there aught in the Bible about keeping fast He had raised himself upon his pillows, and stretched his yellow, shrivelled face towards Justin, with a passion of anxiety in every line of it. A vehement struggle was going on in his mind. He dared not, on the very threshold of the unseen world, commit any fresh offence that might endanger his own welfare there; yet he could not bear to keep his bitter threats against his only son. It was a moment of fierce inward conflict with Justin also. He knew well that Richard had been disinherited, and he himself put in his place, and all his future depended upon his next word. Yet he stood there as a minister of Christ to teach the dying man all he would receive of Divine truth. "On the contrary," he said distinctly and slowly, "God requires of you to forgive every one that has trespassed against you. It is your bounden duty to pardon your son." "Ah, I do, I do!" cried the old man with a sudden burst of tears and sobs. "Oh, I forgive him! I love him! I dote upon him still, Justin! He must be my son again. I believe now in God Almighty, if He orders me to forgive my own son. I was afraid I must stick to my word and my curses. Oh, God bless you, Dick! my boy, my son !" 666 He had fallen back upon his pillows, and lay shaking with sobs. Justin's face was pale and set as he waited for this paroxysm to pass over. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven,'" he said, after a painful effort to speak clearly. "For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.' Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, has forgiven you.'" Justin felt as if he was reading the words of some solemn sacrament. Death had not yet lost his sacred mystery for him. Old Richard Herford lay still for a quarter of an hour to recover his strength for further speech after his fit of sobbing was over. But Justin did not move away. He stood with his arms folded and his head bowed down, waiting in profound patience for the next word of the dying lips, though the pause seemed intolerably long. "Justin," he said at last, opening his dimsighted eyes, "you know I made a will after Dick ran away, making you my son. It's in the old cabinet there, and my will when he was born, leaving it all to him. I meant to burn the new one the very day he came home again; but he's never come! Here's the key; bring them both to me. I'll burn it now, because I've forgiven him from the bottom of my heart, for he's my only son, born when I was sixty years of age; and why should I leave what I've got to another man's son?" He muttered the last words to himself; but Justin's ear caught every one of them. He found the key mechanically, and unlocked the cabinet door. In a drawer within lay two packets, tied and sealed. His hand shook a little as he took them out, and he dropped them hastily on the old man's bed, as though the very touch of them was a pain to him. With crooked, palsied fingers the dying father took them up, and looked at them through his bleared eyes. "Call your mother in," he said sharply and suspiciously. Justin hastened to the door and called aloud, without leaving the room. She was not far away, and the next moment she was standing by her husband's bed. "Take this packet," he said to her, "and drop it in the fire, and let me see it burn away to a cinder. Justin, you put this one back in its safe place. That's my last will, and you can testify I'm of sound mind." CHAPTER III.-THE MASTER OF HERFORD. It was four o'clock in the morning when Justin left Herford Court to return to his own home. Old Richard Herford was dead, and his death had been a depressing one, so completely had the selfishness of his nature displayed itself, even in the solemn hour of passing away. A stormy wind was driving the thin clouds hurriedly across the sky, where the waning moon shone out now and then with a fitful and watery light. He could not see the sea along the deep lane he was treading, with tall hedgerows on each side; but the moan of it filled the silent air of the night, mingling with the rush of the wind through the leafless trees overhead. There was no other sound except his own lingering and tardy footsteps. He turned round, and stood longer than he was aware of, gazing at the gabled front of the Court, which stood on the brow of a low rocky hill, with the sheltering cliffs behind, its high roof and strong stacks of chimneys looking black in the fitful moonlight. He knew every stone of the pile of building. It had been the only home he had ever known, though he had had but a step-son's place in it. He had never forgiven his mother for marrying old Richard Herford; but he had long ago acknowledged the advantages that had accrued to him because of it. But were they real advantages? he asked himself at this moment. Mr. Herford had given him a college education, and bestowed upon him the small living in his gift. He had drifted into taking orders and becoming a clergyman, because his step-father, with his strong and domineering will, had so ordered it. But who could tell him what he might have become, by his own exertions, had his mother remained a poor widow? His heart felt very sore as he stood gazing at the black gabled roof of the Court. He had just been passing through a vehement struggle with a strong temptation; and his victory, so far from making him feel triumphant, had left him depressed and disappointed. He had wished in his inmost heart that it had not fallen to his lot to impress upon the conscience of the dying man the duty of pardoning his graceless son. He had seen the will destroyed which would have made him master of the estate, Herford of Herford, in the place of his half-brother. It had been promised to him scores of times, with many an oath; and although he had always disclaimed the promises, even to himself, the hope had unconsciously sprung up in his heart that some day the old place, so dear to him and so little cared for by Richard, might become his own. It was true that he had been a better son to the old man than Richard had ever been. He had worked for him, submitted to him, carried out his schemes, and waited dutifully upon his whims year after year, whilst Richard had acted like the spoiled scapegrace that he was. He had mocked at his father, assiduously opposed him