to dreams of the future, and evenings marked by passionate 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 passion, 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 circumstance!
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.
Heaven had been deaf to his entreaties. And he had soon realized that
struggling in this instance was of no avail. He loved her; he desired
her with every nerve of his body.
There was hardly any use in trying to fight against such a craving as
that, he thought. But yet, in his heart of hearts, he was conscious that
his religious enthusiasm, the aspiration towards the ideal life and the
reverence for Christ's example, would bring about at least one supreme
conflict in which his passion might possibly be overcome. He dreaded the
crisis, the outcome of which he foresaw would be decisive for his whole
life. He wanted to let himself slide quietly down the slope; but all the
while he felt that something in him would never consent thus to endanger
his hopes of Heaven.
And Hell! He hated the thought! He strove to put it away from him, but
it would not be denied. His early habits of self-analysis reasserted
themselves. What if his impatience of the idea were the result of
obdurate sinfulness--sinfulness which might never be forgiven? He
compelled himself, therefore, to think of Hell, tried to picture it to
himself, and the soft, self-indulgent nature of the man shuddered as he
realized the meaning of the word. At length the torture grew too acute.
He would not think any longer; he could not; he would strive to do the
right. “O Lord!” he exclaimed, as he slipped out of bed on to his knees,
“O Christ! help Thy servant! Pity me, and aid!” Yet, while the words
broke from his lips in terrified appeal, he knew that he did not wish to
be helped. He rose to his feet in sullen dissatisfaction.
The happy alertness which he had enjoyed at his waking had disappeared;
the self-torment of the last few minutes had tired him; disturbed and
vexed in mind, he began to dress. While moving about in the sunlight
his thoughts gradually became more cheerful, and by the time he left his
room he had regained his good spirits.
After a short stroll he went into his study and read the daily paper.
He then took up a book till dinner-time. He dined, and afterwards forgot
himself in a story of African travels. It was only the discomfort of the
intense heat which at length reminded him that, though it was now past
two o'clock, he had received no letter from Mrs. Hooper. But he was
resolved not to think about her, for thoughts of her, he knew, would
lead to fears concerning the future, which would in turn force him to
decide upon a course of action. If he determined to commit the sin, his
guilt would thereby be increased, and he would not pledge himself to
refrain from it. “She couldn't write last night with the Deacon at her
elbow all the time,” he decided, and began to read again. Darkness had
fallen before he remembered that he owed an immediate answer to the
letter from Chicago. After a little consideration, he sat down and wrote
as follows:
“DEAR BROTHERS IN CHRIST,
“Your letter has just reached me. Needless to say it has touched me
deeply. You call me to a wider ministry and more arduous duties. The
very munificence of the remuneration which you offer leads me to doubt
my own fitness for so high a post. You must bear with me a little, and
grant me a few days for reflection. The 'call,' as you know, must
be answered from within, from the depths of my soul, before I can be
certain that it comes from Above, and this Divine assurance has not yet
been vouchsafed to me.
“I was born and brought up here in Missouri, where I am now labouring,
not without--to Jesus be the praise!--some small measure of success.
I have many ties here, and many dear friends and fellow-workers in
Christ's vineyard from whom I could not part without great pain. But I
will prayerfully consider your request. I shall seek for guidance where
alone it is to be found, at the foot of the Great White Throne, and
within a week or so at most I hope to be able to answer you with the
full and joyous certitude of the Divine blessing.
“In the meantime, believe that I thank you deeply, dear Brethren, for
your goodness to me, and that I shall pray in Jesus' Name that the
blessing of the Holy Ghost may be with you abundantly now and for
evermore.
“Your loving Servant in Christ,
“JOHN P. LETGOOD.”
He liked this letter so much that he read it over a great many times.
It committed him to nothing; it was dignified and yet sufficiently
grateful, and the large-hearted piety which appeared to inform it
pleased him even more than the alliteration of the words “born and
brought up.” He had at first written “born and reared;” but in spite
of the fear lest “brought up” should strike the simple Deacons of the
Second Baptist Church in Chicago as unfamiliar and far-fetched, he could
not resist the assonance. After directing the letter he went upstairs to
bed, and his prayers that night were more earnest than they had been of
late--perhaps because he avoided the dangerous topic. The exercise of
his talent as a letter-writer having put him on good terms with himself,
he slept soundly.
