The Following of the Star: A Romance
by Florence L. Barclay · English · Gutenberg #40640 · 495,219 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Following of the Star: A Romance
Author: Florence L. Barclay
Illustrator: F. H. Townsend
Release date: September 1, 2012 [eBook #40640]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR: A ROMANCE ***
[Illustration]
[Illustration: DAVID IN AFRICA]
THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR
_A ROMANCE_
BY
FLORENCE L. BARCLAY
AUTHOR OF
THE ROSARY, THE MISTRESS OF
SHENSTONE, ETC.
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1911
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
17th Printing
BY FLORENCE L. BARCLAY
The Rosary
The Mistress of Shenstone
Through the Postern Gate
The Upas Tree
The Following of the Star
The Broken Halo
The Wall of Partition
My Heart's Right There
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P.
PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
* * * * *
To
MY SON
IN THE MINISTRY
C. C. B.
CONTENTS
_GOLD_
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE STILL WATERS OF BRAMBLEDENE 3
II. THE LADY OF MYSTERY 20
III. DAVID STIRS THE STILL WATERS 31
IV. DIANA RIVERS, OF RIVERSCOURT 46
V. THE NOISELESS NAPIER 58
VI. DAVID MAKES FRIENDS WITH "CHAPPIE" 69
VII. THE TOUCH OF POWER 81
VIII. THE TEST OF THE TRUE HERALD 91
IX. UNCLE FALCON'S WILL 95
X. DIANA'S HIGH FENCE 129
XI. THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 145
XII. SUSPENSE 164
XIII. DAVID'S DECISION 174
XIV. THE EVE OF EPIPHANY 190
XV. THE CODICIL 198
XVI. IN OLD SAINT BOTOLPH'S 211
XVII. DIANA'S READJUSTMENT 222
XVIII. DAVID'S NUNC DIMITTIS 229
XIX. DAVID STUDIES THE SCENERY 239
XX. WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE COMPANY 252
XXI. "ALL ASHORE!" 260
XXII. DIANA WINS 266
XXIII. UNCLE FALCON WINS 275
_FRANKINCENSE_
XXIV. THE HIDDEN LEAVEN 289
XXV. THE PROPERTY OF THE CROWN 296
XXVI. A PILGRIMAGE 309
XXVII. A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE 327
XXVIII. DAVID'S PRONOUNCEMENT 342
XXIX. WHAT DAVID WONDERED 348
XXX. RESURGAM 356
XXXI. "I CAN STAND ALONE" 367
XXXII. THE BLOW FALLS 371
XXXIII. REQUIESCAT IN PACE 376
_MYRRH_
XXXIV. IN THE HOSPITAL OF THE HOLY STAR 385
XXXV. THE LETTER COMES 398
XXXVI. DIANA LEARNS THE TRUTH 404
XXXVII. "GOOD-NIGHT, DAVID" 413
XXXVIII. THE BUNDLE OF MYRRH 420
XXXIX. HOME, BY ANOTHER WAY 424
GOLD
CHAPTER I
THE STILL WATERS OF BRAMBLEDENE
David Rivers closed his Bible suddenly, slipped it into the inner pocket
of his coat, and, leaning back in his armchair, relaxed the tension at
which he had been sitting while he mentally put his thoughts into terse
and forcible phraseology.
His evening sermon was ready. The final sentence had silently thrilled
into the quiet study, in the very words in which it would presently
resound through the half-empty little village church; and David felt as
did the young David of old, when he had paused at the brook and chosen
five smooth stones for his sling, on his way to meet the mighty champion
of the Philistines. David now felt ready to go forward and fight the
Goliath of apathy and inattention; the life-long habit of not listening
to the voice of the preacher, or giving any heed to the message he
brought.
The congregation, in this little Hampshire village church where, during
the last five weeks, David had acted as locum-tenens, consisted entirely
of well-to-do farmers and their families; of labourers, who lounged into
church from force of habit, or because, since the public-houses had been
closed by law during the hours of divine service, it was the only warmed
and lighted place to be found on a Sunday evening; of a few devout old
men and women, to whom weekly church-going, while on earth, appeared the
only possible preparation for an eternity of Sabbaths in the world to
come; and of a fair sprinkling of village lads and lassies, who took
more interest in themselves and in each other than in the divine worship
in which they were supposed to be taking part.
The two churchwardens, stout, florid, and well-to-do, occupied front
pews on either side of the centre; Mr. Churchwarden Jones, on the right;
Mr. Churchwarden Smith, on the left. Their official position lent them a
dignity which they enjoyed to the full, and which overflowed to _Mrs._
Jones and _Mrs._ Smith, seated in state beside them. When, on
"collection Sundays," the churchwardens advanced up the chancel together
during the final verse of the hymn, and handed the plates to the Rector,
their wives experienced a sensation of pride in them which "custom
could not stale." They were wont to describe at the Sunday midday dinner
or at supper, afterwards, the exact effect of this "procession" up the
church, an oft-told tale for which they could always be sure of at least
one interested auditor.
Mr. Churchwarden Jones bowed when he delivered the plate to the Rector.
Mr. Churchwarden Smith did not bow, but kept himself more erect than
usual; holding that anything in the nature of a bow, while in the House
of God, savoured of popery.
This provided the village with a fruitful subject for endless
discussion. The congregation was pretty equally divided. One half
approved the stately bow of Mr. Churchwarden Jones, and unconsciously
bowed themselves, while they disregarded their hymn-books and watched
him make it. The other half were for "Smith, and no popery," and also
sang of "mystic sweet communion, with those whose rest is won," without
giving any thought to the words, while occupied in gazing with approval
at Farmer Smith's broad back, and at the uncompromising stiffness of the
red neck, appearing above his starched Sunday collar.
Mrs. Smith secretly admired Mr. Jones's bow, and felt that her man was
missing his chances for a silly idea; but not for worlds would Mrs.
Smith have admitted this; no, not even to her especial crony, Miss Pike
the milliner, who had once been to Paris, and knew what was what.
The venerated Rector, father of his people, always bowed as he received
the plates from the two churchwardens. But then, that had nothing
whatever to do with the question, his _back_ being to the Table.
Besides, the Rector, who had christened, confirmed, married, and buried
them, during the last fifty years, could do no wrong. They would as soon
have thought of trying to understand his sermons, as of questioning his
soundness. "The Rector says," constituted a final judgment, from which
there was no appeal.
As he slowly and carefully mounted the pulpit stairs, one hand grasping
the rail, the other clasping a black silk sermon-case, the hearts of his
people went with him.
The hearts of his people were with him, as his silvery hair and benign
face appeared above the large red velvet cushion on the pulpit desk; and
the minds of his people were with him, until he had safely laid his
sermon upon the cushion, opened it, and gently flattened the manuscript
with both hands; then placed his pocket-handkerchief in the handy
receptacle specially intended to contain it, and a lozenge in a
prominent position on the desk. But, this well-known routine safely
accomplished, they sang a loud amen to the closing verse of "the hymn
before the sermon," and gave their minds a holiday, until, at the first
words of the ascription, they rose automatically with a loud and joyous
clatter to their feet, to emerge in a few moments into the fresh air and
sunshine.
A perplexing contretemps had once occurred. The Rector's gentle voice
had paused in its onward flow. It was not the usual lozenge-pause. Their
subconscious minds understood and expected that. But, as a matter of
fact, the Rector had, on this particular Sunday, required a second
lozenge towards the end of the sermon, and the sentence immediately
following this unexpected pause chanced to begin with the words: "And
now to enlarge further upon our seventh point." At the first three words
the whole congregation rose joyfully to their feet; then had to sit down
abashed, while the Rector hurriedly enlarged upon "our seventh point."
It was the only point which had as yet penetrated their intelligence.
In all subsequent sermons, the Rector carefully avoided, at the
beginning of his sentences, the words which had produced a general
rising. He would smile benignly to himself, in the seclusion of his
study, as he substituted, for fear of accidents, "Let us, my brethren,"
or "Therefore, belovèd."
It never struck the good man, content with his own scholarly presentment
of deep theological truths, that the accidental rising was an undoubted
evidence of non-attention on the part of his congregation. He continued
to mount the pulpit steps, as he had mounted them during the last fifty
years; attaining thereby an elevation from which he invariably preached
completely over the heads of his people.
In this they acquiesced without question. It was their obvious duty to
"sit under" a preacher, not to attempt to fathom his meaning; to sit
_through_ a sermon, not to endeavour to understand it. So they
slumbered, fidgeted, or thought of other things, according to their age
or inclination, until the ascription brought them to their feet, the
benediction bowed them to their knees, and the first strident blasts of
the organ sent them gaily trooping out of church and home to their
Sunday dinners, virtuous and content.
Into this atmosphere of pious apathy, strode David Rivers; back on
sick-leave from the wilds of Central Africa; aflame with zeal for his
Lord, certain of the inspiration of his message; accustomed to
congregations to whom every thought was news, and every word was life;
men, ready and eager to listen and to believe, and willing, when once
they had believed, to be buried alive, or tied to a stake, and burned by
slow fire, sooner than relinquish or deny the faith he had taught them.
But how came this young prophet of fire into the still waters of our
Hampshire village? The wilds of the desert, and the rapid rushings of
Jordan, are the only suitable setting for John the Baptists in all ages.
Nevertheless to Hampshire he came; and it happened thus.
Influenza, which is no respecter of persons, attacked the venerated
Rector.
In the first stress of need, neighbouring clergy came to the rescue. But
when six weeks of rest and change were ordered, as the only means of
insuring complete recovery, the Rector advertised for a locum-tenens,
offering terms which attracted David, just out of hospital, sailing for
Central Africa early in the New Year, and wondering how on earth he
should scrape together the funds needed for completing his outfit. He
applied immediately; and, within twenty-four hours, received a telegram
suggesting an interview, and asking him to spend the night at
Brambledene Rectory.
Here a curious friendship began, and was speedily cemented by mutual
attraction. The white-haired old man, overflowing with geniality,
punctilious in old-fashioned courtesy, reminded David Rivers of a
father, long dead and deeply mourned; while the young enthusiast, with
white, worn face, and deep-set shining eyes, struck a long-silent chord
in the heart of the easy-going old Rector, seeming to him an embodiment
of that which he himself might have been, had he chosen a harder,
rougher path, when standing at the cross-roads half a century before.
An ideal of his youth, long vanished, returned, and stood before him in
David Rivers. It was too late, now, to sigh after a departed ideal. But,
as a tribute to its memory, he doubled the remuneration he had offered,
left the keys in every bookcase in the library, and recommended David to
the most especial care of his faithful housekeeper, Sarah Dolman, with
instructions that, should the young man seem tired on Sunday evenings,
after the full day's work, the best old sherry might be produced and
offered.
And here let it be recorded, that David undoubtedly did look worn and
tired after the full day's work; but the best old sherry was declined
with thanks. The fact that your heart has remained among the wild tribes
of Central Africa has a way of making your body very abstemious, and
careless of all ordinary creature comforts.
Nevertheless, David enjoyed the Rector's large armchair, upholstered in
maroon leather, and delighted in the oak-panelled study, with its wealth
of valuable books and its atmosphere of scholarly calm and meditation.
* * * * *
This last Sunday of his ministry at Brambledene chanced to fall on
Christmas-eve. Also, for once, it was true Christmas weather.
As David walked to church that morning, every branch and twig, every ivy
leaf and holly berry, sparkled in the sunshine; the frosty lanes were
white and hard, and paved with countless glittering diamonds. An
indescribable exhilaration was in the air. Limbs felt light and supple;
movement was a pleasure. Church bells, near and far away, pealed
joyously. The Christmas spirit was already here.
"Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given," quoted David, as he
swung along the lanes. It was five years since he had had a Christmas
in England. Mentally he contrasted this keen frosty brightness, with
the mosquito-haunted swamps of the African jungle. This unaccustomed
sense of health and vigour brought, by force of contrast, a remembrance
of the deathly lassitude and weakness which accompany the malarial
fever. But, instantly true to the certainty of his high and holy
calling, his soul leapt up crying: "Unto _them_ a Child is born! Unto
_them_ a Son is given! And how shall they believe in Him of whom they
have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher?"
* * * * *
The little church, on that morning, was bright with holly and heavy with
evergreens. The united efforts of the Smith and the Jones families had,
during the week, made hundreds of yards of wreathing. On Saturday, all
available young men came to help; Miss Pike, whose taste was so
excellent, to advise; the school-mistress, a noisy person with more
energy than tact, to argue with Miss Pike, and to side with Smiths and
Joneses alternately, when any controversial point was under discussion.
So a gay party carried the long evergreen wreaths from the parish-room
to the church, where already were collected baskets of holly and ivy,
yards of scarlet flannel and white cotton-wool; an abundance of tin
tacks and hammers; and last, but not least, the Christmas scrolls and
banners, which were annually produced from their place of dusty
concealment behind the organ; and of which Mrs. Smith remarked, each
year, that they were "every bit as good as new, if you put 'em up in a
fresh place."
During the whole of Saturday afternoon and evening the decorative
process had been carried on with so much energy, that when David came
out from the vestry, on Sunday morning, he found himself in a scene
which was decidedly what the old women from the alms-houses called
"Christmassy."
His surplice rasped against the holly-leaves, as he made his way into
the reading-desk. The homely face of the old gilt clock, on the gallery
facing him, was wreathed in yew and holly, and the wreath had slipped
slightly on one side, giving the sober old clock an unwontedly rakish
appearance, which belied its steady and measured "tick-tick." Also into
the bottom of this wreath, beneath which the whole congregation had to
pass in and out, Tom Brigg, the doctor's son, a handsome fellow and
noted wag, had surreptitiously inserted a piece of mistletoe. This
prank of Tom's, known to all the younger members of the congregation,
caused so much nudging and whispering and amused glancing at the
inebrious-looking clock, that David produced his own watch, wondering if
there were any mistake in the hour.
His sermon, on this Sunday morning, had seemed to him a failure.
His text confronted him in letters of gold on crimson flock:
"Emmanuel--God with us"; but not a mind seemed with him as he gave it
out, read it twice, slowly and clearly, and then proceeded to explain
that this wonderful name, Emmanuel, was never intended to be the world's
name for Christ, nor even His people's name for Him. However, at this
statement, Mrs. Smith raised her eyebrows and began turning over the
leaves of her Bible.
Encouraged by this unusual sign of attention, David Rivers leaned over
the pulpit and tried to drive into one mind, at least, a thought which
had been a discovery to himself the evening before, and was beginning to
mean much to him, as every Spirit-given new light on a well-known theme
always must mean to the earnest Bible student.
"The name Emmanuel," he said, "so freely used in our church decorations
at this season, occurs three times only in the Bible; twice in the Old
Testament, once in the New; and the New merely quotes the more important
of the two passages in the Old.
"We can dismiss at once the allusion in Isaiah viii., 8, which merely
speaks of Palestine as 'Thy land, O Immanuel,' and confine our attention
to the great prophecy of Isaiah vii., 14, quoted in Matthew i., 23:
'Behold a Virgin shall bear a son, and shall call His name Immanuel.'
The Hebrew of this passage reads: 'Thou, O Virgin, shalt call His name
Immanuel'; and the Greek of Matthew i. bears the same meaning. I want
you to realise that this was His mother's name for the new-born King,
for the Babe of Bethlehem, for the little son in the village home at
Nazareth. His Presence there meant to that humble pondering heart:
'_God_ with us.'
"If you want to find _our_ name for Him," continued David, noting that
Mrs. Smith, ignoring his two references, still turned the pages of her
Bible, "look at the angel's message to Joseph in the 21st verse of
Matthew i.: 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His
people from their sins.' That name is mentioned nine hundred and six
times in the Bible. We cannot attempt to look them all out now,"--with
an appealing glance at Mrs. Smith's rustling pages--"but let us make
sure that we have appropriated to the full the gifts and blessings of
that name, 'which is above every name.' It was the watchword of the
early church. It is the secret of our peace and power. It will be our
password into heaven.
"But Emmanuel was His mother's name for Him. As she laid him in the
manger, round which the patient cattle snuffed in silent wonder at this
new use for the place where heretofore they munched their fodder, it was
'_God_ with us' in the stable.
"As, seated on the ass, she clasped the infant to her breast through the
long hours of that night ride into Egypt, she whispered: 'Emmanuel,
Emmanuel! God _with_ us, in our flight and peril.'
"In the carpenter's home at Nazareth, where, in the midst of the many
trials and vexations of a village life of poverty, He was ever patient,
gentle, understanding; subject to His parents, yet giving His mother
much cause for pondering, many things to treasure in her heart--often,
in adoring tenderness, she would whisper: 'Emmanuel, God with _us_.'"
David paused and looked earnestly down the church, longing for some
response to the thrill in his own soul.
"Ah," he said, slowly and impressively, "if only the boys in your
village could be _this_ to their mothers! If their loyal obedience,
their gentle, loving chivalry, their thoughtful tenderness, could make
it possible for their own mothers to say: 'I see the Christ-life in my
little boy. When he is at home, the love of God is here. Truly it is
Emmanuel, God with us.'"
* * * * *
"What did that young man mean," remarked Mrs. Smith at the dinner-table
at Appledore Farm, "by trying to take from us the name 'Emmanuel'? Seems
to me, if he stays here much longer we shall have no Bible left!"
Mr. Churchwarden Smith had been carving the Sunday beef for his numerous
family. He had only, that moment, fallen to, upon his own portion.
Otherwise Mrs. Smith would not have been allowed to complete her
sentence.
"I've no patience with these young chaps!" he burst out, as soon as
speech was possible. "Undermining the faith of their forefathers;
putting our good old English Bible into 'Ebrew and Greek, just to parade
their own learning, and confuse the minds of simple folk. 'Higher
criticism,' they call it! Jolly low-down impudence, say I!"
Mrs. Smith watchfully bided her time. Then: "And popish too," she added,
"to talk so much about the mother of our Lord."
"I don't think he mentioned _her_, my dear," said Mr. Churchwarden
Smith. "Pass the mustard, Johnny."
* * * * *
Yes, as he thought it over during his lonely luncheon, David felt more
and more convinced that his morning sermon had been a failure.
He did not know of a little curly-headed boy, whose young widowed mother
was at her wit's end as to how to control his wilfulness; but who ran
straight to his garret-room after service, and, kneeling beside his
frosty window, looked up to the wintry sky and said: "Please God, make
me a Manuel to my mother, like Jesus was to His, for Christ's sake,
Amen."
David did not know of this; nor that, ever after, that cottage home was
to be transformed, owing to the living power of his message.
So, down in the depths of discouragement, he dubbed his morning sermon a
failure.
Notwithstanding, he prepared the evening subject with equal care, a
spice of enjoyment added, owing to the fact that he would
possibly--probably--almost to a certainty--have in the evening
congregation a mind able to understand and appreciate each point; a mind
of a calibre equal to his own; a soul he was bent on winning.
As he closed his Bible, put it into his pocket, and relaxed over the
thought that his sermon was complete, he smiled into the glowing wood
fire, saying to himself, in glad anticipation: "My Lady of Mystery will
undoubtedly be there. Now I wonder if _she_ believes that there were
three Wise Men!"
CHAPTER II
THE LADY OF MYSTERY
David thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his short coat, well
cut, but inclined to be somewhat threadbare. He crossed his knees, and
lay back comfortably in the Rector's big chair. An hour and a half
remained before he need start out.
It was inexpressibly restful to have his subject, clear cut and
complete, safely stowed away in the back of his mind, and to be able to
sit quietly in this warmth and comfort, and let his thoughts dwell
lightly upon other things, while Christmas snow fell softly, in large
flakes, without; and gathering twilight slowly hushed the day to rest.
"Yes, undoubtedly my Lady of Mystery will be there," thought David
Rivers, "unless this fall of snow keeps her away."
He let his memory dwell in detail upon the first time he had seen her.
It happened on his second Sunday at Brambledene.
The deadening effect of the mental apathy of the congregation had
already somewhat damped his enthusiasm.
It was so many years since he had preached in English, that, on the
first Sunday, he had allowed himself the luxury of writing out his whole
sermon. This plan, for various reasons, did not prove successful.
Mrs. Churchwarden Jones and Mrs. Churchwarden Smith--good simple souls
both, if you found them in their dairies making butter, or
superintending the sturdy maids in the farm kitchens--seemed to consider
on Sundays that they magnified their husbands' office by the amount of
rustle and jingle they contrived to make with their own portly persons
during the church services. They kept it up, duet fashion, on either
side of the aisle. If Mrs. Jones rustled, Mrs. Smith promptly tinkled.
If Mrs. Smith rustled, Mrs. Jones straightway jingled. The first time
this happened in the sermon, David looked round, hesitated, lost his
place, and suffered agonies of mortification before he found it again.
Moreover he soon realised that, with his eyes on the manuscript, he had
absolutely no chance of holding the attention of his audience.
