"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 Grat.i.tude-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, G.o.d 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 circ.u.mvent 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 n.o.ble 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 c.o.xcomb, 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 un.o.bserved, 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 Pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sert 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 Att.i.tude 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