The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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"She was so hungry?" suggested Lady Fulda, trying hard to remember the
story.

"No, so humble," Angelica answered; "at least so they say in the book; but
we don't think it could have been humility; it must have been horrid bad
taste; but we're going to ask the bishop. He's so temperate, you know. We
tried to discuss the matter with Father Ricardo, but he shut us up
promptly."

"My dear child!" Lady Fulda exclaimed, "what an expression!"

"I assure you it is the right one, Aunt Fulda," Angelica maintained. "He
got quite red in the face."

"Yes," said Diavolo, gazing at Father Ricardo thoughtfully. "He looked hot
enough to set fire to us if he'd touched us."

"I should think he would have been invaluable in the Inquisition," said
Angelica, to whom that last remark of Diavolo's had opened up a boundless
field of speculation and retrospect. "Wouldn't you like to hear a heretic
go off pop on a pile?" she inquired, turning to Father Ricardo.

The duke and Lady Fulda glanced at him involuntarily, and very
good-naturedly tried to smile. This, however, did not necessitate such an
effort as the mere cold reading of the twins' remark might make it appear,
for they both had a certain charm of manner, expressive of an utter
absence of any intention to offend, which no kindly disposed person could
resist; and Father Ricardo was essentially kindly disposed.

The twins were taking their leave by this time. Angelica proceeded to
deposit one of her erratic kisses somewhere on the old duke's head, with
an emphasis which caused him to wince perceptibly. Then she went up to
Father Ricardo, and shook hands with him.

"I hope the next time we come you will be able to tell us some nice bogey
stories about death and the judgment, and hell, and that kind of thing,"
she said politely. "They interest us very much. You remember, you told us
some before?"

"It must be very jolly for grandpapa to have you here always, ready to
make his blood run cold whenever he feels dull," Diavolo observed, looking
up at the priest admiringly. "You do it so well, you know, just as if you
believed it all."

"We tried it once with some children we had to spend the day with us at
Hamilton House," Angelica said. "We took them into a dark room--the long
room, you know, Aunt Fulda; and Diavolo rubbed a match on the wall at the
far end, and I explained that that was a glimmer of hell-fire at a great
distance off; and then we told them if they didn't keep quite still the
old devil himself would come creeping up behind without any noise, and
jump on their backs."

"And the little beggars howled," Diavolo added, as if that consequence
still filled him with astonishment.

"My dear children, I am afraid you tell dreadful stories," Lady Fulda
exclaimed in a horrified tone.

"Yes," said Angelica, with her grave little nod; "and we're improving; but
we cannot come up to Father Ricardo yet in that line."

"Not by a long chalk," said Diavolo.

"But, my _dear_ child," Lady Fulda solemnly asserted, "Father Ricardo
tells you _nothing_ but what is _absolutely_ true."

"How do you know?" Angelica asked.

"Oh--oh!" Lady Fulda stammered, and then looked at the priest appealingly.

"When you are older, and able to understand these things," Father Ricardo
began with gentle earnestness, "perhaps you will allow me--"

"But how do you _know_ it's true yourself?" Angelica demanded.

"Did you ever _see_ the devil,
With his little spade and shovel,
Digging praties in the garden
With his tail cocked up?"--

Diavolo chanted, accompanying the words with a little dance, in which
Angelica, holding up her habit, joined incontinently.

Lady Fulda remained grave, but the old duke and Father Ricardo himself
were moved to mirth, and there was no more talk of Revealed Religion, the
Power of the Popedom, and the glory of the Church on earth, at Morne that
day.

Lady Fulda had been firm about sending the children home under escort, and
they found a steady old groom waiting ready to mount a spirited horse when
they went down to the courtyard to get on their ponies. They had
discovered a box of croquet mallets on their way downstairs, and borrowed
one each.

As they descended the steep hill leading from the castle, at a walk, they
began to discuss recent events, as their habit was.

"What did you do when the chime went, and you hung your head?" said
Angelica.

"I hoped there'd be hot cakes for tea; bat I didn't mean it for a prayer,"
Diavolo answered, as if the matter admitted of a doubt.

"I'm glad we decided to go secondly to the palace; I didn't think much of
grandpapa's tea," Angelica observed. "It was all china, and no cakes--to
speak of; no crisp ones, you know."

"Well, you see his teeth are bad," said Diavolo indulgently.

"He has enough of them, then!" Angelica answered.

