Chapter 5

_It's near your cue, Mistress Nell!_

The greenroom of the King's House was scarcely a prepossessing place or inviting. A door led to the stage; another to the street. On the remaining doors might have been deciphered from the Old English of a scene-artist's daub "Mistress Gwyn" and "Mr. Hart." These doors led respectively to the tiring-room of the sweet sprite who had but now set the pit wild with a hat over a sparkling eye and to that of the actor-manager of the House. A rough table, a few chairs, a mirror which had evidently seen better days in some grand mansion and a large throne-chair which might equally well have satisfied the royalty of Macbeth or Christopher Sly--its royalty, forsooth, being in its size, for thus only could it lord-it over its mates--stood in the corner. Old armour hung upon the wall, grim in the light of candles fixed in braziers. Rushes were strewn about the floor.

Ah! Pepys, Pepys, was it here that you recalled "specially kissing of Nell"? Mayhap; for we read in your book: "I kissed her, and so did my wife, and a mighty pretty soul she is." Be that as it may, however, you must have found Nell's lips very agreeable; for a great wit has suggested that it was well that Mrs. Pepys was present on the occasion.

On great play-nights, however, this most unroyal room assumed the proportions of royalty. Gallants and even lords sought entrance here and elbowed their way about; and none dared say them nay. They forced a way even upon the stage during the play, though not so commonly as before the Restoration, yet still too much; and the players played as best they could, and where best they could. _Billets-doux_ passed, sweet words were said,--all in this dilapidated, unpretentious, candle-lighted room.

At the moment of which we speak, the greenroom was deserted save for a lad of twelve or fourteen years, who stood before the mirror, posing to his personal satisfaction and occasionally delivering bits from "Hamlet." He was none other than "Dick," the call-boy of the King's House.

The lad struck a final attitude, his brow clouded. He assumed what seemed to him the proper pose for the royal Dane. His meditations and his pose, however, were broken in upon by the sudden entrance of Manager Hart, flushed and in an unusual state of excitement.

"Where is my dagger, Dick?" he exclaimed, pacing the room.

The boy came to himself but slowly.

"What are you doing? Get my dagger, boy," wildly reiterated the irate manager. "Don't you see there will be a stage-wait?" He cast an anxious glance in the direction of the door which led to the stage.

"Where did you leave it, sir?" asked the lad, finally realizing that it would be wise not to trifle at such a time.

"Never mind where I left it. Get it, get it; do you hear! Nell's on the stage already." Hart rushed to the door and looked off in an increasing state of excitement.

"Why, you've got your dagger on, sir," hesitatingly suggested the lad, as he caught the gleam of a small scimiter among the folds of Almanzor's tunic.

Hart's face flushed.

"Devil take you, boy," he exclaimed; "you are too stupid ever to make an actor!"

With this speech, the manager strode out of the greenroom toward the stage.

Poor Dick sank back in an attitude of resignation. "How long, O Rome, must I endure this bondage?" he said, sadly.

He again observed his boyish figure in the mirror, and the pretty face brightened as he realized that there might still be hope in life, despite Manager Hart's assertion that he would never be able to act. His features slowly sank into a set expression of tremendous gloom, such as he thought should characterize his conception of himself as Hamlet when in days to come the mantles of Burbage and of Betterton should be his and Manager Hart must bow to him. He stood transfixed before the glass in a day-dream, forgetful of his ills. His pretty lips moved, and one close by might have heard again, "To be or not to be" in well-modulated phrase.

"Ah, boy; here!"

Dick started.

It was a richly dressed gallant, in old-rose with royal orders, who had entered the room quietly but authoritatively from the street--the same lordly personage we observed in the pit. His manner was that of one accustomed to be obeyed and quickly too. The lad knew him and bowed low.

"Tell Mistress Nell, Buckingham would speak with her. Lively, lad; lively," he said.

"She is on the stage, my lord," replied Dick, respectfully.

"Gad, I thought otherwise and stepped about from my box. Here; put these flowers in her tiring-room."

The boy took the beautiful bouquet of white roses. "Yes, my lord," he replied, and turned to do the bidding.

"Flowers strewn in ladies' ways oft' lead to princely favours," muttered his lordship, thoughtfully, as he removed his gloves and vainly adjusted his hat and sword. "Portsmouth at Dover told me that."

It was apparent from his face that much passed before his mind, in that little second, of days when, at Dover Castle not long since, he had been a part--and no small part--of the intrigue well planned by Louis of France, and well executed by the Duchess of Orleans assisted by the fair Louise, now Duchess of Portsmouth, in which his own purse and power had waxed mightily. Whatever his lordship thought, however, it was gone like the panorama before a drowning brain.

He stopped the lad as he was entering Nell's tiring-room, with an exclamation. The boy returned.

"You gave Mistress Nell my note bidding her to supper?" he asked, questioningly.

"I did, my lord," answered Dick.

"'Sheart, a madrigal worthy of Bacchus! She smiled delightedly?" continued his lordship, in a jocular mood.

"No, my lord; quite serious."

His lordship's face changed slightly. "Read it eagerly?" he ventured, where he might have commanded, further to draw out the lad.

