The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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It was the Boy, of course. The Tenor recognized him at once, although all
he could see of him at first were his legs as he knelt on the floor with
his back to him and his head and shoulders under a sofa. "What, in the
name of fortune, is he up to now?" the Tenor wondered.

Just then the boy got up, frowning, and flushed with stooping. He stamped
his foot impatiently, and looked all round the room in search of
something. Suddenly his face cleared. He had discovered his violin oh the
top of a bookshelf above him, and that was apparently what he wanted, for
he made a dash at it, and took it down, and hugged it affectionately.

The Tenor smiled, and stepped down into the room. He did not wish to take
his visitor unawares, but the carpet was soft and thick, and his quick
step as he crossed to where the boy was standing with his back to him,
absorbed in the contemplation of his beloved instrument, made no noise, so
that when the Tenor laid his hand on the Boy's shoulder he did startle him
considerably. The Boy did not drop his instrument, but he uttered an
almost womanish shriek, and faced round with such a scared white look that
the Tenor thought he was going to faint. He recovered immediately,
however, and then exclaimed angrily: "How dare you startle me so?
Everybody knows I can't bear to be startled. If you are nothing but a
blunderer you will spoil everything. And I bolted the gate too. It would
have made a noise if you had opened it as you ought to have done, and then
I should have known, I've a good mind to go away now, and never come back
again."

"I am very sorry," said the Tenor. "But how was I to know it was you? It
might have been a thief."

"Thieves don't come to steal grand pianos and armchairs in lighted
chambers with the windows open and the blinds up," the Boy retorted.
"Don't you feel mean, spying around like that?"

"Are you an American?" the Tenor interrupted blandly.

"Yes, I am"--with asperity--"and you must have known quite well it was me.
Who else could get into the Close after the gates were shut?"

"I never thought of that," said the Tenor. "And how _do_ you get in,
pray? By the postern?"

"No," was the answer, "I come by the water-gate;" and his face cleared as
he saw the Tenor's puzzled glance at his garments.

"I'm not wet," he said. "I don't swim."

"But the ferry does not cross after six."

"No, but I do, you see. And now let us make music," he added, his good
humour restored by the Tenor's mystification. "If you will be so good as
to accompany me with your piano, I will give you a treat. I brought my
music the last time I was here;" and there it was, piled up, on a chair
beside the instrument.

The Tenor could have sworn that neither chair nor music was there when he
went out that evening, but what was the use of swearing? He felt sure that
the Boy in his present mood would have outsworn him without scruple had it
pleased him to maintain his assertion, so he opened his piano in silence,
and the music began. And it was a rare treat indeed which the Tenor
enjoyed that night. The Boy played with great technical mastery of the
instrument, but even that was not so remarkable as the originality of his
interpretations. He possessed that sympathetic comprehension of the
masters' ideas which is the first virtue of a musician; but even when he
was most true to it, he managed to throw some of his strong individuality
into the rendering, and hence the originality which was the special charm
of his playing. As an artist, he certainly satisfied; even the sensitive
soul of the Tenor was refreshed when he played; but in other respects he
was obviously deficient. So long as things were pleasant it was a question
whether he would ever stop to ask himself if they were right. Acts which
lead to no bodily evil, such as sickness or that lowering of the system
which lessens the power of enjoyment, he was not likely in his present
phase to see much objection to; and for the truth, for verbal accuracy in
his assertions that is, he had no particular respect. All this, however,
the Tenor was more reluctant to acknowledge, perhaps, than slow to
perceive. He was one of those who expect a great soul to accompany great
gifts, and what he did know of the Boy's shortcomings he condoned. He
believed the young tone-poet's power was in itself an indication of high
aspirations, and those he thought were only temporarily suppressed by a
boyish affectation of cynicism.

But the Boy did not give the Tenor much time to think. His mind was
quick-glancing, like his eyes when he was animated, and he carried the
Tenor along with him from one occupation to another with distracting glee.
When he was tired of making music, as he called it, he demanded food, and,
so long as he could cook it and serve it himself, he delighted in bacon
and eggs, as much as he did in Bach and Beethoven.