"Yes, but they aren't much good, they're so loose, you know; every now and
again you can see them waggle," said Diavolo.

"I'd like to see him bite a fig!" said Angelica, chuckling.

"They'd stick, I suppose," said Diavolo meditatively. "I expect there will
be great improvements in those matters by the time we want to be patched."

The groom, who had been riding at a respectful distance behind, suddenly
perceived that he had lost sight of the children altogether. The descent
was steep just there, and winding; and, knowing with whom he had to deal,
the man urged his horse on, straining his eyes at every turn to catch a
glimpse of the twins, but vainly, till he reached the bottom of the hill,
when they bounced out on him suddenly from among the trees on either side
of the road, whooping and flourishing their mallets wildly. The horse,
which was very fresh, gave one great bound and bolted, and the Heavenly
Twins, shrieking with delight, hunted him hard into Morningquest.

When they arrived at the palace, Angelica asked with the utmost confidence
if the bishop were at home; and, being informed by an obsequious footman
that he was, the twins marched into the hall, and were ushered into the
presence of Mrs. Beale and her daughter Edith.

"Tell his lordship we are here," Angelica said to the servant
authoritatively, before she performed her salutations. When these were
over, the twins sat down opposite to Edith and inspected her.

"We've just been seeing Aunt Fulda," Diavolo remarked.

Angelica caught the connection: "Your hair is about the same colour as
hers, but your face is smoother," she observed. "It looks like porcelain.
Hers has little stipples, you know, about the nose, when you go close.
They seem to come as you get older."

"Uncle Dawne calls you Saxon Edith," said Diavolo. "Don't you wonder he
doesn't want to marry you? _I_ do. When I'm old enough I'm going to
propose to you; do you think you will have me?"

"Have you! I should think not, indeed!" Angelica exclaimed with a jealous
flash. At that time the notion of sharing her brother's affection with
anybody always enraged her.

Diavolo was irritated by her scornful manner.

"I am a little afraid," he began, addressing Mrs. Beale in his deliberate
way: "I am a little afraid Angelica will stand in the way of my making a
good match. No respectable wife would have her about."

Quick as thought, Angelica had him by the hair, and the two were tumbling
over each other on the floor.

Mrs. Beale and Edith sprang forward to separate them, but that was
impossible until the twins had banged each other to their heart's content,
when they got up, with their feelings thoroughly relieved, and resumed
their seats and the conversation as if nothing had happened. The skirmish,
however, had been severe although short. Diavolo had a deep scratch over
his right eyebrow which began to bleed profusely. Angelica was the first
to notice it, and tearing out a handkerchief which was up her sleeve, she
rolled it into a bandage roughly, whirled over to Diavolo, and tied it
round his head, covering his right eye, and leaving a great knot and two
long ends sticking up like rabbit's ears amongst his fair hair, and a
pointed flap hanging down on the opposite side.

"I must cut my nails," she remarked, giving a finishing touch to this
labour of love, which made Diavolo rock on his chair, but he accepted her
attentions as a matter-of-course, merely drawling: "Angelica is _so_
energetical!" as he recovered his balance.

Just at this moment the bishop bustled in. He had been engaged upon some
important diocesan duties when the twins were announced; but, thinking
they must have come with an urgent message, he suspended the work of the
diocese, and hurried up to see what was the matter.

The twins rose to receive him with their usual unaffected affability. He
was a short stout man with a pleasant face, and a cordial well-bred manner;
a little apt to be fussy on occasion, and destitute of any sense of
humour in other people, although given to making his own little jokes. He
was a bishop of the old-fashioned kind, owing his position to family
influence rather than to any special attainment or qualification; but he
was a good man, and popular, and the See of Morningquest would have had
much to regret if the back door by which he got into the Church had been
shut before he passed through it.

"I am afraid there has been an accident," he said with concern when he saw
Diavolo's head tied up in a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, thank you, sir," that young gentleman assured him. "It is only a
scratch."

"_I_ did it," said the candid Angelica; "and it looked unpleasant, so
I tied it up."

"Oh," the bishop ejaculated, glancing inquiringly at his wife and
daughter. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," said Diavolo, preparing to suit his conversation to the bishop's
taste. "There are a great many things we want to discuss with you; what
were they, Angelica? I am sure I have forgotten them all."

"Let me see," said Angelica--Sainte Chantal and the rotten potato had
quite gone out of her mind. "It was just to have a little interesting
conversation, you know."

