by James Hilton
“But, really, she must have had some purpose in mind? People don’t suddenly go to Paris without any reason at all. Did she give you no idea how—how she intended to support herself while she was away?”
Mr. Garland rubbed his nose decisively. “We didn’t argue with her, Mr. Freemantle. When a daughter calmly informs her parents that she’s going to do what they’ve forbidden her to do, there’s nothing left to argue about. She went up to her bedroom—as we hoped, to think it over and come to her senses. It seems, though, that she just packed her things, went to bed, and went off early in the morning by the first train before any of us was up. Altogether a most disgraceful affair. Of course one naturally thinks of all sorts of possibilities when a girl does a thing like that.”
Howat stared far away over Garland’s head. “I must say, from a very slight acquaintance with your daughter, she didn’t really seem to me the sort of girl who would do anything that either you or she would need to be ashamed of.”
“That remains to be found out,” answered Mrs. Garland. “And I don’t mind telling you to your face, Mr. Freemantle, I think you’re one of the prime causes of it all! You have a thoroughly unsettling influence on the young people—you always have had—you put ideas into their heads—it was quite enough to listen to you to-night to realise how all these things begin. As my husband said, there’s a great deal too much loose talk in the world nowadays, and ministers, of all people, ought to know better than join in it. They’re here to give us religion, that’s what I say, not the things of this world.”
Howat said, rather curtly: “I don’t think we can discuss all that. You must let me know if there’s anything practical I can do. And I’m afraid I must go now. Good-night, Mrs. Garland. Goodnight, Mr. Garland.” There was something unusual and rather sharp in his eyes.
He strode out of the schoolroom into the cold moist fog. Something was hammering away in his head—a sort of desperately controlled temper, something that made him feel hot and ice-cold simultaneously. Those intolerable people! He could not bring himself to hate them, but his impatience of them was like a flame. And then quite suddenly the flame died down and he felt merely tired, emptied of all energy and willpower and enthusiasm. He found his way into the dark house and, over the remains of the kitchen fire, made himself a cup of cocoa. It was after midnight when he got to bed, and though his tiredness had increased with every moment, he did not find it easy to sleep.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO — TUESDAY
The next morning, Tuesday, there was no fog or rain, but a clear frosty sunlight and a high wind from the east that scoured the streets of Browdley till they looked like bones picked clean. Most of Howat’s morning study hours were taken up by callers, and at eleven he went out with the intention, before anything else, of getting his first breath of fresh air for several days.
Once the pedestrian leaves the outskirts of Browdley he enters a flat, loamy, and not unpicturesque countryside, stud ded with small farms and semi- industrialised villages, with here and there a barn or an old mill that Rembrandt might have etched. There are paths through almost every field and in all directions, but one cannot, during an ordinary walk, lose sight of Browdley. Indeed, Browdley looks almost more massive and dominating at a distance of a few miles than closer by. Its factories huddle together into a compact pile, and on a misty day the observer might with a little effort fancy himself in sight of some medieval walled and fortified city, so sharply do the square cliff like factories mark the outlines of the place. There are dozens of tall chimney-stacks, but at such a moment they can seem almost decorative—the spires, perhaps, of the black cathedrals of industrialism.
On Tuesday morning Howat took his favourite walk, which was along School Lane for a quarter of a mile beyond the town, across the potato fields to Shandly’s Farm, and then back over the railway and along the bank of the canal. The sun was shining, and he walked fast, enjoying the cold wind and the cheerful landscape. Those who saw him doubtless envied a parson’s freedom to take a constitutional on a fine morning.
