“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?”