“JOHN P. LETGOOD.”
He liked this letter so much that he read it over a great many times. It committed him to nothing; it was dignified and yet sufficiently grateful, and the large-hearted piety which appeared to inform it pleased him even more than the alliteration of the words “born and brought up.” He had at first written “born and reared;” but in spite of the fear lest “brought up” should strike the simple Deacons of the Second Baptist Church in Chicago as unfamiliar and far-fetched, he could not resist the assonance. After directing the letter he went upstairs to bed, and his prayers that night were more earnest than they had been of late—perhaps because he avoided the dangerous topic. The exercise of his talent as a letter-writer having put him on good terms with himself, he slept soundly.
When he awoke in the morning his mood had changed. The day was cloudy; a thunderstorm was brewing, and had somehow affected his temper. As soon as he opened his eyes he was aware of the fact that Mrs. Hooper had not written to him, even on Tuesday morning, when she must have been free, for the Deacon always went early to his dry-goods store. The consciousness of this neglect irritated him beyond measure. He tried, therefore, to think of Chicago and the persons who frequented the Second Baptist Church. Perhaps, he argued, they were as much ahead of the people in Kansas City as Mrs. Hooper was superior to any woman he had previously known. But on this way of thought he could not go far. The houses in Chicago were no doubt much finer, the furniture more elegant; the living, too, was perhaps better, though he could not imagine how that could be; there might even be cleverer and handsomer women there than Mrs. Hooper; but certainly no one lived in Chicago or anywhere else in the world who could tempt and bewitch him as she did. She was formed to his taste, made to his desire. As he recalled her, now laughing at him; now admiring him; to-day teasing him with coldness, to-morrow encouraging him, he realized with exasperation that her contradictions constituted her charm. He acknowledged reluctantly that her odd turns of speech tickled his intellect just as her lithe grace of movement excited his senses. But the number and strength of the ties that bound him to her made his anger keener. Where could she hope to find such love as his? She ought to write to him. Why didn't she? How could he come to a decision before he knew whether she loved him or not? In any case he would show her that he was a man. He would not try to see her until she had written—not under any circumstances.
After dinner and mail time his thoughts ran in another channel. In reality she was not anything so wonderful. Most men, he knew, did not think her more than pretty; “pretty Mrs. Hooper” was what she was usually called—nothing more. No one ever dreamed of saying she was beautiful or fascinating. No; she was pretty, and that was all. He was the only person in Kansas City or perhaps in the world to whom she was altogether and perfectly desirable. She had no reason to be so conceited or to presume on her power over him. If she were the wonder she thought herself she would surely have married some one 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 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 well that his hearers in Kansas City would refuse to accept that explanation even as “high-falutin' bunkum!” He then tried to select a text in order to ease for a time the strain upon his reflective faculties. “Feed my sheep” was his first choice—“the largest flock possible, of course.” But no, that was merely the old cant in new words.
He came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was no noble way out of the difficulty. He felt this the more painfully because, before sitting down to think of his sermon, he had immersed himself, to use his own words, in the fountain-head of self-sacrificing enthusiasm. And now he could not show his flock that there was any trace of self-denial in his conduct. It was apparent that his acceptance of the call made a great sermon an utter impossibility. He must say as little about the main point as possible, glide quickly, in fact, over the thin ice. But his disappointment was none the less keen; there was no splendid peroration to write; there would be no eyes gazing up at him through a mist of tears. His sensations were those of an actor with an altogether uncongenial and stupid part.
After some futile efforts he abandoned the attempt to sketch out a sermon. Some words would come to him at the time, and they would have to do. In the evening a new idea presented itself to his over-excited brain. Might not his dislike of that sermon be a snare set by the Devil to induce him to reject the call and stay in Kansas City? No. A fine sermon would do good—the Evil One could not desire that—perhaps even more good than his sin would do harm? Puzzled and incapable of the effort required to solve this fresh problem he went to bed, after praying humbly for guidance and enlightenment.
