A universal gloom pervaded the precincts of the Wonder Club since the departure of the happy pair, which none felt more than Mr. Oldstone. Not but that he was delighted at the union of his protÉgÉ with the landlord's pretty daughter, whom he begrudged to anyone short of a gentleman. That his dear Helen, whom he loved as his own child, should have had the good fortune to marry, not only a gentleman, but the very one that he himself would have singled out for her, was the realization of his happiest dreams. He knew they were happy, and revelled in the thought of their happiness. Still, they had gone out of his life and formed one of their own, apart. Her sunny smile would no more light up the dingy walls of the old hostel. He would hear no more the ring of her merry laugh, could no longer peer into her deep blue eyes, nor delight in her exquisitely white teeth, her rosy cheeks or coral lips; and added to this, his health that had for some time past been failing him, now thoroughly broke down, and he knew his end was not far off. So he penned a letter to his friend Rustcoin, who was still living in Rome, to come over to see him before he died, as he had much to say to him.

Besides the breaking down of our antiquary's health, the club itself, as if by one accord, began to break up. Mr. Blackdeed went to London and became manager of a large theatre. Dr. Bleedem also retired to a fashionable quarter of the metropolis, where he soon had an extensive practice. Mr. Parnassus became editor of a paper at Bath, and published a volume of poems. Professor Cyanite and Mr. Crucible likewise disappeared. The former travelled about the country giving lectures on geology. The latter bought a house near town, where he pursued his studies in chemistry.

Thus our antiquary was now left quite alone; i.e., with the exception of Mr. Hardcase. He managed to pass the time by writing voluminously, as if he intended to finish some important work before he died. In his intervals of rest from his labours, he would frequently take solitary rambles in the woods adjacent to the inn, or along one of the cross roads. On one of these excursions his footsteps led him to the old churchyard of Littleboro' with its old yews and cypress. As he entered the gate, the sexton was at work digging a grave. The man ceased his labour at his approach; and, seating himself on the edge, began to fill his pipe, which he next lighted and began puffing at, apparently oblivious of anybody's presence.

It must be stated that the sexton was looked upon as a character in the village. Certainly he was a strange looking object. He was very old and decrepit, exceedingly bow-legged, had a bald, mis-shapen head. Was toothless, hollow-eyed, with features that suggested a skull. He was stone deaf, and had, moreover, acquired a habit of uttering his thoughts aloud, whoever might be present, perfectly unconscious that he could be overheard. If addressed, he never gave himself any trouble to catch the meaning of his interlocutor, but always fluked an answer such as he deemed ought to fit the question.

Thus, when our antiquary approached with a "Good morning, Delves. Hard at work, I see. Whose grave may you be working at, now?" he received for answer, "Thank you, sir; I'm very well. Yes, as you say, it be remarkable fine weather for this time o' the year, surely."

"But I didn't make any remark about the weather, Delves," persisted Oldstone. "You didn't understand me."

The sexton made no reply, nor looked the antiquary in the face, but muttered very audibly to himself, "That be one o' them old fools of the Wonder Club—Wonder Club, indeed; ha! ha!" Here he gave vent to a mocking laugh. Then, "He should see some o' my wonders."

Our antiquary was accustomed to the eccentricities of this worthy, who was generally looked upon as a harmless idiot; but when he heard the Wonder Club sneered at, he took deep offence, and was about to utter some rebuke, when the grave-digger began muttering again to himself, and Oldstone, whose curiosity was being roused, forbore to speak, and thought he would listen instead.

"A little knows I seed un's corpse candle last night, he, he! Ay, he'll be the next. They can't, none o' them, fool me. Whenever they've got to die, old Delves allers sees their corpse candles fust. Wasn't I right before Lord Scampford and his bully met with their death, eh? Didn't I say that only one on' o' 'em ud be buried in this here churchyard, and wasn't one on 'em buried in that there corner just as I prognosticated, and didn't I see the corpse candle of 'is lordship go along the road towards London? They allers lets me know beforehand, my customers. Now, there's this here gent, the hantiquary, as they calls him—if I didn't see 'uns corpse candle last night a leavin' the hinn o' the ''Eadless Lady,' and settle down on this wery spot where 'e's a standin', I'll be shot, that's all. If a's not doo to-morrer, or next day, 'e's doo within this week. I never knowed one live more nor a week after I'd seen 'uns corpse candle."

Our antiquary, now intensely interested, determined to interrogate him anew, so he bawled out as loud as he could in his ear, making a trumpet of his hands, "Whose grave did you say that was?"

