The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

M >> Madame Sarah Grand >> The Heavenly Twins

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62

And thus into the Tenor's life two new interests had found their way, and
something which had hitherto been wanting to make the music of it perfect
was heard at last in his wonderful voice when he sang.

CHAPTER VII.

About this time the weather changed; the nights were wet for a week, and
when it cleared up the Tenor had begun to do some work for the dean which
kept him at home in the evenings, so that he had no opportunity of seeing
the Boy, who only seemed to come abroad at night, for some little time. He
saw his sister, however, in the cathedral regularly once a week, and
always she gave him a friendly glance, by which his days were rounded as
by a blessing, and he felt content. His being so was entirely
characteristic. Another man in his place would have lost the charm of the
present in anxiety to reach some future which should be even more
complete. But the Tenor took no thought for the morrow; each day as it
came was a joy to him, and his hopes, if he had any, were a part of his
peace.

The work he was doing for the dean was interesting. He was making drawings
to illustrate a history of Anglo-Norman times which the dean was writing.
He drew well and with great facility; but these drawings, many of which
were architectural, required special care and accuracy, with the closest
attention to detail, which made the work fatiguing, particularly as he had
to do it at night, his only leisure time just then; and more than once he
had tired himself out, and been obliged to put it away and rest. On one of
these occasions, instead of going to bed, he stretched himself in an
easy-chair beside the open French window which looked out upon the
cathedral, and prepared to indulge in the quiet luxury of a pipe while he
rested his weary eyes. The great cathedral towered above him, and from
where he sat the Tenor caught a beautiful glimpse of it anglewise, of the
south transept and tower and spire; the rich perpendicular windows of the
clerestory, the bold span of the flying buttresses rising out of the plain
but solid Norman base, every detail of which he knew and appreciated.

It was a fair, still, starry night without, and the light air that blew in
upon him was sweet and refreshing. His mind wandered from subject to
subject--a sleepy sign--as he smoked, and presently he put down his pipe
and closed his eyes. He thought then that he had fallen asleep and was
dreaming, and in his dream he fancied he heard himself sing. "This is a
queer dream," he was conscious of saying. "That is my voice exactly. I
have often wondered how it sounded to other people, and now I am listening
to it myself, which is strange." But the strangest part of it was that the
words to which the music shaped itself in his mind were not the words of
any song he knew, but that expression of human nature which contains in
itself some of the grandest harmony in the language:

"These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself;
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a wreck behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."

The last words repeated themselves over and over again, on different notes
and in another key each time, and with such powerful emphasis that at last
it aroused the Tenor, upon whose sleepy brain the fact that it was not a
voice but a violin to which he had been listening, dawned gradually, while
his trained ear further recognized the tone of a rare instrument, and the
touch of a master hand. He got up and went to the window. "Oh!" he
exclaimed, "is it you?" and there was a world of pleasure in the
exclamation. "Come in."

The Boy, who was standing in the road, opened the little garden gate, and
entered. "I am glad you have relented," he said; "for I meant to play
until I had softened your heart, and had persuaded you to take me in; and
the hope deferred was making me sick."

"I was asleep," the Tenor answered. "Why didn't you come in? You must have
known you would be welcome. Here is an easy-chair. Sit down. And, tell me,
why do we only meet at night? What do you do with yourself all day?"

"I am not a daylight beauty," the Boy declared. "I look best at night."

"But seriously?" the Tenor persisted.

"Oh, my tutor, you know--Sandhurst--exams--and that kind of thing."

"You are going into the army then?"

But the Boy, smiling, put the question by. The easy, pleasure-loving,
sensuous side of his nature was evidently uppermost, and when that was the
case it was so natural for him to shirk a disagreeable subject, that the
Tenor had not the heart to pursue it further.

"Won't you take your hat off?" he said presently.

The Boy put up both hands to it. "My head's a queer shape," he said,
tapping it. "You won't want to examine it phrenologically, will you?"

"No," the Tenor answered, smiling. "Not if you object."

"I do object. I don't like to be touched."

The Tenor, still smiling, watched, him as he carefully removed his hat.
His head was rather a peculiar shape. It was too broad at the back, and
too large altogether for his slight frame, though probably the thickness
of his fluffy light hair, which stood up all over it, innocent of parting
as the Tenor's own, added considerably to this last defect. There was
nothing so very extraordinary about it, however, and the Tenor did not see
why he should be sensitive on the subject, and rather suspected that the
boy was gravely poking fun at him; but as he could not be sure of this,
and would not have hurt his feelings for the world, he forebore to make
any remark.

