mmsmi
 
 The person charging this material is re- 
 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons 
 for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from 
 the University. 
 To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 DEC 9 ym 
 
 DEC 12 19? I 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/throughneedlesey01stre
 
 
 THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE
 
 Uniform with the present volumes. 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. By Charlotte G. 
 O'Brien. Two vols., crown 8vo. cloth, gilt tops. Price 
 
 I2S. 
 
 WITHIN SOUND OF THE SEA. BytheAuthor 
 
 of " Vera,' " Blue Roses," &c. Two vols., crown 8vo. 
 cloth, gilt tops. Price 12s. 
 
 BLUE ROSES ; or, Helen Malinofska's Marriage. 
 By the Author of "Vera." Fifth Edition. Two vols., 
 cloth, gilt tops. I2S. 
 
 GENTLE AND SIMPLE : a Story. By Mar- 
 garet Agnes Paul. Two vols., crown 8vo. gilt 
 tops. Price 12s. 
 
 CASTLE BLAIR : a Story of Youthful Lives. By 
 Flora L. Shaw. Two vols., crown Bvo. cloth. 
 Price i2S. 
 
 A CONSTANT HEART : a Story, By Hon. Mrs. 
 E. W. Chapman. Two vols., cloth, gilt tops. 12s. 
 
 London : 
 C. KeganPaul&Co., I, Paternoster Square.
 
 THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE 
 
 HESBA STRETTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JESSICAS FIRST PRAYER, ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 C. Kegan Paul & Co., i, Paternoster Square 
 
 1879
 
 [ The rights of translatioii and of reproduction are reserved. ]
 
 St r3,r^ 
 
 Y. I 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ^ M 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Herford Cocet 1 
 
 \^ CHAPTER II. 
 >^ Old Richard Herfokd 10 
 
 ■^ CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Master of Herford 20 
 
 > 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 ,:^Pansi 29 
 
 X CHAPTER V. 
 ^Heading the Will 37 
 
 ^. CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ^ Right or Wrong 54 
 
 t 
 
 o' CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mlw Diaka's Parlour 62 
 
 &: CHAPTER VIII. 
 ^Diana's Decision 71
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Drifting 81 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Yicar of Herford 88 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Old Fosse's Temple 99 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Mrs. Cunliffe's Chickens Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A Season in London 121 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 Is IT God's Will ? 130 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A Pastoral Visit 13 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 Mrs. Herford's Sons 148 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Young Richard Herford 157 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 At Home Again 169 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 The Elder Brother 179
 
 Contents. vli 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Looking Back 188 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Leah Dart's Secret 198 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 Two Letters ........ . . 210 
 
 CHAPTER XXin. 
 Another Difficulty 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Richard's Disappointment 228 
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 ]\Irs. Cunliffe's Cares ........ 240 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 Justin's Strait 248
 
 THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HERFOED COURT. 
 
 TJERFORD is one of the little seaboard parishes 
 which encircle England ; each one containing its 
 old, grey, storm-beaten church, perched on a crag 
 overgrown with ivy and moss, or built low down on 
 the shore, with the moan of the sea sounding inces- 
 santly round the graves of the dead. The village of 
 Herford consists of a straggling street of fishermen's 
 houses, stretching in a single line from the shore 
 inland, with scattered cottages and humble farmsteads 
 dotted about the slopes on each side of the deep 
 valley running down to the sea. There is no pier, 
 and there are no lodging-houses. The nearest post- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 TJn'ough a Needle s Eye. 
 
 town is five miles ofi" by the nearest road — a rough 
 and wind-swept path over the cliffs — and seven full 
 miles if you traverse the whole length of the valley 
 in order to reach the highway. 
 
 In every season of the year hedgerow flowers are 
 to be found in bloom in Herford, for the valley lies 
 open to the south, and the soft mist-laden south wind 
 alone can breathe freely along it. There is neither 
 biting cold in winter, nor scorching heat in summer ; 
 and the noisy, narrow rivulet, which sings and plays 
 all down its winding curves, is never parched up by 
 drought, and but seldom overflows its deep banks. 
 The bay where it empties itself has a small ridge of 
 pebbly beach, beyond which lies a tract of firm, bright 
 sand, stretching in a narrow belt for miles under the 
 cliff's when the tide is out. Almost every man in 
 the village owns some small boat of his own, for the 
 railway is as far off as Lowborough, and the inhabi- 
 tants of Herford prefer launching their rude, safe 
 fishing craft, and running round with the tide, to 
 travelling along the dusty, hot highway, w^henever 
 they have any of the produce of their fields or their 
 nets to dispose of.
 
 Herford Court. 
 
 Forty years ago the whole parish, almost to a single 
 field, was the property of one landowner, old Richard 
 Herford, of Herford Court, whose ancestors had dwelt 
 there for many generations, gradually rising from the 
 position of farmer to that of gentleman, and as 
 gradually adding field to field, until the whole of 
 the parish, with the small living attached to it, had 
 come into their hands. 
 
 The old man now in possession was past eighty. 
 He had heen cast in a somewhat rougher mould than 
 his immediate forefathers, and, instead of taking 
 any part in the affairs of the county, had led a 
 homely, rustic life, fishing in his own hoat, farming 
 his own fields, and ruling his tenants, both farmers 
 and fishermen, with a high hand. He had not married 
 till late in life, and when his only son and heir was 
 born he w^as 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 sufi*er 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 
 
 B 2
 
 Throttgh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 a definite aim. Master Dick, as lie 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 w^as 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 penni- 
 less 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 Pdchard Herford 
 had unexpectedly asked her to become his wife, she
 
 Herfo7'd Court. 5 
 
 had consented with alacrity, believing that henceforth 
 she would have her ovrn 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 cipher ; being 
 hardly more than the housekeeper of Herford Court, 
 which from that epoch became the kingdom of the son 
 and heir of Herford. 
 
 Justin Webb, her elder boy, was ten years of age 
 when his half-brother was born. He was already a 
 thoughtful, advanced lad, prematurely wise from 
 knocking about in the world, during the homeless 
 years of his mother's widowhood. He was old enough 
 to feel a sharp pang of resentment at her second 
 marriage ; a step which throughout his whole after-life 
 he never fully forgave. 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,
 
 Throtigh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 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, 
 wainscoted 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
 
 Herford Court. 
 
 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 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, Eichard after an osten- 
 tatious one. The old man was roughly good-natured 
 to his step-sou, but he idolized his heir. Mrs. Herford 
 favoured sometimes one, and sometimes the other, 
 according to the caprice of the moment ; but her 
 whims were of no weight with any of the three 
 men belonging to her, over whom her shallow and 
 fickle nature had no influence. The parishioners, with 
 the exception of four or five scampish young men, 
 suspected of poaching, petty larcenies, and similar 
 misdemeanours, were all strongly attached to Master 
 Justin, the quiet, pleasant lad who had grown up
 
 8 Throttgh a Needle s Eye, 
 
 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 Eichard 
 was but little more than a boy, his strong, uncurbed 
 will came into frequent collision with the strong un- 
 curbed 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 unreason- 
 able. 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
 
 Herford Court. 
 
 them. Threats were constantly bandied to and fro ; 
 on the one hand of disinheritance, on the other of run- 
 ning away, and never more being heard of. At length 
 young Richard put his threat into execution. "\Yhen 
 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 mono- 
 tonous 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.
 
 lo Tlwoiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OLD RICHARD HERFORD. 
 
 TF 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,
 
 Old Richard Hcrford. i f 
 
 even of the outer self, so mucli 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 changeless painful to him. 
 -He had lived so long in this life that the brief, fleet- 
 ing 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 w^as 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, bedridden 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
 
 12 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 root of ivy, whilst the tide roared far helow 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, w^ith their hooked and shrivelled 
 fingers clutching the bed-clothes 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 eye- 
 brows. They could not rest upon any object that had 
 not been familiar and unchanged to them for many 
 years. This chamber, which had been his home 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 looking- 
 glass 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
 
 Old Richard Herford. 13 
 
 possessions, never to return to them ; his home which 
 had grown so much a jDart of himself that he couki not 
 conceive of Hfe of any kind apart from it ? WoukI 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 hunting ? 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 w^ord, 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 touch- 
 ing each other as they continued their earnest conver-
 
 14 ThrottgJi a Needles Eye. 
 
 sation. They were discussing some plans and schemes 
 with which he could not interfere. There would be no 
 more planning and scheming for him. There w^as 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 
 step-father'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 Harford's last day —
 
 Old Richard Herford. 15 
 
 perhaps liis last hour. He held his peace eTen 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 sooth- 
 ing 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 
 beard a word of him, good or bad ?" 
 
 **Four 3'ears 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
 
 1 6 Through a Needles Eye, 
 
 there's not a drop of my blood in j-our veins. I've all 
 along said you were like a son to me, and I swore 
 to make you a son in my wdll. All the neighbours 
 know that. ' Justin AYebb 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 w^ord ? Is 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 
 w^as 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 con- 
 flict with Justin also. He knew well that Richard had 
 been disinherited, and he himself put in his place, and
 
 Old Richard Herfoi'd. 17 
 
 that all liis future depended upon liis 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 tres- 
 passes, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.' 
 * Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving 
 one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, has for- 
 given you.' " Justin felt as if he was reading the 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 ThrotigJi a Needle's Eye. 
 
 words of some solemn sacrament. Death had not yet 
 lost its sacred mystery for him. 
 
 Old Pilchard Herford lay still for a quarter of an 
 hour to recover his strength for further speech after his 
 fit of sobhing was oyer. 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 in- 
 tolerably long. 
 
 "Justin," he said at last, opening his dim-sighted 
 eyes, '' you know I made a will after Dick ran away, 
 making you my son. It's in the old cabinet there, and 
 m.y 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 for- 
 given him from the bottom of my heart, for he's my 
 :^nly 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
 
 Old Richard Herford. 19 
 
 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 ej^es. " 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." 
 
 c 2
 
 Throng J I a Needles Eye, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MASTER OF HERFORD. 
 
 TT was four o'clock in the morning wlien Justin left 
 Herford Court to return to his own home. Old 
 Eichard 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 leaf- 
 less trees overheard. 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
 
 The Master of Herford. 
 
 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 dis- 
 appointed. He had wished in his inmost heart that
 
 2 2 TJu'ough a Needles Eye. 
 
 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 uncon- 
 sciously sprung up in his heart that some day the old 
 place, so dear to him and so little cared for by Eichard, 
 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 accumu- 
 lated, simply because he had been born to it ; whilst 
 he who had acted the better part must go back, for the
 
 The Master of Herford. 
 
 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 step- 
 father'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 sad- 
 ness of witnessing the passing away into impenetrable 
 mystery of an utterly seli&sh 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
 
 24 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 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 
 goodwill 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 high-water 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 olden time, 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 Sundays, and
 
 The Mast 67' of Herfoi^d. 25 
 
 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 cliflf 
 stretching on each side of the Lantern Hill, as it was 
 called. But he had no need to see the familiar pros- 
 pect. 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 him- 
 self to be over-persuaded by his mother, and coerced 
 by his step-father, 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
 
 2 6 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 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 step-father'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 depart- 
 ing 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 step-father 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
 
 The Alaster of Herford. 
 
 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 ! Eichard 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 ! 
 
 At last Justin roused himself from his long reverie, 
 stood up shivering, and lifted his soft cap from his 
 head to let the keen sea-breeze cool his throbbing 
 temples. The thoughts that had passed through his 
 mind he could utter to no man ; and he must guard 
 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 posses- 
 sion it was little help his mother would get from her 
 younger son, and she would become an additional
 
 2 8 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 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 him- 
 self in riotous living. His step-father's last coherent 
 words haunted him as he retraced his way home- 
 wards : "Justin has always been a good son to me ; I 
 wdsh I'd done something for him, but it's too late 
 now."
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PANSY. 
 
 TUSTIN'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 step-father 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
 
 30 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 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 mother- 
 less 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 watch- 
 ing for him, with her face pressed close against the 
 window. She ran down swiftly, and he heard her fingers 
 busy at the fastenings of the door, which were but 
 sHght ones, fur no one feared housebreakers in Her- 
 ford. There was no lack of warmth in Pansy's wel- 
 come. She pulled down his sad face to hers and 
 covered it with kisses. 
 
 " How I've missed you, father ! " she said. " Why 
 did you stay away from me all night ? I got up so 
 early to see if you wouldn't come. I was going to run 
 up to grandpapa's after you, if you hadn't come 
 soon." 
 
 *' Pansy," he said, solemnly, ''I was watching with 
 your grandfather till he went away from us all."
 
 Pansy. 3 1 
 
 " Where is he gone ? " she asked in an earnest, 
 emphatic tone. 
 
 Justin "«'as silent, as he drew his httle 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 step-father had taken since he 
 had left the little child who was asking after him. 
 
 ''He is gone to his own place," he murmured 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
 
 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 him, as well as for poor mamma. Don't I make up 
 for her to you?" 
 
 *' Yes, my little girl," he answered tenderly. 
 
 ''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, tooth- 
 less, 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 Eichard which Pansy received from him ? What 
 poignant anguish must the forsaken father have under- 
 gone ! 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.
 
 Pansy. 33 
 
 " You'll never be very grieved for long while I'ra 
 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, " as 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 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 Thro2igh a Needles Eye. 
 
 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 throw- 
 ing 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, " 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 calls each of
 
 Pansy. 35 
 
 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. 
 
 "Why! how's this?" he said. '' My little woman 
 was quite merry a minute ago, and now she is crying 
 her poor little heart away. Did you love your grand- 
 father so much ?" 
 
 '* I didn't love him enough," she faltered between her 
 sobs ; *' if I'd only known I'd have tried to love him 
 better. And now he'll never speak to me again ; and 
 he's gone alone by himself; and I'm afraid it's not a 
 pleasant place, for you said God forbid you and me should 
 go there. If I was there I'd ask God to let him go to 
 a quiet room, where he could rest himself a little while, 
 because he is so old ; and he should have some very 
 quiet angels to take care of him. Might I ask God for 
 it ? Perhaps it would not be too late yet." 
 
 '* You may ask God for everything you wish," answered 
 Justin soothingly. There could be no harm in 
 teaching his child that ; but he was reluctant to burden 
 her young mind with any theory of the great mystery 
 
 D 2
 
 o 
 
 6 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 and tragedy which he had just witnessed. It came 
 home to himself more closely than any death had done 
 since his wife's, and had awakened a whole host 
 of questions that slumber easily enough in the 
 recesses of the brain so long as death passes by our 
 own circle. He exerted himself to chase away the 
 gloom on Pansy's face ; and presently she was sitting 
 again at the head of the table chattering almost gaily, 
 though a suppressed sob now and then forced itself 
 from her lips. Her father had soon to leave her to go 
 again to Herford Court, and Pansy ran upstairs to her 
 little room to ask God to grant a very quiet place to 
 her old grandfather.
 
 • Z1 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 READING THE WILL. 
 
 TUSTIN had to pass through the whole length of the 
 Tillage street before reaching the road which led 
 up to Herford Court. The place was in an unusual 
 stir and excitement, with groups of men and women 
 standing here and there talking busily. Only the very 
 oldest among them could remember the death of the 
 last Herford of Herford, more than sixty years before ; 
 and the news that their old master had at last laid 
 down the burden of his extreme age had shaken the 
 village as with the shock of an earthquake. There 
 was no other death that could come so closely home to 
 all of them. They had neither loved nor respected 
 him ; but he had been their chief, with power in his 
 hands which he could use for their welfare or injury. 
 But it was not so much his loss, as the question who 
 would succeed him that was agitating them, every one.
 
 8 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 There was scarcely a child among them who had not 
 heard their dead master say that his runaway son 
 should be cut off from his estates, and that his step- 
 son should succeed to them. Now would come the 
 confirmation of these oaths if they had been genuine 
 and true. But there was the doubt. Old Eichard 
 Herford had worshipped his son so openly, that it 
 seemed incredible he could really leave him penniless 
 and landless. The villagers were vehemently discuss- 
 ing this doubt when Master Justin, as they still called 
 him, became visible in the street. He felt inclined to 
 hurry past without speaking to these weather-beaten, 
 hard-featured men and women ; but they came 
 thronging about him with the familiarity of long 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " So th' old squire's dead and gone," said the parish 
 clerk, a hale old man of eighty himself, " and we're 
 all a- wondering who's to come after him up yonder. 
 Please God, I say, as our Master Justin's made squire 
 in his stead. That's what I'm looking for, please His 
 holy will ! " 
 
 ''Nay, nay!" cried a loud shrill woman's voice, 
 " Herford's been Herford time out o' mind. Master
 
 Reading the Will. 39 
 
 Justin '11 never be offended with such as we if we 
 wishes a Herford to come into it ; and there's none 
 save Master Dick, as has been lost these four years." 
 
 " Well ! we shall all see what we shall see," said 
 the mistress of the dame-school, the only person in 
 the village of whom Pansy stood in awe, '' there's a 
 providence in all things ; and Master Justin's next to 
 own son to the old squire, and he's almost a Herford. 
 He'd get the queen's leave to change his name, so it 
 would be all one." 
 
 "But it wouldn't be the old breed," objected the 
 shrill voice. 
 
 *' Th' old breed's a bad breed," interrupted a sturdy 
 fisherman ; "we don't want Master Dick to lord it 
 over us. I'm for Master Justin. Hurrah ! " 
 
 "My good folks," shouted Justin, to get himself 
 heard amid the din of contending voices, " as a matter 
 of course my brother Richard will come into the 
 estates ; and no doubt he will quickly reappear, now he 
 is Herford of Herford. Some among you know his 
 whereabouts, or I am very much mistaken." 
 
 "Not me," "Nor me," cried a chorus of voices. 
 " We want you to have it ; you'd make a vast sight
 
 40 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 better squire than parson," cried out a strong voice 
 after him, as he walked hurriedly on, "though we've 
 nought to say agen you as parson, Master Justin. It's 
 only my way of speaking." 
 
 Justin kept steadily on his way, the words ringing in 
 his ears. He knew only too well that he did not and 
 could not make a good parson ; and that the rough, 
 honest fellows about him knew it quite as well as he 
 did. What was it that was so necessary to make 
 him a true, efficient minister to the spiritual wants of 
 this little community, so shut in and hedged round 
 from the great world ? They loved him heartily after 
 their fashion, and looked up to him as the most learned 
 and scholarly man in the place. They also looked up 
 to him as one who could give them good counsel about 
 their fields and their boats. There was not a fisher- 
 man among them who would not rather have him in 
 his boat, on a stormy and dangerous sea, than any 
 other man in the village. He was a leader among 
 them in all things save one ; but that one was the 
 very soul of the calling he had entered into. The 
 moment he put on the garb of a clergyman he ceased 
 to be their guide ; and knew himself to be the blind
 
 Reading the Will. 41 
 
 leading the blind. A fact they knew by instinct 
 also. 
 
 As Justin drew nearer to the Court, and saw its 
 quaint old-fashioned grey pile of building lying 
 sheltered within its own curving brow of the cliff, these 
 vexing thoughts died away to give place to others as 
 vexing. How would he be able to bear to see his 
 brother leading a riotous, disreputable life within its 
 walls, and probably in the course of a few years bring 
 the old place to the hammer *? It had, perhaps, grown 
 dearer to him since he had looked at it with the eye of 
 a possible owner than it had been before ; but it had 
 always been an object of admiration to him. Eichard 
 was not fit to be master of it ; yet he was left 
 in absolute, unrestricted, immediate possession, as 
 though destiny itself had decreed the speedy ruin of 
 Herford Court. 
 
 The house seemed dark and dreary when he entered 
 it. With a step that echoed noisily through the silent 
 stone-paved hall, Justin crossed it to the door of the 
 room where he knew he should find his mother. She 
 was seated in a low easy-chair on the hearth in the 
 darkened room, her face hidden behind the handker-
 
 42 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 chief she was holding up to her eyes. Though she 
 was more than fifty years of age she w^as still slim and 
 almost girlish in figure ; and her face, though there 
 were a few lines on the forehead, and crow's-feet about 
 the corners of the eyes, w^as nearly as round and fair 
 and full as when she had married a second time, 
 twenty-five years ago. Justin stooped down to kiss 
 her, with an unusual emotion of tenderness and com- 
 passion for his mother, once again a widow. 
 
 It was not probable that she could feel any profound 
 grief at the loss that had just befallen her. Her 
 husband, like any other man utterly wrapped up in 
 self, had made her life a weariness and burden to her. 
 The little love she might once have cherished for one 
 who had taken her from poverty, and who was the 
 father of her favourite son, had long ago been worn 
 out. But she had not failed in the fulfilment of her 
 duty towards him ; partly, perhaps, because he had 
 never relaxed his claim upon it. She did not lift up 
 her head when Justin kissed her ; but she moaned a 
 little, and rocked herself to and fro, as if bound to prove 
 in this manner the depth of her affliction. 
 
 There was another occupant of the room, however.
 
 Reading the Will. 43 
 
 who hailed Justin's appearance with eagerness ; an 
 elderly man, short-sighted and slightly deaf, who had 
 been sitting sideways by the table, and strumming upon 
 it with his fingers, in a perplexed and uncomfortable 
 silence. He sprang up the instant the door opened and 
 shook hands hurriedly and warmly. 
 
 " I'm here, Justin," he said. " I came over this 
 morning to see if I couldn't persuade the old man to 
 do right at last. So he's gone, and I'm too late ! I 
 was at him only a week ago, when I saw him last. 
 Make another will, I said ; and he swore he never 
 would. Ah ! well ! we must all knock under sooner 
 or later, as I've been telling your mother. There's 
 only a step between us and old Herford. Susan is 
 more overcome than I expected ; but time, Justin, 
 time will work wonders." 
 
 " Time has not worked many wonders for me yet, 
 uncle " answered Justin. " Come, mother, we must 
 attend to business now my uncle is here. There are a 
 good many matters to arrange." 
 
 " I have no heart for business so soon," murmured 
 the widow from behind her handkerchief. 
 
 "Come, come, Susan!" said her brother, sharply;
 
 44 Tlu'ottgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 *' I cannot leave my business every day, I can tell you, 
 to dance attendance upon you. But I know quite well 
 the provisions of your husband's will, and the direc- 
 tions he has left for his funeral ; so we need not look 
 to that. A handsome funeral it will be, I promise you, 
 and will cost a mint of money. But there ! he had a 
 perfect right to do what he chose with his own." 
 
 " What is the date of the will?" inquired Justin, 
 with a slight spasm of regret as he asked the needless 
 question. 
 
 *' We drew it up four years ago," answered his uncle, 
 " and it was executed at once by the old squire. There ! 
 I'll say no more till after the funeral, unless 3^ou wish 
 it opened and read at once." 
 
 *' I do wish it," said Justin ; " my mother and I 
 know where it is to be found. Shall I fetch it here, 
 or will 5^ou come with me to my father's room, and give 
 a glance at it. It would be as well to see that he has 
 made no change." 
 
 " Oh ! bring it here," exclaimed his mother, in an 
 impatient tone ; '* though I must say it seems an ex- 
 traordinary thing to meddle with a man's will almost 
 before the breath is out of his body. If my poor dear
 
 Reading the Will. 45 
 
 Richard was only here there would be no such haste ; 
 indecent haste it seems to me." 
 
 "If Richard was here he would be master," said 
 Justin, speaking from a sore heart. He went away 
 without another word to the chamber where the corpse 
 was lying. There were the peculiar hush, the blank 
 stillness, and emptiness about it which always attend 
 the dreary presence of death. It was a very familiar 
 room to him, for old Richard Herford had not kept his 
 wife's boy at a distance from him ; yet to-day it seemed 
 strange in the white dulled light entering through the 
 shrouded windows. Not even the ashes of the fire were 
 left upon the hearth, where last night he had watched 
 the will consumed before his eyes, which would have 
 made him master in the place of his prodigal brother. 
 The stiff and straightened form of the dead man lay 
 slightly outlined under the sheet that covered it. 
 Justin paused for a minute at the foot of the bed, look- 
 ing down upon it, his brain busy with retracing the 
 past. This lapsed existence, which had had no link 
 of blood relationship with his own, had yet been bound 
 up with it in the most intimate connection. This man, 
 with his dominant, over-mastering wil], had filled the
 
 46 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 position of a father to him, so far as authority consti- 
 tutes a part of fatherhood. It was he who had placed 
 him where he was, and chosen in a great degree his life 
 for him ; a had choice, as Justin felt to the very core of 
 his heart. There was not much grief in his absorbed 
 contemplation of the lifeless form ; this death was a 
 release, though it could not undo the mischief he had 
 done. It could not give him back his youth, and a 
 fresh entry upon manhood, with all its bright possi- 
 bilities. "I forgive you !" he breathed softly; and a 
 momentary moisture dimmed his e^^es. With hushed 
 and slow steps, as if fearful of disturbing the sleeper, 
 he crossed the floor to the cabinet, and took from it the 
 will he had deposited there the night before. 
 
 The cover bore the date of it on the front. It was 
 twenty-two years back, a few months after the birth of 
 old Richard Herford's son and heir. Justin read it 
 half aloud. How well he could recall the earlier years of 
 his little brother's life whilst he was still a young child 
 like his Pansy ! There had been no jealousy and con- 
 tempt between them then. He almost felt a return of 
 the old affection, and the sense of protectorship towards 
 Eichard. But he did not linger longer in the room.
 
 Reading the Will. 47 
 
 He carried the packet downstairs, and placed it in his 
 uncle's hands, who cut the ribbon that tied it, and 
 broke the seal with a composure Justin could not 
 share. He glanced at the date and signatures of the 
 will. 
 
 '* Ah ! I see," he said, glancing up for a moment 
 over his spectacles; "we drew it up, you know, from 
 the old squire's instructions, and I was present when it 
 was signed. Well, well ! I wish I'd come yesterday. 
 I did expostulate with him strongly at the time ; but a 
 wilful man must have his way. He turned a deaf ear 
 to all I urged on him. He would cut off Dick and 
 make Justin his heir." 
 
 " Good heavens !" cried Justin. His brain whirled, 
 and his senses seemed to be playing him false. He 
 leaned over his uncle's shoulder and devoured the will 
 with his eyes. The date was that of four years ago, the 
 time when his step-father's anger raged most fiercely 
 against Richard. Yielding to a sudden and almost un- 
 conscious impulse, Justin crushed up the cover which 
 was lying on the table and thrust it into his pocket. 
 He had not time to deliberate now ; he must wait and 
 reflect, and decide. The lawyer, whose deaf ear was
 
 48 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 turned towards him, went on with his tranquil com- 
 ments. 
 
 " Ah ! no codicil," he said ; " i£500 a year to Susan, 
 and right of residence in Herford Court for her life ; 
 with a few legacies of no consequence. ' The whole of 
 the residue, estate and personalty, to my heloved step- 
 son, Justin Webb, who shall take the name of Herford.' 
 We valued it, two years ago, Justin, and reckoned it 
 at over i£2,000 a year after Susan's ^6500 is deducted. 
 And there are splendid openings for improvement, 
 which old Herford talked of but never set about. 
 There's Undercliff Cove would make a magnificent 
 oyster-bed. By the way, the squire has entailed the 
 estate now ; he will not let you be free to play such a 
 high prank as he has. You and your heirs ; eldest 
 son, or daughter if you have no son. He was fond of 
 little Pansy. But poor Dick is merely mentioned in 
 the will to be cut off from the inheritance." 
 
 " Oh! my poor Kichard ! my dear boy ! " cried Mrs. 
 Herford. "It's a wicked will, Thomas; it must be 
 set aside. Oh ! my darhng ! my poor boy ! Perhaps 
 he made another will and hid it somewhere. Let us 
 2fO and look this minute."
 
 Reading the Will. 49 
 
 *' Ay ! ay ! he made another will," said Mr. AYatson 
 dryly ; "we drew up a will for him when Kichard was 
 six months old, and I remonstrated strongly ^dth him 
 about that. We all but quarrelled and parted over it. 
 It was a very unfair w^U, in my opinion ; almost as 
 bad, if not quite as bad, as this. He left absolutely 
 everything to his son, without reserve and "without con- 
 dition. There was no provision w^hatever for you, 
 Susan ; you were left altogether dependent upon Dick. 
 * It -^-ill make her a good mother to him,' said the old 
 Squire ; ' she'll keep a civil tongue in her head if she's 
 to look to him for her living.' You know what sort of 
 a living you would get from Dick." 
 
 '' Good gracious ! " exclaimed Mrs. Herford. '' That 
 was a more wicked will than this one. Why! Richard 
 would soon make ducks and drakes of his money ; and 
 then where should I be ? Justin will do what is right ; 
 everybody knows what Justin is. But my poor boy has 
 always gone wrong, and no wonder, with such a wilful, 
 headstrong man for his father." 
 
 Now she knew the contents of her husband's first 
 will, which she had burned with her own hands the 
 night before, she felt quite reconciled to this later one. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 There would have been no hope for her if Eichard had 
 succeeded as uncontrolled master ; but Justin had 
 always been good and steady and dutiful to her and 
 her husband. Besides, she was independent of him, 
 and mistress of Herford Court. She turned to him and 
 lifted up her face to kiss him. 
 
 *' God bless you, Justin !" she said ; ''you'll make 
 a better master than poor Eichard. But I am sorry 
 for him. Perhaps he'd have tried to be a good man if 
 he'd had a chance ; but he'll never have a chance now." 
 She sank down again in her chair and began weeping 
 in more real earnest than before, partly with hysterical 
 emotion, but partly with real genuine disappoint- 
 ment for her disinherited son. Justin had listened 
 and looked on apart from them as if it was all a 
 dream. 
 
 " Mother," he stammered, "the estate is not mine. 
 I ought not to take it from Eichard." 
 
 ''But what will j^ou do ?" asked his uncle, sharply. 
 " Old Herford had a right to leave it as he chose, and 
 he left it to you. His last will was wiser than the first. 
 Of course Dick is his own son; but he knew, and 
 everybody knew, the lad would squander it away. What
 
 Reading the Will. 51 
 
 would ^£2,000 a year be to a 3'oungster who would like 
 to spend £20,000 ? As it is, if he should turn up 
 again, and that's doubtful, you could do something 
 handsome for him ; or if he continues a reprobate, you 
 could but keep him out of the gutter at least. Your 
 father knew very well what he was about, you may be 
 sure. "WT^en I expostulated with him at leaving Dick 
 without a penny, 'Justin's a good man,' he said, 'he'll 
 never see him starve. I wish he would ! ' he said, for 
 he was awfully bitter against Dick. Then there's your 
 mother. She has her £500 a year to do what she 
 likes with. It's a younger son's share, and as much 
 as Dick deserves. Take your good luck, and thank 
 Heaven for it. You'll make a better Herford than if 
 you'd been born one." 
 
 " Of course he will," added his mother, pettishly. 
 *' Oh ! don't begin to harry us all with scruples and 
 doubts. He always promised me my boy should be the 
 same as his own, and he'd act by 3'ou as if j'ou were, 
 or else I never would have married him. You are the 
 eldest son, and you're the heir." 
 
