Tales of the Wonder Club Volume III Part 36

Time wore on, and not a quarrel, not a difference of opinion even arose to mar the happiness of this loving pair, when one fine morning a great event transpired. The lady of this household presented her liege lord with a son and heir, a fine healthy boy, who was christened John, after his grandfather, and never called other than Jack by his parents.

Despite her household duties, Mrs. Vand.y.k.e McGuilp always managed to find time to pursue her studies, while her natural intelligence and application were such that the progress she made under her husband's tuition, was simply marvellous. In a few years the McGuilps purchased a house in town in a fashionable quarter, and the "at homes" or "conversaziones," as they were called in those days, of Mrs. Vand.y.k.e McGuilp, were the talk of all the _elite_. Helen now felt herself called upon to enact the _role_ of a grand lady, and in this her natural dignity, intelligence, and sweetness of disposition, enabled her to succeed to perfection.

Little more remains to be told. After a few seasons in town, and having run the usual curriculum of operas, b.a.l.l.s, parties, concerts, visiting, and even presentation at court, the sameness and artificiality of such an existence palled upon these two artless and ingenuous lovers of nature, so the house in town was at length given up, and our artist retired into the country, where he gave up his time more thoroughly to the study of his art, working ever with increased ardour through the kind encouragement and sympathy of his loving wife.

Nor was Mrs. Vand.y.k.e McGuilp forgetful of her old friends. She fondly cherished the memory of her dear Mr. Oldstone, her friend and adviser, and it grieved her that she had not been able to be near him and attend upon him during his last moments on earth. She had also made the acquaintance of Mr. Rustcoin, who frequently called upon them. Had even been to their "at homes" when they lived in London. This gentleman had become quite reconciled to the idea of his friend Vand.y.k.e McGuilp's marriage with the daughter of a country innkeeper, and agreed with his friend Oldstone that this was quite an exceptional case. He had even been heard to declare before a company of friends that the most charming woman he had ever met for intelligence, natural grace, sound sense, good heartedness, tact, and _savoir faire_, was the wife of his friend Mr.

Vand.y.k.e McGuilp.

A few years later, when it fell to Mr. Rustcoin's turn to pay the debt of nature, this gentleman recollecting how fondly the memory of his friend Oldstone was cherished by those two charming people, the McGuilps, having presented his large collection of antiquities to his native city of York, bequeathed to our friends both the bust and the oil picture of his brother antiquary, which latter, our readers will remember, was painted by the hand of our artist himself.

Our friend Rustcoin has now long gone to his rest, and both bust and portrait of Mr. Oldstone adorn the country mansion of the McGuilps.

Among other cherished relics of their friend is a bound and ill.u.s.trated work conspicuously placed in their library, ent.i.tled: "Tales of the Wonder Club," by Dryasdust, out of which volume little Jack McGuilp often pesters his mother to read a story to him.

CONCLUSION.

In conclusion, let me beg the reader to accompany me in imagination to the site of the once far-famed old Elizabethan hostelry, "The Headless Lady" and what do we see? Alas! not even the old blackened ruin is there to mark the spot. All, _all_, has been swept away by the ruthless hand of modern civilisation.

"She cries, a thousand types are gone, I care for nothing, all shall go."

TENNYSON.

How is the whole face of the country changed! The stately elms and beeches, with the rooks' nests lodging in their branches, have been cut down to satisfy the greed of this utilitarian age. The land has been bought up in our time by a railway company, and crowded trains, with their screeching railway whistle, rush over the very site of this ancient hostelry, whose walls once resounded with the songs and applause of our friends of the "Wonder Club." Not even the picturesque old church of Littleborough has been spared. Being p.r.o.nounced unsafe, it was pulled down, and on its site erected a modern Baptist chapel, in all that unsightly ugliness of style so cherished by dissenters. How strange that religious bodies should have such execrable taste. Telegraph lines cross and recross each other in every direction, and railway bridges, tunnels and aqueducts abound on all hands.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE QUAKER]

The town of Muddleton-upon-Slush, once little more than a village, has swelled to the proportions of a prosperous factory town, with its smoky chimneys, its gasometers, its rows upon rows of jerry-built houses, its new town hall, its salvation army barracks, its police station, its chapels of every conceivable denomination, to say nothing of its numerous public-houses, young men's Christian a.s.sociation, its baths and wash-houses, its low theatre, where questionable pieces are represented by indifferent actors to pander to the modern taste. Then its placards and pictorial advertis.e.m.e.nts, who shall tell? But, enough. As for the old fashioned honest English rustic of the past, with his st.u.r.diness of character and devout unquestioning faith in matters of religion, _his_ genus is quite extinct; you may possibly stumble upon his fossil in a stratum of London blue clay. He has been superseded by quite a distinct species--the modern blackguard, with his blatant scepticism and blasphemous irreligion.

