A Modern Idyll | Page 2

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