SQUIRE FULLER PAYS A VISIT TO THE FORGE.
“I ask not for his lineage,
I ask not for his name--
If manliness be in his heart,
He noble birth may claim.
I care not though of world’s wealth
But slender be his part,
If _yes_ you answer when I ask,
Hath he a true man’s heart?”
_R. Nicholl._
After that memorable interview which Philip Fuller had with his father
when he revealed the dearest secret of his heart, the squire sat
motionless and immersed in thought, long after his household had
retired to rest.
The revelation made to him by his son had come upon him with all the
force of a thunderbolt, and for a while bereft him of the power either
to think or act. His clear perception had seen that Philip’s
attachment to Lucy was no child’s play--no fleeting fancy to be chased
away by the advent of some newer face of beauty. He knew that his son
and heir was the subject of a master passion--a love that no
diplomacy could lessen, that no counter policy could uproot, and that
direct opposition could only intensify and confirm. His deep and
mighty love for Philip, largely hid under a cold exterior, led him to
sympathise with and pity him to a degree altogether unwarranted by
external evidence; at the same time he felt that such an alliance as
the ardent youth contemplated was simply impossible and absurd, and
must be put an end to at all hazards, for his son’s sake, as well as
from regard to the traditions of his family tree. He was convinced
that the only method of preventing so glaring a mistake lay in an
appeal to Philip’s filial obedience and love, and he came to the
conclusion to use that potent engine without delay.
The next morning, as he and Philip were seated at the breakfast table,
the squire opened the conversation by saying,--
“My son! Does your evening declaration commend itself to your morning
reflections? I have gone through a sleepless night, trying to hope
that I should meet, this morning, your wiser self. Philip, my boy, I
would do much to please you, for you little know how great is my love
for you. But you ask me what I cannot grant, and what, if you do
without my permission, will go far to shorten my life and break my
heart. You are all I have in the world, and having you, I have all the
world has in it that I care for. My son! my son! will you give up this
impossible idea, and let me feel that you will not bring my grey head
to the grave with grief?”
The squire’s voice quivered, and the look of eager hope and dread upon
his haggard face was something pitiful to see. He had employed the one
arrow in his quiver that had, for this case, either feather or barb,
and his suspense amounted to positive agony until Philip’s answer
came. But he had judged aright. His son’s genuine love and loyalty
were his sheet anchor, and the anchor held. The colour left Philip’s
face, the struggle was intense, but his response was firm.
“My dear father! Your love is precious to me, and your will is law. I
cannot promise not to love Lucy. I have not the power to keep it if I
did. I cannot promise to give up the hope that one day you may look
upon my heart’s desire with favour. But, so long as you forbear to
urge any other alliance on me, I promise to your love, that I will not
grieve you by any further steps in this direction.”
“And you will not seek an interview with this young woman without my
full permission?”
Philip paused a moment while love and duty, or rather while two loves,
fought a hard battle in his soul, and then the love that was allied
with duty won the day, and he said, “Father, I will not.”
The father rose from his seat, bent forward, and kissed him on the
brow. “Philip,” said he, “I bless you. God will bless you for that
word.”
Squire Fuller’s next step was to despatch a note to Nathan Blyth, for
he felt that no stone must be left unturned to assure the victory he
had gained. A short time afterwards, therefore, the blacksmith
received the following epistle:--
“SIR,--It has come to my knowledge that my son has been foolish
enough to commit himself, by a stupid profession of love, to
your daughter. Though this is doubtless a young man’s whim, and
a mere passing fancy, I greatly object to it, and he has
promised me that he will desist from what I am sure you will
agree with me in describing as unseemly and improper. I write
this _private_ communication in order to suggest to your
daughter that she should not encourage such a wild dream, and
that you will use your authority in keeping her out of his way.
I trust I have said nothing herein to give you offence, and am,
&c.,
“AINSLEY FULLER.”
When Nathan Blyth had read the letter twice through, he bade the
messenger to wait, and speedily sent the following missive in
return:--
“SIR,--You cannot be more glad than I am that Master Philip has
made the promise to which you refer. Nothing is more contrary to
my desire than that he should ever speak to her again. And
permit me respectfully to assure you that my daughter has given
him no encouragement; and, without the exertion of any authority
of mine, will not only not seek, but will repel any advances on
his part. Both she and I are agreed that nothing could be more
lamentable than to suffer any such forgetfulness of the
difference between his position and ours. You may rest assured
that no encouragement, but the direct opposite, will always be
given to such an act of folly.
“I am, Sir, yours respectfully,
“NATHAN BLYTH.”
Squire Fuller could hardly believe his own eyes as he read the letter,
couched in such fitting language, so eminently respectful, and
especially so gratifying in its contents. He had imagined that Nathan
and his daughter would have regarded Philip as a prize to be hooked,
if possible, and had written his note with a view to crush out the
faintest hope of success in their plot for Lucy’s aggrandisement. He
felt such a sense of satisfaction and relief that he resolved to ride
over to the forge and express his thanks and pleasure to the writer.