On the Friday morning he rose from his knees with a burden of sorrow. No kindly light had illumined the darkness of his doubtings. Yet he was conscious of a perfect sincerity in his desires and in his prayers. Suddenly he remembered that, when in a pure frame of mind, he had only considered the acceptance of the call. But in order to be guided aright, he must abandon himself entirely to God's directing. In all honesty of purpose, he began to think of the sermon he could deliver if he resolved to reject the call. Ah! that sermon needed but little meditation. With such a decision to announce, he felt that he could carry his hearers with him to heights of which they knew nothing. Their very vulgarity and sordidness of nature would help instead of hindering him. No one in Kansas City would doubt for a moment the sincerity of the self-sacrifice involved in rejecting ten thousand dollars a year for five. That sermon could be preached with effect from any text. “Feed my sheep” even would do. He thrilled in anticipation, as a great actor thrills when reading a part which will allow him to discover all his powers, and in which he is certain to “bring down the house.” Completely carried away by his emotions, he began to turn the sermon over in his head. First of all he sought for a text; not this one, nor that one, but a few words breathing the very spirit of Christ's self-abnegation. He soon found what he wanted: “For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.” The unearthly beauty of the thought and the divine simplicity of its expression took the orator captive. As he imagined that Godlike Figure in Galilee, and seemed to hear the words drop like pearls from His lips, so he saw himself in the pulpit, and had a foretaste of the effect of his own eloquence. Ravished by the vision, he proceeded to write and rewrite the peroration. Every other part he could trust to his own powers, and to the inspiration of the theme, but the peroration he meant to make finer even than his apostrophe on the cultivation of character, which hitherto had been the high-water mark of his achievement.
At length he finished his task, but not before sunset, and he felt weary and hungry. He ate and rested. In the complete relaxation of mental strain, he understood all at once what he had done. He had decided to remain in Kansas City. But to remain meant to meet Mrs. Hooper day after day, to be thrown together with her even by her foolishly confiding husband; it meant perpetual temptation, and at last—a fall! And yet God had guided him to choose that sermon rather than the other. He had abandoned himself passively to His guidance—could that lead to the brink of the pit?... He cried out suddenly like one in bodily anguish. He had found the explanation. God cared for no half-victories. Flight to Chicago must seem to Him the veriest cowardice. God intended him to stay in Kansas City and conquer the awful temptation face to face. When he realized this, he fell on his knees and prayed as he had never prayed in all his life before. If entreated humbly, God would surely temper the wind to the shorn lamb; He knew His servant's weakness. “Lead us not into temptation,” he cried again and again, for the first time in his life comprehending what now seemed to him the awful significance of the words. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil”—thus he begged and wept. But even when, exhausted in body and in mind, he rose from his knees, he had found no comfort. Like a child, with streaming eyes and quivering features, he stumbled upstairs to bed and fell asleep, repeating over and over again mechanically the prayer that the cup might pass from him.
On the Saturday morning he awoke as from a hideous nightmare. Before there was time for thought he was aware of what oppressed and frightened him. The knowledge of his terrible position weighed him down. He was worn out and feverishly ill; incapable of reflection or resolution, conscious chiefly of pain and weariness, and a deep dumb revolt against his impending condemnation. After lying thus for some time, drinking the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, he got up, and went downstairs. Yielding to habit he opened the Bible. But the Book had no message for him. His tired brain refused, for minutes together, to take in the sense of the printed words. The servant found him utterly miserable and helpless when she went to tell him that “the dinner was a-gittin' cold.”
The food seemed to restore him, and during the first two hours of digestion he was comparatively peaceful in being able to live without thinking; but when the body had recovered its vigour, the mind grew active, and the self-torture recommenced. For some hours—he never knew how many—he suffered in this way; then a strange calm fell upon him. Was it the Divine help which had come at last, or despair, or the fatigue of an overwrought spirit? He knelt down and prayed once more, but this time his prayer consisted simply in placing before his Heavenly Father the exact state of the case. He was powerless; God should do with him according to His purpose, only he felt unable to resist if the temptation came up against him. Jesus, of course, could remove the temptation or strengthen him if He so willed. His servant was in His hands.
After continuing in this strain for some time he got up slowly, calm but hopeless. There was no way of escape for him. He took up the Bible and attempted again to read it; but of a sudden he put it down, and throwing his outspread arms on the table and bowing his head upon them he cried:
“My God, forgive me! I cannot hear Thy voice, nor feel Thy presence. I can only see her face and feel her body.”
