Elder Conklin and Other Stories by Frank Harris

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As she disappeared, he took up his hat, and left the house.

It was about four o'clock on a day in mid-June. The sun was pouring down
rays of liquid flame; the road, covered inches deep in fine white dust,
and the wooden side-walks glowed with the heat, but up and down the
steep hills went the minister unconscious of physical discomfort.

"Does she care for me, or not? Why can't she tell me plainly? The
teasing creature! Did she give me the hint to go because she was afraid
her husband would come in? Or did she want to get rid of me in order not
to answer?... She wasn't angry with me for putting my arms round her,
and yet she wouldn't let me kiss her. Why not? She doesn't love him. She
married him because she was poor, and he was rich and a deacon. She
can't love him. He must be fifty-five if he's a day. Perhaps she doesn't
love me either--the little flirt! But how seductive she is, and what a
body, so round and firm and supple--not thin at all. I have the feel of
it on my hands now--I can't stand this."

Shaking himself vigorously, he abandoned his meditation, which, like
many similar ones provoked by Mrs. Hooper, had begun in vexation and
ended in passionate desire. Becoming aware of the heat and dust, he
stood still, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead.

The Rev. John Letgood was an ideal of manhood to many women. He was
largely built, but not ungainly--the coarseness of the hands being the
chief indication of his peasant ancestry. His head was rather round, and
strongly set on broad shoulders; the nose was straight and well formed;
the dark eyes, however, were somewhat small, and the lower part of the
face too massive, though both chin and jaw were clearly marked. A long,
thick, brown moustache partly concealed the mouth; the lower lip could
just be seen, a little heavy, and sensual; the upper one was certainly
flexile and suasive. A good-looking man of thirty, who must have been
handsome when he was twenty, though even then, probably, too much drawn
by the pleasures of the senses to have had that distinction of person
which seems to be reserved for those who give themselves to thought or
high emotions. On entering his comfortable house, he was met by his
negro "help," who handed him his "mail":

"I done brot these, Massa; they's all."

"Thanks, Pete," he replied abstractedly, going into his cool study. He
flung himself into an armchair before the writing-table, and began to
read the letters. Two were tossed aside carelessly, but on opening the
third he sat up with a quick exclamation. Here at last was the "call" he
had been expecting, a "call" from the deacons of the Second Baptist
Church in Chicago, asking him to come and minister to their spiritual
wants, and offering him ten thousand dollars a year for his services.

For a moment exultation overcame every other feeling in the man. A light
flashed in his eyes as he exclaimed aloud: "It was that sermon did it!
What a good thing it was that I knew their senior deacon was in the
church on purpose to hear me! How well I brought in the apostrophe on
the cultivation of character that won me the prize at college! Ah, I
have never done anything finer than that, never! and perhaps never shall
now. I had been reading Channing then for months, was steeped in him;
but Channing has nothing as good as that in all his works. It has more
weight and dignity--dignity is the word--than anything he wrote. And to
think of its bringing me this! Ten thousand dollars a year and the
second church in Chicago, while here they think me well paid with five.
Chicago! I must accept it at once. Who knows, perhaps I shall get to New
York yet, and move as many thousands as here I move hundreds. No! not I.
I do not move them. I am weak and sinful. It is the Holy Spirit, and the
power of His grace. O Lord, I am thankful to Thee who hast been good to
me unworthy!" A pang of fear shot through him: "Perhaps He sends this to
win me away from Belle." His fancy called her up before him as she had
lain on the sofa. Again he saw the bright malicious glances and the red
lips, the full white throat, and the slim roundness of her figure. He
bowed his head upon his hands and groaned. "O Lord, help me! I know not
what to do. Help me, O Lord!"

As if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he started to his feet. "Now she
must answer! Now what will she say? Here is the call. Ten thousand
dollars a year! What will she say to that?"

He spoke aloud in his excitement, all that was masculine in him glowing
with the sense of hard-won mastery over the tantalizing evasiveness of
the woman.

On leaving his house he folded up the letter, thrust it into the breast-
pocket of his frock-coat, and strode rapidly up the hill towards Mrs.
Hooper's. At first he did not even think of her last words, but when he
had gone up and down the first hill and was beginning to climb the
second they suddenly came back to him. He did not want to meet her
husband--least of all now. He paused. What should he do? Should he wait
till to-morrow? No, that was out of the question; he couldn't wait. He
must know what answer to send to the call. If Deacon Hooper happened to
be at home he would talk to him about the door of the vestry, which
would not shut properly. If the Deacon was not there, he would see her
and force a confession from her....

While the shuttle of his thought flew thus to and fro, he did not at all
realize that he was taking for granted what he had refused to believe
half an hour before. He felt certain now that Deacon Hooper would not be
in, and that Mrs. Hooper had got rid of him on purpose to avoid his
importunate love-making. When he reached the house and rang the bell his
first question was:

"Is the Deacon at home?"

