A Modern Idyll | Page 9

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 r?le, 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 orator, it was all but impossible for him to justify what must seem like sordid selfishness. He moved about in his chair uneasily, and strove to look at the subject from a new point of view. In vain; ten thousand dollars a year instead of five--that was to be his theme.
The first solution of the problem which suggested itself to him was to express his very real disdain of such base material considerations, but no sooner did the thought occur to him than he was fain to reject it. He knew