“H. CAMPBELL.”
As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter, he returned to the company. The ladies, after breakfast, proceeded to the charity-school; but Henry was so anxious to learn what was become of his friend Forester, that he could scarcely enjoy the effects of his own benevolent exertions. It was with difficulty, such as he had never before experienced, that Dr. Campbell obtained from him the promise to suspend all intercourse with Forester. Henry’s first impulse, when he read the letter, which his father now found it prudent to show him, was to search for his friend instantly. “I am sure,” said he, “I shall be able to find him out; and if I can but see him, and speak to him, I know I could prevail upon him to return to us.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Campbell, “perhaps you might persuade him to return; but that is not the object: unless his understanding be convinced, what should we gain?”
“It should be convinced. I could convince him,” cried Henry.
“I have, my dear son,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling, “the highest opinion of your logic and eloquence; but are your reasoning powers stronger to-day than they were yesterday? Have you any new arguments to produce? I thought you had exhausted your whole store without effect.”
Henry paused.
“Believe me,” continued his father, lowering his voice, “I am not insensible to your friend’s good, and, I will say, great qualities; I do not leave him to suffer evils, without feeling as much perhaps as you can do; but I am convinced, that the solidity of his character, and the happiness of his whole life, will depend upon the impression that is now made upon his mind by realities. He will see society as it is. He has abilities and generosity of mind which will make him a first-rate character, if his friends do not spoil him out of false kindness.”
Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his father, and gave him the promise which he desired.
“But,” added he, “I still have hopes from your letter—I should not be surprised to see Forester at dinner to-day.”
“I should,” said Dr. Campbell.
Dr. Campbell, alas! was right. Henry looked eagerly towards the door every time it opened, when they were at dinner: but he was continually disappointed. Flora, whose gaiety usually enlivened the evenings, and agreeably relieved her father and brother after their morning studies, was now silent.
Whilst Lady Catherine’s volubility overpowered even the philosophy of Dr. Campbell, she wondered—she never ceased wondering—that Mr. Forester did not appear, and that the doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and Henry and Flora, were not more alarmed. She proposed sending twenty different messengers after him. She was now convinced, that he had not fallen from Salisbury Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her ladyship, that he had a letter from him in his pocket, and that he was safe; but she thought that there was imminent danger of his enlisting in a frolic, or, perhaps, marrying some cobbler’s daughter in a pet. She turned to Archibald Mackenzie, and exclaimed, “He was at a cobbler’s; it could not be merely to mend his shoes. What sort of a lassy is the cobbler’s daughter? or has the cobbler a daughter?”
“She is hump-backed, luckily,” said Dr. Campbell, coolly.
“That does not signify,” said Lady Catherine; “I’m convinced she is at the bottom of the whole mystery; for I once heard Mr. Forester say—and I’m sure you must recollect it, Flora, my dear, for he looked at you at the time—I once heard him say, that personal beauty was no merit, and that ugly people ought to be liked—or some such thing—out of humanity. Now, out of humanity, with his odd notions, it’s ten to one, Dr. Campbell, he marries this cobbler’s hump-backed daughter. I’m sure, if I were his guardian, I could not rest an instant with such a thought in my head.”
“Nor I,” said Dr. Campbell, quietly; and in spite of her ladyship’s astonishment, remonstrances, and conjectures, he maintained his resolute composure.