Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

by M. Y. Halidom

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'œuvre.

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."