It is not difficult to understand how a young and
susceptible child like yourself, having never seen anyone else but old
fogies like us, should suddenly take a fancy to a smart young----

"Oh! sir," broke in Helen, in agony, "he is gone--gone for ever, and I
_did_ love him so." "Love! my child! why, at your age you oughtn't to know the meaning of
the word." "I didn't, sir, till quite lately. I had heard of it from others, and
read about it in books; but, oh! Mr. Oldstone, I didn't know it was like
this." Here the poor distracted girl began beating her breast with her clenched
fist, and gazing upwards with tearful eyes, in which there was an
expression of the wildest despair, till the kind old man began to be
seriously alarmed for her sanity. "Hush! hush! my girl," he said in soothing tones; "don't give way so. Calm yourself." "How can I be calm," screamed the girl, "when he has gone for ever, and
I shall never, never see him again!" "Well, my dear, and a good job too. The best thing that could happen to
you both," said the antiquary, "though you won't think so now; but mark
my word, Helen, this will pass over, and the sooner the better for you
both, for these sort of cases lead to no good, you may depend upon it." "Why, sir," asked the girl, "is it then a sin to love?" "A sin, my precious!" exclaimed Oldstone; "no, I can't say that. But--but--there is always danger in it." "What danger, sir?" "Well, my dear, there are certain things that are very difficult to
explain to one so young. When you grow older----"

"Oh! sir, why cannot you tell me now--you, who know the danger?" "Yes, my dear, I should just think I did," observed the antiquary. "There are shoals and pitfalls that beset the young, and they would do
well to listen to the voice of warning ere it is too late, and profit by
the experience of others, rather than trouble themselves about the _why_
and the _wherefore_ of everything." "Then you mean to say that love _is_ wrong after all," observed Helen. "Not as long as it remains love," replied Oldstone, "but people may
_make_ it so." "How? I don't understand." "Perhaps not, my dear. You have much to learn yet. I mean, people _will_
talk, and you can't stop them. The world can only judge by appearances. It _might_ misjudge you. It might put a false construction on your
conduct, however innocent." "But that would be wrong, unjust, and cruel." "Perhaps so, my dear. It very often is." "Are the gentlemen of the club the world?" "Yes, part of it." "Would they tell stories about me?" "If they thought they saw anything suspicious in your conduct." Helen reflected for a moment and then said, "I don't know what they
could find suspicious in my conduct." "No, my pet, neither do I," answered the kind old man with a benevolent
smile. "The fact is, there are so many people in the world who find
other people's business more interesting than their own; and even when
they are unable to find a flaw in their neighbour's character, they will
make one. Therefore, avoid the appearance of evil." "Still, I don't understand," began Helen. "No, my dear, and what's more, I can't explain," observed the old man. "But _this_ I can tell you. The brute world, in cases of love, exacts
marriage as the hallmark of respectability. It can see nothing but harm
in the love of two young pure souls, however platonic--I mean innocent. They look upon it as dangerous, to say the least, and the only way to
satisfy them and avoid scandal is to _marry_." "I never thought about marrying," said Helen. "Cannot two persons love
each other just the same without either thinking of marriage?" "They _could_ I suppose, but the world would soon make it hot for them. They would have to pay for defying the world." "Pay!" "Yes, and dearly too. Pay for it by seeing the finger of scorn
directed towards them--the cold shoulder of respectability and
self-righteousness; by being forced to listen to vile gossip and
scandalous reports; shunned by those far viler than themselves; bear up
against the ribald jeers of the vile populace, till their lives become a
burden to them, and they would finally be compelled to confess that they
would have done better for their own peace and comfort if they had
humoured the vile rabble and _married_." "Does love without marriage mean all that?" "I am afraid it does, my girl; I am afraid it does. At least, I wouldn't
advise you to brave the world. It isn't worth it. If you can't marry,
you had better not encourage love." "I don't see that it matters to them if I love or if I don't," observed
the girl. "Neither do I, my dear," answered her counsellor, "and if people would
mind their own business, the world would be happier." "It seems so mean and paltry to be always prying into other people's
affairs. I can't tell why they do it. I am sure I should never take the
trouble. How is it, Mr. Oldstone?" "My dear," replied the old man, "I can't tell you how these things are,
but so they are." At this juncture the voice of Dame Hearty was heard calling for her
daughter. The door then opened, and the head of our hostess appeared. "Come now, Helen," cried our worthy dame, rather petulantly, "I have
been looking for you all over the house. You knew I was waiting for you
in the kitchen." "Don't blame her, mother," interceded the kind antiquary. "It is all
_my_ fault. I have been detaining her perhaps over long, just for a
friendly chat." "Oh, very well, sir," replied the landlady with a bland smile, "but if
you don't mind me taking her away now, as I am rather behind-hand with
the work." "Certainly, Dame Hearty," said Mr. Oldstone, with a wave of the hand. Helen followed her mother, and the door closed behind them. Then our
antiquary occupied himself vigorously with his writing, until the other
members of the club returned from their ramble, hungry for their mid-day
meal. CHAPTER X. 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.