Elder Conklin - Frank Harris (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

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 frockcoat, 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 tomorrow? 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 sidewalk, 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