MATCHED PEARLS (12 page)

“But surely you do not think that she believes that now? Surely you saw the change in her face when she accepted salvation?”

“Yes,” admitted Constance doubtfully, “it was wonderful. But I can’t explain it. I can’t understand it!”

“Can you understand a rose when it blooms? Can you explain where life comes from? ‘The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.’ You cannot explain it nor understand it until you have experienced it. After that you need no explanation.”

She was plainly bewildered over that, and after an instant drew a long breath and sighed deeply, returning to the gloom of death that hung over her like a pall.

“But it is so terrible to think of never seeing her again,” she began again. “Even if what you say is true that there is a life somewhere hereafter, it will be a long, long time, ages perhaps, before the resurrection day, if there is a resurrection. And one has to die first and lie in the grave.” She caught her breath and buried her face in her hands again with another of those long, sorrowful shudders that were like suppressed sobs.

“Not necessarily,” was the quiet answer.

“Not—necessarily?” She looked up, astonished. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Lord may come first, before you die, and bring her with Him. That’s our precious hope. The word of comfort for believers. And it looks very much as if that coming may not be far off.”

“Coming? What can you mean? You mean we all may die soon?” Her eyes were wide with dread.

“No, I mean the Lord may come for His church, His bride, and the promise is that He will also bring with Him ‘them that sleep in Jesus.’ That takes in your friend, I am sure.”

“But I don’t understand. You mean Jesus is coming back with all the dead people who have died, to live here again? I never heard of such a thing.”

“No, not that. Listen. Don’t you know the Lord Jesus just before He was crucified told His disciples that He was going away and that He would come back again for His own? Don’t you know that when He ascended into heaven in a cloud, angels told his watching disciples that this same Jesus would also come in like manner, as they had seen Him depart? Don’t you know that Paul wrote about it?”

Constance slowly shook her head.

“I don’t know anything about it. I’ve heard some of those things read in church, of course, but I never supposed anybody took any of those things literally. I’m sure none of my friends do.”

“Listen, then, these are the words that were meant for comfort at just such a time as this: ‘But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him…. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.’”

Seagrave’s voice was very clear and tender as he recited these wonderful words, and Constance could not help being thrilled by them.

“And you believe that is all literally true?” she asked. “And that it may happen anytime?”

“Anytime now. I would like to go into it all more deeply with you someday if you are interested. But meantime, you are very tired. You have been through a terrific strain and should have rest. I wish you could just rest your heart down on that blessed hope of the true believer and take comfort.”

Constance looked up through a veil of tears that she could not seem to control and tried to smile.

“You have been very kind,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Sometime, when I get beyond this awful thing, I’m going to be appalled at myself, I know, for daring to call an utter stranger all these hundreds of miles to a task like this. I know there will never be any way to repay you. Money couldn’t do it. But I just couldn’t let her go out frightened into the darkness alone without any comfort or hope!”

“Of course not,” he said. “You honored me by calling upon me, and I shall never cease to be thankful that I had the privilege of leading her to the Savior. Now please don’t ever again suggest any obligation on your part.”

“Well,” confessed Constance, “I’m grateful to you on my own account. I’m sure I don’t know how I’d have lived through that awful hour without you. And there wasn’t another soul around here except the old janitor who would have understood how to help.” Then she told him of the little Testament the janitor had offered in her need.

His eyes lighted as she told her story.

“God has more children here and there than we realize,” he said. “I presume if you had only known where to ask, there were others, too, who would have been glad to point the way of life.” And then suddenly he glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry,” he said in surprise at the time, “but unless I can be of further service to you, I’ll have to be hurrying away. My friend starts back in a little over an hour, and it will take me all of that to get back to the airfield if I’m going with him. And I really ought to go unless there is some pressing reason. Is there anything more I could do to help here?”

“Oh, no,” said Constance, wondering why she had such a lost feeling at the thought of his going, “you must go right away, of course. I’ve kept you far too long already. And there isn’t anything more to do now, of course. The college will look after everything.”

Then she remembered her responsibility in bringing him so far.

“But I’ve made you a lot of expense,” she hastened to say. “Of course I’ll see to that. If you’ll come over to the dormitory and wait in the reception room just a minute, I can give you enough to cover it. I just drew some money out of the bank this afternoon.” She was embarrassed saying this, but remembering the shabby trousers that Easter morning in church, she dared not let him go away without it.

He smiled.

“I had no expense. The pilot is a friend of mine, you know.” And the quiet way in which he put the matter closed the subject forever, yet without making her feel uncomfortable.

Then suddenly her lip quivered, the tears came again, and she had to put her head down in her hands and weep.

It was very still in the little tearoom. There were no other customers present. The old lady had gone about her preparations for the next day; the lights were soft from shaded pink candles.

Seagrave rose and laid his hand softly upon her bowed head. “Child, your Father will comfort you if you will let Him.”

There was great tenderness in his voice, and Constance was deeply stirred. Her shoulders were quivering. “It has been dreadful!” she murmured.

“Yes, it must have been,” said the sympathetic voice and then after an instant, “Could I help any if I were to stay longer?”

Constance lifted her head and took firm hold of herself. “No, you mustn’t,” she said, trying to smile. “I—I’m—all right. I don’t know why I act like this. I’m not a weeper, but I just can’t tell you how grateful I am for your coming. I shall never, never forget it. No, you must not stay. I’ve taken your whole night now. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’ve got to go through this awful commencement somehow.”

He gave her another grave smile.