 " Not old Richard Herford 's heir," said Justin. 
 
 " Yes, you are," she persisted ; " he's made 3'ou 
 
 E 2 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSmr OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 Throtigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 heir, and nobody can alter that. Good gracious ! what 
 would have become of me if he had told me to burn 
 this will and keep the other ? with my own hands too ! 
 No provision for me ! To think that he'd left me with- 
 out a penny ! I know I should have been compelled 
 to live with you in that poky little vicarage with nothing 
 to live upon ! But now I'm safe, and you are safe ; 
 and if Kichard comes back we can do something for 
 him. Thank God that first will was not to be ! I 
 should never have slept in my bed all these years if I'd 
 had an idea what he had done," 
 
 It seemed to her as if she had just had a narrow 
 escape from some dire calamity. The sword that 
 had been hanging over her head was taken away; 
 but she could see both the sword and the frail thread 
 by which it had been suspended. She shivered and 
 quailed at the mere thought of it. But with Justin 
 she was safe. At last she would be mistress of Herford 
 Court — the position she had married for, but had not 
 gained. After the long, wearisome season of bondage 
 were coming those gay, good times she had promised 
 herself when she became old Kichard Herford' s wife. 
 She had chafed under a yoke more burdensome than
 
 Reading the Will. 53 
 
 Justin's. But at length the oppression had ceased, 
 and the oppressor was gone. Ah-eady, though he had 
 not been one day dead, she was experiencing the rehef 
 of freedom ; and this was gathering strength now she 
 knew she was provided for, and left dependent upon no 
 one. She was thankful according to her nature ; and 
 when she left her brother Watson and Justin, she 
 retired to her own room, and knelt down to return 
 thanks for the provision made for her, before sending 
 for her draper and dressmaker, and entering upon 
 the elaborate task of putting on weeds for old Eichard 
 Herford.
 
 54 Thi'ottgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 EIGHT OR WRONG. 
 
 JUSTIN gave what orders were absolutely necessary, 
 and then left the Court, having agreed with his 
 uncle that the will should not be discussed again till 
 after the funeral. He had kept his own counsel in the 
 first moments of amazement and perplexity, and now 
 he desired solitude and silence to turn over the whole of 
 the matter in his mind. He was like a man in a 
 trance, unable to catch the end of any clear thread of 
 thought, and unravel it from the vague confusion of 
 his brain. After a while he found himself wandering 
 aimlessly along the narrow, grass-grown path which 
 followed the crooked bends of the cliffs. The thick rain 
 that had been sweeping across the country all day had 
 spent itself at last, but the grey gloom of the sky and 
 sea continued. The unbroken curve of the sea line 
 was of a dark leaden hue, and the rippleless water
 
 Right or Wrong. 55 
 
 looked sulky and dull. The little birds, which were 
 wont to sing at sunset, even through the winter days, 
 were silent ; and not a note was to be heard this even- 
 ing, except the wailing cry of the seagulls fluttering 
 about the cliffs below. The light was dying away be- 
 hind its thick grey veil of clouds, and the night was 
 coming on swiftly and steadily. But Justin had neither 
 eye nor ear for anything outside of himself. His brain 
 was too busy to take note either of the weather or the 
 hour. 
 
 There could be no doubt whatever that the will which 
 had been destroyed was the very one old Richard 
 Herford had intended to preserve. That was as clear 
 as day. The old man's faculties, his sight especially, 
 had been failing him for some months past ; and he 
 must, at some time, after reading his two wills, have 
 enclosed them in the wrong covers. He had been too 
 precise and clear in spealdng of the one he wished to 
 leave behind him for any mistake to be possible. On 
 his death-bed he had forgiven his prodigal son, and 
 revoked the will he had made in an hour of bitter anger 
 against him. He had passed away in the belief that 
 his only child would succeed to the possessions of his
 
 56 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 forefathers. It was a mere accident that had caused 
 the former will to be destroyed and the later one to be 
 preserved. 
 
 But was it right to call it an accident ? Justin could 
 not deny that it would be a grievous calamity to every 
 other person involved in the matter, if not to Pdchard 
 himself, for him to come into uncontrolled possession 
 of the estate. There was barely a chance against his 
 squandering it recklessly. To squander it meant that 
 it would soon pass into the hands of strangers ; while 
 the very name of Herford of Herford would die away 
 altogether from their ancient dwelling-place. Old 
 Richard Herford, with his strong family pride, could 
 never have meant that. He had made his first will 
 when his heir was an infant in the cradle. To revert 
 to that would be as much opposed to his real mind as 
 that his step-son should succeed to the lands and take 
 the name. He was keen-sighted enough to know the 
 folly of leaving his son absolute master of the place. 
 He had had two aims at variance within himself; and 
 it was only in the hour of mortal weakness that his love 
 for his son had triumphed over his conviction that his old 
 house and name would be sacrificed to his prodigality.
 
 Right or Wrong. 57 
 
 Surely it was no accident, this slight mistake of a 
 dim-eyed old man, which had been allowed by Provi- 
 dence. Justin did not use the name of God. Provi- 
 dence had permitted the half-childish father to enclose 
 the papers in the wrong covers. Thus he had died 
 more happily ; like an over-indulged child who falls 
 asleep with some dangerous tool in his hands, which 
 is gently drawn away as the nerveless fingers loose their 
 hold. There was no harm done. Power would be a 
 dangerous weapon in Pilchard's hands ; in his it would 
 be an instrument of blessing to all about him. That 
 was the right light to see it in. Providence had allotted 
 the inheritance to the one who could make the best use 
 of it. He had not had a finger in it himself. He had 
 even urged his father to forgive Eichard. It was his 
 mother, the mother of both of them, who had burned 
 the will ; so that even the mere mechanism of the error 
 had not been his. He was perfectly free, in will and 
 act, of any plot to seize his brother's birthright. It 
 had come to him. 
 
 What ought he then to do ? He had no idea of what 
 the law of the land would demand of him ; and he 
 hardlv wished to know it. There had been no third
 
 58 ThrougJi a Needles Eye. 
 
 person present during his conversation with his step- 
 father, and all must rest upon his word and testimony 
 alone. If the law took his word, and gave up all to 
 Kichard, w4iat would become of his poor mother ? Her 
 life had been a monotonous bondage for many years, and 
 in her old age she would be cast upon the mercy of a 
 careless and profligate son for the very bread she ate. 
 No. It would be madness to throw away the respon- 
 sibility laid upon him for the welfare of others, and for 
 the maintaining the name and dignity of an old family. 
 If he stood alone in the matter it would be quite 
 another question. But was it not his bounden duty 
 to keep silence and to enter into possession of the 
 estate ? 
 
 He tore up into small pieces the cover, which bore 
 no other writing than the words, "Kichard Herford's 
 Will, Sept. 14, 1835," and he watched the fragments 
 floating slowly away on the light breeze. Then he felt 
 some regret at having destroyed it ; but why ? There 
 was nothing in the words, written though they were in 
 the bold large handwriting of his step-father. It was 
 simply a slight corroboration of a fact he had decided 
 to keep to himself.
 
 Right or Wrong. 59 
 
 Yes. He would keep it to himself. He would do 
 his utmost to find Richard ; and if he came home 
 reformed, indisputably reformed, giving proof of a 
 radical change, and likely to be what the master of 
 Herford ought to be, why, then, it would be his duty 
 to reHnquish the inheritance to him. And Justin felt 
 sure he could fulfil that duty. He had never failed yet 
 at the call of principle and honour. Let his younger 
 brother come home a penitent prodigal, and he should 
 have his father's lands, none the poorer for Justin's 
 stewardship. He lifted up his bowled head and 
 strode along more freely as he registered this vow. 
 This was the right thing to do. Light was breaking 
 on his path and making it clear to him. He would 
 keep the whole matter to himself, and hold the estate 
 in his own hand till he saw how Richard would turn 
 out. 
 
 It was quite dark by the time he came to this con- 
 clusion, and he could no longer see the narrow and 
 dangerous track he was following over the cliffs. The 
 tide had turned, and was now booming like the roar of 
 distant artillery against the black rocks strewn with 
 seaweed five hundred feet below him. It would
 
 6o Thro2igJi a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 scarcely be safe even for him to return by the path he 
 had come. He had left Herford Bay far behind him, 
 and was nearing the edge of another and narrower 
 valley, stretching inward from its own little cove. He 
 could already see the lights scattered about the front of 
 a large and wandering habitation, almost as familiar to 
 him as Herford Court. With the exception of three 
 or four servants' cottages, there was no other house in 
 the little valley. Tenfold more lonely and still than 
 Herford, these few homesteads must be surpassingly 
 dreary and solitary in the night. The deep, hoarse 
 baying of a ferocious watch-dog echoed through the 
 silence, and was answered only by the monotonous 
 thunder of the waves. There was an indescribable 
 melancholy brooding over the place, and Justin paused 
 in the darkness with his face turned towards it. 
 
 He knew very well it would look little less desolate and 
 gaol-like by daylight. The grounds and gardens about 
 Rillage Grange were overgrown with nettles and docks ; 
 the gates were hanging upon rust-eaten hinges ; there 
 were breaches in all the moss-covered walls ; even the 
 outbuildings of the house were falling into ruins, and 
 no man's hand had done a stroke of repairs to the
 
 Right or Wrong. 6i 
 
 dreary spot for years past. Mr. Lynn was the 
 reprobate of the neighbourhood ; a hard drinker, a 
 gambler, and a scoundrel, who had been the destruction 
 of Justin's younger brother, and the ruin of most of 
 the men who had associated with him. Yet as he 
 stood there in the darkness a smile stole across his face, 
 though he sighed with a strong feeling of troubled 
 tenderness rising in his heart. " Would to God ! " he 
 said to himself, '' that Diana was my wife at this 
 moment. It would be good for her as well as for 
 myself ; and I could tell her what I can tell to no one 
 else."
 
 62 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTEK YII. 
 
 IN DIANA S PARLOUR. 
 
 TN another quarter of an hour Justin was bidding the 
 watch-dog be quiet, in a threatening voice that 
 cowed the fierce animal ; though he followed sniffing 
 at the heels of the untimely visitor, and uttering a low 
 growl as if ready to spring upon him at any moment. 
 The front door of Rillage Grange had not been opened 
 for years, and tall, strong plants of hemlock and 
 mallow had grown in the chinks of the stone steps 
 before it. But Justin was at no loss to find an 
 entrance, without going through the large old kitchen, 
 which had become the usual way of admission. There 
 was a small side door sacred to Diana, which had 
 always been open to him as long as he could remember, 
 when he had brought messages as a boy from his step- 
 father to Mr. Lynn. It was not locked, and he 
 entered by it as one quite at home in the household.
 
 In Dianas Parlotir. 63 
 
 A long, dark passage, "v^'itli a feeble oil-lamp burning 
 dimly at one end, lay before bim, and be walked 
 along it rapidly. 
 
 He knocked at tbe door of a room balf-way along 
 tbe passage, but tbere was no answer, and be went in 
 after a moment's pause. It was an old-fasbioned 
 parlour, witb a low carved ceiling, and wainscoted walls. 
 Tbe rooms in Herford Court were not unlike it ; but 
 bere tbe furniture was still more faded and antique, 
 and tbere was an air of poverty and of painful care- 
 taking creeping over it. Yet it abounded in flowers 
 and ferns, and tbese gave a brigbtness of colour to tbe 
 sbabby room, wbicb caugbt bis eye pleasantly ; tbougb 
 be bardly knew wbat pleased bim, except tbat be was 
 in Diana Lynn's parlour. 
 
 Tbere was a fire burning cbeerily on tbe beartb, and 
 a lamp lit, tbougb it was turned low, and sbed only a 
 very soft, subdued ligbt tbrougb tbe j^lace. Justin 
 tbrew bimself down into a large old cbair, tbat was 
 drawn up to tbe beartb, and felt all at once bow worn- 
 out and weary be was witb tbe excitement of tbe last 
 nigbt and day. He closed bis eyes, witb a delicious 
 sense of repose in tbe warmtb and comfort of tbe fire-
 
 64 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 side after his toilsome walk ; and lie did not hear 
 Diana return to her room some few minutes later, and 
 after a momentary start of surprise, stand looking at 
 him with a quiet smile. 
 
 She carried a light in her hand, and it shone fully 
 upon her face, which was somewhat too worn and thin 
 for her age. It was a noticeahle face, with its finely- 
 cut features and low broad forehead. Her complexion 
 was a clear cre^m-colour, with no tinge of red except 
 in her lips, while her eyes and hair were dark as night. 
 Mrs. Fosse, the wife of old Jeremy Fosse, at Herford, 
 a woman of few words, but of poetic instincts, said 
 Miss Diana Lynn always made her think of the moon- 
 light. An expression of care and sadness had grown 
 habitual to her ; but as she looked at Justin sleeping 
 in her chair, a smile, mischievous yet shy, stole across 
 her face. Her girlhood had passed, though a 
 melancholy girlhood, for she was already four-and- 
 twenty; and the reserve and stateliness of a some- 
 what self-contained, reticent womanhood was growing 
 manifest in her. But just now, with her dark eyes 
 glittering, and her lips melting into smiles, the dignity 
 had given way to a very pleasant mirthfulness. If she
 
 In Dianas Parlonr. 65 
 
 laughed, her laughter would be low and sweet ; but 
 very few people had ever heard Diana laugh. 
 
 She had scarcely paused there a minute when Justin 
 became conscious of her presence, and started to his 
 feet. Diana hastened forward to meet him, and offered 
 her hand frankly, as to an old and intimate friend. 
 He clasped it between both of his, and held it as he 
 spoke quickly, though in a quiet voice. 
 
 " Diana, my father is dead ! " he said. 
 
 ** I have heard of it," she replied, with a grave look 
 up into his face ; '' we heard of it this morning." 
 
 " And half an hour ago," continued Justin 
 impulsively, "I was saying, would to God Diana was 
 my wife ! " 
 
 She withdrew her hand from his grasp, and sank 
 down on the chair from which he had just risen. Her 
 heart was beating tumultuously. Justin's well-known 
 face bore the traces of violent agitation ; and as she 
 glanced up at him, keenly yet shyly, she could see how 
 tremulous his lips were, and what trouble was in his 
 eyes. He hardly looked as if he had come over the 
 bleak cliffs that lay between them simply to declare his 
 love for her. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 66 Thi'otigh a Needle's Eye. 
 
 "Forgive me ! " he said, standing before her, and 
 speaking appeaHngly. " I hardly meant to say that to- 
 night ; certainly I never meant to say it so abruptly. 
 But I do love you, Diana, with all my heart; I want 
 you. Now I have said it, against my better judgment, 
 and almost against my will, what will you say to me ?" 
 
 "Why is it against your better judgment, and 
 against your will?" she asked. 
 
 "Because," he said regretfully, " if you will not be 
 my wife, you will probably cease to be my friend. Don't 
 I know I am almost, if not quite, your only friend ? 
 Your chief friend I have been. I comfort you and help 
 you by coming here to your miserable home. In one 
 sense I protect you. And now, if my hasty words raise 
 a barrier between us, you will lose the full comfort of 
 my friendship ; and I shall lose you." 
 
 There was complete silence when he finished speak- 
 ing. Diana had leaned her face on her hands ; and he 
 could see only the low, broad forehead, and the dark 
 hair smoothly braided away from it, and gathered into 
 a thick knot at the back of her small shapely head. 
 He broke the silence after a pause full of pain to him. 
 
 " I have done you no injury, Diana," he said, in a
 
 In Dianas Parlottr. 67 
 
 broken voice, " but I wish I could call back those hasty 
 words. If I tell you this once that I love you, I will 
 never trouble you so again. I never loved a woman as 
 I love you. I was little more than a boy when I 
 married Pansy's mother ; and you were only a child 
 then. It is a man's deep faithful love I feel now for 
 you ; and God knows you are dearer to me than any- 
 thing else in the world ; ay ! almost dearer than Pansy 
 herself, and she is more precious to me than words can 
 tell. And oh ! Diana, my love for her would never 
 clash with my love for you." 
 
 " Why did you never tell me before ?" she asked in 
 a whisper. 
 
 " Why do I tell you now ?" he returned. ** Because 
 I feel like a leaf tossed to and fro ; because all my life 
 is being uprooted. I spoke in spite of myself; I had 
 no intention of speaking of it. I only meant to come 
 in and look at you, and hold your hand in mine for 
 a moment, and listen to your sweet quiet voice. I 
 should have gone back again to my duty, feeling I had 
 both gained and given strength. And now, like a fool, 
 I've cut down my own poor little gourd. Diana, you 
 will never forget this." 
 
 F 2
 
 68 Through a Needles Eye, 
 
 " No, I can never forget it," she murmured. 
 
 He was still standing before her, looking miserable 
 and dejected. His long, dark tramp over the rough 
 and wet paths, that had brought him to her, had given 
 him a weather-beaten aspect, while his want of sleep 
 and profound conflict with difficulties, known only to 
 himself, had already marked his face with a worn and 
 anxious expression. She lifted up her dark eyes to 
 him, with a strange, soft light beaming in them, and 
 her lips melted again into a tender smile. 
 
 *' I do not wish to forget it," she said very quietly. 
 " I have always loved you, Justin." 
 
 " I cannot believe it," cried Justin on his knees 
 beside her, and holding her hands in his, that he 
 might see her face, and read there whether she was 
 mocking him or not; "tell me again, Diana. Did 
 you say you had always loved me ?" 
 
 " Why ! " she said in a pleasant whisper, " who else 
 was there ? Ever since I was a little girl I've loved 
 nobody else. You were always so good to me, Justin ; 
 and so good to every one. You are the best man I 
 know ; the best in the whole world to me. There has 
 never been any other to me."
 
 In Diaiiixs Parloitr. 69 
 
 He could scarcely catch the last words, though her 
 lips were so close to his ear. But as she uttered them 
 a noisy and peremptory ring resounded through the 
 silent house, which till that moment had seemed 
 empty ; and immediately afterwards a man's loud voice 
 shouting impatiently along the echoing passages, — 
 
 " Di ! come here, Di ! This moment ! " 
 
 "It's my father," she exclaimed, springing up 
 hastily, *' I must go at once. You will not see him to- 
 night, Justin? No; go home and rest. Good-hye, 
 my dear." 
 
 Her voice lingered a little over her farewell ; but she 
 was gone before he could answer, and he heard her 
 swift, light step speeding along the passage, in 
 obedience to her father's boisterous summons. He had 
 often heard both the call and the obedient footstep 
 before, but he had never felt chafed to the degree he 
 did to-night. For a moment or two he stood irresolute 
 whether to follow her into Mr. Lynn's unwelcome 
 presence, or obey her parting injunction to go home, 
 and seek the rest which was becoming imperatively 
 necessary. He opened the door, and caught the sound 
 of rude laughter and loud voices issuing from the
 
 70 Th7'otigh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 dining-room at the other end of an intersecting 
 passage. It would be mere folly and exasperation to 
 himself to face the riotous merriment of the half- 
 drunken man ; so, quietly letting himself out by the 
 side-door through which he had entered, he passed 
 again into the darkness of the night.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 DIANA S DECISION, 
 
 "TilANA opened the diniug-room door, after hurrjing 
 away from Justin, to obey lier father's call. He 
 was still sitting at the dinner-table, \\ith two visitors 
 from Lowborough, who had dropped in since Diana 
 had left her father alone after dinner. Mr. Lynn's 
 habits were well known, and it was seldom that he 
 was without some chance companions to while away the 
 tedious hours until after midnight. It was his boast 
 that he could drink as much as any man in the 
 county if he might choose his own time for it, and 
 begin only after having fortified himself w^ith a good 
 dinner, and there were few drinking men in that, or 
 the neighbouring counties, who had not tried their 
 powers with him. 
 
 He was still a handsome, fine-looking man under 
 sixty, with the same clear-cut features as his daughter.
 
 72 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 Till the last few years there had been a marked like- 
 ness between them, to the very poise of the shapely 
 head, and the erectness of the supple and slender 
 figure. But Mr. Lynn's head was less erect, and his 
 shoulders were more bent than they had been. His 
 face had taken an unhealthy hue, and his eyes, which 
 had been as clear and deep as Diana's, had grown 
 blood- shot. At this moment he was at that stage of 
 intoxication when the most trivial or the most solemn 
 incident alike provokes an uproarious laugh. As 
 Diana opened the door hastily, and paused for an 
 instant in some surprise at the sight of the two guests 
 of whose arrival she had been unaware, he broke into 
 that boisterous guffaw which had driven Justin out of 
 the house. " Di ! " he exclaimed, after his com- 
 panions had risen and bowed obsequiously to the 
 stately girl, but without venturing upon any other salu- 
 tation, '' I've some news for you, my little lass. Flem- 
 ing here has brought it from Lowborough, and it's too 
 good to be kept till morning. Guess what old Her- 
 ford's done. Cut off his own son with a shilling, and 
 left every penny to the parson ! " 
 
 " To Justin ? " was Diana's startled exclamation.
 
 Dianas Decision. 73 
 
 "Ay ! to Justin ! " repeated her father, mimicking 
 her tone, and breaking into another shout of merri- 
 ment, '' to our friend Justin, you know. Herford 
 Court, and £2,000 a year ! Not a bad turn of fortune 
 for a poor parson with less than £200. That's all, 
 my girl. Oflf with you." 
 
 Diana readily obeyed. But she stepped back slowly 
 and timidly to her parlour, where she had left Justin 
 less than three minutes ago. She lingered at the 
 closed door shamefaced and irresolute ; and when she 
 opened it, and saw at a glance from under her droop- 
 ing eyelids that he was gone, she felt a momentary 
 sense of relief, quickly followed by a chill of disap- 
 pointment. Yet she was happy ; happier than she 
 could ever have imagined. She sat down in her old 
 chair, and gazed steadily though absently into the fire. 
 Was it real that Justin had stood before her not ten 
 minutes ago, telling her he loved her, and saying, 
 " Would to God she was his wife " ? She had been 
 very miserable this morning, speechlessly miserable ; 
 for how could she put her sorrow into words that 
 would not shock herself? She had almost been 
 tempted to doubt God's love for her ; and she had
 
 74 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 thought her lot was harder than the lot of any woman 
 whom she knew. Yet all the while He had held this 
 priceless gift in store for her. 
 
 Diana hid her face in her hands, and sobbed thank- 
 fully. The very thought of being chosen and loved 
 by Justin made her feel humble, and unworthy of so 
 much gladness. Her lot had been very different from 
 that of other girls, different even from the lives of her 
 own brothers and sisters, who had each broken away 
 from their father and their dreary home, and taken 
 their own course in the world. Diana had never found 
 it in her heart to do this. *'He is my father," she 
 had often said to herself, ^'aud there is nobody to care 
 for him but me." There had been a staunch loyalty 
 in her soul towards the man to whom she stood in 
 the relation of daughter. Probably she did not know 
 all his misdeeds as the world outside did ; but she 
 knew that all respectable men and women stood aloof 
 from him, and from her as belonging to him. Her 
 father had numbers of boon companions ; but she had 
 only one friend. And that friend was the best man in all 
 her little world ; and he had just said that he loved her. 
 What had she done that such a man should love her ?
 
 Dianas Decision. 75 
 
 After a while she sat down to her little writing-table, 
 where she was used to write painful, pitiful letters to 
 those brothers and sisters of hers who had strayed 
 away into the wide world, and who had fallen mostly 
 into trouble. They had quitted their post in disgust, 
 and had fallen into other troubles. Diana was the 
 only one who had been strong enough to resist evil. 
 She could hear her father's drunken laughter, and the 
 shouts of his visitors echoing through the quiet 
 house ; and she paused to listen, with the pen in her 
 hand, and with the soft flush in her face dying away 
 into paleness. Those other children of her father had 
 forsaken him through anger and antipathy ; and was 
 she to be lured away from him by any promise of joy 
 and happiness to herself? She laid her head down 
 upon the desk before her, and did not lift it again for 
 a long while. There was no sob to be heard, and no 
 tear fell from her eyes. If she accepted Justin, she 
 must give up her father ; and she asked herself 
 mournfully, what would become of him, if he was left 
 to run on in his evil ways, with none of the checks she 
 could interpose ? 
 
 '' Why did you go away so soon ? " she wrote at last.
 
 76 Th7'07igh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 not daring to begin with any epithet of affection. 
 *' My father kept me only a minute, and I came back 
 again to you, and found you gone. He called me to 
 tell me that you are to inherit Herford. I am more 
 glad than I can say to you ; for though poor Eichard 
 ought to be the heir, I have always feared that Her- 
 ford Court would come to ruin, just as our old place is. 
 You know how my father has ruined Rillage Grange. 
 I cannot remember it very much better than it is now ; 
 but they say it was a beautiful place when it came to 
 him from his father. You know what my father 
 might have been ; and you know what he is. Well ! 
 Richard would have been as he is ; you will be what he 
 might have been. 
 
 *' Justin, I am very sorry ; I am almost heart- 
 broken for him. Sometimes I feel all compassion and 
 grief, and tenderness for him ; and then it seems to 
 me as though I could not go on, day after day, seeing 
 him destroy himself. But I shall bear it better, and 
 have more patience now, because you will help me. I 
 ought to have said to you that I cannot be your wife, 
 as long as my father needs me. There is not a 
 creature in the world who has any influence over
 
 Dianas Decisio7i. JJ 
 
 him but me. If I left him, he would ruin himself 
 swiftly, hod}' and soul. Every one else has forsaken 
 him, because they could not bear it. But God has 
 given to me strength and courage to bear it ; and I 
 must never give him up. It would be next thing to 
 heaven to be your wife. But I ought not and I cannot 
 quit my father even for heaven itself, if I can keep 
 him back from any evil. Think of it. It may be 
 long years ; it may be nearly all our lifetime. No, it 
 would be best for you to forget what you have said to 
 me this evening ; but it will be best for me to remem- 
 ber it, and live upon it. It will lift me up out of my 
 dull and dreary cares to think that you have once 
 really loved me. 
 
 ^' Do not think I am unhappy as I write this ; I am 
 quietly, blissfully happy. I keep saying to myself, 
 * He loves me, he loves me ! ' I may well be happy. 
 There is not a woman in the world with whom I would 
 change lots to-night. But it shall not interfere with 
 our future friendship that you were once so good to me 
 as to wish me to be your wife. If you marry some 
 one else, as I almost hope you will by-and-by, I shall 
 try to forget it then, for your sake; but until that time,
 
 yS Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 I will remember it morning and night, when I pray 
 God to bless you. He will bless yon. You will be a 
 good rich man, as you have been a good poor one. 
 Ah ! my dear ! I thank God Eichard is not in your 
 place to make another bad rich man in this little 
 corner of England. I shall see Herford and Herford 
 people good and prosperous. How much happier it is 
 for me that I have not to bid you farewell, and see 
 your face no more ! That would make my life dreary 
 indeed. But I shall see you still as often as ever. 
 The road over the cliffs will be no farther, either for 
 you or me. I shall see you coming as my friend, 
 bringing me courage and patience to fulfil my duties. 
 There will be no separation between us. You at 
 Herford and I at Eillage, only the fields and the cliff's 
 between us. Was it not the faith and love of true 
 hearts, never altogether failing Him, which made our 
 Lord's life not one of utter suffering ? He was never 
 left alone — never but once ; and then the Father was 
 with Him. 
 
 '' Yours, my dear Justin, 
 
 " Diana*."
 
 Dianas Decision. 79 
 
 She did not venture to read her letter again, after 
 finishing it. If she could have heen Justin's wife ! 
 But that could not he. She was the only prop of the 
 falling house. If she was not there what would 
 become of George, to whom the estate would come, or 
 what was left of it, at her father's death ? How 
 would poor Milly manage, with her brood of little 
 children and her scampish husband, who would not 
 work, but w^as not ashamed to beg ? And Reggy, far 
 away in Australia, whose appeals for help to keep him 
 from actual starvation often wrung her heart. They 
 were all leaning upon her, and if she forsook her post 
 they would sink low in actual poverty and degradation. 
 She knew well how thriftless and extravagant they 
 were, how incapable of helping themselves out of their 
 difficulties, and how thankless to her for the little aid 
 she could give them, snatched from the general wreck 
 and ruin about her. But she could not abandon them 
 nor her father — no, not if the gates of heaven were 
 thrown open to her. 
 
 Mr. Lynn was in the habit of saying, " Spoil your 
 children, fool them to the top of their bent, let 'em 
 take their own wav, and don't cross 'em. I did it with
 
 So Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 my youngest, little Di, and just mark liow she has 
 turned out. There isn't a woman like her in all the 
 country round, and she never went to school in her 
 life."
 
 8i 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 JUSTIN did his utmost to shake Diana Lynn's 
 resolution, but she had a mind and conscience of 
 her own, and was accustomed to abide by their 
 decision. It was hard to have the chance of happiness 
 urged upon her, and yet to turn away from it, and 
 sentence herself to imprisonment with a drunken and 
 eccentric father, whose mode of life made it impossible 
 for her to have any associates of her own. Justin 
 thrust upon her acceptance the highest earthly happi- 
 ness she could wish for ; but she would not take it at 
 the cost of others, though he argued that her duty 
 lay in choosing her own welfare and his. 
 
 " Why do you tempt me ? " she cried, almost 
 indignantly. *' Don't you see how difficult it is for me 
 to stand by my father and the others ? It is no 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 pleasure, no profit, no glory to me to keep true to 
 them ! I would rather be your wife than anything 
 else in the world, but I was born his daughter and 
 their sister ; nothing can alter that. And you know 
 they w^ould sink lower than they are if I left my place 
 here. You have everything j^ou can wish for ; your 
 mother and Pansy, your estate and parish, and a 
 hundred things to do and occupy you, all apart from 
 me. Life cannot be lonely and desolate to you. You 
 have everything you wish for." 
 
 "Except you, Diana," he said persistently; 
 
 " And I have nothing I wish for," she answered, 
 looking up to him with her dark deep eyes, " nothing 
 but your love, and that I must set on one side as a 
 temptation and a snare if you will not cease to urge 
 me. I thought you had made me happier, but 3'ou are 
 making me miserable." 
 
