Kitabı oku: «His Majesty's Well-Beloved», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XIV
THE RULING PASSION

1

And now, dear Mistress, I come to that memorable Evening wherein happened that which causes You so much heart-ache at this Hour.

I know that the Occurrences of that Night have been brought to your Notice in a garbled Version, and that Mr. Betterton's Enemies have placed the Matter before You in a manner calculated to blacken his Integrity. But, as there is a living Judge above Us all, I swear to You, beloved Mistress, that what I am now purposing to relate is nothing but the Truth. Remember that, in this miserable Era of Scandal and Backbiting, of loose Living and Senseless Quarrels, Mr. Betterton's Character has always stood unblemished, even though the evil Tongue of Malice hath repeatedly tried to attack his untarnished Reputation. Remember also that the great Actor's few but virulent Enemies are all Men who have made Failures of their Lives, who are Idlers, Sycophants or Profligates, and therefore envious of the Fame and Splendour of one who is thought worthy to be the Friend of Kings.

2

We spoke but little together that day on our way home from the Park. Mr. Betterton was moody, and I silent. We took our dinner in quietude. There being no Performance at the Theatre that day, Mr. Betterton settled down to his Desk in the afternoon, telling me that he had some writing to do.

I, too, had some of his Correspondence to attend to, and presently repaired to my room, my Heart still aching with Sorrow. Did I not guess what Work was even now engrossing the Attention of my Friend? He was deep in the Composition of that cruel Lampoon which he meant to speak on the Stage to-morrow, in the presence of His Majesty and of a large and brilliant Assembly. Strive as I might, I could not to myself minimize the probable Effect of the Lampoon upon the Mind of the Public. It is not for me, dear Mistress, to remind You of the amazing Popularity of Mr. Betterton – a Popularity which hath never been equalled ere this by any Actor, Artist or Poet in England. Whatever he spoke from the Stage would be treasured and reiterated and commented upon, until every Citizen of London and Westminster became himself a storehouse of Mud that would be slung at the unfortunate Earl of Stour. And the latter, by refusing to fight Mr. Betterton when the Latter had been the injured Party, had wilfully cast aside any Weapon of Redress which he might after this have called to his Aid.

Well! we all know the Effect of scurrilous Quips spoken from the Stage; even the great Mr. Dryden or the famous Mr. Wycherley have not been above interpolating some in their Plays, for the Confusion of their Enemies; and many a Gentleman's or a Lady's Reputation has been made to suffer through the Vindictiveness of a noted Actor or Playwright. But, as you know, Mr. Betterton had never hitherto lent himself to such Scandal-monging; he stood far above those petty Quarrels betwixt Gentlemen and Poets that could be settled by wordy Warfare across the Footlights. All the more Weight, therefore, would the Public attach to an Epilogue specially written and spoken by him on so great an occasion. And, alas! the Mud-slinging was to be of a very peculiar and very clinging Nature.

"Then let the Man you love look to himself!" the outraged Artist had said coldly, when confronted for the last time by the Lady Barbara's Disdain. And in my Mind I had no doubt that, for Good or for Evil, if Tom Betterton set out to do a Thing, he would carry it through to its bitter End.

3

When, having finished my work, I went into Mr. Betterton's study, I found him sitting beside his Desk, though no longer writing. He was leaning back against the cushions of his chair with eyes closed, his face set and hard. Some loose papers, covered with his neat, careful Caligraphy, lay in an orderly heap upon the Desk.

His Work was evidently finished. Steeped in Bitterness and in Vengeance, his Pen had laboured and was now at rest. The Eloquence of the incomparable Actor would now do the rest.

As I entered the Room, the tower clock of Westminster was just striking seven. The deep bay Window which gave on a solitary corner of St. James's Park, was wide open, and through it there came from afar, wafted upon the evening breeze, the strains of a masculine Voice, warm and mellow, singing to the accompaniment of one of those stringed Instruments which have been imported of late from Italy.

The Voice rose and fell in pleasing Cadences, and some of the Words of the Song reached mine Ear.

 
"You are my Life. You ask me why?
Because my hope is in your love."
 

Whether Mr. Betterton heard them or not, I could not say. He sat there so still, his slender Hands – white and tapering, the veritable Hands of an Artist – rested listlessly upon the arms of his chair.

 
"Through gloomy Clouds to sunlit Skies,
To rest in Faith and your dear Eyes."
 

