 7 Mrs. Orton Begg was a sister of Mrs. Freilings and an oracle to a Vodney. Mrs. Freilings was fair, plump, sweet, yielding, commonplace, prolific. Mrs. Orton Begg was a barren widow, slender, sincere, silent, firm, and tender. Mrs. Freilings, for lack of insight, was unsympathetic. Mrs. Orton Begg was just the opposite, and she and a Vodney understood each other and were silent together in the most companionable way in the world. When a Vodney went to her own room on the evening made memorable by the twin's famous anthem, she was haunted by that word ineffectual, which Mrs. Orton Begg had used—ineffectual genius. There was something familiar as well as high-sounding in the epithet. It recalled an idea with which she was already acquainted. What was it? She opened her commonplace book and sat with her pen in her hand, cogitating comfortably. She had no need to weary her fresh young brain with an irritating pursuit of what she wanted. She had only to wait, and it would recur to her. And presently it came. Her countenance brightened. She bent over the book and wrote a few lines, read them when she had blotted them, and was satisfied. I have it, she wrote. Shelly equals genius of the nineteenth century. Beautiful and ineffectual angel beating in the void his luminous wings in vain. Matthew Arnold. When she had done this she took up a book, went to the fire, settled herself in an easy chair, and began to read. The book was Ruth by Mrs. Gaskell, and she was just finishing it. When she had done so she went back to the table and copied out the following paragraph. The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes, when an inward necessity for independent action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. She stopped here and pushed the volume away from her. It was the only passage in it which she cared to remember. She had lost the confidence of the child by this time, and become humbly doubtful of her own opinion, and instead of summing up Ruth boldly as she would have done the year before, she paused now a moment to reflect before she wrote with diffidence. The principal impression this book has made upon me is that Mrs. Gaskell must have been a very lovable woman. Footnote. George Eliot thought so too, years before Avadne was born, and expressed the thought in a letter in which she also prophesied that Ruth would not live through a generation. The impression the book made upon Avadne is another proof of prescience in the great writer. The story seems to me long drawn out, and of small significance. It is full of food for the heart, but the head goes empty away, and both should be satisfied by a work of fiction, I think. But perhaps it is my own mood that is at fault. At another time I might have found gems in it, which now in my dullness I have failed to perceive. Somebody knocked at the door as she blotted the words. Come in, Auntie, she said, as if in answer to an accustomed signal, and Mrs. Orton Begg entered in a long, loose, voluminously draped white wrapper. Avadne drew an easy chair to the fire for her. Sit down, Auntie, she said, and be cozy. You are late to-night. I was afraid you were not coming. Mrs. Orton Begg was in the habit of coming to Avadne's room every evening when she was at Fraylingay to chat or sit silently sociable over the fire with her before saying good night. Do I ever fail you? she asked, smiling. No, but I have been afraid of the fatal fascination of that great fat foreign prince. He singled you out for special attention, and I have been jealous. Well, you need not have been, for he singled me out in order to talk about you. He thinks you are a nice child. You interest him. Defend me, said Avadne, but you mistake me, dear Aunt. It was not of him I was jealous, but of you. The fat prince is nothing to me, and you are a very great deal. Mrs. Orton Begg's face brightened at the words, but she continued to look into the fire silently for some seconds after Avadne had spoken, and made no other visible sign of having heard them. I don't think I ought to encourage you to sit up so late, she said presently. Lady Aniline has just been asking me who it is that burns the midnight oil up here so regularly. Lady Aniline must be up very late herself to see it, said Avadne. I suppose those precious twins disturb her. I wish she would let me take entire charge of them when she is here. It would be a relief, I should think. It would be an imposition, said Mrs. Orton Begg, but you are a brave girl of Avadne. I would not venture. Oh, they delight me, Avadne answered, and I know them well enough now to forestall them. When I told Lady Aniline that these were your rooms, her aunt pursued, she said something about a lily made high in her chamber up a tower to the east guarding the sacred shield of Lancelot. Singularly inappropriate, said Avadne, for my tower is south and west, thank heaven. And there isn't a symptom of Lancelot, her aunt concluded. Young ladies don't guard sacred shields nowadays, said Avadne. No, answered her aunt, glancing over her shoulder at the open book on the table. They have substituted the sacred, commonplace book, full of thought, I You speak regretfully, Auntie, but isn't it better to think and be happy than to die of atrophy for a sentiment? I don't think it better to extinguish all sentiment. Life without sentiment would be so bald. But life with that kind of sentiment doesn't last, it seems, and nobody is benefited by it. It is extreme misery to the girl herself, and she dies young, leaving a legacy of lifelong regret and bitterness to her friends. I should think it's small comfort to become the subject for a poem or a picture at such a price. And surely, Auntie, sentiments which are silly or dangerous would be better extinguished. Mrs. Orton Begg smiled at the fire enigmatically. But the poem or the picture may become a lasting benefit to mankind, she suggested presently. Huh! said Avadne. You doubt it? Well, you see, Auntie, there are two ways of looking at it. When you first come across the poem or the picture which perpetuates the sentiment that slew the girl and beautifies it, you feel a glow all over and fancy you would like to imitate her and think that you would deserve great credit for it if you did. But when you come to consider there is nothing very noble, after all, in a hopeless passion for an elderly man of the world who is past being benefited by it, even if he could reciprocate it, Elaine should have married a man of her own age and made him happy. She would have done some good in her time so, and been saved from setting us a bad example. I think it a sin to make unwholesome sentiments attractive. Then Lancelot does not charm you. No, said Avadne thoughtfully, I should have preferred the king. Ah, yes, because he was the nobler, the more ideal man. No, not exactly, Avadne answered, but because he was the more wholesome. My dear child, are you speaking literally? Yes, Auntie. Good heavens! Mrs. Ortonbeg ejaculated softly. The times have changed. Yes, we know more now, Avadne answered, tranquilly. You are fulfilling the promise of your youth, Avadne, her aunt remarked, after a thoughtful pause. I remember reading a fairy tale of Jean Inglos allowed to you children in the nursery long ago. I forget the name of it, but it was the one into which one morning, oh so early, comes, and you started a controversy as to whether, speaking of the dove, when the lark said, give us glory, she should have made answer, give us peace or peace, the latter you maintained as being the more natural and the most sensible. I must have been a horrid little preg in those days, said Avadne, smiling, but, Auntie, there can be no peace without plenty, and I think I would rather be a sensible realist than a foolish idealist. You mean that you think me too much of a utilitarian, do you not? You are in danger, I think. Utilitarianism is Bentham's greatest happiness principle. Is it not? Avadne asked. Yes, greatest human happiness, her aunt replied. Well, I don't know how that can be dangerous in principle. But, of course, I know nothing of such questions practically. Only I do seem to perceive that you must rest on a solid basis of real advantages before you can reach up to ideal perfection with any chance of success. You seem to be very wide awake tonight, Avadne. Mrs. Ortonbeg rejoined. This is the first I have heard of your peculiar views. Oh, I am a night owl, I think, Auntie. Avadne answered, apologetically. You see, I never had anything to do in the school room that I could not manage when I was half asleep, and so I formed a habit of dozing over my lessons by day and waking up when I came to bed at night. Having a room of my own always has been a great advantage. I have been secure all along of a quiet time at night for reading and thought. And that is real life, Auntie, isn't it? I don't care to talk much as a rule, do you? I like to listen and watch people. But I always wake up at this time of the night, and I feel as if I could be quite garrulous now when everybody else is going to sleep. But, Auntie, don't use such ominous expression as peculiar views about anything I say, please. Views are always in ill odor, and peculiarities, even peculiar perfections, would isolate one, and that I do dread. It would be awful to be out of sympathy with one's fellow creatures and have them look suspiciously at one, and it would be no comfort to me to know that want of sympathy is the proof of a narrow nature, and that suspicion is the inevitable outcome of ignorance and stupidity. I don't want to despise my fellow creatures. I would rather share their ignorance and conceit, and be sociable, than find myself isolated even by a very real superiority. The one would be pleasant enough, I should think, the other pain beyond all bearing of it. Mrs. Orton Begg's heart contracted with a momentary fear for her niece, which he dismissed it promptly. The room to yourself has been a doubtful advantage, I fancy, she said. It has made you theoretical. But you will lose all that by and by. And in the meantime, you must remember that in such matters we have small choice. We are born with superior or inferior faculties, and must make use of them, such as they are, to become inferior cooks or countesses or superior ditto, as the case may be. But there are always plenty of one's own kind, whichever it is, to consort with. Birds of a feather, you know, you need not be afraid of being isolated. You are thinking of ordinary faculties, Auntie. I was thinking of extraordinary. But even with ordinary ones we are hampered, birds of a feather would flock together if they could, of course, but then they can't always. And suppose, being superior, you find yourself forced to associate with inferior cooks of your kind. What then? Be their queen. Which, unless you were a queen of hearts, would really amount to being an object of envy and dislike, and that brings us back to the point from which we started. Avadne, you talk like a book. Go to bed. Mrs. Ortenbeg exclaimed, laughing. It is you who have made me talk, then. Avadne rejoined, promptly. And I feel inclined to ask now, with all proper respect, what has come to you? It must be the prince. Yes, it must be the prince. Mrs. Ortenbeg responded, raising her slender white hand to smother a yawn. And it must be good night, too. Or rather, good morning. Just look at the clock. It is nearly three. End of Chapter 7. Book 1, Chapter 8 of the Heavenly Twins. