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CHAPTER IX.
The Progress of Master Philip’s Wooing.

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“Although thou may never be mine,

Although even hope is denied;

’Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside.”

Burns.

LUCY BLYTH retired from her brief interview with Philip Fuller, glad, as I have already said, to be relieved from an ordeal which taxed all her powers of self-command. Philip’s love for her was clear to a demonstration, and as she bravely and boldly took her own heart to task upon the subject, she had to confess to herself that she felt a sense of delight and satisfaction in his tacit declaration. “I love him!” was the language of her own soul, written there in characters so clear that she made no foolish attempt to cast the thought aside. Like a clear-conscienced, high-principled girl, as she was, she looked the whole matter fairly in the face, and soon came to the conclusion that duty and propriety demanded a firm resistance to the dangerous fascination. She resolved that never, by any word or deed of hers, would she give encouragement to what she knew would be an impossible affection, an unpardonable offence to the proud and stately squire, and a grievous sorrow to her beloved and doting father.

When Natty came in to dinner she had regained full command over herself, for Lucy had that secret supply of strength which is given to all those who walk with God, and Blithe Natty’s suspicions, if he had any, were, at any rate, temporarily laid to rest. Neither of them mentioned the events of the morning, and wisely so, for stout resistance in such a case is more easily accomplished under the silent system. Opposition, interference, condemnation, are sadly apt to fan such sparks into a more fervent flame, and to supply fuel to a fire which might haply die away for want of it. Nathan Blyth was quite right in placing implicit confidence in the religious principles and firm character of his right-minded girl.

Philip Fuller, however, was subject to no such restraining influences; at any rate, they remained as yet undeveloped. His all-engrossing love led him to seek an opportunity to declare it, and to nurse the hope that he should hear from her own lips the response he so much desired. On two or three occasions he sought an interview with her, but Lucy’s woman’s wit had seen his design and foiled it. Twice, when Adam Olliver was returning from his daily toil, he had descried the youthful squire following Lucy, and had seen that young lady start off at a rapid run to avoid the meeting.

One evening, as Lucy was returning from a solitary cottage at some distance from the village, whither she had been on a good Samaritan kind of errand, Philip Fuller suddenly met her face to face. It was impossible to elude him, or to evade the announcement which she knew was trembling on his lips. With a lover’s impetuosity he entered at once on the subject nearest to his heart.

“Miss Blyth,” he said, “for I suppose I must not call you ‘Lucy’ now;”—Here the cunning young gentleman paused, hoping to “score one” by hearing the coveted permission. In vain, however, for though I don’t pretend to deny that “Lucy” from his lips had a music of its own, she remained tremblingly silent, waiting for what should follow, in that odd mingling of hope and fear which baffles psychologists to analyse or metaphysicians to explain.

“Do you remember,” continued he, “those pleasant hours of ‘auld lang syne?’ I wish they could have lasted for ever.”

“Nothing does last for ever in this world,” said Lucy, with a constrained smile, “and it would not do to be always children, you know. When childhood’s over we have to put away childish things.”

“Lucy,—forgive me for calling you by the old familiar name—I cannot get any other from my lips. I believe my love for you was a childish thing, for it was born in childhood’s days. But it has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, and the one dearest wish of my soul is that the ‘little sweetheart’ of old times would be my sweetheart now! Lucy, my darling”——

“Mr. Fuller!” interposed Lucy, “I must not, will not hear you any further. I will not appear to misunderstand you. I will not for a moment wrong you with the thought that you mean anything but what is true and honourable; but I must ask you, nay, command you, never again to speak to me like this. What you hint at can never, never be. The one thing for you to do is to leave me alone, now and ever, and let me go my way while you go yours. All the old times are over now—and you must forget that they have ever been.”

Poor Lucy found it hard work to get that last expression out, but she was not given to half measures where duty was involved, and she meant all she said.

