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

The Tenor changed his position slightly, and, in doing so, absently laid
his hand on the Boy's head: "What queer dry hair you have," he said.

The Boy drew back resentfully. "I wish you wouldn't touch my hair," he
said. "I know it's nasty dry hair. It's a sore point with me. I think you
should respect it."

"I beg your pardon," the Tenor answered. "I really didn't know you were so
sensitive on the subject. But why on earth do you come so close? You put
that remarkable head of yours under my hand, and then growl at me for
touching it. And really it is a temptation. If I were a man of science
instead of a simple artist I should like to examine it inside and out."

The Boy put both hands up to his head and laughed, delighted as usual by
any jest at his own expense. He had moved his footstool back a little now,
and sat, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully, and looking at the Tenor.
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and he seemed to have
forgotten his desire to know the Tenor's secret history. "Why don't you
wear a moustache?" he said suddenly.

The Tenor looked at him lazily. "Well, I never did wear one," he said.
"But I could not in any case have worn one with a surplice."

The Boy nodded his head sagely. "I forgot," he said. "Of course that would
have been bad form. A parson is always vulgarized in appearance by wearing
a military moustache. The effect is as incongruous as a tail would be if
added to a figure with wings. But, tell me, do you think my moustache will
be the colour of my eyebrows when it comes?"

"Oh, Boy!" the Tenor exclaimed, "this is quite refreshing; especially from
you. You will be quite young in time if you go on."

The Boy grinned in his peculiar way, and then got up and began to walk
about the room. The Tenor thought from the expression of his face that he
was meditating mischief; but before he had time to put it into effect the
big bell boomed above them, striking the hour, and then came the chime.

The Boy hated the chime. He said it was flat; he said it was importunate,
like an ill-bred person; he said it mingled inopportunely with everything;
he declared it had a spite against him, and would do him an injury if it
could; when he was good he said it made him bad, and when he was bad it
made him worse. The Tenor had expected to hear him swear at it; but, oddly
enough, considering some of his aberrations, the Boy never swore. His
ideas were occasionally shocking, but, with the exception of certain
_boyishnesses_, in the expression of them he was a purist.

He went off now, however, anathematizing the chime, and the Tenor was
almost glad to get rid of him. The Boy's superabundant vitality alone was
fatiguing, and when he added, as he often did, a certain something of
manner to it which was perplexing and irritating in the extreme, he left
the Tenor not only fatigued, but jarred all over. Yet he spent the
interval which usually elapsed before the Boy returned in making excuses
for him, and also in making preparations.

CHAPTER X.

The Tenor was obliged to leave the window of his sitting room which looked
out on the little grass plot in front of his house and the cathedral
opposite, open always now, rain, blow, or snow, for the convenience of the
Boy. The latter had changed, his mind about forcing an entrance. If the
Tenor, he said, would not make it quite evident that he wanted him by
leaving the window open so that he could come in his own way whenever he
chose, he should not come at all. The window was his way; and on one
occasion when he had found it shut he had gone home, intending, as he
afterward declared, never to return; but he had changed his mind and
reappeared after an unusually long interval, when the Tenor, to use the
Boy's own phrase, "caught it" for his want of hospitality. Of course, he
acknowledged, he might have come in by the door, or he might have knocked
at the window; but then he did not choose to come in by the door or knock
at the window, so that was all about it. If the Tenor wanted to see him he
knew how to make him feel he was welcome, and so on until, for the sake of
peace and quietness, the Tenor was again obliged to yield.

Oh, the moods of that terrible Boy! No two the same and none to be relied
on! Sometimes he was like a wild creature, there was no holding him, no
knowing what he would do next; and the Tenor used to tremble lest he
should carry out one of his impossible threats, among which serenading the
dean, upsetting the chime, climbing the cathedral spire on the outside, or
throwing stones at the stained-glass saints in the great west window, were
intentions so often expressed that there seemed some likelihood of one or
other of them being eventually put into execution. Then again he would
saunter in about midnight, and sit down in a dejected attitude, looking
unutterably miserable; he would hardly answer when the Tenor spoke to him,
and if he did not speak he resented it; neither would he eat, nor drink,
nor make music, and if the Tenor sang he sometimes burst into tears.

On other occasions he was the most commonplace creature imaginable. He
would talk about a book he had been reading, a new picture his "people"
had bought, the society in the neighbourhood; anything, in fact, to which
the Tenor would listen, and the latter was often astonished by the
acuteness of his perceptions, and the worldly wisdom of his conclusions.

The Tenor made every allowance for these changes of mood, which, if they
were trying at times--and certainly they were trying--were interesting
also and amusing. He knew what an affliction the sensitive, nervous,
artistic temperament is; what a power of suffering it hides beneath the
more superficial power to be pleased; and he pitied the Boy, who was an
artist in every sense. He also thought there had been mistakes made in his
education.

"Did you ever go to a public school, Boy?" he asked one night.

"Well, no," the Boy rejoined. "I had the advantage of being educated with
Angelica. They kindly allowed me to share her tutor. I was thrown in, you
understand, just to fill up his time. And that is how it is I am so
refined and cultivated."

"But seriously?" said the Tenor.

The Boy raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?" he repeated. "But do you think
it delicate to question me so closely? Ah, I see, poor fellow! You don't
know any better. But really your curiosity is quite womanish. I will tell
you, however. I had the misfortune to sever my femoral artery when I was a
brat, and, although it seems to have come quite right now, it was not
thought advisable for me to rough it at a public school."