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The Heavenly Twins. By Sarah G. Book 1, Chapter 8. The next morning all the guests left Ralingue, and the family there settled into their accustomed grooves. Avadne and her father walked and rode, conversing together as usual. He, enjoying the roll and rumble and fine flavour of his own phrase-making, amazingly. And she also impressed by the roll and rumble. But when it was all over, and he had marched off in triumph, she would collect the mutilated remains of the argument, and examine them at her leisure. And in nine cases out of ten, it proved to be quartz that he had crushed and contempt, overlooking the gold it contained, but releasing it for her to find and add exultingly to her own collection. In this way, therefore, she continued to obtain her wealth of ore from him, and both were satisfied. He, because he was sure that, thanks to him, she was a thoroughly sensible girl, with no nonsense of new-fangled notions about her. And she, because being his daughter, she had not altogether escaped the form of mental myopia from which he suffered, and was in the habit of seeing only what she hoped and wished to see and those she loved. Man, the unjust and iniquitous, was to her always the outside, vague theoretical man of the world, never the dear, undoubted papa at home. Avadne was the eldest of six girls, and their mother had a comfortable, as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, feeling about them all. But she prided herself most upon Avadne as answering in every particular to the conventional idea of what a young lady should be. The dear child, she wrote to Lady Adeline, is all and more than we dared to hope to have her become. I can assure you, she has never caused me a moment's anxiety in her life, except, of course, such anxiety for her health and happiness as every mother must feel. I have had her educated with the utmost care, and her father has, I may say, devoted himself to the task of influencing her in the right direction in matters of opinion, and has ably seconded all my endeavours in other respects. She speaks French and German well, and knows a little Italian. In fact, I may say that she has a special aptitude for languages. She does not draw, but is a fair musician, and is still having lessons being most anxious to improve herself, and she sings very sweetly. But best of all, as I am sure you will agree with me, I notice in her a deeply religious disposition. She is really devout, and beautifully reverential in her manner both in church and to us, her parents, and indeed to all who are older and wiser than herself. She is very clever, too, they tell me. But, of course, I am no judge of that. I do know, however, that she is perfectly innocent, and I am indeed thankful to think that at eighteen she knows nothing of the world and its wickedness, and is therefore eminently qualified to make somebody an excellent wife. And all I am afraid of is that the destined somebody will come for her all too soon, for I cannot bear to think of parting with her. She is not quite like other girls in some things I am afraid. Mere trifles, however, ask for instance about her presentation. I know I was in quite a flutter of excitement for days before I was presented, and was quite bewildered with agitation at the time. But Evadney displayed no emotion whatever. I never knew any one so equitable as she is. In fact, nothing seems to ruffle her wonderful calm. It is almost provoking sometimes. On the way home she would not have made a remark, I think, if I had not spoken to her. Don't you think it was a very pretty sight, I said at last? Yes, she answered doubtfully, and then she added with genuine feeling. Mesillia de longue. Oh, mother, the hours we have spent hanging about drafty corridors, half-dressed and shivering with cold, and the crowding and crushing and unlovely faces, all looking so miserable, and showing the discomfort and fatigue they were enduring so plainly. I call it positive suffering, and I never want to see another drawing-room. My soul desires nothing now but decent clothing and hot tea. And that is all she has ever said about the drawing-room in my hearing. But wasn't it a very curious view for a girl to take? Of course the arrangements are detestable, and one does suffer a great deal from cold and fatigue and for want of refreshments. But still, I never thought of those things when I was a girl. Did you? I never thought of anything, in fact, but whether I was looking my best or not. Don't let me make you imagine, however, that Evadney was whining and querulous. She never is, you know, and I should call her tone sorrowful, if it were not too absurd for a girl to be saddened by the sight of other people in distress. Well, not quite in distress, that is an exaggeration. But at all events, not quite comfortably situated, on what was really one of the greatest occasions of her own life. I am half inclined to fear that she may not be quite so strong as we have always thought her, and that she was depressed by the long fasting and fatigue, which would account for a momentary morbidness. But excuse my gerulity. I always have so much to say to you. I will spare you any more for the present, however. Only do tell me all about yourself and your own lovely children. And how is Mr. Hamilton Wells? Remember that you are to come to us, twins and all, on your way home as usual this year. We are anxiously expecting you, and I hope your next letter will fix the day. Ever, dear Adeline, your loving friend, Elizabeth Frayling. P.S., we return to Fraylingay tomorrow, so please write to me there. The following is Lady Adeline's reply to Mrs. Frayling's letter. Hamilton House, Morning Quest, 30th July. My dear Elizabeth, I am afraid you will have been wondering what has become of us, but I know you will acquit me of all blame for the long delay in answering your letter when I tell you that I have only just received it. We had left Paris before it arrived for, what is always to me, a tiresome tour about the Continent, and it has been following us from pillar to post, finally reaching me here at home where we have been settled a fortnight. I had not forgotten your kind invitation, but I am afraid I must give up all idea of going to you this year. We hurried back because Mr. Hamilton Wells became homesick suddenly while we were abroad, and I don't think it will be possible to get him to move again for some time. But won't you come to us? Do, dear, and bring your just come out, and I am sure most charming Avadne for our autumn gayities. If Mr. Frayling would come too, we should be delighted, but I know he has a poor opinion of our coverts, and I despair of being able to tempt him from his own shooting, and therefore I ask you first and foremost, in the hope that you will be able to come whether he does or not. I have been thinking much of all you have told me about Avadne. She had already struck me as being a most interesting child and full of promise, and I do hope that now she is out of the schoolroom I shall see more of her. I know you will trust her to me, although I do think that in parts of her education you have been acting by the half-light of a past time, and following a method now out of date. I cannot agree, for instance, that it is either right or wise to keep a girl in ignorance of the laws of her own being, and of the state of the community in which she will have to pass her existence. While she is at an age to be influenced in the right way she should be fully instructed by those she loves, and not left to obtain her knowledge of the world haphazard from anyone with whom accident may bring her acquainted. People, perhaps, whose point of view may not only differ materially from her parents, but be extremely offensive to them. The first impression in these matters, you know, is all important, and my experience is that what you call beautiful innocence and what I consider dangerous ignorance is not a safe state in which to begin the battle of life. In the matter of marriage especially, an ignorant girl may be fatally deceived, and indeed I know cases in which the man who was liked well enough as a companion was found to be objectionable in an unendurable degree as soon as he became a husband. You will think I am tainted with new notions, and I do hope I am insofar as these notions are juster and better than the old ones. For surely, the elder ages did not discover all that is wisdom, and certainly there is still room for nobler modes of life and sweeter manners, purer laws. If this were not allowed, moral progress must come to a standstill. So I say, Instruct! Instruct! The knowledge must come sooner or later. Let it come wholesomely. A girl must find out for herself if she is not taught, and she may, in these plain spoken times, obtain a wholly erroneous theory of life and morality from a newspaper report which she reads without intention in an idle moment while enjoying her afternoon tea. We are in a state of transition, we women, and the air is so full of ideas that would be strange if an act of mind did not catch some of them. And I find myself that stray theories swallowed whole without due consideration are of uncertain application, difficult in the working, if not impracticable, and apt to disagree. Theories should be absorbed in detail, as dinner, if they are to become an addition to our strength, and not an indigestible item