And then hardened as by the consciousness of unforgivable blaspheming, he rose with set face, lit his candle, and went to bed.
The week had passed much as usual with Mrs. Hooper and her husband. On the Tuesday he had seen most of his brother Deacons and found that they thought as he did. All were agreed that something should be done to testify to their gratitude, if indeed their pastor refused the “call.” In the evening, after supper, Mr. Hooper narrated to his wife all that he had done and all that the others had said. When he asked for her opinion she approved of his efforts. A little while later she turned to him: “I wonder why Mr. Letgood doesn't marry?” As she spoke she laid down her work. With a tender smile the Deacon drew her on to his knees in the armchair, and pushing up his spectacles (he had been reading a dissertation on the meaning of the Greek verb [Greek: baptizo]) said with infinite, playful tenderness in his voice:
“'Tain't every one can find a wife like you, my dear.” He was rewarded for the flattering phrase with a little slap on the cheek. He continued thoughtfully: “'Taint every one either that wants to take care of a wife. Some folks hain't got much affection in 'em, I guess; perhaps Mr. Letgood hain't.” To the which Mrs. Hooper answered not in words, but her lips curved into what might be called a smile, a contented smile as from the heights of superior knowledge.
Mr. Letgood's state of mind on the Sunday morning was too complex for complete analysis: he did not attempt the task. He preferred to believe that he had told God the whole truth without any attempt at reservation. He had thereby placed himself in His hands, and was no longer chiefly responsible. He would not even think of what he was about to do, further than that he intended to refuse the call and to preach the sermon the peroration of which he had so carefully prepared. After dressing he sat down in his study and committed this passage to memory. He pictured to himself with pleasure the effect it would surely produce upon his hearers. When Pete came to tell him the buggy was ready to take him to church, he got up almost cheerfully, and went out.
The weather was delightful, as it is in June in that part of the Western States. From midday until about four o'clock the temperature is that of midsummer, but the air is exceedingly dry and light, and one breathes it in the morning with a sense of exhilaration. While driving to church Mr. Letgood's spirits rose. He chatted with his servant Pete, and even took the reins once for a few hundred yards. But when they neared the church his gaiety forsook him. He stopped talking, and appeared to be a little preoccupied. From time to time he courteously greeted one of his flock on the side-walk: but that was all. As he reached the church, the Partons drove up, and of course he had to speak to them. After the usual conventional remarks and shaking of hands, the minister turned up the sidewalk which led to the vestry. He had not taken more than four or five steps in this direction before he paused and looked up the street. He shrugged his shoulders, however, immediately at his own folly, and walked on: “Of course she couldn't send a messenger with a note. On Sundays the Deacon was with her.”
As he opened the vestry door, and stepped into the little room, he stopped short. Mrs. Hooper was there, coming towards him with outstretched hand and radiant smile:
“Good mornin', Mr. Letgood, all the Deacons are here to meet you, and they let me come; because I was the first you told the news to, and because I'm sure you're not goin' to leave us. Besides, I wanted to come.”
He could not help looking at her for a second as he took her hand and bowed:
“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” Not trusting himself further, he began to shake hands with the assembled elders. In answer to one who expressed the hope that they would keep him, he said slowly and gravely:
“I always trust something to the inspiration of the moment, but I confess I am greatly moved to refuse this call.”
“That's what I said,” broke in Mr. Hooper triumphantly, “and I said, too, there were mighty few like you, and I meant it. But we don't want you to act against yourself, though we'd be mighty glad to hev you stay.”
A chorus of “Yes, sir! Yes, indeed! That's so” went round the room in warm approval, and then, as the minister did not answer save with an abstracted, wintry smile, the Deacons began to file into the church. Curiously enough Mrs. Hooper having moved away from the door during this scene was now, necessarily it seemed, the last to leave the room. While she was passing him, Mr. Letgood bent towards her and in an eager tone whispered:
“And my answer?”
Mrs. Hooper paused, as if surprised.
“Oh! ain't you men stupid,” she murmured and with a smile tossed the question over her shoulder: “What did I come here for?”