"Yourn, zur," replied the sexton, with a grin.

"Mine!" exclaimed the antiquary, starting back: "but I'm not dead yet."

"Not dead yet—ain't ye; he, he! Well, you soon will be; ho, ho! I'll give ye three days. I don't think ye'll last longer nor that; but there's where you've got to lie, willy-nilly," said the sexton, pointing to the grave.

"You are making very sure of me," remarked the antiquary, with a grim smile.

"Ay, by ——, I am," rejoined the grave-digger, "for when I've once seen a man's corpse candle——"

There is no knowing how much longer the conversation might have lasted, if at this moment two villagers had not entered the churchyard, so Oldstone, not wishing to be overheard, nodded to the sexton, and added, "Till we meet again." He then bent his steps towards the inn, and, arriving there, was greeted by his friend Rustcoin, who had just arrived. It was years since these two friends had met, and doubtless each found the other vastly changed.

"Why, surely, old friend, you are not so bad as you try to make out," observed Rustcoin. "You look hale and hearty still. You are up, and walking about."

"Well, do you know how much longer they give me to live?" asked Oldstone.

"No. Who?" inquired Rustcoin. "The doctor?"

"Well, not exactly. A prophet."

"A prophet, eh? That's interesting; and who may this prophet be, if I might ask?"

"The grave-digger."

"The grave-digger! What does he know about it?"

"Says he saw my corpse candle last night, and he is at this moment digging my grave on the strength of it."

"My dear fellow, you're joking. Pray, don't give these sort of people any encouragement in their antiquated superstitions. You were always given a little that way yourself, I remember."

"Come, let's go inside, and have lunch together. You are, doubtless, hungry," said Oldstone. "We'll have a good long chat over our meal." Then leaning on his friend's arm, both entered the inn.

Our host and hostess were, of course, delighted at the arrival of the long-absent member, and many allusions were made to old times. Dame Hearty hastily laid the cloth, brought in the lunch of cold beef and pickles, the remains of a rabbit pie, some bread and cheese, with a jug of nut-brown ale, home-brewed and left the two companions to themselves.

"And so our young friend, Vandyke McGuilp, has gone and made a d——d fool of himself," said Rustcoin, after a pause in the conversation. "Well, I thought him a more sensible man. What! one of his talent and position to sink himself to the level of a dish-clout! Why! it's sheer madness."

"My dear fellow; don't talk like that," cried Oldstone. "If you'd only seen the girl, I assure you——"

"Bah! I make no doubt but that she's pretty—that's not the point. You won't pretend that she was any better educated than the rest of her class," maintained Rustcoin.

"Educated! educated!" exclaimed Oldstone. "She had something in her far beyond what you would call education—by which you probably mean book learning, or that flimsy social veneer which anyone can acquire who chooses to move within the radius of a certain narrow circle, where all is artificial, unreal, cold, hypocritical, and false. This is a girl of character, truth-loving, sweet, and unselfish—pure as an angel—intelligent, and with fine sensibilities."

"Nonsense," broke in Rustcoin, testily. "These country wenches are ever stubborn, hard-headed, self-interested, exacting, undocile, unteachable. Peasant she was born, and peasant she will remain to the end of her days. God help the poor idiot with such a one for a mate! She may be well enough as a wife to some country bumpkin, but for any rational being to hamper himself with one of these clods——"

"But she's not one of these clods," persisted Oldstone. "I tell you this is quite an exceptional case."

"Just because she is pretty, forsooth," interposed Rustcoin. "I believe you are gone on her yourself."

"Oh! as for me—I love her as my own daughter," replied Oldstone. "I've seen her grow up from a child, and have had plenty of time to study her disposition. I have ever found her dutiful to her parents, diligent in her duties, naturally intelligent, and of the highest principle. Her surroundings have not been altogether those that fall to the lot of a girl of that class, and she possesses all the qualities that any rational man should expect in a wife."

"Such a paragon as you describe, I confess, never came within my experience, and I have gone through something in my youth. More than once I have been on the point of making a fool of myself. At the time, I thought my goddess the most perfect being in creation, but I was soon undeceived in every case, and now I thank my stars that I have always managed to steer clear of trouble, and have remained an old bachelor."

It was the third day since Rustcoin had appeared upon the scene, since which time Oldstone had been sinking fast. At this moment he was seated, propped up by cushions, in an easy chair, in dressing gown and night cap. His friend Rustcoin was by his side, receiving instructions as to the publication of a pile of MSS, whilst Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, whom we have mentioned as still being on the spot after the others had left, was now engaged in putting the antiquary's will into legal form.

