A Modern Idyll | Page 5

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. Let-good, 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. Let-good'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