The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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That night the Tenor's restlessness grew to a head. He was engaged upon a
piece of work he wished to finish, but he could not settle to it; and
after making an ineffectual effort to concentrate his attention upon it,
he took up his hat and strolled out.

It was a lovely moonlight night. The line of trees in the Close were in
flower, and their sweetness was overpowering. He did not stay there,
however, but wandered out into the city, with his hat pushed back from his
forehead, and his hands in his pockets. The gas was not lighted in the
streets as the moon was near the full; and beneath her rays, all common
objects, however obtrusively vulgar by daylight, were refined into beauty
for the moment.

"Pater de coelis Deus, miserere nobis;
Fili Redemptor mundi Deus, miserere nobis,
Spiritus sancte Deus, miserere nobis;
Sancte Trinitas unus Deus, miserere nobis"--

the Tenor sang softly to himself as he slowly pursued his way.

He had some sort of a vague idea that he would like to go and look at the
quaint old market-place by moonlight; and when he reached it, he stopped
at the corner, interrupting his song to gaze in artistic appreciation at
the silent scene before him, at the heavy masses of shade interspersed
with intervals of mellow moonlight, and the angles of roof and spire and
ornament cut clean as cameos against "the dark and radiant clarity of the
beautiful night sky."

The market-place was an irregular square, picturesquely enclosed by tall
houses of different heights and most original construction, among them the
east end of a church and part of a public building of ancient date were
crowded in; without incongruous effect, however, the moonlight, crisp,
cool, and clear, having melted hue and form of all alike into one
harmonious whole, to the charm of which even the covered stalls, used in
the day's dealings and now packed in the middle of the square, and the
deserted footways added something.

A tall, slender lad of sixteen or seventeen was standing on the edge of
the pathway, just in front of the Tenor. He was the only other person
about, and on that account the Tenor had looked at him a second time. As
he did so, a young woman came suddenly round the corner, and accosted the
boy.

"Qu'il est beau!" she exclaimed, laying her hand on his arm, and smiling
up into his face admiringly.

The Boy stepped back to avoid her, with an unmistakable gesture of
disgust, and in doing so, he accidentally stumbled up against the Tenor.

He turned round, and apologised confusedly.

The Tenor raised his hat, and answered courteously. They were standing
together side by side now, and remained so for some seconds, silently
surveying the scene; and then the Tenor all unconsciously began again to
sing:

"Sancta Maria," he entreated, "Sancta Dei Genetrix, Sancta Virgo virginum,
ora pro nobis."

The girl had been wandering off again, but at the first note of the
supplication she stopped. A chord of memory stirred. She knew the words,
she knew the tune. She had sung them both herself often and often at home
in France. She was a Child of Mary then--and now?

As the Tenor finished the last note of the phrase and paused, she clasped
her hands convulsively, and gasped: "O mon Dieu! mon Dieu! ayez pitie de
moi!"

Her half-inarticulate cry did not reach the Tenor and the Boy, neither had
they observed her distress, for just at that moment, the city clock struck
one, and both had raised their heads involuntarily In expectation of the
chime. And presently out upon the night it rolled, a great wave of sound,
swelling and spreading, muffled by distance somewhat, but still distinctly
sweet and insistent:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

"Do you believe it?" said the Boy, glancing toward the girl, and repeating
the gesture of disgust with which he had shrunk from her when she accosted
him.

The Tenor lifted his hat, and brushed his hand back over his hair. "Do I
believe it in spite of _that?_ you would say," he answered,
considering the girl with quiet eyes, "Yes, I believe it," he declared,
"in spite of _that_, which has puzzled older heads than yours."

With which he turned to retrace his steps, taking up the Litany of the
Blessed Virgin once more as he went, the supplication: "Agnus Dei, qui
tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis," being audible long after he was out
of sight.

