Читать книгу Nell Gwyn - A Decoration - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 13

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The King shrugged.

The situation was not without humour and a curious flavour in view of those old days when such embarrassments had been common and acute enough.

"Maybe," he said lazily, "our credit, Jack, will even stretch to a few cakes and ale."

But Nelly had heard; she broke into her mischievous laugh and pulled out her greasy wallet.

"I never was in so poor a company," she declared, "fine lords, these—well, let poor Nelly pay for your entertainment," and she put a handful of silver mostly in small pieces on the table among the glasses and plates.

The King laughed outright; it was not the first time the hard-earned pence of the poor had paid for his food and drink; this little girl from the gutter was typical of many who had softened his days of wandering and defeat.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Nelly, sir, Nelly Gwyn."

"And who are you, Nelly?"

She laughed now; they laughed together.

"Lord, sir, I don't know. I'm just poor Nelly of the Coal Yard—"

"And my hostess," smiled the King, "and my creditor—will you trust me, little Nelly?"

She looked at him seriously.

"I think I'll trust you, sir."

His companions giggled among themselves and the King's thick lip lifted in a half-sneer.

"Come, master drawer, take up your money—this lady pays for all."

Nell watched, without blenching, her hoard counted away; two bits that were returned to her she flung to the drawer.

"I've had worth for my money," she declared. "Royal Company!"

"A valiant spirit," commented the King, who had often braved thus on empty pockets. "Truly that treasure took some time to amass at the rate of thy trade, Nelly."

"It was to buy me shoes," returned she, "a pair of brave shoes—none of your clepines—but something comely like my lady trips from the chair to the Play house—"

And across the inn parlour floor she made a mockery of the walk of a fashionable lady through the mud of the streets.

"'Tis as good an actress as any of them," said Monmouth idly. "Canst thou sing, good girl? A roundelay or catch?"

"Or a lullaby to sing thee to sleep, little Prince?" mocked Nelly, "or a fair song, such as we sing o' evenings in our Coal Yard?"

"Give us," said the King, "one of those." Nelly folded her hands and instantly began to troll, in a sweet, pearly voice that rippled with innocent laughter:

"Do you know Elsie Marley?

The Wile who sells Barley?

She won't get up to serve her swine,

And NOW do you know Elsie Marley?"

Nelly beat out a dance with her tiny feet in the broken shoes.

"Elsie Marley is grown so fine,

She won't get up to serve her swine,

But lies in bed till eight or nine

And surely now she takes her time."

The dance went quicker to the refrain:

"Do you know Elsie Marley?

The Wile who sells Barley?

She won't get up to serve her swine,

So NOW do you know Elsie Marley?"

The King and his companions clapped heartily.

"D'Urfey would like that," said the King, laughing.

"Now will Your Majesty sing?" asked Nelly, flushed and lovely, gathering her patched kerchief round her shapely shoulders which had been displayed in the riotous flings of the dance.

A few flowers stood on the table, and the King, with a mock-heroic gesture, snatched one, an early rosebud, tight folded, hard, of a purple red.

He held it out to Nelly:

"Go, lovely rose,

Tell her who wastes her time and me

That now she knows

When I compare her to thee

How sweet and fair

She seems to me."

Nelly seemed abashed, she hung back and looked on the floor.

"The rose is for you, Nell," said the King.

"Oh, Cophetua!" murmured Rochester again.

Nelly took the rose, then with a spontaneous, generous gesture seized and kissed the strong, dark hand that held it, while her eyes darkened with intense feeling.

"A loyal subject?" smiled Buckingham.

"A loyal subject, sir," said Nell.

She put the tight, chill rosebud in her bosom.

The King turned to the door; the tempest of rain and wind was over, and the air very sweet and pure, as it will be after a storm on a night in late spring.

When Rochester opened the door, this pure, fresh air rushed into the close, savoury warmth of the tavern and stirred the ringlets on the white and candid forehead of Nell Gwyn as she gazed after the King, her pouting lips drooping a little, her grey eyes wide open.

The gentlemen clattered down the steps and so away.

Now that she was alone Nelly looked cautiously round, with the instinct of the hunted and threatened child of the streets who is used to being chased and abused.

She was sure that now her protectors had gone she would be instantly turned out by the very drawer who had just taken her two odd silver bits as largesse for himself.

But for the moment there was no one about.

Nelly, trained by adversity to make the most of every opportunity, snatched at the remnants of the Naples biscuits and thrust then into her now denuded wallet.

Then with the same furtive swiftness of gesture she drained the heel-taps of all the glasses, then tripped off, singing merrily below her breath:

"Do you know Elsie Marley?

The Wife who sells Barley?

She won't get up to serve her swine,

And NOW do you know Elsie Marley?"

The night was delicious.

Nelly paused at the foot of the tavern steps and wrinkled up her nose; the sky seemed drenched in fragrance and hung, like a dark blue flower bell, over the narrow streets.

A pale moon floated languidly, showing by a beamy light the great jolly crown, the King's Lion, the Queen's Unicorn and the Stewart shield above the theatre portico, with the Leopards of England and the Lilies of France quartered with the Harp and the Lion in his double bordure.

This did not mean much to Nelly; she preferred the great crown and weather-vane that glittered above the Maypole in the Strand; there was something bright and tangible that dominated the whole town, and made her think of the King.

It did not surprise her that the King had been kind; she had seen him familiar with so many people, and she had all the assurance of the street-bred urchin that nothing can overawe.

Sure-footed she made her way through the dark alleys, thinking shrewdly over her adventure and munching the Naples biscuits she had hidden in the bosom of her dress.

She wandered round some haunts of her own, divided her purloined sweets with a dirty child on a doorstep, disposed of the remains of her damaged stock, after a sharp wrangle, to a fruit woman in Seven Dials who kept a stall for the poorer sort; then, with a certain daintiness like a cat prowling through garbage, she picked her way back to the Coal Yard.

When she pushed open the fallen door of her wretched room she saw her mother hard asleep by the spent ashes.

And on the table, among the dirty beer mugs, stood a pair of silver slippers.