Part 7 (1/2)

Had the moment been opportune, Philip would then and there have eased his soul by a full confession; but the old man had lapsed into pre-occupied silence, and, as if repentant of his unusual burst of emotion, his face resumed its aspect of reserve to a more than usual degree; so, after glancing through the pages of a book, but whether of poetry or prose, of fiction or philosophy, he knew no more than the man in the moon, Philip silently withdrew and retired to his bedroom, torn with anxiety and fear.

I hope my readers are prepared to award their sympathy to my youthful hero. His mind was hara.s.sed by religious convictions and distressed by spiritual yearnings for a rest he could not find. His heart was filled with the force of an impossible love, a love which had laid an abiding hold upon his life, and these, with the dread, not so much of his father's anger as his father's grief, all tended to distract and sadden him. Seated in his bedroom he reviewed all the events of the evening, and put the question to himself, ”What shall I do?” That was followed instantly with, ”What ought I to do?”--always one of the wisest questions in the world. The answer came clear and full, like a revelation: ”Go and tell your father.”

Yielding to the impulse of the moment, and resolved to rid himself of the secrecy, which was so foreign to his nature, Philip straightway retraced his steps, and once more stood before his father, and said,--

”I should like to speak with you a few minutes, father, if you please.”

The old gentleman laid aside his book, slowly and deliberately placed the ivory paper-knife in it to mark the page; taking off his spectacles, he carefully folded them and put them in the case, then lifting his keen eyes upon his son, as if he would look him through, he said,--

”Hadn't you better take a seat while you make your communication?”

Philip found that he was getting frozen up, and that if he did not make a spurt, he should soon be unable to tell his story.

”Father,” said he, ”I entreat you not to be angry with me. Hear me through, and--and--help me if you can.”

Beginning at the beginning, Philip told him of his visits to the forge; how he was captivated by his childish playmate; how since his return from college she had returned from school, and how, having seen her again and again, he felt that he loved her with all his soul, as he could never love anybody else on earth. At this point, inspired by the afflatus of a deep and true affection, Philip waxed eloquent.

”Father,” said he, ”Lucy Blyth is, in worldly wealth and status, far beneath me; but in wealth of mind and the riches of goodness and piety, she is infinitely my superior. Of her beauty I say nothing, one sight of her will show you that it is peerless. Father, dear father, I love her with as deep and true a love as ever mastered man. You I feel bound to obey, not in filial duty only, but because I love and reverence my father; but I beseech you to pause before you forbid this thing, for, in the day when this hope dies out into the dark, my life will alter, and the Philip Fuller of to-day will be a different man.

How the difference will be felt or borne, G.o.d only knows!”

The depth of intensity, the mournful voice in which that last sentence was uttered sent the blood back from the father's heart. It told him that this was no pa.s.sing fancy, but the master-love of a life.

The squire sat silent for several moments. His features were fixed and firm and immovable as usual, but there was a pallor on his face which showed that he had received a blow--a blow from which he would not soon recover.

”Have you anything more to say?” asked the squire, in a voice quiet and low.

”No, father,” said Philip, ”only this--that you must not doubt either my love or my duty. But, oh remember, the happiness of my life is in your hands,” and bidding him ”good-night,” Philip once more retired to his room. That night his sleep was troubled. He dreamed that he was spurned by his father, pursued by Black Morris, while Lucy, bright as an angel, stood before him with outstretched arms, and then, struggling vainly with some invisible power, was borne for ever from his view.

Nor were matters much more promising in the house of Nathan Blyth.

After Lucy's unpleasant experiences with Black Morris, and her exciting interview with Philip Fuller, she was a good deal fl.u.s.tered and disturbed, and when she entered the house, Nathan was constrained to notice her flushed face and disarranged attire.

”Why Lucy, la.s.s, you look as though you had been at work in a hayfield, and as warm as a dairymaid at a b.u.t.ter churn. If it had been any other girl I should have said that she'd been 'gallivanting;' but that's not in my Lucy's line, is it?”

Lucy was not quite prepared for this sort of thing, but she never stooped to an evasion, and her maidenly intuitions led her at once to tell her father the events of the night.

”Black Morris seized hold of me,” said she, ”as I pa.s.sed the churchyard. I think he was tipsy, and he ran after me. Philip heard me scream, and he brought me safely home.”

Wrath against Black Morris rose high in the blacksmith's heart, but the unconscious familiarity with which she mentioned ”Philip,” as if there could be but one in the whole wide world, struck him so forcibly that he said,--

”Philip? Philip who? Do you mean Master Philip, at the Hall?”

Poor Lucy saw in a moment all the force of her thoughtless slip of the tongue, and she could not for the life of her prevent her fluttering heart from imprinting its secret cipher on her cheek. The bashful, ”Yes, father,” tore away the flimsy veil that hid her heart's idol from her father's view.

”And how comes Philip Fuller's name to flow so glibly from my la.s.sie's lips?” said Nathan, seriously. ”My Lucy hasn't learnt to listen to words of love from one who can never be aught to her, and whose life and hers must always be wide apart--has she?”

The tears were in Lucy's eyes, and her sweet lips quivered as she knelt by her father's knee.