Elder Conklin and Other Stories Part 13

He seemed to feel the implied reproach, for without noticing her invitation to sit down he came to the point at once. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he handed her the letter from Chicago.

She took it with the quick interest of curiosity, but as she read, the colour deepened in her cheeks, and before she had finished it she broke out, _"Ten thousand dollars a year!_"

As she gave the letter back she did not raise her eyes, but said musingly: "That is a call indeed...." Staring straight before her she added: "How strange it should come to-day! Of course you'll accept it."

A moment, and she darted the question at him:

"Does she know? Have you told Miss Williams yet? But there, I suppose you have!" After another pause, she went on:

"What a shame to take you away just when we had all got to know and like you! I suppose we shall have some old fogey now who will preach against dancin' an' spellin'-bees an' surprise-parties. And, of course, he won't like me, or come here an' call as often as you do--makin' the other girls jealous. I shall hate the change!" And in her innocent excitement she slowly lifted her brown eyes to his.

"You know you're talking nonsense, Belle," he replied, with grave earnestness. "I've come for your answer. If you wish me to stay, if you really care for me, I shall refuse this offer."

"You don't tell!" she exclaimed. "Refuse ten thousand dollars a year and a church in Chicago to stay here in Kansas City! I know I shouldn't!

Why," and she fixed her eyes on his as she spoke, "you must be real good even to think of such a thing. But then, you won't refuse," she added, pouting. "No one would," she concluded, with profound conviction.

"Oh, yes," answered the minister, moving to her and quietly putting both hands on her waist, while his voice seemed to envelope and enfold her with melodious tenderness.

"Oh, yes, I shall refuse it, Belle, if _you_ wish me to; refuse it as I should ten times as great a prize, as I think I should refuse--G.o.d forgive me!--heaven itself, if you were not there to make it beautiful."

While speaking he drew her to him gently; her body yielded to his touch, and her gaze, as if fascinated, was drawn into his. But when the flow of words ceased, and he bent to kiss her, the spell seemed to lose its power over her. In an instant she wound herself out of his arms, and with startled eyes aslant whispered:

"Hus.h.!.+ he's coming! Don't you hear his step?" As Mr. Letgood went again towards her with a tenderly reproachful and incredulous "Now, Belle,"

she stamped impatiently on the floor while exclaiming in a low, but angry voice, "Do take care! That's the Deacon's step."

At the same moment her companion heard it too. The sounds were distinct on the wooden side-walk, and when they ceased at the little gate four or five yards from the house he knew that she was right. He pulled himself together, and with a man's untimely persistence spoke hurriedly:

"I shall wait for your answer till Sunday morning next. Before then you must have a.s.sured me of your love, or I shall go to Chicago--"

Mrs. Hooper's only reply was a contemptuous, flas.h.i.+ng look that succeeded in reducing the importunate clergyman to silence--just in time--for as the word "Chicago" pa.s.sed his lips the handle of the door turned, and Deacon Hooper entered the room.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Letgood?" said the Deacon cordially. "I'm glad to see you, sir, as you are too, I'm sartin," he added, turning to his wife and putting his arms round her waist and his lips to her cheek in an affectionate caress. "Take a seat, won't you? It's too hot to stand."

As Mrs. Hooper sank down beside him on the sofa and their visitor drew over a chair, he went on, taking up again the broken thread of his thought. "No one thinks more of you than Isabelle. She said only last Sunday there warn't such a preacher as you west of the Mississippi River. How's that for high, eh?"--And then, still seeking back like a dog on a lost scent, he added, looking from his wife to the clergyman, as if recalled to a sense of the actualities of the situation by a certain constraint in their manner, "But what's that I heard about Chicago? There ain't nothin' fresh--Is there?"

"Oh," replied Mrs. Hooper, with a look of remonstrance thrown sideways at her admirer, while with a woman's quick decision she at once cut the knot, "I guess there is something fresh. Mr. Letgood, just think of it, has had a 'call' from the Second Baptist Church in Chicago, and it's ten thousand dollars a year. Now who's right about his preachin'? And he ain't goin' to accept it. He's goin' to stay right here. At least," she added coyly, "he said he'd refuse it--didn't you?"

The Deacon stared from one to the other as Mr. Letgood, with a forced half-laugh which came from a dry throat, answered: "That would be going perhaps a little too far. I said," he went on, catching a coldness in the glance of the brown eyes, "I wished to refuse it. But of course I shall have to consider the matter thoroughly--and seek for guidance."

"Wall," said the Deacon in amazement, "ef that don't beat everythin'.