So sang the sweet Minstrel out there in the fast gathering Gloom. I went up to the window and gazed out into the open Vista before me. Far away I could see the twinkling lights from the windows of St. James's Palace, and on my right those of White Hall. The Singer I could not see. He appeared to be some distance away. But despite the lateness of the hour, the Park was still alive with people. And indeed as I leaned my Head further out of the Window, I was struck by the animated spectacle which it presented.

No doubt that the unwonted mildness of this early spring evening had induced young Maids and Gallants, as well as more sober Folk and Gentlemen, to linger out in the open. The charm of the Minstrel and his Song, too, must have served as an additional Attraction, for as I watched the People passing to and fro, I heard snatches of Conversation, mostly in praise of the Singer or of the Weather.

Anon I espied Sir William Davenant walking with Mr. Killigrew, and my Lord of Rochester dallying with a pretty Damsel; one or two more Gentlemen did I recognize as I gazed on the moving Sight, until suddenly I saw that which caused me to draw my Head back quickly from the Window and to gaze with added Anxiety on the listless Figure of my Friend.

What I had seen down below had indeed filled my Heart with Dread. It was the Figure of my Lord Stour. I could have sworn to it, even though his Lordship was wrapped in a mantle from Head to Foot and wore a broad-rimmed Hat, both of which would indeed have disguised his Person completely before all Eyes save those of Love, of Hate, or of an abiding Friendship.

What was my Lord Stour doing at this Hour, and in disguise, beneath the Window of his bitterest Foe? My Anxiety was further quickened by the Certainty which I had that neither he nor the Lady Barbara would allow Mr. Betterton's Schemes to mature without another Struggle. Even as I once more thrust my Head out of the Window, in order to catch another glimpse of the moody and solitary Figure which I had guessed to be Lord Stour, methought that close by the nearest Shrubbery I espied the Figure of the Lady Barbara, in close conversation with her Attendant. Both Women were wrapped in dark Mantles and wore thick veils to cover their Hair.

A dark presentiment of Evil now took possession of my Soul. I felt like a Watch-dog scenting Danger from afar. The Man whom I loved better than any other on Earth was in peril of his Life, at the hands of an Enemy driven mad by an impending Doom – of that I felt suddenly absolutely convinced. And somehow, I felt equally convinced at the moment that we – I, the poor, insignificant Clerk, as well as my illustrious Friend – were standing on the Brink of an overwhelming Catastrophe.

I had thought to warn him then and there, yet dared not do so in so many words. Men in the prime of Life and the plentitude of their mental Powers are wont to turn contemptuous and obstinate if told to be on their guard against a lurking Enemy. And I feared that, in his utter contempt for his Foe, Mr. Betterton might be tempted to do something that was both unconsidered and perilous.

So I contented myself for the nonce with turning to my Friend, seeing that he had wakened from his reverie and was regarding me with that look of Confidence and Kindliness which always warmed my heart when I was conscious of it, I merely remarked quite casually:

"The Park is still gay with Ladies and Gallants. 'Tis strange at this late hour. But a Minstrel is discoursing sweet Music somewhere in the distance. Mayhap people have assembled in order to listen to him."

And, as if to confirm my Supposition, a merry peal of laughter came ringing right across the Park, and we heard as it were the hum and murmur of Pedestrians moving about. And through it all the echo of the amorous Ditty still lingering upon the evening air:

 
"For you are Love – and I am yours!"
 

"Close that window, John," Mr. Betterton said, with an impatient little sigh. "I am in no mood for sentimental Ballads."

I did as he desired, and whilst in the act of closing the Window, I said guardedly:

"I caught sight of my Lord Stour just now, pacing the open Ground just beneath this Window. He appeared moody and solitary, and was wrapped from head to foot in a big Mantle, as if he wished to avoid Recognition."

"I too am moody and solitary, good Honeywood," was Mr. Betterton's sole comment on my remark. Then he added, with a slight shiver of his whole body: "I prithee, see to the Fire. I am perished with the cold."

I went up to the Hearth and kicked the dying embers into a Blaze; then found some logs and threw them on the Fire.

"The evening is warm, Sir," I said; "and you complained of the Heat awhile ago."

"Yes," he rejoined wearily. "My head is on fire and my Spine feels like ice."

It was quite dark in the Room now, save for the flickering and ruddy firelight. So I went out and bade the Servant give me the candles. I came back with them myself and set them on the Desk. As I did so, I glanced at Mr. Betterton. He had once more taken up his listless Attitude; his Head was leaning against the back of his Chair, and I could not fail to note how pallid his Face looked and how drawn, and there was a frown between his Brows which denoted wearying and absorbing Thoughts. Wishing to distract him from his brooding Melancholy, I thought of reminding him of certain artistic and social Duties which were awaiting his Attention.