"We're getting on very well with our lessons," Diavolo gravely assured
him, anticipating the inevitable question.

"We've just come from Morne," said Angelica.

"Indeed," the bishop answered. "How is your grandfather?"

"Rather flat to-day," said Angelica. "He didn't say anything of interest;
didn't even lecture us."

"No; but he looked pleasant," said Diavolo.

"I like him to lecture," Angelica insisted. "I like him to talk about the
Church, how it is going to encompass the earth, the sea, and all that in
them is; and that kind of thing, you know--boom, boom! He makes you feel
as if every word he uttered ought to be printed in capital letters; and it
seems as if your eyes opened wider and wider, and your skin got tight."

Diavolo nodded his head to one side in intelligent acquiescence.

Not being troubled with self-consciousness, he wore the handkerchief with
which his head was decorated with the grave dignity of his best behaviour.

"I sometimes think, sir," he began, addressing the bishop exactly in his
father's precise way, "that there is something remarkable about my
grandfather. He is a kind of a prophet, I imagine, to whom the Lord
doesn't speak."

Edith walked to the window, Mrs. Beale got out her handkerchief hastily;
the bishop's countenance relaxed.

"I suppose you wouldn't like us to be converted?" Angelica asked.

"We call it _perverted_, dear child," said Mrs. Beale.

"Well, they call it _converted_ just as positively up at the castle,"
Angelica rejoined, not argumentatively, merely stating the fact.

"I wonder what the angels call it," said Diavolo, looking up in their
direction out of a window opposite, and then glancing at the bishop as if
he thought he ought to know.

"I don't suppose they care a button what we call it," Angelica decided
off-hand, out of her own inner consciousness. "But you would not like us
to be either 'con' or 'per,' would you?" she asked the bishop.

"I am afraid I must not discuss so serious a question with you to-day," he
answered. "I am very busy, and I must go back to my work."

"I thought you looked unsettled," Angelica observed. "I know what it is
when you've got to come to the drawing room, and want to be somewhere
else. They won't excuse us at home as a rule, but we'll excuse you, if you
like."

"Eh--thank you," the old gentleman answered, glancing with a smile at his
wife.

"But I should think some tea would do you good," Diavolo suggested.

"Have you not had any tea?" Edith asked, stretching her hand out toward
the bell.

"Well, yes," he answered. "We've had a little"--the tone implied, "but not
nearly enough."

"We always like your cakes, you know," said Angelica; "and ours at
Hamilton House are generally nice; but at Morne they're sometimes sodden."

The bishop withdrew at this point, and the children devoted the rest of
their attention to the cakes.

"Now we've got to go and settle with Mr. Ellis," Diavolo remarked to
Angelica, yawning, as they walked their ponies out of the palace grounds.

"Well, at any rate, we've done the celebration thoroughly," she answered,
"and enjoyed it. He won't be able to help that now. Oh--by the way! here's
grandpapa's ring. I forgot it."

"It doesn't matter," said Diavolo. "He knows you'll take care of it."

Almost at the same moment the old duke at Morne missed the ring, and
remarked: "Ah, I remember, Angelica has it. She put it on her finger when
she was sitting beside me this afternoon."

"Shall I go at once to Hamilton House, and bring it back with me?" Father
Ricardo asked, somewhat officiously.

"No, sir, thank you," said the duke with dignity. "My grand-daughter will
return the ring when it suits her convenience."

Next day Angelica begged her father to take the ring back for her with a
note of apology explaining that she had forgotten it, and expressing her
regret.

CHAPTER XXI.

Part of the old gray palace at Morningquest had been a monastery. The
walls were thick, the windows gothic, the bedrooms small, the reception
rooms huge, as if built for the accommodation of a whole community at a
time; and with unexpected alcoves and angles and deep embrasures, all very
picturesque, and also extremely inconvenient; but Edith Beale, who had
been born in the palace and grown up there, under the protection of the
great cathedral, as it were, and the influence of its wonderful chime, was
never conscious of the inconvenience, and would not, at any rate, have
exchanged it for the comfort and luxury of the best appointed modern
house. The Bishop of Morningquest and Mrs. Beale had three sons, but Edith
was their only daughter, their white child, their pearl; and certainly she
was a lovely specimen of a well-bred English girl.

