Chapter IV: A Kimono-Clad Apparition

The next evening, promptly at eight o’clock, the members of the Dunlap Missionary Society began to arrive. Then Colonel Tom Gaitskill became uneasy and sought out his wife:

“Mildred, are you planning to bring that cannibal wench into the drawing-room and show her off?”

“Certainly, Tom,” she replied. “That’s why I invited the ladies here--to see Diada.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“No. How could I? I’ve dressed her nicely, and she’s--well--tolerably presentable.”

“Have you ever heard her say a word?”

“No.”

“Does she appear to understand what you say?”

“No--I don’t know,” Mrs. Gaitskill answered.

Gaitskill rubbed his hand across his forehead, then swept it down his long, white beard.

“All right, Mildred,” he grinned. “It’s your obsequies. But I hope that dear heathen won’t perform any circus stunts.”

The conversation was brought to a close by the arrival of the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, an aged, feeble, badly crippled man, who leaned heavily upon his walking stick as he entered the door.

That walking stick was a curiosity. At the large end it was as big around as an average man’s leg, tapering slightly toward the lower end, and weighing eleven pounds! Thus spoke the owner about it:

“Sir, this stick came from the battlefield of Shiloh. I was wounded in that battle, sir, and as you can observe, have been a cripple ever since. I fell beneath a dogwood tree and lay there for nearly two days. After the surrender, sir, I returned to the battlefield and cut down that tree and have carried it ever since as a walking stick. The tree was fertilized by my blood, sir, and it is only just that it should bear my infirmities.”

While imparting this information, it was the invariable custom of the venerable preacher to catch his stick by the little end and emphasize his remarks by waving it above his auditor’s head. And as he could not stand for any length of time without his cane, it was a common thing to see him during his pulpit discourses reverse his stick and shake it at the heads of his congregation, exactly as many an irate baseball player has punctuated his remarks to the fans in the grand stand by flourishing a bat.

As Dr. Sentelle entered the room upon the arm of Colonel Gaitskill, the guests knew that all were present who had been invited. They stiffened in their seats. They had heard much about Diada since her arrival in Tickfall and they were awed to an electric silence of waiting, holding themselves in smiling readiness for the entrance of the stranger from the cannibal islands of the Pacific Ocean.

The minutes passed. The silence became oppressive. Colonel Gaitskill jiggled his feet. Then through the open window came the voice of Mrs. Gaitskill:

“Hopey, have you seen Diada?”

“No’m. I ain’t saw her. I ain’t pesterin’ my mind ’bout her. Dat nigger ain’t my kind of black folks!”

“Go find Diada at once! Bring her into the drawing-room! Hear me!”

“Yes’m, I’ll fotch her in!”

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Gaitskill entered the drawing-room alone. The situation was embarrassing, but Mrs. Gaitskill was not even slightly flustered. She possessed an immense reserve of coolness which contrasted sharply on this occasion with the painful distraction of her husband.

The minutes passed--leaden minutes. Some of the guests made a pretense of little conversational flurries.

“Our missionaries are so heroic--The lecture was so edifying--How they must love their work--I have often felt a call--Their lives are very lonely--Sacrifice and service--My daughter shows such a fine missionary spirit--I tell Eula--The lovely cannibals--I always say--Of course----”

These hushed, tentative fragments of conversation were interrupted by the triumphant, booming voice of Hopey:

“Hey, dar--you deef ’n’ dum’ nigger! Whut you mean by keepin’ Mis’ Mildred’s comp’ny waitin’? Ain’t you got no manners?”

Still the minutes passed.

Colonel Gaitskill became quite distraught, and excusing himself, slipped up-stairs and helped himself to the contents of a private decanter. He came back to face the same intense, expectant silence which some of the guests attempted to relieve by exchanging seats with other guests. Once more there were scattering efforts at normal talk:

“The Christmas ship to the Belgians--Splendid missionary spirit--I haven’t much to give--I told her God loves the dear cannibals--Home and foreign--All the chickens I took from under the setting hen----”

“Git on up dem front steps!” Hopey howled, as if she were driving a pig. “Go on in dat front do’! Hurry!”

The front door opened and Diada entered, advanced to the center of the drawing-room, and stopped.

It is impossible to describe the peculiar sound which was emitted from the throats of the twenty women at their first sight of Diada.

Her physical ugliness was deplorable and appalling; but that which produced the peculiar utterance from the missionary ladies was this:

Diada was clothed in Mrs. Gaitskill’s light-blue, pink-flowered kimono, and beneath that she wore Colonel Gaitskill’s sky-muckle-dun-colored pajamas!

Diada was six feet tall, and the kimono ended just below her knee and flared wide open in front, for two garments of the same size could not have enveloped her. The pajamas ended just above Diada’s black shoes and revealed about four inches of her stocking--the shoes and stockings being all that she now wore of the garments with which Mrs. Gaitskill had originally clothed her for the reception.

Diada stared about her for a moment, then sat down upon the piano seat.

Her ponderous elbow struck the keys with a crashing discord, and Diada gave forth a sound expressive of delight--it sounded like the snort of an elephant. Then using her elbows instead of her hands, the dear immortal heathen proceeded to make the most unheavenly noise that ever vexed the ears of Christian missionaries, home or foreign.

In the midst of this horrifying situation, Hopey entered the drawing-room, her hands resting upon her hips, her mouth bawling voluble apologies:

“My Gawd, Mis’ Mildred! I ain’t to blame fer dis here turr’ble sight! I foun’ Diader settin’ under de pecan tree in de dark, an’ I couldn’t tell whut she had on till she done open dat front do’ an’ went in whar de light wus shinin’. Lawdamussy! Diader favors a scrambled circus band-waggin!”

The ladies of the missionary society covered their faces with their flimsy, transparent handkerchiefs, and kept up that peculiar sound of outraged modesty.

Then Diada broke out in a new place.

Still pounding on the piano with her naked elbows, she began to sing--singing with a voice which caused the tiny threads in the electric-light globes to quiver and grow dim, and wrought such havoc in the ears of the missionary women that they followed Diada’s heathen music with a Christian accompaniment of startling yelps, like the frightened squeaks one hears at the county fair when the unsophisticated village maidens loop the loop or dip the dip or hear the wild man of Borneo roar.

Colonel Tom Gaitskill sprang to his feet, seized Dr. Sentelle’s walking stick by the little end, and flourished it at Hopey.

“Hopey!” he whooped to be heard above the noise, “you take that--infernal--female--wench out of this house. Do it now! I’ll----”

Diada turned around and looked at Colonel Gaitskill. She beheld an immense club flourished threateningly above her head. On the day before, she had seen old Isaiah at the hog-camp waving an ax at her with the same menacing gesture.

With a loud whoop, Diada sprang across the drawing-room, dived headfirst through a large plateglass window, ran across the yard, and departed from Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s hospitable home forever.