His Majesty's Well-Beloved

"We all know," one of the young Sparks was saying even now, "that my Lady Castlemaine showed Stour marked favour from the very moment he appeared at Court."

"We also know," added Mr. Betterton with quiet Irony, "that the whisper of a beautiful Woman often drowns the loudest call of Honour."

"But surely you do not think – ?" riposted Lord Rochester indignantly, "that – that – "

"That what, my lord?" queried Mr. Betterton calmly.

"Why, demme, that Stour did anything dishonourable?"

"Why should I not think that?" retorted Mr. Betterton, with a slight Elevation of the Eyebrows.

"Because he is a Stourcliffe of Stour, Sir," broke in Sir George Etherege in that loud, blustering way he hath at times; "and bears one of the greatest Names in the Land."

"A great Name is hereditary, Sir," rejoined the great Actor quietly. "Honesty is not."

"But what does Lady Castlemaine say about it all?" interposed Lord Orrery.

"Lady Castlemaine hath not been questioned on the subject, I imagine," interposed Sir William Davenant drily.

"Ah!" rejoined His Grace of Buckingham. "There you are wrong, Davenant. I remember speaking to her Ladyship about Stour one day – saying how glad I was that he, at any rate, had had nothing to do with that abominable Affair."

"Well?" came eagerly from every one. "What did she say?"

His Grace remained thoughtful for a time, as if trying to recollect Something that was eluding his Memory. Then he said, turning to Mr. Betterton:

"Why, Tom, you were there at the time. Do You recollect? It was at one of Her Ladyship's Supper Parties. His Majesty was present. We all fell to talking about the Conspiracy, and the King said some very bitter things. Then I thought I would say something about Stour. You remember?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Mr. Betterton.

"What did Lady Castlemaine say?"

"I don't think she said anything. Methinks she only laughed."

"So she did!" assented His Grace; "and winked at You, you Rogue! I recollect the Circumstance perfectly now, though I attached no importance to it at the time. But I can see it all before me. His Majesty frowned and continued to look glum, whilst the Countess of Castlemaine vowed with a laugh that, anyway, my lord Stour was the handsomest Gentleman in London, and that 'twere a pity to allow such a beautiful Head to fall on the Scaffold."

"It certainly sounds very strange," mused my Lord Rochester, and fell to talking in Whispers with Sir George Etherege, whilst His Grace of Buckingham went and sat down beside Mr. Betterton, and obviously started to discuss the Incident of the Supper Party all over again with the great Actor. Other isolated Groups also formed themselves, and I knew that my Lord Stour's Name was on every one's lips.

Traducement and Gossip is Meat and Drink to all these noble and distinguished Gentlemen, and here they had something to talk about, which would transcend in Scandal anything that had gone before. The story about my Lord Stour would spread with the Rapidity which only evil-loving Tongues can give. Alas! my poor Friend knew that well enough when he shot his poisoned Arrows into the Air. I was watching him whilst His Grace of Buckingham conversed with him: I saw the feverishly keen look in his eyes as he, in his turn, watched the Ball of Slander and Gossip being tossed about from one Group to another. He said but little, hardly gave Answer to His Grace; but I could see that he was on the alert, ready with other little poisoned Darts whenever he saw Signs of weakening in the Volume of Backbiting, which he had so deliberately set going.

"I liked Stour and I admired him," Lord Rochester said at one time. "I could have sworn that Nature herself had written 'honest man' on his face."

"Ah! – " interposed Mr. Betterton, with that quiet Sarcasm which I had learned to dread. "Nature sometimes writes with a very bad Pen."

3

It was not to be wondered at that the Scandal against my Lord Stour, which was started in the Green Room of the Theatre, grew in Magnitude with amazing Rapidity. I could not tell you, dear Mistress, what my innermost feelings were in regard to the Matter: being an humble and ignorant Clerk and devoted to the one Man to whom I owe everything that makes life pleasing. I had neither the Wish nor the mental Power to tear my Heart to Pieces, in order to find out whether it beat in Sympathy with my Friend, or with the Victim of such a complete and deadly Revenge.

My Lord Stour was not then in London. He too, like many of his Friends – notably the Marquis of Sidbury and others not directly accused of Participation in the aborted Plot – had retired to his Country Estate, probably unwilling to witness the gaieties of City Life, while those he cared for most were in such dire Sorrow. But now that the Lady Barbara and her Father were once more in Town, there was little doubt that he too would return there presently. Since he was a free Man, and Lord Douglas Wychwoode had succeeded in evading the Law, there was no doubt that the natural Elasticity of Youth coupled with the prospect of the happy future which lay before him, would soon enable him to pick up the Threads of Life, there where they had been so unexpectedly and ruthlessly entangled.

