BLACK MORRIS IS MORE FREE THAN WELCOME.
“Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear of tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.”
_Shakspeare._
The stern and ungenial way in which Blithe Natty had repulsed the
advances of Black Morris in the matter of his suit for Lucy had only
served to make that young “wastrel” more than ever eager and
determined in his pursuit of the fairest prize in Waverdale. He had
never known what it was to be fairly thwarted in anything upon which
he had set his heart, and in addition to an uncontrolled self-will
which threatened to be his ruin, he was possessed of a certain
bull-dog tenacity of purpose, which was only strengthened and
intensified by opposition. He was, undoubtedly, a tall and
good-looking fellow, well endowed by nature, both as regards physique
and brains; hence the village maidens of Nestleton were quite inclined
to show him favour, and in some cases to make a tacit bid for his
preference. All this tended to convince him that he was a sufficient
match for the blacksmith’s daughter, and I must do him the justice to
say that he was thoroughly fascinated with her beauty, and quite
honest in his wooing.
Black Morris watched his opportunities, and on several occasions
managed to hap on Lucy Blyth, both by night and day, pressing on her
his unwelcome suit in such a hot and inconsiderate fashion, that the
scared girl scarcely dared to cross the threshold of her home, for
fear of being subjected to his wild and passionate mode of wooing. She
was positively alarmed, for there was something so lawless and
desperate about his method of proceeding, and his headstrong character
was so well known, that she did not think he would scruple at any
excesses to gain his ends.
One evening, as Lucy was returning from Farmer Houston’s kitchen,
where the fortnightly preaching had been held, Black Morris met her in
a shady nook by the churchyard wall, and as usual pressed upon her his
undesired attention. She did her best to make her escape, but being
emboldened by certain copious libations at the “Red Lion,” he seized
her hand, put his arm around her, and strove to steal a kiss from the
indignant maiden.
“Never!” screamed the startled girl, and bursting from him with the
strength of a wild terror, she flew homeward like a hunted deer. Her
persecutor uttered an oath and started off in hot pursuit. On she flew
through the silent lane, but there was no possibility of escaping the
stalwart runner, who followed fast behind. Once more his hand was laid
upon her shoulder, once more Lucy gave a scream of fear, and at that
instant, Philip Fuller ran to the rescue, and confronting the excited
bully, bade him “Stand off!”
“Who to please?” said Black Morris, turning his attention to the
unwelcome intruder, and aiming a decisive blow.
“Oh! don’t!” said Lucy. “O Philip!” and her terror vanishing in
presence of her lover’s danger she threw herself between the hostile
two, affording to the quick-witted young squire a welcome insight into
her regard for him.
“Lucy, dear!” said Philip, “who is this fellow?” and his attitude
betokened such vengeance as his indignant soul and well-knit frame
made possible. Other voices were heard and other feet approaching.
“Ho, ho, Master Fuller! ‘Philip,’ and ‘Lucy, dear!’ eh? Sits the wind
in that quarter? Then look out for squalls!” said Black Morris, and so
saying he sped rapidly away.
“Who’s that?” said Philip, as he walked by the side of the panting
girl on the way to her father’s door.
“His name’s Morris, Black Morris,” said Lucy, “and for months past he
has followed me about in spite of all that I could say, but he never
behaved so rudely as he did to-night. The man terrifies me almost to
death.”
Philip bade her not to fear, and expressed his intention of having an
early interview with Black Morris, to put an end to his unwelcome and
distasteful advances.
“There will be war,” said he, “between him and me. The bully must be
taught to know his place.”
“Philip,” said Lucy, “do not quarrel with that man. I always feel when
I see him as though he is doomed to bring me misery and sorrow. Don’t
go near him! Promise me you won’t.”
What would he not promise her? He did his best to reassure the anxious
girl, and promised her he would not seek a quarrel; “but,” said he,
“you must be protected at all hazards. Lucy, give me the right to
protect you! Only say that you love me, and I’ll soon make it
impossible for Black Morris or anybody else to fling a shadow on your
path! Lucy, can’t you see that I cannot live without your love?”
Philip’s earnest tones, instinct with a yearning that could not be
mistaken, found an answering chord in Lucy’s heart; but, summoning her
self-command, she replied, “No! no! no! It is you that distress me
now. It cannot, cannot ever be. For your own sake as well as mine, I
beseech you, say no more; such a thing would rob you of your father’s
love for ever. I thank you with all my heart for coming to my
help--Good-night,” and straightway opening the garden gate she swiftly
ran along the path and entered the house without one backward look.
Philip’s ponderings were of a varied character as he entered the
narrow lane which led to Waverdale Hall, and slowly trod the light and
springy turf in silence. He felt half inclined to forgive Black Morris
for unwittingly securing him the delicious interview. “She loves me,”
thought he, “she loves me, I am sure; and if I can get my father’s
consent, my darling Lucy will yet be mine.”
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 God,”
and joined with the rural worshippers in singing of the love of a
crucified Christ. From then till now no day had passed without
bringing to his mind the sweet and touching lines--
“All ye that pass 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 space 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
class. 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 shaggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from
Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father’s presence.