Little things do not escape eyes sharpened by real affection, and one evening shortly after she had addressed May’s letter to John Temple, Miss Webster found the “young people,” as she called them, together at the piano in the drawing-room, May playing and Ralph Webster, with violin on shoulder, performing a very fair accompaniment to May’s music. True, Aunt Eliza was also present, industriously knitting a violet silk sock for her nephew Ralph, but still Miss Webster felt uneasy. And presently when they paused they both laughed good-naturedly, and Ralph looked around and jokingly asked for applause.
“Aunt Margaret, Aunt Eliza, why don’t you clap your hands?” he said. “I have never touched the violin since I was a boy at school until I persuaded Miss Churchill just now to allow me to try to accompany her. And don’t you think it was lovely?”
“I think it was lovely,” laughed May Churchill.
“It seemed very nice, my dears,” answered Aunt Margaret, gravely.
“Very nice,” sighed Aunt Eliza, mildly.
“To call anything ‘very nice’ is an insult, I consider,” went on Ralph Webster, with a laugh. “It means you don’t admire my performance, but that at the same time you do not wish to hurt my feelings. Pretty girls are told they look ‘very nice’ by jealous sisters and rivals, and there is no warmth in such an opinion! Never mind, Miss Churchill, see if we can’t do better next time—what have you here?”
He stooped down and began to turn over May’s music as he spoke, asking for this piece or that. But May naturally had no great assortment, as she had brought no music with her, and all she possessed was what she had bought in town since her arrival.
She turned round on the music-stool, however, and bent down to assist Webster in his search, and as she did so for a moment, partly by accident, he laid his hand on hers. It was only a touch, but Aunt Margaret, watching them, saw a glow, a sudden light gleam in Ralph Webster’s eyes, and a flush rise to his somewhat sunken cheeks. Then, she looked at the girl’s fair face, but it was calm and placid as a summer’s day. She had scarcely noticed the touch that had thrilled through his strong frame. Aunt Margaret fidgeted in her seat; she was one of those quiet women who we forget have once been young; forget that they too have had their deep joys, their silent sorrows, their withered hopes. Yet with Margaret Webster this had been so, and there was a green grave in a distant country churchyard, where the one she had loved best lay still in his unbroken sleep. Only a common story, but it made Margaret Webster understand the glow on her nephew’s cheeks, and the unruffled pale pink bloom on May’s. The man loved and the girl was indifferent, and Miss Webster’s gentle heart shrank from the probable pain that Ralph Webster would endure.
The idea nerved her to take some action. She waited till May and Aunt Eliza also had retired for the night, and while her nephew went on with his pipe she suddenly broached the subject of his holiday.
“Are you not going away at all this year, Ralph?” she asked, “for you see September is drawing to a close.”