A born mechanic, he might have excelled as an engineer. With the best intentions, the most earnest endeavour, he never would excel as a "Parson." Critics spoke of him often as an unmitigated failure; and they went too far. No man who puts his heart into his work, and does his utmost, even though he has no natural gift for it, can be an unmitigated failure. But a success, from the ordinary point of view, he was not.
Though duty was never neglected by him, parish work ranked as a perpetual burden, and the visitation of sick and bereaved folk as a never-ending terror. Few guessed the fact, while condemning his uncouthness. His was a childlike nature, combining genuine enthusiasm with a man's shrewdness; but also it included something of animal dumbness. He could not voice his own emotions, could not say what he thought, could not express what he felt.
There were indeed seasons when, unexpectedly, he would break through these restraining bonds, when some sudden emergency would call forth his real strength of character. Then dumbness ceased, and he could take the lead, and take it well. But such occasions were few and far between. Usually, he only asked to be left in the background which he loved.
He was a square man in a round hole; and, do what he might, he never could fill the empty space. In the nature of things, this was impossible. A touch of the pathetic in such a sight, is there not? But has it ever occurred to you, how much grander a thing it is for a square man to be striving his heroic best to fill a round hole—even though the result be failure!—than for a round man to slip easily and without effort into a round hole which just fits him? The one means exertion, struggle, self-denial. The other means—nothing!
Do you question this? Think of a boat on a powerful river. From which does the looker-on gain most—from a man fighting bravely against the stream, whether he succeeds or fails, or from a man swept easily down by the force of the current? Mr. Winton's daily battle formed an object-lesson to more than one silent observer.
When Doris came to the shed, and found her father in pleased contemplation of his handiwork, she had come to the right place. She was in a cloudy mood this morning, and things looked awry. And she felt that, though the dear old daddy—she called him "daddy" still, when they were alone—might say little, he would understand.
Twice he glanced up from the work which he had resumed, with a scrutinising glance.
"Eh, child?" came at length. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm only tired of things, daddy. I should like to get away."
"Where?"