of inconvenience seriously affecting our mental temper. But you ask me about my twins. In health they continue splendid. In spirits they are tremendous. But their tricks are simply terrible. We never know what mischief they will devise next, and Angelica is much the worst of the two. If we had taken them to Freelingay it would have been in fear and trembling. But we should have been obliged to take them had we gone ourselves, for they somehow found out that you had asked them, and they insisted upon going, and threatened to burn down Hamilton House in our absence if we did not take them. A feat which we doubt not they would have accomplished had they had a mind to. Indeed, I cannot tell you what these children are. Imagine their device to extort concessions from their father. You know how nervous he is. Well, if he will not do all that they require of him, they blow him up literally and actually. They put little trains of gunpowder about in unexpected places with Lucifer matches that go off when they are trodden upon, and you can imagine the consequence. I told him what it would be when he would spoil them so, but it was no use. And now they rule him instead of him them, so that he has to enter into solemn compacts with them about not infringing what they call their rights. And only fancy, he is so fond to foolishness as to be less annoyed by their naughtiness than pleased, because when they promise not to do anything again, honest ingen as they phrase it, they keep to their word. Dr. Galbraith calls them in derision, the heavenly twins. But have I told you about Dr. Galbraith? He is the new master of fountain towers, and a charming as well as a remarkable man, quite young, being in fact only nine and twenty, but already distinguished as a medical man. He became a professional man of necessity, having no expectation at that time of ever inheriting property. But now that he is comparatively speaking a rich man, he continues to practice for the love of science, and also from philanthropic motives. He is a fine-looking young man physically, with a strong face of most attractive plainness, only redeemed from positive ugliness in fact, by good gray eyes, white teeth, and an expression which makes you trust him at once. After the first five minutes' conversation with him, I have heard people say that they not only could, but would positively have enjoyed telling him all the things that ever they did, so great is the confidence he inspires. He, and Sir Daniel Galbraith's adopted son, Sir Daniel is Dr. Galbraith's uncle, where my brother dawns great friends at Oxford, where the three of them were known as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, because they passed unscathed through the burning fiery furnace of temptation to which young men of position at the universities are exposed. Dr. Galbraith is somewhat abrupt in manner and quick of temper, but most good-naturedly long-suffering with my terrible children nevertheless. Of course they impose upon his good nature, and they are always being punished, but that they do not mind. In fact, I heard Angelica say once, it is all in the day's work, when she had a long imposition to do for something outrageous, and Diavolo called to her over the stairs only yesterday, wait for me a minute in the hall till I've been thrashed for letting the horses and dogs loose, and then we'll go and snare pheasants in the far plantation. They explained to me once that being found out and punished added the same zest to their pleasures that Cayenne Pepper does to their diet. A little too much of it stings, but just the right quantity relieves the insipidity and adds to the interest. And then there is the element of uncertainty, which has a charm of its own. They never know whether they will catch it hot or not. When they are found out they always confess everything with a frankness which is quite provoking, because they so evidently enjoy the recital of their own misdeeds, and they defend themselves by quoting various anecdotes of the naughty doings of children which have been written for our amusement. And it is in vain that I explain to them that parrots who are hurt and made anxious by their children's disobedience cannot see anything to laugh at in their pranks, at least not for a very long time afterward. They pondered this for some time, and then arrived at the conclusion that when they were grown up and no longer a nuisance to me, I should be a very jolly old lady, because I should have such a lot of funny stories on my own to tell people. But I shall weary you with this inexhaustible subject. You must forgive me if I do, for I am terribly anxious about my young Turks. If they are equal to such enormities in the green leaf I am always asking myself, what will they do in the dry? I own that my sense of humor is tickled sometimes, but never enough to make me forget the sense of danger present and to come which all this keeps forever alive. Come and comfort me, and tell me how you have made your own children so charming. Ever lovingly yours, Adeline Hamilton Wells. Mrs. Frailing wrote a full account of Avadne's presentation at court to her sister, Mrs. Orton Begg, who was wondering about Norway by herself at the time, and concluded her description of the dear child's gown, very charming appearance, and dignified self-possession with some remarks about her character to the same effect as those which she had addressed to Lady Adeline. It was natural, perhaps, that the last conversation Mrs. Orton Begg had had with Avadne at Frailingge, which was in fact the first articulate outcome of Avadne's self-training, coming as it did at the end of a day of pleasurable interest and excitement, should have made no immediate impression upon her tired faculties. But she recollected it now, and smiled as she read her sister's letter. If that is all you know of your daughter, my dear Elizabeth, was her mental comment, I fancy there will be surprises at Frailingge. But, in reply, she merely observed that she was glad Avadne was so satisfactory. She was too wise a woman to waste words on her sister Elizabeth, who, in consequence of having had them in abundance to squander all her life long, had lost all sense of their value, and would have failed to appreciate the force which they collect in the careful keeping of such silent folk as Mrs. Orton Begg. Mrs. Frailingge was not able to accept Lady Adeline's invitation that year. BOOK I CHAPTER IX This was the period when Avadne looked out of narrow eyes at an untried world inquiringly, and was warmed to the heart by what she saw of it. Theoretically, people are cruel and unjust. But practically, to an attractive young lady of good social position and just out, their manners are most agreeable. And when Avadne returned to Frailingge after her first season in town, she thought less, and sang more. A little bird in the air is singing of Thyrie the Fair, the sister of Sven the Dane, and the song of the garrulous bird in the streets of the town is heard, and repeated again and again. She careled about the house, while the dust collected on her books. She took up one old favorite after another when she first returned, but her attention wandered from her best beloved, and all that were solid came somehow to be set aside and replaced. The nourishing fact by inflated fiction, reason and logic by rhyme and rhythm, and sense by sentimentality, so far had her strong, simple, earnest mind deteriorated in the unwholesome atmosphere of London drawing-rooms. It was only a phase, of course, and she could have been set right at once had there been anybody there to prescribe a strengthening tonic. But failing that, she tried sweet stimulants that soothed and excited, but did not nourish. Tales that caused chords of pleasurable emotion to vibrate while they fanned the higher faculties into inaction. Vampire things inducing that fatal repose which enables them to drain the soul of its life blood and compass its destruction. But Evadmy escaped without permanent injury. For, fortunately for herself, among much that was far too sweet to be wholesome, she discovered all of her Wendell Holmes's The Breakfast Table series, Elsie Venner, and The Guardian Angel, and was insensibly fixed in her rightful place and sustained by them. The sun streaming into her room one morning at this time awoke her early and tempted her up and out. There was a sandy space beyond the grounds, a long level of her father's land extending to the eastern cliffs and considered barren by him, but rich with a certain beauty of its own, the beauty of open spaces which rest and relieve the mind, and of immensity in the shining sea line beyond the cliffs, and the arching vault of the sky overhead dipping down to encircle the earth, and of color for all moods, from the vividest green of grass and yellow of gorse to the emethyst ling and the browns with which the waning year tipped every bush and bramble, things which, when properly appreciated, make life worth living. It was in this direction that Vadney walked, taking it without design, but drawn insensibly as by a magnet to the sea. She had thought herself early up, but the whole wild world of the heath was before her, and she began to feel belated as she went. There was a suspicion of frost in the air which made it deliciously fresh and exhilarating. The early morning mists still hung about, but the sun was brightly busy dispelling them. The rabbits were tripping hither and thither, too intent on their own business to pay much heed to Vadney. A bird sprang up from her feet and soared out of sight, and she paused a moment with upturned face, dilated eyes and lips apart to watch him. But a glimpse of the gorse recalled her, and she picked some yellow blooms with delicate fingertips, and carried them in her bare hand, savoring the scent, and at the same time looking and listening with an involuntary straining to enjoy the perception of each separate delicate delight at once. Till presently the enthusiasm of nature called forth some further faculty, and she found herself sensible of every tint and tone, sight and sound, distinguishing, deciphering, but yet perceiving altogether as the trained ear of a musician does the parts played by every instrument in an orchestra, and takes cognizance of the whole effect as well. At the end of the waste, there was a little church overlooking the sea. She saw that the door was open as she approached it, and she