THE new-found blessing which Philip Fuller had obtained on Nestleton Wold, laid abiding hold on his whole being and influenced all his life. He attended the services in Farmer Houston’s kitchen, and having expressed his desire to meet in class, Adam Olliver gave him a characteristic invitation to join the little band of true believers which gathered round his cottage hearth. It cropped out, however, that Lucy Blyth was a regular and exemplary attendant there, and that the only other class was held in Nathan Blyth’s own dwelling. So Philip, who was conscientiously bent on fulfilling his compact with his father, in spirit as well as letter, resolved to ride into Kesterton, and attend the class conducted by the junior minister, so as to give no ground for discrediting remark or sinister suspicion. His next step was to tell his father of his conversion and announce his intention of casting in his lot with the despised people called Methodists. The old squire received the unwelcome information in a towering rage, and incontinently ordered the scion of the house of Fuller from his presence. On the following morning, after a constrained and silent meal, the squire re-opened the conversation. A cloud was on his brow; his face, usually cold and sphinx-like, gave evident token of the strong commotion which stirred his soul to its profoundest depths. One arm was laid upon the table, the other rested on his knee. His head was bent forward, and from beneath his thick grey brows his eyes looked out into the face of his only son in fixed inquiry, anger and alarm. Philip stood by the table, his handsome face full of strong resolve, every feature showing excitement, and his eyes met his father’s with a steady gaze, betokening a soul which had no secrets to conceal.
“What new folly is this?” said the squire. “Do you mean to tell me that, not content with paying court to a blacksmith’s daughter, you have lowered yourself by casting in your lot with the contemptible sectaries, the howling fanatics, the dairy-maids and plough-boys who rave like dancing dervishes, and groan and shriek like Tom o’ Bedlam without sense or reason?”
“I’ve no knowledge, father, of any such people as you describe. The Methodists are as orderly and as reverent in their religious services, as they are who go to the parish church. Since I have found my Saviour, and have felt the love of God in my heart, attendance on their simple worship has been among the happiest hours of my life. Through the Methodists I found the pardon of my sins, among them I find spiritual food and comfort more precious than I can describe, and with the Methodists I desire to live and die.”
Baffled, but resolved, the squire, who had little idea of the strength of his son’s character, hastily resolved upon risking all on the hazard of a throw.
“Philip Fuller, listen to me. These idiotic fools are hateful to me. Their religion is a parody; their sickening cant is blasphemy; they are all composed of the poorest scum of the community. As the bearer of an ancient and historic name, I utterly decline in any way, however slight, to be brought into contact with them. Whatever I can do to drive them out of Waverdale, I will do; and as for you, if you refuse to obey me, and dare to cross the threshold of their disgusting orgies again, you are no longer a son of mine. Remember that the estate is not entailed, and I’ll leave it to the hospitals before it shall fall into the hands of hypocritical rogues like these.”
Philip’s face had waxed as pale as death. The cruel words had fallen harder than the speaker intended, and even now he would gladly have recalled them. Tears of manly and filial grief stood in Philip’s eyes, as he replied,—
“My father, I love you dearer than life, and if the sacrifice of life would minister to your real happiness, I would not grudge it. I have never disobeyed you. I have consented to put one light of my life out in deference to your desire, and were this anything short of a robbery to my soul and treason to my God, I would obey you in this as in the rest. But I cannot; my conscience speaks in a voice I dare not ignore. I have given myself to my Saviour; I believe it to be His will that I should bear the despised and humble name of Methodist, and therefore, though I will go on my knees, and beseech you to withdraw your cruel words, happen what will, and come what may, this people shall be my people, and their God my God.”
“Get out of my sight, sir!” thundered out the wrathful parent, “and don’t see me again till I send for you.”