Part 2

“That's what I mean,” she cried, tilting up her toes until they were on a level with his knees. “What else could I mean than that I'm already sufficiently shod? Even Nell Gwyn can't wear more than one pair of shoes at a time, Dick. It's rather a pity, but 't is an ill that must be borne. Now tell us all about yourself, Dick. Tell us how you fought with pirates and buccaneers--never mind telling how you made a fortune in pieces of eight: there's no romance about making a fortune--tell us about the pirates, and above all, tell us what the Spanish Main is.”

“The Spanish Main--why, it's the Spanish Main, to be sure--south of the Indies--a good place for trade, and a good place for pirates. But you, Nell; I wonder if you meant anything by saying that I had come back too late? I thought, you know, when I met your mother----”

“Oh, I want to hear about the fighting--the buccaneers! I do n't want to hear about my mother; I hear enough about her. You fought the pirates? Well, next to being a pirate yourself, that's the best thing.”

“Well, if you must know, I got about me a few score of lads--most of them were stout Irish lads who were sold to the plantations by Cromwell.”

“The monster!”

“Ay, we made up a brave crew, I can tell you. Our plan was to do no pirating on our own behalf, but only to attack the pirates when they had a deck-load of spoil. Taking from thieves is n't stealing, is it, Nell?”

“No; that's business.”

“A bit irregular, it may be, as I said just now; but bless you, Nelly, it was like sermon-preaching compared to some sorts of business that thrive mightily at the Indies. Anyhow, here I am to-day, sound and hearty, Nell, with a pretty nice fortune made already, and more to come--here I am, ready and willing to buy you the best pair of shoes in London town, and every other article of attire you may need for the next dozen--ay, the next fifty years.”

“Dick--Dick!”

“Is n't it true that you were always my sweetheart, Nell? Didn't you say that you would never marry another? Well, you've kept your word so far--your mother told me that.”

“Ah, that's the worst of it.”

“The worst of it! That's the best of it, Nelly; for though a fine lady, living in a mansion like this--why, it might be a palace--the King himself might come here-----”

“The King--you've heard that--that the King?”

She grasped him fiercely by the sleeve, and was eagerly peering into his face.

He burst out laughing, but suddenly checked himself.

“The King--the King--what was there for me to hear?” he asked in a low voice. “I only arrived from Bristol port in the morning. How could I hear anything?”

“I do n't want to hear anything, except to hear you say that you have n't broken your promise--that you have n't married any one else.”

“Oh, go away, Dick--go away!” she cried, burying her face on the arm of the settee.

He got upon his feet slowly and painfully, and stood over her.

“Why should I go away?” he asked, in the same grave voice. “If I love you--and you know I do--and if you love me--and I believe that you do--it is not for me to go away. Ah, is it possible that you have given your promise to marry some one else? Do n't weep, Nell; that's it, I see, and it can be made all right. Is that it, dear?”

“No, no. Oh, go away--go away, and never return to make me feel how miserable I am!”

“I'll not go away. There's some mystery about you and this house, and I'll not go before I fathom it.”

She looked up and saw him standing there with his arms folded.

She leaped up so quickly that she almost seemed to spring into his arms. He thought so, at any rate, and was about to clasp her when she caught both of his hands in her own, gazing tearfully--eagerly--wistfully, into his face.

“Dick--dear Dick,” she said; “if you love me still--and I know you do--you will leave me now. Oh, you should never have come here--I did not mean you to come; but if you love me, Dick, you will leave me now--leave me and go into the nearest coffee-house, and ask of the first man you see there who is Nell Gwyn? What is Nell Gwyn? If you return to me after that, then--then, Dick, I swear to you that I'll marry you; there will be none to stay us then, none to come between--the King himself shall not come between us.”

He gripped her hands fiercely, his face close down to hers.

“By God, I 'll do it!” he said, through his set teeth. “I'll do it. You have put it upon me. I know that I shall hear nothing but what is good of you, and I'll return to claim you, as sure as there's a sun in heaven.”

He dropped her hands, snatched up his hat, and walked firmly to the door. When there, he turned slowly and looked back at her. She was standing pale and lovely where he had left her. Her eyes were upon his face.

He flung himself through the door, and she fell on her knees beside the settee, burying her face in one of its cushions.

