The next morning broke dark and gloomy. Our artist rose from his couch
languid and unrefreshed. His face was pale and haggard, with dark
circles round his eyes. What had transpired? Had he received a second
visit from the headless lady? Not so. What then? He had slept
indifferently, having been kept awake by his own distracting thoughts.
If he chanced to close his eyes for a moment his peace was disturbed by
the most chaotic and depressing dreams. Was he unwell? Did the fare at
the inn disagree with him? He made no complaints. Then why this strange
squeamishness--these wild chaotic dreams, through all of which _one_
face in particular seemed always to the fore? Sometimes happy and
smiling, full of life and health, then sad and downcast--again looking
at him with pleading eyes, yet always the same face. Whose face this was
we will leave our readers to conjecture.
"Bah!" soliloquised our artist, as he placed one foot upon the floor, "a
chit of a girl like that, and at _my_ age too."
He wasn't much past eight and twenty, true, but then the girl running in
his thoughts was barely sixteen. In love? Not he. She was a dear, sweet
child, it was true, and pure as an angel; but her education, her extreme
youth, her position, her surroundings--no, no.
Now he was quite out of bed. His shaving water stood ready for him
outside. He opened the door ajar, and took it in. Then placing the jug
on the table, he proceeded to strop his razors. As he did so, he caught
a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and started.
"I'll tell you what it is, Vandyke, my boy," he said, accosting his own
reflection in the glass, "you are looking worse than I thought. Come,
cheer up, and make the best of things. It would never do for the members
of the club to notice anything, and by putting two and two together,
guess at the reason _why_. No, I must dissemble."
Now, men of the world are shrewd observers, and a very slight clue is
often enough. Here, for instance, was a case of two young persons, both
good looking, being thrown together under circumstances peculiarly
favourable for a flirtation, being alone and unobserved. Well, what
then? Need they necessarily fall in love with each other? Not
_necessarily_ perhaps, says the world, but in all probability they
_will_. Time and opportunity alone being necessary to bring the matter
about. So the world may perhaps not be so very far wrong in its
deductions.
Having now mixed up an abundant lather, McGuilp rubbed it well over his
chin and lower part of his face. Then inserting his razor in the hot
water, he, with as steady a hand as possible under the circumstances,
proceeded to reap the hirsute stubble from its native habitat until the
operation was completed to his satisfaction. Having at length finished
his toilet with even more than usual precision, he called up a cheerful
look to his countenance, and joined the rest of the members at the
breakfast-table, with an hilarity and jocoseness of manner which took
them all in.
The breakfast was sumptuous as usual. The table groaned under every
delicacy of the season, and our members, having seated themselves, did
ample honour to the repast. A yule log blazed on the hearth, and a
general air of comfort pervaded the inn, as if to make up for the murky
weather without. Yet, despite these creature comforts, and the hearty
appreciation of them by our members, there was one present whose
appetite failed him. In spite of his forced hilarity, which he now found
it difficult to sustain, for sad thoughts would obtrude themselves, our
artist but pecked at his food.
The fumes of the eggs and bacon sickened him. The kippered herrings were
an offence unto his nostrils. He loathed such gross cheer. His toast and
roll were but nibbled at, his cup of coffee barely sipped, yet keep up
appearances he must. So he talked a good deal of vapid nonsense, made
trivial remarks about the weather, etc., which served to put the rest of
the members off the scent, engrossed as each was with his own favourite
dish. The professional eye of Dr. Bleedem, however, was more on the
alert, and not so easily deceived.
"You are not looking so well this morning, Mr. McGuilp," he said, eyeing
his patient critically.
Our artist hastened to assure him that he never felt better in his life.
This remark, however, fell flat upon the doctor's ears, and he proceeded
as if he had not heard him.
"You have eaten nothing. I notice that you only play with your food.
Now, when a patient plays with his food, it is a sure sign that there is
something wrong. You should take----"
"Oh! I don't want any medicine, thank you," interrupted McGuilp. "I
assure you I am all right. A little loss of appetite, as you say;
perhaps from the sudden change in the weather, which always affects me
more or less. The fact is, I didn't sleep very well last night, and----"
"Yes, I can see _that_," continued Dr. Bleedem.
By this time the other members were getting interested, and our artist
found himself suddenly the cynosure for all the scrutiny of the club.
How he cursed the doctor's officiousness! Why couldn't he mind his own
business?
"Yes, now you mention it, doctor, I can see that our young friend does
_not_ seem quite up to the mark to-day," remarked Mr. Oldstone.
"By his appearance I should say the young gentleman had something on his
mind," suggested Mr. Hardcase. "His countenance seems sicklied o'er
with the pale cast of thought," quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his favourite
author.
Then each member had something to say in turn, till our artist felt
himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. In vain did he give
himself a twisted pinch in the fleshy part of his leg under the table.