I guess n.o.body would refuse an offer like that. _Ten thousand dollars a year!_ Ten thousand. Why, that's twice what you're gettin' here. You can't refuse that. I know you wouldn't ef you war' a son of mine--as you might be. Ten thousand. No, sir. An' the Second Baptist Church in Chicago is the first; it's the best, the richest, the largest. There ain't no sort of comparison between it and the First. No, sir! There ain't none. Why, James P. Willis, him as was here and heard you--that's how it came about, that's how!--he's the senior Deacon of it, an' I guess he can count dollars with any man this side of New York. Yes, sir, with any man west of the Alleghany Mountains." The breathless excitement of the good Deacon changed gradually as he realized that his hearers were not in sympathy with him, and his speech became almost solemn in its impressiveness as he continued. "See here! This ain't a thing to waste. Ten thousand dollars a year to start with, an' the best church in Chicago, you can't expect to do better than that. Though you're young still, when the chance comes, it should be gripped."

"Oh, pshaw!" broke in Mrs. Hooper irritably, twining her fingers and tapping the carpet with her foot, "Mr. Letgood doesn't want to leave Kansas City. Don't you understand? Perhaps he likes the folk here just as well as any in Chicago." No words could describe the glance which accompanied this. It was appealing, and coquettish, and triumphant, and the whole battery was directed full on Mr. Letgood, who had by this time recovered his self-possession.

"Of course," he said, turning to the Deacon and overlooking Mrs.

Hooper's appeal, "I know all that, and I don't deny that the 'call' at first seemed to draw me." Here his voice dropped as if he were speaking to himself: "It offers a wider and a higher sphere of work, but there's work, too, to be done here, and I don't know that the extra salary ought to tempt me. _Take neither scrip nor money in your purse_," and he smiled, "you know."

"Yes," said the Deacon, his eyes narrowing as if amazement were giving place to a new emotion; "yes, but that ain't meant quite literally, I reckon. Still, it's fer you to judge. But ef you refuse ten thousand dollars a year, why, there are mighty few who would, and that's all I've got to say--mighty few," he added emphatically, and stood up as if to shake off the burden of a new and, therefore, unwelcome thought.

When the minister also rose, the physical contrast between the two men became significant. Mr. Letgood's heavy frame, due to self-indulgence or to laziness, might have been taken as a characteristic product of the rich, western prairies, while Deacon Hooper was of the pure Yankee type.

His figure was so lank and spare that, though not quite so tall as his visitor, he appeared to be taller. His face was long and angular; the round, clear, blue eyes, the finest feature of it, the narrowness of the forehead the worst. The mouth-corners were drawn down, and the lips hardened to a line by constant compression. No trace of sensuality. How came this man, grey with age, to marry a girl whose appeal to the senses was already so obvious? The eyes and prominent temples of the idealist supplied the answer. Deacon Hooper was a New Englander, trained in the bitterest compet.i.tion for wealth, and yet the Yankee in him masked a fund of simple, kindly optimism, which showed itself chiefly in his devoted affection for his wife. He had not thought of his age when he married, but of her and her poverty. And possibly he was justified. The snow-garment of winter protects the tender spring wheat.

"It's late," Mr. Letgood began slowly, "I must be going home now. I thought you might like to hear the news, as you are my senior Deacon.

Your advice seems excellent; I shall weigh the 'call' carefully; but"--with a glance at Mrs. Hooper--"I am disposed to refuse it." No answering look came to him. He went on firmly and with emphasis, _"I wish_ to refuse it.--Good day, Mrs. Hooper, _till next Sunday_. Good day, Deacon."

"Good day, Mr. Letgood," she spoke with a little air of precise courtesy.

"Good day, sir," replied the Deacon, cordially shaking the proffered hand, while he accompanied his pastor to the street door.

The sun was sinking, and some of the glory of the sunset colouring seemed to be reflected in Deacon Hooper's face, as he returned to the drawing-room and said with profound conviction:--

"Isabelle, that man's jest about as good as they make them. He's what I call a real Christian--one that thinks of duty first and himself last.

Ef that ain't a Christian, I'd like to know what is."

"Yes," she rejoined meditatively, as she busied herself arranging the chairs and tidying the sofa into its usual stiff primness; "I guess he's a good man." And her cheek flushed softly.

"Wall," he went on warmly, "I reckon we ought to do somethin' in this.

There ain't no question but he fills the church. Ef we raised the pew-rents we could offer him an increase of salary to stay--I guess that could be done."

"Oh! don't do anything," exclaimed the wife, as if awaking to the significance of this proposal, "anyway not until he has decided. It would look--mean, don't you think? to offer him somethin' more to stay."

"I don't know but you're right, Isabelle; I don't know but you're right," repeated her husband thoughtfully. "It'll look better if he decides before hearin' from us. There ain't no harm, though, in thinkin'

the thing over and speakin' to the other Deacons about it. I'll kinder find out what they feel."