In the evening he tried notes, but this seemed to him neither one thing
nor the other. So on all subsequent Sundays he memorised his sermons as
he prepared them, and hardly realised himself how constantly, in their
delivery, there flowed from his subconsciousness a depth of thought,
clothed in eloquent and appropriate language, which had not as yet been
ground in the mill of his conscious mind.
On that second Sunday evening, David had entered the reading-desk
depressed and discouraged. In the morning he had fallen out with the
choir. It was a mixed choir. Large numbers of young Smiths and Joneses
sat on either side of the chancel and vied with one another as to which
family could outsing the other. This rivalry was resulting in a
specially loud and joyful noise in the closing verses of the Benedictus.
David, jarred in every nerve, and forgetting for the moment that he was
not dealing with his African aborigines, wheeled round in the desk, held
up his hand, and said: "Hush!" with the result that he had to declaim
the details of John the Baptist's mission, as a tenor solo; and that
the organist noisily turned over his music-books during the whole time
of the sermon, apparently in a prolonged search for a suitable
recessional voluntary.
Wishing himself back in his African forests, David began the service, in
a chastened voice, on that second Sunday evening.
During the singing of the first of the evening psalms the baize-covered
door, at the further end of the church, was pushed gently open; a tall
figure entered, alone; closed the door noiselessly behind her, and stood
for a moment, in hesitating uncertainty, beneath the gallery.
Then the old clerk and verger, Jabez Bones, bustled out of his seat, and
ushering her up the centre, showed her into a cushioned pew on the
pulpit side, rather more than half-way up the church.
The congregation awoke to palpable interest, at her advent. The choir
infused a tone of excitement into the chant, which, up to that moment,
had been woefully flat. Each pew she passed, in the wake of old Jabez,
thereafter contained a nudge or a whisper.
David's first impression of her, was of an embodiment of silence and
softness,--so silently she passed up the church and into the empty pew,
moving to the further corner, right against the stout whitewashed
pillar. No rustle, no tinkle, marked her progress; only a silent
fragrance of violets. And of softness--soft furs, soft velvet, soft
hair; and soft grey eyes, beneath the brim of a dark green velvet hat.
But his second impression was other than the first. She was looking at
him with an expression of amused scrutiny. Her eyes were keen and
penetrating; her lips were set in lines of critical independence of
judgment; the beautifully moulded chin was firm and white as marble
against the soft brown fur.
She regarded him steadily for some minutes. Then she looked away, and
David became aware, by means of that subconscious intuition, which
should be as a sixth sense to all ministers and preachers, that nothing
in the service reached her in the very least. Her mind was far away.
Whatever her object had been, in entering the little whitewashed church
of Brambledene on that Sunday night, it certainly was not worship.
But, when he began to preach, he arrested her attention. His opening
remark evidently appealed to her. She glanced up at him, quickly, a
gleam of amusement and interest in her clear eyes. And afterwards,
though she did not lift them again, and partly turned away, leaning
against the pillar, so that he could see only the clear-cut whiteness of
her perfect profile, he knew that she was listening.
From that hour, David's evening sermons were prepared with the more or
less conscious idea of reaching the soul of that calm immovable Lady of
Mystery.
She did not attract him as a woman. Her beauty meant nothing to him. He
had long ago faced the fact that his call to Central Africa must mean
celibacy. No man worthy of the name would, for his own comfort or
delight, allow a woman to share such dangers and privations as those
through which he had to pass. And, if five years of that climate had
undermined his own magnificent constitution and sent him home a wreck of
his former self, surely, had he taken out a wife, it would simply have
meant a lonely grave, left behind in the African jungle.
So David had faced it out that a missionary's life, in a place where
wife and children could not live, must mean celibacy; nor had he the
smallest intention of ever swerving from that decision. His devotion to
his work filled his heart. His people were his children.
Therefore no ordinary element of romance entered into his thoughts
concerning the beautiful woman who, on each Sunday evening, leaned
against the stone pillar, and showed by a slight flicker of the eyelids
or curve of the proud lips, that she heard and appreciated each point in
his sermon.
How far she agreed, he had no means of knowing. Who she was, and whence
she came, he did not attempt to find out. He preferred that she should
remain the Lady of Mystery. After her first appearance, when old Jabez
bustled into the vestry at the close of the service, he abounded in nods
and winks, inarticulate exclamations, and chuckings of his thumb over
his shoulder backward toward the church. At length, getting no response
from David, he burst forth: "Sakes alive, sir! I'm thinking she ain't
bin seen in a place o' wash-up, since she was----"
David, half in and half out of his cassock, turned on the old clerk in
sudden indignation.
"Bones," he said, sternly, "no member of the congregation should ever be
discussed in the vestry. Not another word, please. Now give me the entry
book."
The old man muttered something inaudible about the Rector and young
_h_upstarts, and our poor David had made another enemy in Brambledene.
He never chanced to see his Lady of Mystery arrive; but, after that
first evening, she never failed to be in her place when he came out of
the vestry; nor did he ever see her depart, always resisting the
temptation to leave the church hurriedly when service was over.
So she remained the Lady of Mystery; and now--his last Sunday evening
had come; and, as he thought of her, he longed to see a look of faith
and joy dawn in her cold sad eyes, as ardently as another man might have
longed to see a look of love for himself awaken in them.
But David wanted nothing for himself, and a great deal for his Lord. He
wanted this beautiful personality, this forceful character, this strong,
self-reliant soul; he wanted this obvious wealth, this unmistakable
possessor of place and power, for his Master's service, for the Kingdom
of his King. No thought of himself came in at all. How should it? He
wanted to win her for her own sake; and he wanted to win her for his
Lord. He wanted this more persistently and ardently than he had ever
desired anything in his life before. He was almost perplexed at the
insistence of the thought, and the way in which it never left him.
And now--the last chance had come.
He rose, and went to the window. Snowflakes were falling gently, few and
far between; but the landscape was completely covered by a pure white
pall.
"Undoubtedly," said David, "my Lady of Mystery will be there, unless
this fall of snow keeps her away."
He paced up and down the study, repeating stray sentences from his
sermon, as they came into his mind.
Sarah brought in the lamp, and drew the maroon rep curtains, shutting
out the snow and gathering darkness; Sarah, stout, comfortable, and
motherly, who--accustomed to the rosy-cheeked plumpness of her
easy-going master--looked with undisguised dismay at David's thin worn
face, and limbs on which his clothes still hung loosely, giving him an
appearance of not belonging to his surroundings, which tried the kind
heart and practical mind of the Rector's good housekeeper.
"He do give me the creeps, poor young gentleman," she confided to a
friend, who had dropped in for tea and a chat. "To see him all shrunk
up, so to speak, in Master's big chair; and just where there would be so
much of Master, there's naught of him, which makes the chair seem fair
empty. And then he looks up and speaks, and his voice is like music, and
his eyes shine like stars, and he seems more alive than Master, or
anybody else one knows; yet not alive in his poor thin body; but alive
because of something burning and shining _h_inside of 'im; something
stronger than a body, and more alive than life--oh, _I_ don't know!"
concluded Sarah, suddenly alarmed by her own eloquence.
"Creepy, I call it," said the friend.
"Creepy it is," agreed Sarah.
Nevertheless she watched carefully over David's creature comforts, and
he owed it to Sarah's insistence, that he weighed nearly a stone heavier
when he left Brambledene than on his arrival there.
She now brought in tea, temptingly arranged on a tray, poured out his
first cup, and stood a minute to watch him drink it, and to exhort him
to wrap up well, before going out in this snow.
"My last Sunday, Sarah," said David, looking at her with those same
deep-set shining eyes. "I sha'n't bother you much longer. I have a
service to-morrow--Christmas-day; and must stay over Boxing-day for two
weddings. Then I'm off to town; and in a couple of weeks I sail for
Central Africa. I wonder how you would like Africa, Sarah. Are you
afraid of snakes?"
"Don't mention 'em, Mr. Rivers, sir," replied Sarah, in a stage whisper;
"nasty evil things! If Eve had been as fearful of 'em as I am, there'd
never 'ave been no Fall. You wouldn't catch me staying to talk theology
with a serpent. No, not me, sir! It's take to m' heels and run, would
have been my way, if I'd 'a lived in Genesis three."
David smiled. "A good way, Sarah," he said, "and scriptural. But you
forget the attraction of the tree, with its luscious fruit. Poor Eve!
The longing of the moment, always seems the great essential. We are apt
to forget the long eternity of regret."
Sarah sidled respectfully towards the door.
"Eat your hot-buttered toast, before it grows cold, sir," she
counselled; "and give over thinking about snakes. Dear heart, it's
Christmas-eve!"
"So it is," said David. "And my sermon is about a star. Right you are,
Sarah! I'll 'give over thinking about snakes,' and look higher. There
can be no following of the star with our eyes turned earthward.... All
right! Don't you worry. I'll eat every bit."
CHAPTER III
DAVID STIRS THE STILL WATERS
As David tramped to church the moon was rising. The fir trees stood,
dark and stately, beneath their nodding plumes of feathery snow. The
little village church, with its white roof, and brightly lighted
windows, looked like a Christmas card.
Above its ivy-covered tower, luminous as a lamp in the deep purple sky,
shone out one brilliant star.
David smiled as he raised his eyes. He was thinking of Sarah and the
snakes. "'If I had lived in Genesis three,'" he quoted. "What a
delightful way of putting it; as if Genesis were a terrace, and three
the number. Good old Sarah! Would she have been more successful in
coping with the tempter? Undoubtedly Eve had the artistic temperament,
which is always a snare; also she had a woman's instinctive desire to
set others right, and to explain. Adam would have seen through the
tempter's wilful distortion of the wording of God's command, and would
not have been beguiled into an argument with so crafty and insincere an
opponent. Poor Eve, in her desire to prove him wrong, to air her own
superior knowledge, and to justify her Maker, hurried at once into the
trap, and was speedily undone. Here, at the very outset of our history,
we have in a nutshell the whole difference between the mentality of the
sexes. Where Eve stood arguing and explaining,--laying herself open to a
retort which shook her own belief, and undermined her obedience,--Adam
would have said: "Liar!" and turned on his heel. Yet if Eve lived
nowadays she would be quite sure she could set right all mistakes in our
legislature, if only Adam could be induced to let her have a finger in
every pie. Having lived in Genesis iii., Adam would know better than to
try it!"
* * * * *
As David reached the old lich-gate, two brilliant lights shone down the
road from the opposite direction, and the next moment a motor glided
swiftly to the gate, and stopped.
A footman sprang down from beside the chauffeur, opened the door,
touched a button, and the interior of the car flashed into light.
Seated within, half buried in furs, David saw the calm sweet face of
his Lady of Mystery. He stood on one side, in the shadow of the gate,
and waited.
The footman drew out a white fur rug, and threw it over his left arm;
then held the door wide.
She stepped out, tall and silent. David saw the calm whiteness of her
features in the moonlight. She took no more notice of her men, than if
they had been machines, but passed straight up the churchyard path,
between the yew-tree sentinels, and disappeared into the porch.
The footman bundled in the rug, switched off the lights, banged the
door, took his place beside the chauffeur, and the large roomy motor
glided silently away. Nothing remained save a delicate fragrance of
violets under the lich-gate, beneath which she had passed.
The whole thing had taken twenty seconds. It seemed to David like the
swift happenings of a dream. Nothing was left, to prove its reality, but
the elusive scent of violets, and the marks of the huge tyres in the
snow.
But as David made his way round to the vestry door, he knew his Lady of
Mystery was already in her corner beside the stout whitewashed pillar;
and he also knew that he had been right, in the surmise which placed
her in an environment of luxury and wealth.
* * * * *
Christmas-eve had produced a larger congregation than usual. The service
was as cheerful and noisy as the choir and organist could make it.
David's quiet voice seemed only to be heard at rare intervals, like the
singing of a thrush in the momentary lull of a storm.
The Lady of Mystery looked alternately bored and amused. Her expression
was more calmly critical than ever. She had discarded her large velvet
hat for a soft toque of silver-grey fur, placed lightly upon her wealth
of golden hair. This tended to reveal the classic beauty of her
features, yet made her look older, showing up a hardness of expression
which had been softened by the green velvet brim. David, who had thought
her twenty-five, now began to wonder whether she were not older than
himself. Her expression might have credited her with full thirty years'
experience of the world.
David mounted the pulpit steps to the inspiriting strains of "While
shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground."
Already the inhabitants of Brambledene had had it at their front doors,
sung, in season and out of season, by the school-children, in every
sort of key and tempo. Now the latter returned joyfully to the charge,
sure of arriving at the final verse, without any sudden or violent
exhortations to go away. They beat the choir's already rapid rendering;
ignored the organist, and rushed on without pause, comma, or breathing
space.
In the midst of this erratic description of the peaceful scene on
Bethlehem's hills on that Christmas night so long ago, David's white
earnest face appeared in the pulpit, looking down anxiously upon his
congregation.
The words of his opening collect brought a sense of peace, though the
silence of his long intentional pause after "Let us pray," had at first
accentuated the remembrance of the hubbub which had preceded it. David
felt that the weird chanting of his African savages, echoing among the
trees of their primeval forests, compared favourably, from the point of
view both of reverence and of music, with the singing in this English
village church. His very soul was jarred. His nerves were all on edge.
As he stood silent, while the congregation settled into their seats,
looking down he met the grey eyes of his Lady of Mystery. They said: "I
am waiting. I have come for this."
Instantly the sense of inspiration filled him.
With glad assurance he gave out his text. "The gospel according to St.
Matthew, the second chapter, the tenth and eleventh verses; 'When they
saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.... And when they
had opened their treasures, they presented unto Him gifts; gold, and
frankincense, and myrrh.'"
As soon as the text of a sermon was given out, Mr. Churchwarden Jones in
his corner, and Mr. Churchwarden Smith in his, verified it in their
Bibles, made sure it was really there, and had been read correctly. Then
they closed their Bibles and placed them on the ledges in front of them;
took off their glasses, put them noisily into spectacle-cases, stowed
these in inner pockets, leant well back, and proceeded to go very
unmistakably and emphatically to sleep.
David had got into the way of reading his text twice over, slowly, while
this performance took place.
Now, when he looked up from his Bible, the two churchwardens were in
position. Their gold watch-chains, looped upon their ample waistcoats,
produced much the same effect as the wreathing with which well-meaning
decorators had accentuated the stoutness of the whitewashed pillars.
The attention of the congregation was already wandering. David made a
desperate effort to hold it.
"My friends," he said, "although it is Christmas-eve, I speak to you
to-night on the Epiphany subject, because, when the great Feast of
Epiphany comes, I shall no longer have the privilege of addressing you.
I expect to be on the ocean, on my way to carry the Christmas message of
'Peace on earth, good will toward men,' to the savage tribes of Central
Africa."
No one looked responsive. No one seemed to care in the least where David
Rivers would be on the great Feast of Epiphany. He tried another tack.
"Our text deals with the experience of those Wise Men of the East, who,
guided by the star, journeyed over the desert in quest of the new-born
King. Now, if I were to ask this congregation to tell me how many Wise
Men there were, I wonder which of you would answer 'three.'"
No one looked in the least interested. What a silly question! What a
senseless cause for wonder! Of course they would _all_ answer "three."
The youngest infant in the Sunday-school knew that there were three Wise
Men.
"But why should you say 'three'?" continued David. "We are not told in
the Bible how many Wise Men there were. Look and see."
The Smith and Jones families made no move. They knew perfectly well that
_their_ Bibles said "three." If this young man's Bible omitted to
mention the orthodox number, it was only another of many omissions in
his new-fangled Bible and unsound preaching. It would be one thing more
to report to the Rector, on his return.
But his Lady of Mystery leaned forward, took up a Bible which chanced to
be beside her, turned rapidly to Matthew ii., bent over it for a moment,
then smiled, and laid it down. David knew she had made sure of finding
"three," and had not found it. He took courage. She was interested.
He launched into his subject. In vivid words, more full of poetry and
beauty than he knew, he rapidly painted the scene; the long journey
through the eastern desert, with eyes upon the star; the anxious days,
when it could not be seen, and the route might so easily be missed; the
glad nights when it shone again, luminous, serene, still moving on
before. The arrival at Jerusalem, the onward quest to Bethlehem, the
finding of the King.
Then, the actual story fully dealt with, David turned to application.
"My friends," he said, "this earthly life of ours is the desert. Your
pilgrimage lies across its ofttimes dreary wastes. But if your journey
is to be to any purpose, if life is to be a success and not a failure,
its main object must be the finding of the King. His guiding Spirit
moves before you as the star. His word is also the heavenly lamp which
lights your way. But I want, to-night, to give you a third meaning for
the Epiphany star. The star stands for your highest Ideal. Pause a
moment, and think.... Have you in your life to-night a heaven-sent
Ideal, to which you are always true; which you follow faithfully, and
which, as you follow it, leads to the King?"
David paused. Mrs. Jones rustled, and Mrs. Smith tinkled, but David
heard them not. The Lady of Mystery had lifted her eyes to his, and
those beautiful sad eyes said: "I _had_."
"They lost sight of the star," said David. "Their hearts were sad,
thinking they had lost it forever. But they found it again at
Jerusalem--place of God's holy temple and worship. Here--is your
Jerusalem. Lift your eyes to-night, higher than the mere church roof,
and find again your lost star; see where shines your Ideal--your faith,
your hope, your love, your belief in things eternal. 'And when they saw
the star they rejoiced.'"
David paused.
Long lashes veiled the grey eyes. Her hands were folded in her lap, and
her eyes were not lifted from them.
"When these desert-travellers found the King," continued David, "they
opened their treasures and presented unto Him gifts,--gold, and
frankincense, and myrrh. I know this is usually taken in relation to
Himself, and as being, in a threefold way, typical of His mission: Gold
for the King; frankincense for the great High Priest; myrrh for the
suffering, dying Saviour, who was to give His life for the redemption of
the world.
"But I want to take it to-night in another sense. Let these three kinds
of gifts emphasise the three kinds of things you have in your life
to-day, which you may offer to the King, if your guiding star has led
you to His feet. They opened _their_ treasures. I want you to open
_your_ treasures, to-night. What are your treasures? Why yourself, and
all you possess.
"First let us consider the gold."
The Lady of Mystery lifted her golden head and looked him full in the
face. There was challenge in her eyes.
"I do not necessarily mean your money," said David, "though how much
more you might all do with that, for the King and for His service, than
you are already doing. Ah, if people could realise how greatly gold is
needed for His work, they would soon open their treasures and pour it
forth! I have told you of my vast parish, out in the unexplored forests,
swamps, and jungles of Central Africa. Do you know what I want for my
people, there? Think of all you have here--of all you have had, ever
since you can remember. Then listen: I want a church; I want schools; I
want books; I want a translation of the Bible, and a printing-press to
print it with." David's eyes glowed, and he threw grammar to the winds!
"I want a comrade to help me, and a steam-launch with which to navigate
great lakes and rivers. I want all these things, and I want them for my
Master, and for His work. I can give my own life, but it is all I have
to give. I have been taking your Rector's place here for six weeks in
order to earn twelve guineas, which will enable me to take out a good
medicine-chest with which to doctor my people, and to complete my
necessary outfit."
Mr. Churchwarden Jones was awake by now, and fidgeted uncomfortably.
This young man should not have mentioned his stipend, from the pulpit.
It was decidedly unsuitable.
"Your Rector," continued David, "knowing why I need it, is generously
doubling that payment. May God bless him for it, when he takes up again
his ministry among you."
They were all listening now. David's eyes glowed like hot coals in his
thin face. His voice rang through the church.
"Ah, friends," he said, "those who have all they need for their
comfortable spiritual life, cannot realise the awful, desperate want, in
those wild places of the earth. We enjoy quoting what we call a 'gospel
text': 'Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.'
But too often we pause there, in self-appropriating complacency,
forgetting that the whole point of the passage lies in what follows:
'How then shall they call on Him in Whom they have not believed? And how
shall they believe in Him of Whom they have not heard? And how shall
they hear, without a preacher? And how shall they preach except they be
sent?' You must answer all these questions, when you open your treasures
at the feet of the King.
"But forgive me for intruding my own interests. This is not a missionary
sermon."--Here Mrs. Smith nodded, energetically. That was exactly what
she had already whispered to Mr. Smith.--"Also 'gold' stands for much
besides money. Think of all the golden things in life. The joys, the
brightness, the glory of success; all beauty, all gaiety, all golden
mirth and laughter. Let all these golden things be so consecrated that,
opening your treasures, you can at any moment bring them as offerings to
your King.
"But the second gift was frankincense." David paused, giving each
listener--and at last there were many--time to wonder what in his or her
life stood for frankincense.
"Frankincense," said David, "is, first of all, your worship. And by
worship, I do not necessarily mean public worship in church, important
though that be. I mean the constant worship of an adoring heart. 'O
worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.' Unless your daily life from
Monday to Saturday is a life of worship, there will not be much reality
in your public worship on Sunday. And then, frankincense stands for all
that appertains to the spirit part of you--your ideals, your noblest
loves, your finest aspirations. Open your treasures, friends, and bring
these to your King.
