In the Midst of Alarms by Robert Barr

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The preacher's voice rose until it sounded like a trumpet blast. His
eyes shone, and his face flushed with the fervor of his theme. Then
followed, as rapidly as words could utter, a lurid, awful picture of
hell and the day of judgment. Sobs and groans were heard in every part
of the room. "Come--now--_now_!" he cried, "Now is the appointed
time, now is the day of salvation. Come now; and as you rise pray God
that in his mercy he may spare you strength and life to reach the
penitent bench."

Suddenly the preacher ceased talking. Stretching out his hands, he
broke forth, with his splendid tenor voice, into the rousing hymn, with
its spirited marching time:

[Musical score:
Come ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore;
Jesus ready stands to save you.
Full of pity, love, and power.]

The whole congregation joined him. Everyone knew the words and the
tune. It seemed a relief to the pent-up feelings to sing at the top of
the voice. The chorus rose like a triumphal march:

[Musical score:
Turn to the Lord, and seek salvation,
Sound the praise of His dear name;
Glory, honour, and salvation,
Christ the Lord has come to reign.]

As the congregation sang the preacher in stentorian tones urged sinners
to seek the Lord while he was yet to be found.

Yates felt the electric thrill in the air, and he tugged at his collar,
as if he were choking. He could not understand the strange exaltation
that had come over him. It seemed as if he must cry aloud. All those
around him were much moved. There were now no scoffers at the back of
the room. Most of them seemed frightened, and sat looking one at the
other. It only needed a beginning, and the penitent bench would be
crowded. Many eyes were turned on Macdonald. His face was livid, and
great beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His strong hand clutched
the back of the seat before him, and the muscles stood out on the
portion of his arm that was bare. He stared like a hypnotized man at
the preacher. His teeth were set, and he breathed hard, as would a man
engaged in a struggle. At last the hand of the preacher seemed to be
pointed directly at him. He rose tremblingly to his feet and staggered
down the aisle, flinging himself on his knees, with his head on his
arms, beside the penitent bench, groaning aloud.

"Bless the Lord!" cried the preacher.

It was the starting of the avalanche. Up the aisle, with pale faces,
many with tears streaming from their eyes, walked the young men and the
old. Mothers, with joy in their hearts and a prayer on their lips, saw
their sons fall prostrate before the penitent bench. Soon the contrite
had to kneel wherever they could. The ringing salvation march filled
the air, mingled with cries of joy and devout ejaculations.

"God!" cried Yates, tearing off his collar, "what is the matter with
me? I never felt like this before. I must get into the open air."

He made for the door, and escaped unnoticed in the excitement of the
moment. He stood for a time by the fence outside, breathing deeply of
the cool, sweet air. The sound of the hymn came faintly to him. He
clutched the fence, fearing he was about to faint. Partially recovering
himself at last, he ran with all his might up the road, while there
rang in his ears the marching words:

[Musical score:
Turn to the Lord, and seek salvation,
Sound the praise of His dear Name.
Glory, honour and salvation,
Christ the Lord has come to reign.]

CHAPTER XIV.

When people are thrown together, especially when they are young, the
mutual relationship existing between them rarely remains stationary. It
drifts toward like or dislike; and cases have been known where it
progressed into love or hatred.

Stillson Renmark and Margaret Howard became at least very firm friends.
Each of them would have been ready to admit this much. These two had a
good foundation on which to build up an acquaintance in the fact that
Margaret's brother was a student in the university of which the
professor was a worthy member. They had also a subject of difference,
which, if it leads not to heated argument, but is soberly discussed,
lends itself even more to the building of friendship than subjects of
agreement. Margaret held, as has been indicated in a previous chapter,
that the university was wrong in closing its doors to women. Renmark,
up to the time of their first conversation on the subject, had given
the matter but little thought; yet he developed an opinion contrary to
that of Margaret, and was too honest a man, or too little of a
diplomatist, to conceal it. On one occasion Yates had been present, and
he threw himself, with the energy that distinguished him, into the
woman side of the question--cordially agreeing with Margaret, citing
instances, and holding those who were against the admission of women up
to ridicule, taunting them with fear of feminine competition. Margaret
became silent as the champion of her cause waxed the more eloquent; but
whether she liked Richard Yates the better for his championship who
that is not versed in the ways of women can say? As the hope of winning
her regard was the sole basis of Yates' uncompromising views on the
subject, it is likely that he was successful, for his experiences with
the sex were large and varied. Margaret was certainly attracted toward
Renmark, whose deep scholarship even his excessive self-depreciation
could not entirely conceal; and he, in turn, had naturally a
schoolmaster's enthusiasm over a pupil who so earnestly desired
advancement in knowledge. Had he described his feelings to Yates, who
was an expert in many matters, he would perhaps have learned that he
was in love; but Renmark was a reticent man, not much given either to
introspection or to being lavish with his confidences. As to Margaret,
who can plummet the depth of a young girl's regard until she herself
gives some indication? All that one is able to record is that she was
kinder to Yates than she had been at the beginning.

