Part 22 (1/2)
Fuller's genuine request, that she should in all things act without restraint. Now that the tide had turned, and Philip's life no longer hung on such a slender thread, she was able to accept the housekeeper's invitation to join her in her private room. Here, seated at the piano, she would sing the songs of Zion in such a fas.h.i.+on that the squire, all unaccustomed to such innovations on his solitude, would pa.s.s and re-pa.s.s, often for this only purpose, and listen to the strains so sweetly winning. It may well be doubted whether the modern idea of ”singing the Gospel” was not, under existing circ.u.mstances, the most effective way of bringing him under the influences of those blessed truths which were the joy and comfort of his son.
On one occasion, when thus occupied, she sang a glorious hymn of Charles Wesley's. Her unknown listener heard the words--
”I rest beneath the Almighty's shade, My griefs expire, my troubles cease; Thou, Lord, on whom my soul is stayed, Will keep me still in perfect peace.”
He listened till the trustful strain died out in silence, and retired to his library. Opening an accustomed volume by a favourite writer, whose no-faith had chimed in with his own phase of unbelief, he read--”I look upon human life as being bounded by an impenetrable curtain, which defies the gaze of man to pierce its texture, the hand of man to lift its awful folds. Thousands of inquiring minds have brought their torches and sought to unravel the mystery in vain. A thousand voices of those without have loudly called to those within, and asked their questions as to the eternal 'Where?' But they have received no answer, only the hollow echo of their own question, as if they had shouted into an empty vault.”
He laid down the book, and sat in thoughtful silence. He thought of the clear, bright hope of the youth upstairs who had been half within the curtain. ”I saw the glories of heaven, the gleam of angels' wings, and heard the sound of harpers harping with their harps.” How widely differed this from that! The first was a sad, low wail of despair; the second was the waving of Hope's golden wing. Rising to his feet, he opened the door to rejoin his son. Hus.h.!.+ He hears Lucy's voice, sweetly singing--
”While I draw this fleeting breath, When my eyes shall close in death, When I rise to worlds unknown, And behold Thee on Thy throne, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!”
He listened till the verse was concluded, then turning to the stairs, he ascended to Philip's room, repeating to himself,--
”Rock of Ages, cleft for me!
Let me hide myself in Thee!”
Stepping softly to the bedside, he found his boy sleeping sweetly, with a smile upon his face that told of perfect peace. His hand was laid upon the open Bible. Led by an impulse of curiosity, as we purblind mortals say, he stooped down and read, where Philip's fingers lay, ”There be many that say, Who will show us any good? Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us.... I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for thou only, O Lord, makest me to dwell in safety.”
”In peace,” said the squire, and looking at the restful countenance of his son, he read a commentary there that he could neither misunderstand nor dispute. He sat and pondered as the minutes pa.s.sed, the subject of thoughts and emotions new and strange. Nor could he break the spell until Philip, waking refreshed and happy, turned to him with a gleam of glad surprise, and said,--
”My father!”
”What is it, my son?”
”Nay, nothing; nothing but the joy of having you by my side.”
The glad old man, melted as his stedfast nature had never been, longed to do something in his great love.
”Can I do anything for you?” said he.
”Yes. Read to me a little,” pointing to his Bible. ”Read the third chapter in St. John's Gospel.”
In this way the sceptical parent was brought into potent contact with the Great Teacher's answer to another doubter, who asked, ”How can these things be?” So the days pa.s.sed by, the overhanging cloud caused by the dark deed in Thurston Wood had not density enough to shadow them very greatly. Both father and son believed that G.o.d would bring forth Philip's righteousness as the light, and His judgment as the noonday. Philip silently and continuously prayed that the Spirit would take of the things of G.o.d and show them to his father's mind and heart. Who shall doubt the answer to those pleadings of filial love?
G.o.d's providence and grace are both pledged to the fulfilment of believing prayer. The citadel so long impregnable to the a.s.saults of Gospel truth was trembling under the combined influences at work. Will it yield to these? If not, the Lord hath yet other arrows in His quiver. ”He hath bent his bow and made it ready, and ordained his arrows at the heart of” those who resist him. But if those hearts lay down their weapons and submit to Him, though the arrow may be sped, it shall wound to heal, and ”dividing asunder between the joints and the marrow,” the sword of the Spirit shall open a way for the life-giving balsam of His own precious blood!
CHAPTER XXVII.
HANNAH OLLIVER'S ”YOUNG MAN.”
”The branch is stooping to the hand, And pleasant to behold; Yet gather not, although its fruit Be streaked with hues of gold.
For bitter ashes lurk concealed Beneath that golden skin; And though the coat be smooth, there lies But rottenness within.”
_Smedley._
Adam Olliver, as our readers may remember, had a daughter, Hannah by name, who was a servantmaid at Waverdale Hall. She was a bright, good-looking la.s.s, with no graver faults than those which often attach to an unrestrained vivacity and a considerable weakness for ”ribbins, frills, an' fal-de-rals,” as her plain-spoken father called them, which, though purchased by her own money, were scarcely in keeping with her position. Even if they had been, they were sorely at enmity with good taste. Greens and violets, blues and buffs, orange and red, and other hues equally self-a.s.sertive, were worn in combinations which would have alarmed a _modiste_ and driven an artist into hysterics. Hannah was a dressy girl, and being remarkably chatty, not to say loquacious, she was not the unlikeliest girl in the world to pick up a sweetheart--_a_ sweetheart, did we say? It would be venturesome to fix on any number of briefly happy swains on whom she had conferred that honour, and had then peremptorily dismissed. Hannah was evidently a coquette. At the time when Philip Fuller was hovering between life and death, and soon after Lucy Blyth had been installed by his bedside, Hannah Olliver's evanescent and volatile affections were placed for the nonce on a fine Adonis-looking young fellow, with whom she had become acquainted through her intimacy with a housemaid at Cowley Priory. His name was Aubrey Bevan, and his somewhat aristocratic cognomen did not seem to Hannah's admiring eyes to be at all inappropriate to the dark curly locks, neatly-trimmed moustache, semi-Bond-street attire, and jauntily-set hat of her favoured lover.
Aubrey Bevan had been a kind of valet--a sort of gentleman's gentleman to Sir Harry Elliott's eldest son, a fast young gent of horsey tastes and gaming proclivities, who cut a considerable dash amongst the young bloods, who, during the season, mustered in great force at Almack's, Tattersall's, and Rotten-row. With him, however, we have scant business, but from his quondam valet, discharged for some occult reason, we cannot at present part company. The discipline as regarded servants and their followers was somewhat strict at Waverdale Hall, and so Hannah's interviews with her ”intended” had to take place either when she was off the premises, or in stealthy meetings in the park or gardens under cover of the night.
Mr. Bevan, at the outset of his wooing, was exceedingly a.s.siduous and demonstrative, but as all this only served to develop his young lady's ingrained propensity to coquetry, he changed his tactics, and with a cleverness which brought its own reward, he feigned indifference, as though his loveflame was considerably dwindling down. This had the desired effect, and may afford a hint to ardent swains whose chosen ones are given to fluctuations and indecision. Latterly Hannah had shown a steady loyalty to her lover, as though at last she had found her fate. One evening, as she and the courtly Bevan were holding a stolen interview beneath a spreading beech-tree in the park, some evil spirit entered into Hannah, and led her to throw out vague hints and insinuations that he was not so certainly the ”man in possession” as he seemed to think. She intimated that there was another ”Richmond in the field,” and, true to Sir Walter Scott's description of woman, who is,