to the working people—why should I call them the poor? some of them are better off than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, and do it—"
I had forgot the beginning of my sentence.
"You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentleman to the poor—"
"Is no gentleman at all—only a gentle without the man; and if you consult my namesake old Izaak, you will find what that is."
"I will look. I know your way now. You won't tell me anything I can find out for myself."
"Is it not the best way?"
"Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than you look for."
"Certainly that has been my own experience."
"Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?"
"No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of his spirit that I can do two things like him."
"Tell me."
"Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know a good man when I see him."
"I am very glad you asked me to go to-night."
"If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom of heaven would not be far off."
I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was silent thereafter; though I allow that her silence was not conclusive. And we had now come close to the house.
"I wish I could help you," I said.
"In what?"
"To bear what I fear is waiting you."
"I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are unequal that we want help. You may have to give it me some day—who knows?"
I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah (the white wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my heart, however, over her last words.
My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I get very much further with my story, I have to confess that I loved Miss Oldcastle.
When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfather rose and tottered to meet him. His father made one step towards him and then hesitated. Of all conditions of the human mind, that of being ashamed of himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. The man had never in his life, I believe, done anything mean or dishonest, and therefore he had had less frequent opportunities than most people of being ashamed of himself. Hence his fall had been from another pinnacle—that of pride. When a man thinks it such a fine thing to have done right, he might almost as well have done wrong, for it shows he considers right something EXTRA, not absolutely essential to human existence, not the life of a man. I call it Thomas Weir's fall; for surely to behave in an unfatherly manner to both daughter and son—the one sinful, and therefore needing the more tenderness—the other innocent, and therefore claiming justification—and to do so from pride, and hurt pride, was fall enough in one history, worse a great deal than many sins that go by harder names; for the world's judgment of wrong does not exactly correspond with the reality. And now if he was humbled in the one instance, there would be room to hope he might become humble in the other. But I had soon to see that, for a time, his pride, driven from its entrenchment against his son, only retreated, with all its forces, into the other against his daughter.
Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held out his hand and said:—
"Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones."
But I stepped between.
"Thomas Weir," I said, "I have too great a regard for you—and you know I dare not flatter you—to let you off this way, or rather leave you to think you have done your duty when you have not done the half of it. You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How can you claim to be a gentleman—I say nothing of being a Christian, for therein you make no claim—how, I say, can you claim to act like a gentleman, if, having done a man wrong—his being your own son has nothing to do with the matter one way or other, except that it ought to make you see your duty more easily—having done him wrong, why don't you beg his pardon, I say, like a man?"
He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, and catching his father's hand in both of his, cried out:
"My father shan't beg my pardon. I beg yours, father, for everything I ever did to displease you, but I WASN'T to blame in this. I wasn't, indeed."
"Tom, I beg your pardon," said the hard man, overcome at last. "And now, sir," he added, turning to me, "will you let by-gones be by-gones between my boy and me?"
There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone.
"With all my heart," I replied. "But I want just a word with you in the shop before I go."
"Certainly," he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the young man good night, and followed him down stairs.
"Thomas, my friend," I said, when we got into the shop, laying my hand on his shoulder, "will you after this say that God has dealt hardly with you? There's a son for any man God ever made to give thanks for on his knees! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fair play in your heart, and you GIVE fair play neither to your own son nor yet to God himself. You close your doors and brood over your own miseries, and the wrongs people have done you; whereas, if you would but open those doors, you might come out into the light of God's truth, and see that His heart is as clear as sunlight towards you. You won't believe this, and therefore naturally you can't quite believe that there is a God at all; for, indeed, a being that was not all light would be no God at all. If you would but let Him teach you, you would find your perplexities melt away like the snow in spring, till you could hardly believe you had ever felt them. No arguing will convince you of a God; but let Him once come in, and all argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that there is no God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have said.—Good night."
He did not return my farewell with a single word. But the grasp of his strong rough hand was more earnest and loving even than usual. I could not see his face, for it was almost dark; but, indeed, I felt that it was better I could not see it.
I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whose curtains God had drawn about the earth that it might sleep till the morrow.
CHAPTER XIV.
MY PUPIL.
Although I do happen to know how Miss Oldcastle fared that night after I left her, the painful record is not essential to my story. Besides, I have hitherto recorded only those things "quorum pars magna"—or minima, as the case may be—"fui." There is one exception, old Weir's story, for the introduction of which my reader cannot yet see the artistic reason. For whether a story be real in fact, or only real in meaning, there must always be an idea, or artistic model in the brain, after which it is fashioned: in the latter case one of invention, in the former case one of choice.
In the middle of the following week I was returning from a visit I had paid to Tomkins and his wife, when I met, in the only street of the village, my good and honoured friend Dr Duncan. Of course I saw him often—and
