“And now,” said Miss Ogilvie, when Ellen paused for a moment, “some Bach,” and the girl set off into the tortuous, architectural beauties of a fugue. She played without notes, her eyes closed a little, her body swaying with a passionate rhythm which arose from something far more profound than the genteel precepts of Miss Ogilvie. It was savage. It must have terrified the gentle little old woman, for she knew that to play Bach savagely was sacrilege. And yet ... somehow it didn’t matter, when Ellen did it. There was in the music a smoldering, disturbing magnificence.
Then she played some Chopin, delicately, poetically; and at last she finished and turned about on the piano stool to await the criticism of her teacher.
Miss Ogilvie said nothing. Her blue eyes winked a bit in embarrassment and down one withered cheek ran a tear which had escaped her dignity and self-possession. The sunlight flickered across her thin hands, and presently she stirred.
“My child,” she said, “there is nothing for me to say.”
And Ellen’s heart leapt so suddenly that she grew faint with joy.
“I no longer count for anything,” said Miss Ogilvie gently. “You are beyond me....” She smiled suddenly and dabbed her eyes politely. “Who am I to instruct you? My child, you are an artist. You frighten me!” She leaned forward a little, confidingly, and whispered. “It happens like that ... in the most unexpected places, in villages, in ugly towns ... why, even in a dirty mill town like this.”
Between the two there was a bond, a thing which neither ever mentioned but which, in the silence that followed Miss Ogilvie’s undignified outburst, took possession of both and drew them together. Both scorned the Town, a treason which none had discovered; and now when Miss Ogilvie spoke again she dragged the secret bond into the glaring light of day.
“Artists occur,” she said, “without respect for places.” And then after a little pause.... “But you must never let any one here suspect you’re an artist. It would make you unhappy.” Recovering herself a little she began again to rock gently. “For a long time I’ve known you were escaping me.... It was no use hiding it from myself.... I know it now....”
She smiled triumphantly a withered, rosy smile, a bit like the smile one might see on the bright face of a lady apple, and began pulling at the lace on her handkerchief. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “to think I have discovered it.... Poor me! But you must work, Ellen, there are hard days ahead ... harder than you guess.
“D’you know?” she continued, in her excitement leaning forward once more, “when I was a girl, I played well ... I was like you ... not so independent, not so strong, because I was always a little woman ... even then,” she added as if she were conscious that age had shriveled her. “Sometimes I thought I would like to be a great pianist ... a great artist.... But women didn’t do such things in my day. My father would never have listened to it for a moment. It wasn’t a ladylike thing to do. It was like being a circus rider. He let me take lessons so that I could play in the drawing-room and accompany my young men when they sang. My father even let me study in Munich, but when he found out I was more interested in music than in young men ... he brought me home. I never got very interested in young men ... I always liked music better.”