"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.