In the afternoon, the sitting-room being made uninhabitable by his
father's goose-ridden dozes, he went out for a walk; the weather was
cold and fine. When he returned his father also had gone out; the two
girls were lolling in the sitting-room. An immense fire, built up by
Darius, was just ripe for the beginning of decay, and the room very
warm. Clara was at the window, Maggie in Darius's chair reading a novel
of Charlotte M. Yonge's. On the table, open, was a bound volume of "The
Family Treasury of Sunday Reading," in which Clara had been perusing
"The Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family" with feverish interest.
Edwin had laughed at her ingenuous absorption in the adventures of the
Schonberg-Cotta family, but the fact was that he had found them rather
interesting, in spite of himself, while pretending the contrary. There
was an atmosphere of high obstinate effort and heroical foreign-ness
about the story which stimulated something secret in him that seldom
responded to the provocation of a book; more easily would this secret
something respond to a calm evening or a distant prospect, or the
silence of early morning when by chance he looked out of his window.
The volume of "The Family Treasury," though five years old, was a recent
acquisition. It had come into the house through the total disappearance
of a customer who had left the loose numbers to be bound in 1869. Edwin
dropped sideways on to a chair at the table, spread out his feet to the
right, pitched his left elbow a long distance to the left, and, his head
resting on his left hand, turned over the pages with his right hand
idly. His eye caught titles such as: "The Door was Shut," "My Mother's
Voice," "The Heather Mother," "The Only Treasure," "Religion and
Business," "Hope to the End," "The Child of our Sunday School," "Satan's
Devices," and "Studies of Christian Life and Character, Hannah More."
Then he saw an article about some architecture in Rome, and he read: "In
the Sistine picture there is the struggle of a great mind to reduce
within the possibilities of art a subject that transcends it. That mind
would have shown itself to be greater, truer, at least, in its judgement
of the capabilities of art, and more reverent to have let it alone."
The seriousness of the whole magazine intimidated him into accepting
this pronouncement for a moment, though his brief studies in various
encyclopaedias had led him to believe that the Sistine Chapel (shown in
an illustration in Cazenove) was high beyond any human criticism. His
elbow slid on the surface of the table, and in recovering himself he
sent "The Family Treasury" on the floor, wrong side up, with a great
noise. Maggie did not move. Clara turned and protested sharply against
this sacrilege, and Edwin, out of mere caprice, informed her that her
precious magazine was the most stinking silly `pi' [pious] thing that
ever was. With haughty and shocked gestures she gathered up the volume
and took it out of the room.
"I say, Mag," Edwin muttered, still leaning his head on his hand, and
staring blankly at the wall.
The fire dropped a little in the grate.
"What is it?" asked Maggie, without stirring or looking up.
"Has father said anything to you about me wanting to be an architect?"
He spoke with an affectation of dreaminess.
"About you wanting to be an architect?" repeated Maggie in surprise.
"Yes," said Edwin. He knew perfectly well that his father would never
have spoken to Maggie on such a subject. But he wanted to open a
conversation.
"No fear!" said Maggie. And added in her kindest, most encouraging,
elder-sisterly tone: "Why?"
"Oh!" He hesitated, drawling, and then he told her a great deal of what
was in his mind. And she carefully put the wool-marker in her book and
shut it, and listened to him. And the fire dropped and dropped,
comfortably. She did not understand him; obviously she thought his
desire to be an architect exceedingly odd; but she sympathised. Her
attitude was soothing and fortifying. After all (he reflected) Maggie's
all right--there's some sense in Maggie. He could `get on' with Maggie.
For a few moments he was happy and hopeful.
"I thought I'd write him a letter," he said. "You know how he is to
talk to."
There was a pause.
"What d'ye think?" he questioned.
"I should," said Maggie.
"Then I shall!" he exclaimed. "How d'ye think he'll take it?"
"Well," said Maggie, "I don't see how he can do aught but take it all
right... Depends how you put it, of course."
"Oh, you leave that to me!" said Edwin, with eager confidence. "I shall
put it all right. You trust me for that!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------