paused to look in. The early weekday service was in progress. A few quiet figures sat apart in the pews. The light was subdued. Something was being read aloud by a voice of caressing quality and musical. She did not attend to the words, but the tone satisfied. It seemed to her that the peace of God invited, and she slipped into the nearest pew. She found a Bible on the seat beside her, and opening it haphazard, her eyes fell upon the words. They that go down to the sea and ships that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. The lap of the little waves on the beach below was distinctly audible. The bird calls and their twitterings intermittent, incessant, persistent, came close and departed. And the fragrance of the blossoms, crushed in her hand, rose to remind her they were there. They that go down to the sea and ships. It was a passage to be felt at the moment with the sea itself so near. And as she paused to ponder it, her mind attuned itself involuntarily to the habit of holy thought associated with the place. While the sense and sounds of nature streamed in upon her, forming now a soft undercurrent, now a delicious accompaniment which filled the interval between what she knew of this world and all that she dreamt of the next. The cycle of sensation was complete, and in a moment her whole being blossomed into gladness. Her intellectual activity was suspended, her senses awoke. It was the morning of life with her, and she sank upon her knees and lifted up her heart to express the joy of it in one ecstatic note. Oh, blessed Lord. Lord of the happy earth, Lord of the sun and our senses, he who comes to us first in love's name and bids us rejoice and be glad, not he who would have us mourn. End of Book 1 Chapter 9 Book 1 Chapter 10 of the Heavenly Twins This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Devora Allen The Heavenly Twins by Sarah G. Book 1 Chapter 10 After the experiences of that early morning's walk, Evadni did not go to bed so late. She got up early and went to church. The agreeable working of her intellectual faculties during the early part of her absorbing self-education had kept her senses in abeyance. But when the discipline of all regular routine was relaxed, they were set free to get the upper hand if they would. And now they had begun to have their way. A delicate, dreamy way of a surety. But it was a sensuous way, nevertheless, and not at all a spiritual way, as her mother maintained it to be because of the churchgoing. Sometimes sense, sometimes intellect is the first to awaken us. Supposing we are dowered with an intellect. But pain, which is the perfecting of our nature, must precede the soul's awakening, and for Evadni at that age, with her limited personal knowledge of life, and scant experience of every form of human emotion which involves suffering, such an awakening was impossible. The first feeling of a girl as happily situated, healthy-minded and physically strong as she was, is bound to be pleasurable. And had she been a young man at this time, she would not improbably have sought to heighten and vary her sensations by adding greater quantities of alcohol to her daily diet. She would have grown course of skin by eating more than she could assimilate. She would have smelt strongly enough of tobacco as a rule to try the endurance of a barmaid. She would have been anxious about the fit of coats, fastidious as to the choice of ties, quite impossible in the manner of trousers, and prone to regard her own image in the glass caressingly. She would have considered that every petticoat held a divinity, or every woman had her price, according to the direction in which nature had limited her powers of perception, with a view to the final making of her into a sentimental, or a vicious, fool. When she should have been hard at work, she would have stayed in bed in the morning, flattering her imagination with visions of the peerless beauties who would all adore her, and the proud place she would conquer in the world. And she would have gone girl-stalking and earnest, probably, had she been a young man. But being as she was, she got up early and went to church. It was the one way she had of expressing the silent joy of her being, and of intensifying it. She practiced an extreme ritual at this time, and found in it the most complete form of expression for her mood possible. And in those early morning walks when she brushed the dubespangled cobwebs from the gorse, and startled the twittering birds from their morning meal. In the caressing of healthy odors, the uplifting of all sweet natural sounds, the soothing of the great sea voice, the sense of infinity in the level landscape, of beauty and form and color, of rest and peace in the grateful shadow of the little church on the cliff. But above all in the release from mental tension, and the ease of feeling after the strain of thought, she found the highest form of pleasure she had tasted, the most rarefied, the most intense. The St. Valentine's Day of her development was approaching, and her heart had begun already to practice the notes of the song significant into which she would burst when it came. It is a nice question that, as to where the sensuous ends and the spiritual begins. The dovetail is so exact just at the junction that it is impossible to determine. And it is there that spirit and flesh grow one with delight on occasion. But the test of the spiritual lies in its continuity. Pleasures of the senses pawl upon repetition, but pleasures of the soul continue and increase. A delicate dish soon wearies the palette. But the power to appreciate a poem or a picture grows greater the more we study them. Illustrations, as trite, by the way, as those of the average divine in his weekly sermon, but calculated to comfort to the same extent, in that they possess the charm of familiarity, which satisfies self-love by proving that we know quite as much of some subjects as those who profess to teach them. Still, a happy condition of the senses may easily be mistaken for a great outpouring of spiritual enthusiasm. And many an inspiring soul unconsciously stimulates them in ways less pardonable, perhaps, than the legitimate joy of a good dinner to a hungry man. Or the more subtle pleasure, which your refined woman experiences while sharing the communion of well-dressed saints on a cushioned seat, listening to exquisite music in a fashionable church. Sensations of gladness send some people to church, whom grief of any kind would drive from thence effectually. It is a matter of temperament. There are those who are by nature grateful for every good gift, who even bow their heads and suffer meekly if they perceive that they will have their reward, but are ready to rebel with rage against any form of ineffectual pain. This was likely to be a Vadani's case. Yet her mother had been right about her having a deeply religious disposition. The vicar in charge of the church on the cliff, he of the musical voice, Mr. Borthwick by name, became aware at once of a Vadani's regular attendance. He was a young man, very earnest, very devout, worn thin with hard work, but happy in that he had it to do, and with that serene expression of countenance which comes of the habit of conscientious endeavor. As a matter of course, with such men at the present time, he sought solace in ritual. His whole nature thrilled to the role of the organ, to the notes of a grateful anthem, to the sight and scent of his beautiful flowers on the altar, and to the harmony of color and conventional design on the walls of his little church. He spent his life and his substance upon it, doing what he could to beautify it himself in the name of the Lord, and finding in the act of worship a refinement of pleasure difficult of attainment, but possible and precious. And while all that sufficed for him, he honestly entertained the idea of celibacy as a condition necessary for the perfect purification of his own soul, and desirable as giving him a place apart which would help to maintain and strengthen his influence with his people. A layman may remain a bachelor without attracting attention, but a priest who abjures matrimony insists that he makes a sacrifice and deserves credit for the same. He says that the laws of nature are the laws of God, yet arranges his own life in direct opposition to the greatest of them. He can give no unanswerable reason for maintaining that the legitimate exercise of one set of natural functions is less holy than the exercise of the others, but that is what he believes, and curiously inconsistent as the conclusion is, the Reverend Henry Borthwick had adopted this view emphatically at the outside of his clerical career, and had announced his intention of adhering to it for the rest of his life. But just as the snow under the cool and quiet stars at dusk might feel full force in itself to vow to the rising moon that it will not melt, and find nevertheless of necessity when the sun appears that it cannot keep its vow, so did the idea of celibacy pass from the mind of the Reverend Henry Borthwick when Evadney began to attend his morning services. Insensibly, his first view of the subject vanished altogether, and was immediately replaced, first by an uplifting vision of the advantages of having a wife's help in the parish, then by a glimpse of the tender pleasure of a wife's presence in the house. And, extraordinary as it may seem, this final thought occurred to him while the Psalms were being sung in church one morning, so uncertain is the direction of man's mind at any time. He even had a vision of the joy of a wife's kiss when the sweet red lips that gave it were curved like those of the girl before him. He felt a great outpouring of spiritual grace during that service. His powers of devotion were intensified. But the moment it was over he hurried to the vestry, tore off his surplus and threw it on the floor, met Evadney as she left the church, and lingered long on the cliffs with her in earnest conversation. She was late for breakfast that morning, and her mother asked her what had detained her. Mr. Borthwick was talking to me about the sacraments of the church-mother, she answered, her calm true eyes meeting her mother's without confusion, and about the necessity for, and the advantage of, frequent communions. And what do you think about it, dear? I think I should like it. Her mother said no more. Young Borthwick was a cadet of good family, with