'And his eldest daughter was much with him?'
'The apple of his eye. She understood him. He could talk his soul out to her. The others, of course, were children; and his wife--well, his wife was just what you see her now, poor thing. He must have married her when she was very young and very pretty. She was a squire's daughter some where near the school of which he was master--a good family, I believe--she'll tell you so, in a ladylike way. He was always fidgety about her health. He loved her, I suppose, or had loved her. But it was Catherine who had his mind, Catherine who was his friend. She adored him. I believe there was always a sort of pity in her heart for him too. But at any rate he made her and trained her. He poured all his ideas and convictions into her.'
'Uncommonly. For all his gentle ethereal look, you could neither bend nor break him. I don't believe anybody but Richard Leyburn could have gone through Oxford at the height of the Oxford Movement, and, so to speak, have known nothing about it, while living all the time for religion. He had a great deal in common with the Quakers, as I said; a great deal in common with the Wesleyans; but he was very loyal to the Church all the same. He regarded it as the golden mean. George Herbert was his favorite poet. He used to carry his poems about with him on the mountains, and an expurgated "Christian Year"--the only thing he ever took from the High Churchmen--which he had made for himself, and which he and Catherine knew by heart. In some ways he was not a bigot at all. He would have had the Church make peace with the Dissenters; he was all for up setting tests so far as Nonconformity was concerned. But he drew the most rigid line between belief and unbelief. He would not have dined at the same table with a Unitarian if he could have helped it. I remember a furious article of his in the "Record" against admitting Unitarians to the Universities or allowing them to sit in Parliament. England is a Christian State, he said; they are not Christians--they have no right in her except on sufferance. Well, I suppose he was about right,' said the vicar, with a sigh. 'We are all so halfhearted nowadays.'
'Not he,' cried Robert, hotly. 'Who are we that because a man differs from us in opinion who are to shut him out from the education of political and civil duty? But never mind, Cousin William. Go on.'