Authors: V.C. Andrews
“Sure, Mom. Go after my kids. I spoke to Trevor this morning, and he gave me a battery-operated two-way intercom. Trevor can be fully trusted.”
Believing wholeheartedly in our butler’s loyalty, I sped after the foursome already in the chapel.
* * *
Minutes later I sneaked through the small downstairs inside door to enter the chapel that Joel had told Bart was truly necessary if he were to redeem his soul from sin. It was a small room that tried to duplicate what many old castles and palaces contained for family worship. There was Bart kneeling behind the first pew, with Darren on one side and Deirdre on the other. Joel stood behind the pulpit, his gray head bowed as he began to pray. Stealthily I inched myself closer to hide in the shadow of an arch strut.
“We don’t like it here,” complained Deirdre in a loud whisper to Bart.
“Be quiet. This is God’s place,” Bart warned.
“I hear my kitty crying,” said Darren weakly, cringing away from Bart.
“You cannot possibly hear your cat, or any cat crying from such a distance. Besides, it’s not your kitty. It’s Trevor’s kitten, which he only allows you to play with.”
Both the twins began to sniffle, trying to hold back cries of distress. They both adored kittens, puppies, birds, anything that was little and cute. “SILENCE!” roared Bart. “I don’t hear anything from the outside, but if you listen carefully, God will speak and tell you how to survive.”
“What’s survive?”
“Darren, why do you let you sister ask all the questions?”
“She likes questions better.”
“Why is it so dark in here, Uncle Bart?”
“Deirdre, like all females, you talk too much.”
She began to wail louder. “I do not! Gramma likes my talk . . .”
“Your gramma likes anyone’s talk as long as it isn’t mine,” answered Bart bitterly, pinching Deirdre’s small arm to make her stay quiet.
Dozens of candles burned on the podium where Joel lifted his head. The architects had arranged for ceiling spots
to converge on whoever was behind the pulpit, placing Joel squarely in the center of a mystical, artificial, light cross.
In a clear and loud voice he said, “We will stand and we will sing the praises of the Lord before today’s sermon begins.” His voice was resonant, assured, and authoritative.
I had eased myself by this time to a position behind a supporting pillar from which I could spy and not be seen. Like two small robots, the twins, who’d obviously been here many times before without their father, Chris, me, or Toni, were well trained and intimidated. They stood obediently, one on each side of Bart, who kept his hands restrainingly on their small shoulders and they began, with him, to sing hymns. Their voices were frail, faltering, unable to carry the tune well. Yet they made mighty efforts to keep up with Bart, who stunned me with his surprisingly good baritone singing voice.
Why hadn’t Bart sung out like that when we attended the chapel services? Did Chris and I, with Jory, so intimidate Bart that he held back what had to be a God-given natural gift? When we’d praised Cindy for her singing voice, he had just frowned and said nothing to indicate that he had a wonderful voice as well. Oh, the complexity of Bart was likely to drive me crazy.
Under other, less sinister circumstances I would have been thrilled to hear Bart’s voice lifted so joyously, his whole heart in it. Some filtering sunlight fell through the stained glass windows to glorify his face with colors of purple, rose, and green. How beautiful he appeared as he sang, with his eyes lit up, as if he truly had the power of the Holy Ghost.
I was touched by his faith in God. Tears came to my eyes as a sense of relief washed over me and made me feel clean.
Oh, Bart, you can’t be all evil if you can sing like that, and look like that. It isn’t too late to save you, it can’t be.
No wonder Melodie had loved him. No wonder Toni was unable to turn her back and leave such a man.
“Oh, sing this song . . . this song of love to thee,
In God we trust, in God we trust . . .”
His voice soared, overwhelming the thin voices of the twins. I was lifted up and out of myself, willing to believe in the powers of God. I sank down on my knees, bowing my head.
“Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Thank you for saving my son.”
Then I was staring at him again, catching the Holy Spirit and willing to believe in anything he did. Words came out of the past. Bart had been with us at the time. “We’ve got to be careful with Jory,” warned Chris. “His immunity system has been impaired. We can’t allow him to catch a cold that might fill his lungs with fluid . . .”
