Lady Emily was sitting in the Mandarin-room with her son and his friend late in the evening, their last evening but one in England. To-morrow they were all going to London together, and on the day after the travellers would embark for Zanzibar.
The night was wet and windy, and a large wood fire burnt and crackled on the ample hearth. Lady Emily had her embroidered coverlet spread over her lap, and her work-table drawn conveniently near her elbow, in the light of a shaded lamp, while the two men lounged in luxurious chairs in front of the fire. The room looked the picture of comfort, the men companionable, content, and homely, and the mother's heart sank at the thought that years must pass before such an evening could repeat itself in that room, and before her poor Allan would be sitting in so comfortable a chair. It was not without regret that her son had contemplated the idea of their separation, or of his mother's solitary home when he should be gone. He had talked with her of the coming years, suggested the nieces or girl-friends whom she might invite to enliven the slumberous house, and to enjoy the beauty of those fertile gardens and level park-like meadows that stretched to the edge of the river.
"You have troops of friends, mother, and you will have plenty of occupation with your farm, and sovereign power over the whole estate. Drake"—the bailiff—"will have to consult you about everything."
"Yes, there will be much to be looked at and thought about; but I shall miss you every hour of my life, Allan."
"Not as much as if I had been living at home."
"Every bit as much. I was quite happy thinking of you here. How can I be happy when I picture you toiling alone in the desert under a broiling sun—no water—even the camels dropping and dying under their burdens."
"Dear mother, be happy as to the camels. We shall not be in the camel country. We shall see very little of sandy deserts. Shadowy woods, fertile valleys, the margins of great lakes will be our portion."
"And you will drink the water—which is sure to be unwholesome—and you will get fever."
Allan did not tell his mother that fever was inevitable, a phase of African life which every traveller must reckon with. He represented African travel as a perpetual holiday in a land of infinite beauty.
"Would Patrington go back there if it were not a delightful life?" he argued. "He has not to get his living there, as the poor fellows have who grill and bake themselves for half a lifetime in India. He goes because he loves the life."