When he awoke in the morning his mood had changed. The day was cloudy;
a thunderstorm was brewing, and had somehow affected his temper. As soon
as he opened his eyes he was aware of the fact that Mrs. Hooper had not
written to him, even on Tuesday morning, when she must have been
free, for the Deacon always went early to his dry-goods store. The
consciousness of this neglect irritated him beyond measure. He tried,
therefore, to think of Chicago and the persons who frequented the Second
Baptist Church. Perhaps, he argued, they were as much ahead of the
people in Kansas City as Mrs. Hooper was superior to any woman he had
previously known. But on this way of thought he could not go far. The
houses in Chicago were no doubt much finer, the furniture more elegant;
the living, too, was perhaps better, though he could not imagine how
that could be; there might even be cleverer and handsomer women there
than Mrs. Hooper; but certainly no one lived in Chicago or anywhere else
in the world who could tempt and bewitch him as she did. She was formed
to his taste, made to his desire. As he recalled her, now laughing
at him; now admiring him; to-day teasing him with coldness, to-morrow
encouraging him, he realized with exasperation that her contradictions
constituted her charm. He acknowledged reluctantly that her odd turns of
speech tickled his intellect just as her lithe grace of movement excited
his senses. But the number and strength of the ties that bound him to
her made his anger keener. Where could she hope to find such love as
his? She ought to write to him. Why didn't she? How could he come to
a decision before he knew whether she loved him or not? In any case he
would show her that he was a man. He would not try to see her until she
had written--not under any circumstances.
After dinner and mail time his thoughts ran in another channel. In
reality she was not anything so wonderful. Most men, he knew, did
not think her more than pretty; “pretty Mrs. Hooper” was what she was
usually called--nothing more. No one ever dreamed of saying she was
beautiful or fascinating. No; she was pretty, and that was all. He was
the only person in Kansas City or perhaps in the world to whom she was
altogether and perfectly desirable. She had no reason to be so conceited
or to presume on her power over him. If she were the wonder she thought
herself she would surely have married some one better than old Hooper,
with his lank figure, grey hairs, and Yankee twang. He took a pleasure
in thus depreciating the woman he loved--it gave his anger vent, and
seemed to make her acquisition more probable. When the uselessness of
the procedure became manifest to him, he found that his doubts of her
affection had crystallized.
This was the dilemma; she had not written either out of coquetry or
because she did not really care for him. If the former were the true
reason, she was cruel; if the latter, she ought to tell him so at once,
and he would try to master himself. On no hypothesis was she justified
in leaving him without a word. Tortured alternately by fear, hope, and
anger, he paced up and down his study all the day long. Now, he said to
himself, he would go and see her, and forthwith he grew calm--that was
what his nature desired. But the man in him refused to be so servile.
He had told her that she must write; to that he would hold, whatever it
cost him. Again, he broke out in bitter blame of her.
At length he made up his mind to strive to forget her. But what if she
really cared for him, loved him as he loved her? In that case if he went
away she would be miserable, as wretched as he would be. How unkind it
was of her to leave him without a decided answer, when he could not help
thinking of her happiness! No; she did not love him. He had read enough
about women and seen enough of them to imagine that they never torture
the man they really love. He would give her up and throw himself again
into his work. He could surely do that. Then he remembered that she
was married, and must, of course, see that she would risk her
position--everything--by declaring her love. Perhaps prudence kept her
silent. Once more he was plunged in doubt.
He was glad when supper was ready, for that brought, at least for half
an hour, freedom from thought. After the meal was finished he realized
that he was weary of it all--heart-sick of the suspense. The storm
broke, and the flashing of the lightning and the falling sheets of rain
brought him relief. The air became lighter and purer. He went to bed and
slept heavily.
On the Thursday morning he awoke refreshed, and at once determined
not to think about Mrs. Hooper. It only needed resolution, he said to
himself, in order to forget her entirely. Her indifference, shown in not
writing to him, should be answered in that way. He took up his pocket
Bible, and opened it at the Gospels. The beautiful story soon exercised
its charm upon his impressionable nature, and after a couple of hours'
reading he closed the book comforted, and restored to his better self.
He fell on his knees and thanked God for this crowning mercy. From his
heart went forth a hymn of praise for the first time in long weeks. The
words of the Man of Sorrows had lifted him above the slough. The marvel
of it! How could he ever thank Him enough? His whole life should now be
devoted to setting forth the wonders of His grace. When he arose he felt
at peace with himself and full of goodwill to every one. He could even
think of Mrs. Hooper calmly--with pity and grave kindliness.
