Daughters of England

The Waif and the Flight

I FIRST SAW Kitty Carslake from the schoolroom window at Willerton House. She was walking across the lawn in the company of several young men and women. They were all laughing merrily together. It was a scene similar to others I had witnessed from the window, but this was different. Kitty was there, and she stood out among them all because she herself was different in some subtle way, which at that time I could not define. She fascinated me from that first moment, though I did not know then what an effect she was going to have on my fife.

I had often looked from that window down on a world which was very different from my own. To me it was like a peep show, a glimpse into a way of life that was colorful and glamorous, a way of life of which I should never be part, so I had to be grateful to Maria Willerton for making glimpses of it possible.

I had been born on the Wiltshire estate of Sir Henry Willerton, by whom my father was employed as managing agent, on the thirtieth day of January in the year 1649, that very day when the King's triumphant enemies had cut off his head outside the Palace in Whitehall, in the sight of those who had gathered to watch. A new way of life had begun then, for the nation discarded its frivolous ways and was subject to the rule of the Puritans.

My mother approved of this; my father less so, but he was not a man to assert himself: in any case, we had to follow the law laid down by our rulers. So, no more frivolity, no more riotous living, no more flaunting ourselves in silks and velvets. Clothes were usually a somber black, with perhaps a white collar here and there; one must be humble, sober and God-fearing. As for children, they must speak only when spoken to. In those days I was led to believe that all the angels in Heaven carried notebooks that they might record each single sin committed by the unwary. Sin lurked everywhere and it was not always easy to recognize. That was the Devil's way of luring people to commit it and thus condemn themselves to burn in Hell forevermore.

It was a dismal prospect, but that was the atmosphere in which I spent my early years.

We had a comfortable house on the estate. There was always good, if plain, food on the table, for which we gave lengthy thanks to the Almighty before partaking of it. We had prayers in the morning on rising, and in the evening before retiring, which my father conducted.

I was an only child and that could have meant a lonely existence in a Puritan household; but I was always interested in people and had made some friends on the estate.

Sir Henry and Lady Wilier ton, to whom everyone referred as "The Family," were good to us. They did not behave as though we were their servants. This may have been due to their kind hearts or to the fact that this was an age of simplicity. In any case, many of the nobility had supported the King against the Parliament, and The Family must have felt grateful to have come through the conflict with their estates and dignity intact, and had no wish to call attention to their previous importance.

My father was often at the house, discussing estate matters, but he always went as a guest and my mother sometimes accompanied him.

There was a daughter of the house, Maria; and I was invited to share her governess, which pleased my parents, as it gave me an opportunity to acquire a better education than they could otherwise have given me. Frequently I was called upon to thank God for this blessing.

It was more than lessons I learned at Willerton House. Maria was a lively companion and she liked to impress me with her wisdom, and as I was only too ready to listen, we became good friends.

Through her I learned a good deal of the world beyond Wiltshire: and the years were passing.

Oliver Cromwell had died and his son Richard had become Protector. Change showed itself in a hundred little ways. Rules became less rigid; there was a certain absence of solemnity. One heard people laugh more often. It was said that Richard was not like his father, which meant that he was not the same stern disciplinarian: he was kindly and well-meaning, but he lacked his father's strength, and a very strong man was needed to keep a race like the English in somber submission.

Maria, who was two years older than I, and never failed to remind me of that fact, said: "Something is happening. People are getting excited. There will be change."

"What change?" I asked.

"Just change. Everywhere. That is what people are saying. They would never have got it without war while Oliver Cromwell was there. But he has gone, has he not? Do you know there is talk of bringing back the King?"

I listened round-eyed. "He would not come here ... to this house," I said.

"He might. Kings go round visiting. They stay in people's houses. We should go to court, and my brother ..."

She was smiling, thinking of her brother. I had heard of him. His name was Rufus, and he was on the Continent with the exiled King. Rufus's story was very romantic. He was six years older than Maria, and she was very proud of him. When he was a boy, he had wanted to join the King's army, and at the age of sixteen he had left home and gone to France to be with the King.

Maria often talked of him.

"I remember he was always talking about the King, how he was hoping to fight to bring him back. He was so disappointed because he was too young to join the King's army. He really believed that if he had been old enough, he would never have allowed the Roundheads to win and King Charles would still be on the throne."

"And what is he doing now?" I asked her.

"I do not know. We do not talk of him. It would not be wise for people to be reminded that one of the family is now in France with the King."

It was small wonder that she was excited. I sensed Lady Willerton was too at the prospect of her son's returning in the train of the King.

"We shall go to London, you see," went on Maria. "After all.

Rufus will surely be in favor after all his loyal service. Everything will be different."

"How different?'' I wanted to know.

"Nanny Tilling likes to talk about the old days. She has no love for Oliver Cromwell, nor his son. She is all for the King. She says what right have they to say, 'Go to church every day and twice on Sundays, and never have a bit of fun.' She says this to me, of course. She is careful of the others. You never know who's listening. She says we're not free like we used to be. You have to think before you open your mouth."

She was right about change coming. It was more apparent every day.

Tired of Puritan rule, no longer held in check by the mighty Oliver, and taking advantage of the slacker rule of his son, the people had their way.

King Charles was invited to return, and on one glorious day in May of the year 1660, King Charles II landed at Dover, come to claim a kingdom which was readily given to him by a people weary of Puritan rule.

England was determined to be merry again, and without delay enthusiastically set about it.

At that time I was eleven years old.

There was a great deal of entertaining at Willerton. The family were naturally delighted by the change. So were a great many people.

We heard about the welcome which had been given to the King in London. The people had gone wild with joy, singing and dancing, drinking his health, expressing in every possible way their rejection of the old ways and rejoicing in the new ones they expected now would come.

My mother shook her head gravely. They would pay for this, if not on earth, in the life to come. Disaster had come to England. The Devil and his minions were rejoicing while God and the angels wept.

I commented that, if God was all-powerful. He would soon send the King back to France.

My mother looked reproachfully at my father, reminding him that she had always questioned the wisdom of letting me go to the House.

"We thought it was a heaven-sent opportunity," my father mildly reminded her.

I knew that was true, and for once my mother could not deny it.

"They're going right back to the old ways," she said. "It seems the war did nothing at all."

"That is the way with most wars," said my father sadly.

My mother ignored that.

"The King was executed," she said. "That was meant to be an example, and the Lord Protector brought the country to God. And now it is going back, back to what it was before ... and by the look of it, it's even worse. They say the new King does not lead a good life."

"He is very popular," my father reminded her, "and the people without doubt want him back."

"The people do not know what is good for them. They do not understand."

What my father understood all too well was that it was not only unwise but useless to carry on such an argument with my mother, so he said nothing more.

As for me, I liked the change. It exhilarated me, gave me a feeling of expectation. I thought it was wonderful to see people happy and not afraid to laugh. As for The Family, they certainly lost no time in reverting to the old ways before the coming of the Protectorate.

Sir Henry and Lady Willerton went to London. Their son Rufus had returned with the King, and came back to the parental home for a brief visit. He was a very grand gentleman in long wide breeches trimmed with lace. His hat was adorned with magnificent feathers, and he wore a wig, the curls of which hung about his shoulders. I imagined he was with the court, for he did not stay long at Willerton.

Maria was very excited and loved to tell me all about it.

"Rufus is with the King," she said. "He is having the most wonderful time. He will find a place for me at court, he promises."

It was two years after the King had returned when we heard that he was to be married. His bride came from Portugal. She was Catherine of Braganza, and my mother thought it was not a good match, for the bride was a Catholic. It should not have been allowed, she said. She was really uneasy about the King.

"He is very popular," insisted my father.

"Popular! If all accounts are right, he seems to be ... profligate."

"You cannot rely on gossip," said my father.

Maria had already told me that the gossip about the King's life was based on a firm foundation. He made little attempt to hide the fact that Lady Castlemaine was his mistress, and that lady made certain that there was no doubt of it.

"The poor little Queen is very sad about it," Maria told me, "and although the King tries to be kind to her, he is so bemused by my Lady Castlemaine that he insists on her being one of those ladies close to the Queen, which of course means that he is never far from the lady."

"That does not seem to me to be very kind," I commented.

"No, but everyone likes him and is on his side. People make excuses for him. He is so charming. Lady Castlemaine is very beautiful, and the Queen ... well, no one could call her attractive. It's natural, they say, and Oliver Cromwell is no longer here to make us feel we must not enjoy life."

When Maria was seventeen, the governess left and there was no longer an excuse for my going to Willerton as I had in the past, but Maria and I remained friends and, like her parents, she paid little attention to the difference in our station, and I was always welcome there. She liked to talk to me about the life which would be hers when she went to court, and of the people who now visited the house. I used to slip into the schoolroom and wait for her, and if she did not come I would go home. No members of the household took any notice of me when they saw me going up and down the stairs which led to the schoolroom. Thus I had a window on to another world, and watching those people became one of the great pleasures of my life at that time. I was, in fact, rather pleased when Maria was not there and I could observe alone.

It was due to this state of affairs that I had my first encounter with Kitty Carslake.

I knew there were guests at the house, and that the early afternoon was a time when many of them would be resting. I would slip into the house, up the stairs to the schoolroom and my vantage point at the window, and watch any who came into the garden. Perhaps Maria would join me, but now that she was seventeen she was often with the guests and was finding less and less time for me.

In the shrubbery there was a spot which I called the Dell. I had been attracted to it from the first. It was a little square shut in by the bushes. A gap in them made an entrance and was not very noticeable unless one knew where it was. There was an aura of privacy which appealed to me. I often sat there, for there was a convenient overturned treetrunk which served well as a seat.

One day, when I was speeding past the Dell, to my surprise I heard someone there speaking. I could not hear what was said, so I paused. It must, I supposed, be some of the guests. I did not want to be seen, for I had a notion that if my presence was commented on I might be prevented from coming. I listened.

To my surprise, it seemed that there was only one voice ... a very musical one. I could not hear exactly what was being said, but it sounded as though this voice was reciting poetry. I crept closer. I was very near to the entrance of the Dell.

It was one of the softest and most mellow voices that I had ever heard.

What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet ...

The voice stopped suddenly.

"Who's there?" it asked.

I stood very still. My impulse was to run, to hide if I could, but the owner of the voice would see me sprinting across the lawn and there was no place to hide.

She came out of the Dell and saw me. I looked at her in amazement. She was the woman I had gazed at from the house. She looked more beautiful than when I had first seen her. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders, and her face was flushed.

She said: "Who are you? You are not the daughter ..."

"No," I said. "I am Sarah Standish. I was coming to see Maria."

She started to laugh. She said accusingly: "You were listening."

"It was lovely," I told her. "I knew it. We did Romeo and Juliet the year before Miss Grey went. It did not sound quite like that when we read it ... though the words were the same."

That made her laugh again. She was very friendly and not in the least upset because I had eavesdropped.

"I was perusing my lines," she said. "I am an actress, Kitty Carslake. I shall be on the stage in three days' time."

"How very exciting that must be."

"Do you think so?"

"I think it must be one of the most wonderful things in the world to be an actress."

"Stagestruck, are you?"

I looked at her in puzzlement.

She went on: "You'd be surprised how many people are, especially now that the theaters are flourishing again and for the first time women are allowed to appear on the stage. It is not always easy, you know. But one has one's moments. I tell you, I'm in a state of panic already, and it will be worse when the time comes nearer."

"You mean about playing the part? You seemed to be doing it beautifully."

"Others might not be as kind as you are."

"I wasn't thinking of being kind. I was only saying what I thought."

She smiled at me, then she laughed again.

"You must have wondered what sort of person you would find talking to herself and hiding herself away to do it."

"I thought there was someone with you, and that I should have to be careful lest I was seen."

"Should you not have been seen?"

"Well, I suppose it does not matter very much, but I always wonder whether I should be here. I am not one of them, you know. My father manages the estate."

"I see. And you are a friend of Maria's?"

"Yes. We did share a governess, but now that Maria is seventeen the governess has gone. But we are still friends."

"Is she expecting you now?"

"No. I just go to the schoolroom when I like. And if she is there we talk, and if not I watch the people from the schoolroom window."

I found I was telling her a great deal about myself. It was so easy to talk to her. I explained how I liked to see the people and how it had all changed.

She listened gravely, then she said: "Have you ever been to the theater?"

"No. I should love to go ... more than anything."

"Perhaps you will come and see me one day."

"How I should love to see you as Juliet!"

"I believe you fancy yourself as an actress."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"I'll tell you what we will do. I should be practicing my lines. It is not easy without your fellow actors." She took a paper from her pocket. "Can you read well?" she asked.

"Oh yes, I am better than Maria really. So Miss Grey said."

"I have no doubt Miss Grey was right. Now listen. Here is the scene." She waved the paper. "You are Romeo, understand?"

I nodded.

"You see where he comes in. We'll do it together. You read your part and I'll come in with mine. Do you see what I mean?"

"Oh, yes ... yes," I cried excitedly as I took the paper.

It was a magical experience. She looked so beautiful and she spoke the words as I had never heard them spoken before. I was caught up in the scene. For me she was Juliet in her balcony and I was Romeo looking up at her from below.

With love's light wings did I perperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out. And what love can do that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

I was living in enchantment. I was Romeo. This was not the Willerton shrubbery. This was Juliet's balcony. I had never experienced anything like it.

I stood very still, looking up at Kitty Carslake. She was gazing at me with what seemed like amazement.

She said slowly: "You were good. You were very good."

"It was lovely," I replied.

"I believe you are that unfortunate creature—a born actress."

"Did you say unfortunate?"

"Yes, I did. Perhaps I went a little too far. Perhaps some people find life unfortunate. No matter. But Sarah Standish, I believe you were born to act upon a stage."

She put her arm round me and kissed me lightly.

"There," she said, "that was for Romeo."

We sat down on the fallen treetrunk and she told me how she had always wanted to act and, when the King came back and the theaters were opened again, she had had her chance.

Then suddenly she cried out: "I must go. They'll be looking for me. Au revoir, Romeo."

I watched her running across the lawn. The dream was over. I was almost amazed to see that the Dell was merely the Dell. The Capulet house no longer stood there, and Juliet's balcony was the branches of a sapling.

Now that she had departed, she had taken the magic with her.

I did not tell Maria what had happened. I wanted to keep it to myself, but I did try to find out more about Kitty Carslake.

"Kitty Carslake," said Maria. "She would not have been asked but for Lord Donnerton."

"Why should she be asked because of him?"

"Oh, he is pursuing her. My father wanted to see Lord Donnerton on some matter ... of business, I'll swear. He thought the best way of making sure he came was to invite this actress. Why are you interested in her?"

"Well, she is an actress."

"Not one of the really well known ones."

"I expect she will be ... soon."

"How do you know?" But she was not really interested in Mistress Kitty Carslake.

A month or so later she was very excited because she was going to London. It was the most exciting place in the world, she told me. Everything happened there. The King himself was often seen strolling in the parks, and there were carriages everywhere, carrying elegant ladies and gentlemen to the theaters or the court.

"And while we are there," she added, "we shall go to the Donnerton wedding."

"Donnerton!" I cried. "Does that mean he is marrying the actress?"

"That is so," replied Maria. "She gave way in the end. I suppose it was irresistible. Actresses have a wonderful time while the people like them ... but it might not be the same when they get old. Nobody wants them then. I reckon Kitty Car slake was lucky. Not every one of them marries into the peerage—and that is what they are all hoping for."

After that I thought of her often. I would enact that scene in my mind. I knew the words off by heart now. I thought: If she came again I could do it without the paper.

As if she would! As if she would remember! She had just been kind and she had used me to play the part of Romeo because there was no one else available.

a>2

Perhaps that might have been the end of my dreams if Kitty Carslake had not come back to Wilier ton. And this time she came as Lady Donnerton.

The first intimation I had of her presence there was when one of the boys from the Wilier ton stables came over to our house. I was very relieved that my parents were not there at the time when I heard that the messenger wanted to see me.

"I've got a message from Lady Donnerton. It's for you, Mistress."

He handed me a note on which was written:

Could you be at the Capulet balcony at three of the clock this afternoon? If so, I will be there to meet you.

Kitty Carslake

My heart was beating with excitement and the boy was watching me closely.

"Please tell Lady Donnerton that I shall be there," I said.

He sped away, leaving me somewhat bemused and overcome with eagerness to know why her ladyship wished to see me.

I was there before the appointed time. I had been telling myself she wanted me to rehearse something with her. I was immensely flattered that she remembered me.

She came and I was delighted to see that she had changed not at all, in spite of her grand title.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "Much has happened since we last met. I have become a ladyship!"

"Yes, I heard. Maria went to your wedding."

"A very grand affair, worthy of a high and mighty lord. Though there was much shaking of heads at his choice of bride—meant to be discreetly hidden, of course, from that unworthy lady."

"I do not believe that you are in the least little bit unworthy."

"Nor do I," she said with a laugh. "I guessed we would be of one mind on that point. Do you still think fondly of the theater? Of a surety you do. I see it in your eyes. I understand. There is nothing like it. The noise ... the color ... the elegance ... the girls selling their China oranges ... the people thronging the place ... the apprentices and the like quizzing the grand ladies and gentlemen in their boxes. And then, of course, the actors and the stage ... and the company. No, there is nothing in the world to compare with it."

"Now that you are a grand lady, do you miss being an actress?" I said.

Her eyes were a little misty, and she replied: "You sensed that, did you not? Yes, you knew it. Then I will tell you why I wished to see you. Up at the house we are going to do a little piece ... a play."

"You mean here?"

"I suggested we should. It was at the dinner table last night. We talked of the stage. I said we could do something here. There is a dais in the ballroom which would do very well as a stage. I will take you into a secret. Mistress Sarah. I intended it to be. I came prepared. I had this little piece with me. It is very simple ... easy for those who know nothing about the theater. Listen, my child. There is a part in it which is of interest. It is that of a little waif. Not the main part, but a good one. She is taken into a lord's house and the play shows what a difference she makes to everyone's life. Now, who should play the part of this little waif?"

She was looking at me intently. Then she began to laugh.

"Who," she went on, "but Mistress Sarah Standish? I have a romantic fancy that it is the beginning of a brilliant career."

I was speechless. I could not believe what she was hinting. It was not possible. I was letting my imagination run away with my good sense.

"I ... ?" I stammered.

"Why not? I have already spoken to Lady Willerton. She is not averse. They are all excited about the prospect of doing a play. These house visits often result in a certain ennui for some guests. They are so predictable. One is so very much like another, and that is tiresome when one goes to so many. People aim to be a little different. So ... our little piece will at least enliven the scene. They are all excited and I have said that you are the one to play our little waif. I told them that you had once rehearsed lines with me, so I was sure you could do it. And there was no one who could play the part. Maria perhaps, but she had no heart for it and is happy to pass it on to you. So no difficulties there. Will you take the part, Mistress Standish?"

"I am overcome," I stammered. "I do not know whether ..."

She gave that easy laugh of hers. "That means you will. Then it is settled. Now, there is little time to lose. The play is only three nights away. Tomorrow is a rehearsal. I have a copy here. You will read it through and learn your part, and tomorrow at four of the clock you will come for rehearsal. Take this copy, study it. I want you to show me that I have not been mistaken in you."

"But ... I do not know ... I have never ..."

"That is all part of the life, my dear. It is not all listening to an audience shouting 'Bravo, Madam Sarah.' It is learning parts, suffering that indescribable terror when the moment to go on stage arrives ... and sometimes the audiences are not kind. This will be different. This is not the King's Theatre in Drury Lane, or the Cockpit. This is the home of Sir Henry Willerton where, if you give the worst performance ever seen upon a stage, they will give you some applause. They will be pohte ... always. Do not fear. It is a tryout. It is to amuse the guests who are very ready to be amused; and it will show me—to a degree—whether I was right in my feeling that Mistress Sarah Standish will be an actress."

"It is so ... exciting."

"So, you will do it, Mistress Standish? You will play the part?"

"Oh, I will, I will!"

"I knew you would want to. You are myself when I was your age. Even your name is right. Sarah Standish. I hear it on people's lips. Well, we shall see ... soon. Learn your lines. Practice them every moment you can. There will be someone to prompt you, so do not let the fear of forgetting affect you. On the night, you will be that little waif. Are you happy? Delighted and a little frightened? Is that not so? It is as it should be ... a mingling of the two ... then you will get right into that little waif's skin; and, Sarah Standish, you will decide your fate which, remember, none can do but yourself. I preach. I always do, you know. It is because of my enthusiasm for my profession ... and when I see someone who feels as I do, I rant, as some would tell you. Sarah, Romeo, and little waif ... Good luck on the night."

When she had left me I sat for some time clutching the paper she had given me, staring ahead of me at those shrubs which on another occasion she had converted into Juliet's balcony; and I had never known such exhilarating anticipation before in my life.

When my mother heard that I was to go to Willerton House to perform in a play, she was disconcerted, and I greatly feared that she would forbid me to do so.

"Play-acting!" she cried. "It is doing the work of the Devil. It is against God's laws."

"Oh, come," said my father. " 'Tis not really so. 'Tis nothing but a little diversion."

"Flaunting herself on a stage!"

" 'Tis not really a stage. 'Tis only the Willerton ballroom. Sir Henry approves of it. 'Tis merely a game."

"Game!" snorted my mother. "A game of the Devil."

"Oh, come, Mildred. That is a little strong, is it not?"

"I do not like it."

"I do not see how we can forbid Sarah's going. Sir Henry would take it amiss."

It was the right approach. My mother, practical in the extreme, was fully aware of the advantages which came to us from my father's benevolent employer, and the folly of offending him. She deplored the way of life which the Willertons had taken up since the Restoration of the Monarchy, but, as my father pointed out to her, that was no concern of ours. It was a fact that almost everyone in the country had changed their way of life since then.

So, shaking her head and grumbling that no good would come of this, my mother did not persist with her objections.

As for myself, I was in a haze of wonder. I quickly learned my lines and went about feeling that I was indeed that little waif.

I had stepped into another world. Always before I had gone to Willerton House as the daughter of the estate manager who was there because of the bounty of Sir Henry and Lady Willerton towards the humbler folk. Now I was a guest.

Kitty Carslake was in control. She seized me as soon as I arrived.

"Ha! Here is our little waif. Have you learned your lines? Yes? We shall see. Now we have no time to waste. There is a dress rehearsal first. You will get into your waif's dress at once. There may have to be alterations and what is most important is your gown when you turn to grandeur. I have rifled Maria's wardrobe and have taken one of her gowns which I hope will be a near fit. Get to it. In there, my child. We are starting almost immediately and you are in the first act."

There were several people present. Maria smiled at me and lifted her shoulders, as though to say, "What next?"

I was hastened into a room by Kitty, who showed me the waif's dress and the other which I should wear later. She gave me a special grin.

"Good luck," she whispered.

I had never known such exhilaration.

The performance itself was like a dream to me. I felt this was what I was meant to do. When I stepped on to the stage, I was that little waif. I had a basket which was supposed to contain herrings. I called my wares as one or two of the players strolled past. Then came the moment when the elegant gentleman accidentally knocked my basket from my hand and I had to express my dismay. I heard a faint giggle from the watchers, but it was all real to me. I was nearly starving, and the gentleman had destroyed my hope of eating for the next few days.

"Bravo!" cried a member of the audience—a gentleman sitting in the front row. I was immersed in my part, but I was delighted.

Then I was changing into my beautiful gown—such a contrast to my rags. No herring basket now. I was having an effect on all their lives: on Kitty, who had the main part, of course; on her father, who kept forgetting his lines; and on the young lord who was attracted to Kitty; and she and he might not have overcome their misunderstandings and have regretted it all their lives but for the actions of the little waif, now as splendidly attired as any of them.

It was all highly sentimental, scarcely suitable for the London stage, but it was just the thing for a group of amateurs, and when it was over we stood hand in hand at the front of the dais while the audience applauded. I was standing beside Kitty and she suddenly pushed me forward. The clapping was loud and again I heard that shout of "Bravo!," and I believed it came from the man who had said it before.

This time I was able to see him. He was sitting in the front row of chairs, his arms folded. He looked straight at me and smiled rather roguishly, as though this was all something of a joke—which I suppose it was to the rest of them, though it was very serious to me. He looked very distinguished, but far from young. He must have been in his mid-thirties, and from my fifteen-year-old stance he seemed quite old. There was an air of authority about him, and he was one who would be singled out in a crowd.

As we left the stage, Kitty said: "There is to be a supper. I have sent a message over to your parents to tell them that you will be staying for that, and that they are not to worry, for someone will escort you home."

I was in a haze of happiness. I had never dreamed that anything like this could happen to me. Tonight I had learned something about myself. I wanted to be an actress, to play on a real stage in a real theater.

Kitty was smiling at me. I think she knew exactly what I was feeUng. She was amused and I think rather pleased.

In my beautiful dress—which Maria had worn when she was in London—I felt just like one of these people. The dress had had to be altered a little, but not much, so that it fitted me perfectly. It gave me confidence. I felt I was an honored member of the company, especially when people told me how they had enjoyed my performance.

Maria said: "You were good. You should have seen your face when you lost the herrings! You made us all feel very sorry for you. We were so glad when Lord Whatever-his-name-was took you home. My word! You showed them all, did you not?" She laughed. "It was fun, anyway. People will be talking about it for weeks. My mother is very pleased. Everyone will be wanting to do plays in their houses."

Kitty was with me when we went into the dining room where, in addition to the main table, several small ones had been set too.

"We help ourselves, I believe, from the long table," said Kitty, "where the food is laid out. Fm hungry. I always am after a show. That's because I am too overwrought to eat beforehand. Lady Wilier ton was a good prompter, did you not think? And she needed to be! Your benefactor kept getting lost, did he not? I noticed you helped him more than once. You learned his part as well as your own."

"It was necessary," I replied, "in that long scene we did together in the first act."

"Oh yes, when the clumsy oaf knocked your basket out of your hand and told you his life story. You lived it, did you not? You believed every word of it. That is why you came over so well. You were really deep in it. Now, food."

Somebody was beside us. It was the man who had been in the front row and who had applauded so vociferously.

"I shall join you," he said.

Kitty laughed. "That is just like my lord," she said to me. "Never a 'May I?,' always *I shall.' "

"It is better that way, I do assure you," he replied. "So I repeat that I shall take the liberty of joining you two young ladies for supper." He turned to me. "I was entranced by the play."

Kitty gave him a supercilious look. She said to me: "He is going to tell us that we outclassed Mrs. Betterton, and Mrs. Anne Marshall would have been mad with envy if she had seen the play tonight, that Thomas Killigrew will be determined to put on our little masterpiece and he will, of course, realize that none could play it as we did tonight."

"You take the words out of my mouth, Lady Donnerton," he said, "and your wit is equal to your Thespian talents."

"This is the way they talk in the circles frequented by my lord," said Kitty to me. "In the words of another playwright, Tull of sound and fury, signifying nothing.' "

"I assure you, sweet Mistress," he replied, turning to me, "the lady maligns me." Then to Kitty: "May I have the pleasure of an introduction to our charming waif, now transformed by the happy matter of an overturn of her basket of herrings into a young lady who would grace the King's court?"

"This is Mistress Sarah Standish," said Kitty.

He bowed to me, his eyes twinkling and an expression of what I could not fail to know was admiration.

"And this," went on Kitty, "is Lord Rosslyn."

"I am enchanted," he said, looking at me.

As for myself, I was still in a state of exultation. This was how people behaved in court circles, I imagined. One would have to remember that they did not really mean what they said, but such flattery was very pleasant to hear.

"Let us take this small table," he said. "It will be pleasant to sup a trois. Pray be seated, ladies, and I shall see that we receive the necessary attention."

Kitty and I obeyed and he went off.

She was smiling at me. "I can see why you find this evening's entertainment amusing."

"I have never before known anything like it," I told her.

"You must not think an actress's life is all gaiety and attention from charming lords. It has its darker side."

"It was the play that excited me," I said. "This is just amusing and everything is so new to me."

"Those who praise you to your face often have a very different tale to tell when you are absent. But tonight you have had a glimpse of a kind of theater." She leaned on the table and looked at me very seriously. ''You will be the one to make up your mind what you will do. If you are born to be an actress and do not use your gifts, you could spend a lifetime frustrated and regretful."

A man came to the table. It was Lord Donnerton.

"There you are, my love," he said to Kitty. "I was looking for you." He sat down beside Kitty and smiled at me.

"No need to introduce the young lady," he said. "Your performance was wonderful, my dear."

So this was the man whom Kitty had married and, if I had read her aright, she was already regretting have done so.

He went on: "Rosslyn is getting something for you, he tells me. He'll get one of the men to bring it over."

He was right. Lord Rosslyn soon joined us and with him was one of the serving men, carrying a tray.

It was a merry evening, although I did not understand some of what was said. They came from a different world from the one I knew and I had to realize, I told myself, that after tonight I might never have another glimpse of it.

Lord Rosslyn paid a great deal of attention to me and I noticed that Kitty was a little uneasy about that. I wanted to tell her that, although I could not help being delighted by it, I did not take his flattery seriously.

But there was something more than that on her mind. Kitty was not a happy woman.

The supper was over and people were beginning to move out of the dining room.

Kitty said: "I think it is time you were taken home, Sarah. Although your parents agreed to your staying for supper, they would not want you to be too late home."

"I shall escort Mistress Sarah," said Lord Rosslyn, and, turning to me: "Are you ready?"

"It is a very short distance from the house," said Kitty.

"I dare say I shall be wishing it were longer," said Lord Rosslyn, smiling at me.

