Margaret was not quite sure how she could find her way to Madame
Bonanni's dressing-room at the Opera, but she had no intention of
missing the appointment. The most natural and easy way of managing
matters would be to ask her teacher to go with her, and she could then
spend the night at the latter's house. She accordingly stopped there
before she went to the station.
The elderly artist burst into tears on hearing the result of the
interview with Madame Bonanni, and fell upon Margaret's neck.
'I knew it,' she said. 'I was sure of it, but I did not dare to tell
you so!'
Margaret was very happy, but she was a little nervous about her frock
and wondered whether tears stained, as sea water does. The old singer
was of a very different type from Madame Bonanni, and had never enjoyed
such supremacy as the latter, even for a few months. But she had been
admired for her perfect method, her good acting, and her agreeable
voice, and for having made the most of what nature had given her; and
when she had retired from the stage comparatively young, as the wife of
the excellent Monsieur Durand, she had already acquired a great
reputation as a model for young singers, and she soon consented to give
lessons. Unfortunately, Monsieur Durand had made ducks and drakes of
her earnings in a few years, by carefully mis-investing every penny she
possessed; but as he had then lost no time in destroying himself by the
over-use of antidotes to despair, such as absinthe, his widow had soon
re-established the equilibrium of her finances by hard work and was at
the present time one of the most famous teachers of singers for the
stage. Madame Durand was a Neapolitan by birth and had been known to
modest fame on the stage as Signora De Rosa, that being her real name;
for Italian singers seem to be the only ones who do not care for
high-sounding pseudonyms. She was a voluble little person, over-flowing
with easy feeling which made her momentarily intensely happy,
miserable, or angry, as the case might be. Whichever it might be, she
generally shed abundant tears.
Margaret went back to Versailles feeling very happy, but determined to
say nothing of what had happened except to Mrs. Rushmore, who need only
know that Madame Bonanni had spoken in an encouraging way and wished to
see her at the theatre. For the girl herself found it hard to believe
half of what the prima donna had told her, and was far from believing
that she was on the eve of signing her first engagement.
Madame Bonanni had breakfasted at half-past eleven, but Mrs. Rushmore
lunched at half-past one, and Margaret found her at table with
Lushington and three or four other people who had dropped in. There was
an English officer who had got his Victoria Cross in South Africa and
was on his way to India, with a few days to spare by the way; there was
a middle-aged French portrait-painter who had caressing ways and an
immense reputation; there was a woman of the world whose husband was an
Austrian and was in the diplomatic service; and there was a young
archaeologist just from Crete, who foregathered with Lushington.
They were at the end of luncheon when Margaret came in, they were
sipping fine wine from very thin glasses, they were all saying their
second-best things, because each one was afraid that if he said his
very best before dinner one of the others would steal it; and Mrs.
Rushmore was in her element.
Margaret came in with her hat on and sat down in her place, which was
opposite Mrs. Rushmore. The men subsided again into their chairs and
looked at her. Lushington was next to her, but she smiled at the others
first, nodding quietly and answering their greetings.
'You seem pleased,' Lushington said, when he saw that she would hear
him.
'Do I?' She smiled again.
'That sort of answer always means a secret,' Lushington replied.
'Happiness for one, don't you know?'
'By the way,' asked the English officer on her other side, 'was not
your father the famous army coach?'
'No,' Margaret replied. 'I'm often asked that.'
'What is an army coach?' inquired the French painter, who spoke some
English. 'Is it not an ambulance? But I do not understand.'
Mrs. Rushmore began to explain in an undertone.
'Miss Donne's father was an Oxford don,' observed Lushington, rather
stiffly.
At this quite unintentional pun the French painter laughed so much that
every one turned and looked at him. He had once painted a famous man in
Oxford, and knew what a don was.
'Make the next one in Greek,' said Margaret to Lushington, with a
smile.
'There are some very bad puns in Aristophanes,' observed the
archaeologist thoughtfully. 'Why don't you go to Crete?' he inquired
very suddenly of Mrs. Rushmore.
Mrs. Rushmore, who did not happen to have heard of the recent
discoveries yet, felt a little as if the young man had asked her why
she did not go to Jericho. But she concealed her feelings, being quite
sure that no offence to her dignity was meant.