Mentally, however, he was still ruffled from that talk with the Garlands the previous evening, and as often happened, his mood was inclined to be one of rather desperate unbelief in himself. After all, could he be quite sure that what he was doing in Browdley was for the best? Could he even be quite sure that he was doing any good in Browdley at all? Mrs. Garland had accused him of unsettling the young, of putting ideas into their heads—well, all that, in a way, was what he wanted to do; and yet, when the balance was struck, was the net result indubitably favourable? He wished there were someone over him to say, with authority, either Yes, go ahead, you’re all right’, or No, stop it at once, you’re wrong’. That was the weakness, he had always felt, with these independent Nonconformist creeds—a man, if he were sincere, had to work everything out for himself, and by the time he had finished doing that he had often worried himself into complete lack of confidence in his own judgment.
Of course, so far as the runaway daughter herself was concerned, he was fairly certain he had not been to blame. She had rarely attended chapel, and had not been a member of any of its associated societies; his influence on her, of whatever kind, could only have been slight. There had been the German lessons, true, but they had always, he recollected, been strictly matter-of- fact; indeed, it was curious how little he knew about the girl after those regular weekly meetings—she had told him practically nothing about herself, and he, perhaps unconsciously, had found this a welcome change from the usual outpourings of self-revelation to which every parson becomes accustomed. Apart from those German lessons, and a few chance words in the library where she worked, he hardly remembered ever speaking to her at all. And that reminded him, as he turned homeward along the canal bank, that he might use the remaining time before dinner to change a few library books for young Trevis.
It was a relief, after so much doubting and self-incredulity, to be of some plain and obvious service to somebody. Trevis was a young fellow of twenty- one, who, after a successful and even brilliant career at Cambridge, had had a bad motorcycling smash and was compelled for the present to take a complete rest. The injuries had affected his spine, and Ringwood as well as more exalted medical authorities were not too optimistic about recovery. Fortunately old Mr. Trevis was fairly well off and could afford to keep the boy at home but the latter hated Browdley with a fierceness of which only Howat and Ringwood, perhaps, were aware; it was maddening, on the very brink of what had promised to be a fine career, to have to spend day after day in a stuffy little drawing- room full of presentation silver and unreadable law-books. For Mr. Trevis was a solicitor, a prominent local Freemason, and one of the most popular men in the town. Bluff, cheery, happy in his widowerhood, and with an elder son to take over the practice eventually, he did not worry alarmingly about the lad who, apart from a certain stiffness in moving about, did not appear to have very much wrong with him. “What you want is fresh air and exercise,” he often said; he did not realise that the boy could not have walked a hundred yards without falling down.
Howat had liked the boy at their first meeting (Ringwood had brought them together—neither Trevis nor his family had ever had any connection with the chapel); and had soon come to feel for him an affection deeper than for anyone he knew outside his own home circle. One of the few ways he could help besides visiting was this changing of library books; he knew the kind of stuff that Trevis liked and took a keen pleasure in making selections which he thought would please. This morning he chose Somerset Maugham’s “Moon and Sixpence”, Edith Wharton’s “Ethan Frome”, and a book by a youth named Michael Terry detailing his adventures whilst driving a Ford car across the Northern Territory of Australia from Queensland to the Indian Ocean. Carrying this oddly assorted literature under his arm, Howat called at the house in Mansion Street, and thoroughly enjoyed a half-hour’s chat. There was something almost radiantly attractive about the boy now; his earlier robust good looks had been transmuted into a more r
emote and poignant charm; and to Howat, always acutely eager to put himself into another’s position, it seemed as though Trevis must look on life as a receding pin-point of light glimpsed from the interior of a darkening tunnel. He talked to him for a little time about books; it was what they generally talked about; they certainly did not discuss religion. That was a topic Howat would never have been the first to broach. Ringwood, he was aware, told the boy improper stories, and though Howat hoped to satisfy a loftier need, he could never be quite sure that any gift, in such a case, could be more precious than a moment of any sort of amusement.
After they had chatted desultorily for a time, Trevis asked if Howat had chanced to notice Miss Garland on duty at the library. Howat said no, she hadn’t been there, and asked why Trevis had enquired. The boy replied: “Because there’s a definite rumour going about the town that she’s run away with a man.”
“With a man, eh?” Howat exclaimed, and in such a tone that Trevis interposed acutely: “Oh, so you did know that she’d run off, then?”
