Daughters of England Page 4

  “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, but 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 carriage 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 chan
ce. 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.