She shortly returned, dressed ready for the meeting, and the professor concluded he would go also.

CHAPTER XIII.

Anyone pa.s.sing the Corners that evening would have quickly seen that something important was on. Vehicles of all kinds lined the roadway, drawn in toward the fence, to the rails of which the horses were tied.

Some had evidently come from afar, for the fame of the revivalist was widespread. The women, when they arrived, entered the schoolhouse, which was brilliantly lighted with oil lamps. The men stood around outside in groups, while many sat in rows on the fences, all conversing about every conceivable topic except religion. They apparently acted on the theory that there would be enough religion to satisfy the most exacting when they went inside. Yates sat on the top rail of the fence with the whittler, whose guest he had been. It was getting too dark for satisfactory whittling, so the man with the jack-knife improved the time by cutting notches in the rail on which he sat. Even when this failed, there was always a satisfaction in opening and shutting a knife that had a powerful spring at the back of it, added to which was the pleasurable danger of cutting his fingers. They were discussing the Fenian question, which at that time was occupying the minds of Canadians to some extent.

Yates was telling them what he knew of the brotherhood in New York, and the strength of it, which his auditors seemed inclined to underestimate.

n.o.body believed that the Fenians would be so foolhardy as to attempt an invasion of Canada; but Yates held that if they did they would give the Canadians more trouble than was expected.

"Oh, we'll turn old Bartlett on them, if they come over here. They'll be glad enough to get back if he tackles them."

"With his tongue," added another.

"By the way," said the whittler, "did young Bartlett say he was coming to-night? I hope he'll bring his sister if he does. Didn't any of you fellows ask him to bring her? He'd never think of it if he wasn't told.

He has no consideration for the rest of us."

"Why didn't you ask him? I hear you have taken to going in that direction yourself."

"Who? Me?" asked the whittler, quite unconcerned. "I have no chance in that quarter, especially when the old man's around."

There was a sound of singing from the schoolhouse. The double doors were wide open, and as the light streamed out the people began to stream in.

"Where's Macdonald?" asked Yates.

"Oh, I guess he's taken to the woods. He washes his face, and then he hides. He has the sense to wash his face first, for he knows he will have to come. You'll see him back before they start the second hymn."

"Well, boys!" said one, getting down from the fence and stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, "I guess, if we're going in, it's about time."

One after another they got down from the fence, the whittler shutting his knife with a reluctant snap, and putting it in his pocket with evident regret. The schoolhouse, large as it was, was filled to its utmost capacity--women on one side of the room, and men on the other; although near the door there was no such division, all the occupants of the back benches being men and boys. The congregation was standing, singing a hymn, when Yates and his comrades entered, so their quiet incoming was not noticed. The teacher's desk had been moved from the platform on which it usually stood, and now occupied a corner on the men's side of the house. It was used as a seat by two or three, who wished to be near the front, and at the same time keep an eye on the rest of the a.s.semblage. The local preacher stood on the edge of the platform, beating time gently with his hymn book, but not singing, as he had neither voice nor ear for music, and happily recognized the fact.

The singing was led by a man in the middle of the room.

At the back of the platform, near the wall, were two chairs, on one of which sat the Rev. Mr. Benderson, who was to conduct the revival. He was a stout, powerful-looking man, but Yates could not see his face, for it was buried in his hands, his head being bowed in silent prayer. It was generally understood that he had spent a youth of fearful wickedness, and he always referred to himself as a brand s.n.a.t.c.hed from the burning.

It was even hinted that at one time he had been a card player, but no one knew this for a fact. Many of the local preachers had not the power of exhortation, therefore a man like the Rev. Mr. Benderson, who had that gift abnormally developed, was too valuable to be localized; so he spent the year going from place to place, sweeping, driving, coaxing, or frightening into the fold those stray sheep that hovered on the outskirts; once they were within the religious ring-fence the local minister was supposed to keep them there. The latter, who had given out the hymn, was a man of very different caliber. He was tall, pale, and thin, and his long black coat hung on him as if it were on a post. When the hymn was finished; and everyone sat down, Yates, and those with him, found seats as best they could at the end near the door. This was the portion of the hall where the scoffers a.s.sembled, but it was also the portion which yielded most fruit, if the revival happened to be a successful one. Yates, seeing the place so full, and noticing two empty benches up at the front, asked the whittler why they were not occupied.

"They'll be occupied pretty soon."

"Who are they being kept for?"

"Perhaps you, perhaps me, perhaps both of us. You never can tell. That's the penitents' bench."

The local preacher knelt on the platform, and offered up a prayer. He asked the Lord to bless the efforts of the brother who was with them there that night, and to crown his labors with success; through his instrumentality to call many wandering sinners home. There were cries of "Amen" and "Bless the Lord" from different parts of the hall as the prayer was being made. On rising, another hymn was given out:

"Joy to the world, the Lord is come.

Let earth receive her King."

The leader of the singing started it too low. The tune began high, and ran down to the bottom of the scale by the time it reached the end of the first line. When the congregation had got two-thirds of the way down, they found they could go no farther, not even those who sang ba.s.s.

The leader, in some confusion, had to pitch the tune higher, and his miscalculation was looked upon as exceedingly funny by the reckless spirits at the back of the hall. The door opened quietly; and they all turned expecting to see Macdonald, but it was only Sandy. He had washed his face with but indifferent success, and the bulge in his cheek, like a wen, showed that he had not abandoned tobacco on entering the schoolhouse. He tiptoed to a place beside his friends.

"The old man's outside," he whispered to the youth who sat nearest him, holding his hand to the side of his mouth so that the sound would not travel. Catching sight of Yates, he winked at him in a friendly sort of way.

The hymn gathered volume and spirit as it went on, gradually recovering from the misadventure at starting. When it was finished, the preacher sat down beside the revivalist. His part of the work was done, as there was no formal introduction of speaker to audience to be gone through.

The other remained as he was with bowed head, for what appeared to be a long time.

A deep silence fell on all present. Even the whisperings among the scoffers ceased.

At last Mr. Benderson slowly raised his head, arose, and came to the front of the platform. He had a strong, masterful, clean-shaven face, with the heavy jaw of a stubborn man--a man not easily beaten. "Open the door," he said in a quiet voice.

In the last few meetings he had held he had found this an effective beginning. It was new to his present audience. Usually a knot of people stood outside, and if they were there, he made an appeal to them, through the open door, to enter. If no one was there, he had a lesson to impart, based on the silence and the darkness. In this instance it was hard to say which was the more surprised, the revivalist or the congregation. Sandy, being on his feet, stepped to the door, and threw it open. He was so astonished at what he saw that he slid behind the open door out of sight. Macdonald stood there, against the darkness beyond, in a crouching att.i.tude, as if about to spring. He had evidently been trying to see what was going on through the keyhole; and, being taken unawares by the sudden opening of the door, had not had time to recover himself. No retreat was now possible. He stood up with haggard face, like a man who has been on a spree, and, without a word, walked in. Those on the bench in front of Yates moved together a little closer, and the blacksmith sat down on the vacant s.p.a.ce left at the outside. In his confusion he drew his hand across his brow, and snapped his fingers loudly in the silence. A few faces at the back wore a grin, and would have laughed had not Sandy, closing the door quietly, given them one menacing look which quelled their merriment. He was not going to have the "old man" made fun of in his extremity; and they all had respect enough for Sandy's fist not to run the risk of encountering it after the meeting was over. Macdonald himself was more to be dreaded in a fight; but the chances were that for the next two or three weeks, if the revival were a success, there would be no danger from that quarter.

Sandy, however, was permanently among the unconverted, and therefore to be feared, as being always ready to stand up for his employer, either with voice or blow. The unexpected incident Mr. Benderson had witnessed suggested no remarks at the time, so, being a wise man, he said nothing.

The congregation wondered how he had known Macdonald was at the door, and none more than Macdonald himself. It seemed to many that the revivalist had a gift of divination denied to themselves, and this belief left them in a frame of mind more than ever ready to profit by the discourse they were about to hear.

Mr. Benderson began in a low monotone, that nevertheless penetrated to every part of the room. He had a voice of peculiar quality, as sweet as the tones of a tenor, and as pleasant to hear as music; now and then there was a manly ring in it which thrilled his listeners. "A week ago to-night," he said, "at this very hour, I stood by the deathbed of one who is now among the blessed. It is four years since he found salvation, by the mercy of G.o.d, through the humble instrumentality of the least of his servants. It was my blessed privilege to see that young man--that boy almost--pledge his soul to Jesus. He was less than twenty when he gave himself to Christ, and his hopes of a long life were as strong as the hopes of the youngest here to-night. Yet he was struck down in the early flush of manhood--struck down almost without warning. When I heard of his brief illness, although knowing nothing of its seriousness, something urged me to go to him, and at once. When I reached the house, they told me that he had asked to see me, and that they had just sent a messenger to the telegraph office with a dispatch for me. I said: 'G.o.d telegraphed to me.' They took me to the bedside of my young friend, whom I had last seen as hearty and strong as anyone here."

Mr. Benderson then, in a voice quivering with emotion, told the story of the deathbed scene. His language was simple and touching, and it was evident to the most callous auditor that he spoke from the heart, describing in pathetic words the scene he had witnessed. His unadorned eloquence went straight home to every listener, and many an eye dimmed as he put before them a graphic picture of the serenity attending the end of a well-spent life.

"As I came through among you to-night," he continued, "as you stood together in groups outside this building, I caught a chance expression that one of you uttered. A man was speaking of some neighbor who, at this busy season of the year, had been unable to get help. I think the one to whom this man was speaking had asked if the busy man were here, and the answer was: 'No; he has not a minute to call his own.' The phrase has haunted me since I heard it, less than an hour ago. 'Not a minute to call his own!' I thought of it as I sat before you. I thought of it as I rose to address you. I think of it now. Who has a minute to call his own?" The soft tones of the preacher's voice had given place to a ringing cry that echoed from the roof down on their heads. "Have you?

Have I? Has any king, any prince, any president, any ruler over men, a minute or a moment he can call his own? Not one. Not one of all the teeming millions on this earth. The minutes that are past are yours.

What use have you made of them? All your efforts, all your prayers, will not change the deeds done in any one of those minutes that are past, and those only are yours. The chiseled stone is not more fixed than are the deeds of the minutes that are past. Their record is for you or against you. But where now are those minutes of the future--those minutes that, from this time onward, you will be able to call your own when they are spent? They are in the hand of G.o.d--in his hand to give or to withhold.

And who can count them in the hand of G.o.d? Not you, not I, not the wisest man upon the earth. Man may number the miles from here to the farthest visible star; but he cannot tell you,--_you_; I don't mean your neighbor, I mean _you_,--he cannot tell YOU whether your minutes are to be one or a thousand. They are doled out to you, and you are responsible for them. But there will come a moment,--it may be to-night, it may be a year hence,--when the hand of G.o.d will close, and you will have had your sum. Then time will end for you, and eternity begin. Are you prepared for that awful moment--that moment when the last is given you, and the next withheld? What if it came now? Are you prepared for it? Are you ready to welcome it, as did our brother who died at this hour one short week ago? His was not the only deathbed I have attended. Some scenes have been so seared into my brain that I can never forget them. A year ago I was called to the bedside of a dying man, old in years and old in sin. Often had he been called, but he put Christ away from him, saying: 'At a more convenient season.' He knew the path, but he walked not therein. And when at last G.o.d's patience ended, and this man was stricken down, he, foolish to the last, called for me, the servant, instead of to G.o.d, the Master. When I reached his side, the stamp of death was on his face. The biting finger of agony had drawn lines upon his haggard brow. A great fear was upon him, and he gripped my hand with the cold grasp of death itself. In that darkened room it seemed to me I saw the angel of peace standing by the bed, but it stood aloof, as one often offended. It seemed to me at the head of the bed the demon of eternal darkness bent over, whispering to him: 'It is too late! it is too late!' The dying man looked at me--oh, such a look! May you never be called upon to witness its like. He gasped: 'I have lived--I have lived a sinful life. Is it too late?' 'No,' I said, trembling. 'Say you believe.' His lips moved, but no sound came. He died as he had lived.

The one necessary minute was withheld. Do you hear? _It--was--withheld!_ He had not the minute to call his own. Not that minute in which to turn from everlasting d.a.m.nation. He--went--down--into--_h.e.l.l_, dying as he had lived."

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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns.

"G.o.d!" 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: