But though few can have the knowledge of the poor I have, many could do something, if they would only set about it simply, and not be too anxious to convert them; if they would only be their friends after a common-sense fashion.I know, say, a hundred wretched men and women far better than a man in general knows him with whom he claims an ordinary intimacy.I know many more by sight whose names in the natural course of events I shall probably know soon.I know many of their relations to each other, and they talk about each other to me as if I were one of themselves, which I hope in God Iam.I have been amongst them a good many years now, and shall probably spend my life amongst them.When I went first, I was repeatedly robbed; now I should hardly fear to carry another man's property.Two years ago I had my purse taken, but next morning it was returned, I do not know by whom: in fact it was put into my pocket again--every coin, as far as I could judge, as it left me.Iseldom pretend to teach them--only now and then drop a word of advice.But possibly, before I die, I may speak to them in public.
At present I avoid all attempt at organization of any sort, and as far as I see, am likely of all things to avoid it.What I want is first to be their friend, and then to be at length recognized as such.It is only in rare cases that I seek the acquaintance of any of them: I let it come naturally.I bide my time.Almost never do I offer assistance.I wait till they ask it, and then often refuse the sort they want.The worst thing you can do for them is to attempt to save them from the natural consequences of wrong: you may sometimes help them out of them.But it is right to do many things for them when you know them, which it would not be right to do for them until you know them.I am amongst them; they know me; their children know me; and something is always occurring that makes this or that one come to me.Once I have a footing, I seldom lose it.
So you see, in this my labour I am content to do the thing that lies next me.I wait events.You have had no training, no blundering to fit you for such work.There are many other modes of being useful; but none in which I could undertake to direct you.Iam not in the habit of talking so much about my ways--but that is of no consequence.I think I am right in doing so in this instance.'
'I cannot misunderstand you,' faltered Lady Georgina.
Falconer was silent.Without looking up from the floor on which her eyes had rested all the time he spoke, Lady Georgina said at last,'Then what is my next duty? What is the thing that lies nearest to me?'
'That, I repeat, belongs to your every-day history.No one can answer that question but yourself.Your next duty is just to determine what your next duty is.--Is there nothing you neglect? Is there nothing you know you ought not to do?--You would know your duty, if you thought in earnest about it, and were not ambitious of great things.'
'Ah then,' responded Lady Georgina, with an abandoning sigh, 'Isuppose it is something very commonplace, which will make life more dreary than ever.That cannot help me.'
'It will, if it be as dreary as reading the newspapers to an old deaf aunt.It will soon lead you to something more.Your duty will begin to comfort you at once, but will at length open the unknown fountain of life in your heart.'
Lady Georgina lifted up her head in despair, looked at Falconer through eyes full of tears, and said vehemently,'Mr.Falconer, you can have no conception how wretched a life like mine is.And the futility of everything is embittered by the consciousness that it is from no superiority to such things that Ido not care for them.'
