“I call it real good of you, Mr. Letgood, to come and see me. Won't you
be seated?”
“Thank you. It's very warm to-day; and as I didn't feel like reading or
writing, I thought I'd come round.”
“You're just too kind for anythin'! To come an' pay me a visit when you
must be tired out with yesterday's preachin'. An' what a sermon you gave
us in the mornin'--it was too sweet. I had to wink my eyes pretty hard,
an' pull the tears down the back way, or I should have cried right
out--and Mrs. Jones watchin' me all the time under that dreadful
bonnet.”
Mrs. Hooper had begun with a shade of nervousness in the hurried words;
but the emotion disappeared as she took up a comfortable pose in the
corner of the small sofa.
The Rev. John Letgood, having seated himself in an armchair, looked at
her intently before replying. She was well worth looking at, this Mrs.
Hooper, as she leaned back on the cushions in her cool white dress,
which was so thin and soft and well-fitting that her form could be seen
through it almost as clearly as through water. She appeared to be about
eighteen years old, and in reality was not yet twenty. At first sight
one would have said of her, “a pretty girl;” but an observant eye on
the second glance would have noticed those contradictions in face and in
form which bear witness to a certain complexity of nature. Her features
were small, regular, and firmly cut; the long, brown eyes looked out
confidently under straight, well-defined brows; but the forehead was
low, and the sinuous lips a vivid red. So, too, the slender figure and
narrow hips formed a contrast with the throat, which pouted in soft,
white fulness.
“I am glad you liked the sermon,” said the minister, breaking the
silence, “for it is not probable that you will hear many more from me.”
There was just a shade of sadness in the lower tone with which he ended
the phrase. He let the sad note drift in unconsciously--by dint of
practice he had become an artist in the management of his voice.
“You don't say!” exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, sitting up straight in her
excitement. “You ain't goin' to leave us, I hope?”
“Why do you pretend, Belle, to misunderstand me? You know I said three
months ago that if you didn't care for me I should have to leave this
place. And yesterday I told you that you must make up your mind at once,
as I was daily expecting a call to Chicago. Now I have come for your
answer, and you treat me as if I were a stranger, and you knew nothing
of what I feel for you.”
“Oh!” she sighed, languorously nestling back into the corner. “Is that
all? I thought for a moment the 'call' had come.”
“No, it has not yet; but I am resolved to get an answer from you to-day,
or I shall go away, call or no call.”
“What would Nettie Williams say if she heard you?” laughed Mrs. Hooper,
with mischievous delight in her eyes.
“Now, Belle,” he said in tender remonstrance, leaning forward and taking
the small cool hand in his, “what is my answer to be? Do you love me? Or
am I to leave Kansas City, and try somewhere else to get again into the
spirit of my work? God forgive me, but I want you to tell me to stay.
Will you?”
“Of course I will,” she returned, while slowly withdrawing her hand.
“There ain't any one wants you to go, and why should you?”
“Why? Because my passion for you prevents me from doing my work. You
tease and torture me with doubt, and when I should be thinking of my
duties I am wondering whether or not you care for me. Do you love me? I
must have a plain answer.”
“Love you?” she repeated pensively. “I hardly know, but--”
“But what?” he asked impatiently.
“But--I must just see after the pies; this 'help' of ours is Irish, an'
doesn't know enough to turn them in the oven. And Mr. Hooper don't like
burnt pies.”
She spoke with coquettish gravity, and got up to go out of the room. But
when Mr. Letgood also rose, she stopped and smiled--waiting perhaps for
him to take his leave. As he did not speak she shook out her frock
and then pulled down her bodice at the waist and drew herself up, thus
throwing into relief the willowy outlines of her girlish form. The
provocative grace, unconscious or intentional, of the attitude was not
lost on her admirer. For an instant he stood irresolute, but when she
stepped forward to pass him, he seemed to lose his self-control, and,
putting his arms round her, tried to kiss her. With serpent speed and
litheness she bowed her head against his chest, and slipped out of the
embrace. On reaching the door she paused to say, over her shoulder: “If
you'll wait, I'll be back right soon;” then, as if a new thought had
occurred to her, she added turning to him: “The Deacon told me he was
coming home early to-day, and he'd be real sorry to miss you.”
As she disappeared, he took up his hat, and left the house.
It was about four o'clock on a day in mid-June. The sun was pouring down
rays of liquid flame; the road, covered inches deep in fine white dust,
and the wooden side-walks glowed with the heat, but up and down the
steep hills went the minister unconscious of physical discomfort.
“Does she care for me, or not? Why can't she tell me plainly? The
teasing creature! Did she give me the hint to go because she was afraid
her husband would come in? Or did she want to get rid of me in order not
to answer?... She wasn't angry with me for putting my arms round her,
and yet she wouldn't let me kiss her. Why not? She doesn't love him.
She married him because she was poor, and he was rich and a deacon. She
can't love him. He must be fifty-five if he's a day. Perhaps she doesn't
love me either--the little flirt! But how seductive she is, and what a
body, so round and firm and supple--not thin at all. I have the feel of
it on my hands now--I can't stand this.”