"And, lastly, myrrh." David paused, and a look so calm, so holy, so
sublime, passed into his face, that to one who watched him then, and who
chanced to know the meaning of that look, his face was as the face of an
angel.
"The myrrh," he said, "stands for death. Some of us may be called upon
definitely to face death, for the King's sake. But _all_ who have lived
unto Him in life, can glorify Him in death. 'Precious in the sight of
the Lord is the death of His saints.' We can all at last bring to Him
this gift--a gift which, in the bringing, will indeed bring us into His
very presence. But, meanwhile, your present offering of myrrh is the
death of self; the daily crucifying of the self-life. 'For the love of
Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all,
then were all dead; and that He died for all, that they which live
should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him, Who died for
them, and rose again.' Your response to that constraining love, your
acceptance of that atoning death, your acquiesence in that crucifixion
of self, constitute your offering of myrrh.
"But myrrh, in the Bible, stands for other things besides death. We must
not pause to do so now, but sometime, at your leisure, look out each
mention of myrrh. You will find it stands for love--love of the
sweetest, tenderest kind; love so complete, that it must bring with it
self-abnegation, and a mingling of pain with its bliss.
"And you will find it stands for sorrow; not bitterness of woe; but
sorrow accepted as the Father's will, and therefore touched with
reverent joy. Ah, bring your sorrows as gifts to your King. 'Surely He
hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.' Bring even these, and
lay them at His feet."
David closed his Bible, placing it on the cushion, folded his hands upon
it, and leaned down from the high pulpit.
"My friends," he said,--and those who looked up responsive never forgot
the light in his eyes--"I am leaving this dear home land of ours on the
day when we shall be keeping the Feast of the Star. My star leads me to
a place from which I do not ever expect to return. My offering of myrrh
to my King, is a grave in an African forest, and I offer it gladly.
"But, may I now say to you, whose faces--after to-morrow--I never expect
to see again: Do not lose sight of your star, as you travel across
life's desert. Look up, look on; ever, in earnest faith, move forward.
Then I can leave with each one in this congregation, as a farewell
promise"--he looked at all present; but his eyes met the grey eyes, now
swimming in tears, of his Lady of Mystery; met, and held them, with
searching solemn gaze, as he uttered his final words--
"Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty; they shall behold the Land
that is very far off."
CHAPTER IV
DIANA RIVERS, OF RIVERSCOURT
Perhaps the greatest tribute to David's sermon, was the quiet way in
which the good people of Brambledene rose to their feet at its close.
_Lead, Kindly Light_ was sung with unusual feeling and reverence.
The collection, for Church Expenses, was the largest ever taken in
Brambledene Church, within the memory of man. In one of the plates,
there was gold. David knew quite well who had put in that sovereign.
He sat at the vestry table and fingered it thoughtfully. He had disrobed
while the churchwardens counted the money and commented on the unusual
amount of the collection, and the remarkable fact of a sovereign in the
plate. They left the money in little piles on the red cloth, for David
to carry home and lock up in the Rector's safe.
He had now to enter his text, and the amount of the collection, in the
vestry book.
He had glanced down the church as he left the chancel. His Lady of
Mystery was still on her knees in the corner near the pillar, her head
bowed in her hands. He had seen the top of her grey fur hat, with soft
waves of golden hair on either side of it.
He took up the pen and entered his text.
Then he laid the pen down, and glanced at back records of evening
collections for Church Expenses. He did not hurry. He could hear very
faintly in the distance the throbbing of a motor, waiting at the
lich-gate. He knew exactly how it looked, waiting in the snow; two great
acetylene lamps in front; delicate electric bulbs lighting the interior,
one in each corner of the roof. He knew just how _she_ would look, as
the footman tucked the white fur rug around her. She would lean back,
rather bored and impatient, and take no more notice of the man, than if
he were a machine. David hated that kind of behaviour toward those who
serve. He held that every service, even the smallest, should receive a
kindly acknowledgment.
He turned the pages of the vestry book. Six shillings and eleven pence.
Two and four pence halfpenny. Three and six. Four shillings and nine
pence three farthings. Seven and ten pence. And now he was about to
enter: "two pounds, eight shillings, and seven pence halfpenny." Even
without the gold _she_ had put in, it was a large increase on former
offerings. Truly these good people opened their treasures when at last
their hearts were touched.
David was alone in the vestry. He could hear old Jabez Bones bustling
about in the church, putting out the lamps, occasionally knocking down
books, and picking them up again; doing in appearance three times as
much as he accomplished in reality.
David took up the pen. He did not hurry. The rhythmic panting of the
engine still reached him, faintly, across the snowy mounds. He did not
intend to arrive at the lich-gate until that dream-motor had glided
noiselessly out of sight.
As he bent over the book to make the entry, the vestry door was pushed
softly open. He heard no sound; but a subtle fragrance of violets
suddenly surrounded him.
David looked up.
Framed in the Gothic arch of the narrow doorway, her large grey eyes
fixed upon him in unwonted gentleness, stood his Lady of Mystery.
David was so completely taken by surprise, that he forgot to rise to his
feet. He dropped his pen, but still sat on the high vestry stool, and
gazed at her in speechless wonderment.
"I have come," said his Lady of Mystery, and her low-pitched voice was
full of music; "I have come to bring you my gifts--gold, frankincense,
and myrrh."
"Not to me," said David. "You must not bring them to me. You must bring
them to the King."
"I must bring them to you," she said, "because I know no other way. I
have sought the Christ, and found HIM not. I had lost my way in the
dreary darkness of the desert. To-night you have cleared my sky. Once
more I see the shining of the Star. You have shown me that I have these
three gifts to offer. But I must bring them to you, David Rivers,
because you are the most Christlike man I have ever known, and you stand
to me for your King."
"I cannot stand for my King," said David, unconscious of the light in
his own eyes, or the divine radiance reflected on his face. "I am but
His messenger; the voice in the wilderness, crying: 'Prepare ye the way
of the Lord.'"
The Lady of Mystery moved a step nearer, and laid one hand on the
vestry table. She bent toward him. Two wax candles, in brass
candle-sticks, stood upon the table, on either side of the vestry book,
providing the only illumination. In the light of these, they looked into
one another's faces.
"You have certainly prepared His way in my heart to-night," she said,
"and I believe you are going to make straight for me the tangle of my
life. Only, first of all, you must know who I am. Has anybody told you?
Do you know?"
"Nobody has told me," said David, "and I do not know."
"What have you called me, to yourself, all these weeks?"
"My Lady of Mystery," answered David, simply; wondering how she knew he
had called her anything.
She smiled, and there seemed to be twenty wax candles in the vestry,
rather than two.
"Quite pretty," she said; "but too much like a story-book, to be
practically useful." She drew a small purple bag from her muff; took out
a card, and laid it on the table in front of him. "You must know who I
am," she said, "and where I live; because, you see, I am going to ask
you to dinner."
She smiled again; and David bent over the card. She marked his
involuntary movement of surprise.
"Yes," she said, "I am Diana Rivers, of Riverscourt. Had you heard of me
before? I suppose we are, in some sort, cousins."
But David sat with his eyes bent upon the card before him. Alas, what
was happening? His Lady of Mystery had vanished. This tall girl, in furs
and velvet, with her brilliant smile, sweet low voice, and assured
manner, was the greatest heiress in the county; Master of the Hounds;
patron of four livings; notorious for her advanced views and fearless
independence; a power and a terror in the whole neighbourhood. His Lady
of Mystery who, under his guidance, was to become a meek and lowly
follower of the Star! Poor David!
He looked so thin and forlorn, for the moment, that Diana felt an amused
desire to put him into an armchair, and ply him with champagne.
"Of course I have heard of you, Miss Rivers," he said, slowly. "Mr.
Goldsworthy told me all about you, during my first evening at the
Rectory. He asked me whether we were related."
"Dear old thing!" remarked Diana, lightly. "He is my god-father, you
know; and I think his anxiety over my spiritual condition is the one
thing which keeps him of a size to pass through the pulpit door!"
"Don't," said David.
She looked at him, with laughter in her eyes.
"All right, Cousin David. I did not mean to be flippant. And we _are_
cousins, you know."
"I think not," he answered, gravely. "I am of very humble origin; and I
never heard of my people claiming kinship with courts of any kind."
"Oh, don't be silly!" retorted Diana, drumming on the vestry table, with
her firm, gloved fingers; but her tone was so gentle, that it almost
held a caress. "Don't be silly, Cousin David. The humblest people live
in courts, in London; and all rivers run into the sea! Nothing but the
genuine Rivers' pluck could have faced these good folk Sunday after
Sunday; and only the fire of the real old Rivers' stock, could have made
them sit up and listen to-night. You look just like grandpapa,
confounding the Opposition from his seat on the government benches, when
you attack Mrs. Smith for turning over the pages of her Bible in that
distracting and senseless way. I can fancy myself back in the Ladies'
Gallery, longing to cheer. We _must_ claim kinship, Cousin David."
"I think not," he repeated firmly. He looked very small, and thin, and
miserable, huddled up on the vestry stool. His threadbare clerical
jacket seemed several sizes too large for him. "Diana Rivers, of
Riverscourt!" Oh, where was his dear Lady of Mystery?
If Diana wanted to shake him, she kept the desire well in hand. Her
voice grew even deeper; more full of music, more softly gentle.
"Well, cousin or no cousin," she said, "I want your advice, and I can't
do without your help. Where do you take your Christmas dinner, David
Rivers?"
"Why, at the Rectory," he answered, looking up. "I have no friends
here." Then a gleam of amusement passed over his face: "Sarah says, as
it is Christmas, she is 'going to a fowl,'" he said.
"I see. And you are planning to eat your fowl in solitary grandeur at
the Rectory? Well, _I_ will 'go to a turkey' and a plum-pudding, and,
possibly, mince-pies; and you shall dine with me on Christmas night. The
idea of a lonely meal on your last--I mean, your _one_ Christmas-day in
England!"
"You are very kind," said David; "but is not Riverscourt twelve miles
from here?"
"My chauffeur does it in twenty minutes," replied Diana. "It would be
as much as his place is worth to take twenty-one. I will send the motor
for you at seven, and we will dine at half past. They can run you back
whenever you like. Does your household retire early? Or perhaps you are
allowed a latch-key."
David smiled. "My household consists of Sarah, Mr. Goldsworthy's
faithful housekeeper; and as I usually sit up reading until midnight,
she retires early, and trusts me to put out the lamps and to lock up."
"Ah, I know Sarah," said Miss Rivers. "A worthy soul. She and I are
excellent friends. We hold the same views on women's rights, and we love
discussing them. Mere man--even god-papa--dwindles to nothing, when
arraigned at the bar of Sarah's intrepid judgment. Very well, then. The
motor at seven."
But David still hesitated. "You are very kind," he said. "But--you see,
we don't have dinner-parties in Central Africa. And since I came home, I
have mostly been in hospital. I am afraid I haven't"--he looked down at
his short jacket. "I don't even possess a long coat," he said, simply.
"Oh don't be tiresome, Cousin David!" cried Miss Rivers. "If I wanted
conventional evening dress, I know a dozen men whom I could invite to
dinner. I want _you_, not your clothes. If one is greatly interested in
a book, does one bother to consider the binding? Bring your mind along,
and come prepared to be helpful; for, God knows"--her eyes grew deep and
earnest--"God knows I want helping, more than any of your African
savages. Come as you are, Cousin David. Come as the Voice in the
Wilderness. It is all I ask. Besides, there will only be myself and
Chappie; and Chappie doesn't count."
She drew off a soft grey glove; then held out to him firm white fingers.
He took them in his. They clasped hands silently; and, once more, by the
light of the two wax candles, looked searchingly into each other's eyes.
Each read there a quiet compact of friendship and of trust.
"I will come," said David. She paused with her hand on the door, looking
back at him over her shoulder. Her tall head nearly touched the top of
the archway.
"If you do," she said, "we must consider the question of your church,
your schools, your printing-press, and your steamer. So, _au revoir_,
to-morrow."
She threw him a little reassuring smile, and passed out.
The fragrance of violets, the sound of her low voice, the card upon the
table, remained.
David took up the pen and made the entry in the vestry book: _two
pounds, eight shillings, and seven pence halfpenny_. Then he gathered up
all the little piles of silver and copper, and put them into his coat
pockets; but Diana's sovereign he slipped by itself into one waistcoat
pocket, and her card into the other.
Then suddenly he realised--poor David--that she had stood beside him
during the whole interview, while _he_ had sat on the vestry stool.
He sprang to his feet. "Oh I say!" he cried. "Oh--I say!"
But there was nothing to say; and no one to whom to say it.
Poor David!
He sat down again, put his elbows on the table, and dropped his head
into his hands.
Diana Rivers of Riverscourt! Patron of four livings! Acknowledged leader
of the gayest set in the county; known far and wide for her independence
of character and advanced views!
* * * * *
Bones came shuffling up the chancel, rattling the church keys. There was
also a sovereign of Diana's in _his_ waistcoat pocket, and he showed no
irritation as he locked up the vestry book, and returned David's
good-night.
"A 'appy Christmas, sir," he said, "an' many of 'em; if they 'ave 'em in
them wild parts."
* * * * *
As David plodded home through the snow, his mind dwelt, with curious
persistence, on one question: "Now who on earth is 'Chappie'?"
CHAPTER V
THE NOISELESS NAPIER
"I am morally certain 'Chappie' is a poodle," thought David to himself,
at breakfast. "It would be just like her to have a large black poodle,
abnormally clever, perfectly clipped, tied up with green ribbons to
match her hat, and treated in all respects as a human being; excepting
that, of course, his opinion on the cut of her guests' clothes would not
matter. 'Chappie does not count,' she said; but I'll be bound he counts
a lot, in most respects. I hope Chappie will like me. How does one
whistle to a poodle?"
David was standing on the hearthrug, practising various seductive ways
of whistling to Chappie, when Sarah came in, to clear the breakfast
table.
Sarah had put a Christmas card on David's plate that morning, and had
kept nervously out of the way, while he opened the envelope. The card
had evidently been chosen with great care, and an eye to its
suitability. A large bunch of forget-me-nots figured in the centre, tied
with a lover's knot of blue ribbon. Above this, two embossed
hands--Sarah's and David's of course--were clasped. Above these again,
flew two turtle-doves. They carried a scroll between them, depending
from either beak, bearing in gold lettering, "The Compliments of the
Season." At the bottom of the card were two blank lines beginning with
"To ----" and "From ----". Sarah had filled in, with much labour, and
rather brown ink:
To _the Reverant David rivers_
From _Yours rispectfully Sarah_
David, delighted, stood the card in the place of honour on the
mantel-piece, in front of the clock. When Sarah came in, he stopped
whistling to Chappie, went forward at once and shook hands with her,
thanking her warmly for the Christmas card.
"The only one I received, Sarah; and I do think it most awfully pretty."
Sarah admitted that it _was_ that; explained at great length where she
got it, and why she chose it; and described a good many other cards she
had nearly bought but eventually rejected in favour of the
forget-me-nots, thinking they would "look home-like in them outlandish
places," and ensure David's kind remembrance of her.
David protested that, card or no card, he would never forget Sarah, and
all her thoughtful care of him; and Sarah wiped her eyes with a corner
of her apron, and only wished there was more of him to care for.
David felt this rather embarrassingly personal, and walked over to the
window to throw crumbs to a robin. Then he turned, as Sarah, having
folded the cloth, was preparing to leave the room.
"Sarah," he said, "I have had an invitation. I am dining out to-night."
Sarah's face fell. "Oh, Mr. Rivers, sir! And me going to a chicking,
being as it was Christmas!"
"Well, Sarah, you see my friend thought it was dull that I should dine
by myself on Christmas night. And if you had gone to a chicken, I should
indeed be left alone."
"Get along, sir!" chuckled Sarah. "You know my meaning. And, if it's
Smiths or Joneses, I misdoubt if you'll get so good a dinner----"
"It isn't Smiths or Joneses, Sarah. It is Miss Rivers, of Riverscourt.
And she has promised me a turkey, and a plum-pudding, and
possibly--only I must not count too much on those--possibly,
mince-pies!"
Sarah's face expanded. "Oh, if it's Miss Diana, sir, you can't do
better. There's none like Miss Diana, to my thinking. And we can have
the chicking on Boxing-day. And, with your leave, if I'm not wanted, I'm
asked out to friends this evening, which I hadn't no intention of
mentioning. And Mr. Rivers, sir; mark my words. You can't do better than
Miss Diana. We've known her from a babe, master an' me. Folks talk,
because she don't hold with getting married, and because she don't do
much church-going; but, begging your pardon, sir, I don't hold with
either, m'self. Marriage means slaving away, with few thanks and fewer
ha'pence; and church-going mostly means, for women-folk, a vieing with
one another's bonnets. I don't go to feathers, m'self; always having
been well-content with beads. And I pay my respects to Almighty God, at
home."
"'Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of
some is,'" quoted David. "You forget the injunction of the writer to the
Hebrews, Sarah."
"That don't hold good for now, Mr. Rivers, sir," replied Sarah, with
conviction; "any more than many other _h_epistolic remarks."
"They all hold good for now, Sarah," said David, gravely.
"Then what about 'let your women keep silence in the churches'? Hark to
them rowdy Miss Joneses in the choir!"
"They _do_ make a row," admitted David, off his guard.
"And 'if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at
home'?" Sarah was evidently well up in her Bible.
"Well, why not?" queried David.
"Why not, Mr. Rivers, sir?" repeated Sarah, scornfully. "Why not? Why
because stay-at-home husbands ain't likely to be able to teach
go-to-church wives! And, even if they did, how about me an' Miss Diana,
as has none?"
This seemed unanswerable, though it had nothing whatever to do with the
point at issue. But David had no suggestions to offer concerning the
limitations contingent on the spinsterhood of Sarah and of Miss Diana.
It therefore gave Sarah the last word; which, to the female mind, means
victory; and she bore away the breakfast cloth in triumph.
When she brought in tea that afternoon, she lingered a few minutes,
giving the fire a little unnecessary attention, and furtively watching
David, as he put salt on his hot-buttered toast.
Then she said tentatively: "Mr. Rivers, sir, there are one or two things
about Miss Diana you might as well know, before you go over there."
"No, thank you, Sarah," said David, with decision. "Whatever Miss Rivers
wishes me to know, she will tell me herself. Anything she does not
herself tell me, I prefer not to hear from others."
Sarah surveyed him; and her look expressed amazement and disapproval.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "You _are_ different from master! All I
hear in the village I tell master while I wait on him at dinner. He
says: 'You may as well tell me what you hear, my good Sarah; and then I
can judge how to act.'"
David smiled. He had already discovered the good Rector's love of
gossip.
"But you see, Sarah," he said, "being only a _locum tenens_, I do not,
fortunately, have to act."
"Don't disparage yourself, sir," advised Sarah, still disappointed,
almost aggrieved. "And even if folks here _have_ called you so, you
won't be that to Miss Diana."
"Oh, no," said David, cheerfully. "I do not propose to be a _locum
tenens_ to Miss Diana!"
* * * * *
The motor glided up to the Rectory gate at seven o'clock, to the minute.
David saw the flash of the acetylene lamps on his bedroom blind.
He ran down the stairs, filled with a delightful sense of
holiday-making, and adventure.
His one clerical suit was carefully brushed, and Sarah had "pressed it,"
a mysterious process from which it emerged with a youthful, unwrinkled
air, to which it had for long been a stranger. His linen was immaculate.
He had shaved with extreme care. He felt so festive, that his lack of
conventional evening clothes troubled him no longer. He slipped Sarah's
Christmas card into his pocket. He knew Diana would appreciate the
pathos and humour of those clasped hands and forget-me-nots.
Then he went down the garden path, and entered the motor. The footman
arranged the fur rug over his knees, showed him how to switch off the
electric lights if he preferred darkness, shut the door, took his seat
beside the motionless chauffeur, and instantly they glided away down
the lane, and turned into the high road leading to Riversmead.
It seemed wonderful to David to be flying along in Diana's sumptuous
motor. He had never before been in a powerful noiseless Napier car, and
he found it somewhat of an experience. Involuntarily he thought of the
time when he had been so deadly weak from African fever, and his people
had had somehow to get him to the coast; the rough little cart on wheels
they made to hold him and his mattress, and tried to draw him along the
apology for a road. But the shaking and bumping had been so absolutely
unbearable, that he had eventually had to be slung and carried as far as
the river. Even so, there had been the perpetual dread of the agonising
jerk if one of his bearers stumbled over a stone, or stepped
unexpectedly into a rut. And to all this he was so soon returning. And
quite right, too. No man should glide through life on cushioned tyres.