That sermon of Mr. Letgood's is still remembered in Kansas City. It is not too much to say that the majority of his hearers believed him to be inspired. And, in truth, as an artistic performance his discourse was admirable. After standing for some moments with his hand upon the desk, apparently lost in thought, he began in the quietest tone to read the letter from the Deacons of the Second Baptist Church in Chicago. He then read his reply, begging them to give him time to consider their request. He had considered it—prayerfully. He would read the passage of Holy Scripture which had suggested the answer he was about to send to the call. He paused again. The rustling of frocks and the occasional coughings ceased—the audience straining to catch the decision—while in a higher key he recited the verse, “For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.”
As the violinist knows when his instrument is perfectly attuned, so Mr. Letgood knew when he repeated the text that his hearers had surrendered themselves to him to be played upon. It would be useless here to reproduce the sermon, which lasted for nearly an hour, and altogether impossible to give any account of the preacher's gestures or dramatic pauses, or of the modulations and inflections of his voice, which now seemed to be freighted with passionate earnestness, now quivered in pathetic appeal, and now grew musical in the dying fall of some poetic phrase. The effect was astonishing. While he was speaking simply of the text as embodying the very spirit of the Glad Tidings which Christ first delivered to the world, not a few women were quietly weeping. It was impossible, they felt, to listen unmoved to that voice.
But when he went on to show the necessity of renunciation as the first step towards the perfecting of character, even the hard, keen faces of the men before him began to relax and change expression. He dwelt, in turn, upon the startling novelty of Christ's teaching and its singular success. He spoke of the shortness of human life, the vanity of human effort, and the ultimate reward of those who sacrifice themselves for others, as Jesus did, and out of the same divine spirit of love. He thus came to the peroration. He began it in the manner of serious conversation.
All over the United States the besetting sin of the people was the desire of wealth. He traced the effects of the ignoble struggle for gain in the degradation of character, in the debased tone of public and private life. The main current of existence being defiled, his duty was clear. Even more than other men he was pledged to resist the evil tendency of the time. In some ways, no doubt, he was as frail and faulty as the weakest of his hearers, but to fail in this respect would be, he thought, to prove himself unworthy of his position. That a servant of Christ in the nineteenth century should seek wealth, or allow it in any way to influence his conduct, appeared to him to be much the same unpardonable sin as cowardice in a soldier or dishonesty in a man of business. He could do but little to show what the words of his text meant to him, but one thing he could do and would do joyously. He would write to the good Deacons in Chicago to tell them that he intended to stay in Kansas City, and to labour on among the people whom he knew and loved, and some of whom, he believed, knew and loved him. He would not be tempted by the greater position offered to him or by the larger salary. “For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.”
As his voice broke over the last words, there was scarcely a dry eye in the church. Many of the women were sobbing audibly, and Mrs. Hooper had long ago given up the attempt “to pull her tears down the back way.” She expressed the general sentiment of her sex when she said afterwards, “It was just too lovely for anythin'.” And the men were scarcely less affected, though they were better able to control their emotion. The joyous renunciation of five thousand dollars a year struck these hard men of business as something almost uncanny. They would have considered it the acme of folly in an ordinary man, but in a preacher they felt vaguely that it was admirable.
When Deacon Hooper met his brother Deacons before the platform where the collection-plates were kept, he whispered, “The meetin' is at my house at three o'clock. Be on time.” His tone was decided, as were also the nods which accepted the invitation.
After the service Mr. Letgood withdrew quietly without going, as usual, amongst his congregation. This pleased even Mrs. Parton, whose husband was a judge of the Supreme Court. She said: “It was elegant of him.”
Mr. Hooper received the twelve Deacons in his drawing-room, and when the latest comer was seated, began:
“There ain't no need for me to tell you, brethren, why I asked you all to come round here this afternoon. After that sermon this mornin' I guess we're all sot upon showin' our minister that we appreciate him. There are mighty few men with five thousand dollars a year who'd give up ten thousand. It seems to me a pretty good proof that a man's a Christian ef he'll do that. 'Tain't being merely a Christian: it's Christ-like. We must keep Mr. Letgood right here: he's the sort o' man we want. If they come from Chicago after him now, they'll be comin' from New York next, an' he oughtn't to be exposed to sich great temptation.