The Tenor tried to wean him of his nocturnal habits, but to this the Boy
would not listen. He said he liked to sit up all night, and when he said
he liked a thing, he seemed to think he had adduced an unanswerable
argument in its favour. The Tenor complained of fatigue. The long nights
affected his voice, he said, and made him unfit for work; but the Boy only
grinned at this, and told him he'd get used to it. Then he threatened to
shut up the house and go to bed if the Boy did not come in proper time,
and on one occasion he carried out his threat; but when the Boy arrived he
made night hideous with horrid howls until the Tenor could stand it no
longer, and was obliged to get up, and let him in, to preserve the peace
of the neighbourhood. After which the Tenor ceased to remonstrate, and it
became one of the pleasures of his life to prepare for this terrible
hungry Boy. He worked in his garden early and late, cultivating the
succulent roots which the latter loved, the fruits and the vegetables,
and, last, but not least, the flowers, for he never could feed without
flowers, be said, and the Tenor ministered to this exaction with the rest.
"He is dainty because he is delicate," the Tenor thought, always excusing
him. "When he is older and stronger he will grow out of all these
epicurean niceties of taste, I must make him dig, too, and fence, and row.
He'll soon develop more manliness."

That he was spoiling the Boy in the meantime never occurred to him, not
even when he noticed that the latter took all these kindnesses as a matter
of course, and only grumbled when some accustomed attention was omitted.

The Tenor was vexed sometimes, and obliged to find fault, but the Boy
could always soothe him. "I am sure you love me," he would say. "Your life
was not worth living until I came, and you could not live without me now.
I am a horrid little brute I know, but I have my finer feelings too, my
capacity for loving, and that raises me.

"All love is sweet
Given or returned."

When the Boy quoted or recited anything he really felt, he had a way of
lingering over the words as if each syllable were a pleasure to him. The
deep contralto of his voice was at its sweetest then, and he seldom failed
to make his own mood felt as he intended.

The Tenor, justly incensed by some wicked piece of mischief, was often
obliged to turn away that he might maintain his authority and not be seen
to soften. But he never deceived the Boy, who could gauge the effect of
his persuasion to a nicety, and would grin like a fiend behind the Tenor's
back at the success of his own eloquence. No matter what he had done, by
hook or by crook he always managed to bring about a reconciliation before
they parted. He knew the Tenor's weak point--Angelica--and when everything
else failed he would play upon that unmercifully. But he had a way of
speaking of his sister which often made the Tenor seriously angry. He did
not believe the Boy meant half the disrespect with which he mentioned her,
but it galled him, nevertheless; and, on one occasion, when the Boy had
repeated some scandalous gossip to which the Tenor objected, and afterward
excused himself by saying that it was not his but his sister's story, the
Tenor's indignation overflowed, and he lectured him severely.

"You should never forget that your sister is an innocent girl," he said,
"and it is degrading to her even to have her name associated with such
ideas."

But the Boy only grinned. "Bless you," he retorted, "don't make so much
ado about nothing. She's quite as wise as we are."

The Tenor's eyes flashed. "I call that disloyal," he said. "Even if it
were true--and it is not true--it would be disloyal; and I am ashamed of
you. If you ever dare to speak of your sister in that light way to me
again, I'll thrash you."

For a moment the Boy was astonished by the threat. His jaw dropped, and he
stared at the Tenor; but, quickly recovering himself, he burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed. "What a
brother-in-law you would be! How do you know she is such a saint?"

"You are a little brute," was all the answer the Tenor vouchsafed. But the
question made him think. He could picture her to himself at any time as he
saw her in the canon's pew, and the pale proud purity of her face, with
the unvarying calm of her demeanour, were assurances enough for him. His
dear lady. His delicate-minded girl. He would stop it. He would make this
scapegrace brother of hers respect her, even as he had threatened, if
necessary.

"Do you know what she calls you?" that youth asked presently, breaking in
upon the Tenor's meditation in a confident way, as if he could not be
mistaken about the subject of it.

But the Tenor was not to be beguiled all at once. "I have already
requested you not to mention your sister to me," he said.

"I know," was the cool rejoinder. "But I promised on my word of honour to
tell you what she calls you. She calls you Israfil--Is-ra-fil," he
repeated, "the angel of song, you know."

But the Tenor made no sign. The Boy watched him a moment, and then
continued unabashed, "I shall call you Israfil myself, I think, for the
future. But I like your own name too!" he added. "I have only just found
it out. Everybody here calls you the Tenor, you know."

