His Majesty's Well-Beloved

"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.

But you shall judge.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Betterton went on after a brief while; "We all know that Love is a Game at which one always cheats. I loved the Lady Barbara Wychwoode. I had the presumption to dream of her as my future Wife. Angered at her Scorn of my Suit, I cheated her into coming here to-night, luring her with the Hope that I would consent to right the Man for whose sake she was willing to risk so much, for whom she was ready to sacrifice even her fair Name. Now I have learned to my hurt that Love, the stern little god, will not be trifled with. When we try to cheat him, he cheats us worse at the last; and if he makes Kings of us, he leaves us Beggars in the End. When my Lord Stour, burning with sacrilegious jealousy, made irruption into my Room, the Lady Barbara had just succeeded in wringing from me an Avowal which proclaimed his Integrity and my Shame. She was about to leave me, humbled and crushed in my Pride, she herself pure and spotless as the Lilies, unapproachable as the Stars."

2

Mr. Betterton had ceased speaking for some time; nevertheless, Silence profound reigned in the dark, wainscotted Room for many seconds after the final echo of that perfect Voice had ceased to reverberate. Indeed, dear Mistress, I can assure You that, though there were at least fifty Persons present in the Room, including those unknown to Me who were swarming around the Framework of the Casements, you might have heard the proverbial Pin drop just then. A tense Expression rested on every Face. Can You wonder that I scanned them all with the Eagerness born of my Love for the great Artist, who had thus besmirched his own fair Name in order to vindicate that of his bitterest Foe? That I read Condemnation of my Friend in many a Glance, I'll not deny, and this cut me to the Quick.

True! Mr. Betterton's Scheme of Vengeance had been reprehensible if measured by the high Standards of Christian Forbearance. But remember how he had been wronged, not once, but repeatedly; and even when I saw the Frown on my Lord Roscommon's brow, the Look of Stern Reproof in Sir Charles Sedley's Face, there arose before mine Eyes the Vision of the great and sensitive Artist, of the high-souled Gentleman, staggering beneath the Blows dealt by a band of hired Ruffians at the Bidding of this young Coxcomb, whose very Existence was as naught in the Eyes of the cultured World beside the Genius of the inimitable Mr. Betterton.

I said that the Silence was tense. Meseemed that no one dared to break it. Even those idly Curious who had swarmed up the Rainpipes of this House in order to witness one of Tom Betterton's Pranks, felt awed by the Revelation of this Drama of a great Man's Soul. Indeed, the Silence became presently oppressive. I, for one, felt a great Buzzing in mine Ears. The Lights from the Candles assumed weird and phantasmagoric Proportions till they seared my aching Eyes.

Then slowly my Lord Stour approached her Ladyship, sank on his Knees before Her and raised the Hem of her Robe to his Lips. A sob broke from her Throat; she tried to smother it by pressing her Handkerchief into her Mouth. It took Her a second or two to regain her Composure. But Breeding and Pride came to her Aid. I saw the stiffening of her Figure, the studied and deliberate Movement wherewith She readjusted her Mantle and her Veil.

My Lord Stour was still on his Knees. At a sign from her Ladyship he rose. He held out his left Arm and she placed her right Hand on it, then together they went out of the Room. The Crowd of Gentlemen parted in order to make way for the Twain, then when they had gone through, some of the Gentlemen followed them immediately; others lingered for awhile, hesitating. Sir William Davenant, Mr. Killigrew, my Lord Rochester, all of Mr. Betterton's Friends, appeared at first inclined to remain in order to speak with him. They even did me the Honour of consulting me with a Look, asking of my Experience of the great Actor whether they should stay. I slowly shook my Head, and they wisely acted on my Advice. I knew that my Friend would wish to be alone. He, so reserved, so proud, had laid his Soul bare before the Public, who was wont to belaud and to applaud him. The Humiliation and the Effort must have been a terrible Strain, which only Time and Solitude could effectually cure.

He had scarce moved from his Position beside the Desk, still stood there with one slender Hand resting upon it, his Gaze fixed vaguely upon the Door through which his Friends were slowly filing out.

Within two minutes or less after the Departure of my Lord Stour and her Ladyship, the last of the Crowd of Gentlemen and of Idlers had gone. Anon I went across the Room and closed the Door behind them. When I turned again, I saw that the knot of quidnuncs no longer filled the Casements, and a protracted hum of Voices, a crackling of Ivy twigs and general sound of Scrimmage and of Scrambling outside the Window, proclaimed the Fact that even they had had the Sense and the Discretion to retire quietly from this Spot, hallowed by the Martyrdom of a great Man's Soul.

3

Thus I was left alone with my Friend.

He had drawn his habitual Chair up to the Desk and sat down. Just for a few Moments he rested both his Elbows on the Desk and buried his Face in his Hands. Then, with that familiar, quick little Sigh of His, He drew the Candles closer to him and, taking up a Book, he began to read.

I knew what it was that he was reading, or, rather, studying. He had been absorbed in the Work many a time before now, and had expressed his ardent Desire to give public Readings of it one day when it was completed. It was the opening Canto of a great Epic Poem, the manuscript of which had been entrusted to Mr. Betterton for Perusal by the author, Mr. John Milton, who had but lately been liberated from prison through the untiring Efforts of Sir William Davenant on his behalf. Mr. Milton hoped to complete the Epic in the next half-dozen years. Its Title is "Paradise Lost."

I remained standing beside the open Window, loath to close it as the Air was peculiarly soft and refreshing. Below me, in the Park, the idle, chattering Crowd had already dispersed. From far away, I still could hear the sweet, sad Strains of the amorous Song, and through the Stillness of the Evening, the Words came to mine Ear, wafted on the Breeze:

"You are my Faith, my Hope, my All!What e'er the Future may unfold,No trial too great – no Thing too small.Your whispered Words shall make me boldTo win at last for Your dear SakeA worthy Place in Future's World."

