"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 la.s.s 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.

CHAPTER X.

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 pa.s.sionate 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 att.i.tude 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 rea.s.sure 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 G.o.d,"

and joined with the rural worshippers in singing of the love of a crucified Christ. From then till now no day had pa.s.sed without bringing to his mind the sweet and touching lines--

"All ye that pa.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 cla.s.s. 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 s.h.a.ggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father's presence.

CHAPTER XI.

BOTH PHILIP AND LUCY MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF IT.

"The voice of parents is the voice of G.o.ds, 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 a.s.signation." Here he lifted his s.h.a.ggy 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 n.o.blest 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 G.o.d."

"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 a.s.signation? 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 pa.s.sed 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.