It is not our object to weary the reader with superfluous details
relating to the doings and sayings of the members of the club, nor to
follow up the story of their lives from day to day. We will, therefore,
suppose some two years to have passed away since our artist's departure
for Rome. In two years' time much may transpire, _i.e._, in a large town
where there is much business and traffic. In this ancient hostelry,
however, situated about a mile from any habitable dwelling, things went
on from year to year in much the same monotonous way. Jack Hearty was
just as genial and attentive as ever, and looked no older. Dame Hearty
was just as active, bustling, and good-humoured. And Helen, what of her?
Ah! here _was_ a change. Was she falling into a decline? Did her cheek
grow paler and paler, her step listless, her eye vacant, her manner
distracted? No; nothing of the sort. All these signs had vanished long
ago, thanks to a course of steel that Dr. Bleedem had prescribed for
her, and insisted on her taking. What a feather in the good doctor's cap
it was when he saw the sallow, sunken face fill out, the rose of perfect
health once more return to her cheek, the elasticity to her step, and
the merry ring to her voice. No wonder he blew his own trumpet. Who
would not have done the same?
But there was one among the members who smiled quietly, and with an air
of superiority, whenever the doctor vaunted himself.
"I don't know what you mean, sir," said Dr. Bleedem, one day, irritated
at what he conceived to be an expression of incredulity on our
antiquary's countenance, "but if you think that my medicine did not
effect the marvellous cure we have been discussing, I should like to
know what did, that's all."
"Well, sir," replied Mr. Oldstone, still with a quizzical look in his
eye, "I said nothing."
The doctor, far from being pacified, gave a snort, then resumed
severely, "And I'll tell you what it is, Oldstone, if you don't take
more care of your constitution, you won't last much longer. You may
depend upon that. If you pass many more nights like that one on the eve
of Mr. McGuilp's departure, and think that you know better than I do,
your sand will run speedily down. Then will follow a state of utter
prostration--the death rattle--the silent tomb. Ha! ha! how will you
like that?"
Having thus delivered himself, this son of AEsculapius felt better, and
deeming he had completely vanquished his antagonist, he proceeded to
fill his yard of clay with some of his most pungent tobacco, lighted it,
and throwing himself back in his chair, and crossing his legs, gave
several defiant puffs at his pipe, causing the smoke to stream through
his nostrils, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a fiery dragon.
"Well, man," said Mr. Oldstone, meekly, "don't croak like a bird of ill
omen. It is like having the skeleton at the feast, as was the custom
amongst the ancient Egyptians."
"Yes, by Gumdragon! it is," assented the leech, "and it would be good
for several of you if you profited by the lesson, for I could mention
some who have progressed precious little since those times."
"Come, come, doctor," insisted Oldstone, "I've seen you yourself take
very kindly to your little glass of punch at our convivial meetings."
(Here the antiquary winked furtively at some of the older members, as if
he had scored something.)
"No, sir; never to the extent of being carried to bed helplessly drunk,
as I have seen you, sir--not unfrequently, I regret to say," replied the
doctor, indignantly.
A general laugh from all the members of the club, in which our antiquary
heartily joined, was a signal for a cessation of hostilities, and good
humour was restored.
It may interest our readers, before we go further, to learn some news of
our artist since his departure. According to his promise he had written,
first from London and later from Rome, to announce his safe arrival. He
had written many times since, and always to Mr. Oldstone. His first
letters had been short, and contained little more than the bare news we
have stated; desiring, at the same time, to be remembered to all the
inmates of the hostel, including our landlord and his family.
These letters were promptly and voluminously replied to by our
antiquary, who, besides local news, of which there was certainly a
dearth, managed to fill up his letters with wise saws and some fatherly
advice, delicately, not obtrusively given--such as is not unbecoming
from an elderly man towards one considerably his junior. The tone of
these letters seemed to call for a reply something in the same spirit.
