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The Lesson That Constance Learned

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 9, 1913

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 90, No. 41.

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The Lesson That Constance Learned

By Susan Hubbard Martin

CONSTANCE saw her sitting at a table immediately adjoining theirs. They had gone into Baxter’s for a cup of hot chocolate—she and Marion.
“Do look at that dowdy little woman in that funny bonnet,” she said in a low voice to Marion. “She looks old-fashioned enough to be one’s great-grandmother.”
“Hush!” replied Marion, warningly. “She will hear you, Constance. I believe she has.”
The plain little woman so near them raised her eyes, then dropped them; she had heard.
With a shrug of her shoulders, Constance turned to Marion. “What if she did hear? People have no business to go about looking so out of date. Of course she would hear remarks.”
And then Constance plunged into a full tide of small talk, all about Betty’s new diamond ring her father had just given her, Maude’s coat which had come from New York, and the astonishing fact that Julia Roger’s clothes were all given to her by a rich aunt who lived abroad.
They finished their chocolate and went out, and no one saw the wistful look the little woman in the plain bonnet gave them. They could not have understood it had they seen it, these two young girls just blossoming into womanhood. To them life with its stern realities and hard lessons was as yet only a lovely place peopled with delightful things. The real work of the world had as yet never been reckoned by them.
Marion was over at Constance’s that evening. It was just after dinner, and the two girls were preparing for a whole delightful evening together. All at once the telephone rang. When Constance returned from answering it, her face wore an annoyed look.
“It was only Aunt Penelope,” she said. “She wants you and me to go with her to church tonight, to hear a Miss Foote, from China. I don’t care to hear ‘Miss Foote, from China,’ do you?”
“No,” replied Marion slowly, “though I know we should be interested in what our missionaries are doing; and your Aunt Penelope is always so nice to us, we ought to go, if only to please her.”
“I suppose we’ll have to,” assented Constance unwillingly. “She’ll stop for us.”
The church was filling rapidly when they reached it, and Aunt Penelope ushered them into a seat where she could hear well.
There were gay little flags all about, palms graced the platform, and in full view was a tall vase full of lovely carnations.
An immense card bearing the words, “I have opened the door. I leave it to you that no one closes it after me,” and signed “Livingstone,” faced the audience.
“I didn’t know they went to all this trouble just for a missionary, did you?” whispered Constance.
Marion smiled. “I’ve heard that Miss Foote is a wonderful speaker,” she answered. “And everybody isn’t like us, Constance; some people are not only interested, but work for them with all their might.”
And then, after the singing of the hymn, some one came to the platform and introduced the speaker for the evening—“Miss Catherine Foote, lately from China.”
There was a hand-clapping. Constance and Marion stared. Then a slow flush rose to Constance’s cheek, for it was no other than the same little woman who had sat so near them at Baxter’s, and whom she had termed in no uncertain language both “dowdy” and “old-fashioned.” And she had heard what she had said!
The girls settled back into their seats after one look at each other, and then from the lips of that little, plain woman Constance had so rudely criticized there issued such a flood of eloquence that even the two thoughtless girls were electrified by it.
She told of China as it was with its little mud huts, its degradation, and its misery. She told of the lack of good American dollars that the people at home had but would not give. Of the sacrifices and self-denials she had made she did not speak. But Constance, looking at her with awakened eyes, knew why she chose to wear plain clothes. And she had called her “dowdy,” this noble woman with the pure eyes and the compelling voice! O, the power that lay in that slight frame, the wonderful, God-given power that could sweep an audience off its feet, moving them both to laughter and to tears! In her humility, Constance felt as if never, never would she criticize any one again; she would not dare to do it. She did not say another word, but when that address was over, she turned to Aunt Penelope. “I’d like to speak to her for just a moment; may I?” she whispered, and Aunt Penelope nodded, well pleased.
There happened to be no one standing very near her when Constance arrived at the platform, and she went straight to her. The little missionary looked at the tall, graceful girl with the flushed cheeks.
“I came to beg your pardon,” said Constance humbly.
The little missionary remembered. “For what you said about me in Baxter’s? You need not. I never was an adept in the art of dressing. Do you know, all the time I sat there I was looking at you, and thinking what a lovely thing youth is—so full of possibilities. My dear child, all things are yours.”
Constance looked at her. “You mean, all things are yours,” she cried. “O, tell me you forgive me for daring to speak so lightly of you!”
“My child, yes; you are forgiven already. Doubtless I am dowdy, but I have been busy with so many things it had not occurred to me. And do you know that I am one of the few in this big world that all the fine feathers one could deck them with could not make beautiful? I’m just modest ‘Jenny Wren,’ a plain little woman, my dear, with no beauty of features whatever. I used to grieve about it, until God showed me differently. Now it ceases to trouble me. My panacea lies in the saving of souls.”
She smiled, and Constance, catching the sweetness of it, bent suddenly and kissed her cheek.
“You’re beautiful to me now,” she said in a moved voice. “I know I’m young, and ignorant, too, as to the work you are doing, but I feel and recognize the nobleness of it, and I’m going to be interested too; and—”
“Yes,” said the little missionary.
“I want to be your friend, may I? Not that you need me, but I need you. Please, let me.”
There were quick tears in the little missionary’s eyes as she answered: “You dear child, yes. I need friends, too.”
And then from that moment began one of the most beautiful friendships of Constance’s young life, a friendship which was never afterward broken, and which opened to her new vistas of what life meant lived as the little missionary had lived it. And from it she gleaned her greatest lesson. —Susan Hubbard Martin, in Pittsburgh Christian Advocate.