Part 6 (2/2)

Castles in the air began to rear their gleaming but deceptive turrets, and in the delusive glamour of a lover's Paradise, Philip approached the lodge by the gate which led through Waverdale Park. The night was dark and still, and his path was made more gloomy by the overarching trees, which almost converted the lane into an avenue, and shut out the glimmer of the watchful stars. He thought of Lucy and his all-engrossing love; he thought of his father and of the interview he must summon courage to seek, that he might reveal his tender secret as in duty bound; he thought of Black Morris and his final threat; and then his mind reverted to the interview he had had, that evening, with the rector of the parish, the Rev. Bertram Elliott.

Philip's visit to the Rectory had been connected with those mental troubles which had more and more disturbed him since the Sunday evening when he had heard Nathan Blyth discourse on ”the Lamb of G.o.d,”

and joined with the rural wors.h.i.+ppers in singing of the love of a crucified Christ. From then till now no day had pa.s.sed without bringing to his mind the sweet and touching lines--

”All ye that pa.s.s by, To Jesus draw nigh, To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?”

To the clergyman Philip had confided his spiritual anxieties, and from him had sought the ghostly counsel which his troubled heart and conscience did so greatly need. The worthy rector was a gentleman and a scholar, and for the s.p.a.ce of five-and-twenty years had christened, married, and buried the villagers of Nestleton; had read the grand old liturgy with some earnestness and irreproachable accent; had given a fifteen minutes' homily every Sunday morning of the most harmless character; and, altogether, was a genial and worthy member of his cla.s.s. But to Philip, in his moody anxiety and distress of soul, he was of no use whatever. He simply urged him to live a moral life, attend the church and take the sacraments, to go into company and engage in field sports as a sure way of dissipating the ”vapours” and getting rid of ”the blues.” That sort of teaching, let us be thankful to say, is by no means common in this year of grace, but there was more than a sufficiency of it fifty years ago.

Philip reached the lodge and let himself gently through the gate, so as not to disturb Giles Green, the lodge-keeper, who with his little household had retired to rest. On his way through the park he heard the sound of human voices from a coppice to the right, and, pausing a moment, caught the mention of his own name. Almost immediately afterwards, another voice said,--

”Nivver mind 'im, owd chum. Lucy Blyth's ower poor a dish for 'im to sit down tae. Why, Squire Fuller would shutt 'im if 'e was to tak' up wi' a blacksmith's dowter.”

Here another voice rapped out an ugly oath, ”If'e dizzn't I will, as soon as look at 'im. Ah mean to hev that little wench myself, an' I'll give an ounce of lead to anybody that gets into my road.”

Here the voices became more distant, and Philip lost the remainder of the conversation. He had heard enough, however, to convince him that mischief was brewing, and that Lucy Blyth was right in warning him against the reckless revenge of Black Morris. Resuming his walk, and burdened by this new complication, he entered the portals of Waverdale Hall. His favourite Newfoundland dog, Oscar, rose from his mat, shook his s.h.a.ggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father's presence.

CHAPTER XI.

BOTH PHILIP AND LUCY MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.

”The voice of parents is the voice of G.o.ds, For to their children they are Heaven's lieutenants; To steer the freight of youth through storms and dangers, Which with full sails they bear upon, and straighten The mortal line of life they bend so often.

For these are we made fathers, and for these May challenge duty on our children's part.

Obedience is the sacrifice of angels, Whose form you carry.”

_Shakespeare._

The squire was seated in his well-furnished and luxurious library, by the side of a handsome reflector lamp, with a book written by a popular free-thinker on his knees, for in works of a kindred sceptical character the thoughtful but cynical student had latterly taken great delight.

”Well, Master Philip,” said he, ”you keep late hours, and return as stealthily as if you had been keeping an a.s.signation.” Here he lifted his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, and peered into his son's ingenuous face, into which this chance home-thrust brought a rush of blood, and that ”index of the mind” grew as red as the crimson curtains which hung in heavy folds behind him.

The squire's suspicious nature was instantly aroused. Laying down his book he rose from his seat, and stretching out his hand in solemn earnest, he said,--

”Son Philip, you will not be other than a gentleman? You will not sully your father's name? You will not dim the honour of an ancestry which has held its own with the n.o.blest through a hundred generations?

You will not grieve your father by a base and unworthy deed? In the day you do, you'll”--here the firm lip quivered--”you'll break his heart!”

”Father, dear father,” said Philip, taking his father's hand, ”that will I never, by the help of G.o.d.”

”Forgive my momentary doubt, my son. You have never given me cause to fear. But what meant that tell-tale blush at the mere mention of the word a.s.signation? Phil, my boy, there are few things that I hate more than the loose notions about morality and virtue which disgrace too many of the wealthiest youth of modern times. I have small faith in priests and in the cant of religion, but unsullied honour and true manhood, _sans peur et sans reproche_, _that_ should be the motto and the creed of all. Phil, are you worthy of that character to-night?”

There was no mistaking the honest ”Yes, father!” which this question elicited, and the old man returned to his book with a sigh of infinite relief.

That sensation of relief, however, was by no means shared by poor Philip, who, though perfectly innocent of anything in the direction suspected by his father, felt his own peculiar secret weighing on his honest heart all the more heavily, because of what had pa.s.sed between them. He longed to cast himself at his father's feet and tell him all, but he was restrained by the consciousness that the revelation would be like gall and wormwood to one whose escutcheon was his _fetish_, and whose blue blood was sure to boil in aristocratic wrath at the bare idea of its commixture with the plebeian corpuscles of a village blacksmith.

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