Madam Gwyn was crying noisily; outside in the streets the merrymaking continued, and Nell lay wide-eyed yet dreaming—dreaming that some miraculous fate took her from her mother’s bawdy-house in Cole-yard and she became a lady in a gown of scarlet velvet and silver lace.

Nell stood watching the builders on that plot of land between Drury Lane and Bridge Street.

Will was with her. Will knew most things that went on in the city.

“You know what they’re building here, Nelly?” he said. “A theater.”

“A theater!” Nell’s eyes sparkled. She had been to the play once in Gibbon’s Tennis Court in Vere Street. It had been an experience she had never forgotten, and swore she never would. When she had left the place the enchantment had lingered and, having memorized most of the attractive roles, she had continued to play them out ever since, partly for the benefit of any who would listen and watch, chiefly for her own satisfaction.

What more exciting than to prance on a stage, to have all the people in the theater watching you, to hear them laugh at your wit, always knowing that their amusement might as easily turn to scorn. Yes, those laughs, those tender languishing glances from young gallants, might easily be replaced by bad eggs or offal, filth picked up in the streets. Nell’s eyes sparkled still more as she thought of what she’d have to say to any who dared insult her.

And now they were building a new theater. Because, said Will, the King cared greatly for the theater and actors; he liked men who could make him laugh, and actors who could divert him with their play.

Gibbon’s Tennis Court was no longer considered good enough for a King’s Theater, and this was to be built. So Will had heard two gentlemen say, when he had lighted them across the road. It was going to cost the vast and almost unbelievable sum of one thousand five hundred pounds. “Mr. Killigrew is making all arrangements,” added Will.

“Mr. Killigrew!” said Nell, and she laughed loudly. Rose had a new lover. He was a gentleman of high degree and his name was Killigrew—Henry Killigrew. He was employed by the Duke of York, the King’s brother; but, more important still, he was the son of the great Thomas Killigrew, friend of the King, Groom of the King’s Bedchamber and Master of the King’s Theater. It was this great Thomas Killigrew who was responsible for the building of the new theater, and the fact that Rose’s lover was his son gave Rose added luster in Nell’s eyes.

She could scarcely wait to reach home and tell Rose what she had discovered, so bade a hasty farewell to Will, who looked hurt. Poor Will, he should be accustomed to her by now. Will was fond of her; he was afraid that one day her mother would succeed in making her work in the house as Rose worked, even though Nell was determined not to. Nell had her eyes on another life. It was not like her to be secretive, but this she kept to herself. She had started to dream ever since she had watched the King ride into his capital and had seen the fine ladies in their silks and velvets. She had wanted to be as they were and, perhaps because she knew that the nearest she could get to being a lady of quality was to act the part—and this she believed she could do so that none would know her home was a bawdy-house in Cole-yard—she had made up her mind to be an actress.

When she arrived at the house she realized with dismay that soon the gentlemen would be crowding into the cellar, and she would be running from table to table serving brandy, wine or ale, avoiding the hands that now and then sought to catch her, making use of her nimble feet either to kick or to run, and scowling—squinting too—to distort her pretty face.

She went to the room where the girls sat when they were not in the cellar. Rose was there alone.

Nell cried: “Rose, they’re building a theater by Drury Lane and Bridge Street.”

“I know,” said Rose, smiling secretly. He told her, thought Nell.

“It’s Henry’s father, who is the King’s Theater Master,” said Nell. “He is having this done.”

“’Tis so,” said Rose.

“Does he talk to you of the theater, Rose?”

Rose shook her head. “We don’t have time for talking much,” she said demurely.

Nell began to jig round the room. Rose looked at her intently. “Nelly,” she said, “you’re growing up.” Nell stood still, some of the color drained from her face. “And … in your way …” said Rose, “you’re a pretty wench.”

The horror had frozen on Nell’s face. “Mayhap,” went on Rose, “you would miss my luck. ’Tis not every girl from Cole-yard who could find herself a gentleman.”

“That’s so,” agreed Nell.

“You love the theater, do you not? You would like to go often. Why, I’ll never forget the way you were when you came home after seeing the players—nearly driving us all crazy and making us die of laughing. Nell, how would you like to be in the theater while the players act?”

“Rose … what do you mean? Rosy, Rosy, tell me…. Tell me quickly or I’ll die of despair.”

“That’s one thing you’d never die of. Listen to me: I know this, for Henry told me. The King’s company have granted to Mrs. Mary Meggs the right to sell oranges, lemons, fruit, sweetmeats, and all manner of fruiterers’ and confectioners’ wares. That will be when the new theater opens. Oh, it’s going to be such a place, Nelly!”

“Tell me … tell me about Mary Meggs.”

“Well, she will need girls to help her sell her wares, that is all, Nelly.”

“And you mean … that I …”

Rose nodded. “I told Harry about you. He laughed fit to die when I told him how you squinted for fear the gentlemen should be after you. He said he had a mind to try you himself. But he did not mean that,” added Rose complacently. “I told him how you wanted to be in the playhouse all the time, and he said, ‘Why, she’d make one of Orange Moll’s girls.’ Then he told me about Mary Meggs and how she wanted three or four girls to stand there in the pit and chivy the gentlemen into buying China oranges.”

Nell clasped her hands together and smiled ecstatically at her sister. “And I am to do this?”

“I know not. You go too fast. Did you not always? If Mary Meggs makes up her mind that you will suit her, and if she has not already found her girls … well then, doubtless you will serve.”

