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CHAPTER VI.
Philip’s Visit to the Forge, or Love’s Young Dream.

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“Love is a plant of holier birth

Than any that takes root on earth;

A flower from heaven, which ’tis a crime

To number with the things of time.

Hope in the bud is often blasted,

And beauty on the desert wasted!

And joy, a primrose, early gay,

Care’s lightest footfall treads away.

But love shall live, and live for ever,

And chance and change shall reach it never.”

Henry Neele.

“CAN this be little Lucy Blyth?” said Philip Fuller to himself, as he wended his way to Waverdale Park. His memories were very pleasant, of the bright and piquant child, whom as a boy he had known and romped with in that freedom from restraint, which his youth, the lack of a mother’s care, and the pre-occupied and studious habits of his father rendered possible. The attractive little girl and the merry geniality of Blithe Natty had induced him when he was barely in his teens to take his rides almost constantly in the direction of the Forge, and fruits and flowers and pony rides, as far as Lucy was concerned, were the order of the day. Who can say that love’s subtle magic did not weave its unseen but potent spell around those two young hearts in those early days of mirthful childhood? At any rate, Philip’s heart responded at once to the sound of Lucy’s name, and now her superadded charms of face and feature fairly took him captive. Whether there be any truth or not in the poet’s idea of

“A first, full, sudden Pentecost of love,”

it cannot be denied that Philip there and then knew that he loved Lucy Blyth, knew, moreover, that it was a love that would be all-absorbing, a love that time would not lessen, that trial would not weaken, that death would not destroy. No other idea could get in edgewise during that memorable walk. The radiant vision floated before his eyes, and thrilled him to the heart: the very trees seemed to whisper “Lucy” as they trembled in the breeze, and Philip Fuller knew from that hour that he had “found his fate.”

Difference of rank, social barriers, his father’s exaggerated family pride, Nathan Blyth’s sturdy independence, Lucy’s possible denial, and kindred prosy considerations, did not occur to the smitten youth; or if they did they were wondrously minified by love’s inverted telescope into microscopic proportions, and through them all he held the juvenilian creed that “love can find out the way.” In his dreams that night, he re-enacted all the scene at Adam Olliver’s garden gate; saw again the sweetest face in the world or out of it to his glamour-flooded eyes; heard again the question, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?” Men live rapidly in dreams, time flies like a flash. Difficulties do not count in dreams, they are ignored, and so it was that Philip answered the question in a veni-vidi-vici kind of spirit, and shouted in dreamland over the garden gate, “Yes it can, and will be Lucy Fuller, by-and-bye!” Then, as John Bunyan says, he “awoke, and behold it was a dream.” Ah! Master Philip, Jason did not win the golden fleece without sore travail and fight; Hercules did not win the golden apple of Hesperides without dire conflict with its dragon guard, and if you imagine that this dainty prize is going to fall into your lap for wishing for, you will find it is indeed a dream from which a veritable thunderclap shall wake you. Will the lightning scathe you? Who may lift the curtain of the future? I would not if I could—better far, as honest Natty sings, to

Do your honest duty, boys, and never, never fear.

The next morning Master Philip left the breakfast-table to go out on a voyage of discovery. Bestriding a handsome bay horse, his father’s latest gift, he rode down to Nestleton Forge, and arrived just in time to hear the final strophes of Blithe Natty’s latest anvil song. That vivacious son of Vulcan was engaged in sharpening and tempering millers’ chisels, and as the labour was not hard, and the blows required were light and rapid, Natty’s song dovetailed with the accompaniment:—

Every cloud has a lining of light,

Morning is certain to follow the night;

Eve may be sombre, the shadows shall flee,

Sunny and smiling the morrow shall be.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

Hearts may be heavy and hope may be low,

Pluck up your spirits and sing as you go.

Hope now, hope ever, though dark be the sky,

Night brings the stars out to glitter on high.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

Larks fold their wings when daylight is done,

Spread them to-morrow again to the sun.

Gloomiest shadows shall lift by-and-bye,

Smiles of contentment shall follow the sigh.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

“Good morning, Mr. Blyth,” said Philip; “I’m glad to have the chance of hearing your merry voice again. I’ve been intending to ride round ever since my return from college, but my father has managed to keep me pretty much by his side.”

“I’m heartily glad to see you, sir,” said Nathan, “and mighty pleased to see that college honours and gay company have not led you to forget your poorer neighbours. You know the old proverb, ‘When the sun’s in the eyes people don’t see midges.’”

“Why, as for that,” said Philip, with a laugh, “I am not aware that the sun is in my eyes. At any rate I can see you, and you are no midge by any means. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot?’ As for gay company, that is not at all in my line. By-the-bye, what’s become of your little daughter? I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing her, too. I suppose she has grown altogether too womanly to accept a ride on Harlequin, the pony, even if I brought him. Is she at home?”

Now, I am quite sure that Nathan Blyth would much rather have preferred that Master Philip should not resume his acquaintance with Lucy. On the other hand, he had the most unbounded confidence in her, while he had no shadow of reason for suspecting Philip of any ulterior motive; hence he could scarcely avoid calling his daughter to speak with the young squire. That young lady soon appeared in graceful morning garb, and the impressible heart of the youthful lover was bound in chains for evermore. There was neither guile nor reserve in his greeting. The light that beamed in his eye and the tone that rung in his voice, could scarcely fail to betray to far less observant eyes and ears the unmeasured satisfaction with which he renewed his acquaintance with the charming girl. Lucy, however, seemed to have retired into herself; her words were few, constrained, and inconsequent, but the tell-tale blush was on her cheek, and there was a singular flutter at her heart, as she saw the ardent admiration which shone in the eyes of her quondam friend. It was with a profound sense of relief that she was able to plead the pressure of domestic duties as a reason for shortening the interview and retiring from the scene. After a brief conversation with Nathan on trivial matters, Philip mounted his horse and rode homewards, in that frame of mind so admirably depicted by Otway:—

“Where am I? Sure Paradise is round me;

Sweets planted by the hand of heaven grow here,

And every sense is full of thy perfection!

To hear thee speak might calm a madman’s frenzy,

Till by attention he forgot his sorrows;

But to behold thy eyes, th’ amazing beauties

Would make him rage again with love, as I do;

Thou Nature’s whole perfection in one piece!

Sure, framing thee, Heaven took unusual care;

As its own beauty, it designed thee fair,

And formed thee by the best loved angel there.”

Such were the emotions Philip Fuller felt as he turned away from the Forge of Nathan Blyth. Rounding the corner in the direction of Waverdale Hall, he was suddenly confronted by the scowling face and suspicious eyes of Black Morris.