Logotheti had given no sign of life, and Margaret had neither seen him
nor heard from him since the eventful day when she had last spoken to
him in his own house. He would not even come this evening, she was
sure. He had either given her up altogether, or he had amused himself
by obeying her to the letter; in which case he would not present
himself till after the real performance, which was to take place on the
next day but one. He might have written a note, or sent a telegram, she
thought; but on the whole she cared very little. If she thought of any
one but herself at that moment she thought of Lushington and wished she
might see him again between the acts. He had called in the afternoon,
and had been very quiet and sympathetic. She had feared that even at
the last he would make a scene and entreat her to change her mind, and
give up the idea of the stage, at any cost. But instead, he now seemed
resigned to her future career, talked cheerfully and predicted
unbounded success.
She had received very many letters and telegrams from other friends,
and some of them lay in a heap on the dressing-table. The greater part
were from people who had known her at Mrs. Rushmore's, and who did not
look upon her attempt as anything more than the caprice of a gifted
amateur. Society always finds it hard to believe that one of its own
can leave it and turn professional.
It was like Margaret to prefer solitude just then. People who trust
themselves would generally rather be alone just before a great event in
their lives, and Margaret trusted herself a good deal more than she
trusted any one else. Nevertheless, she began to feel that unless
something happened soon, the nameless, indescribable pressure she felt
would become unbearable, and as she walked the shabby carpet, her step
accented itself to a little tramp, like a marching step. The cadaverous
maid looked on with curiosity and said nothing. In her long career she
had never dressed a débutante, and she had heard that débutantes
sometimes behaved oddly before going on. Besides, she knew something
which Margaret did not know; for when she had come down to the theatre
in the morning with the luggage, she had met Madame Bonanni in the
dressing-room, and her late mistress had given her a piece of
information and some very precise instructions.
A moment came when Margaret felt that she could no longer bear the
close atmosphere of the small room and the curious eyes of the
cadaverous maid, watching her as she walked up and down. Madame Bonanni
would have made the woman go out or even stand with her face to the
wall, but Margaret had not yet lost that aristocratic sense of
consideration for servants which Plato ascribes to pride. Instead of
turning the maid out, Margaret suddenly opened the door wide and stood
on the threshold, breathing with relief the not very sweet air that
came down the corridor from the stage. It came laden with a compound
odour of ropes, dusty scenery, mouldy flour paste and cotton velvet
furniture, the whole very hot and far from aromatic, but at that moment
as refreshing as a sea-breeze to the impatient singer. The smell had
already acquired associations for her during the long weeks of
rehearsal, and she liked it; for it meant the stage, and music, and the
sound of her own beautiful voice, high and clear above the rest.
Lushington might think of her when spring violets were near him,
Logotheti might associate with her the intoxicating perfumes of the
East, but Margaret's favourite scent was already that strange compound
of smells which meets the nostrils nowhere in the world except behind
the scenes. I have often wondered why the strong draught that comes
from the back when the curtain is up does not blow the smell into the
house, to the great annoyance of the audience; but it does not.
Perhaps, like everything else behind the curtain, it is not real, after
all; or perhaps it has a very high specific gravity, and would stay
behind even if all the air passed out, preferring the vacuum which
nature abhors--nothing would seem too absurd to account for the
phenomenon.