And Now Good-bye by James Hilton Page A

end of the story he said: “So they’re trying
to blame you for what’s happened, are they? Well, I don’t think
I’d worry about it if I were you. Queer sort of girl, I
remember—rather nice voice—good figure, too—I had to give
her the once-over, you know, before she took on that job at the library. Cut
above her pa and ma, I thought jolly good luck to her if she has left
the old folks at home. Wish there were more would do it—look at the
unemployed—thousands of ’em—no initiative—no
ambition—rather hang about Browdley street-corners than try their luck
anywhere else. Of course they might say much the same of us—we stick to
the old place, don’t we?—but then, we’re getting
on—at least I am—I’m sixty next birthday. But you’re
not so old, Freemantle—I often wonder why you stay on here. Don’t
you ever feel you’d like to try for a change?”
    “Often. Terribly often. But there again, you doctors have the
advantage. You could clear out to-morrow and feel that you were doing just as
much good somewhere else, but I couldn’t—it’s taken me
twelve years even to begin to do anything here, and if I went away all that
would probably be wasted.”
    “Oh, nonsense. You parsons take yourselves far too seriously. After
all, if you do your best, what more can you do? That’s how I
always feel in my job. Sometimes I cure, sometimes I kill—people take
the risk when they call me in—I make no promises except to do as well
as I know how. If I come a cropper over something it’s not my
fault—I can’t help it—and I assure you I never let it lose
me a wink of sleep. Why should I?”
    “I know,” Howat said. “But then, you’re so certain
of the good you do—you know it—you can see it with your own
eyes—people whom you’ve cured walk about the streets as a living
reminder and proof.”
    “And a damn sight worse off some of ’em are than if I’d
killed ’em! My dear chap, it isn’t a matter of doing good,
it’s a matter of carrying on with a job. If I once began to think in
terms of ethics, I should probably send old mother Roseway an overdose of
strychnine to-night—yes, and a dozen others I could name. Fortunately
I’m content to plod along at the job I’m paid for, and it’s
a pity you can’t be satisfied in the same way. After all, you preach,
you visit, you bury and marry and all that, you run no end of societies and
things—I should imagine you give pretty good value for money, on the
whole.”
    “It isn’t even that. I’ve got to satisfy
myself.”
    Ringwood approached Howat and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You
know, Freemantle, I should say you were in for a fairly serious breakdown if
you don’t take care. You want a holiday—some kind of change from
this infernal round of visiting old women and singing temperance
hymns.” His voice, which had been serious for a moment, relapsed into
its more usual bantering tone as he added: “Personally I never take
holidays of the ordinary kind—haven’t done for twenty
years—but when I feel myself getting a bit edgy I ring up Hudson and
hand him over my practice for two or three days; then I pop off to London and
have a real good beano. Dinner at a chophouse, then the silliest show I can
find, then a few drinks wherever I can get them, then—well, I
wouldn’t like to tell you all that is on the programme sometimes when
I’m in town. But it doesn’t often happen—I find a few days
of dissipation lasts me longer now than it used to. Growing old, I suppose
that’s what it is.”
    Howat smiled. “I’m sure you can’t really see me doing
anything of that sort. Though as a matter of fact I do happen to be going to
London this Friday—I’ve got to come to terms with a firm about
supplying a new heating apparatus for the chapel.”
    “Well, there’s your chance. You won’t be all day
choosing a heating apparatus. And I don’t expect you’ll