It was impossible for our artist to ignore the fact that the old man had
taken a prodigious liking to him--loved him, in fact, as we have said,
like a son. He could not reply curtly or coldly to words that so
evidently came from the good man's heart, so he sat him down and penned
equally long epistles, relating his adventures, the people he had met,
and the places he had seen; thanking our antiquary at the same time for
the kindly interest he had always taken in him.
It soon became apparent to our artist, from sundry hints carefully
worded by his antiquarian friend, that the latter was no stranger to the
secret he held within his breast. He doubted not but that all the
members of the club knew it, and this thought caused him some annoyance;
but there was something in the veiled sympathy of this fatherly old man,
with his covert innuendos, his tact and discretion, that touched him
deeply, and made it impossible not to open his heart to him and pour
forth the secrets of his soul.
The ice was broken. Letters poured in thicker than ever, and the other
members, recognising always the same handwriting, wondered what there
could be so much in common between a young man like McGuilp and one of
Mr. Oldstone's years. Moreover, they noticed that the antiquary never
vouchsafed to read these letters aloud, merely certain portions here and
there, where it referred to themselves, and these were short enough,
while they watched their aged member as he gloated over page after page
of close writing with evident satisfaction. There seemed a certain want
of confidence in this, which each secretly resented; but they said
nothing, merely venting their spleen among themselves by alluding to our
artist as "the old un's protege."
Now, about a year previous, Mr. Oldstone had received some important
news from his young friend in Rome. He had lately completed a life-size
half-length portrait, in which he had made use of the study he had taken
of our landlord's daughter. The head he had copied from this study, but
he had added a figure, which made it more interesting as a picture. The
work had been finished in Rome, and sent to England to be exhibited at
the Royal Academy, then held at Somerset House. It had not only been
accepted, but hung upon the line, besides receiving high eulogiums from
the President, Sir Joshua Reynolds, who, on a private view day, had been
observed holding forth before a knot of students and expatiating upon
the merits of this _chef d'oeuvre_.
One of the students, a friend of our artist, had written to him to
congratulate him on his success, at the same time enclosing him a slip
from the _Athenaeum_, being a critique in which his work was extolled to
the skies, and alluded to as _the_ picture of the season, and the
painter as "a great genius who had taken the world by storm, and had
already reached the temple of fame."
This excerpt our artist in his turn enclosed to his friend Oldstone, and
wound up his letter by saying that the picture had already been sold for
a considerable sum to Lord Landborough, a great patron of art, who
possessed a magnificent gallery at his country seat, Feathernest, in
Middleshire, filled with the choicest specimens of ancient and modern
art, in which company our artist's picture, which he had chosen to
designate "The Landlord's Daughter," was destined to find a place. In a
postscript he referred to having just read an account of a visit from
their Majesties King George III. and Queen Charlotte to Somerset House.
They had taken their eldest son, George, Prince of Wales, with them to
see the pictures. It is reported that the young prince was so enamoured
of the portrait entitled "The Landlord's Daughter," that he cried when
they took him away, and said that he wanted her for his nurse. His
Majesty, ever indulgent towards his children, suggested that to discover
the original of the portrait would not be impossible, in which case----.
But here his royal spouse interposed, and with a vicious tap at her
snuff-box declared she would never allow such a face in _her_
household--not _she_. So the King of England caved in.
Now, our antiquary affected no secrecy with regard to this particular
letter. There was no reason for it. On the contrary, it treated of a
public event which, in all probability, the members of the club would
read for themselves in the papers, so calling our host and hostess as
well as their daughter together, he began thus in the presence of all:
"You remember Mr. McGuilp, Jack?"
"Ay, sir, sure enough," responded our host. "I hope he is very well."
"I believe so, Jack," said Oldstone. "Now listen to this, all of you."
Here he read the letter aloud, from beginning to end, adding, at its
conclusion, on his own account, "There, I knew my boy had it in him. I
saw it from the first, as soon as I set eyes on the portrait he painted
of our Helen."
"Never blush, girl!" ventured Mr. Parnassus, but a stern look from Mr.
