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."