“patient searching after bidden lore,”
developed in him a definite, practical ambition—the ambition of doing something worth the doing to help forward the special branch of science to which he devoted himself.
“Let me feel before I die that I have advanced if only one step in practical knowledge—broken if but an inch or two of fresh ground for others to work in,” he said to himself.
And this, at eight-and-twenty, he believed in as the passion of his life. And with this he determined no other influence should be allowed sufficient dominion over him to interfere. He knew little of women, enough only to dread and deprecate their intrusion beyond a certain point into a man’s life. That a pure and noble love, of its very essence ennobles, of its very strength strengthens the whole powers—the whole “mingled and marvellous humanity” of him who is capable of it; that a less worthy influence needs not to be despotic to be insidious; that “thus far thou shalt come and no farther,” it is but seldom given to man to say—these were truths which had not entered into the dreams of his philosophy.
He was tired and dispirited this February evening, when at last after a long day’s work he stood upon the door-steps of his own house. He felt too tired even to look forward with his usual eagerness to his quiet evening of study. It was often so with him after a day of the kind—a day filled with visits to the regular Sothernbay invalids—a day in which, as he looked back upon it, he could not feel that he had done any good. And such days and such feelings had of late been on the increase. He even began sometimes to think seriously of throwing to the winds the position he had gained for himself, and trying his fate at a different kind of place. But, being on the whole a reasonable and cautious man, he restricted his dissatisfaction to grumbling to himself, or, when the desire for sympathy was unusually strong upon him, and failing a more responsive audience, to his sister Mrs. Crichton.
This evening, however, an unexpected diversion of his thoughts was in store for him.
“There’s a telegram waiting for you, sir,” said the servant who opened the door.
“A telegram! where? I don’t see it,” he exclaimed, glancing at the table where letters were usually laid for him.
“No, sir; it’s not there. Mrs. Crichton, if you please sir, took it into your room and put it on the chimbley-piece, for fear as I should forget it,” said the boy with a touch of malice in his tone.
Mr. Guildford smiled. “All right,” he said cheerfully, as he went into his room and shut the door. “All the same,” he added to himself; “I do wish Bessie would learn to leave my things alone.”