Читать книгу Nell Gwyn - A Decoration - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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The wilful girls had pulled a knot of violets from the King's gardens as they ran out of the quiet back way, avoiding the gentries, and the perfume of the dewy flowers went with them on their silly journey.

It was warm and London was drowned in pearly air; the steeple of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields seemed to catch in the vague low clouds, the raucous voices of the crowds were softened by the tenderness of the spring breeze.

The maids of honour picked their way over the planks flung down across the worst puddles of the unpaved street, and wished for the clepines that kept the citizen women out of the mud.

Their timidity attracted attention; people turned, gaped, laughed; a hag begged too boldly, a man flung admiration in terms too coarse even for the vanity of Eleanor Needham.

The edge of excitement had gone from their adventure.

"Shall we go back, Mary?" whispered Mrs. Needham. "I never knew the ways were so foul—"

They were not used to London, the tangled hedgerows at home, fragrant with a medley of delicious weeds, were so different to these dark streets; but Mary was not for returning; she even ventured on asking a sober-seeming woman the way to the King's theatre; the directions sent them into a maze of dun alleys rank with garbage, where the filth flowed in a central channel between the crazy houses and there were no posts to keep the foot passengers from the carts and horses.

"We should have had chairs," whispered Mrs. Needham, but, indeed, they had not known how to hire them, or how to engage one of the rude springless wagons that plied the streets.

"We escape attention," replied Mrs. Bagot. "Our cloaks are so sombre, and consider the frolic when we arrive at the theatre, dear heart!"

They squeezed each other's hands and hastened on; each was thinking of my Lord Monmouth who had barred their way in the garden and looked after them, actually honouring them with a second of his attention.

And each dwelt with rapture on the fact that my lord was the King's son, and the King's beloved, more adorned with honours than any man in England. It would be very beautiful to be courted by my lord, to be wooed with jewels, with roses, with smiles and sighs by the handsomest and greatest man at Court.

Yet the baseness of the streets was ill glazed over by the radiance of the spring air, and the mischievous hearts of the escaped ladies beat with unpleasant quickness when they at length found themselves in the more evil end of Drury Lane, where they were frightened by the narrow courts and dark abodes with broken windows.

Of the Strand or Covent Garden end of this street they had already some acquaintance, having been there to visit the ladies of the household of my Lord Anglesey, who had a fair mansion, and having glimpsed the region in driving past Montague House; but this squalid succession of low inns, stable yards and decayed houses alarmed and disgusted them; they kept their drooping violets at their nostrils and walked uneasily along the foul way.

They caught a glimpse of an object already too familiar to them, the Maypole in the Strand, rising high above the timber fronted houses and gable ends. The great pompous crown and vane and the sumptuous coat of arms above' this Maypole glittered in a stray gleam of sunshine as the girls looked up; a sunset glory for a second flushed the airy clouds and set the Royal Insignia gleaming bravely; their hearts beat quicker, they laughed.

"'Tis the Play house," said Mrs. Needham, and she nodded to a fair portico with pillars and a rabble about them, and two men setting the holders for torches above the pasted play bills.

There was a shop beyond, from the projecting gables hung a large wooden glove; there was a tavern opposite, and from this dangled a gaudy board with the rude painting of Hippo-griffin in scarlet and green.

About the steps of this tavern were loungers with dark clays full of Virginia tobacco, and the girls shrank together again and tried to conceal themselves in the crowd.

A row of real orange wenches had already taken up their station, one either side of the door, and several to wander about and tease the passers-by; they carried their flat baskets under their arms, held on their hips, and shouted lustily, abuse, pleasantries and snatches of ballads of the day, some of which were already familiar enough to the maids of honour.

Marshalling them all was Orange Moll, the dame and ruler of the orange wenches, and seeing her heavy figure with the coarse purple face approach, the two ladies hid their baskets of fruit beneath their cloaks lest they should be called upon to give an account of themselves.

"Lud," whispered Mrs. Needham, "this is like to be a poor frolic—shall we ever pass for one of these hussies? Why they are in rags, ill-washed and foul—"

Indeed, the neat, clean, if rough and homely garb that had seemed such a good disguise in Whitehall, looked ridiculous enough here.

The orange wenches were in rags or the plainest of leather bodices and linen aprons, greasy, torn and begrimed; their heads were uncovered, showing tangled locks bare of ribbons and innocent of comb; many wore neither shoes nor stockings, but carelessly walked the mud and garbage, the litter of orange peel, old play bills, and sooty flakes from torches, while those whose feet were covered, could boast nothing but broken shoes and tattered hose.

And these Hebes of the Play house, these Dryads of the Lane, moved up and down with an assured air, mingling laughter with curses that sounded odd on fresh young lips, and bandying rough jests and even sharp quarrels with the tavern loungers and the link boys who idled round the trim porticoes of the theatre.

"Come forward," urged Mrs. Bagot, "it is a pity to lose the jest when we have come so far—"

And being at heart an impudent and reckless piece, she moved up to the Play house door and established herself inside the portico with an air; Mrs. Needham, giggling, hung somewhat behind.

One orange girl was already in possession of this coveted post, where the gallants might be waylaid and followed with golden fruit thrust into their faces; she was one of the most ragged and dishevelled of these gutter flowers, but young and round, golden with a head of close curls that overflowed on to the prettiest of necks and shoulders that was ever concealed by a torn and dismal shawl.

She sat on the doorstep arranging her fruit with some care in her basket, putting the oranges in rows against the deep green leaves, and seemed too absorbed in this to take any notice of her company, though now and then she deigned a word to her companion, a mongrel dog with a bitten ear and ragged hide that crouched by the basket the little girl (she was small in stature and very young) held on her knee.

As the two maids of honour crept to the other side of the door, the orange wench looked up at them, wrinkled her face with an expression of contempt, and returned to her task.

The two ladies, despising such an antagonist, now boldly exposed their wares, while their bright eyes peered between the pillars of the portico; for the gallants were beginning to arrive and Sedan chairs were being brought cautiously over the puddles and cobbles.

But soon Orange Moll came raging to the Play house entrance.