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
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
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