 " I will not make you miserable," he said discon- 
 tentedly ; "but my life must be very poor and in- 
 complete without you. My mother and Pansy ! An 
 old woman, not over-wise, and a little child, and no 
 other companionship ! All the hardship is not on 
 your side, my darling ! "
 
 Drifting. 8 
 
 But it had to stand at that, and Justin was com- 
 pelled to bear his disappointment. In fact he was so 
 occupied at this time, that except at short intervals his 
 disappointment did not prey upon him. As Diana 
 had refused to be his wife, at least for an indefinite 
 season, he could not confide to her that secret 
 perplexity of his. The matter remained simply in 
 his hands, and was drifting along to a quiet settle- 
 ment. The whole neighbourhood was satisfied with 
 old Richard Herford's will, for which it had been fully 
 prepared beforehand, and expressed its satisfaction in 
 flattering terms to the new owner. His uncle, 
 Watson, the lawyer at Lowborough, hastened the 
 final settlement of the afi'airs with friendly expedition, 
 taking them almost into his own hands, as though 
 Justin was a minor. Though he was fond of both his 
 nephews, he was glad of the turn which had made 
 Justin the heir of Herford, feeling a rooted conviction 
 that he would make a good provision for his younger 
 brother, if ever he should turn up again, whereas the 
 young scamp himself would have run through the 
 property swiftly. He was one of the two executors 
 appointed by the will, and he immediately applied for 
 
 G 2
 
 84 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 probate of it. He also effected the change of name 
 from Webb to Herford, reqmred by the testator, as 
 speedily as possible, almost without consulting Justin 
 at all. But there was no reasonable objection that 
 Justin could offer to these proceedings without con- 
 fiding his difficulty to Mr. Watson. This he could 
 not bring himself to do. He felt that he must keep 
 his power in his own hands. 
 
 But he was in no haste to leave his small incon- 
 venient vicarage, or to give up his living, distasteful as 
 his profession was to him. Now that another career, 
 the one he would have chosen, w^as open to him, his 
 humble home and his pastoral duties seemed dearer to 
 him. His church was better filled, and he fancied he 
 could preach to his people with more result than 
 formerly. There was no one to thwart or hinder him 
 in his parish. Mrs. Herford was quite content to 
 reign alone at the Court, if she might have the income 
 of the whole estate to spend, but her own five 
 hundred a year was insufficient to keep it up as it 
 should be. Justin was not taking his proper place in 
 the neighbourhood, she complained, by dwelling in 
 that little poky vicarage, and Mr. Watson sided with
 
 Drifting. 85 
 
 her. Justin ouglit to live as Herford of Herford Court 
 was expected to live. 
 
 But it was more than twelve months after old 
 Richard Herford' s death hefore Justin gave up his 
 little living and removed to the Court. During that 
 time he was busy making every possible inquiry after 
 his missing brother, and following up every clue that 
 seemed likely to lead to his discovery. It was all in 
 vain. No sign came to them that the prodigal son 
 was yet alive, though in some far country. His 
 mother, when she was in low spirits, wept abundantly 
 over the mysterious fate of her poor boy ; but Mrs. 
 Herford was seldom in low spirits now that she was 
 undisputed mistress of Herford Court, though she had 
 Bome jealous misgivings with regard to Diana Lynn, 
 and treated the friendship existing between her and 
 Justin with chilling distance. 
 
 It was not long before Justin Herford was made 
 justice of the peace, for a magistrate was much 
 needed in the neighbourhood, Mr. Lynn being 
 frequently unfit to discharge the duties of that ofQce. 
 All the cares of a landowner came upon him. In 
 this throng of new duties the old ones became too 
 burdensome. It had alwavs been irksome to him to
 
 86 Throitgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 visit the sick and dying, to christen the infants, and 
 bury the dead among his parishioners. He was a 
 little more at home in the schools, asking questions of 
 the red-fisted, red-faced boys and girls afresh from the 
 beach, especially when Pansy was with him, displaying 
 her intimate acquaintance with every one of them, and 
 prompting the answers that should be given. But he 
 had not time for the faithful discharge of these 
 obligations ; and, when at last his conscience was 
 satisfied that he had done all he could for the finding 
 of Eichard, he resigned his living, and, it being in his 
 own gift, appointed to it his own friend and old college 
 chum, a poor curate from a north-country parish, who 
 accepted it with unbounded gratitude and joy. 
 
 Gradually the neighbourhood began to forget that 
 Justin Herford, Esq., of Herford Court, had formerly 
 been The Rev. Justin Webb, the vicar of that little 
 seaboard parish. He was the squire, and, though the 
 estate was a small one, he was one of the influential 
 landowners in the county; possessing an amount of 
 education and cultivation superior to most of them. 
 He was looked up to as a man of mark. If he was 
 absent from the magistrates' meetings, all parties re- 
 gretted it ; and especially the accused, if they happened
 
 Drifting. 8 7 
 
 to be less culpable than they appeared to be. His busi- 
 ness faculties, which had not found scope as a clergy- 
 man, were developed in the successful management of 
 his estate and the little village belonging to him. It 
 was a singularly prosperous life he led. He was a born 
 master, with a quick eye to detect bad service or good, 
 and a firm quick will to exact from each person his 
 best work. His lands were farmed to perfection ; and 
 his tenants stirred up to vie with him in the careful 
 cultivation of their ground. His village was clean and 
 orderly, with savings banks and reading rooms for his 
 people. The church, under his friend, Philip Cunlifi'e, 
 was as well controlled as his estate. He had his 
 intimate friend living within a stone's throw of his 
 own home, and the woman whom he loved with 
 unswerving constancy and devotion within an hour's 
 walk of him. His little Pansy was blooming into a 
 pretty sweet-tempered charming girl. Yet there were 
 times when Justin's sky was clouded, he hardly knew 
 why. There was a slumbering subtle sense of in- 
 security underlying all his sunny days. But even 
 this passed away, as year after year went by, bringing 
 no news of his disinherited brother.
 
 SS Throngh a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE VICAR OF HERFORD; 
 
 pHILIP CUNLIFFE, the friend to whom Justin 
 had given the living of Herford, was an enthusiast 
 in all the duties and offices of his calling. He set 
 them far above every other obligation, and his whole 
 heart was bent upon their fulfilment. There was a 
 good share of asceticism in his temperament ; and 
 worldly affairs of any kind had little interest for 
 him. He literally took no thought for his life, what 
 he should eat, or what he should drink, or what 
 clothing he should put on. He might be seen every 
 day of the year, fine or stormy, marching with slow 
 long strides about his parish to the most distant out- 
 lying homesteads, dressed in a shabby white- seamed 
 old coat, which had come very gradually down from 
 the dignity of Sunday wear, to the last stage of 
 brownness that it was possible for a gentleman's coat
 
 The Vicar of Herford. 89 
 
 to exhibit. His tall spare figure, and gentle absorbed 
 face, were familiar to every one of his parishioners, 
 down to the youngest child that could totter about the 
 fields and lanes, or patter into the tide on the beach. 
 He knew nothing, and could learn nothing, about 
 farming and fishing ; and his parish felt that he was 
 all the more a parson for that. Both farmers and 
 fishermen felt a mutual contempt for each other's 
 opinion in the business that other had not been born 
 to ; and a parson, who meddled with neither, but 
 stuck close to his books and his church, was worthy 
 of their deepest respect. ^Yhen Mr. Cunliffe stopped 
 to speak to them at their work, with his thin worn 
 features, and his absent gaze, which seemed always 
 straining to catch a glimpse of something far beyond 
 the poor objects of their interest, they felt themselves 
 in the presence of a spiritual pastor and master indeed, 
 as they had never done with Master Justin ; for so 
 they continued to call their landlord and magistrate. 
 
 Though Mr. Cunliffe took no thought for his life, 
 it was essential that some one should take thought 
 for him, and for the food and clothing of the house- 
 hold. The vicarage was full of children, till the small
 
 90 Throttgh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 rooms, wliicli liad appeared so inconvenient and com- 
 fortless to Justin, seemed always overflowing with them. 
 There was not much order or neatness in the house, 
 and it would have been a work of difficulty to maintain 
 either ; but Mr. Cunliffe was too contemplative and 
 rapt in thought to take much notice of the general 
 discomfort and confusion. His study was in the attics, 
 out of the noise and disturbance ; and there he spent 
 most of his time, when he was not about his parish 
 business. Mrs. Cunliffe was a meek-looking little 
 woman, with a soft step, and quiet muffled voice, apt 
 to fall into a whisper. She was not a stirring 
 energetic bustling person ; though the female popula- 
 tion of Herford were in the habit of saying under 
 their breath that she was a deep one. It was always 
 with a reluctant step that any farmer's or fisher's wife 
 carried her goods to the vicarage, where she was certain 
 to come away beaten in her efforts to make a bargain. 
 The offertory money passed through Mrs. Cunliffe's 
 hands ; and, though there was very little real poverty or 
 need in the parish, there were low murmurs current 
 among tbe old folks, whose claims upon it had been 
 more liberally met in Justin's time. She had been
 
 The Vicar of Hei'ford. 91 
 
 known to give twopence to the mother of a family, 
 plunged into sudden distress by the illness of her 
 husband, with the encouraging remark, " There ! that 
 will float you again!" The words had run into a 
 proverb among the Herford folk. ''We've a rare good 
 parson," they said among themselves, '' but parson's 
 wife — she's no better than she should be." 
 
 There was one cottage in Herford which was always 
 an eye-sore to Justin, and a plague of heart to Mr. 
 Cunliff'e. It was the last in the long straggling village 
 street, farthest away from the beach, and nearest to 
 the coppices of dwarfed trees and tangled brushwood, 
 where Pdchard Herford in his boyhood had learned 
 how to snare his father's game and poach on his 
 preserves. The thick stone walls of this cottage, and 
 the thatched roof, covered with ivy and houseleek, were 
 picturesque enough ; but Justin's eye was ofi'ended by 
 the dirt and squalor of the unkept garden, and of the 
 rooms within, which, however, he rarely entered. The 
 old woman living in it, Martha Dart, and her daughter 
 Leah, were the last of the bad lot who had helped to 
 ruin Pdchard. Herford was too small a place to be a 
 desirable dwelling for men decidedly set against the
 
 92 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 tide ; and, after old Richard Herford's death, the little 
 gang of poachers and petty larceny delinquents had 
 melted away before the general improvement and pros- 
 perity which followed Justin's succession to the estate. 
 Old Martha Dart, who had been goose-girl at the 
 Court, and had her cottage almost rent free, was too 
 old to flit away with her gang of sons and grandsons ; 
 and her youngest daughter Leah was usually at home 
 with her. 
 
 But, though Justin rarely set his foot into the 
 cottage, Mr. Cunliffe visited it as regularly as any other 
 house in his parish. He had never succeeded in 
 winning this old woman to church, though Leah, who 
 was ambitious, had consented to sing in the gallery, 
 with the children of the Sunday school, if Miss Jenny 
 Cunliffe would sing there too. Old Martha Dart 
 went, she said, to meeting in the lighthouse, where a 
 service was held on Sunday night, at an hour when the 
 parish church was closed. 
 
 "I like the ways on it best," said the blear-eyed 
 bent old woman, " it's more home-like. It does na 
 matter what clothes I go in ; and I hanna got no 
 church clothes, like Christians. I dun very well at
 
 The Vicar of Herfoi'd. 93 
 
 the old liglitliouse. He's my brother-in-law ; and 
 there's a chimblej'-corner as I can sit in just the same 
 as my own fireside. Church religion's too grand for 
 such as me." 
 
 " My good woman, religion is the same everywhere, 
 in church or chapel," said Mr. Cunhfi'e, in a firm yet 
 mild tone. He had said the same words over hundreds 
 of times, and would say them hundreds of times 
 more to old Martha Dart's dull ears. " Eeligion is to 
 believe in God, and to love Him. You can do that 
 here, in your o^ii house, in the poorest rags, as truly 
 as the richest personage in the grandest church in the 
 world. Going to church or chapel is not religion ; it 
 is only part of the outward form of it." 
 
 "Ay! ay! I canna understand," muttered old 
 Martha sullenly, ''if it inna religion to go to church, 
 folks is in a bad way. I go to th' old lighthouse, 
 because I've got no church-going clothes ; but I war 
 married in church and I'll be buried in church, and if 
 that inna religion enough for an old creature like me, 
 God Almighty's very hard to please, and there's more 
 folks like me in a bad way." 
 
 "Martha," said Mr. Cunhfi'e earnestly, "let me tell
 
 94 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 you once more that God is not hard to please. Nay, 
 He loves you, and only seeks your love. He is looking 
 out for you, and is ready to welcome you ; like the 
 father in the parahle I read to you so often. You 
 recollect ? The younger son had gone away into a far 
 country, and had wasted all he had in riotous living ; 
 and he was coming home again, ragged, and hungry, 
 and penniless. ' But when he was yet a great way olBf, 
 his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and 
 ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.' That 
 is only a poor image of what God feels for you and 
 me." 
 
 *' Ay ! hut it doesn't seem real like," answered the 
 old woman. ''I always think of Master Dick when 
 you talk like that. Th' old master didn't forgive him 
 like the man in the book. Leastways he cut him off 
 from everything. Laws ! it's easier to tell a tale like 
 that than to love folks and forgive folks. God 
 Almighty's cut me off from everything, even church- 
 going clothes ; and I canna believe as He's willing to 
 give me the best robe, and a ring for my finger, 
 and new shoes for my feet. Nay ! I'll be bound 
 to be buried in your church, and if that inna
 
 The Vicar of Hei'foi'd. 95 
 
 enough, why, I must take my luck with the other 
 folk." 
 
 "You leave mother alone, sir," said Leah, " shq's 
 in a bad way to-day, she is. But it's true what she 
 said. It was a hard thing of th' old master to cut 
 off his only son. It's ten years since he died, and 
 nigh upon fifteen since Master Dick ran away. 
 He was a brave bold young gentleman as ever 
 trod." 
 
 *' Ay! that he was," muttered her mother. 
 
 "I never saw him," answered Mr. Cunliffe, who 
 always felt a yearning of compassion towards the 
 erring and disinherited son ; " but there is no hope 
 now that he will ever come back." 
 
 "How long was the younger son away in the 
 parable?" inquired Leah with eagerness. 
 
 " There is nothing in the parable to indicate the 
 time of his absence !" he replied; "he did not come 
 back till he had spent all, and was ready to perish 
 with hunger." 
 
 " He came home because he'd nothing to eat," said 
 Leah, with a hard smile on her face ; "it wasn't for 
 love of his father, or of his mother that bore him.
 
 96 TJu^oitgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 Master Dick's sure to come back some day, when he's 
 got no more money to spend, and is tired of earnin' 
 any. He'll come home yet ; and what will he feel 
 when, instead of his father a-lookin' out for him, and 
 a-runniu' to meet him, he finds another man's son set 
 up in his stead as master of Herford ? Do you think 
 he'll believe in God Almighty's love, sir?" 
 
 "If Richard Herford is still living," replied Mr. 
 Cunliife, *' he cannot expect to find his father alive 
 yet. He knew how old he was, and how little chance 
 there could be of ever seeing his face again ; and he 
 trampled on his father's love, and counted it worth- 
 less. It is what you are doing with the love of 
 God." 
 
 *' I think I've got as much religion as the quality," 
 said Leah, with a slightly anxious expression on her 
 face; "Miss Pansy isn't more regular than me 
 at church. I shouldn't like to have less than the 
 quality." 
 
 But fortunately for Leah Mr. Cunliffe had not heard 
 what she said, for her mother had spoken to him at 
 the same moment, and he was listening to her queru- 
 lous tones. His visit was soon brou^'ht to an end,
 
 The Vicar of Herford. 97 
 
 and he left the cottage somewhat more faint-hearted 
 than usual at his failure in making any impression 
 on the dull and obstinate mind of the old woman, 
 whose life was drawing so near to its close. 
 
 Leah Dart was regarded as a link between the old 
 times and the new in Herford. She had not had her 
 full share of the excitement and variety of the former 
 days, when poaching and smuggling and petty thefts 
 had filled the cottage with a rude abundance of for- 
 bidden luxuries, besides bringing a succession of 
 stirring and hair-breadth escapes from detection ; 
 old times, which formed the constant theme of her 
 mother's lamentations. Nor had she been able to 
 share fully in the new reign of quiet prosperity' and 
 comfort which had set in upon the little seaside 
 village. She was a girl of sixteen when Richard 
 Herford disappeared, and probably no one had mourned 
 him more deeply, or continued to cherish the hope of 
 his return more faithfully. She had helped her mother 
 in the care of the poultry belonging to the Court, and 
 so had frequent opportunities of seeing Richard, who 
 had never failed in giving the rosy black-eyed girl a 
 word or a smile as he passed her at her work. She 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 Through a Needles Eye, 
 
 bad often watched and waited for hours, and placed 
 herself in his way to catch either the smile or the 
 word. The young heir was three years older than 
 herself, and was almost an object of worship to her. 
 And after he was gone she could not bring herself to 
 look with any favour on the rough young fishermen 
 who tried their rude fashion of courtship with her. 
 For Leah, Eichard Herford was still alive, and certain 
 to come home sooner or later. Probably she was the 
 only person in Herford who really believed him to be 
 alive, or wished for his return.
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 OLD FOSSE S TEMPLE. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY below the cliff on which Herford 
 Court was built a tongue of rugged crags stretched 
 out abruptly into the sea, rising at the end into a 
 precipitous platform about a hundred feet from the 
 water. On this platform stood the lighthouse which 
 old Martha Dart preferred as a place of worship to 
 the church in which Mr. Cunliffe officiated. A narrow 
 path ran along the lower edge of the ridge, which was 
 never quite under water, though in stormy weather the 
 surf and foam broke over it in such a manner as to 
 make the lighthouse-keeper's task far from pleasant. 
 But since Justin came into his kingdom he had made 
 the path secure and safe by strong walls built on each 
 side, founded so firmly on the living rock that old 
 Jeremy Fosse had been able to set up his Sunday 
 evening meetings wath no fear of being left without a
 
 lOO Thro2LgJi a Needles Eye. 
 
 congregation. The lantern liill, with its old chapel 
 converted into a lighthouse, had always been a favourite 
 haunt of the Herford fishermen. But as for the 
 women, it was only on the fairest and mildest of 
 summer evenings that they were to be found among 
 Jeremy's hearers ; Martha Dart made her appearance 
 there not more than once or twice in the year. 
 
 When Mr. Cunliffe left his incorrigible parishioner, 
 Martha Dart, he turned his steps towards the light- 
 house. It was a fair, sunny day late in February ; 
 the gorse bushes were ready to burst into golden 
 bloom, and the buds on every bush and tree were 
 beginning to thicken and glisten in the warm sunlight. 
 The vicar passed along with a vague mournfulness of 
 spirit, altogether at variance with the joj^ousness of the 
 coming spring. He was not sure to find Jeremy Fosse 
 at his post, but the lantern hill was a favourite spot of 
 his own ; for beneath the old grey building was a stone 
 bench, where he and Justin had spent many an hour 
 in friendly communion, and from which the sunset 
 could be seen, even so early in the year, flinging its 
 ruddy streaks upon the waves. In another hour the 
 sun would sink below the unbroken line of the sea ;
 
 Old Fosse s Temple. loi 
 
 and he paced along slowly -witli long deliberate strides 
 across the ridge, where, on either side of him, the tide 
 was washing up softly and secretly against the cruel 
 rocks. He fancied he was meditating ; but the lulling 
 murmur of the waters had cunningly stolen away his 
 thoughts, and left him mechanically repeating over and 
 over again the words of some old rhyme which had 
 taken possession of his brain. It was only when he 
 turned the point of the road, and saw old Fosse mend- 
 ing nets on his favourite seat, that his mind was 
 aroused again. 
 
 Jeremy Fosse was not as old as many of the men in 
 Herford, but he had been called old so long that it 
 had become part of his proper name. He was a tall, 
 athletic man, between sixty and seventy years of age, 
 with a brown, honest, weather-beaten face, hair bleached 
 white as snow, and blue eyes, still keen and shai-p 
 enough to discern objects far out at sea without his 
 telescope. Possibly he had earned his epithet " old " 
 from having set himself up early as a teacher of others. 
 He hadjoined the Methodists of Lowborough when there 
 was a drunken and swearing vicar of Herford, in old 
 Eichard Herford's bachelor days ; and his affection for
 
 I02 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 Justin and reverence of Philip Cunliffe had not shaken 
 his loyalty to his early choice. He had been a local 
 preacher for the Methodists at a time when to be that, 
 exposed him to ill-will and persecution in his native 
 village ; but he had never wavered. He had forsaken 
 neither his village nor his work as a preacher in it ; 
 and his dogged perseverance and undoubted courage 
 had prevailed over his persecutors in the long run. 
 
 Justin had always felt a strong friendship for old 
 Fosse, even as a lad, when he had stolen within ear- 
 shot of his outdoor preaching, and found it more 
 interesting than the more literary sermons of the vicar. 
 Old Fosse was also an excellent authority about the 
 weather and the tides, and he had been the best fisher- 
 man in the village, until a sharp attack of rheumatic 
 fever had laid him low, and made it dangerous for him 
 to resume his old occupation. Justin had then got 
 him made keeper of the lighthouse, where, as he said 
 gratefully, he had always a good roof over his head, 
 and strong walls to keep the wintry storms out. There 
 was no danger of old Fosse neglecting his duties as 
 the last keeper had done. 
 
 Mr. Cunliffe had found more real friendship with
 
 Old Fosse s Temple, 103 
 
 Jeremy Fosse than with any other of his parishioners ; 
 and old Fosse prized his friendship next to Justin's. 
 Ever since Justin had become vicar of Herford he had 
 led the choir at the morning service, though he could 
 not be present in the afternoon ; for he was appointed 
 by the Methodist minister at Lowborough to preach in 
 distant villages, often having to walk five or six miles 
 after his preaching was over, and hasten back without 
 resting, to kindle his lamp in the lighthouse and hold 
 his own special service there. This February afternoon, 
 as his clergyman approached him, he stood up and took 
 off his knitted woollen cap, whilst a bright light came 
 into his blue eyes, which were growing a little sunken 
 under his white eyebrows. 
 
 "It's a rare sight always, sir," he said, after they 
 had shaken hands cordially, and Mr. Cunliffe had taken 
 a seat beside him ; " it's a rare sight is the sea ! I'd 
 never grow weary of it. It's part of the Lord's speech 
 that He's utterin' to us day after day ; but oh, what a 
 world 0' meanin' there is in every word of it ! I 
 wonder sometimes if I shall make it out through all 
 eternity. Sometimes it seems to mean perfect peace, 
 and sunshine, and love, and praise ; and it looks like
 
 104 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 unto the sea o' crystal mingled with fire, stretchin' out 
 before the throne o' God, with the harpers standin' on 
 it, harping with their harps. And then a change 
 comes, and it's all wild, and cruel, and ragin', and like 
 unto the wicked that have no peace, and it's constantly 
 castin' up mire and dirt ; and I say in my heart, thank 
 God, there'll be no more sea o' wickedness, but there'll 
 be a sea o' glass before the throne. Ah, there's a mean- 
 ing in every look of it, if I could only make it out." 
 
 ''Jeremy," said Mr. Cunliffe abruptly, "what sort 
 of lad was young Richard Herford ? " 
 
 "Why," answered old Fosse, "he was like the sea 
 when it's all foam, and froth, and breakers, and mis- 
 chief. He was never quiet, was Master Dick. If I'd 
 only know of his repentance I could almost wish him 
 safe in Abraham's bosom with poor beggar Lazarus. 
 It 'ud be a rare bad thing for Herford if he ever came 
 back troublin' ; even if he'd got conversion he'd always 
 be a light-headed, skittish fellow ; like the silly women 
 that Paul says are ' ever learnin', and never able to 
 come to the knowledge of the truth.' Some folks need 
 a deal o' conversion, and he'd be one of them. He'd 
 want convertin' scores o' times before he'd leave off
 
 Old Fosse's Temple. 105 
 
 backslidin'. No, no ; pray God Master Dick may 
 never come back to Herford ! " 
 
 "Why, Jeremy!" exclaimed Mr. Cunliffe, "are you 
 setting your face against a prodigal ?" 
 
 "No, sir; not if he be a true prodigal," he 
 answered ; "let him come home a true prodigal, 
 willin' to be one of th' hired servants, and he'd be 
 welcome. But Master Dick *ud never be like that. 
 In these times prodigals are quite angered if they 
 don't find the fatted calf cooked at once for 'em, and 
 rings ready for their fingers, and the easiest shoes for 
 their feet. They think it a far finer thing to have gone 
 away and wasted their substance in riotous livin', than 
 to have stayed quiet at home, like th' elder brother that 
 was always with his father. And there are folks that 
 teach as much. * The greater the sinner the greater 
 the saint,' they say. No, I say ; the saints o' the 
 Bible were never great sinners to begin with. There's 
 Abraham, and Moses, and Daniel, and the prophets, 
 and John and his fellow disciples. I'd not trust to 
 Master Dick ever bein' much of a saint ; but Master 
 Justin, God bless him, isn't far off the kingdom o' 
 heaven ; he's very nigh its gates."
 
 io6 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 " Not inside yet ? " asked Mr. Cunliffe with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Not quite. As far as I can judge," replied old 
 Fosse ; "he's a grand man, but the world has its grip 
 on him yet. But he's at the gate of his father's house, 
 and never strayed away into the far country, like 
 Master Dick. He's given peace and quietness to 
 Herford, such as never was in my days. I'd a line or 
 two of one of our hymns runnin' sing-song through 
 my head as you came up here, sir — 
 
 ' Glide our happy hoixrs away, 
 
 Glide wi' down upon their feet.' 
 
 Thanks he to the Lord and Master Justin ! " 
 
 The old rhyme that had been running through Mr. 
 Cunliffe's brain came back again as Fosse spoke, and 
 a flush of self-reproach passed over his pale and quiet 
 face. He wished his mind was freer from old college 
 studies. Here was a point to be gained in his upward 
 course. 
 
 "But if Kichard Herford came back, he could have 
 no claim on the estate," he said musingly. 
 
 " Folks aren't altogether sure," answered old Fosse ; 
 " there was a talk just at first, a bit o' whisperin' talk,
 
 Old Fosse s Temple. 107 
 
 that Master Justin didn't seem quite easy about taking 
 the place. ^Ye were all hearkenin' out for some fresh 
 news, either as Master Dick was come, or Master Justin 
 would na' enter altogether into full possession. There 
 were folks as said the Darts knew where he was bidin' ; 
 but it's ten years ago now since his father died, and no 
 news of him yet. It was his own father that ruined 
 him ; for * He that spareth his rod hateth his son ; 
 but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.'" 
 
 A slight shadow of anxiety flitted across the vicar's 
 face, as the thought of his own children rapidly 
 crossed his mind. He was well aware that they never 
 received any chastisement from himself, beyond a mild 
 rebuke, which was seldom heeded. 
 
 " It's a hard thing to be a good father," he said. 
 
 " Ay, so it is," assented old Fosse ; " it's not a easy 
 thing to be good at aught ; even a good lighthouse 
 man. Now and again I leave my oil-can till there's 
 barely enow' to keep my lamps burnin' all night. I 
 sometimes do wonder that the Lord said as half the 
 vii-gins were wise, and only half of 'em foolish. If 
 He'd a said nine out 0' the ten were foolish, it 'ud 
 have seemed more life-like. I've had to melt down all
 
 io8 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 sorts o' grease to keep my light up, and all because 
 o' my own folly. There's plenty of oil kept up at 
 the Court, and I am welcome to it, if my own 
 runs short, and I only recollect it betimes ; but 
 instead of that I've been forced to take my wife's 
 grease, ay, and the butter too, once. I made a kind 
 of a parable of it the next Sunday, and told 'em how we 
 were forced to use up our own good things to keep 
 our lamps a burnin' if we neglected goin' to Him as 
 was willin' and eager to give us the best of oil. God 
 Almighty doesn't wish to take away His gifts, our 
 boats, and nets, and flocks, and houses, and children ; 
 but if we won't keep our lamps burnin' for want of 
 the oil He's ready to give us into th' bargain, we're 
 forced to use up those other gifts of His. That 
 seemed to take hold on them, sir. My wife didn't 
 mind the loss of her butter when she saw what came of 
 it ; but she takes care I'm never out of oil since then." 
 
 " Have you many of the men up here on Sunday 
 nights ? " asked Mr. Cunliife. 
 
 *' Mostly the wastrels," he replied, '* them as would 
 come whether there's meetin' or no ; them as have no 
 pleasant fireside, and them as are out at service with
 
 Old Fosse s Temple, 109 
 
 the farmers, and them as love to keep a watch o'er the 
 sea. A few of the lasses and women come in the 
 summer, but I give them no encouragement ; it's like 
 havin' them in the forecastle. Keep to your own 
 deck, says I. There's the church, with a good roof 
 and comfortable seats, and plenty 0' light, and no 
 slippy path to travel along, shriekin' if they slip on a 
 bit of sea-weed. My ^ife goes to church quite 
 regular. If there was nobody but a dumb dog at 
 church, as there used to be, why, my duty would be 
 different, or if there was a wolf in sheep's clothing — 
 women's souls are as worthy as men's. But you've 
 been here hard upon eight years, and if you canna' 
 lead 'em the right way I'm afraid I canna'." 
 
 Old Fosse had spoken out of the fulness of his 
 heart, and the vicar neither misunderstood him nor 
 felt offended with him, though he smiled with a sudden 
 sense of humour quickly repressed. The sun had 
 gone down while they were talking, and he went in- 
 doors with Fosse to kindle the lamp in the small, 
 square tower. It was no dwelling-place, but simply 
 the four bare walls of the old chapel, with a small 
 stove in one corner, and a sinjzle chair and table beside
 
 1 1 o Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 it. A few rude benches stretched across the room ; 
 planks, with the bark left on the under side, supported 
 on rough logs. At the western end rose the belfry, 
 now the lighthouse tower, with a ladder leading up 
 into it. This was old Fosse's temple.
 
 Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MRS. CUNLIFFE'S CHICKENS. 
 
 ALD Fosse's home was in a little cottage, scarcely a 
 gun-shot away, but well sheltered from the fury 
 of the winds and waves which beat against the lantern - 
 hill. Behind it a meadow sloped up the cliff; and 
 before it lay a little plot of garden, never touched by 
 the salt tides, but kept always cool and green by the 
 moist breezes sweeping across the sea. Mrs. Cunliffe 
 had been to visit Mrs. Fosse this very afternoon. Old 
 Fosse's wife was a very quiet woman, a little older 
 than himself, and accustomed to regard him somewhat 
 as an indulgent mother regards a grown-up son, whom 
 she has spoiled a little in his young days. She usually 
 left him to talk, while she sat by in silence, with a 
 placid smile of approbation and pride on her tranquil 
 face. But when Mrs. Cunliffe met with her alone, it 
 was necessary to exert herself, and play the hostess
 
 1 1 2 Thro2tgh a Needles Eye, 
 
 to the best of her ability to the vicar's lady. She 
 placed her in the armchair nearest to the fire, and 
 put on an additional log before taking a seat her- 
 self. 
 
 *' Mrs. Fosse," said Mrs. Cunliffe in her low, hushed 
 voice, " wherever I go I hear nothing but praises of 
 your fine breed of chickens. Mrs. Fosse's chickens 
 are talked of all round the country. Mrs. Herford 
 was speaking to me about them ; and Miss Pansy said, 
 ' It's no use trying to rear them yourself. Old Martha 
 Dart has never managed it, and she's lived all her life 
 among poultry.' But I own I should like to try for 
 once, Mrs. Fosse." 
 
 *' It's quite easy, ma'am," she answered. 
 
