Tales of the Wonder Club Volume III Part 1

Tales of the Wonder Club.

Volume III.

by M. Y. Halidom (pseud. Dryasdust).

PREFACE TO VOL. III.

Before taking leave of his readers, the author would inform them that at the commencement of these "Tales," the earlier ones dating some thirty years back, nothing was further from his intentions than rushing into print, although repeatedly persuaded to do so by certain well-meaning friends, who from time to time were permitted to peruse the hidden MSS.

The tales, nearly all of them, were written when the author was living abroad, and to beguile a period of enforced idleness, which otherwise would have been intolerable.

Never in his wildest dreams did he meditate inflicting them on the public mind. Partly, it may be, that he thought with Lord Tennyson, that "fame is half disfame," and that "in making many books there is no end,"

as Solomon teaches. Or it may be that he didn't care to augment that already numerous cla.s.s who are said "to rush on where angels fear to tread." However this might be, time pa.s.sed and the tales began to acc.u.mulate, when the author conceived the idea of stringing them together in a decameron, and later still of ill.u.s.trating them with his own designs. Still years rolled on, and the tales, long abandoned, were consigned to the limbo of a mysterious black box, where they remained all but forgotten till many years later.

"Why on earth don't you publish them?" was the constant cry of those few who were taken into the writer's confidence.

The author answered by a modest shrug of self-depreciation, and still the unfinished MSS. lay at the bottom of the black box. The fact was that a weight of inertia oppressed him, added to a total lack of experience in business matters of this kind, which prevented him from taking the first step. He recoiled from the thought of calling on a publisher and presenting his own MSS., and being occupied in other ways besides writing, he begrudged the time lost in hunting up printers, publishers, and engravers, together with all the delays _contretemps_, and disappointments attendant on red tape.

What he wanted was a factotum, "an all round man," who would take, so to speak, the dirty work off his hands. Where was such a man to be found?

He knew of none. The author is a man of unusually retired habits, and a.s.sociates with but few of his kind. By proclaiming his want openly, doubtless, many would have presented themselves for the task, but in matters of this sort a certain amount of intimacy with the person employed seems to be necessary; at least, so the author thought, and thus time rolled on, and the "Tales" were no nearer publication than they were years ago, and might still have remained in this state for years longer but for an unforeseen incident. One morning, whilst taking a const.i.tutional in a neighbouring suburb, the author's attention was attracted by a strange-looking stringed instrument of undoubted antiquity, in the window of an old curiosity shop. He would enquire the price of it. The proprietor, a weasel-faced little man, with a polished bald head, foxy beard streaked with grey, and a nose rather red at the tip, stood at the door of his shop. His ferret eyes spotted a customer.

"What is the price of that instrument?"

"One guinea."

"I'll take it. Wrap it up in paper."

"Right you are, sir. Good morning, sir. Thank you."

And off trudged the author with this new acquisition to his collection of curios.

Little did he imagine at the time what an important part this same weasely little man was destined to play in the drama of his every day life. Soon after this a second visit was paid to the shop. It was a strange place, choked with odd lumber, where any curio might be obtained, from a mermaid to a mummy. A stuffed crocodile hung in the window. There were cases of stuffed birds and animals, dummies in costume, old pictures, antique furniture, armour, weapons, coins, and postage stamps. A third and fourth visit succeeded, and after almost every visit the author's collection was enriched by some new curio. At length, so frequent became these visits to the curio shop, that hardly a day pa.s.sed without the author putting in an appearance. Some two years may thus have pa.s.sed away, during which time the author had ample opportunity of studying this human weasel. He learned that he was a b.u.m-bailiff, a commission agent, etc., ready to undertake any odd job for money.

Here, then, at last, was the very man. The author accordingly propounded his plan of publishing the "Tales." That weasel nose sniffed business.

With alacrity he seized the MSS., and donning a new top hat, which he did whenever he desired to create an impression of respectability, he climbed to the top of a 'bus, and was soon landed in the thick of our metropolis. From that time all has been comparatively plain sailing.

"_Ce n' est que le premier pas qui coute_," and cost it did, readers, you may be certain of that.

THE AUTHOR.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GIPSY QUEEN]

CHAPTER VI.

THE GIPSY QUEEN.--MR. BLACKDEED'S NEW PLAY.

It was Monday morning. Our members a.s.sembled as usual at the breakfast table, after which the host entered with the newspaper, to show his guests an account of some political event of great importance. The appearance of a newspaper in the club was a thing of great rarity, as we have already hinted that politics were only permitted occasionally on sufferance. As Mr. Oldstone was commonly looked up to as the head of the club, if not altogether on account of his age, still as one who was most rigid against any infringement of discipline and decorum, each member glanced timidly towards this worthy, as if to ask his consent and absolution, which having given with a solemn nod of his head, the other members seized with eagerness the mystic folio, and having spread it out upon the table, huddled one behind the other to get the first look at its contents.

As for our artist, he had "metal more attractive," as Mr. Blackdeed might have observed. Nothing would satisfy him but a good long sitting from his enchantress, Helen. So stealing from the company, engrossed as they were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he set his palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called his model, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the old carved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace.

Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand is inspired not merely by the love of art--great, though that love undoubtedly is with all artists--but spurred on by another, perhaps more powerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinary faculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterly amazed at his own powers. The first hour pa.s.ses away like five minutes.

Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel they love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world?

How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their love one for the other, even _when_ they intend to do so! Murder will out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore, as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better.

But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence?

Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an outlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes of the impa.s.sioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush, the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh--have they no language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you would hide your pa.s.sion, do so by flight, there is no other way.

This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart was a stranger to the tender pa.s.sion. She had heard of love, but just heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to realise its power. She would have been incapable of a.n.a.lysing her own feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious pa.s.sion; instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims.

Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou art unerring--who can escape thee?

But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr.

Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club--viz., the recital of his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage.

"Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices.

"Now then. Blackdeed," said Parna.s.sus, "the play is the thing, you know."

Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parna.s.sus observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his ma.n.u.script from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late effusion before the august a.s.sembly, seated himself with an air of dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and all attention, he thus began:

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONae.

DON DIEGO.

DON SILVIO.

DON PASCUAL, son of Don Diego, in love with Inez.

PEDRO, servant to Don Silvio.

JUAN, servant to Don Diego.

DON ALFONSO, friend to Don Pascual, and student of Salamanca.

DONNA INEZ, only daughter of Don Silvio.

DONNA RODRIGUEZ, nurse to Donna Inez.

LADY ABBESS, sister to Don Silvio.

GIPSY QUEEN, Pepa.

MIGUEL, a Priest.

Another Priest, Gipsies, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, and Populace.

The Scene is laid in Spain in the mountains of Grenada. In Scene III.

of Act I., in Salamanca.