Tales of the Wonder Club Volume III Part 23

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 a.s.sisted upstairs and put to bed in a state decidedly mellow.

CHAPTER IX.

The next morning broke clear and frosty, without a cloud in the sky.

"What bitter mockery!" thought McGuilp, as he looked on the beaming face of Nature, and contrasted it with the feelings he bore hidden in his breast. "A day like yesterday would have been more in harmony with my soul." The sun actually smiled on his departure.

"Good morning, my young friend!" cried the cheery voice of Mr. Oldstone as they entered the breakfast room together; "it is a fine day for you."

Our artist nodded a.s.sent, and having shaken hands with all the members in turn, seated himself at the breakfast table, and tried to keep up a cheerful appearance, but his smile was hollow, and his face was pale.

"I wish you would let me give you a little opening medicine, Mr.

McGuilp," broke in Dr. Bleedem, in the midst of a lull in the conversation; "it would soon set you to rights."

Our artist persisted that he _was_ all right, and required nothing.

"H'm, h'm," muttered the doctor to himself with a shake of the head, as much as to say, "You don't fool _me_."

Conversation then took a general turn, and our artist was allowed to finish his meal unmolested.

Breakfast was hardly concluded when a horn was heard in the distance.

"There's the stage!" cried one of the members.

"'The horn, the horn, the l.u.s.ty horn,'" quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his great poet; but the quotation fell flat on the ears of our artist, who had grown a shade paler.

"I am quite sure, Mr. McGuilp," went on the irrepressible Doctor Bleedem, "that if you were to follow my advice----"

"There, that's enough, Bleedem. Leave the boy alone," broke in Mr.

Oldstone. "Here comes the stage. G.o.d bless you, my boy. Take an old man's blessing with you. I know I shan't see you again this side of Time. I'm getting old; I know it; I feel it. But write me as soon as you get to Rome to say you have arrived safely; and here is a letter to my old friend Rustcoin, which please give him with your own hands when you see him. There, good-bye, good-bye." Here the kind old antiquary mopped his eyes, gave our artist a fatherly pat on the back, and followed him to the door.

"Good-bye, sir, and I hope we shall meet again." This was all our artist could find to say.

The coach had now driven up, and McGuilp had to undergo once more the ordeal of shaking hands. This was rather a trial, for although there could be no doubt as to the sincerity of the regret that each member felt at his departure, and the cordiality of their good wishes, yet there was one thought alone that now occupied his mind, viz., that of tearing himself away from his fair model.

Whether the members guessed this, and out of bare humanity wished to give him a chance to say a few words alone with his lady-love, we know not; but, having wished their guest G.o.d-speed, they left him, and surrounded the coach. Some of them patted the smoking horses; one had a word with the driver; others seemed to scrutinise the travellers and the vehicle. Our host and hostess stood at the door of the inn, and wished their late guest a happy journey and a speedy return, to which our artist responded by a hearty shake of the hand and a few appropriate words.

The landlord was then called off to serve the driver with a mug of ale, but before he went he called out to his daughter, who was hiding herself behind her mother in the pa.s.sage, "Now, then, Helen, my girl, the gentleman is going, and wants to bid you good-bye."

Helen now came forward, pale and trembling, while Dame Hearty, perhaps guessing the state of things, prudently retired, thus leaving the young couple to say a word to each other in private.

"Good-bye, Helen, my girl, and may G.o.d bless you," was all our artist could trust himself to say at the last; but his sad glance and the tender squeeze he gave her dimpled hand spoke volumes.

"Good-bye, sir," faltered the child, now choking with sobs; "good-bye, and may you be happy." Then breaking down altogether, she rushed inside and was seen no more. Our artist looked after her for a moment as if dazed.

"Now, then, sir," cried the driver, "come along if you're coming; we're off."

McGuilp, thus roused, threw his cloak around him, pressed his hat over his eyes, and hastily mounted. Crack went the whip, off went the horses, and our artist was swiftly borne from the scene where he had pa.s.sed so many happy hours, midst cheering and waving of hats, to which he graciously, but with an aching heart, responded. He was now alone with his own thoughts, and barely glancing at the shifting wintry landscape as it flashed pa.s.sed him, was in no humour to exchange commonplaces with his fellow pa.s.sengers. Here we will leave him for the present, and return to our inn.

The members of the club, with the exception of our antiquary, who had remained behind to finish a letter for the post, had resolved upon a woodland ramble, and were chatting lightly by the way.

"Yes, yes; there is no doubt about the poor lad being hard hit," said one. "I noticed it from the first."

"So did I," put in another. "In good time he bolted, for these sort of things never end well when allowed to go on ahead."

