In the Midst of Alarms

“If you will let me go and tell the doctor, I will come back here and be your prisoner.”

The man laughed again in low, tantalizing tones. This was a good joke.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. I wasn’t born so recently as all that. A girl in the hand is worth a dozen a mile up the road. Now, come off that horse, or I’ll take you off. This is war time, and I’m not going to waste any more pretty talk on you.”

The man, who, she now saw, was hatless, leered up at her, and something in his sinister eyes made the girl quail. She had been so quiet that he apparently was not prepared for any sudden movement. Her right hand, hanging down at her side, had grasped the short riding whip, and, with a swiftness that gave him no chance to ward off the blow, she struck him one stinging, blinding cut across the eyes, and then brought down the lash on the flank of her horse, drawing the animal round with her left over her enemy. With a wild snort of astonishment, the horse sprang forward, bringing man and gun down to the ground with a clatter that woke the echoes; then, with an indignant toss of the head, Gyp sped along the road like the wind. It was the first time he had ever felt the cut of a whip, and the blow was not forgiven. Margaret, fearing further obstruction on the road, turned her horse’s head toward the rail fence, and went over it like a bird. In the field, where fast going in the dark had dangers, Margaret tried to slacken the pace, but the little horse would not have it so. He shook his head angrily whenever he thought of the indignity of that blow, while Margaret leaned over and tried to explain and beg pardon for her offense. The second fence was crossed with a clean-cut leap, and only once in the next field did the horse stumble, but quickly recovered and went on at the same breakneck gait. The next fence, gallantly vaulted over, brought them to the side road, half a mile up which stood the doctor’s house. Margaret saw the futility of attempting a reconciliation until the goal was won. There, with difficulty, the horse was stopped, and the girl struck the panes of the upper window, through which a light shone, with her riding whip. The window was raised, and the situation speedily explained to the physician.

“I will be with you in a moment,” he said.

Then Margaret slid from the saddle, and put her arms around the neck of the trembling horse. Gypsy would have nothing to do with her, and sniffed the air with offended dignity.

“It was a shame, Gyp,” she cried, almost tearfully, stroking the glossy neck of her resentful friend; “it was, it was, and I know it; but what was I to do, Gyp? You were the only protector I had, and you did bowl him over beautifully; no other horse could have done it so well. It’s wicked, but I do hope you hurt him, just because I had to strike you.”

Gypsy was still wrathful, and indicated by a toss of the head that the wheedling of a woman did not make up for a blow. It was the insult more than the pain; and from her—there was the sting of it.

“I know—I know just how you feel, Gypsy dear; and I don’t blame you for being angry. I might have spoken to you, of course, but there was no time to think, and it was really him I was striking. That’s why it came down so hard. If I had said a word, he would have got out of the way, coward that he was, and then would have shot you—you, Gypsy! Think of it!”

If a man can be molded in any shape that pleases a clever woman, how can a horse expect to be exempt from her influence. Gypsy showed signs of melting, whinnying softly and forgivingly.

“And it will never happen again, Gypsy—never, never. As soon as we are safe home again I will burn that whip. You little pet, I knew you wouldn’t–”

Gypsy’s head rested on Margaret’s shoulder, and we must draw a veil over the reconciliation. Some things are too sacred for a mere man to meddle with. The friends were friends once more, and on the altar of friendship the unoffending whip was doubtless offered as a burning sacrifice.

When the doctor came out, Margaret explained the danger of the road, and proposed that they should return by the longer and northern way—the Concession, as it was called.

They met no one on the silent road, and soon they saw the light in the window.

The doctor and the girl left their horses tied some distance from the house, and walked together to the window with the stealthy steps of a pair of housebreakers. Margaret listened breathlessly at the closed window, and thought she heard the low murmur of conversation. She tapped lightly on the pane, and the professor threw back the door-window.

“We were getting very anxious about you,” he whispered.

“Hello, Peggy!” said the boy, with a wan smile, raising his head slightly from the pillow and dropping it back again.

Margaret stooped over and kissed him.

“My poor boy! what a fright you have given me!”

“Ah, Margery, think what a fright I got myself. I thought I was going to die within sight of the house.”