I felt my Soul enwrapt in a not unpleasant reverie; an exquisite Peace seemed to have descended on my Mind, lately so agitated by Thoughts of my dear, dear Friend.

Suddenly a stealthy Sound behind Me caused me to turn; and, in truth, I am not sure even now if what I saw was Reality, or the Creation of mine own Dreams.

The Lady Barbara had softly and surreptitiously re-entered the Room. She walked across it on tip-toe, her silken Skirts making just the softest possible frou-frou as she walked. Her cloud-like Veil wrapped her Head entirely, concealing her fair Hair, and casting a grey Shadow over her Eyes. Mr. Betterton did not hear her, or, if he did, he did not choose to look up. When her Ladyship was quite close to the Desk, I noticed that she had a Bunch of white Roses in her Hand such as are grown in the Hot-houses of rich Noblemen.

For a few Seconds she stood quite still. Then she raised the Roses slowly to her Lips, and laid them down without a word upon the Desk.

After which, she glided out of the Room as silently, as furtively, as she came.

4

And thus, dear Mistress, have I come to the end of my long Narrative. I swear to You by the living God that everything which I have herein related is the Truth and Naught but the Truth.

There were many People present in Mr. Betterton's room during that memorable Scene, when he sacrificed his Pride and his Revenge in order to right the Innocent. Amongst these Witnesses there were some, whom Malice and Envy would blind to the Sublimity of so noble an Act. Do not listen to them, honoured Mistress, but rather to the promptings of your own Heart and to that unerring Judgment of Men and of Events which is the Attribute of good and pure Women.

Mr. Betterton hath never forfeited your Esteem by any Act or Thought. The Infatuation which momentarily dulled his Vision to all save to the Beauty of the Lady Barbara, hath ceased to exist. Its course was ephemeral and hath gone without a Trace of Regret or Bitterness in its wake. The eminent Actor, the high-souled Artist, whom all cultured Europe doth reverence and admire, stands as high to-day in that same World's Estimation as he did, before a young and arrogant Coxcomb dared to measure his own Worth against that of a Man as infinitely above him as are the Stars. But, dear Mistress, Mr. Betterton now is lonely and sad. He is like a Man who hath been sick and weary, and is still groping after Health and Strength. Take pity on his Loneliness, I do conjure You. Give him back the inestimable Boon of your Goodwill and of your Friendship, which alone could restore to him that Peace of Mind so necessary for the furtherance of his Art.

And if, during the Course of my Narrative, I have seemed to you over-presumptuous, then I do entreat your Forgiveness. Love for my Friend and Reverence for your Worth have dictated every Word which I have written. If, through my Labours, I have succeeded in turning away some of the just Anger which had possessed your Soul against the Man whom, I dare aver, you still honour with your Love, then, indeed, I shall feel that even so insignificant a Life as mine hath not been wholly wasted.

I do conclude, dear and honoured Mistress, with a Prayer to Almighty God for your Welfare and that of the Man whom I love best in all the World. I am convinced that my Prayer will find Favour before the Throne of Him who is the Father of us All. And He who reads the innermost Secrets of every Heart, knows that your Welfare is coincident with that of my Friend. Thus am I content to leave the Future in His Hands.

And I myself do remain, dear Mistress,Your humble and obedient Servant,JOHN HONEYWOOD.

EPILOGUE

Ring down the Curtain. The Play is ended. The Actors have made their final Bow before You and thanked You for your Plaudits. The chief Player – a sad and lonely Man – has for the nonce spoken his last upon the Stage.

All is Silence and Mystery now. The Lights are out. And yet the Audience lingers on, loath to bid Farewell to the great Artist and to his minor Satellites who have helped to wile away a few pleasant Hours. You, dear Public, knowing so much about them, would wish to know more. You wish to know – an I am not mistaken – whether the Labour of Love wrought by good Master Honeywood did in due course bear its Fruitfulness. You wish to know – or am I unduly self-flattered – whether the Play of Passion, of Love and of Revenge, set by the worthy Clerk before You, had an Epilogue – one that would satisfy your Sense of Justice and of Mercy.

Then, I pray You, turn to the Pages of History, of which Master Honeywood's Narrative forms an integral and pathetic Part. One of these Pages will reveal to You that which You wish to know. Thereon You will see recorded the Fact that, after a brief and distinguished Visit during that Summer to the City and University of Stockholm, where Honours without number were showered upon the great English Actor, Mr. Betterton came back to England, to the delight of an admiring Public, for he was then in the very Plenitude of his Powers.

Having read of the Artist's triumph, I pray You then to turn over the Page of the faithful Chronicle of his Career, and here You will find a brief Chapter which deals with his private Life and with his Happiness. You will see that at the End of this self-same year 1662, the Register of St. Giles', Cripplegate, contains the Record of a Marriage between Thomas Betterton, Actor, of the parish of St. Margaret's, Westminster, and Mary Joyce Saunderson, of the aforesaid parish of St. Giles'.

That this Marriage was an exceptionally happy one we know from innumerable Data, Minutes and Memoranda supplied by Downes and others; that Master John Honeywood was present at the Ceremony itself we may be allowed to guess. Those of us who understand and appreciate the artistic Temperament, will readily agree with the worthy Clerk when he said that it cannot be judged by ordinary Standards. The long and successful Careers of Thomas Betterton and of Mistress Saunderson his Wife testify to the Fact that their Art in no way suffered, while their Souls passed through the fiery Ordeal of Passion and of Sorrow; but rather that it became ennobled and purified, until they themselves took their place in the Heart and Memory of the cultured World, among the Immortals.

THE END