“Take me to her. Take me to her now. I must see Mary Meggs. I must! I must!”

“There is one thing you must not do—and that is squint. Mary Meggs wants pretty girls in the pit. No gentleman would pay sixpence for a China orange to a girl who squints.”

“I shall smile … and smile … and smile….”

“Nell, Nell, don’t smile so downstairs, or you’ll look too pretty.”

“Nay,” said Nell. “I shall look like this as I serve the waters.” She made a hideous grimace, squinting diabolically, puffing down her lids with her fingers, and drawing her mouth into a snarl.

Rose doubled up with laughter. Rose laughed easily nowadays. That was because she was thinking of her lover, Harry Killigrew. Life was wonderful, Nell decided; one never knew what was coming. Poor Rose had been frightened of the cellar and the gentlemen, and now that work had brought her Harry Killigrew; and his connection with the King’s players was to give Nell an introduction to Orange Moll Meggs and bring her near to her heart’s desire.

Rose was sober suddenly. “There is no need for you to hurry to Mary Meggs. Harry will say: ‘Mrs. Nelly is to sell oranges in the King’s Theater because Mrs. Nelly is the sister of my Rose.’”

Nell flung herself into her sister’s arms, and they laughed together as they had often laughed in the past, laughed for happiness and relief, which, Nell had said, were so much more worth laughing for than a witty word.

Henry Killigrew did not come to the cellar that night. Rose was always anxious when he did not come. Nell was anxious now. What if he never came again? What if he forgot all about Rose and her sister Nell? What if he did not realize how vitally important it was that Nell Gwyn should become one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls?

Nell moved among the gentlemen with an abstracted look, but she was ever ready to elude their straying hands. She was sorry for poor Rose; for if her lover did not come, Rose would be forced to take another, provided he would pay the price her mother demanded.

Rose was no longer indifferent, because Rose was in love. It was as important now for Rose to elude those straying hands as it was for Nell to do so.

Nell felt sudden anger against a world which had nothing better than this to offer a girl, when others—such as those ladies in velvet and cloth of gold and silver—whom she had seen about the King on his triumphal entry into his Capital, had so much. But almost immediately she was resigned. Rose had her lover, and those ladies riding with the King had not seemed more radiant than Rose when she had been going to meet Henry Killigrew; and when she, Nell, was one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls she would know greater happiness than any of those women could possibly know.

Now her eyes went to Rose. A fat man with grease on his clothes—doubtless a flesh-merchant from East Cheap—was beckoning to her, and Rose must perforce go and sit at his table.

Nell watched. She saw the big hands touching Rose, saw Rose recoiling with horror, her eyes piteously fixed on the door, waiting for the entry of her lover.

Nell heard her say: “No … No. It is not possible. I have a gentleman waiting for me.”

The flesh-merchant from East Cheap stood up and kicked the stool on which he had been sitting across the cellar. Others watched, eyes alert with interest. This was what they liked—a brawl in a bawdy-house when they could throw bottles at one another, wreck the place, and enjoy good sport.

Madam Gwyn had come from her corner like an angry spider. She raised her slurring gin-cracked voice. “What ails you, my fine gentleman? What do you find in my house not to your liking?”

“This slut!” shouted the flesh-merchant.

“Why, that’s Mrs. Rose … the prettiest of my girls … Now, Mrs. Rose, what has gone wrong here? You drop a curtsy to the fine gentleman and tell him you await his pleasure.”

The flesh-merchant watched Rose and his little eyes were cruel.

“He’s planning to hurt her,” shouted Nell in panic.

Rose cried: “I cannot. I am ill. Let me go. There is a gentleman waiting for me.”

Rose’s mother took her by the arm and pushed her towards the flesh-merchant, who gripped her and held her to him for a few seconds; then he was roaring with rage, shouting at the top of his voice. “I see it now. She has my purse, the slut!”

He was holding a purse above his head. Rose had stepped back, staring at the purse with fascinated eyes.

“Where did you … find that?” she asked.

“Inside your bodice, girl. Where you put it.”

“’Tis a lie,” said Rose. “I never saw it before.”

He had caught at the drapery at Rose’s neck, cut low to show her pretty bosom. He tore the charming dress which was a present from her lover.

“Lying slut!” cried the merchant. “Thieving whore!” He appealed to others sitting at the tables. “Must we endure this treatment? ’Tis time we taught these bawds a lesson.”

He kicked the table; it was cheap and fragile, and it was smashed against the wall.

“I pray you, good sir,” soothed Madam Gwyn, “I pray you curb your anger against Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Rose is ready to make amends….”

“I never saw the purse,” cried Rose. “I did not take the purse.”

The merchant paused and ceremoniously opened the purse. “There’s ten shillings missing from it,” he said. “Come, give me what you’ve taken, slut.”

“I have not had your money,” protested Rose.

The man took her by the shoulders. “Give it me, you slut, or I’ll bring a charge against you.” His little pig’s eyes were glistening. His face, thought Nell, was like a boar’s head which had been pickled for several days. She hated him; if she had not grown accustomed to keeping herself under control in the cellar, she would have rushed at once to Rose’s defence. But she was afraid; for that which she saw in the man’s eyes was lust as well as the desire for revenge; and she was afraid of lust.

He had turned now to the company. He shouted: “Look to your own pockets. They lure you here; they drug their waters; how many of you have left this place poorer men than when you entered it? How many of you have paid too dear for what you’ve had? Come! Shall we allow these bawds to rob us?”

One of the men shouted: “What will you do, friend?”