“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.