Still I knelt on, transfixed. Now I could not believe Bart was anything but a very troubled young man trying desperately to find what was right for himself.
Bart’s powerful singing voice drew to the end of the hymn. Oh, if only Cindy could have heard him. If only they could both sing together, the two of them friends at last, joined by their equal talents. There was no one to applaud when his song ended. There was only silence and the thud of my beating heart.
The twins stared up at Bart with wide, innocent, blue eyes. “Sing again, Uncle Bart,” pleaded Deirdre. “Sing about the rock . . .”
Now I knew why they came to this chapel—to hear their uncle sing, to feel what I was feeling, an unseen presence that was warm and comforting.
Without any accompaniment, Bart sang “Rock of Ages.” I was by this time a limp rag of emotions. With a voice like that he could have the world at his feet, and he locked away his talent in an office.
“That’s enough, nephew,” said Joel when the second song
was over. “Everyone will sit, and we will begin today’s sermon.”
Obediently, Bart sat and pulled the twins down beside him. He kept his arm about each in such a protective way that I was again moved to tears. Did he love Jory’s twins? Had he, all this time, only pretended to dislike them because they resembled the
evil
twins of yesterday?
“Let us bow our heads and pray,” instructed Joel.
My head bowed as well.
I listened to his prayer with incredulity. He sounded so professional, so concerned for those who had never experienced the joy of being “saved” and belonging entirely to Christ.
“When you open your heart and let Christ enter, he fills you with love. When you love the Lord, love his son who died for you, and you believe in the righteous ways of God and his son crucified so cruelly on that cross, you will find the peace of fulfillment that’s always eluded you before. Lay down your sins, your swords, your shields, your thirsts for power and money. Put away your earthly lusts that crave the pleasures of flesh. Lay down all your earthly appetites that can never be satisfied and believe, believe! Follow in the footsteps of Christ. Follow where he led, believe in his teachings, and you will be saved. Saved from the evils of this world of sin and lust for sex and power. Save yourselves before it is too late!”
His zealot’s fire was frightening. Why couldn’t I believe in his fiery sermon as I believed in Bart’s beautiful singing voice? Why were visions of wind and rain pouring in on Jory washing me clean of Joel’s evangelistic oratory? I felt I’d betrayed Jory by my moment’s belief that even Joel was what he seemed to be at this moment.
There was more to his sermon. I was startled at the casual, conversational tone he now assumed, as if he were talking directly to Bart. “The voices in the village are momentarily lulled because we have constructed in this great mountain mansion a small temple dedicated to the worship of God. The
workmen who constructed this divine house of worship and created the elaborate embellishments have told them what we have done, and others spread the word that the Fox-worths are trying to salvage their souls. They no longer speak of revenge upon the Foxworths, who have ruled over them for more than two hundred years. They bear deep in their hearts many grudges for deeds done to them in the past by our self-serving, self-centered ancestors. They have not forgotten or forgiven the sins of Corrine Foxworth, who married her half-uncle, nor have they forgotten the sins of thy mother, Bart, and the brother she loves. Under your very roof she still gives him the pleasure of enjoying her body, as she takes her pleasure with him . . . and under God’s own heavenly blue sky, those two lie naked in the sun before they blend one with the other. They are addicted to one another, as surely as if they were addicted to one of the many drugs that abound in today’s immoral, headstrong, selfish, heedless society.
“He, the doctor, her very own brother, redeems himself somewhat in his efforts to serve mankind, dedicating his professional life to medicine and science. So he can be more easily forgiven than the sinful woman, thy mother, who gives nothing to the world but a perverted daughter who will turn out perhaps even worse, and a firstborn son who danced indecently for money! For glorifying his body! And for that sin he has paid, and dearly paid, by losing the use of his legs, and in losing his legs, he lost his body, and in losing his body, he lost his wife. Fate has infinite wisdom when it comes to deciding whom to punish and whom to assist.” Again he paused, as if for dramatic effect, before he fixed his piercing zealot’s eyes on Bart, as if to burn his will into the brain of my son by pure force. “Now, my son, I know you love your mother and you would at times forgive her anything . . . wrong, wrong—for will God? No, I don’t think so. Save her, for how can God forgive
her
when she is responsible for luring her brother into her arms?”
