So for the next two days Doris began giving anecdotes and incidents concerning the Thurlows, the Phelpses, and the Waynes whenever Constance was in the room.
“What’s the idea?” asked Constance at last. “Are you afraid I’m going to back out, or are you aiming to make a permanent connection, a sort of quartet to bring about some of your own dates? Because I warn you that however nice this Thurlow person proves to be, I’m done when this dance is over. He may be an angel in disguise, but anybody who makes it easy for you and that Coulter boy to get together again would be my enemy. Because truly, Doris, Casper Coulter isn’t good enough for you, and that’s the truth. I do hate to see you running around with him, and I’d take twice as much interest in this dance and this unknown knight you’re bringing on for me if you’d just promise me that after Saturday night you’re done with Casper.”
“For heaven’s sake, Con, what’s gotten into you? I do believe there must be more in that church gesture of yours than you’re willing to own. I never saw you so particular before. What’s the matter with Casper? Just because he took a little too much liquor once and went with a girl you didn’t like. All men do things they grow out of. Besides, when a young man gets married he generally settles down. If he doesn’t, one can always get a divorce nowadays.”
“Doris!” Constance swung around toward her. “You’re not going to marry him, are you? And to marry anyone that way, talking about getting a divorce! You’ve never talked that way before! I’m sure your people are not that kind of people!”
“Oh, you and your kinds of people! What’s wrong with divorce, I’d like to know? Everybody’s doing it nowadays,” said Doris angrily. “But I didn’t say I was going to marry him, did I? But all the same you’re changed. I don’t know what it is, but you’re twice as finicky as you were before you went home this last time. If it’s religion I hope I don’t catch it. For goodness’ sake cut it out! After Saturday night you’ll understand that I’m really doing you a favor introducing you to such a talented man as Thurlow Wayne.”
“Thurlow Phelps Wayne, dearie. Don’t forget the Phelps. Is it hyphenated? Shall I have to call him Mr. Phelps-Wayne?” Constance’s tone was amused but there was a note of anxiety behind it. She really was worried about Doris, for she was becoming more and more absorbed in the young man whom Constance felt was utterly unworthy of her. She was still more worried when for answer Doris slammed out of the room angrily. It was not like Doris to lose her temper.
Nevertheless as they day of the dance approached, Constance’s mind turned toward the stranger with more than her usual distaste toward meeting someone against whom she was already prejudiced. What would he be like? How would he look? Was it conceivable that she could possibly enjoy the society of a man who was a friend of Casper Coulter?
Constance had by this time pretty well exorcised the memory of Seagrave, his blue flowers and strange conversation. She only thought of them occasionally, as one looks back to a book read or a picture seen which left a strong impression. Only, now and then, when she leaned forward to look out of her window and glanced down at the shrubs growing luxuriantly there, she had quick consciousness of the little dead flowers she had thrown there, as if it were a grave below her, hiding something that had once been dear.
But Friday night she had a sharp, vivid dream of Seagrave—dreamed she was telling him about the pearls, dreamed that his look had been even graver, sadder than she had feared, dreamed that her burden was even heavier than before—and woke up with a sharp memory of the sorrow in his face.
His look lingered with her through the day, though outwardly she was for the most part her cheerful, crisp self, utterly sure of her own position in life, utterly strong and breezy and hard and bright. But in her heart a war was being waged.
Somehow the renewed picture of Seagrave had strengthened her dislike toward meeting Thurlow Wayne and going to that dance with him. The dance itself meant nothing to her. She had danced all her life. She was not especially interested in going, even without him, but as the day waned and the time for meeting her escort arrived, she developed such a strong dislike toward going that she half contemplated going to bed and pretending to be sick. Only somehow she could not quite bring herself to play such a trick on Doris of whom she was really very fond, and who was obviously so full of delightful anticipation that she could hardly contain herself.
So Constance arrayed herself in garments calculated to be the most impressive. Severe black satin and her string of pearls. She hesitated a long time about the pearls. Somehow she shrank from the pearls because of the memories they brought up, which still were accompanied by a keen feeling of humiliation. Then suddenly she realized that if she were ever to get over that nonsense, now was the time to do it, so she quickly clasped them around her neck and turned away from the mirror. She had not worn them since Easter Day, and somehow she did not want to remember that now. This kind of thing, this dance, was what she had wanted the pearls for in the first place. Of course she would wear them. They would help her to be impressive. And it just might happen that Doris would need something impressive to keep her from doing something foolish.
So she went hastily out of the room and down the hall, trying not to see Seagrave’s face every time she closed her eyes, trying to forget the heavenly look on Grandmother’s face when she had kissed her and clasped the pearls around her neck. Trying most of all to forget that every time she saw or thought of the pearls she felt ashamed of herself. She half wished that the precious things were back in Grandmother’s treasure chest waiting till a time when someone, not herself perhaps ever, could claim them legitimately.
Doris met her at the head of the stairs, cheery in a rose-colored frock of tulle, looking like a lovely rose, her eyes starry with joy.
