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a high hand. He had not married till late in life, and when his only son and heir was born he was already sixty years of age-a strong-willed, selfish man, neither able nor willing to learn any lesson disagreeable to his egotism. He idolized his boy, the son of his old age, but he did not suffer this idolatry to interfere with the supreme worship of himself. He could not have more perfectly succeeded in ruining his son by indulgence if he had set that end before him as a definite aim. Master Dick, as he was called by all the village, grew up wild, ignorant, and reckless; a torment to the men, and a terror to the women of the place. He would not go to school, and the tutors provided for him at home found him unmanageable and incorrigible; but were laughed at or scorned by his father if they made any complaint against him. "The boy can always be managed by me," he said.

Mrs. Herford, who was more than thirty years younger than her husband, had been a widow with one child when she married a second time. Until this marriage her life had been spent in large towns, chiefly in London, amid the constant bustle and stir of a populous community. She had been fascinated by the seclusion and quiet of Herford, and fancied a perpetual peace must reign there. Moreover, she was a penniless widow, dependent upon relations who kept her grudgingly; and her young son was a heavy burden to her. She was not fit to maintain herself, or at least thought so. She had never been willing to work steadily, or to do anything that might be at the moment irksome to her. When old Richard Herford had unexpectedly asked her to become his wife, she had consented with alacrity, believing that henceforth she would have her own way in everything. "Better be an old man's darling than a young man's slave," she had said to herself. But as soon as her child was born she was set on one side, and treated, even with regard to his training, as a complete cypher; being hardly more than the housekeeper of Herford Court, which from that epoch became the kingdom of the son and heir of Herford.

But the change was attended with many advantages to him. Old Richard Herford was not unkind to the fatherless boy, and in a rough fashion of his own he tried to make a man of him. He succeeded in training the town-bred lad into a capital sailor, and a still better farmer. The quiet, beautiful country life won all Justin's affections, which had so little else to cling to. The bright, changeful sea, never bearing the same aspect long; the dangerous cliffs, which he soon learned to scale with the most venturesome of the village urchins; the wild slopes of the deep valley, with their elegant birch-trees and ferns and flowers, that lived all the winter through; the large, well-stocked farmstead adjoining the Court; the Court itself, with its low, wainscotted rooms, and long, dark lobbies, and high-roofed attics set in the gables-all these took almost the place of human friendships, and awoke in his heart the strong, deep love which no one about him cared to cherish. It was a heart-breaking trial to Justin when he was banished from Herford to a school in London.

But the boy distinguished himself at school, having one object before him-that of quickly learning all he had to learn, so as to get back to his beloved Herford. He won prize after prize, bringing them home at each holiday, with a secret sense that nobody really cared for his success. His master urgently represented to his step-father that he merited a university education, and old Richard Herford consented to it, reflecting that the present vicar of Herford was an old man, and that the living was in his gift. It would probably be the cheapest and best way of providing for his wife's son. Justin cared for nothing so much as coming back to Herford. The old vicar died opportunely, and he succeeded him, having a few months before married the daughter of one of his former masters. Thus, at twenty-four years of age, he settled down for life as vicar of Herford-on-the-Sea.

There had been no great love between the half-brothers. Each regarded the other with contempt; Justin after a quiet fashion, Richard after an ostentatious one. The old man was roughly good-natured to his stepJustin Webb, her elder boy, was ten years son, but he idolized his heir. Mrs. Herford of age when his half-brother was born. He favoured sometimes one, and sometimes the was already a thoughtful, advanced lad, pre- other, according to the caprice of the moment; maturely wise from knocking about in the but her whims were of no weight with any of world during the homeless years of his the three men belonging to her, over whom mother's widowhood. He was old enough her shallow and fickle nature had no into feel a sharp pang of resentment at her fluence. The parishioners, with the excepsecond marriage; a step which throughout tion of four or five scampish young men, sushis whole after life he never fully forgave. pected of poaching, petty larcenies, and

similar misdemeanours, were all strongly attached to Master Justin, the quiet, pleasant lad who had grown up among them, and who was now their own young, friendly parson, not over strict, and not too long in his sermons. Master Richard had grown up among them also, but he was headstrong and domineering, and there was a secret dread of his succession to the estates, which could not be very far off now, and which was looked forward to as a great though inevitable calamity to the whole parish.

