MATCHED PEARLS (31 page)

“Ah!” said Seagrave with his eyes alight. “But don’t you know what that pearl is and what the story means? That pearl is the Church, the precious bride of Christ, the Church for which He gave His life. It is a beautiful story when one understands it all. But speaking of pearls, you know how they are formed, don’t you?”

“In oysters,” said Constance, wondering.

“Yes, but they are made by wounds. An injury done to the animal itself is what makes it, a grain of sand, perhaps, that gets inside the shell and presses against the soft body of the animal. And then the mother of pearl, or nacre as it is called, which is really the lining of the shell, is deposited layer upon layer about the grain of sand till a pearl is formed. The pearl is thus, as someone has said, an answer to an injury. The offending object itself becomes, through the work of the injured one, a precious and beauteous gem. It is a picture of God’s divine grace. And pearls are of different degrees of value and beauty, dependent not upon the grain of sand that gets into the oyster but upon the number of layers of nacre that are wrapped about it. This answers to the greatness of the grace that God has bestowed upon us.”

“How wonderful!” said Constance softly, her eyes alight as she watched his face.

“And it is not the things that you have done,” went on Seagrave, “the depth of your own sinfulness, the measure of your own unworthiness, that makes you fit or unfit for belonging to the Church of Christ, His heavenly bride. It is the beauty and glory of Him we crucified by our sin that is put upon us as a robe to clothe us. It is not any righteousness that we could have that would make us fit for such a wondrous calling. It is Christ’s righteousness, put upon us and enfolding us, that makes us a church and a worthy bride for Him, and made of it a pearl to adorn His glory.”

Constance’s eyes were upon him, her mind drinking in all that he said. “How marvelous you make it!” she exclaimed. “And you think He could take me and make me fit to belong to His wonderful Church?”

“He certainly can!” he answered in a ringing voice. “Have you accepted Him for your Savior?”

“Yes,” said Constance softly, her lashes drooping over her cheeks shyly. “Tonight, while you were praying!”

“Thank God!” he said, earnestly, his hand coming out and enfolding hers once more with a strong, thrilling pressure. “This is what I have been praying for since that morning on the hillside.”

“I hoped you were,” she said trying to keep her lips from quivering. “You promised to, you know, after Doris died. And”—she hesitated shyly and went on haltingly—“and you are not ashamed to have such an unworthy one as I am for a friend?”

“Ashamed?” asked Seagrave wonderingly. “Who am I to be ashamed of you? Don’t you know I am just another sinner who has been saved by His glorious grace? And you say you have accepted that offer of grace yourself? He has become your Savior, too. Then you, too, are justified by the blood of Christ which was shed to cleanse your sin, and you are covered by the righteousness of Christ Himself. You are now a member of His precious Church, His pearl of great price. You are no longer unworthy.”

“That seems too beautiful to be true,” said Constance thoughtfully.

“But it is gloriously true nevertheless. We both belong to the wonderful body of Christ!”

“I cannot get used to it!” said Constance wonderingly. “It does not seem possible that such a thing can be. Oh, you don’t know how I have suffered! I was afraid to tell you what I had done because I couldn’t bear to lose this wonderful friendship with you. And yet I had to. God wouldn’t let me keep it to myself any longer. I had to tell you, even though I was sure I would lose your friendship.”

“Friendship!” exclaimed Seagrave, giving her a mysterious look. “
Friendship!
“

Then suddenly the train came to a halt and the brakeman drowned out any other words that might have been spoken by calling out their station.

They got to their feet in a hurry, amazed that they had reached home so quickly, and he helped her out as if she were the most precious thing on earth.

There seemed to be no taxi at the station, or perhaps some more alert traveler had seized the only one, but those two did not mind. It was not far, and the pathway seemed all paved in silver moonlight as they started.

Seagrave drew her arm within his own and gathered her hand in a close grasp.

“Now,” said he. “You precious little girl, it is high time you understood me. Even if you may think it is too early in our acquaintance, I’ve got to tell you.
Friendship!
Darling, don’t you know I’ve loved you from the minute I saw you? Don’t you know my heart has been crying out to God for you day and night ever since that Easter Sunday morning when I saw you in that little white dress with the pearls, standing among the lilies around God’s table?”

“But,” said Constance tremblingly, “your little book says, ‘Come ye out and be separate!’ and I was afraid, terribly afraid that when you knew what I was—”

“Dear heart! I know! But I left all that with Him. I knew He would save you or give me the strength to go alone. But oh, I’ve prayed! Darling, I’ve prayed! But—you say you were afraid? Did you then care a little, too?”

They had been coming slowly up the walk to her father’s home, and now they stopped in the shade of the great lilac bushes that arched the way.

“Care?” said Constance. “
Care?
I’ve cared so much that I’ve drenched my pillow with tears night after night. I’ve cared so violently that I made a fool of myself trying to make myself forget you because I was sure you could never care for one like me. Care? Oh yes, I’ve cared ever since that first morning on the hillside with the little blue flowers.”

His arms were about her now, her face buried in the clear roughness of his coat. But he lifted her face and laid his lips on hers.

“My darling, my precious beloved! Tell me you love me,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you! Oh, I do love you!” she murmured softly, lifting her glad, sweet face to his.

And there in the shadow of the lilacs, just at the foot of the steps of the big colonial mansion, with moonlight splashing all around wherever a lilac leaf would let one moonbeam through, they stood and pledged their love. Then Seagrave laid his lips reverently upon hers again.

“Friendship!” He laughed softly. “Friendship, I’ll say! Oh, my beloved!”

It was just at that critical instant that the front door of the house, three steps above where they stood, opened slowly, noiselessly, and swung back, revealing in the dim light of the hall chandelier the brother of the bride-to-be, clad in a violently striped bathrobe of magenta and buff, his feet below the green and purple of his pajama legs thrust into Pullman slippers, his hair sticking seven ways for Sunday, and his eyes blinking with sleep.

For a full minute he stood there silently blinking till they became suddenly aware of his presence, and then he remarked carelessly, “Oh
yeah
?”

Constance turned with quickly crimsoning cheeks.

“Oh, Frank, you wretch! I might have expected as much! Graham, this is my pest of a brother. I hope you’ll excuse his intrusion. Frank, this is—we are—!”

“I quite understand,” said Frank, bending low in an elaborate bow. “It is all too evident, Sister! But I’m glad to be the first of the family to welcome—that is—”

He paused with a grin.

“What I was going to remark is I couldn’t have picked a better brother-in-law, kid, not if I’d gone around the earth to choose. He’s all right, and I’m with ya, kid! Come on in! There’s a whole chocolate cake in the cake box and plenty of ginger ale on the ice. Come on in and let’s celebrate.”

G
RACE
L
IVINGSTON
H
ILL
(1865–1947) is known as the pioneer of Christian romance. Grace wrote over one hundred faith-inspired books during her lifetime. When her first husband died, leaving her with two daughters to raise, writing became a way to make a living, but she always recognized storytelling as a way to share her faith in God. She has touched countless lives through the years and continues to touch lives today. Her books feature moving stories, delightful characters, and love in its purest form.