Howat’s forehead contracted into a slow frown. “Well, yes, I had heard so. But I didn’t know that there was any suggestion of a man in the case.”
“Perhaps it isn’t true. It’s just the sort of thing people in this town would say, anyhow. Did you know her at all, by the way? Her father’s something to do with your church, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s the chapel secretary. But I don’t know the girl at all well, though it so happens that for the last few months I’ve been giving her private lessons in German.”
“Oh, indeed? Enterprising idea. How did you like her?”
“Like her? Well, she seemed a pleasant sort of girl, though I can’t say I formed any definite opinion. I just taught her the German, that was all—we never talked on any other matters.”
“That’s just like you, isn’t it?” Trevis laughed. “I can see now why you’ve got the reputation in this town of being absolutely impervious to female charm. I don’t suppose you even noticed whether the girl was pretty or not?”
Howat smiled; it slightly gratified him to receive this kind of unsolicited testimonial, for it had always been his aim to avoid any of that foolishness that so often mars and complicates the relationship between a minister and the younger ladies of his congregation. He replied: “Well, anyhow, I certainly don’t recollect that she was pretty.”
“She isn’t,” Trevis said, abruptly. “But she’s attractive, in her own way.”
“You know her, then?”
“I used to. I haven’t seen much of her for the last few years, though—I’ve been away so often, and she also doesn’t spend more time in. Browdley than she needs. They say that most nights she’s off to Manchester as soon as the library closes down, and that she doesn’t come back till the last train. Gay life, eh? Possibly—I should say she’s capable of most things, and certainly of not telling anyone her own business. Unusual sort of girl.”
“And you used to know her well?”
“Yes, till my old man quarrelled with her old man-that must have been about ten years ago. Dad was old Garland’s solicitor, you know, and solicitors have pretty cast-iron consciences, but even Dad boggled at some of Garland’s business. Anyhow, they had a fine old row which ended by Garland taking his affairs somewhere else. I remember it all quite well—the girl and I were of the age when we were told that we mustn’t play with each other any more.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Oh, yes, we did, lots of times. But we gradually saw less of each other, for all that. I always rather liked her, I must say, and I’d be sorry if she’d made a fool of herself. I suppose it doesn’t exactly fall within your province to do anything in the matter?”
“At present the difficulty is that she hasn’t let anyone know where she’s gone to. Of course, if I could do anything I would—very willingly.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Trevis, and the matter dropped.
During dinner at the Manse conversation eddied and swirled around the dramatic disappearance of Elizabeth Garland, and Howat, in the centre of the whirlpool, was rather baffled by it all. He knew so little, and both his wife and Aunt Viney seemed to expect him to know so much; there were, it appeared, all kinds of astonishing rumours about the town. Not only was it now definitely accepted that the girl had absconded with a man, but the man himself had been provisionally identified as a member of a cinema orchestra in Manchester. It was quite obvious, Mrs. Freemantle said, that the girl had a completely bad character, and everyone must feel sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Garland, such respectable people, in having been so disgraced. “And to think,” commented Aunt Viney, “that only last Tuesday she was here for her German lesson, as large as life!”
“I wonder,” continued Mrs. Freemantle, “that you found it possible to get on at all with her, Howat. But then you’re so unobservant about things. I must say, I never took to her.”
Howat said nothing for the simple reason that there seemed to him nothing to say; he had already heard quite enough talk about the girl, besides which, he hated gossip, especially of the less charitable kind.
“And as for sending you that picture of a woman, I consider it nothing less than shameless in the circumstances,” Mrs. Freemantle still went on. (Aunt Viney must have told her about it, Howat reflected; but then, of course, Aunt Viney always did tell her about everything.) “She must actually have posted it on Saturday, when she was on her way with that man. I’m surprised, Howat—I really am surprised that even you could have gone on giving her those lessons week after week without noticing anything!”
Howat crumbled his bread uncomfortably. “But, my dear, what could I have noticed? I merely taught her German. She behaved quite’ normally while she was here, if that’s what you mean. And I do think that it would be better to refrain from judging the matter until—at any rate—we know a little more about it.”
And with this very mild rebuke, which he did not for a moment expect to have any effect, he relapsed again into silence.
During the afternoon he ‘visited’. He believed that it was no use preaching at people merely; you must go and see them in their own homes and get to know them personally. He had always been regular and conscientious in so doing, but he did not, despite that, reckon himself a good ‘visitor’. He was pretty fair with people who were in any trouble or who needed the more straightforward kinds of advice, and he was all right with people who happened to attract him personally, and he was always a huge success with children; but there were a few persons who came into none of these categories. He was never quite certain whether they dreaded meeting him as much as he dreaded meeting them; and for the sake of this meagre doubt he kept up the practice, till, after several years of it, he had developed a barely adequate technique of small-talk suitable for such occasions.
This afternoon he did a rather strange thing; he thought of all the people he least liked to visit, and visited them one after another. He did not quite know why he did this—not entirely, anyhow, to mortify the spirit, and certainly not at all with any idea of ‘getting them over’. On the contrary these visits were to be extra ones—surplus dividends, as it were, from the store of loving kindness in his heart. He thought: If I’m going to be any good in this town, I’ve got to dive far deeper than I’ve done hitherto. Yesterday, while I was with Miss Monks, my feelings were absolutely selfish—I was thinking all the time what an old tyrant she was and wondering how soon I could decently get away—that, remember, with one of my chapel-members lying on her deathbed. After all, what do I do in this town with any enthusiasm except the things I like doing?—I like pottering about with children and young people, I like giving talks on literature and music, I like preaching, too, in a way—I like all these things, and therefore I do them. It all boils down to the fact of a rather stupendous selfishness masquerading as virtue; the truth is, I’m no better than anyone else—I like what I like. But as a parson I ought to be different—yes, better—or else, in Heaven’s name, why do I wear this col
lar the wrong way round?
So, in a state of self-disgust that only gradually wore itself out, he visited old Jack Harmon, who was nearly stone deaf and was interested in nothing but Association football. Not only had he to be shouted at in a way of which his daughters alone had acquired the perfect knack, but his voice, when he spoke, was a barely coherent muttering to which nobody in his house ever paid the slightest attention. Howat, moreover, was not learned in football, and could only vaguely follow the gist of the man’s talk. The pleasure his visit was giving was, however, obvious—too obvious, perhaps, since the old man, delighted to entertain the parson in a room which directly overlooked the street and through whose window every passer-by could see, clucked and gurgled his satisfaction till the saliva dribbled inelegantly down his chin. Howat shouted “Yes” and “No” and “Really?” while the pain in his throat, rarely absent altogether, became a white-hot ache; then, after about an hour, he managed to drag himself away, pursued even from the street-door by the man’s joyful incoherencies.
Next he called on Mrs. Roseway in Hill Grove (he had intended visiting her the previous day, but had put it off with an excuse which, he knew now, had been merely a disguise for selfish personal reluctance); she was eighty-four, and did nothing but grumble because she had rheumatism (“By Jove,” Ringwood had once said, “it’s time she had something!”) Howat had never been able to make any headway against the quiet, almost contented querulousness of this old creature; she was fairly well off, yet (again quoting Ringwood) ’you couldn’t get a penny out of her without chloroform’. She had children, hard-working but unfortunate, living in neighbouring towns, and Howat always hoped he might some day persuade her to deal more generously with them. He had often come near to the point of broaching the matter, but had never quite managed it; this afternoon, with new determination in his heart, he decided that he would. He listened for a time to her complaints, and then began a plea for greater charitableness and help towards those in need of it, till at last the old lady, shrewdly perceiving where his eloquence might lead, shut him up with a quite final if not very courteous remark and resumed the more satisfying topic of her own ailments.