The doctor gently pushed Margaret from the room. Renmark waited until the examination was over, and then went out to find her.

She sprang forward to meet him.

“It is all right,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. He has been exhausted by loss of blood, but a few days’ quiet will set that right. Then all you will have to contend against will be his impatience at being kept to his room, which may be necessary for some weeks.”

“Oh, I am so glad! and—and I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Renmark!”

“I have done nothing—except make blunders,” replied the professor with a bitterness that surprised and hurt her.

“How can you say that? You have done everything. We owe his life to you.”

Renmark said nothing for a moment. Her unjust accusation in the earlier part of the night had deeply pained him, and he hoped for some hint of disclaimer from her. Belonging to the stupider sex, he did not realize that the words were spoken in a state of intense excitement and fear, that another woman would probably have expressed her condition of mind by fainting instead of talking, and that the whole episode had left absolutely no trace on the recollection of Margaret. At last Renmark spoke:

“I must be getting back to the tent, if it still exists. I think I had an appointment there with Yates some twelve hours ago, but up to this moment I had forgotten it. Good-night.”

Margaret stood for a few moments alone, and wondered what she had done to offend him. He stumbled along the dark road, not heeding much the direction he took, but automatically going the nearest way to the tent. Fatigue and the want of sleep were heavy upon him, and his feet were as lead. Although dazed, he was conscious of a dull ache where his heart was supposed to be, and he vaguely hoped he had not made a fool of himself. He entered the tent, and was startled by the voice of Yates:

“Hello! hello! Is that you, Stoliker?”

“No; it is Renmark. Are you asleep?”

“I guess I have been. Hunger is the one sensation of the moment. Have you provided anything to eat within the last twenty-four hours?”

“There’s a bag full of potatoes here, I believe. I haven’t been near the tent since early morning.”

“All right; only don’t expect a recommendation from me as cook. I’m not yet hungry enough for raw potatoes. What time has it got to be?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Seems as if I had been asleep for weeks. I’m the latest edition of Rip Van Winkle, and expect to find my mustache gray in the morning. I was dreaming sweetly of Stoliker when you fell over the bunk.”

“What have you done with him?”

“I’m not wide enough awake to remember. I think I killed him, but wouldn’t be sure. So many of my good resolutions go wrong that very likely he is alive at this moment. Ask me in the morning. What have you been prowling after all night?”

There was no answer. Renmark was evidently asleep.

“I’ll ask you in the morning,” muttered Yates drowsily—after which there was silence in the tent.

CHAPTER XXI

Yates had stubbornly refused to give up his search for rest and quiet in spite of the discomfort of living in a leaky and battered tent. He expressed regret that he had not originally camped in the middle of Broadway, as being a quieter and less exciting spot than the place he had chosen; but, having made the choice, he was going to see the last dog hung, he said. Renmark had become less and less of a comrade. He was silent, and almost as gloomy as Hiram Bartlett himself. When Yates tried to cheer him up by showing him how much worse another man’s position might be, Renmark generally ended the talk by taking to the wood.

“Just reflect on my position,” Yates would say. “Here I am dead in love with two lovely girls, both of whom are merely waiting for the word. To one of them I have nearly committed myself, which fact, to a man of my temperament, inclines me somewhat to the other. Here I am anxious to confide in you, and yet I feel that I risk a fight every time I talk about the complication. You have no sympathy for me, Renny, when I need sympathy; while I am bubbling over with sympathy for you, and you won’t have it. Now, what would you do if you were in my fix? If you would take five minutes and show me clearly which of the two girls I really ought to marry, it would help me ever so much, for then I would be sure to settle on the other. It is the indecision that is slowly but surely sapping my vitality.”

By this time, Renmark would have pulled his soft felt hat over his eyes, and, muttering words that would have echoed strangely in the silent halls of the university building, would plunge into the forest. Yates generally looked after his retreating figure without anger, but with mild wonder.