Oldstone checked further banter.
"Well, well, well!" muttered our landlord. "To think that _our_ daughter
should have her portrait exhibited at the Royal Academy. That the Royal
family should see it, and, moreover, that it should have been bought by
a peer of the realm, and paid for money down. Why! it passes belief.
Don't it Molly?" Our hostess thus appealed to by her spouse, admitted
that it _did_ seem strange, and suggested that perhaps all that got
into the papers might not be true. The suggestion was instantly howled
down. Cries of "Yes, yes, every word of it," from Mr. Crucible.
"Especially that part where the Queen wouldn't have such a face about
her at any price," chimed in Professor Cyanite.
"Just like the old cat, jealous of her husband," added Mr. Blackdeed.
"Exactly so," agreed Dr. Bleedem.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, a truce to this," now interrupted Mr. Oldstone.
"I propose that we meet together this evening at eight o'clock, over a
steaming bowl of rum punch, such as our good host here understands so
well how to brew, and that we drink to the health of our artist friend,
with a three times three." This proposition was unanimously applauded,
and subsequently carried out. We much fear that on this occasion our
worthy chairman was again carried away rather too much by his--emotion.
The next morning our antiquary came down late for breakfast, rather
muddled in the upper regions, with, moreover, several sharp twinges of
gout, which reminded him that he was not so young as he used to be. His
coffee had got cold, and he had been left to finish his breakfast alone,
all the other members having been drawn away to their several
avocations.
"Do you want anything, sir?" asked Helen, appearing at the door.
"Well, yes, my girl," answered Oldstone. "I want you to sit down here,
and keep me company."
"I can't stay for long, sir," replied Helen. "Mother is sure to be
calling me."
"No matter. Wait till she calls. Now, Helen, tell me, what do you think
of that letter I read out to you yesterday--eh?"
For answer Helen rubbed her hands together for joy, and flushed all over
her face. Then clasping her hands upon her breast, and looking upwards,
muttered as if unconscious of anyone's presence, "I _knew_, I knew he
loved me!"
"Yes, I am afraid he does, you dangerous young puss," observed Oldstone.
"Too much so for his peace of mind, poor boy!"
"Perhaps, but not more than _I_ love _him_. _That_ were impossible."
"And you're not afraid of confessing as much to _me_, you brazen hussy?"
demanded the old man, playfully chucking her under the chin.
"To _you_, you know I am not," replied the girl. "To you, sir, I feel I
could, nay, I _must_, tell everything, and oh! it _is_ such a comfort to
have a real true friend from whom one need hide nothing!"
"Well, well, my dear," said Oldstone, "I am sure I have always wished to
be your true friend, but whether I am doing right in encouraging you in
a passion which cannot end wisely----"
"It need never end," interrupted Helen. "I will love him eternally, even
if he should cease to love _me_."
"You would!" exclaimed the antiquary with surprise, looking at her
curiously.
"Yes, sir, I would. What of that?"
"But if he could not marry you," rejoined her counsellor.
"Didn't I tell you that the thought of marriage never entered my head,"
persisted the girl.
"You did, my child, but it won't do in this world," and the old man
shook his head.
"What! can I not love the man of my choice--especially if I know that he
loves me? Who will prevent me loving him, thinking of him, praying for
him, _dying_ for him, if need be? Who shall tear his image from my
heart, through whatever trials I may have to pass for _his_ sake?"
"Helen, you are a noble girl?" cried our antiquary with enthusiasm. I
have no more arguments to use. I wish there were a few more like you in
the world. But hark ye, my child, there are others who have felt like
yourself for a time--but how long has it lasted?
"The greater part of your sex, I fear, find it easy to overthrow an old
love for a new one. Then follow other new ones in succession, till they
end perhaps in marrying someone they don't love, and can't love; all for
wealth, title, or position."
"You surely don't think _I_ could be so base, Mr. Oldstone," cried the
girl, recoiling in horror.
