Читать книгу Nestleton Magna - J. Jackson Wray - Страница 13

CHAPTER X.
Black Morris is more Free than Welcome.

Table of Contents

“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 passionate 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 attitude 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 reassure 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 God,” and joined with the rural worshippers in singing of the love of a crucified Christ. From then till now no day had passed without bringing to his mind the sweet and touching lines—

“All ye that pass 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 space 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 class. 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 shaggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father’s presence.