For some minutes, nothing was heard in the room but the sound of her sobs; but then the silence was broken by a shout outside--a shout and the noise of a scuffle. Cries of “Hold him back! Hold him back!” came from the servants, and mixed with some full-bodied imprecations in other voices. Nell started to her feet, as the door of the room was all but crashed in, and she was standing with a startled look on her face, as the door was flung wide open, and Dick Harraden hurled a limp antagonist into the room.

“He shall eat his words--every foul word he uttered he shall swallow in the presence of Nell herself,” cried Dick, and then Nell recognised Sir Charles Sedley as the man who was standing panting, with a broken sword in his hand, by her side, facing Dick.

“For God's sake, Dick!--Sir Charles--what has happened?”

The courtier was too breathless to speak--he signified so much very pleasingly to Nell.

“The cowardly knave!” panted Dick. “But I swore that I'd make him eat his words, and by the Lord Harry, I'll keep my oath!”

“Sir Charles, pray--oh, Dick!”

“Dick me no Dicks, Nell, until this popinjay has gone down on his knees before you and asked your pardon for his foul words,” cried Dick. “Down you go, my gentleman, were you fifty times Sir Charles.”

“For heaven's sake, Nell, keep that fire-eater at a distance,” gasped Sir Charles; “he's fit for Bedlam!”

“Stand where you be, Dick,” said Nell. “What said Sir Charles Sedley to give you offence?”

“He said that you--no, I 'll hang in chains in Execution Dock before I repeat the lie--but he'll take it back, every word, if I have to wring his neck!”

Dick was with difficulty kept at a distance.

“Did he say aught about the King and me?” asked Nell, in a low voice.

“It was, I swear, a most unhappy _contretems_, Nell,” said Sir Charles, smiling in a somewhat constrained way. “How could I know that there was one man in England who did n't know how splendid, yet how natural, a conquest the charms of Mistress Eleanor Gwyn have achieved?”

“Then you only spoke the truth, Sir Charles,” said Nell. “God above us!”

Dick staggered back, and grasped the frame of a chair to support himself. There was a long silence.

He took a faltering step or two towards where she stood in the middle of the room.

“I see it all now,” he said, in a low voice. “I see it all. This house--the lacqueys in scarlet--the King's servants--they are the King's servants, and you--you, Nell, are the King's----Oh, God! let me die--let me die! This is what I came home for! You told me to go to the first coffee-house; I did n't need to go so far. Oh, Nelly, if I had come home to stand beside the green hillock of your grave I could have borne it, but this--this!”

He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. His sobbing was the only sound in the room.

After a long pause he got slowly upon his feet.

“I'm going away,” he said. “My heart is broken, Nell--my heart is broken. Good-bye, Nell.”

“Good-bye, Dick.”

She had not moved from the middle of the room. She did not hold out a hand to him. He walked slowly to the door. Then he turned round.

“I humbly ask your pardon, sir,” he said to Sir Charles.

“Sir,” said the courtier, “I honour you more than any living man.”

“Nell--Nell--come to me--come away with me--come to my arms, Nell,” cried the man, holding out his hands to her from where she stood.

Sir Charles watched her face. He saw it light up for a moment. Her hands moved; she was going to him.

No, she only looked at the man who loved her and was ready to offer her everything, and said:

“Dick, I have a boy in a cradle upstairs.”

There was another long pause before Dick whispered the words: “God bless thee, Nell,” Then the door was flung wide in his face by a lacquey, who bowed to the ground as he ushered in a rather plainfaced man wearing a diamond star and a broad blue sash, as well as a diamond garter.

Nell sank in a courtesy, and Sir Charles Sedley made an obeisance. Dick remained unmoved.

“Ha! what have we here?” said the stranger. “'Odsfish! a pretty family picture! Who may you be, good sir?” he asked of Dick.

“Who may _you_ be?” asked Dick.

“Well, who I may be in a year or two, the Lord and Nelly only knows--she says a merry pauper. But who I am is easier said; I happen just now to be the King.”

Dick stood unmoved.

“Then I could tell you _what_ you are, sir,' said Dick.

“Not half as well as I could tell you, my friend,” said the King.

“I wonder if your Majesty ever hears the truth?” said Dick.