I said: "It is very gracious of Lord Rosslyn to offer, but it really is not necessary."

"It is necessary for my pleasure," he said. "Come, Mistress Sarah, I shall take you to your home."

"You see," said Kitty, "I am right, am I not? What did I tell you? Never 'May I?,' always *I shall.' Methinks my lord is a very forceful gentleman."

"As ever, Mistress Kitty, you have assessed the situation accurately."

"Get your cloak," said Kitty to me.

"I shall await you here," added Lord Rosslyn.

So, he would escort me home, I thought. Well, it was gracious of him. After all, he was a noble lord and I but the agent's daughter. I believed such distinctions were very important in the world of which I had just had a glimpse.

I said goodbye to Sir Henry and Lady Willerton, thanked them for a most enjoyable evening and told them that someone was going to escort me home.

They nodded, relieved, I was sure, to be free of the need to concern themselves with me. Lady Willerton told me how pleased she was that I had come, for I had contributed a great deal to the success of the play.

Lord Rosslyn was waiting for me.

"Now you shall guide me," he said, "and together we will undertake this perilous journey across the fields to your home."

"It is not very far and it was not really necessary for you to come."

"It is very necessary and I would not be deprived of it for a king's ransom. Come."

Kitty was beside us. She was wearing a black velvet cloak and her eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"Lady Donnerton," said Lord Rosslyn, and it was the first time I had seen him taken aback.

"The fancy took me for a little walk," said Kitty, "so I have decided to accompany you."

As I had guessed, life returned to exactly what it had been before the summons had come to act in a play at Willerton House.

The world seemed a very drab place now. I had to help my mother in the kitchen and learn the duties of a housewife. I was no longer a child. She would like me to marry in a year or so. My mother had the very man in sight. He was Jacob Summers of Runacres Farm on the Willerton estate. My father said that Runacres was the most prosperous of all the farms on the estate and the reason was that William Summers—father of Jacob, Thomas, David, Rebecca and Esther—was the best farmer in the district.

My father approved of the Summers family because of their skill in tilling the land; my mother because, like herself, they deplored the turn to what they called Licentious Living and adhered as firmly to the Puritan way of life as she did.

So she had chosen the eldest son of that dismal household to be my husband.

As for me, I considered the possibility with acute distaste. It was not that Jacob was unpleasant; he was a very ordinary young man, but I had found him excessively dull, even before that wondrous night. Now I regarded the prospect of spending my life with him as something not to be taken seriously for a moment.

Weeks went by. I saw Maria occasionally, but since we had ceased to be in the schoolroom together, our friendship was gradually fading. The Wilier tons were away a great deal. In fact, it seemed that they were rarely at home. I had begun to believe that that glorious adventure was an isolated incident in my life and I should never know the like again.

It must have been three months after that occasion when I heard that the Willertons were back at the House and there was once more entertaining. Foolishly, I hoped that there would be another play and I should be asked to perform. Several days passed. The house party would soon be over, for they rarely lasted more than four or five days, and the Willertons would then go back to their London residence, and here we should settle down to the old dull routine. I told myself I was a fool to have believed that playing the waif had been a turning-point in my life.

And then, as had happened on another occasion, a serving man came to the house with a note for me. My heart leaped when I saw that it was from Kitty. She wanted to see me at the Capulet balcony as before, she said. We could talk there.

Another play, I thought! A part for me!

Eagerly I kept the tryst, and with what joy I greeted her. I saw at once that she was different. Her expression was strained; she had lost weight and her face seemed a little drawn. The hopes I had harbored that she had come to tell me there was to be another play vanished.

I said: "Something is wrong."

She nodded. ''Yes. very wrong. I am very uncertain. I thought of you. I have thought of you a good deal. You remind me of what I was ... once ... when I was about your age. All the opposition I had to face. Now I have to face a decision."

''And you want to talk to me about it!"

She laughed. Then she said: "I want to talk to you about something else."

She was staring straight ahead.

"What?" I asked.

"It seems to me that my position is not unlike yours. We are both prisoners."

"Prisoners!"

She was silent for a few seconds, then she went on: "Yes, prisoners—held captive by circumstances, we have come to a point m our lives when we have to make a choice. This way ... or that? To accept what fate has given us or break out and make our own way."

I had no idea what she meant, and I must have looked very puzzled.

"Oh," she cried, "how foolish of me. I talk in riddles and you think I am crazy. Perhaps I am. Let me tell you something. I want to go back to the stage, but I am married to Lord Donnerton. Lady Donnerton could not be an actress, could she? The wife of one of the foremost peers in the land! You see, it could not be."

"Could it not?"

She shook her head. "There are rules ... obligations. I should never have married him, Sarah."

"Why did you?"

She looked at me and gave one of her laughs, but this one was without mirth.

"Why does one do these things? He was very eager. I thought it would be foolish to go on refusing. I considered all the advantages. I told myself that one day I should regret it if I did not take this chance of wealth and comfort. He is a kind man. He would have looked after me always. But I cannot endure this life, Sarah. I am bored ... bored ... so hideously bored."

"So you are going to leave him and go back to the theater."

"I have to, Sarah. I want the excitement ... that feeling that comes to you when there is a sudden hush, and the play begins. You understand?"

"I think so."

She turned to me, smiling. "I knew you would. Perhaps that is why I came. That ... and something else."

She was biting her lips and staring ahead.

"When are you going back to the stage?" I asked.

"Soon."

"What does Lord Donnerton say?"

"He does not know yet. He has been good to me, Sarah ... but he does not understand. He never will."

"No, I suppose he could not."

"But you do."

"Yes, I think I do."

"All you have seen is an amateur attempt on an improvised stage and people pretending to act for fun. Most of them would have been booed off the London stage in five minutes. But we kept it going, you and I between us, Sarah, and I think some of them actually enjoyed our little piece for what it was. Well, Sarah, you are an actress. That is why I am telling you all this. You know what I am talking about. Few would. Not the people I am now surrounded with, that is. They would think I was crazy, giving up a life of luxury for one of uncertainty. But I have to do it. Sarah, I'd rather die than go on like this."

"Then you must do it," I said.

She seized me suddenly and kissed me. I saw tears in her eyes.

"I am going to, Sarah," she said. "I am going back where I belong. Do you think it strange that I should come and talk to you like this?"

"I ... I am not sure."

"I have been thinking such a lot about you."

I looked at her in amazement.

"Yes," she went on, "I have. You would think I had troubles enough of my own, and in a way they are linked. In you I see myself. I was always acting when I was a little girl. It was born in me, as it is in you. Of course, when I was growing up, there were no theaters."

"No. In my childhood neither."

"But you were young when the King came back."

"I was eleven."

"And now you are fifteen. It has worked well for you. I remember the day. There was rejoicing throughout the land. Not with everyone, of course. But there were many of us who were tired of being Puritans. ^Xe wanted some life ... some gaiety. The theaters were opened and women were allowed to appear on the stage. When I heard that I came to London. My family were against it. They wanted me to settle down and marry. I could have done. There was someone very eager to marry me, but I knew what it would be like. Prayers morning and evening. A sober life, regular churchgoing. gloom and so-called virtue I could not endure. And in London the theaters were open. I ran away from home, Sarah. I came to London. I had a good friend who helped me. She had always wanted to be an actress and I was fortunate to have her. I cannot explain to you the wondrous feeling of stepping on to a stage for the first time."

"I know it." I cried. "I know it well. I do not have to experience it to know."

"It is because of what happened to me that I think of you. I can see myself in you. I see you staying here. There would be no easy way out for you. I feel a responsibility towards you. Does that seem crazy?"

"No ... no," I cried excitedly. "It seems good and kind and caring."

"I am not sure about that. But I think you will never truly be happy if you do not try that way of life for which you were born."

"How?" I cried. "How?"

"I told you I was going back. What would you think of coming with me?"

A tremendous excitement was overtaking me. I was trembling.

"It is something not to be decided hastily," she said. "You are very young. Perhaps I am wrong to suggest it. Yes, I am. I take too much upon myself. Forget I said it. I just came to tell you I shall be going away. You will not see me at Willerton House again."

"No, no," I cried. "Please do not forget it. I want to hear more. I must hear more."

She turned to me and smiled quite radiantly. Her moods changed from extremes m a very short time. She was so volatile. She was an actress, of course. I supposed that, in truth, she acted all the time. It was second nature to her. Perhaps I was a little like that myself.

She said; "Yes, of course, you must have your chance ... just as I did. I believe I should never forgive myself if I did not do all I could to help you. Sarah, are you going to live all your life here? Imagine it. You marry, you bring children into the world, you keep house, you give orders to your servants, life goes by, quickly, colorless, predictable, like the past when it was considered a sin to smile. Sarah, are you going to live your life ... regretting?"

"No!" I said vehemently. "No!"

"Then you are going to try your luck on the stage?"

"Yes," I said fervently. "Yes!"

She was smiling again. "Then ... how?"

"You are going to tell me."

"You could come to London with me."

I stared at her in disbelief.

"Your parents ... they would have to be told," she said.

"They would never allow it. At least, my mother never would. And the theater! She would think I was walking straight into Hell."

"Ah, there's the rub. How then, Sarah?"

"I only know they will never allow me."

"So you will 'let "I dare not" wait upon "I would"?' Then you are right to give up. What you will need in life, dear child, is something more than the natural gifts with which fate has endowed you. If you are to be successful there must be the determination to succeed. If you are going to turn away at the first hurdle, then, my dear Sarah, the best thing is to give up before you start. You need all the courage, all the willpower, everything you have, if you are to succeed in life and, believe me, one of the most difficult professions in which to succeed is that of the theater."

"Tell me what I have to do."

She looked at me steadily and I saw alarm in her eyes.

"Dear God," she murmured. "What have I done? I have meddled too far. I should have said nothing. She must work out her own salvation. What am I doing? I am acting God."

"No ... no ... you are kind. You are helping me. I am frustrated. I do not know what I should do."

"You must be sure of what you want, Sarah. You must think ... think seriously. Is this a passing fancy? I detect something special in you, or so I think, something that tells me you are not just a stage-struck girl seeking excitement, having an idea that perhaps you will make a grand marriage ... tired of life on this estate, with its occasional glimpses into a different way of living."

"I know in my heart," I said. "Please. Please help me. You understand what it means to me."

"Then," she said, "we must consider deeply and there is little time. Ask yourself. Is this thing vital to you? That is the heart of the matter. If it is, and you are old enough to know ... as I did at your age ... you must do all in your power to bring it to pass. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I do. I want this more than I have ever wanted anything. If I missed it I should be unhappy for the rest of my life."

"If you are sure ... and only then we will plan."

"Please ... please ... let us plan."

"Then you must come to London."

"With you?"

"Of course. And I shall be leaving soon. I have to tell my husband. He will be sad, but he will recover. It is a task I do not relish, but it has to be done. He will understand, I think. He knows I fret for the stage. My dear Sarah, you must tell your parents."

"If I do they will never let me go."

"They should at least have a chance of denying you."

"They would most certainly do all in their power to stop me. I believe they might well do so."

"Then we shall have to make careful plans." She looked at me steadily. "It will be your first test," she went on. "You will have to be ready to tackle all the difficulties which will await you. Your career will have to come first with you. If it does not, there is little hope for you."

"You believe that I should tell them, I see. I know they will refuse to let me go."

"The decision is yours, not theirs."

"You mean I should run away from home?"

"We shall have to see. It depends on your determination. If they tell you they refuse to let you go and you accept that, you will have made a great discovery. You would never succeed in overcoming the difficulties which you would have to face. Therefore it is better that you do not attempt them and that would be an end of the matter. We are staying at Willerton only a few more days. Before I leave we must have made our plans. You must speak to your parents without delay. I shall be here at this time tomorrow. Come here and we will plan how we shall go on from there. Sarah, be absolutely sure in your mind. There must be no shadow of a doubt—then and only then shall we plan together. Only you can know how deep this determination is within you."

"I know my mother will be horrified."

"But she must have a chance to consider. I am sure it is right to tell her. If she persuades you or you are afraid to tell her, you must be glad that you have discovered the shallow depth of your desire in time."

There was no doubt in my mind. Life had suddenly become full of expectation and delight ... apart from the terrible ordeal which lay before me.

I let the day pass. I spent a sleepless night rehearsing how I should approach the subject. In the morning I arose exultant, yet filled with apprehension.

I had to see Kitty that afternoon, I had to, as she put it, have passed my first test by then.

I was very nervous; the time seemed to pass very slowly. Surely we were on our knees longer than usual that morning at prayers. Then they were over. Our two maids went to their work and my parents and I sat down at the breakfast table.

My father noticed my mood.

"Is all well, Sarah?" he asked.

I hesitated. Now was the moment.

I stammered: "I have been thinking of my future."

They were both attentive now and I went on: "I want to be an actress."

My father looked alarmed; as for my mother, she was staring at me in horror.

"An actress!" she said. "Whatever put such nonsense into your head?"

"It is not nonsense," I replied. "I am serious. I have an opportunity which I should be foolish to miss."

"Opportunities! Actresses! What are you talking about?"

"Please listen," I begged. "I know I can act. It is something people are born with, and if they have it they feel they must do something about it. They must use their talents ... as it says in the Bible," I put in triumphantly. "You remember the parable of the talents. People are never happy if they do not use them. And so, as I have a chance ..."

My mother turned to my father. "Do you understand this gibberish? What is the girl talking about?"

"I do not know," said my father. "Pray let her explain."

"Kitty Carslake, the actress, has been talking to me. She says I have talent."

"Oh!" said my mother. She looked reproachfully at my father. "This is what comes of play-acting. Did I not say that the Devil watches for the unwary? We should never have allowed it. Did I not say so at the time?"

"Nay, wife, we could not have objected at the time. It would have seemed like a criticism of Sir Henry and her ladyship."

"We should have refused to allow it, nevertheless. I told you so. Now look what's happened."

"It is a childish dream," said my father. "Young people have them at times. Not to be taken seriously."

"I like not this talk of play-acting. It is sinful. Actress indeed!"

"It is just fancy," soothed my father. "I tell you, it is not to be taken seriously. Now let us hear no more of the matter."

"I was telling you that I have had an opportunity which I do not want to miss," I said. "I am going to London."

"Is it Maria Willerton who is involved in all this?"

"If Sir Henry and Lady Willerton approve of Maria's —" began my father.

I said quickly: "It is not Maria. It has nothing to do with her. Mistress Kitty Carslake will take me to London with her. I shall have an opportunity to do what I want. I have a compulsion ..."

They were both looking at me in horror.

"I do not wish to hear another word," said my mother. "Go to London with an actress! London is no place for decent girls, and actresses are certainly no fit company for them. I am surprised that Sir Henry has such people in the house."

"Some of them are highly thought of," ventured my father, but my mother gave him a withering look.

"I never heard such nonsense, or such impertinence" she said. "Our daughter ... going to London ... with an actress!"

"It was not seriously meant." My father looked at me pleadingly. "Was it, Sarah?"

"But it was," I insisted.

"I think you must complain to Sir Henry," said my mother firmly. "I do indeed. Sarah should go no more to Willerton if she is expected to mix with actresses."

"She is Lady Donnerton, in fact," I said.

"But she is an actress, you say. I am really most distressed."

I realized that I could not go into explanations, for if I did I should betray the unsatisfactory nature of Kitty's marriage. I felt frustrated in the extreme. But what else had I hoped for? I had known from the start that I should never go to London with their permission.

I had done what Kitty had said I must; and the reaction was exactly what I had expected. I must take the matter no further with them and pretend to accept defeat.

My mother continued to talk of the wickedness of the theater. Satan's playground, she called it. The breeding ground of sin. I was sure she was wondering how much damage had already been done in the eyes of God, merely by my being concerned in it. There would be prayers for my wayward soul for days to come, I was sure.

My father looked miserable. He hated such contretemps while my mother seemed to revel in them. As for myself, I felt a mild exhilaration. I had passed the first test. I had steeled myself to tell them and the result was by no means unexpected.

They would never agree to my going to London, and I was more determined than ever to go.

I met Kitty in the Dell and told her what had happened.

"I did not proceed with it," I said. "My mother made it clear that she would never give her approval to my becoming an actress. She called the theater 'the breeding ground of sin.' " I gave a rather hysterical giggle. "I know more than ever that I can never reconcile myself to such an attitude. Even if you had not made the suggestion, I should have to get away."

"And your father?"

"He might have been persuaded, but he is easily overruled. My mother is so sure that she is right and that God and she are of one mind and everyone who does not agree with them is the Devil's own. You would have to know her to understand how it is."

"I understand full well. What did you tell her?"

"That you had offered to take me to London. Then I wondered whether I had said too much."

She shook her head. "Everyone will know that I am leaving my husband. As soon as this visit is ended, I shall be gone. What shall you do?"

"Tell me what I must do."

"If you have decided to take this chance, you will have to leave your parents' house soon. They will try to stop you and if they do I doubt if you will ever find it easy after that. You must let them believe that your desire to go was just a childish dream. Say no more about it to them. Listen carefully if they tell you how childish it was to have such notions and appear to accept what they say. That should be simple. You are an actress, remember. Then I shall make plans. Someone will come to take you to London. You must leave discreetly. You will bring a few clothes with you, but not much ... just what you can easily carry. I will give you more details when I am ready. If at any time you change your mind, you must let me know. There is a serving man at Willerton. His name is James. He works in the stables. He brought my notes to you before. He will get a note through to me should you change your mind and by him I will send instructions to you. You will have a little time to think about it and all it means. You must consider very carefully, for this is a great step which will change your entire life. You must be absolutely sure that you want this more than anything else. You must reflect that you are giving up a life of comfort, if dull. You are not content with it, I know, but you have to realize the hazards of the life you are choosing."

"I have. Oh, I have."

"You must be sure."

"I am sure."

"There is this respite. Remember that, until you have left, there is time to change your mind."

Then followed one of the strangest periods I ever lived through. Kitty's seriousness had communicated itself to me. It was indeed a gigantic step for a girl of fifteen to take. I fancied there were times when Kitty was terrified of what she had set in motion. I was too. The thought of leaving my home and family was alarming. I was fond of my father, but I had always been a little impatient of the way he allowed himself to be governed by my mother. As for my feelings for her, I could not honestly say that I loved her. She was too censorious of almost everyone except God; and in her mind they were always in agreement. No, I could not say, in truth, that I should regret leaving her, but I could not help wondering what effect my departure would have on her. She would rage against my wickedness, of course, prophesy the evil which would befall me in this life, while the fires of Hell awaited me in the next. I might even say that, apart from everything else, I should be relieved to escape from her. My father, though, would be very saddened, I knew. He would reproach himself for not paying more attention to this obsession of mine. I believed he would be unhappy and that made me pause.

But I had to go. That was becoming more and more clear to me as the days passed.

I waited for news from Kitty. It came in a letter delivered to me by James. He waylaid me and caught me as I was coming out of the house.

"I have a note for you from Lady Donnerton," he told me. "I have to go up to London on business for Sir Henry and I can take a letter back. If you come to the place you know in the grounds tomorrow afternoon at three of the clock I shall be there."

The letter he handed me confirmed the arrangements. In it she wrote:

I have left Lord Donnerton. He is very sad, hut he is old and it is not the same as an ardent young man. I am thankful for that. I now have a house in London which I share with a friend of long standing. You will join us for a start.

Now we have to plan carefully. I take great risk in writing thus to you, but I could see no other way. You must destroy this letter as soon as you have read it. Letters have a habit of going astray and James may have been seen handing it to you. You will be picked up and it will have to be at night. A carnage will be waiting for you at eight of the clock on Friday night of next week close by the copse in the road leading to the house. It will be partly hidden by the trees and bushes there. You must hurry to it and get in. Then it will set off for London. You must not be seen leaving the house. Only Heaven knows what trouble there could be if we are discovered. You can still change your mind. Write to me. James will bring a letter.

You must be sure that it is what you want to do.

Kitty

I read the letter several times before I destroyed it.

Then I wrote to Kitty and the next day gave the letter to James.

With the passing of each hour doubts came, but never for long. Was all this on account of one amateur performance, I asked myself. But Kitty knew there was a spark of talent in me. She must be right. She herself was a professional actress.

I wished I had someone to talk to. If only I could see Kitty! But there was no one. Maria was not a great friend. We had never been close, even at our most intimate. I wondered what her opinion would be of this project. She would think I was crazy. I supposed most people would—except Kitty and myself and those who understood.

I looked at all the familiar things: my bed, with the picture of Jesus over it ... one of the sad ones with the crown of thorns on His head. It had always frightened me a little. It was a continual reminder of His suffering. I would rather have had Him walking on the water or having His feet washed by Mary Magdalene.

I saw it all afresh—the house with its plain necessities and no concession to the luxury which would be sinful in my mother's eyes. Our home had not changed with the times.

Yes, I was stifled here. If I failed to undertake this adventure I should be unhappy forever. I had to do this. It was the only way. That was something I was sure of.

The last day came.

I had to overcome my urge to talk to someone. If only I could see Kitty! But I should soon be with her. I was going to take this tremendous step. I knew it was right for me.

I had put a few things together in a small traveling bag. We had chosen the right time of the year. It was September and the nights were drawing in. It would be dark almost by seven of the clock. In a few weeks' time it would have been entirely so, but the weather might not have been so good for traveling if we had waited. Still, you cannot have everything in your favor.

The day seemed endless, but at last it was half past seven. At ten minutes to eight I would have to slip out of the house. I should be wearing my cloak and carrying my bag—and if I were seen everything would be ruined.

My heart was beating wildly as I cautiously came down the stairs and slipped out of the house. Now I made the perilous journey across the grass to the shelter of the trees.

I went along the road. I saw the outline of the coach. The two horses were pawing the ground, as though with impatience to be gone.

I ran to it. The door was flung open. I threw my bag in and stepped in after it.

I heard Kitty's laugh, and I fell into her arms.

Plague

As THE COACH rattled through those country lanes, the enormity of what I had done dawned on me afresh. Now that the excitement of planning escape had passed, I was realizing that I had left the security of my home for a new life with someone I scarcely knew. I had allowed myself to believe that I could be a successful actress on the strength of one amateur performance in a country house. It was, I kept reminding myself, a belief shared by Kitty.

I glanced at her sitting beside me. She was quiet, immersed in her own thoughts, which must be running along the same lines as mine. She had left a husband who was kind to her, a life of ease and security. The thought that we had both faced a similar decision comforted me.

As we approached London, the excitement returned, dispelling uneasiness. New experiences would soon be crowding in on me.

London itself—waking to the morning. Already people were in the streets: stalls were being set up; wheelbarrows containing all sorts of produce were trundling along. People were shouting to each other in an accent unfamiliar to me. There was a stirring activity which I guessed would grow with the day.

Kitty pointed out streets and places which I had heard talked of. We passed through Long Acre which, before the reign of Charles I, had been a thoroughfare where people took their walks on Sundays and holidays. There was Covent Garden itself, of which I had heard so much. Who had not? I knew that it was so called because it had been the convent garden of the Abbots of Westminster and that they had buried their dead there.

And there was Drury Lane and the theater itself.

It had been newly built since the Restoration and was known as the Theatre Royal. That other theater, the Cockpit, had been in existence much longer. Kitty told me that once the Puritans had burst in when a play was in progress and broken up the stage and seats and taken the players prisoner, parading them through the streets before thrusting them into the Gatehouse Prison.

And here was my new home, in a small cobbled courtyard close to the Covent Garden Piazza. It was one of a row of six tall narrow houses.

Kitty jumped out of the coach and I followed.

"Maggie will be waiting for us," she said.

I had heard about Maggie Mead. She would have liked to be an actress, but since women then did not appear on the stage, she had married soon after she came to London. Her husband had died quite ten years ago, leaving her, as she said, "comfortable," so that she did not have to go on scratching a living and wondering where the next meal was coming from.

"Maggie was my friend in the early days," Kitty told me. "She is the best friend I ever had. She has this house near Drury Lane, and when I was out of luck I went in with her. We get on well, though you might not always think it. Don't be put out if she goes for you now and then. She may be somewhat bristly outside at times, but underneath there's a soft heart. She knows about you and she thinks you ought to have your chance. Martha has been with Maggie, looking after the house, for years. They fight sometimes too, but they think the world of each other. Little Rose is there too. She's a comparative newcomer. Starving on the streets she was when Maggie found her. She brought her in, fed her and put her to work. Rose thinks Maggie is the Angel Gabriel and the Pope—she's a Catholic—all rolled up in one. Well, that's the household."

So I was prepared.

The door had opened and I had no doubt that the woman who confronted us was Maggie. She was big and commanding-looking—some fifty years of age, I guessed, red-haired and strong-featured.

"So you're here," she said. "About time."

"It was a long journey, Mag."

"I know that. Come in. So this is Sarah. H'm. Little scrap of a thing. Bless you, child, you're cold. Come to the fire. There's a pot boiling and I reckon a dish of soup is what you need."

"We're tired out," said Kitty. "That coach! How it rattled! I feel that all my bones are broken. Let us get in first."

"You need that soup," said Maggie; and I knew then that we should have it before we were allowed to do anything else.

Martha came in with a tray and we sat down and took it without further preamble. It tasted delicious and I felt better for it.

"Don't suppose you slept a great deal during the night," said Maggie.

"Hardly at all," replied Kitty.

"Then it is bed. Rose has put in the warming pans so you'll be comfortable. Next you'll get up there and have a good sleep. Then we'll hear all about it."

"Don't rush us, Mag!" said Kitty.

"Who's rushing? You'll be fit for nothing till you have had a good sleep. The girl needs it. Look! She's dropping with exhaustion."

Her eyes were on me and I smiled wanly.

"Come on," said Maggie. "Upstairs. Do not think about anything else. Do as I say."

I knew she expected immediate obedience and she had it. I imagined she always would. She was right. I guessed she always was that, too.

Those first weeks in London are like a hazy dream to me now. The big city of which I had thought so often in the old days was unlike anything I had ever imagined. The streets, which were full of bustle and noise, amazed me. I was entranced by the tradesmen and -women who paraded the streets, shouting of their wares, from hot pies to pins, describing the latest executions and scandals which were chronicled in the sheets of paper they flourished. These tradespeople, the beggars, the fine gallants and those aping them: they all jostled each other in those streets. I liked to see the grand ladies and gentlemen riding in their carriages, elaborately dressed, the men no less than the women, their wigs—

masses of luxuriant curls—showing under their feather-decked hats.

Maggie commented that it was better than it had been in the old days when, if a girl had a pretty face, she had to keep it out of sight as much as possible, though now they had all gone to the opposite extreme and wanted to show more than their faces.

"It's always the way," she added. "Push people back too far and they'll come prancing too far forward as soon as they get the chance."

I was fascinated, but most of all, of course, by the theater. As I sat in that wooden building, in the pit, which was far from comfortable and indeed rather draughty, for there was no heating save that which came from the press of people—and that could make it too hot—and as I looked up at the glazed cupola and watched the people around me shouting to each other, gazing up to the boxes filling with fine ladies and gentlemen who looked down with disdain on those in the cheap seats, I knew that I had been right to come. And when the play began, that was utter enchantment.

In the beginning, the prospect of how I was going to find my way on to the stage had not yet struck me, for in those first weeks of settling in, there were so many new experiences that I found it difficult to absorb them all.

Within a few weeks of our return, Kitty was offered a part in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife.

Maggie Mead, from the first, had treated me as though I was no stranger to her—just another member of her household to be kept in order.

She told me: "Small wonder Kit got the part. People come to see her, not the play. That's how it is, Sarah. You'll learn. Scandal of a sort. The girl who left a lord for the stage. See what I mean?"

"How do they know?"

"The Lord have mercy on you! Sarah, you're a babe in arms in this world of ours. They know everything that goes on every minute of the day, these people. They live in the big city, do they not? They're alive to it all. They would tell you whom the King slept with last night if you asked them."

"I would not dream of asking any such thing!" I said in horror, which made her laugh.

"You'll soon be just like the rest of us, dearie. It will not take much time, I'll swear. The fact is that Kitty got the part because Charles Hart knew that she would bring them in. And she has. rU swear to you that half the people in the theater tonight have come to see Kitty, the girl who gave up a lord for the stage."

I realized she was right, as she always was.

During those first weeks, Maggie, having taken me under her wing, gave special attention to me. She was a woman to make quick decisions and she had taken a liking to me. This was how it must have been with Kitty. But she considered that my youth and innocence needed special care. I did not realize then how fortunate I was in this.

She introduced me to London. She took me shopping with her and I was able to listen to her bargaining with the stall-holders. She was expert at making a bargain and at the heart of this was a certain bantering belligerence.

"Never let people get the better of you," she advised. "Go in and fight them. But never go into battle if you think you are going to lose. That's no good. You'll falter and fail at the next one you undertake."

It was indeed like a battle, and I never saw her beaten, yet she always parted with her opponents on the best of terms. They clearly had a great respect for her.

She talked to me a great deal about the theater. She loved it, but she had the sense to know that she would never have been a great actress.

"I hadn't the figure nor the face for it," she said sadly. "It's no good having what is necessary in parts. You've got to have it all. Mind you, all actresses don't have to be beautiful. Some are so good at the game that they can make you think they are. Well, I'd never have been good enough for that and time was against me. I lived at the wrong time. All that down on your knees every few minutes, reminding yourself how humble you are ... miserable sinner and so on ... never daring to laugh, for that was something that was going to send you straight to Hell when your time came. I was in my prime when the Puritans closed the theaters and all that was going on, and that was not the life for me.