“Well, of all cantankerous cranks he is the worst,” he would say with a sigh. “It is sad to see the temple of friendship tumble down about one’s ears in this way.” At their last talk of this kind Yates resolved not to discuss the problem again with the professor, unless a crisis came. The crisis came in the form of Stoliker, who dropped in on Yates as the latter lay in the hammock, smoking and enjoying a thrilling romance. The camp was strewn with these engrossing, paper-covered works, and Yates had read many of them, hoping to came across a case similar to his own, but up to the time of Stoliker’s visit he had not succeeded.

“Hello, Stoliker! how’s things? Got the cuffs in your pocket? Want to have another tour across country with me?”

“No. But I came to warn you. There will be a warrant out to-morrow or next day, and, if I were you, I would get over to the other side; though you need never say I told you. Of course, if they give the warrant to me, I shall have to arrest you; and although nothing may be done to you, still, the country is in a state of excitement, and you will at least be put to some inconvenience.”

“Stoliker,” cried Yates, springing out of the hammock, “you are a white man! You’re a good fellow, Stoliker, and I’m ever so much obliged. If you ever come to New York, you call on me at the Argus office,—anybody will show you where it is,—and I’ll give you the liveliest time you ever had in your life. It won’t cost you a cent, either.”

“That’s all right,” said the constable. “Now, if I were you, I would light out to-morrow at the latest.”

“I will,” said Yates.

Stoliker disappeared quietly among the trees, and Yates, after a moment’s thought, began energetically to pack up his belongings. It was dark before he had finished, and Renmark returned.

“Stilly,” cried the reporter cheerily, “there’s a warrant out for my arrest. I shall have to go to-morrow at the latest!”

“What! to jail?” cried his horrified friend, his conscience now troubling him, as the parting came, for his lack of kindness to an old comrade.

“Not if the court knows herself. But to Buffalo, which is pretty much the same thing. Still, thank goodness, I don’t need to stay there long. I’ll be in New York before I’m many days older. I yearn to plunge into the arena once more. The still, calm peacefulness of this whole vacation has made me long for excitement again, and I’m glad the warrant has pushed me into the turmoil.”

“Well, Richard, I’m sorry you have to go under such conditions. I’m afraid I have not been as companionable a comrade as you should have had.”

“Oh, you’re all right, Renny. The trouble with you is that you have drawn a little circle around Toronto University, and said to yourself: ‘This is the world.’ It isn’t, you know. There is something outside of all that.”

“Every man, doubtless, has his little circle. Yours is around the Argus office.”

“Yes, but there are special wires from that little circle to all the rest of the world, and soon there will be an Atlantic cable.”

“I do not hold that my circle is as large as yours; still, there is something outside of New York, even.”

“You bet your life there is; and, now that you are in a more sympathetic frame of mind, it is that I want to talk with you about. Those two girls are outside my little circle, and I want to bring one of them within it. Now, Renmark, which of those girls would you choose if you were me?”

The professor drew in his breath sharply, and was silent for a moment. At last he said, speaking slowly:

“I am afraid, Mr. Yates, that you do not quite appreciate my point of view. As you may think I have acted in an unfriendly manner, I will try for the first and final time to explain it. I hold that any man who marries a good woman gets more than he deserves, no matter how worthy he may be. I have a profound respect for all women, and I think that your light chatter about choosing between two is an insult to both of them. I think either of them is infinitely too good for you—or for me either.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Perhaps you think that you would make a much better husband than I. If that is the case, allow me to say you are entirely wrong. If your wife was sensitive, you would kill her with your gloomy fits. I wouldn’t go off in the woods and sulk, anyhow.”

“If you are referring to me, I will further inform you that I had either to go off in the woods or knock you down. I chose the less of two evils.”

“Think you could do it, I suppose? Renny, you’re conceited. You’re not the first man who has made such a mistake, and found he was barking up the wrong tree when it was too late for anything but bandages and arnica.”

“I have tried to show you how I feel regarding this matter. I might have known I should not succeed. We will end the discussion, if you please.”

“Oh, no. The discussion is just beginning. Now, Renny, I’ll tell you what you need. You need a good, sensible wife worse than any man I know. It is not yet too late to save you, but it soon will be. You will, before long, grow a crust on you like a snail, or a lobster, or any other cold-blooded animal that gets a shell on itself. Then nothing can be done for you. Now, let me save you, Renny, before it is too late. Here is my proposition: You choose one of those girls and marry her. I’ll take the other. I’m not as unselfish as I may seem in this, for your choice will save me the worry of making up my own mind. According to your talk, either of the girls is too good for you, and for once I entirely agree with you. But let that pass. Now, which one is it to be?”

“Good God! man, do you think I am going to bargain with you about my future wife?”

“That’s right, Renny. I like to hear you swear. It shows you are not yet the prig you would have folks believe. There’s still hope for you, professor. Now, I’ll go further with you. Although I cannot make up my mind just what to do myself, I can tell instantly which is the girl for you, and thus we solve both problems at one stroke. You need a wife who will take you in hand. You need one who will not put up with your tantrums, who will be cheerful, and who will make a man of you. Kitty Bartlett is the girl. She will tyrannize over you, just as her mother does over the old man. She will keep house to the queen’s taste, and delight in getting you good things to eat. Why, everything is as plain as a pikestaff. That shows the benefit of talking over a thing. You marry Kitty, and I’ll marry Margaret. Come, let’s shake hands over it.” Yates held up his right hand, ready to slap it down on the open palm of the professor, but there was no response. Yates’ hand came down to his side again, but he had not yet lost the enthusiasm of his proposal. The more he thought of it the more fitting it seemed.

“Margaret is such a sensible, quiet, level-headed girl that, if I am as flippant as you say, she will be just the wife for me. There are depths in my character, Renmark, that you have not suspected.”

“Oh, you’re deep.”

“I admit it. Well, a good, sober-minded woman would develop the best that is in me. Now, what do you say, Renny?”

“I say nothing. I am going into the woods again, dark as it is.”

“Ah, well,” said Yates with a sigh, “there’s no doing anything with you or for you. I’ve tried my best; that is one consolation. Don’t go away. I’ll let fate decide. Here goes for a toss-up.”

And Yates drew a silver half dollar from his pocket. “Heads for Margaret!” he cried. Renmark clinched his fist, took a step forward, then checked himself, remembering that this was his last night with the man who had at least once been his friend.

Yates merrily spun the coin in the air, caught it in one hand, and slapped the other over it.

“Now for the turning point in the lives of two innocent beings.” He raised the covering hand, and peered at the coin in the gathering gloom. “Heads it is. Margaret Howard becomes Mrs. Richard Yates. Congratulate me, professor.”

Renmark stood motionless as a statue, an object lesson in self-control. Yates set his hat more jauntily on his head, and slipped the epoch-making coin into his trousers pocket.

“Good-by, old man,” he said. “I’ll see you later, and tell you all the particulars.”

Without waiting for the answer, for which he probably knew there would have been little use in delaying, Yates walked to the fence and sprang over it, with one hand on the top rail. Renmark stood still for some minutes, then, quietly gathering underbrush and sticks large and small, lighted a fire, and sat down on a log, with his head in his hands.

CHAPTER XXII

Yates walked merrily down the road, whistling “Gayly the troubadour.” Perhaps there is no moment in a man’s life when he feels the joy of being alive more keenly than when he goes to propose to a girl of whose favorable answer he is reasonably sure—unless it be the moment he walks away an accepted lover. There is a magic about a June night, with its soft, velvety darkness and its sweet, mild air laden with the perfumes of wood and field. The enchantment of the hour threw its spell over the young man, and he resolved to live a better life, and be worthy of the girl he had chosen, or, rather, that fate had chosen for him. He paused a moment, leaning over the fence near the Howard homestead, for he had not yet settled in his own mind the details of the meeting. He would not go in, for in that case he knew he would have to talk, perhaps for hours, with everyone but the person he wished to meet. If he announced himself and asked to see Margaret alone, his doing so would embarrass her at the very beginning. Yates was naturally too much of a diplomat to begin awkwardly. As he stood there, wishing chance would bring her out of the house, there appeared a light in the door-window of the room where he knew the convalescent boy lay. Margaret’s shadow formed a silhouette on the blind. Yates caught up a handful of sand, and flung it lightly against the pane. Its soft patter evidently attracted the attention of the girl, for, after a moment’s pause, the window opened carefully, while Margaret stepped quickly out and closed it, quietly standing there.

