“Come,” he said, “I will go with you to Mary Meggs, for it may be she will by now be too ready to scold you, and it is my wish that you should not be scolded.”

When Mary Meggs caught sight of Nell she screamed at her: “So there you are, you jade! What have you been at? I’ve been waiting here for you this last quarter-hour. Let me tell you that if you behave thus you will not long remain one of Orange Moll’s young women.”

Charles drew himself up to his full height. Nell found herself laughing, as she was to laugh so often in times to come at this actor’s dignity. In everything he did it was as though he played a part.

“Save your breath, woman,” he cried in that voice of thunder with which he had so often silenced a recalcitrant audience. “Save your breath. Mrs. Nelly here shall certainly not remain one of your orange-girls. She ceased to do so some little time ago. Nelly the orange-girl is now Nelly the King’s Servant.”

Then he strode off and left them. Nell set down her basket and danced a jig before the astonished woman’s eyes. Orange Moll—none too pleased at the prospect of losing one of her best girls—shook her head and her finger at the dancing figure.

“Dance, Nelly, dance!” she said. “Mr. Charles Hart don’t make actresses of all his women—and he don’t keep them long either. Mayhap you’ll be wanting your basket back when the great Charles Hart grows Nelly-sick.”

But Nell continued to dance.

Now Nell was indeed an actress. She quickly left her mother’s house in Cole-yard and most joyfully set up in lodgings of her own; she took a small house next to the Cock and Pye Tavern in Drury Lane opposite Wych Street. Here she was only a step or two away from the theater, which was convenient indeed, for the life of an actress was a more strenuous one than that of an orange-girl. Charles Hart was teaching her to read; William Lacy was teaching her to dance; and both, with Michael Mohun, were teaching her to act. Mornings were spent in rehearsing, and the afternoons in acting plays which started at three o’clock and went on until five or later. Most of Nell’s evenings were spent with the great Charles Hart who, delighted with his protégée, initiated her into the art of making love, when he was not teaching her to read.

Rose was delighted with her sister’s success and she became a frequent visitor at the lodgings in Drury Lane. Nell would have liked to ask her to come and live with her; but Nell’s small wages just kept herself—and as an actress it was necessary for her to spend a great deal of her income on fine clothes. Moreover Rose had her own life to lead and often a devoted lover would take her away from her mother’s house for a while.

Harry Killigrew was one of these, as was Mr. Browne; and in the company of these gentlemen Rose met others of their rank. She was as eager to avoid flesh-merchants from East Cheap as she ever was, and continuously grateful to Nell who, she declared, had saved her from a felon’s death.

Nell played her parts in the theater—small ones as yet, for she had her apprenticeship to live through. Charles Hart proved to be a devoted lover, for Nell was an undemanding mistress, never a complaining one; her spirits were invariably high; and she quickly learned to share Charles Hart’s passion for the stage.

There were times when he forgot to act before her and would talk of his aspirations and his jealousies, and beg her to tell him without reserve whether she believed Michael Mohun or Edward Kynaston to be greater actors than he was. He often talked of Thomas Betterton, one of that rival group of players who called themselves The Duke’s Men, and who performed in the Duke’s Theater. It was said that Betterton, more than any man living, could hold an audience. “Better than Hart?” demanded Charles Hart. “I want the truth from you, Nell.”

Then Nell would soothe him and say that Betterton was a strolling player compared with the great Charles Hart; and Charles would say that it was meet and fitting that he, Hart, should be the greatest actor London had ever known, because his grandmother was a sister of the dramatist, Will Shakespeare—a man who loved the theater and whose plays were often acted by the companies, and which, some declared, had never yet been bettered, surpassing even those of Ben Jonson or Beaumont and Fletcher.

Sometimes he would tell her how he had been brought up at Black-friars and, with Clun, one of the other members of the company, had, as a boy, acted women’s parts. He would strut about the apartment playing the Duchess in Shirley’s tragedy The Cardinal, and Nell would clap her hands and assure him that he was the veriest Duchess she had ever seen.

He liked to pour his reminiscences of the past into Nell’s sympathetic ears. And Nell, who loved him, listened and applauded, for she thought him the most wonderful person she had ever known, godlike in his ability to raise the orange-girl to the green room, a tender yet passionate lover to introduce her into a milieu where, she was aware, she would wish to play a leading part.

She allowed him to tell his stories again and again; she would demand to hear them. “Tell me of the time you were carried off and imprisoned by Roundhead soldiers—taken while you were actually playing, and in your costume, too!”

So he would throw back his head and adjust his magnificent voice to the drama or comedy of the occasion. “I was playing Otto in The Bloody Brother…. A fine play. I’ll swear Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote a better….”

Then he would forget the story of the capture and play Otto for her; he would even take the part of Rollo, the Bloody Brother himself, and it was all vastly entertaining, as was life.

And in the boxes at the theater there appeared at this time the loveliest woman Nell had ever seen: Mrs. Frances Stuart, maid of honor to the Queen. The King gazed at her during the whole of the play so that his attention strayed from Charles Hart, Michael Mohun, and Edward Kynaston; and, what was more remarkable, neither tall and handsome Ann Marshall, nor any of the actresses could hold his gaze. The King saw no one but Mrs. Stuart, sitting there so childishly pretty with her fair hair, great blue eyes, and Roman nose, so that my lady Castlemaine was in such a high temper that she shouted insults to the actors and actresses—and even spoke churlishly to the King himself, to his great displeasure.