"Then the King came back, God bless him. But why in the name of all that is holy did he not come back ten years before ... or better still, never go at all? That would have suited Mistress Maggie Mead very well, that would. But alas, the good times came too late for her."

One day Kitty came home from the theater and said: "The King is coming to the theater on Friday. Many from the court will be there. The Queen will be coming with him, they say, so it will be a really formal occasion."

"To see you!" cried Maggie.

"No. They are putting on The Humorous Lieutenant for him— a special performance. There's no part for me in that."

"That Beaumont and Fletcher piece!" said Maggie in disgust. "They could have chosen something better."

"The play will be of small account. The theater will be full to overflowing."

She exchanged glances with Maggie and they both looked at me.

"Then we should add to the overflow," said Maggie. "What think you? It will be an opportunity for our girl to see His Majesty."

"Do you really mean that we shall be there?" I gasped.

"You could scarcely see him if you were not," retorted Maggie.

"So you want to go, do you?" Kitty asked me.

"Of course she wants to go," Maggie said. "And if she didn't Fd make sure she went all the same."

We were all laughing, and Kitty asked Maggie if she remembered the occasion when they had seen the newly married Queen in the King's Theatre with the King, and Lady Castlemaine had been there, scowling at the royal pair all the time.

"It was something I shall not forget in a hurry," said Maggie. "Everyone was waiting for trouble to start. Lady Castlemaine was capable of anything, and she was furious that the King should pay more attention to the Queen than to herself ... even though it was only done for form. And the poor little Queen did not know anything about it. That was before she discovered her ladyship's position in the royal household."

They went on recalling little incidents from that occasion, and laughing immoderately at what seemed to me far from a laughing matter ... especially for the Queen.

It was something I shall always remember: my first glimpse of the King and Queen. Excitement was great in the theater that night. It was full. I sat tightly wedged between Maggie and Kitty. We had come early to make sure of our seats, and I was glad of that when I heard the angry shouting from outside from those who had been unable to get in.

Everyone kept glancing up at the royal box, as yet unoccupied.

Then the nobility started to arrive, and there was a buzz of excitement when some notable figure appeared.

Maggie nudged me. "That's my Lord Rochester. Just look at him! He's one to be wary of. The greatest rake at court, and that says a good deal." She put her head close to mine. "I'll tell you more of him at some time. And look who's with him. The Duke of Buckingham himself! And there's Sedley and Savile ... the wildest fellows in the land. Any girl would be wise to keep clear of them, what say you, Kit?"

"I should say that, as usual, Mag, you are right."

Now a hush had fallen over the company, for the King was coming into the theater.

My eyes, in common with everyone else's, turned to the royal box. The King had entered. So tall was he that he dwarfed most of those near him: he was dark-skinned and his features were heavy; he might have looked almost saturnine but for the smile which ht up his face with an indescribable charm. There was an innate grace about him and a dignity which was so natural that it was almost disarming. I could see in that first glance why he had effortlessly won the people's affections.

"Long live the King!" cried someone; and there was a burst of applause.

Beside him was the Queen. She seemed very small and rather plain, though she smiled charmingly, and the King had taken her hand as though to remind her—and us—that the loyal greeting was for her as well as for himself.

He sat down and just at that moment there was a certain bustle in the theater. Someone else had arrived.

All eyes were on the newcomer. He was young; I imagine not much older than I was. With him was a man a few years older. He was most elegantly dressed and in a manner which called attention to his importance. He lifted his face to the royal box. The King was looking straight at him. The young man gave an elaborate bow and the King lifted his hand in acknowledgment and smiled.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Mr. James Scott or Crofts or Fitzroy some short time since, and now if you please Baron Tyndale, Earl of Doncaster and Duke of Monmouth," Maggie said. "The airs and graces indeed! And His Majesty looks on and smiles. Well, he's a handsome boy and proclaims himself the King's own son. Nor does His Majesty deny the charge."

This was indeed an exciting night.

And then, among the crowd, I saw a face I recognized. The young Duke of Monmouth had turned and spoken to a tall, dark man. They laughed together. I was taken aback, for I had recognized the man at once. He was Lord Rosslyn.

I said to Kitty: "Did you see? Was that net Lord Rosslyn who was at Willerton when we did the play?"

"It was indeed," she said. "I believe his lordship spends a great deal of time at court."

The play had started. Few in the theater were much interested in it. All eyes kept straying to the royal box.

After that visit to the theater I was all eagerness to hear about the people I had seen. Kitty and I spent a great deal of time together; she was learning a new part and I was often called upon to rehearse with her. This I enjoyed. It brought back vividly my first experiences at Willerton. It was the next best thing to acting on a stage.

I was often Maggie's companion too.

I said to her one day: "Maggie, do you think I shall ever have a part? Please tell me the truth."

"You must not be so impatient," she said. "Parts do not lie like stones by the wayside to be picked up when needed. Kitty does her best. She watches for you all the time. It will come." She looked at me intently. "You want this with all your heart, do you not? You must be watchful. Some might offer you a part and want payment. There are such men. Indeed, they abound. No, my child, not that way."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Then you will understand. Many have climbed by way of the bed, my dear, but I would not have that for you. You have talent. There is some respect for those who do not resort to such ways. Kitty says you have enough talent without that. You shall not do it that way."

"Is there another way?" I asked anxiously.

She looked at me sharply. "Some have found it, and if some, why not others? It is the only way for you. All you need is one chance. It will come, I know."

"It seems so long."

"I tell you, you are impatient. It is luck you need, that is all. You must be there ... ready to snatch it when it comes. That is the way to live. Be patient. You are young. There is time ahead. Kitty and I want you to proceed with dignity. Do you understand?"

"You have been good to me."

"And you do not wish you had not left your home that night?"

"I have never felt that."

"Then pray God you never will."

Then she started to tell me about her own life in that Puritan household where she had been brought up. I could share with her the sensation of stifling restrictions such as my mother had imposed on ours, and I knew that as I grew older I should have found them intolerable.

No. I had no regrets, even though my dreams of startling the theatrical world had considerably modified. I was growing more fond than ever of my new life; and Kitty and Maggie were closer to me than any people I had ever known.

The theater was my goal and although so far I had only glimpsed it from afar, one day it would dominate my life.

Maggie talked a great deal about the theater and the happiness which the return of the King had brought to her and many others.

"It was a glorious day," she said, "that twenty-ninth of May, his birthday. He was thirty years of age then, and think of all those years when he had been wandering about the Continent, a homeless exile and the King of England! What a welcome they gave him, and no wonder! There was the cavalry and soldiers on foot, their swords shining in the sunlight, and people shouting their joy; there were flowers on the path; they had cloth of gold hung from the windows and there was wine flowing from the fountains! It was a delight to see, I can tell you! There were the noble lords in their finery which had been hidden away all those years, bells ringing, people cheering. Oh, there never was such a day! I stood there watching, thanking God for it and knowing it had come too late for me."

"So he came back," I said, "and one of the first things he did was reopen the theaters."

"Ah yes, that's true. He hadn't been back more than two or three months when he called Thomas Killigrew and Sir William Davenant to tell them to set about creating two theaters. One was to be the King's and the other the Duke's—the Duke's being that under the patronage of the King's brother, the Duke of York. Not only did His Majesty command the theaters to be built, he assisted them in every way. I remember seeing the production of Law Against Lovers. It was the old Measure for Measure altered, with the characters of Beatrice and Benedick brought in from another play. It was a sight to see, because the King and his brother the Duke and the Earl of Oxford had given the actors their coronation suits which they were able to play in. That shows how the King feels about the theater. Oh, why did all this have to happen so late! If it had come even ten years before it might have been some use to poor old Maggie Mead."

"Maggie," I said, "I think you are happy as you are."

"One thing you learn in life—or should, for some never do— is to take what you can get and make the best of it. I've had Kitty to look after and Martha to keep happy and there is little Rose. I've got a lot to be thankful for and now I've got you, and we are going to see you get that fame and fortune which might have been mine if the King had come home earlier, or better still never gone away."

"You love being here, do you not?" I said. "Close to the theater, looking after Kitty. How did you feel when she went off to marry Lord Donnerton?"

"I thought it could have been good for her. It might have been. Donnerton was a steady sort, and I was glad he was not some young rackety Jack. He was fond of her, too. She'd have been settled for life, and a ladyship too."

"What did you think when she left him?"

"I thought she was being foolish, throwing all that away. But I understood. After all, she was one of us. She had to come back."

"Could she not have stayed with him and been on the stage?"

"She did not think so. Perhaps it was more than just coming back to the stage. Perhaps it was her noble husband from whom she wanted to escape. What shall I say? Kitty would know and I fancy she is not telling. I should have thought she was lucky to get a faithful husband. When I look round at some of these young bucks ..."

"Like those men we saw in the theater?"

"That was a good assembly, was it not? And all because the King was there. A company of—"

"Rackety Jacks?" I suggested.

"There you have said it. Rochester, was it not? Sedley, Savile ... you could not find many to match that little bunch."

"Does the King not reprimand them?"

Maggie laughed. "He finds them amusing. Their wit forgives them a great deal in the eyes of the King. Rochester is a particular favorite and one of the King's closest associates, although he is about seventeen years younger than His Majesty and the King twice his age. That young man is continually up to some villainy. The King reproves him and the next day will be walking with him and they will be seen laughing together. Rochester is a very merry man, and witty in the extreme. But he is a poet of rare ability; he is devoted to literature and there is none that can pen a couplet with his skill. The King seems to find such men irresistible."

"I am glad I saw him. He is certainly a most distinguished-looking gentleman. And what of that other who was present— the Duke of Monmouth?"

"Ah, that's a different story. There could not be two men less alike than Rochester and Monmouth, and the King—for different reasons—dotes on them both. I doubt whether Monmouth would aspire to being the King's companion but for one thing. Monmouth is the King's son."

"But ..."

"It is all very irregular, but thus is the life of His amorous Majesty. The King finds the society of ladies irresistible and always has done since he was a very young man traveling from court to court on the Continent of Europe—an exile from his country, waiting for the time when he could regain his throne. And of course there were women, and one of these was a Welsh woman, Lucy Walter. She was the same age as the King. Her home, which was said to be a castle, had been destroyed by Oliver Cromwell's men. She was about fourteen years of age at that time and she came to London to seek her fortune and to live the best way she could with what she had to offer. She was not noted for her intelligence, but she had a certain bold beauty which might attract some provider. London was not the best hunting ground at such a time, so she crossed to The Hague, where a number of the English nobility had taken refuge—among them the King. He was not her first lover, but he was very taken with her. It was said of her that, in addition to her exceptional good looks, she had a certain cunning, and Charles, being young and already showing signs of his intense need of female company, was entranced.

"The association lasted for some time. I have heard it said that she accompanied him to Jersey. Her son had been born and the King accepted him as his. None could doubt that now. Monmouth, though certainly far more good-looking than the King, undoubtedly has a look of the Stuarts. Well, when the King went to Scotland, he left Lucy at The Hague. I do not know much about Lucy's adventures after that, except that her association with the King was over and that she took other lovers, then returned to England. When she arrived, Cromwell had her arrested and sent to the Tower ... but not for long. It was decided that she was too insignificant to be dangerous and her association with the King was in the past. She was freed, returned to the Continent and soon afterwards died. The King, aware of his obligations to his son, put the boy in the care of Lord Crofts and Monmouth was said to be related to him. He was educated as a gentleman of noble birth, and two years after the King was back in England. James Crofts, as he was then, was given apartments in the Palace."

"So everyone knew then that he was the King's son?"

"Yes. His looks betrayed that, if nothing else, but young James Crofts was determined to remind people who he was at every turn. This amused the King and only last year he was given the grand titles of Baron Tyndale, Earl of Doncaster and Duke of Monmouth. This son of Lucy Walter had become a Duke. You can understand why he cannot forget it and tries to make sure that no one else shall."

"And so he came late to the theater, when everyone else was seated."

"He must make his entrance, of a surety. This is characteristic of this young man. He wants everyone to know that he enjoys special privileges. So he comes late, bows to the King and receives a warm paternal smile. You understand?"

"I do."

"This is not such a simple matter as you might think. You see how it is. The King has no legitimate son. Well, of course, it is early yet. But the Queen has miscarried. There is this failing with royalty—an inability to get male heirs. Charles the Martyr was fortunate only in this one respect. Not so our present King. Strong, most certainly capable, he has several bastards, but no legitimate child. The heir to the throne is the Duke of York. And there are rumors about the Duke."

"I suppose there are rumors about all people in high places."

"Their relationships with women, you mean. That is light-hearted gossip and the people love those who provide it. And even those who are shocked enjoy their disgust. But I speak of a matter which could affect the whole country. The Duke of York is flirting with the Catholic faith and the people of England are determined never to have another Catholic monarch on the throne. They still talk of Bloody Mary and the fires of Smithfield. Three hundred people were burned at the stake in her reign. And although many more were tortured and put to death in Spain by the Inquisition, this is England. Never again, they said."

"But we have our Catholics."

"Therein lies the danger. But there are many here who would stand firm against a Catholic monarch, and if the King has no children by his wife—Heaven knows he has enough and to spare from others—the Duke of York would be King of England, and he is a Catholic. Now the Duke of Monmouth is the King's son, although born, as they say, on the wrong side of the blanket. Monmouth would dearly love to be King. That is why he appears at all Protestant ceremonies. He wants everyone to know how firmly he supports that faith. Now suppose the King should have no legitimate children, would not Monmouth be a better choice than the Duke of York?"

"But surely that could not be, since he is not the King's legitimate son?"

"What is to prevent some long-lost documents being found? Charles was a wandering exile. Suppose he really did marry Lucy Walter? He was not the crowned King then, was he? He was only an exile. He was young and the young are reckless and the relationship with Welsh Lucy was not of short duration."

I stared at her in amazement. "Maggie, can you be sure of this?"

She smiled. "Of one thing I am sure, and that is that no one can be sure of anything in this world."

That was the way she talked and for me brought to life so many of the people who had just been names before.

It gave an added interest to the life which was going on around me. It made intriguing and exciting listening while I waited to get a start in the theater.

At last it came. Charles Hart was arranging to put on A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Theatre Royal and Kitty had prevailed on him to give me a chance to see what I could do.

Maggie was able to tell me something about the great actor before I was summoned to his presence.

"You will find him a very grand gentleman," she told me. "He acts all the time. Sometimes I wonder whether he ever stops, even in his bedchamber when he is alone—as I suppose he sometimes is. But it is second nature to him. You will have to be careful all the time to treat him with the utmost respect. Kitty will be there to help you along. Mind you, he is a very good actor. He never forgets his relationship to Shakespeare. I can tell you what that relationship is, because he makes sure that everyone who comes in contact with him is aware of it. William Shakespeare had a sister named Joan, and Charles Hart's father was her eldest son. The great Master Hart is of the opinion that he has inherited his kinsman's genius, with a little more thrown in."

"It is small wonder that he 'struts and frets upon the stage,' " put in Kitty, who had come in while this conversation was taking place. "But he reckons his will not be a case of being heard no more."

"Well, he has done well. He has acting in his blood, and the theater means a great deal to him," said Maggie. "You must admit that he is one of our finest actors."

"I would not deny it," agreed Kitty. "I was merely pointing out that he may not be quite so good as he thinks he is—but then, that could apply to most of us."

Maggie told me that he had played some good parts in his time, and when the war broke out he had joined the King's army and fought under Prince Rupert. When the war was over, he was playing in Beaumont and Fletcher's Blood Brother when the Roundheads broke in and carried him off to prison. When he was released, he acted privately and secretly in the house of a nobleman.

"Yes, Charles Hart has acting in his blood. And God bless him for it."

When the time for my appointment came, I was filled with apprehension. Suppose he did not like me? I asked myself. What then? Suppose I did not get the part? Could I go on hoping? How would Kitty feel? She would think she had made a mistake and should never have brought me to London.

Maggie tried to cheer me. "You're nervous, that's what it is. It's like going on the stage to play a part. Most actresses feel then as you do now. If you don't feel nervous, you don't bring out everything you've got and you're not going to give of your best. It's natural, dearie. It means you'll be all right when the moment comes."

"Yes," said Kitty. "If he thinks you are right for the part, you'll get it. And if he does not think so? Well, it's not the only part in the world, is it? There are others in London besides Charles Hart, I can tell you."

How they cared for me, those two! How lucky I was to have been "discovered" by Kitty and to have been brought through her to Maggie!

In due course, Kitty and I were ushered into the presence of the great man. The room was small and dark with a little window looking down on the street. He stood up at the window—tall, upright, his hands clasped behind his back, striking a dramatic pose, I guessed, from some role he had played. Before him was a desk on which some papers were scattered. He was an impressive figure, accustomed to dominate the scene, and I tried not to be overawed. I remembered Kitty's words. If I failed with him, there were others.

Maggie had said he acted all the time, and I knew he was playing a part now. At least, I thought, I cannot be so insignificant if he takes the trouble to act for me. I, too, was acting my part, that of the humble, inexperienced girl in the presence of genius— and acting so, I forgot my fear.

He was looking at Kitty. "So, dear girl, you think this child may be an actress?"

Kitty replied: "I am sure of it, Charles. You and I know talent when we see it."

"Oh, yes. And you, my dear child, you think you may be an actress?"

"Yes, sir," I said humbly.

"Do you know that every wench in every tavern ... selling her wares in the streets ... wherever she may be ..." He was declaiming to an audience, his resonant and musical voice rising and falling as he listed the girls of London and analyzed the drama of every milkmaid churning her butter in some remote country village ... all were sure that they were great actresses.

"You are right, Charles, as always," said Kitty. "But when they are found and proved, they should be given a chance."

"They are very few, dear lady. Talent is a rare gift."

"That again is true."

"I know I have it," I said boldly.

That seemed to startle him, but I could see that he was not displeased—indeed, he seemed faintly amused.

"Kitty, dear girl, I trust your judgment. What if we were to put this child to the test? It is a small part. The play is A Midsummer Night*s Dream, written by my kinsman, William Shakespeare, who is reckoned to be a dramatist of some considerable ability. A small part, it is true, but small parts are for beginners. We must all perforce prove ourselves, as you will agree." He turned to me.

"Dear child, I shall require you to read the part. Where is the piece?"

He turned to the desk and turned over some of the papers. At length he found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said. "You will read this. Just a few lines, that is all. The part is of a Fairy. It is the beginning of Act II. A Wood near Athens. You come in on one side. Puck on the other. He will say to you ..."He threw back his head and declaimed with dramatic emphasis:

How now, spirity whither wander you?

"Then ... here are your lines:

Over hill, over dale.

Thorough hush, thorough brier ...

"Read from there, my dear."

I took the paper and read until I came to the lines:

I must go seek some dewdrops here And hang a pearl in every cowslipss ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; Fll be gone: Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.

I was there. I had forgotten him temporarily. The words enchanted me. It was indeed a small part, but how I wanted to do it! I longed for the opportunity to say those words on the stage and give them the rendering such poetry deserved.

Charles Hart was swaying on his heels. Kitty was smiling triumphantly.

I was not surprised to hear the great man say: "It would appear that you have the part of Fairy in my kinsman's piece. You must learn your lines with all speed."

For the next days before the great occasion I practiced my lines continually. Kitty and Maggie helped me. At odd moments one of them would start up with "How nowy spirit! Whither wander you?'' and I would start up with ''Over hill, over dale,'' and go through the lines. Even Martha and Rose took it up, and ''Whither wander you?'' became a phrase constantly heard throughout the house.

I think the lines are engraved upon my mind and will be until I die.

The great day came. I cannot say that my performance was received with wild enthusiasm, but neither was I booed off the stage. It seemed that no sooner had I stepped on stage than I was off and that was the end of my brief glory. But I had made a start. I was a professional actress.

Those were happy days. Kitty was still playing in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and there was I, a Fairy in A Midsummer Night's Dream. We were indeed a theatrical household, and I was a part of it all, as I had not been before.

Sometimes I would complain that mine was such a little part.

"There'll be others," Kitty assured me. "Charles is pleased with you, I can tell. He watches you. He'll have something else for you and each part will be a little better than the one before. We shall soon have you complaining of the number of lines you have to learn."

"If only that could be so!"

"It will, I promise you." And with the coming of the new year, there were other parts. They were still small, but with each one I felt myself creeping nearer to success. Mine was not to be a spectacular rise, such as are dreamed of.

"Meteors do not last," soothed Kitty. "They fly across the sky, brilliant, admired, and then they fall to earth and are forgotten. You are doing it the best way, the gradual rise, and with each part you are a little more experienced."

I often thought how fortunate I had been to have fallen in with those two wonderful and loving women.

Kitty was particularly careful that I should be guarded against what she called the pitfalls of life, which meant the ever-prowling male.

"They come to the theater. They select those they want and they then tell you they will die if you deny them. You are the most wonderful creature that ever lived—until they have what they want, and then it is goodbye and they've forgotten who you were in a week or so. That's not the way. Keep them at bay."

"Lord Donnerton was not like that."

"There are few like him, I do assure you."

"Are you regretting?"

She shook her head. "The soft life was not for me. This is where I belong and what's best suited to me."

So we were happy, and I believed that life would go on like that forever.

The spring had come. It was warm and pleasant. I felt I was now a seasoned actress. I had a small part in Kilhgrew's Claracillay and one night, after the play, I was walking back to the house, which was but a short distance from the theater.

It was a warm and balmy night, and as I came through the cobbled alley which led to the square in which we lived I saw a woman lying on the pavement.

My first thought was that she had been robbed.

I went over to her to see if I could help.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

She did not answer.

Then she opened her eyes. I saw that she was flushed and she stared at me as though she did not understand what I said. She was obviously very ill.

As I stepped nearer to her, she shook her head at me violently, as though urging me not to approach.

"Go, lady," she murmured. "Do not stay near."

I did not move. I felt I must take some action, help her to her feet. If she could not walk, perhaps I could bring some friend or member of her family.

She was shaking her head, obviously frantically urging me not to come near.

Then suddenly she opened her blouse and on her breast I saw the ugly red spots.

I understood then why she did not want me to go near her.

I was aware that the plague had visited the villages near the city. There had been one or two outbreaks recently. Maggie and Kitty had talked of it.

I turned and left the woman, though I felt I should not have done so. However, she was so eager for me to keep away.

When I went home and told Maggie and Kitty of the incident they looked grave.

"There have been one or two cases this year," said Kitty. "There always have been," added Maggie, but I continued to wonder what had happened to that woman.

June had come. The weather was exceptionally hot, and before the month was out there was no doubt that the plague had come to London.

Many people were leaving the city and our audiences were becoming smaller every day.

"If it goes on like this," said Kitty, "we shall be playing to empty houses."

We did not do that because the theaters closed down. It was no longer profitable to stay open, for people did not congregate in numbers, for fear that among them might be someone who carried the dreaded infection.

We were fortunate in being able to rely on Maggie. She was, as she had said, comfortably off, and insisted that we share that comfort. She had stored cases of ale and flour to make bread should we need it, she said.

By the time August had come, we knew that this epidemic of the dreaded plague was different from the others which bad come to the city. During the first week of that August, four thousand people died, and the numbers were rising. The streets were quiet, for few people ventured out. London had lost that air of bustling activity which had been one of its main characteristics. It was strange to walk out into those quiet streets, which we did very rarely. Shops were closed, and only occasionally did one see another person, who would hurry past, glancing fearfully about, suspicious that anyone might soon be a plague victim who would pass on the infection to them—just as I was wondering the same about them.

Many of the houses were marked with a red cross on the door and with it the words "Lord have Mercy upon us." One avoided passing such houses, for the sign meant that within the house was someone suffering from the plague. The law was that if there was such a person in any house, that house must show the sign and none of the inmates could emerge for a month.

A terrible gloom hung over the city. At night the only sound was the bell of the pest cart as it came through the streets, followed by the dismal cry "Bring out your dead," and we knew that the dead body of some loved one would be put into the cart with others in the same state, to be taken outside the city, there to be thrown into a pit where many other victims of the dread disease already lay.

The King and the Parliament had moved to Oxford. London was a dead city and behind the walls of our house the five of us waited in fear for what would happen next.

It was the end of August. I heard later that during that week the death toll had risen to over seven thousand. I was glad I did not know it at the time. Even so, we were all aware of the horror of this fearsome plague. We had survived largely through Maggie's foresight. Food was not plentiful, but we managed on what she had got together in her wisdom. Shops were closed, and the stalls had long since disappeared. London was a city of gloom.

Kitty said to me: "Perhaps I should never have brought you here. You would be safer at this moment in the country."

"I wanted to come," I assured her, "and I have no regrets."

I could imagine my mother's reaction to what was happening. She would say it was God's vengeance for the wickedness of the great city. Then I thought of the poor woman I had seen dying in the cobbled alley, and the sound of the death cart trundling through the streets, and I knew that I would not wish to be there and to hear her continual condemnation. Indeed, I knew there would have been a certain gratification in what she would perceive as God's vengeance on the unrighteous.

"No," I went on, "I have had my little triumph, and I would not have been without that, whatever happens now."

"That comforts me a little," said Kitty. "You have always been on my conscience."

"When you see me as a great actress you will be pleased, Kitty, for one day it will happen."

"Oh, bless you," she said. "It is true that that will make me a very happy woman."

The next day, when she arose in the morning, she felt unwell.

As the morning progressed she said her head was aching and she felt hot although she was shivering with cold.

Maggie and I looked at each other and dared not say or even consider the thoughts which came to us. When anyone felt faintly unwell, we kept telling ourselves, we always had these uneasy feelings. It was nothing at all to be concerned about.

By the evening Kitty was worse.

Yesterday she had gone into the streets. She could not stay in any longer, she had said. She needed some fresh air and she would see if it were possible to buy food somewhere. Could it have been that she had picked up the dreaded infection somehow?

I scarcely slept that night and I knew it was the same with Maggie.

First thing in the morning, I went to Kitty's room. She was lying in bed. Terror beset me when she looked at me rather vaguely and said: "Oh ... it's Sarah, is it not?"

"Kitty!" I cried. "How are you? Are you better?" I was beseeching her to say yes.

She said: "It was cruel of me to leave you. I had made my vows. But I could not endure it."

Then the awful truth dawned on me. She was delirious. It was one of the symptoms ... headache, shivering, nausea, delirium.

She seemed herself suddenly. "Oh, I am better this morning, Sarah. I am a little tired. I think I'll rest awhile."

I drew the sheets about her. I felt sick with fear.

I went to Maggie and told her.

Maggie stared ahead, her face tense with anxiety which she was obviously trying to thrust aside, rather than accept what she feared.

"She's a strong girl," she said. "She went out yesterday. I wonder ..." She looked at me steadily. "If it is ..."

She was silent for a while.

"We get fearful sometimes without cause," she went on. "It cannot be. But if it is, Sarah, we must needs face it."

There was silence throughout the house. Kitty remained in her bed.

That afternoon I went to her. She was lying very still, her eyes wide open.

"Sarah," she said. "It has come. I fear I have brought it into the house. I must go while there is time."

"Go ... where would you go?"

"I would go into the streets, as so many have. They go there to die because they do not want to take the plague to their families.

It is what I must do. Give me my clothes. Help me to dress. I know I must go ... before it is too late."

"You shall go nowhere. Kitty. You shall stay here in your bed."

"Oh. God help me. no. I am afflicted, I know. Soon the dreaded signs will show themselves on my breast. I must go before that."

"We shall never let you do that, not I, nor Maggie. This is your home. You will stay here and we shall care for you."

"And die for it."

"It may be that it is not the plague. It is just a rheum."

She laughed, without mirth. "I know it. I stopped in the street and talked with a woman. I know her slightly. She was one of the orange girls at Drury Lane. She was looking for food to buy. That was it. I could have caught it from her, or perhaps it is in the very air we breathe. I don't know, but I am stricken, Sarah. Go away from me. I would go myself, only I am so tired, so feeble. But I cannot bear to think that you or Maggie or Manha or Rose should suffer through me."

"Kitty, listen to me. If you have this terrible thing, there is nothing to be done about it now. >Xe have both been out. So let us not talk of your going out. Do not dare move from your bed. I know Maggie feels as I do. We are going to look after you."

"You don't understand what this means ..."

"I understand well. We are together, you. Maggie and I. Nothing shall part us, not even this terrible plague."

Her eyes were filled with tears. She said: "Yes ... we are together. It would be too late. If it is as I fear, it is already too late. I can never forgive myself. I should not have gone out. I should not have stopped to talk. It was folly. Oh why, why? All our dreams ... where have they led us? To a house in a desolate city with a red cross painted on the door."

"Not yet, Kitty. No, it is nothing. You are going to be better tomorrow. You will laugh at this."

"Shall I, Sarah? Oh yes, let us say that ... even though in our hearts we do not believe it."

"Then I told Maggie of this she was sober.

"It must not be," she said. "Not Kitty. She has her life before her. Oh no ... this terrible plague. The misery ... not Kitty. He will nurse her back to health, you and I, and we have .Martha and Rose. People do recover. I heard of a man years ago. That was not as bad as this time ... but he took the plague and he returned to robust health. Just go on as though we are not unduly concerned, Sarah. If it is the plague—and I fear it is—let us fight it. We'll keep our Kitty alive, in spite of it."

"Yes, Maggie,'' I said, "we will."

That night I saw the dreaded macula upon her breast.

Our door now bore that tragic sign: the red cross and "Lord have Mercy upon us."

She wanted me with her and that was where I wanted to be.

I was with her throughout the night.

