religiously inclined, so I gave in. I joined the church last Sunday. What do you think of that after all my noble renunciation of the faith of my fathers?”
“You don’t mean it, Connie; you really joined the church? Say, isn’t that rich? But I don’t blame you, of course, for pearls like that. They’re wonderful! I’d have done it myself, of course. What harm could it do? It doesn’t mean a thing, of course.”
“Of course not,” said Constance and felt suddenly a pair of steady brown eyes upon her soul, a keen, disappointed look in them.
“But to think of you standing up before the congregation joining church! Con Courtland. It’s a scream! What’ll the girls say when they hear it?”
“It’s none of their business, of course,” said Constance gravely. Somehow she wasn’t enjoying the sensation as much as she had anticipated when she had thought of going back to college and telling the girls what she had done. She had thought it a good joke at first. But now somehow she shrank from it. Was she always going to have that man with his brown eyes following her around censoring her acts? She must certainly snap out of this and do it quickly.
So she joined in the laugh as two other girls came into the room and Doris proceeded to tell the tale and show the pearls. She even added grotesque touches, describing her nunlike appearance in white and the throng of her former Sunday school mates, who were not her friends any longer. As the thorn in her conscience stabbed her and the prick went deeper, she grew more flippantly eloquent, until she had the girls in screams of laughter and the news was noised abroad that Constance Courtland had joined the church. They all flocked in to hear the tale and view the pearls and added each her witty sarcasm, until suddenly Constance felt as if she were going to cry. She seemed to have cast aside all tender ties to home and family and fine, true things. She knew she had said things she did not mean. She knew that if Seagrave could have heard her he would have turned away with hurt, disappointed eyes and would never have wanted to see her again. And he had said he would pray for her! Perhaps he was even now praying for her! The thought stabbed her like a knife.
Suddenly she snatched the pearls from Rose Mellen’s hands and put them away, snapping sharply the little case that held them.
“Come, girls,” she said breezily, “let’s go down and take a walk.”
So they all trooped down to the campus and went cheerfully arm in arm down the broad cement walk. But Constance’s heart was very sore. She was deeply ashamed of herself. She said bitterly to herself that she wouldn’t wear her pearls. They were spoiled for her, utterly spoiled by the false light in which she had allowed them to place her.
She went to bed early that night professing to have a headache and, turning her face to the wall, began to think again about Seagrave and all that he had said, and most of all about the steady, true voice and the deep look in his eyes and the way he had seemed to expect the best and finest things of her. She felt somehow degraded by her own acts.
Never in her life before had Constance felt that sense of utter humiliation. It would sweep over her at times with a strange, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and the hot blood of shame would burn in her cheeks against the cool pillow. It seemed to be an actual physical ailment. It fairly choked her with a sense of her own worthlessness as she lay there with her face burning in the darkness.
She tried to summon her former self-respect, to call to mind that she belonged to two very old, respected families. It ill became a Courtland or a Van Vleck to discount herself. She had always been respected. Her family had always been respected. She had not done anything to merit this inferiority complex. She had merely lived up to the code of the day. And she had humored a dear, foolish, little old grandmother, pleased her beyond anything,
“You don’t mean it, Connie; you really joined the church? Say, isn’t that rich? But I don’t blame you, of course, for pearls like that. They’re wonderful! I’d have done it myself, of course. What harm could it do? It doesn’t mean a thing, of course.”
“Of course not,” said Constance and felt suddenly a pair of steady brown eyes upon her soul, a keen, disappointed look in them.
“But to think of you standing up before the congregation joining church! Con Courtland. It’s a scream! What’ll the girls say when they hear it?”
“It’s none of their business, of course,” said Constance gravely. Somehow she wasn’t enjoying the sensation as much as she had anticipated when she had thought of going back to college and telling the girls what she had done. She had thought it a good joke at first. But now somehow she shrank from it. Was she always going to have that man with his brown eyes following her around censoring her acts? She must certainly snap out of this and do it quickly.
So she joined in the laugh as two other girls came into the room and Doris proceeded to tell the tale and show the pearls. She even added grotesque touches, describing her nunlike appearance in white and the throng of her former Sunday school mates, who were not her friends any longer. As the thorn in her conscience stabbed her and the prick went deeper, she grew more flippantly eloquent, until she had the girls in screams of laughter and the news was noised abroad that Constance Courtland had joined the church. They all flocked in to hear the tale and view the pearls and added each her witty sarcasm, until suddenly Constance felt as if she were going to cry. She seemed to have cast aside all tender ties to home and family and fine, true things. She knew she had said things she did not mean. She knew that if Seagrave could have heard her he would have turned away with hurt, disappointed eyes and would never have wanted to see her again. And he had said he would pray for her! Perhaps he was even now praying for her! The thought stabbed her like a knife.
Suddenly she snatched the pearls from Rose Mellen’s hands and put them away, snapping sharply the little case that held them.
“Come, girls,” she said breezily, “let’s go down and take a walk.”
So they all trooped down to the campus and went cheerfully arm in arm down the broad cement walk. But Constance’s heart was very sore. She was deeply ashamed of herself. She said bitterly to herself that she wouldn’t wear her pearls. They were spoiled for her, utterly spoiled by the false light in which she had allowed them to place her.
She went to bed early that night professing to have a headache and, turning her face to the wall, began to think again about Seagrave and all that he had said, and most of all about the steady, true voice and the deep look in his eyes and the way he had seemed to expect the best and finest things of her. She felt somehow degraded by her own acts.
Never in her life before had Constance felt that sense of utter humiliation. It would sweep over her at times with a strange, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and the hot blood of shame would burn in her cheeks against the cool pillow. It seemed to be an actual physical ailment. It fairly choked her with a sense of her own worthlessness as she lay there with her face burning in the darkness.
She tried to summon her former self-respect, to call to mind that she belonged to two very old, respected families. It ill became a Courtland or a Van Vleck to discount herself. She had always been respected. Her family had always been respected. She had not done anything to merit this inferiority complex. She had merely lived up to the code of the day. And she had humored a dear, foolish, little old grandmother, pleased her beyond anything,
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