The blush would rise, and there was no checking it. He fancied he could
see the members give side glances one to the other, or trying to conceal
a smile; but this may have been imagination.
Breakfast being now over, each member rose from the table, some
gathering round the fire, one or two of them peering out into the murky
gloom. Then Helen entered to clear away the breakfast things. She, too,
seemed less lively than her wont, her face paler, and she went about her
domestic duties mechanically, with downcast eyes.
"Why, Helen, my girl," exclaimed Dr. Bleedem, "you don't look as bright
as usual. Have _you_ been having a sleepless night? Have _you_ been
losing your appetite?"
The girl looked up confusedly, and a deep blush suffused her face and
neck. The fame of Dr. Bleedem was great in the neighbourhood. She
believed herself to be in the presence of a man who could read the
secrets of her inmost soul, and that all attempts to mask them from his
scrutinising gaze would be worse than useless.
"What has come to you young people of late, I don't know," continued Dr.
Bleedem. "Now, here is Mr. McGuilp, he, too, has been losing his
appetite, and suffering from insomnia."
Oh! how our artist wished that the ground would open at his feet and
swallow him up. In vain he trod on his toes and turned his face towards
the window, as if peering into the snow that was now falling fast. His
ears continued to burn like fire, and all he could do, by mopping his
forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, was inadequate to keep back the
traitor blush.
"Oh! oh!" muttered Dr. Bleedem to himself, whilst gazing from one to the
other. "Is that the way the wind lies?"
The members now began to look sideways, one at the other. One of them
raised his eyebrows; another winked; a third suppressed a titter; but as
this all took place behind our artist's back, who was still looking out
intently at the snow, there was nothing to wound his sensibilities.
At length Mr. Oldstone broke the silence. "When are you thinking of
beginning the copy of our Helen's picture, Mr. McGuilp?"
"I? Oh yes, just so," replied our artist, waking up out of a reverie.
"Well, the fact is, we are most unfortunate in the weather. It is
impossible to begin if it continues like this. Should it clear up later,
I will at once set to work."
"Good. And now gentlemen, what do you all propose doing to while away
the time? A rubber of whist, a game of chess, backgammon, or what?"
inquired the antiquary.
After a little discussion, it was decided that Dr. Bleedem, Professor
Cyanite, Mr. Crucible, and Mr. Oldstone, should form a party at whist.
Mr. Blackdeed and Mr. Hardcase played a game of chess, while the poet
and the painter, not being disposed to join in any game, retired into a
corner together, and were soon deep in a discussion upon the arts of
painting and poetry. A couple of hours passed away, and still the
members were absorbed, each in his favourite pursuit, when the weather
began to clear up, and the sun shone brightly.
This decided our artist to set about his allotted task; so breaking off
the conversation with his poet friend, he repaired to the studio, and
placing a clean canvas, the same size as that of the portrait, upon the
easel, he commenced his copy; and here we will leave him to continue his
task for the present.
* * * * *
Over a fortnight had passed since we left our artist at his work. The
task was now completed. He had found it necessary to have one or two
extra sittings from Helen herself on the copy, just to give more truth
to it, as he said. However, as everything on this earth comes to an end,
there was an end also to these sittings.
"Helen," said our artist to his model at the last, "I must go. My
affairs call me back to Italy. I have been keeping my studio on all this
time, and I have certain business to settle which will brook no delay."
Helen's countenance fell, and her lip quivered. Her eyes grew moist and
downcast. In a voice that she endeavoured to render firm, she ventured
to inquire: "And will it be for long, sir?"
"For very long, Helen? Perhaps for ever."
Helen had no answer to this. Her sobs were choking her. The tears stole
silently down her cheeks, but she whisked them away with her
handkerchief, and did her best to appear outwardly calm.
Our artist, too, felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes suffused with
tears.
"Perhaps, sir," meekly suggested the girl, "when you have settled all
your affairs abroad, you may think of taking a holiday, and be paying us
a flying visit, just to see Mr. Oldstone and the other gentlemen, you
know. I'm sure both father and mother will be glad to see you again."
"I am afraid not, Helen. I am afraid not," and our artist slowly and
sadly shook his head.
"What! _never_--never again!" almost shrieked the child.
Here she broke down completely. All restraint and propriety flew to the
winds. Nature, till now trampled upon and held in abeyance, at this
point rebelled and relieved herself in a torrent of the bitterest sobs
and tears.
"Helen! dear Helen! What is this?" cried McGuilp, running to her
assistance, his own tears falling fast the while!
"Oh! what a brute I have been! Quick, rouse yourself. There are
footsteps in the passage. Somebody is coming." Thus warned, there was a
sudden mopping of eyes and blowing of noses, when the door opened, and
Dame Hearty presented herself to ask if Helen could be spared to assist
her in the kitchen.