'It is so far,' she answered with a vague smile.
'It's a beastly hole,' observed the soldier. 'I was there when that row
was going on.'
'The discoveries have all been made since then,' answered the
archaeologist, who could think of nothing else. 'You have no idea what
those paintings are,' he continued, talking to the table. 'I have been
there several weeks and I'm going back next month. Logotheti is going
to take a party of us in his big yacht.'
'Who is Logotheti?' inquired Margaret, with great calm.
'A financier,' put in Lushington.
'A millionaire,' said the artist. 'I have painted his portrait.'
'He seems to be interested in discoveries,' Margaret said to the
archaeologist. 'I suppose you know him very well?'
'Oh yes! He is a most interesting person, a Greek of Constantinople by
birth, but a real Greek at heart, who knows his own literature, and
loves his country, and spends immense sums in helping archaeology. He
really cares for nothing but art! Finance amuses him now and then for a
while, and he has been tremendously lucky. They consider him one of the
important men in the money market, don't they?'
The question was directed to the French artist.
'Certainly they do!' replied the latter, with alacrity. 'I have painted
his portrait.'
'I should like to know him,' said Mrs. Rushmore.
'He is quite delightful,' the woman of the world chimed in. 'Quite the
most amusing man I know!'
'You know him, too?' Mrs. Rushmore asked.
'Everybody knows Logotheti!' answered the other.
'You must really bring him,' said Mrs. Rushmore, in a general way, to
everybody.
'I am sure he will be enchanted!' cried the archaeologist. 'I am dining
with him to-night, and if you will allow me I'll bring him to-morrow
afternoon.'
'You seem very sure that he will come,' Margaret said.
'But why should he not? Every one is glad to come to Mrs. Rushmore's
house.'
This was an unanswerable form of complimentary argument. Margaret
reflected on that strange law by which, when we have just heard for the
first time of a fact or a person, we are sure to come across it, or
him, again, within the next twenty-four hours. She did not believe that
Logotheti could be found at short notice and introduced to new
acquaintances so easily as the young scholar seemed to think; but she
made up her mind, if he came at all, that she would prevent him from
talking about their meeting at Madame Bonanni's, which she wished to
avoid mentioning for the present. That would be easy enough, for a man
of his tact would understand the slightest sign, and behave as if he
had not met her before.
In the afternoon she was alone with Lushington again. He was not at all
in an aggressive mood; indeed, he seemed rather depressed. They walked
slowly under the oaks and elms.
'What is the matter?' Margaret asked gently, after a silence.
'I have been thinking a great deal about you,' he answered.
'The thought seems to make you sad!' Margaret laughed, for she was very
happy.
'Yes. It does,' he answered, with a sigh that certainly was not
affected.
'But why?' she asked, growing grave at once.
'There is no reason why I should not tell you. After all, we know each
other too well to apologise for saying what we think. Don't we?'
'I hope so,' Margaret answered, wondering what he was going to say.
'But then,' said Lushington disconsolately, 'I am perfectly sure that
nothing I can say can have the slightest effect.'
'Who knows?' The young girl's lids drooped a little and then opened
again.
'You know.' He spoke gravely and with regret.
She tried to laugh.
'I wish I did! But what is it? There can be no harm in saying it!'
'You have made up your mind to be an opera-singer,' Lushington
answered. 'You have a beautiful voice, you have talent, you have been
well taught. You will succeed.'
He had never said as much as that about her singing, and she was
pleased. After many months of patient work, the acknowledgment of it
seemed to be all coming in one day.
'You talk as if you were quite sure.'
'Yes. You will succeed. But there is another side to it. Shall you
think me priggish and call me disagreeable if I tell you that it is no
life for a woman brought up like you?'
Margaret had just acquired some insight into the existence of the class
she meant to join, though by no means into the worst phase of it. She
was sure that if she closed her eyes she should see Madame Bonanni
vividly before her, and hear her talking to Logotheti, and smell the
heavy air of the big room. She felt that she could not call Lushington
a prig.
'I think I know what you mean,' she answered. 'But surely, an artist
can lead her own life, especially if she is successful.'
