"The point is the Epilogue, my Lady," Mr. Betterton replied blandly. "And after I have spoken it to-morrow, I shall speak it again and yet again, until its purport is known throughout the length and breadth of the Land. The subject of that Epilogue, Madam, will be the secret History of a certain aborted Conspiracy, and how it was betrayed in exchange for a free Pardon by one of our noblest Gentlemen in England. Then, I pray your Ladyship to mark what will happen," he continued, and his melodious voice became as hard and trenchant as the clang of metal striking metal. "After that Epilogue has been spoken from the Stage half a dozen times after His Majesty has heard it and shrugged his shoulders, after my Lady Castlemaine has laughed over it and my Lord of Rochester aped it in one of his Pasquinades, there will be a man whose Name will be a by-word for everything that is most infamous and most false—a Name that will be bandied about in Taverns and in drinking Booths, quipped, decried, sneered at, anathematized; a Name that will be the subject of every lampoon and every scurrilous rhyme that finds over-ready purchasers—a Name, in fact, that will for ever be whispered with bated breath or bandied about in a drunken brawl, whene'er there is talk of treachery and of dishonour!"
At this, she—great Lady to her finger tips—threw up her head proudly, still defying him, still striving to hide her Fears and unwilling to acknowledge Defeat.
"It will be your Word against his," she said with a disdainful curl of her perfect lips. "No one would listen to such calumnies."
And he—the world-famed Artist—at least as proud as any high born Gentleman in the Land, retorted, equally haughtily:
"When Tom Betterton speaks upon the Stage, my Lady, England holds her breath and listens spellbound."
I would I could render the noble Accent of his magnificent Voice as he said this. There was no self-glorification in it, no idle boasting; it was the accent of transcendent Worth conscious of its Power.
And it had its effect upon the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. She lowered her Eyes, but not before I had perceived that they were full of Tears; her Lips were trembling still, but no longer with Disdain, and her hands suddenly dropped to her side with a pathetic gesture of Discouragement and of Anguish.
The next moment, however, she was again looking the great Actor fully in the face. A change had come over her, quite suddenly methought—a great Change, which had softened her Mood and to a certain extent lowered her Pride. Whether this was the result of Mr. Betterton's forceful Eloquence or of her own Will-power, I could not guess; but I myself marvelled at the Tone of Entreaty which had crept into her Voice.
"You will not speak such Falsehoods in Public, Sir," she said with unwonted softness. "You will not thus demean your Art—the Art which you love and hold in respect. Oh, there must be some Nobility in You! else you were not so talented. Your Soul must in truth be filled with Sentiments which are neither ignoble nor base."
"Nay!" he exclaimed, and this time did not strive to conceal the intense Bitterness which, as I knew well enough, had eaten into his very Soul; "but your Ladyship is pleased to forget. I am ignoble and base! There cannot be Nobility in me. I am only the low-born Lout! Ask my Lord of Stour; ask your Brother! They will tell you that I have no Feelings, no Pride, no Manhood—that I am only a despicable Varlet, whom every Gentleman may mock and insult and whip like a dog. To You and to your Caste alone belong Nobility, Pride and Honour. Honour!!!"—and he broke into a prolonged laugh, which would have rent your Heart to hear—"Honour! Your false Fetish! Your counterfeit God!! Very well, then so be it!! That very Honour which he hath denied me, I will wrench from him. And since he denied me Satisfaction by the Sword, I turn to my own weapon—my Art—and with it I will exact from him to the uttermost fraction, Outrage for Outrage—Infamy for Infamy."