The Boy glanced round the room. "What a wealthy luxurious fellow you are,"
he observed.

"These appearances of wealth, as you call it, are delusive," the Tenor
answered. "I just happened to have money enough to furnish my house when I
came here; but I am a very poor man now. I have little or nothing, in
fact, but my salary for singing in the choir."

"Oh," said the Boy. "And you might be so rich with your voice."

The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair.

"Are you lazy?" the Boy demanded.

"No." he answered, smiling again. The Boy kept him smiling perpetually.

"What is it, then? Why don't you work?"

"Well, I do work," the Tenor answered him.

"I mean, why don't you make money?"

"Oh--because I have no one to make it for."

"If you had"--and the Boy leant forward eagerly--"would you? Would you
work for a lady who loved you if she gave herself to you?"

"I would work for my wife," said the Tenor.

"Are you engaged?" the Boy asked. There seemed no limit to his capacity
for asking.

The Tenor shook his head, and shook the ashes out of his pipe at the same
time.

"Are you in love?" the Boy persisted.

The Tenor made no reply to this impertinence, but a glow spread over his
face, forehead and chin and throat.

The Boy, whom nothing escaped, leant back satisfied. "I know what it is,"
he said, "She's married, and you don't like to ask her to run away with
you. I expect she would, you know, if you did."

The Tenor threw himself back in his chair and laughed.

His mirth seemed to jar on the Boy, who got up and began to pace about the
room, frowning and dissatisfied.

"You look pale," the Tenor said. "Have you been ill since; I saw you?"

"No--yes," the Boy answered. "I had a bad cold. I was very sorry for
myself."

The Tenor took up his violin, and examined it. "Where did you study?" he
asked.

"Everywhere," was the ungraciously vague reply.

"I wish you would play again," the Tenor said, taking no notice of his
ill-humour. "It would be a rare treat for a hermit like me."

"No," was the blunt rejoinder. "I don't want to make music. I want to
explore."

"Well, make yourself at home," the Tenor said, humouring him
good-naturedly.

"_Make_ me at home," the Boy replied. "Confidential relations, you
know. You may smoke if you like."

"Oh, thank you," the Tenor answered politely, sitting down in his
easy-chair, from which he had risen to look at the violin, and taking up
his pipe again.

The Boy was rummaging about now, and, finding much to interest him, he
presently recovered his temper, and began to banter his host. But even
this outlet was scarcely sufficient for his superfluous life and energy,
so he emphasized his remarks by throwing a stray cushion or two at the
Tenor; he jumped over the chairs instead of walking round them, and
performed an occasional _pas seul_, or pirouette, in various parts of
the room. When these innocent amusements palled upon him, he took up his
violin and played a plaintive air, to which he chanted:

"There was a merry dromedary
Waltzing on the plain;
Dromedary waltzing, dromedary prancing.
And all the people said, it is a sign of rain,
When they saw the good beast dancing;"

executing grotesque steps himself at the same time in illustration.

"Oh, Boy, forbear!" the Tenor exclaimed at last, "or you will be the death
of me."

"That's it," the Boy responded cheerfully. "I mean to be life or death to
you."

After this he sat down on a high-backed chair, with his hands in his
pockets, his legs stretched out before him, and his chin on his chest,
looking up from under his eyebrows at the Tenor thoughtfully. It was an
interval of great gravity, and when he spoke again the Tenor looked for
something serious.

"I say," he began at last.

The Tenor took his pipe from his mouth and waited, interrogatively.

"I say, I'm hungry."

The Tenor looked his dismay.

"Boys always are, you know," the youth added, encouragingly.

"And if there should be nothing in the house!" the poor Tenor ejaculated.
"I'll go and see."

He returned quite crestfallen. "There _is_ nothing," he said; "at
least nothing but bread--no butter even."

"I don't believe you," said the Boy, rousing himself from his indolent
attitude.

"Boy, you mustn't say you don't believe me."

"But I don't," said the Boy. "I don't believe you know where to look. Are
the servants out?"

"Yes, my solitary attendant doesn't sleep here."

"Then I'll go and look myself."