The Boy remained as he had left him for some time, apparently lost in
thought; and the girl still stood a little way off in a dejected attitude,
her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed on the ground. She looked ill
and spiritless. The Boy, glancing at her carelessly, wondered at the
intent expression of her face; he did not perceive that she was praying,
but she was,

The midnight stillness deepened about those two; there was not another
living creature to be seen. The irregular old buildings on every side
looked ruinous in the shadowy moonlight, and the whole market-place
presented to the Boy a picture of desolation which chilled him. He was
about to turn away with a last cursory glance at the other solitary
figure, when something suddenly occurred which arrested his attention. It
seemed to startle him too, for he sprang back, with prompt agility, into a
dark doorway behind him, from whence he watched what followed with the
keenest interest, being careful, however, to conceal himself the while. He
had not felt any movement of pity or kindly compassion for the girl;
perfect indifference had succeeded the first sensation of repugnance; he
would have left her there to any fate that might await her, and would have
expected all right-minded people to do the same. It was therefore with
unmitigated astonishment that he beheld the scene which was now being
enacted before him. They were no longer alone. A tall and graceful lady of
most dignified bearing, with a countenance of peculiar serenity and
sweetness, had approached from the opposite direction, and was standing
beside the girl, speaking to her evidently, but the Boy was too far off to
hear what was said. He could see, however, that the girl's whole attitude
had changed. She was no longer dejected, but eager: and she gazed in the
lady's face as she listened to her words with an expression of admiration
and wonder, one had almost said of adoration, upon her own, as though it
were a heavenly visitant who had hailed her. The lady, as she spoke,
pointed to a street opposite, and the girl cast a quick glance in that
direction; she seemed to be measuring a distance she was impatient to
traverse, and moved a step forward at the same time, uttering some short
sentence with rapid gesticulation. The pantomime was perfectly
intelligible to the Boy, who understood that she was feverishly anxious to
carry out some intention on the instant. The lady seemed to hesitate,
then, laying her beautiful white ungloved hand on the girl's shoulder, and
looking into her face, she spoke again earnestly. The girl answered with
passionate protestations, and then the lady smiled, satisfied apparently,
and led the way in the direction to which she had pointed, the girl
following in haste. Her hat had fallen back, her hair was loosened, her
countenance beamed with enthusiasm, as the Boy observed. He was stealing
softly after them, skipping from shadow to shadow, in great enjoyment of
the whole adventure.

The lady took the girl to a long low rambling house beside a church, at
the door of which she knocked. It was opened immediately by a singularly
venerable looking old man, evidently a priest, with a fine though rugged
face, instinct with zeal and benevolence. He had his hat in his hand, and
was just coming out; but when he saw who had knocked, he stopped short,
and bowed deferentially. The girl sank down upon the doorstep as if
exhausted.

"I have brought Marie Cruchot home, father," the lady said.

"Ah, my daughter, is that you? We have been expecting you for many days,"
the old man exclaimed in French, taking the girl's hand and raising her
gently as he spoke. "I have prayed for you day and night without ceasing,
and only just now, as I passed the convent, I went to ask the night
portress for tidings of our wandering sheep, and specially mentioned you.
But enter. The good sisters are waiting for you, and will welcome you with
joy."

One of two sisters of charity, who were standing behind the priest, now
came forward and kissed the girl. The old man raised his hat, and, looking
up into the clear depths of the quiet sky, murmured a blessing, and went
his way. And then the door was closed.

"Humph!" said the Boy, who was lurking up an entry opposite. "So that is
what they do at night, is it? and that is the young person who sold her
sister Louise to Mosley Menteith. Now I am beginning to know the world;
and what an extraordinary old world it is, to be sure! One half seems to
be always kept busy mending the mischief the other half has made."

He peeped cautiously out of the entry, looking for the lady, but she had
disappeared, and night and silence reigned supreme.

CHAPTER IV.

All that the Tenor had witnessed of the scene in the market-place made
little or no impression on him, and he would probably never have thought
of it again had he not encountered the Boy a few nights later, standing,
idly observant as before, at the same time and almost in the same place.

The Tenor's first impulse was to pass on without speaking, but the Boy
looked at him, and there was something in the look, half shy, half
appealing, which caused him to stop, and having stopped, he was obliged to
speak.

To his first commonplace remark the Boy answered nervously, and with quick
glances instantly averted, as if he were afraid to meet the Tenor's eyes.
The latter continued to talk, however, and after a little the Boy's
timidity wore off, and his manner became assured.

"This is a curious old place, is it not?" he remarked; "and curiously
named if you consider how very little _quest_ there is for
_morning_ here, for the new day which would bring the light of truth
after the darkness of error."

