THE DOCTOR'S DEATH.
But now that Falconer had a ground, even thus shadowy, for hoping--Icannot say believing--that his father might be in London, he could not return to Aberdeen.Moray, who had no heart to hunt for his mother, left the next day by the steamer.Falconer took to wandering about the labyrinthine city, and in a couple of months knew more about the metropolis--the west end excepted--than most people who had lived their lives in it.The west end is no doubt a considerable exception to make, but Falconer sought only his father, and the west end was the place where he was least likely to find him.Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places: the worse they looked the more attractive he found them.It became almost a craze with him.He could not pass a dirty court or low-browed archway.He might be there.Or he might have been there.Or it was such a place as he would choose for shelter.He knew to what such a life as his must have tended.
At first he was attracted only by tall elderly men.Such a man he would sometimes follow till his following made him turn and demand his object.If there was no suspicion of Scotch in his tone, Falconer easily apologized.If there was, he made such replies as might lead to some betrayal.He could not defend the course he was adopting: it had not the shadow of probability upon its side.Still the greatest successes the world has ever beheld had been at one time the greatest improbabilities! He could not choose but go on, for as yet he could think of no other way.
Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest to this immediate object, especially after he had, in following it, found opportunity of being useful.While he still made it his main object to find his father, that object became a centre from which radiated a thousand influences upon those who were as sheep that had no shepherd.He fell back into his old ways at Aberdeen, only with a boundless sphere to work in, and with the hope of finding his father to hearten him.He haunted the streets at night, went into all places of entertainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul, and made his way into the lowest forms of life without introduction or protection.
There was a certain stately air of the hills about him which was often mistaken for country inexperience, and men thought in consequence to make gain or game of him.But such found their mistake, and if not soon, then the more completely.Far from provoking or even meeting hostility, he soon satisfied those that persisted, that it was dangerous.In two years he became well known to the poor of a large district, especially on both sides of Shoreditch, for whose sake he made the exercise of his profession though not an object yet a ready accident.
He lived in lodgings in John Street--the same in which I found him when I came to know him.He made few acquaintances, and they were chiefly the house-surgeons of hospitals--to which he paid frequent visits.
He always carried a book in his pocket, but did not read much.On Sundays he generally went to some one of the many lonely heaths or commons of Surrey with his New Testament.When weary in London, he would go to the reading-room of the British Museum for an hour or two.He kept up a regular correspondence with Dr.Anderson.
At length he received a letter from him, which occasioned his immediate departure for Aberdeen.Until now, his friend, who was entirely satisfied with his mode of life, and supplied him freely with money, had not even expressed a wish to recall him, though he had often spoken of visiting him in London.It now appeared that, unwilling to cause him any needless anxiety, he had abstained from mentioning the fact that his health had been declining.He had got suddenly worse, and Falconer hastened to obey the summons he had sent him in consequence.
With a heavy heart he walked up to the hospitable door, recalling as he ascended the steps how he had stood there a helpless youth, in want of a few pounds to save his hopes, when this friend received him and bid him God-speed on the path he desired to follow.In a moment more he was shown into the study, and was passing through it to go to the cottage-room, when Johnston laid his hand on his arm.
'The maister's no up yet, sir,' he said, with a very solemn look.
'He's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun gang an' lat him ken 'at ye're here at last, for fear it suld be ower muckle for him, seein' ye a' at ance.But eh, sir!' he added, the tears gathering in his eyes, 'ye'll hardly ken 'im.He's that changed!'
Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage--Falconer had never known the doctor sleep there--and returning a moment after, invited him to enter.In the bed in the recess--the room unchanged, with its deal table, and its sanded floor--lay the form of his friend.Falconer hastened to the bedside, kneeled down, and took his hand speechless.The doctor was silent too, but a smile overspread his countenance, and revealed his inward satisfaction.
Robert's heart was full, and he could only gaze on the worn face.
At length he was able to speak.
'What for didna ye sen' for me?' he said.'Ye never tellt me ye was ailin'.'
'Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I who had done so little had no right to interrupt what you were doing.I wonder if God will give me another chance.I would fain do better.I don't think I could sit singing psalms to all eternity,' he added with a smile.
'Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you to thank for 't.Eh, doctor, gin it hadna been for you!'
Robert's feelings overcame him.He resumed, brokenly,'Ye gae me a man to believe in, whan my ain father had forsaken me, and my frien' was awa to God.Ye hae made me, doctor.Wi' meat an'
drink an' learnin' an' siller, an' a'thing at ance, ye hae made me.'
'Eh, Robert!' said the dying man, half rising on his elbow, 'to think what God maks us a' to ane anither! My father did ten times for me what I hae dune for you.As I lie here thinkin' I may see him afore a week's ower, I'm jist a bairn again.'