I imagine that when his Lordship first arrived in Town and once more established himself in the magnificent Mansion in Canon's Row which I had bitter cause to know so well, he did not truly visualize the Atmosphere of brooding Suspicion which encompassed him where e'er he went. If he did notice that one or two of his former Friends did give him something of a cold shoulder, I believe that he would attribute this more to political than to personal Reasons. He had undoubtedly been implicated in a Conspiracy which was universally condemned for its Treachery and Disloyalty, and no doubt for a time he would have to bear the brunt of public Condemnation, even though the free Pardon, which had so unexpectedly been granted him, proved that he had been more misguided than really guilty.

His Arrival in London, his Appearance in Public Places, his obvious ignorance of the Cloud which was hanging over his fair Name, were the subject of constant Discussion and Comment in the Green Room of the Theatre as well as elsewhere. And I take it that his very Insouciance, the proud Carelessness wherewith he met the cold Reception which had been granted him, would soon have got over the scandalous tale which constant Gossip alone kept alive, except that one tongue – and one alone – never allowed that Gossip to rest.

And that Tongue was an eloquent as well as a bitter one, and more cunning than even I could ever have believed.

How oft in the Green Room, in the midst of a brilliant Company, have I listened to the flippant talk of gay young Sparks, only to hear it drifting inevitably toward the Subject of my Lord Stour, and of that wholly unexplainable Pardon, which had left him a free Man, whilst all his former Associates had either perished as Traitors, or were forced to lead the miserable life of an Exile, far from Home, Kindred and Friends.

Drifting, did I say? Nay, the Talk was invariably guided in that direction by the unerring Voice of a deeply outraged Man who, at last, was taking his Revenge. A word here, an Insinuation there, a witty Remark or a shrug of the shoulders, and that volatile sprite, Public Opinion, would veer back from any possible doubt or leniency to the eternally unanswered Riddle: "When so many of his Friends perished upon the Scaffold, how was it that my Lord Stour was free?"

How it had come about I know not, but it is certain that very soon it became generally known that his Lordship had been entrusted by his Friends with the distribution of Manifestos which were to rally certain Waverers to the cause of the Conspirators. And it was solemnly averred that it was in consequence of a Copy of this same Manifesto, together with a list of prominent Names, coming into the hands of my Lady Castlemaine, that so many Gentlemen were arrested and executed, and my Lord Stour had been allowed to go scot-free.

How could I help knowing that this last Slander had emanated from the Green Room, with the object of laying the final stone to the edifice of Calumnies, which was to crush an Enemy's Reputation and fair Fame beyond the hope of Retrieval?

4

A day or two later my Lord Stour, walking with a Friend in St. James's Park, came face to face with Mr. Betterton, who had Sir William Davenant and the Duke of Albemarle with him as well as one or two other Gentlemen, whilst he leaned with his wonted kindness and familiarity on my arm. Mr. Betterton would, I think, have passed by; but my Lord Stour, ignoring him as if he were dirt under aristocratic feet, stopped with ostentatious good-will to speak with the General.

But his Grace did in truth give the young Lord a very cold shoulder and Sir William Davenant, equally ostentatiously, started to relate piquant Anecdotes to young Mr. Harry Wordsley, who was just up from the country.

I saw my Lord Stour's handsome face darken with an angry frown. For awhile he appeared to hesitate as to what he should do, then with scant Ceremony he took the Duke of Albemarle by the coat-sleeve and said hastily:

"My Lord Duke, You and my Father fought side by side on many occasions. Now, I like not your Attitude towards me. Will you be pleased to explain?"

The General tried to evade him, endeavoured to disengage his coat-sleeve, but my Lord Stour was tenacious. A kind of brooding Obstinacy sat upon his good-looking face, and after awhile he reiterated with almost fierce Insistence:

"No! no! you shall not go, my Lord, until You have explained. I am tired," he added roughly, "of suspicious looks and covert smiles, an atmosphere of ill-will which greets me at every turn. Politically, many may differ from Me, but I have yet to learn that a Gentleman hath not the right to his own Opinions without being cold-shouldered by his Friends."