The next morning, therefore, the stately squire bestrode his favourite
grey mare, and took his morning ride in the direction of Blithe
Natty’s house. That cheerful knight of the hammer was busy at his
post, and the ringing anvil, as usual, was accompanied by his musical
and sonorous song.
Wherever my fortune may lead me,
Whate’er sort of hap it may bring,
The blessing of God will still speed me,
And this is the song I will sing--
Away with all fear and repining,
Away with all doubting and grief:
On the bosom of Jesus reclining,
He’ll never withhold me relief.
Affliction will come, if He sends it,
Or sorrow my portion may be;
I’ll cheerfully bear till He ends it,
Till I His salvation shall see.
With loving and honest endeavour,
Still striving my duty to do,
I’ll love Him and trust Him for ever,
For ever be honest and true.
The sun in the heavens is shining,
Though clouds may oft gather below,
Each one has a silvery lining,
And rains down a gift as I go.
The streamlet runs clear o’er the gravel,
The breezes blow pure o’er the lea;
Just so in my course would I travel,
With Jesus to journey with me.
I want neither honour nor riches,
I care not for rank or for gold;
For this kind of fortune bewitches
The soul--at least so I’ve been told.
Contented and happy and healthy,
Pray why should I covet or sigh,
To be titled or famous or wealthy?
Can any man answer me why?
But one thing through life will I covet--
To hate the whole compass of wrong;
To do aye the right and to love it,
To sing as I travel along.
Wherever my fortune may lead me,
Whate’er sort of hap it may bring,
The blessing of God will aye speed me,
And so as I travel I sing.
Such was the blithe and cheery ditty which Nathan Blyth was chanting
when Squire Fuller rode up to the smithy door.
“Good morning, Blyth,” said he; “it’s a good sign when people sing at
their work. One would conclude that it’s neither too hard nor ill
paid.”
“And yet, sir,” said Nathan, “I have known people who worked too hard
for low wages, and yet could sing all the same.”
“Indeed! I imagine they must have been endowed by nature with a
marvellous flow of spirits,” said the squire.
“No, sir, not specially, but they were endowed by God with a
marvellous flow of grace. You know the old proverb sir,--
‘Godly grace makes greatly glad,
It makes him sing who once was sad.’”
“And you believe that this ‘grace of God,’ as you call it, helps you
to sing, do you, Blyth?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nathan, warmly; “I have a good conscience, a sense
and assurance of my Saviour’s love, and a bright hope of heaven. God’s
providence has filled my cup brimfull with blessings, and if I did not
sing His praises the very stones might well cry out.”
All this was beyond the belief or comprehension of Squire Fuller, and
Natty might have answered his dubious look by the words of the
Samaritan woman, “Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is
deep.”
“Well, well,” said he, “I am heartily glad, at any rate, that you can
take life so brightly. It certainly would be a thousand pities if that
grand voice of yours was to rust for want of practice.”
“Yes, there’s something in that, too,” said Nathan, with a smile.
‘To help the voice full clear to ring.
Go out into the woods and sing.’
“I don’t go out into the woods to do it, but the pitch of my anvil-ring
keeps me up to tone, and the practice is quite as good.”
“Allow me to thank you, Blyth, for that very courteous and
satisfactory note you sent me yesterday. I own that it was
not altogether what I expected. I suspected--I imagined--I
thought--that--that”----and the squire felt that he was dealing
stupidly with a very delicate subject.
“Yes, I know,” said Nathan Blyth; “you imagined that the blacksmith
and his daughter were fishing for the heir of Waverdale Park, and you
hoped quietly to convince them that it was a losing game. I’m not
offended at that; I suppose it was natural that you should do so. But
be sure, sir, that I dread the idea, and hate it, too, quite as much
as you do. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in my conscience that my
Lucy is in all respects a prize that any man might wish to win, and I
know none for whom I do not hold her to be too good. But I’d rather
she mated with somebody in her own rank of life. I should say ‘No’ to
Master Philip if he asked for her himself, and I should say ‘No’ to
you if you were to ask for him; and if he is a sensible young man,
he’ll turn his attention other where, for he may depend upon it he’ll
come on a useless errand, if he comes at all.”
Human nature is a queer article, and the squire’s feelings as he heard
this would have been difficult to analyse. His satisfaction was great
at the thought that there was no fear of counter-plotting, but,
strange to say, he felt more than half inclined to feel insulted. Here
was a grimy smith, with naked arms and leather apron, standing, hammer
in hand, by his smithy fire, coldly intimating that his daughter was
too dainty a prize for his own son, and scorning the bare idea of such
an alliance with as much independence as if he were a “belted earl.”
The blue blood surged a little in the veins of the stately squire,
but, restraining himself, he was fain to be content with facts, and,
mounting his horse, he bade the sturdy Vulcan a cold and distant
“Good-morrow,” and betook him to his ancestral park.