 " I do so wish you would sell me just a dozen of 
 your eggs ! " continued Mrs. Cunlifi'e. " I'm paying 
 tenpence a dozen for eggs just now, an enormous price 
 for a country place like this, and for poor people like 
 us. Nobody knows what it is to be a poor vicar's 
 wife, with such a family as ours. But I shouldn't 
 mind paying as much as a penny a-piece for your 
 eggs, Mrs. Fosse." 
 
 A penny each was a small price for Mrs. Fosse's
 
 Mrs. Cttnliffes Chickens. 
 
 brood eggs, which were eagerly sought for by all the 
 farmers' wives in the neighbourhood ; but she smiled 
 placidly. 
 
 ** I'll bring you up a dozen, ma'am," she replied. 
 
 **Yes, do, please," said Mrs. Cunliffe ; ''I shall be 
 so delighted to have a fine brood of chickens. But, 
 dear me ! if Martha Dart cannot rear them, how can 
 I, who never attempted such a thing in my life ? 
 Besides, now I come to think about it, there is not a 
 hen inclined to sit. Have you any hens inclined to sit, 
 Mrs. Fosse?" 
 
 " There's Snowdrop, my little white hen, is about to 
 sit, ma'am," she said. 
 
 ** "Well now, dear Mrs. Fosse ! could you be so very 
 good as to let her hatch my eggs, only just hatch 
 them, you know? I could manage them after they 
 were hatched, oh ! quite well, I know. So don't 
 bring the eggs up to the vicarage ; but put them under 
 Snowdrop for me. You are very good, Mrs. Fosse ; 
 very good indeed. But I'm always saying what a 
 favourite your good old husband is with the vicar. Ah, 
 Mrs. Fosse, it isn't poor people that know what poverty 
 really is." 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 1 4 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 " Thank God, my husband and me aren't poor, 
 ma'am," she repHed, with a quiet twinkle in her 
 eyes. 
 
 ''Ah! that's exactly what I feel," observed Mrs. 
 Cunliffe sighing ; "here you are so easy and comfortable 
 in your cottage, with your flitch of bacon in the rack, 
 and your fine breed of poultry, and your potato patch, 
 and your garden, with all your possessions around 
 you. No, these are not the poor people, I say to my- 
 self. It's we who are poor. We have to carry the 
 heaviest burden. Often and often I wish myself in 
 your place." 
 
 *' You wouldn't like our place, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Fosse rousing up a little; '' you wouldn't like gettin' 
 up at five o'clock in the mornin', and goin' out all 
 weathers to feed the pigs, and the chicks, and dig up 
 potatoes ; you wouldn't like wearin' the same clothes 
 all the jear round, save on Sundays, and never havin' 
 any hands but your own to do every stroke of work 
 about the house to keep it clean and sweet. But, 
 thank the Lord," she added cooling down again, " me 
 and Jeremy are not poor ! " 
 
 *' No, no, you are not poor," asserted Mrs. Cunliffe
 
 Mrs. CiLulif-es Chickens, 1 1 5 
 
 emphatically; " but I must say good-bye now Mrs. 
 Fosse. And I'm to leave my eggs for your pretty Snow- 
 drop to hatch for me ? A shilling a dozen it is to be, 
 I think. Yes, that's right, a penny a-piece ; and I'll 
 bring the money when the dear little chicks are out of 
 the shell. Good-bye." 
 
 Mrs. Fosse watched her visitor down the little garden 
 path, with a smile on her face, and a slight shake of 
 her head. " She shall take the full length of her 
 tether this once," she said to herself. She was about 
 to turn back into her house, when she heard her name 
 called in a clear young ringing voice. 
 
 " That's Miss Pansy ! " thought old Mrs. Fosse, and 
 her face brightened with a peculiar tenderness ; " she 
 always reminds me of flowers, and sunshine, and 
 birds singing ; ah ! and of bright angels too ! Her- 
 ford 'ud be a dull sad place without Miss Pansy ! " 
 
 She went down to her garden wicket, and shaded her 
 wrinkled face with her hand, to watch Pansy coming up 
 with swift half-running steps from the beach, where 
 Justin Herford was making his boat secure against the 
 incoming tide. She had grown into a tall, slim girl, 
 with a simple and natural grace in all her movements, 
 
 I 2
 
 1 1 6 Throttgh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 and a delicate poise of her pretty head, learnt, perhaps, 
 from Diana Lynn. There was an assurance of perfect 
 health and undimmed happiness about her, con- 
 stituting her chief charm, which worked subtly upon 
 those who had fallen upon life's ordinary lot of im- 
 paired vigour, and only a moderate share of gladness. 
 
 Pansy had never been ill, and had known no troubles 
 but those arising from her grandmother's whims, from 
 which her father had always speedily rescued her. 
 She was the idol of the village. From the time when 
 she had been left a motherless baby in Herford, 
 every mother in the neighbourhood had caressed and 
 petted her. She was simple, and easily pleased by 
 nature. It was almost enough for her happiness to see 
 the sun shining ; and she had grown up amid a glad 
 sense of love and joy perpetually surrounding her. 
 She almost worshipped her father. It might be said 
 that as yet she scarcely worshipped any greater being. 
 A vague, conventional idea of God was in her soul ; 
 she knelt down to say her praj-ers punctually night and 
 morning, and never missed church, and sang in the 
 choir with her full sweet voice, and had a general 
 knowledge of religious truths. Her father, and Mr.
 
 M7's. Cunliffes Chickens. t 1 7 
 
 Cunliffe, and old Fosse had each sown some good seed 
 in her young heart. But she had had no opportunity, 
 as yet, of learning trust in God through bitter mis- 
 trust of man ; of cleaving to God because she found it 
 vain to lean upon any fellow-creature. There was 
 no Yoid in her life. Her father was, in her eyes, love 
 and wisdom personified. Herford was like a small 
 kingdom over which she reigned absolutely. Who 
 could be happy if she was not ? 
 
 As she came up to Mrs. Fosse, laughing and almost 
 breathless, she bent down her sweet young face, and 
 kissed the old woman who had been watching for 
 her. 
 
 " There, mammy ! " she said gaily, " that's because 
 you look such a dear peaceful old darling ! I don't 
 kiss everybody, you know ; only my father, and granny 
 when she is good, and one person besides, the best, and 
 sweetest, and dearest of all living creatures. Guess 
 who it is." 
 
 "Not a sweetheart. Miss Pansy?" cried Mrs. Fosse 
 in a tone of real alarm. 
 
 "A sweetheart!" echoed Pansy with a flash of 
 disdain; " who would want a sweetheart with such a
 
 ii8 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 father as mine ? No, no, Mrs. Fosse. It's Diana ; 
 Miss Diana Lynn, my friend, and my father's friend." 
 
 '' I'm glad it's nobody else, bless the Lord ! " 
 answered Mrs. Fosse greatly relieved ; " but you spoke 
 so warm and hearty, Miss Pansy, my dear ! You're 
 too young yet ; and don't you go and throw away your 
 girlhood on a sweetheart. You've got your best days, 
 and make the most of them." 
 
 *^ I hate talking about such things," said Pansy with 
 a crimson face, and her head tossed back. " I ran up 
 to ask you to let me have your next brood of chickens, 
 and take care of them for me till they can take care of 
 themselves, for our goose-girl lets them die as soon as 
 they are out of the shell." 
 
 " Why ! I've just gone and promised Mrs. Cunliffe 
 to let Snowdrop hatch a dozen eggs for her," answered 
 Mrs. Fosse in a tone of chagrin. 
 
 "Mrs. Cunliffe ! " cried Pansy, " she heard me say 
 I was going to bespeak a brood from you ! And she 
 says she hasn't a place to keep poultry in, and granny 
 lets them run in with ours; and there's always 
 squabbling about the eggs that are due. Mrs.'Cunliffe 
 believes every one of her hens lays an Qgg every day
 
 illrs. Citnliffes Chickens. 1 1 9 
 
 of the year, and she cannot be conyiuced to the 
 contrary. Well ! I must wait I suppose. But isn't 
 Mr. Cunliffe a good man, Mrs. Fosse?" 
 
 Pansy checked herself suddenly, because she knew 
 how earnestly her father deprecated anything that might 
 tend to lessen the vicar's influence over his people. 
 
 " He's a very good man," answered Mrs. Fosse 
 heartily. 
 
 "Besides," went on Pansy, ''I have great news to 
 tell you. We are going to London, my father and I ! 
 We set off on our travels next Monday morning, early. 
 Father says now I am eighteen it is time I saw 
 the world a little ; but I shall never love any place so 
 well as Herford. I can't imagine being happy any- 
 where else — not really happy and at home. I shall 
 enjoy going to London ; and we are to be away three 
 months, till the end of May, perhaps. Granny is quite 
 wild because Dr. Vye says she must not go after all. 
 She has been counting upon it all winter; and she 
 said she would have another doctor, who would let her 
 go ; but my father says she shall not come with us, if 
 there is any risk. Mrs. Fosse, did you ever know two 
 such good men as my father and Mr. Cunliffe ?"
 
 I20 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 *'No, never, Miss Pansy ! " she responded fervently, 
 " none save my old man. Eh ! but Herford is a 
 favoured place now ! Sometimes I'm afraid it's like 
 old Capernaum, lifted up to heaven ; and the folks 
 there wouldn't turn and repent, and it was thrust down 
 to hell, for its hardness of heart. There's no upper 
 sort of sin. Miss Pansy, such as Master Justin and 
 Mr. Cunliffe can see ; but there's a deal o' natural sin 
 out o' sight. But there ! Don't thee look downcast. 
 Herford' s a favoured place ; a very favoured place."
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 A SEASON IN LONDON 
 
 T?OR the last ten years Mrs. Herford had had her own 
 way without check. Justin was one of those men, 
 conscious of their own strength, who are extremely 
 indulgent to the women related to them, and who feel 
 that any unnecessary assertion of their authority is 
 tyrannical. He was over scrupulous in his chivalrous 
 deference towards his mother ; the more so as he felt 
 that there was no very deep esteem and respect for her 
 character in his inmost heart. It was now, therefore, 
 an almost unbearable trial to her to be debarred from 
 accompanying her son and granddaughter to London. 
 
 She was little over sixty ; and time had not made 
 those ravages upon her good looks which are manifest 
 in many faces. There were no finely-drawn lines of 
 thought and sorrow upon her smooth forehead, and her 
 light blonde hair scarcely showed a streak of grey,
 
 122 Thi'oiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 while lier slight and small figure was still quite young 
 in its erectness. When she was well dressed, and she 
 was always well dressed now, she might easily pass for 
 being fifteen years younger than she was ; and nothing 
 pleased her so much as to he taken for Justin's wife. 
 She neither felt nor looked like a woman of sixty, for 
 her mind had not grown at all since her marriage with 
 Eichard Herford, thirty-three years ago. It had 
 attained all the maturity of which it was capable 
 during her first marriage and widowhood, and had 
 never ripened into mellowness, but remained green and 
 hard, like fruit that has grown in poor and stony ground. 
 She had set her heart upon passing this season in 
 London ; and now a serious attack of bronchitis had 
 compelled Dr. Yye to forbid the journey, and above all, 
 the exposure to so great a change of climate. 
 
 Justin was by no means grieved. He very decidedly 
 preferred taking his holiday with Pansy alone ; though 
 he had been too considerate of his mother's feelings to 
 suggest such a course. He was compassionate, and 
 unwaveringly patient and forbearing towards her ; but 
 he had never loved her since she had married the old 
 man whose estate he was now possessing. The
 
 A Season in London. 123 
 
 impression made upon the boy had been too deep and 
 indelible ever to pass away altogether as he grew into 
 manhood. He had not left Pansy's training to his 
 mother. The only point on which his will had clashed 
 with her wishes was that of sending the girl to a 
 boarding-school. Pansy had neyer left home, and he 
 had chosen her goyemesses himself ; asldng no one's 
 opinion, except Diana Lynn's. Silently, though not 
 quite unsuspected by Mrs. Herford's hundred-eyed 
 jealousy, Diana had directed Pansy's education, and 
 found in so doing the sweetest occupation of her dreary 
 life. 
 
 Justin was little oyer forty, and the last ten years 
 had giyen him an air of distinction and of genial 
 dignity, which had not characterized him as the poor 
 and reserved Yicar of Herford. The consciousness of 
 being a good landowner, and a magistrate looked up to 
 as one of the best on the bench, sat well upon him. 
 He was a tall yigorous handsome man, and like his 
 mother, looked eyen younger than his years. The 
 certainty of being listened to had made him more fluent 
 on the platform of the many meetings he was inyited 
 to attend than he had eyer been in his pulpit. He
 
 124 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 was a leader of politics in the county, and reckoned 
 upon as one of the strongest men of his party. Sir 
 John Fortescue, the senior member for the northern 
 division of the shire, made much of Justin Herford ; 
 especially since he had published a pamphlet on Sir 
 John's favourite measure. Many a time had Pansy's 
 pretty face flushed, and her eyes glistened through 
 happy unshed tears, as she had listened triumphantly 
 to the applause elicited by her father's well-turned and 
 well-considered sentences. He was engaged to speak 
 at sundry meetings, religious and political, during April 
 and May, to London audiences ; and she felt assured 
 beforehand that his eloquence would create a wonderful 
 sensation ; for Pansy had never heard an orator to com- 
 pare with her father. Justin himself looked forward to 
 these appearances upon a wider stage with diffidence, 
 not unpleasantly flavoured with the recollection of the 
 flattering opinions uttered by his bishop, and Sir John 
 and other critics, well acquainted with London speeches. 
 Both he and Pansy were about to make their first 
 appearance before the world, on the world's own 
 stage. 
 
 Justin had taken care to provide the means of doing
 
 A Season in London. 125 
 
 so with a kind of quiet grandeur, suitable to liis 
 station. He did not like to be stinted in his expen- 
 diture while dwelling in London ; and he desired 
 Pansy to look her best, the more so as Lady Fortescue 
 had gi-aciously offered to be her chaperone, whenever 
 she wished to go where chaperones were necessary. 
 He had been very frugal in his personal expenditure 
 in order to provide these funds ; for he had made the 
 discovery, so quickly made by us all, that really his 
 larger means were not much more elastic than his 
 small stipend as vicar had been. Herford Court, and 
 his position as landowner, could not be kept up as they 
 should be on much less than its full income ; and as 
 he had added an extra hundred a year to his friend 
 Cunliffe's living, it had required strict economy to 
 secure any surplus on his annual outlay. 
 
 " It's of no use, Justin," exclaimed his mother, the 
 Saturday before their departure, " I must go, and I 
 will go. If I'm too ill to go, I'm too ill to be left. 
 It's all a nasty trick of Dr. Yye's to keep me here. 
 I'm quite well enough to go with 3'ou, I'm quite sure." 
 
 " My dear mother," he answered firmly, " Dr. Yye 
 says the east winds in London might be fatal to you.
 
 126 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 and you hardly catch them here. It is tedious for you, 
 I know ; but there is no danger, if you take ordinary 
 care of yourself." 
 
 " Then Pansy ought to stay with me," she said 
 peevishly. 
 
 " If there was any danger we would both stay," he 
 answered ; " but you are to have Jenny Cunliffe with 
 you, and you often say Jenny is more like a grandchild 
 to you than Pansy. But there is Vye coming up the 
 drive. Now we shall have his last word." 
 
 Dr. Yye's last word was that Mrs. Herford could not 
 possibly go. He would not answer for her life if she 
 went. Then she tried to make him say that she must 
 not be left, but that he mocked at. There was no risk 
 at all, if she would simply take care of herself, and 
 keep in a mild equal temperature. After an animated 
 dispute Mrs. Herford took herself out of the room in 
 high dudgeon, leaving Dr. Vye and her son together. 
 
 *'I've just come from Killage Grange," said Dr. 
 Vye ; " the old squire is on the verge of delirium 
 tremens, and there's that saint, Diana, hovering about 
 him like the angel she is. If there ever was a living 
 saint on earth, it's Diana Lynn."
 
 A Season in London. 127 
 
 Justin's face clouded, and his brows contracted a 
 little. There was but one flaw in his prosperity, one 
 claud in his sky. His love for Diana had gi'own and 
 deepened during these ten years. What it may have 
 lost in impetuosity and passion it had gained in 
 strength and faithfulness. It seemed as if he was 
 bound to stand by and see her suffer a martyrdom from 
 which he had no power to deliver her. This was 
 gi'owing intolerable to him. 
 
 "Is there no chance of the old drunkard's death?" 
 he asked, with a sharp and impatient ring in his voice. 
 
 "Well, not much," answered Dr. Yye with a half 
 smile, "not if I can prevent it, you see. Of course I 
 shall do my utmost to keep him alive ; and I fancy I 
 can drag him through. I know quite well that if I 
 merely withheld such and such remedies an accursed life 
 would be taken away out of many a household ; and 
 the saints, like Diana, would come down from their 
 crosses. But what am I to do, Herford ? I'm sent 
 for to spin out the miserable thread of their lives to 
 the very last moment ; and if I did not do all science 
 and practice teach me, I'm neither more nor less than 
 a murderer."
 
 128 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 ** Is he very bad ?" inquired Justin, the frown dark- 
 ening on his face. 
 
 " He's so bad," replied the doctor, " that I've ban- 
 ished Miss Di from his room, and sent in two strong 
 men to sit up with him. I've hired a nurse for him, 
 too, from the village here, Leah Dart ; a strong, robust, 
 handsome woman, with more muscle in her arm than 
 in mine. She has promised to go, on condition that 
 she is not called a servant. I told her I could get a 
 real lady from London if she did not come, and that 
 decided her. She is to have unlimited authority over 
 the old fellow ; and she'll keep Diana out of the room, 
 I'll wager. That is exactly what I wanted." 
 
 *' Then you think there is no danger for him ? " said 
 Justin. 
 
 **Not much," he answered. '' Of course there are 
 always chances ; but he has pulled through many a 
 time, and he'll pull through now. His constitution is 
 as strong as an elephant's. So is Miss Di's. Look at 
 her, with all her troubles, as sound as a bell, with a 
 head as clear as her skin, and that is like alabaster. 
 She is a splendid woman, and to think of her being 
 sacrificed to that beast ! "
 
 A Season in London. 129 
 
 Justin's face reflected the disgust upon Dr. Yye's ; 
 but he gave a turn to the conversation. It displeased 
 him to hear the old doctor himself speak of Diana in 
 such homely terms of admiration. He would see her 
 for himself, that very evening : his poor Diana ! Why 
 had she been so bent upon her course of self-sacrifice 
 ten years ago ? Why had she chosen her father before 
 him ? He had seen the manner of her life, lived 
 beside it, admired and pitied it ; but he could not 
 understand it. With him she would have passed her 
 days in happiness and peace ; she would not have had 
 a wish unfulfilled, if he could have met it. They 
 suited one another ; there was no barrier between 
 them ; they were equals, able to walk together side by 
 side, with no fretting strain or sense of inequality. 
 
 Yet she had chosen to stay with a brute, who trampled 
 upon her afi*ection, and treated her as he would not 
 dare to treat the meanest of servants. '' He treats 
 her worse than a dog," thought Justin. If Diana's 
 father had loved her as he loved Pansy he might have 
 had patience ; but now he could not endure the know- 
 ledge of her daily martyrdom and purgatory. 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 130 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IS IT god's will? 
 
 n^HAT evening Justin was sitting in the same old 
 arm-chair beside Diana's fire, as when he had 
 fallen asleep with fatigue and excitement the day 
 after his step-father's death. His thoughts went back 
 to that time as he waited for Diana to come to him ; it 
 was most natural that they should run into that channel, 
 though they had long ceased to perplex him, except in 
 rare moments like these, with the question of whether 
 he had decided rightly about old Richard Herford's 
 will. He had left himself to drift in that one important 
 epoch of his life, and he was out in fair and calm 
 waters, with favouring winds filling his sails, and not a 
 rock ahead. Surely the results proved that he was right. 
 His eyes were not closed to-night when Diana 
 entered with her soft footfall and quiet move- 
 ments. The ten years that had made him a man who
 
 Is it God's Will? 131 
 
 thought well of himself, and well thought of by all 
 about him, had not seen much change in her, save a 
 line or two of more settled sadness on her face. She 
 had evidently been weeping, for her eyelids were 
 reddened and her lips tremulous, though she attempted 
 to smile as he hastened to meet her. All caresses and 
 expressions of their love had been tacitly avoided by 
 both. They were friends only, since there could be no 
 hope at present of a closer tie. But Justin could not 
 refrain from taking both her hands in his and kissing 
 her tear-stained face. 
 
 " My father is so ill," she said with a sob, '^ that 
 Dr. Yye will not let me stay with him." 
 
 " Good heavens, Diana ! " he exclaimed impetuously, 
 *' how long is this to go on for you and me ?" 
 
 "I wish you had nothing to do with it," she 
 answered, sitting down in her own low chair, whilst he 
 stood before her, looking down at her moodily and 
 almost angrily. *' If it were not such a comfort to me, 
 I could wish mth all my heart that you did not care a 
 straw about it. But, oh ! Justin, you are all the 
 comfort I have." 
 
 "Diana !" he cried, with hot indignation, ''do you 
 
 K 2
 
 132 Through a Needles Eye, 
 
 think I can stand by and see you suffer as you do, and 
 not long to snatch you away from your suffering ? I'm 
 not hard-hearted. If I see a dumb creature in any 
 land of trouble, I cannot pass it by. How do you 
 suppose I feel when I know what you have to bear day 
 after day ? You are more precious to me than anything 
 else in life, more precious than my little Pansy herself ; 
 and I ask myself as well as you, how long is this to go 
 on for you and me ?" 
 
 "As long as God wills it," she said softly. 
 
 ''But does He will it?" he asked. " Are you sure 
 that He does require this sacrifice from you ? Does 
 He always send the best and sweetest of His creatures 
 to pass through agony? Will He heat the furnace 
 seven times hotter than it is wont to be heated for every 
 saint He has on earth ? Diana, I cannot believe it." 
 
 " The Son of God walked with them in the midst of 
 the furnace," she replied, looking up to him with a 
 smile on her pale face, " and the fire had no power, 
 nor was a hair of their heads singed, nor did the smell 
 of fire pass upon them. It is quite true, Justin. I 
 would rather stay in the furnace, with the Son of God 
 beside me, than sit as a queen on a throne of gold.
 
 Is it God's Will? 133 
 
 Only I am not quite faithful enough yet to escape 
 having my hair singed and getting the smell of fire 
 upon me now and then. It does not burn any deeper, 
 and I am happier than you think — happier than if I 
 forsook my post. I am truly happy ; and if I could 
 yet save my father, I should consider my lot more 
 blessed than if I had been your wife all these 
 years." 
 
 Her voice faltered a little as she uttered the last 
 words, and a vivid colour came into the face he was 
 regarding so moodily. 
 
 " I have not reached your height," he answered ; " I 
 cannot see things from your point of view. I'm quite 
 blind to your happiness, Di; if you could make it 
 visible to me, as visible as your red eyelids and pale 
 cheeks, I would take comfort to myself." 
 
 ''It is all my fault for giving way to crying," she 
 said, in a self- reproachful tone; "you know quite well 
 what inward blessedness is when outward circumstances 
 seem all against us. I own that my circumstances 
 seem very much against me; but have I not your 
 friendship ? 
 
 " My love," interrupted Justin.
 
 134 Thj'oiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 " Your love," she continued, with a happy intonation 
 of her sweet voice, " yes ! your true, faithful love. 
 And does not Pansy love me ? Is she not almost like 
 my own child to me ? No ! I would not change my 
 lot, loving you two, with any other woman under the 
 sun." 
 
 " God bless you, Diana ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "I have never said so much before," she went on; 
 " do you wonder to hear me speak so warmly now ? 
 Ah ! you are going away for a long while ; and you 
 have never left Herford for more than a day or two 
 before. I shall miss you sadly." 
 
 " Do not you know why I have never cared to leave 
 Herford ?" he asked. *' Don't I like to feel you within 
 an hour's walk of me ? Pansy has set her heart upon 
 this journey, or I would give it up now. If I had 
 foreseen your father's attack " 
 
 "Do not think of it," she interrupted, " I would 
 rather you were away. What could you do for me ? 
 Dr. Vye will be here every day ; and there is no danger, 
 he says. By the time you come back my father will be 
 driving into Lowborough, to the magistrates' meeting, 
 as usual. No ; you must not let me interfere any
 
 Is it God's Will? 135 
 
 longer ^ith your plans. Put me out of the plan of 
 your life, Justin. It is God's will." 
 
 "How do 3'ou know it is His will?" he asked 
 again. 
 
 ** Well ! " she said, with a quiet sigh, '' at any rate 
 God chooses our relationship for us. I did not choose 
 my father, and brothers, and sisters. But He has 
 made me one of them, of the same flesh and blood ; 
 and it seems to me that it is right to stand here in my 
 place, till He sends some one else to fill it, or removes 
 me from it Himself. I must do all I can for them. 
 If they were good, and prosperous, and happy, I might 
 be free to be happy myself; happy in my own way. 
 But would God have me forsake them, and leave them 
 all to sink farther into dark depths of misery and 
 degradation, while I was sitting somewhere in the sun- 
 shine ? That was not our Saviour's life, Justin." 
 
 ** I wish I was wretched and degi-aded," he said, 
 looking at her with a faint smile on his grave face. 
 She shook her head, with a laugh ; but still he could 
 not help noticing, with soreness of heart, how red her 
 eyelids were, and how languid was her whole aspect, as 
 soon as the laugh had died away from her lips. Say
 
 136 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 what she might, it was a dreary unwholesome hfe she 
 was leading, shut out from all society and companion- 
 ship ; all but the distasteful intercourse she was forced 
 into with her father's drunken visitors. Mr. Lynn had 
 forbidden any other of his children to enter his doors, 
 and he was jealous of Diana holding any communication 
 with them. Few of the ladies in the neighbourhood 
 kept up even a slight acquaintance with Mr. Lynn's 
 youngest daughter ; and Mrs. Herford, who was her 
 nearest neighbour, was too jealous of her to be cordial 
 with her. Justin thought of it all, as he gnawed his 
 lips, and stared moodily into the fire. 
 
 Diana's thoughts were busy too. She had been 
 passing through a harder time than Justin himself 
 suspected. Only the day before, by dint of persistent 
 and passionate entreaties, she had wrung from her 
 father a small sum of money to remit to her needy 
 brothers and sisters. They were away in the world, 
 having shaken off their load ; but they were not sparing 
 of their claims, or their reproaches, when she was 
 compelled to send a pitiful denial to their appeals. 
 They were unjust to her, these elder ones, who had not 
 possessed the patience and fidelity which kept her at
 
 Is it God's Will? 137 
 
 home. It was growing more difficult to be patient and 
 faithful. She could not keep herself from dwelling 
 sometimes upon what she was giving up for them, and 
 from being tempted to lay down the cross, which was 
 growing so much heavier as years went by. It tried 
 her almost beyond endurance, for Justin to doubt 
 whether it could indeed be the will of God to exact from 
 her such a sacrifice of herself. But Justin could not 
 see as she saw. He had never been called to bear a 
 heavy cross, and to bear it as she did, with doubts and 
 misgivings sometimes assailing her ; yet w-ith an inward 
 conviction that it was laid upon her by the hand of God 
 HimseK. Perhaps the day would come when he would 
 understand why she chose the painful lot of sacrificing 
 herself to her poor degraded father, and unreasonable 
 brothers and sisters. 
 
 As they sat there, not talking much, but each busy 
 with thought, the deep silence of the night was 
 startled by the sudden outbursts of rough shouts and 
 cries from the room where Mr. Lynn was under the 
 custody of the men Dr. Vye had sent in to watch him. 
 The uproar resounded through the house, and cut 
 Justin to the quick. Was it possible to leave Diana
 
 138 Throtigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 here, witliin the same walls that sheltered the raving 
 madman ? But she remained calm, though sad, and 
 her clear dark eyes met his own bravely. There was 
 no symptom of fear or excitement about her. 
 
 ''It is my poor father," she said; ''you could do 
 nothing for me if you stayed. Go away now ; and go 
 to London, without any fear or trouble for me. You 
 will write to me sometimes ? " 
 
 " I will write every day," he answered, drawing her 
 into his arms, as they stood together on the hearth, 
 " and yet I cannot bear to go at all. My darling, God 
 bless 3'ou and keep you ! You are too good a woman, 
 Diana. If you were lower down, I should be more 
 worthy of you." 
 
 " If I were far higher up," she whispered, " I 
 should not feel worthy of you. You are the best man 
 I ever knew, Justin ; and I love you with all my 
 heart."
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTEE XV 
 
 PASTOKAL VISIT. 
 
 1|KS. CUNLIFFE did not forget her chickens. Now 
 Pansy was in London, and Mrs. Herford confined 
 to the house, she felt herself the sole representative of 
 that class to which the village people were taught to 
 look up in the words, "to order myself lowly and 
 reverently to all my betters." As the only lady in the 
 place, she was bound to pay more frequent pastoral 
 visits than before ; those close domestic inquisitorial 
 visits for which Mr. Cunliffe was so unsuited. Herford 
 was too small to be divided into districts; and the 
 cottagers were accustomed to see first one and then 
 another of '' the gentlefolks," as they called the 
 inmates of the Court and the Vicarage, enter their 
 houses for a friendly chat. The visitor they liked most 
 to see was Miss Pansy, whose face was so bright and 
 winsome, and whose eyes never fastened themselves
 
 140 TJiroiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 cruelly on some dirty spot, and whose ears seemed 
 deaf to tlie cries of the children, unless she had some 
 toy or sweetmeat in her pocket to pacify them. Mrs. 
 Herford, too, was welcome ; she was neither dictatorial 
 nor close-handed ; though she delighted in acting the 
 grand lady. But it was at Mrs. Cunliffe's approach, 
 soft and stealthy, with her muffled voice, and blinking 
 all- seeing eyes, that the faces of the cottage-housewives 
 clouded over, as they made a desperate attempt to 
 fling some nuisance out of sight, or hush up some 
 troublesome child. Yet it would have been difficult, if 
 not impossible, to convince Mrs. Cunliffe that she was 
 not a great help to her husband, and a special favourite 
 among his parishioners. 
 
 There was nothing to nide or hush up in Mrs. 
 Fosse's spotless and peaceful kitchen. Her old 
 husband was busily at work in the potato-patch, where 
 she could see him through the little lattice window, 
 whenever she glanced through it. He had brought in 
 a large bunch of wallflowers, which she had put into 
 a jug of blue ware ; and their sweet scent was filling 
 the warm and pleasant room. It was the hour Mrs. 
 Fosse most enjoyed. Her household work was over.
 
 A Pastoral Visit. 141 
 
 and the kettle was hanging over the fire, slowly heating 
 for tea, whilst she was knitting b}^ the fireside, with 
 the low-toned boom of the tide stealing in through the 
 open door. It was all peace and quietness, and 
 even her tranquil face fell a little when she heard 
 Mrs. Cunliffe's subdued " Good afternoon, Mrs. 
 Fosse." 
 
