It seemed as if the wedding was Tennelly's
funeral.
But Tennelly had driven up to the seminary on three successive weeks and
begged that Courtland would stand by him.
"You're the only one in the wide world who knows all about it, and
understands, Court," he pleaded, and Courtland, looking at his friend's
wistful face, feeling, as he did, that Tennelly was entering a living
purgatory, could not refuse him.
It did not please Gila to have him take that place in the wedding party.
He knew her shame, and she could not trail her wedding robes as
guilelessly before him now, nor lift her imperious little head, with its
crown of costly blossoms, before the envious world, without realizing
that she was but a whited sepulcher, her little rotten heart all death
beneath the spotless robes. For she was keen enough to know that she was
defiled forever in Courtland's eyes. She might fool Tennelly by pleading
innocence and deceit, but never Courtland. For his eyes had pried into
her very soul that night he had discovered her in sin. She had a feeling
that he and his God were in league against her. No, Gila did not want
Courtland to be Tennelly's best man. But Tennelly had insisted. He had
given in about almost every other thing under heaven, and Gila had had
her way, but he would have Courtland for best man.
She drooped her long lashes over her lovely cheeks, and trailed her
white robes up a long aisle of white lilies to the steps of the altar;
but when she lifted her miserable eyes in front of the altar she could
not help seeing the face of the man who had discovered her shame.
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