She wanted to talk. I believed at times she was not sure where she was. It seemed as though she were talking to someone I did not know, and then suddenly she would be lucid and fully aware of what was happening.

In one of those moments she said to me: "Sarah, I am dying. I know it. I never thought it would be like this. I thought I would come back to the stage and prove to myself and them all that I had done was right for me. And now ... it seems so worthless. We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are heard no more. I played in Macbeth once. I loved those words so much. I never forgot them, though I did not have the honor of saying them. Charles Hart's grandmother's brother was a great poet, Sarah ... Sarah, I think of you so often and in particular now ... when I shall not be there."

"Kitty, you will get well."

"No. It has claimed me, Sarah. There's no hiding from the truth. My time has come. I blame myself. I should have gone away to die. Sarah, listen to me. You are very young. There is so much you do not understand. I fear for you. I always thought I should be there to look after you. You would be as a daughter to me. From the first moment I saw you I felt something for you ... something strange and sweet and strong."

"I was drawn to you, Kitty," I said. "We were drawn to each other. Do not talk of dying. It is more than I can bear."

"I was to be your guardian. You will be an actress, I know it. This terrible plague will pass and everything will be as it was before. There have been other epidemics ... it just happens that this is bigger than those others. Life will go back to what it was. The theaters will be open. There will be the triumphs, the failures and the dangers. I was going to protect you from them. I was going to make you into a great actress. Oh, Sarah, did I think I was God, to mold your destiny? And who was I, to think I could do that? Now I see how feeble I am. Look at me now. Where are my plans? I married because I thought it was best for me. I left my husband to return to the profession I loved. You see, I thought of myself all the time."

I tried to speak lightly. "Kitty, we all do ... every one of us."

"You make excuses for me, Sarah. I can see that I was brazen in my belief in myself, and God has struck me down to show me what a feeble person I am in truth. What am I now? What use to anyone? Use indeed! What have I done? I have brought the plague to this house. The red cross is on the door. This house is unclean. Do not enter."

"Kitty, you are acting as though on a stage. Thousands of people have this sickness. It could happen to any one of us. Stop talking nonsense about God's punishing you. All you did was try to help. I should have left my home sooner or later, I am sure. It was you who found a way for me. You have done more than I can say for me, Kitty. Thank you."

"My dear child, I do want all to go well for you. My last words to you ... for there will be few more, I am so weak ... I know I am failing fast, Sarah. Guard your virtue. Do not be deceived by fine promises. Maggie will be a good friend to you, but promise me you will be careful. If a man loves you enough to want to spend the rest of his life with you ... if he wants to make you his wife and you love him, that is well. But only then, Sarah. Promise." She laughed. "Ah, here I am, guiding you again. It is because I love you, Sarah, and I wanted to see everything good for you. Everything that went wrong for me must go right for you, everything I did not have myself you must have."

"I promise you, I shall remember your words forever." She seemed satisfied. She lay back exhausted, and I realized that talking like this had sapped what little energy she had. I bent over her. Her lips moved slightly. "Remember," she whispered. "Remember, Sarah." I stood by her bed, watching her. All the life seemed to have left her now.

I went to Maggie. I said: "She is very ill, I think."

Before the day was out, Kitty was dead.

It was growing dark. We sat together, myself, Maggie, Martha and Rose. We were listening for the sound of the pest cart. We knew that soon we should hear the tinkling of the bell and the sound of the wheels on the cobbles.

It came. We sat there tense, not looking at each other.

"Bring out your dead."

It was close now. We opened the door. Maggie and I carried her out and there she was, our dear Kitty, once beautiful and merry, who had dreamed of becoming a great actress, and yet ... one blow, perhaps a chance encounter with an old acquaintance, and that was the end of her dreams. Life was cruel. This was happening in thousands of homes in London. Ours was a common tragedy. But this was Kitty—our Kitty—and she was no more.

Lost Illusion

We had to remain in the house. A month had to elapse before we emerged, and during that time the dreaded sign of the red cross would remain on our door.

Ours was a house of mourning, a silent house. I know Kitty was in all our minds; we did not speak of her, but she was with us every moment.

In the evenings we sat together, Maggie and I with Martha and Rose. How silent everything was. I longed to hear the old sounds of those pestilence-free days: the street-sellers shouting of the excellence of what they had to sell, the rattle of a passing vehicle ... people laughing, quarreling ... fighting sometimes ... perpetual noise. But now there was only this unnerving quiet.

Kitty was always in my thoughts. She lay buried in a pit with many others. Never again should I hear her voice, never see her ... there was nothing left but to mourn her. I could see that Maggie's thoughts were similar to mine, Martha's and Rose's too. And the silence seemed unbearable.

If we went to our beds we could not sleep. We were imprisoned in this house for another month and if, by that time, none of us had contracted the disease, we would be considered free of infection and free to go out.

Where to, I wondered? To closed theaters and empty streets and more memories of Kitty.

Martha had warned that the flour would run out soon and there would be no bread, but no one seemed very excited about that.

We were too deeply sunk in gloom to think about such a trivial matter.

One evening, as we sat there, there was a knocking on the door.

Startled, we looked at each other. Who could be there? Had whoever it was not seen the dreaded notice on the door warning all to stay away from a contaminated house?

"Someone has failed to see the sign," said Martha. "They will, and then they will run as though the Devil were at their heels."

We sat still, and the knocking started again.

"Who in the world can it be knocking at a door like that?" said Martha.

"There is one way to find out," I said. I went to the door and opened it.

A man stood there. Tall and thin, he wore no wig on his fine fair hair. He was somberly dressed like a Puritan.

I said: "Go at once. Have you not seen the sign?"

I was preparing to shut the door when he said: "It is because of the sign that I have come."

I stared at him. He must be mad, I was sure. Did he not know the law? Did he think anyone would put up such a sign without good reason for doing so?

"I am Rupert Lawson, a priest. I visit such as you in the hope that I can be of some help. I could bring you food. Would you allow me to come in?"

Startled, I stood back and he entered the house.

Maggie had come out. I saw Martha and Rose behind her.

I said: "This is the Reverend Rupert Lawson. He visits those in our position in order to help them."

"I thought you might be in need of comfort, and perhaps food."

"Let him come in," said Martha.

Maggie said: "Do you realize, sir ..."

Martha interjected: "We're running short of flour ..."

"We have had a death in this house," I explained. "It is less than a week since ..."

"I am aware. I have visited houses such as this since this terrible epidemic came to us. Yet I have never caught the sickness. I believe that God protects me so that I might do His work of mercy."

It might have been hard to believe such a statement, but there was an air about him of what I think of now as saintliness. In any case, unlikely as his story seemed, I believed him and I think we all did.

"If I might come in, and hear your particular needs ..."he said with a smile.

Maggie was silent for a moment, then said: "As long as you realize what risk you are running. I must repeat, it is a very short time ago that a victim of the plague was carried from this house."

"We have already told him that," I said.

"It is of no consequence to me. I am here to help."

He sat there among us. The promise of food had interested Martha; Rose was round-eyed with wonder. Maggie was inclined to be a little suspicious, but even she was beginning to believe his story with every passing minute. As for myself, I immediately felt a great trust in him.

He said: "Your grief must have been intense."

We were all too moved for speech.

He went on: "God will help you. I will pray for you. You must speak to Him too. Just little simple prayers as you go about your daily tasks ... just naturally, as you might speak to each other. He will understand. Tell me about the friend you have lost."

Strangely enough, it was easy to talk to him. In a little while I was telling how I had come to London with Kitty and had just been getting a few small parts when the theaters had been closed down.

I had expected him to say that it was good to close the theaters and that God was punishing the wicked city by making it impossible to continue with its licentious ways; but nothing of the sort. He said that the theaters would doubtless open when the plague had passed. We had only to wait for the end of the summer, for the plague thrived in the heat, and the cold would kill it as it had before.

He talked to us of the people he had visited. He had been doing this since the beginning of June. He was a priest of God and he believed that in what he was doing he was serving Him far more effectively than he could by preaching to a congregation.

"Do the work that is at hand," he said. "That is a good law to follow. People cannot get to church, so I visit them. It is true that in the beginning, when people were aware that the sickness was about to come upon them, the churches were filled with people who had never thought to visit them before. It is often only in times of terror that some people remember God. I have found a great satisfaction in this work ... such as I never had before."

Martha said: "We are getting short of flour, and we're living mainly on bread and ale. It suffices, but I can't think what we will do when it's gone. We can't get out and none will come to us. I do not know how we shall live."

"I shall bring you flour," he said. "There is no fresh food I can bring, but flour I am sure I can procure."

"While I have flour I can bake bread," said Martha.

"You still have a little?"

"I'm using the winter's store. It won't last the month, and then what, I say? Who knows ... ?"

"The winter will soon be with us. When the cold weather comes this must pass."

Martha was looking at him superciliously. I could see then that she did not believe he would bring us flour.

He sat down with us and talked. He told us there were signs that the plague was abating. We could only wait and hope. He asked if he might say a prayer, and we sat with our eyes downcast.

"Lord," he said, "give us courage to bear this cross; give us hope that it may soon pass from us, and the fortitude to rebuild the lives which are left to us."

Then he left us, promising to return the next day with flour.

"He's a madman," said Maggie when he had gone. "Stop thinking of that flour, Martha, we've seen the end of him."

I did not believe that. He had made a deep impression on me. There was an aura of saintliness about him, of absolute selflessness. It was sincerity. He seemed to have no thought for his own safety. I was aware that he believed that God would spare him to do the work he had chosen. His faith was absolute.

I was right. The next day he returned with the flour. He stayed and talked with us for a while, then he said a short prayer as before.

His visit had a marked effect on me. I felt different. I was certain that we should pass out of this, that in spite of our sorrow I should have, as he said, the fortitude to lift myself out of my melancholy and be able to face whatever lay in front of me.

With the coming of the cold weather the plague gradually abated. What a relief it was to see no more red crosses on the doors of the houses, no longer to hear the pest carts roaming the streets at night.

Those who had fled the capital were now returning. There were stalls in the streets, the shops were beginning to open, and the theaters followed. Life was rapidly returning to normal.

I was on the spot and an actress of some experience, and one or two parts came my way. It was the best thing that could happen. My work absorbed me and helped to subdue my unhappiness at the loss of Kitty.

We were trying hard to accept the fact that she had gone. Rupert Lawson was a help to us all at that time. He continued to visit us, and Martha, who would be grateful to him for the rest of her life because of the flour he had given her during our great need, liked to give him a good meal.

"What we should have done without him, I do not know," she declared. "There was I, down to my last bag of flour, and no end in sight. I reckon he saved us from starvation, that I do. And I don't think he knows what a good meal is at that place of his. Well, I'll show him."

I was sure she was right, but Rupert was not much concerned with food, nor the domestic comforts of any kind. He had a room in a kind of lodging-house and was looked after by a landlady.

I heard that one or two others of his calling had acted as he had done during those months of the plague, visiting those who were dying, and bringing comfort to them. People said that it was a miracle, for not one of these men, and there were several of them, had been smitten by the disease, in spite of the risks they had taken. And considering how virulent the sickness was, and how it could be caught merely through speaking with one who was afflicted, as must have been the case with Kitty, it did indeed seem miraculous.

Time was passing. A new year had come, and then the winter was passing into spring. When I walked through the streets it seemed that the plague might never have visited us, bringing the desolation it had. I could almost delude myself into thinking that when I returned to the house Kitty would be waiting for me.

I was seventeen years old, and very different from the child who had run away from home that night. I had known deep sorrow since then, perhaps the greatest sorrow anyone can know—suddenly to lose a loved one, one who was at that time the most important person in my life. So much had happened to me since then. I had achieved a little success. Nothing spectacular, of course, but I could say that I had taken a few steps up the ladder to a career in the theater.

Since the plague had subsided, I had been employed almost regularly. I suppose some actresses had left London, some may have been victims of the sickness; perhaps it was because there were not many to choose from that I was given this chance. I had played in Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady and Dryden's Indian Emperor with some success. My acting absorbed me, and Maggie, Martha and Rose enthusiastically followed what I did, and came to the theater to see me act. What a boon the theater was to us all during that difficult time of mourning. It helped the others no less than me. They listened to me rehearsing my parts. Often I would think: If only Kitty were here, how delighted she would be.

Moreover, I was earning money—not a great deal, but enough to give me a feeling of independence, which meant a great deal to me. Oh, if only Kitty were here! I thought that a hundred times a day.

Summer had come. We were very apprehensive, fearful that the plague might come again. When the sun was hot we were particularly fearful. It was during such weather in the previous year that we had become aware of the scourge which had taken possession of London.

People were alert. If anyone was mildly ill, that person was regarded with suspicion and contact would be avoided.

But the summer was passing and there was no sign of the trouble. July was hot and sultry. Fear grew. But it would not be long before the cold winds started to blow, and we had come through so far.

One day, when I was leaving the theater, a man came to me. He bowed deeply, lifting his hat from the luxuriant light brown curls of his wig as he did so.

"Mistress Standish," he said. "Do you remember me?"

I looked at him and I vividly recalled that night he had wanted to escort me home and Kitty had emerged suddenly to accompany us.

He said: "Congratulations, Mistress Standish. No longer the little waif with her herring basket, but an actress of fame on the stage of the King's Theatre. Well, it had to be, had it not, for such a talent could not remain hidden for long."

I laughed. "You are Lord Rosslyn," I said.

"I am honored that you remember me. I must speak to you. I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. Did you hear my cheers at the end? They were all for you. In fact, I scarcely noticed the rest of the cast."

"This," I said, "is blatant flattery."

He lifted his shoulders and looked at me a trifle whimsically.

"Much has happened since we last met," he said. "It would please me greatly if we might talk together. Would you come to one of these new coffee houses? We could sit and talk with ease. What say you? There is one at Covent Garden right here. I was at Tom's in Change Alley a little while ago. I am mightily impressed with these places. I think they will become very popular. Well, what say you to the Covent Garden?"

"It would be a pleasure."

I had not yet visited one of the coffee houses. When the first one, the Rainbow, was opened in Fleet Street, there was a great deal of speculation about it. People wanted to visit it and that accounted for its initial success, but when that had faded and Dick's in the City was opened and others followed, it seemed as though they had come to stay and were popular with the people of London, and almost immediately they were supplying customers with something stronger than the coffee which had been the first intention.

When we were seated in the Covent Garden Coffee House, my companion urged me to take a little wine. But I wanted to try the coffee. I reminded him that this was a coffee house and therefore it was appropriate to drink that beverage.

He drank the coffee with me. I found it good, and I was aware of a very special stimulation in his company.

He was an extremely attractive man, years older than I. He must have been in his mid-thirties, which would make him twice my age. I thought he was more interesting than any man I had ever met. There was an air of the "man of the world" about him which appealed to my youthful innocence. Perhaps I was flattered that such a distinguished man should concern himself with me.

He leaned towards me and said: "You have grown up. Mistress Standish, since that day I took you home after you gave that wonderful performance at the house of your friends."

"He was my father's employer. My father was agent for Sir Henry Willerton's estates."

"I know. In fact, Mistress Standish, I know a great deal about you. So you came to London."

"Yes, Kitty thought I might do something in the theater." I could not say her name without emotion. He saw this and stretched out his hand and took mine. He looked into my face as he held it, and I tried to hold back the tears which came into my eyes.

"It was such a tragedy," he said. "I was desolate when I heard. She was so young, so vital ... and you were with her, were you?"

I told him how she had died and how the Reverend Rupert Lawson had assisted us by bringing food, of which we were in desperate need.

"A good man," he said. "Many have suffered, I fear."

"You were not in London?"

"No. I was in the country. There were one or two cases there. It was not a time to come to the capital if one could avoid it. My poor Mistress Standish. It was very, very sad indeed for you."

"As for so many."

"A punishment on the unrighteous, as the Puritans tell us. Alas, it was not they who suffered. Most of them had their country houses to which they could return, while those who could not get away suffered for the sins of the unrighteous, which would seem a little unfair—if one believed in this theory, which I do not."

"Nor I," I said.

He was smiling a little ruefully.

"Enough of this sadness. 'Tis a time for rejoicing, for we have met after all this time. I have thought of you often. The little waif with her herring basket. She touched me mightily, and then when I heard that Mistress Standish was playing at Drury Lane ... well, nothing would hold me back, and then I gathered together my courage and spoke to her."

"Did it need so much courage?"

"A great deal, for if you had refused to talk to me I should have been desolate."

"I cannot see why I should refuse. I shall always remember how kindly you walked home with me."

"With you and Mistress Kitty. She took great care of you, did dear Kitty. But enough, I do not want to make you sad again. She would be pleased to see your success in your profession. You are happy about that. So let us forget all sadness. That is the best way. Tell me, where do you live? Tell me all about yourself."

"Kitty took me in to her home with Maggie Mead. We lived there and I live there still."

"I have heard of her. A lady of great character."

"That would describe her well."

"And she has taken on the role of guardian angel to the young lady recently come to the wicked city."

I laughed. "That could be so. And what of you, my lord?"

"My name is Adair. Jack Adair. Could I prevail upon you to call me Jack?"

"It seems a little ..."

He smiled. "Familiar?"

"Well, perhaps."

"Shall I tell you that nothing would please me more than such familiarity? I shall call you Sarah. May I? And I hope you will forget our brief acquaintance and call me Jack. After all, we did meet at Willerton and it is not the duration of a friendship which is so important, but its depth. I am going to be very bold and suggest that this meeting tonight is going to be the beginning of many for us. What would you say to that?"

"What could I say until I know what follows?"

"How wise. How cautious. The more I know you, the more you delight me."

^X e talked in this light bantering way until suddenly I realized that the time was passing and Maggie would be wondering where I was.

I said I must go. He looked a little disappointed but he did not seek to detain me and said instead he would walk home with me.

As we walked the short distance to Maggie's house, I realized that I had not felt so happy since Kitty died. I found this man's company exhilarating and I was delighted because of his insistence that we must meet again.

When I said goodbye to him he once more took my hand and held it for a few seconds before he raised it to his lips.

"It has been so wonderful to find you," he said. Then he smiled and added: "Rest assured that, having done so, I shall not let you elude me again."

I laughed, pretending to believe that it was merely gallant words, not to be taken too seriously.

But how I hoped this was not so.

I was eager to tell Maggie of my meeting with this gentleman, but as soon as I entered I knew that something had happened. Before I saw Maggie, Martha came to me. She had that eager and excited look people have when they have some surprising news. Whether good or bad, it makes no difference. They know something you do not and they cannot wait to tell you.

"Martha," I began, "is Mistress Maggie all right?"

She lowered her voice. "She's in a bit of a state. Miss Sarah. It's that nephew of hers."

Nephew? I remembered vaguely that Maggie's sister lived in the country somewhere and she had a son. This would be the nephew.

"What ... ?" I began.

"He's here." She pointed towards the parlor door which was shut.

"With Mistress Maggie?"

"Shut in together. It's talk, talk. He's come all the way from Dorsetshire. What it means, only the Lord knows."

"I am sure Mistress Maggie will know as well by now, Martha," I said. "Has she said anything to you?"

"No. He's had a bit to eat and he's to stay the night. I'll have to make him up a bed in the parlor. What I do know is that Mistress Maggie is all in a daze, which is not like her."

"She's in the parlor, is she?"

"Yes, with him."

"riI'lll go and see what is wrong."

I knocked at the door of the parlor and was bidden to enter.

Maggie was seated on a chair and beside her sat a man who must have been in his twenties, not unlike Maggie in appearance.

"Oh, Sarah," she said, and I fancied it was with relief. Had she been uneasy because I was late? No, I realized this crisis had driven everything else from her mind.

"Come along in, Sarah. This is my nephew. Master Abel Bagley." She turned to the young man. "Mistress Standish is a great friend of mine. She lives here."

The young man stood up and bowed.

"Sit down, Sarah," said Maggie. "I must tell you what has happened. My sister Rachel is very ill ... not expected to live. She is eager to see me. It is years since we have seen each other. Not since I first came to London. But now there is little time left to her she is most anxious that we should be together."

"I see," I said.

"Abel wants me to go back with him to Dorset."

"That is a very long way."

"It is so indeed, but Abel has made the journey. I shall go back with him."

"When do you suggest you go?"

"Abel will go back tomorrow. I shall go with him."

"But how?"

"By stage wagon."

I looked at her in horror. I had heard of the stage wagons. It was not very long ago that they had come into being. I guessed the journey to Dorset would take a week or more and, of course, it would be far from comfortable. But there was an air of determination about Maggie. I knew her well and I knew that she had made up her mind.

She came to me in my room that night. Neither of us could sleep. The effect of Maggie's news had put from my mind temporarily the excitement of the meeting with Lord Rosslyn.

She wanted to tell me what was on her mind, so she sat on the bed and we talked. She told me more about her life in that Puritan household where she had been brought up. Her sister Rachel had been her parents' favorite.

"Rachel was made in their pattern," she said. "I never was. She was a good little Puritan. I was a rebel. And she married Jacob Bagley, another such as our father. A righteous man, my father called him, which meant that he hardly ever smiled and thought it was a sin to be happy. I did not know how Rachel could have married him, but she did and with our parents' blessing, so she was proclaimed a good and dutiful daughter. I could not endure it. I left and came to London. I wanted so much to be an actress, but there was no opportunity in those days. That was when Kitty and I became friends. When I married Tom Mead I went back to see my family. It was not very successful. I knew that I could never be as they were. Rachel and I were quite different. Rachel tried to be friends but it was not easy. I could not endure that way of life. I left in a temper and I did not hear any more of her after that ... until now. She is asking for me, Sarah. She is dying. I cannot refuse to go."

"But it is such a long way, Maggie. It is a very trying journey by stage wagon."

"How otherwise should I go? I should never forgive myself if I did not give her her dying wish. I know how she is. Abel tells me she has this on her mind. We parted on ill terms. Mind you, she will have convinced herself that the fault was mine, but on the other hand, does it not say somewhere in the Bible that one should not let the sun go down on one's anger? Love one another, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others? And although I am the unrighteous one—already in the angels' black books for my desire to appear upon the stage—there is just the possibility that someone up there may have a distorted way of passing judgment ... and her place in Heaven may be in jeopardy."

I could not help smiling. Maggie always made me smile.

"As for me," she went on, "well, she is my sister. She was all right when we were very young, before she was caught up with Jacob Bagley and learned to see sin everywhere she looked. Mind you, she had had a fairly good apprenticeship with our parents and it suited her nature better than mine—it's the truth, Sarah. But I could not be at peace with myself if I did not do all I could to bring us together. We are sisters. There is a bond between us which nothing can change ... the same flesh and blood. Do you understand, or am I ranting on?"

"I do understand, Maggie, and I see that you will not be happy if you do not go. But come back soon."

"You can be sure of that," she said.

The next day she left on the stage wagon for Dorset.

I had not mentioned my meeting with Lord Rosslyn. I had thought of it on the previous evening but Maggie was, of course, too immersed in her own problem to want to listen to a little light gossip. So I had refrained from mentioning it.

I thought much later of what a big part chance plays in our lives.

But for the arrival of Abel Bagley, my life might have turned out quite differently from the way it did.

My relationship with Jack Adair—as I thought of him now— progressed rapidly. I knew that he was a most impatient man and when he had made up his mind he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly.

He was charming and gallant. He was the most interesting person I had ever met. In a few weeks he had shown me that without a doubt he cared a good deal for me.

I lived in a blissful dream. I had scarcely given a thought to Kitty for days at a time.

I was happy. He would be waiting for me after the theater. Because we had first gone to the Covent Garden Coffee House, coffee houses would always mean something special to him, he told me. So we visited others. We went to the Rainbow in Fleet Street—the first of them all—and Tom's in Change Alley, but we came back to the Covent Garden, which had now become Will's.

How I wished I could tell Maggie about this wonderful friendship of mine. I expected her home at any time now. She would have seen her sister, had a reconciliation and have eased her conscience. That was all she had to do. Every day I expected that she would be back. But the days went by and I had to admit that I did not miss Maggie quite as much as I should have done if Jack Adair had not been there to beguile me. Also, I hardly ever thought of Kitty during those days. I was completely absorbed by this friendship with what was surely the most fascinating man in the world.

He was always so courtly, so tender, and he paid me such delightful compliments. In fact, had he been younger, I should have thought he was in love with me.

I told myself that he regarded himself as a father to me. He had never married. At least, he did not actually say he had not, but I assumed it was so and he did not say anything to the contrary. He had lodgings in London, and he referred sometimes to a place in the country, but he did not talk much about himself.

It was the beginning of September when a man who had traveled from Dorsetshire on the stage wagon called at the house. Martha was full of excitement when I came in that evening.

"He comes from Dorchester, and lives not far from Maggie's sister, and she gave him this letter to bring to you."

"Oh," I cried. "That is wonderful! It means she is coming home."

I opened it eagerly and while Martha and Rose looked on I read it.

Dear Sarah,

I dare say you think I am a long time coming home. Well, when I saw how things were here, I could not leave.

Rachel is very ill. The apothecary says she cannot live long. There is no one here to look after her as she should be looked after. Abel does his best, but he has to work and you know what men are ... so I must needs stay a while. I could not leave her thus. She is my sister. She rejoices that I am here.

I do not think it will be long. My poor sister is very sick indeed, and all I know is that I could not leave her now,

I shall be back as soon as I can get there.

I miss you all.

I read the letter aloud to Martha and Rose. We were all bitterly disappointed.

In Will's, the Covent Garden coffee house, I told Jack of the letter I had received from Maggie.

"You miss her?" he asked.

"Indeed I do."

"She was your watchdog?"

"That is not a good way of describing her. She likes to look after me. She thinks a young girl needs someone to look after her in a city like this."

"And now she is away ... do you enjoy your freedom?''

"I miss her very much. I was so disappointed to hear she was not coming back yet."

"Do you not find it a little ... irksome?"

"Irksome?"

"To have someone restricting your freedom."

"I have never thought of it that way. I have always been grateful to Maggie. She has been a wonderful friend to me."

He took my hand and said: "I would be a wonderful friend to you ... if you would permit it."

I said: "I have your friendship now. I treasure it."

He gave me a rather wistful smile. Then he talked about the lodgings he had in London.

"A pleasant enough place," he said. "I take these rooms in this house. Below me live the good woman and her husband who look after my needs. I should like to show them to you."

"I should like to see them."

"Then you shall. Then you can picture me in my rooms, as I can picture you in the house of the good Maggie Mead. Why not this evening?"

We left the coffee house, and he took me to those rooms. When I look back I can smile at my innocence, but it must be remembered that I had not been very long in London. I had never met anyone like this man before. His courtly charm, his good manners, made him seem like a knight of old, chivalrous, a defender of the weak, the perfect gentleman.

He unlocked the door of his apartment and led me in.

There were a sitting room and a bedroom, and some other rooms, all tastefully furnished.

"I am well looked after here," he told me. "I come and go much as I please. I have friends to stay when I wish."

"You have charming lodgings," I told him.

And then everything changed. He took my cloak from me and threw it on to the bed.

"Sarah," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse and different. "I love you. I've been very patient, but at last you have come to me.

I felt alarmed suddenly. It was almost as though Kitty were in the room. I could hear her voice ... and the words she had said the last time I saw her alive. She was warning me ... and with a sudden flash I understood, and suddenly I knew that this was what Jack Adair had been leading up to ever since he spoke to me that first time outside the theater.

"I think," I said, "I ought to go."

He stared at me.

"Why, in the name of God and all His angels?"

"It seems that I have not understood."

"Oh come, Sarah, you are not as innocent as all that. You must have known I wanted you from the first moment I saw you."

"I thought ..."

He took my chin in his hands and pressed his lips down hard on mine. His arms were tight around me ... possessive and strong. He was different from the man whom I had built up in my imagination. I was really frightened now. I felt I was alone ... helpless ... with a stranger. I knew now that this was just what Kitty had warned me of ... Maggie too. Oh, if only she were here!

I heard myself saying in a shrill, almost hysterical voice: "No ... no!"

"But you are fond of me, Sarah. Of course you are. You have shown it in a hundred ways."

"Yes ... yes. But let me go. Let us talk about this."

"Talk! I have done with talk. We have talked enough in those dreadful coffee houses. I have finished with talking, Sarah, and so will you."

"Please," I said. "Please!"

He did release me, and looked at me with a hint of annoyance in his eyes which I had never seen before in him.

"I just did not realize," I began.

"Oddsfish," he said. "You are not such a simpleton as all that. Of course you knew ... you thought you would have a little game with me. You would lure me on ... I know the game. Then ... no, no, no, I am too innocent." His anger seemed to pass as quickly as it had come. He was almost pleading now. "You like me, Sarah. You know you do. Why ... why?"

"I don't think I should be here ... like this."

He laughed.

"What a little Puritan you are! Come, little Roundhead, that went out of fashion some time ago."

"I don't think we see things in the same light."

"We will, Sarah. I know you are young ... and innocent. It is what I like so much about you."

"I think you are suggesting that we behave as though we were married."

He laughed. "So, if we were, you would be willing enough?"

"It would be different if that were the case. It would be right ..."

"So it was marriage you had in mind?"

I was silent.

He said: "I am old enough to be your father."

"I did not think of that."

I was afraid that the other mood I had glimpsed would return. I felt sick and foolish, and terribly afraid.

He put his hand to his forehead in a gesture of frustration, and I seized that moment. I snatched up my cloak from the bed and ran. I went down the stairs and out through the door. The cool air of the street enveloped me and I had no thoughts in my mind.

I ran and ran all the way home.

I was safe.

Martha was in the parlor.