 " Well, this is comfort, Mrs. Fosse," she said, 
 wiping her feet with elaborate care on the mat at the 
 door ; " I do envy you, indeed, as much as it's right to 
 envy anybody, you know ; not more than that. You 
 are the very picture of plenty and content ! If it had 
 only pleased Providence to cast my lot like yours ! 
 But what with the children at the Yicarage, and the 
 strange guests Mr. Cunliffe brings to it, and our 
 many, many claims, I've no hope of comfort like 
 this." 
 
 " Children are a great blessing, ma'am," answered 
 Mrs. Fosse, sighing. It was her sorrow that she had 
 lost all her children, and it jarred upon her to hear 
 any mother complain of the trouble they gave her, as 
 Mrs. Cunliffe was in the habit of doing. 
 
 " That was under the old dispensation, you know,"
 
 142 Thi^ough a Needles Eye. 
 
 remarked Mrs. Cunliffe. *' I'm not sure that it is so 
 now, when one is poor. Not in our station, I mean, 
 w^hen they must be well clad and well shod and well 
 educated. There people like you are better off again. 
 You have no anxiety what j^our sons and daughters are 
 to be. There is always plenty of work they can do. 
 Oh ! I wish I could teach other people to be contented 
 with their happy lot." 
 
 ** Contentment's a rare herb," said Mrs. Fosse. 
 
 *' So it is ; so it is!" agreed Mrs. Cunliffe ; *' but 
 you might all cultivate a little of it, couldn't you ? 
 Oh ! be contented, be contented ! I am always 
 saying. You don't know what we have to do and 
 bear." 
 
 '' It's easy to be content with other people's lot," 
 observed Mrs. Fosse. 
 
 "Yes, we see how many blessings they despise and 
 abuse," replied Mrs. Cunliffe. '' Ah ! there's good 
 old Fosse at work in his garden, passing his time 
 away in it. He's contented, I daresay, at this 
 moment." 
 
 " Jeremy's always content," said his wife, almost 
 huffily ; " there never lived a man as cultivated content
 
 A Pastoral Visit. 143 
 
 for himself, and all about him, more than my Jeremy. 
 He's as happy as the day's long." 
 
 " That's well ! " sighed Mrs. Cunliffe ; "there's no 
 shoe that pinches him. He has a good place, a 
 good home, and good wages, and no children to hang 
 on him. If Jeremy was not content, who should be ? 
 Shall I read you a chapter, Mrs. Fosse ?" 
 
 Mrs. Fosse reached down the large old Bible 
 from the window-sill, where it generally lay with old 
 Fosse's spectacles on the open page. She was far 
 better acquainted with its contents than Mrs. Cunliffe ; 
 but she sat still, and listened courteously, whilst 
 the Vicar's lady read through a psalm as part of 
 her pastoral duty. It was a short one, and soon 
 ended. 
 
 " Before I go," said Mrs. Cunliffe, closing the Bible, 
 " don't let me forget to speak about the eggs. Did 
 you hatch a dozen for me ?" 
 
 "I set a dozen under Snowdrop," she answered, 
 *'and there's nine of the prettiest little chicks as ever 
 I saw. The last broke the shell j^esterday." 
 
 "Only nine!" exclaimed Mrs. Cunliffe. "How is 
 that, Mrs. Fosse?"
 
 144 Throttgh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 *' There's always some addled in every liatcli/' she 
 replied. " I took 'em away only this morning, to ease 
 Snowdrop, that wouldn't leave them be, and mind the 
 chicks." 
 
 '' Ah ! well then ! " said Mrs. Cunliffe, passively, " I 
 shall owe you for nine. Dear ! dear ! ^\' hat a loss 
 there must he to you in eggs ! Three bad out of one 
 dozen." 
 
 Mrs. Fosse held her tongue, though very much 
 against the grain. She loved peace and tranquillity 
 herself; and how fond Jeremy was of ^Ir. Cunliffe! 
 It was like a real friendship between men of the same 
 rank; and she would not say one word to break it. 
 Friendships of that kind were as easily crushed as 
 eggs ; but hers should not be the hand to crush 
 theirs. 
 
 ** Where are the pretty little creatures'?" asked Mrs. 
 Cunliffe, looking round the spotless kitchen, as though 
 she expected to see the nine callow chicks somewhere 
 about the floor. 
 
 " Snowdrop's under her hencoop in the meadow," 
 answered Mrs. Fosse, rising ; '' would you please to see 
 them, ma'am *? "
 
 A Pastoi'al Visit. 145 
 
 *' To be sure," slie replied. 
 
 They passed through the garden into the meadow, 
 and Mrs. CunHffe graciously invited Jeremy to accom- 
 pany them. The fluffy yellow chickens were stirred 
 up from under Snowdrop's wings to show themselves, 
 and she pi-aised them fluently. 
 
 *' It was so good of your wife to hatch them for me," 
 she said to old Fosse ; '' even Martha Dart fails at that, 
 you know. But, dear ! dear ! what am I to do 
 with such delicate little morsels ? My Charlie would 
 squeeze them to death out of love, in a minute, Mrs. 
 Fosse. I have no regular nursery or nurse for him ; 
 and it's a great hardship, I assure you. Couldn't you 
 keep the precious little dears for me another week or 
 two, till they are quite a trifle bigger or stronger ? 
 Snowdrop seems such a nice mother to them. You 
 can't tell how I should grieve if any harm came to 
 them. It would be a kind of little murder, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh, ay! ma'am," said old Fosse heartily, ''leave 
 'em here wi' Snowdrop, and welcome. It's a pretty 
 sight to see the hen gatherin' her chicks under her 
 wings, and if I could I'd never have it away from 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Throtigh Oy Needle s Eye. 
 
 under my eyes. It's like a text out of the Bible 
 bein' spoken in our ears all the while. I think I hear 
 our dear Lord sayin' it again, ' How often would I 
 have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth 
 gather her brood under her wings, and ye would not.' 
 Ay, leave the chicks to preach one their little sermons, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " You're a very good man, Jeremy," said Mrs. 
 Cunliflfe, in a mildly patronizing tone ; " my dear 
 husband is always saying the same. I cannot think 
 how you could ever leave the church and become one of 
 those Methodists." 
 
 *' I was born a Methodist," he answered, with a 
 twinkle in his blue eyes, " and I never thought of 
 leavin' my mother, to creep under another hen's wings. 
 No, no. Leave the brood alone, I say. Don't put 
 strange eggs into the nests ; you'll never make a duck- 
 ling into a barn-door fowl. And don't rob other nests 
 to fill your own. There's only One for all the children 
 of men to put their trust under the shadow of His 
 wings ; and me, and you, ay ! and tens of thousands 
 that are neither Church nor Methodist may be gathered 
 together there."
 
 A Pastoral Visit. 147 
 
 " Well, I will not argue with 3'ou, my good man," 
 said Mrs. Cunliffe blandly, "you are too great a 
 favourite with us hoth for that. So I'll leave my little 
 nestlings with Snowdrop, Mrs. Fosse. I am very 
 pleased with them ; quite delighted." 
 
 Mrs. Cunliffe had another call to make before return- 
 ing home. It was a point with her not to miss seeing 
 Mrs. Herford every day now she was left alone, with no 
 companionship except that of her own eldest child Jenny. 
 Two or three times a week this visit was paid late in 
 the afternoon, when Mrs. Herford never failed to ask her 
 to stay the evening. The dinners at Herford Court 
 were always exceedingly good, even when no guests 
 w^ere expected ; and no one knew better than Mrs. 
 Cunliffe how much more nourishing it is to sit down 
 to a well-cooked meal, which presents itself with no 
 anxiety or care, than to one which has been a worry to 
 you all the morning. After getting rid of her little 
 difficulty about her brood of chickens, she mounted 
 with greater alacrity the steep short cut leading from 
 old Fosse's cottage to Herford Court. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MRS. HEEFORD S SONS. 
 
 MRS. HERFORD had cherislaecl in her bosom a keen 
 sense of injury from the moment that Dr. Yye had 
 pronounced his last word against her visit to London. 
 She had been there only once since her husband died ; 
 and she had then gone alone, an obscure and unnoticed 
 woman. Now that Justin was shining there as a star 
 of some magnitude in certain religious and political 
 circles, in which glory she must have had a good share, 
 she had been cruelly prohibited from accompanying him 
 and Pansy. Pansy's letters were full of triumph and 
 exultation ; and the girl was receiving enough attention 
 to turn her head for life. Extreme bitterness and 
 indignation were gnawing at Mrs. Herford's heart, and 
 the sharpest sting of all was the conviction that her 
 compelled absence was not considered a great mis- 
 fortune by her son and granddaughter.
 
 M7's, Herford^s Sons. 149 
 
 Jenny Cunliffe was having a rather dull time at 
 Herford Court. Now and then she was tempted to 
 think that the blessings of life were very unequally and 
 mysteriously distributed, when Pansy was the heiress 
 of Herford, and the idol of every one belonging to her, 
 while she was the eldest daughter of a poor vicar, with 
 a terribly large family, and actually expected to be 
 thankful to take Pansy's place in waiting upon a 
 pee^-ish and capricious old woman. Jenny's courage 
 and patience were tested to the utmost, and only kept 
 up to the mark by her mother's tearful exhortations and 
 her father's unworldly sympathy and tenderness. Mrs. 
 Cunliffe lectured her on the advantages of keeping in 
 with the actual mistress of Herford Court, who, ^ith 
 all her faults, was always liberal to her dependants ; 
 whilst Mr. Cunliffe, in his dreamy solemn voice, and 
 his far-away gaze, talked of bearing one another's 
 burdens, and so fulfilling the law of Christ, telling his 
 daughter it was Christ-like to soothe the fretfulness of 
 an old woman's weary spirit. 
 
 Jenny was always glad to see her mother come in to 
 dinner, and for the long evening which followed. Mrs. 
 Cunliffe listened with patient submissiveness to Mrs.
 
 150 Through a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 Herford's strictures upon Pansy's career, and her 
 caustic anger against Dr. Vye, and her reflections upon 
 Justin's neglect. Now and again, with a soft purring 
 gentleness, she murmured a half remonstrance, which 
 served only to keep up a pleasant tartness in the con- 
 versation — for Mrs. Herford was pleased with a very 
 slight opposition. Mrs. Cunliffe could also hint at a 
 fault, when she seemed to be pointing out a good 
 quality, and no one could be quicker than Mrs. Herford 
 in seizing on such a clue. 
 
 "I might almost as well be childless," remarked 
 Mrs. Herford as they drew their comfortable chairs 
 round the glowing fire. " Here I am left, week after 
 week, and month after month, with no companionship 
 except that of strangers." 
 
 "Don't say that, dear Mrs. Herford," remonstrated 
 Mrs. Cunliffe with effusion ; " surely you cannot call 
 poor Jenny and me strangers. We have known you 
 far too long not to love you dearly. I believe Pansy 
 herself does not love you more than my poor Jenny 
 does." 
 
 " I dare say not, I dare say not ! " she replied. *' I 
 must say Pansy is not all I should like my grandchild
 
 Mrs. Herfoj'd's Sons, 151 
 
 to be. She has too many ways and whims of her own, 
 and Justin fosters them most foolishly. For my part, 
 I think it is a very good thing for a girl to he brought 
 up humbly, with no high views as to the future ; just 
 as Jenny is. I hardly see how it could be managed 
 otherwise ; but it is a bad thing for young people to 
 have parents able to study all their likes and dislikes, 
 as Justin does. It is Pansy here and Pansy there, as 
 if there was no one but Pansy in the world. She 
 needs trouble, Mrs. Cunliife, real trouble ; and Justin 
 shields her from every rough breath. AYhen I was her 
 age I was already Justin's mother, and that means a 
 deal of sorrow and trouble, as you know. I was a 
 widow before I was twenty ; a widow with a fatherless 
 boy. Yes, I had my share of trouble by the time I 
 was Pansy's age." 
 
 " It is a good thing to bear the yoke in one's youth," 
 quoted Mrs. Cunliffe. 
 
 '' You may well say that," continued Mrs. Herford. 
 '' I am always saying to Justin, ' Pansy wants trouble. 
 Only look at what my life has been ! ' " 
 
 Mrs. Herford paused, and tossed the long lappets 
 of her lace cap behind her shoulders and folded her
 
 152 Th7'02igh a Needles Eye. 
 
 jewelled hands upon her lap. Her dress was very 
 becoming to her. She would not have looked so well, 
 probably, in a dark stuff gown and common cap ; but 
 in a rich violet silk dress, and an abundance of real 
 lace about her, she was a very handsome woman, 
 quite worthy of taking a place in London as Justin 
 Herford's mother. This was part of her grievance ; 
 she might as well have been wearing her costly attire 
 at one of Lady Fortescue's parties, instead of sitting 
 here, with no admiring eyes upon her except Mrs. 
 Cunlifife's and Jenny's. 
 
 *' Look at my life ! " she resumed, " a widow at 
 twenty, with not a penny of my own. No, Mrs. 
 Cunliffe, not a single penny of my own. I was only 
 twenty-six when poor Mr. Herford married me, and 
 everybody knows what a neglected wife I was after my 
 second son was born. Everything had to give way to 
 Kichard, just as everything gives way now to Pansy. 
 Justin might take warning ! It was not of the least 
 use remonstrating with Mr. Herford ; he would ruin 
 my poor Dick. I often think, though, if Dick had 
 succeeded to his father's estate he would not have 
 forsaken me in my grey hairs. It is growing grey, Mrs.
 
 Mrs. Herford's Sons. 153 
 
 Cunliffe ; I hare counted several grey hairs since they 
 went to London. Dick was a most affectionate boy, 
 quite different to Justin, who is always cold and hard. 
 You have noticed how hard and cold Justin is ? " 
 
 "A little so ; a very little, perhaps," admitted Mrs. 
 Cunliffe guardedly. 
 
 " Very cold and hard," pursued Mrs. Herford ; ^' so 
 different poor Dick was ! Sometimes I think he 
 grudges my having a right to he mistress of Herford 
 Court ! Ah ! it would have been quite the other way if 
 poor Dick had only been master ; he would have been 
 delighted. But it was very wise of my poor dear 
 husband to leave me mistress ; for Diana Lynn would 
 have been here before now, and where should I have 
 been ? Did you never notice that, Mrs. Cunliffe ? 
 Dear, dear ! where are your eyes?" 
 
 '' I never thought of such a thing ! " cried Mrs. 
 Cunliffe with warmth ; and it was quite true she never 
 had. Diana Lynn was one of her husband's special 
 favourites, a peerless paragon, but Mrs. Cunliffe could 
 not see many attractions in her. 
 
 " But I've seen it years ago," said Justin's mother, 
 shaking her head ; *' if it had not been for poor
 
 154 Thi'otigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 Mr. Herford's will, she would have been mistress here. 
 Of course Pansy knows nothing, and Jenny must not 
 breathe a word about it to her. Justin goes there two 
 or three times every week, and Pansy spends half her 
 time with her. Poor Dick ! he would never have 
 wished to throw his own mother into the background ; 
 or gone to London for a season while she was ailing at 
 home. I must say that for Dick." 
 
 ** It was very sad to lose him," observed Mrs. 
 Cunliffe. 
 
 " Ah ! I know what trouble is ! " she sighed, 
 '^ nobody better. And that is just what Pansy wants ; 
 yes ! and Justin too. He hardly knows what sorrow is. 
 Look at him coming into such a good position, and all 
 through me ! Up in London, hand and glove with all 
 kinds of grand people ; and me to thank for it all ! " 
 
 *' I can't help blaming him for being ungrateful to 
 you, after you've been such a mother to him! " said 
 Mrs. Canliffe. 
 
 " He never forgave me for marrying again," she went 
 on. " He was only a little boy ; but he laid it up 
 against me for a grudge. Yet where would he have 
 been now if I had not married again ? He owes every
 
 J/ri". Hcrford's Sons. 155 
 
 penny he lias to me. It isn't as if lie inherited from 
 his own father ; he forgets all that ! But he inherits 
 through me ; and it makes it all the harder for him 
 and Pansy to forsake me, and go alone to London." 
 
 ** And my hushand thinks all the world of him ! " 
 cried Mrs. Cunliffe, in a tone of suppressed indignation. 
 '' I believe he thinks more of his religion than 
 mine ! " 
 
 "Ah! my dear, they are men," said Mrs. Herford; 
 '^ and what men see in one another to have such 
 wonderful friendships, I cannot think. They are a 
 gi-eat mystery, Mrs. Cunliffe. I advise Jenny to have 
 nothing to say to them." 
 
 "I should love any man that was like my papa," 
 answered Jenny boldly, though with a flushed face, 
 "or like Mr. Herford!" 
 
 " Oh ! my dear, hush ! " cried her mother in a voice 
 of awe. But Mrs. Herford only laughed at the girl 
 good-humouredly enough, and called her an innocent 
 simpleton. Mrs. Cunliffe seized the first opportunity 
 to give Jenny a good scolding, reminding her that Mr. 
 Herford was quite young enough to marry a girl no 
 older than herself if he chose, and his mother would
 
 156 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 get that notion into her head if they did not take care. 
 "Then you'll be forbidden the Court!" said Mrs. 
 Cunliffe, as if that would be the worst fate possible for 
 Jenny. But Jenny felt that all her innocent affection 
 and admiration for her father's friend, and her friend 
 Pansy's father, had been suddenly nipped by a cruel 
 east wind, and she cried herself to sleep over the idea 
 her mother had just put into her head.
 
 157 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 YOUNG RICHARD HERFORD. 
 
 'TWICE Justin fixed the day for returning to Herford, 
 and twice it was put off at the last moment, after all 
 the preparations had been made for receiving them with 
 a festive welcome. Mrs. Herford was naturally very 
 much annoyed, though she had partly forgotten her 
 original grievance, and after one or two severe 
 bronchial attacks, had graciously conceded that perhaps 
 Dr. Vye had been right in prohibiting a London season. 
 But the prolonged absence of Justin and Pansy was a 
 fresh injury, and their indecision as to the time of their 
 return added fuel to the fire. It was ridiculous to erect 
 arches of evergreens and spring flowers down the 
 village street, and see them wither away in the warm 
 sunshine twice over. When Justin and Pansy come 
 home now, said Mrs. Herford, they must just come like 
 ordinary people — the Cunliffe's for instance.
 
 158 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 The second set of decorations were fading fast ; the 
 laurels hung limp, and the flowers were shedding their 
 petals, in spite of all the efforts of the village children, 
 who kept them well watered. But they looked hright 
 and gay at a distance, as Leah Dart thought, when she 
 caught sight of them from the cliffs lying between 
 Herford and Killage. The crisis of Mr. Lynn's 
 illness had long been past, but Leah retained her place 
 as nurse during his slow and fitful recovery from it, 
 and this was the first real holiday she had had since 
 entering upon her duties. Her long confinement in 
 the squire's sick-room had probably made her more 
 than usually susceptible to the influences of the soft 
 fresh air, and cheerful sunshine, and gleeful songs of 
 birds. She paused in the cool shadow of the wall 
 under the terrace walk at the Court to look down on 
 the valley below, with its almost dazzlingly white road 
 stretching up from the bay, and running between green 
 hedgerows till it turned out of sight round the spur of 
 the hill. The village street looked joyous and gay, 
 with its triumphal arches and small coloured banners 
 fluttering in the breeze from the sea, for she was too 
 far away to see the fadings of the flowers and the
 
 Yottng Richard Hcvford. 159 
 
 weather stains upon the flags. A long scarlet streamer 
 floated from the square tower of the lighthouse, and 
 every sailing-hoat on the beach sported a bright pennon 
 on its mast-head. The church-bells were chiming for 
 evening service, and the clang of the bells sounded up 
 to her ears with a tone of solemn mirth. In Leah's 
 lifetime there had never occurred any occasion for 
 decorating her native tillage ; no coming of age, and 
 no marriage of the heir. But she had heard often of 
 the great rejoicing that had been made when Eichard 
 Herford was born ; and the tears started to her black 
 eyes as she looked and listened. 
 
 "If it was only for Master Dick comin' back," she 
 said aloud " I'd be almost willin' to die." 
 
 There was a rustling in the ivy overhead, which 
 made her look up quickly, and she saw the faces of 
 Mrs. Herford and Jenny Cunliffe bent inquisitively over 
 the wall above her. 
 
 '' Oh, it's you, Leah!" said Mrs. Herford. "We 
 heard voices and we wished to see who was there. 
 WTiy ! you must have been talking to yourself ! " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I just said a word or two, and maybe 
 you heard 'em," answered Leah,
 
 i6o Throtigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 "No; I did not, indeed," replied Mrs. Herford. 
 
 " Them arches and flags," said Leah fixing her 
 glittering eyes on Mrs. Herford's face, ''made me 
 think of Master Dick. There's been no rejoicing since 
 he was born ; and I was thinkin' of him, and his 
 merry ways, and his handsome face, God bless it ! And 
 to think his crazy old father should cut him off from 
 his own lands ! We poor folks could never have done 
 that ! It's the quality that's hard upon their own flesh 
 and blood." 
 
 " It was very hard, Leah," whimpered Mrs. Herford, 
 "but I hadn't a word to say to it. Mr. Herford never 
 asked what I thought of it ; poor dear boy." 
 
 " I suppose all that's for Master Justin," continued 
 Leah, pointing disdainfully at the decorations. " When 
 is he comin' back from London ma'am ? Is it soon ?" 
 
 "I don't know when they are coming," answered 
 Mrs. Herford; "they have put it off twice, and I'll 
 prepare for them no more. How is the old squire, 
 Leah ? " 
 
 "He's been awful tedious," she replied. "It's not 
 fit for Miss Di to be with him often ; he worries her 
 as he daren't worry me. I've sent her away scores
 
 Young Richard Herford. i6i 
 
 o' times lookin' as white as a curtain. He's took down 
 my colour and my strength a little, though I've got the 
 upper hand of him. I feel as weak as a kitten this 
 evenin', and ready to cry any minute. Miss Jenny, 
 do you see anybody comin' down the road into the 
 vHlage ? " 
 
 The white road lay clear and sunny in the light aU 
 along its course ; and a few minutes before a man's 
 figure had come into sight. He was loitering, and 
 had not advanced many paces nearer to the village. 
 It was the point where Herford, with its closed-in little 
 bay and shining sandy beach, first caught the eye of 
 any traveller descending the valley. Whether he were a 
 stranger or a native returning after being away from 
 home, he must have been a very matter-of-fact, un- 
 sentimental person, who, coming suddenly upon this 
 glimpse of Herford, did not pause a little to look down 
 admiringly on its peaceful beauty. This wayfarer had 
 been sauntering slowly towards the village and was 
 now standing still with his face towards it. He was 
 too far away for them to distinguish more than his 
 general appearance, but in height and bearing he was 
 like the master of Herford. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 62 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 *' It's Mr. Herford ! " said Jenny shyly, not with the 
 frank outburst of surprise of a few weeks ago. " But 
 where is Pansy? and why is he coming home 
 on foot?" 
 
 ** Hush !" cried Leah. ''Wait! Oh Lord ! Lord! 
 it can't be true." 
 
 She had turned very pale, and both her hands were 
 pressed against her beating heart. Her straining eyes 
 were riveted on the figure in the distance. She looked 
 frightened, yet eager and triumphant. The last note 
 of the church-bells echoed along the valley ; and then 
 the wayfarer moved on again. 
 
 "It's him come back!" screamed Leah. "It's 
 Master Dick ! " 
 
 " Leah ! Leah ! " cried Mrs. Herford, " who is it ? 
 What did you say ? My boy ! Oh ! take me to him ! 
 Bring him here, quick, quick ! Where is he ? " 
 
 But Leah did not answer. She was shading her eyes 
 with her hands, shutting out every object from their 
 vision, except the one spot where the tall dark figure 
 was standing, for he had paused once more, as if 
 uncertain what course to take. It would have been 
 impossible for Leah to speak just then. The deep
 
 Voting Richa7^d Hcrford. 163 
 
 devotion she had cherished for Richard Herford from 
 her earhest girlhood made her dumb. She had never 
 betrayed it to any one ; and now she must be on her 
 guard, if indeed it was true that this far-off indistinct 
 form, standing irresolute in the evening light, should 
 prove to be the long-lost son. Her eyelids were 
 smarting with unshed tears, but she forced them to 
 look steadily into the distance. The height and 
 vigorous upright bearing were, like Master Justin ; but 
 there was a slight, indescribable difference, perceptible 
 to her eager eyes. He did not come onward with the 
 quiet, assured step of a master, drawing near to his 
 own doors. This wanderer loitered and lingered on his 
 way, as one to whom no house is open, except an inn. 
 Leah drew a long deep sigh of mingled agony and 
 gladness, and lifted up her pale face to Mrs. Herford 
 and Jenny, who were watching her open-ej-ed and 
 wondering. 
 
 "It's Master Dick ! " she said again, in an unsteady 
 voice ; " he's come home at last ! " 
 
 She darted from them without another word, and 
 sped downward into the valley, along the drive, through 
 a coppice of young trees, planted by Justin since he 
 
 M 2
 
 164 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 came into possession. She was as light-footed and 
 swift on this errand as she had ever been in the days of 
 her girlhood. She must reach him before he entered 
 the village. There was no one else to welcome him ; 
 not even his own mother, she thought bitterly. He 
 was come back from his long wanderings ; and there 
 w^as no place for him in his own home and under his 
 own roof ! 
 
 She gained the white road before he passed the gate 
 at the entrance of the drive ; and she stood under the 
 hawthorn hedge waiting for his approach, her breath 
 coming and going, and her hands pressed again upon 
 her heavily throbbing heart. She could see him 
 plainly now, a tall, athletic, powerful-looking man, with 
 a sunburnt face, and with large brown hands, swinging 
 with every step he took. She felt her throat was dry, 
 and her lips were parched ; but as he came up to her 
 she dropped him an old-fashioned curtsey ; a salutation 
 she had not deigned to bestow on any person since 
 her early childhood. He looked at her inquisitively 
 and stood still. 
 
 *' Master Dick ! " she gasped, with tremulous lips. 
 
 '' Do you know me, then ? " he asked, with a flash of
 
 Young Richard Herford. 165 
 
 pleasure over his sunburnt face. " Yes ! I'm Richard 
 Herford. But I do not remember j-ou ! " 
 
 "I'm Leah Dart," she faltered, still too agitated to 
 answer steadily. " I used to mind the geese on the 
 cliffs." 
 
 "Ah ! I recollect," he said. 
 
 He walked on down the road, the evening light 
 casting his long shadow behind him; whilst she 
 followed a step or two behind, too breathless to venture 
 upon speaking again. There was a sense of blank 
 disappointment tugging at her heart. It was as if a 
 cup had been lifted to the lips of one parched with 
 thirst, and found to be empty. Her long years of 
 faithful yearning and waiting for his return were over ; 
 and this was the end of them ! There had been a 
 headlong, panting rush to welcome him home ; and 
 now nothing but a feeling of dull dissatisfaction. She 
 had not even touched his hand. His face had bright- 
 ened for a moment at her recognition of him ; but he 
 was tramping on again, not looking round at her. His 
 dress was very old and shabby ; and the heavy boots he 
 had on his feet were much worn, and white with dust. 
 But he did not look altogether like a tramp. His step
 
 1 66 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 and bearing were those of a gentleman, and Leah's 
 heart melted again into tenderness. 
 
 *^ Master Dick," she said softly, '^ don't go through 
 the village like that ! Don't go there at all." 
 
 " Where am I to go ?" he asked, turning round 
 sharply. *' Is there nobody in Herford will give me a 
 night's lodging?" 
 
 " Oh ! " she sobbed, " your mother's watchin' and 
 waitin' for you. We saw you a long way off, and I ran 
 to meet you, and bid you welcome. Come straight up 
 to the Court, Master Dick. Come along the new drive 
 that Master Justin's made, and nobody '11 see you in 
 the village. You oughtn't to be seen like that." 
 
 He turned quickly about and entered the drive, whilst 
 Leah crept behind him, not secretly, but humbly and 
 deprecatingly ; like a dog that has been chidden, but 
 not absolutely forbidden to follow his master. She 
 knew it would be better for her to carry out her first 
 intention, and pay her old mother a visit ; but she 
 could not bear to let him go on without her. She must 
 see for herself how he was received at home. It was all 
 pain to her ; but the pain of being away from him in 
 this hour of his return would be the keenest.
 
 Young Richard Herford. 167 
 
 *'Is my brother at home?" he inquired, as they 
 came in sight of the Court. 
 
 "No, he's away in London," she answered eagerly, 
 " him and Miss Pansy. There's only your mother at 
 home. Oh ! Master Dick ! I wish you'd come back 
 master ! " 
 
 " I'm come back a beggar," he muttered, more to 
 himself than to her. She felt all the hardness and 
 bitterness of his lot. The old-fashioned, many-gabled 
 house, with its deep bay windows, and its pleasant 
 gardens stretching round it, stood just before them. 
 Sloping meadows rose behind it, with flocks of sheep 
 straying about them in the fading sunshine. Leah saw 
 it with newly-opened eyes. The young master of it all 
 had returned, and had no share in it. He was coming 
 home a beggar ! 
 
 There was no mother watching for him at the door ; 
 that was plain. But a servant stood looking out, who 
 instantly vanished as he came in sight. Leah still 
 pressed close behind him, quite up to the hall door, 
 where he paused, as if he would not cross his 
 own threshold unbidden. Leah saw Jenny Cunliffe 
 coming forward quickly, and Eichard instantly took off
 
 1 68 Throiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 his old cap, and stood bareheaded before her. A shai-p, 
 keen pang shot through her, as Jenny came on, with a 
 blight colour on her young face, and with eager, out- 
 stretched hand, which she offered fi-aukly to the 
 stranger. 
 
 ''You are Mrs. Herford's long-lost son?*' she 
 exclaimed, with a fresh, girhsh warmth in her manner. 
 '• You are to come to her at once. She fainted when 
 Leah said it was you ; and she's lying on the sofa. 
 Come, come quickly." 
 
 He was hurried away out of Leah's sight, without 
 once glancing back, or addressing a single word to her. 
 She could follow him no farther ; and, turning slowly 
 away, she retraced her path over the cliffs to Eillage, 
 weeping tears of mingled bitterness and joy as she 
 went.
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 AT HOME AGAIN. 
 
 TT was dusk the next evening when Justin and Pansy 
 reached Lowborough by the last train. Pansy had 
 proposed taking the village and the Court by surprise, 
 and not running the risk of disappointing them again. 
 She was young and fond of surprises, still believing 
 them to be generally pleasant events. They had to 
 hire a conveyance from Lowborough ; and as there was 
 a fair at Mitcham, twelve miles away, conveyances and 
 horses were scarce. After a short delay an old-fashioned 
 gig was produced, drawn by a slow-stepping hack, 
 reluctant to increase the distance between himself and 
 his stall, and ignorant of the superior comfort of the 
 Herford stables, where he was to stay till morning. In 
 this homely fashion did the master of Herford and his 
 daughter return home after their brilliant season in 
 London.
 