"No, my dear. That is the very last thing I should believe of _you_,"
replied her friend.
"I am glad of that," said the girl.
"Helen!" cried the voice of Dame Hearty, outside; "Where are you?"
"Here, mother," answered her daughter. "I was only having a word with
Mr. Oldstone," and she hurried away, leaving the antiquary alone with
his writing materials.
The breakfast having been cleared away, Oldstone drew his chair up to
the table and proceeded to pen a reply to his young protege. When the
letter was concluded, our antiquary reperused it, carefully dotting each
_i_ and crossing each _t_, until he found no more to correct.
If our reader is not more scrupulous than we are ourselves, he will
join us, in imagination, in an act not generally considered
respectable--viz., that of playing the spy on the old man, by peering
over his shoulder, and reading what he has written, before he folds it
up, seals it, and sends it to the post.
_Letter from Mr. Oldstone to Mr. Vandyke McGuilp._
"MY DEAR BOY,
"I cannot express to you the joy and pride I felt in perusing your
last letter, and I hasten to offer you my best congratulations, and I
think I may add those of the rest of our members, on having achieved
what I must needs call such unprecedented success. I read your letter,
together with the critique from the _Athenaeum_ enclosed, aloud, before
the whole club, our worthy host and his family being also present. You
should have seen the blush that suffused our dear Helen's cheek at the
mention of the success of her portrait. It was as if she had said,
'Lo, he has become great, and all through _me_. _My_ face it was that
inspired him to achieve such fame. _My_ prayers and good wishes that
buoyed him up with energy to thus distinguish himself!' Some such
thoughts must have passed through her mind, if I am any reader of
faces--and I think I am.
"One of the younger members seemed disposed to offer some banter, but
I frowned him down. I never will sanction any unseemly levity towards
that girl, or allow her to be treated as if she were a mere hackneyed
barmaid, used to the coarse jokes of any Tom, Dick or Harry. To me she
is something very precious, and I love her as my own child. Poor
little one! She always comes to me for sympathy in her troubles. Not
even to her own parents will she confide everything--much less to the
other members. If you were to see the change that has come over her of
late! She has lost all that raw awkwardness so common to growing
girls, and has now developed into mature womanhood.
"Since your departure, young man, I could not but pity the poor child
with her sunken cheek, her downcast eyes, and listless manner. I knew
she had a secret that weighed upon her, and I guessed what it was. I
came forward to offer her my friendship and advice, and encouraged her
to open her heart to me. The poor child's gratitude was so touching!
There _must_ be an outburst when the heart is full, and she could
confide in no one else.
"Ever since she found she had a true friend to lean on, I have noticed
a marked change in the girl. The rose returned to her cheek, the light
to her eye, an expression came into her face that I never observed
before--nay, a variety of expressions which seem to chase each other
with marvellous rapidity over a countenance lovely, intelligent, and
pure.
"Dr. Bleedem, poor man! seeing her looking mopish, prescribed her a
course of steel medicine. She declares that he only gave her one dose,
which he made her take in his presence. The rest of the medicine he
left her to take by herself. Now the girl insists positively that, not
liking the medicine, she threw it all away.
"Dr. Bleedem, of course, is under the impression that she took it all,
and naturally attributes her sudden change of health for the better to
his drugs. I am of opinion that it was medicine of another sort that
brought back the roses to her cheek. She is now eighteen, and by our
peasantry would be considered of a marriageable age; but oh! I _do_
begrudge her to any of these country bumpkins, who come in for their
mug of ale and their chaff. There is no one for miles round anything
like good enough for her. Of one thing, however, I feel quite certain,
and that is, that she would never allow herself to be coaxed, cajoled,
or threatened into marrying any man whom she did not love, however
advantageous the match might appear in the eyes of the world. No, the
girl has character, and would never give her hand where she had not
set her affections. She would far sooner not marry at all. Whoever
should win her affections will be a lucky man, for he will get a
treasure in such a wife.