"Oh! certainly," replied our artist, averting his face and busying
himself with putting away his palette and brushes, whilst assuming a
firm voice. "Yes," continued he, still turning his back, "I think I may
say that I have finished with her now. This is the last sitting in fact.
There is the copy I intend to present to the club. This one here is the
first one, which I am going to keep for myself. Which of the two do you
prefer, Dame Hearty?"
In this way he rattled on to hide his confusion. Helen had slipped
noiselessly away, bathed her face in cold water, and returned to the
kitchen.
"Well, sir," replied Dame Hearty, in answer to our artist's question, "I
really don't know what to say. They are both so lovely, there's not a
pin to choose between them."
Then, scanning our artist's countenance, she observed:
"You appear to have a bad cold, sir."
"I am afraid I have, Dame Hearty," said McGuilp; "the weather has been
very uncertain, and I think I must have committed some imprudence."
"Let me make you a basin of gruel, sir. No? It's a capital thing, and
you should keep out of all draughts, and----"
"And keep my bed, perhaps you'll tell me, my good woman," interrupted
McGuilp. "No, no; I've no time to coddle. Do you know, Dame Hearty, I
must be off to-morrow to London by the stage, as I have to return to
Rome without further delay. Already I am long after my time."
"So soon! Why, you _have_ paid us a short visit," exclaimed the hostess.
"Well, sir, you knows best. All I can say is that my husband and I will
be most glad to see you again, when next you be passing this way."
A knock at the door, and our host entered to ask if he might be allowed
to see the copy.
"Certainly, my good host, here it is," said McGuilp.
Jack Hearty went into ecstacies over it, saying he didn't know which he
liked best.
"Mr. McGuilp says he is off again to-morrow, Jack," began our hostess.
"Yes," broke in McGuilp. "What time does the stage start? Early? I'd
better begin my packing at once," and off he went to his bedroom to make
preparations.
The fact was, he wanted to be alone, for it was an effort to keep up a
cheerful appearance with a sad heart. He locked himself within his room,
and having collected together a few articles of clothing--enough to
fill his valise, he threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up
to meditation.
It will be remembered a few pages back that our artist accused himself
of behaving like a brute towards his model. In this he did himself
injustice. He had never deliberately set about gaining the affections of
this simple village maiden. Any base design against her was the farthest
from his thoughts. He admired her innocence and beauty, and wished that
it might never lose its unsullied purity. He had never dreamed of
actually falling in love with her, child as she was, and his conduct had
been always that of a fond parent towards a pretty child. He little
recked of any danger, either to her or to himself, but he found her
beauty gain upon him day by day, till at length he was fairly in the
toils. Yet he had never spoken to her of love. No, not a word. He
_would_ not. He had no desire that the girl should fall in love with
him, nor would it be politic for him to fall in love with her. Wrong her
he would not. Marry her he could not. For, besides hampering himself as
a struggling artist with a wife and family, he dreaded quarrelling with
almost the only relation he had living: a rich uncle; from whom he had
expectations, and who would most decidedly consider that he had dragged
the family name in the mire by marrying the daughter of a country
innkeeper. In what way, then, it will be asked, did he think he had
acted brutally towards the girl? This is what he blamed himself for:
First, for allowing himself to be carried away with feelings of love
towards the girl, however secretly; and then for incautiously allowing
her to discover his secret. For, although he had not spoken of love, you
may depend upon it that he had _looked_ it, and it was not difficult for
her to read in his burning glances the secret of his soul. Love leads to
love. He, too, read in the soft eyes, the heaving bosom, the stifled
sigh, the deepening blush, and other tell-tale signs that she loved
_him_. Thus, each had learned the other's secret. They had spoken to
each other with their eyes, and thus just as much mischief had been
wrought as if the most courtly phrases had been used. He had not
intended that his glances should be understood, but they _were_. Thus he
blamed himself.
Matters being thus, there was no other remedy but flight. It would be a
wrench, both for himself and for the girl, but the kindest thing in the
end. In fact, it was his only course. So, having hurriedly finished his
packing, he went downstairs to inform the members of the club of his
intention.
It may easily be conceived how unwelcome was the news, for our artist
had made himself extremely popular with all, and was looked upon as a
great acquisition as a story-teller. Mr. Oldstone, in particular,
exhausted all his powers of persuasion to yet delay his departure, but
he found him obdurate. The good antiquary, who was an old bachelor, had
grown to love our artist as a son; and now that the hour of parting had
come, it rent him sore.
In the evening a farewell carousal was given in his honour, in which
several bowls of punch were discussed; much tobacco smoked; a few
speeches made; several anecdotes related; a song or two; besides some
atrocious puns, with much laughter and witty conversation, until the
utterance of all grew somewhat thick; and we regret to add that the
worthy chairman, in his laudable attempts to do honour to his young
protege, had to be assisted upstairs and put to bed in a state decidedly
mellow.