"No, sah."

"Is Mrs. Hooper in?"

"Yes, sah."

"Please tell her I should like to see her for a moment. I will not keep
her long. Say it's very important."

"Yes, Massa, I bring her shuah," said the negress with a good-natured
grin, opening the door of the drawing-room.

In a minute or two Mrs. Hooper came into the room looking as cool and
fresh as if "pies" were baked in ice.

"Good day, _again_, Mr. Letgood. Won't you take a chair?"

He seemed to feel the implied reproach, for without noticing her
invitation to sit down he came to the point at once. Plunging his hand
into his pocket, he handed her the letter from Chicago.

She took it with the quick interest of curiosity, but as she read, the
colour deepened in her cheeks, and before she had finished it she broke
out, _"Ten thousand dollars a year!_"

As she gave the letter back she did not raise her eyes, but said
musingly: "That is a call indeed...." Staring straight before her she
added: "How strange it should come to-day! Of course you'll accept it."

A moment, and she darted the question at him:

"Does she know? Have you told Miss Williams yet? But there, I suppose
you have!" After another pause, she went on:

"What a shame to take you away just when we had all got to know and like
you! I suppose we shall have some old fogey now who will preach against
dancin' an' spellin'-bees an' surprise-parties. And, of course, he won't
like me, or come here an' call as often as you do--makin' the other
girls jealous. I shall hate the change!" And in her innocent excitement
she slowly lifted her brown eyes to his.

"You know you're talking nonsense, Belle," he replied, with grave
earnestness. "I've come for your answer. If you wish me to stay, if you
really care for me, I shall refuse this offer."

"You don't tell!" she exclaimed. "Refuse ten thousand dollars a year and
a church in Chicago to stay here in Kansas City! I know I shouldn't!
Why," and she fixed her eyes on his as she spoke, "you must be real good
even to think of such a thing. But then, you won't refuse," she added,
pouting. "No one would," she concluded, with profound conviction.

"Oh, yes," answered the minister, moving to her and quietly putting both
hands on her waist, while his voice seemed to envelope and enfold her
with melodious tenderness.

"Oh, yes, I shall refuse it, Belle, if _you_ wish me to; refuse it
as I should ten times as great a prize, as I think I should refuse--God
forgive me!--heaven itself, if you were not there to make it
beautiful."

While speaking he drew her to him gently; her body yielded to his touch,
and her gaze, as if fascinated, was drawn into his. But when the flow of
words ceased, and he bent to kiss her, the spell seemed to lose its
power over her. In an instant she wound herself out of his arms, and
with startled eyes aslant whispered:

"Hush! he's coming! Don't you hear his step?" As Mr. Letgood went again
towards her with a tenderly reproachful and incredulous "Now, Belle,"
she stamped impatiently on the floor while exclaiming in a low, but
angry voice, "Do take care! That's the Deacon's step."

At the same moment her companion heard it too. The sounds were distinct
on the wooden side-walk, and when they ceased at the little gate four or
five yards from the house he knew that she was right. He pulled himself
together, and with a man's untimely persistence spoke hurriedly:

"I shall wait for your answer till Sunday morning next. Before then you
must have assured me of your love, or I shall go to Chicago--"

Mrs. Hooper's only reply was a contemptuous, flashing look that
succeeded in reducing the importunate clergyman to silence--just in
time--for as the word "Chicago" passed his lips the handle of the door
turned, and Deacon Hooper entered the room.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Letgood?" said the Deacon cordially. "I'm glad
to see you, sir, as you are too, I'm sartin," he added, turning to his
wife and putting his arms round her waist and his lips to her cheek in
an affectionate caress. "Take a seat, won't you? It's too hot to stand."
As Mrs. Hooper sank down beside him on the sofa and their visitor drew
over a chair, he went on, taking up again the broken thread of his
thought. "No one thinks more of you than Isabelle. She said only last
Sunday there warn't such a preacher as you west of the Mississippi
River. How's that for high, eh?"--And then, still seeking back like a
dog on a lost scent, he added, looking from his wife to the clergyman,
as if recalled to a sense of the actualities of the situation by a
certain constraint in their manner, "But what's that I heard about
Chicago? There ain't nothin' fresh--Is there?"

"Oh," replied Mrs. Hooper, with a look of remonstrance thrown sideways
at her admirer, while with a woman's quick decision she at once cut the
knot, "I guess there is something fresh. Mr. Letgood, just think of it,
has had a 'call' from the Second Baptist Church in Chicago, and it's ten
thousand dollars a year. Now who's right about his preachin'? And he
ain't goin' to accept it. He's goin' to stay right here. At least," she
added coyly, "he said he'd refuse it--didn't you?"

