“Supper! Supper! thank God!” exclaimed Sir Philip, as supper was now announced. “I’d never set my foot in a ballroom,” added he, with several suitable oaths, “if it were not for the supper.”
“Is that a rational being?” cried Forester to Dr. Campbell, after Sir Philip had passed them.
“Speak a little lower,” said Dr. Campbell, “or he will infallibly prove his title to rationality by shooting you, or by making you shoot him, through the head.”
“But, sir,” said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, whilst all the rest of the company were going down to supper, “how can you bear such a number of foolish, disagreeable people with patience?”
“What would you have me do?” said Dr. Campbell. “Would you have me get up and preach in the middle of a ball-room? Is it not as well, since we are here, to amuse ourselves with whatever can afford us any amusement, and to keep in good humour with all the world, especially with ourselves? — and had we not better follow the crowd to supper?”
Forester went down-stairs; but, as he crossed an antechamber, which led to the supper-room, he exclaimed, “If I were a legislator, I would prohibit balls.”
“And if you were a legislator,” said Dr. Campbell, pointing to a tea-kettle, which was on the fire in the antechamber, and from the spout of which a grey cloud of vapour issued—”if you were a legislator, would not you have stoppers wedged tight into the spouts of all tea-kettles in your dominions?”
“No, sir,” said Forester; “they would burst.”
“And do you think that folly would not burst, and do more mischief than a tea-kettle in the explosion, if you confined it so tight?”
Forester would willingly have stayed in the antechamber, to begin a critical dissection of this allusion; but Dr. Campbell carried him forwards into the supper-room. Flora had kept a seat for her father; and Henry met them at the door.
“I was just coming to see for you, sir,” said he to his father. “Flora began to think you were lost.”
“No,” said Dr. Campbell, “I was only detained by a would-be Cato, who wanted me to quarrel with the whole world, instead of eating my supper. What would you advise me to eat, Flora?” said he, seating himself beside her.
“Some of this trifle, papa;” and as she lightly removed the flowers with which it was ornamented, her father said, “Yes, give me some trifle, Flora. Some characters are like that trifle — flowers and light froth at the top, and solid, good sweetmeat, beneath.”
Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some trifle. “But I don’t see any use in the flowers, sir,” said he.
“Nor any beauty,” said Dr. Campbell.
Forester picked the troublesome flowers out of his trifle, and ate a quantity of it sufficient for a Stoic. Towards the end of the supper, he took some notice of Henry, who had made several ineffectual efforts to amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as seemed to suit the time and place. Time and place were never taken into Forester’s consideration: he was secretly displeased with his friend Henry for having danced all the evening instead of sitting still; and he looked at Henry’s partner with a scrutinizing eye. “So,” said he, at last, “I observe I have not been thought worthy of your conversation to-night: this is what gentlemen, polite gentlemen, who dance reels, call friendship!”
“If I had thought that you would have taken it ill I should dance reels,” said Henry, laughing, “I would have made the sacrifice of a reel at the altar of friendship; but we don’t come to a ball to make sacrifices to friendship, but to divert ourselves.”
“If we can,” said Forester, sarcastically: here he was prevented from reproaching his friend any longer, for a party of gentlemen began to sing catches, at the desire of the rest of the company.
Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsensical words that were sung; and he was composing an essay upon the power of the ancient bards, and the effect of national music, when Flora’s voice interrupted him: “Brother,” said she, “I have won my wager.” The wager was, that Forester would not during supper observe the geranium that was placed in the middle of the table.
As soon as the company were satisfied, both with their supper and their songs, Henry, whose mind was always present, seized the moment when there was silence to turn the attention of the company towards the object upon which his own thoughts were intent. The lady-patroness, the mistress of the canary-bird, had performed her promise: she had spoken to several of her acquaintance concerning the tyrannical schoolmistress; and now, fixing the attention of the company upon the geranium, she appealed to Henry Campbell, and begged him to explain its history. A number of eager eyes turned upon him instantly; and Forester felt, that if he had been called upon in such a manner he could not have uttered a syllable. He now felt the great advantage of being able to speak, without hesitation or embarrassment, before numbers. When Henry related the poor little girl’s story, his language and manner were so unaffected and agreeable, that he interested every one who heard him in his cause. A subscription was immediately raised; every body was eager to contribute something to the child, who had been so ready, for her old grandmother’s sake, to part with her favourite geranium. The lady who superintended the charity-school agreed to breakfast the next morning at Dr. Campbell’s, and to go from his house to the school precisely at the hour when the schoolmistress usually set her unfortunate scholars to their extra task of spinning.
Forester was astonished at all this; he did not consider that negligence and inhumanity are widely different. The lady-patronesses had, perhaps, been rather negligent in contenting themselves with seeing the charity-children show well in procession to Church, and they had not sufficiently inquired into the conduct of the schoolmistress; but, as soon as the facts were properly stated, the ladies were eager to exert themselves, and candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in trusting so much to the reports of the superficial visitors, who had always declared that the school was going on perfectly well.
