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."