The little rooms were well arranged, and their neatness was not now as much lost upon our hero as it would have been some time before. The old woman and her grand-daughter, with all the pride of gratitude, exhibited to him several little presents of furniture which they had received from Dr. Campbell’s family. “Mr. Henry gave me this! Miss Flora gave me that!” was frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door of her own room. On a clean white deal bracket, which “Mr. Henry lad put up with his own hands,” stood the well-known geranium in its painted flower-pot. Forester saw nothing else in the room, and it was in vain that both the old woman and her grand-daughter talked to him at once; he heard not a word that was said to him. The flowers were all gone, and the brown calyces of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of time which had elapsed since he had first seen them. “I am sorry there are no flowers to offer you,” said the little girl, observing Forester’s melancholy look; “but I thought you did not like geraniums; for I remember when I gave you a fine flower in the watchmaker’s shop you pulled it to pieces, and threw it on the ground.” “I should not do so now,” said Forester. The black marks on the painted flower-pot had been entirely effaced: be turned away, endeavoured to conceal his emotion, and took leave of the place as soon as the grateful inhabitants would suffer him to depart. The reflection that he had wasted his time, that he had never done any good to any human being, that he had lost opportunities of making both himself and others happy, pressed upon his mind; but his Stoical pride still resisted the thought of returning to Dr. Campbell’s. “It will be imagined that I yield my opinions from meanness of spirit,” said he to himself. “Dr. Campbell certainly has no further regard or esteem for me; neither he nor Henry have troubled themselves about my fate: they are doing good to more deserving objects; they are intent upon literary pursuits, and have not time to bestow a thought upon me. And Flora, I suppose, is as gay as she is good. I alone am unhappy,—a wanderer,—an outcast,—a useless being.”
Forester, whilst he was looking at the geranium, or soon afterwards, missed his handkerchief; the old woman and her grand-daughter searched for it all over the house, but in vain: he then thought he must have left it at the washerwoman’s, where he met the little girl; he called to inquire for it, upon his return to Edinburgh. When he returned to this woman’s house for his handkerchief, he found her sitting upon a low stool, in her laundry, weeping bitterly; her children stood round her. Forester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she told him that a few minutes after he left her, the young gentleman who had been thrown from his horse into the scavenger’s cart was brought into her house, whilst his servant went home for another suit of clothes for him. “I did not at first guess that I had ever seen the young gentleman before,” continued she; “but when the mud was cleared from his face I knew him to be Mr. Archibald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his face then or at any time. He was in a very bad humour after his tumble, and he began again to threaten me about a ten-guinea bank-note, which he and his servant declare they sent in his waistcoat pocket to be washed: I’m sure I never saw it. Mr. Henry Campbell quieted him about it for awhile; but just now he began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a lawyer, and that he will make me pay the whole note; and he swore at me as if I had been the worst creature in the world; and, God knows, I work hard for my children, and never wronged any one in my days!”
Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections as soon as he could assist any one who was in distress, bade the poor woman dry her tears, and assured her that she had nothing to fear; for he would instantly go to Dr. Campbell, and get him to speak to Mackenzie. “If it is necessary,” said he, “I’ll pay the money myself.” She clasped her hands joyfully as he spoke, and all her children joined in an exclamation of delight. “I’ll go to Dr. Campbell’s this instant,” said our hero, whose pride now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this injured woman; he totally forgot himself, and thought only of her: “I’ll go to Dr. Campbell’s, and I will speak to Mr. Mackenzie immediately.”
A SUMMONS
Whilst Forester was walking through the streets, with that energy which the hope of serving his fellow-creatures always excited in his generous mind, he even forgot a scheme which he had, in spite of his Stoical pride and his dread of being thought to give up his opinions from meanness, resolved in his imagination. He had formed the design of returning to his friends an altered being in his external appearance: he had ordered a fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. He had laid aside the dress and manners of a gentleman from the opinion that they were degrading to the character of a man: as soon as this prejudice had been conquered, he began to think he might resume them. Many were the pleasing anticipations in which he indulged himself: the looks of each of his friends, the generous approving eye of Henry, the benevolent countenance of Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all painted by his fancy; and he invented every circumstance that was likely to happen—every word that would probably be said by each individual. We are sure that our readers will give our enthusiastic hero credit for his forgetting these pleasing reveries—for his forgetting himself, nay, even Flora Campbell—when humanity and justice called upon him for exertion.
