The revelation made to him by his son had come upon him with all the force of a thunderbolt, and for a while bereft him of the power either to think or act. His clear perception had seen that Philip’s attachment to Lucy was no child’s play—no fleeting fancy to be chased away by the advent of some newer face of beauty. He knew that his son and heir was the subject of a master passion—a love that no diplomacy could lessen, that no counter policy could uproot, and that direct opposition could only intensify and confirm. His deep and mighty love for Philip, largely hid under a cold exterior, led him to sympathise with and pity him to a degree altogether unwarranted by external evidence; at the same time he felt that such an alliance as the ardent youth contemplated was simply impossible and absurd, and must be put an end to at all hazards, for his son’s sake, as well as from regard to the traditions of his family tree. He was convinced that the only method of preventing so glaring a mistake lay in an appeal to Philip’s filial obedience and love, and he came to the conclusion to use that potent engine without delay.
The next morning, as he and Philip were seated at the breakfast table, the squire opened the conversation by saying,—
“My son! Does your evening declaration commend itself to your morning reflections? I have gone through a sleepless night, trying to hope that I should meet, this morning, your wiser self. Philip, my boy, I would do much to please you, for you little know how great is my love for you. But you ask me what I cannot grant, and what, if you do without my permission, will go far to shorten my life and break my heart. You are all I have in the world, and having you, I have all the world has in it that I care for. My son! my son! will you give up this impossible idea, and let me feel that you will not bring my grey head to the grave with grief?”
The squire’s voice quivered, and the look of eager hope and dread upon his haggard face was something pitiful to see. He had employed the one arrow in his quiver that had, for this case, either feather or barb, and his suspense amounted to positive agony until Philip’s answer came. But he had judged aright. His son’s genuine love and loyalty were his sheet anchor, and the anchor held. The colour left Philip’s face, the struggle was intense, but his response was firm.
“My dear father! Your love is precious to me, and your will is law. I cannot promise not to love Lucy. I have not the power to keep it if I did. I cannot promise to give up the hope that one day you may look upon my heart’s desire with favour. But, so long as you forbear to urge any other alliance on me, I promise to your love, that I will not grieve you by any further steps in this direction.”
“And you will not seek an interview with this young woman without my full permission?”
Philip paused a moment while love and duty, or rather while two loves, fought a hard battle in his soul, and then the love that was allied with duty won the day, and he said, “Father, I will not.”
The father rose from his seat, bent forward, and kissed him on the brow. “Philip,” said he, “I bless you. God will bless you for that word.”
Squire Fuller’s next step was to despatch a note to Nathan Blyth, for he felt that no stone must be left unturned to assure the victory he had gained. A short time afterwards, therefore, the blacksmith received the following epistle:—
“Sir,—It has come to my knowledge that my son has been foolish enough to commit himself, by a stupid profession of love, to your daughter. Though this is doubtless a young man’s whim, and a mere passing fancy, I greatly object to it, and he has promised me that he will desist from what I am sure you will agree with me in describing as unseemly and improper. I write this private communication in order to suggest to your daughter that she should not encourage such a wild dream, and that you will use your authority in keeping her out of his way. I trust I have said nothing herein to give you offence, and am, &c.,
Ainsley Fuller.”