“Margaret,” whispered Yates hardly above his breath.

The girl advanced toward the fence.

“Is that you?” she whispered in return, with an accent on the last word that thrilled her listener. The accent told plainly as speech that the word represented the one man on earth to her.

“Yes,” answered Yates, springing over the fence and approaching her.

“Oh!” cried Margaret, starting back, then checking herself, with a catch in her voice. “You—you startled me—Mr. Yates.”

“Not Mr. Yates any more, Margaret, but Dick. Margaret, I wanted to see you alone. You know why I have come.” He tried to grasp both her hands, but she put them resolutely behind her, seemingly wishing to retreat, yet standing her ground.

“Margaret, you must have seen long ago how it is with me. I love you, Margaret, loyally and truly. It seems as if I had loved you all my life. I certainly have since the first day I saw you.”

“Oh, Mr. Yates, you must not talk to me like this.”

“My darling, how else can I talk to you? It cannot be a surprise to you, Margaret. You must have known it long ago.”

“I did not, indeed I did not—if you really mean it.”

“Mean it? I never meant anything as I mean this. It is everything to me, and nothing else is anything. I have knocked about the world a good deal, I admit, but I never was in love before—never knew what love was until I met you. I tell you that–”

“Please, please, Mr. Yates, do not say anything more. If it is really true, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I hope nothing I have said or done has made you believe that—that—Oh, I do not know what to say! I never thought you could be in earnest about anything.”

“You surely cannot have so misjudged me, Margaret. Others have, but I did not expect it of you. You are far and away better than I am. No one knows that so well as I. I do not pretend to be worthy of you, but I will be a devoted husband to you. Any man who gets the love of a good woman,” continued Yates earnestly, plagiarizing Renmark, “gets more than he deserves; but surely such love as mine is not given merely to be scornfully trampled underfoot.”

“I do not treat your—you scornfully. I am only sorry if what you say is true.”

“Why do you say if it is true? Don’t you know it is true?”

“Then I am very sorry—very, very sorry, and I hope it is through no fault of mine. But you will soon forget me. When you return to New York–”

“Margaret,” said the young man bitterly, “I shall never forget you. Think what you are doing before it is too late. Think how much this means to me. If you finally refuse me, you will wreck my life. I am the sort of man that a woman can make or mar. Do not, I beg of you, ruin the life of the man who loves you.”

“I am not a missionary,” cried Margaret with sudden anger. “If your life is to be wrecked, it will be through your own foolishness, and not from any act of mine. I think it cowardly of you to say that I am to be held responsible. I have no wish to influence your future one way or another.”

“Not for good, Margaret?” asked Yates with tender reproach.

“No. A man whose good or bad conduct depends on anyone but himself is not my ideal of a man.”

“Tell me what your ideal is, so that I may try to attain it.”

Margaret was silent.

“You think it will be useless for me to try?”

“As far as I am concerned, yes.”

“Margaret, I want to ask you one more question. I have no right to, but I beg you to answer me. Are you in love with anyone else?”

“No!” cried Margaret hotly. “How dare you ask me such a question?”

“Oh, it is not a crime—that is, being in love with someone else is not. I’ll tell you why I dare ask. I swear, by all the gods, that I shall win you—if not this year, then next; and if not next, then the year after. I was a coward to talk as I did; but I love you more now than I did even then. All I want to know is that you are not in love with another man.

“I think you are very cruel in persisting as you do, when you have had your answer. I say no. Never! never! never!—this year nor any other year. Is not that enough?”

“Not for me. A woman’s ‘no’ may ultimately mean ‘yes.’”

“That is true, Mr. Yates,” replied Margaret, drawing herself up as one who makes a final plunge. “You remember the question you asked me just now?—whether I cared for anyone else? I said ‘no.’ That ‘no’ meant ‘yes.’”

He was standing between her and the window, so she could not escape by the way she came. He saw she meditated flight, and made as though he would intercept her, but she was too quick for him. She ran around the house, and he heard a door open and shut.