Chapter X: Edward

Edward went back to his school-work next day, with the excitement of the last night buzzing through his head. He was a schoolboy according to English custom, and yet he was a man. He went back to his construing, over which at the best he always hesitated, and his composition, in which he gained much less applause, though he worked at it twice as laboriously as the little fellow next to him, who carried off all the honors; and as he worked he said to himself, fatalest of all questions for learner or worker, “What is the good of it?” When a man could be carrying civilization to a continent--when he could be opening paths for knowledge, for education, for trade, for human advancement, when he could be changing savages into Christians, teaching them those things which make all the difference between man and brute,--in short, when he could be doing what Mr. Bass had done, what he was going once more to do, shooting huge game, encountering lions, exterminating serpents in the jungle, besides all other more elevated occupations; the thought of this sent a thrill through the lad’s veins. Oxford! What should he do at Oxford? Stumble through one examination after another, each less successful than the first, take a pass degree, disappoint his mother’s hopes, and, for the very best he could do, make friends according to his father’s directions. Make friends! not for the sake of friendship and mutual help and brotherhood, which was a thing Eddy’s honest soul comprehended thoroughly, but to help him on in life. That was all he could do. Was it worth going to Oxford on the strength of that?

The visit of his sister and the others partially freed his mind from this haunting vision, but it came on stronger than ever next day when they were gone; and in the evening he went to see his mother, whom he found somewhat despondent after the excitement of the two days past. She was sitting by herself in the evening, looking wearily over her beautiful view. It was very delightful so long as there was some one there to point it out to, to see the sudden lights and shadows; but when one is all alone, a fine landscape is more trial than pleasure. Close the curtains, light the lamp, turn indoors to your books and to your pictures, lonely one. Do not look abroad upon that quiet serene nature which was made for the happy. The wistful lights, the gathering dimness, the falling dew, the home-going of all things--birds to the nest, laborers to the cottage--are a sight too exquisite for you.

Edward found his mother looking out on that evening scene, and commanded her peremptorily, in those terms which mothers are so easily moved to obey, to get her hat and come out with him. “I believe you have been crying all by yourself,” he said indignantly.

“I shan’t cry now, Eddy--when my boy is here,” she said with a smile.

What a blow that gave him, though she did not know it! But then he recollected that to be absent at Oxford was as bad as to be absent in Africa, and this gave him courage to begin.

“I have something very particular to say to you mother. Come out, please. I can always talk to you better out of doors.”

“What is the matter, Eddy? Are the small boys unruly? Have you got into trouble about your composition----”

“No, no. Come, mother; I have a great deal to say to you. I have not said anything to you for a long time about myself.”

“You never do say very much about yourself, dear.”

“Yes, I do; quite as much as other fellows--and I think a deal. Mother, what is the good of sending me to the University? I was talking to Somerville about it to-day.”

“And what does the great Somerville, who knows everything, say?” asked Mrs. Tremenheere with a smile.

“You don’t do him justice, mamma. If I talk too much about him, that is my fault, not his. He wants me to go, of course. He says there are other things besides scholarship, but he allows that it is not much use so far as scholarship goes. Don’t be disappointed, mother. You know I always said so.”

“And do you think I am going to take Somerville’s word for it, Eddy? Your tutor says you will do very well.”

“So I should hope,” said Edward, with a flush on his face; “I should not be a rowdy or make a beast of myself; that’s what he means, I suppose; it would be a joke, if I couldn’t do well in that sense. And I might get into the ‘Varsity Eleven like enough, which isn’t bad--but for anything else---- If you were to be satisfied with that I shouldn’t mind, but even at Lord’s--why you know you did not care a bit about it, mamma.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, humbly, “I care for everything you take an interest in; but I don’t deny I would rather have seen my son come out first in an examination than be the Captain of the Eleven.”

“Yes, that is your way of thinking,” said the boy, “I know; you don’t care much for what I can do, and I cannot do what you really care for. But if scholarship is out of the question, you don’t care for the ‘Varsity Eleven, do you, or for the ‘making friends’ dodge? I can’t bear that ‘making friends.’”

“My dear boy, you make friends everywhere.”

“Ah, that’s different; friends at school that one makes because one likes them--but friends to help you on in the world! Don’t send me to Oxford, mamma; of course I shall go if you wish it--if you insist upon it.”

“Eddy, I wish you would tell me honestly what you are thinking of; there is something behind all this,” said Mrs. Tremenheere; but still she smiled, and was not afraid.

“I will tell you what I am thinking of,” he said, rather tremulously; “reading and that sort of thing will never be much in my way; it may be a pity, but it can’t be helped. But, mamma, there are more things in the world than reading. I am a strong fellow; I could do heaps of things; I might be of real use all the same.”

“I hope so, Eddy, but how, my dear? Out with it! You don’t require to go and work for your living. Tell me what you want to do.”

“Mamma,” he said, his breath coming short, “I fear you will not like it; I hope you will not be angry. It came to me all at once when Mr. Bass was speaking; I could not help telling him that of all things in the world I should like to join his expedition----”

“You are raving, Eddy,” said his mother suddenly; and then she laughed: “you foolish boy, you gave me a fright for a moment. You might as well talk of going to the moon.”

“I was afraid you would take it so; but I am not raving, I am quite entirely in earnest; it is the sort of thing I could do. You can’t call a man like that useless can you, mother? He is not one of the fine gentlemen, good for nothing, whom you dislike so; he knows what he can do, and is doing it. That is what I have set my heart on. I want to go with him to Africa.”

She looked at him, stunned with the shock; stopped short in the middle of the road as if he had shot her, and looked at him.

“Eddy! you are out of your senses,” she said.

The boy made no answer; he expected this, and more than this, knowing well that if it was done at all it could not be done without trouble. He did not say anything, but let the first force of the shock wear itself out.

“Oh!” she cried, “was it for this I brought him to my house? Eddy! you cannot be thinking what you are saying. You shall read all the books about this wretched Africa. It is mere nonsense, what he says about the new world, the Continent of the future. You should read what other travellers say. The most debased, miserable country--the people absolute savages. What am I saying? I am taking it too seriously. I know you will hear reason. This is just a boy’s foolish fancy--the first wild idea that has come into your head.”

“I don’t think so, mother.”

“But I know it. I know what ideas come into such a young brain as yours, my dear boy. No more about it to-night, Eddy. I ought to have foreseen that he would have an effect upon you, for he is eloquent after a sort. The days are getting quite short already, and before we know, summer will be over. We have not settled where we are going for the holidays,” she added, suddenly changing the subject with simple artifice. “Shall we go to Switzerland? This year I should not object if you climbed to your heart’s content. You are old enough and strong enough to risk it now.”

This would have made Edward’s eyes sparkle a week before, but it had little effect upon him now.

“If you like, mother,” he said, indifferently. “But I begin to think I have had enough play in my life.”

“Your life--it is such a long one--eighteen!”

“Long enough for amusement,” said Eddy, solemnly. “Now I want work.”

Mrs. Tremenheere parted with her boy that evening with some dismay in her heart.

“I suppose it is just a fancy like any other,” she said to herself; but it was an appalling fancy for an only son, a boy of so much importance in her life. She went back to the pretty house which had looked so cheerful and delightful to Vera, and felt it very dreary. Mrs. Tremenheere closed the shutters with her own hands to-night in a kind of suppressed passion, as if the country was her enemy. She could not endure its quiet and tranquillity. When the lamp was brought in the poor woman went and sat by it for company, and gazed into the light as if that could counsel her. A panic took possession of her soul. “Only a fancy, like another,” she repeated aloud, trying to take off the edge of her own thoughts.