“More people who are in the wrong,” said Dr. Campbell to Forester, “would be corrected, if some people who are in the right had a little candour and patience joined to their other virtues.”
As the company rose from the supper-table, several young ladies gathered round the geranium to admire Flora’s pretty flower-pot. The black stains, however, struck every eye. Forester was standing by rather embarrassed. Flora, with her usual good-nature, refrained from all explanation, though the exclamations of “How was that done?”—”Who could have done that?” were frequently repeated.
“It was an accident,” said Flora; and, to change the conversation, she praised the beauty of the geranium; she gathered one of the fragrant leaves, but, as she was going to put it amongst the flowers in her bosom, she observed she had dropped her moss-rose. It was a rarity at this time of year: it was a rose which Henry Camphell had raised in a conservatory of his own construction.
“Oh, my brother’s beautiful rose!” exclaimed Flora.
Forester, who had been much pleased by her good-nature about the stains on the flower-pot, now, contrary to his habits, sympathized with her concern for the loss of her brother’s moss-rose. He even exerted himself so far as to search under the benches and under the supper-table. He was fortunate enough to find it; and eager to restore the prize, he with more than his usual gallantry, but not with less than his customary awkwardness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his body over a bench, pushed his arm between two young ladies into the midst of the group which surrounded Flora. As his arm extended his wrist appeared, and at the sight of that wrist all the young ladies shrank back, with unequivocal tokens of disgust. They whispered — they tittered; and many expressive looks were lost upon our hero, who still resolutely held out the hand upon which every eye was fixed. “Here’s your rose! Is not this the rose?” said he, still advancing the dreaded hand to Flora, whose hesitation and blushes surprised him. Mackenzie burst into a loud laugh; and in a whisper, which all the ladies could hear, told Forester,
that “Miss Campbell was afraid to take the rose out of his hands, lest she should catch from him what he had caught from the carter who had brought him to Edinburgh, or from some of his companions at the cobbler’s.”
Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the bench, rushed between Flora and another lady, made towards the door in a straight line, pushing every thing before him, till a passage was made for him by the astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if he had been a mad dog.
“Forester!” cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who were standing upon the steps before the door, speaking about the carriages, “what’s the matter? where are you going? The carriage is coming to the door.”
“I had rather walk — don’t speak to me,” said Forester; “I’ve been insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command myself. I did not knock him down. Pray let me pass!”
Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the strength of an enraged animal from his keepers; and he must have found his way home by instinct, for he ran on without considering how he went. He snatched the light from the servant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell’s — hurried to his own apartment — locked, double-locked, and bolted the door — flung himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, “Thank God! I’ve done no mischief. Thank God! I didn’t knock him down. Thank God! he is out of my sight, and I am cool now — quite cool: let me recollect it all.”
Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile his pride to his present circumstances. “Archibald spoke the truth — why am I angry? why was I angry, I mean!” He reasoned much with himself upon the nature of true and false shame: he represented to himself that the disorder which disfigured his hands was thought shameful only because it was vulgar; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral; that the young tittering ladies who shrunk back from him were not supreme judges of right and wrong; that he ought to despise their opinions, and he despised them with all his might for two or three hours, as he walked up and down his room with unremitting energy. At length our peripatetic philosopher threw himself upon his bed, determined that his repose should not be disturbed by such trifles: he had by this time worked himself up to such a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could with composure meet the disapproving eyes of millions of his fellow-creatures; but he was alone when he formed this erroneous estimate of the strength of the human mind. Wearied with passion and reason, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was continually presenting flowers, which nobody would accept; awakened at the imaginary repetition of Archibald’s laugh, composed himself again to sleep, and dreamed that he was in a glover’s shop, trying on gloves, and that, amongst a hundred pair which he pulled on, he could not find one that would fit him. Just as he tore the last pair in his hurry, he awakened, shook off his foolish dream, saw the sun rising between two chimneys many feet below his windows, recollected that in a short time he should be summoned to breakfast, that all the lady-patronesses were to be at this breakfast, that he could not breakfast in gloves, that Archibald would perhaps again laugh, and Flora perhaps again shrink back. He reproached himself for his weakness in foreseeing and dreading this scene: his aversion to lady-patronesses and to balls was never at a more formidable height; he sighed for liberty and independence, which he persuaded himself were not to be had in his present situation. In one of his long walks he remembered to have seen, at some miles’ distance from the town of Edinburgh, a gardener and his boy, who were singing at their work. These men appeared to Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler, who formerly was the object of his admiration; and he was persuaded that he should be much happier at the gardener’s cottage than he could ever be at Dr. Campbell’s house.
