Mr. Townshend and Buff both looked at her.
"Yes; Father told me. It seems that years ago he had a brother who was a grief to him, and who did something pretty bad, and went off to America, leaving a wife and three children. Mr. Taylor wasn't a bit well-off, but he set himself to the task of paying off the debts his brother had left, and helping to keep the family. For years he denied himself everything but the barest necessities—no pipe, no morning paper, no car-pennies—and he told no one what he was doing. And his wife helped him in every way, and never said it was hard on her. The worst is over now, and he told Father. But I think it must have been in those hard days that he learned the joking habit, to keep himself going, you know, and so I don't find them so silly as I did, but brave, and rather pathetic somehow."
Arthur Townshend nodded. "'To know all,'" he quoted. "It seems a pity that there aren't always interpreters at hand."
"And what do you think of the Scots Kirk?" Elizabeth asked him presently.
"In the Church of England a man who could preach like your father would be a bishop."
"I dare say. We have no bishops in our Church, but we have a fairly high standard of preaching. Do you mean that you think Father is rather thrown away in that church, preaching to the few?"
"It sounds impertinent—but I think I did mean that."
"Yes. Oh! I don't wonder. I looked round this morning and wondered how it would strike you. A small congregation of dull-looking, shabby people! But as Father looks at them they aren't dull or shabby. They are the souls given him to shepherd into the Fold. He has a charge to keep. He simply wouldn't understand you if you talked to him of a larger sphere, more repaying work, and so on. People often say to me, 'Your father is thrown away in that district.' They don't see...."
"You must think me a blundering sort of idiot——" Arthur began.
"Oh no! I confess I have a leaning towards your point of view. I know how splendid Father is, and I rather want everyone else to know it too. I want recognition for him. But he doesn't for himself. 'Fame i' the sun' never vexes his thoughts. I expect, if you have set your face steadfastly to go to Jerusalem, these things seem very small. And I am quite sure Father could never be a really popular minister. At times he fails lamentably. Yes; he simply can't be vulgar, poor dear, not even at a social meeting. He sees in marriage no subject for jesting. Even twins leave him cold. Where another man would scintillate with brilliant jokes on the subject Father merely says, 'Dear me!' Sometimes I feel rather sorry for the people—the happy bridegroom and the proud father, I mean. They are standing expecting to be, so to speak, dug in the ribs—and they aren't. I could do it quite well—it is no trouble to me to be all things to all men—but Father can't."