The next morning, Sunday, Edwin came downstairs late, to the sound of
singing. In his soft carpet-slippers he stopped at the foot of the
stairs and tapped the weather-glass, after the manner of his father; and
listened. It was a duet for female voices that was being sung, composed
by Balfe to the words of the good Longfellow's "Excelsior." A pretty
thing, charming in its thin sentimentality; one of the few pieces that
Darius in former days really understood and liked. Maggie and Clara had
not sung it for years. For years they had not sung it at all.
Edwin went to the doorway of the drawing-room and stood there. Clara,
in Sunday bonnet, was seated at the ancient piano; it had always been
she who had played the accompaniments. Maggie, nursing one of the
babies, sat on another chair, and leaned towards the page in order to
make out the words. She had half-forgotten the words, and Clara was no
longer at ease in the piano part, and their voices were shaky and
unruly, and the piano itself was exceedingly bad. A very indifferent
performance of indifferent music! And yet it touched Edwin. He could
not deny that by its beauty and by the sentiment of old times it touched
him. He moved a little forward in the doorway. Clara glanced at him,
and winked. Now he could see his father. Darius was standing at some
distance behind his daughters and his grandchild, and staring at them.
And the tears rained down from his red eyes, and then his emotion
overcame him and he blubbered, just as the duet finished.
"Now, father," Clara protested cheerfully, "this won't do. You know you
asked for it. Give me the infant, Maggie."
Edwin walked away.