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.