Miss Kitty Bartlett probably would not have denied that she had a
sincere liking for the conceited young man from New York. Renmark fell
into the error of thinking Miss Kitty a frivolous young person, whereas
she was merely a girl who had an inexhaustible fund of high spirits,
and one who took a most deplorable pleasure in shocking a serious man.
Even Yates made a slight mistake regarding her on one occasion, when
they were having an evening walk together, with that freedom from
chaperonage which is the birthright of every American girl, whether she
belongs to a farmhouse or to the palace of a millionaire.

In describing the incident afterward to Renmark, (for Yates had nothing
of his comrade's reserve in these matters) he said:

"She left a diagram of her four fingers on my cheek that felt like one
of those raised maps of Switzerland. I have before now felt the tap of
a lady's fan in admonition, but never in my life have I met a gentle
reproof that felt so much like a censure from the paw of our friend Tom
Sayers."

Renmark said with some severity that he hoped Yates would not forget
that he was, in a measure, a guest of his neighbors.

"Oh, _that's_ all right," said Yates. "If you have any spare
sympathy to bestow, keep it for me. My neighbors are amply able, and
more than willing, to take care of themselves."

And now as to Richard Yates himself. One would imagine that here, at
least, a conscientious relater of events would have an easy task. Alas!
such is far from being the fact. The case of Yates was by all odds the
most complex and bewildering of the four. He was deeply and truly in
love with both of the girls. Instances of this kind are not so rare as
a young man newly engaged to an innocent girl tries to make her
believe. Cases have been known where a chance meeting with one girl, and
not with another, has settled who was to be a young man's companion
during a long life. Yates felt that in multitude of counsel there is
wisdom, and made no secret of his perplexity to his friend. He
complained sometimes that he got little help toward the solution of the
problem, but generally he was quite content to sit under the trees with
Renmark and weigh the different advantages of each of the girls. He
sometimes appealed to his friend, as a man with a mathematical turn of
mind, possessing an education that extended far into conic sections and
algebraic formulae, to balance up the lists, and give him a candid and
statistical opinion as to which of the two he should favor with serious
proposals. When these appeals for help were coldly received, he accused
his friend of lack of sympathy with his dilemma, said that he was a
soulless man, and that if he had a heart it had become incrusted with
the useless _debris_ of a higher education, and swore to confide
in him no more. He would search for a friend, he said, who had
something human about him. The search for the sympathetic friend,
however, seemed to be unsuccessful; for Yates always returned to
Renmark, to have, as he remarked, ice water dashed upon his duplex-
burning passion.

It was a lovely afternoon in the latter part of May, 1866, and Yates
was swinging idly in the hammock, with his hands clasped under his
head, gazing dreamily up at the patches of blue sky seen through the
green branches of the trees overhead, while his industrious friend was
unromantically peeling potatoes near the door of the tent.

"The human heart, Renny," said the man in the hammock reflectively, "is
a remarkable organ, when you come to think of it. I presume, from your
lack of interest, that you haven't given the subject much study,
except, perhaps, in a physiological way. At the present moment it is to
me the only theme worthy of a man's entire attention. Perhaps that is
the result of spring, as the poet says; but, anyhow, it presents new
aspects to me each hour. Now, I have made this important discovery:
that the girl I am with last seems to me the most desirable. That is
contrary to the observation of philosophers of bygone days. Absence
makes the heart grow fonder, _they_ say. I don't find it so.
Presence is what plays the very deuce with me. Now, how do you account
for it, Stilly?"

The professor did not attempt to account for it, but silently attended
to the business in hand. Yates withdrew his eyes from the sky, and
fixed them on the professor, waiting for the answer that did not come.

