But his Lordship did not appear to hear her. He continued to murmur to himself mechanically, and in tones of the deepest Despair:
"Barbara ... alone ... with him!"
"Read that Paper, my dear Lord," her Ladyship insisted with calm dignity, "ere with another Thought you further dare to wrong me!"
These simple Words, however, so full of conscious Worth and of Innocence, let loose the Floodgates of my Lord's pent-up, insensate jealousy.
"Wrong you!" he cried, and a harsh, almost maniacal laugh broke from his choking Throat. "Wrong you! Nay! I suppose I must be grateful and thank Heaven on my Knees that You, my promised Bride, deigned to purchase mine Honour at the Price of your Kisses!"
At this gross Insult her Ladyship uttered a pitiful Moan; but ere she could give Reply, Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had not interfered between the Twain, now did so, and in no measured Tone.
"Silence, Madman!" he commanded, "ere You blaspheme."
But my Lord had apparently lost his last Shred of Reason. Jealousy was torturing him in a manner that even Hatred had failed to do.
"God!" he exclaimed repeatedly, calling to the Almighty to witness his Soul-Misery. "I saw her at that Window.... Who else saw her?... How many Varlets and jabbering Coxcombs know at the present moment that the Lady Barbara Wychwoode spends the night alone with a Mountebank?" In an excess of ungoverned Rage he tore the Paper to shreds and threw the Scraps almost into her Ladyship's Face. "Take back your Proofs!" he cried. "I'll not take mine Honour from Your hands! Ah!" he added, and now turned once more toward Mr. Betterton, who, I could see, was calmly making up his Mind what next to do. "Whoever you are—Man or Devil—are you satisfied with your Revenge? Was it not enough to cover me with Infamy; what need had You to brand Her with Dishonour?"
Overcome with Emotion, his Soul on the Rack, his Heart wounded and bleeding, he appeared like a lost Spirit crying out from an Abyss of Torment. But these last Ravings of his, these final, abominable Insults, levelled against the Woman who had done so much for him, and whom he should have been the first to protect, lashed Mr. Betterton's ire and contempt into holy Fury.