"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.