"It never struck me that the name could have any allegorical
significance," the Tenor answered prosaically. "I believe it used to be
Morn and Quest. It stands at the junction of the two rivers, you know, or
rather just below it. They run their united race from hence to the sea."

"I know," said the Boy. "But it really is a romantic old place, especially
by moonlight; and it teems with historical associations, as the guidebook
has it, with its cathedral, cloisters, castle, and close--the closest in
England, they say. Don't you feel remote from the world when you get in
there, and the four old gates are shut upon you? The water-gate is the
most interesting to me."

"Two of the others are architecturally beautiful where they haven't been
spoilt by restoration," the Tenor rejoined.

"Ah!" the Boy ejaculated, and then continued boyishly: "You're not a
native evidently, or you wouldn't speak so moderately. The inhabitants
boast themselves black in the face about everything in the city. They made
me believe that the whole earth began here originally, and that it was
also the point of departure for the sea. It did wash their walls on the
southern side once upon a time; but the sinfulness of the people compelled
it to retire ages ago, and it has since enjoyed a purer moral atmosphere
twenty miles away."

"Indeed," said the Tenor. "I did not know that the sea was so fastidious!"

"Oh, yes, it is, naturally," the Boy declared; "but it cannot choose its
position for itself always any more than we can. But people are more
entertaining than places," he pursued; "don't you think so? Now these
people, how Godfearing and orthodox they are, and how admirably they make
religion part of their daily life in the matter of stretching a point and
using the right of Christian charity to be lenient when a too rigorous
adhesion to principle would injure their interest. Their chief
confectioner retired from business the other day, but they would not give
their custom to his successor at first because of his religious opinions.
They forsook him for his atheism, in fact; but in a very short time they
returned to him for his ice-creams, which are excellent. If you ever feel
any doubt about life being worth living, go and get one. It will reassure
you."

They had been strolling on as they talked, and now the Tenor turned to
look at his companion, being about to answer him, when something in the
Boy's face struck him as familiar, and he paused, knitting his brows in a
perplexed effort to think what it was. Measured beside himself the Boy was
rather taller than he looked, but very slender, and his hands and feet
were too small. He had dark eyebrows, peculiarly light luxuriant hair,
and, as a natural accompaniment, a skin of extreme fairness and delicacy.
In fact, he was too fair for his age, it made him look effeminate; and had
it not been for the dark eyebrows and eyelashes his colouring would have
been insipid. As it was, however, there was no lack of character in his
face; and you would have called him "a pretty boy" while thinking it high
time he had grown out of his prettiness. This was the Tenor's reflection,
but his too earnest gaze apparently disconcerted the Boy, who returned it
with one quick anxious glance, then seemed to fake fright, and finally
bolted, leaving the Tenor alone in the road. "That young rascal is out
without leave, and is afraid of being recognized," he concluded.

It was some weeks before they met again, and during the interval the Tenor
often thought of the Boy with curiosity and interest. There was something
unusual in his manner and appearance which would have attracted attention
even if his conversation had not been significant, and that it was
significant the Tenor discovered by the continual recurrence to his mind
of some one or other of the Boy's observations. He had not tried to find
out who the Boy was, interest not having stirred his characteristic apathy
in such matters to that extent, but he looked for him continually both by
day and night, his thoughts being pretty equally divided between him and
the lady whose brilliant glance had had such a magical effect upon him the
first time he encountered it. She came to the cathedral regularly now, and
always sat in the canon's pew; and always when he sang she looked at him,
and he knew that the look was an expression of appreciation and thanks. He
knew, too, that the day she did not come would be a blank day for him.

CHAPTER V.

The moon had grown old, but the nights were still scented by the
lime-trees when the Tenor met the Boy again. He had begun to believe that
the Boy did not live in Morningquest; and, as often happens, he was
thinking of him less than usual on this particular occasion, and hence he
came upon him unawares.

The Boy was lolling against the iron railings that enclosed the grassy
space round which the old lime-trees grew, in the middle of one arm of the
Close. It was a bright, clear night, but chilly, and he was wrapped up in
a greatcoat which lent a little substance to his slender figure. The Tenor
would have passed him without recognizing him, but for his sandy hair,
which shone out palely against the bark of one of the trees.

"I was waiting for you," the Boy said. "Why are you so late to-night?"

"How do you know I am later than usual to-night?" he asked.

"Because, generally, you come out about ten o'clock, and it is nearly
twelve now."