It all seemed remote to Nell; she had her own life to lead; and if it was less grand than those of these Court folk in their dazzling jewels and sumptuous garments, it was lively, colorful, and completely satisfying to Nell; for one of her great gifts was to be able to enjoy contentment with her lot.

And there came a day when she thought her joy was complete.

Charles Hart came to her lodging and, when she had let him in and he had kissed her, declaring that she was a mighty pretty creature in her smock sleeves and bodice, he held her at arms’ length and said in his loud booming voice: “News, Nelly! At last you are to be an actress.”

“You are insolent, sir!” she cried in mock anger, her eyes flashing. “Would you insult me? What am I indeed, if I am not an actress!”

“You are my mistress, for one thing.”

She caught his hand and kissed it. “And that is the best part I have yet been called upon to play.”

“Sweet Nelly,” he murmured as though in an aside. “How this wench delights me!”

“As yet!” she answered promptly. “I beg of you to tell me quickly. What part is this?”

But Charles Hart never spoiled his effects. “You must first know,” he said, “that we are to play Dryden’s Indian Emperor, and I am to take the part of Cortes.”

She knelt and kissed his hand in half-mocking reverence. “Welcome to the conquering hero,” she said. Then she leaped to her feet. “And what part for Nelly?”

He folded his arms and stood smiling at her. “The chief female role,” he said slowly, “is Almeria. Montezuma will sigh for her favors; Mohun will play Montezuma. She however longs for Cortes.”

“She cannot help that, poor girl,” said Nell. “And right heartily will she love her Cortes. I will show the King and the Duke, and all present, that never was man loved as my Cortes.”

“Ann Marshall is to play Almeria. Nay, ’tis not the part for you. You are young yet to take it. Oh, you are learning … learning … but an orange-girl does not become an actress in a matter of weeks. Nay, there is another part—a beautiful part for a beautiful girl—that of Cydaria. I have said Nelly shall play Cydaria, and I have made Tom Killigrew, Mohun, Lacy, and the rest agree that you shall do this.”

“And this Cydaria—she is of small account beside that other, played by Mrs. Ann Marshall?”

“Hers is the sympathetic part, Nelly. There is a pink dress come from the Court—a present from one of the ladies. You will well become it and, as you are the Emperor’s daughter, you shall wear plumes in your hair. There is something else, Nelly. Cydaria wins Cortes in the end.”

“Then,” declaimed Nell, dropping a curtsy, “I must be content with Cortes-Hart and revel in this minor part.”

She was dressed in the flowery gown, her chestnut curls arranged over her shoulders. In the tiring room the others looked at her with envy.

“An orange-girl not long ago,” whispered Peg Hughes. “Now, fa la, she is given the best parts. She’ll be putting Mrs. Marshall’s nose out of joint ere long, I’ll warrant.”

“You know the way to success on the stage surely,” said Mary Knepp. “No matter whether you be actress or orange-girl—the way’s the same. You go to bed with one who can give you what you want, and in the dead of night you ask for it.”

Nell overheard that. “I thank you for telling me, Mrs. Knepp,” she cried. “For the life of me I could not understand how you ever came to get a part.”

“Am I a player’s whore?” demanded Mrs. Knepp.

“Ask me not,” said Nell. “Though I have seen you acting in such a manner with Master Pepys from the Navy Office as to lead me to believe you may be his.”

Ann Marshall said: “Stop shouting, Nelly. You’re not an orange-girl now. Keep your voice for your part. You’ll need it.”

Nell for once was glad to subside. She was sure that she would acquit herself well in her part, but she was experiencing a strange fluttering within her stomach which she had rarely known before.

She turned from Mrs. Knepp and whispered her lines to herself:




“Thick breath, quick pulse and beating of my heart,


All sign of some unwonted change appear;


I find myself unwilling to depart,


And yet I know not why I should be here.


Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast …”

These were her words on her first meeting with Cortes when she falls in love with him at first sight. She thought then of the first time she had seen Charles Hart. Had she felt thus then? Indeed she had not. She did not believe she would ever feel as Cydaria felt; Cydaria is beside herself with passion; wretched and unhappy in her love for the handsome stranger, fearing her love will not be returned, jealous of those whom he has loved before. There was no jealousy in Nell; love for her was a joyous thing.

She could wish for a merry part, one in which she could strut about the stage in breeches, make saucy quips to the audience, dance and sing.

But she must go onto the stage and play Cydaria.

The audience was dazzling that day. The King was present, and with him the most brilliant of his courtiers.

Nell came on the stage in her Court dress, and there was a gasp of admiration as she did so. She glimpsed her companions with whom she had once sold oranges, and saw the envy in their faces.

She knew that Mary Knepp and the rest of them would be waiting, eagerly hoping that she would be laughed off the stage. They would, backstage, be aware of the silence which had fallen on the audience as she entered. There was one thing they had forgotten; orange-girl she may have been a short while ago, but now she was the prettiest creature who ever graced a stage, and in her Court dress she could vie with any of the ladies who sat in the boxes.

She went through her lines, giving them her own inimitable flavor which robbed them of their tragedy and made a more comic part of the Princess than was intended; but it was no less acceptable for all that.

She enjoyed the scenes with Charles Hart. He looked handsome indeed as the Spanish adventurer, and she spoke her lines with fervor. When he sought to seduce her and she resisted him, she did so with a charming regret which was not in the part. It called forth one or two ribald comments in the pit from those of the audience who followed the course of actors’ and actresses’ lives with zest.