in his plans, done his best to supplant him, and at last deserted him in his old age; yet now Richard was to come into the kingdom, be the young squire, and squander away the money his father had accumulated, simply because he had been born to it; whilst he who had acted the better part must go back, for the remainder of the long life stretching before him, to the small vicarage and scanty stipend of his seaboard parish. Until now he had not felt deeply discontented with his position, but he had not known before how much he was unconsciously building upon his stepfather's reiterated promises. It was still three hours before the break of day, yet he felt reluctant to go home and wake up his elderly maid-servant to admit him into his cheerless house. It was better out here in the stillness of the night, for there was no sleep possible whilst thoughts were hurrying faster than the flying clouds overhead through his wakeful brain. He could hardly confess to himself that his mood was anything more than the depressing and weary sadness of witnessing the passing away into impenetrable mystery of an utterly selfish and unenlightened soul. Slowly he turned his back upon Herford Court, and slowly he paced the long deep lane which led down to the little fishing village, where every house was closed and no sign of life was to be seen. The cottages were all real homesteads to him, every one of whose inmates he had known from boyhood; and now that he was their pastor he was not wilfully neglectful of his duties to them, distasteful as they were to him. Justin delighted in dwelling amongst people whom he knew closely. Possibly the absence of any strong home affection had made him more dependent upon the good-will of the outer circle of neighbours. He was very popular with his parishioners, though few of the rough men could overcome their reluctance to attend the church, which they were accustomed to look upon as a safe and warm shelter for women folk, and for such among themselves as had grown too rheumatic to brave all weathers on the beach. From this little strip of shingly beach, where the boats were now lying above highwater mark, a narrow and somewhat dangerous path wound upwards, round the face of a rock that stood well out to sea, on the highest point of which stood a little lighthouse. Long ago, in some far-away dark age, it had been a small chapel or chantry belonging to an abbey some miles inland; and it looked still like a diminutive church, with its low porch and dwarf square belfry, which now held the lantern burning brightly towards the sea. Justin knew very well that this spot was the favourite haunt of his seafaring parishioners on a Sunday, and he felt no wonder or resentment at it. It was dark, for the faint ray of the waning moon hardly touched the glistening whiteness of the foam as the sea roared and broke into flecks upon the rocks below; and he could scarcely trace the black outline of the cliff stretching on each side of the Lantern Hill, as it was called. But he had no need to see the familiar prospect. He could name every crag and headland on either side; and as the strong westerly breeze blew the spray into his face, he knew almost to a foot how high the tide had risen on the jagged rocks beneath him. He sat down on a rude seat under the lighthouse tower, turning a sad set face to the dark sea. Why, he asked himself at this moment, had he suffered himself to be overpersuaded by his mother, and coerced by his stepfather, and drifted by circumstances into entering the Church? His heart was not in his work. He discharged his duties conscientiously, and would not wilfully omit one of his obligations; but they were a weariness, not a delight, to him. His desire was for other pursuits. When the men about him talked of their fishing and farming, their horses and their boats, he could enter easily and cordially into their interests; but when they were dying, and looked to him to give them comfort and counsel for their souls, he was at a loss. He had found himself tongue-tied and embarrassed at his stepfather's death-bed. It ought not to have been so. Perchance, if he had been himself a more devout and spiritual man, he might have awakened some answering emotion in the departing spirit, and it would have passed into another world with less of earth's ignorance and hardness about it. He felt bowed down by his sense of unfitness for his office. There had been times before this when the same wretched despondency had breathed over him, but now he had fallen into a dark and deep degree of it. If he had been what he ought to be as a minister of Christ, would his stepfather have gone from this life in so dense an ignorance of the character of God, and the nature of the revelation Christ had come to bring? But irksome as the yoke was he must bear it. There had been a half-dream in his mind of giving up his living to his old friend Cunliffe, if the estate should ever come to him. It amazed and shamed him to discover how active had been his anticipations of supplanting his half-brother; yet what freedom there would have been in it for himself! How well he could have filled the offices of owner and master, squire and magistrate! Richard would do mischief in each of these positions-Richard, the ignorant, reckless spendthrift, as selfish as his father, with low habits bordering on vices. Justin had always despised Richard while he envied him. He had continually drawn comparisons between them, and in all these comparisons his own character and conduct stood out well; yet Richard was to be master of Herford! himself against entertaining them again, even as passing guests. It was a poor man's life he was going back to, doomed to it for the remainder of his days; for if Richard came into unconditional possession it was little help his mother would get from her younger son, and she would become an additional burden upon him. Two hundred a year was the full value of his little living. Poverty had not yet looked in through his window, for old Richard Herford's pride would not have brooked the idea of any one belonging to him being in low condition; but now Richard was master he would spend all on himself in riotous living. His stepfather's last coherent words haunted him as he retraced his way homewards: "Justin has always been a good son to me; I wish I'd done something for him, but it's too late now." CHAPTER IV.