NATHAN BLYTH IS IN A QUANDARY.
“Parental love, my friend, hath power o’er wisdom,
And is the charm, which, like the falconer’s lure,
Can bring from heaven the highest soaring spirits.”
_Anon._
“Almighty love! what wonders are not thine!
Soon as thy influence breathes upon the soul,
By thee, the haughty bend the suppliant knee.”
_Paterson._
Nathan conducted his unexpected, and, in truth, unwelcome visitor into
his neat and tastefully furnished parlour, and the observant squire
was much surprised to see so many evidences of refinement and artistic
skill. On the walls, which were papered with a soft-hued pattern, hung
a few first-class engravings in broad maple frames; and here and there
an original crayon sketch or water-colour painting, betokening
considerable talent, was suspended between them. A dark rosewood piano
stood on one side, open and with one of Beethoven’s sonatas placed
upon the music-holder. On the opposite side stood a couch, on which
were placed antimacassars, cushions, &c., in Berlin woolwork. The
remainder of the furniture was all in keeping, and all were more or
less adorned with the handiwork of female fingers, while books of a
high-class character were plentifully strewed on the table and gleamed
in the book-case, through whose glass doors, the squire saw literary
treasures which he had never associated with the anvil and the forge.
Nathan handed his guest a chair, and stood waiting for an explanation
of his visit. The squire asked him to be seated, and then said,--
“Nathan Blyth, I can well believe that my visit here is as unwelcome
as it is unexpected. Our last interview, however necessary, was as
unpleasant for you as it was distasteful to me, and I am willing to
own that I had no desire that it should be repeated. I cannot charge
myself with having said anything on that occasion that was not as
courteous and conciliating as the circumstances would allow, and you
must permit me to say that your own attitude and deportment was all
that could be desired. You spoke and have acted as a man of honour,
and I was compelled to acknowledge to myself that I had to do with a
gentleman where I did not expect to find one.”
Nathan bowed, but made no reply.
“To-day,” continued the squire, “though my visit has to do with the
same circumstances, I should not wish you to think or hope that my
views on the former matter have undergone any change.”
“Pardon me,” said Nathan, “I neither hope so nor think so, and have no
wish--indeed I must ask you not to refer to that subject again. My
daughter knows her duty as I know mine, and you need be under no
apprehension that”----
“Don’t be angry, if you please,” said the squire, in a strangely
humble and deprecating voice, for Nathan had spoken with some degree
of spirit. “I have no such suspicion. Let me come to the point, Nathan
Blyth. My only son is dangerously ill,”--here his voice faltered, and
his face assumed a deathly pallor--“and I have a thousand fears for
his life. He has had a malignant attack of brain fever, and though,
thanks to the skill of Dr. Jephson, the fever has subsided, it has
left him at the very door of death.” Again the agonising truth was too
much for the speaker, and he laid his white head in his hands in
silent grief.
Nathan’s heart was always near his lips; with a swimming in his eyes
he said with deep feeling, “From my heart, I’m sorry.”
“Dr. Jephson,” said the squire, recovering his self-command, “declares
that medical skill is powerless to do more for him, and he commands me
to ask that your daughter, who, he says, is the most effective
sick-nurse in the district, will come and help to bring him back to
life.”
“My daughter, Squire Fuller? You must know that that is impossible.
How can she, how can he, be subjected to a test and trial like this,
after all that they have done to show their filial obedience--after
all that we have done to keep them apart? It cannot be. Besides, think
what would be said by those who are only too ready to impute motives
and suspect evil. The fair fame of my girl is dearer to me than life.
Mr. Fuller, nobody esteems Master Philip more than I; nobody can pray
for his recovery more earnestly than will I. But the thing you ask is
quite impossible, and can’t be done.”
“I know it all, Nathan Blyth. I feel the force of all that you have
said. On the other hand, my boy is dying. Like a drowning man I am
catching at a straw; and I beseech you, I who never asked a favour of
a living man, I beseech you do not deny me my request. If you can
trust your daughter, I can trust my son, and as for the gossip of
little minds, that will die away as soon as it is born. Nathan Blyth,
for the sake of a life more precious than my own, grant me my
request.”
Nathan Blyth was in a quandary, he was grievously perplexed, and could
not see his way out of the difficulty. Then the thought suddenly
struck him that, after all, this was a case in which Lucy herself
ought to be consulted.
“If you will excuse me a few moments,” said he, “I will consult my
daughter.”
“Let me see her, Nathan Blyth!” said the squire, eagerly, and
stretching out his hands in strong entreaty.
Nathan went and told Lucy all that had transpired, and if that honest
man had nursed the delusion that his darling had succeeded in, even
partially, dislodging Philip Fuller from her heart, the pitiful
yearning, the longing look that flashed from her bright hazel eye, the
blood-forsaken cheek and lip, as he told of her lover’s danger, drove
the fond delusion away for ever.