After his midday dinner and a brisk walk--he paid no attention to the
mail time--he prepared to write the sermon which he intended to preach
as his farewell to his congregation on the following Sunday. He was
determined now to leave Kansas City and go to Chicago. But as soon as he
began to consider what he should say, he became aware of a difficulty.
He could talk and write of accepting the “call” because it gave him “a
wider ministry,” and so forth, but the ugly fact would obtrude itself
that he was relinquishing five thousand dollars a year to accept ten,
and he was painfully conscious that this knowledge would be uppermost in
the minds of his hearers. Most men in his position would have easily
put the objection out of their minds. But he could not put it aside
carelessly, and it was characteristic of him to exaggerate its
importance. He dearly loved to play what the French call _le beau
rôle_, even at the cost of his self-interest. Of a sensitive, artistic
temperament, he had for years nourished his intellect with good books.
He had always striven, too, to set before his hearers high ideals of
life and conduct. His nature was now subdued to the stuff he had worked
in. As an artist, an orator, it was all but impossible for him to
justify what must seem like sordid selfishness. He moved about in his
chair uneasily, and strove to look at the subject from a new point of
view. In vain; ten thousand dollars a year instead of five--that was to
be his theme.
The first solution of the problem which suggested itself to him was to
express his very real disdain of such base material considerations, but
no sooner did the thought occur to him than he was fain to reject it.
He knew well that his hearers in Kansas City would refuse to accept that
explanation even as “high-falutin' bunkum!” He then tried to select
a text in order to ease for a time the strain upon his reflective
faculties. “Feed my sheep” was his first choice--“the largest flock
possible, of course.” But no, that was merely the old cant in new words.
He came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was no noble way out of
the difficulty. He felt this the more painfully because, before sitting
down to think of his sermon, he had immersed himself, to use his own
words, in the fountain-head of self-sacrificing enthusiasm. And now he
could not show his flock that there was any trace of self-denial in his
conduct. It was apparent that his acceptance of the call made a great
sermon an utter impossibility. He must say as little about the main
point as possible, glide quickly, in fact, over the thin ice. But his
disappointment was none the less keen; there was no splendid peroration
to write; there would be no eyes gazing up at him through a mist
of tears. His sensations were those of an actor with an altogether
uncongenial and stupid part.
After some futile efforts he abandoned the attempt to sketch out a
sermon. Some words would come to him at the time, and they would have
to do. In the evening a new idea presented itself to his over-excited
brain. Might not his dislike of that sermon be a snare set by the Devil
to induce him to reject the call and stay in Kansas City? No. A fine
sermon would do good--the Evil One could not desire that--perhaps even
more good than his sin would do harm? Puzzled and incapable of the
effort required to solve this fresh problem he went to bed, after
praying humbly for guidance and enlightenment.
On the Friday morning he rose from his knees with a burden of sorrow.
No kindly light had illumined the darkness of his doubtings. Yet he
was conscious of a perfect sincerity in his desires and in his prayers.
Suddenly he remembered that, when in a pure frame of mind, he had only
considered the acceptance of the call. But in order to be guided aright,
he must abandon himself entirely to God's directing. In all honesty of
purpose, he began to think of the sermon he could deliver if he resolved
to reject the call. Ah! that sermon needed but little meditation. With
such a decision to announce, he felt that he could carry his hearers
with him to heights of which they knew nothing. Their very vulgarity
and sordidness of nature would help instead of hindering him. No one in
Kansas City would doubt for a moment the sincerity of the self-sacrifice
involved in rejecting ten thousand dollars a year for five. That sermon
could be preached with effect from any text. “Feed my sheep” even would
do. He thrilled in anticipation, as a great actor thrills when reading a
part which will allow him to discover all his powers, and in which he
is certain to “bring down the house.” Completely carried away by his
emotions, he began to turn the sermon over in his head. First of all he
sought for a text; not this one, nor that one, but a few words breathing
the very spirit of Christ's self-abnegation. He soon found what he
wanted: “For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it; and whosoever
will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.” The unearthly beauty of
the thought and the divine simplicity of its expression took the orator
captive. As he imagined that Godlike Figure in Galilee, and seemed to
hear the words drop like pearls from His lips, so he saw himself in the
pulpit, and had a foretaste of the effect of his own eloquence. Ravished
by the vision, he proceeded to write and rewrite the peroration. Every
other part he could trust to his own powers, and to the inspiration
of the theme, but the peroration he meant to make finer even than his
apostrophe on the cultivation of character, which hitherto had been the
high-water mark of his achievement.
