Michael nodded, as if satisfied with the explanation. He could not help giving a glance towards Eleanor, and he saw that the look of unease on her countenance had deepened. She looked constrained and uneasy. Just at that moment, Gilbert bent over her and said something to her, with a smile, and as he spoke to her, he raised his eyes, and encountered those of Michael. Michael felt, he knew not what, as he met that glance. Was it anger, or grief, or pain that clutched him? It was a hot and burning feeling, which seemed to surge up within him. He did not know—yet—what it was, but he felt as if he must at all risks avoid meeting Gilbert’s eyes again. He had never experienced pain like this in any meeting with Magdalen, after their separation. He had thought that he had put Gilbert away from him altogether; that he had become no more to him than Magdalen, or than the merest stranger on the road. This terrible emotional disturbance showed him that he had been wrong. But how? What did it import?
The next thing he saw, just as the closing notes of the glee were sounding, was Roger Camm, who walked quickly up the room, and went into the waiting-room, spoken of by Mrs. Johnson. Then the music ceased; the singers received their meed of applause and left the stage, and then there was a little pause, which was, of course, employed as such pauses usually are, in a general uprising, talking, questioning, and laughing. It was wearisome to Michael, who, while anxious above all things to avoid looking at Gilbert again, could still not prevent his eyes from being drawn in Eleanor’s direction. She recognised and greeted him gravely, but, as he keenly felt, not indifferently. She was still, as he could not but see, practically alone with Gilbert, as neither Otho nor Magdalen made their appearance, and Mrs. Parker strayed away to converse with her friends. Then he saw some neighbours—some of those ‘charity blanket Blundell girls,’ as Otho gracefully called them, and poor Sir Thomas Winthrop (glaring distrustfully at Gilbert, who stood erect and half-smiling, all the while), come and talk to her, and Michael did not move from his place, but sat still, listening vaguely to Effie’s prattle, and feeling again and again the same strange, strong and painful feeling shake him from head to foot. Then people began to go back to their places. The noise and bustle settled down, the pause was over. The next thing was a round of applause, and Michael, looking up, saw that Roger Camm had appeared upon the platform, and was going to the piano with some music in his hand. It was Michael’s turn to begin to feel uneasy, when he saw Roger’s face. There was a savage scowl upon it; no holiday expression, but one of the darkest anger and displeasure. He looked neither right nor left, but marched straight to the piano, seated himself, and struck some chords, as if to try the instrument; then sat and waited. Michael consulted his programme, and found that the piece was a duet for soprano and contralto, and that the singers were Miss Wynter and Miss Ada Dixon. For the first time he began to connect Eleanor’s anxious look, and Roger’s angry expression with the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken about Otho and Magdalen having gone together into the little room where the performers waited.
At that moment there was more clapping, and then appeared what seemed to Michael the key to both the black frown and the anxious looks which he had seen. From the room which opened on to the platform, and where they had been waiting, emerged three persons. First came Ada Dixon, who, as soprano, took precedence, and leading her by the hand in the most approved fashion, and with every manifestation of devotion, admiration, and respect, Otho Askam, who, all the time that he led the girl forward, was stooping towards her, and saying something that caused her to simper, and mince her steps in a manner at once gratified, nervous, and self-important. The nervousness was quite visible, but the gratification and self-importance outweighed it. Ada evidently felt herself a star of the first magnitude—the personage of the evening, and was swelling with conscious pride in thus being singled out for honourable distinction. Michael at first only saw the broadly farcical side of the affair, and was inclined to burst into a shout of laughter; but, as these two first figures advanced to the front, and the other became fully visible, he at once began to realise that there was a very different side to the picture, and that it might prove anything but a laughing matter to those concerned.