expectations in the way of money, influence enough to procure him a denary at least, and with a reputation for ability which, with his other advantages, gave him as fair a prospect as anybody she knew, of a bishopric eventually. Just the thing for Evadney, she reflected, so she did not interfere. This was really a happy time for Evadney. The young priest frequently met her after the early service, and she liked his devotion. She liked his clean-featured, close-shaven face, too, and his musical voice. He was her perfection of a priest, and when he did not meet her, she missed him. She did not care for him so much when he called at the house, however. She associated him somehow with her morning moods, with religious discourses and the church service. But when he ventured beyond these limits they lost touch, and so she held him down to them rigorously. He tried to resist. He even conceived a distaste for ecclesiastical subjects, and endeavored to float her attention from these on little boats of fancy phrases made out of the first freshness of new days—the beauty of the sun on the sea, the jade green of grass on the cliffs, the pleasure he took in the songs of birds, and other more mundane matters. But he lost her sympathetic interest when he did so, receiving her polite attention instead, which was cold in comparison, and therefore did not satisfy him. So he determined to try and come to a perfect understanding, and during one of their morning walks he startled her by making her a solemn and abrupt offer of marriage. She considered the proposition in silence for some time. Then she looked at him as if she had never seen him before. Then she said, not knowing she was cruel and only desiring to be frank. I have never thought of you as a man, you know, only as a priest, and in that character I think you perfect. I respect and reverence you. I even love you, but—but what? he asked eagerly, his delicate face flushing, his whole being held in suspense. But I could not marry a priest. It would seem to be a sort of sacrilege. She was very pale when she went in that morning, and her mother noticed it and questioned her. Mr. Borthwick asked me to marry him mother. She answered straight to the point, as was her want. He surprised me. I am not surprised, dear. Her mother rejoined, smiling. Did you suppose he would, mother? Yes, I was sure of it. Oh, I wish you had warned me. Then you haven't accepted him of Adne. No. I have always understood that it is not right for a priest to marry, and the idea of marrying one repels me. He has lowered himself in my estimation by thinking of such a thing. I could not think of him as I do of other men. I cannot dissociate him from his office. I expect him somehow to be always about his reading desk and pulpit. Mrs. Freyling's face had fallen, but she only said, I wish you could have felt otherwise, dear. If Adne went up to her room and stood leaning against the frame of the open window, looking out over the level landscape, the poor priest had shown deep feeling, and it was the first she had seen of such suffering. It pained her terribly. She got up early next morning and went out as usual, but the scent of the gorse was obtrusive. The bird voices had lost their charm. The far-off sound of the sea had a new and melancholy note in it, and the little church on the cliff looked lonely against the sky. She could not go there again to be reminded of what she would feign have forgotten. No. That phase was over. The revulsion of feeling was complete. And to banish all recollection of it, she tried with a will to revive the suspended animation of her interest in her books. CHAPTER 11 OF THE HEAVENLY TWINS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE HEAVENLY TWINS. All excitements run to love in women of a certain, let us not say age, but youth, says the professor. An electrical current passing through a coil of wire makes a magnet of a bar of iron lying within it, but not touching it. So a woman is turned into a love magnet by a tingling current of life running round her. I should like to see one of them balanced on a pivot properly adjusted and watch if she did not turn so as to point north and south as she would if the love currents are like those of the earth, our mother. This passage indicates exactly the point at which Avadhini had now arrived and where she was pausing. The attempt to return to her books had been far from successful. Her eye would traverse page after page without transferring a single record to her brain, and she would sit with one open in her lap by the hour together, not absorbed in thought, but lost in feeling. She was both glad and sad at the same time, glad in her youth and strength, and sad in the sense of something wanting. What was it? If she had, well, she longed and knew not wherefore, had the world nothing she might live to care for, no second self to say her evening prayer for. The poor little bird loved the old nest, but she had unconsciously outgrown it and was perplexed to find no ease or comfort in it any more. She certainly entertained the idea of marriage at this time. She had acquired a sort of notion from her friends that it was good to marry, and her own inclinations seconded the suggestion. She meant to marry when she should find the right man, but the difficulty of choice disturbed her. She had still much of the spirit which made her at twelve see nothing but nonsense in the turn gentle hermit of the dale, drivel, and she was quite prepared to decide with her mind. She never took her heart into consideration or the possibility of being overcome by a feeling which is stronger than reason. She made her future husband a subject of prayer, however. She prayed that he might be an upright man, that he might come to her soon. She even asked for some sign by which she should know him. This was during the morning service in church one day, not the little one on the cliff, which was only a chapel of ease, but the parish church to which the whole family went regularly. Her thoughts had wandered away from the lesson that was being read to this subject of private devotion, and as she formulated the desire for a sign, for some certainty by which she might know the man whom the dear Lord intended to be her husband, she looked up, and from the other side of the aisle she met a glance that abashed her. She looked away, but her eyes were drawn back inevitably, and this time the glance of those other eyes enlightened her. Her heart bounded, her face flushed. This was a sign, she was sure of it. She had felt nothing like it before, and although she never raised her eyes again, she thrilled through the rest of the service to the consciousness that there, not many yards away, her future husband sat and sighed for her. After the service the subject of her thoughts claimed her father's acquaintance, and was introduced by him to her as Major Calhoun. He looked about thirty-eight, and was a big, blond man, with a heavy mustache and a delicate skin that flushed easily. His hair was thin on the forehead. In a few more years he would be bald there. Mr. Frailing asked him to lunch, and a vodny sat beside him. She scarcely spoke a word the whole time, or looked at him. But she knew that he looked at her, and she glowed and was glad. The little church on the cliff seemed a long way off, and out in the cold now. She was sorry for Mr. Borthwick. She had full faith in the sign. Was not the fact that Major Calhoun, whom she had never even heard of in her life before, was sitting beside her at that moment, confirmation strong, if any were wanting? But she asked no more. After lunch her father carried his guest off to smoke, and she went up to her own room to be alone, and sat in the sun by the open window, with her head resting on the back of the chair, looking up at the sky, and sighed and smiled, and clasped her hands to her breast, and reveled in sensations. Major Calhoun had been staying with a neighboring county gentleman, but she found when she met him again at afternoon tea that her father had persuaded him to come to Frailing Gave for some shooting. He was to go back that night, and returned to them the following Tuesday. Avadne heard of the arrangement in silence, and unsurprised. Had he gone and not returned, she would have wondered, but the sudden admission of a stranger to the family circle, although unusual, was not unprecedented at Frailing Gave, where, after it was certain that you knew the right people, pleasant manners were the only passport necessary to secure a footing of easy intimacy, and besides, it was inevitable that the sign might be fulfilled. So Avadne folded her hands as it were, and calmly awaited the course of events, not doubting for a moment that she knew exactly what the course was to be. She did not actually see much of Major Calhoun in the days that followed, although when he was not out shooting, he was always beside her, but such timid glances as she stole satisfied her, and she heard her mother say what a fine-looking man he was, and her father emphatically pronounced him to be a very good fellow. He was Irish by his mother's side, Scotch by his father's, but much more Irish than Scotch by predilection, and it was his mother tongue he spoke, exaggerating the accent slightly to heighten the effect of a tender speech or a good story. With the latter he kept Mr. Frailing well entertained, and Avadne he plied with the former on every possible occasion. His visit was to have been for a few days only, but it extended itself to some weeks, at the end of which time Avadne had accepted him. The engagement had been announced in the proper papers, Mrs. Frailing was radiant, congratulations poured in, and everybody concerned was in a state of pleasurable excitement from morning till night. Mrs. Frailing was an affectionate woman, and it was touching to see her writing fluent letters of announcement to her many friends, the smiles on her lips broken by ominous quiverings now and then, and a handkerchief held crumpled in her left hand and growing gradually damper as she proceeded with the happy tears that threatened her neat epistle with blots and blisters. It has been the prettiest ideal to us onlookers, she wrote to Lady Adeline, Love at first sight with both of them, and their first glimpse of each other was in church, which we all take to be the happiest omen that God's blessing is upon them, and will sanctify their union. Avadne says little, but