Ellen listened respectfully, moved as much by her feeling for Miss Ogilvie in the rôle of a friend as by her respect for older people in general. She was carefully brought up and had good manners. But, secretly, the tale bored her a little. There was nothing interesting in it, nothing to seize one’s imagination, nothing to soothe her impatience, nothing which fed that wild ambition. All that Miss Ogilvie told her had happened so long ago.
“I suppose I ought to have got married,” continued Miss Ogilvie. “But I waited too long.... I had chances!” she added proudly, “good ones.... Maybe I would have been happier to-day.... I don’t know, though,” she added doubtfully, puckering her withered lips as if she could come to no decision in the matter. “There’s so much to be said on both sides. But what I mean to say is, that you must go ahead.... You mustn’t let anything stop you.... It’s easier now than it was in my day. At least there’s no one to oppose you.... It’s a gift that doesn’t come to every one.... You see I didn’t marry and I didn’t become an artist.” And a note of wistfulness entered her voice. “So now I’m just an old spinster who gives music lessons. Maybe,” she said, “you can manage both. I don’t know ... and you don’t.... But don’t let anything stop you.... Don’t die without having done what you wanted to do. There’s no more for me to tell you.... I can teach you nothing, but I hope you’ll come sometimes and play for me.... I’d like it.”
By the time she finished Miss Ogilvie’s eyes were again bright with tears, as much from pity of herself as in a benevolent envy of the impetuous Ellen’s youth and independence.
“It won’t be easy....” the girl said presently. “There’s my mother.... She thinks I ought to get married.... She had me take music lessons because she thought it would make me more marriageable if I could play the piano.... Of course she’s proud that I play so well. She’s proud of anything I can do.”
“Perhaps she’ll come round,” suggested Miss Ogilvie. “But it’ll be a struggle.... I know your mother, Ellen.... She’s made you ambitious.... That’s where she made a mistake.” She coughed suddenly with embarrassment. “But I don’t want to interfere. She’s your own mother.... It’s for her to decide.” And Miss Ogilvie abased herself and her high hopes for Ellen before the altar of her generation’s respect for the position of a mother.
“And there’s no money ...” said Ellen sullenly. “There never is.”
“Perhaps we could work that out.... I could let you take some of the pupils ... I have too many now ... I’d be willing to help ... to sacrifice if necessary.” It was clear that Miss Ogilvie meant to say nothing directly; she had no desire to be responsible for the actions of the impetuous girl. Yet she continued to hint, to imply that she would do her part if a crisis arose.
“I want to,” said Ellen, “I want to more than anything in the world.... I want to be great and famous.... I’ve got to be.” She became so savage, so intense that in her great rocking chair Miss Ogilvie trembled.
At last Ellen put on her hat, which perched well up on the absurd pompadour, bade Miss Ogilvie good-by, and went out to the piazza, where her bicycle rested against the fancy railing under the cages of the canaries and love-birds. As she turned down the brick path, the voice of Miss Ogilvie followed her.
“If the chance comes,” she said, “look to me. I’ll do what I can to help you.” The words came out in little gasps as if she were unable to keep them—bold though they were—imprisoned any longer. Ellen smiled back at her over her shoulder and the old lady retired into the weathered house.