He paused, his pale eyes lit with religious zeal, waiting for Bart to respond.
“I’m hungry!” wailed Deirdre suddenly.
“Me too,” cried Darren.
“You’ll stay, and you will do what you have to do, or suffer the consequences!” shouted Joel from the pulpit.
Immediately the twins shrank into small, tight shells, staring at Joel with immense eyes of fear. What had Joel done to put that fear there? Oh, God, had I given Joel or Bart an opportunity to hurt them in some way?
Long minutes passed, as if Joel were deliberately testing them. I wanted to jump up and cry out to stop Joel from implanting foul ideas in the heads of innocent babes. But there sat Bart, as if not hearing Joel’s words at all. He had his dark eyes riveted on the magnificent stained-glass window directly behind the pulpit. Stained glass that showed Jesus with the little children at his feet, leaning against his knees, staring up into his face with adoration. That same adoration was on Bart’s face. He wasn’t listening to his great-uncle. He was filling himself with the presence even I could feel in this place.
God did exist, had always been there even when I wanted to deny him.
The words of Christ did have meaning in today’s world—and somehow his teachings had reached out and found a place in Bart’s maze of troubled brain waves.
“Bart, your niece and nephew are falling asleep!” roared Joel angrily. “You neglect your duty! Wake them up! Immediately!”
“Suffer the little children, Uncle Joel,” said Bart. “Your sermons last too long and they become bored and restless. They are not evil or contaminated. They were born within the holy vows of marriage. They are not the first twins, the blood-related twins, Uncle—not the
evil
twins . . .”
Even as I saw Bart lifting Darren and Deirdre up into his arms, holding them in a protective way, I felt fear confused
with hope. Bart was proving himself to be just as fine and noble as his father. No sooner did I think that when I heard words that chilled my blood. I froze in the shadows.
Bart had risen with the twins in his arms. “Put them down,” ordered Joel, his sermon over and his strong voice diminished to his habitual thin whisper. Had he drained his supply of energy so that now he was ineffective? I prayed so.
“Now, children who have not learned how to control physical demands, repeat the lessons I have tried to teach you. Speak, and tell me, Darren, Deirdre! Speak the words you are supposed to keep forever in your minds and hearts. Speak, and let God hear.”
They had such babyishly small voices that seldom said more than a few words at a time. They sometimes used the wrong syntax . . . but this time they intoned as correctly and as seriously as adults.
Bart listened carefully, as if he’d helped coach them.
“We are children born of evil seed. We are the Devil’s issue, the Devil’s spawn. We have inherited all the evil genes that lead to inces—ncestuous relationships.”
Pleased with themselves, they grinned at each other for having said it right, not understanding in the least the meaning of the words. Then both the twins turned serious blue eyes on that forbidding old man behind the pulpit.
“Tomorrow we will continue with our lessons.” So said, Joel closed his huge black Bible.
Bart picked up the twins, kissed their cheeks, and told them that now they could put on clean, dry pants, eat lunch, take baths, and have nice naps before they attended chapel services again.
That’s when I stood up and stepped into full view. “Bart, what are you trying to do to Jory’s children?”
My son stared at me, his sun-bronzed skin going very pale. “Mother, you aren’t supposed to come here except on Sundays . . .”
“Why? Do you hope to keep me away so you can mold the twins into warped human beings you can punish later on? Is that your purpose?”
“Who warped you into what you are?” asked Joel coldly, his eyes small and hard.
In a wild fury of rage, I spun to confront him. “Your parents!” I screamed. “Your sister, Joel, locked us up and kept us there, living on promises year after year, while Chris and I were turning into adults with no one to love but each other. So place the blame on those who made Chris and I what we are. But before you say one more word, I’m having my say.
“I love Chris, and
I am not ashamed
. You think I have given nothing of importance to the world, yet there stands your great-nephew, holding my grandchildren, and on the terrace is another of my sons. And they are not contaminated! They are not Devil’s issue, or Devil’s spawn—and don’t you ever, as long as you live, dare to say those words again to anyone who belongs to me, or I will see that you are put away and declared senile!”