"Will you send an Answer, Sir," I asked him with well-assumed indifference, "to the Chancellor? It is on the Subject of the Benefit Performance in aid of the Indigent Poor of the City of Westminster. His Lordship again sent a messenger this afternoon."

"Yes!" Mr. Betterton replied readily enough, and sought amongst his Papers for a Letter which he had apparently written some time during the Day. "If His Lordship's Messenger calls again, let him have this Note. I must arrange for the Benefit Performance, of course. But I doubt if many members of the Company will care to give their Services."

"I think that Mr. Robert Noakes would be willing," I suggested. "Also Mr. Lilleston."

"Perhaps, perhaps!" he broke in listlessly. "But we must have Actresses too, and they – "

He shrugged his shoulders, and I rejoined with great alacrity:

"Oh! I feel sure that Mistress Saunderson would be ready to join in any benevolent Scheme for the betterment of the Poor."

"Ah! but she is an Angel!" Mr. Betterton exclaimed. And, believe me, dear Mistress, that those words came as if involuntarily to his Lips, out of the Fulness of his Heart. And even when he had spoken, a Look of infinite Sadness swept over his Face and he rested his Head against his Hand, shading his Eyes from the light of the Candles, lest I should read the Thoughts that were mirrored therein.

"There came a messenger, too, this afternoon," I reminded him, "from Paris, with an autograph Letter from His Majesty the King of France."

"Yes!" he replied, and nodded his Head, I thought, uncomprehendingly.

"Also a letter from the University of Stockholm. They propose that You should visit the City in the course of the Summer and – "

"Yes, yes! I know!" he rejoined impatiently. "I will attend to it all another time … But not to-night, good Honeywood," he went on almost appealingly, like a Man wearied with many Tasks. "My mind is like a squeezed Orange to-night."

Then he held out his Hand to me – that beautiful, slender Hand of his, which I had so often kissed in the excess of my Gratitude – and added with gentle Indulgence:

"Let me be to-night, good Friend. Leave me to myself. I am such poor Company and am best alone."

I took his hand. It was burning hot, as if with inward Fever. All my Friendship for him, all my Love, was at once on the alert, dreading the ravages of some inward Disease, brought on mayhap by so much Soul-worry.

"I do not relish leaving You alone to-night," I said, with more gruffness than I am wont to display. "This room is easy of Access from the Park."

He smiled, a trifle sadly.

"Dost think," he asked, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, "that a poor Mountebank would tempt a midnight Robber?"

"No!" I replied firmly. "But my Lord Stour, wrapped to the eyes in his Mantle, hath prowled beneath these Windows for an hour." Then, as he made no comment, I continued with some Fervour: "A determined Man, who hates Another, can easily climb up to a first floor Window – "

"Tush, friend!" he broke in sharply. "I am not afraid of his Lordship … I am afraid of nothing to-night, my good Honeywood," he added softly, "except of myself."

4

You certainly will not wonder, dear Mistress, that after that I did not obey his Commands to leave him to himself. I am nothing of an Eavesdropper, God knows, nor yet would I pry into the Secrets of the Soul of the one Man whom I reverence above all others. But, even as I turned reluctantly away from him in order to go back to my Room, I resolved that, unless he actually shut the Door in my Face, I would circumvent him and would remain on the watch, like a faithful Dog who scents Danger for his Master. In this I did not feel that I was doing any Wrong. God saw in my Heart and knew that my Purpose was innocent. I thank Him on my Knees in that He strengthened me in my Resolve. But for that Resolve, I should not have been cognizant of all the details of those Events which culminated in such a dramatic Climax that night, and I would not have been able to speak with Authority when placing all the Facts before You. Let me tell You at once that I was there, in Mr. Betterton's Room, during the whole of the time that the Incident occurred which I am now about to relate.

He had remained sitting at his Desk, and I went across the Room in the direction of the communicating Door which gave on my own Study. But I did not go through that Door. I just opened and shut it noisily, and then slipped stealthily behind the tall oaken Dresser, which stands in a dark Angle of the Room. From this point of Vantage I could watch closely and ceaselessly, and at the slightest Suspicion of immediate Danger to my Friend I would be free to slip out of my Hiding-place and to render him what Assistance he required. I had to squat there in a cramped Position, and I felt half suffocated with the closeness of the Atmosphere behind so heavy a Piece of Furniture; but this I did not mind. From where I was I could command a view of Mr. Betterton at his Desk, and of the Window, which I wished now that I had taken the Precaution to bar and bolt ere I retired to my Corner behind the Dresser.