"And how did you find it out, pray, if I may ask?"

"I looked everywhere," said the Boy, glancing round him comprehensively;
"and at last I found it on the back of an old envelope that was in that
Bible you keep in your bedroom. Here it is," and he took it out of his
pocket-book. "David Julian Vanetemple, Esq., Haysthorpe Castle, Hays,
N.B."

A painful spasm contracted the Tenor's face, "Oh, Boy," he said, in a deep
stern voice that made the latter quail for once; "have you no sense of
honour at all? You must give that back to me immediately."

The Boy returned it without a word, and the Tenor went upstairs. His step
was listless, and when he came back he looked pale and disheartened. He
sat down in his accustomed seat beside the fireplace farthest from the
window that looked out upon the cathedral, but facing it himself, and
rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head on his hand, taking
no notice of the Boy, however, who waited a while, casting anxious glances
at him, and then rose softly and stole away.

When the Tenor roused himself he found a slip of paper on the table beside
him, on which was written, "Dear Israfil, I beg your pardon. I did it
without thinking. I will never hurt you like that again, only forgive me."
And the Tenor forgave him.

On another occasion, when there was peace between them, and they were both
in a merry mood, the Boy said he had a grievance, and when the Tenor asked
what it was, he complained that the Tenor had never taken interest enough
in him to ask him his name.

"No, now you mention it," the Tenor answered. "I never thought of your
having a name."

"Do you mean to say you think me such a nonentity?"

"Just the opposite. Your individuality is so strongly marked that you
don't seem to require to be labelled like other people, By-the-bye, what
is your name?"

"Claude."

The Tenor laughed ironically. "Oh, no," he said, "it is Maude you mean;
delicate, dainty, white-fingered Maude."

But the Boy only roared. This kind of insinuation never roused his
resentment; on the contrary, it delighted him. "Imagine the feelings of
the flowers," he said, with a burst of laughter that convulsed him, "if my
remarkable head, sunning over with curls, were to shine out on them
suddenly, and want to be their sun!"

"I am afraid you are incorrigible," the Tenor answered. "You seem to glory
in being effeminate. If wholesome ridicule has no effect, you'll die an
old woman in the opprobrious sense of the word."

"I'll make you respect these delicate fingers of mine, though," the Boy
irritably interposed, and then he took up his violin. "I'll make you
quiver."

He drew a long melodious wail from the instrument, then lightly ran up the
chromatic scale and paused on an upper note for an instant before he
began, with perfect certainty of idea and marvellous modulations and
transitions in the expression of it, to make music that steeped the
Tenor's whole being in bliss.

The latter had noticed before that it was to his senses absolutely, not at
all to his intellect, that the Boy's playing always appealed; but he did
not quarrel with it on that account, for music was the only form of
sensuous indulgence he ever rioted in, and besides, once under the spell
of the Boy's playing, he could not have resisted it even if he would, so
completely was he carried away. The Boy's white fingers were certainly not
out of place at such work. "Do I play like an old woman in the opprobrious
sense of the word?" he demanded, mimicking the Tenor.

"Oh, Boy!" the latter exclaimed, with a deep drawn sigh of satisfaction.
"Yon have genius. When you play you are like that creature in the 'Witch
of Atlas':

A sexless thing it was, and in its growth
It seemed to have developed no defect
Of either sex, yet all the grace of both."

But the Boy frowned for a moment at the definition, and then he said: "Is
that what you call genius? Now I make it something like that, only
different. I believe it is the attributes of both minds, masculine and
feminine, perfectly united in one person of either sex."

The Tenor, lolling in his easy-chair, smiled at him lazily. There was no
end to his indulgence of the Boy; but still he led him, by example
principally, but also by suggestion, as on one occasion when the Boy had
been sketching out a scheme of life in which self was all predominant, and
the Tenor asked: "Do you never feel any impulse to do something for your
suffering fellow-creatures?"

To which the Boy at first rejoined derisively: "Am I not one of the best
of their benefactors? Would you say that a fellow who plays as I can does
nothing for his fellow-creatures? To make music is my vocation, and I
follow it like a man."

But after a moment's thought he confessed; "Once indeed I did try to do
some good in the world, but I failed disastrously,"

"What did you try?"

