Nestleton Magna Part 7

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 hara.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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 fl.u.s.tered and disturbed, and when she entered the house, Nathan was constrained to notice her flushed face and disarranged attire.

"Why Lucy, la.s.s, you look as though you had been at work in a hayfield, and as warm as a dairymaid at a b.u.t.ter 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 pa.s.sed 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 la.s.sie'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 la.s.s!" 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d's good Providence will pull us through. Now it's getting late, so bring the Bible and let us hear what G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d!

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, a.s.sured 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.

CHAPTER XII.

ADAM OLLIVER IN THE "METHODIST CONFESSIONAL."

"When one who holds communion with the skies, Has filled his urn where the pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, And tells us where his treasure is supplied."

_Cowper._

In addition to the Sunday services conducted by local preachers, and a fortnightly Thursday meeting, when the Nestletonian Methodists were favoured with a sermon from one of the "itinerants," two weekly cla.s.s-meetings were held, the one in Adam Olliver's cottage, the other in the kitchen of Nathan Blyth. In each case the owner of the place of rendezvous was the "leader" of the little band which gathered from week to week to give and obtain mutual cheer and encouragement in the Christian life. Old Adam's cla.s.s consisted chiefly of the older members of society, and numbered a dozen or fourteen men and women who were "asking their way to Zion with their faces thitherward."

The lowly and tidy little room was always made as neat as a new pin by the diligent Judith for the cla.s.s-meetings, though that state of things was by no means exceptional; for Judith, like most of the East Yorks.h.i.+re peasantry, prided herself on the cleanliness of her cosy cottage. A strip or two of carpet was laid here and there upon the well-washed brick floor. A hearthrug made of short strips of cloth, knitted in many colours and neat of pattern, lay upon the white hearthstone, on the borders of which, uncovered by the rug, a little red sand was strewn, to facilitate future sweeping operations, and to give a looser tenancy to dirt. The grate, hob, and oven were brightly polished with black-lead, and the iron bar, and "reckon" over the fire-place, used for suspending culinary pot and kettle, were as bright as burnished steel. Half a dozen wooden chairs made of birch or ashwood, a small old-fas.h.i.+oned "dresser" and platerack, a clock of contemporary age, whose long case stood bolt upright against the wall, and had had to suffer partial decapitation to make room for it underneath the joists of the boarded chamber floor, an odd-looking corner cupboard perched more than half-way up an angle of the room, and a little round table covered with glazed American cloth, completed the furniture. Not quite, though, for there were two old-fas.h.i.+oned arm-chairs, with spindled backs, from which the green paint was largely worn away by constant use, and two or three odd little Scripture prints and an antique "sampler" adorned the whitewashed walls. On cla.s.s-meeting nights, the sitting accommodation was increased by the introduction of two little wooden forms of Adam's own construction, which at other seasons were set up on end in the little back kitchen to be out of the way. A well-worn Bible and the ubiquitous Wesleyan hymn-book were laid upon the table, and Adam's spectacles, in a wooden case, were placed by their side, as regularly as Wednesday night came round.

I have a great desire that my readers should peep into Adam's cottage on one of these occasions, and witness the proceedings at a genuine Methodist cla.s.s-meeting.

As the clock strikes seven, eight or nine members have arrived, and each, having bent the knee in silent prayer, sits silent until the patriarchal leader dons his gla.s.ses, opens at a favourite hymn, and says,--

"Let us commence t' wors.h.i.+p ov G.o.d be' singin' t' hym on t' fottid payge, common measure."

"Jesus the neeame 'igh ower all, I' h.e.l.l or 'arth or sky; Aingels an' men befoore it fall, An' divvils fear an' fly."

The first two lines are then given out again, and Jabez Hepton starts the tune. A few verses are thus disposed of, two lines at a time, and then the old man leads them at the Throne of Grace, in a quaintly earnest prayer. Adam always had "a good time" on these occasions, and two or three of the more enthusiastic members interpolate their "amens" and "halleluias," varying in number and vehemence according to the current character of their own feelings and experiences. Adam pulls off his gla.s.ses as the members resume their seats, and folding his hands on the open book, says,--

"Ah's still gannin' on i' t' aud rooad, an' ah bless the Lord 'at ah's nearer salvation noo then when fost ah beleeaved. Ah finnd 'at t' way dizn't get 'arder bud eeasier as ah gan' on. Ah used te hev monny a tussle wi' me' neeamsake, t' 'Aud Adam,' an' he's offens throan ma', but t' Strangger then he's aboot tonnd him oot, an' ah feel 'at the Lord's will's mah will mair then ivver it was afoore. Ah's c.u.mmin'

fast te d' end o' my jonna, an' ah's just waitin' at t' Beautiful Gayt o' t' temple, till the Lord c.u.ms an' lifts ma' up, then ah sall gan in as t' leeam man did, loupin' an' singin' an' praisin' G.o.d.--Noo, Brother Hepton, hoo is it wi' your sowl te-neet?"

Jabez Hepton, as we have seen, is the village carpenter. He is rather a reticent and thoughtful man, troubled now and then with mental doubts--a kind of Nicodemus, who is given to asking "How can these things be?"

"Well," he says, "I'm not quite up to the mark, somehow. I have no trust but in Jesus, an' I don't want to have. But I've a good many doubts an' fears,--why, not fears exactly, but questionings an'

uncertainties, an' they disturb me at times a good bit. I pray for grace to overcome 'em. May the Lord help me!"