 170 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 It had been the most brilliant time in the life of each 
 of them. Justin had never stood so high in his own 
 estimation, or in that of his acquaintances. He had 
 developed quite unexpected popular gifts, both in society 
 and on the platform. On the latter he had been 
 undoubtedly one of the best unprofessional orators ; 
 and his aid had been ardently sought in the getting up 
 of public meetings. In the society he had entered he 
 had been equally successful ; a favourite both with men 
 and women. There had been regrets expressed that 
 his continuance in holy orders shut him out from 
 becoming a candidate for election to the House when 
 Lowborough should next require a member ; and he 
 had been invited to consider seriously why he should not 
 relinquish them in law, as he had already done in 
 practice. His party would then make strenuous efforts 
 to get him returned, and snatch the seat from the 
 opposite side, which had held possession of it for the 
 last thirty years. 
 
 Pansy too had had an undisputed success in the few 
 circles her father had consented that she should enter. 
 She had spent a good deal of her time with Lady For- 
 tescue, who had frequently expatiated to Justin on the
 
 At Home Again, 171 
 
 sweetness and charming simplicity of his pretty little 
 daughter. To Pansy the last three months had been a 
 time of undreamed-of-bliss. Yet her father had noticed 
 of late that she was gromng a little more shy of him ; 
 a trifle less frank and open in her merry chatter. Her 
 manner had been quieter and more dreamy, and he felt 
 half afraid that her sojourn in town had not altogether 
 agreed with her, in spite of the dainty freshness of her 
 colour and the soft clear lustre of her eyes. He had 
 surprised the trace of tears upon her face this morning, 
 when they were leaving London ; and those tears of 
 hers had weighed somewhat heavily on his spirits all 
 day. 
 
 They were both rather quiet as their poor hack 
 shambled along the moon-lit lanes, so intensely still 
 after the crowded streets of London. There was 
 scarcely a creature to be seen along the roads, nor a 
 sound to be heard, except the whirring of the night-jar 
 in the coppices, and the hooting of owls calling to one 
 another from the barnyards they passed. Now and 
 then the soft noiseless wings of an owl passed swiftly 
 by them, or the sharp and jerky flight of a bat flitted 
 past. Presently they turned the spur of the hill, which
 
 172 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 brought them into sight of Herford, and Justin checked 
 the horse, which was only too willing to stand still. 
 The little village was bathed in moonlight, with the 
 dark cliffs behind clearly outlined against the cloudless 
 sky, and the foam breaking against them sparkling in 
 the white light. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " cried Pansy, " how delicious it is to 
 be at home again ! Oh, I did not know how much I 
 love Herford! " 
 
 '* What, crying, Pansy?" he said in a tone of dis- 
 tress. 
 
 " For joy," she sobbed, " only for joy. Don't let us 
 ever go away again, you and me. Is there anything 
 worth going away for ? " 
 
 Justin shifted the reins into his other hand to put 
 his arm round his little girl, and draw her pretty head 
 down upon his breast. Pansy had never known her 
 mother, and he had always shown a motherly tenderness 
 towards her. She lay there weeping for a minute or 
 two, while he soothed her fondly, telling her she should 
 never go away but when she pleased. Then Pansy 
 roused herself, and as they drove on she greeted every 
 familiar object with a merry and tender notice. The
 
 At Home Again. 173 
 
 faded arches still spanning the road were the only 
 strange sight, and she laughed a low and tremulous 
 laugh as they passed under them. 
 
 " They'll be glad to have us back, daddy," she said, 
 nesthng close to his side. 
 
 ** Thank God we are at home again ! " he answered 
 with a deep sigh of enjoyment. After all, here was 
 his own place, though he had made a name in a few 
 cliques in the great throng of London, and found him- 
 self a greater man than he had anticipated. This was 
 his real home ; the spot where his life had struck its 
 deepest roots. It was the nest whither all his affections 
 and interests returned to roost, by an instinct as true 
 and unfailing as that which brought the swallows back to 
 their homes under his eaves as surely as the spring came. 
 "Why, father!" exclaimed Pansy, "what can 
 grandmamma be doing at the Court ? " 
 
 They had passed through the coppice of young trees, 
 and all the front of Herford Court stood out before them 
 in mellow moonlight. But there was no need of the 
 moonlight to show up the house. It was a-glow with 
 lights from within. The tall, narrow casements of the 
 drawing-room were glittering, and the bay-windows of
 
 174 TJirottgJi a Needles Eye. 
 
 the dining-room cast a yellow light upon the climbing 
 plants growing about them. Pansy broke into a 
 soft, rippling laugh. 
 
 *' She is giving a dinner party," she said, "and we 
 shall take them by surprise." 
 
 There was a gate in the way, shutting off the lawn 
 from the coppice, and Justin called to one of the farm 
 servants whom he saw crossing the yard a little below 
 the Court. The man was in no hurry to open the 
 gate wide enough for his master to drive through. He 
 realized too keenly how great a personage he should be 
 in Herford if he was the first to tell Master Justin the 
 news. 
 
 " Master," he said impressively, with his hand on 
 the shaft, as if to check any further advance till all was 
 told, " there's great tidings ! Master Dick's come 
 back ! ay, that he is, and mistress is feasting him, and 
 making him as welcome as flowers in May. The bells 
 have been ringing all day. Hark ! there they be at it 
 again." 
 
 The merry peals of bells rang out into the quiet 
 moonlight, and Justin leaned back and listened. He 
 could not speak, and no one else broke the first silence.
 
 At Home Again. 175 
 
 Blake, haymg blurted out his news, was intently ob- 
 servant of his master's first impressions so far as he 
 should betray them. Pansy was taken utterly by sur- 
 prise. The fresh keen air from the sea, the silver 
 moonlight, the white village below them, the sweet 
 odour of the hawthorn, and the gay sparkling house 
 above, stamped themselves indelibly upon her memory. 
 She was often, in after times, to recur to this moment 
 during which she sat dumb, looking up into her 
 father's face, whilst the bells clanged and jangled, and 
 resounded from the echoing cliffs, jarring in mad merri- 
 ment. 
 
 " Blake," said her father at last, in a strange and 
 constrained voice, " drive Miss Pansy on to the house ; 
 I have forgotten to call at the vicarage." 
 
 His head felt giddy and his feet staggered as he 
 alighted from the conveyance. In this valley below 
 him, in his friend's study window, a light was burning 
 under the eaves. It looked like a beacon shining 
 across stormy and dark waters. He must get down 
 quickly to his friend 'yonder, if it were only to gain a 
 few minutes of deliberation. He could not face his 
 brother in so sudden a fashion.
 
 176 Through a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 "Father," cried Pansy, rousing up from lier dumb 
 surprise, " won't you come in with me? " 
 
 " I cannot, my darling," he said in a tone of uncon- 
 scious sadness; "go on without me. Pansy, I shall be 
 in soon enough, but I must run down and see CunliiSfe. 
 We ought to have stayed for a minute there first, but I 
 did not think of it." 
 
 " Must I meet Uncle Dick alone ? " she asked ; but 
 he did not answer. He was holding the reins for Blake 
 to take his place beside her, and he opened the gate for 
 them himself. There was something extraordinary 
 and inexplicable to Pansy in his conduct, but she had 
 not much time for wondering. In another minute or 
 two she was at the hall door of the Court, and Jenny 
 Cunliffe was flying with open arms to meet her. Be- 
 hind her Mrs. Herford was coming with slow steps, 
 and with her a stranger, dressed in her father's clothes, 
 and closely resembling him at first sight. 
 
 " Uncle Dick ! " cried Pansy, stretching out her 
 hands, and running to him eagerly. There had been 
 little romance in her life. Pansy was in the habit of 
 thinking ; it was a quiet, tranquil, monotonous life, 
 and what little romance there was had been all bound
 
 At Home Again. 177 
 
 up Tvith the idea of her father's missing brother. She 
 had very early learned that she must not ask too many 
 questions about her uncle, but this secrecy and mystery 
 had enhanced the interest surrounding him. It had 
 not been explained to her that her father was not the 
 son of that withered, bent old man whom she dimly 
 remembered as her grandfather ; and she had no idea 
 that he had succeeded to an estate which, by natural 
 descent, should have gone to his half-brother. Pansy 
 had thought of Eichard only as being a poor, im- 
 petuous, high-spirited boy, driven from home by his 
 father's tyranny. Now that he was come home, after 
 all these long j-ears of absence — years of peril and 
 hardship she was sure they had been — she was ready 
 to give him the warmest welcome of her affectionate 
 nature. She ran to meet him, seeing no one else, and 
 scarcely seeing him. Her fair young face was flushed, 
 and her eyes sparkling with tears. She clasped his 
 hand between both her own, and lifted up her face to 
 his, too much agitated to speak the words of welcome 
 trembling on her lips. Richard Herford stooped 
 down hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, and kissed 
 her with an air of reverence, as if it would be more 
 VOL. I. N
 
 1/8 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 fitting for him to bend his knee to her and kiss her 
 hand. 
 
 "Can this be Pansy?" he asked; ''little Hearts- 
 ease I used to call her. Ah ! I've never forgotten you 
 calling after me as I went up the valley when I was 
 running away ! A bonny little lass of three. 'Come 
 back, Uncle Dick, come back ! come back ! ' I can 
 hear the child's voice still. And I've come back at 
 last, little Heartsease." 
 
 " Thank God ! " murmured Pansy. 
 
 " God bless you ! " exclaimed Dick, the tears start- 
 ing to his eyes, which had not felt the smart of them 
 since he was a boy.
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTEK XIX. 
 
 THE ELDER BROTHER. 
 
 TN the meauwhile Justin was making his way, as if 
 in a miserable and bewildering dream, in the direc- 
 tion of his friend's beckoning lamp. It was the 
 mechanical result of habit, which always took him 
 there in any unexpected turn of affairs. The Yicarage 
 was as familiar to him as the Court, and Philip Cun- 
 liffe was more his comrade and friend, his equal in all 
 respects, than any other man on earth. If Diana had 
 been dwelling as near to him he would have turned his 
 bewildered steps to her, and probably he would have 
 revealed and confessed all that was in his heart to her. 
 But it was too late to go over the cliffs to Piillage, and 
 his mind was not yet sufficiently recovered from the 
 shock it had received to think of anything but how he 
 might gain a little time. He was turning his back 
 upon a meeting inexpressibly distasteful and trying to 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o Throtio/i a Needles Eye. 
 
 him, and instinct guided him to the only friend near at 
 hand who could in the least understand him. 
 
 The Vicarage was apparently deserted ; there was no 
 Babel of voices in any of the rooms, and no one looked 
 through any door as he entered and straightway ascended 
 the staircase to the little attic in the roof, which Mr. 
 Cunliffe had chosen for his study. It looked more like 
 a tent than a room ; for, to please Pansy, the sloping 
 ceiling, which descended almost to the skirting-board, 
 had been painted in bright, broad stripes, and a thick 
 Persian carpet, Pansy's owm gift, covered the floor. In 
 the centre was a small writing-table, on which a lamp was 
 standing. The low dormer window was thrown wide 
 open, showing a field of deep blue sky studded with stars, 
 among which the moon was riding attended by a soft 
 luminous cloud. The all-prevalent under-tone of the sea 
 sounded deeper and purer here than in the village street, 
 and the only sounds mingling with it were the occasional 
 jangling of the bells in the church tower close by. 
 
 Mr. Cunliffe was deeply intent upon his book. His 
 high, narrow forehead rested upon a thin, white hand, 
 whilst the other was laid flat upon the old volume on 
 his desk. It was evident that he was too absorbed to
 
 The Elder Brother. i8i 
 
 hear either the bells, or the entrance of his friend. 
 Justin closed the door behind him, but he did not look 
 up. His lips moved slightly, as if forming the words 
 beneath his eye, or whispering some brief, half-uncon- 
 scious prayer. It was a deep sigh from Justin that at 
 last aroused him, and he lifted up his head, fixing his 
 preoccupied eyes upon him at first with a dreamy 
 abstraction, but waking with a sudden start into keen 
 concern and watchfulness. 
 
 '^ Justin ! " he exclaimed, ^' what is the matter with 
 you ? " 
 
 *' I have had a blow," he answered in an unsteady 
 tone. He felt as if he had received a blow literally, 
 and was staggering under its force. Mr. Cunlifi'e 
 sprang up and pushed him into his own chair. 
 
 "Is it Pansy ? " he asked in a choked voice ; " has 
 anything happened to Pansy ? " 
 
 " No, no," said Justin, recovering himself a little ; 
 " Pansy is all right, thank God ! But, Philip, my 
 brother has come back after all these years." 
 
 "■ And is that a blow to you ? " cried his friend. 
 
 " It is a great blow to me," answered Justin ; "a 
 terrible misfortune."
 
 1 82 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 A fresh outburst of the bells suddenly filled the attic 
 with their deafening clangour. Justin laid his arms 
 upon the desk and dropped his face upon them. For a 
 minute or two Mr. Cunliffe gazed at him with an almost 
 blank stare of astonishment, and then he moved away 
 from him to the little casement in the roof, and looked 
 across the valley to the glittering windows of the house 
 on the opposite cliff. All day long there had been 
 in his heart a deep, subtle, all-pervading sense of 
 almost heavenly happiness and love. He was witness- 
 ing a living parable of the love of God towards His 
 returning prodigals. The house yonder had thrown its 
 door wide open to receive its long-lost son, and all the 
 mirth and gladness that had surrounded him had 
 seemed but the counterpart and similitude of the 
 rejoicing in the presence of God over a repentant 
 sinner. Such a day of realizing the unseen and 
 eternal realities had seldom fallen to his lot, and 
 he had been rapt away into a trance of spiritual 
 ecstasy, from which Justin's entrance had roughly 
 and painfully recalled him to earth and its contra- 
 dictions. 
 
 ** Justin ! " he exclaimed in a tone of bitter anguish,
 
 The Elder Brother. 183 
 
 as if the cry had heen wrung from the very depths 
 of his heart, " Justin, can 3'ou he a Christian ? " 
 
 It was the poignant grief of his friend's voice, rather 
 than his words, that smote on Justin's ear. He lifted 
 up his head, and showed a face disturbed by contending 
 emotions. The tranquil, prosperous, satisfied expres- 
 sion had already faded away from his handsome fea- 
 tures. He looked anxious and bewildered ; but he was 
 no longer stunned by his blow. His brain was bestir- 
 ring itself; but at this moment it exerted itself only 
 on the words that Philip Cunliffe had just uttered. He 
 looked across at him with an air of anger and indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 "How can you ask me if I am a Christian?" he 
 said, "you, who know what my life has been! Who 
 has seen me plan and toil for the good of all about me, 
 if you have not ? Am I not a good son, a good father, 
 a good landlord, a good friend, Philip ? You know, if 
 any man knows, whether I have shirked any call of 
 duty. Do not you know what my faith is ? I hold the 
 same creed that you do ; I am a priest in orders, as 
 you are. Surely, if any friends ever took sweet counsel 
 together, and walked to the house of God in company,
 
 184 Tlu'oiigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 it is you and 1 wlio have done so. Why do you ask 
 me if I can be a Christian ? " 
 
 His voice faltered as he repeated the question, with 
 a secret and irresistible doubt. What had his religious 
 life been, if it had not really been subject to the laws of 
 Christ ? He was well known as a religious man ; he 
 owed much of his influence to his reputation for piet}^ 
 There were few men of his acquaintance who so fairly 
 deserved the name of Christian. Yet his heart shrank 
 and fell as he tried to look at himself, and at the long 
 prosperous course his life had run till now. 
 
 " Justin," said his friend, in a voice almost as low 
 and quiet as the voice of his conscience, "if a 3'ounger 
 brother of Christ's had been lost to him for many 
 years, lost in sin, and misery, and estrangement, would 
 He have felt it as a terrible misfortune when he came 
 home again ?" 
 
 " No, no ; impossible ! " he answered. 
 
 '* ' I know thy works, and charity, and service, and 
 faith, and thy patience,' " quoted Philip Cunliffe; " who 
 should know them better than me ? But there must 
 be something wrong with you, Justin. To be a true 
 Christian is to think as Christ thought, to feel as He
 
 The Elder Brother. 185 
 
 felt, to live as He lived. It is to have the same mind 
 that was iu Him ; to be, all of us, as Christ in the 
 world ; each one iu our own sphere of duty. To forget 
 ourselves is to remember Christ ; to forsake all is to 
 follow Him. It is a height far above me, but I am 
 reaching forward to it ; and the summit is all glory, 
 and peace, and joy. But oh ! Justin, it is far above 
 me yet." 
 
 "It is immeasurably above me," groaned Justin 
 as his head sank again upon his hands. " I thought I 
 was one of His loj^al disciples, but I feel now as if I 
 had never even heard His voice calling me." 
 
 " Is it a dark hour ? " asked his friend's quiet voice. 
 
 "It is utter darkness," he answered. " Have I 
 been false, or is religion all a lie ? I have no hold on 
 Christ at this moment. Is it possible that He has 
 never reached out His hand to me ? Have I been 
 building my house on sand, whilst I believed I was 
 on a rock ? " 
 
 "Have you seen your brother yet?" asked Philip 
 CunHfife. 
 
 "No," he answered, looking up again; "the news 
 struck me down as if I had had a blow. I could
 
 J 86 Through a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 not face him just then, and I sent Pansy on to meet 
 him first. No one on earth knows the trouble and 
 difficulty lying before me ; and I cannot tell jom 
 to-night, Philip." 
 
 *' But you will go home and welcome your brother ? " 
 he said. 
 
 '' I must," he replied, " and the sooner the better. 
 I ran down here to gain a moment's breathing time. 
 Have you seen him ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Cunliffe ; " we had a short thanks- 
 giving service this morning, and all the village came to 
 the church. He seemed deeply moved, even to tears ; 
 I could hear his voice joining in the prayers. We cannot 
 judge yet ; but there is hope that he is weary of his 
 long career of wilfulness, and is come home a changed 
 man. I have been thinking of him all day, coming 
 back penniless, and foot- sore, and travel- stained, to 
 find no father to bid him welcome. That must be 
 a bitter blank to him." 
 
 *' He could not expect to find his father alive," said 
 Justin somewhat sternly ; " but I must go and see him 
 for myself, I suppose. I hope to Heaven he is a 
 changed man ; for he will do little good to himself or
 
 The Elder B7^otker. 187 
 
 any one else if lie is not changed. He was a shallow, 
 obstinate, selfish lad when he went away; and if he 
 remains the same as a man, God forgive me ! but I 
 cannot rejoice at his coming back again."
 
 1 88 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 JUSTIN retraced his path homeward slowly. The 
 time had not come yet for confronting the dim 
 questions of right and wrong which were beginning to 
 awaken into life in his brain. At present he must con- 
 centrate himself on the duty immediately before him, 
 which he could not delay any longer; that of seeing 
 his unwelcome brother, and giving him a reception 
 as nearly approaching a welcome as could be. 
 
 The hall door stood open, as it alv\-ays did during 
 the summer months, and he entered his home un- 
 noticed. The drawing-room door was open too, and 
 he could see the group within whilst remaining unseen 
 himself. Pansy had thrown off her hat and mantle, 
 which were tossed carelessly aside on a chair, and was 
 sitting beside her uncle, with her blue eyes fastened 
 upon him as he spoke. Mrs. Herford was gazing
 
 Looking Back. 189 
 
 at liim with an unusual tenderness in her expression ; 
 and Jenny Cunliffe was listening to the traveller's 
 stories with rapt attention. These women were petting 
 him, and spoiling him already. Justin could not help 
 owning that he was a good-looking, animated, and 
 attractive scapegrace. There was not a trace of the 
 returning prodigal about him. He was wearing one of 
 Justin's own suits, and wore it with an air of proprie- 
 torship, altogether different from the awkward and 
 embarrassed aspect of a man dressed in borrowed 
 clothing. His face was lit up with smiles ; and he was 
 talking with a happy fluency of his wandering Hfe. 
 Pansy's rosy lips were parted, as if she could scarcely 
 breathe, until the exciting narrative of his adventures 
 was ended. Justin felt that if he could have seen his 
 brother ragged, and travel-stained, and troubled, as 
 Philip Cunlifl'e had depicted him, he might more easily 
 have received him to his heart. But here was the 
 same Eichard as of old, not another ; self-satisfied 
 and shallow-hearted ; quite content with the present 
 moment, having no penitence for the past, and no 
 earnest resolution of amendment in the future. 
 
 *' There is my father ! " cried Pansy, starting up as
 
 IQO Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 he passed over the threshold, and hastening to drag 
 him forward to his brother; "Uncle Dick is come 
 home again after all these years ; poor Uncle 
 Dick ! " 
 
 She pronounced the last words shyly, and looked 
 from one to the other with an innocent delight shining 
 through her eyes. She almost expected to see them 
 fall upon one another's neck, and embrace each other, 
 like the pictures she had seen of the lost son welcomed 
 home again. Mrs. Herford looked on with a momentary 
 thrill of terror agitating her calm self-complacency. 
 Here w^ere these two sons of hers meeting : Justin the 
 usurper, and Eichard, the rightful heir. How would 
 they meet one another ? How would they adjust their 
 contending claims ? Would Justin give his brother 
 welcome, or would he order him out of the house — the 
 house he had forfeited ? Would Eichard fire up, as he 
 had been wont to do, and meet Justin with a tempest 
 of accusation and reproach '} The terror deepened 
 upon her as her two sons looked steadily into one 
 another's faces in silence, before Justin stretched out 
 his hand to Eichard. 
 
 " Well, Justin ? " said Eichard haughtily.
 
 Looking Back. 191 
 
 " "Welcome home, Richard," he said, slightly empha- 
 sizing the word home. That was their greeting after 
 nearly fifteen years' separation ; but Mrs. Herford 
 heaved a deep sigh of relief, whilst Pansy's look of 
 innocent delight changed into one of intense astonish- 
 ment. The little party broke up very soon after, for 
 Richard could not resume his jaunty, lighthearted talk 
 in Justin's gloomy presence. Pansy lingered behind 
 the others for a minute or two with her father, whose 
 grave face had awakened already some vague misgivings. 
 She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and looked 
 at him with all her soul in her clear eyes. It seemed 
 as if she had some question to ask, which she could 
 not put into words, and which no words of his could 
 answer. He gazed back into the depths of her appeal- 
 ing ej'es unflinchingly, until the thin, blue-veined lids 
 closed on them, and Pansy hid her face on his breast, 
 clinging to him with a deprecating tenderness in her 
 clasp. 
 
 "Father!" she murmured, "are not you glad to 
 have him home again ? " 
 
 " Not yet, my darling," he answered solemnly ; 
 "pray God I may be some day ! "
 
 192 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 Then Pansy kissed liim again and again, and silently 
 went her way, and left him alone. 
 
 He was quite alone at last ; all the house was quiet 
 with the quietness of night following close upon the 
 cheerful sounds of day. The drawing-room, a pretty, 
 pleasant room, filled with such knick-knacks as a 
 young girl like Pansy loves to gather ahout her, kept 
 the traces of its recent occupants. The* chairs were 
 drawn up heside his mother's sofa, where they had been 
 sitting in a happy group, until his entrance broke it 
 up. The windows were still open to admit the scented 
 evening air, though a fire was burning on the hearth ; 
 and Justin drew his seat up to it, as if he felt cold, 
 and sat down with his chin resting on his hands and 
 his eyes staring into the glowing embers. 
 
 He had no absolutely new subject for consideration. 
 He could recall hour after hour of close deliberation in 
 the earlier years of his possession, when he had gone 
 through all the arguments for and against himself, 
 never coming to a definite verdict or decision. He had 
 frequently bewildered and perplexed himself with the 
 question of what he must do if Richard ever came 
 home. If Richard came home ! But he was come now;
 
 Looking Back. 193 
 
 and the subject of deliberation had changed into a 
 point on which action was necessary. He could no 
 longer pursue the even tenor of his way, without 
 settling to his own satisfaction whether it was the right 
 way or not. '*' There is a way that seemeth good unto 
 a man ; but the end of that way is death." Justin 
 was suddenly forced to look at the end ; and the 
 misgivings that had been lulled to slumber in his soul 
 were awaking into vigorous life. 
 
 Was he now to act upon old Richard Herford's will, 
 as it had been written under the influence of strong 
 and bitter resentment against his truant son ? or 
 upon old Richard Herford's will, as he knew it to 
 be, when the old man's dim eyes made the mis- 
 take which consigned the wrong document to the 
 flames ? 
 
 The change in the father's mind from resentment to 
 forgiveness, had not made his son one whit fitter to 
 succeed to the estate. There was not the shadow of a 
 question that Justin was the better man ; the one most 
 qualified to carry on the name of the family into which 
 he had been adopted, and to work out the greatest 
 benefit to all concerned ; even to Richard himself, if 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 TIi7'ottgh a N'ecdles Eye. 
 
 he continued to be the reckless spendthrift he had 
 always been. 
 
 This was no longer a subtle problem to be tracked 
 through the mazes of his brain, and left at last in 
 some dark lurking-place. It had leaped suddenly into 
 a question of duty, to be clearly defined, and rigorously 
 followed out. The son, who had despised and forfeited 
 his birthright, was beneath the roof of his long line of 
 forefathers. He was of the same blood as the first 
 Herford w^ho had built these strong w^alls generations 
 ago, w^hich now sheltered the last scion of their race. 
 A long line of Herfords seemed to be trooping past 
 Justin in the ghostly stillness of the night. Was it for 
 a stranger they had worked, and toiled, and saved ? 
 Did they reject their latest heir, because he had failed 
 as a spoiled boy to fulfil the duties of his early man- 
 hood ? There could be but one answer to that. 
 
 But it was not merely the dead Herfords and 
 Eichard he had to consider. There was his mother, 
 who had no settlement made upon her by her husband's 
 first will, which had left her utterly dependent upon 
 Eichard. And there was Pansy : he must think of 
 her. She was the very danghter of the place ; the
 
 Looking Back. 195 
 
 flower and cro-^ii of it. He could no more think of 
 Herford apart from Pansy, than he could imagine 
 Pansy living anywhere but at Herford. All the fair- 
 ness of the sky, and the sweetness of the air, and the 
 luxuriance of the flowers seemed to centre in her. 
 She had grown out of them all, like some rare 
 blossom, that had all favourable influences playing 
 about it. Could she exist in any other place ? The 
 faint, soft rose-bloom of her cheeks, and the richer 
 crimson of her lips, and the clear shining of her eyes, 
 would they not fade and pale in any other air ? Pansy's 
 heart would break if she must leave Herford ; and was 
 it just that Richard's delayed return, after fifteen 3'ears 
 of wilful absence, should push out those whose heart- 
 strings had wound round and round the place in happy 
 memories and innocent associations ? 
 
 Justin saw now, looking back with mournfully keen 
 eyes, that he had suffered himself to drift into this 
 dangerous channel, rather than distinctly chosen to 
 enter upon it. It had been easier, and had seemed 
 wiser, to keep his own counsel, and suffer affairs to 
 take their course, than to publish the mistake that had 
 been made. That far-off time could not be recalled ; 
 
 2
 
 196 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 and suddenly he discovered the heavy chain he had 
 forged for himself. He was in the very prime of life ; 
 held in high esteem throughout the country ; the hest 
 Herford of Herford that had ever lived within those old 
 walls. There was not a fleck upon his reputation, nor 
 an apparent flaw in his character. He had almost 
 doubled the value of the estate, and had greatly in- 
 creased the prosperity of his little village. His 
 influence was great, both in religious and political 
 circles ; and he exercised it with a scrupulous con- 
 science. He was useful, and rejoiced in his usefulness. 
 Was he to throw it all to the winds and beggar himself, 
 his mother, and Pansy, because a good-for-nothing 
 scapegrace had seen fit to return from some far-off 
 country, where he had wasted his life and substance 
 in riotous living? If he did, Richard would soon 
 squander the estate away, and go off on his wanderings 
 again. What good would come of that to any one ? 
 
 At this turn in his reflections a subtle memory of 
 familiar words stirred softly in his brain : " Where your 
 treasure is there will your heart be also. The light of 
 the body is the eye ; if therefore thine eye be single, 
 thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye
 
 Looking Back. 197 
 
 be evil thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If 
 therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how 
 great is that darkness ! No man can serve two masters : 
 for either he will hate the one and love the other ; or 
 else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye 
 cannot serve God and Mammon."
 
 198 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LEAH DABT S SECEET, 
 
 "piCHARD HERFORD was awake betimes next 
 morning. He had been thirty-six hours at home, 
 and he was already growing weary of the decorum and 
 propriety that reigned over it. Yesterday had appeared 
 intolerably long to him, for his mother would barely 
 let him out of her sight. She had insisted upon going 
 with him when he made his inspection of the stables 
 and farm-buildings ; and he had had her on his arm 
 when he went down into the village. Most of the men 
 and women had greeted him warmly enough, but there 
 had been no great enthusiasm of welcome, as there 
 would have been for an heir coming into his estates. 
 He had been received as a younger brother, whose 
 going and coming made little difference to the tenants. 
 It had not been so in his younger days. 
 
 It was with a sore heart that he walked about his
 
 Leah Dart's Secret. 199 
 
 father's fields alone this morning. He felt the value 
 of what he had forfeited more keenly than he had ever 
 done. There was not a drop of Herford blood in 
 Justin's veins, he said to himself as he tramped dog- 
 gedly along ; yet here he was lord and master of every 
 foot of Herford land. It was all very well for his 
 mother to make a fuss over his return, and melt into 
 tears and break into laughter, and play a regular 
 comedy about it. But Justin gave him a scant 
 Velcome, and turned him the cold shoulder. He was 
 regarded as an interloper in his own home. 
 
 Eichard knew before he came that his father's will 
 was all regular and unassailable, and that there was no 
 loophole through which he might hope to creep into his 
 lost birthright. He had made sure of that years ago. 
 But he had never felt how hard it was as he did now. 
 He had a hungry craving for enjoyments that were quite 
 beyond his reach. If this comfortable little estate was 
 his by law, as it was by natural inheritance, what a 
 figure he would cut in the county ! Ay ! in London 
 itself, as long as his funds lasted. But what could a 
 fellow do, without a penny in his pocket ? It seemed 
 more difficult to believe, now he v^as here once more.
 
 200 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 that his father could have kept this grudge against him 
 to the last. 
 
 He wandered on aimlessly along the cliffs. The thick 
 clumps of gorse were glowing, with their rich golden 
 tints, in the early sunshine. Here and there he stood 
 on the edge of a narrow ravine, dipping down into the 
 sea, with the water tumbling to and fro with the tide 
 in the chasm below. In every cleft grew some green 
 outgrowth of the spring, concealing the grey and 
 jagged points of the precipice under the ceaseless 
 flutter of their leaves. A long scroll of dark clouds 
 lay along the western horizon. Busy birds were flitting 
 from bush to bush, and filling the morning stillness 
 with their twitterings. The shadows from the sky slept 
 upon the sea, moving slowly across it with the soft 
 passing away of the clouds. It was supremely quiet. 
 As far as his eye could reach the water was rippling 
 gently, without a sail upon it to break the monotony. 
 There was no sound except the singing of the birds and 
 the ceaseless moan of the sea. 
 
