At the week's end came a note
from Miss Leland, complaining of his neglecting her so many days.
from Miss Leland, complaining of his neglecting her so many days.
Yeats
'
The rain beat on the window of the carriage. He began to listen;
thought and memory became a blank; his mind was full of the sound of
rain-drops.
FOURTH PART
THE REV. WILLIAM HOWARD
I
After his return to London Sherman for a time kept to himself, going
straight home from his office, moody and self-absorbed, trying not to
consider his problem--her life, his life. He often repeated to himself,
'I must do what people expect of me. It does not rest with me now--my
choosing time is over. ' He felt that whatever way he turned he would do
a great evil to himself and others. To his nature all sudden decisions
were difficult, and so he kept to the groove he had entered upon. It
did not even occur to him to do otherwise. He never thought of breaking
this engagement off and letting people say what they would. He was
bound in hopelessly by a chain of congratulations.
A week passed slowly as a month. The wheels of the cabs and carriages
seemed to be rolling through his mind. He often remembered the quiet
river at the end of his garden in the town of Ballah. How the weeds
swayed there, and the salmon leaped!
At the week's end came a note
from Miss Leland, complaining of his neglecting her so many days. He
sent a rather formal answer, promising to call soon. To add to his
other troubles, a cold east wind arose and made him shiver continually.
One evening he and his mother were sitting silent, the one knitting,
the other half-asleep. He had been writing letters and was now in a
reverie. Round the walls were one or two drawings, done by him at
school. His mother had got them framed. His eyes were fixed on a
drawing of a stream and some astonishing cows.
A few days ago he had found an old sketchbook for children among some
forgotten papers, which taught how to draw a horse by making three
ovals for the basis of his body, one lying down in the middle, two
standing up at each end for flank and chest, and how to draw a cow by
basing its body on a square. He kept trying to fit squares into the
cows. He was half inclined to take them out of their frames and retouch
on this new principle. Then he began somehow to remember the child with
the swollen face who threw a stone at the dog the day he resolved to
leave home first. Then some other image came. His problem moved before
him in a disjointed way. He was dropping asleep. Through his reverie
came the click, click of his mother's needles.
The rain beat on the window of the carriage. He began to listen;
thought and memory became a blank; his mind was full of the sound of
rain-drops.
FOURTH PART
THE REV. WILLIAM HOWARD
I
After his return to London Sherman for a time kept to himself, going
straight home from his office, moody and self-absorbed, trying not to
consider his problem--her life, his life. He often repeated to himself,
'I must do what people expect of me. It does not rest with me now--my
choosing time is over. ' He felt that whatever way he turned he would do
a great evil to himself and others. To his nature all sudden decisions
were difficult, and so he kept to the groove he had entered upon. It
did not even occur to him to do otherwise. He never thought of breaking
this engagement off and letting people say what they would. He was
bound in hopelessly by a chain of congratulations.
A week passed slowly as a month. The wheels of the cabs and carriages
seemed to be rolling through his mind. He often remembered the quiet
river at the end of his garden in the town of Ballah. How the weeds
swayed there, and the salmon leaped!
At the week's end came a note
from Miss Leland, complaining of his neglecting her so many days. He
sent a rather formal answer, promising to call soon. To add to his
other troubles, a cold east wind arose and made him shiver continually.
One evening he and his mother were sitting silent, the one knitting,
the other half-asleep. He had been writing letters and was now in a
reverie. Round the walls were one or two drawings, done by him at
school. His mother had got them framed. His eyes were fixed on a
drawing of a stream and some astonishing cows.
A few days ago he had found an old sketchbook for children among some
forgotten papers, which taught how to draw a horse by making three
ovals for the basis of his body, one lying down in the middle, two
standing up at each end for flank and chest, and how to draw a cow by
basing its body on a square. He kept trying to fit squares into the
cows. He was half inclined to take them out of their frames and retouch
on this new principle. Then he began somehow to remember the child with
the swollen face who threw a stone at the dog the day he resolved to
leave home first. Then some other image came. His problem moved before
him in a disjointed way. He was dropping asleep. Through his reverie
came the click, click of his mother's needles.