“Don’t be cruel,” he pleaded. “I can never forget, and I will never, never give up the hope”——

But Lucy had sprung from him, for, seeing Old Adam Olliver jogging along on his lowly steed, she instantly resolved to instal him as her escort to the village. The old man had seen the sudden departure, had recognised the young squire, and, reading Lucy’s flushed cheek and excited tone, came to his own conclusions, the nature of which we shall understand by-and-bye. Very little was said on their homeward way, and on arriving at the forge Lucy wished the old man “good evening.”

“Good-neet, mah bairn,” said Adam. “Ah’s waint an’ glad ah met wi’ yo’. Ah wadn’t be oot varry leeat if ah were you. There’s them aboot ’at’s up te neea good.” With this enigmatical utterance he rode off, leaving Lucy to wonder what he meant, and how much he knew.

No sooner had the old hedger stabled his steed and sat down to his supper than he opened his mind to his dear “aud woman,” who was in truth as well as name a helpmeet for him, his loving and trusted wife for forty years.

“Judy, my lass, I isn’t ower an’ aboon satisfied aboot that young slip ov a squire.”

“What, Master Philip, d’ye meean? What’s matter wiv ’im, Adam?”

“Why, ah’s freetened ’at he’s settin’ sheep’s e’en at Lucy Blyth. Thoo knoas she’s parlous pratty. Ah’ve seen him efther ’er ’eels three or fower tahmes latly. Te-neet my lord was talkin’ tiv her doon t’ park looan, an’ as seean as sha’ saw me sha’ shot awa’ frev him like a ‘are, an’ comm wi’ ma’ all t’ way yam. He steead an’ leeak’d hard, a goodish bit dumfoonder’d, an’ then wheel’d roond an’ went tow’rd t’ park.”

“Hey, but that’s a bad ’earin’, Adam,” said Judith. “Lucy Blyth’s a gell ’at would tonn ony yung fellow’s head. But ah don’t believe that she’ll do owt wrong, won’t Lucy.”

“She deea owt wrang? Nut she,” said Adam; “bud ah’s vastly misteea’n if he weean’t; an’ ah deean’t think it’s right nut te let Nathan knoa.”

“Nay, ah hoap there’s nowt in it, efther all, Adam. Lucy’s a lass ’at ’ll allus tak’ care of hersen, an’ ah’s sure t’ young squire’s as nice and fine a young fellow as you can finnd atween here an’ York.”

Judy was a true woman, it will be seen, and the possible loves of two young people found a certain favour in her eyes.

As for Lucy Blyth, she went home the subject of feelings very difficult to describe, and for many days the struggle between love and duty was very severe. She found herself utterly unable to “cast his image from her heart,” and, like the fair maiden described by Dryden, she might have said—

“I am not what I was; since yesterday

My strength forsakes me, and my needful rest;

I pine, I languish, love to be alone:

Think much, speak little, and in speaking sigh.

······

I went to bed, and to myself I thought

That I would think on Torrismond no more;

Then shut my eyes, but could not shut out him.”

Lucy, however, had “strength to worldly minds unknown,” and set herself to “conquer in this strife.”

Matters continued thus for several days. Then Adam Olliver again chanced to meet Master Philip, who was walking along with bended head, and with his mind so pre-occupied that he did not hear the old man’s courteous salutation, “It’s a feyn neet, sur,” and passed on without response. Further on he came upon Lucy Blyth, who had just undergone an ordeal similar to the last. Maintaining her usual firmness of denial, she had sent her lover away in such evident sorrow and distress that she was indulging in a quiet little cry of sympathy. Adam surprised her with her ‘kerchief to her eyes, and waxed wroth against the rude offender who had thus distressed his favourite.

“Why, Lucy, mi’ lass, what’s matter wi’ yo’? Ah can’t abide to see yo’ like that. Hez onnybody been upsettin’ yo’? ’Cause if they hev, it mun be putten a stop tae, an’ it sall, if ah hev te deea it mysen.”

Poor Lucy, dreadfully afraid that Philip’s persistent wooing should be known, hastened to assure him that there was no need to trouble.

“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 lass 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.