“Seldom; any time I do, it comes from the lips of Nelly, yonder,” replied the King. “And by my soul, sir, I would rather hear the truth from Nelly, than a lie from the most honourable of my subjects.”

“Profligate!” cried Dick.

“I answer to that name, sir; what then?” said the King.

“What then? God only can reply to your 'what then?' The answer rests with Him. He will not forget to answer you when His time comes.”

“Even so,” said the King, in a low tone, bending his head.

Sir Charles had moved round the settee, and had opened the door. He touched Dick on the elbow. Dick started for a moment and then stalked through the door. Sir Charles went out with his face turned towards the King.

“A straightforward fellow, but as conceited as a Puritan, Nell,” cried the King, with a laugh. “What brought him here?” But Nell had sunk once more on her knees beside the settee, and her face was, as before, buried in the cushion.

“Ha, what's this, Nelly? What's amiss?” said the King, bending over her.

“Oh, go away--go away! I never want to see you again. You heard the word, profligate, profligate!”

“I'll go away, Nell, so soon as I pass to you the two papers which I hold in my hand.”

“I want no papers; I want to be alone.”

“Come, dear child; see if you will like your new plaything.”

He pushed before her one of the two papers which he held.

She glanced at it without rising, and without taking it from him. Suddenly she put out a hand to it.

“What?” she cried. She was now on her feet. “You have done it for me--all for me? The hospital to be built at Chelsea! Oh, my liege!”

“Now the other paper,” said the King.

She took it from him.

“Ah, Royal Letters Patent--our boy--our Charlie--Duke of St. Albans! Oh, my liege--my King--my love forever!” She sank on her knees, and, catching his hand, covered it with kisses--with kisses and tears.

KITTY CLIVE, ACTRESS

At the King's Head Inn at Thatcham on the Bath Road a post chaise drew up, but with no great flourish, for the postilion knew that his only passenger was a lady, and he had no intention of pulling his horses on their haunches merely for the sake of impressing a lady. In his youth he had made many flourishes of such a type, but had failed to win an extra crown from a traveller of this sex.

The groom, who advanced with some degree of briskness from the stable-yard, became more languid in his movements when he perceived that only a lady was descending from the chaise. He knew that briskness on the part of a groom never caused a coin to spring from the purse of a lady. The landlord, however, taking a more hopeful view of the harvest prospects of the solitary lady as a guest--he had lived in London, and had heard of assignations in which the (temporarily) solitary lady became a source of profit to the inn-keeper--made a pretence of bustling out to assist the occupant of the chaise to alight, bowing elaborately when he perceived that the lining of her travel-ling-cloak was of quilted silk, and once again as she tripped very daintily over the cobble-stones in front of the King's Head, and smiled very bewitchingly within the satin frame of her hood. The landlord had a notion that he had seen her face and her smile before. He carried with him the recollection of a good many faces and smiles within the frame-work of quilted satin hoods.

“Madam, you honour my poor house,” he said in his best London manner as the lady passed through the porch. “'T is rarely that a person of your ladyship's quality--”

“Spare us good lord--good landlord,” cried the lady in an accent that had a certain amount of Hibernian persuasiveness about it. “Spare us your remarks about our quality.'T is two horses and not four that brought me hither. It's of your quality, sir, that I'd fain have a taste. If I do n't have breakfast within an hour, I honestly believe that my death will be at your door, and where will your compliments be then, my good man?”

“Your ladyship is pleased to be facetious,” said the landlord, throwing open the door of the public room with as great a flourish as if he were giving admittance to sixty-foot _salle_, instead of a twenty-foot inn parlour. He looked closely at his visitor as she passed through: her voice sounded strangely familiar to him. “'T is a poor room for one, who, I doubt not, is no stranger to the noblest mansions,” he added.

“There's no one better accustomed to the noblest mansions than myself,” said the lady, going to the looking-glass that occupied a place in a panel between the windows, throwing back her hood, and then arranging her hair.

“Yes, faith, many's the palace I've lived in--for the space of half an hour at a time--but I make no objections to the room I 'm in just now. See the pictures!” She raised her hands in an attitude of surprise and admiration, so well simulated as to deceive the landlord, though he had lived in London.

“Pictures! Oh, the grandeur of it all! And what about breakfast? Give us your notions of the proper decorations of a breakfast-table, good sir. It's a picture of rashers that I've got my heart set on.”

