“I never make excuses, Walter,” she said proudly; “if it is your wish—if it will give you pleasure I will touch the keys again, though it is long since I brought myself even to sit down before an instrument.”
She took her place at the piano; she pulled out her handkerchief, not one of the black-bordered ones that Florence had sent her a week ago, but a dainty one of lawn and lace, and held it for a moment to her forehead; then suddenly, with a strange vibrating touch that almost startled her listeners, she began to play “Oft in the stilly night.” Only for a moment did the fire last, her fingers grew feeble, they missed the notes, she shook her head dreamily.
“I forget—I forget them all,” she said to herself rather than to any one else, and then quickly recovering she looked round and apologized. “It is so long,” she said, “and I forget.”
She began softly some variations on “I know a bank,” and played them through to the end. When they were finished she rose and, with a little old-fashioned bow to the piano, turned to Florence, and, saying, with a sweet and curious dignity, “Thank you, my dear, and your friends too, for listening to me,” went back to her seat.
Mr. Wimple was near her chair, he bent down to her.
“You gave us a great treat,” he said, as if he were stating a scientific fact.
Mrs. Baines listened to his words gravely, she seemed to revolve them in her mind for a moment before she looked up.
“I am sure you are musical, Mr. Wimple,” she said, “I can see it in your face.”
“Aunt Anne,” Walter said, passing her, “should you mind my opening this window?”
“No, my darling, I should like it,” she answered tenderly.