-PANSY. JUSTIN'S vicarage was built in the shadow of the church-a small, low house, not much better than the best of the village dwellings; yet such as it was he had been content with it until his younger brother disappeared, and his stepfather ostentatiously and continually proclaimed him heir to Herford Court. Since then he had, unawares to himself, looked upon it as a merely temporary abode, which answered his purpose well enough till he could move into a larger habitation. Now it must be his home for life, for Justin had no desire to quit Herford, for which he felt an almost passionate love, and no ambition apart from his beloved village tempted him. He had never left it as a boy without suffering from that strange malady, half physical and half mental, which we call home sickness; and to be banished from it altogether would have seemed to him like tearing up his life by the roots. He looked up expectantly to the small window of the closet adjoining his own study, where his motherless child slept, and which he could enter with quiet footfall any moment of the long evenings he often spent alone, and mark every change on the sweet rosy face asleep on the little bed. He was not disappointed, for Pansy was already up and dressed, and was watching for him, with her face pressed close against the window. She ran down swiftly, and he heard her At last Justin roused himself from his long fingers busy at the fastenings of the door, reverie, stood up shivering, and lifted his which were but slight ones, for no one feared soft cap from his head to let the keen sea-housebreakers in Herford. There was no breeze cool his throbbing temples. The lack of warmth in Pansy's welcome. thoughts that had passed through his mind pulled down his sad face to hers and covered he could utter to no man; and he must guard it with kisses. She "Where is he gone?" she asked in an earnest, emphatic tone. Justin was silent as he drew his little daughter into the homely room where his breakfast was being laid. What could he say in reply to the important question we ask of each one that passes away from our sight and ken? He had hitherto been so much occupied with his own position that the thought of the old man's destiny had barely touched his mind. No one knew him as well as he did, no man was better fitted to pronounce upon his doom, but Justin's heart sank within him as he vainly tried, for an instant, to follow the journey his stepfather had taken since he had left his questioning little daughter. "He is gone to his own place," he mur mured half aloud. "Is it a pleasant place?" asked Pansy. "Is it where you'd like us two to go, father?" "God forbid!" he answered hastily, pressing the child closer to him; "my darling, your grandfather is dead." "Like my poor mamma! said Pansy, in a pitiful tone. "Never mind, father. I'll make up to you for him, as well as for poor mamma. Don't I make up for her to you?" 66 Yes, my little girl," he answered tenderly. 66 Are you very, very sorry he is dead?" she inquired again, after a little pause. She did not find that she felt very sorry. He was a yellow, toothless, rough-faced old man, with a mumbling voice, of whom she had been secretly afraid; though she had too much native sweetness and grace to show it in any way. "Are you very sorry?" "I am grieved," answered Justin, stroking his child's sunny curls, with as loving a touch as a mother's. For the first time he felt an emotion of grief for the old man; for his wasted life, so long in passing, and so solitary in its close. Could it be possible that he had possessed the same absorbing love for Richard which Pansy received from him? What poignant anguish must the forsaken father have undergone! What a sore spirit must he have carried about with him under his proud mien for many a past month! The only love that had ever reached the man's hard and selfish heart had pierced it through with many sorrows. "You'll never be very grieved for long while I'm with you!" said Pansy wistfully. "Why, no! How could I?" he replied, rousing himself from his mournful reverie. "If my little girl is very good, and very happy, I couldn't be sorry for long. Now give me my breakfast, little woman." It was an unfailing pleasure to him to see the flush of mingled anxiety and happiness that mounted to Pansy's face when she was employed in pouring out his coffee, the only part she could yet take in the management of the breakfast table. She was not tall enough to sit down to her task, and she stood at the tray, with a grave face puckered up into supernatural seriousness, as she carefully portioned out the cream and sugar, and poured out the hot coffee; breaking out into a triumphant little laugh as she placed the full cup in safety before him. "There! You'll never pour out my coffee for me again," she said, "like you used to do when I was a little girl. Not if I never break any of the cups and saucers? Don't make believe I'm little again, please. I'm going to learn how to mend your stockings; and some day, when I am quite tall, I shall wash your surplices and iron them. I'm almost, a woman now I think. Was it very cold and dark all night, father?" "It was neither cold nor dark in your grandfather's room," he answered. "Poor grandpapa!" said Pansy, in a voice of awe and pity; "did he know he was going away all alone? Did he want to stay here a little longer? Would grandmamma have gone with him if she could? He would have liked somebody to go with him." "She would rather stay with us as long as she can," replied Justin. "Father!" cried Pansy, running to him, and throwing herself in his arms, "if you were obliged to go away I should want to come too. I should never, never like you to leave me behind. Didn't you want to go with poor mamma when God called her?" "My little daughter," he answered, with soothing caresses, 66 we have no choice offered to us. Thank God, we are not called upon to choose whether we will go with those we love or stay behind! God cails each of us when He sees it best; and none can refuse to obey, neither can we go till He calls." "It is so strange and dreadful," sobbed Pansy, hiding her face on his breast, and clasping him more tightly in her arms. |