I said to her: "I am going to bed. I am so tired."

I shut my door and sank on to the bed. I do not think I had ever been so wretched in the whole of my life.

A Ceremony in Knightsbridge

I LAY SLEEPLESS all through that night.

What a fool I had been! I should have known that from the beginning he had had but one thought in his mind: to make me his mistress. Men such as he was did not marry unknown actresses. But they often made them their mistresses. Some of my fellow actresses had their noblemen lovers. I should have understood that very well.

I remembered how Kitty had insisted on walking home with me that night at Willerton. Kitty had summed up the situation right from the first. She had warned me.

And what had I done? I admitted it now. I had allowed myself to fall in love with a man whose plans for me were dishonorable.

I had to look at this clearly. I had been warned, and yet I had refused to see what was obvious. What had I thought were his intentions? I had to be frank. I had thought he would marry me. Lord Donnington had married Kitty. He was much older than she was, and she was an actress and he a lord like Lord Rosslyn. The position seemed familiar, but I had deluded myself. Really, he was not to blame for assuming what he had. He had thought I was light, ready to allow him to seduce me. That I was just acting the innocent, so young and pure, and letting him wait a while before he achieved his goal. He had grown impatient and the result was that I had become scared and run away.

I had deluded myself. I had allowed myself to fall in love with him. He had brightened my life. He had made me forget my loss. I had been really happy when I was with him. If I were really truthful, I should admit that, in spite of my fear, my sudden awakening, I had wanted to stay with him.

If it had not been for Kitty, I believed I should have done so. But then, if it had not been for Kitty, I should never have known him.

He would not come near me again and I had lost him. I was bereft, lonely and wretched.

I spent a sleepless night and it was early morning before I dozed a little.

I wondered how I was going to get through the day.

I was at the theater that night, but I could hardly concentrate on the play. I was scanning the audience, hoping for a sight of him. He was not there. I was praying that he would be waiting for me when the play was over. What should I say to him if he were? "I will do anything to please you"? I felt that if he had been there, I might have done just that.

I need not have concerned myself. He was not there, and I feared I should not see him again. I had disappointed him. He was thinking I had led him to believe I would be willing to play the part he had prepared for me. He was frustrated and angry, and that anger was directed against me.

I had lost him. I had disappointed him. I should never see him again.

Yet every morning I arose with the hope that I should see him that day. But time was passing and he did not come.

I was invited with another of the actresses to go to Will's Coffee House with her and two gentlemen. I went. The company was merry enough, but it could not lift my spirits. All the time I was thinking of those occasions when I had been there with Jack Adair.

Several weeks passed. The weather had grown very hot. I was finding it difficult to sleep and when I did my dreams were haunted by memories of Jack Adair. I dreamed that he was my friend again. I was very happy. Then I would wake to the unhappiness of disappointment. Once I dreamed that I saw him in the theater while I was playing and I walked off the stage, calling to him. He looked at me with contempt and hatred and he cried, "Roundhead!" and all the people in the theater took up the cry. I woke with the word ringing in my ears.

It was the first day of September—a hot and sticky night, not conducive to sleep. I awoke in the early hours of the morning. I felt something was happening. I have been dreaming again, I told myself. But then I saw that there was a dull red glow in the sky. I sat up in my bed. I heard a cracking sound and a loud explosion, as though something heavy had been thrown to the ground.

It's a fire, I thought, a very big fire.

I got out of bed and went to the window. I put my head out. The wind was blowing fiercely. A fire on a night like this! I thought. This wind will make it difficult to control.

The household was stirring. I opened my door. Martha was descending the stairs.

"It woke me," she said. " Tis a mighty big fire somewhere."

We watched it. The flames seemed to grow greater rather than diminish.

"What can you expect in a wind like this?" said Martha.

People were coming out into the street. We put on a few clothes and went out.

"Big fire somewhere," said Martha to a man who was watching the blaze.

He said: "I heard it started in Pudding Lane ... a baker's shop."

"Baking bread, I suppose. I'll swear it is the last time he'll bake it in that shop."

"By the look of it, the whole street is ablaze," said the man.

"And the wind's not helping. It'll spread like wildfire. Come to think of it, that's what it is."

We went into the house. It was a hot night and the fire was making it hotter. We could hear the crackling of the flames.

"It must be near," said Martha.

"Or it is so big that we can hear it from some way off. The wind would carry the sound."

"I'd be looking out for my property if I was anywhere near there," said Martha.

We did not go back to bed. Sleep would be impossible. We had to all wait until the morning, but we were also eager to hear more news of the fire.

It was very disturbing when we did hear. It was true that it had started in Pudding Lane, but by morning it had traveled far. The streets near the Thames were caught in the fire, which had spread right down to London Bridge.

The Great Fire of London had started.

No one who lived through those four days could ever forget them. It was something which had never been experienced before, and I trust will never happen again.

London was a blazing inferno. There was a reddish glow in the sky, the sound of crackling wood and falling masonry was constant and the air was full of the acrid smell of burning thatch and timber.

This was no ordinary fire.

There was pandemonium in the streets. People stood in knots, fearful and bemused. They watched the fire's voracious appetite as in a very short space of time it consumed one building and, with the help of the wind, leaped to devour the next. Everywhere houses were burning, homes were destroyed. The ancient Cathedral of St. Paul's lay in ruins and other churches throughout the city were burning.

The river was full of small craft into which the more fortunate had been able to load some of their possessions. They stood among them, staring bewildered from the safety of the river at the flames as they destroyed their homes.

The fire was triumphant. There seemed no way of halting its progress as it leaped from street to street. The narrow byways, the wooden houses had made its task the easier. There was much to give fuel to the flames when the fire reached the City's warehouses, in which were stored all kinds of goods, among them pitch, tar and oil, and as the victorious blaze went its way, the hearts of the people were clearly sinking in despair and despondency.

No one had ever seen such a fire before. Something must be done.

At last, when more than half of the city had been destroyed, the idea was put forward that there was only one way to call a halt to it. Gaps must be made in the buildings, so that the fire could not spread so easily. This entailed blowing up buildings and so halting the progress of the flames. People gathered in small groups to watch this.

It was indeed a sight not to be missed. The King and his brother, the Duke of York, cast aside their royalty and joined the workers in the streets. It was necessary, when buildings had been blown up, to clear away the rubble so that when the fire reached a certain spot there was nothing combustible for it to burn, and so was halted in its progress. Fires were isolated in this way and could be more easily dealt with.

It was strange to see our elegant King and his brother wigless, sleeves rolled up, sweating and working with the rest.

It was a new image of him, but he was more lovable in such a role than he was in that of the elegant, witty King sauntering through the parks.

And the strategy worked. The fire, though still raging in some parts of the city, was subsiding. It had inflicted a terrible disaster on our city, for, in addition to St. Paul's, which had always been regarded as one of the landmarks of the city, it had destroyed eighty-nine churches and thirteen thousand dwellings.

When there could be no doubt that the fire was really under control, people thronged into the streets to watch the flickering flames as they died away. Everyone seemed eager to relate his or her adventures, mostly dire misfortunes. How had it started? What could it mean? Had the Papists started it? There were always those ready to attribute every disaster to the Papists. Of course, there were others to declare it was another example of the vengeance of the Lord on the wicked city. Had He not already shown His anger with the visitation of the plague? All this was talked of.

I was standing in the Piazza at Covent Garden watching the distant dying fire, which I was able to see easily because of the missing houses in between, when I became aware of someone standing close to me.

A voice said: "What a disaster! Has there ever been such a one?"

I swung round sharply. Lord Rosslyn was standing very close and he was smiling at me.

I felt dizzy with emotions I could not describe. I suppose the chief of them was delight because he was here again.

"Sarah!" he said, with a wonderful tenderness which filled me with great happiness. "Oh, Sarah, I could not five without you."

I was silent from sheer joy. He was back, and it seemed in that moment that nothing else mattered.

"I have come back to ask you to marry me."

It could not really be happening. It was something I had longed for in my wildest dreams. It was all too fantastic to be real. The fire, which seemed like a foretaste of Hell, and now here was ... Heaven itself.

"I want you to forgive me," he was saying. "What I did ... was quite unforgivable. But it has taught me what I should have known before. You see, I am no longer young ... I did not think to marry. But why should I not? And who but Sarah, whom I love so deeply that my life is empty and devoid of all happiness without her? You do not answer?"

"I am wondering," I said, "if I am dreaming."

He had taken my arm. His face was close to mine.

"We must go somewhere where we can talk."

I said on impulse: "You could come to Maggie's house."

"Maggie is still away?" he said with some concern.

"Oh yes. She is in Dorsetshire with her sister. There are only Martha and Rose at the house. We could talk in the parlor undisturbed."

He took my arm and we walked back to the house. I was still refusing to let myself believe I was not dreaming, for if I should awake I felt I should not be able to bear the disappointment that this was only a dream.

Martha appeared.

I said: "Martha, I have a friend with me. I have something to discuss with him. Would you bring some refreshments to the parlor?"

It all sounded natural enough.

Martha eyed Jack with approval and she went to get some of her homemade wine, on which she set great store.

As soon as we were alone, he took me in his arms and held me very tightly.

I withdrew myself. "Martha will be coming back," I said.

"Yes, and there ii much to arrange."

We sat down. He was looking at me with great tenderness and the love was shining in his eyes. I was very happy.

"I have arranged for the ceremony to take place next Saturday."

"How could it be so soon? Is it really possible?"

"I will make it possible," he said. "Let me explain. I have a friend. In his house in Knightsbridge he has his chapel. He has a resident priest, who will marry us next Saturday."

"I thought that there had to be more time for arrangements."

"I will have no delay. I know ways of fixing these matters. Leave it to me."

"Who is this friend?"

"Charles Torrens. He has done this for others of our friends."

"Shall I meet him?"

"In due course. But for the time being I am only concerned with one thing. I want you to be my wife."

"You have changed so suddenly," I said. "It all seems rather like a dream to me."

"Understand me. I will be frank. I had no intention of marrying. Why should I ... after so many years? I have cherished my freedom. But now, since I met you, I have discovered something about myself, dearest Sarah; I am in love."

"Oh, Jack. Are you sure?"

"I was never more sure of anything in my life. I love you. I want to marry you. Everything has changed. I was foolish. Will you ever forgive me for what I tried to do? I thought I was so worldly ... I thought I knew how to live and keep myself free to live my own life. And then, suddenly, I knew. There was no happiness that way. Forgive me, my darling, forget what I tried to do. Now I see everything in its true light. I just hope that you will forgive me, for I find it hard to forgive myself. All I ask you to do is to be ready next Saturday. I shall come here for you and we will go to the priest. Will you do that?"

"Oh, yes ... yes."

He kissed me then and said: "There is one thing. Tell no one of this. It is our secret."

"Why should I not tell? Martha will have to know."

"The servants? Oh, you may tell them you are going to be married. They are Maggie's servants, are they not? She is still away."

"She will get a letter to us, I am sure, when she plans to return. She promised to let me know when she was coming."

"Well, she is not here and there is no time to tell her. You will see her when she comes and by that time you and I will be married."

"Why must it be a secret?"

"I will tell you. It is only for a while. Charles Torrens asks it. He is doing this as a great favor to me. If it becomes known others will be asking for it. It is so easy to be married in his chapel by his priest."

"But he is allowing you this ... er ... privilege."

"Charles is a good friend of mine. I pleaded with him. I really did. I said I wanted a speedy marriage. I wanted no fuss. For me he is doing this favor."

"And so ... we shall be married next Saturday. I shall need a gown ... a wedding dress."

Martha had come in with the wine.

He gave her a very charming smile, and I saw that he had enchanted her. He put the glass to his lips as though he drank to her.

"Nectar," he said.

She bridled a little. " Tis a poor thing to what I'll warrant your lordship is accustomed."

"Would that I were accustomed to such a brew as this! It is indeed nectar, good lady. I swear I never tasted better in the whole of my life."

"You are teasing me, sir."

"I swear not."

She went out of the room, slightly pink of skin and with her eyes shining.

"You won her heart by praising her wine."

"An easy conquest," he said lightly. "Oh, my dearest Sarah, I long for Saturday. Promise, promise me you will be there."

"Of course."

"And you want this as much as I do? You will not run away from me again?"

"How could I run away from my husband? But I was saying that I should have had more time. I may not have a wedding dress that is suitable."

"Who cares for dresses? I shall not marry a dress. Oh, Sarah, are you as happy as I?"

"I do not know how happy you are, but if it is only one half of the happiness I feel it is a great deal."

"Sarah, my beloved Sarah! Together ... just a few more days. Now, let us plan. I shall come for you at six of the clock on Saturday. We shall go to Torrens's house in Knightsbridge. A little way out, but not too far. And then the ceremony. It will not be long, and I shall take you back to my lodgings and then we shall go away to the country ... where we can be alone for a while. London is not the best of places to be in at this time. What say you, Sarah? Are you as eager as I am?"

"I believe myself to be."

He would have taken me into his arms there and then, but I was aware of the close proximity of Martha and Rose. He might have charmed Martha with his compliments on her wine, but I could not imagine what she would have thought had she come in and found a man whom she had not seen until this day embracing me.

I warned him of this. I said: "This is a small house. The servants are our friends. There is little ceremony."

He nodded. "And you will tell them?"

"I must give them an explanation as to why I shall not be coming back here."

"Why not tell them now? Call them. Introduce me as your husband-to-be."

"I think that would be the best way of breaking the news."

I called them in.

They looked startled. "Martha, Rose," I said. "I have something to tell you. I am going to be married."

Martha gasped. "What ... ? You can't ..."

"She can," said Jack. "And I insist on it."

"I want to introduce Lord Rosslyn, who is to be my husband."

They both stared wide-eyed and, in Rose's case, open-mouthed.

"We have known each other for some time," I said. "I met Lord Rosslyn at the theater. The wedding is on Saturday."

I heard Martha murmur: "Lord have mercy on us."

Jack smiled on. "He has certainly had mercy on me. I am the happiest man alive."

"Who'd a thought it!" said Martha. "Sarah ... marrying Lord Rosslyn!"

"I think," said Jack, smiling at her, "this is an occasion when we might all drink to the happiness of the bride and groom. Do you have any more of that most excellent wine?"

"Well, my lord, bless you! I've got a dozen or more bottles stowed away in the cellar."

"Then to it," he said.

"Come on you. Rose, you give me a hand," said Martha.

He looked at me and smiled when they had gone.

"How was that?" he said.

I was laughing. "You managed them perfectly. Martha is ready to worship you from now on."

"And the little speechless one—what effect did it have on her?"

"She was too bewildered—as well as she might be—to take it all in, but she will think what Martha thinks. Martha will see to that, so you have made a double conquest in this house."

"And of all who live in it?" he asked.

"All," I assured him.

It was so wonderful and very amusing. Martha brought in the wine bottle and goblets which were lifted to our health and happiness. Martha declared afterwards that she had never known the like—and I am sure Rose agreed with her.

So, I was to marry Jack Adair on the following Saturday and the ceremony would take place in the home of a certain Charles Torrens in the village of Knightsbridge, just outside London.

It was an exciting week. I could not believe it was really happening. Jack called at the house several times and Martha could not contain her pleasure.

"To think of it," she said to me. "You ... marrying a lord. That's what comes of being on the stage. Actresses do marry into the aristocracy. And, bless me, he's a real charmer, that one. I could fancy him myself. Lord Rosslyn, eh? I expect he knows the King. Sarah, I reckon you'll go to court. Does he really know the King? You know what I mean ... talk to him, just as we're talking now?"

"I suppose so," I said. And I thought: How little I know about him. But that was not important. I was going to marry him and his life would be mine.

"There's only one thing that's missing," said Martha. "Mistress Maggie's not here. I reckon she'd be so pleased to see you well settled. I used to hear her and Mistress Kitty talking about it ... how they wanted the best for you. Well, wouldn't they like this Lord Rosslyn? You only have to look at him to see what he is. Some of them go round pretending. But you can see what he is ... the right article. It's in every bit of him. Oh yes, he's a real lord all right."

They wanted to know a great deal and sometimes I was rather disconcerted to find I could not answer the simplest of questions. I consoled myself that this would soon be remedied.

I had told them at the theater that I was leaving to go away, and I was glad that most people were too interested in their own affairs to want to probe too deeply into those of others. I would play for the last time on Friday and the next day ... well, I could hardly wait for it to come. I could not tell them at the theater that I was going to marry Lord Rosslyn since he had particularly asked that it should be kept secret, and to mention it there would, I was sure, arouse some interest.

It seemed a very long week. I made some preparation. I did get a new, rather simple, dress made in time. It had a bodice pointed at the front and rounded behind, a full skirt but slit down the front to show a petticoat of a lighter shade of blue than the dress, with silver thread making a finely traced pattern on it.

I felt sure that it was to be a simple ceremony, so the dress should not be too elaborate.

I came home from the theater on that last night. I had never been so excited in my life. Tomorrow was my wedding day. I was in turn exultant and apprehensive.

Lady Rosslyn. I murmured it to myself. Could it really be me? What would my mother say? And my father and Maria Willerton? Could this really be happening to me?

He was so distinguished, so handsome, so clearly of another world than that in which I had lived thus far. I began to wonder about my inadequacies. But he loved me. He would look after me. He would help me. And he wanted this marriage. He was so eager. I remembered how, so recently, he had had to satisfy his desires without it. It was only when he failed to do so that he had realized that he wanted to marry me.

All would be well. How I wished Kitty were here. She would have come to the chapel as a witness. One had to have witnesses, of course, but Jack would arrange that.

It was wonderful. If only, as Martha had said, Maggie were home. How excited she would be.

I was waiting long before he arrived in the carriage to take me to Knightsbridge. I went through agonies of fear and doubt as I waited. What if he did not come? What if he never intended to? Was it a huge joke? A revenge on me for refusing him? Terror seized me. He was not coming. I knew that Martha was peering out through the parlor window. Rose was beside her, all agog with excitement.

"O God," I prayed, "let him come."

I was being foolish. There were five minutes to go.

And there he was. Martha was at the door.

I went down and he said: "Sarah ... my bride," and I was happier than I had ever been in my life.

He kept his arm round me as we rattled on our way out of devastated London to Knightsbridge.

I had never been there before, but I knew from now on it would always be preserved in my memory.

" Tis not a long journey," said Jack. "We shall soon be there. What a joy that will be. And the ceremony is not of long duration."

"There must be witnesses, I am told," I said.

"Do not worry your head about that. I have arranged it all. It will be over very soon. We are now crossing the old bridge over the Westbourne, the bridge from which this place gets its name. Now we are almost there. What a desolate place to have built a mansion! But I suppose it was done long ago. Charles was saying the old place goes back some two hundred years. The ancestral home, you know. And that is World's End ... a rather notorious drinking house. Yes, my love. Indeed, we are there."

The carriage was drawing up.

It was certainly an ancient house. We had stopped before the gatehouse with a broad low arch flanked on either side by battlement ed towers. It was very imposing with its gables and turrets built in red brick. Indeed, it had the appearance of having stood there for all of two hundred years.

Jack almost lifted me out of the coach and, as he did so, an old man appeared, evidently some retainer.

"My lord," he cried, "my master is waiting for you. All is prepared."

We followed him to a large hall with a high vaulted ceiling and many windows. Weapons hung on the walls.

A young man hurried forward.

"Charles!" cried Jack. "This is good of you."

"It is my pleasure," said Charles. He was looking at me and smiling warmly.

"Come along, my dear fellow," he said. "Introduce me. Are you afraid to let anyone else see her? I must say, that would not surprise me."

"Sarah," said Jack, "this is my good friend Charles Torrens. Charles, you know all about Sarah."

"He has not stopped speaking of you for weeks," said Sir Charles. "You are the luckiest of men. Jack."

"I know it well," said Jack. "Shouldn't we get along to the chapel?"

"Impatient bridegroom, we understand your need for haste now that we have seen the beautiful bride for ourselves."

"Is the priest here?"

"Ready and waiting."

"And you have the witness?"

"I have. Blakeman and Jefferson were ready enough to step into the breach and give their services. All is as it should be."

"Then let us get to it," said Jack.

We were taken from the hall to a room in which two young men were waiting. Jack greeted them warmly and they were introduced to me. They were our two witnesses, James Jefferson, who was about Jack's age, and Thomas Blakeman, who was much younger.

"It is good of you to come along," Jack told them.

"But of course we came," said James Jefferson. "We know you'd do the same for us."

They were all laughing and merry, but Jack was impatient to have the ceremony performed, and Sir Charles Torrens said we would proceed without delay.

"I'll go ahead," he said, "and tell Reverend Martin that we are ready. He is doubtless deep in prayer. He regards this as a very solemn occasion."

Thomas Blakeman said, "Not too solemn, I pray. I am sure Jack will introduce a little gaiety into the proceedings."

Jack frowned and Charles Torrens said, "Listen, Blakeman, our friend Jack is about to make his solemn vows. It is not a matter to speak of lightly."

"Forgive me," said Blakeman. "I am sure you are going to be very happy."

Reverend Martin was waiting for us in the chapel. He was a man of medium height and was rather unusual-looking. His hair was of a reddish tint of fair and was thin and curly. His pale eyebrows and eyelashes gave him a startled look, and he had a short nose and long upper lip which added to his rather strange appearance. Freckles were visible on his forehead and across his nose. He did not appear somehow to suit his clerical garb and pious demeanor.

He took my hands and looked into my face.

"So, this is the bride," he said. "Mistress, you will have studied the marriage service. You understand the seriousness of this undertaking?"

"Yes," I said. "I understand."

"That is well." He glanced at the others. "I should like a few moments alone with the bride."

Jack suppressed an impatient protest and Sir Charles laid a hand on his arm.

"Reverend Martin knows what is meet at such a time, I'm sure."

"We shall say a prayer together," said the priest.

And they left us.

"You are very young. Mistress," he said. "But I believe you are aware of the gravity of this step you are taking."

"Oh, yes," I said.

"Marriage is a very serious undertaking."

"Yes," I said. "I know."

"You have given this deep consideration, I hope?" he went on.

"I have indeed."

"Very well. Let us now pray together."

We both knelt and he asked God to watch over me, to guide me in my marriage, and he went on in this vein for some minutes.

Then he rose and said: "I will call them in now, and then we will proceed."

I stood beside Jack at the altar and we went through the marriage service.

When it was over Jack kissed me tenderly. And Charles insisted that we leave the chapel so that our health could be drunk.

I said goodbye to the priest and gave him my thanks, which he received very graciously, before telling me that God would guide me through my new life. He then said goodbye to me.

In another room we partook of the wine which Charles Torrens insisted was appropriate on such occasions. Jack thanked him for allowing his house and servants to be used for our benefit and the two witnesses for coming to help us.

"It was nothing," said Charles Torrens, "only what one must do for one's friends if it is in one's power. Martin has very little to do when the family is not in residence. He was glad to be occupied and there is nothing he likes more than officiating at a wedding."

Then we drove back to London to Jack's lodgings. How different it was on this occasion!

Jack was laughing.

"The deed is done," he cried. "Oh, Sarah, my love. There is not a happier man in the whole of this city."

"Nor woman," I said.

He took my cloak as he had before. He threw it on to the bed. The new life had begun.

Life was wonderful. We were together all the time. I was deliriously happy. He was all that I had believed him to be. He might have been impatient with me, for I was very ignorant, indeed completely unworldly; but he initiated me into the pleasures of loving in the gentlest and most tender way.

Indeed, my innocence delighted him.

We were in his lodgings for a week. His servants below were very unobtrusive. They would come at a certain time to ask our wishes and apart from that we saw little of them.

We only made one excursion into the streets during that week. And that was to visit the coffee house—not in Covent Garden, for Jack had a fancy to go to Tom's in Change Alley. If we went to Will's, it would be too close to the theater and we should see some of my old acquaintances. He wanted no intruders, he said. He wanted us to be entirely alone.

For a week we lived in this state of bliss and then he said he was going to take me away. He had told me he had a little place not far from Oxford Town. He would take me there. There we should not be disturbed by acquaintances and could continue this blissful existence. London was a dreary place just now, but soon they would be making it habitable again. Jack had heard that the King and the Duke were most interested in the matter. They had called in that fine architect Christopher Wren and were putting their heads together. Later we would come back and enjoy a fine city with wide streets, with most of those plague-infested houses gone forever.

So, to the country we went.

It was a wonderful life, living in a pleasant country house, not exactly large nor yet small. There were a few servants—as unobtrusive as those in his London lodgings—and we settled down to the idyllic life.

We rode into the countryside, and went and ate in inns. We lay in the meadows and it was all rather like a dream.

It could not go on like this. We would have a home soon. That was what I wanted. I knew so little about him. When I questioned him he would answer briefly and quickly change the subject.

"Sometimes I think you are a man of mystery," I said.

"Men of mystery are very attractive, I have heard."

"That may be, but a wife should know something of her husband."

"My Lord Rochester would tell you that the less a wife knows of her husband—or he of her—the happier they are likely to be."

"These clever comments do not apply to ordinary people."

"But we are not ordinary, my darling."

"I want to be. I do not want to be smart like my Lord Rochester. Is he a friend of yours?"

"An acquaintance."

"He is very cynical, I gather from his verses."

"He is extremely clever. That is why the King suffers the young rogue. The King will forgive a man a great deal if he has wit."

It was always like that. Whenever I wanted to talk about him, I would find the subject changed to something else. Only occasionally, when I awoke in the night, I would think how little I knew of my husband and ask myself why it should be so. He knew of my home on the Willerton estate, that I had come to London with Kitty and what had happened to me ever since ... but with the coming of the day, there he was, laughing, merrily thinking of some new ways of making me happy.

The days passed quickly. We had been at the house in the country for nearly three weeks when I noticed that he had become a little preoccupied. And then, one afternoon, when we had ridden off and had tethered our horses near a stream and had gone to its edge to sit awhile, he put his arm round me and said: "Sweetheart, I have to go away for a little while."

"Go away?" I echoed.

"It is a matter of business."

"Business. I did not know ..."

"That I had business? My dearest, why should I burden you? It's a matter of my estate."

"What estate? Your estate?"

"My place in the country."

It was the first I had heard of it.

"I did not know ..."

"Most of us have such places. They are managed by ..."

"People like my father."

"A good manager takes over most things, but there are times when one's presence is needed."

I knew of such things. Had it not been so at Willerton House?

"When shall we leave? I long to see the estate."

He was silent for a while, and then he said: "It will be easier for me to go alone."

I was amazed. I said nothing. He drew me closer to him.

"I can get up there quickly, settle things and then come back." He hurried on, as though fearful that I might ask questions. "I have to go back to London first. We'll leave tomorrow. You will stay in the lodgings while I'm gone. It will not take more than a week or so to settle the matter."

I felt a terrible alarm. He was going to his home ... his estate ... and he was not taking me with him. There seemed no reason why he should not. Was I not his wife? I wanted to know his family. It was my family now. I had the sudden feeling that I was being shut out.

"Why cannot I come with you?" I insisted. "I want to see the estate. I want to meet your family. You have not told me anything about them. What family have you?"

"Oh ... only brothers."

"What do they say about our marriage?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "They are concerned mostly with their own affairs. Look here, Sarah. I shall only be away a short time, then I shall be back and we will talk over everything. We'll make plans. I did not want to think of anything else during this wonderful time except that we are together. Do you understand?"

"Oh yes, but ..."

"Let's forget all this. We must be happy together. Now, no more of my parting. I shall be back before you know I have gone. I tell you what I intend to do. Early tomorrow morning, we will start for London. I'll take you to my lodgings. You will be well looked after there. You think of what we shall do. I shall expect well-laid plans by the time I return. It's going to be wonderful, darling. Don't look sad. Everything is in order, I tell you. Think about it. Where shall we live? You love the old city, do you not? Life is going to be better than you have ever dreamed of, I promise you."

"I wish you did not have to go."

"So do I. But these things happen, you know. Being away from you will be torture, but think what it will be like when we are together again."

"But ..."

He put his finger on my lips in a playful gesture. "Do not let us talk of miserable parting. I forbid you to talk of it. There! Husbandly authority. You promised to obey me, you know. I insist. We are not going to spoil this night by thinking of tomorrow."

A week had passed. I felt desperately lonely without him. The days seemed unendurable. I saw little of the servants who were in their quarters below. One of them came up as before in the morning to take my orders. Often I compared them with Martha and Rose and I thought how I should like to see them.

I was so delighted when the week came to its end and I was expecting Jack to return at any moment. I thought it would be like him to want to surprise me and I expected to hear his voice calling me.

Instead there was a letter from him.

My dearest.

This is a sad, sad disappointment for me. I cannot return to you for another week. I miss you so much. But never mind, we'll make up for it when we do meet. I cannot wait for that.

God bless you, my darling.

Your ever loving.

Jack

My disappointment was intense. I felt wretched and uneasy.

I had not gone far from the house as yet, but now I decided that I would go to Drury Lane. I would go and see Martha and Rose. I should enjoy telling them about my wonderful marriage and how happy I was and how my husband had had to leave for a little while on important and urgent business. When he came back we were going to find a house in London. He had a place in the country but he had insisted that we should also have a residence in London.

I felt a great emotion when I saw the house. I remembered so vividly the day when Kitty had brought me there.

Martha and Rose cried out with delight at the sight of me.

I flung myself into their arms.

"Ooh!" said Rose. "You're a ladyship now, aren't you, my lady?"

Martha said: "You didn't bring his lordship, then?"

I told them he had had to go away on business.

"We have been in the country and just returned," I said. "As I am staying not far away in his London lodgings, I thought I would come and see you."