 " By George ! " he exclaimed, " it's enough to send 
 a fellow to sleep for evermore ! I must get some life 
 into this place, or march off again, and make myself
 
 Leah Dart 's Secret. 201 
 
 scarce. And what's the good of staying here, aggra- 
 vating m3'self ? I'll see what Justin's willing to do for 
 me, and then I'll be off." 
 
 By this time he was high enough on the cliffs to 
 look down uj^on Rillage Grange, nestling in its own 
 little glen. The place was almost as familiar to him as 
 Herford Court, for he had been a great favourite with 
 Squire Lynn in his boyhood. He saw a woman leaving 
 the house by the side entrance, and begin to climb the 
 steep path which led to where he was. It could be no 
 one else but Diana Ljmn, who had been the object of 
 his first boyish love. Richard loitered about to meet 
 her, with a smile at his own folly ; yet with his pulse 
 throbbing a little faster, as this light-footed figure 
 drew nearer. Jenny Cuuliffe had told him the day 
 before that Diana was the handsomest woman in the 
 neighbourhood — "excepting Pansy," Jenny added. 
 Now he had seen Pansy he acknowledged that Diana 
 might be very handsome, without being quite as 
 lovely. 
 
 If Ptichard had no eyes for the beauty of a landscape, 
 they were sharp enough for any fine point in a woman. 
 Had Diana still that soft, colourless, creamy complexion,
 
 202 TJiro2tgh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 with those dark liquid eyes he remembered so well ? 
 It was certain she could not lose her shapely, well- 
 poised head, and her stately presence, though she was 
 no longer a young woman. She must be two years 
 older than himself, and he was over thirty. Over 
 thirty years of age ! It was enough to make any 
 fellow feel serious to be that age, and know he had 
 not a penny to bless himself with. " ' I cannot dig, 
 and to beg I am ashamed,' " he muttered half aloud, 
 "By George ! that's in the Bible, and it's quite true !" 
 The woman was sufficiently near to him now for 
 him to see that she was not Diana, but Leah Dart. 
 Yet Leah was no unpleasing object to look upon. 
 Her face was a rich brown, well shaped and handsome, 
 and her bold black eyes were bright enough to invite 
 a second glance. She had caught sight of him, and 
 recognized his figure as it stood out clear against the 
 sky on the brow of the cliif, and she was redoubling 
 her speed to overtake him. There was some spirit in 
 a woman who could tear along like that, he thought. 
 It occurred to him that Leah had been the first to 
 welcome him when he was tramping, footsore and 
 heavy-hearted, down the road to Herford. He must
 
 Leah Dart 's Secret, 203 
 
 wait and speak to her, and give her one of the gold 
 pieces with which his mother had filled his purse yester- 
 day ; for Eichard was lavish with his money when he 
 had any, and he fancied he should like to see the 
 glitter in Leah's eyes when the coin was transferred 
 from his hand to hers. 
 
 '' Good morning, Leah," he said, as she approached 
 him closely, panting and breathless, vrith her red lips 
 parted and her cheeks flushed. ''I never saw you 
 again the other night ; but I did not forget you. I 
 wanted to give you a keepsake for being the first to 
 welcome me home. Here, take this, and buy yourself 
 a gown, or something or other." 
 
 Leah had not found her voice yet, but she turned 
 away indignantly from the proffered gold. It seemed 
 to her heartless in him to offer it to her, who had met 
 him, ragged and almost barefoot, tramping homeward 
 like a beggar. 
 
 " Put it up, Master Dick ! " she cried as soon as 
 she could speak; "put it up. I haven't kept you in 
 my mind all these years to need anything like that for 
 a keepsake. If you'd brought me any bit of a trifle 
 from foreign parts, I'd have kept it till the last day of
 
 204 Through a Needle s Eye. 
 
 my life — ay, and had it buried with me in my coffin ! 
 Night and day you've never been out o' my mind, and 
 do ye think I'll take money from you now? " 
 
 "By George!" he ejaculated, gazing curiously at 
 the agitated woman. 
 
 "Nobody wanted ye back save me ! " she went on 
 eagerly; "they're a set o' traitors, every woman's son 
 of 'em! Master Justin is the landlord for them. 
 They've never given you a good word nor a good wish. 
 * A good riddance ! ' says they. ' He's the rightful heir, 
 is Master Dick ! ' says I ; * and God Almighty will 
 bring him back some day, and put him in his own place 
 again ! ' And He has, bless His name ! " 
 
 "I'm afraid He's had very little to do with my 
 coming back," said Kichard, " and He has not set 
 me in my own place again." 
 
 " No ; but I can put you in the way to get back your 
 own," she answered. 
 
 " How can you do that ? " he asked incredulously. 
 
 " Listen to me," she said in a low, eager voice, press- 
 ing near to him, lest she should be overheard even 
 on the cliffs. " The day after th' old master died, 
 towards evening-time, I was out here along these very
 
 Leah Dart 's Secret. 205 
 
 cliffs, looking after the geese that had strayed away 
 from the fallow-field, and who should I see but 
 Master Justin comin' along i' the dusk. It was bleak 
 and dull, and the wind was risin', and I wondered to see 
 him goin' off to Rillage so soon after the old master was 
 gone, only I knew he was courtin' Miss Di, and maybe 
 he was eager to tell her all the news. But instead of 
 goin' straight on, he kep' walkin' up and down, up and 
 down, one way one minute, and the next way the next 
 minute, all in the dusk and the cold, and I hid behind 
 the furze, hardly knowin' why. I'd been full of you 
 all day, thinkin' as how you'd come home again to be 
 master, and there'd be good old times all over again, and 
 I was overjoyed like. Well, I watched Master Justin 
 pull a paper out 0' his breast-pocket and begin to tear 
 it up into little tiny scraps, and strew^ them about as 
 he wandered up and down. When that was done, and 
 he was off to Eillage, I stole out, and searched up and 
 down, walkin' where he walked, and pickin' up every 
 scrap I could see. Some had blown away with the 
 wind, and some had fallen over the cliff ; but I lay 
 down and crawled to the edge and stretched over as far 
 as I durst, and snatched up two or three off the brambles
 
 2o6 Thi^ough a Needle s Eye. 
 
 below me. It was almost dark, and when I came first 
 thing in the morning, there wasn't one to be seen." 
 
 " And what have you done with them ? " he asked, 
 as eagerly as she had spoken. 
 
 *' I've kep' them safe, every one," she replied. '' I 
 never durst tell nobody ; for they're all traitors, and 
 took Master Justin's side as soon as they heard he was 
 to be master. But I can't make nothin' out of the 
 bits ; I'm no scholar. They're all here in a little silk 
 bag I made on purpose, and they've never been out 
 o' my bosom these ten years. If we could find some 
 shelter we could look at them now." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" he said fiercely. "By Heaven! I 
 always suspected some foul play." 
 
 Leah's black eyes were riveted upon his face, and he 
 could not fail to see that she had both a profound 
 sympathy for him, and an equally profound belief in 
 the importance of her communication. They sought a 
 sheltered nook under the brow of the cliff, and he sat 
 down beside her, while she emptied her little silk bag 
 into her lap. It was a moment of intense happiness to 
 Leah, one she had been dreaming of and looking 
 forward to all these years, and the reality was more
 
 Leah Dart 's Secret. 207 
 
 blissful than the anticipation. The possession of this 
 little silk bag had been like a secret distinction to her, 
 which had made her hold herself aloof from all her 
 village suitors. She had given herself airs in the sight 
 of all her world, and had often been laughed and 
 jeered at for her assumption of superiority. The little 
 seed of ambition sown many years ago had sprung into 
 a great tree, and she was sitting under the shadow of it 
 with great delight. The rightful heir of Herford was 
 here, close beside her, bending over the treasured 
 scraps of paper, and arranging them with more 
 practised fingers than her own. She could scarcely 
 breathe for very happiness. Was she going to replace 
 him in his lost inheritance ? Would this cherished 
 secret of hers make him again the master of Herford ? 
 ]f it did, how would he reward her? 
 
 A blissful vision flashed across her excited brain of 
 being his wife. Why not ? Other women as lowly born 
 as herself had married gentlemen of far higher degree 
 than Richard Herford, who had never seemed as far 
 removed from the men of her own class as Justin did. 
 Leah would never have dreamed of marrying a learned 
 scholarly man ; but Pdchard had always chosen the
 
 2o8 Throtigh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 company of people below liim, and accommodated 
 himself to their ways. He was sitting now at her side 
 in close contact, as any fisherman or farm-servant in 
 Herford might have done, who was accustomed to rest 
 under the first hedge-row, or ridge of rock. She had 
 long been striving to make herself a lady, and she 
 indulged the happy belief that she was very superior to 
 the women of her own station. She was almost 
 Kichard's equal. Why should she not become his wife, 
 and mistress of Herford, if she played her cards well ? 
 As Leah dreamed these dreams, Richard diligently 
 fitted in the morsels of yellow and stained paper upon 
 her lap. Most of them w^ere quite blank, with not a 
 single character upon them. Those that contained 
 some writing did not fall into consecutive places. 
 Still there was sufBcient to prove to him that the hand- 
 writing was his father's, and there was a date of which 
 the last and least important figure was missing — Feh. 10, 
 184 . He found also the word ????/, and the half-word 
 Wi — . Richard stared at these fragments with a blank 
 and puzzled expression, not with the triumphant air 
 Leah was hoping for. She ventured to lay her brown 
 hand upon his to arouse his attention.
 
 Leah Dart's Secret. 209 
 
 *' What is it? " she asked. "What do you make 
 out ? Is it th' old master's will ? " 
 
 " I can't make it out," answered Pdchard, '' but 
 there's some foul play in it, I'll swear. I never 
 believed my father would cut me off — his only son. 
 No, no. You're a jewel, Leah. I shall never forget 
 what you've done for me. How can I repay you ? Tell 
 me, for I'm ready to do anything you ask — in reason." 
 
 He dropped his voice over the last words, and Leah 
 did not catch them. She shrank from the idea of 
 having gold offered to her again by him ; no lady 
 could take money for any service she might render. 
 Her colour came and went, as he looked at her for 
 a reply. 
 
 " Not now," she said, " wait till you're master of 
 Herford again, and then I'll tell 3'ou. What are you 
 goin' to do with these papers ? " 
 
 "By George!" he exclaimed, "I hardly know. 
 Leave that to me, Leah, and good-bye to you." 
 
 He touched the brown cheek next to him carelessly 
 with his lips, and sprang away laughing ; while Leah 
 Dart looked after him with the shining of unspeakable 
 happiness in her eyes. 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 2IO Th7'02tgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 TT was late that morniDg when Justin came down to 
 the sunny breakfast-room which he found deserted. 
 Richard had ridden over to Lowborough, he was told, 
 and Pansy and Jenny were unpacking the luggage from 
 London, which had just arrived, under Mrs. Herford's 
 superintendence. He was glad to be alone. The 
 feverish and fitful sleep that had visited him had 
 refreshed neither mind nor body. His spirits had been 
 exhausted by the sharp mental conflict of the night 
 before, and he felt it a relief to be spared the effort of 
 keeping up a conversation. He found himself anxious, 
 preoccupied, and undecided. He felt himself altogether 
 at a loss ; a strange experience for Justin, whose 
 intuitions were swift and clear, and his decisions 
 equally sharp and defined. A voice from heaven would 
 have suited him at this juncture ; but there is no voice
 
 Tiuo Letters. 2 1 1 
 
 audible to the deafened ears of the world. The world's 
 trumpets had been braying too lately around him for 
 him to hear the low still voice, full of awe, which calls 
 us out of the darksome cave wherein we dwell, into the 
 light of God. 
 
 A servant came in to bring him the letter-bag, which 
 did not reach Herford till late in the morning. There 
 was a letter for himself, and another for Pansy, which 
 he sent at once to her. His own lay before him on the 
 table for a while, his troubled heart and busy brain 
 still pondering over his present difficulty. At last he 
 took it up, and the colour mounted to his pale and 
 anxious face, for it brought a fresh complication to be 
 dealt with. 
 
 " Dear Herfokd, — My son and I called at your 
 hotel a few minutes after you left to-day. I must 
 therefore write to you instead of speaking, and I must 
 do it with equal frankness. Our young people, it 
 seems, have formed an attachment to each other, and 
 Robert gives me no peace till I lay the matter before 
 you. I need not say that your daughter is all I could 
 desire for my son's wife. We should welcome her 
 
 p 2
 
 212 Through a Needles Eye 
 
 most cordially into our family. But I am compelled to 
 own that Robert must marry a wife with some consider- 
 able dowry. Miss Herford is everywhere regarded as 
 your only child and heiress, but it is absurd to take it 
 for granted that a man of your age will never marry 
 again. Consequently it is incumbent upon you and me 
 to come to some definite understanding before either 
 of us give his consent to the young folks. I am dis- 
 posed to believe that you have no objection to my son. 
 You saw a good deal of him while you were in town, 
 and I can only add, if this marriage is as agreeable 
 to you as it is to me, we may set the lawyers to work 
 at once. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "R. FORTESCUE." 
 
 Justin tossed the letter from him with a gesture of 
 impatience. Why ! Pansy was but a child still ; a 
 little, innocent, heedless girl, into whose head no 
 thought of a lover could come. It seemed but 
 yesterday that she was sitting on his knee and reading 
 stories of fairies and mermaids in her shrill, childish 
 voice. It was difficult to entertain the idea of his little
 
 Two Letters. 
 
 Pansy loving any man but himself. There was so 
 much dainty natural charm about Pansy that must be 
 spoiled, he thought, if it was displayed to any other 
 eyes but his own, her father's. It was unutterably 
 delightful to him to feel her soft arms about his neck, 
 and her pretty head nestling upon his shoulder. To send 
 his daughter from his house, even to a happy home 
 of her own, would be like cutting off his right hand. 
 
 Yet if Pansy was ever to marry and leave him, no 
 match could be better than this one. Young Forte scue 
 was heir to a good estate, a little encumbered, as Justin 
 knew, and to his father's baronetcy. Pansy's new 
 home would be within ten miles of Herford : a pleasant 
 distance. He had not looked at the young man as a 
 probable suitor for his daughter, but all he had ob- 
 served of him was favourable. The letter he had just 
 read from his father implied that an attachment was 
 already formed ; if so. Pansy was in love. Pansy in 
 love was a fresh element of anxiety and sorrow. 
 
 It seemed almost a shocking thing to Justin to be 
 compelled to ask his young daughter if she loved this 
 unwelcome candidate for her hand. It needed a 
 mother's dehcate tenderness, he fancied. How could
 
 2 14 Throtigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 Pansy tell him what she felt for the young man who 
 had heen an utter stranger to her three months ago ? 
 Three months ago L Was it possible the child could 
 learn to love any one in so short a time ? All the 
 other affections of her life had developed slowly and 
 struck root naturally. There might he some mistake, 
 and he was being anxious about a chim^era. They had 
 taken Pansy's freedom from conventional shyness and 
 reserve for a sign that she had given away her heart to 
 the first suitor that came. 
 
 But Pansy had had a letter, possibly from young 
 Fortescue himself. Justin summoned all his resolution 
 and courage to aid him in asking his little daughter 
 this unpleasant question. It was part of his chivalrous 
 devotion to his motherless child not to send a formal 
 message by a servant bidding her come to him, but to 
 go himself to seek her. Pansy's room was one she had 
 chosen when they first came to Herford Court, because 
 of an oriel window in it, raised two or three steps from 
 the floor, and looking out upon the sea. It was a low, 
 spacious room, under the roof, Yaih. long and narrow 
 casements, giving glimpses of the country lying about 
 the house. She had hoarded here all the treasures she
 
 Two Lettei's. 2 1 
 
 had gathered during her hfe. The plume of peacock's 
 feathers, that had charaied her eyes years ago, was still 
 preserved and cherished, and every shelf and window- 
 sill was crowded with the foreign curiosities brought for 
 her by every Herford-born sailor, who had carried 
 them over sea as an offering for their Miss Pansy. 
 Her mother's water-colour sketches, stiff and raw in 
 colour, hung upon the walls, with her father's school-boy 
 drawings of boats and crags and water, destitute of 
 perspective and devoid of shadow. The whole place 
 was filled with keepsakes and trifles of no value save in 
 Pansy's eyes. A mere lumber-room if she was not in 
 it ; but in her presence it was like a shrine, to which 
 every poor votary had brought some willing offering. 
 
 Pansy was sitting in the oriel window, gazing out 
 with soft dreamy eyes over the sea. The letter was 
 folded caressingly between her small white hands. The 
 pretty head, and rounded chin, and sunny curls, were 
 clearly defined against the sky, and Justin stood on the 
 threshold for a few moments, looking at her with a keen 
 pang of sorrow in his heart. This bright blossom of 
 his had grown up in an atmosphere not its own, and if 
 it must be transplanted into rougher climes, how would
 
 2i6 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 it bear the change ? What would Pansy be without 
 her little kingdom, where she had queened it so grace- 
 fully ? A poor man's daughter ! How could she be 
 that ? She had been like the lilies ; she toiled not, 
 neither did she spin. The sole purpose of her life had 
 been to give delight to others by her sweetness and 
 beauty. If she should be uprooted, would she not be 
 like those flowers of Paradise, "that never would in 
 other climates grow " ? 
 
 " Pansy ! " he said at last, in a quiet voice. Yet she 
 was startled, and her face grew crimson. As he drew 
 near to her he could see the tears swimming in her blue 
 eyes, and the letter crushed in her unconscious grasp. 
 Justin spoke again in his tenderest manner. 
 
 " Is your letter from young Fortescue ?" he asked. 
 " Yes, father," she answered falteringly. 
 *' And you love him, my darling ?" he said. 
 ** Oh ! I think so," cried Pansy, bursting into a 
 passion of tears, and running into her father's out- 
 stretched arms, as she had been used to do in every 
 time of trouble. 
 
 But Justin felt that this too must be weighed in the 
 balance before he formed his final resolution.
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXITI. 
 
 ANOTHER DIFFICULTY, 
 
 TTNDER any circumstances Justin would have gone 
 over to Rillage Grange to see Diana on tliis first 
 day of his return after so long an absence. He had 
 never entered the faded and sombre httle sitting-room, 
 belonging specially to her, \\ith a heart so perplexed and 
 burdened. He was longing for a plain path, and his 
 path was intricate and clouded. Even vdth Diana he 
 could not converse ^ith the frank unreseiwe which had 
 been the chief charm of their intercourse. Hitherto 
 Diana had been the confidante of all his plans and 
 purposes. But he had come to a knot in the skein of 
 life which could not as yet be shown to her. No human 
 being could see the whole matter, with all its bearings, 
 besides himself. If he should finally resolve upon 
 abiding by his stepfather's later will, and thus setting
 
 2 1 8 Throtigh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 aside what be knew to be tbe old man's intentions in 
 bis dying hours, he could never tell Diana. There 
 must be always this secret between them. It had been 
 between them in fact all these years, but it had been 
 slumbering and inoperative, scarcely making itself felt 
 even by him. Now it would have an active, all- 
 pervading existence for him — a reflected influence upon 
 all belonging to him. 
 
 Diana had caught sight of him coming over the cliffs, 
 and stood at the window watching him as he descended 
 the opposite slope of the valley. The time had been 
 long to her since he went away ; and his absence had 
 made her feel, more than she had • ever done before, 
 how closely her real life was intertwined with his. 
 There could be, as there was, no one in the world to 
 whom she conld utter her inmost thoughts as she did 
 to him ; and how much she had missed him, she had 
 no words to tell, even to him. 
 
 She had been enjoying a more complete rest than had 
 been her lot for years. Her father's illness had been 
 protracted ; but Leah Dart had borne the chief stress 
 and strain of it. Leah had proved an efficient and 
 invaluable nurse ; and Diana felt very grateful to her.
 
 Another Difficulty. 219 
 
 She had not been placed on a footing with the servants, 
 according to the stipulation she had made ; and she had 
 gained so much mastery over her patient that she was 
 able to keep him from plunging into any new excesses. 
 None of the old, disgraceful boon-companions had been 
 admitted into Mr. Lynn's presence ; and he was sub- 
 mitting to Leah's rule with a singularly good grace. 
 Diana was making up her mind that she must practise 
 some new economy, if possible, in order to find the 
 means of retaining Leah permanently in her position 
 as attendant upon her old father. 
 
 Justin was almost startled by the change in Diana's 
 appearance when she came to greet him. She was 
 looking younger, and happier, and brighter than she 
 had done for j^ears. The tranquillity congenial to her 
 nature, which had been banished by the dreary isolation 
 of her circumstances, was dawning upon her face. The 
 joy of seeing him again was shining in her dark eyes ; 
 and as she came towards him, with frank and hearty 
 gladness, he felt that he could not separate himself from 
 her by a self-imposed exile from Herford. 
 
 *' So poor Eichard is come home at last ! " she said, 
 as soon as their first greetings were over. He was
 
 2 20 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 holding her hand in his own, hut he dropped it hastily 
 as she spoke these words ; and Diana knew instantly 
 that Richard's return was looked upon as a misfortune. 
 Her heart sank a little with an inward chill. Was 
 Justin, so excellently good in every other relationship, 
 ahout to show himself in the light of a hard and stern 
 brother ? She looked up wistfully into his face, as she 
 waited for him to speak. 
 
 " Yes, Richard has come home again," he said, 
 with gloomy emphasis. *' Diana, I cannot pretend to 
 rejoice. I know you women are ready to make a hero 
 of him; hut I cannot. In my eyes he is the same 
 Dick who ran away ; only many years older." 
 
 "But surely," she answered, " surely you are glad to 
 know he is alive and well ! Your brother, Justin ! It 
 does not seem so long ago since you left no stone 
 unturned to find out whether he was still living, and 
 where he was. Do you forget ?" 
 
 " That was for a year or two after his father's death," 
 he rejoined ; *' if he had come back then, all would 
 have been well. I could have welcomed him home 
 then ; but not after all these years ! We were getting 
 on so well without him ; and now our black sheep
 
 Another Difficulty. 221 
 
 is among us again. What am I to do with 
 him?" 
 
 "Do with him! " she repeated; "were we not all 
 lost sheep once ? and did not our dear Lord come down 
 to the wilderness, seeking us who had gone astray ? It 
 is not difficult to know what to do with a brother who 
 comes home repentant." 
 
 " My dear Diana," he said impatiently, " Dick is no 
 penitent, I assure you. I find it a much harder matter 
 to settle than to talk about. He cannot go on wearing 
 the best robe, and having the fatted calf killed for him 
 every day. The question is, What am I to do with my 
 prodigal, in his father's house ? What, for heaven's 
 sake, am I to do ?" 
 
 He paced up and down the melancholy little room 
 restlessly. The question was not put so much to 
 Diana, as to himself. If she had become his mfe ten 
 years ago, he would have laid bare his inmost heart to 
 her, and taken her counsel in this hour of bewildering 
 temptation. He knew instinctively w^hat her counsel 
 would be ; the counsel of a woman utterly ignorant of 
 the world. How gladly would he have blotted out those 
 ten intervening years, and placed himself back again
 
 2 22 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 in liis little vicarage, with Pansy only a poor vicar's 
 daughter. He might have done his uttermost to 
 counteract the mischief of his younger brother's 
 influence, and possibly he might have succeeded in 
 restraining him from extreme wildness. At any rate, 
 ho would himself have kept his hands clean, and his 
 conscience clear. He would not now be burdened with 
 a secret, which he was ashamed to tell to the woman 
 who loved him best. Diana looked down with sad eyes, 
 not caring to lift them to Justin's cloudy face. 
 
 " Here is another difficulty," he said, after a while, 
 seating himself beside her, and opening Sir Robert 
 Fortescue's letter. He read it aloud in a hard, dry 
 tone. It was plain to her that he did not altogether 
 like it ; but she could not guess why. She did not 
 speak, even when he folded it up, and returned it to his 
 pocket-book. 
 
 "Diana," he said, in a softened voice of great 
 tenderness, '' I wish I could reply by saying that you 
 had consented to be my wife." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " she cried. *' Justin, how can I ? 
 We decided long ago that I must stand at my post. I 
 believe God has placed me here, and I must be faithful
 
 Another Difflctdty. 223 
 
 to Him ; or how could I be faithful to you ? But let 
 us set the matter at rest for ever. You have been very 
 happy all this time ; and why should we not go on as 
 we are, frieuds always, but knoTNing that we shall ne^er 
 be more to one another ? Do not let me stand in the 
 way of Pansy's happiness. I must not abandon my 
 father, even for your sake. He is my lost sheep." 
 
 She had no idea of how keen a reproach was conveyed 
 to him by her last words. He had often said to himself 
 that Diana was a saint and a martyr ; but he had hardly 
 thought of her as one immeasurably before him in 
 the Christian life. He had felt himself capable of 
 martyrdom. He saw now, as by a sudden flash, what 
 a perfect self-denial her whole life had been. She was, 
 indeed, by her own choice in the wilderness, upon the 
 rough and stormy mountains, bruised, afflicted, and 
 wounded, patiently seeking to bring back her lost sheep. 
 He was grudging the return of the prodigal son, who 
 had sought home of his own free will. A clamour of 
 voices made a Babel in Justin's conscience ; but there 
 was no certain voice. 
 
 " I will never give you up," he said curtly, and 
 Diana's face brightened ; " but what answer must I give
 
 2 24 Throttgli a Needles Eye. 
 
 to this letter ? Shall I tell Sir Kobert that I have the 
 most definite intention of marrying again as soon as I 
 have the chance ? He could not ask me to hamper 
 Herford with any large dower for Pansy. I wish to 
 heaven I could say she did not care for the young jack- 
 anapes ! Why do children fall in love so young, 
 Diana?" 
 
 " I loved you earlier than that," she answered in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " God bless you, my darling ! " he rejoined. Would 
 3'OU really have married me if I had been only the poor 
 vicar of Herford ? would you marry me now if I did 
 not know where to look for my next year's income ? " 
 
 *' If I were free to marry you at all," she said, '* I 
 w^ould become the wife of Justin Herford if he had not 
 a shilling in the world." 
 
 She said it fervently, her deep eyes looking frankly 
 into his. Justin felt her words to be absolutely true ; 
 but would Diana Lynn become his wife if she knew 
 that he was holding an inheritance not indisputably his 
 own ? He quitted her side and paced to and fro again 
 across the room. 
 
 *' Why should you not settle half of your estate upon
 
 Aiiothc7' Dijficulty. 225 
 
 Pansy," slie said at length, " if that would satisfy Sir 
 Kohert? Surely you and I could live on the other 
 half. You have no idea of how little I spend ; and I 
 have been poor so long I should feel embarrassed if I 
 ever were as rich as you are ; besides, I have my own 
 fortune from my mother, three thousand pounds ; that 
 brings in more than I spend upon myself. Could you 
 not promise half to Pansy ? We could not be happy if 
 she was not, dear child ! " 
 
 " God bless you, Diana ! " he exclaimed again, once 
 more seating himself beside her, ''you are worlds too 
 good for me ; but I cannot settle yet. There is Dick 
 come home again ; how do you suppose he feels at 
 seeing a stranger in his own place, under his father's 
 roof? How can I promise half the estate to Pansy 
 when, perhaps, I ought to give up the whole to 
 Dick?" 
 
 " Give up Herford to Pdchard ! " said Diana in 
 amazement; "oh, Justin, I never dreamed of that. 
 Go away for ever from Herford, and leave him master 
 there ? Oh ! my dear Justin, do not act rashly ; con- 
 sider it well. It seemed so right to us all when old 
 Mr. Herford made you his heir. You had been a 
 
 VOL. I, Q
 
 2 26 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 better son than Kichard to liim, and no one wondered 
 at ito Be quite sure yon are right before you give up 
 the power entrusted to you. Of course you must 
 make ample provision for him, but do not give him 
 more power and influence than you can help. See 
 what my poor father has done for Eillage. I have 
 always looked to Herford as one of the happiest places 
 in our county. I have thanked God often that He has 
 made you master there." 
 
 " But what am I to do ? " he asked ; " must I drive 
 him from his home again ? " 
 
 "No; that cannot be right," she said, her face 
 showing her perplexity. " Oh, Justin ! how easy it 
 would have been if you had been left in trust only till 
 he came home. Then we should all have known 
 exactly what your duty was. But it was left so abso- 
 lutely to you, it seems impossible that you ought to give 
 up everything. It is hard for him, poor fellow ! How 
 can he ever be happy with the thought of his own 
 father dying and never forgiving him ? How hard it 
 will be for him to believe in the love and forgiveness of 
 God ! " 
 
 '' He does not care much about either," said Justin.
 
 Another Difficulty. 227 
 
 It seemed to him that it would have been comparatively 
 easy to resign all his own worldly advantages to one 
 who was worthy of them — to Philip Cunliffe, for in- 
 stance. Or he could have settled the reversion of his 
 estate upon Pansy and young Fortescue ; nay, he could 
 have given up the present possession of them and con- 
 tented himself with a trifle. But to cast his pearls before 
 Richard ; his property, his influence, his authority, his 
 reputation ! How Richard would trample them under 
 his feet ! His brother was come home, giving no sign 
 of repentance, making no promise of amendment. It 
 was true he had had very scanty opportunity of judging ; 
 but he could not believe that it was an humble and 
 penitent prodigal who had met him last night ^^ith a 
 frowning face and a haughty manner. Justin talked 
 about him to Diana, but with no solution of his diffi- 
 culty, and but little tranquillizing eff'ect upon his dis- 
 turbed spirit. He left her at last, still undecided how 
 to answer Sir Robert Fortescue, or what he ought to do 
 with his brother's birthrisfht. 
 
 Q 2
 
 2 28 Throttgh a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 eichaed's disappointment. 
 
 4 FTER his interview witli Leah Dart on the Cliffs, 
 Richard took his brother's horse and rode over to 
 Lowhorongh to see his uncle Watson, carrying with him 
 Leah's little silk hag and its treasured contents. His 
 uncle was on the very point of starting for Herford, to 
 see him and welcome his return. Richard had always 
 been a favourite with him, and he had done his utmost 
 to prevent old Richard Herford making his second will, 
 though when he found all his remonstrances v^ere in 
 vain, it had been drawn up in his office, and executed 
 and attested in his presence. Of late years he had 
 grown increasingly proud of the position taken by Justin 
 in the county, and had learned to rejoice in what he 
 looked upon as the lucky chance that old Herford' s will 
 had been made in his favour. When, therefore, Richard 
 told him his stoiy, and fitted in the ragged fragments
 
 Richard's Disappointment. 229 
 
 of yellow paper on his desk, so as to display the feu- 
 words inscribed upon them, he merely shook his head. 
 
