August First Read online

  AU
GUST FIRST

  by

  MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS and ROY IRVING MURRAY

  Illustrated by A. I. Keller

  [Frontispiece: "She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am."]

  New YorkCharles Scribner's Sons1915Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's SonsPublished March, 1915

  AUGUST FIRST

  "Whee!"

  The long fingers pulled at the clerical collar as if they might tear itaway. The alert figure swung across the room to the one window notwide open and the man pushed up the three inches possible. "Whee!" hebrought out again, boyishly, and thrust away the dusty vines that hungagainst the opening from the stone walls of the parish house close by.He gasped; looked about as if in desperate need of relief; struck backthe damp hair from his face. The heat was insufferable. In the westblack-gray clouds rolled up like blankets, shutting out heaven and air;low thunder growled; at five o'clock of a midsummer afternoon it wasalmost dark; a storm was coming fast, and coolness would come with it,but in the meantime it was hard for a man who felt heat intensely justto get breath. His eyes stared at the open door of the room, down thecorridor which led to the room, which turned and led by another opendoor to the street.

  "If they're coming, why don't they come and get it over?" he murmuredto himself; he was stifling--it was actual suffering.

  He was troubled to-day, beyond this affliction of heat. He was the newcurate of St. Andrew's, Geoffrey McBirney, only two months in theplace--only two months, and here was the rector gone off for his summervacation and McBirney left at the helm of the great city parish.Moreover, before the rector was gone a half-hour, here was the worstbusiness of the day upon him, the hour between four and five when therector was supposed to be found in the office, to receive any one whochose to come, for advice, for godly counsel, for "any old reason," asthe man, only a few years out of college, put it to himself. Hedreaded it; he dreaded it more than he did getting up into the pulpitof a Sunday and laying down the law--preaching. And he seriouslywished that if any one was coming they would come now, and let him dohis best, doggedly, as he meant to, and get them out of the way. Thenhe might go to work at things he understood. There was a funeral atseven; old Mrs. Harrow at the Home wanted to see him; and DavidSterling had half promised to help him with St. Agnes's Mission School,and must be encouraged; a man in the worst tenement of the south cityhad raided his wife with a knife and there was trouble, physical andmoral, and he must see to that; also Tommy Smith was dying at theTuberculosis Hospital and had clung to his hands yesterday, and wouldnot let him go--he must manage to get to little Tommy to-night. Therewas plenty of real work doing, so it did seem a pity to waste Limewaiting here for people who didn't come and who had, when they didcome, only emotional troubles to air. And the heat--the unspeakableheat! "I can't stand it another second!" he burst out, aloud. "I'lldie--I shall die!" He flung himself across the window-sill, with hishead far out, trying to catch a breath of air that was alive.

  As he stretched into the dim light, so, gasping, pulling again at thestiff collar, he was aware of a sound; he came back into the room witha spring; somebody was rapping at the open door. A young woman, inwhite clothes, with roses in her hat, stood there--refreshing as a coolbreeze, he thought; with that, as if the thought, as if she, perhaps,had brought it, all at once there was a breeze; a heavenly, light touchon his forehead, a glorious, chilled current rushing about him.

  "Thank Heaven!" he brought out involuntarily, and the girl, standing,facing him, looked surprised and, hesitating, stared at him. By thathis dignity was on top.

  "You wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. The girl flushed.

  "No," she said, and stopped. He waited. "I didn't expect--" shebegan, and then he saw that she was very nervous. "I didn'texpect--you."

  He understood now. "You expected to find the rector. I'm sorry. Hewent off to-day for his vacation. I'm left in his place. Can I helpyou in any way?"

  The girl stood uncertain, nervous, and said nothing. And looked athim, frightened, not knowing what to do. Then: "I wanted to seehim--and now--it's you!" she stammered, and the man felt contrite thatit was indubitably just himself. Contrite, then amused. But his lookwas steadily serious.

  "I'm sorry," he said again. "If I would possibly do, I should be glad."

  The girl burst into tears. That was bad. She dropped into a chair andsobbed uncontrollably, and he stood before her, and waited, and wasuncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat withroses was still plunged into the two bare hands--it was too hot forgloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; theroom was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man inhis black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chairand the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again.

  "Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in thedetached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything foryou unless you tell me."

  The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowersstopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I--know.I beg--your pardon. It was--such a shock to see--you." And then, mostunexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with agasp--but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that--it wasn'tyou I expected. I was in church--ten days ago. And the rectorsaid--people might come--here--and--he'd try to help them. It seemedto me I could talk to him. He was--fatherly. But you're"--the voicetrailed into a sob--"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, butnone came. "I mean--it's harder."

  "I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. Andthere's no one like the rector--one could tell him anything. I knowthat. But if I can help you--I'm here for that, you know. That's allthere is to consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instanteffect.

  "Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herselftogether, and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inwardindecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clapclose by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and thetwo in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. Asthe rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see therector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for yourkindness--and patience. I am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" andher voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tellyou," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be sogood. You are here for the rector, aren't you?"

  "I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to doall I can for--any one."

  She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want,"she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted achair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling nowin sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dressand the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush andpatter of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note ofpleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what shesaid.

  "I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the manwidened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after.They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it.Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. Sowhen I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd behonest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. Heseemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talkto him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--inconfidence, you know--if he really and truly thought it was wrong for aperson to kill herself. I can't see why." She glanced at theattentive, quiet figure at the window. "Do you think so?" she asked.He looked at her, but did not speak. She went on. "Why is it wrong?They say God gives life and only God should take it away. Why? It'sgiven--we don't ask for it, and no conditions come with it. Why shouldone, if it gets unendurable, keep an unasked, unwanted gift? Ifsomebody put a ball o
f bright metal into your hands and it was prettyat first and nice to play with, and then turned red-hot, and hurt,wouldn't it be silly to go on holding it? I don't know much about God,anyway," she went on a bit forlornly; not irreverently, but as if painhad burned off the shell of conventions and reserves of every day, andactual facts lay bare. "I don't feel as if He were especiallyreal--and the case I'm in is awfully real. I don't know if He wouldmind my killing myself--and if He would, wouldn't He understand I justhave to? If He's really good? But