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'?"