BOTH PHILIP AND LUCY MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.
“The voice of parents is the voice of gods,
For to their children they are Heaven’s lieutenants;
To steer the freight of youth through storms and dangers,
Which with full sails they bear upon, and straighten
The mortal line of life they bend so often.
For these are we made fathers, and for these
May challenge duty on our children’s part.
Obedience is the sacrifice of angels,
Whose form you carry.”
_Shakespeare._
The squire was seated in his well-furnished and luxurious library, by
the side of a handsome reflector lamp, with a book written by a
popular free-thinker on his knees, for in works of a kindred sceptical
character the thoughtful but cynical student had latterly taken great
delight.
“Well, Master Philip,” said he, “you keep late hours, and return as
stealthily as if you had been keeping an assignation.” Here he lifted
his shaggy eyebrows, and peered into his son’s ingenuous face, into
which this chance home-thrust brought a rush of blood, and that “index
of the mind” grew as red as the crimson curtains which hung in heavy
folds behind him.
The squire’s suspicious nature was instantly aroused. Laying down his
book he rose from his seat, and stretching out his hand in solemn
earnest, he said,--
“Son Philip, you will not be other than a gentleman? You will not
sully your father’s name? You will not dim the honour of an ancestry
which has held its own with the noblest through a hundred generations?
You will not grieve your father by a base and unworthy deed? In the
day you do, you’ll”--here the firm lip quivered--“you’ll break his
heart!”
“Father, dear father,” said Philip, taking his father’s hand, “that
will I never, by the help of God.”
“Forgive my momentary doubt, my son. You have never given me cause to
fear. But what meant that tell-tale blush at the mere mention of the
word assignation? Phil, my boy, there are few things that I hate more
than the loose notions about morality and virtue which disgrace too
many of the wealthiest youth of modern times. I have small faith in
priests and in the cant of religion, but unsullied honour and true
manhood, _sans peur et sans reproche_, _that_ should be the motto and
the creed of all. Phil, are you worthy of that character to-night?”
There was no mistaking the honest “Yes, father!” which this question
elicited, and the old man returned to his book with a sigh of infinite
relief.
That sensation of relief, however, was by no means shared by poor
Philip, who, though perfectly innocent of anything in the direction
suspected by his father, felt his own peculiar secret weighing on his
honest heart all the more heavily, because of what had passed between
them. He longed to cast himself at his father’s feet and tell him all,
but he was restrained by the consciousness that the revelation would
be like gall and wormwood to one whose escutcheon was his _fetish_,
and whose blue blood was sure to boil in aristocratic wrath at the
bare idea of its commixture with the plebeian corpuscles of a village
blacksmith.
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 harassed 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, God 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 passing 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 flustered
and disturbed, and when she entered the house, Nathan was constrained
to notice her flushed face and disarranged attire.
“Why Lucy, lass, you look as though you had been at work in a
hayfield, and as warm as a dairymaid at a butter 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 passed 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 lassie’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.
“Father,” said she, “I can have no secrets from you. I have never
seen, never met him, of my own accord; and since he told me of his
love to me, and he couldn’t help it--[That’s right, Lucy, defend him
to the last!]--I’ve done my best to avoid him. I have told him that it
can never be, and I would sooner die than grieve you, my dear, kind
father. But I do love him with all my heart, and he loves me--I know
he does--and I’m very miserable! Oh, tell me, tell me, what am I to
do?”--And the girl flung herself into his arms in a paroxysm of tears.
“My poor lass!” said Nathan Blyth, stroking her hair and kissing her
fair forehead. “It is as I feared. I am thankful that you have told me
all about it. I can help you to bear your trouble, and we must both
take it to God. Those who seek to do right and keep an honest
conscience are sure to find comfort from Him. But, Lucy, my dear, you
must not see him any more. It must be put a stop to, and if Master
Philip will not keep away, I must go and see Squire Fuller myself.
Cheer up, my darling! Let us do right, and God’s good Providence will
pull us through. Now it’s getting late, so bring the Bible and let us
hear what God the Lord doth say concerning us. I always find that He
has a word in season for a heart in trouble.”
The book was brought Nathan turned to the thirty-fourth Psalm, and
read, “The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are
open to their cry.... The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth and
delivereth them out of all their troubles. The Lord is nigh unto all
them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite
spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord
delivereth him out of them all.” Then, kneeling down, he made his God
their confidant, and “talked with Him face to face as a man talketh
with his friend.” Lucy’s trouble, and her need of strength and
guidance--her lack of a mother’s loving counsel and care--were all
laid before the Throne of Grace. They rose to their feet in the sweet
hush of a great calm. Lucy was comforted; her filial confidence had
quickly brought its reward.
Happy parents they, whose children count them their truest friends and
hold from them no secret reserves! Happy children, whose parents win
their confidence and make common cause with them in their joys and
sorrows! Happy both parents and children who are accustomed to take
their needs to a loving and gracious God!
So Lucy dried her tears, resolved to govern her heart like a
heroine--to do the duty that lay next her, and leave the rest to
heaven. True, she went to bed to dream of Philip, but communion with
her love had no embargo there. Thanks to her father’s love and her
Redeemer’s care, no shadow of Black Morris or of overhanging trouble
disturbed her repose.
* * * * *
Here for the present we leave the youthful lovers, assured that high
principle, the love of Right and Truth, will hold them scathless; and,
should the course of events widen the gap and intensify the obstacles
between these two, we may rest content that both will bear their
burdens with a loyal spirit and in submissive strength, and will come
through the fire refined and purified, as it is the nature of sterling
gold to do.