“Well—well, sir,” Higgins stammered through the yawn, and the bishop laughed.
“Me! I’m waitin’ fo’ Squire Fassett. County Co’t to-day; las’ month I slep’ over, an’ the Squire, he come in early with his cattle, and had the devil’s own—excuse me, sir—had a hell of a time—excuse me, sir—I’m sleepy—had a right bad job wakin’ me. He talked some about shootin’, so I thought I’d sleep handy over this side.”
“Good,” the bishop said thoughtfully. “You’ll ferry me over? I can get to Lancaster?”
“Get to Lancaster?” the man repeated. “Nothin’ simpler, bishop; I reckon,” he added, apparently to Billy, “there ain’t much you want of these parts you can’t get.”
There was a three-mile stretch on the Lancaster side; the bishop took it slowly; it was six when he turned into the main street, where the early birds stared as Billy’s tread echoed from the cobbles. Embarrassment seized the bishop. This was an absurd performance. As soon as Billy and he had breakfast he would ride back to the Thickets. He drew up at a hotel and gave Billy over to a groom, and strolled to the echoing dining-room, killing time over details. He had to wait for breakfast, and when it was over he found that he had managed the day up to eight o’clock, and with that the thought occurred to him that he would wait and meet Doctor Fletcher at eleven. The ride had not tired him; in fact he felt like a walk on top of it, a good way to get rid of some of the time on his hands. There was a park on the other side of the city, and he had not seen it for months.
The landlord of the Harrington House stood on the steps and watched. “There goes the right sort of parson,” he observed to the clerk. “Look at him beat it up the street. He ain’t too pious to be a human, and that’s what rakes in the souls. And he’s awfully good comp’ny. Heaven for climate, but hell for comp’ny, folks say; but the bishop’s got hell queered when he starts business up on high.” In many forms good-will followed the short figure and the fine gray head; eyes brightened to see how well he looked, how young his gait.
It was quiet in the park. It lay high, and through a vista cut in juicy green he looked across the valley, where his home lay, the big place with fields and thickets and trees, and the large, sunshiny garden. “I’m sorry it all has to go to strangers,” he said aloud; then his mouth twisted into a queer, lovable, sidewise smile that was his, and he lifted himself from the bench to start back to town. With that came a clatter of muffled hoofs down the soft bridle-path, and he turned with a rider’s interest in riders. A young man was galloping fast toward him through the shifting light and shadow, and the bishop, still smiling, suddenly started, horror-struck. Out from a by-path in front of the rider ran a little boy, late to school, hurrying across the park with his books and slate, oblivious of everything else. The bishop shouted, and the rider saw in time and pulled in, and the child was safe. But it had been a close shave. The horseman went on, and the bishop fell to thinking. It was odd that this thing should have happened twice in two months—almost identically this thing. Early in May he had landed from England at Quebec, and had spent three days in Montreal, and one morning he had driven up the mountain, Mount Royal, the park for which nature has done more, perhaps, than for any other in the world. It was bright weather, and as the carriage climbed the hanging road he had met many people on horseback. Around a turn, where the green mist of leaves arched over a level stretch, a horse and rider cantered toward him through the speckled sunlight—a splendid brown horse carrying a big young man, bare-headed, fair-haired. As pleasant a sight, the bishop thought, as one might see on earth. Then without warning there was a sound which made his pulse stop. A woman at the roadside screamed as a creature screams in a last agony. And the bishop followed her wild eyes. In the middle of the sunny road, where the shadows twisted bewilderingly, a little lad of three or four bent over a ball which rolled from him, and the flying hoofs were almost on him. The horse came galloping—a noble picture—the little white figure, stooping, fearless of death, in the sun-splashed road, death bearing down gloriously.
“Ah!” It seemed as if the round world had gasped that. At the last second the young man had seen, and with a turn of the hand, with all his strength, with the skill of a finished horseman, had thrown his mount. Back they rolled together in a dangerous mass, the immense hoofs and the bright head flashing. And the child scrambled away, and his mother sobbed and did not even look as he ran toward her, for before her eyes the man who had given him back to her lay where the body of the horse must crush him the next second. And as the horse rolled the great hoofs floundered in air, and somehow righted, and within six inches of the helpless head rolled back. In two minutes more they were all grouped in the road, a joyful and excited company—the woman sobbing with happiness now; the baby shrieking for sympathy; the driver swearing gleefully, regardless of the bishop, and the young man who had just grazed death up and punching anxiously here and there at his trembling animal. The bishop held the beast’s head, and the boy, the cause of the sensation, played calmly with his ball. In two minutes more the woman and children had gone on, but the bishop was still helping the young man look things over.
“Jove, that’s luck—that’s luck I wouldn’t have dared hope for,” the boy brought out. He was an attractive lad, well bred and radiantly good-looking, an Englishman, yet with a breeziness not English, and a peculiarity in his speech. It might be Canadian, the bishop thought as he noticed—it is hard for Americans to judge. “That’s ripping. Thank you, bishop. Not a strap or buckle wrong, and the beggar not scratched. I couldn’t do it again, don’t you know.” He patted the frightened horse.
“How do you know I’m a bishop?”