"Mr. Renmark," he drawled at last, "I am convinced that your treatment
of the potato is a mistake. I think potatoes should not be peeled the
day before, and left to soak in cold water until to-morrow's dinner. Of
course I admire the industry that gets work well over before its
results are called for. Nothing is more annoying than work left
untouched until the last moment, and then hurriedly done. Still, virtue
may be carried to excess, and a man may be too previous."

"Well, I am quite willing to relinquish the work into your hands. You
may perhaps remember that for two days I have been doing your share as
well as my own."

"Oh, I am not complaining about _that_, at all," said the hammock
magnanimously. "You are acquiring practical knowledge, Renny, that will
be of more use to you than all the learning taught at the schools. My
only desire is that your education should be as complete as possible,
and to this end I am willing to subordinate my own yearning desire for
scullery work. I should suggest that, instead of going to the trouble
of entirely removing the covering of the potato in that laborious way,
you should merely peel a belt around its greatest circumference. Then,
rather than cook the potatoes in the slow and soggy manner that seems
to delight you, you should boil them quickly, with some salt placed in
the water. The remaining coat would then curl outward, and the
resulting potato would be white and dry and mealy, instead of being in
the condition of a wet sponge."

"The beauty of a precept, Yates, is the illustrating of it. If you are
not satisfied with my way of boiling potatoes, give me a practical
object lesson."

The man in the hammock sighed reproachfully.

"Of course an unimaginative person like you, Renmark, cannot realize
the cruelty of suggesting that a man as deeply in love as I am should
demean himself by attending to the prosaic details of household
affairs. I am doubly in love, and much more, therefore, as that old
bore Euclid used to say, is your suggestion unkind and uncalled for."

"All right, then; don't criticise."

"Yes, there is a certain sweet reasonableness in your curt suggestion.
A man who is unable, or unwilling, to work in the vineyard should not
find fault with the pickers. And now, Renny, for the hundredth time of
asking, add to the many obligations already conferred, and tell me,
like the good fellow you are, what you would do if you were in my
place. To which of those two charming, but totally unlike, girls would
you give the preference?"

"Damn!" said the professor quietly.

"Hello, Renny!" cried Yates, raising his head. "Have you cut your
finger? I should have warned you about using too sharp a knife."

But the professor had not cut his finger. His use of the word given
above is not to be defended; still, as it was spoken by him, it seemed
to lose all relationship with swearing. He said it quietly, mildly,
and, in a certain sense, innocently. He was astonished at himself for
using it, but there had been moments during the past few days when the
ordinary expletives used in the learned volumes of higher mathematics
did not fit the occasion.

Before anything more could be said there was a shout from the roadway
near them.

"Is Richard Yates there?" hailed the voice.

"Yes. Who wants him?" cried Yates, springing out of the hammock.

"I do," said a young fellow on horseback. He threw himself off a tired
horse, tied the animal to a sapling,--which, judging by the horse's
condition, was an entirely unnecessary operation,--jumped over the rail
fence, and approached through the woods. The young men saw, coming
toward them, a tall lad in the uniform of the telegraph service.

"I'm Yates. What is it?"

"Well," said the lad, "I've had a hunt and a half for you. Here's a
telegram."

"How in the world did you find out where I was? Nobody has my address."

"That's just the trouble. It would have saved somebody in New York a
pile of money if you had left it. No man ought to go to the woods
without leaving his address at a telegraph office, anyhow." The young
man looked at the world from a telegraph point of view. People were
good or bad according to the trouble they gave a telegraph messenger.
Yates took the yellow envelope, addressed in lead pencil, but, without
opening it, repeated his question:

"But how on earth did you find me?"

"Well, it wasn't easy;" said the boy. "My horse is about done out. I'm
from Buffalo. They telegraphed from New York that we were to spare no
expense; and we haven't. There are seven other fellows scouring the
country on horseback with duplicates of that dispatch, and some more
have gone along the lake shore on the American side. Say, no other
messenger has been here before me, has he?" asked the boy with a touch
of anxiety in his voice.

"No; you are the first."

"I'm glad of that. I've been 'most all over Canada. I got on your trail
about two hours ago, and the folks at the farmhouse down below said you
were up here. Is there any answer?"

