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Updated: May 12, 2025
Andrew had only to send in his testimonials, and the post was his. The salary was 200 pounds per annum, with an assistant and the privilege of calling himself rector. This settled, Andrew asked for Clarrie. He was humbler now than he had been, and in our disappointments we turn to woman for solace.
Clarrie was beautiful and all that. "We'll say no more about it, then," the minister said after a pause. "The matter," replied Andrew, "cannot be dismissed in that way. Reasonable or not, I do undoubtedly experience sensations similar to Clarrie's. But in my love I notice a distinct ebb and flow. There are times when I don't care a hang for her." "Andrew!" "I beg your pardon.
Clarrie had been working socks for him, and would have had them finished by this time had she known how to turn the heel. It is his sweetheart a man should be particular about. Once he settles down it does not much matter whom he marries. All this and much more the good old minister pointed out to Andrew. Then he left Clarrie and her lover together.
The horsehair chairs were not torn, and you did not require to know the sofa before you sat down on it, that day thirty years before, when a chubby minister and his lady walked to the manse between two cart-loads of furniture, trying not to look elated. Clarrie rose to go, when she heard her name.
"You have known each other a long time," said the minister. His guest was cleaning his pipe with a hair-pin, that his quick eye had detected on the carpet. "And she is devoted to you," continued Mr. Eassie. The young man nodded. "What I fear," he said, "is that we have known each other too long. Perhaps my feeling for Clarrie is only brotherly " "Hers for you, Andrew, is more than sisterly."
"I have reasoned out her present relation to me," the young man went on, "and, the more you reduce it to the usual formulae, the more illogical it becomes. Clarrie could possibly describe me, but define me never. What is our prospect of happiness in these circumstances?" "But love " began Mr. Eassie. "Love!" exclaimed Andrew. "Is there such a thing?
They crowded round to congratulate him; first his partner, and then his rivals, and his host and hostess. Montague found that he had suddenly become a person of consequence. Some who had previously taken no notice of him now became aware of his existence; proud society belles condescended to make conversation with him, and Clarrie Mason, who hated de Peyster, made note of a way to annoy him.
The love-light was in her eyes, but Andrew did not open the door for her, for he was a Scotch graduate. Besides, she might one day be his wife. The minister's toddy-ladle clinked against his tumbler, but Andrew did not speak. Clarrie was the girl he generally adored. "As for Clarrie," he said at last, "she puts me in an awkward position. How do I know that I love her?"
"Admitted. But consider, Mr. Eassie, she has only seen the world in soirées. Every girl has her day-dreams, and Clarrie has perhaps made a dream of me. She is impulsive, given to idealisation, and hopelessly illogical." The minister moved uneasily in his chair.
Still, it is you who have insisted on discussing this question in the particular instance. Love in the abstract is of much greater moment." "I have sometimes thought, Andrew," Mr. Eassie said, "that you are lacking in the imaginative faculty." "In other words, love is a mere fancy. Grant that, and see to what it leads. By imagining that I have Clarrie with me I am as well off as if I really had.
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