"Of course, marrying her would be out of the question altogether, looking at it from any point of view," remarked a third; "besides, there's her age. Why, she's a mere child."

"True," observed a fourth, "and even supposing her to have been of a marriageable age, he, being but a struggling artist, wholly dependent on his profession, and doomed to eke out a precarious living by the sale of his pictures, what else but misery could there be in store for either of them by such a union?"

But here we will leave them to continue their ramble and their gossip.

It has been stated above that our antiquary had remained behind to finish a letter. Having waved his last adieus to his young protege, and waited till the coach had disappeared in the distance, he returned to the breakfast room with a sigh, muttering to himself, "Poor boy! poor boy!" He then collected his writing materials, but the breakfast things had not yet been cleared away.

Presently Helen entered, and proceeded to clear the table. Her face was pale, but calm; her eyes downcast. Our antiquary appeared not to notice her overmuch, but was secretly scanning her countenance. At length, when the table was quite clear, and Helen returned with a fresh log for the fire, he slowly advanced towards her, and placing his right hand on her head and his left on her right shoulder, whilst he toyed for a moment with her bright curls, he remained for some moments in silence. The action was that of one invoking a blessing. Then seizing her right hand in both of his, and raising it to his breast, he gave it a gentle squeeze; then dropped it and turned away, still without a word.

Now, poor Helen's heart was full to overflowing, in spite of her outwardly calm demeanour. She was in possession of a weighty secret, which seemed too heavy for her to bear alone. Yet who was there to share it with her? She had no friend of her own age to whom she could open her heart and into whose sympathetic ears she could pour forth her woes. Her parents, much as she loved and respected them, did not seem to her to be the sort of people likely to give her that sympathy she yearned for.

They would laugh at her, reprove her perhaps, and tell her roughly to get all that rubbish out of her head at once, etc. Not a soul had she in the world to whom she could cling, or from whom she could expect one ray of comfort. As to her secret being discovered by the other members of the club, this she dreaded most of all. She could imagine their banter, their coldness, or their sneers. Dr. Bleedem, too, who would prescribe her physic, and promise to make her all right again, provided she followed his course of treatment.

Love is by nature reticent, and not willing to make its secret common property. Rather than divulge its sacred feelings to the first light-hearted outsider it will prefer--oh, how infinitely!--to bear its own burden alone--aye, if need be, even to the grave.

Never before in all her life did Helen need a friend and comforter as she did now, when, lo, in the very nick of time, there came to her this kindly old man whom she had known from her earliest childhood, who had dandled her on his knee, and never pa.s.sed her without a kind word. He, who seemed to have read her heart, now came forward with his silent blessing, like an angel sent from Heaven to comfort her. This was just what she needed. This mute expression of sympathy from someone whom she felt could understand her. She construed his silence thus: "There, there, my pretty child; we understand each other, don't we? You see, I've guessed your secret, and you may be sure that it will be safe in my keeping. I am not surprised. These things are common to youth, and very hard to bear for the time, but take comfort. Everything has its day.

This, too, will pa.s.s in time. Cheer up; try and forget it. What! you can't? Oh, yes you will--not all at once--no; but take courage. This is your first great grief; but the world is full of trials, and we are sent here on purpose to bear them. No one escapes them altogether; but rest a.s.sured that you will always find a friend and comforter in Obadiah Oldstone."

This, and much more, did the child understand by the antiquary's silent magnetic touch. Her heart overflowed with grat.i.tude, and she was unable longer to control herself, but, bursting into the most pa.s.sionate sobs, she covered her face with her hands and was making for the door when Oldstone called her back.

A Spanish proverb says, "He who loves you will make you weep." Helen had proved the truth of this adage.

"Come, my girl," said Oldstone; "am I such an ogre that I need scare you? Come to an old man, and pour forth all its pretty griefs. We used to be such friends, you know. Did you think I didn't guess your secret all along? We old men of the world have sharp eyes, and very little escapes us. Well, well; I am not surprised, you know. The young man who left this morning was comely, and a gentleman, besides a man of talent and resources. It is not difficult to understand how a young and susceptible child like yourself, having never seen anyone else but old fogies like us, should suddenly take a fancy to a smart young----

"Oh! sir," broke in Helen, in agony, "he is gone--gone for ever, and I _did_ love him so."

"Love! my child! why, at your age you oughtn't to know the meaning of the word."

"I didn't, sir, till quite lately. I had heard of it from others, and read about it in books; but, oh! Mr. Oldstone, I didn't know it was like this."

Here the poor distracted girl began beating her breast with her clenched fist, and gazing upwards with tearful eyes, in which there was an expression of the wildest despair, till the kind old man began to be seriously alarmed for her sanity.

"Hush! hush! my girl," he said in soothing tones; "don't give way so.

Calm yourself."