And Now Good-bye by James Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

not to feel—that it was linked up in a
marvellous way with the beauty of our own world…Mozart…Raphael the
painter…William Blake the poet…And then, with a little mist before his
eyes, he was aware that he was making contact, that he was actually and for a
second or so putting into the minds of these boys and girls an urge, a
longing for something beyond their own immediate surroundings.
    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