Part 21 (2/2)

”Look here, my dear. You did quite right, and acted with your usual wit and wisdom in sending for me. I have two things to say that, if I know you aright, will help you to decision in a moment. First, Philip Fuller, without your presence and aid, will die. I say it solemnly and truly. Second, _with_ your presence and aid there is another chance, a hope that he may recover. Is that chance to be denied him?”

”I must go, father. Here is a plain duty to do,” said she, as she kissed his anxious and dubious face, and clasped her arms lovingly around his neck, ”and duty must be done. Consequences must be left with G.o.d, and you and I are used to leaving them there, aren't we?”

”Go, my darling, and G.o.d be with you,” said Nathan Blyth.

Hastily gathering together such needful articles of personal attire as were requisite for a brief visit, Lucy took her seat beside her good friend, the doctor, and in a few minutes was far on her way to Waverdale Hall.

”I do not know,” said the doctor, as they rode through the frosty air, ”whether you are aware that the squire told me of Master Philip's attachment to yourself. If I had not known of it I should many days ago have sent for you, simply as a most skilful and all-effective nurse for despondent invalids. The awkward revelation made me defer it for your sake; but my deliberate conclusion is that he is pining away under the influence of a hopeless pa.s.sion or some bitter grief. I do not think the matter of Black Morris has much to do with it; he never mentions it, neither do I apprehend much difficulty in proving him innocent of that charge. Hence, though it is a sad strain to put upon you, Miss Lucy, I am bound to bring the only physician that understands the patient's case.”

”Thank you, Dr. Jephson, for your thought for me,” said Lucy. ”G.o.d knows I would rather have been spared this new and cruel test; but I know where to go for help, and my father's G.o.d and mine will help me through.”

There was a sweet resignation, coupled with a brave resolve to fight the trouble of the moment, which went straight to the doctor's heart.

The phaeton was pulled up at the princ.i.p.al entrance to the mansion.

The old squire was at the door to bid her welcome, and Lucy Blyth, the blacksmith's daughter, crossed the threshold of Waverdale Hall.

CHAPTER XXVI.

DR. JEPHSON'S PRESCRIPTION WORKS WONDERS.

”She is coming, my own, my sweet!

Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed: My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.”

_Tennyson._

Lucy Blyth was conducted with softened footfall and bated breath into the darkened chamber of the helpless invalid. She bent over him and heard the monotonous and untiring moan. She was more shocked than words can express to see how the fine stalwart youth had been laid low. His hair was close shaven, and his lackl.u.s.tre eyes were sunk far into his head, while the cheekbones stood prominent as those of a skeleton, and the poor thin hands, that were clutching nervously at the coverlet, were bloodless as a stone. Lucy's heart sank within her; the doctor, the nurse, and the squire softly turned away; sinking on a chair by the bedside she burst into a flood of silent tears. The precious relief to her pent-up soul was of infinite value to her.

After her grief had spent its force, she rose, bathed her face and hands in cold water, and turning to the bed, took the poor listless fingers of her lover in her own.

”Philip! dear Philip!” she said, softly. The fingers closed convulsively; a sigh, which sounded like a gasp, broke from his lips.

Fixing wondering eyes on her, he whispered, ”Lucy! dear Lucy!” and this with a smile of rapturous content. What cared she in that moment who were lookers-on? What cared she that the stately squire was standing on tiptoe by the door, looking with the eyes of his soul for the crisis? What would she have cared had all Waverdale been standing by? Love, imperial love, a.s.serted its unequalled rights. That ebbing life was flowing back beneath her royal power! That soul upon the wing was re-folding its pinions at her command! Stooping down she signed his reprieve upon his parched lips. If any of my readers object to this, they have my full permission to close these pages and go their way. I write not for those behind whose vest and beneath whose bodice there beats no human heart, but only the tick of a machine; but for those who hold that pure and true affection has rights which may not be invaded, and that in a case like this ”Love is lord of all.”

In the course of another day or two, Dr. Jephson reported a stronger pulse and a brighter eye, and bade the grateful father hope for the best. The old man listened in silence, scarcely daring to believe.

”What is your opinion, Miss Blyth?” said the doctor.

”By G.o.d's blessing he will recover,” Lucy said; and strange to say, Squire Fuller felt her verdict to be more a.s.suring than the dictum of the experienced man of skill.

Nor did her judgment prove without warrant. Slowly, O how slowly! inch by inch, point by point, the fell destroyer Death was beaten back, and Philip Fuller obtained an even stronger lease of life. When he had so far recovered as to be able to converse, his father would sit for hours by his side, holding his boy's hand in his own, and drinking in his words as though they were some pleasant music falling on his ear.

True, the princ.i.p.al topic was one for which he had never any favour.

On the contrary, he had scoffed at and hated it with all the energy of his intellectual pride. But from the lips of his boy, his handsome, manly, high-principled boy--given back to him from an open grave--he heard it with patience, nay, for the speaker's sake, with unspeakable delight. There was no longer any cloud between these two, and it did not need that the father should unsay the rash words which had half-broken his son's true and faithful heart. All had vanished like the morning dew, and sire and son were one again in heart and soul.

”Father,” said Philip, on one occasion, as he was propped up with pillows, while the squire occupied his seldom vacant seat by his side, ”do you know that when I was so weak and ill that I could not speak to you, I knew all that was going on around me; and when I saw your sorrow and your love I did so want to tell you of the sweet peace that filled my soul. My Saviour was so inexpressibly precious to me that I longed to be with Him, and heaven was so near, that I saw its glories, the gleam of angels' wings, and heard the sound of harpers harping with their harps. I really thought that I was dying, but death had no terrors for me. The one thing that seemed to pull me back to life was my great love to you and Lucy, and the yearning wish, dear father, to tell you of my Saviour's boundless love. Father, I know that you have learned to look upon religion with doubt, and even with dislike. But now that I have come back--for I feel like one who has taken a long journey--come back from the very borders of the eternal world--come back, after sensibly breathing the very atmosphere of heaven--I tell you that of all the things in this vain shadowy world, Jesus and His love are the only realities; and dreadful as the struggle for life has been, I would gladly go through it all again to see you, my father, bending at the Saviour's feet.”

Nor was this the only way in which the reserved and thoughtful squire was brought face to face with simple Christian experience. Lucy Blyth, who had gained all her usual self-command, was able to comply with Mr.

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