"How do you happen to know I generally come out about ten o'clock?"

"Oh," the Boy answered coolly, "I watched you.' I have been studying your
habits in order to find out what manner of man you are; and I think you'll
do," he added patronizingly, with a wise shake of the head. "I guess you
were looking for me too, weren't you?"

The Tenor smiled again, and, lifting his hat, brushed his hand back over
his hair. "What makes you think so?" he asked.

"I am accustomed to that sort of thing," the Boy replied, with a twinkle
in his eyes. "People who meet me once try, as a rule, to cultivate my
acquaintance," with which he raised himself from his lolling posture, and
added: "I'll walk up and down with you, if you like, but you must give me
your arm. I require support."

"Why? are you tired? What have you been doing to-day?" the Tenor asked as
he acquiesced, smiling in his grave way, for the Boy pleased him.

"Oh, well"--considering--"I got up this morning."

"That was a serious business!"

"It was"--with emphasis--"for I had to settle a serious question before I
arose. I had to make up my mind about free will and predestination. If I
could believe in predestination I thought I might have breakfast in bed
without self-reproach; but if it were a matter of free will, I felt I
should be obliged to get up."

"And how did you settle it?" The tenor asked.

"I didn't settle it," the Boy replied, "for just as I was coming to a
conclusion the breakfast bell rang, and the force of habit compelled me to
jump out of bed in a hurry. I don't call _that_ free will! And I
think, on the whole, predestination had the best of it, perhaps, for my
breakfast was sent up to me after all, without any action on my part, and
I partook of it in the silence and solitude of my own chamber, with an
easy conscience, and the luxuries of an open window and a book. I suppose
you can do that every day if you like? You have no one to interfere with
you."

"I have no one to interfere with me," the Tenor repeated, thoughtfully,
"Perhaps it would be better for me if I had."

"By better you mean happier," the Boy responded, clasping both hands round
the Tenor's arm.

The latter looked down at him, wondering a little, but not displeased.

They were walking in the shadow of the houses just then, and could not see
each other's faces, but the Tenor's heart warmed more and more to this
curious Boy, and he pressed the hand that rested on his arm a little
closer. It was a long time since the grave, large-hearted, earnest man had
known anyone so young and spontaneous, or felt a touch of human sympathy,
and in both he found refreshment--a something of that something which he
knew he needed but could not name.

They took a turn up and down in silence, and then the Boy began again,
boyishly: "I say, do you suffer from nerves? You made rather a bungle of
it the other day, didn't you?"

"You mean when I broke down in that anthem? Were you there? Where did you
sit?"

"With the distinguished strangers, of course."

"I did not see you."

"Did you look behind you?"

"No. But are you a stranger here?"

"Well, not exactly," said the Boy, with a great affectation of candour.

They had passed out into the open now, and the Tenor could see the Boy's
face. He had glanced at him as we do at the person we speak to, but
something he saw arrested his glance, and caused him to look again keenly
and closely--the something that had perplexed him before.

The Boy returned his gaze smiling and unabashed. "She put you out, didn't
she?" he asked with a grin. "Verily, she hath eyes--at least, I've been
told so; but I am no judge of such things myself."

The puzzled look passed from the Tenor's face. "I know what it is," he
said. "You are exactly like her."

The Boy laughed. "I meant to keep it a secret. I was going to make a
mystery of myself," he said; "but faculties like yours are not to be
baffled, and since you have observed so much, I might as well confess that
there are two of us, twins. They call us the Heavenly Twins."

"What, signs of the Zodiac?" said the Tenor.

"No, signs of the times," said the Boy.

There was a little pause and then the Tenor observed: "I should hardly
have thought you were twins, except for the likeness. Your sister looks
older than you do."

"Well, you see, she's so much more depraved," said the Boy. "And her
lovely name is Angelica--excuse me. I must laugh." He slipped his hand
from the Tenor's arm, leant his back against a railing, and exploded.
"Excuse me," he repeated, when he could contain himself. "I have suffered
from this affliction all my life. I can't help laughing."

"So it seems," said the Tenor, "May I ask what provoked this last attack
of your malady?"

Before he could answer, they were accosted by a respectable looking man, a
small farmer from a distance probably, who was making the most of a rare
opportunity by trying to see as much as he could of the cathedral in the
dark.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said--the Boy was all gravity in a
moment--"but could you tell me what flying buttresses are."

