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
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.