read in his study till three o’clock that afternoon; then he
walked over to the schoolroom. The women greeted him with their usual fussy
murmurs of appreciation, but it was noticed immediately by the more observant
of them that he did not seem altogether himself’—he did not make
those customary jovial remarks about the garments they were working at, those
time-honoured witticisms which never failed to produce attacks of coyly
restrained giggling. On the contrary, he seemed preoccupied, his smiles went
over their heads as if directed at another world, and he went on stirring his
tea in an absent-minded way long after the two lumps of sugar were most
certainly dissolved.
And at a quarter-past three, which was rather earlier than his habit, he
bade adieu to the ladies and went out into the glooming streets. He felt he
wanted a walk, and left the town by the main road, turning into muddy fields
as soon as he could. He walked briskly for a mile or so, and then leaning
against a stile, re-read the letter in his pocket amidst the falling
twilight. A puzzle, really, to know what to do. She had appealed to him, and
despite the impossibility of what she asked, he rather liked the style of the
letter—simple, straightforward, neither explaining nor apologising, but
merely asking. And no mention of the man in the case. That, he thought,
showed a certain delicacy. But a married man with a family…really, how
could such a thing be possible?
Howat, in fact, was bewildered; for, despite his years, he knew little
about the world of private scandal—certainly less than did an average
girl at a boarding-school, He never read the News of the World , and
never went to the cinema; throughout his adult life, even during the War, he
had preserved an ignorance, perhaps even an innocence, that was largely
compounded of distaste and lack of interest. Divorces, liaisons, crimes
passionels , and all the rest of the Sunday diet of many a quite
respectable family, affected him with a slightly disgusted incredulity which
he found hard to conceal; fortunately, however, such things belonged mainly
to a world with which Browdley had little in common.
Then, with a jerk of inward perception, he passed from bewilderment to
personal misgiving. Here was a girl, a daughter of one of his own chapel
officials, proposing to do something monstrously unwise (quite apart from any
question of morals); and he, the Reverend Howat Freemantle, was stirred by
the matter to no more profound emotion than a sort of peeved fastidiousness.
It was rather as if Ringwood, meeting a man bleeding to death by the
roadside, should pass by for fear of getting Ms clothes soiled. After all,
what was the good of his pastorate if he couldn’t make himself of use
in such an emergency? He thought, with a quick return of his old
self-upbraiding mood: Oh yes, you’re all right for giving addresses
about Mozart and drinking tea with the ladies, but when it comes to tackling
the practical sort of work that justifies the rather eccentric costume you
wear and the prefix to your name, then you fail utterly and hopelessly.
Really, really, you aren’t going to let a girl of twenty-two run off
with a married man of fifty…or are you? (He answered himself: But you
can’t stop her; she’s over age; she has the legal right to do
what she wants and she knows it.) But, man, you can stop her, or you’ve
got to try, anyhow. She’s given you a loophole; she’s sent you an
address; there’s nothing, indeed, to prevent you from actually meeting
her, if she’ll see you, when you go to London on Friday; then you can
put your persuasive eloquence to a more vital test than the luring of
threepenny bits into the collecting plate. However much you dislike the job,
you’ve got to see that girl, you’ve got to talk her into her
right senses, and you’ve got to make her return home. (But then,
Garland says he won’t have her back at any price.)
walked over to the schoolroom. The women greeted him with their usual fussy
murmurs of appreciation, but it was noticed immediately by the more observant
of them that he did not seem altogether himself’—he did not make
those customary jovial remarks about the garments they were working at, those
time-honoured witticisms which never failed to produce attacks of coyly
restrained giggling. On the contrary, he seemed preoccupied, his smiles went
over their heads as if directed at another world, and he went on stirring his
tea in an absent-minded way long after the two lumps of sugar were most
certainly dissolved.
And at a quarter-past three, which was rather earlier than his habit, he
bade adieu to the ladies and went out into the glooming streets. He felt he
wanted a walk, and left the town by the main road, turning into muddy fields
as soon as he could. He walked briskly for a mile or so, and then leaning
against a stile, re-read the letter in his pocket amidst the falling
twilight. A puzzle, really, to know what to do. She had appealed to him, and
despite the impossibility of what she asked, he rather liked the style of the
letter—simple, straightforward, neither explaining nor apologising, but
merely asking. And no mention of the man in the case. That, he thought,
showed a certain delicacy. But a married man with a family…really, how
could such a thing be possible?
Howat, in fact, was bewildered; for, despite his years, he knew little
about the world of private scandal—certainly less than did an average
girl at a boarding-school, He never read the News of the World , and
never went to the cinema; throughout his adult life, even during the War, he
had preserved an ignorance, perhaps even an innocence, that was largely
compounded of distaste and lack of interest. Divorces, liaisons, crimes
passionels , and all the rest of the Sunday diet of many a quite
respectable family, affected him with a slightly disgusted incredulity which
he found hard to conceal; fortunately, however, such things belonged mainly
to a world with which Browdley had little in common.
Then, with a jerk of inward perception, he passed from bewilderment to
personal misgiving. Here was a girl, a daughter of one of his own chapel
officials, proposing to do something monstrously unwise (quite apart from any
question of morals); and he, the Reverend Howat Freemantle, was stirred by
the matter to no more profound emotion than a sort of peeved fastidiousness.
It was rather as if Ringwood, meeting a man bleeding to death by the
roadside, should pass by for fear of getting Ms clothes soiled. After all,
what was the good of his pastorate if he couldn’t make himself of use
in such an emergency? He thought, with a quick return of his old
self-upbraiding mood: Oh yes, you’re all right for giving addresses
about Mozart and drinking tea with the ladies, but when it comes to tackling
the practical sort of work that justifies the rather eccentric costume you
wear and the prefix to your name, then you fail utterly and hopelessly.
Really, really, you aren’t going to let a girl of twenty-two run off
with a married man of fifty…or are you? (He answered himself: But you
can’t stop her; she’s over age; she has the legal right to do
what she wants and she knows it.) But, man, you can stop her, or you’ve
got to try, anyhow. She’s given you a loophole; she’s sent you an
address; there’s nothing, indeed, to prevent you from actually meeting
her, if she’ll see you, when you go to London on Friday; then you can
put your persuasive eloquence to a more vital test than the luring of
threepenny bits into the collecting plate. However much you dislike the job,
you’ve got to see that girl, you’ve got to talk her into her
right senses, and you’ve got to make her return home. (But then,
Garland says he won’t have her back at any price.)
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