With love’s light wings did I o’erperch 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 Carslake 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.
Perhaps that might have been the end of my dreams if Kitty Carslake had not come back to Willerton. 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 Willerton 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.”<
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“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 polite… 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 feeling. 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. I’m hungry. I always am after a show. That’s because I am too overwrought to eat beforehand. Lady Willerton was a good prompter, did you not think? And she needed to be! Your benefactor kept get
ting 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, ‘Full 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.
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