there is such a delicate tinge of color in her cheeks always, and such a happy light in her eyes that I cannot help looking at her. George is senior major, and will command the regiment in a very short time, and his means are quite ample enough for them to begin upon. There is twenty years difference in their ages, which sounds too much theoretically, but practically, when you see them together, you never think of it. He is very handsome, every inch a soldier, and an Irishman, with all an Irishman's brightness and wit, and altogether the most taking manners. I tell Avadne I am quite in love with him myself. He is a thoroughly good churchman, too, which is a great blessing, never misses a service, and it is a beautiful sight to see him kneeling beside Avadne as wrapped and intent as she is. He was rather wild as a young man, I am sorry to say, but he has been quite frank about all, that to Mr. Frailing, and there is nothing now we can object to. In fact, we think he is exactly suited to Avadne, and we are thoroughly satisfied in every way. You can imagine that I find it hard to part with her, but I always knew it would be the case as soon as she came out, and so was prepared in a way. Still, that will not lessen the wrench when it comes. But of course I must not consider my own feelings when the dear child's happiness is in question, and I think that long engagements are a mistake. And as there is really no reason why they should wait, they are to be married at the end of next month, which gives us only six weeks to get the true so. We are going to town at once to see about it, and I think that probably the ceremony will take place there, too. It would be such a business at Frailing Gay, with all the tenants and everything, and altogether one has to consider expense. But do write at once and promise me that we may expect you, and Mr. Hamilton Wells, and the dear twins, wherever it is. In fact, I believe Avadne is writing to Theodore at this moment to ask him to be her page, and Angelica will, of course, be a bridesmaid. During the first days of her absorbing passion, Avadne's devotion to God was intensified. Sing to the Lord a new song, was forever on her lips. When the question of her engagement came to be mooted, she had had a long talk with her father, following a still longer talk which he had with Major Calhoun. And you are satisfied with my choice, Father? She said, You consider George in every respect a suitable husband for me? In all respects, my dear, he answered heartily. He is a fine, manly fellow. There was nothing in his past life to which I should object. She ventured timidly. Oh, nothing, nothing, he assured her. He has been perfectly straightforward about himself, and I am satisfied that he will make you an excellent husband. It was all the assurance she required. And after she had received it, she gave herself up to her happiness without a doubt, and unreservedly. The time flew. Major Calhoun's leave expired, and he was obliged to return to his regiment at Shorncliffe. But they wrote to each other every day, and this constant communion was a new source of delight to Avadne. Just before they left Frailingay, she went to see her aunt, Mrs. Orton Big. The latter had sprained her ankle severely, and would therefore not be able to go to Avadne's wedding. She lived in Morningquest, and had a little house in the clothes there. Morningquest was only twenty miles from Frailingay, but the trains were tiresomely slow, and did not run in connection, so that it took as long to get there as it did to go to London, and people might live their lives in Frailingay, and know nothing of Morningquest. Mrs. Orton Big's husband was buried in the old cathedral city, and she lived there to be near his grave. She could never tear herself away from it for long together. The light of her life had gone out when he died, and was buried with him. But the light of her life, fed upon the blessed hope of immortality, burnt brighter every day. Her existence in the quiet clothes was a very peaceful, dreamy one, soothed by the chime, uplifted by the sight of the beautiful old cathedral, and regulated by its service. Avadne found her lying on the couch, beside an open window in the drawing room, which was a long, low room, running the full width of the house, and with a window at either end, one looking up at the clothes to the north, the other to the south, into a high-walled, old-fashioned flower garden. And this was the one near which Mrs. Orton Big was lying. I think I should turn to the cathedral, Aunt Olive, Avadne said. I do. Her aunt answered, but not at this time of day. I'd travel round with the sun. It would fill my mind with beautiful thoughts to live here, Avadne said, looking up at the lonely spire reverently. I have no doubt that your mind is always full of beautiful thoughts, her aunt rejoined, smiling. But I know what you mean. There are thoughts carved on those dumb gray stones which can only come to us from such a source of inspiration. The sincerity of the old workmen, their love and their reverence, were wrought into all they produced, and if only we hold our own minds in the right attitude, we receive something of their grace. Do you remember that passage of long fellows? Ah, from what agonies of heart and brain would exaltations trampling on despair? What tenderness? What tears? What hate of wrong? Would passionate outcry of a soul in pain uproase this poem of the earth and air, this medieval miracle? Sitting alone here sometimes I seem to feel it all, all the capacity for loving sacrifice, and all the energy of human passion which wrought itself into that beautiful offering of its devotion, and made it acceptable. But tell me, Avadne, are you very happy? I am too happy, I think, Auntie, but I can't talk about it. I must keep the consciousness of it close in my own heart, and guard it jealously, lest I dissipate any atom of it by attempting to describe it. Do you think, then, that love is such a delicate thing that the slightest exposure will destroy it? I don't know what I think, but the feeling is so fresh now, Auntie, I'm afraid to run the risk of uttering a word or hearing one that might tarnish it. She strolled out into the garden during the afternoon, and sat on a high-backed chair in the shade of the old brick wall, with eyes half closed, and a small hovering about her lips. The wall was curtained with canariensis, Virginia creeper rich in autumn tints, ivy, and giant nasturtians, great sunflowers grew up against it, and a row of single dahlias, of every possible hue, crowded up close to the sunflowers. They made a background to the girl's slender figure. She sat there a long time, happily absorbed, and Mrs. Orton Begg's memory, as she watched her, slipped back inevitably to her own love-days, till tears came of the inward supplication that Avadne's future might never know the terrible blight which had fallen upon her own life. Avadne walked through the village on her way back to Frailingay. A young woman, with a baby in her arms, was standing at the door of her cottage, looking out as she passed, and she stopped to speak to her. The child held out his little arms, and kicked and crowed to be taken, and when his mother had entrusted him to Avadne, he clasped her tight around the neck, and nibbling her cheek with his warm, moist mouth, sending a delicious thrill through every fiber of her body, a first foretaste of maternity. She hurried on to hide her emotion, but all the way home there was a singing in her heart, a certainty of joy's undreamt of hitherto, the tenderest, sweetest, most womanly joys, her own house, her own husband, her own children perhaps, it all lay in that, her own end of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of The Heavenly Twins. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Heavenly Twins by Sarah G. Chapter 12. The next few weeks were decked with the richness of autumn tints, the glory of autumn skies, but Avadne was unaware of either. She had no consciousness of distinct days and nights, and indeed they were pretty well mingled after she went to town, for she often danced till daylight and slept till dusk, and it was all a golden haze this time, with impressions of endless shops, of silks, of satins, and lovely laces, of costly trinkets, of little notes flying between London and Seancliffe, and of everybody so happy that it was impossible to help sitting down and having a good cry occasionally. The whirl in which she lived during this period was entered upon without thought, her own inclinations agreeing at the time to every usage sanctioned by custom, but in after years she said that those days of dissipation and excitement appeared to her to be a curious preparation for the solemn duty she was about to enter upon. Avadne felt the time fly, and she felt also that the days were never ending. It was six weeks at first, then all at once, as it seemed, there was only one week, and then it was tomorrow. All that last day there was a terrible racket in the house, and she was hardly left alone a single moment, and was therefore thankful when, finally, late at night, she managed to escape to her own room. Not that she was left long in peace even then, however, for two of her bridesmaids were staying in the house, and they, and her sisters, stormed her chamber in their dressing gowns, and had a pillow fight to begin with, and then sat down and cackled for an hour, speculating as to whether they should like to be married or not. They decided that they should, because of the presence, you know, and the position, and the delight of having such a lot of new gowns, and being your own mistress, with your own house and servants, they thought of everything, in fact, but the inevitable husband, the possession of whom certainly constituted no part of the advantages which they expected to secure by marriage. Evadni sat silent, and smiled at their chatter, with the air of one who has solved the problem, and knows, but she was glad to be rid of them, and when they had gone, she got her sacred commonplace book, and glanced through it dreamily. Then, rousing herself a little, she went to her writing-table, and sat down, and wrote, This is the close of the happiest girlhood that a girl ever had. I cannot recall a single thing that I would have had otherwise. When she had locked the book away, with some other possessions in a box that was to be sent to await her arrival