Chapter 3

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 assent, 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 lusty 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. God 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 God-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 passage, "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 God 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 passed 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 passed him, was in no humour to exchange commonplaces with
his fellow passengers. 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 passed 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 pass 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
assured 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 gratitude, and she was unable
longer to control herself, but, bursting into the most passionate 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."

"How can I be calm," screamed the girl, "when he has gone for ever, and
I shall never, never see him again!"

"Well, my dear, and a good job too. The best thing that could happen to
you both," said the antiquary, "though you won't think so now; but mark
my word, Helen, this will pass over, and the sooner the better for you
both, for these sort of cases lead to no good, you may depend upon it."

"Why, sir," asked the girl, "is it then a sin to love?"

"A sin, my precious!" exclaimed Oldstone; "no, I can't say that.
But--but--there is always danger in it."

"What danger, sir?"

"Well, my dear, there are certain things that are very difficult to
explain to one so young. When you grow older----"

"Oh! sir, why cannot you tell me now--you, who know the danger?"

"Yes, my dear, I should just think I did," observed the antiquary.
"There are shoals and pitfalls that beset the young, and they would do
well to listen to the voice of warning ere it is too late, and profit by
the experience of others, rather than trouble themselves about the _why_
and the _wherefore_ of everything."

"Then you mean to say that love _is_ wrong after all," observed Helen.

"Not as long as it remains love," replied Oldstone, "but people may
_make_ it so."

"How? I don't understand."

"Perhaps not, my dear. You have much to learn yet. I mean, people _will_
talk, and you can't stop them. The world can only judge by appearances.
It _might_ misjudge you. It might put a false construction on your
conduct, however innocent."

"But that would be wrong, unjust, and cruel."

"Perhaps so, my dear. It very often is."

"Are the gentlemen of the club the world?"

"Yes, part of it."

"Would they tell stories about me?"

"If they thought they saw anything suspicious in your conduct."

Helen reflected for a moment and then said, "I don't know what they
could find suspicious in my conduct."

"No, my pet, neither do I," answered the kind old man with a benevolent
smile. "The fact is, there are so many people in the world who find
other people's business more interesting than their own; and even when
they are unable to find a flaw in their neighbour's character, they will
make one. Therefore, avoid the appearance of evil."

"Still, I don't understand," began Helen.

"No, my dear, and what's more, I can't explain," observed the old man.
"But _this_ I can tell you. The brute world, in cases of love, exacts
marriage as the hallmark of respectability. It can see nothing but harm
in the love of two young pure souls, however platonic--I mean innocent.
They look upon it as dangerous, to say the least, and the only way to
satisfy them and avoid scandal is to _marry_."

"I never thought about marrying," said Helen. "Cannot two persons love
each other just the same without either thinking of marriage?"

"They _could_ I suppose, but the world would soon make it hot for them.
They would have to pay for defying the world."

"Pay!"

"Yes, and dearly too. Pay for it by seeing the finger of scorn
directed towards them--the cold shoulder of respectability and
self-righteousness; by being forced to listen to vile gossip and
scandalous reports; shunned by those far viler than themselves; bear up
against the ribald jeers of the vile populace, till their lives become a
burden to them, and they would finally be compelled to confess that they
would have done better for their own peace and comfort if they had
humoured the vile rabble and _married_."

"Does love without marriage mean all that?"

"I am afraid it does, my girl; I am afraid it does. At least, I wouldn't
advise you to brave the world. It isn't worth it. If you can't marry,
you had better not encourage love."

"I don't see that it matters to them if I love or if I don't," observed
the girl.

"Neither do I, my dear," answered her counsellor, "and if people would
mind their own business, the world would be happier."

"It seems so mean and paltry to be always prying into other people's
affairs. I can't tell why they do it. I am sure I should never take the
trouble. How is it, Mr. Oldstone?"

"My dear," replied the old man, "I can't tell you how these things are,
but so they are."

At this juncture the voice of Dame Hearty was heard calling for her
daughter. The door then opened, and the head of our hostess appeared.

"Come now, Helen," cried our worthy dame, rather petulantly, "I have
been looking for you all over the house. You knew I was waiting for you
in the kitchen."

"Don't blame her, mother," interceded the kind antiquary. "It is all
_my_ fault. I have been detaining her perhaps over long, just for a
friendly chat."

"Oh, very well, sir," replied the landlady with a bland smile, "but if
you don't mind me taking her away now, as I am rather behind-hand with
the work."

"Certainly, Dame Hearty," said Mr. Oldstone, with a wave of the hand.

Helen followed her mother, and the door closed behind them. Then our
antiquary occupied himself vigorously with his writing, until the other
members of the club returned from their ramble, hungry for their mid-day
meal.