Fear

FEAR By A. Henderson Monahan Currie slumped lower in the seat of his Ford as the sound of noisy laughter came nearer. "Ha, ha, the country boob should have been at home milking cows, instead of trying to blubber out an argument." "Make a better backwoodsman, more of a log than a lawyer." "Ha, ha, the judge sat on him hard — dismissed the case before it was well started." "Seemed to lose his head completely. He did look ridiculous, he, he, he!" The two men climbed into their car, somewhere in the rear end of Monahan's Ford, but the purr of their engine did not altogether drown the sound of laughter as the car pulled away. Monahan raised in his seat and gave his starter a savage stamp. His face was scarlet, his lips quivered weakly as he backed away. "Yell-ow, yell-ow," his motor ground out, as he drove recklessly along. "Yell-ow, yell-" "Darn, darn the luck," he almost sobbed, and lifted one hand from the wheel to wipe the moisture from his eyes. "I thought I had more spunk than to let the other lawyers befuddle me like that! Oh, for the way my voice failed me! I squawked like a sick gander." "Fail-ed — fail-ed," spelled his motor. "Not in me, that's all! I'm a poor coward, and done for!" He was out on a country road now, and speeding past wooded lands. He turned a corner dizzily and almost ran into a girl on horseback. "Careful, there," she called excitedly; then, recognizing the oc- cupant of the car, she added, "You poor flunk!" Monahan stopped his car so suddenly that it pitched him forward in his seat. "Were you — er — were you — ?" "Certainly I was in the court room," sharply. "But, see here, Mildred, I had stage fright — that's all, dear! I — " The bitter expression in her face checked his words. She averted her head and sat storing at nothing in particular. For a long moment Monahan watched her in silence, taking in the fine line of cheek and throat, the full bosom, the capable hands that held the bridle reins in a sure grip, the dignified, almost haughty, bearing of her body. Yes, she would have made a fitting wife to grace the home of the great lawyer he had intended to be — but now — even so, he could not bear to give her up. A sudden illuminating thought found voice. "Mildred, the man you promised to marry and the one who failed so miserably this morning, is one. If you loved me then, surely

FEAR 443 you can overlook this; anyhow," desperately, "say good-bye to me before I leave." "Leave?" "I cannot stand up here now. I'll have to go away — from the jeers, and begin anew." "But you've already begun; why back down now?" scornfully. "But — such a beginning — I- — it would be easier to start elsewhere. Understand, dear?" The girl's face flushed hotly, then whitened to hardness. "Yes, I understand, perfectly. You're too big a coward to make another try. And I — I hate cowards!" Monahan watched horse and rider disappear in the west; then slowly, mechanically, started his Ford. 5JC SjJ Jp <f! "Superstition and fear were fed to me, along wid me 'taters and buttermilk," Samuel Currie muttered to himself as he lounged in a rocker on his porch. A frolicsome breeze flicked away the newspaper that he had spread over his face to keep the flies from disturbing his noon-day nap, and he made a hasty grab to recover it. As he stood up, the waters of Deep lake met his gaze, they were sparkling in the warm sun, yet Samuel shuddered as if an icy breath from their depths had struck him. He was thinking of the time he had watched his friend Jerry's head disappear beneath their surface, and fear had laid hold of him with such relentless hands of iron, that he had been unable to move to his aid. But another, and less powerful swimmer, had arrived on the scene in time to hear Jerry's last despairing cry, had plunged in to rescue, while he had hidden, cowering, in a tangle of bushes on the shore. Back in old Ireland, he had enquired about the curling vapor that arose from the bog. "It's the divil reachin' to drag ye in," said his grandmother. ■ When passing a graveyard, he had been told by her that the ghosts of the dead walk by moonlight, and his own following shadow had sent him, screaming in fear, home to his mother. Tales of goblins and evil spirits "that are the black shadows of the night" caused him to fear to venture out -of-doors after sunset. Even now, a man of forty-nine years of age, and the father of the stal- wart son, he disliked shadows and silence. But his recently found faith in his heavenly Father was gradually strengthening his weak nerve, and vanquishing childish fears. He had determined that Monahan, the son to whom his wife had given her maiden name, should grow up devoid of the foolish fears and superstitions that had been his bane. He had done his level best toward training him, and yet was not certain of results. Samuel awoke with a start, his wife stood in the doorway. "Sam'l, will ye hitch old Sally to the buggy? I've a notion to drive to the postoffice. There may be a letter from Monahan."