"A sign of rain," said the Boy, whereupon the Tenor seized him by the
scruff of the neck and shook him incontinently. For a moment after he was
released, the Boy seemed to be overcome by astonishment; but this was
rapidly succeeded by an attack of the malady he had declared to be
congenital, apparently brought on by the shock of the chastisement, and
the Tenor, who had walked on a little way with the countryman answering
his questions, left him laughing all over. He waited, leaning against the
railing, until the Tenor returned.

"You little wretch--" the latter began.

"That's right, don't make a stranger of me," the Boy interrupted. "Treat
me like a younger brother. You make me feel that I have succeeded in
establishing confidential relations between us, which is what I want."

The Tenor was about to reply, but his voice was drowned by a sudden
clangour of the bells above them. The clock struck, the chime rang, and
while they waited listening, the Tenor raised his hat. They were standing
at the corner of the cloisters, looking up to the clock tower and its
tapering spire, which surmounted the Norman facade and entrance to the
south transept.

"I must go," the Boy said, when he could hear himself speak.

"Will you not come in--to my house--I am afraid I am very wanting in
hospitality," the Tenor exclaimed. "I should have asked you before. I live
close by. I should be so glad--"

"Not to-night," the Boy interrupted hastily; "another time. Good-bye!"

CHAPTER VI.

When next the Tenor saw Angelica after he had learnt that she was the
Boy's sister, he felt that a new interest had been added to her
attractions.

It was on a Saturday afternoon in the cathedral, as usual, and she came in
late. But almost as soon as she had taken her seat she looked at the Tenor
with an earnest, anxious glance that reminded him of her brother, and her
colour deepened. The Boy had told her then, the Tenor thought, and he was
glad she knew that they had met; it was a bond of union which seemed to
bring her nearer.

He noticed now how like in feature the brother and sister were. The girl
looked taller as well as older, and was altogether on a larger scale, her
figure being amply developed for her age, while the Boy's was fragile to a
fault; her hair was dark too, while his was light; but with these slight
differences there was likeness enough to show that they were twins. They
both had the same shaped eyes, the same straight, well-defined, dark
eyebrows and long lashes, the same features, the same clear skin and even
teeth; but the expression was different. There was never any devilment in
the girl's face; it was always pale and tranquil, almost to sadness, as
the Tenor saw it, standing out in fair relief against the dark oak carving
of the stalls. Her movements were all made, too, with a certain quiet
dignity that seemed habitual. In the Boy, on the contrary, there was no
trace of that graceful attribute. He threw himself about, lolled,
lollopped, and gesticulated, with as much delight in the free play of his
muscles as if he were only let out to exercise them occasionally; and it
seemed as if he must always be at daggers drawn with dignity. But such a
slender intellectual creature could not without absurdity acquire the
ponderous movements and weight of manner of smaller wits and duller
brains. In the girl, quiescence was the natural outcome of womanly reserve;
in the Boy, it would have been mere affectation. His lightness and
brightness were his great charm at present, a charm, however, which was
much enhanced by moments of thoughtfulness, which gave glimpses of another
nature beneath, with more substantial qualities. The Tenor had soon
perceived that he was not all mischief, romp, and boyishness; all that was
on the surface; but beneath there was a strong will at work with some
purpose, or the Tenor, was much mistaken; and there was daring, and there
was originality. This was the Tenor's first impression, and further
acquaintance only confirmed it.

Having formed his opinion of the Boy's abilities, the Tenor began to make
plans for his future, and the selflessness of the man's nature showed
itself in nothing more clearly, perhaps, than in the consideration he gave
to the lad's career. His own had not cost him so much as a thought for
years; but now he roused himself and became ambitious all at once for the
Boy! He believed that there was the making of a distinguished man in him,
and he allowed the hope of being able to influence him in some worthy
direction to become as much a part of his daily life as another hope had
become--a hope which was strongly felt but not yet acknowledged, except in
so far as it took the form of a desire to see her, and made known its
presence with force in the pang of disappointment which he suffered if by
chance she failed to come as usual to the service on Saturday afternoon.
He saw in the girl an ideal, and had found soul enough in the
laughter-loving Boy to make him eager to befriend him.