Boarding schools -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Medical students -- Fiction
In this life, of the devoted husbandman, he was evidently wholly
contented; and he made it seem to Edwin the most natural and human on
earth. The fascination of watching his uncle’s hands grew upon him, and
in the end he would watch the man, who had been busy at the same work in
his master’s garden all day, tending his own favourites at home until the
light began to fail, and Aunt Sarah Jane would call the two of them in to
supper. The spectacle had a sort of hypnotic effect upon the boy, it was
so slow and measured, as slow almost, Edwin thought, as the processes of
germination and growth which it was his uncle’s vocation to assist. His
fingers even handled the purple soil as if he loved it.
His cousin was a different matter altogether: a tall, dark-haired boy, a
couple of years older than Edwin. He had, much more distinctly than
Uncle Will, the Ingleby face, the features that were to be seen at their
best in the old lady at the Holloway farm. And he possessed in a high
degree the quality that had carried Edwin’s father out into the world: a
seriousness that made him anxious to “get on,” promptings of which were
now being satisfied in an accumulation of the periodical publications
that have taken the place of Mr. Samuel Smiles in these days: weeklies
devoted to all kinds of useful hobbies—electricity, wood-carving,
plumbing—the series that eventually culminated in the gigantic illusion
of the Self-Educator.
To these short cuts to power the young man devoted all his evenings, and
though he was quite natural in his anxiousness to be friendly with Edwin,
with whose subtler and more contemplative nature he had at present so
little in common, the attempts were not very successful. Between these
two there lay a far more obvious gulf than that which separated Edwin
from the older people. In a way, he could not help admiring his cousin’s
earnestness, probably because he knew that he could never imitate it, and
yet he sometimes found himself examining it in a mood of absolute
detachment that made his sympathy feel artificial.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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