For a woman, it was quite otherwise. Her womanhood constituted a
sufficient handicap, without any roughness or hardship being allowed to
come her way. He liked to know that Diana would always--literally and
metaphorically--glide through life in a noiseless Napier. This method
of progression need be no hindrance to her following of the star.
He looked at his watch. In ten minutes they would reach Riverscourt.
He switched off the lights, and at once the flying trees and hedges
became visible in the pale moonlight. He enjoyed watching them as they
whirled past. The great car bounded silently along the road, sounding a
warning note upon the horn, if the distant light of any cart or carriage
came in sight ahead of them; but passing it, and speeding on in the
snowy darkness, before David had had time to look out and see what
manner of vehicle it was.
They rushed through little villages, the cottage windows bright with
seasonable festivity. In one of them David caught a glimpse of a
Christmas-tree, decked with shining candles, and surrounded by the curly
heads of happy little children. It was many years since he had seen a
Christmas-tree. It brought wistful thoughts of home and boyhood's days.
The first Christmas-tree he could remember had yielded to his enraptured
hands a wooden popgun, which expelled a cork with great force and a
terrifying sound, sufficiently loud to make all grown-up people jump, if
it was done exactly behind their heads, when they were unaware of its
near vicinity. This effect upon grown-ups, produced by his own popgun,
had given him a sense of power which was limitless; until the sudden
forcible confiscation of the popgun had set thereto an unexpected limit.
He then mentioned it as a flute, and asked for it back; pointing out
that its popgun propensities were a mere accident; its real nature was
to be a flute. He received it back as a flute, upon condition that it
should not immediately accidentally develop again into a popgun. He
spent the remainder of that day blowing blissfully into the eight holes
punched in the strip of red wood gummed to the side of the popgun. The
resultant sounds were melancholy and fitful to a degree; and it is
doubtful which was the greater trial to the nerves of the grown-ups, the
sudden explosion of the popgun, or the long drawn out piping of the
flute. Anyway when his treasure suddenly and unaccountably disappeared,
they assisted his tearful search in a half-hearted sort of way, and when
eventually his unaided efforts discovered it, carefully concealed in one
of their own wardrobes, his infantine faith in the sincerity of adult
human nature had received its first rude shock.
David lay back in the motor and wondered whether life would ever hold
for him a scene so enchanting as that first Christmas-tree, or a gift so
priceless as that popgun-flute.
The motor sped through the old-world town of Riversmead, scarcely
slacking speed, for the streets were clear; all its inhabitants were
indoors, merry-making; and the one policeman they passed, saluted.
Diana's car was well-known and respected.
Then in at great iron gates, standing wide, and up an avenue of stately
beeches, coming to sudden pause before the portico of a large stone
house, gay with lighted windows.
CHAPTER VI
DAVID MAKES FRIENDS WITH "CHAPPIE"
The door into the great hall opened as David stepped out of the motor. A
footman took his overcoat, and he found himself following an elderly
butler across the spacious hall toward a door, which he flung open,
announcing in confidential tones: "The Reverend David Rivers"; then
stood aside, that David might enter.
David had already been looking right and left for Chappie; and, even as
he walked into the drawing-room, he had a seductive whistle ready in
case the poodle came to meet him, before he could reach Diana's friendly
hand.
But neither Diana nor the poodle were in the drawing-room.
Instead, on a large sofa, at right angles with the fireplace, in the
midst of heaped up cushions, sat a very plump elderly lady, of haughty
mien, clad in claret-coloured velvet, a nodding ornament in her white
hair, and much jewellery on her fat neck. She raised a lorgnon, on a
long tortoiseshell handle, and looked through it at David as he advanced
toward her.
There was such awe-inspiring majesty in the action, that David felt
certain she must be, at the very least, a duchess.
He seemed to be hours in reaching the sofa. It was like one of those
long walks taken in dreams, covering miles, yet only advancing yards;
and as he walked his clerical jacket grew shorter, and his boots more
patently _not_ patent leather.
When, at last, he reached the hearthrug--nothing happened. The plump
lady had, apparently, no disengaged hand; one held the lorgnon; the
other, a large feather fan.
"D'y do?" she said, in a rather husky voice. "I conclude you are Diana's
missionary."
This was an almost impossible remark to answer. David was _not_ Diana's
missionary; yet he was, undoubtedly, the missionary Diana had asked to
dinner.
In his embarrassment he held his warm hands to the blaze of the
log-fire, and said: "What a beautiful Christmas-day!"
The plump lady ignored the remark. She declined to recognise anything in
common between her Christmas-day and David's.
"Where is your sphere of work?" she demanded, hoarsely.
"Central Africa," replied David, in a meek voice, devoutly wishing
himself back there.
At that moment the door burst open, by reason of a bump against it, and
a black poodle trotted in, identical with the dog of David's imagining,
excepting that its tufts were tied up with red ribbon.
David whistled joyfully. "Hullo, Chappie!" he said. "Come here, old
fellow."
The poodle paused, surprised, and looked at him; one fore-paw uplifted.
The plump lady made an inarticulate sound, and dropped her lorgnon.
But David felt sure of his ground. "Come on, Chappie," he said. "Let's
be friends."
The poodle trotted up and shook hands. David bent down and patted his
beautiful coat.
Then Diana herself swept into the room. "A thousand pardons, Cousin
David!" she cried. "I should have been down to receive you. But Knox
broke all records and did the distance in eighteen minutes!" In a moment
her hand was in his; her eyes were dancing with pleasure; her smile
enveloped him in an atmosphere of welcoming friendliness.
All David's shyness left him. He forgot his terror of the majestic
person on the sofa. "Oh, that's all right" he said. "I have been making
friends with Chappie."
For a moment even Diana looked nonplussed. Then she laughed gaily. "I
ought to have been down to introduce you properly," she said. "Let me
do so now. Cousin David, this is Mrs. Marmaduke Vane. Chappie dear, may
I present to you my cousin, David Rivers?"
David never knew why the floor did not open and swallow him up! He
looked helplessly at Diana, and hopelessly at the plump lady on the
sofa, whose wrathful glance withered him.
Diana flew to the rescue. "Now, Chappie dear," she said, "the motor is
at the door, and Marie has your fur cloak in the hall. Remember me to
the Brackenburys, and don't feel obliged to come away early if you are
enjoying the games after dinner. The brougham will call for you at
eleven; but James can put up, and come round when you send for him. If I
have gone up when you return, we shall meet at breakfast." She helped
the plump lady to her feet, and took her to the door. "Good-bye, dear;
and have a good time."
She closed the door, and came back to David, standing petrified on the
hearthrug.
"Mrs. Vane is my chaperon," she explained. "That is why I call her
'Chappie.' But--tell me, Cousin David; do you always call elderly ladies
by their rather private pet-names, in the first moments of making their
acquaintance?"
"Heaven help me!" said poor David, ruefully, "I thought 'Chappie' was
the poodle."
Diana's peals of laughter must have reached the irate lady in the hall.
She sank on to the sofa, and buried her golden head in the cushions.
"Oh, Cousin David!" she said. "I always knew you were unlike anybody
else. Did you see the concentrated fury in Chappie's eye? And shall we
improve matters by explaining that you thought she was the poodle? Oh,
talk of something else, or I shall suffocate!"
"But you said: 'There will only be myself and Chappie; and Chappie
doesn't count,'" explained David. "If that was 'Chappie,' she counts a
lot. She looked me up and down, until I felt positively cheap; and she
asked me whether I was your missionary. I made sure she was a duchess,
at the very least."
"That only shows how very little experience you have had of duchesses,
Cousin David. If Chappie had really been a duchess, she would have made
you feel at home in a moment, and I should have found you seated beside
her on the sofa talking as happily as if you had known her for years.
Chappie has a presence, I admit; and a ducal air; which is partly why I
keep her on as chaperon. But she says: 'D'y do,' and looks down her
nose at you in that critical manner, because her father was only a
doctor in a small provincial town."
"My father was a doctor in a little country village," said David,
quickly, "yet I hope I don't look down my nose at people."
"Ah," said Diana, "but then you are a man, and no foolish friends have
told you that you look like a duchess, thus turning your poor head.
Chappie is a kind old thing, at heart, and must have attractive
qualities of sorts, seeing she has been married no less than three
times. She was my governess, years ago, before her first marriage. And
when Uncle Falcon died, I had her back as chaperon; partly because she
is very poor, and couples with that poverty an inordinate love of
creature comforts, which is quite pathetic; partly because she makes an
imposing figure-head, yet I can do with her exactly as I like. How would
you define a chaperon, Cousin David?"
"We don't have them in Central Africa, Miss Rivers."
"Well, a chaperon is a person who should be seen and not heard. And she
should be seen by the right people; not by those she is chaperoning, but
by the tiresome people who think they ought to be chaperoned. My good
Chappie satisfactorily fulfils these conditions. She is, to all
intents, chaperoning you and me, this evening; yet, in reality, she is
dining with friends of hers in Riversmead; thus sparing us the
unnecessary restraint of her presence, and the undesirable infliction of
her quite mindless conversation."
David found himself wondering whether he ought not to have allowed Sarah
to tell him "one or two things about Miss Diana," before he adventured
over to Riverscourt.
At that moment the staid butler opened wide the door, with a murmured
sentence about dinner.
Diana rose, with a gentle grace and dignity which reminded David of his
Lady of Mystery's first progress up Brambledene church; and, laying her
hand within his arm, guided him to the dining-room.
* * * * *
A small round table stood in the centre of the great oak-panelled room.
It gleamed with glass and silver, wax candles and snowy linen. The
decoration was Parma violets and lilies of the valley.
David sat at Diana's right hand, and when she leaned toward him and they
talked in low voices, the old man at the distant sideboard could not
overhear their conversation.
The poodle had followed them to the dining-room, and lay down
contentedly in front of the log-fire.
Diana was wearing perfectly plain white satin. A Medici collar,
embroidered with pearls, rose at the back of her shapely head. She wore
violets at her bosom, and a dainty wreath of violets in her hair. Her
gown in front was cut square and low, and embroidered with pearls. On
the whiteness of her skin, below the beautiful firm neck, sparkled a
brilliant diamond star. David hated to see it there; he could hardly
have explained why. It rose and fell lightly, with her breathing. When
she laughed, it scintillated in the light of the wax candles. It
fascinated David--the sparkling star, on the soft flesh. He looked at
it, and looked away; but again it drew his unwilling eyes.
He tried to master his aversion. Why should not Miss Rivers wear a
diamond star? Why should he, David, presume to dislike to see a star so
worn?
Before they reached the second course, Diana said to the butler: "Send
Marie to me."
In a few moments her French maid, in simple black attire, with softly
braided hair, stood at her elbow. Diana, still talking gaily to David,
lifted both arms, unclasped the thin gold chain from about her neck, and
handed the pendant to her maid.
"_Serrez-moi ça_," she said, carelessly.
Then she turned her clear eyes on David. "You prefer it in the sky," she
said. "I quite agree with you. A woman's flesh savours too much of the
world and the devil, to be a resting-place for stars. It can have no
possible connection with ideals."
She spoke so bitterly, that David's tender heart rose up in arms.
"True, I prefer it in the sky," he said, "and I prefer it not of
diamonds. But I do not like to hear you speak so of--of your body. It
seems to me too perfectly beautiful to be thus relegated to a lower
sphere; not because it is not flesh; but because, though flesh, it
clothes a radiant soul. The mortal body is but the garment of the
immortal soul. The soul, in mounting, lifts the body with it."
"I do not agree with you," said Diana. "I loathe bodies; my own, no less
than other people's. And how little we know of our souls. I am afraid I
shall shock you, Cousin David, but a favourite theory of mine is: that
only a certain number of people have any souls at all. I have always
maintained that the heathen have no souls."
David's deep eyes gleamed.
"The young natives of Uganda," he said, "sooner than give up their
new-found faith, sooner than deny the Lord Who had bought them, walked
calmly to the stake, and were slowly roasted by fire; their limbs, while
they yet lived, being hacked off, one by one, and thrown into the
flames. Their holy courage never failed; their last articulate words
were utterances of faith and praise. Surely _bodies_ would hardly go
through so much, unless _souls_--strong immortal souls--dwelt within
them."
"True," said Diana, softly. "Cousin David, I apologise. And I wonder how
many of us would stand such a soul-test as slow-fire. I can't quite
imagine Chappie, seated on a gridiron, singing hymns! Can you?"
"We must not judge another," said David, rather stiffly. "Conditions of
martyrdom, produced the noble army of martyrs. Why should not Mrs. Vane,
if placed in those conditions, rise to the occasion?"
"I am certain she would," said Diana. "She would rise quite rapidly,--if
the occasion were a gridiron."
Much against his will, David burst out laughing.
Diana leaned her chin in her hands; her luminous grey eyes observed him,
gravely. Little dimples of enjoyment dented either cheek; but her tone
was entirely demure.
"I hope you are not a prig, Cousin David," she said, gravely.
"I have never been considered one," replied David, humbly. "But, if you
say so----"
"No, no!" cried Diana. "You are not a prig; and I know I am flippant
beyond words. Have you found out that I am flippant, Cousin David?"
"Yes," he said, gently. "But I have found out something besides that."
Her eyes challenged him.
"And that is----?"
"That you take refuge in flippancy, Miss Rivers, when you want to hide a
deeper anxiety and earnestness of soul than you can quite understand, or
altogether cope with."
"Really? Then you must explain it to me, and cope with it for me. I hope
our Christmas dinner has come up to the dinner of Sarah's intentions.
Have another pear; or some more nuts? I did not order crackers, because
we are both grown up, and we should look so foolish in paper caps; and
yet, if we had had them, we could not have resisted putting them on.
Don't you know, at children's parties, the way in which grown-ups seize
upon the most _outré_ of the coloured head-gear, don them, in a moment
of gay abandonment, and--forget them! I can remember now, the delight,
after one of the Christmas parties in my childhood, of seeing Chappie go
gravely in to say good-night to grandpapa, completely unconscious of a
Glengarry bonnet, tilted waggishly on one side, or, on another occasion,
of a tall peaked fool's cap, perched on her frizzled 'transformation'.
Oh, to be a little child again, each Christmas-day! Yet here am
I--twenty-eight! How old are you, Cousin David?... Twenty-nine? Well, I
am glad you are not _quite_ thirty. Being in another decade would have
been like being in a cassock.... Why a cassock? How dense you are, my
reverend cousin! My mildest jokes require explaining. Why because it
would have removed you so far away, and I want you quite near this
evening, not perched in a distant pulpit! You cannot really help me,
unless you fully sympathise and understand. And I am in such sore
straits, Cousin David, that I look upon myself as a drowning man--why do
we always say 'drowning _man_' as if there never were any drowning
women?--about to sink for the third time; and you as the rope, which
constitutes my only hope of safety. Let us go to the drawing-room."
CHAPTER VII
THE TOUCH OF POWER
As they passed into the drawing-room, David's eye fell on a grand piano,
in black ebony case, to the left of the doorway.
"Oh!" said David, and stopped short.
"Does that tempt you?" asked Diana. "Yes; I might have known you were
full of music. Your sufferings, over the performances of the Brambledene
choir, were more patent than you realised."
David's fingers were working eagerly.
"I so rarely get the chance of a piano," he said. "Like chaperons, we
don't have them in Central Africa. I went without all manner of things
to be able to afford one in my rooms at college; but, since then--Is it
a Bechstein, or what?"
"I really do not know," laughed Diana. "It is an article of furniture I
do not use. Once a quarter, it lifts up its voice, poor dear, when a
sleek person with a key of his own, arrives unexpectedly, asking for a
duster, and announcing that he has come to tune it. He usually turns up
when I have a luncheon party. Occasionally when Chappie is feeling low,
and dwelling on the departed Marmaduke, she feels moved to play 'Home,
Sweet Home'; but when Chappie plays 'Home, Sweet Home' you instantly
discover that 'there's no place like'--being out; and, be it ever so
cheerless, you catch up a hat, and flee! You may carry off the piano to
Africa, if you will, Cousin David. And, meanwhile, see how you like it
now, while I try to collect my ideas, and consider how best to lay my
difficulties before you."
She moved across the long room, to the fireplace, drew forward a low
chair, turning it so as to face the distant piano.
David, tingling with anticipation, opened the instrument with reverent
care.
"It _is_ a Bechstein," he said; then took his seat; pausing a moment,
his hands upon his knees, his dark head bent over the keys.
Diana, watching him, laughed in her heart.
"What an infant it is, in some ways," she thought. "I do believe he is
saying: 'For what we are about to receive'!" But, in another minute her
laughter ceased. She was receiving more than she had expected. David had
laid his hands upon the keys; and, straightway, the room was filled with
music.
It did not seem to come from the piano. It did not appear to have any
special connection with David. It came chiefly from an unseen purple sky
overhead; not the murky darkness of an English winter, but the clear
over-arching heavens of the Eastern desert--expansive, vast, fathomless.
Beneath it, rode a cavalcade of travellers--anxious, perplexed,
uncertain. She could hear the soft thud of the camels' feet upon the
sand, and see the slow swaying, back and forth, of the mysterious
riders.
Suddenly outshone a star,--clear, luminous, divine; so brilliant, so
unexpected, that the listener by the fireplace said, "Oh!"--then laid
her hand over her trembling lips.
But David had forgotten her. His eyes were shining; his thin face,
aglow.
Now all was peace and certainty. They travelled on. They reached
Jerusalem. The minor key of doubt and disappointment crept in again.
Then, once more, shone the star. They arrived at Bethlehem. In chords of
royal harmony they found the King. _O worship the Lord in the beauty of
holiness!_
Diana's face sank into her clasped hands. The firelight played upon her
golden hair.
She knew, now, just how far she had wandered from the one true Light;
just how poor had been her response to the eternal love which brought
the Lord of glory to the manger of Bethlehem; to the village home at
Nazareth; to the cross of Calvary. The love of Christ had not
constrained her. She had lived for self. Her heart had grown hard and
unresponsive.
And now, in tenderest, reverent melody, the precious gifts were being
offered--gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But, what had _she_ to offer?
Her gold could hardly be accepted while she withheld _herself_. Yet how
could love awaken in a heart so dead, so filled with worldly scorn and
unbelief?
The music had changed. It no longer came from unseen skies, or ranged
back into past scenes, and ancient history. It centred in David, and the
piano.
He was playing a theme so simple and so restful, that it stole into
Diana's heart, bringing untold hope and comfort. At length, she lifted
her head.
"What are you playing, now, Cousin David?" She asked, gently.
David hushed the air into a whisper, as he answered: "A very simple
setting, of my own, to those wonderful words, 'At even, e'er the sun was
set.' You know them? The old tune never contented me. It was so apt to
drag, and did not lend itself to the crescendo of hope and thankfulness
required by the glad certainty that the need of each waiting heart would
be fully met, nor to the diminuendo of perfect peace, enfolding each one
as they went away. So I composed this simple melody, and I sing it, by
myself, out in the African forests most nights, when my day's work is
over. But it is a treat to be able to play it here, with full
harmonies."
"Sing it to me," said Diana, gently.
And at once David began to sing, to his own setting, the tender words of
the old evening hymn. And this was what he sang:
Holy Star
"At even ere the sun was set"
[Music:
_At e-ven ere the sun was set, The sick, O Lord, a-round Thee-lay_;
_Oh, in what di-vers pains they met? Oh, with what joy they-went a-way!_
_They went a ... way! A ... men_]
1. At even ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh, in what divers pains they met!
Oh, with what joy they went away!
2. Once more 'tis eventide, and we
Oppressed with various ills draw near;
What if Thy Form we cannot see?
We know and feel that Thou art here.
3. O Saviour Christ, our woes dispel;
For some are sick, and some are sad;
And some have never loved Thee well,
And some have lost the love they had;
4. And some have found the world is vain,
Yet from the world they break not free;
And some have friends who give them pain,
Yet have not sought a friend in Thee.
5. And none, O Lord, have perfect rest,
For none are wholly free from sin;
And they who fain would serve Thee best,
Are conscious most of sin within.
6. O Saviour Christ, Thou too art Man;
Thou hast been troubled, tempted, tried;
Thy kind but searching glance can scan
The very wounds that shame would hide.
7. Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall;
Hear in this solemn evening hour,
And in Thy mercy heal us all;
O heal us all!
The pure tenor voice rose and fell, giving full value to each line. As
he reached the words: "And some have never loved Thee well, And some
have lost the love they had," Diana's tears fell, silently. It was so
true--so true. She had never loved Him well; and she had lost what
little faith, what little hope, she had.
Presently David's voice arose in glad tones of certainty:
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall;
Hear, in this solemn evening hour,
And, in Thy mercy, heal us all;
Oh, heal us all."
The last notes of the quiet Amen, died away.
David closed the piano softly; rose, and walked over to the fireplace.
He did not look at Diana; he did not speak to her. He knew,
instinctively, that a soul in travail was beside him. He left her to his
Lord.