For awhile, everything was silent in the Room; only the great Clock ticked loudly in its case, and now and again the blazing logs gave an intermittent Crackle. I just could see the outline of Mr. Betterton's Shoulder and Arm silhouetted against the candle light. He sat forward, his elbow resting upon the Desk, his Head leaning against his Hand, and so still that presently I fell to thinking that he must have dropped to sleep.

But suddenly he gave that quick, impatient Sigh of his, which I had learned to know so well, pushed back his chair, and rose to his Feet. Whereupon, he began pacing up and down the Room, in truth like some poor, perturbed Spirit that is denied the Solace of Rest.

Then he began to murmur to himself. I know that mood of his and believe it to be peculiar to the artistic Temperament, which, when it feels itself untrammelled by the Presence of Others, gives vent to its innermost Thoughts in mumbled Words.

From time to time I caught Snatches of what he said – wild Words for the most part, which showed the Perturbation of his Spirit. He, whose Mind was always well-ordered, whose noble Calling had taught him to co-ordinate his Thoughts and to subdue them to his Will, was now murmuring incoherent Phrases, disjointed Sentences that would have puzzled me had I not known the real Trend of his Mood.

"Barbara!.." he said at one time. "Beautiful, exquisite, innocent Lady Babs; the one pure Crystal in that Laboratory of moral Decomposition, the Court of White Hall…" Then he paused, struck his Forehead with his Hand, and added with a certain fierce Contempt: "But she will yield … she is ready now to yield. She will cast aside her Pride, and throw herself into the arms of a Man whom she hates, all for the sake of that young Coxcomb, who is not worthy to kiss the Sole of her Shoe!"

Again he paused, flung himself back into his Chair, and once more buried his Face in his Hands.

"Oh, Woman, Woman!" I could hear him murmuring. "What an Enigma! How can the mere Man attempt to understand thee?"

Then he laughed. Oh! I could not bear the sound of that laugh: there was naught but Bitterness in it. And he said slowly muttering between his Teeth:

"The Philosopher alone knows that Women are like Melons: it is only after having tasted them that one knows if they are good."

Of course, he said a great deal more during the course of that dreary, restless hour, which seemed to me like a Slice out of Eternity. His Restlessness was intense. Every now and then he would jump up and walk up and down, up and down, until his every Footstep had its counterpart in the violent beatings of my Heart. Then he would fling himself into a Chair and rest his Head against the Cushions, closing his Eyes as if he were in bodily Pain, or else beat his Forehead with his Fists.

Of course he thought himself unobserved, for Mr. Betterton is, as You know, a Man of great mental Reserve. Not even before me – his faithful and devoted Friend – would he wittingly have displayed such overmastering Emotion. To say that an equally overwhelming Sorrow filled my Heart would be but to give You, dear Mistress, a feeble Statement of what I really felt. To see a Man of Mr. Betterton's mental and physical Powers so utterly crushed by an insane Passion was indeed heartrending. Had he not everything at his Feet that any Man could wish for? – Fame, Honours, the Respect and Admiration of all those who mattered in the World. Women adored him, Men vied with one another to render him the sincerest Flattery by striving to imitate his Gestures, his Mode of Speech, the very Cut of his Clothes. And, above all – aye, I dare assert it, and You, beloved Mistress will, I know, forgive me – above all, he had the Love of a pure and good Woman, of a talented Artist – yours, dear Lady – an inestimable Boon, for which many a Man would thank his Maker on his Knees.

Ah! he was blind then, had been blind since that fatal Hour when the Lady Barbara Wychwoode crossed his Path. I could endorse the wild Words which he had spoken to her this forenoon. A thousand devils were indeed unchained within him; but 'tis not to her Kiss that they would yield, but rather to the gentle Ministration of exquisite Mistress Saunderson.

CHAPTER XV
MORE DEAF THAN ADDERS

1

I felt so cramped and numb in my narrow hiding-place that I verily believe I must have fallen into a kind of trance-like Slumber.

From this I was suddenly awakened by the loud Clang of our front-door Bell, followed immediately by the Footsteps of the Serving Man upon the Landing, and then by a brief Colloquy between him and the belated Visitor.