"Yes," she replied mechanically, almost as if she had not heard.

"Yes, that's all right." And she slowly straightened the cloth on the centre-table, given over again to her reflections.

Mr. Letgood walked home, ate his supper, went to bed and slept that night as only a man does whose nervous system has been exhausted by various and intense emotions. He even said his prayers by rote. And like a child he slept with tightly-clenched fists, for in him, as in the child, the body's claims were predominant.

When he awoke next morning, the sun was s.h.i.+ning in at his bedroom window, and at once his thoughts went back to the scenes and emotions of the day before. An unusual liveliness of memory enabled him to review the very words which Mrs. Hooper had used. He found nothing to regret.

He had certainly gained ground by telling her of the call. The torpor which had come upon him the previous evening formed a complete contrast to the blithesome vigour he now enjoyed. He seemed to himself to be a different man, recreated, as it were, and endowed with fresh springs of life. While he lay in the delightful relaxation and warmth of the bed, and looked at the stream of suns.h.i.+ne which flowed across the room, he became confident that all would go right.

"Yes," he decided, "she cares for me, or she would never have wished me to stay. Even the Deacon helped me--" The irony of the fact shocked him.

He would not think of it. He might get a letter from her by two o'clock.

With pleasure thrilling through every nerve, he imagined how she would word her confession. For she had yielded to him; he had felt her body move towards him and had seen the surrender in her eyes. While musing thus, pa.s.sion began to stir in him, and with pa.s.sion impatience.

"Only half-past six o'clock," he said to himself, pus.h.i.+ng his watch again under the pillow; "eight hours to wait till mail time. Eight endless hours. What a plague!"

His own irritation annoyed him, and he willingly took up again the thread of his amorous reverie: "What a radiant face she has, what fine nervefulness in the slim fingers, what softness in the full throat!"

Certain incidents in his youth before he had studied for the ministry came back to him, bringing the blood to his cheeks and making his temples throb. As the recollections grew vivid they became a torment. To regain quiet pulses he forced his mind to dwell upon the details of his "conversion"--his sudden resolve to live a new life and to give himself up to the service of the divine Master. The yoke was not easy; the burden was not light. On the contrary. He remembered innumerable contests with his rebellious flesh, contests in which he was never completely victorious for more than a few days together, but in which, especially during the first heat of the new enthusiasm, he had struggled desperately. Had his efforts been fruitless?...

He thought with pride of his student days--mornings given to books and to dreams of the future, and evenings marked by pa.s.sionate emotions, new companions reinspiring him continually with fresh ardour. The time spent at college was the best of his life. He had really striven, then, as few strive, to deserve the prize of his high calling. During those years, it seemed to him, he had been all that an earnest Christian should be.

He recalled, with satisfaction, the honours he had won in Biblical knowledge and in history, and the more easily gained rewards for rhetoric. It was only natural that he should have been immediately successful as a preacher. How often he had moved his flock to tears! No wonder he had got on.

Those first successes, and the pleasures which they brought with them of gratified vanity, had resulted in turning him from a Christian into an orator. He understood this dimly, but he thrust back the unwelcome truth with the reflection that his triumphs in the pulpit dated from the time when he began consciously to treat preaching as an art. After all, was he not there to win souls to Christ, and had not Christ himself praised the wisdom of the serpent? Then came the change from obscurity and narrow living in the country to Kansas City and luxury. He had been wise in avoiding that girl at Pleasant Hill. He smiled complacently as he thought of her dress, manners, and speech. Yet she was pretty, very pretty, and she had loved him with the exclusiveness of womanhood, but still he had done right. He congratulated himself upon his intuitive knowledge that there were finer girls in the world to be won. He had not fettered himself foolishly through pity or weakness.

During his ten years of life as a student and minister he had been chaste. He had not once fallen into flagrant sin. His fervour of unquestioning faith had saved him at the outset, and, later, habit and prudence. He lingered over his first meeting with Mrs. Hooper. He had not thought much of her then, he remembered, although she had appeared to him to be pretty and perfectly dressed. She had come before him as an embodiment of delicacy and refinement, and her charm had increased, as he began, in spite of himself, to notice her peculiar seductiveness.

Recollecting how insensibly the fascination which she exercised over him had grown, and the sudden madness of desire that had forced him to declare his pa.s.sion, he moaned with vexation. If only she had not been married. What a fatality! How helpless man was, tossed hither and thither by the waves of trivial circ.u.mstance!

She had certainly encouraged him; it was her alternate moods of yielding and reserve which had awakened his senses. She had been flattered by his admiration, and had sought to call it forth. But, in the beginning, at least, he had struggled against the temptation. He had prayed for help in the sore combat--how often and how earnestly!--but no help had come.