"Yes, my lord," added Dick, respectfully, "after a time." The boy's lids dropped to avoid revealing his amused recollection of the incident; and his lordship's quick eye noted it.

"Good!" he exclaimed, with an assumed triumphant air. "She folded it carefully and placed it in her bosom next her heart?"

"She threw it on the floor, my lord!" meekly answered Dick, hiding his face in the flowers to avoid revealing disrespect.

"My _billet-doux_ upon the floor!" angrily exclaimed his lordship. "Plague on't, she said something, made some answer, boy?" The diplomat was growing earnest despite himself, as diplomats often do in the cause of women.

Dick trembled.

"She said your dinners made amends for your company, my lord," he said, meekly.

Buckingham's eyes snapped; but he was too clever to reveal his feelings further to a call-boy, whom he dismissed with a wave of the hand. He then swaggered to the table and complacently exclaimed: "The rogue! Nelly, Nelly, your lips shall pay tribute for that. Rosy impudence! Buckingham's dinners make amends for his company? Minx!" He threw himself into a chair, filled with deep reflections of supper and wine, wit and beauty, rather than state-craft.

Thus lost in selfish reflection, he did not observe, or, if he did, cared not for, the frail figure and sweet face of one who cautiously tiptoed into the greenroom. It was Orange Moll, whose sad countenance and tattered garments betokened a sadder story. Her place was in the pit, with her back to the stage, vending her oranges to artisans, girls with vizards or foolish gallants. She had no right behind the scenes.

"I am 'most afraid to enter here without Nell," she thought, faint-heartedly, as she glanced about the room and her eyes fell upon the great Lord Buckingham.

"Oranges? Will you have my oranges? Only sixpence, my lord," she ventured at length, then hesitatingly advanced and offered her wares; but his lordship's thoughts were far away.

"What shall we have for supper?" was his sole concern. "I think Nelly would like spiced tongue." Instantly his hands and eyes were raised in mock invocation of the intervention of the Powers that Be, and so suddenly that Moll drew back. "Ye Gods," he exclaimed aloud, "she has enough of that already! Ah, the vintage of----"

It was more habit than courage which brought to Moll's trembling lips the familiar orange-cry, which again interrupted him: "Oranges; only sixpence. Here is one picked for you, my lord."

Buckingham's eyes flashed with anger; he was not wont to have his way, much less his pleasure, disturbed by the lowly. "Oh, hang you, you disturb me. I am thinking; don't you perceive I am thinking? Begone!"

"Only sixpence, my lord; I have not sold one to-night," pleaded the girl, sadly.

His lordship rose irritably. "I have no pauper's pence," he exclaimed. "Out of my way! Ragbag!" He pushed the girl roughly aside and crossed the room.

At the same instant, there was confusion at the stage-door, the climax of which was the re-entrance of Hart into the greenroom.

"How can a man play when he trembles for his life lest he step upon a lord?" cried the angry manager. "They should be horsewhipped off the stage, and"--his eyes falling upon Buckingham--"out of the greenroom."

"Ah, Hart," began his lordship, with a patronizing air, "why is Nelly so long? I desire to see her."

Hart's lips trembled, but he controlled his passion. "Indeed? His Majesty and the good folk in front would doubtless gladly await your interview with Mistress Eleanor Gwyn. Shall I announce your will, my lord, unto his Majesty and stop the play?"

"You grow ironical, friend Hart," replied his lordship.

"Not so," said the actor, bowing low; "I am your lordship's most obedient servant."

Buckingham's lip curled and his eyes revealed that he would have said more, but the room was meantime filling with players from the stage, some exchanging compliments, some strutting before the glass, and he would not so degrade his dignity before them. Dick, foil in hand even in the manager's room, was testing the steel's strength to his utmost, in boyish fashion.

This confusion lent Moll courage, and forth came again the cry: "Oranges? Will you have my oranges? Only sixpence, sir."

She boldly offered her wares to Almanzor, but started and paled when the hero turned and revealed Manager Hart.

"What are you doing here, you little imp? Back to the pit, where you belong." The manager's voice was full of meaning.

"Nell told me I might come here, sir," said the girl, faintly excusing herself.

Hart's temper got the better of him. To admit before all that Nell ruled the theatre was an affront to his managerial dignity which he could not brook.

"Oh, Nell did, did she?" he almost shrieked, as he angrily paced the room like some caged beast, gesticulating wildly.

The actors gathered in groups and looked askant.

"Gadso," he continued, "who is manager, I should like to know! Nell would introduce her whole trade here if she could. Every orange-peddler in London will set up a stand in the greenroom at the King's, next we know. Out with you! This is a temple of art, not a marketplace. Out with you!"

He seized Moll roughly in his anger and almost hurled her out at the door. He would have done so, indeed, had not Nell entered at this moment from the stage. Her eye caught the situation at a glance.

"Oh, blood, Iago, blood!" she exclaimed, mock-heroically, then burst into the merriest laugh that one could care to hear. "How now, a tragedy in the greenroom! What lamb is being sacrificed?"

Hart stood confused; the players whispered in expectation; and an amused smile played upon the features of my Lord Buckingham at the manager's discomfiture. Finally Hart found his tongue.

"An old comrade of yours at orange-vending before you lost the art of acting," he suggested, with a glance at Moll.