Джеймс Хилтон: And Now Good-bye

He finished in secret triumph. He sat down. He felt drained of power, yet with a tired dreamy feeling of having conquered. Yes, yes, he would get those pictures. Was the fog worse, he wondered? His throat was not so bad now, and anyway, he didn’t care—he was too tired and triumphant to care. The tune of the E Major Trio was in his ears. What happened next? Oh yes, someone usually got up and moved a vote of thanks. Only a formality—wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. Then a little chat with anybody who chose to stay behind, then the short walk through the fog across the playground and past the front of the chapel, and so into his house. A cup of hot cocoa. Bed. Heavens—he was tired—he was sure he would sleep well.

Suddenly he realised that Garland was on his feet and beginning to talk. Pity it couldn’t have been somebody else; Garland had such a raucous voice and would go on far too long. Never mind, though—decent of him to come.

Garland, in fact, was one of those fussy, self-important men, full of official correctness, who never miss a chance to say ‘a few words’. An air of portentous solemnity hovered over everything he did and had, from the pompous modulations of his ill-pronounced words to the black cut-away coat whose collar was always lightly powdered with dandruff. He was rather squat in build, and had a black curling moustache whose waxed ends were absurdly visible when one saw him from the rear. Howat respected him as a trustworthy chapel official, but they had never attempted any more intimate relationship.

Mrs. Garland was a thin-lipped precise-looking woman with a rigidity of bearing less solemn but more aggressive than her husband’s.

Garland was saying: “Of course we’re all extremely grateful to Mr. Freemantle for his address, but I do feel there is an aspect—and a very important aspect—of his subject which he has left quite out of account. And that is religion. All this talk about beauty—music, poetry, and all that—isn’t any use without the true spirit of religion. And I must say I don’t hold with him when he said that we might not know a great deal about the future life. I contend, as every true believer must, that we do know a great deal about it—we know all about Heaven, and anyone who doesn’t has only got to read his Bible. Fact of the matter is, people don’t read their Bibles enough nowadays—there’s far too much discussion of other books, poetry, music, and what not. First things should come first…And now let’s refresh ourselves with a hymn—’There is a Book who runs may read’…”

Howat’s chin and mouth were half-hidden in the palm of his hand. At the mention of the hymn, however, he looked up abruptly and gave the opening note with his clear, vibrant baritone. In a scattered and rather ineffectual way the audience began to sing, led by Howat, and with Garland supplying a morose and untuneful rumble far below any classifiable key. It was unusual to sing hymns after a Guild meeting, but Howat didn’t care—Garland could go through the whole hymn-book if he wanted. Howat felt: He means well, but I’m glad he doesn’t come to these affairs oftener.

The hymn came to an end, and as the audience began to pick up hats and wraps and prepare to disperse, he realised that Garland was waiting behind deliberately, as if he wanted to say something. Howat was just slightly peeved about that; if the fellow wanted to see him, why didn’t he call at the Manse? After meetings Howat liked a chat with the youngsters, but there wouldn’t be any, clearly, if Garland stayed.

After a few moments he was quite alone in the room with Garland and Mrs. Garland. The others had all disappeared through the green-baize door, and there was left no sound except the hissing of the four gas jets. Howat remarked conversationally as he packed up his gramophone: “Bad night, Mr. Garland.” (Garland was the sort of man who wouldn’t do for anyone to drop the prefix.)

“Very,” replied Garland, massively, and went on: “As a matter of fact, Mr. Freemantle, we shouldn’t have come but, only we thought it would give us a chance of seeing you in private.”

“Really? Well, anything I can do, of course—” He felt so thoroughly tired, and more in the mood for anything on earth than for a private talk with Garland. However…

“You see, Mr. Freemantle, it’s about our girl. She’s run away from. home.”

“Indeed?” he made the necessary mental effort—Garland’s daughter—the girl he had been teaching German—a pleasant girl, she had always seemed, and she had surprised him once, he recollected, by humming a tune from a Brahms sonata.

He repeated: “Indeed? She’s run away from home, you say?”

“Yes. On Saturday. She packed up all her things and went before we knew anything about it.”

“But surely—”

“Oh, it astonishes you, does it?” interrupted Mrs. Garland, tartly. “We thought maybe you mightn’t be so astonished as we were, seeing the chances she’s had lately of confiding in you.”

“Confiding in me?” Howat was sheerly bewildered. “I don’t understand you, Mrs. Garland—I really don’t understand. Your daughter has been taking lessons in German from me week by week, but apart from that—”

“And it wasn’t our idea she should do it, please don’t think that for a moment. What would she be wanting to learn German for, I should like to know?”

“She gave no definite reason—not to me, anyhow—but I suppose she wished to improve her general education. Surely there’s nothing very outrageous in that.”

“It’s all very outrageous. She was full of mad ideas, always was.”

“But in these days, Mrs. Garland—”

“ These days ? It’s a pity these days are what they are. A sinful, godless age, that’s what it is.”

Howat’s fingers drummed on the desk-lid; he was becoming just a shade impatient. “Well, well, that’s a big subject—you were telling me about your daughter, weren’t you? Do you mean that she’s disappeared, and that you don’t know where she is at all?”

Garland here thought fit to intervene; he said, as if realising that his wife would only bungle the business: “The fact is, Mr. Freemantle, we can only guess. We’ve had no news at all except a card saying she was quite well but wouldn’t be coming back. We couldn’t read the postmark. And what crossed our minds was that perhaps she might have hinted to you something about her intentions. It’s a most upsetting thing to have happened altogether.”

“I agree with you, Mr. Garland, and I wish I could help, but I assure you she never gave me the slightest idea that such a notion was in her mind. If she had, I need hardly say that I should have strongly dissuaded her and even, if necessary, approached you on the matter.”

Garland seemed to find this reply moderately satisfactory, but Mrs. Garland’s eyes narrowed sharply. “You mean that you haven’t heard from her at all, then?” she interposed.

He shook his head and then suddenly remembered the Raphael picture that had arrived by the first post that day. “Stay, though—well yes, now I come to recollect it, I did hear from her this morning, but it was merely a short message to say she wouldn’t be coming for her usual German lesson to-morrow.”

“Oh? So she has written to you then? Was that all she said? Did she give no explanation?”

“She merely said she would be out of Browdley at the time.”

“What was the postmark?”

“I must confess I didn’t notice.”

“Perhaps you still have the letter and it could be examined.”

“I don’t know, I’m afraid. It may be torn up—quite probably it is. Naturally it didn’t strike me as particularly important when I received it.”

Garland again took the lead. “Well, Mr. Freemantle, it’s an unfortunate business, anyhow. She’s left home, and we don’t know what’s happening to her.”