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 Æsculapius 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 protÉgÉ."

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 AthenÆum, 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 protÉgÉ. 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.

We have said that Mr. Oldstone was prompt in answering the letters of his protÉgÉ. 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.