Seriously, at the moment I had no Conception of who this might be, until I glanced at Mr. Betterton. And then I guessed. Guessed, just as he had already done. Every line of his tense and expectant Attitude betrayed the Fact that he had recognized the Voice upon the Landing, and that its sound had thrilled his very Soul and brought him back from the Land of Dreams and Nightmare, where he had been wandering this past hour.

You remember, dear Lady, the last time Mr. Betterton played in a Tragedy called "Hamlett," wherein there is a Play within a Play, and the melancholy Prince of Denmark sets a troupe of Actors to enact a Representation of the terrible Crime whereof he accuses both his Uncle and his Mother? It is a Scene which, when played by Mr. Betterton, is wont to hold the Audience enthralled. He plays his Part in it by lying full length on the Ground, his Body propped up by his Elbow and his Chin supported in his Hand. His Eyes – those wonderful, expressive Eyes of his – he keeps fixed upon the guilty Pair: his Mother and his Uncle. He watches the play of every Emotion upon their faces – Fear, Anger, and then the slowly creeping, enveloping Remorse; and his rigid, stern Features express an Intensity of Alertness and of Expectancy, which is so poignant as to be almost painful.

Just such an Expression did my dear Friend's Face wear at this Moment. He had pushed his Chair back slightly, so that I had a fuller view of him, and the flickering light of the wax Candles illumined his clear-cut Features and his Eyes, fixed tensely upon the door.

2

The next moment the serving Man threw open the door and the Lady Barbara walked in. I could not see her until she had advanced further into the middle of the Room. Then I beheld her in all her Loveliness. Nay! I'll not deny it. She was still incomparably beautiful, with, in addition, that marvellous air of Breeding and of Delicacy, which rendered her peerless amongst her kind. I hated her for the infinite wrong which she had done to my Friend, but I could not fail to admire her. Her Mantle was thrown back from her Shoulders and a dark, filmy Veil, resembling a Cloud, enveloped her fair Hair. Beneath her Mantle she wore a Dress of something grey that shimmered like Steel in the Candlelight. A few tendrils of her ardent Hair had escaped from beneath her Veil, and they made a kind of golden Halo around her Face. She was very pale, but of that transparent, delicate Pallor that betokens Emotion rather than ill-health, and her Eyes looked to me to be as dark as Sloes, even though I knew them to be blue.

For the space of one long Minute, which seemed like Eternity, these two remained absolutely still, just looking at one another. Methought that I could hear the very heart-beats within my breast. Then the Lady said, with a queer little catch in her Throat and somewhat hesitatingly:

"You are surprised to see me, Sir, no doubt … but …"

She was obviously at a loss how to begin. And Mr. Betterton, aroused no doubt by her Voice from his absorption, rose quickly to his Feet and made her a deep and respectful Obeisance.

"The Angels from Heaven sometimes descend to Earth," he said slowly; "yet the Earth is more worthy of their Visit than is the humble Artist of the Presence of his Muse." Then he added more artlessly: "Will You deign to sit?"

He drew a Chair forward for her, but She did not take it, continued to speak with a strange, obviously forced Gaiety and in a halting Manner.

"I thank you, Sir," she said. "That is … no … not yet … I like to look about me."

She went close up to the Desk and began to finger idly the Books and Papers which lay scattered pell-mell upon it, he still gazing on her as if he had not yet realized the Actuality of her Presence. Anon she looked inquiringly about her.

"What a charming room!" she said, with a little cry of wonder. "So new to me! I have never seen an Artist's room before."

"For weeks and months," Mr. Betterton rejoined simply, "this one has been a temple, hallowed by thoughts of You. Your Presence now, has henceforth made it a Sanctuary."

She turned full, inquiring Eyes upon him and riposted with childlike Ingenuousness:

"Yet must You wonder, Sir, at my Presence here … alone … and at this hour."

"In my heart," he replied, "there is such an Infinity of Happiness that there is no Room for Wonder."

"An Infinity of Happiness?" she said with a quaint little sigh. "That is what we are all striving for, is it not? The Scriptures tell us that this Earth is a Vale of Tears. No wonder!" she added naïvely, "since we are so apt to allow Happiness to pass us by."

Oh! how I wished I had the Courage then and there to reveal myself to these Twain, to rush out of my Hiding-place and seize that wily Temptress who, I felt sure, was here only for the undoing of a Man whom she hated with unexampled Bitterness. Oh, why hath grudging Nature made me weak and cowardly and diffident, when my whole Soul yearns at times to be resourceful and bold? Believe me, dear Mistress, that my Mind and my Will-power were absolutely torn between two Impulses – the one prompting me to put a stop to this dangerous and purposeless Interview, this obvious Trap set to catch a great and unsuspecting Artist unawares; and the other urging me not to interfere, but rather to allow Destiny, Fate or the Will of God alone to straighten out the Web of my Friend's Life, which had been embroiled by such Passions as were foreign to his noble Nature.