"Excuse the wanderings of an old dotard, my friend, but when I once
get upon this topic, I am inexhaustible; and as for local news, there
simply is none. When last I spoke to Helen about writing to you, she
desired me to send her duty to you. Pretty soul! _duty_ indeed. Now,
my dear boy, I must really draw this epistle to a close. Trusting that
you are enjoying the best of health and spirits, and wishing you
continued and ever increasing success in your art.
"I remain,
"Your doting but affectionate old friend,
"OBADIAH OLDSTONE."
We have said that Mr. Oldstone was prompt in answering the letters of
his protege. Neither was our artist, as a rule, tardy in answering those
of his aged friend. Seldom more than a month passed between a letter and
its answer, on either side. Yet to this letter no reply came. Month
followed month, and no tidings arrived of our artist. Such delay was
most unusual, and Mr. Oldstone now began to be seriously alarmed. What
had happened to the boy? Was he ill? He knew by experience that the
summer months in Rome were extremely unhealthy, on account of the
malaria. Was he laid up with Roman fever? Had he met with an accident?
Or was there anything in the tone of his letter that had given offence?
He tried to recollect. No, he thought not; in fact, he did not know what
to think. The gloomiest fancies rushed across his mind as he paced the
breakfast room alone.
Presently his eye caught the portrait of Helen, that McGuilp had
presented to the club, and which he, Oldstone, had with his own hands
hung up over the mantel. "Ah! my pretty puss," said he, addressing the
painted canvas smiling down at him, "I dare not infect you with my
fears. I don't want to make _you_ unhappy."
Just then the door gaped ajar, and the original of the portrait appeared
at the opening. As the antiquary had not yet noticed her, his eyes being
still fixed on the portrait, Helen stepped into the room and closed the
door behind her. Then, walking straight up to Oldstone, she said,
"Please sir, has anything happened?"
"Happened, my dear! What should happen in this dead-and-alive place?
Nothing ever happens here."
"Ah! sir," rejoined Helen, "you but evade my question. You know what I
would ask."
"My dear, how should I?" demanded her friend and counsellor, with most
provoking _sang froid_.
A gesture of impatience escaped the girl. Then fixing her eyes steadily
on those of the antiquary, as if to read his inmost soul, she said with
some approach to severity in her tone, "Mr. Oldstone, you are keeping
something from me. Something has happened to Mr. McGuilp, and you won't
tell me what it is."
"On my honour, my sweet child," replied her friend, "I know no more than
you do yourself. I wish I did. Here have I been waiting now about six
months for a reply to my letter, when he used often to write by return
of post. I can't make head or tail of it."
"Then something _is_ wrong, you may depend upon it," cried the girl.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! Surely he is laid up with some dreadful
illness--away from me, and in a strange country, with no one to attend
upon him. Oh, merciful Heaven! help him! Oh, help him. Whatever it is,
let me know the worst!"
"I don't want to frighten you, my pet," broke in Oldstone; "but I own I
am much perplexed myself. Perhaps he never received the letter.
Sometimes letters get lost. At any rate, we'll hope for the best."
"Oh, sir, sir!" cried the girl in agony, "do you think that likely?"
"Certainly, my dear. Why not? All sorts of things happen to prevent
letters arriving--especially those sent abroad. Vessels go down at sea;
the mail may be detained by an accident. Who can tell? Come, cheer up,
girl; there is no good in brooding. If I don't hear from him in another
week I'll write again."
"Why not write at once, sir?"
"Not a bad idea, Helen; so I will."
At this juncture voices and footsteps were heard outside. The other
members of the club had just returned in time for their mid-day meal. So
the letter was postponed.
Helen ran to lay the cloth, and the repast was served. The meal being
over, pipes were lit, and some desultory conversation ensued,
interspersed with wonderments about our artist's long silence and
suggestions as to the reason of it. The weather still being fine, the
members suggested a stroll, so off they went together, Mr. Oldstone
being also of the party. Thus, what with one interruption and what with
another, the writing of the letter was put off for that day.