'No,' Lushington answered, 'she cannot. That's just it.'
'How do you know?' Margaret asked, incredulously.
'I do know,' he said with emphasis. 'I assure you that I know. I have
seen a great deal of operatic people. A few, and they are not generally
the great ones, try to lead their own lives, as you put it, but they
either don't succeed at all or else they make themselves so
disagreeable to their fellow artists that life becomes a burden.'
'If they don't succeed, it's because they have no strength of
character,' Margaret answered, 'and if they make themselves
disagreeable, it's because they have no tact!'
'That settles it!' Lushington laughed drily. 'I had better not say
anything more.'
'I did not mean to cut you short. I beg your pardon. Please go on,
please!'
She turned to him as she said the last words, and there was in the word
'please' that one tone of hers which he could never resist. It is said
that even lifeless things, like bridges and towers, are subject by
nature to the vibration of a sympathetic note, and that the greatest
buildings in the world would tremble, and shake, and rock and fall in
ruins if that single musical sound were steadily produced near to them.
We men cannot pretend to be harder of hearing and feeling than stocks
and stones. The woman who loves, whether she herself knows it or not,
has her call, that we answer as the wood-bird answers his mate, her
sympathetic word and note at which we vibrate to our heart's core.
When Margaret said 'please' in a certain way, Lushington's free will
seemed to retire from him suddenly, to contemplate his weakness from a
little distance. When she said 'please go on,' he went on, and not only
said what he had meant to say but a great deal more, too.
'It would bore you to know all about my existence,' he began, 'but as a
critic and otherwise I happen to have been often in contact with
theatrical people, especially opera-singers. I have at least
one--er--one very dear friend amongst them.
'A man?' suggested Margaret.
'No. A woman--of a certain age. As I see her very often, I naturally
see other singers, especially as she is very much liked by them. I only
tell you that to explain why I know so much about them; and if I want
to explain at all, it's only because I like you so much, and because I
suppose that what I like most about you, next to yourself, is just that
something which my dear old friend can never have. Do you understand?'
Lushington was certainly very shy as a rule, and most people would have
said that he was very cold; but Margaret suddenly felt that there was a
true and deep emotion behind his plain speech.
'You have been very fond of her,' she said gently.
He flushed almost before she had finished speaking; but he could not
have been angry, for he smiled.
'Yes, I have always been very fond of her,' he answered, after a
scarcely perceptible pause, 'and I always shall be. But she is old
enough to be my mother.'
'I'm glad if it's really a friendship,' said Margaret; 'and only a
friendship,' she added.
He turned his eyes to her rather slowly.
'I believe you really are glad,' he answered. 'Thank you. I'm very fond
of you. I can't help it. I suppose I love you, and I have no business
to--and sometimes you say things that touch me. That's all.
After this rather inexplicable speech he relapsed into silence. But
there are silences of all sorts, as there is speech of all sorts. There
are silences that set one's teeth on edge--it is always a relief to
break them; and there are silences that are gentler, kinder, sweeter,
more loving, more eloquent than any words, and which it is always a
wrench to interrupt. Of these was the pause that followed now; but
Margaret was asking herself what he meant by saying that he had no
right to love her.
'Do you know what the hardest thing in my life is?' Lushington asked,
suddenly rousing himself. 'It is the certainty that my friend can never
have been and never can be at all like you in everything that appeals
to me most. But it would be still worse--oh, infinitely worse!--to see
you grow like her, by living amongst the same people. You will suffer
if you do, and you will suffer if you cannot. That is why I dread the
idea of your going on the stage.'
'But I really think I shall not change so much as you think, if I do,'
Margaret said.
'You don't know the life,' Lushington answered rather sadly. 'All I can
do is to tell you that it is not fit for you, or that you are not fit
for it, because you are not by nature what most of them are, and please
God you never will be.'
He spoke very earnestly, and another little silence followed, during
which the two walked on.
'Please notice that I have not called you a prig for saying that,' said
Margaret at last. 'And I have not thought you one either,' she added,
before he could answer.
'You're very nice!' Lushington tried to laugh, but it was rather a
failure.
'But of course you've no business to think me nice, have you?'