“Oh, you darling!” she exclaimed as she saw Constance. “I was just coming up to see if you were ready. You look just wonderful—though I did think you’d wear something bright. But perhaps this severe type will be best after all, and it surely makes the pearls stand out. You look just like a million dollars, Con! Come on! I’m dying to watch his face when he sees you. And yours, too, when you see him. He’s wearing that dark, scholarly, brooding look now, and the girls are green with jealousy that you’ve drawn him. He really is the best-looking thing!”
They were on their way downstairs, and it was just then she saw him standing by the door in the lower hall looking up, watching for her coming.
She knew him at once even though she had never seen him before. Knew him even before she noticed Casper standing by his side. She recognized the dark, brooding look, the glitter of the handsome black eyes that yet had such a look of sharp worldly wisdom; knew him by the cocksure lift of his chin, the attitude of having come to confer honor, and to appraise. A wave of anger, of resentment swept her, even while she felt herself fascinated by his dark sophistication. Well, it was only for tonight, and she would show him!
So she lifted her patrician chin haughtily and went on downstairs, aware of his approval, his admiration. Yes—she would show him!
Chapter 6
Like a young queen, she bore herself through the introduction, giving Coulter a mere nod of recognition and wearing a cool aloofness toward the stranger.
But a strange thing happened. When she lifted her eyes to meet his own flattering gaze, there were two faces there before her, just as distinctly as if they had been there in reality. One, the dark-eyed escort boring deep into her personality with his too-intimate gaze, the other, Seagrave with his steady, earnest eyes and sorrowful gaze piercing her soul. Oh, this was outrageous! Seagrave had no right to look at her that way even in a memory. She must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. How ridiculous!
She passed her hand over her eyes to dispel the vision, but there it was again, pale like a mist, but the eyes searched hers.
Wayne was throwing her white cloak around her shoulders now, with a light touch on her bare shoulder and a deep look into her eyes. This was a man of the world, inde
ed, and her intuition taught her he was not her kind. Ordinarily she would have drawn back and resented his forwardness, but those other eyes upon her confused her, angered her. How did Seagrave’s eyes dare look at her like that? She impulsively resolved to fling herself under this other influence and see if she could not drive Seagrave’s haunting eyes away.
Suddenly she was finding that this man, Thurlow Wayne, if she allowed herself to meet his gaze, to yield to his challenge, stirred her more deeply than any man had ever done before. He almost frightened her with the intensity of his gaze, while yet she resented it. It was as Doris had said. There was a strange fascination about the man, which yet in spite of her resolve to yield to him for the evening, repelled her innermost feelings.
Presently they were dancing together, and he held her intimately, closer than she usually allowed, and yet she seemed to have no power to withdraw herself. His handclasp was presuming, she knew, and while she did not exactly return it, she seemed to have given up the right to resent it. There was a strange intoxication in his gaze that was unlike anything she had ever experienced before, and she had a distinct realization that it was not good, that there was nothing high and fine about it, that it appealed directly to her lower nature, to the things of the flesh.
Constance had not been unaware of the things of the flesh all her life, but she had not been tempted by them. So far they had never appealed to her. Her cool soul had not been interested in them. But this man was different. He made wickedness suddenly brilliant, alluring, excusable, more to be desired than anything in life.
And yet what nonsense was this she was thinking? He had done no wickedness—merely flattered her by a gaze that spoke volumes, merely made his touch more vital, more mysteriously interesting than other men she knew. Was it necessarily wrong, ungentlemanly, lacking in respect for her because he showed his deep interest in her at once and seemed to want her to understand that there was a mystical bond between them?
That was absurd! Why was she so excited over meeting just another stranger? Why should she think of such things? Oh, she knew! It was those other eyes, those steady, grave ones looking at her now from across the room, now from close by, and always that deep sadness in them. It was just her consciousness of that other man, a man just as much a stranger as this one, that made her so uncomfortable, so unable to enter lightly into the frivolity of the evening. Never before had she been troubled by thoughts like this. And yet she felt herself yielding to the spell this dark man put upon her, as they glided around the floor in such perfect harmony. Ah! This was ecstasy! Why should one ever be sad?
Something that had always been conscience to her struggled within her, tried to cry out a warning, yet a power greater than her own seemed to be carrying her away beyond its call.
He drew her outside on the wide balcony, where a great moon was rising, touching with silver the budding spring world, and a silver mist was shimmering down just made for such a time and place. He put a possessive arm around her, drawing her, against her own volition, close to him, and her heart stood still within her, waiting, afraid yet fascinated, her usual poise all gone. He bent his handsome head with the moonlight shimmering on his shining black hair; he brought his face down till his hot breath touched her cheek, and his sensuous lips were almost to hers, and she seemed helpless to prevent them. Till suddenly she lifted frightened eyes, and there above her she saw the calm, stern eyes of Seagrave, but he was very far away and vanishing into silver mist, and the look in his eyes cut to her soul as nothing had ever done. And then she knew in a flash that she was doing this of herself. That she had willed to yield to this thing, this way of the world that she had always despised. This was not the sacred thing called love. This man did not know her nor she him. He had shown her no respect, only flattery, only a desire to touch her skin and dominate her spirit. This thing that held her in its clutches now was really of the underworld. She had no love for this man.
