Nonsense; he will,
or, if he says he won’t, then you’ve got another job—to
persuade him . And in any case, whether he relents or not, your duty
with the girl is plain…
Howat was thoroughly wretched by the time he returned to the Manse for
tea. He had made up his mind that he would not and could not shirk his duty,
but he felt no sort of enthusiasm about it, still less any confidence of
being successful. It was all so extraordinary, so unpleasantly removed from
his usual ‘beat’. During the past dozen years there had been many
occasions on which he had had to exert his personal influence in some cause
or other, but they had all been interventions of a more straightforward
kind—pleading with an employer not to prosecute in a case of theft,
arranging terms of peace between landlord and tenant, telling youths they
oughtn’t to spend so much money in the public-houses, and so on. But
this affair was clearly different in kind as well as in degree.
That evening there took place in the chapel the customary week-night
service, and for perhaps the first time in his life Howat gave an address
which he knew, while he was speaking, did not represent the best that was in
him. The subject was ‘prayer’, and he heard, with dismay, his own
voice, perfectly fluent and modulated, dispensing a representative selection
of all the more obvious platitudes that had ever been coined on the
topic.
He wished, while he was leading the singing of the last hymn, that he
could remember more about the girl. He couldn’t even picture her in his
mind, but then, he had never had a good memory for faces. All he recollected
(rather oddly, in the circumstances) was that she had seemed to him quite
normal and pleasant.
He felt so sure that he would not easily sleep that night that after
making cocoa in the kitchen he took the cup to his study, and settled himself
in his favourite armchair. But in such a solitude he was more than ever at
the mercy of upbraiding conscience; he knew that he must, inevitably, see the
girl, and he could no longer even shirk the necessary details of fixing an
appointment. In the end (about midnight) he took pen and paper and wrote the
following:
“ Dear Miss Garland ,—
I received your letter, but before attempting to do what you ask, I would
rather like to talk things over with you. It happens that I shall be in
London on Friday of this week—could you meet me, say, at Charing Cross
post office at 5.30 p.m.? There will not be time for you to write in answer,
so I will hope to see you there if you can manage it.”
As he read this over he had the ignoble thought: Maybe she won’t
come; she’ll guess I mean to argue with her and try to get her
back…And that, after another troubled bout with his conscience, made him
compose a much shorter note—merely:
“ Dear Miss
Garland ,—I shall be in London on Friday—can you meet me at
Charing Cross post office at 5.30 p.m.? There will not be time for you to
reply to me here, but I will hope to see you if you can possibly manage
it.”
It was almost one o’clock when he went out to post the letter.
Caution advised him not to drop it in the pillar-box at the corner of School
Lane; the Browdley post office was notorious as a centre of gossip and
scandal- mongering. Instead he walked to a small wall-box about a mile away
in the country and in a different postal area. A tired wakefulness was on
him, and his throat was giving pain again; well, never mind, in another
couple of days he would know the truth about that. The walk calmed him a
little; the night was cold and clear, and even the badly-proportioned fa�ade
of the chapel loomed with a certain dignity into the blue-black sky. The
theme of the song he had been composing that morning recurred, but somehow
failed to satisfy—poor stuff now, remembered against a background of
pain and starlight that seemed to throb in rhythmic unison
or, if he says he won’t, then you’ve got another job—to
persuade him . And in any case, whether he relents or not, your duty
with the girl is plain…
Howat was thoroughly wretched by the time he returned to the Manse for
tea. He had made up his mind that he would not and could not shirk his duty,
but he felt no sort of enthusiasm about it, still less any confidence of
being successful. It was all so extraordinary, so unpleasantly removed from
his usual ‘beat’. During the past dozen years there had been many
occasions on which he had had to exert his personal influence in some cause
or other, but they had all been interventions of a more straightforward
kind—pleading with an employer not to prosecute in a case of theft,
arranging terms of peace between landlord and tenant, telling youths they
oughtn’t to spend so much money in the public-houses, and so on. But
this affair was clearly different in kind as well as in degree.
That evening there took place in the chapel the customary week-night
service, and for perhaps the first time in his life Howat gave an address
which he knew, while he was speaking, did not represent the best that was in
him. The subject was ‘prayer’, and he heard, with dismay, his own
voice, perfectly fluent and modulated, dispensing a representative selection
of all the more obvious platitudes that had ever been coined on the
topic.
He wished, while he was leading the singing of the last hymn, that he
could remember more about the girl. He couldn’t even picture her in his
mind, but then, he had never had a good memory for faces. All he recollected
(rather oddly, in the circumstances) was that she had seemed to him quite
normal and pleasant.
He felt so sure that he would not easily sleep that night that after
making cocoa in the kitchen he took the cup to his study, and settled himself
in his favourite armchair. But in such a solitude he was more than ever at
the mercy of upbraiding conscience; he knew that he must, inevitably, see the
girl, and he could no longer even shirk the necessary details of fixing an
appointment. In the end (about midnight) he took pen and paper and wrote the
following:
“ Dear Miss Garland ,—
I received your letter, but before attempting to do what you ask, I would
rather like to talk things over with you. It happens that I shall be in
London on Friday of this week—could you meet me, say, at Charing Cross
post office at 5.30 p.m.? There will not be time for you to write in answer,
so I will hope to see you there if you can manage it.”
As he read this over he had the ignoble thought: Maybe she won’t
come; she’ll guess I mean to argue with her and try to get her
back…And that, after another troubled bout with his conscience, made him
compose a much shorter note—merely:
“ Dear Miss
Garland ,—I shall be in London on Friday—can you meet me at
Charing Cross post office at 5.30 p.m.? There will not be time for you to
reply to me here, but I will hope to see you if you can possibly manage
it.”
It was almost one o’clock when he went out to post the letter.
Caution advised him not to drop it in the pillar-box at the corner of School
Lane; the Browdley post office was notorious as a centre of gossip and
scandal- mongering. Instead he walked to a small wall-box about a mile away
in the country and in a different postal area. A tired wakefulness was on
him, and his throat was giving pain again; well, never mind, in another
couple of days he would know the truth about that. The walk calmed him a
little; the night was cold and clear, and even the badly-proportioned fa�ade
of the chapel loomed with a certain dignity into the blue-black sky. The
theme of the song he had been composing that morning recurred, but somehow
failed to satisfy—poor stuff now, remembered against a background of
pain and starlight that seemed to throb in rhythmic unison
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