“Isn’t it?” the young woman said, puffing out smoke. “Isn’t it really?”
“No, miss,” the lad said. “The police don’t allow it in here.”
“Fancy that,” the young woman said.
A red glare from the machine fell upon the curtain; three men in Circassian war-dress gathered about the piano, that same piano which had so distressed Frampton at the concert. One of the three was a wild-looking man with less brow than Frampton had seen on any human head. He tossed back his hair, glanced at his fellows, and with a gesture of contempt struck a jangle on the keys. The tangle and tinkle seemed to be new to him. He glanced again at his fellows, one of whom played the Circassian trompe-marine, with a bow; the other, the Circassian pan-pipes. Together, they swept into the now familiar strains of the Nenuphars Rouges, then new to Frampton, and strangely moving.
The door-keeper came in hurriedly and handed programmes. Frampton bought one and read the foreign names of the musicians. The two young things behind him had not ceased to smoke. Frampton, who disliked their tobacco, wished that one of the Circassians might bowstring them or put them into sacks and then into the Bosphorus, which he had read was usual somewhere in those parts. But he was now caught by the music and gave no heed to the smokers.
The pan-pipes man was a master of his instrument; he was stirred by them to excitement, so that he rose from his seat, faced the audience, swayed about, and almost danced as he piped. Frampton was thrilled to see him. Here was a man who believed in art and showed that he enjoyed it. This was how one should respond to art. The two young things made comment.
“The dear man’s absooty gaga.”
“Priceless. Absooty.”
“Absooty marvous.”
But the prelude to the Nenuphars Rouges is moving work. Before he reached the finale, the pan-pipes man was dancing visibly; then the music leaped to its climax, the light brightened, the curtain lifted and there was the stage, newly planed over along its seams.
The stage had been set for the Red Waterlilies, Scene One. A backcloth representing a wild scene in Mount Ida was now so lit that the waterlilies in the river were red as blood. The music slowly worked its preparation. Presently, the Nymphs of the Gorge glided in sur les pointes, with their faces set in the rigid smiles of the ballet. They danced the dance of the hallowing of the gorge. Frampton watched them. They were not dancing specially well, he thought, yet he watched them with interest, very glad that he had come. He was rapt out of Tatshire and the thoughts of Spirr Wood and the angry ham; he was in Ida, in some century not well defined, but existing in the soul for ever. The music was so uncanny, that even those three men, one of them playing on that impossible old hack piano, and those three muscular young women, made him feel that unearthly beings were moving there.
Presently the immortals had ended; they danced away. The folk of Troy were dancing on, followed by the elders; the three young heroes were going to dance for the hand of the princess. As the Trojans gathered at the back of the stage, the music seemed to Frampton to take another turn round his heart and tighten there.
A young woman came forward to begin the celebrations. Frampton had not seen her, had not at any rate noticed her, till the music brought her forward. Now, as she glided out, he looked at her, and felt the blood rush to his head, so that a red mist covered his eyes for a moment. It was Margaret come back out of the grave. The red mist cleared from his eyes; he could see more clearly. He leaned forward and dug all the nails on his fingers into his knees. The girl was Margaret. He almost cried aloud to her. It was almost more than he could bear.
“It is her wraith, perhaps, come to summon me,” he thought. “Oh please, God, I can be gone from all this folly with her, for she was my Fortune, and I cannot live after my Fortune has gone.”
He looked about the dingy hall. It seemed to have disappeared. He looked back at the stage. There was Margaret dancing; her face, indeed, painted into the mask of the stage, but with that beautiful hair, and exquisite grace of body and movement. It was Margaret come back to him. He watched her, quite breathless, till she almost drew him to the stage. Others were dancing now, but he had no eyes for the others. Who could she be? Who was she? He had a programme in his hand; he tried to read the name, but the light was too dim for him to read it. Besides, he wanted to watch her every movement.
She ended her dance at last, and flung herself down upon skins at the left back of the stage and lay there looking, indeed, at the actors dancing on the stage, but through them directly at himself. It seemed to him that her eyes were never off his face. He told himself that, of course, she was staring directly into the glare of the light and that she could not possibly see him. But he met her eyes and stared back into them, more deeply moved than he had ever been in his life. He did not want to see what was happening on the stage. The young men were competing in deeds of skill and strength for the hand of the princess. It flashed into his mind that probably one of the young men was this Margaret’s husband or lover. Well, if that were so, he would win her from him. Then the play caught him. The young men had tried their best, one of them was out of it and retired broken-hearted. Then the winner won his last trial and danced off with all the crowd.
Frampton cursed the dim light. There was a synopsis of the play in the programme, and also a list of the parts and dancers, but he could not read them. He could not read one word.
“Of course,” he told himself, “of course, this is only an illusion. She is all so made up that she may be quite unlike Margaret. It was an accident of make-up. It is just chance and took my breath away. Probably I was quite wrong about it.”
However, at that moment, the Margaret danced back to the loser left lonely on the stage, and again his heart stood still. This was not an illusion. Make-up or no make-up, this was Margaret’s self. He was not wrong about it. Again he clutched himself. What if this were Margaret’s wraith come here to call him? What if this divine dance and strange music were the realities of heaven? What if he were to have done with all the folly and unreality of guns and explosives, the furnaces, the castings, the excitements of the ranges, the angers, hatreds, and stupidities of this district in Tatshire, and in a few moments to dance into the coloured light to be with Margaret forever?
He perceived the drift of the play now; it was all made clear to him by her. In all this succession of dancing the uncanny music of the Caucasus kept Frampton stirred as never in his life before. He watched intently.
“Perhaps,” he kept telling himself, “perhaps it is all an illusion or hallucination. I’ve been thinking too intently of Margaret. I shall wake up soon in my bed at Mullples and find that it is all a dream. But no, this is not a dream. But it cannot be Margaret. It must be some half-sister of hers, by some other mother. It cannot but be that. Still it is so like. If it be not a dream it will surely be a nightmare. It cannot but be that she is married to one of these men. She will not look at me. How can I speak with her? I must get at the manager, there. Suppose she is Mrs. Tiger Mike, or his mistress?
From time to time in the dance she floated well to the front of the stage. She was not of the world’s greatest dancers, he could see that, but she was very good, good enough to be in the company of even the greatest. Five or six of the company were good enough for that. It was a marvel that such a company should be in such a place. He watched and watched. It was Margaret, from hair to dancing shoes.
The curtain fell at last; the red light ceased to glare; the electric lights in the roof of the hall went on. The audience applauded. As most of the audience was sitting right at the back, it seemed strangely remote, but they stamped with their feet and clapped. The curtain rose and Frampton saw the entire cast ranged in a semi-circle, taking their call. He applauded vigorously; the young woman behind him asked for another cigarette, lit it and again puffed, so that the scented smoke drifted on to Frampton’s cheek. He didn’t mind that now; he went on clapping. The curtain fell, but rose again so that they might have the satisfaction of a second call. Then, presently, it fell, and the dancers were free to go to change for the next ballet.