“I allow that we'll be able to raise the pew-rents from the first of January next, to bring in another two thousand five hundred dollars a year, and I propose that we Deacons should jest put our hands deep down in our pockets and give Mr. Letgood that much anyway for this year, and promise the same for the future. I'm willin', as senior Deacon, though not the richest, to start the list with three hundred dollars.”
In five minutes the money was subscribed, and it was agreed that each man should pay in his contribution to the name of Mr. Hooper at the First National Bank next day; Mr. Hooper could then draw his cheque for the sum.
“Wall,” said the Deacon, again getting up, “that's settled, but I've drawn that cheque already. Mrs. Hooper and me talked the thing over,” he added half apologetically, and as if to explain his unbusinesslike rashness; “an' she thinks we oughter go right now to Mr. Letgood as a sort of surprise party an' tell him what we hev decided—that is, ef you're all agreed.”
They were, although one or two objected to a “surprise party” being held on Sunday. But Deacon Hooper overruled the objection by saying that he could find no better word, though of course 'twas really not a “surprise party.” After this explanation, some one proposed that Deacon Hooper should make the presentation, and that Mrs. Hooper should be asked to accompany them. When Mr. Hooper went into the dining-room to find his wife she was already dressed to go out, and when he expressed surprise and delivered himself of his mission, she said simply:
“Why, I only dressed to go and see Mrs. Jones, who's ill, but I guess I'll go along with you first.”
The same afternoon Mr. Letgood was seated in his study considering a sermon for the evening—it would have to be very different from that of the morning, he felt, or else it would fall flat.
He still avoided thinking of his position. The die was cast now, and having struggled hard against the temptation he tried to believe that he was not chiefly responsible. In the back of his mind was the knowledge that his responsibility would become clear to him some time or other, but he confined it in the furthest chamber of his brain with repentance as the guardian.
He had just decided that his evening address must be doctrinal and argumentative, when he became aware of steps in the drawing-room. Opening the door he found himself face to face with his Deacons. Before he could speak, Deacon Hooper began:
“Mr. Letgood! We, the Deacons of your church, hev come to see you. We want to tell you how we appreciate your decision this mornin'. It was Christ-like! And we're all proud of you, an' glad you're goin' to stay with us. But we allow that it ain't fair or to be expected that you should refuse ten thousand dollars a year with only five. So we've made a purse for this year among ourselves of two thousand five hundred dollars extry, which we hope you'll accept. Next year the pew-rents can be raised to bring in the same sum; anyway, it shall be made up.
“There ain't no use in talkin'; but you, sir, hev jest sot us an example of how one who loves the Lord Jesus, and Him only, should act, and we ain't goin' to remain far behind. No, sir, we ain't. Thar's the cheque.”
As he finished speaking, tears stood in the kind, honest, blue eyes.
Mr. Letgood took the cheque mechanically, and mechanically accepted at the same time the Deacon's outstretched hand; but his eyes sought Mrs. Hooper's, who stood behind the knot of men with her handkerchief to her face. In a moment or two, recalled to himself by the fact that one after the other all the Deacons wanted to shake his hand, he tried to sustain his part in the ceremony. He said:
“My dear brothers, I thank you each and all, and accept your gift, in the spirit in which you offer it. I need not say that I knew nothing of your intention when I preached this morning. It is not the money that I'm thinking of now, but your kindness. I thank you again.”
After a few minutes' casual conversation, consisting chiefly of praise of the “wonderful discourse” of the morning, Mr. Letgood proposed that they should all have iced coffee with him; there was nothing so refreshing; he wanted them to try it; and though he was a bachelor, if Mrs. Hooper would kindly give her assistance and help him with his cook, he was sure they would enjoy a glass. With a smile she consented. Stepping into the passage after her and closing the door, he said hurriedly, with anger and suspicion in his voice:
“You didn't get this up as my answer? You didn't think I'd take money instead, did you?”
Demurely, Mrs. Hooper turned her head round as he spoke, and leaning against him while he put his arms round her waist, answered with arch reproach:
“You are just too silly for anythin'.”
Then, with something like the movement of a cat loath to lose the contact of the caressing hand, she turned completely towards him and slowly lifted her eyes. Their lips met.