at her new home, she took a photograph of her lover, and pressed it to her lips and breast, and placed it where her eyes might light on it, as soon as she awoke. She was aroused by a kiss on her lips, and a warm tear on her cheek the next morning. Wake, darling, her mother said, This is your wedding day. Oh, mother, she cried, flinging her arms around her neck. How good of you to come I am so happy. Mr. Hamilton Wells, Lady Adeline, and the heavenly twins, had been at the frailing since breakfast, and nothing had happened. Lady Adeline, having seen the children safely and beautifully dressed for the ceremony, Angelica as Bridesmaid, Diavolo as Paige, left them sitting with a picture-book between them, like model twins. Really, she said to Mr. Hamilton Wells, I think the occasion is too interesting for them to have anything else in their heads. But the moment she left them alone, those same heads went up, and set themselves in a listening attitude. Now, Diavolo, quick, said Angelica, as soon as the sound of her mother's departing footsteps had died away. Diavolo dashed the picture-book to the opposite side of the room, sprang up, and followed Angelica swiftly but stealthily to the very top of the house. When the wedding party assembled in the drawing room, the twins were nowhere to be found. Mr. Hamilton Wells went peering through his eyeglasses into every corner, removed the glass and looked without it, then dusted it and looked once more to make sure, while Lady Adeline grew rigid with nervous anxiety. The search had to be abandoned, however. But, when the party went down to the carriages, it was discovered to everybody's great relief that the children had already modestly taken their seats in one of them, with their backs to the horses. Each was carefully covered in an elegant wrap, and sitting bolt upright, the picture of primness. The wraps were superfluous, and Mr. Hamilton Wells was about to remonstrate, but Lady Adeline exclaimed, for heaven's sake, don't interfere. It is such a trifle. If you irritate them, goodness knows what will happen. But, manlike, he could not let things be. Where have you been, you naughty children? He demanded in his precisest way. You really have given a great deal of trouble. Well, Papa, Angelica retorted hotly at the top of her voice through the carriage window for the edification of the crowd. You said we were to be good children, and not to get in anybody's way. And here we have been sitting an hour as good as possible, and quite out of the way, and you aren't satisfied. It is quite unreasonable, isn't it, Diavolo? Papa can't get on, I believe, without finding fault with us. It's just a bad habit he's got, and when we give him no excuse, he impents one. Mr. Hamilton Wells beat a hasty retreat, and the party arrived at the church without mishap. But when the procession was formed there was a momentary delay. They were waiting for the bride's page, who had descended with the youngest bridesmaid from the last carriage, and the two came into church demurely, hand in hand. What, darlings? Aren't they pretty? What a sweet little boy with his lovely dark curls was heard from all sides, but there was also an audible titter. Lady Adeline turned pale. Mrs. Frailing's band gropped. Evadny lost her countenance. The twins had changed clothes. There was nothing to be done then, however, so Angelica obtained the coveted pleasure of acting as page to Evadny, and Diavolo escaped the trouble of having to hold up her train, and manage besides to have fun with a small but amorous boy, who was to have been Angelica's pair, and who, knowing nothing of the fraud which had been perpetrated, insisted on kissing the fair Diavolo to that young gentleman's lasting delight. It was a misty morning, with only fitful glimpses of sunshine. Mrs. Frailing was not a bit superstitious. Nobody is, but she had been watching the omens. Most people do, and she would have been better satisfied had the day been bright. But still, she felt no shadow of foreboding until the twins appeared. Then, however, there arose in her heart a horrified exclamation. It is unnatural. It will bring bad luck. There was no fun for the heavenly twins apart, so they decided to sit together at the wedding breakfast, and nobody, dared separate them, lest worse should come of it. Diavolo bet he could drink as much champagne as Major Coon, and having secured a seat opposite to an uncorked bottle, he proceeded conscientiously to do his best to win the wager. Toward the end of the breakfast, however, he lost count, and then he lost his head, and showed signs of falling off his chair. You must go to sleep under the table now, said Angelica. It's the proper thing to do when you're drunk. I'm going to, but I'm not far enough gone yet. My legs are queer, but my head is steady. Get under, will you? I'll be down directly. And she cautiously but rapidly dislodged him, and landed him at her feet, everybody's attention being occupied at the moment by the gentleman who was gracefully returning thanks for the ladies. When the speech was over, Lady Adelaide remembered the twins with the start, and at once Miss Diavolo. Where is he? She asked anxiously. He's just doing something for me, Mama, Angelica answered. He was acting at that moment as her footstall under the table. She did not join him there as she had promised, however, because when the wine made her begin to feel giddy, she took no more. She said afterwards she saw no fun in feeling nasty, and she thought a person must be a fool to think there was. And Diavolo, who was suffering badly at that moment from headache and nausea, the effect of his potations, agreed. That was on the evening of the eventful day at their own townhouse. Their father and mother, having hurried them off there as soon after Diavolo was discovered in helpless condition as they could conveniently make their escape. The twins had been promptly put to bed in their respective rooms, and told to stay there. But, of course, it did not in the least follow that they would obey, and locking them up had not been found to be the answer. Angelica did remain quiet, however, an hour or so, resting after all the excitement of the morning, but she got up eventually, put on her dressing gown, and went to Diavolo, and it was then they discussed the drink question. Discussion, however, was never enough for the twins. They always wanted to do something. And so now they went down to the library together, erected an altar of valuable books, and arranged themselves in white sheets which they tore from the parental couch for the purpose. Considerably disarranging the same, and the sheets they covered with crimson curtains taken down at imminent risk of injuring themselves from one of the dining room windows with the help of a ladder, abstracted from the area by the way of the front door. Although they were in their dressing gowns, the time chosen for this revel being when their parents were in the drawing room after dinner, and all the servants were having their supper and safe out of the way. The ladder was used to go down to the coal cellar and never, of course, replaced. The consequence being that the next person who went for coal fell in the dark and broke her leg, an accident which cost Mr Hamilton Wells from first to last a considerable sum, he being a generous man and unwilling to let anyone suffer in pocket in his service. He thought the risk to life and limb was sufficient without that. Having completed these solemn preparations, the twins swore a ghastly oath on the altar, never to touch drink again, and might they be found out in everything they did on earth if they broke it, and never see heaven when they died. The wedding breakfast went off merrily enough, and when the bride and bridesmaid left the table, and the dining room door was safely shut, there was much girlish laughter in the hall, and an undignified scamper up the stairs. Also a tussle as to who should take the first pin from the bride's veil and be married next, and much amusement when Mrs Frailing's elderly maid unconsciously appropriated it herself in the way of business. Evadney hugged her, exclaiming, You dear old Jenny, you shall be married next, and I shall be your bridesmaid. Oh no you won't, cried one of the girls, you'll never be bridesmaid again. Suddenly there was silence. Never again is chilling in its effect. It is such a very long time. As Evadney was leaving her room in her travelling dress, she noticed some letters lying on her dressing table, which she had forgotten, and turned back to get them. They had come by the morning's post, but she had not opened any of them, and now she began to put them in her pocket one by one to read at her leisure, glancing at the superscriptions as she did so. One was from Aunt Olive. Dear Aunt Olive, how kind of her. Two were letters of congratulation from friends of the family. A fourth was from the old housekeeper at Frailingay. She kissed that, and the fifth was in a strange and peculiar hand, which she did not recognise, and she opened it at first to see who her correspondent might be. The letter was from the north, and had been addressed to Frailingay, and she should have received it some days before. As she drew it from its envelope, she glanced at the signature, and at the last few words, which were uppermost, and seemed surprised. She knew the writer by name and reputation very well, although they had never met, and feeling sure that the communication must be something of importance, she unfolded the letter, and read it at once deliberately from beginning to end. When she appeared amongst the guests again, she was pale, her lips set, and she held her head high. Her mother said the dear child was quite overwrought, but she saw only what she expected to see through her own tear-bedimmed eyes, and other people were differently impressed. They thought Evadny was cold, and preoccupied when it came to the parting, and did not seem to feel leaving her friends at all. She went out, dry-eyed after kissing her mother, took her seat in the carriage, bowed polite but unsmiling acknowledgements to her friends, and drove off with Major Cahoon with as little show of emotion and much the same air as if she had merely been going somewhere on business and expected to return directly. Thank goodness all that's over, Major Cahoon exclaimed. She looked at him coolly and critically. He was sitting with his hat in his hand. She