On the day following that upon which the Heavenly Twins had celebrated the
important occasion of their first spontaneous "Kow-tow," as they called
it, in the early morning Edith, being still asleep, turned toward the east
window of her room, the blind of which was up, and fell into a dream. The
sun, as he rose, smiled in upon her. She had flung her left hand up above
her head with the pink palm outward, and the fingers half bent; the right
lay on the sheet beside her, palm downward, spread out, and all relaxed.
Her whole attitude expressed the most complete abandonment of deep and
restful sleep.

The night had been warm, and the heavier draperies had slipped from her
bed on the farther side, leaving only the sheet.

Her warm bright hair, partly loosened from the one thick braid into which
it had been plaited, fell from off the pillow to the floor on her right,
and the sun, looking in, lit it up and made it sparkle. She left that
window with the blind undrawn so that he might arouse her every morning;
and now, as the first pale ray gleamed over her face, her eyelids
quivered, and half opened, but she was still busy with her dream and did
not wake. She lived in an atmosphere of dreams and of mystic old
associations. Events of the days gone by were often more distinctly
pictured in her mind than incidents of yesterday. Mrs. Orton Beg, her
mother, and all the gentle mannered, pure-minded women among whom she had
grown up, thought less of this world, even as they knew it, than of the
next as they imagined it to be; and they received and treasured with
perfect faith every legend, hint, and shadow of a communication which they
believed to have come to them from thence. They neglected the good they
might have done here in order to enjoy their bright and tranquil dreams of
the hereafter. Their spiritual food was faith and hope. They kept their
tempers even and unruffled by never allowing themselves to think or know,
so far as it is possible with average intelligence not to do either in
this world, anything that is evil of anybody. They prided themselves on
only believing all that is good of their fellow-creatures; this was their
idea of Christian charity. Thus they always believed the best about
everybody, not on evidence, but upon principle; and then they acted as if
their attitude had made their acquaintances all they desired them to be.
They seemed to think that by ignoring the existence of sin, by refusing to
obtain any knowledge of it, they somehow helped to check it; and they
could not have conceived that their attitude made it safe to sin, so that,
when they refused to know and to resist, they were actually countenancing
evil and encouraging it. The kind of Christian charity from which they
suffered was a vice in itself. To keep their own minds pure was the great
object of their lives, which really meant to save themselves from the
horror and pain of knowing.

Edith, by descent, by teaching, by association, and in virtue of the
complete ignorance in which she had been kept, was essentially one of that
set. It is impossible for any adult creature to be more spiritually minded
than she was. She lived in a state of exquisite feeling. The whole
training of her mind had been so directed as to make her existence one
long beatific vision, and she was unconsciously prepared to resent in her
gentle way, and to banish at once, if possible, any disturbing thought
that might break in upon it.

In her dream that morning she smiled at first, and then she fairly
laughed. She had met the Heavenly Twins, and they were telling her
something--what was it? The most amusing thing she had ever heard them say;
she knew it by the way it had made her laugh--why couldn't she repeat it?
She was trying to tell her mother, and while in the act, she became
suddenly aware of a strange place, and Diavolo kneeling at her feet,
clasping her left hand, and kissing it. She felt the touch of his lips
distinctly; they were soft and warm. He was beseeching her to marry him,
she understood, and she was going to laugh at him for being a ridiculous
boy, but it was the steadfast, dark blue eyes of Lord Dawne that met hers,
and she was looking up at him, and not down at the fair-haired Diavolo
kneeling before her. She caught the gloss on Lord Dawne's black hair, the
curve of his slight moustache, and the gleam of his white teeth. He was
grave, but his lips were parted, and he carried a little child in his
arms, and the expression of his face was like the dear Lord's in a picture
of the Good Shepherd which she had in her room. He held the little child
out to her. She took it from him, smiling, raised its little velvet cheek
to hers, and then drew back to look at it, but was horrified because it
was not beautiful at all as it had been the moment before, but deformed,
and its poor little body was covered with sores. The sight sickened her,
and she tried to cover it with her own clothes. She tore at the skirt of
her gown. She struggled to take off a cloak she wore. She stripped herself
in the endeavour and cried aloud in her shame, but she could not help
herself, and Dawne could not help her, and in the agony of the attempt she
awoke, and sprang up, clutching at the bedclothes, but was not able to
find them at first, because they had fallen on the floor; and she fancied
herself still in her horrible dream. Big drops of perspiration stood on
her forehead, her eyes were dazzled by the sun, and she was all confused.
She jumped out of bed and stood a moment, trying to collect herself; and
the first thing she saw distinctly was the picture of the Saviour on the
wall. A _Prie-dieu_ stood beneath it, and she went and knelt there,
her beautiful yellow hair streaming behind her, her eyes fixed on the
wonderful, sad, sweet face.

