THE PARISH TRILOGY - Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, The Seaboard Parish & The Vicar's Daughter. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ are and do when she is out of sight. I mean that you should look in your mother's eyes, and do what is RIGHT."

      "I KNOW that—know it WELL." (She emphasized the words as I do.) "But you do not know what a spell she casts upon me; how impossible it is to do as you say."

      "Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free till you do so."

      "You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will scarcely be able to believe it now, I DO honour her, and cannot help feeling that by doing as I do, I avoid irreverence, impertinence, rudeness—whichever is the right word for what I mean."

      "I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than propriety of behaviour, even to a parent; and indeed has in it a deeper reverence, or the germ of it at least, than any adherence to the mere code of respect. If you once did as I want you to do, you would find that in reality you both revered and loved your mother more than you do now."

      "You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real idea of the difficulty."

      "That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true."

      "How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?"

      "Impossible!"

      She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. At length she said,

      "My mother's self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yet to learn where she would stop of herself."

      "All self-will is madness," I returned—stupidly enough For what is the use of making general remarks when you have a terrible concrete before you? "To want one's own way just and only because it is one's own way is the height of madness."

      "Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it were sense, it makes it no easier to know that it is madness."

      "Does your uncle give you no help?"

      "He! Poor man! He is as frightened at her as I am. He dares not even go away. He did not know what he was coming to when he came to Oldcastle Hall. Dear uncle! I owe him a great deal. But for any help of that sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe mamma looks upon him as half an idiot. He can do anything or everything but help one to live, to BE anything. Oh me! I AM so tired!"

      And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly, burst out crying.

      What was I to do? I did not know in the least. What I said, I do not even now know. But by this time we were at the gate, and as soon as we had passed the guardian monstrosities, we found the open road an effectual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of the old house where Weir lived, Miss Oldcastle became again a little curious as to what I required of her.

      "Trust me," I said. "There is nothing mysterious about it. Only I prefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of the man most concerned."

      "I do trust you," she answered. And we knocked at the house-door.

      Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in his hand. He looked very much astonished to see his lady-visitor. He asked us, politely enough, to walk up-stairs, and ushered us into the large room I have already described. There sat the old man, as I had first seen him, by the side of the fire. He received us with more than politeness—with courtesy; and I could not help glancing at Miss Oldcastle to see what impression this family of "low, free-thinking republicans" made upon her. It was easy to discover that the impression was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprised at her behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty tone was to be heard in her voice; not a haughty movement to be seen in her form. She accepted the chair offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the fireside, only that she turned towards me, waiting for what explanation I might think proper to give.

      Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence.

      "I've been telling Tom, sir, as I've told him many a time afore, as how he's a deal too hard with his children."

      "Father!" interrupted Thomas, angrily.

      "Have patience a bit, my boy," persisted the old man, turning again towards me.—"Now, sir, he won't even hear young Tom's side of the story; and I say that boy won't tell him no lie if he's the same boy he went away."

      "I tell you, father," again began Thomas; but this time I interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand.

      "Thomas," I said, "listen to me. I have heard your son's side of the story. Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, and asked her whether she was in his late master's shop last Thursday. That is all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that she was. I know no more than you what she is going to reply to my questions now, but I have no doubt her answers will correspond to your son's story."

      I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted to this:—That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen none good enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything; and that they had been waited upon by a young man, who, while perfectly polite and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have the ways or manners of a London shop-lad.

      I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, and asked if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetch him. But she was with her sister Catherine.

      "I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home now," said Miss Oldcastle.

      "Certainly," I answered. "I will take you home at once. I am greatly obliged to you for coming."

      "Indeed, sir," said the old man, rising with difficulty, "we're obliged both to you and the lady more than we can tell. To take such a deal of trouble for us! But you see, sir, you're one of them as thinks a man's got his duty to do one way or another, whether he be clergyman or carpenter. God bless you, Miss. You're of the right sort, which you'll excuse an old man, Miss, as'll never see ye again till ye've got the wings as ye ought to have."

      Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shook hands with them both, and bade them good-night. Weir could not speak a word; he could hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on each of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter Catherine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red too with the gripe he gave her hand. But she smiled again none the less sweetly.

      "I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and bring the boy with me," I said, as we left.

      It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun was setting, the sky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world full of that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day of rest. Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow.

      "Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?" I said, at last.

      "I thank you very much for taking me to see them," she returned, cordially.

      "You won't believe all you may happen to hear against the working people now?"

      "I never did."

      "There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, selfish, unbelieving people amongst them. God knows it. But there are ladies and gentlemen amongst them too."

      "That old man is a gentleman."

      "He is. And the only way to teach them all to be such, is to be such to them. The СКАЧАТЬ