When he found himself in George’s-square, within sight of Dr. Campbell’s house, his heart beat violently, and he suddenly stopped to recollect himself. He had scarcely stood a few instants, when a hard, stout-looking man came up to him, and asked him if his name were Forester: he started, and answered, “Yes, sir, what is your business with me?” The stranger replied by producing a paper, and desiring him to read it. The paper, which was half printed, half written, began with these words:—“You are hereby required to appear before me—”
“What is all this?” exclaimed our hero. “It is a summons,” replied the stranger: “I am a constable, and you will please to come with me before Mr. W——. This is not the first time you have been before him, I am told.” To this last insolent taunt Forester made no reply, but in a firm tone said that he was conscious of no crime, but that he was ready to follow the constable, and to appear before Mr. W——, or any other magistrate, who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though he summoned all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he was much astonished by this proceeding; he could not help reflecting, that an individual in society who has friends, an established character, and a home, is in a more desirable situation than an unconnected being, who has no one to answer for his conduct,—no one to rejoice in his success, or to sympathize in his misfortunes. “Ah, Dr. Campbell! happy father! in the midst of your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent ward!” said Forester to himself, while his mind revolted from seeking his friend’s assistance in this discreditable situation. “You do not know how near he is to you! you do not know that he was just returning to you! you do not see that he is, at this moment, perhaps, on the brink of disgrace!”
THE BANK-NOTES.
Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell had forgotten him; but we shall not yet explain further upon this subject; we only throw out this hint, that our readers may not totally change their good opinion of the doctor. We must now beg their attention to the continuation of the history of Archibald Mackenzie’s bank-note.
Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the colours were changed in one spot on the right-hand pocket of her son’s waistcoat. “My dear Archibald,” said she, “what has happened to your smart waistcoat? What is that terrible spot?” “Really, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Archibald, with his usual soft voice and deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed that it seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some acid. “Did you wear that waistcoat, Mr. Mackenzie,” said he, “the night the large bottle of vitriolic acid was broken—the night that poor Forester’s cat was killed: don’t you remember?” “Oh, I did not at first recollect; I cannot possibly remember, indeed,—it is so long ago,—what waistcoat I wore on that particular night.” The extreme embarrassment in Archibald’s manner surprised Henry. “I really don’t perceive your drift,” continued Mackenzie: “what made you ask the question so earnestly?” He was relieved when Henry answered, that he only wished to know whether it was probable that it was stained with vitriolic acid; “because,” said he, “I think that is the pocket in which you said you left your ten-guinea note; then, perhaps, the note may have been stained.” “Perhaps so,” replied Mackenzie dryly. “And if it were, you could identify the note: you have forgotten the number; but if the note has been stained with vitriolic acid, we should certainly be able to know it again: the acid would have changed the colour of the ink.” Mackenzie eagerly seized this idea; and immediately, in pursuance of Henry’s advice, went to several of the principal bankers in Edinburgh, and requested that if a note, stained in such a manner, should be presented to them, they would stop payment of it till Mackenzie should examine it. Some time elapsed, and nothing was heard of the note. Mackenzie gave up all hopes of recovering it; and in proportion as these hopes diminished, his old desire of making the poor washerwoman answerable for his loss increased. We have just heard this woman’s account of his behaviour to her, when he came into her house to be refitted, after his tumble from Sawney into the scavenger’s cart. All his promises to Henry he thought proper to disregard: promises appeared to him mere matters of convenience; and the idea of “taking in” such a young man as Henry Campbell was to him an excellent joke. He resolved to keep the five guineas quietly which Henry lent him; and, at the same time, to frighten this innocent industrious woman into paying him the value of his bank-note.