Rayburn squirmed under this close fire.
“I shall go occasionally when there is preaching,” he said, reluctantly. “I would be out of place at one of the—the knock-down and drag-out shouting-bees.” Then, seeing her look of horror at the words which had unthoughtedly glided from his lips, he strove to make amends. “Oh, sister, do—do be reasonable, and look at it from my point of view. I don't believe that's the way to serve God or beautify the world. I believe in being happy in one's own way, just so that you don't tread on the rights of other people.”
“But,” said Mrs. Lampson, her eyes flashing, “you are treading on the rights of others. They are trying to save the souls of the rising generation in the community, and you and your social set use your influence in the other direction.”
“But what about the rights of my social set, if you want to call it by that name?” Miller retorted, warmly. “We have the right to enjoy ourselves in our way, just as you have in yours. We don't interfere—we never ask you to close up shop so we can have a dance or a picnic, but you do. If we dare give a party while some revivalist is filling his pockets in town the revivalist jumps on us publicly and holds us up as examples of headlong plungers into fiery ruin. There is not a bit of justice or human liberty in that, and you 'll never reach a certain element till you quit such a course. Last year one of the preachers in this town declared in the pulpit that a girl could not be pure and dance a round dance. It raised the very devil in the hearts of the young men, who knew he was a dirty liar, and they got up as many dances out of spite as they possibly could. In fact, some of them came near knocking the preacher down on the street. I am a conservative sort of fellow, but I secretly wished that somebody would slug that man in the jaw.”
“I'm really afraid you are worse than ever,” sighed Mrs. Lampson. “I don't know what to do with you.” She laughed good-naturedly as she rose and stood behind his chair, touching his head tenderly. “It really does make me rather mad,” she confessed, “to hear them making you out such a bad stripe when I know what a wonderful man you really are for your age. I really believe some of them are jealous of your success and standing, but I do want you to be more religious.” When Miller reached his office about ten o' clock and had opened the door he noticed that Craig's bank on the corner across the street was still closed. It was an unusual occurrence at that hour and it riveted Miller's attention. Few people were on the street, and none of them seemed to have noticed it. The church-bell in the next block was ringing for the revivalist's prayer-meeting, and Miller saw the merchants and lawyers hurrying by on their way to worship. Miller stood in his front door and bowed to them as they passed. Trabue hustled out of his office, pulling the door to with a jerk.
“Prayer-meeting?” he asked, glancing at Miller.
“No, not to-day,” answered Miller; “got some writing to do.”
“That preacher's a hummer,” said the old lawyer. “I've never seen his equal. He'd 'a' made a bang-up criminal lawyer. Why, they say old Joe Murphy's converted—got out of his bed at midnight and went to Tim Slocum's house to get 'im to pray for 'im. He's denied thar was a God all his life till now. I say a preacher's worth two hundred to a town if it can do that sort of work.”
“He's certainly worth it to Slocum,” said Miller, with a smile. “If I'd been denying there was a God as long as he has, I'd pay more than that to get rid of the habit. Slocum's able, and I think he ought to foot that preacher's bill.”
“You are a tough customer, Miller,” said Trabue, with a knowing laugh. “You'd better look out—May-nell's got an eye on you. He 'll call out yore name some o' these days, an' ask us to pray fer you.”