The Deacon stared from one to the other as Mr. Letgood, with a forced
half-laugh which came from a dry throat, answered: "That would be going
perhaps a little too far. I said," he went on, catching a coldness in
the glance of the brown eyes, "I wished to refuse it. But of course I
shall have to consider the matter thoroughly--and seek for guidance."

"Wall," said the Deacon in amazement, "ef that don't beat everythin'. I
guess nobody would refuse an offer like that. _Ten thousand dollars a
year!_ Ten thousand. Why, that's twice what you're gettin' here. You
can't refuse that. I know you wouldn't ef you war' a son of mine--as you
might be. Ten thousand. No, sir. An' the Second Baptist Church in
Chicago is the first; it's the best, the richest, the largest. There
ain't no sort of comparison between it and the First. No, sir! There
ain't none. Why, James P. Willis, him as was here and heard you--that's
how it came about, that's how!--he's the senior Deacon of it, an' I
guess he can count dollars with any man this side of New York. Yes, sir,
with any man west of the Alleghany Mountains." The breathless excitement
of the good Deacon changed gradually as he realized that 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. Letgood, 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. Letgood'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
right," repeated her husband thoughtfully. "It'll look better if he
decides before hearin' from us. There ain't no harm, though, in thinkin'
the thing over and speakin' to the other Deacons about it. I'll kinder
find out what they feel."

"Yes," she replied mechanically, almost as if she had not heard. "Yes,
that's all right." And she slowly straightened the cloth on the centre-
table, given over again to her reflections.

Mr. Letgood walked home, ate his supper, went to bed and slept that
night as only a man does whose nervous system has been exhausted by
various and intense emotions. He even said his prayers by rote. And like
a child he slept with tightly-clenched fists, for in him, as in the
child, the body's claims were predominant.

When he awoke next morning, the sun was shining in at his bedroom
window, and at once his thoughts went back to the scenes and emotions of
the day before. An unusual liveliness of memory enabled him to review
the very words which Mrs. Hooper had used. He found nothing to regret.
He had certainly gained ground by telling her of the call. The torpor
which had come upon him the previous evening formed a complete contrast
to the blithesome vigour he now enjoyed. He seemed to himself to be a
different man, recreated, as it were, and endowed with fresh springs of
life. While he lay in the delightful relaxation and warmth of the bed,
and looked at the stream of sunshine which flowed across the room, he
became confident that all would go right.

"Yes," he decided, "she cares for me, or she would never have wished me
to stay. Even the Deacon helped me--" The irony of the fact shocked him.
He would not think of it. He might get a letter from her by two o'clock.
With pleasure thrilling through every nerve, he imagined how she would
word her confession. For she had yielded to him; he had felt her body
move towards him and had seen the surrender in her eyes. While musing
thus, passion began to stir in him, and with passion impatience.

"Only half-past six o'clock," he said to himself, pushing his watch
again under the pillow; "eight hours to wait till mail time. Eight
endless hours. What a plague!"

His own irritation annoyed him, and he willingly took up again the
thread of his amorous reverie: "What a radiant face she has, what fine
nervefulness in the slim fingers, what softness in the full throat!"
Certain incidents in his youth before he had studied for the ministry
came back to him, bringing the blood to his cheeks and making his
temples throb. As the recollections grew vivid they became a torment. To
regain quiet pulses he forced his mind to dwell upon the details of his
"conversion"--his sudden resolve to live a new life and to give himself
up to the service of the divine Master. The yoke was not easy; the
burden was not light. On the contrary. He remembered innumerable
contests with his rebellious flesh, contests in which he was never
completely victorious for more than a few days together, but in which,
especially during the first heat of the new enthusiasm, he had struggled
desperately. Had his efforts been fruitless?...

He thought with pride of his student days--mornings given to books and
to dreams of the future, and evenings marked by passionate emotions, new
companions reinspiring him continually with fresh ardour. The time spent
at college was the best of his life. He had really striven, then, as few
strive, to deserve the prize of his high calling. During those years, it
seemed to him, he had been all that an earnest Christian should be. He
recalled, with satisfaction, the honours he had won in Biblical
knowledge and in history, and the more easily gained rewards for
rhetoric. It was only natural that he should have been immediately
successful as a preacher. How often he had moved his flock to tears! No
wonder he had got on.

Those first successes, and the pleasures which they brought with them of
gratified vanity, had resulted in turning him from a Christian into an
orator. He understood this dimly, but he thrust back the unwelcome truth
with the reflection that his triumphs in the pulpit dated from the time
when he began consciously to treat preaching as an art. After all, was
he not there to win souls to Christ, and had not Christ himself praised
the wisdom of the serpent? Then came the change from obscurity and
narrow living in the country to Kansas City and luxury. He had been wise
in avoiding that girl at Pleasant Hill. He smiled complacently as he
thought of her dress, manners, and speech. Yet she was pretty, very
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:

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