The Wrong Twin

by Harry Leon Wilson

"And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars."

It seemed that everything in Revelations had a hidden meaning, and the expert found this obscure. There had been artless speculation among the listeners. A private with dice had professed to solve the riddle of the Number Seven, and had even alleged that twelve might be easier to throw if one kept repeating the verse, but this by his fellows was held to be rank superstition. No really acceptable exposition had been offered of the woman clothed with the sun, and under her feet the moon, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.

Wilbur Cowan, marching up the hill, now sounded the words to himself; they went with that pounding in his ears. At last he knew what they meant—a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, and under her feet the moon. Over and over he chanted the words.

So much was plain to him. But how had it come about? They had looked, then enveloped each other, not thinking, blindly groping. They had been out of themselves, not on guard, not held by a thousand bands of old habit that back in Newbern would have restrained them. Lacking these, they had rushed to that wild contact like two charged clouds, and everything was changed by that moment's surrender to some force beyond their relaxed wills. Something between them had not been, now it was; something compelling; something that had, for its victory, needed only that they confront each other, not considering, not resisting, biddable.

In his arms she had cried: "But how did we know—how did we know?"

He had found no answer. Holding her fiercely as he did, it seemed enough that they did know. He had surrendered, but could not reason—was even incurious.

At the last she had said: "But if it shouldn't be true; if it's only because we're both worn down and saw someone from home. Suppose it's mere—"

She had broken off to thump his shoulder in reassurance, to cling more abjectly. It was then she had wept, shakingly, in a vast impatience with herself for trying to reason.

"It is true! It is true—it's true, it's true!" she had told him with piteous vehemence, then wilted again to his support, one hand stroking his dusty cheek.

When the command had come down the line she seemed about to fall, but braced herself with new strength from some hidden source. When he released her she stood erect, regarding him with something of the twisted, humorous quirk about her lips that for an instant brought her back to him as the little girl of long ago. Not until then had he been able to picture her as Patricia Whipple. Then he saw. Her smile became surer.