noticed that his hair was thin on the forehead, and there was nothing of youth in his eyes. I expect you are tired, he further observed. No, I am not tired. Thank you, Evadny answered. Then she set her lips once more, lent back, and looked out of the carriage window at the street all sloppy with mud, and the poor people seeming so miserable in the rain which had been falling steadily for the last hour. Poor weary creatures, she thought, we have so much, and they so little. But she did not speak again till the carriage pulled up at the station, when she leaned forward with anxious eyes and said something confusedly about the crowd. Major Cahoon thought she was afraid of being stared at. He took out his watch. You will only have to cross the platform to the carriage, and the train ought to be up by this time, but if you don't mind being left alone a moment, I'll just go myself and see if it is, and where they are going to put us, and then I can take you there straight, you won't feel the crowd at all. He was not gone many minutes, but when he returned the carriage was empty. Where is Mrs. Cahoon? He said. She followed you, sir. The coachman answered, touching his hat. Confound, he pulled himself up. She'll be back in a moment, I suppose, he muttered. Dover Express, take your seats. Bald reporter, are you for the Dover Express? Yes. Yes, said Major Cahoon. Engage carriage, sir? Yes. Oh, by the way, perhaps she's gone to the carriage, and he started to see the port of following him. Did you notice a young lady in a grey dress passed this way? He asked the man as they went. With a pink feather in her hat, sir? Yes. Not pass up this way, sir, the man rejoined. She got in the answer over there and drove off. It was the same young lady. Major Cahoon stopped short. The compartment reserved for them was empty also. Dover Express! Dover Express! The guard shouted as he came along, banging the carriage doors too. For Dover, sir? He said, in his ordinary voice to Major Cahoon. No. It seems not. The gentleman answered deliberately. The guard went on. Dover Express! Dover Express! All right, Bill? This was to someone in the front seat popped into his own van and shut the door. And then the whistle shrieked derisively. The crank turned, and the next moment the train slid out. Serpent like into the mist. Major Cahoon had watched it off like any other ordinary spectator, and when he had gone, he looked at the porter, and the porter looked at him. Was your luggage on the train, sir? The man asked him. Yes. But only booked to Dover. Major Cahoon answered carelessly, taking out a cigarette case and choosing a cigarette with exaggerated precision. When he had lighted it, he tipped the porter and strolled back to the entrance, on the chance of finding the carriage still there. But it had gone, and he called a handsome, paused a moment with his foot on the step, and finally directed the man to drive to Frailings. Swell's been sold somehow, commented the porter, and if I was a Swell I wouldn't take on Neva. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 The Frailings had decided to postpone all further activities till the bride and bride's grooms return, so that the wedding guests had gone, and the house looked as drearyly commonplace as any other in the street when the handsome pulled up, a little short of the door, for Major Cahoon to alight. The servant, who answered his ring made no pretense of concealing his astonishment when he saw who it was, but Major Cahoon's manner effectively checked any expression of it. He was not the kind of man whom a servant would ever have dared to express any sympathy with. However, obviously things had gone wrong. But there was nothing in Major Cahoon's appearance at that moment to show anything had gone wrong, except his return when he should have been off on his wedding journey. There was probably a certain amount of assumption in his apparent indifference. He had always cultivated an inscrutable bearing as being the thing in his set, so that it was easy for him to now appear to be cooler and more collected than he was. His attitude, however, was largely due to want of proper healthy feeling, for he was a vice-worn man, with small capacity for any great emotion. He walked into the hall and hung up his hat. "'Is Mr. Frailing alone?' he said. "'Yes, sir, with Mrs. Frailing, and the family upstairs in the drawing-room,' the man stammered. "'Ask him to see me down here, please, say a gentleman.' He stepped to a mirror as he spoke and carefully twisted the ends of his blond mustache. "'Very good, sir,' said the servant. Major Cahoon walked into the library in the same deliberate way, and turned up the gas. Mr. Frailing came hurrying down, fat and fussy, puffing a little, but chifferly rubricant upon the success of the day's proceedings, and apprehending nothing untoward. When he saw his son-in-law, he opened his eyes, stopped short, turned pale, and gasped. "'Is Avadney here?' Major Cahoon asked quietly. "'Here? No. What should she be doing here? What has happened?' Mr. Frailing exclaimed aghast. "'That is just what I don't rightly know myself, if she's not here,' Major Cahoon replied. The quiet demeanour he had assumed contrasting favourably with his father-in-law's fuss and fume. "'Why have you left her? What are you doing here? Explain!' Mr. Frailing demanded, almost angrily. Major Cahoon related the little he knew, and Mr. Frailing plumped down into a chair to listen, and bounced up again when all was said to speak. "'Let me send for her mother.' He began, showing at once where, in an emergency, he felt his strength lay. "'No, though, I'd better go myself and prepare her,' he added on second thought. "'We mustn't make a fuss. With all the servants about to, they would talk.' And then he fussed off himself, with agitation evident in every step. Something like a smile disturbed Major Cahoon's calm countenance for a moment, and then he stood, twisting the ends of his fair mustache slowly with his left hand, and gazing into the fire, which Sean reflected in his steely blue eyes, making them glitter-like pale sapphires coldly while he waited. Mr. Frailing returned with his wife almost immediately. The latter had had her handkerchief in her hand all day, but she put it in her pocket now. Major Cahoon had to repeat his story. "'Did you look for her in the waiting-rooms?' Mrs. Frailing asked. "'No.' "'She may be there waiting for you at this very moment. It was a practical suggestion.' But the porter said he saw her get into a handsome. Major Cahoon objected. He said he saw a young lady in grey get into a handsome. I understood you to say.' Mrs. Frailing corrected him. A young lady in grey is not necessarily a Vadney. There may be a dozen young ladies in grey in such a crowd. "'There might, yes,' Mr. Frailing agreed. And the proof that it was not a Vadney is that she is not here.' Her mother proceeded. If she had been seen getting into a handsome it could only have been to come here. The handsome might break down on the way. Said Major Cahoon, entertaining the idea for a moment. "'That is not impossible,' Mr. Frailing decided. "'But why would she come here?' Major Cahoon slowly pursued, looking hard at his parents-in-law. "'Had she any objection to marrying me? Was she over-persuaded into it?' "'Oh, no,' Mrs. Frailing exclaimed emphatically. "'How can you suppose such a thing? We should never have dreamed of influencing the dear child in such a matter. If there were ever a case of love at first sight it was one. Why, her first words on waking this morning were, "'Oh, mother, I am so happy. That doesn't sound like being over-persuaded.' Then what, in God's name, is the explanation of all of this?' Major Cahoon exclaimed, showing some natural emotion for the first time. "'That is it,' said Mr. Frailing energetically. "'There must be some explanation.' Heaven grant that the dear child has not been entrapped in some way, and carried off, and robbed, and murdered, or something dreadful.' Mrs. Frailing cried, giving way to strain all at once, ringing her hands. They then looked at each other, and the period of speculation was followed by a momentary interregnum of silence, which would in due course be succeeded by a desired act to do something if nothing happened in the meantime. Something did happen, however. The doorbell rang violently. They looked up and listened. The hall door was opened. Footsteps approached, paused outside the library, and then the butler entered, and handed Mr. Frailing a telegram on a silver salver. "'Is there any answer, sir?' he asked. Mr. Frailing opened it with trembling hand, and read it. "'No, no answer,' he said. The butler looked at them all as if they interested him, and withdrew. "'Well?' cried Mrs. Frailing. "'Is it from her?' "'Yes,' Mr. Frailing replied. It was handed in at the General Post Office at— "'The General Post Office?' Major Kahuna ejaculated. "'What an earth took her there!' "'The handsome, you know,' said Mrs. Frailing. "'Oh, dear,' to her husband. "'Do read it.' "'Well, I'm going to, if you let me,' he answered irritably, but delaying nevertheless to mutter something irrelevant about women's tongues. Then he read, "'Don't be anxious about me. Have received information about Major C's character and past life which does not satisfy me at all. And I'm going now to make further inquiries. We'll write.' "'Information about my character and past life,' exclaimed Major Kahuna. "'Why? What is wrong with my character? What have I done?' "'Oh, the child is mad. She must be mad,' Mrs. Frailing ejaculated. Mr. Frailing fewned up and down the room in evident perturbation. He had not a single phrase ready for such an occasion, nor the power to form one, and was consequently compelled to employ quite simple language. "'You had better make inquiries at the Post Office,' he said to Major Kahuna, and tried to trace her. You must follow her and bring her back at once, if possible.' "'Not I, indeed,' was Major Kahuna's most unexpected rejoinder. I shall not give myself any trouble on her account, she may go.' "'Over heaven's sake, don't say that, George,' Mrs. Frailing exclaimed. "'You do love her, and she loves you. I know she does. Some dreadful mischief-making person has come between you. But wait. Do wait, until you know more. It will all come right in the end. I am sure it will.' Major Kahuna compressed his lips and looked sullenly into the fire. End of Chapter 13