attraction in a person who has done this and yet has kept alove of humanity. Witness St. Francis of Assisi and other notables ofhis ilk.
The people at Sea-Acres felt the attraction and tried to lionize thedark, tall parson with the glowing, indifferent eyes. But the lionwould not roar and gambol; the lion was a reserved beast, it seemed,with a suggestion of unbelievable, yet genuine, distaste underattentions. That point was alluring. One tried harder to soften abrute so worth while, so difficult. Three or four girls tried. Thelion was outwardly a gentle lion, pleasant when cornered, but seldomcornered. He managed to get off on a long walk alone when Angela, ofnineteen, meant him to have played tennis, on the second day.
The June afternoon was softening to a rosy dimness as he came in, verytired physically, hot and grimy, and sick of soul. "Glory be,tea-time's over, and they'll be dressing for dinner," he murmured, andturned a corner on eight of "them." A glance at the gay group showedtwo or three new faces. More guests! McBirney set his teeth. But hehad no space to take note of the arrivals, for Angela spoke.
"Just in time, Mr. McBirney," Angela greeted him. "Don Emory'scoming--see!" A car was spinning up the drive.
"Is he?" he answered perfunctorily. And the two words were clippedfrom history even as they were spoken, by a cry that rang from thegroup of people. Tod Winthrop ought to have been in bed. It wassix-thirty, and he was four years old, but his mother had forgottenhim, and his nurse had a weakness for the Emorys' second man; it wasalso certain that if a storm-centre could be found, he would be itsnucleus. Out he tumbled from the shrubbery, exactly in front of theincoming automobile, as unpleasant a spoiled infant as could beimagined, yet a human being with a life to save. McBirney, standing inthe drive, whirled, saw the small figure, ten feet down the drive, themachine close upon it; there was time for a man to spring aside; therewas no time to rescue a child. A lightning wave of repulsion floodedhim. "Have I got to throw myself down there and get maimed--for a foolchild whom everybody detests?" Without words the thought flooded him,and then in a strong defiance, the utter honesty of his soul caughthim. "I won't! I won't!" he shouted, and was conscious of the clamorof many voices, of a rushing movement, of a man's scream across thetumult: "It's too late--for God's sake _don't_!"
It was a day later when he opened his eyes. Dick Marston sat there.
"Shut up," ordered Dick.
"I haven't----"
"No, and you won't--you're not to talk. Shut up. That's what you'reto do."
The eyes closed; he was inadequate to argument. In five minutes theyopened again.
"None of your eloquence now," warned Dick.
"One thing----"
"No," firmly.
"But, Dick, it's torturing me. Was the child killed?"
Dick Marston's face looked curious. "Great Scott! don't you know whatyou----"
McBirney groaned inwardly. "Yes, I know. I was a coward. But I'vegot to know if--the kid--was killed."
"Coward!" gasped Dick--and Geoffrey put out his shaking hand.
"In mercy, Dick"--he was catching his breath, flushing, laboring witheach word--"don't--talk about--Was the boy--killed?"
"Killed, no, sound as a nut--but you----"
"That's all," said McBirney, and his eyes closed, and he turned hisface to the wall. But he did not go to sleep. He was trying to meetlife with self-respect gone. The last thing he remembered was thatsecond of utter rebellion against wrecking his strength, his goodmuscles--he had not thought of his life--to save the child. There hadbeen no time to choose; his past, his character, had chosen for him,and they had branded him as that impossible thing, a coward. He put uphis hand and felt bandages on his head; he must have got a whack afterall in saving his precious skin. He remembered now. "Didn't jumpquick enough, I suppose," he thought, with a sneer at the man in whosebody he lived, the man who was himself, the man who was a coward.After a while he heard Dick Marston stir. He was bending over him.
"Got to go to dinner, old man," Dick said. "I wish you'd let me tellyou what they all think about you."
McBirney shook his head impatiently, and Dick sighed heavily, and thenin a moment the door shut softly.
