Clara danced into the room, flowing over with infantile joy. She had
been listening to part of the conversation behind the door.
"So he wants to be an architect! Arch-i-tect! Arch-i-tect!" She
half-sang the word in a frenzy of ridicule. She really did dance, and
waved her arms. Her eyes glittered, as if in rapture. These singular
manifestations of her temperament were caused solely by the strangeness
of the idea of Edwin wanting to be an architect. The strange sight of
him with his hair cut short or in a new neck-tie affected her in a
similar manner.
"Clara, go and put your pinafore on this _instant_!" said Maggie. "You
know you oughtn't to leave it off."
"You needn't be so hoity-toity, miss," Clara retorted. But she moved to
obey. When she reached the door she turned again and gleefully taunted
Edwin. "And it's all because he went for a walk yesterday with Mr
Orgreave! I know! I know! You needn't think I didn't see you, because
I did! Arch-i-tect! Arch-i-tect!"
She vanished, on all her springs, spitefully graceful.
"You might almost think that infernal kid was right bang off her head,"
Edwin muttered crossly. (Still, it was extraordinary how that infernal
kid hit on the truth.)
Maggie began to mend the fire.
"Oh, well!" murmured Maggie, conveying to Edwin that no importance must
be attached to the chit's chittishness.
He went up to the next flight of stairs to his attic. Dust on the table
of his work-attic! Shameful dust! He had not used that attic since
Christmas, on the miserable plea that winter was cold and there was no
fireplace! He blamed himself for his effeminacy. Where had flown his
seriousness, his elaborate plans, his high purposes? A touch of winter
had frightened them away. Yes, he blamed himself mercilessly. True it
was--as that infernal kid had chanted--a casual half-hour with Mr
Orgreave was alone responsible for his awakening--at any rate, for his
awakening at this particular moment. Still, he was awake--that was the
great fact. He was tremendously awake. He had not been asleep; he had
only been half-asleep. His intention of becoming an architect had never
left him. But, through weakness before his father, through a cowardly
desire to avoid disturbance and postpone a crisis, he had let the weeks
slide by. Now he was in a groove, in a canyon. He had to get out, and
the sooner the better.
A piece of paper, soiled, was pinned on his drawing-board; one or two
sketches lay about. He turned the drawing-board over, so that he might
use it for a desk on which to write the letter. But he had no habit of
writing letters. In the attic was to be found neither ink, pen, paper,
nor envelope. He remembered a broken quire of sermon paper in his
bedroom; he had used a few sheets of it for notes on Bishop Colenso.
These notes had been written in the privacy and warmth of bed, in
pencil. But the letter must be done in ink; the letter was too
important for pencil; assuredly his father would take exception to
pencil. He descended to his sister's room and borrowed Maggie's ink and
a pen, and took an envelope, tripping like a thief. Then he sat down to
the composition of the letter; but he was obliged to stop almost
immediately in order to light the lamp.
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