 "My dear lad," he said, " I feel very strongly for 
 you, Tery strongly indeed ; but this is all rubbish ; 
 there is positively nothing to shake Justin ; nothing 
 even to suspect in the way of foul play. Justin is quite 
 incapable of that. I can testify that he was ready to 
 move heaven and earth to discover you when your father 
 died. Come, come; ,you are both my nephews, my 
 sister's sons, and if there is one favourite with me it's 
 you, Dick. But I tell you you could as easily shake 
 Herford cliffs as Justin. It is hard upon you, of course; 
 but, my boy, why did you run away ? and why did you 
 not come back sooner ? "When one's father is over 
 eighty there's small chance of his living long, and 
 Justin was always like a son to him. Justin is 
 a good man, and everybody knows you are a scape- 
 grace." 
 
 " But what does all this mean ? " asked Richard, 
 angrily pointing to the torn papers on the desk. 
 
 " Nothing to any purpose," replied the lawyer ; 
 " apparently it's only the cover of your father's first 
 will, which was made when you were a baby ; see, the
 
 Th^^ough a Needle s Eye. 
 
 date is in the forties, and the last will was in the fifties. 
 If you had the will itself it would be worth no more 
 than waste-paper. No, Justin did his best to find you, 
 and no doubt if you had come forward then he'd have 
 acted handsomely by you. But you chose to stay away 
 ten years longer, and he is Herford of Herford. Even 
 if he was willing to give it up then he would not do it 
 now ; he could not with all the claims there are upon 
 him. Look at Pansy, brought up as his heiress. What 
 could he do with her, to say nothing of himself? He'll 
 be member for Lowborough the next time we have an 
 election. There has never been a Herford of Herford in 
 Parliament yet, and he will be the first." 
 
 "He's no Herford," growled Kichard. 
 
 "Now, now," interrupted his uncle, " we have for- 
 gotten all that. He has raised the name all through 
 the county ; but he is bound to make some provision 
 for you, of course ; I will see to j^ou having a nice 
 younger son's portion. Your mother has saved two or 
 three thousand pounds, too, and she must leave all she 
 saves to you. Justin has nearly doubled the value of 
 the property. His oyster-beds bring him in a very 
 good percentage. He has some sloops, and carries on
 
 Richartfs Disappointment. 
 
 a capital coasting-trade. Justin's head is worth two of 
 mine ; he will be a very wealthy raan before he dies." 
 
 "It's all ^-ith my money," cried Richard, striking 
 the desk with his clenched fist till the fragments of 
 paper flew in all directions ; "he was a beggarly parson, 
 with no more than two hundred a year, when I went 
 away. It's my money has done it." 
 
 " Justin's head and your father's money," said Mr. 
 Watson ; "he had a right to do as he chose with it, 
 and he knew j'ou would make ducks and drakes of it." 
 
 " The estate ought to have been entailed," answered 
 Pdchard ; "but who would have expected any father 
 to be so unnatural as to oust his own son, and put 
 another man's son into it ? A wicked will like that 
 ought not to stand good by law." 
 
 " But the estate was not entailed and the will stands 
 good," replied his uncle ; " you have not a leg to stand 
 upon, my poor Dick. Make yourself as pleasant as you 
 can to Justin, and I'll see what I can do between 
 you." 
 
 Eichard rode back to Herford in a very different mood 
 from that in which he had galloped to Lowborough. 
 Leah Dart's faithful custody of the scraps of paper had
 
 Thi'otigh a Needle s Eye. 
 
 been all in vain. He tossed the faded silk bag away con- 
 temptuously into the first ditch he came to, feeling angry 
 with her for having awakened false hopes. Justin was 
 safe in his possession of Herford ; and even Richard's 
 sanguine imagination, which was always looking for 
 something to turn up, could no longer cherish the 
 expectation of recovering his forfeited birthright. He 
 must take his uncle's advice, and make himself as 
 pleasant as he could to his elder brother. 
 
 This was by no means an easy task. He did not see 
 Justin till they met at the dinner table, and then he 
 was silent and pre-occupied. It w^as quite another 
 thing to make his way with his mother and Pansy. 
 Pansy's sweet face was lit up with radiant smiles ; whilst 
 his mother hung upon every word he uttered as if she 
 was delighted with all he said. Jenny Cunliffe, too, was 
 encouraging in her fresh country-bred simplicity. But 
 Justin did not seem to hear Richard's wondrous stories, 
 and somewhat silly attempts at wit. Even when they 
 were together after dinner, an interval of a few minutes 
 only, they could hit upon no safe topic of conversation; 
 and Justin soon found an excuse for leaving his brother 
 to enjoy his wine alone.
 
 Richards Disappomtment. 
 
 When Justin entered the draT^ing-room he found only 
 Mrs. Herford and Jennv. It was still daylight, though 
 the sun was low in the sky, and long grey shadows 
 stretched over cliff and sea. Pansy had stepped out, 
 through the open window, upon the grassy terrace, \Ax\i 
 its horder of summer flowers ; among which the eyen- 
 ing primroses and tall white hlies were gleaming softly 
 in the tender light. She was flitting to and fro rest- 
 lessly, as though some unquiet emotion had taken pos- 
 session of her. Her head was cast down, and her arms 
 drooped at her side. Justin watched her sorroT\-fully 
 for a minute or two, before going out to join her. This 
 was no longer his playful, light-hearted child ! He 
 drew her hand fondly through his arm, and they paced 
 up and down the grassy terrace for a little while, with 
 soundless footsteps and silent lips. 
 
 " Father, may I answer his letter ?" whispered Pansy 
 at last. 
 
 *' Whose letter ? " he asked ; for in the multitude of 
 perplexing thoughts crowding upon his mind, he had 
 well nigh forgotten that Pansy had a letter to answer 
 as well as himself. 
 
 "!Mr. Robert Fortescue's," she replied, in a demure
 
 2 34 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 tone ; and then, breaking into a low tremulous laugh, 
 she went on, " but I'm not to call him Eobert, like 
 everybody else. I've given him a new name, that no 
 one will use but me. I call him Richmond, because 
 we saw one another first in Richmond Park. You 
 recollect meeting him, father ? Under those beautiful 
 old trees ! I never saw trees so beautiful as those." 
 
 "And has he given you a new name ?" inquired 
 Justin, feeling as if every word of Pansy's stabbed him 
 to the heart. 
 
 *' No," she answered, " he says he loves the name of 
 Pansy ; it is for remembrance, 3'ou know. Perhaps he 
 will sometimes call me Heartsease, as Uncle Dick 
 does. May I answer his letter, dear father ? " 
 
 " How do you like Sir Robert Fortescue ? " he asked, 
 evading her question. 
 
 ' ' I should not like him much if he was not his 
 father," said Pansy, " but I know no one ever had such 
 a father as mine ! Richmond said so over and over 
 again. He is like a disciple to you ; he is ready to 
 follow 3^ou anywhere, and do exactly what you wish him 
 to do. He said he had never known any one half so 
 good and clever as you are. That was before I ever
 
 Richards Disappointment. 
 
 thought he loYed me ; but I could not help loving him 
 for what he said of you." 
 
 " Cunning young rascal ! " thought Justin. '' When 
 did you know he loved you, Pansy ? " he asked. 
 
 " Not for certain till this very morning," she replied, 
 dropping her voice again to a happy whisper. " Yester- 
 day, when we left London, I made up my mind that I'd 
 been only a silly girl ; and when we reached home at 
 night, and I saw how lovely and peaceful it was, I felt 
 as if I should never care to marry anybody, or go away 
 again, but hve with you always, like Diana lives T\ith 
 her father. But this morning his letter came, and then 
 I knew. He loves me \A\\i all his heart. Oh ! I 
 cannot tell how happy I am ! But I have not an- 
 swered his letter ; I would not till you gave me 
 leave." 
 
 Again, for a few minutes, they walked along the soft 
 sward of the terrace, in silence so blissful to Pansy that 
 she did not care to break it by speaking again. The 
 sun had dipped behind the rounded brow of the meadow 
 stretching to the summit of the cliff, but the sky was 
 all aglow T\-ith the sunset glory of the hidden orb. 
 Over the sea northward, a line of pale cloudlets was
 
 236 Through a Needles Eye, 
 
 gliding gently along the horizon, to lose itself by-and- 
 by in the splendour of the west. The spray leaping 
 upon the outstretching spurs of the cliffs caught the 
 rays of the sinking sun, and its whiteness was suffused 
 with a tinge of crimson and gold. The windows in the 
 valley began to gleam like so many glow-worms, and 
 the stars were peeping out shyly in the pale blue of the 
 eastern heavens. The happy silence was heightened 
 by the twittering of the birds in the hedgerows, and the 
 full sweet evening song of the thrushes, answering one 
 another from neighbouring coppices. 
 
 Pansy rubbed her cheek fondly against her father's 
 arm, which she was holding with both her little hands. 
 He was on the rack, suffering a very agony of sorrow 
 and anxiety for her. It seemed to him as if the poor 
 man, who had nothing save one little ewe lamb, that 
 had eaten of his own morsel and drank of his own cup, 
 had been forced to plunge a knife into its white throb- 
 bing throat, as it lay in his bosom. He put off the e'sdl 
 moment as long as he could, till they heard Mrs. Her- 
 ford calling peevishly through the open windov/ to say 
 Pansy ought not to be out so late in the night air with 
 the dew falling.
 
 Richard's Disappointrnent. 237 
 
 "My darling," he said, very pitifully while his own 
 heart contracted with a pang greater than hers could 
 feel, " if I asked you not to answer this letter till I 
 give you leave, would you obey me — if you had to 
 wait several days ? " 
 
 " Oh, father ! why ? " exclaimed Pansy ; *' he is long- 
 ing so to hear my answer. He says he shall not be able 
 to sleep an instant till he has my letter. That will be 
 two whole nights to-morrow morning. He will be ill. 
 I almost thought I ought to drive over to Lowborough, 
 and telegraph this afternoon. Why must I not 
 write ? " 
 
 " Sir Eobert Fortescue has written to me on this 
 subject," he answered, "and it is possible, my little 
 daughter, that after all, you could not marry his son. 
 Let us look at it bravely. If you could not marry him, 
 it would be well to be a little reserved towards him. 
 The Fortescues are high people, and they will not 
 receive you into their family as simple Pansy 
 Herford. My dearest, listen to me as if I were your 
 mother. A young, motherless girl like you must be 
 very careful what she says to any man she is not 
 sure of marrying."
 
 238 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 Pansy drew herself up to her full height, and raised 
 her head. It was too dark for him to see the crimson 
 flush that coursed over her face and neck ; but he knew 
 that he had touched her maidenly pride. She stood 
 silent and erect beside him ; her pretty head turned 
 away towards the dim sea. It was clear to him that 
 this love of his j^oung daughter's must be disastrous 
 and unhappy ; but to her there was nothing but a little 
 cloud rising in the brightness of her sunny sky. She 
 turned towards him, after a brief pause, and spoke with 
 girlish dignity. 
 
 " I am willing to do what you think best, father," 
 she said, " only I wish you to write a few lines to 
 him, and tell him he must wait a little while, and 
 not be unhappy. He thinks so much of you that 
 a letter from you will be almost as good as if I 
 wrote." 
 
 Then they went back lo the lighted drawing-room, 
 where Richard was lounging on a sofa, very much at 
 home, and in recovered spirits. His mother and he 
 kept up a lively conversation for the rest of the evening, 
 for Eichard was not one inclined to brood over troubles, 
 or let either the past or the future cast a shadow over
 
 Richards Disappointment. 239 
 
 the present. He was in comfortable quarters just now, 
 and he would enjoy himself as well as he could whilst 
 he was in them. *' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow 
 we die," was his maxim.
 
 240 TJirough a Needle s Eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MKS. CUNLIFFE's CARES. 
 
 TT will readily be believed that Mrs. Cunliffe was 
 taking unbounded interest in the exciting events 
 that had visited Herford, where exciting events "were 
 few and far between." The old village was agape with 
 curiosity and expectation. Leah Dart had let fall a 
 few mysterious words, hinting at a speedy revolution in 
 affairs ; and it w^as reported furtively that she had the 
 means of driving out Master Justin, and setting up 
 Master Richard in his forfeited birthright. Of course 
 Justin knew nothing of these rumours, nor did they 
 reach Mr. Cunliffe's ears, closed as they w^ere to the 
 echoes of mere worldly gossip. But Mrs. Cunliffe 
 w^as aware of them from the first, and pondered over 
 them quietly, not breathing a syllable of them to any 
 of those whom they concerned. Her maternal hopes 
 were all aroused. If Richard should turn out the
 
 Airs. C2inliffes Cares. 241 
 
 master of Herford, what a chance there would be for 
 Jenny. She was still a welcome visitant at the Court, 
 and she was always reckoned a pretty girl when Pansy 
 was away ; and Pansy could he no rival in this case. 
 She had seen Jenny hearkening, open-eyed and eager, 
 to Richard's traveller's tales, and Pilchard was not in- 
 sensible to her simple enthusiasm. 
 
 Mrs. Cunliffe grew intensely anxious to learn the 
 whole truth ; and who was more likely to know it than 
 Leah Dart's aunt, Mrs. Fosse? She had not been to 
 see Mrs. Fosse since she had sent for the third couple 
 of her chickens, which had really proved to be very 
 delicate eating for the Vicarage table. There were only 
 three left now, and they were grown to a very fair size. 
 Out of consideration to Mrs. Fosse she had not left 
 them to grow into very advanced chickens, but had sent 
 for a couple now and then as she needed them. There 
 was inward indignation in ^Irs. Fosse's heart ; but she 
 had concealed it skilfully, even from her old Jeremy, 
 
 "Mrs. Fosse," said Mrs. Cunlifife, in her muffled 
 voice, *' the last chicks were delicious, simply delicious. 
 I almost envied you having such fare always at hand. 
 A young tender chicken, well fed, with a few rashers 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Throtigh a Needles Eye. 
 
 of that very prime bacon of your own rearing and cur- 
 ing, and vegetables out of your own garden, grown by 
 your good husband, is a dish fit to be set before a 
 queen." 
 
 " When would you like the other three, ma'am?" 
 asked Mrs. Fosse shortly, as if she was not in the 
 the most placid of tempers. 
 
 *' Well, I am thinking of asking Mr. Kichard Her- 
 ford to condescend to dine at our humble table," she 
 replied, " and they will come in very nicely then. How 
 very kind and good you have been to rear them so 
 very well for me. They have been no anxiety, no 
 trouble at all to me. I should offer to pay you a trifle 
 more than the sum we first agreed upon, only I am 
 sure you will not let me ; and I will not gi'ieve you 
 by saying another word about it. It was ninepence I 
 beheve." 
 
 '' There were a dozen eggs," remarked Mrs. Fosse, 
 unable to keep her tongue quite still. 
 
 " Yes ; but three were addled," said Mrs. Cunlifi'e 
 mildly, " there were only nine chickens hatched I 
 believe. Of course it must be a disappointment to 
 you when your eggs are addled ; I quite understand
 
 ]\Irs. Citnliffes Cares. 243 
 
 that. I find I have no change with me, but you may 
 feel sure of your money, Mrs. Fosse." 
 
 "Never mention it, ma'am," she answered, inwardly 
 praying for patience, and thinking of the firm friend- 
 ship between her husband and Mr. CunhfTe. 
 
 "I shall take care not to forget it," continued Mrs. 
 Cunliffe, " though one may easily forget anything 
 amid all these rapid changes. ' There is a time for 
 everything,' says the book of Ecclesiastes, and it may 
 well make us solemn to think of that. Who would 
 have expected Mr. Richard to come home again, after 
 all these years ? You knew old Mr. Herford ? " 
 
 *' I've dwelt in Herford all my days, and I knew the 
 old master well," said Mrs. Fosse. 
 
 ** Ah ! and was he so wrapt up, as they say, in his 
 son ? " she asked, "or was he very fond of Mr. Justin 
 Herford ? Justin Webb he was then, his stepson. Were 
 you and Jeremy astonished when the estates came to 
 him?" 
 
 " Me and Jeremy went down on our knees to thank 
 God for it," she replied, with more vivacity than 
 usual. " Master Herford was a wrathful man, and a 
 very wilful man ; and he'd sworn great oaths he'd 
 
 R 2
 
 244 Thi'ough a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 cut off Master Dick if he didn't come home before 
 he died. But none of us believed it till the will was 
 read. It seemed almost too good to be true." 
 
 ''But I hear say Mr. Eichard will come into his 
 own yet/' suggested Mrs. Cunliffe, with an impartial 
 and curious tone. 
 
 " That's Leah's fine talk — set her up for a con- 
 ceited madam ! " answered Mrs. Fosse. " She'll be 
 sayin' Master Dick's goin' to marry her, next. No, 
 no. We do have some misgivin's that Master Justin 
 may-be '11 give up to him. You see it is his birth- 
 right, and it's cruel and unfair to him, and our Master 
 Justin can't abide anything that's unfair. Somehow 
 it seems like Jacob takin' Esau's birthright from him. 
 But it was a bitter bad day for Herford when Master 
 Dick came back, if he is to be master again, and 
 turn out Master Justin." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Mrs. Cunliffe, committing herself to 
 nothing. 
 
 " If Master Justin gives up the Court," continued 
 Mrs. Fosse maliciously, '* I hear folks say as Master 
 Cunliffe 'ill give up the Vicarage to him, and we shall 
 lose you and him, ma'am."
 
 UTrs. Ctinliffes Cares. 245 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! " ejaculated Mrs. Cunliffe, as 
 a sudden scathing dread flashed across her mind. She 
 felt, ^ith an ominous heart- sinking, that Philip would 
 do it, if Justin would let him. Philip would think 
 nothing of turning out to beggary and starvation, if 
 these came in the path of self-sacrifice. She had no 
 very high opinion of Justin. But she had not a high 
 opinion of any one ; her nature was not capable of real 
 trust. If Justin had gained the estates in any under- 
 hand way, as she was quite T\illing to believe, he would 
 have no scruple in taking back the living he had be- 
 stowed upon his friend. She recoiled with dread from 
 the too vi^^d idea of going back to some poor curacy in 
 a large town, where they would be nobodies, and where 
 she would meet with no little helps to eke out their 
 scanty income. In her terror she murmured, " God 
 forbid ! " 
 
 *' Amen ! " said Mrs. Fosse. " God forbid as Master 
 Justin should give up to Master Dick ! But if he do, 
 why nature says as he must go to the Vicarage 
 again. You've only been here these nine years, but 
 he's always lived amonofst us ; since he was a little 
 curly-headed lad. And there's Miss Pansy, she's been
 
 246 Thro2igJi a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 born and bred amongst us ; she's like our own daughter, 
 seein' as she never had her own mother, poor lamb ! 
 She's just the same as own child to every woman in 
 Herford. I couldn't fancy to think of Herford with- 
 out Master Justin and Miss Pansy. Either squire or 
 parson he must be." 
 
 " But, my good woman ! " exclaimed Mrs. Cunliffe, 
 ' ' the living was given to Mr. Cunliffe for life. No per- 
 son could deprive him of it." 
 
 " God bless him ! He'd be the first to see the rights," 
 said Mrs. Fosse cheerfully, conscious of Mrs. Cunliffe's 
 dismay ; " he's a true gentleman and a godly Christian ; 
 and he'd never keep another man out of his dues. I'd 
 trust Mr. Cunliffe for that. So I say again, God forbid 
 Master Justin should give up to Master Dick ! " 
 
 *' But isn't Mr. Justin keeping his own brother out 
 of his dues ? " asked Mrs. Cunliffe somewhat spite- 
 fully. 
 
 The old woman's face fell. She did not like to look 
 at the question from that point of view. It was quite 
 evident to her that right and justice would demand the 
 restoration of the church and vicarage to Justin ; but 
 she was not prepared to admit that Justin was bound
 
 Mi's. Cunliffes Cares. 247 
 
 to resign his estates to the born heir. Her dread of 
 Master Dick's reign was too real and too great to allow 
 her to see clearly in that direction. She could only 
 shake her head and repeat, "God forbid it ! God 
 forbid it ! "
 
 248 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI. 
 
 JUSTIN S STRAIT. 
 
 nnHE long summer daj^s passed heavily to all at Her- 
 ford Court. The conflict in Justin's mind did not 
 come to a speedy conclusion, for he was taking time to 
 observe his brother narrowly. There was no evidence 
 of any change having transformed Richard's character. 
 He was simply the sort of man his boyhood had fore- 
 told. If he became master of Herford Court he would 
 be the least estimable Herford that had ever owned it. 
 In ten years' time, Justin felt sure, the estate would 
 pass into the hands of strangers, and Richard be beg- 
 ging for his bread. Was it not his duty to hold fast 
 the property ? 
 
 The idea that his elder brother had robbed him 
 by foul play of his inheritance had not been dismissed 
 from Richard's mind, though he had thrown away as 
 worthless the poor evidence of such a crime. He had
 
 Jiistins Strait. 249 
 
 never practised self-control, and now, though it was to 
 his interest to make himself agreeable to Justin, he 
 could not refrain from an occasional outburst of angry 
 insolence, alternating with an almost servile deference 
 to him. He made free with the horses and boats 
 belonging to the house ; and he lounged about Herford, 
 talking with the fishermen on the beach, with hints 
 and inuendoes of Justin's unlawful usurpation of his 
 birthright. 
 
 There was a certain sense of justice in the hearts 
 of the men which recognized the claims of the only- 
 son to his father's property, and which was kindled 
 into stronger life by Richard's presence. Each one felt 
 that his small possessions — his boat, his cattle, his 
 household furniture — which he had inherited from his 
 forefathers, he held in a sort of trust for the children 
 that were coming after him. His sons were the grand- 
 sons of the father who had left him his goods ; and 
 there was a natural law which required of him that 
 after he had served his own life with them, they should 
 pass into the possession of those in whose veins the 
 same blood ran. Yet all the while they knew that 
 Justin's ownership of Herford Court was the most
 
 250 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 beneficial circumstance to every one connected with 
 the estate. 
 
 Mrs. Herford, with all the force of a weak-minded 
 woman, took the side of her younger son. She 
 behaved as if she could not make enough of him, and 
 she supplied him with as much money as he chose 
 to demand from her, under the transparent subterfuge 
 of borrowing. Every day the fatted calf was killed, 
 the best robe worn. She invited her friends and neigh- 
 bours, from far and near, to come and rejoice with her 
 over her long-lost son ; and a succession of somewhat 
 dreary festivities took place at Herford Court, enjoyed 
 by no one except Jenny Cunliffe. Jenny's mother kept 
 her well supplied with pretty, fresh muslin dresses, 
 and an almost unrestricted supply of ribbons and 
 gloves. The cost was not very great, and Mrs. Cun- 
 liffe felt that Jenny was having her chance now. 
 Justin was bound at least to provide handsomely for 
 his brother, who had come home at last safe and 
 sound, though a beggar. Why should not Jenny 
 share Eichard Herford 's fortunes? 
 
 Leah Dart had felt it to be a great blow when 
 Richard told her that her cherished secret had proved
 
 Justins Sh^ait. 251 
 
 utterly worthless. She scarcely believed it, especially 
 as Kichard harped upon the notion that there had been 
 foul play somehow. He took his obligations to her 
 very coolly, and did not make her heart beat fast with 
 gladness by kissing her again. In fact, he was really 
 irritated against her for kindling hopes that had been 
 so rudely extinguished by his uncle. He almost felt a 
 grudge against her because the papers had not turned 
 out of more value. When she asked him again for 
 the little silk bag she had carried in her bosom for ten 
 years, he told her how he had tossed it away, utterly 
 indifferent to the chagrin she felt. Leah shed some 
 bitter tears over the loss ; she would have given her 
 year's wages for that little bag. 
 
 " Justin," said his mother one morning, in a cold 
 and distant manner, " my brother Watson writes me he 
 is coming over to-day. It is high time to see what 
 is to be done for Dick. It's very hard for him, poor 
 boy ! cruelly hard to see you here in his place. You 
 should recollect you were not born a Herford. Of 
 course, if my poor dead husband had taken my advice, 
 I should have sho^n him how very unjust it was to cut 
 off his own son, and quite against my wishes. Right
 
 252 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 is right. But Mr. Herford always kept me in tlie dark, 
 and my poor boy suffers for it." 
 
 *' I have not yet finally decided what I shall do," 
 answered Justin, '' it is a more difficult question than 
 you suppose. You would have me deliver up every- 
 thing into Kichard's hands ? " 
 
 " I hardly say that," replied the mother musingly. 
 " Richard is rather a spendthrift. Still, I cannot help 
 feeling he is the rightful owner. He goes ordering 
 about more like the owner than you do. He thrashed 
 one of the lads this morning right soundly ; and that 
 you would never do. Anybody could see with half an 
 eye which is the born master." 
 
 " The born tyrant," interposed Justin, with mingled 
 indignation and sadness. 
 
 " Just like his poor father," continued Mrs. Herford. 
 *' Oh ! there's no question as to which is the true 
 Herford of Herford. No ; poor, poor Dick ! he is not 
 in his right place. He was so very young when he ran 
 away. He tells me he was actually on his way home, 
 was close at hand, when he heard his father was dead, 
 and how he had left you everything, and he w^ent off 
 again, broken-hearted. If he had been a fortnight
 
 ytistins Strait. 253 
 
 earlier he would have found his father alive, and it 
 would all have been altered. It was one of his ship- 
 wrecks that hindered him from being home in 
 time. He has been in a great number of ship- 
 wrecks." 
 
 ** Then 3'ou wish to see Richard master here ? " said 
 Justin. 
 
 "Well, I only wish what is right," she answered; 
 " I cannot believe it is right for my poor boy to be 
 a beggar in his own father's house. You would not 
 like Pansy to be turned out in that way for a woman 
 that was not a bit related to you. Blood is blood, and 
 blood is thicker than water. Right is right, and wrong 
 can never be right." 
 
 After having delivered herself thus oracularly, Mrs. 
 Herford leaned back in her chair, and adjusted her lace 
 lappets with an air of infinite self-complacency. As 
 usual, when he was in perplexity, Justin was marching 
 up and down the room ; but though she hated to see it, 
 she dared not give way to her petulance. She was 
 always a little awed by her elder son ; but Dick never 
 gave her the same insufferable feeling of being looked 
 through, and silently condemned. She felt sure that
 
 2 54 Through a Needles Eye. 
 
 Justin had found her out, and knew her thoroughly, 
 though his manner towards her was unvaryingly kind 
 and considerate. Dick would think more of her opinion 
 than he did. 
 
 But Justin was not disregarding his mother's opinion 
 now. On the contrary, he was pondering over every 
 word she had uttered. Especially he dwelt upon his 
 brother's statement that he was on his way home when 
 his aged father died. As a man watching the outbreak 
 of a threatening tempest takes heed how a straw is 
 blown, he was carefully considering the least thing that 
 had a bearing on the momentous question on hand. 
 He dared not say to himself, he was absolutely inca- 
 pable of saying it, "I will hold what I have, in spite of 
 conscience, of uprightness, of responsibility to a higher 
 rule than the mere legal processes of a court of law." 
 Yet it was difficult to make sure of that higher rule, 
 whilst there were so many conflicting claims to adjust. 
 As yet, he resembled the man partially restored to sight, 
 who saw men as trees walking. His thoughts, and 
 plans, and desires were all vague, dim, and wandering. 
 He could not open his eyes and see the path of right- 
 eousness stretching before him in a clear light. His
 
 ytistins Strait. 
 
 -OD 
 
 mother's words took the same obscure form, and began 
 to haunt his troubled brain. 
 
 It was a relief to hold a conversation on the subject 
 with his uncle, though he could do nothing towards 
 really helping him to a decision, whilst the fundamental 
 fact was concealed from him. Mr. Watson lost no time 
 in beating about the bush. Both of them were his 
 nephews, and if he liked Kichard best, he admired 
 Justin most. Justin was a rising man, coming into 
 importance in the county, and incomparably the best 
 master there had ever been at Herford. Richard was 
 not fit, in his uncle's eyes, to be trusted with either 
 money or influence ; yet there was just reason why he 
 should be handsomely provided for by Justin. 
 
 '•' I hope you are ready to do something handsome for 
 the poor fellow," he said to Justin. 
 
 " What should you call handsome ? " he asked. 
 
 Mr. Watson paused. He had sounded Mrs. Herford 
 as to her intentions, and found her obstinately resolved 
 to hold fast her own money. She had been saving the 
 greater portion of her income since her husband's 
 death, and had invested it at a high percentage in 
 Justin's improvements. The £500 per annum be-
 
 256 Through a N'eedles Eye. 
 
 queathed by Mr. Herford's later will had considerably- 
 increased. But she was quite determined not to lose 
 any of it. Mr. Watson bad boldly promised to secure 
 £300 a year for Kicbard ; but if bis mother would not 
 do anything, it must all come out of Justin's pocket — 
 at the very time, too, when Pansy was likely to be 
 a much greater expense to her father. He did not 
 know of Sir Kobert Fortescue's letter, or he would have 
 felt the difficulty still greater. 
 
 *' We must take into consideration the poor fellow's 
 extraordinary position," he said; ''all the country is 
 talking about it. There is no doubt he has a natural 
 right to eveiything ; and in many lands he would have 
 the legal right. English law, however, steps in, and 
 says every man may do as he likes with his 0^11, with 
 certain restrictions. He may indeed limit his successor 
 to a life interest only in his estate, and entail it upon 
 others. Dick's ancestors might have done this ; and 
 his father could not have disinherited him. But they 
 each left their successor free ; and you have reaped the 
 benefit. Still, the natural right remains the same. 
 What my father and forefathers gained ought to be 
 mine, not another man's. I considered old Herford's
 
 y 7 IS tins Strait. 257 
 
 will unjust, and I did my utmost to get him to alter it. 
 You must take all these circumstances into calm and 
 fair consideration, Justin." 
 
 *' Do you think me covetous ? " asked Justin, with 
 a half smile. 
 
 " No," answered his uncle, in a dubious tone, " but 
 you know the value of money. You only reckon 
 twenty shillings to the pound, while poor Dick counts 
 five-and- twenty. Covetous ? Why, no ! Not miserly 
 nor greedy. About as covetous, I suppose, as other 
 men, who have a good snug income in their hands and 
 are making a good use of it. You were always afraid 
 of being poor, when you were quite a little lad." 
 
 " Was I ? " he asked sorrowfully. 
 
 " Well ! You have the eyes of all the country upon 
 you," said Mr. Watson, " there's nothing else talked 
 about at Lowborough. I am satisfied you will deal 
 liberally with your brother, whether you love him or 
 not. I always feel sorry for that elder brother in the 
 parable, you know, who stayed at home, and was good 
 to his father ; and when young scapegrace turned up 
 again, and all the house went mad over him, I don't 
 wonder he was angry. It was all right for the father to 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 Thi'ough a Needles Eye. 
 
 be glad ; but brothers are different. I hope he made 
 the best of it, however; and you will do the same, 
 Justin." 
 
 " As soon as I know what is best," answered Justin. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Woodfall & Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.
 
 /