They were excited.

"And you a real lady," said Martha. "It's more than I can take in. Our little Sarah. Wouldn't Mistress Carslake have been proud?"

I felt the tears in my eyes then.

I sat in the parlor with them. Martha brought out her homemade wine.

They wanted to hear so much—where had the wedding taken place?

"I'll swear it was a great affair," said Martha.

"No, Martha. We did not want to wait for that. It was in a chapel in the house of one of my husband's friends. It was very simple."

"And then he took you to his grand home, I reckon."

"No. We wanted to be alone."

"Ah yes," said Martha, smiling knowledgeably. "I'll swear Mistress Maggie will be as proud as a peacock at your rise in society, that I do. You becoming a little ladyship and all that. That is something I never thought to see. Oh, and I'd forgot. In all this excitement, it slipped out of my mind. It's the letter. Go and get it. Rose."

"A letter?" I said.

"It came by the same one as brought it here before. He was traveling down on the coach and he'd promised Mistress Maggie to bring it. It's for you, he told us, so we kept it and we've been wondering how we were going to get it to you. It only came two or three days ago."

Rose went off and came back with the letter. I seized it eagerly. It was in Maggie's writing and it had my name on it.

I opened it and they all looked at me in anticipation as I read it.

Dear Sarah,

I shall be coming home in a week or so. My sister died. It was the best thing. She would never have been well again. There are several matters that have to be dealt with here, and I shall just stay to clear them up. My poor nephew has no idea how to manage. But I shall be starting back, I reckon, in say a couple of weeks from writing this. I am not looking forward to the journey, but I am to being home with you all.

Tell Martha and Rose Til be glad to see them, and you don't have to have me tell you that it is the same with you. The truth is I am just longing to be home.

Your loving Maggie

When I told them she was coming home their pleasure was intense.

"What a day!" said Martha. "A ladyship comes to see us and the mistress is coming home."

We decided that she might be in London by the end of the week, considering when the letter must have been written.

They were too excited for talk of anything else, which relieved me, for I was finding some of the questions they had been asking rather difficult to answer, and now that I was no longer under the spell of Jack's presence, I was beginning to realize that there was something unusual about our marriage.

After that, I could not resist calling at the house each day to discover whether Maggie had come home.

There might be another letter, I thought. And, as she did not know what had been happening during her absence, she would expect me to be at the house and so would write to me there.

I marveled that I had not attempted to communicate with her. I had been so completely absorbed by Jack, and he had somehow insisted that I give no thought to anyone but himself, while implying that he preferred our marriage to remain a secret for a while.

When I looked back, it seemed that I had acted very strangely. Indeed, from the moment I had gone to that house in Knightsbridge and there had followed that most unusual marriage ceremony, I felt that I had been living in a dream.

I could never resist taking the way past the theater. Then I would think with some nostalgia of the excitement I had experienced—that feeling of mingling fear and triumph when I stepped on to the stage. There was nothing quite like it. Kitty had known exactly what I wanted. Dear Kitty. Now that I was alone I thought of her constantly, of her grand marriage and her inability to give up the theater. Her story was like mine in a way, for I was now realizing how much I missed my growing knowledge of the theater people and I wondered whether there would come a time in my life, as there had in Kitty's, when I should have regrets.

But I was deliriously happy with Jack. I wanted nothing more. It was only because he was not with me that my thoughts were following this line.

I paused for a moment to look up at the theater, and as I did so I heard someone call my name. A young woman was coming out of the building, and I recognized her as Joan Field, an actress with whom I had played on one occasion.

"Sarah!" she was saying. "If it isn't Sarah Standish! How fare you? And what do you here? Where have you been? You just disappeared mysteriously."

I was on the point of telling her of my marriage when I remembered that Jack had been rather anxious that it should not be announced just yet. In that moment I wondered why, although previously it had seemed such a trivial matter that I had not given too much thought to it. I felt he probably had his reasons and I naturally wished to do what he wanted me to, so I did not tell her of our marriage. She would learn about it in due course.

"I wanted a rest from the theater," I said.

"And now you are back?"

"Well, not exactly. I was just passing."

Fortunately Joan was absorbed by her own good fortune and wanted to talk of that, so she was not very interested in my affairs.

"I have the most wonderful part," she said. "You know it was decided to change Measure for Measure. They altered it a bit, and they brought in some of the characters from the other plays. They wanted Benedick and Beatrice in it and, well, I'm Beatrice."

"A good part. Til swear," I said.

"Oh indeed, yes. Why, I think it is the best part, and I do believe the audience were of that mind. There's been such a to-do. Well, bringing Beatrice into Measure for Measure! You can imagine."

"I can indeed," I said.

"Let's go along. I'm meeting someone at Will's Coffee House. Have you been there?"

"Yes," I said.

"These coffee houses, they are so fashionable now. We can talk there. Do come."

I hesitated only for a moment. The days were so long. It would be pleasant to pass an hour or so in Joan's company.

We sat in the coffee house, where we talked—at least she did. She was so excited, first by the new part and even more so by a new admirer.

"He liked my Beatrice," she said. "He was there every night I played. Then ... well, you know how it happens. He was waiting after the play. He is very distinguished. Sir Harry Fresham, that's his name ... a very noble gentleman. He has breeding. Oh, you can always tell. He gave me a diamond brooch."

"Does he ... want to marry you?"

She looked at me in amazement. "Well ... there's been nothing said. He's talked of giving me a nice little place near the theater."

"Oh, I see," I said.

"As a matter of fact," she went on, "you may be meeting him. These coffee houses are good places to meet your friends."

She went on talking and I noticed how her eyes kept straying to the door. I said I thought I should go, but she prevailed on me to stay for a while. I had the notion that she was certain that her new friend would come into the coffee house sooner or later and she was eager for me to meet him so that I might admire and perhaps envy her.

And so it happened.

She was alert suddenly; a look of great delight spread across her features as a man came towards our table.

"Oh, Harry," she cried, as if in surprise. "I wondered whether ... Oh, this is Sarah Standish."

He took off his hat and bowed and a deep shock ran through me. It was only the wig which might have deceived me for a moment. It was light brown, with luxuriant curls reaching to his shoulders. I saw the freckles across the bridge of his short pert nose and the long upper Up. It was a face I had seen before in the chapel in the house in Knightsbridge.

I was stunned. I could only stare at him in amazement.

"Sir Harry Fresham," Joan was saying proudly.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," he said.

It was the same voice which had said "We shall pray together" in the chapel.

I stammered: "I thought we had met before."

Both he and Joan were looking at me in surprise. I had been so taken aback that I feared I was behaving oddly.

"Mistress," Sir Harry was saying, "I think there must be some mistake. If we had met before, I am sure I should never have forgotten the occasion."

"They say we all have doubles," said Joan lightly. "I am glad you were able to meet Sarah. She is an actress, you know."

He was smiling at me and the likeness seemed more pronounced than ever. His was an unusual face, and the more I saw him the more like Reverend Martin he seemed to become. Mannerisms ... voice, and that long upper lip. It was quite uncanny.

"What are you ladies drinking?" he said, and it was the voice of Reverend Martin.

"Coffee," said Joan.

"Coffee," he said, faintly contemptuously, and then smiling at us both. "You must use a little wine for the stomach's sake. That is a command from the Bible," he added, looking at me with an expression which might have held some mischief in it.

I was too shaken to listen to their conversation. The resemblance was too strong and I could not rid myself of the conviction that the man who was sitting opposite me in Will's Coffee House was Reverend Martin.

I quickly took my leave of them and hurried back to the lodgings.

That night I had strange dreams. They were incoherent and muddled. Jack was in them, and he was laughing at me as though he was enjoying some joke at my expense, and then he was Reverend Martin sitting in the coffee house in his clerical garb and calling himself Sir Harry Fresham. It was all nonsense, yet when I awoke I could not dismiss it. I had been mistaken, of course. Why shouldn't there be two people so much alike that they could be mistaken for each other?

If I saw them together I should see the difference.

But my uneasiness had increased. I began to think that from the moment Jack had taken me to that house in Knightsbridge I had stepped out of reality. When I looked back, nothing seemed quite normal.

Why had Jack disappeared like this? I asked myself. Why had he not taken me to his home? I did not even know where it was. Was that not very strange? Why? Why? There were so many questions to be answered. I had brushed them aside, but now I needed to know the answers.

I should demand to know, I assured myself, as soon as he came back. Was he not coming at the end of the week? I was being foolish to allow myself to fall into such a state of uncertainty, merely because I had met a man who looked like that strange Reverend Martin.

The next day I arose early. It was Wednesday. On Saturday the week of Jack's absence should be over. It was not long to wait.

I stayed in the next day, waiting, hoping that he would come. All I needed was to see him, to tell him of my meeting with Sir Harry Fresham, and how it had startled me.

All would be well. I was just fanciful because he was not here. When he came back, he would reassure me.

On Friday I could not rest, so I decided I would call at the house to see Martha and Rose.

When I arrived I knew something had happened and I was overcome with relief when Maggie rushed out to greet me.

We fell into each other's arms and then I saw the consternation in her face.

"Sarah!" she cried. "Where have you been? Fm sure they have not told me aright. Tell me it is not true."

I said: "I don't understand ..."

"Martha and Rose ... they said you had married Lord Rosslyn."

"It's true, Maggie. I am so happy. It is wonderful."

She did not speak. Her Ups were trembling. Then she was fierce and angry.

"Oh, Sarah, Sarah, what have you done? What have you done?"

"Maggie ..."I began.

She was staring at me in utter dismay:

"You cannot have married Lord Rosslyn. He is already married. He has been married for the last ten years or more."

I sat in the parlor with Maggie. I was numb, bewildered, and I asked myself whether of late in the depths of my mind I had guessed that something was not as it should be.

She made me tell her all about it. How he had taken me to his lodgings and there had tried to make me his mistress.

"And when I refused ... he thought up this plan."

"And you were deceived by it."

"Kitty had always talked to me about men and how I must never be taken in ... I was in love with him. He is very charming, Maggie."

"Charming!" she snorted. "Yes. I'll warrant he can lay on the charm thick and fast when it's about ruining some innocent young girl."

"Oh, Maggie, Maggie, what have I done?"

"Nothing that can't be mended in time."

"But I ... it's not the same. Kitty ..."

"Kitty would have been the first to understand, and you're not the only one, I might tell you, to be deceived in this way. I've heard for some time that it's been a habit of these young town dandies, and some not so young either, old enough to have a bit more decency. Mock Marriage, they call it ... the game they go in for when they can't get their way without. They look on it as a sort of sport."

"Oh no, no, Maggie." And I took refuge from my shame in disbelief. "It could not be true." I could not believe it.

"If you take my advice, you'll never see him again," Maggie said. "That is, if you can help it."

I was silent. I thought of him returning to the lodgings, calling my name, waiting to catch me up in his arms.

Never to see him again. When I loved him, wanted to be with him. I wanted to hear him deny this charge against him.

Yet in my heart I believed it. I had the evidence of my own eyes, had I not? From the moment Sir Harry Fresham looked at me in the coffee house, I had felt this suspicion. I had known that the man sitting opposite me, calling himself Sir Harry Fresham, was the same Reverend Martin who had conducted a bogus form of marriage in the chapel in Knightsbridge.

I knew Maggie was right, yet I was fighting hard to prove her wrong. I was bewildered and miserable, and very much afraid.

Maggie was brisk and practical.

"It's not the first time this has happened to a girl ... not by a long way, I can tell you. You're lucky. Some might have left home, romantically eloped ... Romantic! I'd give these villains romantic! Poor things, what can they do? Deceived just to satisfy the lust of these rakes and give themselves up to be joked about. What can the poor girl do when she learns the truth? But it is not so with you, Sarah. You have a home. I thank the Lord that I came back in time."

"Oh, Maggie, I'm so miserable ... But it's not true. I am sure you are mistaken. I'm sure it's not true."

She held me against her and stroked my hair. "You've got a home. Always remember that. I'm back now and if he comes here I'll know what to say to him."

"He is coming back. He will be at the lodgings in a few days."

"That is, if he gets there. Like as not Master Rosslyn will find he has more pressing business to keep him occupied."

"I am staying in his lodgings."

"No more, you're not. This is your home, and if he wants to see you, he can come here."

"Maggie, I have to see him. I have to hear what he has to say."

"Some well-thought-out tale, I shouldn't wonder. Yes, he had a wife ... but your charms so blinded him that you caused a lapse of memory and he forgot all about her."

"Oh, Maggie, this is very important to me. I would never be satisfied unless I saw him ... unless I heard from his own lips ..."

"Oh yes, I know. And when he tells you he was a naughty man who loved you so much that he resorted to this trickery and he'll die of a broken heart if you leave him, what are you going to say, eh?"

"You are wrong, Maggie. If this is true, I shall not stay with him. I shall always remember what Kitty said to me. If I knowingly did anything that was wrong, I should feel she was reproaching me. She was so anxious that nothing ... nothing like this ... should happen to me."

Maggie put her arms round me.

"When this sort of thing happens," she said, "or any misfortune, for that matter, it helps not to sit down and mourn. You get up, my girl. You start from there. What's done is done. You'll come back here. Who knows about this so-called marriage? Only those who took a part in it, and they won't tell. They might not be all that proud of it, and, more to the point, too much talk about something like this and their part in it spoils the next little game they might want to play. Listen to me. I have been around a good deal. You'll come back here. You have been away for a little while, visiting perhaps relations in the country—that's the tale if the need arises. When you've calmed down a little, you'll see it my way."

"Maggie, I am sure you are right ... if this is true. I've heard it more than once."

"It is true, I tell you he's married. And did you not see the rogue who played the part of the priest? I've heard of Sir Harry Fresham ... they're a wild band. Friends of my Lord Rochester, as wild as any. Why the King does not forbid them the court, I do not know. Yes, I do, because he is as much a rake as any of them. There. You have to be watchful. This is a different world we live in now. The times have changed and these little adventures of merry young men are not frowned on and treated with severity as they would have been in the days of Oliver Cromwell."

"I must hear of it from his own Ups."

She looked at me in exasperation.

"Take my advice. Don't go near him. He'll get round you with some tale."

"I shall demand an explanation."

"No need for what's clear as daylight. If you take my advice, you'll forget you ever set eyes on him."

"If only it were as easy!"

"Listen. Don't you go back to that place. This was your home before all this started, and it still is. You stay here. Try and forget all about this grand marriage to a not-so-noble lord."

I did not know what to do. Good sense told me that Maggie was right. There was Harry Fresham to prove it.

I was very unhappy and very undecided.

Maggie took me up to my old room.

"There," she said. "This is where you'll be safe."

I stayed that night and what a restless night it was. I did not sleep at all. My mind changed continuously.

I would go back to him the next day. I had to wait for his return: and when I thought of how he had deceived me, I was bitterly angry and in despair at the enormity of what I had done.

I could see Kitty's reproachful eyes. Sarah, Sarah, how often did I warn you? Would you go back and be his mistress? And when he tires of you ... what then? Have you not seen the fate of others?

How could I have been so foolish, I asked myself one moment; and the next: But I do not believe it. Am I not judging him because of what Maggie has heard? How could she be sure? It might be that his wife had died ... that he did not like to tell. Naturally he would not call attention to the difference in our ages. That was it. And then in my mind I saw the cynical smile of Sir Harry Fresham across the coffee room table, and I knew that Maggie was right.

So passed that tragic night.

By the light of day I felt sure that Maggie was right, and my wretchedness returned. Before the morning was out I was finding all sorts of reasons why she could be wrong. So the mood of uncertainty continued.

I had to go back to the lodgings. He would return and find me gone. What if he were so angry that he went away back to his estate? How should I know?

I had to see him.

I went to the lodgings. It was Saturday and still he had not come back. I waited for a while and then left. I went back to Maggie. I could find some solace there. Maggie cared for me. Maggie would look after me.

She found me weeping quietly and she stayed beside me.

She said: "Life is hard at times, dear child. When we fall we must perforce pick ourselves up and start walking again. It will mend itself. And we should rejoice that we have become wiser and will not fall into the same trap again. Sarah, my dear Sarah, trust me. We will show this man that his attempts to ruin you have not succeeded, for they can only do so if you allow them to."

I listened to her words and thought how wise she was. She was a great comfort to me.

I did not go back to the lodgings again. The days passed. I thought of him continually. Had he returned, found me gone and then shrugged his shoulders and gone away again? Had he laughed at the simplicity of the stupid unworldly girl who had been so easily duped by a false ceremony and a false priest?

Perhaps I had made it easy for him. He had had the amusement he sought, played out his little charade, and now I had conveniently gone away so that he did not have the trouble of deserting me.

It was Tuesday of the following week at five of the afternoon when there was a loud knocking on the door.

We both started up. I thought: He has come; and my heart leaped with sudden joy, for if he had come it would be to take me back with him and to explain all that I had not understood until now.

As we went into the hall we saw him brush Martha aside and come in.

"Sarah!" he cried, seeing me. "Why have you not been at the lodgings these last days?"

He seemed angry, and I managed to say: "There is much to explain."

"Explain?" he said. He had come into the parlor. Maggie was standing there militantly, as though waiting for him.

He gave her a look of dislike and turned to me, his expression softening.

"I told you I was coming back. Why were you not there? Why should you come back here?"

I was dumbfounded and dismayed and then, in spite of everything, wildly happy. He had come for me. He was going to take me away with him. It had been a foolish mistake.

Maggie was angry. She said: "How dare you come here?"

"This is no matter for you!" he replied shortly. "I must ask you to keep out of it. I should be glad if I might be allowed to talk to Sarah alone."

"She may not wish to," said Maggie. "She has learned a great deal which you have kept from her. Sarah, tell him to go."

I looked at him and, after those days of melancholy misery and uncertainty, I felt my heart filled with hope. I was convincing myself that he would explain everything and then it would be as it had been before.

Maggie said: "Tell him to go, Sarah. You must have nothing to say to his sort."

"A little late in the day for such talk to my wife ..."

Maggie laughed derisively, and he turned to me, and said in an authoritative voice: "Sarah, please tell her to go."

"Maggie," I said, "I have to talk ..."

Maggie's attitude changed suddenly. "Talk ... talk from now to Kingdom Come. Ask him to explain his little tricks. Talk ... Sarah, you shall have your talk in my house, which is your home while you want it. Don't let go of your good sense, that's all I ask. Talk and then do the only thing you can reasonably do. Say goodbye to this villain here and send him on his way forever."

She went out and left us and, as she did so, he came towards me and would have embraced me.

I felt lost and frightened without Maggie. I knew that there was nothing he could say to reassure me, for my good sense told me that Maggie's interpretation of what had happened was the correct one.

"How could you have left my lodgings?" he demanded. "When I came back, I found you gone."

"You were a long time gone, my lord," I said, and was surprised at the coolness of my voice. There was something in his face and perhaps even in his demeanor which told me that he was not finding it so easy to deceive me as he had previously. There was a subtle change in his manner and, while it made me very unhappy, or perhaps because of this, it aroused my anger and indignation and gave me the courage I needed to face him.

"It was business. Did I not tell you?"

"Business on that mysterious estate of yours?"

"What do you mean? Have done with this. What has happened to change you? My darling ..."

"I cannot have done before I have started," I said. "While you have been away I have been learning much. I have met your false priest. Sir Harry Fresham was very good in the part ... but not quite good enough."

For a moment the expression which crossed his face betrayed him and he muttered something beneath his breath.

He recovered himself and asked, almost plaintively: "What are you saying, Sarah? Come, enough of this. I know you are angry because I had to be away from you. It was necessary. Do you think I should have taken myself away if it were not?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "I think you might very well have done so. It is no use hiding the truth now, is it? I have learned it all. That ceremony was no ceremony. It was what you wicked men indulge in. It was a mock marriage, with a mock priest and a mock bridegroom. I have discovered all about it. Do you wonder that I have left your roof and come to my real friends?"

He seemed to come to a decision that further pretense was useless. I believed in that moment that he thought I had not only seen Sir Harry Fresham but had made him admit that he had played the part of the priest at the mock wedding.

"Listen, Sarah," he said. "I will look after you, I promise. You shall have a fine house. It will be as we planned it. I shall be with you ... whenever possible. It will be just as though ..."

Every hope I had had then was gone. Up till that moment I was praying that he would deny the accusation, that he would explain to me why these suspicions had come into being and disprove them in every way.

As I was silent he went on: "Come, Sarah, admit it. Did you not know it was something like this? Did you think that a man in my position could marry like that?"

"Someone so far beneath your station?" I asked.

"Well, you must know something of how these things are arranged."

"I understand now. Good enough to be taken to sport with awhile, but not to marry. That is it, is it not?"

I was humiliated beyond endurance. I hated myself as much as I did him for allowing myself to be so easily deceived.

What a fool I had been! A silly, innocent girl, meek, trusting, overawed by the first man who had noticed me. No wonder Kitty had thought fit to impress on me the danger of fife in London.

I hated him as he stood there, smiling cajolingly, trying to deceive me again.

"Please leave this house," I said, "and never, ever come near it again."

"Sarah, don't be so dramatic."

"It is probably a familiar situation with you. How many trusting women have you betrayed? Did you boast of it with those friends who helped you plan your villainous deeds? I wish to God that I had never seen you. I loathe you, I despise you for the miserable rogue you are. I never wish to see you again. The least you can do after having done so much to ruin my life is to get out of it."

"You do not mean this, Sarah. It is a blow, I am aware of that. But really, you should have realized."

"Go!"

"You will see sense in a day or so."

"I have already seen sense. That is why I ask you to go."

He lifted his shoulders and looked at me regretfully, bowed and said: "This is not the end, you know."

Then he was gone.

I slipped into a chair and stared blankly before me.

Maggie came in and knelt beside me.

"So, he has gone," she said.

I nodded.

"It is for the best," she said. "Sarah, my dear Sarah, we will turn our back on it. We shall do our best to forget it has happened. And we shall go on from here."

At Whitehall Stairs

I DO NOT KNOW how I should have lived through the weeks that followed but for Maggie. She was there all the time when I needed her. I had not realized until I had sent Jack away that it was all over, and I rejoiced that only a few people knew what had happened.

Maggie had talked seriously to Martha and Rose. She had told them the truth because she felt it was better for them to know the full story of which they already knew a great deal, and then they would draw their own conclusions. They were part of the family, she told them, and this was our secret.

I scarcely went out during those days. I was afraid of meeting someone. I had the feeling that I wanted to crawl away and hide.

Maggie understood. She helped me in every possible way and in the midst of my unhappiness I thanked God for this good friend.

A few weeks passed in this state. I began to think of the theater and the thought excited me. Maggie brought in news of what was happening and who was playing in what. I knew some of the plays and would imagine myself in them. I went over the parts I had played; I felt the old excitement creeping back, and I wanted to be there, a part of it all again.

I tried not to think of Jack. That was not possible, of course. I had wild fantasies in which he returned and proved it was all a mistake. We were truly married and he was begging me to go back with him.

How foolish I was!

"Forget it," said Maggie.

There were times when I felt the need to be alone. Then I would go outside sometimes at dusk in my hooded cloak so that I could not be easily recognized, walk past the theater and watch the people going in.

I felt that if I could go back to work I might begin to be happy again.

Sometimes I would talk to Maggie about it. She was in agreement with me. "You'll make a fresh start," she said. "If you were back on the stage you'd grow away from all this as time passes."

"Some will know what happened. They will laugh at me for a simpleton who was an easy victim."

"It has happened to others before you."

"I could not bear the sly looks."

"You cannot think Rosslyn has talked."

"No. I do not think so. Harry Fresham ..."

"They will not wish to expose themselves as such heartless villains."

"They might think they are very clever to have arranged such a farce."

"I think not. You will have to have courage. We will construct a story and keep to it. You have been away visiting your family in the country. Your mother was ill, perforce you had to stay and nurse her."

"As you did your sister."

"Exactly so."

"Perhaps one day, Maggie ..."

"When you are ready," she said.

So I took my evening jaunts past the theater and when I came back Maggie would be waiting for me. She was convinced that one day I should be ready to face anything that would take me back and she believed that the theater could be my salvation.

There were times when I felt deeply depressed, when I lured myself into thinking that Jack would come for me and would explain everything. It was the old theme that there had been a terrible mistake. I found it becoming harder to convince myself, but I still went on dreaming.

Maggie would quite rightly dismiss my fancies, but on one particular night I did not want to hear her do this. I wanted to go on deluding myself.

It started to rain but I had no wish to return to the house. The gray dark skies and the rain on my face fitted my mood. I wanted to go on walking.

The rain was falling fast but I was hardly aware of my damp cloak. There were few people in the streets. Who wanted to walk on a night such as this one? Only those like me who were deeply sunk in a life of never-ending regrets, of lost hopes and with a view of only the dismal future.

At length I was cold and tired and I turned my steps homewards.

Maggie shrieked when she saw me. They had been worried about me.

She cried: "You are wet to the skin!"

Martha and Rose were fussing round me.

"Get those wet things off. Do you want to kill yourself? What have you been doing?"

My teeth were chattering. Martha came up brandishing the warming pan and soon they had me in bed, still shivering— chilled, as Maggie said, to the bone.

The next morning I was very ill.

I believe that during the week that followed I came near to death. The shock of my discovery had had a deep effect on me, and I was vulnerable. I must have walked in the rain for more than an hour. There was a cold wind and I had already been suffering from a cold.

To have walked through the rain in wet clothes as I had done was asking for trouble, Maggie pointed out. But I had not been aware of my wet clothes or the weather. I had been thinking of that last scene with Jack and that moment when, knowing it was useless, he had made no attempt to deny how he had deceived me.

I was delirious on occasions that first day and, when I returned to reality, Maggie told me she had been very frightened.

She brought a doctor to me. I was only vaguely conscious of what was going on around me. Maggie gave orders which Martha and Rose obeyed.

I do remember Maggie's sitting by my bed, holding my hand, talking to me. I was half aware of what she said. We would all be together, all of us. We had a great deal to look forward to.

Had we, I wondered, and in my half-conscious state I thought I was with Jack and he was talking of the future. I was listening to him avidly but all the time a black shadow was hanging over me.

The doctor came to see me several times. I had emerged from my hazy dream. I knew that I was very ill and I was in my bed in Maggie's house, that I had gone through a mock marriage ceremony with Lord Rosslyn who had now gone away forever.

Then I began to get better. Maggie looked happy; so did Martha and Rose, and I kept telling myself how lucky I was to have such friends. What should I have done without them? I tried to think, where should I have gone? I had very little money. What should I have done? Perhaps of necessity I should have had to accept Jack's offer ... the fine house ... the life of a mistress whose lover came to see her when it was convenient for him to do so. I should not have been happy thus. I saw now that my upbringing had not fitted me for that kind of life. Although I had deplored the strict rules of my childhood home, and indeed had escaped from them, they had had some effect upon me. I could never be happy in the sort of life I should have had with Jack Adair.

How grateful I was to Maggie.

I will repay her, I thought. I will go back to the stage. As soon as I am strong enough, I will go to the theater and ask for a part. The thought cheered me considerably.

I wanted to talk to Maggie about it.

I did, and she listened.

"Yes," she said. "When you are well enough. It would be good for you. There is something I have to tell you, Sarah. It may be something of a surprise ... but I think you will be pleased ... when you really get used to it."

"Maggie, what is it?"

She seemed reluctant to say, which was unlike her. If she had news—particularly if it were good news—she could scarcely wait to impart it.

She cleared her throat and looked at me anxiously.

"When the doctor was here ... well, he examined you, of course ... and he thought that you showed signs of ... well.

the fact is, he thought, and now he is sure, that you are going to have a baby."

I stared at her in amazement.

"He did not think he was wrong, but, of course ..."

"Maggie," I gasped, "it can't be true."

"Why not? It's likely enough. It's a long way off yet ... and, er, there's time to plan."

I was speechless. A baby? Jack's child. I had said this was an end, and it was really a beginning.

The shock had passed. A baby, I thought, my own child. At first I was terrified and I began to think of all the difficulties. And then a sense of wonder overcame me. A child to contemplate ... my very own child.

I could see that Maggie was excited.

"A child in the house," she said. "That'll liven us up a bit. I haven't told Martha yet. I wonder what she'll say. Fuss around, I'll swear, but once the little one's here ... Sarah, you're afraid. Don't be. We will manage."

As we grew accustomed to the idea the excitement grew and Maggie and I could talk of little but the child.

"We'll have to change our ideas a little, I fear," she said. "You had been home to your family, remember? That accounted for your absence. We'll have to have a husband now. What of this? You went home and married a long-time sweetheart whom you had known from childhood. Soon after the wedding he was recalled to the army. He is a soldier. He's serving with the army in Holland. When there comes a suitable time we shall have to kill him off. Yes, that's the story. We don't want our little one to be called bastard."

"And Martha and Rose ..."

"Oh, they know too much. So it will have to be the truth for them. We can trust them. They like to share the family secrets. It makes them feel at home. Leave it to me. All you have to do is get well. You'll have to take double care of yourself now. Our baby has to have a good welcome when he or she arrives. Which do you want, Sarah, a boy or a girl?"

"I had not thought of that. It does not seem of any importance. All I want is the baby."

Maggie nodded, contented.

She knew, and I knew, that I had taken the first steps away from that disastrous farce of a marriage. Difficulties might lie ahead, but we could face them. The future would hold my child and that was more important to me—and to Maggie—than anything.

Now that I was well, there was so much to do, announced Maggie.