After a while she whispered: "If only one were worthy. If only one's
faith were strong enough to realise, and to believe."
"Our worthiness has nothing to do with it," said David, without looking
round. "And we need not worry about our faith, so long as--like the tiny
mustard seed--it is, however small, a living, growing thing. The whole
point lies in the fact of the power of His touch; the changeless truth
of His unfailing word; the fathomless ocean of His love and mercy. Look
away from self; fix your eyes on Him; and healing comes."
A long silence followed David's words. He stood with his back to her,
watching the great logs as the flames played round them, and they sank
slowly, one by one, into the hot ashes.
At last he heard Diana's voice.
"Cousin David," she said, "will you give me your blessing?"
David Rivers turned. He was young; he was humble; he was very simple in
his faith; but he realised the value and responsibility of his priestly
office. He knew it had been given him as "a service of gift."
He lifted his hands, and as Diana sank to her knees, he laid them
reverently upon the golden corona of her hair.
One moment of silence. Then David's voice, vibrant with emotion, yet
deep, tender, and unfaltering, pronounced the great Triune blessing,
granted to desert wanderers of old.
"The Lord bless thee and keep thee;
The Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee;
The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."
And the touch of power which Diana felt upon her heart and life, from
that moment onward, was not the touch of David Rivers.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TEST OF THE TRUE HERALD
As David sped back through the starry darkness, he was filled with an
exultation such as he had never before experienced.
He had always held that every immortal soul was of equal value in the
sight of God; and that the bringing into the kingdom of an untutored
African savage, was of as much importance, in the Divine estimation, as
the conversion of the proudest potentate ruling upon any European
throne.
But, somehow, he realised now the greatness of the victory which grace
had won, in this surrender of Diana to the constraining touch of his
Lord and hers.
It was one thing to see light dawn, where all had hitherto been
darkness; but quite another to see the dispersion of clouds of cynical
unbelief, and the surrender of a strong personality to the faith which
requires the simple loving obedience of a little child: for, "whosoever
shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not
enter therein."
David leaned back in the motor, totally unconscious of his surroundings,
as he realised how great a conquest for his King was this winning of
Diana. Her immense wealth, her influence, her position in the county,
her undoubted personal charm, would all now be consecrated, and become a
power on the side of right.
He foresaw a beautiful future before her. The very fact that he himself
was so soon leaving England, and would have no personal share in that
future, made his joy all the purer because of its absolute selflessness.
Like the Baptist of old, standing on the banks of Jordan, he had pointed
to the passing Christ, saying: "Behold!" She had beheld; she had
followed; she had found Him; and the messenger, who had brought about
this meeting, might depart. He was needed no longer. The Voice had done
its work. All true heralds of the King rejoice when the souls they have
striven to win turn and say: "Now we believe, not because of thy saying;
for we have heard Him ourselves, and know that this is indeed the
Christ, the Saviour of the world." This test was now David's; and being
a true herald, he did not fail before it.
When Diana had risen from her knees, she had turned to him and said,
gently: "Cousin David, do you mind if I order the motor now? I could not
speak or think to-night of other things; and I just feel I want to be
alone."
During the few moments which intervened before the car was announced,
they sat in silence, one on either side of the fireplace. There was a
radiance of joy on both young faces, which anyone, entering
unexpectedly, would doubtless have put down to a very different cause.
Diana was not thinking at all of David; and David was thinking less of
Diana than of the Lord Whose presence with them, in that evening hour,
had made of it a time of healing and of power.
As he rose to go, she put her hand in his.
"Cousin David," she said, "more than ever now, I need your counsel and
your help. If I send over, just before one o'clock, can you come to
luncheon to-morrow, and afterwards we might have the talk which I cannot
manage to-night?"
David agreed. The weddings at which he had to officiate were at eleven
o'clock. "I will be ready," he said, "and I will come. I am afraid my
advice is not worth much; but, such as it is, it is altogether at your
service."
"Good-night, Cousin David," she said, "and God bless you! Doesn't it say
somewhere in the Bible: 'They that turn many to righteousness shall
shine as the stars for ever and ever'?"
David now remembered this farewell remark of Diana's, as he stood for a
moment at the Rectory gate, looking upward to the clear frosty sky. But
the idea did not suit his mood.
"Ah, no, my Lord," he said. "Thou art the bright and morning Star. Why
should I want, for myself, any glory or shining? I am content forever to
be but a follower of the Star."
CHAPTER IX
Uncle Falcon's Will
Luncheon would have been an awkward affair, owing to David's nervous awe
of Mrs. Marmaduke Vane and his extreme trepidation in her presence, had
it not been for Diana's tact and vivacity.
She took the bull by the horns, explaining David's mistake, and how it
was entirely her own fault for being so ambiguous and inconsequent in
her speech--"as you have told me from my infancy, dear Chappie"; and she
laughed so infectiously over the misunderstanding and over the picture
she drew of poor David's dismay and horror, that Mrs. Marmaduke Vane
laughed also, and forgave David.
"And to add to poor Cousin David's confusion, he had made sure, at first
sight, that you were at least a duchess," added Diana tactfully; "and
they don't have them in Central Africa; so Cousin David felt very shy.
Didn't you, Cousin David?"
David admitted that he did; and Mrs. Vane began to like "Diana's
missionary."
"I have often noticed," pursued Miss Rivers, "that the very people who
are the most brazen in the pulpit, who lean over the side and read your
thoughts; who make you lift your unwilling eyes to theirs, responsive;
who direct the flow of their eloquence full upon any unfortunate person
who is venturing at all obviously to disagree--are the very people who
are most apt to be shy in private life. You should see my Cousin David
fling challenge and proof positive at a narrow-minded lady, with an
indignant rustle, and a red feather in her bonnet. I believe her husband
is a tenant-farmer of mine. I intend to call, in order to discuss Cousin
David's sermons with her. I shall insist upon her showing me the passage
in _her_ Bible where it says that there were three Wise Men."
Then Diana drew David on to tell of his African congregations, of the
weird experiences in those wild regions; of the perils of the jungle,
and the deep mystery of the forest. And he made it all sound so
fascinating and delightful, that Mrs. Marmaduke Vane became quite
expansive, announcing, as she helped herself liberally to
_pâté-de-foie-gras_, that she did not wonder people enjoyed being
missionaries.
"You should volunteer, Chappie dear," said Diana. "I daresay the society
sends out ladies. Only--fancy, if you came back as thin as Cousin
David!"
In the drawing-room, she sent him to the piano; and Mrs. Vane allowed
her coffee to grow cold while she listened to David's music, and did not
ask Diana to send for more, until David left the music stool.
Then Diana reminded her chaperon of an engagement she had at Eversleigh.
"The motor is ordered at half-past two, dear; and be sure you stay to
tea. Never mind if they don't ask you. Just remain until tea appears.
They can but say: '_Must_ you stay? _Can't_ you go?' And they won't do
that, because they are inordinately proud of your presence in their
abode."
Mrs. Vane rose reluctantly, expressing regret that she had unwittingly
made this engagement, and murmuring something about an easy postponement
by telegram.
But Diana was firm. Such a disappointment must not be inflicted upon any
family on Boxing-day. It could not be contemplated for a moment.
Mrs. Marmaduke Vane took David's hand in both her plump ones, and patted
it, kindly.
"Good-bye, my dear Mr. Rivers," she said with _empressement_. "And I
hope you will have a quite delightful time in Central Africa. And mind,"
she added archly, "if Diana decides to come out and see you there, _I_
shall accompany her."
Honest dismay leapt into David's eyes.
"It is no place for women," he said, helplessly. Then looked at Diana.
"I assure you, Miss Rivers, it is no place for women."
"Never fear, Cousin David," laughed Diana. "You have fired Mrs. Vane
with a desire to rough it; but I do not share her ardour, and she could
not start without me. Could you, Chappie dear? Good-bye. Have a good
time."
She turned to the fire, with an air of dismissal, and pushed a log into
place with her toe.
David opened the door, waited patiently while Mrs. Vane hoarsely
whispered final farewell pleasantries; then closed it behind her portly
back.
When he returned to the hearthrug, Diana was still standing gazing
thoughtfully into the fire, one arm on the mantel-piece.
"Oh, the irony of it!" she said, without looking up. "She hopes you will
have a quite delightful time; and, as a matter of fact, you are going
out to die! Cousin David, do you _really_ expect never to return?"
"In all probability," said David, "I shall never see England again.
They tell me I cannot possibly live through another five years out
there. They think two, or at most three, will see me through. Who can
tell? I shall be grateful for three."
"Do you consider it right, deliberately to sacrifice a young life, and a
useful life, by returning to a place which you know must cost that life?
Why not seek another sphere?"
"Because," said David, quietly, "my call is there. Some one must go; and
who better than one who has absolutely no home-ties; none to miss or
mourn him, but the people for whom he gives his life? It is all I have
to give. I give it gladly."
"Let us sit down," said Diana, "just as we sat last night, in those
quiet moments before the motor came round. Only now, I can talk--and,
oh, Cousin David, I have so much to say! But first I want you to tell
me, if you will, all about yourself. Begin at the beginning. Never mind
how long it takes. We have the whole afternoon before us, unless you
have anything to take you away early."
She motioned him to an easy chair, and herself sat on the couch, leaning
forward in her favourite attitude, her elbow on her knee, her chin
resting in the palm of her hand. Her grey eyes searched his face. The
firelight played on her soft hair.
"Begin at the beginning, Cousin David," she said.
"There is not much to tell of my beginnings," said David, simply. "My
parents married late in life. I was their only child--the son of their
old age. My home was always a little heaven upon earth. They were not
well off; we only had what my father earned by his practice, and village
people are apt to be slack about paying a doctor's bills. But they made
great efforts to give me the best possible education; and, a generous
friend coming to their assistance, I was able to go to Oxford." His eyes
glowed. "I wish you could know all that that means," he said; "being
able to go to Oxford."
"I can imagine what it would mean--to you," said Diana.
"While I was at Oxford, I decided to be ordained; and, almost
immediately after that decision, the call came. I held a London curacy
for one year, but, as soon as I was priested, by special leave from my
Bishop, and arrangement with my Vicar, I went out to Africa. During the
year I was working in London, I lost both my father and my mother."
"Ah, poor boy!" murmured Diana. "Then you had no one."
David hesitated. "There was Amy," he said.
Diana's eyelids flickered. "Oh, there was 'Amy.' That might mean a good
deal. Did 'Amy' want to go out to Central Africa?"
"No," said David; "nor would I have dreamed of taking her there. Amy and
I had lived in the same village all our lives. We had been babies
together. Our mothers had wheeled us out in a double pram. We were just
brother and sister, until I went to college; and then we thought we were
going to be--more. But, when the call came, I knew it must mean
celibacy. No man could take a woman to such places. I knew, if I
accepted, I must give up Amy. I dreaded telling her. But, when at last I
plucked up courage and told her, Amy did not mind very much, because a
gentleman-farmer in the neighbourhood was wanting to marry her. Amy was
very pretty. They were married just before I sailed. Amy wanted me to
marry them. But I could not do that."
Diana looked at the thin sensitive face.
"No," she said; "you could not do that."
"I thought it best not to correspond during the five years," continued
David, "considering what we had been to one another. But when I was
invalided home, I looked forward, in the eager sort of way you do when
you are very weak, to seeing Amy again. I had no one else. As soon as I
could manage the journey, I went down--home; and--and called at Amy's
house. I asked for Mrs. Robert Carsdale--Amy's married name. A very
masculine noisy lady, whom I had never seen before, walked into the room
where I stood awaiting Amy. She had just come in from hunting, and
flicked her boot with her hunting-crop as she asked me what I wanted. I
said: "I have called to see Mrs. Robert Carsdale." She said: "Well? I am
Mrs. Robert Carsdale," and stared at me, in astonishment.
"So I asked for Amy. She told me where to--to find Amy, and opened the
hall door. Amy had been dead three years. Robert Carsdale had married
again. I found Amy's grave, in our little churchyard, quite near my own
parents'. Also the grave of her baby boy. It was all that was left of
Amy; and, do you know, she had named her little son 'David.'"
"Oh, you poor boy!" said Diana. "You poor, poor boy! But, do you know, I
think Amy in heaven was better for you, than Amy on earth. I don't hold
with marriage. Had you cared very much?"
"Yes, I had cared a good deal," replied David, in a low voice; "but as
a boy cares, I think. Not as I should imagine a man would care. A man
who really cared _could_ not have left her to another man, could he?"
"I don't hold with matrimony," said Diana again; and she said it with
forceful emphasis.
"Nor do I," said David; "and my people out in Africa are all the family
I shall ever know. I faced that out, when I accepted the call. No man
has a right to allow a woman to face nameless horrors and hardships, or
to make a home in a climate where little children cannot live."
"Ah, I do so agree with you!" cried Diana. "I once attended a missionary
meeting where a returned missionary from India told us how she and her
husband had had to send their little daughter home to England when she
was seven years old, and had not seen her again until she was sixteen.
'When we returned to England,' she told the meeting, 'I should not have
known my daughter had I passed her in the street!' And every one thought
it so pathetic, and so devoted. But it seemed to me false pathos, and
unpardonable neglect of primary duties. Who could take that mother's
place to that little child of seven years old? And, from the age of
seven to sixteen, how a girl needs her own mother. What call could come
before that first call--her own little child's need of her? And what do
you think that missionary-lady's work had been? Managing a school for
heathen children! All the time she was giving an account of these
children of other people and her work among them, I felt like calling
out: 'How about your own?' Cousin David, I didn't put a halfpenny in the
plate; and I have hated missionaries ever since!"
"That is not quite just," said David. "But I do most certainly agree
with you, that first claims should come first. And therefore, a man who
feels called to labour where wife and children could not live, must
forego these tender ties, and consider himself pledged to celibacy."
"It is the better part," said Diana.
David made no answer. It had not struck him in that light before. He had
always thought he was foregoing an unknown but an undoubted joy.
A silence fell between them. He was pondering her last remark; she was
considering him, and trying to fathom how much sincerity of conviction,
strength of will, and tenacity of purpose, lay behind that gentle
manner, and straightforward simplicity of character.
Diana was a fearless cross-country rider. She never funked a fence, nor
walked a disappointed horse along, in search of a gap or a gate. But
before taking a high jump she liked to know what was on the other side.
So, while David pondered Diana's last remark, Diana studied David.
At length she said: "Do you remember my first appearance at Brambledene
church, on a Sunday evening, about five weeks ago?"
Yes; David remembered.
"I arrived late," said Diana. "I walked up the church to blasts of
psalmody from that noisy choir."
David smiled. "You were never late again," he said.
"Mercy, no!" laughed Diana. "You gave one the impression of being the
sort of person who might hold up the entire service, while one
unfortunate late-comer hurried abashed into her pew. Are many parsons so
acutely conscious of the exact deportment of each member of their
congregations?"
"I don't know," answered David. "I suppose the keen look-out one has to
keep for unexpected and sometimes dangerous happenings, at all
gatherings of our poor wild people, has trained one to it. I admit, I
would sooner see the glitter of an African spear poised in my direction
from behind a tree trunk, than see Mrs. Smith nudge her husband, in
obvious disagreement with the most important point in my sermon."
"Well," continued Diana, "I came. And what do you think brought me?"
David had no suggestion to make as to what had brought Diana.
"Why, after you had come down for an interview with my god-father and
spent a night at the Rectory, I motored over to see him, just before he
went for his cure. He told me all about you; and, among other things,
that you were going back knowing that the climate out there could only
mean for you a very few years of life; and I came to church because I
wanted to see a man whose religion meant more to him than even life
itself--I, who rated life and health as highest of all good; most
valuable of all possessions.
"I came to _see_--wondering, doubting, incredulous. I stayed to
_listen_--troubled, conscience-stricken, perplexed. First, I believed in
_you_, Cousin David. Then I saw the Christ-life in you. Then I longed to
have what you had--to find Him myself. Yesterday, He found me. To-day, I
can humbly, trustfully say: 'I know Whom I have believed, and am
persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
against that day.' I am far from being what I ought to be; my life just
now is one tangle of perplexities; but the darkness is over, and the
true light now shineth. I hope, from this time onward, to be a follower
of the Star."
"I thank God," said David Rivers.
"And now," continued Diana, after a few moments of happy silence, "I am
going to burden you, Cousin David, with a recital of my difficulties;
and I am going to ask your advice. Let me tell you my past history, as
shortly as possible.
"This dear old place is my childhood's home. My earliest recollection is
of living here with my mother and my grandfather. My father, Captain
Rivers, who was heir to the whole property, died when I was three years
old. I barely remember him. The property was entailed on male heirs, and
failing my father, it came to a younger brother of my grandfather, a
great-uncle of mine, a certain Falcon Rivers, who had fallen out with
most of his relations, gone to live in America, and made a large fortune
out there. My grandfather and my mother never spoke of Uncle Falcon, and
I remember, as a child, having the instinctive feeling that even to
think of Uncle Falcon was an insidious form of sin. It therefore had its
attractions. I quite often thought of Uncle Falcon!
"Toward the close of his life, my grandfather became involved in money
difficulties. Much of the estate was mortgaged. I was too young and
heedless to understand details, but it all resulted in this: that when
my grandfather died, he was unable to leave much provision for my
mother, or for me. We had to turn out of Riverscourt; Uncle Falcon was
returning to take possession. So we went to live in town, on the merest
pittance, and in what, after the luxuries to which I had always been
accustomed, appeared to me abject poverty. I was then nineteen. My
mother, who had been older than my father, was over fifty.
"Then followed two very hard years. Uncle Falcon wrote to my mother; but
she refused to see him, or to have any communication with him. She would
not show me his letter. We were absolutely cut off from the old home,
and all our former surroundings. Once or twice we heard, in roundabout
ways, how much Uncle Falcon's wealth was doing for the old place.
Mortgages were all paid off; tumbled-down cottages were being rebuilt;
the farms were put into proper order, and let to good tenants. American
money has a way of being useful, even in proud old England.
"Any mention of all this, filled my mother with an extreme bitterness,
to which I had not then the key, and which I completely failed to
understand.
"One morning, at breakfast, she received an envelope, merely containing
a thin slip of paper. Her beautiful face--my mother was a very lovely
woman--went, as they say in story-books, whiter than the table-cloth.
She tore the paper across, and across again, and flung the fragments
into the fire. They missed the flames, and fluttered down into the
fender. I picked them up, and, right before her, pieced them together.
It was a cheque from Uncle Falcon for a thousand pounds. 'Oh, Mamma
dear!' I said. I was so tired of running after omnibuses, and pretending
we liked potted meat lunches.
"She snatched the fragments out of my fingers, and dropped them into the
heart of the fire.
"'Anyway, it was kind of Uncle Falcon,' I said.
"'Do not mention his name,' cried my mother, with white lips; and I
experienced once more the fascination of the belief, which had been mine
in childhood, that Uncle Falcon, and the Prince of Darkness, were
somehow akin.
"To cut a long story short, at the end of those two hard years, my
mother died. A close friend of ours was matron in the Hospital of the
Holy Star--ah, yes, how curious! I had forgotten the name--a beautiful
little hospital in the Euston Road, supported by private contributions.
She accepted me for training. I found the work interesting, and soon
got on. You may have difficulty in believing it, Cousin David, but I
make a quite excellent nurse. I studied every branch, passed various
exams., looked quite professional in my uniform, and should have been a
ward Sister before long--when the letter came, which again changed my
whole life.
"It was from Uncle Falcon! He had kept himself informed of my movements
through our old family lawyer, Mr. Inglestry, who, during those years,
had never lost sight of poor mamma, nor of me. I can remember Uncle
Falcon's letter, word for word.
"'My Dear Niece,' he wrote, 'I am told you are by now a duly qualified
hospital nurse. My body is in excellent health, but my brain--which I
suppose I have worked pretty strenuously--has partially given way; with
the result that my otherwise healthy body is more or less helpless on
the right side. My doctor tells me I must have a trained nurse; not in
constant attendance--Heaven protect the poor woman, if _that_ were
necessary!--but somewhere handy in the house, in case of need.
"'Now why should I be tended in my declining years, by a stranger, when
my own kith and kin is competent to do it? And why should I bring a
stray young woman to this beautiful place, when the girl whose rightful
home it is, might feel inclined to return to it?
"'I hear from old What's-his-name, that you bear no resemblance whatever
to your father, but are the image of what your mother was, at your age.
That being the case, if you like to come home, my child, I will make
your life as pleasant as I can, for her sake.
"'Your affectionate unknown uncle,
"'FALCON RIVERS.'
"Well--I went.
"I arrived in uniform, not sure what my standing was to be in the house,
but thankful to be back there, on any terms, and irresistibly attracted
by the spell of Uncle Falcon.
"Our own old butler opened the door to me. I nearly fell upon his neck.
The housekeeper, who had known me from infancy, took me up to my room.