“The best breakfast that my poor house can afford your ladyship shall be prepared.”

“And soon, good Mr. Landlord, I implore of you, sir. Breakfast for two.”

“For two, madam!” The landlord began to feel that his experience of assignations was about to be augmented.

“For two, sir--I look for my brother to arrive by the coach from Levizes. If he should enquire for me at the bar, just show him in here.”

“Your commands shall be obeyed, madam. Will he enquire for your ladyship by name?”

“By name? Why, how else would you have him enquire, my good man? Do you fancy that he carries a Bow Street runner's description of so humble a person as myself?”

“Nay, madam; but you see your name is just what I have n't yet had the honour of learning.”

The lady burst out laughing.

“Faith, good sir, my name is a somewhat important detail in the transaction I speak of. The gentleman will ask for Mistress Clive.”

“Ah,” cried the landlord, “I could have sworn that I knew the face and the voice, but I failed to think of them in connection with our Kitty.” He checked himself in his cackle of laughter, and bowed in his best style. “Madam, I implore your pardon, but--oh lord! how I've laughed in the old days at Kitty's pranks!--nay, madam, forgive my familiarity. I am your servant. Oh, lord! to think that it's Kitty Clive herself--our Kitty--madam--”

Only when he had fled to the door and had opened it did the man recover himself sufficiently to be able to repeat his bow. After he had disappeared at the other side of the door, the lady heard his outburst of laughter once again. It grew fainter as he hurried off to (she hoped) the kitchen.

Kitty Clive laughed, also, as she seated herself carefully on the settle, for it was a piece of furniture whose cushions required to be tenderly treated.

“And this is real fame,” she murmured. “To be 'our Kitty' to a hundred thousand men and women is my ambition--a laudable one, too, I swear--one worth struggling for--worth fighting Davy for, and Davy Garrick takes a deal of fighting. He has got more of it from Kitty Clive than he bargained for.”

The recollection of her constant bickerings with David Garrick seemed to offer her a good deal of satisfaction. It is doubtful if David Garrick's recollection of the same incidents would have been equally pleasing to him; for Kitty Clive was very annoying, especially when she got the better of her manager in any matter upon which he tried to get the better of her, and those occasions were frequent.

She remained on the settle smiling now and again, and giving a laugh at intervals as she thought of how she had worsted David, as his namesake had worsted the champion of Gath. But soon she became grave.

“I should be ashamed of myself,” she muttered. “David Garrick is the only one of the whole crew at the Lane that never varies. He 's the only one that 's always at his best. God forgive me for the way. I sometimes try to spoil his scenes, for he 's worth Quinn, Macklin, and Barry bound up in one; only why does he keep his purse-strings so close? Ah, if he only had a pint of Irish blood in his veins.”

She yawned, for her contests with Garrick did not cause her any great concern; and then she tucked up her feet upon the settle and hummed an air from the _Beggars' Opera_. Hearing the sound of wheels she paused, listening.

“Sure it can't be the coach with my brother yet awhile,” said she. “Ah, no, 't is the sound of a chaise, not a coach.” She resumed her lilting of the air; but once again it was interrupted. Just outside the door of the room there was the sound of an altercation. The voice of the landlord was heard, apparently remonstrating with a very self-assertive person.

“I know my rights, sir, let me tell you,” this person shouted. “Lady me no ladies, sir; I have a right to enter the room--'t is a public room. Zounds, sir, cannot you perceive that I am a gentleman, if I am an actor?”

“I'll dare swear he could n't,” muttered Mrs. Clive.

“Nay, sir, you shall not intrude on the privacy of a lady,” came the voice of the landlord.

“Out of the way, sirrah,” the other cried, and at the same moment the door was flung open, and a tall young man wearing a travelling cloak and boots strode into the room followed by the landlord, at whom he turned scowling at every step.

“Madam, I give you my word that I am not to blame; the gentleman would come in,” cried the landlord.

“That will do, sir,” said the stranger. “I myself will make whatever apology may be needed. I flatter myself that I have had to make many apologies before now.”

“Madam,” continued the landlord, “I told him that you--”

“That will do, Boniface!” cried the other, standing between the landlord and Mrs. Clive, who had risen. Then giving a smirk and a flourishing bow, he said: “Madam, you look to be a sensible woman.”

