A Modern Idyll | Page 7

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