Dr. Bleedem having retired to London, his successor, Dr. Dosemore, had been called in to attend the patient. He could do no more however than his predecessor had done—viz., to warn him of his approaching end informing him that he would succumb to internal gout, which would encroach upon his system, until it reached the heart, when it would take him off suddenly. The new doctor had just left the room, and the antiquary was addressing his old friend in feeble tones, as follows:—

"This pile of MSS," he said, "is a collection of tales, which I have jotted down from memory as nearly as possible in the words of the narrators, and which I desire to be bound and published, under the title of 'Tales of the Wonder Club, by Dryasdust.' I believe I am conferring a boon upon society in rescuing these precious documents from oblivion, and publishing them broadcast, for the benefit of humanity at large. See that they be illustrated by the first artists of the day, so that the book may obtain all the readier sale. So shall my soul rest in peace, and my blessing remain with those I leave behind. Tell my young friend Vandyke that my last thoughts were of him and his fair bride." Then extending one hand to his friend Rustcoin and the other to the lawyer, he sank back on his cushions and spoke no more.

"So he has gone at last, the poor old gentleman," said Hardcase, disengaging his hand from that of the corpse.

"Ay, just three days from my arrival, as predicted by the sexton—strange, isn't it?" remarked Rustcoin. "What a fine old head it is. It's a pity a cast should not be taken of it. I should so like to possess a bust of my old friend."

"Nothing is easier," said the lawyer. "I will get the new doctor to take one. I know he can, because he told me so."

Dr. Dosemore was immediately recalled, and before the day was over, a successful mould was taken of the face, which, with as little delay as possible, Rustcoin despatched to Rome, to a sculptor friend of his of some renown, with injunctions to execute for him a bust of his old friend, in the best Carrara marble, with pedestal of scagliola.

The bell was tolling at the old church of Littleboro'. A solemn procession, all clad in deep mourning, entered the churchyard gate, and followed the coffin to the grave. The sexton was at his post, bearing a certain air of triumph about him, as if he were saying to himself, "There, I told you so. They can't none of 'em fool me. What I perdicts is sartin."

The same old vicar who so lately had joined together the hands of our hero and heroine in holy matrimony has now a sadder task to perform. Our host and hostess, of course, are present, as well as our friends Hardcase, Rustcoin, and the new doctor, besides several strangers. All stand reverently bareheaded during the reading of the burial service, until the usual three handfuls of earth are strewn upon the coffin, after which the sexton, with a deft and businesslike, though hardly a reverent manner, tumbles the earth hurriedly on to the top of the coffin, and all is over.

Soon after the ceremony Rustcoin and Hardcase take leave of each other, and likewise of our host and hostess, when each departs by a different route. Rustcoin returns no more to Rome, but settles in York, his native town, where he purchased a house, which he has been at some pains to fit up according to his tastes. Over the mantelpiece in his study hangs the portrait of his brother antiquary, painted by our artist, Vandyke McGuilp, while in a corner of the room is a well executed bust in the best Carrara white marble, representing the same features. He has also inherited the whole of his friend Oldstone's collection of antiquities, which are now added to his own, and make, together, a very respectable museum, which he is ever proud of showing to his visitors when they call.

Let us now return to the hostel of the "Headless Lady," where our host and hostess are left alone in their glory, for even Mr. Hardcase has at length taken his departure and settled in some neighbouring town. They are seated at some distance apart from each other, no longer looking tenderly and lovingly into each others' faces as of yore, but askance, as if they had had some matrimonial quarrel, which neither felt inclined to be the first to make up. Jack Hearty's hands are thrust deeply into his pockets, his legs extended, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed upon the ground; while his spouse, usually so active and so busy, to whom nothing was greater pain than being forced to be idle, was now lolling in a listless attitude, her arms dangling idly at her sides with an expression on her face of the most intense boredom. One who knew them both would no longer recognise in these two melancholy persons our jovial host and hostess of former days.

"Tell you what it is, Molly," began Jack, at length, "D——d if I don't think this house is haunted."

"Why so, Jack?" enquired the dame, wearily.

"Have you not noticed since Mr. Oldstone's death—nay, before—ever since our dear Helen left her home, that a curse seems to have fallen upon this house?" demanded Jack.

"True, I feel an unaccountable depression of spirits, but still I thought it nothing but the weather," rejoined his spouse.

"It's not that only," persisted her husband. "Fair or foul weather, it is just the same to me. See how our custom has fallen off."

"Naturally; now that the members of the club have all departed," replied Molly. "It's lonely like, not seeing a human face all day long."

