon I went across the Room and closed the Door behind them. When I
turned again, I saw that the knot of quidnuncs no longer filled the
Casements, and a protracted hum of Voices, a crackling of Ivy twigs and
general sound of Scrimmage and of Scrambling outside the Window,
proclaimed the Fact that even they had had the Sense and the Discretion
to retire quietly from this Spot, hallowed by the Martyrdom of a great
Man's Soul.
3
Thus I was left alone with my Friend.
He had drawn his habitual Chair up to the Desk and sat down. Just for a
few Moments he rested both his Elbows on the Desk and buried his Face in
his Hands. Then, with that familiar, quick little Sigh of His, He drew
the Candles closer to him and, taking up a Book, he began to read.
I knew what it was that he was reading, or, rather, studying. He had
been absorbed in the Work many a time before now, and had expressed his
ardent Desire to give public Readings of it one day when it was
completed. It was the opening Canto of a great Epic Poem, the
manuscript of which had been entrusted to Mr. Betterton for Perusal by
the author, Mr. John Milton, who had but lately been liberated from
prison through the untiring Efforts of Sir William Davenant on his
behalf. Mr. Milton hoped to complete the Epic in the next half-dozen
years. Its Title is "Paradise Lost."
I remained standing beside the open Window, loath to close it as the Air
was peculiarly soft and refreshing. Below me, in the Park, the idle,
chattering Crowd had already dispersed. From far away, I still could
hear the sweet, sad Strains of the amorous Song, and through the
Stillness of the Evening, the Words came to mine Ear, wafted on the
Breeze:
"You are my Faith, my Hope, my All!
What e'er the Future may unfold,
No trial too great--no Thing too small.
Your whispered Words shall make me bold
To win at last for Your dear Sake
A worthy Place in Future's World."
I felt my Soul enwrapt in a not unpleasant reverie; an exquisite Peace
seemed to have descended on my Mind, lately so agitated by Thoughts of
my dear, dear Friend.
Suddenly a stealthy Sound behind Me caused me to turn; and, in truth, I
am not sure even now if what I saw was Reality, or the Creation of mine
own Dreams.
The Lady Barbara had softly and surreptitiously re-entered the Room.
She walked across it on tip-toe, her silken Skirts making just the
softest possible _frou-frou_ as she walked. Her cloud-like Veil wrapped
her Head entirely, concealing her fair Hair, and casting a grey Shadow
over her Eyes. Mr. Betterton did not hear her, or, if he did, he did
not choose to look up. When her Ladyship was quite close to the Desk, I
noticed that she had a Bunch of white Roses in her Hand such as are
grown in the Hot-houses of rich Noblemen.
For a few Seconds she stood quite still. Then she raised the Roses
slowly to her Lips, and laid them down without a word upon the Desk.
After which, she glided out of the Room as silently, as furtively, as
she came.
4
And thus, dear Mistress, have I come to the end of my long Narrative. I
swear to You by the living God that everything which I have herein
related is the Truth and Naught but the Truth.
There were many People present in Mr. Betterton's room during that
memorable Scene, when he sacrificed his Pride and his Revenge in order
to right the Innocent. Amongst these Witnesses there were some, whom
Malice and Envy would blind to the Sublimity of so noble an Act. Do not
listen to them, honoured Mistress, but rather to the promptings of your
own Heart and to that unerring Judgment of Men and of Events which is
the Attribute of good and pure Women.
Mr. Betterton hath never forfeited your Esteem by any Act or Thought.
The Infatuation which momentarily dulled his Vision to all save to the
Beauty of the Lady Barbara, hath ceased to exist. Its course was
ephemeral and hath gone without a Trace of Regret or Bitterness in its
wake. The eminent Actor, the high-souled Artist, whom all cultured
Europe doth reverence and admire, stands as high to-day in that same
World's Estimation as he did, before a young and arrogant Coxcomb dared
to measure his own Worth against that of a Man as infinitely above him
as are the Stars. But, dear Mistress, Mr. Betterton now is lonely and
sad. He is like a Man who hath been sick and weary, and is still
groping after Health and Strength. Take pity on his Loneliness, I do
conjure You. Give him back the inestimable Boon of your Goodwill and of
your Friendship, which alone could restore to him that Peace of Mind so
necessary for the furtherance of his Art.