Yates tore open the envelope. The dispatch was long, and he read it
with a deepening frown. It was to this effect:

"Fenians crossing into Canada at Buffalo. You are near the spot; get
there as quick as possible. Five of our men leave for Buffalo to-night.
General O'Neill is in command of Fenian army. He will give you every
facility when you tell him who you are. When five arrive, they will
report to you. Place one or two with Canadian troops. Get one to hold
the telegraph wire, and send over all the stuff the wire will carry.
Draw on us for cash you need; and don't spare expense."

When Yates finished the reading of this, he broke forth into a line of
language that astonished Renmark, and drew forth the envious admiration
of the Buffalo telegraph boy.

"Heavens and earth and the lower regions! I'm here on my vacation. I'm
not going to jump into work for all the papers in New York. Why
couldn't those fools of Fenians stay at home? The idiots don't know
when they're well off. The Fenians be hanged!"

"Guess that's what they will be," said the telegraph boy. "Any answer,
sir?"

"No. Tell 'em you couldn't find me."

"Don't expect the boy to tell a lie," said the professor, speaking for
the first time.

"Oh, I don't mind a lie!" exclaimed the boy, "but not that one. No,
sir. I've had too much trouble finding you. I'm not going to pretend
I'm no good. I started out for to find you, and I have. But I'll tell
any other lie you like, Mr. Yates, if it will oblige you."

Yates recognized in the boy the same emulous desire to outstrip his
fellows that had influenced himself when he was a young reporter, and
he at once admitted the injustice of attempting to deprive him of the
fruits of his enterprise.

"No," he said, "that won't do. No; you have found me, and you're a
young fellow who will be president of the telegraph company some day,
or perhaps hold the less important office of the United States
presidency. Who knows? Have you a telegraph blank?"

"Of course," said the boy, fishing out a bundle from the leathern
wallet by his side. Yates took the paper, and flung himself down under
the tree.

"Here's a pencil," said the messenger.

"A newspaper man is never without a pencil, thank you," replied Yates,
taking one out of his inside pocket. "Now, Renmark, I'm not going to
tell a lie on this occasion," he continued.

"I think the truth is better on all occasions."

"Right you are. So here goes for the solid truth."

Yates, as he lay on the ground, wrote rapidly on the telegraph blank.
Suddenly he looked up and said to the professor: "Say, Renmark, are you
a doctor?"

"Of laws," replied his friend.

"Oh, that will do just as well." And he finished his writing.

"How is this?" he cried, holding the paper at arm's length:

"L. F. SPENCER,

"_Managing Editor 'Argus,' New York:_

"I'm flat on my back. Haven't done a hand's turn for a week. Am under
the constant care, night and day, of one of the most eminent doctors in
Canada, who even prepares my food for me. Since leaving New York
trouble of the heart has complicated matters, and at present baffles
the doctor. Consultations daily. It is impossible for me to move from
here until present complications have yielded to treatment.

"Simson would be a good man to take charge in my absence."

"YATES.

"There," said Yates, with a tone of satisfaction, when he had finished
the reading. "What do you think of that?"

The professor frowned, but did not answer. The boy, who partly saw
through it, but not quite, grinned, and said: "Is it true?"

"Of course it's true!" cried Yates, indignant at the unjust suspicion.
"It is a great deal more true than you have any idea of. Ask the
doctor, there, if it isn't true. Now, my boy, will you give this in
when you get back to the office? Tell 'em to rush it through to New
York. I would mark it 'rush' only that never does any good, and always
makes the operator mad."

The boy took the paper, and put it in his wallet.

"It's to be paid for at the other end," continued Yates.

"Oh, that's all right," answered the messenger with a certain
condescension, as if he were giving credit on behalf of the company.
"Well, so long," he added. "I hope you'll soon be better, Mr. Yates."

Yates sprang to his feet with a laugh, and followed him to the fence.

"Now, youngster, you are up to snuff, I can see that. They'll perhaps
question you when you get back. What will you say?"

"Oh, I'll tell 'em what a hard job I had to find you, and let 'em know
nobody else could 'a' done it, and I'll say you're a pretty sick man. I
won't tell 'em you gave me a dollar!"

"Right you are, sonny; _you'll_ get along. Here's five dollars,
all in one bill. If you meet any other of the messengers, take them
back with you. There's no use of their wasting valuable time in this
little neck of the woods."

