Part 16 (2/2)

I'm sitting here. He can't eat me. I'm in my rights. Now suppose I start on it as soon as Mrs Nixon has brought the pudding and pie in?”

And he waited anxiously to see whether he indeed would be able to make a start after the departure of Mrs Nixon.

THREE.

Hopeless! He could not bring himself to do it. It was strange! It was disgusting! ... No, he would be compelled to write the letter.

Besides, the letter would be more effective. His father could not interrupt a letter by some loud illogical remark. Thus he salved his self-conceit. He also sought relief in reflecting savagely upon the speeches that had been made against him in the debate. He went through them all in his mind. There was the slimy idiot from Baines's (it was in such terms that his thoughts ran) who gloried in never having read a word of Colenso, and called the a.s.sembled company to witness that nothing should ever induce him to read such a G.o.dless author, going about in the mask of a so-called Bishop. But had any of them read Colenso, except possibly Llewellyn Roberts, who in his Welsh way would pretend ignorance and then come out with a quotation and refer you to the exact page? Edwin himself had read very little of Colenso--and that little only because a customer had ordered the second part of the ”Pentateuch” and he had stolen it for a night. Colenso was not in the Free Library... What a world! What a debate! Still, he could not help dwelling with pleasure on Mr Roberts's insistence on the brilliant quality of his brains. Astute as Mr Roberts was, the man was clearly in awe of Edwin's brains! Why? To be honest, Edwin had never been deeply struck by his own brain power. And yet there must be something in it!

”Of course,” he reflected sardonically, ”father doesn't show the faintest interest in the debate. Yet he knew all about it, and that I had to open it.” But he was glad that his father showed no interest in the debate. Clara had mentioned it in the presence of Maggie, with her usual ironic intent, and Edwin had quickly shut her up.

FOUR.

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 t.i.tles 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 p.r.o.nouncement for a moment, though his brief studies in various encyclopaedias had led him to believe that the Sistine Chapel (shown in an ill.u.s.tration 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 att.i.tude 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?”

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