At length he finished his task, but not before sunset, and he felt weary
and hungry. He ate and rested. In the complete relaxation of mental
strain, he understood all at once what he had done. He had decided to
remain in Kansas City. But to remain meant to meet Mrs. Hooper day after
day, to be thrown together with her even by her foolishly confiding
husband; it meant perpetual temptation, and at last--a fall! And yet
God had guided him to choose that sermon rather than the other. He had
abandoned himself passively to His guidance--could _that_ lead to the
brink of the pit?... He cried out suddenly like one in bodily anguish.
He had found the explanation. God cared for no half-victories. Flight to
Chicago must seem to Him the veriest cowardice. God intended him to stay
in Kansas City and conquer the awful temptation face to face. When he
realized this, he fell on his knees and prayed as he had never prayed
in all his life before. If entreated humbly, God would surely temper the
wind to the shorn lamb; He knew His servant's weakness. “_Lead us not
into temptation_,” he cried again and again, for the first time in his
life comprehending what now seemed to him the awful significance of the
words. “_Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil_”--thus
he begged and wept. But even when, exhausted in body and in mind,
he rose from his knees, he had found no comfort. Like a child, with
streaming eyes and quivering features, he stumbled upstairs to bed and
fell asleep, repeating over and over again mechanically the prayer that
the cup might pass from him.
On the Saturday morning he awoke as from a hideous nightmare. Before
there was time for thought he was aware of what oppressed and frightened
him. The knowledge of his terrible position weighed him down. He was
worn out and feverishly ill; incapable of reflection or resolution,
conscious chiefly of pain and weariness, and a deep dumb revolt against
his impending condemnation. After lying thus for some time, drinking
the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, he got up, and went downstairs.
Yielding to habit he opened the Bible. But the Book had no message for
him. His tired brain refused, for minutes together, to take in the
sense of the printed words. The servant found him utterly miserable and
helpless when she went to tell him that “the dinner was a-gittin' cold.”
The food seemed to restore him, and during the first two hours of
digestion he was comparatively peaceful in being able to live without
thinking; but when the body had recovered its vigour, the mind grew
active, and the self-torture recommenced. For some hours--he never knew
how many--he suffered in this way; then a strange calm fell upon him.
Was it the Divine help which had come at last, or despair, or the
fatigue of an overwrought spirit? He knelt down and prayed once more,
but this time his prayer consisted simply in placing before his Heavenly
Father the exact state of the case. He was powerless; God should do
with him according to His purpose, only he felt unable to resist if
the temptation came up against him. Jesus, of course, could remove the
temptation or strengthen him if He so willed. His servant was in His
hands.
After continuing in this strain for some time he got up slowly, calm but
hopeless. There was no way of escape for him. He took up the Bible and
attempted again to read it; but of a sudden he put it down, and throwing
his outspread arms on the table and bowing his head upon them he cried:
“My God, forgive me! I cannot hear Thy voice, nor feel Thy presence. I
can only see her face and feel her body.”
And then hardened as by the consciousness of unforgivable blaspheming,
he rose with set face, lit his candle, and went to bed.
* * * * *
The week had passed much as usual with Mrs. Hooper and her husband. On
the Tuesday he had seen most of his brother Deacons and found that they
thought as he did. All were agreed that something should be done to
testify to their gratitude, if indeed their pastor refused the “call.”
In the evening, after supper, Mr. Hooper narrated to his wife all that
he had done and all that the others had said. When he asked for her
opinion she approved of his efforts. A little while later she turned
to him: “I wonder why Mr. Letgood doesn't marry?” As she spoke she laid
down her work. With a tender smile the Deacon drew her on to his knees
in the armchair, and pushing up his spectacles (he had been reading a
dissertation on the meaning of the Greek verb [Greek: baptizo]) said
with infinite, playful tenderness in his voice:
“'Tain't every one can find a wife like you, my dear.” He was rewarded
for the flattering phrase with a little slap on the cheek. He continued
thoughtfully: “'Taint every one either that wants to take care of a
wife. Some folks hain't got much affection in 'em, I guess; perhaps Mr.
Letgood hain't.” To the which Mrs. Hooper answered not in words, but her
lips curved into what might be called a smile, a contented smile as from
the heights of superior knowledge.
* * * * *