He locked himself within his room,
and having collected together a few articles of clothing--enough to
fill his valise, he threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up
to meditation. It will be remembered a few pages back that our artist accused himself
of behaving like a brute towards his model. In this he did himself
injustice. He had never deliberately set about gaining the affections of
this simple village maiden. Any base design against her was the farthest
from his thoughts. He admired her innocence and beauty, and wished that
it might never lose its unsullied purity. He had never dreamed of
actually falling in love with her, child as she was, and his conduct had
been always that of a fond parent towards a pretty child. He little
recked of any danger, either to her or to himself, but he found her
beauty gain upon him day by day, till at length he was fairly in the
toils. Yet he had never spoken to her of love. No, not a word. He
_would_ not. He had no desire that the girl should fall in love with
him, nor would it be politic for him to fall in love with her. Wrong her
he would not. Marry her he could not. For, besides hampering himself as
a struggling artist with a wife and family, he dreaded quarrelling with
almost the only relation he had living: a rich uncle; from whom he had
expectations, and who would most decidedly consider that he had dragged
the family name in the mire by marrying the daughter of a country
innkeeper. In what way, then, it will be asked, did he think he had
acted brutally towards the girl? This is what he blamed himself for:
First, for allowing himself to be carried away with feelings of love
towards the girl, however secretly; and then for incautiously allowing
her to discover his secret. For, although he had not spoken of love, you
may depend upon it that he had _looked_ it, and it was not difficult for
her to read in his burning glances the secret of his soul. Love leads to
love. He, too, read in the soft eyes, the heaving bosom, the stifled
sigh, the deepening blush, and other tell-tale signs that she loved
_him_. Thus, each had learned the other's secret. They had spoken to
each other with their eyes, and thus just as much mischief had been
wrought as if the most courtly phrases had been used. He had not
intended that his glances should be understood, but they _were_. Thus he
blamed himself. Matters being thus, there was no other remedy but flight. It would be a
wrench, both for himself and for the girl, but the kindest thing in the
end. In fact, it was his only course. So, having hurriedly finished his
packing, he went downstairs to inform the members of the club of his
intention. It may easily be conceived how unwelcome was the news, for our artist
had made himself extremely popular with all, and was looked upon as a
great acquisition as a story-teller. Mr. Oldstone, in particular,
exhausted all his powers of persuasion to yet delay his departure, but
he found him obdurate. The good antiquary, who was an old bachelor, had
grown to love our artist as a son; and now that the hour of parting had
come, it rent him sore. In the evening a farewell carousal was given in his honour, in which
several bowls of punch were discussed; much tobacco smoked; a few
speeches made; several anecdotes related; a song or two; besides some
atrocious puns, with much laughter and witty conversation, until the
utterance of all grew somewhat thick; and we regret to add that the
worthy chairman, in his laudable attempts to do honour to his young
protégé, had to be assisted upstairs and put to bed in a state decidedly
mellow. CHAPTER IX. The next morning broke clear and frosty, without a cloud in the sky. "What bitter mockery!" thought McGuilp, as he looked on the beaming face
of Nature, and contrasted it with the feelings he bore hidden in his
breast. "A day like yesterday would have been more in harmony with my
soul." The sun actually smiled on his departure. "Good morning, my young friend!" cried the cheery voice of Mr. Oldstone
as they entered the breakfast room together; "it is a fine day for you." Our artist nodded assent, and having shaken hands with all the members
in turn, seated himself at the breakfast table, and tried to keep up a
cheerful appearance, but his smile was hollow, and his face was pale. "I wish you would let me give you a little opening medicine, Mr.
McGuilp," broke in Dr. Bleedem, in the midst of a lull in the
conversation; "it would soon set you to rights." Our artist persisted that he _was_ all right, and required nothing. "H'm, h'm," muttered the doctor to himself with a shake of the head, as
much as to say, "You don't fool _me_." Conversation then took a general turn, and our artist was allowed to
finish his meal unmolested. Breakfast was hardly concluded when a horn was heard in the distance. "There's the stage!" cried one of the members. "'The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,'" quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his
great poet; but the quotation fell flat on the ears of our artist, who
had grown a shade paler. "I am quite sure, Mr. McGuilp," went on the irrepressible Doctor
Bleedem, "that if you were to follow my advice----"

"There, that's enough, Bleedem. Leave the boy alone," broke in Mr.
Oldstone. "Here comes the stage. God bless you, my boy. Take an old
man's blessing with you. I know I shan't see you again this side of
Time. I'm getting old; I know it; I feel it. But write me as soon as you
get to Rome to say you have arrived safely; and here is a letter to my
old friend Rustcoin, which please give him with your own hands when you
see him. There, good-bye, good-bye." Here the kind old antiquary mopped
his eyes, gave our artist a fatherly pat on the back, and followed him
to the door. "Good-bye, sir, and I hope we shall meet again." This was all our artist
could find to say. The coach had now driven up, and McGuilp had to undergo once more the
ordeal of shaking hands. This was rather a trial, for although there
could be no doubt as to the sincerity of the regret that each member
felt at his departure, and the cordiality of their good wishes, yet
there was one thought alone that now occupied his mind, viz., that of
tearing himself away from his fair model. Whether the members guessed this, and out of bare humanity wished to
give him a chance to say a few words alone with his lady-love, we know
not; but, having wished their guest God-speed, they left him, and
surrounded the coach. Some of them patted the smoking horses; one had a
word with the driver; others seemed to scrutinise the travellers and the
vehicle. Our host and hostess stood at the door of the inn, and wished
their late guest a happy journey and a speedy return, to which our
artist responded by a hearty shake of the hand and a few appropriate
words.