Читать книгу Nell Gwyn - A Decoration - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 12

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The King looked through the torch light and the rain at Mrs. Nelly.

He had thought the play as dull as a sermon and the actresses, even by candle gleam, not pretty, and though he had been so little while a King, he found it a business more inclined to the wearisome than the cheerful.

He lingered and looked at the orange girl who was neither dull nor plain, and smiled at the thought of his years of exile, when it had not seemed strange to mix freely with the people, and even to find amusement in the free wit of wenches like Mrs. Nelly.

And she, encouraged by his look, said, with childish impudence:

"Did Your Majesty enjoy the orange?"

Charles, who liked ease and freedom from all, and in particular from women, answered:

"I have it for a keepsake," and he showed her his long cane, on the top of which the orange was stuck like a knob.

Nelly smiled slyly, with a quick eye roving for Orange Moll, who was not as kind as His Majesty; when she smiled like this, her lively eyes wrinkled up and disappeared, and her round soft face was charmingly dimpled.

"I hear," continued Charles, amused, "that you were brawling to protect two silly flyaways from Whitehall—you were quick, Mistress, but not so quick as Jack yonder, who saw the two ladies in the press—"

"I helped, sir," said Nelly instantly, "two fools against two knaves—but I know not who they were, nor where they came from—"

"A loyal heart," replied Charles, "a generous heart. If I were a poet—and I think I am poor enough to be one—I would write you some verses. As it is, how can I reward you?"

"I'd dearly love, sir," said Nelly, grinning, "a shelter from the rain—and a drink of spiced beer at 'The Peacock' yonder." And she jerked her thumb towards the door of the fashionable inn whose doors she had never dared approach nearer than the lowest step.

"It were no ill thing to get out of the rain," answered the King dryly. "Gentlemen, those who have chairs or coaches are dismissed; those who prefer to see this lady drink her spiced beer—"

Most of them followed him; they had often been his companions in similar adventures, in the Netherlands and in France, and a jest, a diversion was more to them than what other men called the serious matters of life. None of them were unknown figures in taverns of the better sort, and the King was as familiar as any of them with the mazy streets and cosy inns of London.

The orange girl slipped in with the fine gentlemen; as she went into the pompous door she turned to make a grimace at Orange Moll, who was sheltering under the portico with a rabble of her wenches and link boys.

The King flung himself into the great chair with arms by the fire that burnt in the parlour; those who were already in the room rose respectfully, but Charles cried out, with some impatience, that no one was to disturb himself, and ordered wine and beer, cakes and fruit.

Nelly, as if overcome by sudden shyness, went to the fire, twisting her hands in her ragged apron and warming them at the pleasant glow of the flames which turned her short, untidy curls into a halo of living gold.

The King watched her reflectively.

He and the companions who lounged behind his chair had been very near to the present plight of Nelly Gwyn, in patched clothes, penniless, without hope, glad to creep into the warmth of an inn fire and beg for a warm drink; cold, hunger, poverty, humiliation, actual peril and danger had been their lot for all their youth; they had been hunted, despised, flaunted, insulted, betrayed, ignored. Something of the aftermath of this long bitterness coloured the King's smile as he gazed at this impudent child of the streets; from such as these he had received more fellowship, more kindness, more sympathy than from any of the great ones who fawned on him now and whom he delighted, with cynic humour, to, in his turn, humiliate and set down.

The two men who were his closest companions and who now stood behind him were in like case, both Rochester and Buckingham were men spoiled by long misfortune and sudden splendour; corrupt, careless, witty, false, indifferent to all but the pleasure and distraction of the moment they were fit companions for the indolent, idle and cynic King.

Both had been handsome men, but my Lord Buckingham's florid good looks were now marred by the excesses of a wanton life, and the finer features of my Lord Rochester were sharpened and blanched by fatigue and ill-health, though his lip curled sardonically and his keen eyes flashed brightly.

The fourth of the party was the darling of the King and Court, he who had been a nameless boy, then Jimmy Crofts, a pretty, spoiled page, and was now Duke of Monmouth and a great Prince, the acknowledged son of His Majesty. His warm beauty was not yet disfigured by sloth or vice, for he was but a youth, and of great, if over-opulent and plebeian, comeliness; yet he lacked both the sparkle of Rochester and the humour of Buckingham; there was something foolish in his laughter and something vacant in his silence, yet it was clear that the King, sardonic as he might be towards the human affections, had here his own, and regarded this spoilt youth with the eye of weakness and love.

Mrs. Nelly turned about and eyed this fine company.

The drawer brought in the wine and Naples cakes; Nelly looked at this display with more interest than she had given to the gentlemen.

"Change your spiced mull for a glass of Alicante," said the King lazily.

But Nelly shook her head; she preferred the drink she knew; clutching at the tankard, she drank off the beer, then snatched at the cakes which were delicacies she had never tasted before.

"'Tis a wild thing," commented Rochester, "but pretty—"

"A nymph—not of the glades, but of Drury Lane," smiled Charles.

And Buckingham quoted maliciously:

"Old Rowley liked to chase a lass Beneath the spreading oaks."

perhaps, sire, a tavern roof would take the place of the oak?"

"No need of a chase, I think," simpered Monmouth.

"Wench," said the King, leaning forward, "will you be an orange girl all your days?"

"Nay, I would be an actress, sire. I can do the French gigue."

She broke into a few steps, her mouth full of cake, her hands on her hips, graceful despite her atrocious shoes.

"An actress!" smiled the King. "That is a short life too, lasting but as long as your youth—"

"I would not live longer," said the orange girl with a certain passion. "Nay, with the first wrinkle I would slip out of the world. Lord! to be old!"

And she danced again her gay dance, gleaming in her tatters.

"Come home, King Cophetua," whispered Rochester.

The King half sighed, half smiled, and rose; his glance fell on the landlord waiting obsequiously; he put his hand in his pocket and drew it out.

"Hast any money, Jack?"

"Why, sir," replied Rochester, "not above a shilling or two."

He turned to Buckingham, who shook his head, and to Monmouth, who, with his tinkling laugh, held up an empty silk purse.