"I took a class in a Sunday school." He waited to enjoy the effect of this
announcement on the Tenor. "I did, indeed," he protested; "but--eh--I
cannot say that success attended the effort. In fact, both I and my class
were forcibly ejected from the building before the school closed. You see,
I had no vocation, and it was foolish to experiment."

The Tenor said no more on the subject and did not mean to, but the Boy
returned to it himself eventually, and it was evident that the wish to do
something for somebody was taking possession of him seriously. This was
the Tenor's tactful way with him; and from such slight indications of
awakening thought he continued to augur well for the Boy.

CHAPTER IX.

So time passed on, changing all things greatly, or with infinitesimal
changes, according to their nature. The colours worn in crowded
thoroughfares varied with the varying fashions; the tint of the summer
foliage with sun and rain and dust. Doors, closed the whole long winter,
were opened now and left so, and the young people passed to and fro,
thronging to river banks, but lately deserted; to the cricket fields,
garden, or wood, or lawn. The very faces of the streets were changing,
enlivened by plaster and paint and polish: the face of the land with the
certain advance of the season; the faces of friends with something not to
be named, but visible, strange, and, for the most part, disheartening. It
was the old story for ever and ever; all things changed always; but the
chime was immutable.

As the days grew gradually to weeks, his one connecting link with the
outer world became dearer and dearer to the lonely Tenor. The nights that
brought the Boy were happy nights, looked forward to with eagerness, and
prepared for with difficulty. For at this time the Tenor denied himself
some of the bare necessaries of life, that he might buy him the Burgundy
he loved to sip: he did no more than sip, and, therefore, the Tenor
indulged him; drink was not to be one of his vices, evidently.

The Tenor, although he would not have acknowledged it, held that the Boy
was a creature apart, and one, therefore, whom it was not fair to measure
by the common standard. Doubtless the manner of their meeting had
something to do with this idea. The Boy was associated in the Tenor's mind
with many sweet associations; with the beautiful still night; with the
Tenor's far off ideal of all that is gracious and womanly; with the music
that was in him; and, further, with a sympathetic comprehension of those
moments when gray glimpses of the old cathedral, or a warm breath of
perfumed air from the garden, or some slight sound, such as the note of a
night bird breaking the silence, fired a train of deep emotion, and set
his whole poetic nature quivering, to the unspeakable joy of it; joy
sanctified by reverence, and enlarged beyond comparison by love.

With such moods as these the Boy's own mood was always in harmony; so much
so indeed that the Tenor thought it was then that he was himself, and that
those wild ebullitions of spirits were only affected to disguise some
deeper feeling of which, boy-like, he was ashamed. As their intimacy
ripened there were times when, not only his whole demeanour, but his very
nature seemed to change; when he craved for dimness and quiet; and when he
would work upon the Tenor with little caressing ways that won his heart
and drew from him, although he was habitually undemonstrative, expressions
of tenderness which were almost paternal.

In his quieter moods the Boy would sit in the dim lamplight on a footstool
beside the Tenor's chair, leaning his head against the arm of it, while
the latter smoked, and the tap, tap, tap, of the clematis and honeysuckle
on the window pane kept time to the thoughts of each. Long intervals of
silence were natural to the Tenor, and it was generally the Boy who broke
the charm. He would talk seriously then, and often about his sister, and
was not to be silenced until he had had his say. He conquered the Tenor as
usual by his persistence, but the latter was not much influenced by what
he said at first. Gradually, however, and by dint of constant iteration,
some of the Boy's assertions became impressed upon his mind. He began to
believe that Angelica did wish to make his acquaintance, and to admit to
himself that there might be a possibility of winning her regard eventually;
but his high mindedness shrank from approaching a girl whose social
position was so far above his own--in the matter of money that is. For of
course the Tenor had a proper respect for art. He knew that to be a great
artist, with the will and power to make his art elevating, is to be great
in the greatest way; and he also knew that his own gift was second to
none. But would she link her lot with his? He yearned for some assurance.
He had no ambition whatever for himself, but he would have toiled to
succeed for her. It was his weakness to require someone to work for as he
was working for the Boy; a purely personal ambition seemed to him a
vexing, vain, and insufficient motive for action. All selfless people
suffer from indolence when only their own interests are in question; they
require a strong incentive from without to arouse them. Such incentive as
the Tenor had was in itself a pleasure to him, a refinement of pleasure
which might be coarsened, which certainly would be impaired by any change.
He had, however, begun to make plans. He was determined to go and take his
place amongst the singers of the world; but when, exactly, he had not
decided. As the Boy declared, when it came to the point he found it
difficult to tear himself away from Morningquest. Of course he would go,
in fact he felt he must go, soon--say, when these drawings for his good
friend the dean were finished.

