He never
resisted his own impulses, or the enticements of evil companions.
Kept within certain bounds at home, after he had begun to go wrong,
by the weight of opinion, he rushed into all excesses when abroad
upon business, till at length the vessel of his fortune went to
pieces, and he was a waif on the waters of the world. But in
feeling he had never been vulgar, however much so in action. There
was a feeble good in him that had in part been protected by its very
feebleness. He could not sin so much against it as if it had been
strong. For many years he had fits of shame, and of grief without
repentance; for repentance is the active, the divine part--the
turning again; but taking more steadily both to strong drink and
opium, he was at the time when De Fleuri found him only the dull
ghost of Andrew Falconer walking in a dream of its lost carcass.
CHAPTER XV.
FATHER AND SON.
Once more Falconer retired, but not to take his violin. He could
play no more. Hope and love were swelling within him. He could not
rest. Was it a sign from heaven that the hour for speech had
arrived? He paced up and down the room. He kneeled and prayed for
guidance and help. Something within urged him to try the rusted
lock of his father's heart. Without any formed resolution, without
any conscious volition, he found himself again in his room. There
the old man still sat, with his back to the door, and his gaze fixed
on the fire, which had sunk low in the grate.
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