The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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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 pall upon repetition, but pleasures of
the soul continue and increase. A delicate dish soon wearies the palate,
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 a 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 Evadne'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 Evadne'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
endeavour. As a matter of course, with such men at the present time, he
sought solace in ritual. His whole nature thrilled to the roll 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 colour 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 Rev.
Henry Borthwick had adopted this view emphatically at the outset 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 Rev. Henry Borthwick when Evadne 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 surplice and threw it on the floor,
met Evadne 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
deanery 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 Evadne, she reflected, so she did not
interfere.

This was really a happy time for Evadne. 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
endeavoured 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 wont. "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, Evadne?"

"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. Frayling's face had fallen, but she only said: "I wish you could have
felt otherwise, dear."

Evadne 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 fain 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 XI.

"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 Evadne 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 Sunday--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 the 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 Colquhoun. He
looked about thirty-eight, and was a big blond man, with a heavy
moustache, 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. Frayling asked him to lunch, and Evadne 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 Colquhoun,
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 her chair, looking up at the sky; and sighed,
and smiled, and clasped her hands to her breast, and revelled in
sensations.

Major Colquhoun had been staying with a neighbouring county gentleman, but
she found when she met him again at afternoon tea that her father had
persuaded him to come to Fraylingay for some shooting. He was to go back
that night, and return to them the following Tuesday. Evadne heard of the
arrangement in silence, and unsurprised. Had he gone and _not_
returned, she would have wondered; but this sudden admission of a stranger
to the family circle, although unusual, was not unprecedented at
Fraylingay, 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 Evadne folded her hands as it were, and calmly awaited the
course of events, not doubting for a moment that she knew exactly what
that course was to be.

She did not actually _see_ much of Major Colquhoun 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. Frayling well entertained, and Evadne 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 Evadne had accepted him, the
engagement had been announced in the proper papers, Mrs. Frayling was
radiant, congratulations poured in, and everybody concerned was in a state
of pleasurable excitement from morning till night.

Mrs. Frayling 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 idyl 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. Evadne
says little, but there is such a delicate tinge of colour 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 Evadne 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 Evadne as
rapt 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. Frayling, and
there is nothing now that we can object to. In fact, we think he is
exactly suited to Evadne, and we are thoroughly satisfied in every way.
You can imagine that I find it hard to part with her, but I always knew
that 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 trousseau. 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
Fraylingay, 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 Evadne 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 Evadne's devotion to God
was intensified. "Sing to the Lord a new song" was forever upon her lips.

When the question of her engagement came to be mooted she had had a long
talk with her father, following upon a still longer talk which he had with
Major Colquhoun.

"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 very 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 Colquhoun'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 Evadne.
Just before they left Fraylingay she went to see her aunt, Mrs. Orton Beg.
The latter had sprained her ankle severely, and would therefore not be
able to go to Evadne's wedding. She lived in Morningquest, and had a
little house in the Close there. Morningquest was only twenty miles from
Fraylingay, 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 Fraylingay, and know nothing
of Morningquest.

Mrs. Orton Beg'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 love, fed upon the blessed hope
of immortality, burnt brighter every day.

Her existence in the quiet Close was a very peaceful, dreamy one, soothed
by the chime, uplifted by the sight of the beautiful old cathedral, and
regulated by its service.

Evadne found her lying on a 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 the Close 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 Beg was lying.

"I think I should turn to the cathedral, Aunt Olive," Evadne said.

"I do," her aunt answered; "but not at this time of day. I travel round
with the sun."

"It would fill my mind with beautiful thoughts to live here," Evadne 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 Longfellow's?--

"Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This medieval miracle,...!

"Sitting here alone, 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, Evadne--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 am
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 smile hovering about her lips. The wall was curtained with
canaryensis, virginia creeper rich in autumn tints, ivy, and giant
nasturtiums. 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 Beg's memory,
as she watched her, slipped back inevitably to her own love days, till
tears came of the inward supplication that Evadne's future might never
know the terrible blight which had fallen upon her own life.

Evadne walked through the village on her way back to Fraylingay. A young
woman with her 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 intrusted him to Evadne, he clasped her tight round the neck,
and nibbled her cheek with his warm, moist mouth, sending a delicious
thrill through every fibre of her body, a first foretaste of maternity.

She hurried on to hide her emotion.

But all the way home there was a singing at her heart, a certainty of joys
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_!

CHAPTER XII

The next few weeks were decked with the richness of autumn tints, the
glory of autumn skies; but Evadne 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, satins, and lovely laces; of
costly trinkets; of little notes flying between London and Shorncliffe;
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 duties she was about to enter upon.

Evadne felt the time fly, and she felt also that the days were never
ending. It was six weeks at first; and 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 presents, 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. Evadne 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 girl ever had. I cannot recall a single
thing that I would have had otherwise."