"Oh, do, if you like," said the Tenor, much amused. And thinking the Boy
would enjoy himself best if he were left to rummage at his own sweet will,
he took up a book, brushed his hand back over his shining hair, and was
soon absorbed, But presently he was startled by a wild cry of distress
from the kitchen, and, jumping up hastily, he went to see what was the
matter.

He found the Boy standing at one end of the kitchen, clutching a vegetable
dish, and gazing with a set expression of absolute horror at some object
quite at the other end. The Tenor strained his own eyes in the same
direction, but could not at first make anything out. At last, however, he
distinguished a shining black thing moving, which proved to be a small
cockroach.

"Well, you _are_ a baby!" he exclaimed.

"I'm not," the Boy snapped. "It's an idiosyncrasy. I can't bear creepy
crawly things. They give me fits."

"I begin to perceive, Boy, that you have a reason for everything," the
Tenor observed, as he disposed of the innocent object of the Boy's
abhorrence.

"Put it out of sight," the latter entreated, looking nauseated.

But as soon as the Tenor had accomplished his mandate, his good humour
returned, and he began to beam again. "What a duffer you are!" he said,
taking the lid off the dish he held in his hand. "You have no imagination.
You never lifted a dish cover. Why, I've found a dozen eggs--fresh, for I
broke one into a cup to see; and here are a whole lot of cold potatoes."

"It doesn't sound appetizing; cold potatoes and raw eggs!"

"Sound! It isn't sound you judge by in matters of this kind. Just you
wait, and you shall see, smell, and taste."

"Well, if it please you," the Tenor answered lazily. "I see something
already. You have lighted a fire."

"Yes, and I've used all the dry sticks," said the Boy, with great glee.
"Won't the old woman _swear_ when she comes in the morning!"

The Tenor returned to his book, reflecting, as he prepared to resume it,
on the wonderful provision of nature which endows the growing animal not
only with such strong instincts of self-preservation, but with the power
to gratify them, and to take itself off at the same time and be happy in
so doing, thus saving those who have outgrown these natural proclivities
from some of their less agreeable consequences.

Presently a hot red face appeared at the door. "Did you say you liked your
eggs turned?" the Boy wanted to know.

"I didn't say; but I do, if you're frying them."

"And hard or soft?"

"Oh, soft."

"How many can you eat?"

"Half-a-dozen at least," the Tenor returned at random.

"And I can eat three"--with great gravity--"that will make nine, and leave
three for your breakfast in the morning. I daresay you won't want more
after such a late supper, I don't think I should myself."

"But do you mean me to understand that the voracity of the growing animal
will be satisfied with less than I can eat?"

"Well, you see," the Boy explained apologetically, "the heat of the fire
has taken a lot out of me."

"But the waste must be repaired."

"Yes, but the expenditure has been followed by a certain amount of
exhaustion, and the power to repair the waste has yet to be generated; it
will come as a sort of reaction of the organs which can only set in after
a proper period of repose--a sort of interregnum of their energies, you
know."

The Tenor threw back his golden head. "Oh, Boy!" he expostulated, "don't
make me laugh again to-night, don't, please!"

The Boy was very busy for the next ten minutes, arranging the table, and
quite in his element; cooing as he proceeded, and giving little muttered
reasons to himself, in his soft contralto voice, for everything he did.
That voice of his was wonderfully flexible; he could make it harsh,
grating, gruffly mannish, and caressing as a woman's, at will, but the
tone that seemed natural to it was the deep, mellow contralto into which
he always relapsed when not thinking of himself. The Tenor thought it
hardly rough enough for a boy of his age, but it was in harmony with his
fragile form, and delicate, effeminate features.

"Whom the gods love die young," flashed through his mind as he watched him
now, coming and going; and he sighed, it seemed so likely; and felt
already that he should miss the Boy; and wondered, with retrospective
self-pity, how he had managed to live at all with no such interest.

"A golden-headed, gray-eyed, white-toothed, fine-skinned son of the
morning must be a sybarite," the Boy observed, entering the room at that
moment; "so I bring flowers, and also salad, just cut and crisp."

"May I ask how you knew there was salad in my garden?"

"Well, you may _ask_," the Boy responded cheerfully; "but--let me
see, though--perhaps I had better tell you. I found that out the last time
I was here. Perhaps you don't know that I came? I wanted to discover the
resources of the place, so I took advantage of your temporary absence on
business one day, and inspected it."

"Where was I?" the Tenor asked.

"You were busy at the fire insurance office opposite."