"It's worse than that," continued Jack. "Haven't you felt—well, I don't know how to say it—as if—as if—some danger were hanging over our heads?"

"Lor, Jack!" cried our hostess, "Who'ld ever have thought to hear you talk like that? Well, Jack, to tell you the truth—though I never liked to mention the matter before, for fear you should laugh at me—I confess I never have felt quite myself since the night of that tragedy."

"That's it. Depend upon it," said her husband. "The spot has become accursed. I lose my appetite and sleep; feel weak and nervous; start at the merest sound, while ever and anon I have the sensation as if someone were looking over my shoulder. If perchance I shut my eyes, I see before me all that took place upon that fearful night. I hear the stairs creak, and see that ruffian clasping our dear Helen in his arms. I hear her screams for help, whilst I seem to see myself lying drugged and helpless, incapable of running to her assistance."

"Oh, Jack! and so have I," replied his spouse. "I too have dreamed that dream. It will not go from me. Each time I close my eyes—— Hark! What was that? A footstep, I'll be sworn."

"Ay, ay," assented Jack; "I hear them oft, myself."

It was now growing late, and our host went to fetch a jug of his own nut brown ale, and filled himself up a glass, which he drained at a draught, then filled himself up another.

"You drink more than you used to, Jack," remarked the wife of his bosom. "I've seen you look very muddled of late. Don't let it grow upon you. Don't, now, there's a dear."

But to his wife's tender injunctions he turned a deaf ear, and continued to fill up again and again, and yet again, until he was perfectly mellow.

"Oh! Jack, Jack," cried Dame Hearty, despairingly, "I knew how it would be. Don't, don't; you'll break my heart."

"What the —— does it matter to you?" demanded her husband, "'s long 's I leave you alone (hic)."

Here some altercation took place between the two which we will not record; as, in such moods, our landlord was rarely very choice in his language. It was with considerable difficulty that Dame Hearty succeeded at length in getting her worse half upstairs and to bed.

We grieve to be obliged to record that on the following night there was a repetition of this painful scene, and the night after that, too. In spite of his poor wife's prayers and entreaties, he grew from bad to worse. Jack Hearty had become a confirmed drunkard. When in his cups his nature appeared completely changed. He who, up to the present, had enjoyed the reputation of being the kindest and most loving of husbands, the most genial of men, had now become morose, coarse, blasphemous, cantankerous, and cruel. His poor wife was in despair, and could do nothing but cry or go into hysterics.

It was one stormy night, when our host of the "Headless Lady" had dragged himself upstairs more intoxicated than ever, that he let fall the candle, which immediately set fire to the bed curtains, and in an instant the room was in flames. Our host was so dazed as to be incapable of saving himself, and if it had not been for Dame Hearty's presence of mind, who managed to drag her husband downstairs in time, both might have perished in the flames.

The position of the inn, as we know, was isolated. Before help could be procured the fine old hostel, that had stood for centuries, and whose walls had resounded so long with the mirth and laughter of our jovial members, was now a charred and shapeless ruin.

"Well, Jack, I hope you're satisfied now," said his better-half, as the loving couple tucked themselves into a spare bed at the house of a neighbour, who had taken them in out of charity.

Our host was now quite sober, having had to walk a mile at least through the bleak wind and driving snow, so he turned, in a humbled and penitent manner, towards his wife, crying, "Oh, Molly, Molly, how can you ever forgive me? Oh! what a fool I have been! If I had only listened to you at first. But, there—it's the drink—the cursed drink—that makes a beast of a man. I vow I will never touch a drop of drink again as long as I live."

"Dear Jack, I believe you," replied his spouse. "Be your old self again," and with one loving kiss all past troubles were forgotten.

"Ah! Molly, Molly, you're something like a wife. Never will I for the future give you any cause for complaint."

And he kept his word. Jack Hearty was a reformed man.

We now approach the end of our story. Our hero and heroine, after a prolonged honeymoon in the sunny south, which to Helen was like a dream of Paradise, found themselves reluctantly compelled to return to England in order to superintend certain matters of business connected with their country house and estate. Soon after their return, our married couple, wishing to give the old people an agreeable surprise, proposed paying them a visit in their carriage and pair, at their old home, the "Headless Lady." What was their surprise and dismay, on their arrival, to find, in lieu of the time honoured hostel, a blackened ruin!

"Good Heavens!" cried husband and wife, simultaneously, "what can have become of the old people?" Tears started to the eyes of Helen at the thought of the scenes of her childhood and of the many happy hours she had spent within those old walls; but anxiety for the fate of her parents filled her soul. Enquiries having been made, Jack Hearty and his wife were tracked to the house of a neighbour in the village.

"Father! Mother!" cried the grand lady, stepping out of her carriage; and, throwing all ceremony to the winds, she embraced them both with the fondest affection, while the liveried coachman and footman exchanged glances together.

"Tell us how all this has happened," said our artist; "but first step into the carriage, and we will drive home. You must come and stay with us."

Neither his father nor his mother-in-law possessed anything but what they stood upright in, and were not long in making up their minds, so stepping into the carriage, and waving an adieu to their hospitable neighbours, were soon borne out of sight.

"Well, Jack," said our artist to his father-in-law, after he had listened to a detailed account of the latter's misadventure, as they were sitting together that evening in the cosy parlour of our hero's country house, the two ladies having retired to the drawing-room to enjoy their own private gossip, "of course I am sorry for your loss, and for the old inn itself, which I had calculated making a picture of some day; but really, under the circumstances, I look upon it as providential."

"Providential!" exclaimed the ci-devant landlord, in astonishment. "What! the destruction of the home of my fathers by fire, through my idiotic folly and besotted drunkenness, providential!"

"Jack, my boy, you were but the instrument, and no responsible agent," continued his son-in-law. "From what you tell me, the house was most undoubtedly haunted—the air vitiated and poisoned as by a pestilence, from having been the seat of deep crime. I know something of these phenomena, and I have always heard and read that there is no thorough or lasting purification in such cases save by fire. Take, for example, the Fire of London. That broke out, providentially, after the Plague, in order to purify the City. The burning of your inn was a necessity, as it had been rendered uninhabitable through being haunted, and you were chosen as the instrument."

"Why! Good Heavens!" cried Jack Hearty, drawing his chair suddenly back, and looking straight into the face of his son-in-law, while a fat hand rested on each stout knee. "To think that that should never have occurred to me before! Why, of course, it must have been so. I see it all as plain as a pike-staff."

"You were not yourself, Jack, on that occasion," pursued our artist. "You were beside yourself, which means that your will, already unfeebled, was subjugated by some outside power—viz., the will of some disembodied spirit stronger than your own, who made use of you as his instrument."

"It is quite true, sir," replied Jack, "I was not myself at the time. Well, well—it is some consolation to think it had to be done, and that there was no way out of it."

Here the ladies re-entered the room, and the conversation took another turn.

"Now, Jack," proposed McGuilp, before all present, "since matters have turned out thus, what do you say to becoming steward of my estate—my man of business—caretaker of my house when I am away, and live here with the missus to the end of your days?"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Jack Hearty and his wife together, "you overwhelm us with kindness. How can we ever repay you our debt of gratitude?" and tears started to the eyes of the old couple.

"Then so be it," said the now rich landowner.

"Dear, dear, Van!" exclaimed his young wife, as she threw herself upon his neck and covered him with kisses. "You have made me so happy."

And so it was that the little family party jogged on from day to day as united as birds in a nest.

Jack Hearty was a good man of business, and an honest, and the post suited him to a T. Dame Hearty's delight was naturally to cook and to wash, or in undertaking any of those rough duties that she had been accustomed to in her former life, but as these were not necessary—others having been engaged for that purpose, she was entrusted with the keys of the house, and became an excellent housekeeper, loved and respected by those under her.

Had our artist entirely abandoned art now that he had succeeded to his uncle's fortune and estate? Far from it. First and foremost among the improvements that he made was the building of a spacious studio, which he fitted up in a manner worthy of his taste and his means. In this he executed his great picture, which created such a furore on the following year at the Royal Academy, entitled, "Captured by the Brigands." The English captive in the composition was a faithful likeness of our artist himself, whilst the bronzed features of his captors, which were deeply impressed upon his memory were as like to the originals, our artist assures us, as if they had sat for them. The time is represented as towards evening. The light and shade powerful. The whole effect of the picture weird and unearthly. An offer had been made for it, but the would-be buyer was informed that it was not for sale. So it was hung up in the parlour of the artist's own country house, according to the wish of his loving wife, who liked constantly to be reminded of this weird episode in the life of the man she loved.

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. Vandyke 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. Vandyke McGuilp, were the talk of all the elite. Helen now felt herself called upon to enact the rÔle 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, balls, 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. Vandyke 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 Vandyke 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. Vandyke 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 illustrated work conspicuously placed in their library, entitled: "Tales of the Wonder Club," by Dryasdust, out of which volume little Jack McGuilp often pesters his mother to read a story to him.