Even now within his embrace, she caught a gleam in his dark eyes that frightened her as she had never been frightened before; and yet had it not been for those other eyes watching her sadly from afar, she would have had no power against this mighty avalanche that seemed to be about to overwhelm her.
Suddenly, with a cry, she started back and pushed him from her with all her might, struck out at him as he started back, astonished, and evading him, slid from his grasp and darted back into the dancing hall again, weaving her way swiftly among the dancers over to the opposite door and out into the night again across the campus to her dormitory.
She had no thought of consequences. She was angry beyond any indignation that had ever come to her before, angry and frightened and utterly humiliated. Out in the coolness of the moonlit campus, it seemed impossible that she had ever allowed herself to be put into such a situation. She had always despised petting, but she had thought it merely silly, beneath the dignity of a well-brought-up girl. But now she knew it was not just silly. It was playing with fire. A fire that could blast one’s better feelings and leave a scar forever where it had touched, even but lightly.
She was amazed at herself and ashamed of herself that she had so easily been drawn into a situation where a thing like this had been possible. She had thought herself so far above such things, and now she found to her shame that she was just like every other silly girl led around by feelings!
Blindly she tore across the campus in her little satin dancing pumps, minding not that spring was oozing from the spongy turf, wetting her feet and menacing the delicate heels.
Halfway to the dormitory she passed two of the chambermaids idling along in the moonlight and realized that her mad race would arouse their curiosity. When she halted and looked back, she saw they had already paused to turn their heads and stare.
Then she summoned breath to call, “Maggie, would you mind going over to the dressing room and asking Bella to look after my cloak? I didn’t feel well and ran out in a hurry.”
“Oh, sure, Miss Courtland, I’ll do that right away. Is there anything else I could do for you?”
“Thank you, Maggie. Why, if you would just ask Bella to send word to Doris, my roommate, you know, that I’ve gone to bed. Don’t let her think she must come back to the room. I don’t need anybody. I just need to get to sleep.”
Constance hurried up to her room and locked her door. Her heart was beating wildly and her face was burning. She flung herself headlong upon her bed as she used to do when she was a very little child and broke into hushed sobs, the tears stinging their unaccustomed way to her eyes and pouring out in a flood. Constance had never been a crying girl. When she was grieved she usually hardened and grew sarcastic rather than to vent her sorrow in tears. But now it was something deeper than grief. It was utter humiliation. She felt as if she were groveling in the dust. She had caught a glimpse of her own soul reflected in those gloating dark eyes of the brooding stranger and she loathed herself as well as him. It was not just anger that he had dared to try to kiss her without her permission. That was something that she had always been quite able to control. She was accustomed to admiration. This was not the first time a man had tried to kiss her. But before she had always seen it coming and warded it off. This time it had come almost at her bidding. Just a little yielding of herself, the barriers thrown down, and she saw the evil thing coiled in her own self.
Startlingly it came to her how she had told Seagrave on the hillside that she was not a sinner and why should she need to be saved. It hadn’t even occurred to her that there were the makings of a sinner in one so well born and bred as herself. And now she saw that the thing that makes men and women fall into the depths of degradation, that very same thing in embryo had lain within her own heart and almost caused her to lose what she considered her self-respect.
It was of no use to tell herself that even if it had been consummated it would have been but a kiss, and what was a mere kiss? Constance was too honest with herself for that. She knew the power that had led her so far might easily have led farther s
omeday. She knew that if it had not been for that sad-eyed stranger in her memory she would have let that kiss be completed, might even have returned it. Not that a single kiss would be considered to mean so much today. It was what that kiss stood for that was so appalling to her. A letting down of her own standards.
It had been no power of herself that had kept her from it. There had been no victory of her own better self. Perhaps she had no better self. How terrible!
She felt that she had been rescued, snatched from something she would all her life have loathed to remember. Doubtless in her escort’s mind it had been merely one more kiss, merely one more girl. He probably made all girls feel they were the one and only. That dark, brooding look, that tender pressure that hinted at deep, splendid passion. How her whole body revolted at the thought that he had held her close even if only for an instant. How her cheek still burned with the memory of his hot breath.
The glitter of his eyes in the moonlight, how it had charmed her like the eyes of a serpent. And to think that nothing in her calm, poised self had been able to resist! She had been no better than the lowest girl upon the street whom she had always despised and spoken of with contempt. Well, she knew herself now for a sinner! Capable of yielding to any sin that reached her in the right subtle way.
Oh, she had always been so proud that she was able to take care of herself! She had boasted of it! And here she had been able to do nothing. It had just been Seagrave who had rescued her.
He had said he would pray for her. That morning standing by her father’s gate, he had told her he would pray for her. Perhaps he had been praying now, kneeling by his bedside somewhere in the stillness and darkness breathing a prayer for her!
MATCHED PEARLS Page 6