"Do you mean the cathedral? Boy, I will not let you mock."

The Boy grinned. "It was the only time I could be at all sure of you," he
pursued. "You were going to sing a solo. I saw it advertised in the paper,
and laid my plans accordingly. But I _was_ in a fright! I thought you
might just happen to feel bad and be obliged to come out, and catch me. I
felt that strongly when I was picking your flowers in the greenhouse."

He left the room before the Tenor recovered, and returned with a tray on
which was the result of his enterprise.

"If you don't like eggs and potatoes fried as I fry them, you'll never
like anything again in this world," he asserted confidently, helping the
Tenor as he spoke. "The thing is to have the dripping boiling to begin
with, you know," he continued--"(I'll only give you two eggs at a
time)--then plunge them in, and as they brown take them off one by one and
put them on a hot dish--I'm speaking of the potatoes now; but don't cover
them up, it makes them flabby, and the great thing is to keep them crisp."

"They really are good," said the Tenor. But he had overestimated his
capacity, and could only dispose of three of the eggs.

The Boy was disgusted. However, he said it did not matter, since he was
there to sacrifice himself in the interests of science, and preserve the
balance of nature by eating the rest himself, a feat he accomplished
easily.

"Now this is what I call good entertainment for man and beast," he
observed.

"May I ask which is the beast?" the Tenor ventured.

"Why, I am, of course," said the Boy. "Did you ever know a boy who wasn't
half a beast?"

"Yes. It is all a matter of early association and surroundings."

"Well, if you knew the kind of moral atmosphere I have to breathe at home,
you would know also how little you ought to expect of me. But what shall
we drink?"

"There is some beer, I believe," the Tenor said dubiously.

"Burgundy is more in my line."

"Burgundy! A boy like you shouldn't know the difference.

"A _boy_ like me wouldn't, probably."

The Tenor smiled. "And what do you call yourself, pray? A man?" he asked.

"No; a bright particular spirit."

It was not inappropriate, the Tenor thought, and he got up. "It does not
often happen so," he said; "but now I think of it I believe I have some
Burgundy in the house. The dean sent me a dozen the last time I was out of
sorts, and there is some left."

"I know," said the Boy. "It is in the cupboard under the stairs on the
left hand side."

When the Tenor came back with the Burgundy the Boy settled himself in an
easy-chair with a glass on the table beside him, and it was evident that
his mood had changed. He was thoughtful for a little, sitting with solemn
eyes, looking out at the cathedral opposite.

There was only one rose-shaded lamp left alight in the long low room, and
the dimness within made it possible to see out into the clear night and
distinguish objects easily.

"When I look out at that great pile and realize its antiquity, I suffer,"
the Boy said at last, "Do you know what it is, the awful oppression of the
ages?"

The Tenor did not answer for a moment, then he said:

"I never see you at church."

"I should think not," the Boy replied, still speaking seriously. "You
never see anyone but Angelica."

The Tenor flushed.

"Why do you never speak to that sweet young lady?" the Boy asked
tentatively, after a little pause.

"I! How could I?"

"I fancy you ought to," the Boy went on, endeavouring to "draw" the Tenor.
"You can't expect her to make up to you, you know."

"Oh, Boy! how can you be so young!" the Tenor exclaimed, with a gesture of
impatience, but still amused.

The Boy sipped his wine, and gazed into the glass, delighting in the rich
deep colour. "I should think she would be delighted to make the
acquaintance of so great an artist," he said.

The Tenor bowed ironically. "May I ask if you are pursuing your
investigations as to what manner of man I am?" he asked.

"Well, yes," was the candid rejoinder; "I was. I suppose you think that
you ought not to speak without an introduction. Well, say I gave you one."

The Tenor laughed. He felt that he ought to let the subject drop, and at
the same time yielded to temptation.

"What would your introduction be worth?" he asked.

"Everything," the Boy rejoined. "I am on excellent terms with Angelica. We
have always been inseparable, and I get on with her capitally; and she's
not so easy to get on with, I can tell you," he added, as if taking credit
to himself.

"When she is good she is very good indeed,
But when she is naughty she is horrid.

"And just now she's mostly naughty. She isn't very happy."

The interest expressed in the Tenor's attitude was intensified, and
inquiry came into his eyes.

"She is not very happy," the Boy pursued with extreme deliberation,
"because you come no nearer."