She had called Martha and Rose to her and talked to them very seriously, telling them that she expected their absolute loyalty. This was their home and they should not forget it. Then she explained about the baby. Their reaction was much as she had predicted. I knew that my baby would have a good welcome from all in this house.

Martha's comment was: "We shall need good fresh milk. I've always said that's the best food to give a baby."

Maggie explained about the imaginary soldier who was in Holland in the King's army. Martha nodded wisely. It would not be good for the baby if the truth were known. Maggie had settled that matter and now the whole household was eagerly awaiting the coming of the child.

Maggie had said that I must give up all thoughts of acting until after the baby was born.

"You'll have to cosset yourself, especially after that illness you had. That could have weakened you a little. Mind you, you're a strong girl. It'll be all right. But we'll take no risks."

I thought of Jack only rarely now. If he saw me now he would certainly not want me and I was sure he would not welcome the encumbrance of a child. Well, I could do without him. I had my very good friends whom I could trust completely. I need never think of him again.

The story of my fictitious husband had been accepted by the few to whom it had been necessary to tell it. Life was going peacefully along. I was getting larger every day and they all regarded me with delight. I was pampered by everyone in the house. There was little talk of anything but the coming baby.

The midwife whom Maggie had procured pronounced herself pleased with my condition.

"I reckon it will be an easy birth," she said.

And so, on a warm June afternoon in the year 1667, my child was born.

They held her up for me to see her as I lay exhausted after my ordeal.

She appeared to have been well equipped with everything that a child should bring into the world.

I held out my arms and they laid her in them. At that moment I could forget everything but that I had my child.

I had said I wanted her named after Kitty, who had been Katherine.

We called her Kate.

She was indeed a lovely child. She was of good temper, more given to smiles than tears. She was bright and very soon knew each one of us. We adored her and wondered how we had managed to live without her. As for myself, I could not be unhappy since I had Kate and could not entirely regret anything that had given her to me. She dominated the household, and if Martha or Rose were missing one could be sure to find them with the baby, even if she were sleeping.

Those first months after her birth were completely absorbed by her, but one day Maggie asked me if I had ever thought of returning to the theater.

The idea had entered my mind. I wanted to earn money to pay Maggie for all she had given us, although she was always impatient when I talked of this. It was certainly not for that reason she suggested it. She knew what it had meant to me, and I think she felt that now Kate was not exactly a baby and there were three other people in the house whose greatest pleasure it was to care for her, there was no reason why I should not have a career in the theater as well as a daughter.

"It is always well," she said, "not to stay away too long. If you are building up a name you do it gradually and it does not help to have people forget you. You have had a year or so away. That could easily be remedied. It's when it gets too long that it begins to be difficult to return. As Kate grows up she'd be proud of her famous actress mother, you know."

"There's something on your mind, Maggie," I replied. "I know you."

"Well, what do you think? I ran into Jenny Crowther yesterday. Have I ever mentioned Jenny Crowther?"

"Was she not one of your old theatrical friends?"

"Those were the days! She married and went to live in the country somewhere. Her niece is Rose Dawson. You've heard of her."

"Yes, of course. She's playing at the Duke's now."

"That's right. Well, Jenny had it from her that Killigrew is putting on The Siege of Rhodes, and he's looking for someone to play lantha,"

"That's a good part."

"Well, why not go for the good ones? If I asked Jenny to get Rose to put in a word for you, I reckon Killigrew would see you. And you'd soon convince him that lantha is the part for you."

I felt a tremendous excitement creep over me.

"Rose is in high favor at the moment. She did well in The Rivals ... you know, it was The Two Noble Kinsmen but Davenant and Pryde added some songs and dancing. You remember 'My Lodging Is on the Cold Ground,' the song Moll Davis was singing when the King noticed her. And Nell Gwynne used to make a parody of it in her part over at the King's. That sort of thing does something for a play ... But what I'm telling you is that Rose's recommendation would count for something."

"Maggie, it sounds exciting."

"Well, there is no harm in trying. I'll speak to Jenny."

She did, with the result that I was interviewed and given the part.

So I was back again. My tragedy had faded far into the past. I had an enchanting baby. True, I was an unmarried mother, which gave me considerable qualms, in spite of the fact that Maggie had endowed me with a husband who had been fighting in Holland and who had now been conveniently killed off by Maggie's fertile imagination, and the past was safely buried. One cannot mourn forever, and Maggie, eternally optimistic, pointed out that as we learn a great deal from our mistakes, they are often blessings in disguise.

lantha was quite a success. Davenant was pleased with my performance, and I knew there would be other parts.

Then one evening, to my dismay, when I was coming out of the theater I saw Jack.

I stopped short. I wanted to run. I could not, of course. There was only one course to take. I must face him.

"Well met, Sarah," he said.

"No," I heard myself say, as coolly as I could. "I would say ill met."

"Sarah, try to understand."

"I have understood too well and I am in a hurry."

"You can give me a moment."

"I have no time at all to give you."

I was feeling calmer. It was the sight of his handsome face that brought the memories rushing back. I had loved him. I had been so happy with him—until I had discovered him for what he really was: a rake, a libertine, a man who would he and cheat and not care what he did to other people merely to gain his own ends.

"I just want a little of your time. You are not happy without me.

"You ever had a too high opinion of yourself. I am very happy to be away from you, thank you."

"I do not believe that."

"Believe what you will."

I turned, but he was beside me, laying a hand on my arm.

"I have been hearing news of you."

"I will say goodbye."

"Not yet." There was a note of authority in his voice and he was holding my arm. "I have heard that you have a child."

I forgot my cool dignity for a moment. "Who told you that?" I demanded.

"My dear, it is not difficult to get news of the rising star actress Sarah Standish."

"Yes, it's true," I said.

"A little girl, Kate. She is mine, of course."

"She is nothing to do with you."

I saw a smile touch his mouth. "So, it was some other. You left me to go to a lover."

"I will hear no more of this nonsense."

"I know that child is mine as well as yours."

I was afraid. He could not take Kate from me. That could not be. Besides, what would he do with a child? Still, I was trembling.

"You forfeited all rights," I said.

"It was you who left me, remember?"

"You deceived me. You ruined my life for a whim. The kindest thing I could ask you to do to repay me in some small way is to go away and never attempt to see me again."

He looked stunned. He was looking at me with a certain sadness in his eyes. I felt myself relenting a little. Then I thought: He is but playing a part. He is only trying to discomfort me. He has no right whatsoever to see Kate. I should not allow myself to be persuaded by him. I should have learned my lesson by now.

I turned and left him standing there.

The encounter had shaken me. I went straight home and told Maggie about it.

Maggie was perturbed. She did not like his bringing Kate into the matter.

Then she soothed herself. "Such as he are not concerned with children. He was just trying to trick you into taking him back," she said.

I noticed that she was very watchful with Kate. Martha and Rose were not allowed to take her out. Only Maggie and I were allowed to do that.

But after a while, when there were no further developments, we forgot about my encounter with Jack Adair.

We had slipped into a peaceful routine. Kate had made such a difference to our lives. Maggie said what we had missed before was a child in the house.

Kate was growing up fast. She was no longer a baby but a sturdy little girl, amusing us all with her quaint observations on life. Kate liked to learn about everything and Maggie and I were teaching her to read and to write, to which she took with great enthusiasm.

She liked to hear about the parts I played. I would rehearse with Maggie while she looked on. She would clap her hands and mouth the words as I said them, for she quickly had them by heart. Meanwhile Maggie would watch her with delight.

In due course Rose left to get married. She said she wanted "little 'uns" of her own. She was married to one of the traders in the market and would live close by so that we should not lose touch. In her place came Jane, a thin little creature of about thirteen years, the youngest of a family of ten who needed work and a good home. Greatly appreciating Maggie's bounty, she was very eager to please and soon became a worthy successor to Rose.

During those years I was progressing with my career. I had done well in several parts and was now quite well known in theatrical circles. There was a certain amount of gossip about me, as there was about most actors and actresses. Those such as Moll Davis and Nell Gwynne had made the profession somewhat notorious, though I have no doubt that some of these rumors were exaggerated and many of them were not so wild as they were made out to be. At the other extreme were Mrs. Better ton and later Mrs. Bracegirdle, who had a great reputation for virtue, with one or two others, including myself. Mrs. Betterton was married to Thomas Betterton and they played a good deal together; as for me, I had had a husband who had died in Holland and I had never looked at another man since. I had my child and that was enough for me. They sentimentalized about me, as they did about the Bettertons; but it was certainly true that I wanted no amatory adventures and was content to come home after the show to my daughter and friends.

Maggie had thought everything out so that there should be no embarrassments. I had kept my name. "Actresses often do," she said. "If you are making a name, you do not want to be known as Mrs. Campbell." Campbell was the name she had chosen for my fictitious husband. It was there if the need arose, said Maggie practically, "but Sarah Standish is the name for you. And so it shall be for Kate, for it is indeed her true name, and it is as well to keep to the truth if it is possible to do so." And no one thought to question why I should retain my maiden name.

Everything ran smoothly under Maggie's management and I never forgot that, had she not been called away to look after her sister, there would never have been that mock marriage with Jack Adair—but then no Kate either.

So the years passed. There was always something of interest happening.

We used to linger over meals at the table in the dining room and talk of things. Kate, at this time four years old, would listen avidly. Perhaps in a more conventional household she would have been in her bed. But she would have hated that. She loved to sit up and watch our lips as we talked and join in our laughter.

What happy days they were! Sometimes I would look round the table and tell myself I wished for nothing more. But I did, of course. I wished that I had been truly married, for whatever father we produced for Kate, her real father would always be Jack Adair, who was not married to her mother who had borne his illegitimate daughter. That saddened me. Everything should have been perfect for Kate.

Maggie tossed such nonsense aside when I told her.

"Kate will always fight her way through. She'll be all right. Her father is Frederick Campbell, lying on a battlefield, having given his life for his country. He's Kate's father until someone proves him not. And who could? My lord Rosslyn? Not a chance. He's quite content to take what he wants and leave the consequences to others. Nothing to fear, my dear Sarah. We've tidied it all up ... And if by chance something should come out, do not forget, we stick by Frederick Campbell."

Maggie had a way of making everything seem simple.

There was great excitement when Captain Blood attempted to steal the jewels from the Tower of London. I remember the occasion. It was May and we were already planning the celebrations for Kate's birthday next month. She would be five years old, but she was more like a girl of seven or eight.

I remembered how we sat at table, talking of this wild adventure of the daring Captain Blood. All London was talking of it, so we were no exception.

"Tell me about Captain Blood," cried Kate, and naturally Maggie obeyed.

"He tried to steal the King's jewels. They are in the Tower of London, all locked up, ready for the King when he wants to put them on."

"Yes," said Kate. "Yes."

"Well, Captain Blood came to the Tower. Mr. Edwards was the man who had charge of the jewels. He had the keys to the place where they were kept. Captain Blood was dressed as a priest, so they thought he was a good man."

"But he was only dressed as a priest," said Kate. "He wasn't a real one."

It was at moments like that that I had a twinge of fear. My thoughts were naturally taken back to that other occasion when a man had dressed up as a priest in order to deceive his dup>e.

Maggie went on describing the friendship which the Captain struck up with the keeper of the jewels, and how he brought presents for Mrs. Edwards.

"^"hat presents?" asked Kate, her eyes sparkling.

"There was wine for the gentleman and white gloves for Mrs. Edwards."

Kate repeated, "Wine and white gloves," while Maggie went on with the story of how Captain Blood wormed his way into the family's confidence by promises that his nephew—a young man of substance—might make a match with the Edwardses' daughter.

"So," went on Maggie, with dramatic effect, "the stage was set. Then the wily Captain asked Mr. Edwards, as a special favor, to show him the Crown Jewels. No one was supposed to go near the jewels unless there was a guard there too, but Mr. Edwards could not refuse this generous friend, particularly as his daughter was going to marry the Captain's nephew. Well, then it started. Mr. Edwards took him into the room in which the jewels were kept. The Captain had three friends with him and as soon as they were in the room he and his cronies overpowered poor Mr. Edwards and took the jewels. One of them put the orb into the pocket of his breeches. The Captain took the crow^n under his cloak, leaving poor Mr. Edwards groaning on the floor."

Kate's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Ah," went on Maggie, "but that was not the end of the story, was it?"

"Was it not?" asked Kate.

Maggie shook her head.

"Who had just come home from Flanders, where he had been fighting for his King and country? Why, Mr Edwards's young son. And poor old Mr. Edwards had not been hurt as much as the robbers thought. He was able to shout for help."

"What did he shout?" demanded Kate.

Maggie shouted: " Treason! The crown is stolen!' And young Edwards came and saw his father lying on the floor. Now, the jewels were very heavy and not easy to carry, and the young soldier had time to rouse the guards, and they caught the villains before they could leave the Tower."

"And what was done to them?" Kate wanted to know.

"Now, this is the odd part of the story. It is not a moral tale for the ears of little ones."

Kate hunched her shoulders and looked appealing.

"Only," Maggie cautioned, "for very special ones."

Kate laughed joyously, and Maggie went on: "Well, he was a very merry gentleman, this Captain, and His Majesty the King is a very merry gentleman too. The King is clever with words, and he likes people who are like that too. When the Captain was brought to the King, he expected this would be the end of him. There he was, caught with the crown under his cloak. There could not be greater proof than that, could there?"

Kate shook her head vigorously and continued to gaze expectantly at Maggie.

" 'Well,' said the Captain. 'It was a very bold thing to do, I admit. But do not forget, Your Majesty, I did it for a crown.' Well, the King himself had done bold things for his crown, and it was like saying, 'You did the same, Your Majesty.' This made the King laugh instead of being angry. And there is nothing the King likes more than to laugh. Well, thought the King, he hasn't got the jewels ... and it's all over and it made me laugh. So what do you think? The Captain was pardoned. Not only that, he was given estates to the value of £500 every year and the King became his friend."

"And what happened then?" asked Kate.

"For that," added Maggie, "we shall have to wait and see."

That was a typical scene during that time.

It seemed then that there was always some dramatic happening going on to give us exciting topics to discuss.

Maggie certainly had dramatic talents and there was nothing she enjoyed more than using them for Kate. She told her stories with the dramatic skills of an actress and her reward was Kate's obvious enjoyment. But the gossip we heard was not always as lighthearted as the affair of Captain Blood.

A few months before, there had been a notorious brawl in the streets, of which Kate had been told nothing. It was an ugly scene and concerned the Duke of Monmouth.

We heard a great deal about Monmouth during those days.

The Queen had not so far produced an heir and that meant of course that, if the King should die, the Duke of York, his brother, would be the next King.

The Duke was charming—though not as charming as the King; he was a good sailor whose love affairs were as numerous as those of his brother, but although he was a good and kindly man, he was not noted for his wisdom.

An instance of this was his frank and open admission of Catholicism. That would not have been so important but for his position. There was a tremendous aversion to the Catholic faith throughout the country, and it had been so ever since the reign of Mary Tudor, who had sent so many of her subjects to the stake because they did not share her beliefs. Never again, the majority of the people said; and here was the man who could well inherit the throne publicly announcing his adherence to the Catholic faith.

It was a foolish thing to do. But it seemed that, to a man of James's faith and honesty, it was necessary to make this known. This might be laudable from some points of view, but it was causing a great deal of disquiet in the country.

And because of this, the King's son, the Duke of Monmouth, was showing himself more and more to the people. He was stressing his devotion to the Protestant faith, and implying that they need have no fear, for if the King died without leaving a legitimate son or daughter to follow him, there was always his natural son— the Duke of Monmouth. Indeed, there were many who wanted to believe that there had been a marriage between Charles and Lucy Walter, the Duke's mother, in which case was he not the true heir to the throne?

Sometimes I was aware of the uneasiness in the streets of London. The people did not want another civil war—it was not so very long since the Cavaliers and Roundheads had destroyed the peace of the countryside and brought death to many Englishmen with their battles.

I had never forgotten my first, and at that time only, glimpse of the Duke of Monmouth when he had visited the theater. It seemed years ago now. He had staged his entrance, and had arrived immediately after the King so that all might be aware of him, for he had glanced familiarly up at the royal box and the King had smiled on him.

Now he had been involved in a vicious brawl, about which Maggie felt terribly indignant. She could not have made a light-hearted charade of this as she had of Captain Blood's escapade.

It was a custom among some of the young men of the court to roam the streets after dark in search of adventure and there was a great deal of gossip at this time concerning the King's interest in actresses—in particular Moll Davis and Nell Gwynne. The government was proposing to levy a tax on playhouses and the theaters had come under discussion in Parliament. During the debate. Sir John Coventry, Member for Weymouth, commented that he wondered where the King's pleasure in the playhouse lay—was it in the plays or in the women who acted in them?

Although everyone was aware of the King's delight in these ladies—and others—Sir John's remark was considered an insult to the King and many thought Coventry should not be allowed to talk in such a manner. Monmouth was among them, but he did not confine his indignation to words. Like so many whose claim to royalty was somewhat flimsy, he was particularly assiduous in his desire to defend it.

One night, with a party of young men, including the Duke of Albemarle, the Duke of Monmouth waylaid Sir John's carriage, set upon Sir John, dragged him from his carriage and slit his nose to the bone.

It might have been the end of the Member for Weymouth, had not a beadle heard the commotion and hurried over to see what was happening. It was his duty to keep order and, shocked and horrified by what he saw, he attempted to do his duty. In the scuffle that followed, he was killed.

Sir John had escaped with a mutilated face, but the poor beadle was murdered, a grave matter.

However, the perpetrators of the crime were never brought to justice, although everyone knew that the Duke of Monmouth was concerned. It was said that it was an example of the King's great love for his bastard son, and there was an undercurrent of speculation whether, if the Duke of York persisted in his determination to practice the Catholic faith and the Queen failed to produce a child, Monmouth, with his allegiance to the Protestant faith, which he never failed to show, might inherit the throne.

However, that was far in the future. The King was radiantly happy, stronger than most men. It was one of the sights of the town to see him sauntering in the park with his friends, such as the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Rochester, his little dogs at his heels. People used to say that all was well while King Charles reigned over them. He liked people to be happy; he was not concerned with forcing them this way and that. Let them worship God in whatever way they wished, so long as they caused him no trouble. All he wanted was a pleasant existence and the peace to enjoy it. Most of his subjects agreed with him, and they were very satisfied with their King.

But the Duke of York was causing more concern. His wife had died and he was seeking a new bride.

The people loved a royal wedding. It meant ceremony, holidays and revelry in the streets. But they did not want a Catholic wedding. There was something ominous about that. And it was typical of James that he should choose a Catholic bride; he was to marry Mary of Modena, a girl of thirteen. Negotiations had been satisfactorily concluded and she was shortly coming to England.

"A royal wedding," murmured the people. "But a Catholic."

However, the King was lusty and hearty. He would get an heir soon. Moreover, a wedding was a wedding, and as it was the Duke of York's, there would be celebrations. They were determined to enjoy them.

Kate was very excited about the royal wedding. She wanted to hear all about it and why some people did not seem to think it w^as right.

"Oh," said Maggie. "There'll always be some to find fault. Poor child. Fourteen, they say. It's too young. And him ... why, he must be forty. Well, it is not for us to judge, I will say that. But poor child."

Kate was now six years old, more eager than ever to know what was going on around her. I was noticing more and more that Maggie w^as aging. She was far from young, but she had always been so full of health and energy. She complained, though not very much, more to explain her slowness of movement rather than anything else. There were creaks in her knees, she said, and sometimes I could see that she was in pain. I tried to make sure that she did not carry heavy loads or do too much about the house; but this had to be achieved with the utmost care. The last thing Maggie wanted was that we should be aware of her ailments.

We heard that the Duke of York was at Dover with his bride and that he was coming overland to Gravesend. Mary of Modena was very beautiful, it seemed, and if she were not pleased with her aging bridegroom, he was with her. He was bringing her personally to Gravesend. The King would go there in his royal barge to meet her, and they would all travel back to Whitehall where the new Duchess would be presented to the Queen.

There would be crowds on the banks of the river to watch the royal party, and Kate was eager to be among them.

I was a little anxious about Maggie. Standing for long periods, which was inevitable on such occasions, tired her very much. I wondered if I should dare suggest she stay behind. But I soon realized that that was out of the question, hearing her talking excitedly to Kate. Maggie would be there.

It was hardly the time of year for such ceremonies. November can be a dark and dreary month and this was no exception.

The crowds had assembled along the bank close to Whitehall Stairs, and everyone tried to see the royal barge arrive.

It was indeed a sight. The barge itself, the King immediately recognizable among the company, his tall stature, his magnificent wig of black curls, his feathered hat. He was indeed a King. I watched Kate's dear face suffused with pleasure and excitement.

"There is the Duke of York beside the King," cried Maggie. They were a handsome pair, I thought, and the bride was beautiful. But she looked frightened, as though she were not sure of what was going on.

The people cheered her for her youth and beauty. They forgot, but only temporarily, that she was a Catholic.

And then, among those elegant courtiers in the King's immediate circle, I saw him. He was chatting and laughing and I felt that mingling of pain and excitement which he would always arouse in me. I gripped Kate's hand firmly. She was unaware of this. I looked at Maggie. Had she seen him?

The people were cheering wildly. The cheers, I think, were for the King. He never failed to generate this applause wherever he went. There must be some among that crowd who remembered the days of Puritanism and delighted that they were gone and that life was merry under King Charles.

The King had stepped ashore. He had helped the little bride to do the same. He kept her beside him, holding her hand, smiling at her reassuringly, and she seemed to cling to him. And there was the Duke of York, smiling ... looking happy. He had the Stuart charm, but not to the same extent as his brother. I thought in that moment that the people would have liked him well enough if he had not openly become a Catholic.

In spite of the august company, it was Jack of whom I was most aware. He had stepped ashore. He would pass very close by us.

There was a sudden surge forward and I was almost thrown off my feet. Kate fell and went down forward.

"Kate!" I called in alarm.

I saw Maggie's white face beside me. Kate was on the ground. Maggie was desperately trying to hold off the crowd. I murmured, "Oh, God, help," as I tried to reach Kate. A hundred terrifying thoughts passed through my mind in that split second. I had heard of people being trampled to death at times like this. Now it was my turn to try and hold back the crowd. Kate had disappeared from view. Maggie was trying to push forward, but her limbs were stiff and she had lost her agility.

Then I heard a familiar voice.

"Stand back! Stand back!"

It was Jack Adair.

The crowd immediately gave way to such a fine gentleman. He was forcing his way through. I saw Kate lying on the ground. He was beside her and picked her up. He was smiling his charming smile.

"Airs well," he said. "No bones broken." Then: "Stand back, I say! Cannot you see that a child has fallen?"

His voice was authoritative. He was obviously a gentleman of the court. Some of the people might have seen him leave the King's party.

He stood with Kate in his arms and turned to look at Maggie and me for a moment. Then he said: "Come, follow me. Keep close."

He had moved down to the river's edge and there he knelt down and laid Kate on the grass.

She said: "It's all right. Mama ... Maggie. I was frightened, though."

"Of a surety you were," said Jack. "Who would not be? Now, let us see if any harm has been done. Can you stand up?"

She did so.

"That is wonderful. Any bruises? No, I think we arrived in time. Crowds like that can be ugly."

He was watching Kate all the time he was speaking. I could not help noticing that she was charmed by him. He must appear to her to be a gallant gentleman, and one of the King's party, too.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "You saved me."

"Right glad I am to have done so."

Neither Maggie nor I had spoken. We were too shocked, and overcome with relief to know that Kate was safe, though deeply concerned because of who was her savior. *;'

I knew that Jack was aware of our feelings and I guessed rather amused by them.

He said: "Now, I shall conduct you to your home. You will have finished with sightseeing this day, I'll warrant."

"Oh," began Kate, "I am all right."

"My dear little girl, you have been shocked. But I am going to be a dictator and tell you that you are to go home, and I know you will not like this, but you should have a little rest." His eyes surveyed me. I could see that he was enjoying this adventure. He had seen his daughter, spoken to her, shown himself to her—in the best possible light—and, of course, he was amused by my discomfiture.

"Are you a doctor?" asked Kate.

He shook his head. "Alas, no. At this moment I wish I were. But I know my advice is sound. So I shall get a carriage and take you home."

"It is not necessary," I began.

"I beg your pardon, madam, but I think it is, and I shall not allow you and my good friend Mistress ..."

"Kate," cried Kate. "I'm Kate. Well, Katherine really."

"But Kate to friends," he said. "Well, Mistress Kate, I am going to take you home in a carriage because I believe it to be very necessary."

"Where is the carriage?" asked Kate.

"I will send for it."

There were several soldiers standing on guard near the river stairs and he called to one of them.

"Bring me a carriage. There's been an accident."

To the delight of Kate, the man obeyed immediately.

I looked at Maggie. She had not spoken at all, which was unlike her.

I could sense the tremendous relief she felt. I believe neither of us just yet could think of anything else. When we had seen Kate fall down before that press of people such fear had overtaken all other emotions and we had not yet rid ourselves of it.

We had to keep staring at her to remind ourselves that she was unharmed.

And our joy was all due to him ... Jack Adair, Lord Rosslyn, the court dandy who had betrayed me so callously.

Maggie's face was pale and I saw the lines of fatigue on it. She should not have come. She was no longer fit for these strenuous excursions.

I felt completely bewildered. He was going to take us home, after which we would thank him, as though he were a stranger who had come to our help. We must not let Kate know that he was her father. He must take us home—after all, Maggie needed a carriage and we could not be sure what effect the accident had had on Kate. Surely he must then say goodbye and go away. Which might well be what he would wish. This was just an isolated adventure to him.

He was evidently a man whose orders were obeyed, for the carriage appeared very quickly.

He helped us in. Kate could not contain her enjoyment.

"A carriage!" she cried. "Are you the King's friend?"

"We are all friends of the King, I hope."

"I mean a real friend ... do you talk to him?"

"I have done so ... on occasion."

"It must be wonderful to be at court. How did you get to us so quickly?"

"I saw you in the crowd and I realized what was about to happen. Crowds will do that. Something of interest happens and they all want to go in a new direction to get a better view. They rush forward ... people get swept off their feet, and if they fall, well, that can be dangerous. The crowd does not care ... it goes forward ..."

"Walking over you," said Kate, her eyes round.

He nodded. "But I was here just in time, was I not?"

Kate laughed. "I liked the way you made them stand back. You told them to and they did."

"It's what is called the voice of authority."

I knew that she was charming him as he was her, and my uneasiness increased.

I said: "It was a good thing you did, sir. We both thank you, and so does my daughter."

"It has been a great pleasure," he said, looking intently at me. "I am so delighted to have been of assistance to your charming daughter, madam."

I wondered what Maggie was thinking.

At last she spoke, but all she said was: "This is the house."

We alighted. He seemed as though he were expecting to be asked in. I saw Maggie's lips set firmly together.

"We thank you, sir," she said.

He took her hand and kissed it. She drew it away very quickly.

"It was a good deed you did ... today.'' She emphasized the last word. She meant it was a good deed but it did not exonerate him for the cruel trick he had played on me.

"I thank you too," I said.

He then took my hand. "I must perforce be allowed to kiss it," which he did lingeringly, and in such a manner as to bring back memories.

"I thank you too, sir," said Kate. "You saved me from being trodden on by all those people."

She held out her hand. He took both of her hands and held them while he smiled at her.

"How glad I am that I was there. I have rarely been so happy about anything in all my life. It is a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of Mistress Kate."

I took Kate's hand and drew her to the door. He bowed and turned back to the carriage.

Kate had suffered no hurt from her adventure; indeed, she was greatly stimulated by it. She could talk of nothing but her interesting and charming rescuer.

When she was in bed that night, Maggie and I talked.

"What do you make of it?" said Maggie. "It almost seemed as though he arranged it."

"He couldn't have arranged for the people to have surged forward just when he was on the spot."

"I thank God that he was," said Maggie. "But I would rather it had been anyone else who had rescued Kate."

"It may be that it was not entirely coincidental, Maggie. I have a notion that he has had some sort of watch on Kate for some time."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows she is his daughter and I suppose a father would be interested in his own child."

"Mayhap in a passing fashion. These men of the town—libertines, all of them—they want to amuse themselves with a woman and then be off. I never heard of them being overeager to share in the consequences."

"Perhaps he is not like the rest."

"You are trying to excuse yourself for having been so foolish as to have been deceived by him, perhaps," said Maggie with her customary frankness.

"That may be. But I have now and then caught a glimpse of him ... sometimes when I have been out with Kate. I have avoided looking closely and tried to pretend I was mistaken. He was there this day in the crowd. I saw him before it happened. He saw us too. That was why he was on the spot and saw the crowd pressing forward. He could have been watching Kate at that moment."

"Let us thank God that he was. I must say, it was good to have him close then. She could have been trampled underfoot. And you had to admire the way he did it. 'Stand back!' he said. And then he had them all doing his bidding, and that is not easy with a crowd like that."

"He was very interested in her."

"She's a very interesting child."

"Maggie, I am worried about him. He ... I think he liked her very much ... and she liked him."

Christobel

He did not, as I had feared he might, attempt to renew his acquaintance with Kate, and as the weeks passed into months, I began to think that Maggie was right. His interest in her was only fleeting.

Then Christobel Carew came into our lives.

It happened about two months after that encounter with Jack, and Kate had ceased to talk about him. I hoped that she had forgotten the incident.

Maggie had kept in touch with Jenny Crowther, and Jenny often called. Often I returned home to find her in the parlor and she and Maggie would be exchanging reminiscences of their early days.