'None whatever.'
'Why not?'
It was not even curiosity, nor an idle inclination to flirt that made
Margaret ask the question at last. She had never felt so strongly drawn
to him as now.
He looked at her quietly, and answered without the least hesitation or
shyness.
'I've no business to be in love with you, because I'm a fraud,' he
said.
'A fraud! You? What in the world do you mean?'
Margaret was thoroughly surprised. This gifted, shy, youthful man who
had fought his way to the front by his own talent and hard work, was of
all people she knew the one with whom she least connected any idea of
deception. He only nodded and looked at her.
'A fraud!' she exclaimed again. 'I suppose it's some sort of false
modesty that makes you say that! You know that you are a very
successful writer and that you have earned your success. Why do you try
to make out----'
'I'm not trying to make out anything. I tell you the plain truth. I'm a
fraud.'
'Nonsense!' Margaret was almost angry at his persistence.
'I would not tell you, if I did not care for you so much,' he answered.
'But as I do, and as you seem to like me a little, I should be an awful
cad if I kept you in the dark any longer. You won't publish it on the
housetops. I'm not Edmund Lushington at all.'
'You are not Edmund Lushington, the critic?' Margaret's mouth opened in
surprise.
'I'm the critic all right,' he answered, with a faint smile. 'I'm the
man that writes, the man you've heard of. But I'm not Lushington. It's
an assumed name.'
'Oh!' Margaret seemed relieved. 'Is that all? Many people who write
take other names.'
'But they are not generally known by them to their friends,' Lushington
observed. 'That's where the fraud comes in, in my case. A man may sign
his book Judas Iscariot or Peter the Great if he likes, provided he's
known as Mr. Smith at home, if that's his real name.'
'Is your real name Smith?' Margaret asked. 'Is that why you changed
it?'
Lushington could not help smiling.
'No. If I had been called Smith, I would have stuck to it. Smith is a
very good, honest name. Most of the people who originally came by it
made armour and were more or less artists. No! I wish I were a Smith,
indeed I do! The name is frequent, not common, that's all.'
Margaret was puzzled, and looked at his face, as if she were thinking
out the problem.
'No,' she said suddenly, and with decision. 'You are not a Jew. That's
impossible!'
'I'm not a Jew.' He laughed this time. 'But I know several very
interesting Jews, and I don't dislike them at all. I really should not
mind being called Solomon Isaacs! I would not have changed the name
either.'
'You might have been called Isidore Guggenheimer,' Margaret suggested,
smiling.
'Well--that! For purposes of literature, it would not be practical.'
'You forget that you have not told me your real name yet. You see, if I
should ever happen to think of you again, I'd rather not think of you
under a pseudonym, unless it were in connection with your books.'
'That's the only way in which you are likely to think of me,' he
answered. 'But if you really want to know, my first name is Thomas,
diminutive Tom--plain Tom.'
'I like that much better than Edmund,' said Margaret, who had simple
tastes. 'Is the other one as nice?'
'I don't know what you might think of it,' Lushington answered. 'It is
neither common nor uncommon, and not at all striking, but I cannot tell
you what it is. I'm sorry to make a mystery of it, for my father was
nobody in particular, and I was nobody in particular until I was heard
of as Lushington, the critic. And I've been Lushington so long that I'm
used to it. I was called so at school and at Oxford.'
'As long ago as that!' Margaret again seemed relieved.
'Yes. Oh, I've done nothing disgraceful, nor my father either! It's not
that. I cannot possibly explain, but it's the reason why I'm a
fraud--as far as you are concerned.'
'Only as far as I am concerned?'
'Nobody else happens to matter. Mrs. Rushmore receives all sorts of
interesting people, many of whom have played tricks with their names.
Why should she care? Why should anybody care? We have all done the
things we are known for, and we are not in love with Mrs. Rushmore,
though she is a very agreeable woman! She wouldn't care to call me Tom,
would she?'
'I don't know,' Margaret answered with a laugh. 'She might!'
'At all events, it's not necessary to tell her,' said Lushington.
'No. But suppose that I should not care to call you Tom either, and yet
should wish to call you something, don't you know? That might happen.'
