Eleanor Prency was a miserable young woman during most of the great
revival season which followed the special meetings at Dr. Guide's
church. She did not see Ray Bartram as much as of old, for the young
man spent most of his evenings at the church, assisting in the work. He
sang no wild hymns, nor did he make any ecstatic speeches; nevertheless
his influence was great among his old acquaintances and upon the young
men of the town. To "stand up for prayers" was to the latter class the
supreme indication of courage or conviction; and any of them would have
preferred to face death itself, at the muzzle of a gun, to taking such
a step. But that was not all; Bartram had for some years been the
leader of the unbelievers in the town; the logic of a young man who was
smart enough to convince judges on the bench in matters of law was good
enough for the general crowd when it was brought to bear upon religion.
As one lounger at Weitz's saloon expressed himself,--
"None of the preachers or deacons or class-leaders was ever able to
down that young feller before, but now he's just the same as gone and
hollered 'enough.' It's no use for the rest of us to put on airs after
that; nobody'll believe us, and like as not he'll be the first man to
tell us what fools we be. I'm thinkin' a good deal of risin' for
prayers myself, if it's only to get through before he gives me a
talkin' to."
When, however, the entire membership of the church aroused to the fact
that work was to be done, and Judge Prency and other solid citizens
began to take part in the church work, Bartram rested from his efforts
and began again to spend his evenings at the home of the young woman
whom he most admired. A change seemed to have come over others as well
as himself. Mrs. Prency greeted him more kindly than ever, but Eleanor
seemed different. She was not as merry, as defiant, or as sympathetic
as of old. Sometimes there was a suggestion of old times in her manner,
but suddenly the young woman would again become reserved and distant.
One evening, when she had begun to rally him about something, and
quickly lapsed into a different and languid manner, Bartram said,--
"Eleanor, nothing seems as it used to be between you and me. I wish I
knew what was wrong in me."
The girl suddenly interested herself in the contents of an antiquated
photograph album.
"I must have become dreadfully uninteresting," he continued, "if you
prefer the faces in that album, of which I've heard you make fun time
and again. Won't you tell me what it is? Don't be afraid to talk
plainly: I can stand anything--from you."
"Oh, nothing," said Eleanor, continuing to pretend interest in the
pictures.
"'Nothing' said in that tone always means something--and a great deal
of it. Have I said or done anything to offend you?"
"No," said Eleanor, with a sigh, closing the book and folding her
hands, "only--I didn't suppose you ever could become a prosy, poky old
church-member."
The reply was a laugh, so merry, hearty, and long that Eleanor looked
indignant, until she saw a roguish twinkle in Bartram's eyes; then she
blushed and looked confused.
"Please tell me what I have said or done that was poky or prosy," asked
Bartram. "We lawyers have a habit of asking for proof as well as
charges. I give you my word, my dear girl, that never in all my
previous life did I feel so entirely cheerful and good-natured as I do
nowadays. I have nothing now to trouble my conscience, or spoil my
temper, or put me out of my own control, as used frequently to happen.
I never before knew how sweet and delightful it was to live and meet my
fellow-beings,--particularly those I love. I can laugh at the slightest
provocation now, instead of sometimes feeling ugly and saying sharp
things. Every good and pleasant thing in life I enjoy more than ever;
and as you, personally, are the very best thing in life, you seem a
thousand times dearer and sweeter to me than ever before. Perhaps you
will laugh at me for saying so, but do you know that I, who have
heretofore considered myself a little better than any one else in the
village, am now organizing a new base-ball club and a gymnasium
association, and also am trying to get enough subscribers to build a
toboggan slide? I never was in such high spirits and in such humor for
fun."
Eleanor looked amazed, but she relieved her mind by replying,--
"I never saw religion work that way on other people."
"Indeed! Where have your blessed eyes been? Hasn't your own father been
a religious man for many years, and is there any one in town who knows
better how to enjoy himself when he is not at work?"
"Oh, yes; but father is different from most people."
"Quite true; he must be, else how could he be the parent of the one
incomparable young woman--"
"Ray!"
"Don't try to play hypocrite, please, for you're too honest. You know
you agree with me."
"About father? Certainly; but--"
"'About father?' More hypocrisy. You know very well what I mean. Dear
little girl, listen to me. I suppose there are people scared into
religion through fear of the wrath to come, who may become dull and
uninteresting. It is a matter of nature, in a great many cases. I
suppose whatever is done for selfish reasons, even in the religious
life, may make people uncertain and fearful, and sometimes miserable.
But when a man suddenly determines to model his life after that of the
one and only perfect man and gentleman the world ever knew, he does not
find anything to make him dull and wretched. We hear so much of Jesus
the Saviour that we lose sight of Jesus the man. He who died for us was
also He whose whole recorded life was in conformity with the tastes and
sympathies of people of His day. Do you imagine for an instant that if
He had been of solemn, doleful visage, any woman would ever have
pressed through a crowd to touch the hem of His garment, that she might
be made well? Do you suppose the woman of Samaria would have lingered
one instant at the well of Jacob, had Jesus been a man with a face
like--well, suppose I say Deacon Quickset? Do you think mothers would
have brought their children to Him that He might bless them? Do you
imagine any one who had not a great, warm heart could have wept at the
grave of his friend Lazarus, whom He knew He had the power to raise
from the dead? Didn't He go to the marriage jollification at Cana, and
take so much interest in the affair that He made up for the deficiency
in the host's wine-cellar? Weren't all His parables about matters that
showed a sympathetic interest in the affairs which were nearest to the
hearts of the people around Him? If all these things were possible to
one who had His inner heart full of tremendous responsibilities, what
should not His followers be in the world,--so far as all human cheer
and interest go?"
"I've never heard him spoken of in that way before," said Eleanor,
speaking as if she were in a brown study.
"I'm glad--selfishly--that you hear it the first time from me, then.
Never again will I do anything of which I think He would disapprove;
but, my dear girl, I give you my word that although occasionally--too
often--I have been lawless in word and action, I never until now have
known the sensation of entire liberty and happiness. You never again
will see me moody, or obstinate, or selfish. I'm going to be a
gentleman in life, as well as by birth. You believe me?"
"I must believe you, Ray; I can't help believing whatever you say. But
I never saw conversion act that way upon any one else, and I don't
understand it."
Bartram looked quizzically at the girl a moment, and then replied,--
"Try it yourself; I'm sure it will affect you just as it does me."
"Oh, Ray, no; I never can bring myself to stand up in church to be
prayed for."
"Don't do it, then. Pray for yourself. I don't know of any one to whom
Heaven would sooner listen. But you can't avoid being prayed for by one
repentant sinner: have the kindness to remember that."
"Ray!" murmured Eleanor.
"And," continued Bartram, rising and placing an arm around Eleanor's
shoulders, "the sooner our prayers can rise together, the sooner you
will understand me, believe me, and trust me. My darling,--the only
woman whom I ever loved,--the only woman of whom I ever was fond,--the
only one to whom I ever gave an affectionate word or caress--"
There are conversations which reach a stage where they should be known
only to those who conduct them. When Bartram started to depart, his
love-life was unclouded.
"Ray," said Eleanor, at the door, "will you oblige me by seeing Sam
Kimper in the morning and asking him to tell his daughter that I
particularly wish she would come back to us?"