And if, during the Course of my Narrative, I have seemed to you
over-presumptuous, then I do entreat your Forgiveness. Love for my
Friend and Reverence for your Worth have dictated every Word which I
have written. If, through my Labours, I have succeeded in turning away
some of the just Anger which had possessed your Soul against the Man
whom, I dare aver, you still honour with your Love, then, indeed, I
shall feel that even so insignificant a Life as mine hath not been
wholly wasted.
I do conclude, dear and honoured Mistress, with a Prayer to Almighty God
for your Welfare and that of the Man whom I love best in all the World.
I am convinced that my Prayer will find Favour before the Throne of Him
who is the Father of us All. And He who reads the innermost Secrets of
every Heart, knows that your Welfare is coincident with that of my
Friend. Thus am I content to leave the Future in His Hands.
And I myself do remain, dear Mistress,
Your humble and obedient Servant,
JOHN HONEYWOOD.
EPILOGUE
Ring down the Curtain. The Play is ended. The Actors have made their
final Bow before You and thanked You for your Plaudits. The chief
Player--a sad and lonely Man--has for the nonce spoken his last upon the
Stage.
All is Silence and Mystery now. The Lights are out. And yet the
Audience lingers on, loath to bid Farewell to the great Artist and to
his minor Satellites who have helped to wile away a few pleasant Hours.
You, dear Public, knowing so much about them, would wish to know more.
You wish to know--an I am not mistaken--whether the Labour of Love
wrought by good Master Honeywood did in due course bear its
Fruitfulness. You wish to know--or am I unduly self-flattered--whether
the Play of Passion, of Love and of Revenge, set by the worthy Clerk
before You, had an Epilogue--one that would satisfy your Sense of
Justice and of Mercy.
Then, I pray You, turn to the Pages of History, of which Master
Honeywood's Narrative forms an integral and pathetic Part. One of these
Pages will reveal to You that which You wish to know. Thereon You will
see recorded the Fact that, after a brief and distinguished Visit during
that Summer to the City and University of Stockholm, where Honours
without number were showered upon the great English Actor, Mr. Betterton
came back to England, to the delight of an admiring Public, for he was
then in the very Plenitude of his Powers.
Having read of the Artist's triumph, I pray You then to turn over the
Page of the faithful Chronicle of his Career, and here You will find a
brief Chapter which deals with his private Life and with his Happiness.
You will see that at the End of this self-same year 1662, the Register
of St. Giles', Cripplegate, contains the Record of a Marriage between
Thomas Betterton, Actor, of the parish of St. Margaret's, Westminster,
and Mary Joyce Saunderson, of the aforesaid parish of St. Giles'.
That this Marriage was an exceptionally happy one we know from
innumerable Data, Minutes and Memoranda supplied by Downes and others;
that Master John Honeywood was present at the Ceremony itself we may be
allowed to guess. Those of us who understand and appreciate the
artistic Temperament, will readily agree with the worthy Clerk when he
said that it cannot be judged by ordinary Standards. The long and
successful Careers of Thomas Betterton and of Mistress Saunderson his
Wife testify to the Fact that their Art in no way suffered, while their
Souls passed through the fiery Ordeal of Passion and of Sorrow; but
rather that it became ennobled and purified, until they themselves took
their place in the Heart and Memory of the cultured World, among the
Immortals.
THE END
----
By BARONESS ORCZY
His Majesty's Well-Beloved
The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
Flower o' the Lily
The Man in Grey
Lord Tony's Wife
A Sheaf of Bluebells
Leatherface
The Bronze Eagle
A Bride of the Plains
The Laughing Cavalier
"Unto Caesar"
El Dorado
Meadowsweet
The Noble Rogue
The Heart of a Woman
Petticoat Rule
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK