In the Midst of Alarms

CHAPTER XII

Margaret had never met any man but her father who was so fond of books as Professor Renmark. The young fellows of her acquaintance read scarcely anything but the weekly papers; they went with some care through the yellow almanac that was given away free, with the grocer’s name printed on the back. The marvelous cures the almanac recorded were of little interest, and were chiefly read by the older folk, but the young men reveled in the jokes to be found at the bottom of every page, their only drawback being that one could never tell the stories at a paring-bee or other social gathering, because everyone in the company had read them. A few of the young men came sheepishly round to get a book out of the library, but it was evident that their interest was not so much in the volume as in the librarian, and when that fact became apparent to the girl, she resented it. Margaret was thought to be cold and proud by the youth of the neighborhood, or “stuck-up,” as they expressed it.

To such a girl a man like Renmark was a revelation. He could talk of other things than the weather, live stock, and the prospects for the crops. The conversation at first did not include Margaret, but she listened to every word of it with interest. Her father and mother were anxious to hear about their boy; and from that engrossing subject the talk soon drifted to university life, and the differences between city and country. At last the farmer, with a sigh, arose to go. There is little time for pleasant talk on a farm while daylight lasts. Margaret, remembering her duties as librarian, began to take in the books from the wagon to the front room. Renmark, slow in most things, was quick enough to offer his assistance on this occasion; but he reddened somewhat as he did so, for he was unused to being a squire of dames.

“I wish you would let me do the porterage,” he said. “I would like to earn the right to look at these books sometimes, even though I may not have the privilege of borrowing, not being a taxable resident of the township.”

“The librarian,” answered Margaret, with a smile, “seems to be at liberty to use her own discretion in the matter of lending. No one has authority to look over her accounts, or to censure her if she lends recklessly. So, if you wish to borrow books, all you have to do is to ask for them.”

“You may be sure I shall avail myself of the permission. But my conscience will be easier if I am allowed to carry them in.”

“You will be permitted to help. I like carrying them. There is no more delicious armful than books.”

As Renmark looked at the lovely girl, her face radiant with enthusiasm, the disconcerting thought came suddenly that perhaps her statement might not be accurate. No such thought had ever suggested itself to him before, and it now filled him with guilty confusion. He met the clear, honest gaze of her eyes for a moment, then he stammered lamely:

“I—I too am very fond of books.”

Together they carried in the several hundred volumes, and then began to arrange them.

“Have you no catalogue?” he asked.

“No. We never seem to need one. People come and look over the library, and take out whatever book they fancy.”

“Yes, but still every library ought to be catalogued. Cataloguing is an art in itself. I have paid a good deal of attention to it, and will show you how it is done, if you care to know.”

“Oh, I wish you would.”

“How do you keep a record of the volumes that are out?”

“I just write the name of the person, the title, and the date in this blank book. When the volume is returned, I score out the record.”

“I see,” said Renmark dubiously.

“That isn’t right, is it? Is there a better way?”

“Well, for a small library, that ought to do; but if you were handling many books, I think confusion might result.”

“Do tell me the right way. I should like to know, even if it is a small library.”

“There are several methods, but I am by no means sure your way is not the simplest, and therefore the best in this instance.”

“I’m not going to be put off like that,” said Margaret, laughing. “A collection of books is a collection of books, whether large or small, and deserves respect and the best of treatment. Now, what method is used in large libraries?”

“Well, I should suggest a system of cards, though slips of paper would do. When any person wants to take out a book, let him make out a card, giving the date and the name or number of the book; he then must sign the card, and there you are. He cannot deny having had the book, for you have his own signature to prove it. The slips are arranged in a box according to dates, and when a book is returned, you tear up the recording paper.”

“I think that is a very good way, and I will adopt it.”

“Then let me send to Toronto and get you a few hundred cards. We’ll have them here in a day or two.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you to that trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all. Now, that is settled, let us attack the catalogue. Have you a blank book anywhere about? We will first make an alphabetical list; then we will arrange them under the heads of history, biography, fiction, and so on.”

Simple as it appeared, the making of a catalogue took a long time. Both were absorbed in their occupation. Cataloguing in itself is a straight and narrow path, but in this instance there were so many delightful side excursions that rapid progress could not be expected. To a reader the mere mention of a book brings up recollections. Margaret was reading out the names; Renmark, on slips of paper, each with a letter on it, was writing them down.

“Oh, have you that book?” he would say, looking up as a title was mentioned. “Have you ever read it?”

“No; for, you see, this part of the library is all new to me. Why, here is one of which the leaves are not even cut. No one has read it. Is it good?”

“One of the best,” Renmark would say, taking the volume. “Yes, I know this edition. Let me read you one passage.”

And Margaret would sit in the rocking while he cut the leaves and found the place. One extract was sure to suggest another, and time passed before the title of the book found its way to the proper slip of paper. These excursions into literature were most interesting to both excursionists, but they interfered with cataloguing. Renmark read and read, ever and anon stopping to explain some point, or quote what someone else had said on the same subject, marking the place in the book, as he paused, with inserted fore finger. Margaret swayed back and forth in the comfortable rocking chair, and listened intently, her large dark eyes fixed upon him so earnestly that now and then, when he met them, he seemed disconcerted for a moment. But the girl did not notice this. At the end of one of his dissertations she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, with her cheek resting against her hand, and said:

“How very clear you make everything, Mr. Renmark.”

“Do you think so?” he said with a smile. “It’s my business, you know.”

“I think it’s a shame that girls are not allowed to go to the university; don’t you?”

“Really, I never gave any thought to the subject, and I am not quite prepared to say.”

“Well, I think it most unfair. The university is supported by the Government, is it not? Then why should half of the population be shut out from its advantages?”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do, you know.”

“Why?”

“There are many reasons,” he replied evasively.

“What are they? Do you think girls could not learn, or are not as capable of hard study as well as–”

“It isn’t that,” he interrupted; “there are plenty of girls’ schools in the country, you know. Some very good ones in Toronto itself, for that matter.”

“Yes; but why shouldn’t I go to the university with my brother? There are plenty of boys’ schools, too, but the university is the university. I suppose my father helps to support it. Why, then, should one child be allowed to attend and the other not? It isn’t at all just.”

“It wouldn’t do,” said the professor more firmly, the more he thought about it.

“Would you take that as a satisfying reason from one or your students?”

“What?”

“The phrase, ‘It wouldn’t do.’”

Renmark laughed.

“I’m afraid not,” he said; “but, then, I’m very exacting in class. Now, if you want to know, why do you not ask your father?”

“Father and I have discussed the question, often, and he quite agrees with me in thinking it unfair.”

“Oh, does he?” said Renmark, taken aback; although, when he reflected, he realized that the father doubtless knew as little about the dangers of the city as the daughter did.

“And what does your mother say?”

“Oh, mother thinks if a girl is a good housekeeper it is all that is required. So you will have to give me a good reason, if there is one, for nobody else in this house argues on your side of the question.”

“Well,” said Renmark in an embarrassed manner, “if you don’t know by the time you are twenty-five, I’ll promise to discuss the whole subject with you.”

Margaret sighed as she leaned back in her chair.

“Twenty-five?” she cried, adding with the unconscious veracity of youth: “That will be seven years to wait. Thank you, but I think I’ll find out before that time.”

“I think you will,” Renmark answered.

They were interrupted by the sudden and unannounced entrance of her brother.

“Hello, you two!” he shouted with the rude familiarity of a boy. “It seems the library takes a longer time to arrange than usual.”

Margaret rose with dignity.

“We are cataloguing,” she said severely.

“Oh, that’s what you call it, is it? Can I be of any assistance, or is two company when they’re cataloguing? Have you any idea what time it is?”

“I’m afraid I must be off,” said the professor, rising. “My companion in camp won’t know what has become of me.”

“Oh, he’s all right!” said Henry. “He’s down at the Corners, and is going to stay there for the meeting to-night. Young Bartlett passed a while ago; he was getting the horses shod, and your friend went with him. I guess Yates can take care of himself, Mr. Renmark. Say, sis, will you go to the meeting? I’m going. Young Bartlett’s going, and so is Kitty. Won’t you come, too, Mr. Renmark? It’s great fun.”

“Don’t talk like that about a religious gathering, Henry,” said his sister, frowning.

“Well, that’s what it is, anyhow.”

“Is it a prayer meeting?” asked the professor, looking at the girl.

“You bet it is!” cried Henry enthusiastically, giving no one a chance to speak but himself. “It’s a prayer meeting, and every other kind of meeting all rolled into one. It’s a revival meeting; a protracted meeting, that’s what it is. You had better come with us, Mr. Renmark, and then you can see what it is like. You can walk home with Yates.”

This attractive dénouement did not seem to appeal so strongly to the professor as the boy expected, for he made no answer.

“You will come, sis; won’t you?” urged the boy.

“Are you sure Kitty is going?”

“Of course she is. You don’t think she’d miss it, do you? They’ll soon be here, too; better go and get ready.”

“I’ll see what mother says,” replied Margaret as she left the room. She shortly returned, dressed ready for the meeting, and the professor concluded he would go also.

CHAPTER XIII

Anyone passing 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. Nobody 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 assemblage. 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 snatched 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 assembled, 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:

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 bass. 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.