As he did so, the doctor mounted the stairs. He came to administer a cordial.
"She seems much better now, doctor," remarked Mr. Oldstone.
Here a muttered consultation took place just outside the patient's door. After which the physician entered the sick-room, and finding his patient's nerves somewhat excited, administered a calm soothing dose which sent her off into a peaceful sleep, while our antiquary sought his young protégé, and explained that, owing to the patient having taken a composing draught, the doctor's advice was, that he had better postpone his visit till the morrow.
Our artist's disappointment at being refused an interview with his inamorata after so long an absence may be imagined, but he was consoled in a measure by the doctor's promise that she would be well enough to see him on the following day. On one thing he had thoroughly made up his mind, and that was to ask her in marriage of her father. He had never ceased to love her all the time he had been absent, but up to the present he had no position to offer her. Were she to marry one of the many country bumpkins who flocked around her, it would be affluence to what he could have offered her. He could not afford to have quarrelled with his only relative. The consequences would have been fatal. Now everything had changed. He was rich, and could afford to please himself. Therefore on the morrow he was resolved to speak to her father.
It will readily be imagined that our artist's return to his native land, to say nothing of the chain of events that followed—his heroism, his trial and acquittal, were events that could not be passed over without celebration. Therefore it is needless to say that the evening was spent round the merry punch bowl, as usual on festive occasions.
Mr. Oldstone was again elected chairman, which post none of the members felt inclined to dispute with him. The evening opened with a congratulatory speech from the chairman, addressed to our artist, to which he replied with brevity and grace. To say that his health was drunk with the usual three times three would be superfluous.
Jack Hearty was called in to join in the toast and invited to take a seat, while our artist was called upon by the members of the club to give an account of his adventures among the brigands, which he did in a manner so graphic, and with such grace and easy command of language, that the company remained spellbound, drinking in every detail of his narrative, whether it were a description of natural scenery or climate—the dress or physiognomy of his captors—their attitudes, their language, or what not. Nothing was forgotten. His trials and privations, his thoughts of home, and the friends he had left behind him. (He mentioned nothing of the girl he left behind him). Then he described the final tussle with the carabineers, and his subsequent rescue. Thus he rambled on in one continual flow of diction like a mill stream without interruption, carried away by his enthusiasm in such a manner as to leave no doubt in the minds of his hearers as to his having taken part himself in the adventures he described.
"Now, mine host," said the chairman, at the conclusion of this somewhat prolonged narrative, "what do you say to that?"
"Well, well, well," replied that worthy, musingly. "To think that all that should have happened to one of my gentlemen customers, what's been in furren parts. Why, it beats the story books out and out. Blessed if I can't see it all a goin' on before my very eyes."
"True, Jack," agreed Mr. Oldstone, "such is the power of our young friend's eloquence, that one feels that we ourselves have taken part in it."