"By the way, Boy," he asked one night, "what is your family name? and who
are your people?"

"My family name is Wells," the boy answered demurely. "My father has a
little place in the neighbourhood, and my grandfather lives here too."

"Wells," the Tenor repeated. "I seem to know the name."

"Oh, doubtless," the Boy observed. "This is a hotbed of Wellses. Israfil,"
he pleaded--he was nestling beside the Tenor in the dim half light,
watching the latter smoke--"Israfil, tell me all about yourself? Tell me
about that old castle in the North to which your letter was addressed.
Tell me who you are? I want your sympathy."

"You have it all, dear Boy," the Tenor said.

"I shall not feel that I have until you ask for mine. You would not deny
me this if you knew what a stranger I am to the luxury of loving. I want
to cultivate the power to care for others. Just now I don't seem to be
able to sympathise with anyone for more than a moment, and that is the
cause of all you object to in me. But if you would confide in me, if you
would make me feel that I am nearer to you than anybody else is, I believe
I could be different."

The Tenor reflected for a little. "If I were to make you my confidant,
Boy, would you respect my confidence?" he said at last.

"Assuredly," the Boy replied. "I promise on my honour. You shall tell her
yourself."

The Tenor ignored this last impertinence, but the Boy was not abashed.
"Israfil," he pursued, "they say you are the son of an actress and some
great nobleman, and that when you found it out, your intolerable pride
made you give up your profession, and come and bury yourself alive in
Morningquest because you could not bear the stigma. Are you the son of
such parents, Israfil?"

The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair. "Has your sister heard
these reports?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And what does she say?"

"Oh, _she_ doesn't mind! She rather leans to the nobleman theory; and
when people of that kind--I mean the nobility and gentry," he exclaimed
with a grin--"(the worst of being in society is that you are forced to
know so many disreputable people); when they come to our house--and they
do come in shoals, Angelica being the attraction, you know--then we
speculate. Angelica feels quite sure that the Duke of Morningquest himself
is your father. He was a loose old fish, they say. And there is a sort of
family likeness between you. Angelica thinks you came here that your
presence might be a continual reproach to him."

"Not a very worthy thought," said the Tenor drily.

"Well," said the Boy with much candour. "I could not swear it was
Angelica's. It has a strong family likeness to some of my own."

"It has," said the Tenor.

He was lolling in his deep easy-chair with his hands folded on his vest
and his legs crossed, and now he laid his sunny head back wearily against
the cushion, and looked up at the ceiling. It was his accustomed attitude
in moments of abstraction, and the Boy let him alone for a little,
watching him quietly. Then he grew impatient, and broke the silence:
"_Is_ it true, Israfil?" he asked.

"Is what true?" lowering his eyes to look at him without changing his
position.

"Is it true that you are the son of an actress and a duke?"

"Probably," the Tenor answered; "anything is probable where the most
absolute uncertainty prevails."

"Then you don't know who you are?" the Boy exclaimed, in a tone of deep
disgust due to baffled curiosity.

"I haven't the most remote idea," said the Tenor.

"I don't believe you."

"Boy, I have already told you that I will not have my word doubted."

"I know," said the Boy. "You are always autocratic. But I can't believe
you don't know who you are. It is incredible. You would never give
yourself such airs if you hadn't something to go upon. And, besides, you
command respect naturally, as well-bred people do. And you have all the
manner and bearing of a man accustomed to good society. You have the
accent, too, and all the rest of it. The difficulty in your case is to
believe in the actress. She was a very superior kind of actress, I
suspect. And, at any rate, you must have been brought up and educated by
somebody. Do tell me, Israfil. I am burning to know."

"Your curiosity is quite womanish, Boy."

"That is quite the right word," the Boy answered glibly. "Women are
generous and elevated, and 'a generous and elevated mind is distinguished
by nothing more certainly than an eminent curiosity.'"