444 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Werra-good, Martha, and I want ye to bring me some nails from the store." The road to the village ran along the eastern shore of Deep lake, then reared suddenly into the highway. Old Sally — from long habit — edged cautiously to the extreme right, to avoid the many rush- ing motors gay with youth and camp paraphernalia. The Deep lake tourists were going cityward. Martha was glad of this, for the "care- less, joy-mad crowd never could learn to think of others long enough to remain to stamp out a match or make sure the camp-fire logs were free from sparks," she thought. Martha tore open the envelope and read its contents ere she left the post office. "Coming home! My darlin' son." Back in the buggy, she urged old Sally into an unwilling trot. But when she turned into the rough lake road, doubts began to assail her. Why was Monahan coming home — now? She carried her fears to Samuel. "There was the big case he wrote about! Well, maybe it tired him out." "But, Sam'l, success don't tire a body." Her husband gave her an uneasy glance. Had she read his doubting thoughts? "Of course, he'd win. He's just comin' home to boast to us, or something." By noon the next day, Monahan had arrived. There was a lagging to (his footsteps, a shrinking in his glance, a reluctant halt in his speech. Samuel, with gripping fear in his soul, noticed that his son did not once meet his eyes. He had imagined him returning with a heart as free from fear of his fellow-men as a tough pine knot. And here he was with a weakness showing in every movement, and he six feet tall! "Well," the mother began after a painful silence, "its a fine thing for a country lad to be able to out-argue them city lawyers." "Is it? Yes, I — " Monahan stammered and was silent. "How long can ye be abidin' home wid us, Monahan?" asked his father. "Er — well — long enough to locate a place for a fresh start." "Monahan!" his father cried in sickening realization. But the mother put a tired arm about the sagging shoulders. "Ye lost out, Monahan?" "Yes." His voice was a wail. His mother's arm tightened. "Now, now, niver ye mind, dearie." But Samuel wanted the details, and Monahan gave them in a bitter tone. "Ye must not back down, son." "What else is left to do? But I may make good elsewhere." "No, ye must fight on the battlefield of your own makin', son."

FEAR 445 "I can — not — I," the stalwart lawyer bowed his head in abject misery. $ afs $ sfc $ Monahan put on his father's overalls and helped him with the farm work. He milked the cows for his mother, and worked in the garden every evening. He seemed to his parents to be tireless. Or, was he overworking his body in an effort to ease his mind? They were glad to have him home; yet they waited for his going. Then suddenly in the night, he disappeared, leaving a note: "Gone to find work. Do not worry. — Monahan." But instinctively both knew that he had also gone to find himself. Summer days ripened into Autumn, still the air was dry and oppressive. The pine trees by the lake looked listless, as they slowly swayed before the wind that had sprung up, bearing with it the aroma of burning pine wood. "Still some campers remaining," thought Samuel. But Martha said that the glow in the west was not the red of the setting sun: "looks like flame," she finished soberly. "Nothing to be afraid of," her husband chided gently. But Martha noticed he did not go to the fields, but remained puttering about the barn. Presently Martha called in alarm: "Sam'l, the birds and rabbits are comin' from the forest!" Even as she spoke .be cattle came lowing into the barn yard. "Its a fire in the forest," Samuel said excitedly. "But its not. likely to come around this neck of the lake. It's as well, though, to be prepared." He ran to the big wind mill, released the lever, and it began to pump water into the huge tank. The wind was rising, the branches of the pines bent wildly, there was a crackling, sweeping sound in the smoke-laden air, and the day was as dark as twilight. The mother thought first of her son: "Well, I'm glad John Stevens happened to tell us that he saw Monahan in Overton yester- day." "Monahan! Yes, he'll be safe there." "And we'll bide by the house, Sam'l?" "Yes, 'tis best — the clearing is wide — and — there's the lake, if the house catches fire." The flame in the west spread; the darkness deepened. Between the swish of the dead leaves and twigs before the wind, and the crackling sound in the air, another noise grew louder. Was it? — Yes — "Oh, Sam'l, its Monahan in his car!" He swished into the house as if a thousand demons were chasing him. His mother went to him, as he sank into a chair. "Ye came to see if we were safe, Monahan, dear, And we are, with the lake over yonder, and ye be a real hero," pridefully. .But her son was cowering, trembling, in his seat. There was unwritten volume in Samuel's stricken look as it met hers.

446 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Anyhow," Martha said in a low defensive, "he came about us." She raised her voice, "Didn't ye, Monahan, lad?" "Yes — But, Oh, mother, I couldn't stop!" "What would ye be stoppin' for, dearie?" "To take on the campers that are struggling back there — along the road. Its awful — " "Campers!" Samuel almost shouted. "I thought they had all left. Where were they?" "Past the creek." "And ye gave them no lift, Monahan?" Samuel Currie's eyes smarted with smoke, his skin burned, but his heart felt the chill of icy water. He was back on the shore of the lake, watching Jerry's head sink beneath the water, hearing his strang- ling cry. But his son must not carry through life the bitter agony of a regret like his own. With a prayer on his lips, he faced him. "Monahan!" he shouted above the roar without, "come." But Mona- han crouched the lower, stark fear on his countenance. "Monahan, son, come — I'm goin' with ye — in the buggy." Samuel Currie ran toward the stable, opened the door and un- snapped old Sally's halter. Martha followed to help with the harness. He gave her a hasty kiss, and was gone into the darkness. Martha knelt on the floor of the stable. At the sound of the rattle of the old buggy passing the house, Monahan groaned and buried his face in his hands. His lips moved in the first prayer he had ever uttered since reaching manhood: "Father, Father," he sobbed, "take from me this craven soul and make me strong." Over and over, he repeated the words, tears streaming down his face. While out in the stable, Martha still knelt — worn hands uplifted in wordless supplication. Suddenly the leash of fear that had so long held Monahan burst, and strength and courage flowed into his tortured veins. Instantly Monahan knew that God had heard his prayer. He sprang up, and was out the doorway ere his mother reached it, and a moment after had headed his Ford into the threatening, livid west. As he raced his car along the road, he seemed to have left his old self behind. Not only courage, but elation was surging through his being. Had the Lord of Hosts sent this flame from Heaven to burn away the dark, fettering cord that had held him captive? He laughed aloud, exulting in his free- dom of soul; guided the car safely, dodging the glowing embers which the raging wind was tossing from the forest. His eyes ran with smarting tears, and the clouds of smoke almost choked him. Fortunately, the road was familiar to him; he had only to steer his car and speed ahead. A black shadow loomed before him, and he turned his Ford sharply to pvoid hitting a furiously racing car. Further on he met two shadowing forms, who scrambled with sobs of relief into his back seat. On toward the fume of conflagration he drove. "Curses," hissed a voice in his ear, "you're mad, turn around."

FEAR 447 But Monahan had not ended his quest. Where were the old buggy and horse that had been driven into this scorching inferno of flame by that conquering hero of fear — his father? By the rickety bridge over the creek, he came upon an overturned car, its driver holding one hand to his head, and with the other signaling frantically for him to stop. "Have you seen a buggy pass?" Monahan asked through swollen lips. "Not within the last fifteeen minutes." "Then father must have taken the cross-road into the forest," thought Monahan. Mildred's father's summer cabin was at the end of that road. But Monahan knew they had long since returned to the city. "Turn back, you fool!" shouted a fear-crazed occupant of his car, and a hand almost wrenched the steering wheel from his grasp. Monahan struck it off savagely. "Turn back," shouted another, "the gas'll explode." Monahan felt it was time to retreat. Anyhow his father had not had time to drive farther. He turned his car warily. A branch of burning brush, blown by the wind, fell, barely missing the hood. His face felt seared, his eyes glazed and swollen, but the hands that gripped the wheel were steady. He seemed to be in a trance, in which the frightened cries of the men behind him were the jibes of the courtroom lawyers. But he had no fear now! He was equal to the whole yelping pack of them! But there was something lacking — he slowed his car and peered down the forest road. Yes, there it was — a buggy-overturned — a form, too. He jumped out and staggered toward them — stooped to lift the inert form of his father, felt his heart. Thank God, there was still life, then Mildred's voice was in his ear: "I rode back to camp this morning — but my horse broke loose. I was calling him when your father found me. Coming back his horse became frightened and shied off the road. He is a hero, Mon- ahan, and oh, so are you — I'm sorry for what I said Monahan — I — am — " The voice faltered, failed, or was it his ears? There was a diz- ziness, a feeling of suffocation in his head — blackness. Then he felt a hand on his own: "Let me drive, Monohan." He straightened with a jerk. The car was careening crazily, he steadied it and bit his lip to keep from lapsing again. Only a little further now. Then he plunged the scorched Ford through the long grass and brush and into the saving waters of the lake. A cheer of thanksgiving went up from the occupants, but Mon- ahan turned and looked toward the house which held his mother. Scalding tears coursed down his cheeks, relieving his eyes of their burning. A big motor car, and an ambulance pulled up. Some one had telephoned to the city. Monahan watched them lift the limp form of his father. Soon the faded eyes opened and looked about bewildered.

448 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Fell on his head — stunned — no harm done," the doctor told Monahan, and went to bandage Mildred's burns. "Monahan!" Samuel called weakly. "Here, father, I've been tried by fire and I'll make good now. I ran away and sold my time to a real estate firm in Overton, but I am going back to the city. I'll be their backwoodsman lawyer, their rising lawyer, their not-to-be-beaten-by-bullies lawyer. Oh, father!" "My son!" was all Samuel's emotions allowed him to say, but the tone held a world full of pride and fulfilled hope. "You next," said the doctor touching Monahan's seared arm. "Come, miss, I'll drive you home," called a voice from the big car. "I'm coming," Mildred answered, but she lingered to whisper to Monahan, "I'll return, soon." With aching bodies, but singing hearts, father and son went to- ward the waiting mother, and faced the future that was without lurking trace of cowardly fear. Rock Island, III. To A Missionary Yours is a calling o'er land and sea, Wherever needed your service may be; Teaching truth, Christ's message expound Wherever the honest-in-heart are found. Leading souls to the better way; Guiding them upward day by day; Seeking not for earthly gain, Laying up treasures on a higher plane. Jesus has said, what glory be thine If only one sinner is brought to the shrine; Repentant and humble, to his glory is led, Filled with rich wisdom, life's eternal bread. Then give your best effort, whole heart and mind, To the good and advancement of humankind. Riches are yours in the joy you will win, Dispelling the darkness and sorrow of sin. Manti, Utah ZELMA MILLER.