Lushington did not answer at once, and Margaret was a little
displeased, for she had said more than she had ever meant to say to
show him what she was beginning to feel. She held her head rather high
as they walked on under the great trees, and her eyes sparkled coldly
now and then.
She had known for a long time that he loved her, and to-day he had told
her so, almost roughly; and for some time, also, she had understood
that she was growing fond of him. But now that she held out her hand,
metaphorically, he would not take it.
'I don't want to know your secret, if it is as important as that,' she
said at last. 'A man who hides his real name so carefully must have
some very good reason for doing it.'
She emphasised the words almost cruelly and looked straight before her,
and her eyes sparkled again. His lips parted to make a quick retort,
but he checked himself, and then spoke quietly.
'I have never done anything I am ashamed of,' he said.
'I don't think it's very nice to do what you are doing now,' Margaret
retorted, coolly. 'It doesn't inspire confidence, you know.'
'Can't we part without quarrelling?'
'Oh, certainly! Do you mean to go away?'
'You leave me no choice. Shall we turn back to the house? It will
soon be over. I can leave before dinner. It will be easy to find an
excuse.'
'Yes! Those proofs you have been talking of lately--your
publishers--anything will do!'
Margaret was thoroughly angry with him and with herself by this time,
and he was deeply hurt, and they turned and walked stiffly, with their
noses in the air, as if they never meant to speak to each other again.
'It's very odd!' Margaret observed at last, as if she had made a
discovery.
'What is very odd?'
'I never liked you as much as I did a quarter of an hour ago, and I
never disliked you as much as I do now! Do you understand that?'
'Yes. You make it very clear. I never heard any thing put more
plainly.'
'I'm glad of that. But it's very funny. I detest you just now, and yet,
if you go away at once, I know I shall be sorry. On the whole, do you
know?--you had better not leave to-night.'
Lushington turned sharply on her.
'Are you playing with me?' he asked, in an angry tone.
'No,' she answered with exasperating coolness, 'I don't think I am.
Only, you are two people, you see. It confuses me. You are Mr.
Lushington, and then, the next minute, you're--Tom. I hate Mr.
Lushington. I believe I always did. I wish I might never see him
again.'
'Oh indeed! How about Tom?'
'Tom is rather bearable than otherwise,' Margaret answered, laughing
again. 'He knows that I think so, too, and it's no reason why he should
be always trying to keep out of the way!'
'He has no right to be in the way.'
'Then he ought never to have come here. But since he has, I would
rather have him stay.'
When she had thus explained herself with perfect frankness and made
known her wishes, Margaret seemed to think that there was nothing more
to be said. But Lushington thought otherwise.
'Why do you hate Mr. Lushington?' he asked.
'Because he is a fraud,' Margaret answered. 'As you have just told me
that he is, you cannot possibly deny it, and you can't quarrel with me
for not liking him. So there!'
All her good-humour had come back, the cold sparkle in her eyes had
turned into afternoon sunshine, and she swung her closed parasol gently
on one finger by its hook as she walked, nodding her head just
perceptibly as if keeping time with it. She expected an answer, a laugh
perhaps, or a retort; but nothing came. She glanced sideways at
Lushington, thinking to meet his eyes, but they were watching the
ground as he walked, a yard before his feet. She turned her head and
looked at his face, and she realised that it was a little drawn, and
had grown suddenly pale, and that there were dark shadows under his
eyes which she had never seen before. The healthy, shy, rather too
youthful mask was gone, and in its place she saw the features of a
mature man who was quietly suffering a great deal. She fancied that he
must often look as he did now, when he was alone.
'Could any one do anything to make it easier for you?' she asked
softly, after a moment.
He looked up quickly in surprise, and then shook his head, without
speaking.
'Because, if I could help you, I would,' she added.
'Thank you. I know you would,' He spoke with real gratitude, and the
colour began to come back to his face. 'You see, it's not a thing that
can be changed, or helped, or bettered. It's a condition from which I
cannot escape, and I've got to live in it. It would have been easier if
I had never met you, my dear Miss Donne!'
He straightened himself and put on something of the formality that had
become a habit with him, as it easily does with shy men who feel much.
