Mrs. Anderson laid firm hands upon her. “That’s perfect nonsense,” she cried. “You got to go. Why, this is Brother Seabrook’s first prayer-meeting. Everybody’ll think it’s awful funny if you ain’t there to welcome him.”
“I’m not going,” Julie protested, trying to twist herself free of the large hand on her wrist. “I—I—Oh, you know I can’t lead in prayer! If he calls on me, I’ll not be able to say one word—an’ everybody’ll laugh.”
“Julie! You a Methodist an’ can’t pray?”
“I’ll die if he calls on me,” Julie cried, on the verge of tears.
“Oh, no, you won’t. Folks don’t die that easy. What’s the matter with you, anyhow, Julie?” Mrs. Anderson interrupted herself suddenly. “Why, now I come to recollect, I heard you pray once, an’ it was just grand. It was the time we had that big revivalist here—remember? Why, you was just wonderful that night.”
“I know—I remember,” Julie returned hurriedly. “But that was different. I was just carried away that night. Something got hold of me—it sort of swept me out of myself. I—I wasn’t there that night. It was his preaching, I reckon. It seemed to set me free.” She broke off, a sudden bravery brought momentarily to her face by the remembrance. “But—but that was different,” she hurried on. “I couldn’t do it now. Please let me go.”
But the other was inexorable.
“You’ve prayed once an’ you can pray again,” she persisted. “An’ it would be awful for you not to be there for Brother Seabrook’s first prayer-meeting. If you struggle now, Julie, it’ll look like I was draggin’ you to church, an’ what’ll folks think of that?”
Julie knew, all through her sensitive being, just how it would look, and so perforce she yielded.
Fortunately, however, they were late, so that when they entered the Sunday-School room, where the week-night services were held, all the front benches were occupied and they were forced to slip into obscure seats, near the door. Hidden away by a broad back in front of her, Julie drew a breath of relief. The agitated beating of her heart began to subside, and during the singing of the first hymn she even dared to peep forth between the other worshipers, letting her eyes rove over the familiar congregation, the plaster walls ornamented by texts, the red runner of carpet in the aisle, and at last up to the front where Brother Seabrook stood by the reading-table, his hymn book stretched away from his farsighted eyes. He was a tall man, and big in proportion. Breathlessly, overpoweringly big he seemed to Julie. A personality that made her feel stifled. His hair was dark, and although flecked with gray, still persisted in a tendency to curl. He had a trick of smoothing it down fiercely from time to time. He smoothed it now as he gave himself to the loud worship of song, his body swaying slightly on his wide-planted legs, and his eyes, as round and dark and almost as expressionless as shoe buttons, alternately dropped to pick up a line of hymn and then raised to sweep over his flock. Peeping forth at him, Julie heard again in her mind Mrs. Anderson’s bold voice as she planned the match between Brother Seabrook and herself, and at the remembrance she blushed. She felt the blush not only in her face but all down into her very being. His eyes terrified her. Once, as she watched him, they came full upon hers, roving down between the channel of the people in front. She looked hastily away, but she knew he had seen her, had marked where she was sitting; and the blush burned through her more violently than ever.