The Duke of Albemarle allowed him to talk on for awhile. His Grace obviously was making up his mind to take a decisive step in the matter. After a while he did succeed in disengaging his coat-sleeve from the persistent Clutch of his young Friend, and then, looking the latter straight between the eyes, he said firmly:

"My Lord, as You say, your Father and I were Friends and Comrades in Arms. Therefore You must forgive an old Man and a plain Soldier a pertinent question. Will you do that?"

"Certainly," was my Lord Stour's quiet Reply.

"Very well then," continued His Grace, while all of us who were there held our breath, feeling that this Colloquy threatened to have a grave issue. "Very well. I am glad that You have given me this opportunity of hearing some sort of Explanation from You, for in truth, Rumour of late hath been over busy with your Name."

"An Explanation, my Lord?" the young Man said, with an added frown.

"Aye!" replied His Grace. "That's just the Word. An Explanation. For I, my Lord, as your Father's Friend, will ask You this: how is it that while Teammouth, Campsfield and so many of your Associates perished upon the Scaffold, You alone, of those implicated in that infamous Plot, did obtain an unconditional Pardon?"

Lord Stour stepped back as if he had been hit in the face. Boundless Astonishment was expressed in the Gaze which he fixed upon the General, as well as wrathful indignation.

"My Lord!" he exclaimed, "that Question is an insult!"

"Make me swallow mine own Words," retorted His Grace imperturbably, "by giving me a straight Answer."

"Mine Answer must be straight," rejoined Lord Stour firmly, "since it is based on Truth. I do not know."

The Duke shrugged his Shoulders, and there came a sarcastic laugh from more than one of the Gentlemen there.

"I give your Lordship my Word of Honour," Lord Stour insisted haughtily. Then, as His Grace remained silent, with those deep-set eyes of his fixed searchingly upon the young Man, the latter added vehemently: "Is then mine Honour in question?"

Whereupon Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had remained silent, interposed very quietly:

"The honour of some Gentlemen, my Lord, is like the Manifestation of Ghosts – much talked of … but always difficult to prove!"

You know his Voice, dear Mistress, and that subtle carrying Power which it has, although he never seems to raise it. After he had spoken You could have heard the stirring of every little twig in the trees above us, for no one said another Word for a moment or two. We all stood there, a compact little Group: Lord Stour facing the Duke of Albemarle and Mr. Betterton standing a step or two behind His Grace, his fine, expressive Face set in a mask of cruel Irony. Sir William Davenant and the other Gentlemen had closed in around those three. They must have felt that some strange Storm of Passions was brewing, and instinctively they tried to hide its lowering Clouds from public gaze.

Fortunately there were not many Passers-by just then, and the little Scene remained unnoted by the idly curious, who are ever wont to collect in Crowds whenever anything strange to them happens to attract their Attention.

My Lord Stour was the first to recover Speech. He turned on Mr. Betterton with unbridled Fury.

"What!" he cried, "another sting from that venomous Wasp? I might have guessed that so miserable a Calumny came from such a vile Caitiff as this!"

"Abuse is not Explanation, my Lord," interposed the Duke of Albemarle firmly. "And I must remind you that you have left my Question unanswered."

"Put it more intelligibly, my Lord," retorted Lord Stour haughtily. "I might then know how to reply."

"Very well," riposted His Grace, still apparently unmoved. "I will put it differently. I understand that your Associates entrusted their treasonable Manifestos to you. Is that a fact?"

"I'll not deny it."

"You cannot," rejoined the Duke drily. "Sir James Campsfield, in the course of his Trial, admitted that he had received his Summons through You. But a Copy of that Manifesto came into the hands of my Lady Castlemaine just in time to cause the Conspiracy to abort. How was that?"

"Some Traitor," replied Lord Stour hotly, "of whom I have no Cognizance."

"Yet it was You," riposted the General quietly, "who received a free Pardon … no one else. How was that?" he reiterated more sternly.

"I have sworn to You that I do not know," protested my Lord Stour fiercely.

He looked now like a Man at Bay, trapped in a Net which was closing in around him and from which he was striving desperately to escape. His face was flushed, his eyes glowed with an unnatural fire. And always his restless gaze came back to Mr. Betterton, who stood by, calm and impassive, apparently disinterested in this Colloquy wherein a man's Honour was being tossed about to the Winds of Slander and of Infamy. Now Lord Stour gazed around him, striving to find one line of genuine Sympathy on the stern Faces which were confronting him.

"My word of Honour, Gentlemen," he exclaimed with passionate Earnestness, "that I do not know."

Honestly, I think that one or two of them did feel for him and were inclined to give him Credence. After all, these young Fops are not wicked; they are only mischievous, as Children or young Puppies are wont to be, ready to snarl at one another, to yap and to tear to pieces anything that happens to come in their way. Moreover, there was the great bond of Caste between these People. They were, in their innermost Hearts, loth to believe that one of themselves – a Gentleman, one bearing a great Name – could be guilty of this type of foul Crime which was more easily attributable to a Plebeian. It was only their Love of Scandal-monging and of Backbiting that had kept the Story alive all these weeks. Even now there were one or two sympathetic Murmurs amongst those present when my Lord Stour swore by his Honour.

But just then Mr. Betterton's voice was heard quite distinctly above that Murmur:

"Honour is a strangely difficult word to pronounce on the Stage," he was saying to Sir William Davenant, apparently á propos of something the latter had remarked just before. "You try and say it, Davenant; you will see how it always dislocates your Jaw, yet produces no effect."

"Therefore, Mr. Actor," Lord Stour broke in roughly, "it should only be spoken by those who have a glorious Ancestry behind them to teach them its true Significance."

"Well spoken, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined placidly. "But you must remember that but few of His Majesty's Servants have a line of glorious Ancestry behind them. In that way they differ from many Gentlemen who, having nothing but their Ancestry to boast of, are very like a Turnip – the best of them is under the ground."

This Sally was greeted with loud Laughter, and by a subtle process which I could not possibly define, the wave of Sympathy which was setting in the direction of my Lord Stour, once more receded from him, leaving him wrathful and obstinate, His Grace of Albemarle stern, and the young Fops flippant and long-tongued as before.

"My Lord Stour," the General now broke in once more firmly, "'tis You sought this Explanation, not I. Now You have left my Question unanswered. Your Friends entrusted their Manifestos to You. How came one of these in Lady Castlemaine's hands?"

And the young Man, driven to bay, facing half a dozen pairs of eyes that held both Contempt and Enmity in their glance, reiterated hoarsely:

"I have sworn to You that I do not know." Then he added: "Hath Loyalty then left this unfortunate Land, that You can all believe such a vile thing of me?"

And in the silence that ensued, Mr. Betterton's perfectly modulated Voice was again raised in quietly sarcastic accents:

"As You say, my Lord," he remarked. "Loyalty hath left this unfortunate Country. Perhaps," he added with a light shrug of the shoulders, "to take Refuge with your glorious Ancestry."

This last Gibe, however, brought my Lord Stour's exasperation to a raging Fury. Pushing unceremoniously past His Grace of Albemarle, who stood before him, he took a step forward and confronted Mr. Betterton eye to eye and, drawing himself up to his full Height, he literally glowered down upon the great Artist, who stood his Ground, placid and unmoved.

"Insolent Varlet!" came in raucous tones from the young Lord's quivering lips. "If you had a spark of chivalry or of honour in You – "

At the arrogant Insult every one drew their breath. A keen Excitement flashed in every eye. Here was at last a Quarrel, one that must end in bloodshed. Just what was required – so thought these young Rakes, I feel sure – to clear the Atmosphere and to bring abstruse questions of Suspicion and of Honour to a level which they could all of them understand. Only the Duke of Albemarle, who, like a true and great Soldier, hath the greatest possible Abhorrence for the gentlemanly Pastime of Duelling, tried to interpose. But Mr. Betterton, having provoked the Quarrel, required no interference from any one. You know his way, dear Mistress, as well as I do – that quiet Attitude which he is wont to assume, that fraction of a second's absolute Silence just before he begins to speak. I know of no Elocutionist's trick more telling than that. It seems to rivet the Attention, and at the same time to key up Excitement and Curiosity to its greatest strain.

"By your leave, my Lord," he said slowly, and his splendid Voice rose just to a sufficient pitch of Loudness to be distinctly heard by those immediately near him, but not one yard beyond. "By your leave, let us leave the word 'honour' out of our talk. It hath become ridiculous and obsolete, now that every Traitor doth use it for his own ends."

But in truth my Lord Stour now was beside himself with Fury.

"By gad!" he exclaimed with a harsh laugh. "I might have guessed that it was your pestilential Tongue which stirred up this Treason against me. Liar! – Scoundrel! – "

He was for heaping up one Insult upon the other, lashing himself as it were into greater Fury still, when Mr. Betterton's quietly ironical laugh broke in upon his senseless ebullitions.

"Liar? – Scoundrel, am I?" he said lightly, and, still laughing, he turned to the Gentlemen who stood beside him. "Nay! if the sight of a Scoundrel offends his Lordship, he should shut himself up in his own Room … and break his Mirror!"

At this, my Lord Stour lost the last vestige of his self-control, seized Mr. Betterton by the Shoulder and verily, I thought, made as if he would strike him.

"You shall pay for this Insolence!" he cried.

But already, with perfect sang-froid, the great Artist had arrested his Lordship's uplifted hand and wrenched it away from his shoulder.

"By your leave, my Lord," he said, and with delicate Fingers flicked the dust from off his coat. "This coat was fashioned by an honest tailor, and hath never been touched by a Traitor's hand."

I thought then that I could see Murder writ plainly on My Lord's face, which was suddenly become positively livid. The Excitement around us was immense. In truth I am convinced that every Gentleman there present at the moment, felt that something more deep and more intensely bitter lay at the Root of this Quarrel, between the young Lord and the great and popular Artist. Even now some of them would have liked to interfere, whilst the younger ones undoubtedly enjoyed the Spectacle and were laying, I doubt not, imaginary Wagers as to which of the two Disputants would remain Master of the Situation.

His Grace of Albemarle tried once more to interpose with all the Authority of his years and of his distinguished Position, for indeed there was something almost awesome in Lord Stour's Wrath by now. But Mr. Betterton took the Words at once out of the great General's mouth.

"Nay, my Lord," he said with quiet Firmness, "I pray You, do not interfere. I am in no danger, I assure You. My Lord Stour would wish to kill me, no doubt. But, believe me, Fate did not ordain that Tom Betterton should die by such a hand … the fickle Jade hath too keen a Sense of Humour."

Whereupon he made a movement, as if to walk away. I felt the drag upon my arm where his slender hand was still resting. The Others were silent. What could they say? Senseless Numskulls though they were for the most part, they had enough Perception to realize that between these two Men there was Hatred so bitter that no mere Gentlemanly Bloodshed could ever wipe it away.

But ere Mr. Betterton finally turned to go, my Lord of Stour stepped out in front of him. All the Rage appeared to have died out of him. He was outwardly quite calm, only a weird twitching of his lips testified to the Storm of Passion which he had momentarily succeeded in keeping under control.

"Mr. Actor," he said slowly, "but a few Weeks ago You asked me to cross swords with You… I refused then, for up to this hour I have never fought a Duel save with an Equal. But now, I accept," he added forcefully, even while the Words came veiled and husky from his throat. "I accept. Do You hear me? … for the laws of England do not permit a Murder, and as sure as there's a Heaven above me, I am going to kill You."

Mr. Betterton listened to him until the end. You know that Power which he hath of seeming to tower above every one who stands nigh him? Well! he exercised that Power now. He stepped quite close to my Lord Stour, and though the latter is of more than average height, Mr. Betterton literally appeared to soar above him, with the sublime Magnificence of an outraged Man coming into his own at last.

"My Lord of Stour," he said, with perfect quietude, "a few weeks ago you insulted me as Man never dared to insult Man before. With every blow dealt upon my shoulders by your Lacqueys, You outraged the Majesty of Genius … yes! its Majesty! … its Godhead! … You raised your insolent hand against me – against me, the Artist, whom God Himself hath crowned with Immortality. For a moment then, my outraged Manhood clamoured for satisfaction. I asked You to cross swords with me, for You seemed to me … then … worthy of that Honour. But to-day, my Lord of Stour," he continued, whilst every Word he spoke seemed to strike upon the ear like Blows from a relentless Hammer; "Traitor to your Friends, Liar and Informer!!!! Bah! His Majesty's Well-Beloved Servant cannot fight with such as You!"

In truth I do not remember what happened after that. The unutterable Contempt, the Disgust, the Loathing expressed in my Friend's whole Attitude, seemed to hit even me between the eyes. I felt as if some giant Hands had thrown a kind of filmy grey veil over my Head, for I heard and saw nothing save a blurred and dim Vision of uplifted Arms, of clenched Fists and of a general Scrimmage, of which my Lord Stour appeared to be the Centre, whilst my ears only caught the veiled Echo of Words flung hoarsely into the air: