And Now Good-bye Read Free Page B

neglected. One was from a tailoring firm in
London, advertising a sale of lounge suits at five guineas—to be had in
either black or ‘clerical grey’. Well, perhaps on Friday, if he
could find time, he would call and see about it—he certainly needed a
suit badly enough…Another circular was from a firm of outside stockbrokers
in Leicester, recommending shares in a brewery. A third was from an
ecclesiastical supply stores in Paternoster Row, offering a job line of
individual communion cups. A fourth came from Boston, Mass., and accosted him
with a list of pertinent questions—“Are your sermons full of pep?
Are you sure you are delivering the goods? Are you satisfied with your
freewill offerings? Do you feel tired Sunday nights? Are you inclined to be
low-spirited, diffident, disheartened?” And for a twenty-dollar course
of ten lessons it could all, apparently, be put right.
    Howat read through the enclosed and illustrated brochure, but did not tear
it up afterwards as he had done the other advertising matter. Instead he put
it away in the middle drawer of his desk; it would do for Ringwood to see
some time—he would be amused.
    Still with the trace of a smile he tore open one of the remaining
envelopes. A coloured picture dropped out and fell at his feet, making a
little patch of brightness on the drab carpet. He picked it up, guessing it
to be a sample sent him by some firm of art publishers—Raphael’s
“Saint Catherine of Alexandria”, he recognised, for he had often
admired the original in the National Gallery. The reproduction pleased him,
and he was still examining it when he perceived a handwritten note in the
envelope. It was just the shortest of messages—“Dear Mr.
Freemantle, I am afraid I shall not be able to come for a lesson on Tuesday,
as I shall be out of Browdley that day. I saw the enclosed in a shop recently
and thought you might like it. Yours sincerely, Elizabeth Garland.”
    His first thought was that he would have an extra free hour on the
following day. Every Tuesday for some months past he had been giving lessons
in German to Miss Garland, the daughter of his chapel secretary. It was a
means of adding to his rather poor income, besides which it meant rubbing up
his own knowledge of German, which was good for him. She was a pleasant and
intelligent girl, and had seemed to pick up the language quite
satisfactorily; still, he could not but feel grateful for one engagement less
during a more than usually crowded week.
    He studied the picture again and reflected that it was kindly of the child
to have sent it him—yes, very kindly. There was something boyish and
simple in him that showed instantly when anyone gave him anything, or even
thanked him; he was always pleased in a rather bewildered kind of
way—bewildered because he quite genuinely could not think what he had
done to deserve it.
    He put the picture on the mantelpiece, and several times looked towards it
with pleasure during the clerical tasks that kept him employed during the
next hour or so. Finally Aunt Viney came in, saw it, and smiled steadfastly
while he explained the circumstances of its arrival. “Very kind of her
indeed, Howat,” was her verdict at length, “but are you quite
sure it is very suitable? After all, it looks rather a Catholic picture,
don’t you think?”
    Perhaps it was, he admitted, and put it away in a drawer. As a
Nonconformist clergyman he could not be too careful.
    Punctually at eleven he put on his overcoat and hat (an ordinary dark grey
and somewhat shabby felt) and went out into School Lane. There, in the murky
daylight that was only a degree brighter than the gloom of the study, it was
possible for one to observe him in some detail. Tall and slim-built, with
just the very slightest stoop of the shoulders that suggested thoughtfulness,
he was, beyond doubt, fine-looking, and would have been conspicuous among his
fellows even had his collar not