A Modern Idyll | Page 9

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