They wept and laughed, and seemed to look upon my uniform as one of Miss
Diana's pranks--half funny, half naughty. Truth to tell, I did feel
dressed up, when I found myself inside the old hall again.
"In twenty-four hours, Cousin David, I was installed as the daughter of
the house.
"Of Uncle Falcon's remarkable personality, there is not time to tell
you now. We took to each other at once, and, before long, he felt it
right to put away, at my request, the one possible cause of
misunderstanding there might have been between us, by telling me the
true reason of his alienation from home, and his breach with my
grandfather and my parents.
"Uncle Falcon was ten years younger than my grandfather. My mother, then
a very lovely woman, in the perfection of her beauty, was ten years
older than my father, a young subaltern just entering the army. My
mother was engaged to Uncle Falcon, who loved her with an intensity of
devotion, such as only a nature strong, fiery, rugged as his, could
bestow.
"During a visit to Riverscourt, shortly before the time appointed for
her marriage to Uncle Falcon, then a comparatively poor man with no
prospects--my mother met my father. My father fell in love with her, and
my mother jilted Uncle Falcon in order to marry the young heir to the
house and lands of Riverscourt. Poor mamma! How well I could understand
it, remembering her love of luxury, and of all those things which go
with an old country place and large estates. Uncle Falcon never spoke to
her again, after receiving the letter in which she put an end to their
engagement; but he had a furious scene with my grandfather, who had
connived at the treachery toward his younger brother; and then
horsewhipped the young subaltern, in his father's presence.
"Shortly afterwards, he sailed for America, and never returned.
"Then--oh, irony of fate! After three years of married life, the young
heir died, without a son, and Uncle Falcon stood to inherit Riverscourt,
as the last in the entail.
"Meanwhile everything he touched had turned to gold, and he only waited
my grandfather's decease to return as master to the old home, with the
large fortune which would soon restore it to its pristine beauty and
grandeur.
"How well I could now understand my grandfather's silent fury, and my
mother's remorseful bitterness! By her own infidelity, she had made
herself the _niece_ of the man whose wife she might have been, and whose
wealth, position, and power would all have been laid at her feet. Also,
I am inclined to think she had not been long in realising and regretting
the treasure she had lost, in the love of the older man. I always knew
mamma had few ideals, and no illusions. Many of my own pronounced views
on the vital things in life are the product of her disillusionising
philosophy. Poor mamma! Oh, Cousin David, I see it hurts you each time
I say '_poor_ mamma'! Yet you cannot know what it means, when one's
kindest thoughts of one's mother must needs be prefixed by the adjective
'poor.' Yes, I know it is a sad state of things when pity must be called
in to soften filial judgment. But then life is full of these sad things,
isn't it? Anyway I have found it so. Had my mother left me one single
illusion regarding men and marriage, I might not now find myself in the
difficult position in which I am placed to-day.
"However, for one thing I have always been thankful--one hour when I can
remember my mother with admiration and respect: that morning at
breakfast, in our humble suburban villa, when she tore up and flung to
the flames Uncle Falcon's cheque for a thousand pounds.
"A close intimacy, and a deep, though undemonstrative, affection, soon
arose between Uncle Falcon and myself. His life-long fidelity to his
love for my mother seemed to transfer itself to me, and to be at last
content in having found an object. My every wish was met and gratified.
He insisted upon allowing me a thousand a year, merely as pocket-money,
while still defraying all large expenses for me, himself. Hunters,
dogs, everything I could wish, were secured and put at my disposal. His
last gift to me was the motor-car which brought you here to-day.
"His sense of humour was delightful; his shrewd keen judgment of men and
things, instructive and entertaining. But--he had one peculiarity. So
sure was he of his own discernment, and so accustomed to bend others to
his iron will, that if one held a different view from his and ventured
to say so, he could never rest until he had won in the argument and
brought one round to his way of thinking. He was never irritable over
the point; he kept his temper, and controlled his tongue. But he never
rested until he had convinced and defeated a mental opponent.
"He and I agreed upon most subjects, but there was one on which we
differed; and Uncle Falcon could never bring himself to let it be. In
spite of his own hard experience and consequent bachelorhood,--perhaps
because of it,--he was an ardent believer in marriage. He held that a
woman was not meant to stand alone; that she missed her proper vocation
in life if she refused matrimony; and that she attained her full
perfection only when the marriage tie had brought her to depend, for her
completion and for her happiness, upon her rightful master--man.
"On the other hand, I, as you may have discovered, Cousin David, regard
the whole idea of marriage with abhorrence. I hold that, as things now
stand in this civilization of ours, a woman's one absolute right is her
right to herself. She is her own inalienable possession. Why should she
give herself up to a man; becoming his chattel, to do with as he
pleases? Why should she lose all right over her own person, her own
property, her own liberty of action and regulation of circumstance? Why
should she change her very name for his? If the two could stand on a
platform of absolute independence and equality, the thing might be
bearable--for some. It would still be intolerable to me! But, as the law
and social usage now stand, marriage is--to the woman--practically
slavery; and, therefore, an unspeakable degradation!"
Diana's eyes flashed; her colour rose; her firm chin seemed more than
ever to be moulded in marble.
David, sole representative of the tyrant man, quailed beneath the lash
of her indictment. He knew Diana was wrong. He felt he ought to say that
marriage was scriptural; and that woman was intended, from the first, to
be in subjection to man. But he had not the courage of his convictions;
nor could he brook the thought of any man attempting to subjugate this
glorious specimen of womanhood, invading her privacy, or in any way
presuming to dispute her absolute right over herself. So he shrank into
his large armchair, and took refuge in silence.
"When I proclaimed my views to Uncle Falcon," continued Diana, "he would
hear me to the end, and then say: 'My dear girl, after the manner of
most women orators, you mount the platform of your own ignorance, and
lay down the law from the depths--or, perhaps I should say, shallows--of
your own absolute inexperience. Get married, child, and you will tell a
different story.'
"Then Uncle Falcon set himself to compass this result, but without
success. However profound might be my inexperience, I knew how to keep
men at arm's length, thank goodness! But, as the happy years went by, we
periodically reverted to our one point of difference. At the close of
each discussion, Uncle Falcon used to say: 'I shall win, Diana! Some day
you will have to admit that I have won.' His eyes used to gleam beneath
his shaggy brows, and I would turn the subject; because I could not give
in, yet I felt it was becoming almost a mania with Uncle Falcon.
"It was the only thing in which I failed to please him. His pride in my
riding, and in anything else I could do, was touching beyond words. He
remodelled the kennels, and financed the hunt in our neighbourhood, on
condition that I was Master.
"One day his speech suddenly became thick and difficult. He sent for Mr.
Inglestry, our old family friend and adviser, and was closeted with him
for over an hour.
"When Mr. Inglestry came out of the library, his face was grave; his
manner, worried.
"'Go to your uncle, Miss Rivers,' he said. 'He has been exciting himself
a good deal, over a matter about which I felt bound to expostulate, and
I think he needs attention.'
"I went into the library.
"Uncle Falcon's eyes were brighter than ever, though his lips twitched.
'I shall win, Diana,' he said. 'Some day you will have to admit that I
have won. You will have to say: "Uncle Falcon, you have won."'
"I knelt down in front of him. 'No other man will ever win me, dear. So
I can say it at once. Uncle Falcon, you have won.'
"'Foolish girl!' he said; then looked at me with inexpressible
affection. 'I w-want you to be happy,' he said. 'I w-want you to be as
h-happy as I would have made Geraldine.'
"Geraldine was my mother.
"On the following day, Uncle Falcon sent for another lawyer, a young man
just opening a practice in Riversmead. He arrived with his clerk, but
only spent a very few minutes in the library, and as we have never heard
from him since, no transaction of importance can have taken place. Mr.
Inglestry had the will and the codicil.
"A few nights later, I was summoned to my uncle's room. He neither spoke
nor moved again; but his eyes were still bright beneath the bushy
eyebrows. He knew me to the end. Those living eyes, in the already dead
body, seemed to say: 'Diana, I shall win.'
"At dawn, the brave, dauntless soul left the body, which had long
clogged it, and launched out into the Unknown. My first conscious prayer
was: that he might not there meet either my father or my mother, but
some noble kindred spirit, worthy of him. Cousin David, you would have
liked Uncle Falcon."
"I am sure I should have," said David Rivers.
"Go into the library," commanded Diana, "the door opposite the
dining-room, and study the portrait of him hanging over the
mantel-piece, painted by a famous artist, two years ago."
David went.
Diana rang, and sent for a glass of water; went to the window, and
looked out; crossed to a mirror, and nervously smoothed her abundant
hair. Hitherto she had been cantering smoothly over open country. Now
she was approaching the leap. She must keep her nerve--or she would find
herself riding for a fall.
"Did you notice his eyes?" she asked, as David sat down again.
"Yes," he answered; "wonderful eyes; bright, as golden amber. You must
not be offended--you would not be, if you could know how beautiful they
were--but the only eyes I ever saw at all like them, belonged to a
_Macacus Cynomolgus_, a little African monkey--who was a great pet of
mine."
"I quite understand," said Diana. "I know the eyes of that species of
monkey. Now, tell me? Did Uncle Falcon's amber eyes say anything to
you?"
"Yes," said David. "It must have been simply owing to all you have told
me. But, the longer I looked at them--the more clearly they said: 'I
shall win.'"
"Well, now listen," said Diana, "if my history does not weary you. When
Mr. Inglestry produced Uncle Falcon's will, he had left everything to
me: Riverscourt, the whole estate, the four livings of which he held the
patronage, and--his immense fortune. Cousin David, I am so rich that I
have not yet learned how to spend my money. I want you to help me. I
have indeed the gift of gold to offer to the King. I wish you to have,
at once, all you require for the church, the schools, the
printing-press, and the boat, of which you spoke. And then, I wish you
to have a thousand a year--two, if you need them--for the current
expenses of your work, and to enable you to have a colleague. Will you
accept this, Cousin David, from a grateful heart, guided by you, led by
the Star, and able to-day to offer it to the King?"
At first David made no reply. He sat quite silent, his head thrown back,
his hands clasping his knee; and Diana knew, as she watched the working
of the thin white face, that he was striving to master an emotion such
as a man hates to show before a woman.
Then he sat up, loosing his knee, and answered very simply:
"I accept--for the King and for His work, Miss Rivers; and I accept on
behalf of my poor eager waiting people out there. Ah, if you could know
how much it means----!" His voice broke.
Diana felt the happy tears welling up into her own eyes.
"And we will call the church," said David, presently, "the Church of the
Holy Star."
"Very well," said Diana. "Then that is settled. You have helped me with
my first gift, Cousin David. Now you must advise and help me about the
second. And, indeed, the possibility of offering the first depends
almost entirely upon the advice you give me about the second. You know
you said the frankincense meant our ideals--the high and holy things in
our lives? Well, my ideals are in sore peril. I want you to advise me as
to how to keep them. Listen! There was a codicil to Uncle Falcon's
will--a private codicil known only to Mr. Inglestry and myself, and only
to be made known a year after his death, to those whom, if I failed to
fulfil its conditions, it might then concern. Riverscourt, and all this
wealth, are mine, only on condition that I am married, within twelve
months of Uncle Falcon's death. He has been dead, eleven."
Diana paused.
"Good God!" said David Rivers; and it was not a careless exclamation. It
was a cry of protest from his very soul. "On condition that you are
married!" he said. "And to whom?"
"No stipulation was made as to that," replied Diana. "But Uncle Falcon
had three men in his mind, all of whom he liked, and each of whom
considers himself in love with me: a famous doctor in London, a
distinguished cleric in our cathedral town, and a distant cousin, Rupert
Rivers, to whom the whole property is to go, if I fail to fulfil the
condition."
David sat forward, with his elbows on his knees, and rumpled his hair
with his hands. Horror and dismay were in his honest eyes.
"It is unbelievable!" he said. "That he should really care for you, and
wish your happiness, and yet lay this burden upon you after his death.
His mind must have been affected when he made that codicil."
"So Mr. Inglestry says; but not sufficiently affected to enable us to
dispute it. The idea of bending me to matrimony, and of forcing me to
admit that it was the better part, had become a monomania with Uncle
Falcon."
David sat with his head in his hands, his look bent upon the floor. Now
that he knew of this cruel condition imposed upon the beautiful girl
sitting opposite to him, he could not bring himself to lift his eyes to
hers. She should be looked at only with admiration and wonder; and now a
depth of pity would be in his eyes. Therefore he kept them lowered.
"So," said Diana, "you see how I am placed. If I refuse to fulfil the
condition, on the anniversary of Uncle Falcon's death we must tell
Rupert Rivers of the codicil; I shall have to hand over everything to
him; leave my dear home, and go back to the life of running after
omnibuses, and pretending to enjoy potted meat lunches! On the other
hand, if--in order to keep my home, my income, all the luxuries I love,
my position in the county, and the influence which I now for the first
time begin to value for the true reason--I marry one of these men, or
one of half a dozen others who would require only the slightest
encouragement to propose to me at once, I fail to keep true to my own
ideals; I practically barter myself and my liberty, in order to keep the
place which is rightfully my own; I sink to the level of the women I
have long despised, who marry for money."
"You must not do that," said David. "Nay, more; you _could_ not do that.
But is not your Cousin Rupert a man whom you might learn to love; a man
you could marry for the real reasons?"
Diana laughed, bitterly.
"Cousin David," she said, "shortly before grandpapa died, I was engaged
to Rupert Rivers for a fortnight. At the end of that time I loathed my
own body. Young as I was, and scornfully opposed by my mother, I took
matters into my own hands, and broke off the engagement."
David looked perplexed.
"It should not have had that effect upon you," he said, slowly. "I don't
know much about it, but it seems to me that a man's love and worship
should tend to make a woman reverence her own body, and regard her
beauty in a new light, because of his delight in it. I remember--" a
sudden flush suffused David's pale cheeks, but he brought forth his
reminiscence bravely, for Diana's sake: "I remember kissing Amy's hand
the evening before I first went to college, and she wrote and told me
that for days afterwards that hand had seemed unlike the other, and
whenever she looked at it she remembered that I had kissed it."
Diana's laughter was in her eyes. She did not admit it to her voice. She
felt very much older, at that moment, than David Rivers.
"Oh, you dear boy!" she said. "What can you, with your Amy and your
Africans, know of such men as Rupert, or the doctor, or even--even the
church dignitary? _You_ would love a woman's soul, and cherish her body
because it contained it. _They_ make one feel that nothing else matters
much, so long as one is beautiful. And after having been looked at by
them for a little while, one feels inclined to smash one's mirror."
David lifted quiet eyes to hers. They seemed deep wells of childlike
purity; yet there was fire in their calm depths.
"When you _are_ so beautiful," he said, simply, "you can't blame a man
for thinking so, when he looks at you."
Diana laughed, blushing. She was surfeited with compliments; yet this of
David's, so unpremeditated, so impersonal, pleased her more than any
compliment had ever pleased her.
But, in an instant, she was grave again. Momentous issues lay before
her. Uncle Falcon had been dead eleven months.
"Then would you advise me to marry, and thus retain the property?" she
suggested.
"God forbid!" cried David. "That you should be compelled to leave here,
seems intolerable; but it would be infinitely more intolerable that you
should make a loveless marriage. Give up all, if needs must, but--keep
your ideals."
Diana glanced at him, from beneath half-lifted lids.
"That will mean, Cousin David, that you cannot have the money for your
church, your school, your printing-press, and your steam-launch; nor the
yearly income for current expenses."
Now, curiously enough, David had not thought of this. His mind had been
completely taken up with the idea of Diana running after omnibuses and
lunching cheaply on potted meat.
The great disappointment now struck him with full force; but he did not
waver for an instant.
"How could I build the Church of the Holy Star on the proceeds of your
lost ideals?" he said. "If my church is to be built, the money will be
found in some other way."
"There _is_ another way," said Diana, suddenly.
David looked up, surprised at the forceful decision of her tone.
"What other way is there?" he asked.
Diana rose; walked over to the window and stood looking across the
spacious park, at the pale gold of the wintry sunset.
She was in full view, at last, of her high fence, and did not yet know
what lay beyond it. She headed straight for it; but she rode on the
curb.
She walked back to the fireplace, and stood confronting him; her superb
young figure drawn up to its full height.
Her voice was very quiet; her manner, very deliberate, as she answered
his question.
"I want _you_ to marry me, Cousin David," she said, "on the morning of
the day on which you start for Central Africa."
CHAPTER X
DIANA'S HIGH FENCE
David Rivers sprang to his feet, and faced Diana.
"I cannot do that," he said.
Diana had expected this. She waited a moment, silently; while the
atmosphere palpitated with David's intense surprise.
Then: "Why not, Cousin David?" she asked quietly.
And, as he still stood before her, speechless, "Sit down," she
commanded, "and tell me. Why not?"
But David stood his ground, and Diana realised, for the first time, that
he was slightly taller than herself.
"Why not?" he said. "Why not! Why because, even if I wished--I mean,
even if you wished--even if we both wished for each other--in that
way--Central Africa is no place for a woman. I would never take a woman
there!"
Diana's face flushed. Her white teeth bit sharply into her lower lip.
Her hands clenched themselves suddenly at her sides. The fury of her
eyes flashed full into the blank dismay of his.
Then, with a mighty effort, she mastered her imperious temper.
"My dear Cousin David," she said--and she spoke slowly, seating herself
upon the sofa, and carefully arranging the silken cushions to her
liking: "You totally mistake my meaning. I gave you credit for more
perspicacity. I have not the smallest intention of going to Central
Africa, or of ever inflicting my presence, or my companionship, upon
you. Surely you and I have made it pretty clear to one another that we
are each avowed celibates. But, just because of this--just because we
both have everything to gain, and nothing to lose by such an
arrangement--just because we so completely understand one another--I can
say to you--as frankly as I would say: 'Cousin David, will you oblige me
by witnessing my signature to this document?'--'Cousin David, will you
oblige me by marrying me on the morning of the day upon which you return
to Central Africa?' Do you not see that by doing so, you take no burden
upon yourself, yet you free me at once from the desperate plight in
which I am placed by Uncle Falcon's codicil? You enable me to give the
gold and the frankincense, and you yourself have told me over and over,
that you never expect to return to England."
David's young face paled and hardened.
"I see," he said. "So _I_ am to provide the myrrh! I could not promise
to die, for certain, you know. I might pull through, and live, after
all; which would be awkward for you."
This was the most human remark she had, as yet, heard from David; but
the bitterness of his tone brought the tears to Diana's eyes. She had
not realised how much her proposal would hurt him.
"Dear Cousin David," she said, with extreme gentleness; "God grant
indeed that you may live, and spend many years in doing your great work.
But you told me you had nothing to bring you back to England, and that
you felt you were leaving it now, never to return. It was not _my_
suggestion. And don't you see, that if you help me thus, you will also
be helping your poor African people; because it will mean that you can
have your church, and your schools, and all the other things you need,
and a yearly income for current expenses?"
"So these were all bribes," cried David, and his eyes flamed down into
hers--"bribes to make me do this thing! And you called them gifts for
the King!"
Diana flushed. The injustice of this was hard to bear. But the indignant
pain in his voice helped her to reply with quiet self-control.
"Cousin David, I am sorry you think that of me. It is quite unjust. Had
there been no codicil to my uncle's will, every penny I hope to offer
for your work would have been gladly, freely, offered. Since I knew that
my gold could be useful in helping you to bring light into that
darkness, the thought has been one of pure joy. Oh, Cousin David, say
'no' to my request, if you like, but don't wrong me by misjudging the
true desire of my heart to bring my gifts, all unworthy though they be.
Remember you stand for the Christ to me, Cousin David; and He was never
unjust to a woman."
David's face softened; but instantly hardened again, as a fresh thought
struck him.
"Was this plan--this idea--in your mind," he demanded, "on that Sunday
night when you first came to Brambledene Church?" Then, as Diana did not
answer: "Oh, good heavens!" he cried, vehemently; "say it wasn't! My
Lady of Mystery! Say you came to worship, and that all this was an
after-thought!"
Diana's clear eyes met his. They did not flinch, though her lips
trembled.
"I cannot lie to you, Cousin David," she said, bravely. "I had heard you
were never coming back--it seemed a possible way out--it seemed my last
hope. I--I came--to see if you were a man I could trust."
David groaned; looked wildly round the room, as if for a way of escape;
then sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
"I cannot do it, Miss Rivers," he said. "It would be making a mockery of
God's most holy ordinance of matrimony--to wed you in the morning,
knowing I should leave you forever in the afternoon. How could I
promise, in the presence of God, to love, comfort, honour and keep you?
The whole thing would be a sacrilege."
He lifted a haggard face, looking at her with despairing eyes.
Diana smiled softly into them. A moment before, she had expected to see
him leave the room and the house, forever. That he should sit down and
discuss the matter, even to prove the impossibility of acceding to her
request, seemed, in some sort, a hopeful sign. She held his look while
she answered.