"Boy, you are romancing," the Tenor said, with a shade of weariness in his
voice.

"I am not," the Boy replied. "I know all that Angelica thinks, and it is
of you--"

"Hush!" the Tenor exclaimed. "You must not tell me."

"But she--"

"I will not allow it."

"Well, there then, don't bite," said the Boy; "and I won't tell you
against your will that she thinks a great deal about you"--this
_presto_, in order to get it out before the Tenor could stop him.
"But I will tell you on my own account that I don't know the woman who
wouldn't."

A vivid flush suffused the Tenor's face, and he turned away.

"I hope you never say things like that to your sister," he objected, after
a time.

The Boy grinned. "Sometimes I do," he said, "only they're generally more
so."

There was a long silence after this, during which the Tenor changed his
attitude repeatedly. He was much disturbed, and he showed it. The Boy made
a great pretence of sipping his wine, but he had not in reality taken much
of it. He was watching the Tenor, and it was curious how much older he
looked while so engaged. The Tenor must have noticed the change in him,
which was quite remarkable, giving him an entirely different character,
but for his own preoccupation. As it was, however, he noticed nothing.

"Boy," he began at last, in a low voice and hesitating, "I want you to
promise me something." The Boy leant forward all attention. "I want you to
promise that you will not say anything like that--anything at all about me
to--"

"To Angelica?" The Boy seemed to think. "I will promise," he slowly
decided, "if you will promise me one thing in return."

"What is it?"

"Will you promise to tell me everything you think about her."

The Tenor laughed.

"You might as well," the Boy expostulated. "I've got to look after you
both and see that you don't make fools of yourselves. The youngness of
people in love is a caution!" And I should like to see Angelica safely
settled with you. A man with a voice like yours is a match for anyone.
There are obstacles, of course; but they can be got over--if you will
trust me."

"Oh, you impossible child!" the Tenor exclaimed.

"It is you who are impossible," the Boy said, in dudgeon. "You are too
ideal, too content to worship from afar off as Dante worshipped Beatrice.
I believe that was what killed her. If Dante had come to the scratch, as
he should have done, she would have been all right."

"Beatrice was a married woman," the Tenor observed.

The Boy shrugged his shoulders, but just then the cathedral clock struck
three, and he hastily finished his wine.

"I'll disperse," he said, when the chime was over. "Take care of my
fiddle. You'll find the case under the sofa. I left it the last time I was
here. By-the-bye, you should make the old woman stay at home to look after
the place when you're out. Unscrupulous people might walk in uninvited,
you know. Ta, ta," and the Tenor found himself alone.

It was no use to go to bed, he could not rest. His heart burned within
him. It was no use to tell himself that the Boy was only a boy. He knew
what he was saying, and he spoke confidently. He was one of those who are
wiser in their generation than the children of light. And he had
said--what was it he had said? Not much in words, perhaps, but he had
conveyed an impression. He had made the Tenor believe that she thought of
him. He believed it, and he disbelieved it. If she thought of him--he
threw himself down on the sofa, and buried his face in the cushions. The
bare supposition made every little nerve in his body tingle with joy. He
ought not to indulge in hope, perhaps; but, as the Boy himself might have
observed, you can't expect much sense from a man in that state of mind.

A few days later the Tenor saw his lady again in the canon's pew, and he
was sure, quite sure, she tried to suppress a smile.

"That little wretch has told her, and she is laughing at my presumption,"
was his distressed conclusion. "I'll wring his neck for him when he comes
again."

But when the service was over, and he had taken his surplice off, she
passed him in the nave, so close that he might have touched her, and
looked at him with eyes just like the Boy when he was shy; gave him a
quick half-frightened look, and blushed vividly; gave him time to speak,
too, had he chosen. But the Tenor was not the man to take advantage of a
girlish indiscretion.

When he went home, however, he was glad. And he opened his piano and sang
like one-inspired. "I am gaining more power in everything," he said to
himself, "I could make a position for her yet."

CHAPTER VIII.

A few nights later the Tenor went out for a stroll, leaving the windows
of his sitting room closed but not fastened, and the lamp turned down. On
his return he was surprised to find the window wide open and the room lit
up. The little garden gate was shut and bolted, He could easily have
reached over and opened it from the outside, but knowing that it creaked,
and not wanting to disturb his nocturnal visitor until he had ascertained
his occupation, he jumped over it lightly, walked across the grass plot to
the window, and looked in.