And now I am thankful that I allowed this latter Counsel to prevail. The Will of God did indeed shape the Destinies of Men this night for their Betterment and ultimate Happiness. But, for the moment, the Threads of many a Life did appear to be most hopelessly tangled: the Lady Barbara Wychwoode, daughter of the Marquis of Sidbury, the fiancée of the Earl of Stour, was in the house of Tom Betterton, His Majesty's Well-Beloved Servant, and he was passionately enamoured of her and had vowed Vengeance against the Man she loved. As he gazed on her now there was no Hatred in his Glance, no evil Passion disturbed the Look of Adoration wherewith he regarded her.

"Barbara," he pleaded humbly, "be merciful to me… For pity's sake, do not mock me with your smile! My dear, do you not see that I scarce can believe that I live … and that you are here? … You! … You!" he went on, with passionate Earnestness. "My Divinity, whom I only dare approach on bended Knees, whose Garment I scarce dare touch with my trembling Lips!"

He bent the Knee and raised the long, floating End of her cloudlike Veil to his Lips. I could have sworn at that Moment that she recoiled from him and that she made a Gesture to snatch away the Veil, as if his very Touch on it had been Pollution. That Gesture and the Recoil were, however, quite momentary. The next second, even whilst he rose once more to his Feet, she had already recovered herself.

"Hush!" she said gently, and drew herself artlessly away from his Nearness. "I want to listen… People say that Angels wait upon Mr. Betterton when he studies his Part … and I want to hear the flutter of their Wings."

"The Air vibrates with the Echo of your sweet Name," he rejoined, and his exquisite Voice sounded mellow and vibrant as a sensitive Instrument touched by a Master's Hand. "Your name, which with mad longing I have breathed morning, noon and eve. And now … now … I am not dreaming … You are near me! … You, the perfect Lady Barbara … my Lady Babs… And you look – almost happy!"

She gave him a Look – the true Look of a Siren set to enchain the Will of Man.

"Happy?" she queried demurely. "Nay, Sir … puzzled, perhaps."

"Puzzled?" he echoed. "Why?"

"Wondering," she replied, "what magic is in the air that could make a Woman's Heart … forsake one Love … for … for Another."

Yes! She said this, and looked on him straight between the Eyes as she spoke. Yet I knew that she lied, could have screamed the Accusation at her, so convinced was I that she was playing some subtle and treacherous Game, designed to entrap him and to deliver him helpless and broken into her Power. But he, alas! was blinded by his Passion. He saw no Siren in her, no Falsehood in her Smile. At her Words, I saw a great Light of Happiness illumine his Face.

"Barbara!" he pleaded. "Have pity on me, for my Reason wanders. I dare not call it back, lest this magic hour should prove to be a Dream."

He tried to take her in his Arms, but she evaded him, ran to the other side of the Desk, laughing merrily like a Child. Once again her delicate Fingers started to toy with the Papers scattered there.

"Oh, ho!" she exclaimed, with well-feigned astonishment. "Your desk! Why, this," she said, placing her Hand upon the neat pile before her, "must be that very Thunderbolt wherewith to-morrow you mean to crush an arrogant Enemy!"

"Barbara!" he rejoined with ever growing passion, and strove to take her Hand. "Will you not let me tell You – "

"Yes, yes!" she replied archly, and quietly withdrew her Hand from his grasp. "You shall speak to me anon some of those Speeches of our great Poets, which your Genius hath helped to immortalize. To hear Mr. Betterton recite will be an inestimable Privilege … which your many Admirers, Sir, will envy me."

"The whole world would envy me to-night," he retorted, and gazed on her with such Ardour that she was forced to lower her Eyes and to hide their Expression behind the delicate Curtain of her Lashes.

I, who was the dumb Spectator of this cruel Game, saw that the Lady Barbara was feeling her way towards her Goal. There was so much Excitement in her, such palpitating Vitality, that her very Heart-beats seemed to find their Echo in my breast. Of course, I did not know yet what Game it was that she was playing. All that I knew was that it was both deadly and treacherous. Even now, when Mr. Betterton once more tried to approach her and she as instinctively as before recoiled before him, she contrived to put strange softness into her Voice, and a subtle, insidious Promise which helped to confuse his Brain.