"Dear Cousin David, why should it be a mockery? Let us consider it
reasonably. Surely, in the best and highest of senses, it might be
really _rather_ true. I know you don't love me; but--you do _like_ me a
little, don't you?"
"I like you very much indeed," said David, woefully; and then, all of a
sudden, they both laughed. The rueful admission had sounded so funny.
"Why of course I like you," said David, with conviction; "better than
any one else I know. But----"
He paused; looked at her, helplessly, and hesitated.
"I quite understand," said Diana, quickly. "_Like_ is not _love_; but in
many cases 'like' is much better than 'love,' to my thinking. I know a
very Christian old person, whom I once heard say: 'We are commanded in
the Bible to love the brethren. I always _love_ the brethren, though I
cannot always _like_ them.' Now I had much rather you liked me, and
didn't love me, Cousin David, than that you loved me, and didn't like
me! Wouldn't you?
"And remember how St. John began one of his epistles: 'The Elder unto
the well belovèd Gaius, whom I love in the truth.' I am sure, if you had
occasion to write to me, and began: 'David, unto the well belovèd Diana,
whom I love in the truth,' no one could consider it an ordinary
love-letter, and yet it would answer the purpose. Wouldn't it, Cousin
David?"
David laughed again, in spite of his desire to maintain an attitude of
tragic protest. And, as he laughed, his face grew less haggard, and his
eyes regained their normal expression of steadfast calm.
Diana hurried on.
"So much for love. Now what comes next? Comfort? Ah, the comfort you
would bring into my life! Comfort of body; comfort of mind; the daily,
hourly, constant comfort wrought by the solving of this dark problem.
And then--'honour.' Why, you can honour a woman as much by your thought
of her at a distance, as by any word or action in her presence. Not that
I feel worthy of honour from such a man as you, Cousin David. Yet I know
you would honour all women, and all women worth anything, would try to
deserve it. What comes next? Keep? Oh, what could be a truer form of
keeping, than to keep me from a lowering marriage, on the one hand; or
from poverty, and all the ups and downs of strenuous London life, on the
other; to keep me in the entourage of my childhood's lovely home? It
seems to me, Cousin David, that you would be doing more 'keeping' for me
than falls to the lot of most men to do for the girls they marry. And,
best of all, you would be keeping me true to the purest, highest
ideals."
David's elbows had found his knees again. He rumpled his hair,
despairingly.
"Miss Rivers," he said, "I admit the truth of all you say. I would
gladly do anything to be--er--useful to you, under these difficult
circumstances; anything _right_. But could it be right to go through the
solemn marriage service, without having the slightest intention of
fulfilling any of the causes for which matrimony was ordained? And could
it be right for a man to take upon himself solemn obligations with
regard to a woman; and, a few hours later, leave her, never to return?"
"It seems to me," said Diana, "that the cause for our marriage would be
a more important and vital one than most of those mentioned in the
Prayer-book. And, as to the question of leaving me--why, before the Boer
war, several friends of mine married their soldiers on the eve of their
departure for the front, simply because if they were going out to die,
they wished the privilege of being their widows."
David's eyes softened.
"That was love," he said.
"Not in every case. I know a girl who married an old Sir Somebody on the
morning of the day his regiment sailed, making sure he would be killed
in his first engagement; he offered such a vast, expansive mark for the
Boer sharpshooters. She wished to be Lady So-and-So, with a delicate
halo of tragic glory, and no encumbrance. But back he came unscathed,
and stout as ever--he did not even get enteric! They have lived a cat
and dog life, ever since."
"Abominable!" said David. "I hate hearing such stories."
"Well, are not our motives better? And are they not better than scores
of the loveless marriages which are taking place every day?"
"Other people's wrong, does not constitute our right," said David,
doggedly.
"I know that," she answered, with unruffled patience; "but I cannot see
any wrong in what we propose to do. We may be absolutely faithful to one
another, though continents divide us. I should most probably continue
faithful if you were on another planet. We can be a mutual help and
comfort the one to the other, by our prayers and constant thought, and
by our letters; for surely Cousin David, we should write to one
another--occasionally? Is not our friendship worth something?"
"It is worth everything," said David, "except wrong doing. Look here!"
he exclaimed suddenly, rising to his feet. "I must go right away, by
myself, and think this thing over, for twenty-four hours. At the end of
that time I shall have arrived at a clear decision in my own mind. Then,
if you do not object, and can allow me another day, I will run up to
town, and lay the whole matter--of course without mentioning your
name--before the man whose judgment I trust more than that of any man I
know. If he agrees with me, my own opinion will be confirmed; and if he
differs----"
"You will still adhere to your own opinion," said Diana, with a wistful
little smile.
She rang the bell.
"I am beginning to know you pretty well, Cousin David.--The dogcart,
Rodgers.--Who is this Solon?"
"A London physician, who has given me endless care, refusing all fees,
because of my work, and because my father was a doctor. Also he gives a
more hopeful report than any."
"Really? Does he think you will stand the climate after all?"
David smiled. "He gives me a possible three years, under favourable
circumstances. The other people give me two, perhaps only one."
"I think you must tell me his name. He may be my undesirable suitor!"
"Hardly," said David. "He has a charming wife of his own, and two little
children. But of course I will tell you who he is."
David named a name which brought a flush of pleasure to Diana's face.
"Why, I know him well. He is honourary consulting physician to our
Hospital of the Star, and is constantly called in when we have specially
interesting or baffling cases. You couldn't go to a better man. Tell him
everything if you like--my name, and all. He is absolutely to be
trusted. But--Cousin David--" They heard the horse's hoofs on the drive,
and she rose and faced him--"Ah, do remember, how much this means to me!
Don't make an abstract case of it, when you consider it alone. Don't
dissolve it from its intensely personal connection with you and me. We
are so unlike ordinary people. We are both alone in the world. Your
work is so much to you. We could make your--your _three_ years so
gloriously fruitful. You would leave such a strongly established church
behind you, and I would go on supporting it. My home is so much to me;
and I am just beginning to understand the influence I possess. Think if,
as these four livings become vacant, I can put in really earnest men.
Think of the improvements I could make in the condition of the villages.
At present I have been able to do so little, because Mr. Inglestry is
holding back as much as possible of this year's income, to which I have
any way the right, in order to buy me a small annuity when I lose all.
For, let me tell you frankly, Cousin David, if you cannot do as I ask,
that is what it will mean. I have no intention whatever of selling my
body into slavery, or my soul to hopeless degradation, by marrying
Rupert Rivers, or any of the others. I lose all, if you say 'no'; and I
lose it on the Feast of the Star. At the same time, ah, God knows, I do
not want to do wrong! Nor do I want to urge you to do violence to your
own conscience. You know that?"
David took her hand, holding it very firmly in his.
"I know that," he said; "and I think you can trust me, Miss Rivers, not
to forget how much it means to us both. If it meant more, there could be
no doubt. If it meant less, there would be no question. It is because it
means exactly what it does mean, that the situation is so difficult. I
believe light will soon come; and when it comes, it will come clearly. I
think it will come to me to-night. If so, I need not keep you waiting
forty-eight hours. I will go up to town early to-morrow morning, and see
Sir Deryck, if possible, in time to catch the 2.35 for Riversmead. Could
you be here, alone, at that hour to-morrow?"
"I will send to meet the 2.35," said Diana; "and I will be here alone.
Good-bye, Cousin David."
"Good-bye, Miss Rivers."
Diana went into the hall, watched him climb into the dogcart and be
driven rapidly away without looking back.
Then she entered the library, closed and locked the door, and stood on
the hearthrug looking up at the portrait of Falcon Rivers. The amber
eyes seemed to twinkle kindly into hers; but they still said: "I shall
win, Diana."
"Oh, Uncle Falcon," she whispered "was this the way to secure my
happiness? Ah, if you could know the loneliness, the pain, the
humiliation, the shame! To have had to ask this of any man--even of
such a saint as David Rivers. And how cruelly I hurt him, by seeming to
build the whole plan upon the certainty of his death."
Suddenly she broke down under the prolonged strain of the afternoon's
conversation. Kneeling at her uncle's empty chair--where she had so
often knelt, looking up into his kind eyes--she buried her face on her
arms and wept, and wept, until she could weep no longer.
"If only he had cared a little," she whispered between her paroxysms of
sobbing; "not enough to make him troublesome; but enough to make him
pleased to marry me, on any terms. Why was he so indignant and aghast?
It seemed to me quite simple. Well, twenty-four hours of suspense are
less trying than forty-eight. But--what will he decide? Oh, what will he
decide!... Sorry, but you can't come in, Chappie; I am not visible to
any one just now." This in response to a persistent trying of the
handle, and knocking at the door.... "Yes, he went some time ago."...
"Yes, in the dogcart."... "I wish you would not call him _my_
missionary. I am not a heathen nation!"... "No, he did not propose to
me. How silly you are!"... "Oh, I am glad the tea was good. Yes, we will
find out where those tea cakes can be had."... "No; he has not once
called me 'Diana.'"... "Why, 'Miss Rivers' of course! Chappie, if you
don't go away this very moment, I shall take down Uncle Falcon's
shot-gun and discharge both barrels through the panel of the door at the
exact height at which I know your face must be, on the other side!"...
"Of course I can tell by your voice, even had I not heard the plump,
that you are now on your knees. I shall blow out the lower panel."...
"No, I am not communing with spirits, but _you_ soon will be, if you
don't go away!"... "Chappie! In ten seconds, I ring the bell; and when
Rodgers answers it, I shall order him to take you by the arm, and lead
you upstairs!"
As Mrs. Vane rustled indignantly away, and quiet reigned once more,
Diana buried her head again in the seat of the chair. She laughed and
wept, alternately; then cried bitterly: "Ah, it is so lonely--so lonely!
Nobody really cares!"
Then, suddenly she remembered that she could pray--pray, with a new
right of access, to One Who cared, Whose love was changeless; Whose
wisdom was infinite. If _He_ went on before, the way would become clear.
Her morning letters lay on the library table From a pile of Christmas
cards, she drew out one which held a motto for the swiftly coming year.
She breathed it, as a prayer, and her troubled heart grew still.
"Dear Christ, move on before!
Ah, let me follow where Thy feet have trod;
Thus shall I find, 'mid life's perplexities,
The Golden Pathway of the Will of God."
After that, all was peace. In comparative rest of soul, Diana waited
David's answer.
CHAPTER XI
THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT
The fire burned low, in the study grate.
The black marble clock on the mantel-piece had struck midnight, more
slowly and sonorously than it ever sounded the hour by day. Each stroke
had seemed a knell--a requiem to bright hopes and golden prospects; and
now it slowly and distinctly ticked out the first hour of a new day.
Sarah, and her assistants, had long been sleeping soundly, untroubled by
any difficult questions of casuistry.
The one solitary watcher beneath the roof of Brambledene Rectory sat
huddled up in the Rector's large armchair, his elbows on his knees, his
head in his hands.
His little worn Prayer-book had fallen to the floor, unnoticed. He had
been reading the marriage service. The Prayer-book lay on its back, at
his feet, open at the Burial of the Dead, as if in silent suggestion
that that solemn office had an important bearing on the case.
The fire burned low; yet David did not bestir himself to give it any
attention. The hot embers sank together, in the grate, with that sound
of finality which implies no further attempt to keep alight--a
sitting-down under adverse circumstances, so characteristic of human
nature, and so often caused by the absorbed neglect of others.
David had as yet arrived at no definite decision regarding the important
question of marriage with Diana.
He had reviewed the matter from every possible standpoint. Diana had
begged him not to let the question become an impersonal one--not to
consider it as an abstract issue.
There had been little need for that request. Diana's brilliant
personality dominated his whole mental vision, just as the sun, bursting
through clouds, illumines a grey scene, touching and gilding the
heretofore dull landscape, with unexpected glory.
It puzzled David to find that he could not consider his own plans, his
most vital interests, as apart from her. The whole future seemed to
hinge upon whether she were to be happy or disconsolate; surrounded by
the delights of her lovely home, or cast out into the world, alone and
comfortless.
A readjustment had suddenly taken place in his proportionate view of
things. Hitherto, Africa had come first; all else, his own life
included, being a mere background.
Now--DIANA stepped forth, in golden capitals; and all things else
receded, appearing of small importance; all save his sensitive
conscientiousness; his unwavering determination to adhere to the right
and to shun the wrong.
It perplexed David that this should be so. It was an experience so new
that it had not as yet found for itself a name, or formulated an
explanation.
As he sat, wrapt in thought, in the armchair in which he had prepared so
many of his evening sermons, she became once more his Lady of Mystery.
He reviewed those weeks, realising, for the first time, that the thought
of her had never left him; that the desire to win the unawakened soul of
her had taken foremost place in his whole ministry at Brambledene. She
seemed enfolded in silent shadows, from which her grey eyes looked out
at him, sometimes cold, critical, appraising, incredulous; sometimes
anxious, appealing, sorrowful; soft, with unshed tears; sad, with
unspoken longing.
Then--she came to the vestry; and his Lady of Mystery vanished; giving
place to Diana Rivers, imperious, vivid, radiating vitality and
friendliness; and when he realised that it was little more than
forty-eight hours since he had first known her name, he marvelled at the
closeness of the intimacy into which she had drawn him. Yet,
undoubtedly, the way in which she had dominated his mind from the very
first, was now accounted for by the fact that, from the very first, she
had planned to involve him in this scheme for the unravelling of her own
tangled future.
David clenched his hands and battled fiercely with his instinctive anger
against Diana in this matter. It tortured him to remember his wistful
gladness at the appearance of an obviously unaccustomed worshipper, in
the holy place of worship; and later, his sacred joy in the thought that
he was just the Voice sent to bring the message; and, having brought it,
to pass on unrecognised. Yet, all the while, he had been the tool she
intended using to gain her own ends; while the most sacred thing in his
whole life, was the fact, which, chancing to become known to her, had
led her to pounce upon him as a suitable instrument. As priest and as
man, David felt equally outraged. Yet Diana's frank confession had been
so noble in its truthfulness, at a moment when a less honourable nature
would have been sorely tempted to prevaricate, that David had instantly
matched it with a forgiveness equally noble, and now fought back the
inclination to retrospective wrath.
But the present situation must be faced. She was asking him to do this
thing.
Could he refuse? Could he leave England knowing he had had it in his
power to do her so great a service, to make the whole difference in her
future life, to rid her of odious obligations, to right an obvious
wrong--and yet, he had refused? Could he sail for Africa, leaving Diana
homeless; confronted by hardships of all kinds; perhaps facing untold
temptations? The beautiful heiress, in her own ancestral home, could
keep Rupert Rivers at arm's length, if she chose. But if Rupert Rivers
reigned at Riverscourt; if all she held so dear, and would miss so
overwhelmingly, were his; if, under these circumstances, he set himself
to win the hospital nurse----?
David clenched his cold hands and ground his teeth; then paused amazed,
to wonder at himself.
Why should it fill him with impotent fury, to contemplate the
possibility of any man winning and subjugating Diana? Had she infected
him with her own irrational and exaggerated views?
The more he thought over it, the more clearly he realised that this
thing she asked of him would undoubtedly bring good--infinite good--to
herself; to the many dependants on the Riverscourt estate; to the
surrounding villages, where, as each living became vacant, she would
seek to place earnest men, true preachers of the Word, faithful tenders
of the flock. It would bring untold good to his own poor waiting people,
in that dark continent, eagerly longing for more light. To all whom his
voice could sway, whom her money could benefit, whom their united
efforts could reach, this step would mean immeasurable gain. Nobody
walked the earth whom it could wrong. He recalled, with unexpected
clearness of detail, a lengthy account of Rupert Rivers, given him in
that very room by his garrulous host, during the only evening they spent
together. At the time it had made no impression upon an intentionally
inattentive mind; but now it came up from his subconsciousness, and
provided him with important information. If Mr. Goldsworthy's facts were
correct, Rupert Rivers already possessed more money than was good for
him, and lived the life of a gay spendthrift, having chambers in town,
a small shooting-box in Scotland; much of his time being spent abroad,
flitting from scene to scene, and from pleasure to pleasure, with
absolutely no sense of responsibility, and no regard for the welfare of
others. His one redeeming point appeared to be: that he wanted to marry
Diana. But that was not to be thought of.
Again David's hands clenched, painfully. Why was it such sudden fierce
agony to contemplate Diana as the wife of Rupert Rivers? That bewildered
question throbbed unanswered into the now chilly room.
Yes, undoubtedly, it would mean untold gain to many; loss to none. But
no sooner did his mind arrive at the possibility of agreeing to Diana's
suggestion, than up rose, and stalked before him, the spectre of
mockery; the demon of unreality; the ghastly horror, to the mind of the
earnest priest, of having to stand before God's altar, there to utter
solemn words, under circumstances which would make of those words a
hollow mockery, an impious unreality. The position would be different,
had he but a warrant for believing that any conditions could justify
him, in the sight of God, in entering into the holy bond of marriage for
reasons other than those for which matrimony was ordained.
For a moment, a way out of the difficulty had suggested itself, in the
registry-office; but he had not harboured the thought for many seconds.
An act which could not face the light of God's holy church, most
certainly could not stand in the light of the judgment day.
* * * * *
The Rector's black marble clock struck one.
David shivered. One hour had already passed of the day on which he had
promised to give Diana his decision; yet, after hours of deliberation,
he was no nearer arriving at any definite conclusion.
"My God," he prayed, "give me light. Ah, give me a clear unmistakable
revelation of Thy will!"
* * * * *
The hours from one to two, and from two to three, are apt to hold
especial terrors for troubled souls--for lonely watchers, keeping vigil.
This is the time of earth's completest silence, and the sense of the
nearness of the spirit-world seems able to make itself more intimately
felt.
The cheerful cock has not yet bestirred himself to crow; the dawn has
made no rift in the heavy blackness of the sky.
The Prince of Darkness invades the world, unhindered. The Hosts of
Light stand by, with folded wings; their glittering swords close
sheathed. "This is your hour, and the hour of darkness." Murder,
robbery, lust, and every form of sin, lift their heads, unafraid.
Christian souls, waking, shudder in nameless fear; then whisper:
"Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings,
Beneath Thine Own almighty wings!"
and sleep again, in peace.
* * * * *
Next comes the coldest hour--the hour before the dawn. This is the hour
of passing souls. Death, drawing near, enters unchecked; and, ere the
day breaks and busy life begins to stir again, the souls he has come to
fetch, pass out with him; and weary watchers close the eyes which will
never see another sunrising, and fold the hands whose day's work in the
world is over.
All life, in this hour, is at its lowest ebb.
* * * * *
From one to two, David prayed: "Give me light! Oh, my God, give me
light!"
Evil thoughts, satanic suggestions, diabolic whisperings, swarmed around
him, but failed to force an entrance into the guarded garrison of his
mind.
The clock struck two.
* * * * *
The study lamp grew dim, flickered spasmodically; and, finally, went
out. David reached for matches, and lighted one candle on the table at
his elbow.
He saw his Prayer-book on the floor, picked it up, and glanced at the
open page. "Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy
to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we
therefore commit his body to the ground----"
David smiled. It seemed so simple a solution to all earthly
difficulties:--"we therefore commit his body to the ground." It promised
peace at the last.
Who would read those words, over the forest grave in Central Africa?
Would he be borne, feet foremost, down the aisle of the Church of the
Holy Star--his church and Diana's--or would he be carried straight from
his own hut to the open grave beneath the mighty trees? It would not
matter at all to his wasted body, which it was; but, ah, how much it
would matter to the people he left behind!
"Oh God, give me light--give me light!"
* * * * *
The clock struck three.
The study grate was black. The last red ember had burned itself out.
David shuddered. He was too completely lost to outward things to be
conscious of the cold; but he shuddered in unison with the many passing
souls.
Then a sense of peace stole over his spirit. He lifted his head from his
hands, leaned back in the Rector's armchair, and fell into a light
sleep. He was completely exhausted, in mind and body.
"Send me light, my Lord," he murmured for the last time; and fell
asleep.
* * * * *
He did not hear the clock strike four; but, a few moments later, he was
awakened by a voice in the silent room, saying, slowly and distinctly,
in tones of sublime tenderness: "Son of man!"
David, instantly wide awake, started up, and sat listening. The solitary
candle failed to illumine the distant corners of the study, but was
reflected several times in the glass doors of the book-cases.
David pushed back his tumbled hair. "Speak again," he said, in tones of
awe and wonder. Then, as his own voice broke the silence, he realised
that the voice which had waked him had not stirred the waves of outward
sound, but had vibrated on the atmosphere of his inner spirit-chamber,
reaching, with intense distinctness, the hearing of his soul. He lay
back, and closed his eyes.
"Son of man!" said the voice again.
This time David did not stir. He listened in calm intentness.
"Son of man," said the low tender tones again; "behold, I take away from
thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke."
