If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have
found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the
concert was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not
many days since, he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking
a ticket at his mother’s request. Seeing nothing, remembering
nothing--hurried by the fear of losing sight of the two strangers if
there was a large audience--he impatiently paid for another ticket, at
the doors.
The room was little more than half full, and so insufficiently
ventilated that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those
circumstances. He easily discovered the two central chairs, in the
midway row of seats, which she and her companion had chosen. There was a
vacant chair (among many others) at one extremity of the row in front
of them. He took that place. To look at her, without being
discovered--there, so far, was the beginning and the end of his utmost
desire.
The performances had already begun. So long as her attention was
directed to the singers and players on the platform, he could feast his
eyes on her with impunity. In an unoccupied interval, she looked at the
audience--and discovered him.
Had he offended her?
If appearances were to be trusted, he had produced no impression of any
sort. She quietly looked away, towards the other side of the room.
The mere turning of her head was misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied
rebuke. He moved to the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer to
him than she had been yet. He was again content, and more than content.
The next performance was a solo on the piano. A round of applause
welcomed the player. Ovid looked at the platform for the first time.
In the bowing man, with a prematurely bald head and a servile smile,
he recognized Mrs. Gallilee’s music-master. The inevitable inference
followed. His mother might be in the room.
After careful examination of the scanty audience, he failed to discover
her--thus far. She would certainly arrive, nevertheless. My money’s
worth for my money was a leading principle in Mrs. Gallilee’s life.
He sighed as he looked towards the door of entrance. Not for long had
he revelled in the luxury of a new happiness. He had openly avowed his
dislike of concerts, when his mother had made him take a ticket for this
concert. With her quickness of apprehension what might she not suspect,
if she found him among the audience?
Come what might of it, he still kept his place; he still feasted his
eyes on the slim figure of the young girl, on the gentle yet spirited
carriage of her head. But the pleasure was no longer pleasure without
alloy. His mother had got between them now.
The solo on the piano came to an end.
In the interval that followed, he turned once more towards the entrance.
Just as he was looking away again, he heard Mrs. Gallilee’s loud voice.
She was administering a maternal caution to one of the children. “Behave
better here than you behaved in the carriage, or I shall take you away.”
If she found him in his present place--if she put her own clever
construction on what she saw--her opinion would assuredly express itself
in some way. She was one of those women who can insult another woman
(and safely disguise it) by an inquiring look. For the girl’s sake, Ovid
instantly moved away from her to the seats at the back of the hall.
Mrs. Gallilee made a striking entrance--dressed to perfection; powdered
and painted to perfection; leading her daughters, and followed by her
governess. The usher courteously indicated places near the platform.
Mrs. Galilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics, delivered
with the sweetest condescension. Her Christian humility smiled, and call
the usher, Sir. “Sound, sir, is most perfectly heard towards the centre
of the auditorium.” She led the way towards the centre. Vacant places
invited her to the row of seats occupied by Carmina and Teresa. She, the
unknown aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece.
They looked at each other.
Perhaps, it was the heat of the room. Perhaps, she had not perfectly
recovered the nervous shock of seeing the dog killed. Carmina’s head
sank on good Teresa’s shoulder. She had fainted.