CHAPTER VI.
THE GIPSY QUEEN.--MR. BLACKDEED'S NEW PLAY.
It was Monday morning. Our members assembled as usual at the breakfasttable, after which the host entered with the newspaper, to show hisguests an account of some political event of great importance. Theappearance of a newspaper in the club was a thing of great rarity, as wehave already hinted that politics were only permitted occasionally onsufferance. As Mr. Oldstone was commonly looked up to as the head of theclub, if not altogether on account of his age, still as one who was mostrigid against any infringement of discipline and decorum, each memberglanced timidly towards this worthy, as if to ask his consent andabsolution, which having given with a solemn nod of his head, the othermembers seized with eagerness the mystic folio, and having spread it outupon the table, huddled one behind the other to get the first look atits contents.
As for our artist, he had "metal more attractive," as Mr. Blackdeedmight have observed. Nothing would satisfy him but a good long sittingfrom his enchantress, Helen. So stealing from the company, engrossed asthey were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he sethis palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called hismodel, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the oldcarved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace.Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand isinspired not merely by the love of art--great, though that loveundoubtedly is with all artists--but spurred on by another, perhaps morepowerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinaryfaculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterlyamazed at his own powers. The first hour passes away like five minutes.Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel theylove, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer thebetter. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we denyit? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world?How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal theirlove one for the other, even _when_ they intend to do so! Murder willout sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent toin words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore,as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better.
But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence?Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking anoutlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashesof the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will invain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush,the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh--have they nolanguage? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if youwould hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way.
This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heartwas a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but justheard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able torealise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her ownfeelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from herlarge blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that itdare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion;instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims.Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thouart unerring--who can escape thee?
But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far beit from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to theclub-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, areinterrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorativethump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr.Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club--viz., the recitalof his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage.
"Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices.
"Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus, "the play is the thing, youknow."
Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassusobserved, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscriptfrom his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his lateeffusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air ofdignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, andall attention, he thus began:
Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III Page 3