Then David knew where he was. He sat up, eagerly; drew the candle close
to him; took out his pocket-Bible; and, turning to the twenty-fourth
chapter of Ezekiel, read the whole passage.
"Son of man, behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with
a stroke: yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep, neither shall thy tears
run down. Forbear to cry, make no mourning for the dead, bind the tire
of thine head upon thee, and put on thy shoes upon thy feet, and cover
not thy lips, and eat not the bread of men.
"So I spake unto the people in the morning; and at even my wife died:
and I did in the morning as I was commanded.
"And the people said unto me: Wilt thou not tell us what these things
are to us, that thou doest so? Then I answered them, The word of the
Lord came unto me saying: Speak unto the house of Israel: Thus saith
the Lord God:... Ezekiel is unto you a sign: according to all that he
hath done, shall ye do; and when this cometh, ye shall know that I am
the Lord.
"Also, thou son of man, shall it not be in the day when I take from them
their strength, the joy of their glory, the desire of their eyes, and
that whereupon they set their minds.... In that day shall thy mouth be
opened,... and thou shalt speak ... and thou shalt be a sign unto them;
and they shall know that I am the Lord."
* * * * *
As David read this most touching of all Old Testament stories, his mind
was absorbed at first in the tragedy of the simply told, yet vivid
picture. The young prophet, standing faithfully at his post, preaching
to a stiff-necked, hard-hearted people, though knowing, all the while,
how rapidly the shadow of a great sorrow was drawing near unto his own
heart and home. The Desire of his eyes--how tenderly that described the
young wife who lay dying at home. He who knoweth the hearts of men, knew
she was just that to him. Each moment of that ebbing life was precious;
yet the young preacher must remain and preach; he must yield to no
anguish of anxiety; he must show no sign of woe. Throughout that long
hard day, he stood the test. And then--in the grand unvarnished
simplicity of Old Testament tragedy--he records quite simply: "And, at
even, my wife died; and I did in the morning, as I was commanded." A
veil is drawn over the night of anguish, but--"I did in the morning, as
I was commanded."
David, as he read, felt his soul attune with the soul of that young
prophet of long ago. He also had had a long night of conflict and of
vigil. He, also, would do in the morning as he was commanded.
Then, suddenly--suddenly--he saw light!
Here was a marriage tie, close, tender, perfect; broken, apparently for
no reason which concerned the couple themselves, for nothing connected
with the causes for which matrimony was ordained; broken simply for the
sake of others; solely in order that the preacher might himself be the
text of his own sermon; standing before the people, bereaved, yet not
mourning; stricken suddenly, all unprepared--in order that he might be a
living sign to all men who should see and question, of Jehovah's
dealings with themselves.
David's mind, accustomed to reason by induction, especially on
theological points, grasped this at once: that if the marriage tie
could be _broken_ by God's direction, for purposes of influence, and for
the sake of bringing good to others, it might equally be _formed_ for
the same reasons--unselfish, pure, idealistic--without the man and the
woman, who for these causes entered into the tie, finding themselves, in
so doing, outside the Will or the Word of God.
From that moment David never doubted that he might agree to Diana's
proposal.
To many minds would have come the suggestion that the 20th century
differed from ancient times; that the circumstances of the prophet
Ezekiel were probably dissimilar, in all essentials, to his own. But
David had all his life lived very simply by Bible rules. The revealed
Will of God seemed to him to hold good through all the centuries, and to
apply to all circumstances, in all times. His case and Diana's was
unique; and this one instance which, to him, seemed clearly applicable,
at once contented him.
He laid his open Bible beside the candle on the table.
"I shall say 'Yes,'" he said, aloud. "How pleased she will be." He could
see her face, radiant in its fair beauty.
"The Desire of thine eyes." What a perfect description of a man's
absorbing love for a woman. Two months ago, he would not have understood
it; but he remembered now how he used to look forward, all the week, to
the first sight, on Sunday evening, of the sweet face and queenly head
of his Lady of Mystery, in her corner beside the stone pillar. And on
Christmas-eve, when he stood in the snow, under the shadow of the old
lich-gate, while the footman flashed up the lights in the interior of
the car, and her calm loveliness was revealed among the furs. Then these
two days of intimacy had shown him so much of vivid charm in that gay,
perfect face, as she laughed and talked, or hushed into gentle
earnestness. She had talked for so long--he sitting watching her; he
knew all her expressive movements; her ways of turning her head quickly,
or of lowering her eyelids, and hiding those soft clear eyes.
To-day--this very day--he would see her again; and every anxious cloud
would lift, when she heard his decision. Her grateful look would beam
upon him.
"The Desire of thine eyes." Yes; it was a truly Divine description of a
man's----
Suddenly David sprang to his feet.
"My God!" he cried; "I love Diana!"
The revelation was overwhelming in its suddenness. Having resolved upon
a life of celibacy, his mental attitude towards women had never
contemplated the possibility of this. He had stepped fearlessly out into
this friendship, at the call of her need, and of his duty. And now----
He stood quite still in the chill silence of the dimly lighted study,
and faced the fact.
"I--love--Diana! And, in two weeks, I am to wed Diana. And a few hours
afterwards, I am to leave Diana--for ever! 'Son of man, behold I take
away from thee the Desire of thine eyes with a stroke.' To sail for
Central Africa; and never to look upon her face again--the face of my
own wife. 'And at even my wife died.' But my wife will not die," said
David. "Thank God, it is I who bring the offering of myrrh. Because of
this that I can do for her, my wife will live, rich, happy, contented,
useful. Her home, her wealth, her happy life, will be my gift to her.
But--if Diana knew I loved her, she would never accept this service from
me."
David had been pacing the room. He now stood still, leaning his hands on
the table, where glimmered the one candle.
"Can I," he said, slowly, asking himself deliberately the question: "Can
I carry this thing through, without letting Diana suspect how much more
it means to me, than she intends; how much more than it means to her?
Can I wed the Desire of mine eyes in the morning, look my last upon her
in the afternoon, and leave her, without her knowing that I love her?"
He asked himself the question, slowly, deliberately, leaning heavily on
the study table.
Then he stood erect, his head thrown back, his deep eyes shining, and
answered the question with another.
"Is there anything a man cannot do for the woman he loves?" said David
Rivers.
He went to the window, drew back the heavy rep curtains, unbarred the
shutters, and looked out.
There was, as yet, no sign of dawn, but through the frosty pane, right
before him, as a lamp in the purple sky, shone the bright morning star.
Cold though he was, stiff from his long night vigil, David threw up the
window-sash, that he might see the star shine clearly, undimmed by
frosty fronds, traced on the window-pane.
He dropped on one knee, folding his arms upon the woodwork of the sill.
"My God," he said, looking upward, his eyes on the morning star; "I
thank Thee for light; I thank Thee for love; I thank Thee for the
guiding star! I thank Thee, that heavenly love and earthly love can
meet, in one bright radiant Ideal. I thank Thee that, expecting nothing
in return, I love Diana!"
CHAPTER XII
SUSPENSE
"You old flirt!" laughed Diana. "How many more hearts of men do you
contemplate capturing, before you shuffle off this mortal coil? Chappie,
you are a hardened old sinner! However, I suppose if one had committed
matrimony three times already, one would feel able to continue doing so,
with impunity, as many more times as circumstances allowed. Did poor old
Dr. Dapperly actually propose?"
Mrs. Marmaduke Vane smiled complacently, as she put a heaped-up spoonful
of whipped cream into her coffee.
"He made his meaning very clear, my dear Diana," she whispered hoarsely;
"and he held my arm more tightly than was necessary, as he assisted me
to the motor. He remarked that the front steps were slippery; but they
were not. A liberal supply of gravel had been placed upon them."
"Had he been having _much_ champagne?" asked Diana. "Oh, no, I
remember! It was tea, not dinner. One does not require to hold on to
people's arms tightly when going down steps with a liberal supply of
gravel on them, after tea. Chappie dear, congratulations! I think it
must be a case."
"He made his meaning very clear," repeated Mrs. Vane, helping herself to
omelet and mushrooms.
"Isn't it rather hard on god-papa?" inquired Diana, her eyes dancing.
"I have a great respect for Mr. Goldsworthy," whispered Mrs. Vane,
solemnly; "and I should grieve to wound or to disappoint him. But you
see--there was Sarah."
"Ah, yes," said Diana; "of course; there was Sarah. And Sarah has
god-papa well in hand."
"She is an impertinent woman," said Mrs. Vane; "and requires keeping in
her place."
"Oh, what happened?" cried Diana. "Do tell me, Chappie dear!"
But Mrs. Vane shook her head, rattling her bangles as she attacked a
cold pheasant; and declined to tell "what happened."
The morning sun shone brightly in through the oriel window of the
pleasant breakfast-room, touching to gold Diana's shining hair, and
causing the delicate tracery of frost to vanish quickly from the
window-panes.
Breakfast-time, that supreme test of health--mental and physical--always
found Diana radiant. She delighted in the beginning of each new day. Her
vigorous vitality, reinforced by the night's rest, brought her to
breakfast in such overflowing spirits, that Mrs. Vane--who suffered from
lassitude, and never felt "herself" until after luncheon--would often
have found it a trying meal, had she not had the consolations of a
bountiful table, and a boundless appetite.
On this particular morning, however, a more observant person might have
noted a restless anxiety underlying Diana's gaiety. She glanced often at
the clock; looked through her pile of letters, but left them all
unopened; gazed long and yearningly at the wide expanse of snowy park,
and at the leafless arms of ancient spreading trees; drank several cups
of strong coffee, and ate next to nothing.
This was the day which would decide her fate. Before evening she would
know whether this lovely and beloved home would remain hers, or whether
she must lose all, and go out to face a life of comparative poverty.
If David had taken the nine o'clock train he was now on his way to
town, to consult Sir Deryck Brand.
What would be Sir Deryck's opinion? She knew him for a man of many
ideals, holding particularly exalted views of marriage and of the
relation of man to woman. On the other hand, his judgment was clear and
well-balanced; he abhorred morbidness of any kind; his view of the
question would not be ecclesiastical; and his very genuine friendship
for herself would hold a strong brief in her behalf.
No two men could be more unlike one another than David Rivers and Deryck
Brand. They were the two on earth of whom she held the highest opinion.
She trusted both, and knew she might rely implicitly upon the faithful
friendship of either. Yet her heart stood still, as she realised that
her whole future hung upon the conclusion reached in the conversation to
take place, that very morning, between these two men.
She could almost see the consulting room in the doctor's house in
Wimpole Street; the doctor's calm strong face, as he listened intently
to David's statement of the case. There would be violets on the doctor's
table; and his finger-tips would meet very exactly, as he leaned back in
his revolving chair.
David would look very thin and slight, in the large armchair,
upholstered in dark green leather, which had contained so many anxious
bodies, during the process of unfolding and revealing troubled minds.
David would tie himself up in knots, during the conversation. He would
cross one thin leg over the other, clasping the uppermost knee with long
nervous fingers. The whiteness of his forehead would accentuate the
beautiful wavy line of his thick black hair. Sir Deryck would see at
once in his eyes that look of the mystic, the enthusiast; and Sir
Deryck's commonsense would come down like a sledge-hammer! Ah, God grant
it might come down like a sledge-hammer! Yet, if David had made up his
mind, it would take more than a sledge-hammer to bend or to break it.
Mrs. Vane passed her cup for more coffee, as she concluded a detailed
account of all she had had for tea at Eversleigh, the day before. "And
really, my dear Diana," she whispered, "if we could find out where to
obtain those scones, it would give us just cause to look forward every
day, to half-past four o'clock in the afternoon."
"We _will_ find out," cried Diana, gaily. "Who would miss hours of daily
anticipation for lack of a little judicious pumping of the households
of our friends? We have but to instruct my maid to call upon their cook.
The thing is as good as done! You may embark upon your pleasurable
anticipations, Chappie.... If I were as stout as you, dear, I should
take one spoonful of cream, rather than two.... But, as we are
anticipating, tell me: What is to become of me, after I have duly been
bridesmaid at your wedding? I shall have to advertise for a stately but
_plain_ chaperon, who will not be snapped up by all the young sparks of
the neighbourhood."
Mrs. Marmaduke Vane's many chains and necklets tinkled with the upheaval
of her delighted laughter.
"Foo-foolish girl!" she whispered, spasmodically. "Why, of course, you
must get married, too."
"Not I, sir," laughed Diana. "You will not find me importing a lord and
master into my own domain. My liberty is too dear unto me. And who but a
Rivers, should reign at Riverscourt?"
"Marry your cousin, child," whispered Mrs. Vane, hoarsely. "One of your
silly objections to marriage is changing your name. Well--marry your
cousin, child, and remain Diana Rivers."
"Your advice is excellent, dear Chappie. But we must lose no time in
laying your proposition before my cousin. He sails for Central Africa in
ten days."
"Gracious heavens!" cried Mrs. Vane, surprised out of her usual thick
whisper. "I do not mean the thin missionary! I mean Rupert!"
"Rupert, we have many times discussed and dismissed," said Diana. "The
'thin missionary,' as you very aptly call my cousin David, is quite a
new proposition. The idea is excellent and appeals to me. Let us----"
The butler stood at her elbow with a telegram on a salver.
She took it; opened it, and read it swiftly.
"No answer, Rodgers; but I will see Knox in the hall, in five minutes.
Let us adjourn, my dear Chappie. I have a full morning before me; and,
by your leave, I intend spending it in the seclusion of the library. We
shall meet at luncheon."
Diana moved swiftly across the hall, and stood in the recess of a bay
window overlooking the park.
She heard Mrs. Vane go panting and tinkling upstairs, and close the
door of her boudoir. Then she drew David's message from the envelope,
and read it again.
"If convenient kindly send motor for me early this morning. Not going to
town. Consultation unnecessary. Have decided."
Diana screwed the paper and envelope into two little hard balls, between
her strong white fingers.
"_Have decided._" Those two words were rock impregnable, when said by
David Rivers. No cannon of argument; no shrapnel of tears; no battery of
promises or reproaches, would prevail against the stronghold of his
will, if David Rivers had decided that he ought to refuse her request.
It seemed to her that the words, "Consultation unnecessary," implied an
adverse decision; because, had he come round to her view of the matter,
he would have wished it confirmed by Sir Deryck's calm judgment;
whereas, if he had made up his mind to refuse, owing to conscientious
reasons, no contrary opinion, expressed by another, would serve to turn
him from his own idea of right.
Already Diana seemed to be looking her last, on her childhood's lovely
and belovèd home.
She turned from the window as her chauffeur stepped into the hall.
"Knox," she said, "you will motor immediately to Brambledene, to fetch
Mr. Rivers from the Rectory. He wishes to see me on a matter of
business. His time is valuable; so do not lose a moment."
The automaton in leather livery lifted his hand to his forehead in
respectful salute; turned smartly on his heel, and disappeared through a
swing-door. Five minutes later, Diana saw her Napier car flying down the
avenue.
And soon--she would be chasing after omnibuses, in the Euston Road. And
grimy men, with no touch to their caps, would give her five dirty
coppers for her sixpence; and a grubby ticket, with a hole punched in
it.
And David Rivers would be in Central Africa, educating savages. And it
could have made no possible difference to him, to have stood beside her
for a few minutes, in an empty church, and repeated a few words,
entailing no after consequences; whereas to her----
Diana's beautiful white teeth bit into her lower lip. She had always
been accustomed to men who did her bidding, without any "Why" or
"Wherefore." Yet she could not feel angry with David Rivers. He and his
Lord were so one in her mind. Whatever they decided must be right.
As she crossed the hall, on her way to the staircase, she met the
butler.
"Rodgers," she said, "Mr. Rivers wishes to see me on business this
morning. He will be here in about three quarters of an hour. When he
arrives show him into the library, and see that we are not disturbed."
Diana mounted the stairs. Every line of carving on the dark oak
balustrades was dear and was familiar.
The clear wintry sun shone through stained glass windows on the first
landing, representing Rivers knights, in silver armour, leaning on their
shields. One of these, with a red cross upon his breast, his plumed
helmet held in his arm, his close-cropped dark head rising firm and
strong above his corselet, was not unlike David Rivers.
"Ah," said Diana, "if he had but cared a little! Not enough to make him
troublesome; but just enough to make him glad to do this thing for me."
CHAPTER XIII
DAVID'S DECISION
Diana found it quite impossible to await in the library, the return of
the motor.
She moved restlessly to and fro in her own bedroom, from the windows of
which she could see far down the avenue.
When at last her car came speeding through the trees, it seemed to her a
swiftly approaching Nemesis, a relentless hurrying Fate, which she could
neither delay nor avoid. It ran beneath the portico; paused for one
moment; then glided away towards the garage. She had not seen David
alight; but she knew he must now be in the house.
She waited a few moments, then passed slowly down the stairs.
Oh, lovely and belovèd home of childhood's days!
* * * * *
White and cold, yet striving bravely after complete self-control, Diana
crossed the hall, and turned the handle of the library door.
As she entered, David was standing with his back to her, looking up
intently at the portrait of Falcon Rivers.
He turned as he heard the door close, and came forward, a casual remark
upon his lips, expressing the hope that it had not been inconvenient to
send the motor so early--then saw Diana's face.
Instantly he took her trembling hands in his, saying gently: "It is all
right, Miss Rivers. I can do as you wish. I am quite clear about it,
to-day. You must forgive me for not having been able to decide
yesterday."
Diana drew away her hands and clasped them upon her breast.
Her eyes dilated.
"David? Oh, David! You will? You will! You will----!"
Her voice broke. She gazed at him, helplessly--dumbly.
David's eyes, as he looked back into hers, were so calmly tender, that
it somehow gave her the feeling of being a little child. His voice was
very steadfast and unfaltering. He smiled reassuringly at Diana.
"I hope to have the honour and privilege, Miss Rivers," he said, "of
marrying you on the morning of the day I sail for Central Africa."
Diana swayed, for one second; then recovered, and walked over to the
mantel-piece.
Not for nothing was she a descendant of those old knights in silver
armour, in the window on the staircase. She leaned her arms upon the
mantel-piece, and laid her head upon them. She stood thus quite still,
and quite silent, fighting for self-control.
David, waiting silently behind her, lifted his eyes from that bowed
head, with its mass of golden hair, and encountered the keen quizzical
look of the portrait above her.
"_I shall win_," said Uncle Falcon silently to David, over Diana's bowed
head. But David, who knew he was about to defeat Uncle Falcon's purpose
utterly, looked back in silent defiance.
The amber eyes twinkled beneath their shaggy brows. "_I shall win, young
man_," said Uncle Falcon.
Presently Diana lifted her head. Her lashes were wet, but the colour had
returned to her cheeks. Her lips smiled, and her eyes grew softly
bright.
"David," she said, "you must think me _such_ a goose! But you can't
possibly know what my home means to me; my home and--and everything. Do
you know, when I read your telegram saying: 'Consultation unnecessary.
Have decided,' I felt quite convinced you had decided that you could not
do it; and, oh, David, I have left Riverscourt forever, a hundred times
during this terrible hour! Really it would have been kinder to have
said: 'I will marry you,' in the telegram."
David smiled. "I am afraid that might have caused a good deal of comment
at both post-offices," he said. "But I was a thoughtless ass not to have
put in a clear indication as to which way the decision had gone."
"Hush!" cried Diana, with uplifted finger. "Don't call yourself names,
my dear David, before the person who is going to promise to honour and
obey you!" Diana's spirits were rising rapidly. "Now sit down and tell
me all about it. What made you feel you could do it? Why didn't you need
to consult Sir Deryck? Did you come to a decision last night, or this
morning? You will keep to it, David?"
David sat down in an armchair opposite to Diana, who had flung herself
into Uncle Falcon's.
The portrait, hanging high above their heads, twinkled down on both of
them.
"_I shall win_," said Uncle Falcon.
David did not "tie himself up in knots" to-day. He sat very still,
looking at Diana with those calm steadfast eyes, which made her feel so
young and inconsequential, and far removed from him.
He looked ill and worn, but happy and at rest; and, as he talked, his
face wore an expression she had often noted when, in preaching, he
became carried away by his subject; a radiance, as of inner glory
shining out; a look as of being detached from the world, and independent
of all actual surroundings.
"Undoubtedly I shall keep to it, Miss Rivers," he said, "unless, for any
reason, you change your mind. And I saw light on the subject this
morning."
"Oh, then you 'slept on it,' as our old nurses used to say?"
David smiled.
"I never had an old nurse," he said. "My mother was my nurse."
Diana did not notice that her question had been parried. "And what made
you feel it right this morning?" she asked.
David hesitated.
"Light came--through--the Word," he said at last, slowly.
"Ha!" cried Diana. "I felt sure you would look for it there. And I sat
up nearly all night--I mean until midnight--searching my Bible and
Prayer-book. But the only applicable thing I found was: 'I will not fail
David.'
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