THE PROGRESS OF MASTER PHILIP’S WOOING.
“Although thou may never be mine,
Although even hope is denied;
’Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than aught in the world beside.”
_Burns._
Lucy Blyth retired from her brief interview with Philip Fuller, glad,
as I have already said, to be relieved from an ordeal which taxed all
her powers of self-command. Philip’s love for her was clear to a
demonstration, and as she bravely and boldly took her own heart to
task upon the subject, she had to confess to herself that she felt a
sense of delight and satisfaction in his tacit declaration. “I love
him!” was the language of her own soul, written there in characters so
clear that she made no foolish attempt to cast the thought aside. Like
a clear-conscienced, high-principled girl, as she was, she looked the
whole matter fairly in the face, and soon came to the conclusion that
duty and propriety demanded a firm resistance to the dangerous
fascination. She resolved that never, by any word or deed of hers,
would she give encouragement to what she knew would be an impossible
affection, an unpardonable offence to the proud and stately squire,
and a grievous sorrow to her beloved and doting father.
When Natty came in to dinner she had regained full command over
herself, for Lucy had that secret supply of strength which is given to
all those who walk with God, and Blithe Natty’s suspicions, if he had
any, were, at any rate, temporarily laid to rest. Neither of them
mentioned the events of the morning, and wisely so, for stout
resistance in such a case is more easily accomplished under the silent
system. Opposition, interference, condemnation, are sadly apt to fan
such sparks into a more fervent flame, and to supply fuel to a fire
which might haply die away for want of it. Nathan Blyth was quite
right in placing implicit confidence in the religious principles and
firm character of his right-minded girl.
Philip Fuller, however, was subject to no such restraining influences;
at any rate, they remained as yet undeveloped. His all-engrossing love
led him to seek an opportunity to declare it, and to nurse the hope
that he should hear from her own lips the response he so much desired.
On two or three occasions he sought an interview with her, but Lucy’s
woman’s wit had seen his design and foiled it. Twice, when Adam
Olliver was returning from his daily toil, he had descried the
youthful squire following Lucy, and had seen that young lady start off
at a rapid run to avoid the meeting.
One evening, as Lucy was returning from a solitary cottage at some
distance from the village, whither she had been on a good Samaritan
kind of errand, Philip Fuller suddenly met her face to face. It was
impossible to elude him, or to evade the announcement which she knew
was trembling on his lips. With a lover’s impetuosity he entered at
once on the subject nearest to his heart.
“Miss Blyth,” he said, “for I suppose I must not call you ‘Lucy’
now;”--Here the cunning young gentleman paused, hoping to “score one”
by hearing the coveted permission. In vain, however, for though I
don’t pretend to deny that “Lucy” from his lips had a music of its
own, she remained tremblingly silent, waiting for what should follow,
in that odd mingling of hope and fear which baffles psychologists to
analyse or metaphysicians to explain.
“Do you remember,” continued he, “those pleasant hours of ‘auld lang
syne?’ I wish they could have lasted for ever.”
“Nothing does last for ever in this world,” said Lucy, with a
constrained smile, “and it would not do to be always children, you
know. When childhood’s over we have to put away childish things.”
“Lucy,--forgive me for calling you by the old familiar name--I cannot
get any other from my lips. I believe my love for you _was_ a childish
thing, for it was born in childhood’s days. But it has grown with my
growth and strengthened with my strength, and the one dearest wish of
my soul is that the ‘little sweetheart’ of old times would be my
sweetheart now! Lucy, my darling”----
“Mr. Fuller!” interposed Lucy, “I must not, will not hear you any
further. I will not appear to misunderstand you. I will not for a
moment wrong you with the thought that you mean anything but what is
true and honourable; but I must ask you, nay, command you, never again
to speak to me like this. What you hint at can never, never be. The
one thing for you to do is to leave me alone, now and ever, and let me
go my way while you go yours. All the old times are over now--and you
must forget that they have ever been.”
Poor Lucy found it hard work to get that last expression out, but she
was not given to half measures where duty was involved, and she meant
all she said.
“Don’t be cruel,” he pleaded. “I can never forget, and I will never,
never give up the hope”----
But Lucy had sprung from him, for, seeing Old Adam Olliver jogging
along on his lowly steed, she instantly resolved to instal him as her
escort to the village. The old man had seen the sudden departure, had
recognised the young squire, and, reading Lucy’s flushed cheek and
excited tone, came to his own conclusions, the nature of which we
shall understand by-and-bye. Very little was said on their homeward
way, and on arriving at the forge Lucy wished the old man “good
evening.”