As might have been foreseen, as soon as Richard was but little more than a boy, his strong, uncurbed will came into frequent collision with the strong, uncurbed will of his aged father. Old Richard Herford grew more obstinate and tyrannical as he advanced in years, and began to sink under the infirmities of his great age. His increasing deafness and dimness of sight made him increasingly suspicious and unreasonable. On the other hand, his son could not submit to any control, and it was enough for him to know that his father had forbidden a thing to cause him ardently to desire to do it. Time after time violent quarrels arose, in which Justin played the part of peacemaker, the old man being always more readily pacified than his son. But there could be no lasting peace between them. Threats were constantly bandied to and fro; on the one hand of disinheritance, on the other of running away, and never more being heard of. At length young Richard put his threat into execution. When he was little over eighteen he disappeared suddenly and completely, and no inquiry or search availed to procure a solitary trace of him. Some of the fishermen whispered that he must have been seized with cramp whilst bathing, and been carried away by the tide; but there was no evidence to support this suggestion, and it did not receive a moment's credence at the Court. Old Richard Herford knew, though he never betrayed the secret, that a large sum of money had disappeared from the cabinet in his bedroom at the same time as his hopeful

son.

Two other events had chequered the somewhat monotonous life of the young vicar of Herford the birth of a little daughter, and the death, a few months later, of his wife, who was some years older than himself, and who might be said to have chosen and married him rather than he her. Both of these events took place three or four years before Richard's disappearance.

CHAPTER II.-OLD RICHARD HERFORD.

If it were possible for us to take our last journey as we take other journeys, half the terror of it would be gone. We shrink more, perhaps, from going alone than from entering into an utterly unknown state of existence. Could we only say to one or two of our dearest, most familiar friends, "Come, I will bid good-bye to this world next week if you will go with me. Let us hasten to that better land, of which we have so often spoken, and so often heard, in our hours of sorrow," then we might set about our preparations for that great migration with an unusual courage and cheerfulness, as if we were merely flitting to some new home across the seas. But we are called to pass singly to that far-off, mysterious shore in darkness and silence, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, knowing nothing. Against our will we are stripped of all our customary surroundings, even of the outer self, so much better known to most of us than the hidden, lonely, living soul, which alone has to pass the unseen boundary. It is not change that daunts us; it is the utter, absolute strangeness of that future world, and of our place and bearing in it.

The extreme age of old Richard Herford, standing on the brink of the grave one January night, did not make the strangeness of the change less painful to him. He had lived so long in this life that the brief, fleeting visions one catches now and then of another world must long since have ceased to visit him, if, indeed, they had ever visited him at all. The curtain had become darker and more closely drawn between him and the world to come. He was clinging with fierce tenacity to the worn-out, half paralyzed frame which had been his tenement so long. If he might have his will, he would rather remain thus, bed-ridden and barely alive, than venture into the thick darkness he was about to enter. His white head tossed to and fro on his pillow, and he groaned impatiently. How poor and short a time it was since he was a boy! It did not seem long since he was a lad scrambling up Halstone Cliff, and hanging by strong young hands to any jutting crag or root of ivy, whilst the tide roared far below him against the rocks. He had been dreaming a good deal of his boyhood of late, going back to the smallest memories of childish trifles. Was it a token that his worn-out, sickly spirit was about to enter into some new youth?

