Yes, something ought to be done. I was glad, I was proud, that it had come into his mind to do it. Better far to labour thus in his own country than to follow an idle regiment into foreign parts, or even a fighting regiment into the terrible campaign. I said so. “Ah--you 'hate soldiers' still.”
I did not answer, but met his eyes. I know mine were full--I know my lips were quivering. Horribly painful it was to be jested with just then.
Doctor Urquhart said gravely; “I was not in earnest; I beg your pardon.”
We then returned to the discussion of his plans and intentions. I asked him how he meant to begin his labors?
“From a very simple starting-point. 'The doctor' has, of all persons, the greatest influence among the poor--if only he cares to use it. As a commencement, and also because I must earn salt to my porridge, you know, my best course would be to obtain the situation of surgeon to some dispensary, workhouse, hospital, or even gaol. Thence, I could widen my field of work at pleasure, so far as time and money were forthcoming.”
“If some one could only give you a fortune now!”
“I do not believe in fortunes. A man's best wealth consists of his personal labors, personal life. 'Silver and gold have I none'--but wherever I am, I can give myself, my labors, and my life.”
I said something about that being a great gift--many men would call it a great sacrifice.
“Less to me than to most men--since, as you know, I have no relatives; nor is it likely I shall ever marry.”
I believed so. Not constantly; but at intervals. Something in his manner and mode of thought fixed the conviction in my mind, from our earliest acquaintance.
Of course, I merely made some silent assent to this confidence. What was there to say? Perhaps he expected something--for as we turned to walk home, the sun having set, he remained a long time silent. But I could not speak. In truth, nothing came into my head to say.
At last I lifted my eyes from the ground, and saw the mist beginning to rise over my moorland--my grey, soft, dreamy moorland. Ay, dreamy, it was, and belonging only to dreams. But the world beyond--the struggling suffering, sinning world of which he had told me--that was a reality.
I said to my friend who walked beside me, feeling keenly that he was my friend, and that I had a right to look up into his good noble face, wherein all his life was written as clearly as on a book--thinking too what a comfort and privilege it was to have more than any one else had the reading of that book--I said to Doctor Urquhart--my old hesitation having somehow altogether vanished--that I wished to know all he could possibly tell me of his plans and projects: that I liked to listen to them, and would fain do more than listen--help.