The Following of the Star Part 8

"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, p.r.o.nounced 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