There was no trace of youth in his withered, yellow face, or in the hands, with their hooked

and shrivelled fingers clutching the bedclothes higher up his shoulders. It was difficult to believe that such decrepit old age had ever known childhood. Bleared and sunken eyes looked out dimly and anxiously from under his bushy eyebrows. They could not rest upon an object that had not been familiar and unchanged to them for many years. This chamber, which had been his own for more than seventy years, in which he had slept and waked night and morning, was less altered than he was himself. There was the same old carved cabinet where his father, and his grandfather before him, had kept their deeds and papers of value; the same lookingglass which had reflected his own face since it was the smooth, beardless face of a boy; the same windows looking out upon the old unchanged landscape. Was it possible that he was really going to quit all the old possessions, never to return to them; his home, which had grown so much a part of himself that he could not conceive of life of any kind apart from it? Would he never see the sun rise again through the eastern window? Nay, would the sun rise at all, or the dawn break through grey clouds upon that unknown world? Would there never more be a farm for him to ride over? No fishing or hunt ing? No tides flowing and ebbing? No dinners and suppers? No long nights of unbroken sleep? His face had been turned to the wall for a minute or two, but at these dread questions he tossed over again on his pillow, and gazed out with a troubled gleam in his eye, looking for comfort to the faces of his wife and step-son.

They were sitting on the hearth together, talking in so low a tone that the old man's deaf and jealous ear could not catch a word, though he lay quite still, and listened eagerly. They did not glance towards him, and he felt neglected and aggrieved. Already they were drifting away from him; he was losing his power over them. His own forlorn loneliness smote him more painfully as he watched them, their heads almost touching each other as they continued their earnest conversation. They were discussing some plans and schemes with which he could not interfere. There would be no more planning and scheming for him. There was no more for him to do in the world. Except one thing.

"Justin!" he cried, so sharply and loudly that it made them both start and hurry towards the bed. "I must speak to you alone. Send your mother away till I want her."

"Can I do nothing for you before I go?" she asked kindly, for she had been a good nurse to him, and was willing to do her duty by him to the last.

"No; just do as I bid you. You never do as you're told," he answered peevishly.

Without a word she walked quietly out of the room. Justin stood still, looking down thoughtfully on the dying old man. There was not much affection in his steadfast gaze, though there was some sadness and sympathy; but he waited in silence, as if used to his stepfather's querulous temper, and the dim mournful eyes of the old man were fastened upon him.

"I am going fast," he said sorrowfully.

Justin neither contradicted nor reassured him. He knew that this was old Richard Herford's last day—perhaps his last hour. He held his peace even from good words, for he knew how quickly the old spirit of tyranny and opposition was aroused.

"I was nearly sixty when my son was born," he went on, "and my head was white as snow. Neighbours called me an old man then, but I felt like a lad. Ay! it was like being a lad again to have Dick all in a frolic about me. He was a bolder, a merrier lad than thee. 'Justin was born to be a parson, with no spirit in him,' I said; and Dick was born to be a roistering squire.' Dick could never have turned out a milksop."

"He was very brave and bold," said Justin, in a soothing tone.

"I doted on every hair of his head," he moaned; "it's cruel of him to forsake his old father-cruel and thankless. I have cursed him hundreds of times for it. How long is it since he went away, and we've never heard a word of him, good or bad?"

"Four years last September," he answered. "Four years last September! And the rascal knows I'm over eighty-three! He doesn't care to see his old father's face again. Yet I was very good to him. You've been more like a son to me, Justin, though there's not a drop of my blood in your veins. I've all along said you were like a son to me, and I swore to make you a son in my will. All the neighbours know that. Justin Webb shall be my heir, and take the name of Herford,' I've said wherever I went. I'll cut the runaway off with a shilling,' I've said, and he deserves it. All the country knows. If he isn't at home before I die, he shall rue it,' I've said. Church, market, and everywhere, I've said the same words. Ought I to stick to them, Justin? Would God Almighty be angry if I broke my word? Is

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there aught in the Bible about keeping fast by one's bitter curses ?"

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 !"

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. 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

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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

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