The boy stuffed the bill into his vest pocket as carelessly as if it
represented cents instead of dollars, mounted his tired horse, and
waved his hand in farewell to the newspaper man. Yates turned and
walked slowly back to the tent. He threw himself once more into the
hammock. As he expected, the professor was more taciturn than ever,
and, although he had been prepared for silence, the silence irritated
him. He felt ill used at having so unsympathetic a companion.

"Look here, Renmark; why don't you say something?"

"There is nothing to say."

"Oh, yes, there is. You don't approve of me, do you?"

"I don't suppose it makes any difference whether I approve or not."

"Oh, yes, it does. A man likes to have the approval of even the
humblest of his fellow-creatures. Say, what will you take in cash to
approve of me? People talk of the tortures of conscience, but you are
more uncomfortable than the most cast-iron conscience any man ever had.
One's own conscience one can deal with, but a conscience in the person
of another man is beyond one's control. Now, it is like this: I am here
for quiet and rest. I have earned both, and I think I am justified
in----"

"Now, Mr. Yates, please spare me any cheap philosophy on the question.
I am tired of it."

"And of me, too, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, rather--if you want to know."

Yates sprang out of the hammock. For the first time since the encounter
with Bartlett on the road Renmark saw that he was thoroughly angry. The
reporter stood with clenched fists and flashing eyes, hesitating. The
other, his heavy brows drawn, while not in an aggressive attitude, was
plainly ready for an attack. Yates concluded to speak, and not to
strike. This was not because he was afraid, for he was not a coward.
The reporter realized that he had forced the conversation, and
remembered he had invited Renmark to accompany him. Although this
recollection stayed his hand, it had no effect on his tongue.

"I believe," he said slowly, "that it would do you good for once to
hear a straight, square, unbiased opinion of yourself. You have
associated so long with pupils, to whom your word is law, that it may
interest you to know what a man of the world thinks of you. A few years
of schoolmastering is enough to spoil an archangel. Now, I think, of
all the----"

The sentence was interrupted by a cry from the fence:

"Say, do you gentlemen know where a fellow named Yates lives?"

The reporter's hand dropped to his side. A look of dismay came over his
face, and his truculent manner changed with a suddenness that forced a
smile even to the stern lips of Renmark.

Yates backed toward the hammock like a man who had received an
unexpected blow.

"I say, Renny," he wailed, "it's another of those cursed telegraph
messengers. Go, like a good fellow, and sign for the dispatch. Sign it
'Dr. Renmark, for R. Yates.' That will give it a sort of official,
medical-bulletin look. I wish I had thought of that when the other boy
was here. Tell him I'm lying down." He flung himself into the hammock,
and Renmark, after a moment's hesitation, walked toward the boy at the
fence, who had repeated his question in a louder voice. In a short time
he returned with the yellow envelope, which he tossed to the man in the
hammock. Yates seized it savagely, tore it into a score of pieces, and
scattered the fluttering bits around him on the ground. The professor
stood there for a few moments in silence.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you'll be good enough to go on with your
remarks."

"I was merely going to say," answered Yates wearily, "that you are a
mighty good fellow, Renny. People who camp out always have rows. That
is our first; suppose we let it be the last. Camping out is something
like married life, I guess, and requires some forbearance on both
sides. That philosophy may be cheap, but I think it is accurate. I am
really very much worried about this newspaper business. I ought, of
course, to fling myself into the chasm like that Roman fellow; but,
hang it! I've been flinging myself into chasms for fifteen years, and
what good has it done? There's always a crisis in a daily newspaper
office. I want them to understand in the _Argus_ office that I am
on my vacation."

"They will be more apt to understand from the telegram that you're on
your deathbed."

Yates laughed. "That's so," he said; "but, you see, Renny, we New
Yorkers live in such an atmosphere of exaggeration that if I did not
put it strongly it wouldn't have any effect. You've got to give a big
dose to a man who has been taking poison all his life. They will take
off ninety per cent. from any statement I make, anyhow; so, you see, I
have to pile it up pretty high before the remaining ten per cent.
amounts to anything."

The conversation was interrupted by the crackling of the dry twigs
behind them, and Yates, who had been keeping his eye nervously on the
fence, turned round. Young Bartlett pushed his way through the
underbrush. His face was red; he had evidently been running.

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