“The squire asks to see you, Lucy. But you can decline it, if you
like, my darling.”
Lucy thought for a moment, and then, with a woman’s quick intuition as
to what is best, said, “I’ll see him.”
Casting aside her apron, in which she had been attending to household
duties and standing a little--was there ever a woman that did
not?--before the kitchen looking-glass to assure herself that she was
not a perfect fright, Lucy entered the parlour, and for the first time
Squire Fuller saw the fairy who had so bewitched his son that the
effect of her glamour was his only hope of life. He rose to his feet,
stepped back a pace or two, and bowed as respectfully as he had ever
done in royal drawing-room to lady of high degree. Habited in a light
morning dress of printed calico, with collar and cuffs of purest
white, and a small crimson bow beneath her throat, her piquant beauty
and grace were quite sufficient to excuse either Philip Fuller, or
anybody else, for plunging head over ears in love so deeply that
emerging again was an impossibility.
“Good-morning, Miss Blyth,” said the squire. “Your father has informed
you of my errand.”
“Is Master Philip _very_ ill, sir?” and tone and eye and cheek
betrayed how much the question meant.
“Unto death, I fear!” The words were a wail. The proud lips quivered,
and a couple of tears forced their way, in spite of him, and both
Nathan Blyth and his daughter saw something of the all-absorbing love
he bore for his only son.
“Did he--does he know that you have come?”
“He knows nothing of it, and scarce of any other thing,” said the
troubled father. “He lies almost unconscious, and as though he had
already done with time. Dr. Jephson says there is but one hope. My
dear young lady, his father asks you with a breaking heart, ‘Come and
help to save my boy!’”
A consent was about to leap from her sympathetic heart, but still,
mindful of honour, truth and duty to the last, she only said, “Send
Dr. Jephson here.”
Both the squire and her father read decision in her face; the former
bowed and took his departure. He owned to himself that he had been in
presence of a grace and beauty such as he had never seen since those
days long gone by, when his own first and only love, to whom he saw a
strong resemblance in the radiant form before him, was yet untorn from
his young heart by the unpitying hand of Death.
In a little while, for there was no time to be lost, Dr. Jephson drove
up to the Forge in a little low phaeton belonging to the Hall, and in
which, with his usual promptitude and energy, he intended to spirit
off Lucy, bag and baggage, to the side of the helpless invalid who lay
in the last degree of weakness, moaning out the name of Lucy so
constantly that all could see how strong a hold she had upon his life
and love.
“Well, Miss Lucy,” said the genial doctor, “are you ready? My horse
will not stand long, and,” said he, with great seriousness, “every
hour is a dead loss to us in a hand-to-hand fight between life and
death.”
Lucy was about to repeat the self-evident objections before mentioned,
but the doctor interposed,--
“Look here, my dear. You did quite right, and acted with your usual
wit and wisdom in sending for me. I have two things to say that, if I
know you aright, will help you to decision in a moment. First, Philip
Fuller, without your presence and aid, will die. I say it solemnly and
truly. Second, _with_ your presence and aid there is another chance, a
hope that he may recover. Is that chance to be denied him?”
“I must go, father. Here is a plain duty to do,” said she, as she
kissed his anxious and dubious face, and clasped her arms lovingly
around his neck, “and duty must be done. Consequences must be left
with God, and you and I are used to leaving them there, aren’t we?”
“Go, my darling, and God be with you,” said Nathan Blyth.
Hastily gathering together such needful articles of personal attire as
were requisite for a brief visit, Lucy took her seat beside her good
friend, the doctor, and in a few minutes was far on her way to
Waverdale Hall.
“I do not know,” said the doctor, as they rode through the frosty air,
“whether you are aware that the squire told me of Master Philip’s
attachment to yourself. If I had not known of it I should many days
ago have sent for you, simply as a most skilful and all-effective
nurse for despondent invalids. The awkward revelation made me defer it
for your sake; but my deliberate conclusion is that he is pining away
under the influence of a hopeless passion or some bitter grief. I do
not think the matter of Black Morris has much to do with it; he never
mentions it, neither do I apprehend much difficulty in proving him
innocent of that charge. Hence, though it is a sad strain to put upon
you, Miss Lucy, I am bound to bring the only physician that
understands the patient’s case.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jephson, for your thought for me,” said Lucy. “God
knows I would rather have been spared this new and cruel test; but I
know where to go for help, and my father’s God and mine will help me
through.”
There was a sweet resignation, coupled with a brave resolve to fight
the trouble of the moment, which went straight to the doctor’s heart.
The phaeton was pulled up at the principal entrance to the mansion.
The old squire was at the door to bid her welcome, and Lucy Blyth, the
blacksmith’s daughter, crossed the threshold of Waverdale Hall.