“I am not fit,” said he to himself, “to live amongst idle gentlemen and ladies; I should be happy if I were a useful member of society; a gardener is a useful member of society, and I will be a gardener, and live with gardeners.”
Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn the preceding night at the fatal ball, dressed himself in his old coat, tied up a small bundle of linen, and took the road to the gardener’s.
BREAKFAST.
When Henry found that Forester was not in his room in the morning, he concluded that he had rambled out towards Salisbury Craigs, whither he talked the preceding day of going to botanize.
“I am surprised,” said Dr. Campbell, “that the young gentleman is out so early, for I have a notion that he has not had much sleep since we parted, unless he walks in his sleep, for he has been walking over my poor head half the night.”
Breakfast went on — no Forester appeared. Lady Catherine began to fear that he had broken his neck upon Salisbury Craigs, and related all the falls she had ever had, or had ever been near having, in carriages, on horseback, or otherwise. She then entered into the geography of Salisbury Craigs, and began to dispute upon the probability of his having fallen to the east or to the west.
“My dear Lady Catherine,” said Dr. Campbell, “we are not sure that he has been upon Salisbury Craigs; whether he has fallen to the east or to the west, we cannot, therefore, conveniently settle.”
But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination travelled fast, went on to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to whom the great Forester estate would go in case of any accident having happened or happening to the young gentleman before he should come of age.
Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satisfaction upon this point, when a servant put a letter into his hands. Henry looked in great anxiety. Dr. Campbell glanced his eye over the letter, put it into his pocket, and desired the servant to show the person who brought the letter into his study.
“It’s only a little boy,” said Archibald; “I saw him as I passed through the hall.”
“Cannot a little boy go into my study?” said Dr. Campbell, coolly.
Archibald’s curiosity was strongly excited, and he slipped out of the room a few minutes afterward, resolved to speak to the boy, and to discover the purpose of his embassy. But Dr. Campbell was behind him before he was aware of his approach, and just as Archibald began to cross-examine the boy in these words, “So you came from a young man who is about my size?” Dr. Campbell put both his hands upon his shoulders, saying, “He came from a young man who does not in the least resemble you, believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie.”
Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed by the civilly contemptuous look with which Dr. Campbell pronounced these words, that he retired from the study without even attempting any of his usual equivocating apologies for his intrusion. Dr. Campbell now read Forester’s letter. It was as follows: —
“Dear Sir,
“Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I am not insensible of your kindness. For the step I have taken, I can offer no apology merely to my guardian; but you have treated me, Dr. Campbell, as your friend, and I shall lay my whole soul open to you.
“Notwithstanding your kindness, — notwithstanding the friendship of your son Henry, whose excellent qualities I know how to value, — I most ingenuously own to you that I have been far from happy in your house. I feel that I cannot be at ease in the vortex of dissipation; and the more I see of the higher ranks of society, the more I regret that I was born a gentleman. Neither my birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain me from pursuing that line of life which, I am persuaded, leads to virtue and tranquillity. Let those who have no virtuous indignation obey the voice of fashion, and at her commands let her slaves eat the bread of idleness till it palls upon the sense! I reproach myself with having yielded, as I have done of late, my opinions to the persuasions of friendship; my mind has become enervated, and I must fly from the fatal contagion. Thank Heaven, I have yet the power to fly: I have yet sufficient force to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the mental degeneracy of the base monarch, who hugged his fetters because they were of gold.
“I am conscious of powers that fit me for something better than to waste my existence in a ball-room; and I will not sacrifice my liberty to the absurd cere
monies of daily dissipation. I, that have been the laughing-stock of the mean and frivolous, have yet sufficient manly pride, unextinguished in my breast, to assert my claim to your esteem: to assert, that I never have committed, or shall designedly commit, any action unworthy of the friend of your son.
“I do not write to Henry, lest I should any way involve him in my misfortunes: he is formed to shine in the polite world, and his connexion with me might tarnish the lustre of his character in the eyes of the ‘nice-judging fair.’ I hope, however, that he will not utterly discard me from his heart, though I cannot dance a reel. I beg that he will break open the lock of the trunk that is in my room, and take out of it my Goldsmith’s Animated Nature, which he seemed to like.
“In my table-drawer there are my Martyn’s Letters on Botany, in which you will find a number of plants that I have dried for Flora — Miss Flora Campbell, I should say. After what passed last night, I can scarcely hope they will be accepted. I would rather have them burned than refused; therefore please to burn them, and say nothing more upon the subject. Dear sir, do not judge harshly of me; I have had a severe conflict with myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would rather that you should judge of me with severity than that you should extend to me the same species of indulgence with which you last night viewed the half-intoxicated baronet.
“I can bear any thing but contempt.
“Yours, &c.
“P.S. I trust that you will not question the bearer; he knows where I am; I therefore put you on your guard. I mean to earn my own bread as a gardener; I have always preferred the agricultural to the commercial system.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 360