Shaking himself vigorously, he abandoned his meditation, which, like
many similar ones provoked by Mrs. Hooper, had begun in vexation and
ended in passionate desire. Becoming aware of the heat and dust, he
stood still, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead.
The Rev. John Letgood was an ideal of manhood to many women. He was
largely built, but not ungainly--the coarseness of the hands being the
chief indication of his peasant ancestry. His head was rather round, and
strongly set on broad shoulders; the nose was straight and well formed;
the dark eyes, however, were somewhat small, and the lower part of the
face too massive, though both chin and jaw were clearly marked. A long,
thick, brown moustache partly concealed the mouth; the lower lip could
just be seen, a little heavy, and sensual; the upper one was certainly
flexile and suasive. A good-looking man of thirty, who must have been
handsome when he was twenty, though even then, probably, too much drawn
by the pleasures of the senses to have had that distinction of person
which seems to be reserved for those who give themselves to thought
or high emotions. On entering his comfortable house, he was met by his
negro “help,” who handed him his “mail”:
“I done brot these, Massa; they's all.”
“Thanks, Pete,” he replied abstractedly, going into his cool study. He
flung himself into an armchair before the writing-table, and began to
read the letters. Two were tossed aside carelessly, but on opening the
third he sat up with a quick exclamation. Here at last was the “call”
he had been expecting, a “call” from the deacons of the Second Baptist
Church in Chicago, asking him to come and minister to their spiritual
wants, and offering him ten thousand dollars a year for his services.
For a moment exultation overcame every other feeling in the man. A light
flashed in his eyes as he exclaimed aloud: “It was that sermon did it!
What a good thing it was that I knew their senior deacon was in the
church on purpose to hear me! How well I brought in the apostrophe on
the cultivation of character that won me the prize at college! Ah, I
have never done anything finer than that, never! and perhaps never shall
now. I had been reading Channing then for months, was steeped in him;
but Channing has nothing as good as that in all his works. It has more
weight and dignity--dignity is the word--than anything he wrote. And
to think of its bringing me this! Ten thousand dollars a year and the
second church in Chicago, while here they think me well paid with five.
Chicago! I must accept it at once. Who knows, perhaps I shall get to New
York yet, and move as many thousands as here I move hundreds. No! not I.
I do not move them. I am weak and sinful. It is the Holy Spirit, and the
power of His grace. O Lord, I am thankful to Thee who hast been good to
me unworthy!” A pang of fear shot through him: “Perhaps He sends this to
win me away from Belle.” His fancy called her up before him as she had
lain on the sofa. Again he saw the bright malicious glances and the red
lips, the full white throat, and the slim roundness of her figure. He
bowed his head upon his hands and groaned. “O Lord, help me! I know not
what to do. Help me, O Lord!”
As if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he started to his feet. “Now
she must answer! Now what will she say? Here is the call. Ten thousand
dollars a year! What will she say to that?”
He spoke aloud in his excitement, all that was masculine in him glowing
with the sense of hard-won mastery over the tantalizing evasiveness of
the woman.
On leaving his house he folded up the letter, thrust it into the
breast-pocket of his frock-coat, and strode rapidly up the hill towards
Mrs. Hooper's. At first he did not even think of her last words, but
when he had gone up and down the first hill and was beginning to climb
the second they suddenly came back to him. He did not want to meet her
husband--least of all now. He paused. What should he do? Should he wait
till to-morrow? No, that was out of the question; he couldn't wait. He
must know what answer to send to the call. If Deacon Hooper happened
to be at home he would talk to him about the door of the vestry, which
would not shut properly. If the Deacon was not there, he would see her
and force a confession from her....
While the shuttle of his thought flew thus to and fro, he did not at all
realize that he was taking for granted what he had refused to believe
half an hour before. He felt certain now that Deacon Hooper would not
be in, and that Mrs. Hooper had got rid of him on purpose to avoid his
importunate love-making. When he reached the house and rang the bell his
first question was:
“Is the Deacon at home?”
“No, sah.”
“Is Mrs. Hooper in?”
“Yes, sah.”
“Please tell her I should like to see her for a moment. I will not keep
her long. Say it's very important.”
“Yes, Massa, I bring her shuah,” said the negress with a good-natured
grin, opening the door of the drawing-room.
In a minute or two Mrs. Hooper came into the room looking as cool and
fresh as if “pies” were baked in ice.
“Good day, _again_, Mr. Letgood. Won't you take a chair?”
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--God
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:
“Hush! 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 assured me of your love, or I shall go to Chicago--”
Mrs. Hooper's only reply was a contemptuous, flashing look that
succeeded in reducing the importunate clergyman to silence--just in
time--for as the word “Chicago” passed 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 nobody 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 competition 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 shining 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 sunshine 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, passion began to stir in him, and with passion impatience.
“Only half-past six o'clock,” he said to himself, pushing 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?...