“I vow, sir,” said Kitty, “I have never been accused of being sensible before. If you cannot pay a woman a better compliment than to call her sensible, you would be wise to refrain from the attempt to flatter her.”

The pause that followed was broken by the self-satisfied chuckle of the landlord. He seemed to take credit to himself for Kitty's sally. He looked at the stranger, then at the lady; his face puckered with a smile. Then he walked to the door, and gave another chuckle as he glanced round with his hand on the door.

“Mistress Kitty has taken the measure of my fine gentleman,” he muttered, with a shrewd wink; “there's no need for me here.”

His chuckle broadened into a guffaw as he went down the passage, having closed the door.

“Pray, madam, be not offended,” the man who was facing Kitty managed to say, after an interval. “If I called you sensible, I most humbly apologise. No offence was meant, madam.”

“I believe that, sir; but no woman likes to be called sensible. You may call one a silly piece, a romp, or a heartless coquette without offence; but never a sensible woman.”

“I forgot myself for the moment, madam, owing to the treatment I received at the hands of that bumpkin Boniface. I am, in what is doubtless your condition--awaiting the coach, and I objected to be relegated to the kitchen.”

“Faith, sir,” said Kitty, with a laugh, as she returned to the settle, “I have passed some pleasant enough hours in a kitchen.”

“And so have I, madam, when the wenches were well favoured,” said the man, assuming the sly look of a man who had seen life. [Men who fancied they knew the world were as plentiful in the last century as they are in the present.] “Yes, madam; but then I went into the kitchen by choice, not on compulsion.”

“Maybe you left on compulsion; kitchen wenches have strong arms, sir,” remarked Kitty.

“Nay, nay, madam, Jack Bates--my name, madam--has always been a favourite with the wenches.”

“The kitchen wenches?”

“Zounds, madam, a wench is a wench, whether in the kitchen or the parlour, Oh, I know woman thoroughly: I have studied her. Woman is a delightful branch of education.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Kitty, sinking in a curtesy with the look of mock demureness with which she was accustomed to fascinate her audiences at Drury Lane.

Mr. Bates was fascinated by that look. He smiled good-naturedly, waving his hat as if to deprecate the suggestion that he meant to be a gay dog.

“Nay, be not fluttered, fair one,” he cried with a smirk. “I protest that I am a gentleman.”

“Oh, I breathe again,” said Kitty, rising to the surface, so to speak, after her curtesy, “A gentleman? I should never have guessed it. I fancied I heard you assert that you were an actor--just the opposite, you know.”

“So I am, madam. I am an actor,” said Mr. Bates. Sharp though Kitty's sarcasm was, it glanced off him.

Kitty assumed a puzzled look. Then she pretended that his meaning had dawned on her.

“Oh, I see; you mean, sir, that you are the actor of the part of a gentleman. Faith, sir, the part might have been better cast.”

“I hope that I am a gentleman first, and an actor afterwards, madam,” said Mr. Bates, with some measure of dignity.

“In that case, I presume you were appearing in the former _rôle_ before you arrived at the inn,” said Kitty, whose sarcasm was at no time deficient in breadth.

Even Mr. Bates was beginning to appreciate her last sally, when she added, “I do not remember having seen your name in a bill of any of the London playhouses, Mr. Bates.”

“I have never appeared in London, madam,” said Mr. Bates, “and, so far as I can gather, I have not lost much by remaining in the country.”

“Nay, but think what the playgoers of London have lost, Mr. Bates,” said Kitty solemnly.

“I do think of it,” cried the man. “Yes, I swear to you that I do. When I hear of the upstarts now in vogue I feel tempted sometimes to put my pride in my pocket and appear in London.”

“Before starting in London, a person needs to have his pockets full of something besides pride,” said Kitty. “There are other ways of making a fortune besides appearing on the London stage. Why should men come to London to act when they may become highwaymen in the country--ay, or inn-keepers--another branch of the same profession?”

“It is clear, madam, that you have no high opinion of the stage. To let you into a secret--neither have I.” Mr. Bates' voice sank to a whisper, and he gave a confidential wink or two while making this confession.

Kitty was now truly surprised. Most actors of the stamp of Mr. Bates, whom she had met, had a profound belief in the art of acting, and particularly in themselves as exponents of that art.