It might have been some forty years ago since the author, who was travelling on a matter of urgent business on this line, was roused in the midst of a reverie by the guard calling out, "Muddleton-upon-Slush!

Any pa.s.sengers for Muddleton?" As this was my destination I descended, and was about to cross the railway bridge when I observed an aged and reverend looking individual, whose low crowned hat with its broad brim, and the severe cut of whose sad coloured clothes proclaimed him a member of the "Society of Friends," a genuine quaker of the true old fashioned stamp, long since extinct. He was in earnest discourse with the porter, and as I pa.s.sed him I caught these words, uttered in tones deliberate and slow, as one who has the whole day before him, and sees no necessity for hurry, and which contrasted strangely with the bustle and confusion going on around him.

"Prithee, friend, canst thou direct me to the ancient hostel of the 'Headless Lady'?"

"The _what_? The ''Eadless Lady.' No, sir. There ain't no public 'ouse about 'ere of that name," was the porter's curt reply. "But if it's a gla.s.s of _h_ale you want, sir, there's the '_H_angel and the _H_eagle,'

the '_H_elephant and Castle,' and the----"

"Doubtless, friend," interrupted the reverend individual, "there are enough and to spare of those abominations, those dens of iniquity that the lost sheep of the house of Israel denominate public houses; but know, friend, that it is not ale I seek, seeing that I am a follower of one Rechab, who, as doubtless thou wilt have read in Holy Writ, indulged neither in wine nor strong drink."

The porter's face throughout this sententious speech was a study. His eyes and mouth gradually opened till they reached their utmost limit.

Then suddenly recollecting that his manner might appear rude, he broke in with:

"Well, sir, if you should prefer a good rump steak and a cup of tea, I could recommend----"

"Verily, friend," again interrupted the quaker, "thou comprehendest me not, for neither doth my soul hanker after the fleshpots of Egypt, but having a taste for antiquarian lore, I would fain revisit that spot of historic interest once seen in my youth, but of which I have now no clear recollection, namely the hostel of the 'Headless Lady.'"

"''Eadless Lady'! ''_Eadless Lady_'! Why, G.o.d bless my soul, sir, where _h_ever do you 'ail from? Why, now I come to think of it, I remember to have 'eerd my grandfather speak of it. Lor, sir, it's been burnt down this 'alf a century ago."

"Burnt down!" exclaimed the antiquary, in extreme vexation.

"Yessir," replied the porter, briskly, "burnt down by the landlord hisself, when in his cups, as I've heered say--down to the wery ground.

There, sir, is the spot, where I'm p'inting. Yessir, that's where it stood. This here line runs right bang over the wery site of it."

"Bless me!" cried the disappointed quaker in dismay, "and have I left my peaceful home, that I havn't stirred out of for years to hear this?

Verily, all is vanity."

Here he would have begun a homily on the evils of intemperance, had not the guard interrupted him with:

"Yessir, I remember to have 'eerd my grandfather say, when I was a kid, on'y so high" (here he lowered the palm of his hand to within a couple of feet of the platform), "as 'ow the 'ouse was 'aunted by the ghost of a nun, as valked about vith 'er 'ead _h_under 'er _h_arm, but that's a long while ago, that is. No, sir, you may depend upon it, there _h_ain't no 'eadless ladies valking about now, sir. _Ve_ don't believe in 'em nowadays."

With this, he took up a rasping iron bell, which he rang so vigorously that the peaceful quaker was fain to stop his ears and hurry from the spot as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Poor old gent," muttered the porter, to himself, as he looked after him, "'e _h_ain't _h_up to date, no 'ow."

FINISH.