"Dear Lord," she prayed passionately, "keep me from all knowledge of
unholy things,"--by which she meant sights and circumstances that were
unlovely, and horrified.

She knelt for some minutes longer, with all articulate thought suspended;
but by degrees there came to her that glow in the chest, that expansion of
it which is the accompaniment of the exalted sentiment known to us as
adoration, or love; love purged of all earthly admixture of doubt and
fear, which is the most delicious sensation human nature is capable of
experiencing. And presently she arose, free from the painful impression
made by the revolting details of her dream, put her hands under her hair
at the back of her neck, and then raised them up above her head and her
hair with them, stretching herself and yawning slightly. Then she brought
her hair all around to the right in a mass, and let it hang down to her
knees, and looked at it dreamily; and then began to twist it slowly,
preparatory to coiling it round her head. She went to the dressing-table
for hairpins to fasten it, holding up her long nightdress above her white
feet with one hand that she might not trip, and, standing before the
mirror, blushed at the beauty of her own reflection. When she had put her
hair out of the way, she glanced at her bed somewhat longingly, then at
her watch. It was very early, and the morning was chilly, so she put on
her white flannel dressing gown, got a book, returned to her bed, and
propped herself up in a comfortable position for reading; and so she spent
the time happily until her maid came to call her. Her book that morning
was "The Life of Frances Ridley Havergal," and she found it absorbingly
interesting.

CHAPTER XXII.

The ladies of an artist's family usually arrange and decorate their rooms
in a way which recalls the manner called artistic, more especially when
the artist is a figure or subject, as distinguished from a landscape
painter, for the latter lives too much in the free fresh air to cultivate
draperies, even if he does not absolutely detest them as being stuffy; and
in the same way the bedroom of the only daughter of the Bishop of
Morningquest would have made you think of matters ecclesiastical. The room
itself, with its thick walls, high stone mantelpiece, small gothic
windows, and plain ridged vault, was so in fact; and a sense of
suitability as well as the natural inclination of the occupant had led her
to choose the furniture and decoration as severely in keeping as possible.
The pictures consisted of photographs or engravings of sacred subjects,
all of Roman Catholic origin. There was a "Virgin and Child," by
Botticelli, and another by Perugini; "Our Lady of the Cat," by Baroccio;
the exquisite "Vision of St. Helena," by Paolo Veronese; Correggio's "Ecce
Homo"; and others less well-known; with a ghastly Crucifixion too painful
to be endured, especially by a young girl, had not custom dulled all
genuine perception of the horror of it. The whole effect, however, was a
delicious impression of freshness and serenity, which inspired something
of the same respect for Edith's sanctum that one felt for Edith herself,
as was evident on one occasion, when, the ladies of his family being
absent, the Bishop of Morningquest had taken Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, a
gentleman who had lately settled in that neighbourhood, over the palace.
When they came to Edith's room, he had opened the door absently, and then,
remembering whose it was, he said: "My daughter's room," and they had both
looked in without entering, and both becoming aware at the same moment
that they had their hats on, removed them involuntarily.

Edith's dress too, was characteristic. All the ornamentation was out of
sight, the lining of her gowns being often more costly than the materials
of which they were made. In the same way, her simple unaffected manners
were the plain garment which concealed the fine quality and cultivation of
her mind. She might have done great good in the world had she known of the
evil; she would have fought for the right in defiance of every prejudice,
as women do. But she had never been allowed to see the enemy. She had been
fitted by education to move in the society of saints and angels only, and
so rendered as unsuited as she was unprepared to cope with the world she
would have to meet in that state of life to which, as she herself would
have phrased it, it had pleased God to call her.

When she left her room that morning she went to her mother's sitting room,
which was on the same floor.

Edith and her mother usually breakfasted here together. Sometimes the
bishop joined them and chatted over an extra cup of tea; but he was an
early riser, and had generally breakfasted with his chaplain and private
secretary, and done an hour's work or so before his wife appeared. For
Mrs. Beale was delicate at that time, and obliged to forego the early
breakfast with her husband which had hitherto been the habit and pleasure
of her whole married life.