'Please don't call me Miss Donne,' Margaret said, very low.
'Margaret----' he paused on the syllables, as he almost whispered them.
'No!' he said, suddenly, as if angry with himself. 'That's silly! Don't
make me do such things, please, or I shall hate myself! Nothing in the
world can ever change what is, and I shall never have the right to put
out my hand and ask you to marry me. The best we can do is to say
good-bye, and I'll try to keep out of your way. Help me to do that, for
it's the only help you can ever give me!'
'I don't believe it,' Margaret answered. 'We can always be friends, if
we cannot be anything else.'
Lushington shook his head incredulously, but said nothing.
'Why not?' Margaret asked, clinging to her idea. 'Why can't we like
each other, be very, very fond of each other, and meet often, and each
help the other in life? I don't want to know your secret. I won't even
call you Tom, as I want to, and you shall be as stiff and formal with
me as you please. What do such things matter, if we really care? If we
really trust one another, and know it? The main thing is to know, to be
absolutely sure. Why do you wish to go away, just when I've found out
how much I want you to stay? It's not right, and it's not kind! Indeed
it's not!'
They had been walking very slowly, and now she stood still and faced
him, waiting for his answer.
He looked steadily into her eyes as he spoke.
'I don't think I can stay,' he said slowly. 'You can't tear love up by
the roots and plant it in a pot and call it friendship. If you try,
something will happen. Excuse me if the simile sounds lyric, but I
don't happen to think of a better one, on the spur of the moment. I'll
behave all right before the others, but I had better go away to-morrow
morning. The thing will only get worse if I keep on seeing you.'
Margaret heard the short, awkward sentences and knew what they cost
him. She looked down and stuck the bright metal tip of her parasol into
the thin dry mud of the macadamised road, grinding it in slowly, half
round and half back, with both hands, and unconsciously wondering what
made the earth so hard just in that place.
'I wish I were a man!' she said all at once, and the parasol bent
dangerously as she gave it a particularly vicious twist, leaning upon
it at the same time.
'It would certainly simplify matters for me, if you were,' said
Lushington coldly.
She looked up with a hurt expression.
'Oh, please don't go back to that way of talking!' she said. 'It's bad
enough, as it is! Don't you see how hard I am trying?'
'I'm sorry,' Lushington said. 'Don't pay any attention to what I say.
I'm all over the place.'
He mumbled the words and turned away from her as he stood. She watched
him, and desisted from digging holes in the ground. Then, as he did not
look at her again she put out one hand rather shyly and touched his
sleeve.
'Look at me,' she said. 'What is this for? What are we making ourselves
miserable about? We care for each other a great deal, much more than I
had any idea of this morning. Why should we say good-bye? I don't
believe it's at all necessary, after all. You have got some silly,
quixotic idea into your head, I'm sure. Tell me what it is, and let me
judge for myself!'
'I can't,' he answered, in evident distress. 'You may find out what it
is some day, but I cannot tell you. It's the one thing I couldn't say
to anybody alive. If I did, I should deserve to be kicked out of decent
society for ever!'
She saw the look of suffering in his face again, and she felt as if she
were going to cry, out of sympathy.
'Of course,' she faltered, 'if it would be--what you call
dishonourable--to tell----'
'Yes. It would be dishonourable to tell.'
There was a little silence.
'All I can hope,' he continued presently, 'is that you won't believe
it's anything I've done myself.'
'Indeed, indeed I don't. I never could!'
She held out her hand and he took it gladly, and kept it in his for a
moment; then he dropped it of his own accord, before she had made the
least motion to take it back.
They walked on without speaking again for a long time, and without
wishing to speak. When they were in sight of Mrs. Rushmore's gate
Margaret broke the silence at last.
'Do you mean to take an early train to-morrow morning?' she asked.
'Nine o'clock, I think,' he answered.
There was another little pause, and again Margaret spoke, but very low,
this time.
'I shall be in the garden at half-past eight--to say good-bye.'
'Yes,' Lushington answered. 'Thank you,' he added after a moment.
They were side by side, very near together as they walked, and her left
hand hung down close to his right. He caught her fingers suddenly, and
they pressed his, and parted from them instantly.