Things were vague to him for hours longer, and a sleeping powder keptthe next morning drowsy, but in the afternoon, when Marston came forhis hourly look at the patient, "Dick," said the patient, "I want totalk to you."
"All right, old man," Dick answered, "but first just a word. I hate tobother you, but somebody's after you on long-distance. The fellow hastelephoned three times--I was here the last time. He says----"
The man with the bandages on his head groaned. "Don't," he begged andtossed his hand out. "I know what he's wanting. I can't talk to him.I don't want to hear. It's no use. Shut him off, Dick, can't you?"
"Sure, old man," Marston agreed soothingly. "Only, he says----"
"Oh, don't--I know what it is--don't let him say it," pleaded theinvalid, quite unreasonable, entirely obstinate.
A committee from the vestry of a city church had, unknown to him at themoment, come to Warchester to hear him preach the Sunday before he hadleft on his trip. A letter from the rector since had warned him thatthey were full of enthusiasm about his sermon and himself and that acall to the rectorship of the church was imminent. This was apreliminary of the call; there was no doubt in his mind about that.And knowing as he did how he was going to give up his work, writhing ashe was under the last proof, as he felt it, of his unfitness, thethought of facing suave vestrymen even over a telephone, was a horrornot to be borne.
"Tell 'em I'm dead, Dick, there's a good boy. I _won't_ talk toanybody--to-day or to-morrow, anyhow."
"All right," Dick agreed. The patient was flushed and excited--itwould not do to go on. "But the chap said he might run down here," headded, thinking aloud.
The patient started up on his elbow and glared. "Great Scott--don'tlet him do that; you won't let him get at me, Dick? I'm sorry to besuch a poor fool, but--just now--to-day--two or three days--Dick, I_can't_"--he stammered out, his hands shaking, his face twisting. AndDick Marston, as gently as a woman might, took in charge this friendwhom he loved.
"Don't you worry, Geoffie; the bears shan't eat you this trip. I'llsettle the chap next time he calls up."
And McBirney fell back, with closed eyelids, relieved, secure in Dick'sstrength. He lay, breathing quickly, a moment or two, and then openedhis eyes.
"When can I get away, Dick?"
"We'll start to-morrow if you're strong enough."
"You needn't go, Dicky. I'll get a train. I'm----"
"None of that," said Marston. "Whither thou goest, for the present,I'll trot. But--Hope Stuart's anxious to--meet you."
"Who's Hope Stuart?"
Dick Marston hesitated, looked embarrassed. "Why--just a girl," hesaid. "But an uncommon sort of girl. She's done some--big things.Cousin of Don Emory's, you know. Came yesterday--just before yourparty. She--she's--well, she's different from the ruck of 'em--andshe--said she'd like to meet you. I half promised she could."
McBirney flushed. "I _can't_ see people, Dick," he threw backnervously. "They're kind--it's decent of them. I suppose, as long asthe boy wasn't killed--" he stopped.
"Geoff, you've got some bizarre idea in your head about this episode,and I can't fathom it," spoke Dick Marston. "What do you thinkhappened anyway?" he demanded. And stopped, horrified at the look onthe other's face.
"Dick, you mean to be kind, but you're being cruel--as death,"whispered Geoffrey McBirney. "I simply--can't bear anyconversation--about that. I've got to cut loose and get off somewhereand--and--arrange."
His voice broke. Dick Marston's big hand was on his. "Old man," Dicksaid, "you're all wrong, but if you won't let me talk about it Iwon't--now. Look here--we'll sneak to-morrow. Everybody's going offin cars for an all-day drive, and I'll start, and pull out half-way onsome excuse, and come back here, and you'll be packed, and we'll getout. I'll square it with Nanny Emory. She'll understa
nd. I'll tellher you're crazy in the head, and won't be hero-worshipped."
"Hero-worshipped!" McBirney laughed bitterly to himself when Dick wasgone. These good people, because he was a parson, because the child'sblood, by some accident, was not on his head,