“Good-neet, mah bairn,” said Adam. “Ah’s waint an’ glad ah met wi’
yo’. Ah wadn’t be oot varry leeat if ah were you. There’s them aboot
’at’s up te neea good.” With this enigmatical utterance he rode off,
leaving Lucy to wonder what he meant, and how much he knew.
No sooner had the old hedger stabled his steed and sat down to his
supper than he opened his mind to his dear “aud woman,” who was in
truth as well as name a helpmeet for him, his loving and trusted wife
for forty years.
“Judy, my lass, I isn’t ower an’ aboon satisfied aboot that young slip
ov a squire.”
“What, Master Philip, d’ye meean? What’s matter wiv ’im, Adam?”
“Why, ah’s freetened ’at he’s settin’ sheep’s e’en at Lucy Blyth. Thoo
knoas she’s parlous pratty. Ah’ve seen him efther ’er ’eels three or
fower tahmes latly. Te-neet my lord was talkin’ tiv her doon t’ park
looan, an’ as seean as sha’ saw me sha’ shot awa’ frev him like a
‘are, an’ comm wi’ ma’ all t’ way yam. He steead an’ leeak’d hard, a
goodish bit dumfoonder’d, an’ then wheel’d roond an’ went tow’rd t’
park.”
“Hey, but that’s a bad ’earin’, Adam,” said Judith. “Lucy Blyth’s a
gell ’at would tonn ony yung fellow’s head. But ah don’t believe that
she’ll do owt wrong, won’t Lucy.”
“_She_ deea owt wrang? Nut she,” said Adam; “bud ah’s vastly misteea’n
if _he_ weean’t; an’ ah deean’t think it’s right nut te let Nathan
knoa.”
“Nay, ah hoap there’s nowt in it, efther all, Adam. Lucy’s a lass ’at
’ll allus tak’ care of hersen, an’ ah’s sure t’ young squire’s as nice
and fine a young fellow as you can finnd atween here an’ York.”
Judy was a true woman, it will be seen, and the possible loves of two
young people found a certain favour in her eyes.
As for Lucy Blyth, she went home the subject of feelings very
difficult to describe, and for many days the struggle between love and
duty was very severe. She found herself utterly unable to “cast his
image from her heart,” and, like the fair maiden described by Dryden,
she might have said--
“I am not what I was; since yesterday
My strength forsakes me, and my needful rest;
I pine, I languish, love to be alone:
Think much, speak little, and in speaking sigh.
* * * * *
I went to bed, and to myself I thought
That I would think on Torrismond no more;
Then shut my eyes, but could not shut out him.”
Lucy, however, had “strength to worldly minds unknown,” and set
herself to “conquer in this strife.”
Matters continued thus for several days. Then Adam Olliver again
chanced to meet Master Philip, who was walking along with bended head,
and with his mind so pre-occupied that he did not hear the old man’s
courteous salutation, “It’s a feyn neet, sur,” and passed on without
response. Further on he came upon Lucy Blyth, who had just undergone
an ordeal similar to the last. Maintaining her usual firmness of
denial, she had sent her lover away in such evident sorrow and
distress that she was indulging in a quiet little cry of sympathy.
Adam surprised her with her ‘kerchief to her eyes, and waxed wroth
against the rude offender who had thus distressed his favourite.
“Why, Lucy, mi’ lass, what’s matter wi’ yo’? Ah can’t abide to see
yo’ like that. Hez onnybody been upsettin’ yo’? ’Cause if they hev, it
mun be putten a stop tae, an’ it sall, if ah hev te deea it mysen.”
Poor Lucy, dreadfully afraid that Philip’s persistent wooing should be
known, hastened to assure him that there was no need to trouble.
“I’ve been a little low-spirited,” she said, with a smile, “but it’s
all over now. A good cry, you know, does one good sometimes.”
So, making a vigorous effort, the charming maiden chatted merrily on
until Adam’s garden gate was reached, and so it was impossible for him
to refer to the matter any more.
“Judy,” said Adam to his aged spouse, “it weean’t deea. That young
Fuller’s worritin’ that poor lass te deead, an’ ah’s gannin’ te see
aboot it.”
Adam Olliver did “see about it,” in a very peculiar fashion indeed,
but how he set about it, how he fared, and how he proved his right to
be called “the old man eloquent,” must have a chapter to itself.