One day, when I came in, I knew at once that something had happened—Maggie, who could never hide her feelings, was excited about something and was eager to tell me what it was.

Jenny Crowther was there, and obviously shared Maggie's knowledge.

"Well," I said, "what is the news?"

"Come and sit down," said Maggie, "and I'll tell you all about it."

"Don't tell me that Charles Hart or Thomas Killigrew is begging you both to play the leads in some magnificent production."

"Pigs do not fly," said Maggie.

"That means that it is not your news."

"Something far more interesting."

"I should have thought nothing could be."

"Stop teasing and listen. Jenny has been telling me about a young lady. She comes from Somerset and of a very good family. Lord of the manor and that sort."

"She has been brought up to be the perfect lady," said Jenny. "The Carews of Somerset have been an important family for the last three hundred years."

"Very commendable, but what of this young lady?"

Maggie continued: "They have recently lost their money. A disastrous fire and debts and so on. This young girl is without means and a home. She has to work."

"It must be hard for her. I dare say it is not the first time something like this has happened."

"Kate is a very bright child," said Maggie. "I have often thought that she needs to be educated by someone who really knows how to do it ... someone of good family who can teach her that little more than we are able to."

"You are suggesting that we employ a governess, and it should be this gentleman's daughter who suddenly has become impoverished?"

"That's the notion."

"Maggie, we are not in a position ..."

Maggie said: "This girl ... her name is Christobel Carew. Jenny thinks she would be delighted to come. Well, not Jenny so much, it's Rose—Rose Dawson—who knows about it all. You see, now that Rose has become so friendly with Lord Hazeldown, she moves in very high circles and that is how she has heard of this young lady. Rose knows a great deal about her. She had met her before disaster overtook the family and in fact she has spoken to her on this matter. Mistress Carew has told her that she would be glad to get a suitable post. She does not want some grand mansion. That would be too painful for her. What she wants is a home, where the people would be kind to her, treat her as an equal and there would be a roof over her head. She does not ask a large salary. I like what I hear. I think it is a big chance for Kate. Just think. She will learn gracious manners, as well as reading and writing. It's a chance in a million, Sarah."

I hesitated. I had often thought that Kate should have a governess. I was earning a fair salary at the theater, but an actress's work was not regular. Although I was by now fairly successful, I was not working all the time. I had encroached on Maggie's bounty enough.

Maggie knew what I was thinking.

"Christobel will only take a small wage. What she needs is to find the right place. When Rose told her, Jenny thought of us right away. They were certain that this is exactly the place which would suit Christobel." Maggie looked at me defiantly. "I am going to ask her to come to see us."

"Maggie, we have to think of the expense."

"It's not great. Jenny has told Christobel about Kate, and she is just the age Christobel feels she can manage. She is looking for a home like this. It can do no harm to see her."

So Christobel came.

I liked her from the beginning. It was obvious that she was of good breeding. Everything about her pointed to that. Moreover, she was modest and clearly anxious to please.

She told us much of what Jenny had and how she was eager to have some employment.

I said we could only pay a small salary and she assured me that that was not the most important thing to her. She had a very small income, which meant she need not be deeply concerned about the money. What she needed was a place where she could be with friendly people. I gathered it was her feeling that to be in a house similar to the one she had just left and in which she would now be relegated to the position of a servant—even a higher one—would have been intolerable. She was being very frank with us and she hoped we understood.

As she talked I was becoming more and more pleased with the idea. I was often at the theater. Maggie adored Kate, and Kate was certainly very fond of her, but Maggie was old and I knew that nowadays she was often in pain. It would be good for Maggie as well as Kate to have a young person in the house.

Christobel was bright and intelligent; and something told me that she was very anxious to come to us.

I looked at Maggie. "If you think we really can afford ..."

"Of course we can," said Maggie.

"I do have my small income," said Christobel. "And it is very important to me to find a place where I can be happy. I was very excited when I heard that you were the famous actress."

"Well, perhaps a little known in theatrical circles."

"She is over-modest," said Maggie happily, for she knew I was won over.

"I should very much like you to come," I said. "Shall we ask Kate how she feels?"

"I was just about to suggest it," replied Maggie.

Kate and Christobel took a liking to each other at once.

The matter was settled and Christobel joined our household.

Christobel quickly became one of us. She was natural and had no airs and graces, as Maggie called them. I could see that she was happy with her new home. Martha liked her and she and Jane were clearly pleased to have such an interesting addition to the household.

Very soon Kate and she became inseparable and it was comforting for us to know that Kate had such a companion. Always at the back of my mind, and particularly since that encounter at the time of the Duke of York's wedding, I was afraid that Jack Adair might approach Kate at some time, and I had been afraid to allow Kate out alone. That was reasonable enough when she was very young; but it was not so easy to keep a constant watch on a girl of seven or eight—particularly as our house was run on rather informal lines. Christobel supplied what we needed perfectly.

We noticed the difference in Kate. Not only could she read fluently and write well but she was developing a certain poise and confidence.

In the evenings, when I returned from the theater and Kate was in bed, Christobel would join Maggie and me and we would talk. I would tell them of how the play had gone and who had been in the audience, to which they both listened avidly, and Christobel would talk of what she and Kate had done that day. She would tell me what they were learning. Kate was very interested in literature and they went through the plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe and occasionally some of the more modern ones such as Dryden and Beaumont and Fletcher.

"Do you think she will follow her mother in her profession?" asked Maggie.

"It may be. But she seems more interested in the words than the players. She is a very practical girl. She says she does not believe that a girl would only have to put on boy's clothes to be mistaken for one, so she cannot believe in the play. But the words, she says, they are magic, they excite her and sometimes they make her weep. She is bright and she is a pleasure to teach."

I said to Maggie what a good day it was for us all when Christobel came.

Maggie said slyly: "You will remember how reluctant you were to take her."

"I do, and I remember how you saw the virtue of the project right from the start."

One day she said to me: "I often think how lucky it was for me that Kitty brought you here, and I wonder what my life would have been like without you and Kate. When Kitty went you were there. Now that I am getting old and unable to get about as I did once, I should have been a very lonely woman."

Life had settled into a pattern. The days were peaceful and time was slipping past with a speed which startled me. Another month had passed—then a year. Kate was growing up. She was now nine years old. Christobel had become one of us and Maggie and I often asked ourselves how we could have got along without her.

With the passing of time Maggie grew perceptibly more crippled and often I was working, but we had the satisfaction of knowing that Christobel was there, so I had no qualms about leaving Kate when I was working.

We lived in a little world of our own. The scandals of the theatrical circles passed lightly over me. I was now and then pursued by some amorous gallant, but I was aloof and did not wish to be embroiled in further adventures. I had had my fill. I had a reputation for being cold and virtuous, which I shared with a few—very few—other actresses. I was glad of it. It was what I wished. My life was centered on the little household of Kate and Maggie and now Christobel, not forgetting Martha and Jane. A world of women—a safe world, it seemed to me.

In any case, I was very tired after the performances and had no wish to go anywhere but home. Ever since I had had that illness before Kate was born, I had tired more easily and I had a greater tendency than before to catch a cold.

This made me doubly glad of Christobel's presence.

We used to enjoy—Maggie and I—seeing Kate come in with Christobel. Kate, rosy-cheeked, glowing with health, eager to tell us what they had done, and Christobel looking very happy and contented.

"We were exploring London," Kate told me. "It is a sort of lesson, isn't it, Christobel?'' she added.

"Well," replied Christobel, "it is knowledge and all knowledge is good."

"That sounds just like a governess, does it not. Mama?" said Kate.

"It is what I strive to be," replied Christobel. "I myself am learning too. I did not realize what a fascinating place London is until Kate reminded me."

"We have been to the Hay market," cried Kate. "Do you know how long it has been there? It has only been there twelve years, so it is not much older than I am. Everything else seems to be so old. It is all hay and straw and horses. There is more to be seen in St. James's Fields."

They would laugh over the people they had seen bargaining and everything seemed very funny when they told it, although on contemplation one might wonder why it had seemed so hilarious. I came to the conclusion that when one was happy things seemed amusing when they might not have otherwise done so.

So Maggie and I would sit and wait for them to return to tell us what they had seen along by the river at Chelsea or near Rosamond's Pond in St. James's Park, When they saw the King sauntering in the park they were most excited and once they saw him along Pall Mall.

Maggie's gratified look of triumph often reminded me that I had almost missed this great opportunity.

Then one winter's day I became ill and was unable to go to the theater.

The doctor was brought to me and he said it was a return of the illness I had had before. I expected it to pass and that I would gradually recover, but it was not quite like that. I did get better, but my cough remained and I was very tired, and even when the spring came, I was not really well.

Often I saw Maggie watching me gravely.

She said: "You are not fit to go back to the theater." I protested but in my heart I knew that she was right.

"I shall be better when the summer comes," I said.

But my cough persisted.

For so long I had been shut in with my comfortable life that I had not thought of change. Christobel had solved several problems for us; we had gone on blithely. The country might be at war with the Dutch, but that was far away and did not concern us. There was constant talk about the possibility of the King's having no heir and the Duke of York's coming to the throne and whether the country would tolerate a Catholic monarch.

We gave little thought to that either. I was deeply concerned with my poor health. I had saved a little money, but that would not last forever and if I were not well enough to work during the summer, could I expect to in winter? I felt I had already taken more from Maggie than I could possibly repay. When I broached the subject to her she was indignant. I must not talk about money. We could manage. Christobel was undemanding and, as she was perceptive, she was already aware of my anxiety and its cause. She had secretly told Maggie that she would accept a lower salary, for this was her life now and she could not bear to be parted from Kate or any of us.

I was very fortunate, I knew, to be surrounded by such good people whom I loved; but I continued to worry.

It was September. Kate had been ten years old in June. The weather had been sunny and mellow and very pleasant, as it often was at that time of year, and I had been taking a short walk every day. I did not want anyone to go with me because I was apt to get a little breathless and needed to pause for a few moments before proceeding. But my spirits had risen of late, for I had been feeling a little better and my walks became a little longer every day.

I told myself this illness was passing. I had been ill before, when I was going to have Kate, and I had recovered then. I was going to be all right.

I still thought about Jack and I often wondered what he was doing now. Although I had been relieved that he had made no more efforts to see Kate, I was a little disappointed that he had not. How perverse one can be where one's emotions are concerned! Although I told myself that he was a black-hearted villain, somewhere in the depths of my emotions I was always hoping that I should see him.

So, during these little walks of mine, I often found my steps leading me to those lodgings of his where I had spent those blissful ignorant weeks when I had believed myself to be his wife. I supposed in my heart I could not really regret them, for I had never been—nor ever would be—so happy again, and during that time Kate had been conceived. So I had this desire to see the place and my steps invariably led me there.

I made a habit of remaining some distance from the house. I was afraid that Jack might suddenly appear, and how embarrassed I should be if he found me gazing up at it. I should have been utterly betrayed.

I would stand on the corner of the street. I would be hidden from view and, if by some chance he should appear, I could make a hasty retreat.

I felt exhilarated by the very sight of the building. I felt sure now that I should soon be well. It was only a pity that it was not the spring that was on its way instead of the autumn. But I would be well, I was certain of it. Meanwhile there was so much to remember. That first time he had taken me there. My shocked horror. And then, when I returned, how different! Although it was not really. It was just that he was deceiving me.

I stepped back against the wall. Someone was coming out of the house.

I stared. It was not Jack. It was Kate and Christobel.

For a moment I thought I was dreaming. Kate and Christobel in Jack's lodgings! It could not be.

They had turned and were walking back along the street the way they would take back to Maggie's house.

I stared after them. There was no doubt. It was Kate and Christobel, and they had come out of Jack's lodgings. What could it mean?

For some seconds I felt too numbed to move. I watched their retreating figures and told myself that I had imagined this. It was someone else.

But how could I mistake my own child? And there was Christobel with her.

What could it mean? I would soon know. They would have to explain to me.

I walked slowly back to the house. My breath was short and a little painful. Every now and then I had to pause.

When I returned to the house they were not there.

Maggie was in the parlor.

"Something has happened, Sarah!" she cried. "You look white as a sheet. You've overdone it. I knew you would. You go too quickly. You've got to take it more easily. Just because you feel a little better, you've got to dash around like a madwoman."

I let her scold on. I wanted to tell her ... but I did not know where to begin. It would seem to her as incredible as it seemed to me.

She led me to a chair and said she would get something for me.

When she had left me, I asked myself if I should tell her. No, I thought. Not yet. I must think what to do. She will think I am foolish ... imagining things. I could hear her saying, "And what, may I ask, were you doing outside his lodgings?"

I had made a mistake, I kept telling myself. Of course, the two I had seen emerging from the lodgings were not Kate and Christobel. They had merely looked like them.

That was the answer. I was not well. I was letting my foolish imagination take possession of my common sense.

I would ask them and they would stare at me in bewilderment.

Of course, they could not have been in that place.

But I had seen them.

Maggie came back with a glass of wine.

"This will warm you," she said. "Then I am going to say you should go to bed. You've overtired yourself, that's what it is. I'll bring you up something later on. First you must rest for a while."

I almost told her. But I could not bring myself to. I was clinging to the belief that I had been mistaken.

It had to be. What other answer was there?

I lay in my bed. I should have to speak to them first, to Kate, or perhaps to Christobel. I had to hear from their lips that I could not have seen them emerge from Lord Rosslyn's lodgings.

They were down there now. I could hear them laughing. They would be telling Maggie about their adventures. They would not tell her that they had been to those lodgings. Maggie would not be laughing if they had. She would have been as horrified as I was.

Kate would have been sad when she heard I was unwell. She would have wanted to come up and see me. I could hear Maggie telling her that it would be better for me to rest. I had been doing too much too quickly and I had tired myself.

The suspense was becoming too much for me. I could hear their steps on the stairs. They were going to their beds now. I saw the light of a candle through a crack in the door.

I heard their voices, whispering so as not to disturb me as they said goodnight to each other, then all was silent. But, as I expected, I could not sleep. I would speak to them in the morning. To Kate? Why had Kate not mentioned the fact that she had seen Lord Rosslyn? She would have been excited by the encounter. When he had saved her from being trampled underfoot by the crowd, she had clearly been impressed by him and would not, I was sure, forget him easily. But I had been in bed when she came back with Christobel. There had been no opportunity to tell me. But I had presumed that it had been the first time they had visited his lodgings.

How foolish I was! I seemed to have lost my grip on common sense. There was one way of finding out ... I had made up my mind.

I slipped out of bed and put on a dressing gown.

I left my bedroom and knocked lightly on Christobel's door.

After a pause she said: "Come in."

I went in. She started up from her bed. "Sarah?" she said in a startled voice. "Are you ill?"

"No," I said. I sat on the bed close to her. "Only puzzled ... and anxious."

"Why? What has happened?"

I came straight to the point. I had delayed too long. I said: "I saw you today ... I saw you and Kate coming out of Lord Rosslyn's lodgings."

The color suffused her face. She was staring at me in horror.

I knew at once that, although I had been trying to convince myself that what I feared was not true, I had been right. Of course I had. I had never really had any doubt of it.

As she said nothing, I went on: "I was shocked. I could not imagine why you should be taking Kate to visit that man. I should like an explanation."

She was staring into space. I saw the fear in her face. She was biting her lips nervously. She looked as though she were trying to come to a decision.

I said coldly: "You had better tell me. Was it your first visit ... or do you make a habit of calling there? Is he a friend of yours ... of Kate's?"

Still she said nothing.

"Christobel, I insist that you tell me what is going on."

She murmured very quietly: "Perhaps ... perhaps you should ask him."

I stared at her. "Ask him? I do not see him. I have no wish to see him. Listen, Christobel, you live here ... you work for us. I have a right to know where you are taking my daughter. I insist you tell me without delay. I demand to know what you were doing in Lord Rosslyn's lodgings with my daughter this afternoon."

She said, after a pause, speaking very slowly: "I suppose I must tell you. There is nothing else I can do."

"Indeed there is not," I said. "So pray begin."

"It ... it was Lord Rosslyn who wished me to come here."

"What? You are supposed to be the impoverished daughter of gentlefolk seeking a home in exchange for her services as a governess."

"That is true. I did need that. It is true, I tell you. And I have been happy here."

"So happy that you spent your time tricking us."

"It was not like that."

"Was it not? When you slyly take my daughter to visit this man and tell me nothing about it."

"He arranged for me to come here so that I could look after Kate, give her the education he thought she should have and tell him of her progress."

"He has no right."

"He thinks he has."

"So you are his spy. I cannot believe it. I thought you were so good in every way, and all the time you were spying for him."

"No, no, no. That is not so." She went on: "He cares for Kate. He wants the best for her. He told me that he did not want her to be brought up without a proper education. It was for her he did it."

"Go on," I said.

"My family were in difficulties. His estate is not far from ours. He is a friend of my parents. He said he knew of a suitable post for me. He knew that I must earn some money and was contemplating becoming a governess. He then had this plan. He knew the actress who brought me to your notice."

"Rose Dawson," I said.

"He would pay me a good salary, because he said you would not be able to give me what I should need. You were not to know of this arrangement, but in return I should tell him about Kate's progress."

I thought to myself: There is no escape from him. I was angry, but on the other hand I felt a faint glow of gratification. He did care about Kate and, after all, she was his child too. He had thought up this elaborate scheme. But then he was a practiced schemer. This was typical of a man who could plan a mock marriage.

"And you took her to visit him?"

"This was the third occasion."

"And what does Kate think of that?"

"She is becoming very fond of him. She admires him immensely. She never forgets how he rescued her from that menacing crowd."

"And what do you do when you visit his lodgings?"

"He talks to Kate most of the time."

"And all this has been kept secret from me. You have warned Kate not to tell me?"

She looked uncomfortable. "We thought that if you knew you might stop these visits."

"We?"

"Lord Rosslyn and I."

"And Kate? How did you pledge her to secrecy?"

"We simply both told her that if you knew you might stop the visits, so we would not tell you ... just yet."

"So you prevailed on her to deceive me?"

"It is so difficult to explain."

"I can believe that. When you are caught spying and deceiving, it is not easy to convince people that what you have done is for the good of everyone concerned."

"I wish I could make you understand."

"You would have to try a little harder," I said.

"I wish I could make you see. Lord Rosslyn wants the best for Kate. That is why he thought of this plan. You were saying only the other day that Kate had changed since I came here. Please, Sarah, try to understand that all this was done for Kate's sake."

I was silent. I had to believe that. He had gone to these lengths to give her a better education ... one which would equip her for his kind of world. But to have her taken secretly to his lodgings! That was what I could not forgive. I was deeply hurt because Kate had been persuaded to keep those visits a secret from me.

Christobel said: "I can see this has shocked you deeply."

"Would you have expected it to do anything else? Obviously not, as you took such great pains to keep it from me."

"I am so sorry. But I love Kate. I wanted the best for her ... and so does he. I know you do too. How I wish that you had not been there this afternoon."

"So that you could have continued to deceive me?"

"It was all for the best. That was what I told myself."

"And so you reported to your employer what we are doing in this household?"

She was silent.

"Oh, Christobel, we were so fond of you. We thought you were one of us."

"I am, I am! I too am fond of you all. I have been so happy here."

"You were a good spy, and I dare say your employer is very pleased with you."

"Please, please, Sarah, do not say that. It is not like that at all. If you knew ... Lord Rosslyn ..."

"I think I did know him rather well."

"That was long ago. I was a neighbor. Our families have been friendly for years. He is not really a happy man. Oh, but that is his story. He is very fond of Kate. He thinks of her good only ..."

"So he teaches deceit to match his own."

"Kate wanted so much to tell you. She hated having a secret from you."

"I know she would, but you persuaded her. I understand that."

"Sarah ... what are you going to do? Are you going to send me away?"

I was silent.

I said: "You are as much Maggie's concern as mine. I will talk to her. I feel too shaken myself to think clearly."

"You should not be walking about in a cold house in your nightclothes," said Christobel practically. "Let me take you back to your room."

"I do not need to be taken."

She took my hands. "They are cold," she said. "Come, I will make sure that you have extra bedclothes. You must not get a chill."

I laughed. I said: "You talk as though I have not made this discovery and you your confession."

"That does not prevent me being concerned about your health. You know how important it is that you do not catch another chill."

She had taken my arm and led me back to my room.

I got into my bed and she tucked in the bedclothes. She said: "You are shivering. I shall find something more to put on you."

I lay in bed thinking what a strange day this was and of all the revelations it had brought.

I felt that exhilaration which the thought of Jack Adair never failed to bring to me.

Christobel came back with more bedclothes. She put them over me, then stood for a few moments looking at me. There was an expression of regret and deep affection on her face.

I said: "Good night, Christobel."

"Good night," she said and went out.

I felt bewildered and deeply shocked, and I did not know what I should do.

I thought: Maggie will have to know. I shall tell her in the morning.

I felt very weak the next morning; I had scarcely slept through the night, and my cough, which often troubled me, was now worse.

I was very anxious to talk to Maggie. But not when Kate was around. I decided that I would stay in my room and Maggie and I would talk there at the first opportunity.

Kate came in to see me, a look of concern on her face.

"Oh, Mama, you are not so well this morning."

She came and kissed me, and I held her close to me. I was thinking: She has been deceiving me, my own Kate. I would never have thought it of her. But she was young and Christobel, who had great influence with her, would have convinced her that there was no harm in what she did.

"Shall I sit with you. Mama? Shall I read to you?"

"No," I said. "I shall sleep a little. Then I will feel better. Perhaps Maggie will come and sit with me. You must get to your lessons."

It was not long before Maggie came up. She looked anxious.

"You overdid it yesterday," she said. "It's too soon to walk so far. You should take it slowly. Now, what's wrong?"

"Maggie," I said, "I must talk to you. I have made an alarming discovery."

I told her what had happened.

She listened incredulously.

"Christobel," she murmured.

"She has been his spy. Oh, Maggie, what are we going to do?"

Maggie was silent. Then a faint smile spread across her face.

"I was wrong," she said. "I thought he would have his way and shrug his shoulders at the consequences. But he really cares about our girl. He really cares."

"You find that amusing?"

"I find it revealing."

"We must ask Christobel to go."

"That would be a pity. She's excellent for Kate."

"But to take her visiting him ... secretly ... behind our backs."

"He is her father, Sarah."

"But he forfeited all rights to her when he cheated me ..."

"Did he forfeit his rights? I am not sure. He may well have saved Kate's life at Whitehall Stairs, and now he is giving her a good education ... equipping her for the world."

"Maggie ... you are defending him!"

"In truth, I am thinking of what is best for Kate."

"She is being brought up to be deceitful."

"Sometimes a little deceit makes life run more easily."

"Maggie!"

"I'm trying to look at this sensibly. I'm thinking of what he can give her ... what he can do for her. We have to consider Kate. That is more important than your hurt pride. Already his interest in her may have saved her life. Christobel has given her a great deal. We could not have educated her in the same way. Lord Rosslyn could do a great deal for his daughter."

"But ..."

"Forget your grievances, Sarah. Let us think of Kate."

"You don't seem very shocked about his sly way of actually paying for a governess and then arranging these clandestine meetings."

"No, I think it is just enterprising and I am relieved ... considerably so. Sarah, I'll be frank. I'm thinking of Kate's future. What could we give her? Consider that. Whereas he ..."

"He would not acknowledge her as his daughter. He is married. He has his family."

"He still seems to have some regard for her, and he has gone to a great deal of trouble over her. Listen to me, Sarah. I am getting old. What could I do for Kate? You have not been in good health for some time. What is going to happen to Kate in the years to come? No, I welcome this. He cares for her. He keeps an eye on her. Kate needs that. Who knows? She may need help desperately. This is not an easy world, Sarah, for the poor. I could not bear that Kate should not have a chance to lead a happy life."

I was staring at her in horror. I noticed afresh those lines that pain had etched on her face. She was referring not only to herself, but to my long and lingering weakness and the fact that I had not been fit to take a part for some months now.

I thought of Kate ... left alone in the world.

Maggie was right. If he had not really cared for her—and he must, for this was more than a whim—he would not have gone to such trouble. If we were unable to look after Kate, what then? To think of him in the background was suddenly a comforting thought after all.

We were both silent for a few moments.

Then I said: "What of Christobel? Can we keep her after this?"

"What if we sent her away? How would we explain it to Kate? Kate loves her. They are the greatest of friends. Think what Christobel has done for her. She is making Kate into a young lady who will be at ease in any society. Is that not worth a little ... er ... loss of pride? Jack Adair is her father. There is no denying that. Why should he not take an interest in her? Why should he not contribute to her needs? Look at it from a practical point of view. There is such a thing as cutting off one's nose to spite one's face."

"You mean, we let everything stay as it is? Do nothing?"

Maggie nodded slowly. "It is always a good plan when in doubt."

So Christobel remained. And there was a tacit agreement between us that everything should go on as before.

And I had to admit to a certain relief. I had been secretly worried about Kate's future if anything should happen to Maggie or myself.

I had another bout of illness soon after that. I coughed a great deal, which weakened me considerably.

I had not been out for some time and the prospect of working seemed very remote. The winter was harsh and I could only promise myself that with the coming of spring my health would improve.

Nothing more had been said to Christobel and it seemed to be taken for granted that Maggie and I accepted the situation and that, since Jack was paying for Kate's education, he had a right to see her now and then and to take an interest in her welfare.

I guessed that he was very well aware of my frail health. He would know, of course, that I had not played on the stage for many months. He might even be amused at the manner in which we had accepted the situation which he had thrust upon us because we were wise enough to see that there was no help for it.

So the new year was with us. I longed for the cold, dark days to pass. I kept telling myself that I would feel better in the spring. But it was a harsh January and I suffered another spell of ill health.

I recovered in time, but was still very weak and spent most of the time in bed in my room. Maggie, with Martha and Jane, cosseted me a great deal. Kate would spend a great deal of time reading to me. She used to read plays to me by Dry den, Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher. I would listen and we would play the parts together. Kate delivered the lines beautifully but I did not think she was eager for a career on the stage. I was rather glad of that. I was thinking a great deal about her future. Maggie and I often talked of it. As yet, she was only ten years old.

"A great deal can happen in one year," said Maggie, "let alone five or six." And there was a faint anxiety in her voice.

As the winter progressed, I believed I knew that I was never going to be strong enough to act again. My cough persisted. My weakness lingered too long. I would sit at the window of my bedroom and look down on the cobbles below. I heard the cries of the street traders and the sound of the carriages rolling by on the way to the theater. I was no longer part of it. I thought often of the days when I had first come here and how exciting I had found it all. I often dreamed of those days when I was happiest of all and when Jack had taken me from that house in Knights-bridge to his lodgings.

I would relive it all again, giving it my own ending. He was my true husband and we lived together in harmony in his splendid country house with Kate, our eldest daughter, and her brothers and sisters.

A foolish dream, remote from reality. But when the future is a little frightening, it is comforting to dwell in fantasy rather than face stark reality.

Then a strange thing happened. We had a visitor.

Maggie came to my room.

She said: "He wants to speak to you. He is below."

"You mean ... ?"

She nodded. "Yes. Jack Adair. He asked to see you."

"Oh, Maggie."

"I think you should. If you refuse, he will go away. He says he does not wish to disturb you. Til bring him up, shall I?"

I nodded, and a few minutes later she brought him to my room.

He looked at me with great tenderness and I felt that lifting of my spirits which he could always bring about.

"You will have much to say to each other," said Maggie. "I shall leave you together."

When we were alone, he came to the bed and sat on it, facing me, and then took my hands in his.

"Sarah," he said, "I am so sorry it was the way it was."

I said ruefully: "How could it have been otherwise?"

"I thought we should go on being happy together, even though ..."

"No," I said. "That was impossible."

"I have come to ask you to forgive me."

I was silent.

"I knew you would find it hard to do that. I did not realize that it would have meant so much to you. I thought we could have come to some arrangement. You see, I was not free ... and I wanted you so much. Can you understand that?"

I nodded.

"I acted ..."He paused and I finished it for him.

"You acted as so many men of your acquaintance would have done in such circumstances. I know that. It was a prank ... an amusement. You would have set me up in a house, I know, and you would have been my lover for as long as it amused you to be so. But it was not the life I could live."

"I should have known that, and I am asking you now to forgive me.

"Well," I said, "it is a long time ago. And now I understand why you did it, so perhaps I do forgive you."

He kissed my hands.

"I love you, you know, Sarah. I always did."

"If one truly loves, does one trick and deceive?"

He was silent, but he looked very penitent.

"Then there is Kate," he said.

"I know. You have paid for her education. You have seen her. You are trying to win her affection. Have you told her that you are her father?"

"No," he said. "I would not do that without consulting you."

"Is that what you have come here to do?" I asked.

"No. I have come because Christobel has told me of your illness. You know that she has been seeing me."

"I was very shocked when I saw them coming out of your lodgings."

"Yes, I know. Oh, I am sorry it has gone this way, Sarah. Kate is an enchanting child. I am proud to claim her. What I wanted you to know was that if ... if there came a time when you needed me ... when Kate needed me ... I shall be there."

"You mean you would care for her?"

"I do."

And in that moment I realized that which I had not accepted until this moment. I was more ill than I had allowed myself to believe.

Christobel knew this. She had imparted it to him. He wanted to reassure me that I need not fear for Kate if I were no longer there to care for her.

I thought of Kate ... without me. Maggie was aging. Christobel was young and energetic. But Christobel was employed by Jack, not us. And I thought: If I were gone, he would be there to care for her.

I looked at him steadily and he said: "You can trust me, Sarah, this time."