Magdalen was perfectly alone, perfectly dignified and composed in her demeanour. With marvellous dexterity she contrived to throw something into her manner which placed an immeasurable distance between herself and the two buffoons on whose steps circumstances caused her to follow. The audience might stare and gape, laugh and point the finger at them; it was impossible to do so at her. She walked straight to her place, and stood there, facing the audience, unmoved, and apparently immovable, while Otho, with a final flourish of his hand, presented Miss Dixon with her music, and retired to a chair at the back of the platform, apparently to be ready to hand her back again when the performance was over. Ada turned, laid her handkerchief upon the piano, after the most approved manner of distinguished artistes, and—climax of impudence, thought Michael, who was now watching every movement of the actors in this tragic-comedy with the intensest interest—nodded to Roger to begin. He looked at her with his deep-set eyes from his white face—for it was quite white, and Michael knew the storm that was raging beneath the impassive expression—looked at her thus, and began.
During the playing of the symphony Ada looked at Miss Wynter, and tried to catch her eye—in vain. The distinguished soprano fumbled with her gloves and her music, and looked ill at ease, despite the great glory which had so unexpectedly (to the spectators, at any rate) descended upon her. Miss Wynter, heeding her no more than if she had been a spider on the wall, stood in calm and motionless dignity, her hands lightly folded in front of her; her eyes, cool and calm and unembarrassed, moving deliberately from one face to the other of the audience—perfectly able to stand alone before them all, even under an open slight, even while a man who was spoken of, far and wide, as her particular friend, flouted her, in the faces of the assembled county, in favour of a chit like Ada Dixon. In a negative, analytical way, Michael could not but respect her—respect, at any rate, the undaunted fortitude of the front she presented. And when her eyes met his, and her set lips quivered for a second, he rendered homage to her bravery, by a grave and respectful bow.
The duet began; it seemed hours before it was over, but it was finished at last; and then the same grotesque performance was gone through, as had taken place before, but that this time Magdalen, calmly sweeping past Otho and Ada, left them behind, and walked first into the waiting-room behind the scenes. Then Otho and Ada disappeared, hand in hand, as before; and as before, Michael felt a wild inclination to burst into peal after peal of laughter—inextinguishable laughter, which inclination was once more checked by the sight of Roger’s white and wrathful face, as he picked up some sheets of music, and disappeared in his turn.
All this had taken place in so public a manner that no one present could fail to be cognisant of it all, and it had been watched with breathless interest and suspense by the whole audience, who, when the actors in the scene had disappeared, seemed as it were to draw a long breath; and then there burst forth a perfect storm of talk, comments, and laughter. This laughter jarred upon Michael’s every nerve. Though he knew what a vulgar farce it all was, and had seen its ludicrous side easily enough, yet he could not bear that others should make merry over it, and he could imagine only too well what it must be as it beat upon Eleanor’s brain. He refrained at first from even looking at her; but at last his fascinated mind drew his eyes in her direction, and he saw that she had made a movement as if to rise and go. She was younger than Magdalen, he reflected, and not so hardened to the standing boldly in a false position. She wanted to get away from this, naturally, and she intended to go; he saw it in her look, and saw, too, how Mrs. Parker’s hurried expostulation was of no avail. Then he saw Gilbert for a moment lay his hand upon her wrist, and say something in a low voice—only a few words, but they had the effect of making her sit down again, with a look of indignant resignation on her face.
Michael never knew how the performance came to an end. The things he had seen had set him in a state of great agitation. What he saw afterwards only made him feel more bewildered and more anxious. After the first part of the concert, Otho reappeared, and Magdalen with him. She was walking alone, and had nothing to say to him. She took a seat beside Eleanor, who appeared to exert herself to talk to her. Of course, Michael reflected, it was out of the question that Miss Askam should even appear to countenance her brother’s behaviour; and Magdalen, being the insulted person, had to be treated with courtesy and apparent cordiality. He could imagine with what an effort this courtesy would be displayed, and he thought she played her part very well.
Otho was seated at the other side of Magdalen, and he occasionally addressed her. She answered him gravely, but with a cold politeness. Michael could not understand it.
He was an involuntary witness of one other scene in the drama. In the throng, going out, he found himself near the Thorsgarth party; saw Gilbert fold Eleanor’s cloak about her, and overheard what was said amongst them.