“I wish I could help, but—will it help you any to know that I’ll be praying?”

The color flew into her white cheeks.

“I think it will,” she said softly. “Since what you have done for Doris, I think it will.”

“Bless God for that!” he said. “But say not what I have done. Say what our God has done. We have a great Savior!”

They walked almost silently to the dormitory entrance, and there at the door he paused.

“I wonder if you would read this little book and let it comfort you if I were to leave it with you?” he asked, taking out his little, soft leather-bound Testament.

“I would love to have it,” she said, accepting it eagerly. “Yes, I’ll read it.”

“Well, I must leave you,” he said and took her hand in one quick, close grasp. “I’ll be seeing you again, I hope, when you come home.”

Constance stood watching him walk rapidly down the elmshaded path among the flickering shadows where the moonlight sifted and thought to herself that he was a great man. He was the greatest man she knew. She remembered how he had looked when he was telling Doris the way to heaven, till it almost seemed that she standing by could see the gate swing wide to let her friend come in. She remembered his voice when he had prayed, and she gave a great shudder of a sob and turned away. Here was a man worthy of all friendship that any girl could give. A man she would rejoice to claim as near and dear, but she knew in her heart that she was unworthy, and the matter of the pearls swung down like a locked gateway between herself and him. If he ever knew what she had done, he would want no further friendship with her. Then with a doubly heavy heart she turned and went up to her desolated room. When she had gathered up Doris’s things and put them out of sight, she flung herself facedown upon her bed and wept her heart out on her pillow.

She was so terribly conscious of that other bed across the room, empty tonight. Conscious of her last conversation with Doris. She had said some bitter, scornful things about Casper Coulter. Perhaps if she had been more loving, less sarcastic, she might have won her to stay away from him. Oh, the bitterness of regrets!

If she could only go back a few hours! Perhaps she might have kept her at home from that fateful ride! She had been so occupied with her thesis and her other activities that Doris had been much to herself. Perhaps it was all her fault that Doris had kept up her friendship with Casper.

So, like a penitent, she lacerated her soul with such thoughts.

A member of her class tapped lightly on the door and begged that Constance would come over and sleep with her that night. But Constance thanked her and refused. She said she wanted to be alone.

So over and over the deathbed scene she went, rehearsing every hour of that awful waiting time till Seagrave arrived, feeling again her own sorrow and despair for her friend, feeling again the thrill of his arrival so much sooner than she had hoped he could come! And then hanging on every word he had spoken, the steady, tender voice calming the fear of Doris lying there dying—Doris
dying
—Doris dead now! A long shudder would pass over her body as she remembered. Then those quiet answers to Doris’s frightened questions, and at the last her eager acceptance of the offer of salvation, the smile on her lips as she had given them farewell and slipped away!

In a great tide of awe Constance lay hour after hour, going over and over again the whole dreadful afternoon, till finally Seagrave had taken her away into the moonlight and comforted her. Yes, though she was greatly afraid, he had somehow managed a touch of comfort. And his hand upon her head at the last! How like the God he had pictured, he seemed. Christlike! Wasn’t that what people called it? Ah! If she could have a friend like that always with her!

And at last she drifted into an uneasy sleep, dreaming that Seagrave’s hand was upon her head and he was praying for her—for her!

T
he days that followed were hard, terrible days.

Constance had told Seagrave that the college would attend to everything, but when she was awakened early in the morning to give information that the college did not possess accurately, she found that the college could not attend to everything.

The telegrams that had been sent soon after the accident brought no response, and a follow-up showed that the telegrams had not been delivered because the family was not at home and the house was closed.

It was Constance who had to rack her memory to finally discover that Doris’s family was on a motor trip. It was Constance who had to open the letters that came in for Doris that morning and at last trace her family’s probable whereabouts.

In the absence of any family or close friends, it was Constance who had to settle all trying questions, to make decisions, and finally when the stricken family had been reached, it was Constance who was asked by the dean to write other telegrams and make final arrangements.

Meantime all around her swirled the preparations for commencement, muted somewhat it is true because of the sad death of one of the senior class, but still inexorably going on. And because she was so inextricably mixed up in the many plans for plays and dances and class and sorority doings, there were many more demands upon her time and thought. There was constantly someone tiptoeing to her door and tapping apologetically.

“Connie, I’m so sorry to bother you today, I know you’re worn out, but this was something quite important, and no one else seems to know a thing about it. Do you happen to know what was finally decided about the order of the procession? And can you tell us where to find Lola’s costume? Wasn’t it to come from somewhere in New York? They said you had ordered it.” Or, “Connie, would you mind consulting with us a minute or two about who should take Doris’s place in the class play?”

It was all so terrible and so exhausting.

And then suddenly everything was interrupted just a brief solemn hour for a sad, pompous service in the chapel, with Doris lying there in her lovely graduating dress amid those banks of expensive, oppressive, gorgeous flowers, with still that lovely smile upon her lips, the smile with which she had said to God, “I do believe! Please forgive me and take me Home.” The smile with which she had said, “Now I can go! Good-bye!”

Constance sat there with folded hands and downcast eyes and listened to the stately requiems, the meaningless words of the distinguished speaker who had been asked to assist the presiding clergyman, and thought of Seagrave’s tender announcement: “She is at Home with Christ!”

The clergyman read the story of Dorcas’s dying and being brought back to life again, and commented as his concluding words, “We also wish that this our friend could live again and be among us, and she will live again in the good and kindly deeds which she has left behind her. She will live brightly on through the years in the memories of those who loved her.”