His voice dropped as he spoke, and the bright look of enthusiasm faded from his face, leaving it prematurely old and tired. For it was above all things his enthusiasm, a sort of exalted look as of one who dreamed dreams and saw visions not vouchsafed to ordinary men, that made Aubrey Todmarsh's face attractive. Momentarily stripped of its bright expression it was merely a thin, rather overjowled face, with deep-set, dark eyes, noticeably low forehead, and thick dark hair brushed sleekly backwards, hair that was worn rather longer than most men's.
The clergyman looked at him pityingly.
“Oh, my dear Aubrey, this is only nerves, a very natural depression. We parsons know it only too well. It is especially liable to recur when we are beginning work. Later one learns that all one can do is to sow in faith, and then be content to wait the issue in patience, leaving everything to Him whose gracious powers can alone give the increase.”
Todmarsh did not speak for a moment, then he drew a long breath and, laying his hand on the rector's shoulder, looked at him with the bright smile with which his friends were familiar.
“You always give me comfort, Uncle James. Somehow you always know just what to say to heal when one has been stricken sorely. That idea of sowing and waiting—somehow one gets hold of that.”
“It isn't original, dear Aubrey,” his uncle said modestly. “But for all Christian work I have found it most helpful. But you, my dear Aubrey, the founder of this—er—splendid effort—might rather have cause for—er—spiritual exaltation than depression.”
“There is cause enough for depression sometimes, I assure you,” Aubrey returned gloomily. “Much of our work is done among the discharged prisoners, you know, Uncle James. Different members of our Community look after those bound over under the First Offenders' Act, and those undergoing short terms of imprisonment. With those who have had longer sentences and the habitual offenders I try to deal as much as possible myself with the valuable help of my second-in-command.”
“I know. I have heard how you attend at police courts and meet the prisoners when they come out. I can hardly imagine a more saintly work or one more certain to carry with it a blessing.”
“It doesn't seem to,” Todmarsh said, his face clouding over again. “There is this man, Michael Farmore, the case I was speaking of. He was convicted of burglary and served his five years. We got hold of him when he came out and brought him here. In time he became one of our most trusted members. If ever there was a case of genuine conversion I believed his to be one. Yet——”
“Yes?” Mr. Collyer prompted as he paused.