“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, God 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 passing 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.