"But why on earth are they putting you in the army?" the Tenor asked.

"You mean I am much too pretty?" said the Boy, "not to mention my brains
and manners. Well, there I must agree with you. It does seem a sad waste
of valuable material. But it is only to fill up an interval. I shall be
put into a permanent billet of another kind eventually, whether I like it
or not."

"You mean you will be put into the earth to enrich it, I suppose?"

"Well, no. I was not so smart," said the Boy. "Now, that is rather a good
one for you. Oh, I suspect, if I could plumb your depth, I should find
myself but a simple, shallow child in comparison. No; what I meant was
that eventually a certain amount of earth would come to me to enrich me."

"But what does your father think about this military manoeuvre?"

"My father _think!_" roared the Boy. "O Lord! you don't know my
father!" and he fairly curled himself up in convulsions of silent
laughter, which the Tenor thought unseemly considering the subject of it,
but he said no more. He knew that there was nothing to be done with such a
boy but to wait and hope; and that was the attitude into which the Tenor
found himself most prone to fall in these days with regard to things in
general; being greatly cheered meanwhile by the sight of his lovely lady,
who smiled at him now without doubt, and was seldom absent from her
accustomed seat in the Canon's pew when he sang.

The Tenor looked better now, and more out of place than ever in the choir--
better, that is to say, in the sense of being more attractive; but he was
not looking strong, and the common faces about him seemed commoner still
when contrasted with the exceptional refinement of his own. The constant
self-denial he had been obliged to exercise in order to indulge the
fancies of that rapacious Boy, although a pleasure in itself, was
beginning to tell upon him. His features had sharpened a little, his skin
was transparent to a fault, and the brightness of his yellow hair, if it
added to the quite peculiar beauty, added something also to the too great
delicacy of his face. It was the brightness of his hair that suggested
such names for him as "Balder the Beautiful" and "Son of the Morning" to
the Boy, who invariably called him by some such fanciful appellation.

It was at this time, too, that a great painter came to Morningquest and
painted a picture called "_Music_," the interest of which centred in
the Tenor himself singing, while Angelica gazed at him as if she were
spell-bound.

The Boy used to describe this picture to the Tenor while it was in
progress, but the latter, listening in his dreamy way, was under the
impression for some time that the work was one of his young friend's own
imagination only. By degrees, however, it dawned upon him that the picture
was an actual fact, and then he was displeased. He thought that the artist
had taken a liberty with regard to himself, and been guilty of an
impertinence so far as his lovely lady was concerned.

"Well, so I told him," said the Boy. "But you know, dear Israfil, that in
the interests of art as well as in the interests of science, men are
carried away to such an extent that they sometimes forget to be
scrupulous. It is curious," he broke off, gazing at the Tenor critically,
"that Angelica should specially admire your chin. It is your mouth that
appeals to me. You have a regular Rossitti-Burne-Jones-Dante's-Dream-and-
Blessed-Damosel kind of mouth, with full firm lips. I should think you're
the sort of fellow that women would like to kiss. Don't try to look as
if you wouldn't kiss a woman just once in a way, dear old chap! Women
hate men like priests, who mustn't kiss them if they would; and they have
no respect for other men who wouldn't kiss them if they could. I know
Angelica hasn't!"

The last words were delivered from outside in the garden after the Boy had
made his escape through the window.

CHAPTER XI.

How long the Tenor's dream would have remained unbroken by action it is
hard to say. His want of personal ambition, his perfect serenity of mind,
and his thankfulness for a state of things so much more blissful than
anything he had ever expected to fall to his lot again; the languid summer
weather, and his affectionate anxiety for the Boy, all combined to keep
him in Morningquest, and to keep his indefinite plans for the future still
in abeyance.

Other people, however, were not so apathetic. The dean's friendly
remonstrances had been redoubled of late; the Boy had become importunate;
and even the mild musicians of Morningquest, whose boast it was to have
that bright particular star in their own little firmament, ventured to
hint respectfully that he was not doing his duty by himself. All this
kindly interest in his future career was not without its effect upon him,
and if it did not actually rouse him to act, it put him in the mood to be
aroused.

He was sitting alone one evening in his accustomed seat, beside the
fireplace, or rather beside the bank of ferns and flowering plants which
he had arranged before the fireplace so as to hide it, at the instigation
of the Boy. A shaded lamp stood on a table behind him, throwing its
softened light from over his shoulder on to the big book which lay open on
his knee. But he was not reading. He had placed his hands upon the book,
and was resting his head on the back of the chair. His yellow hair seemed
to shine out of the surrounding gloom with a light of its own; but his
face was in shadow.

The window at the further end of the room behind him was shut, and the
creepers outside brushed gently against it, tapping now and then, and
keeping up a continual soft rustle and murmur of leaves, like friendly
voices, soothing insensibly.

The other window was open as usual, and as he sat now he could see the old
cathedral opposite towering above him. It was a bright moonlight night;
the shadows were strong, and the details of the facade, flying buttress,
gargoyle and cornice, with a glimpse of the apse and spire, were all
distinct. But as the Tenor thoughtfully perused them, the whole fabric
suddenly disappeared from view, blotted out by an opaque body round which
the moonlight showed like a rim of silver, tracing in outline the slender
figure of the Boy. The Tenor had forgotten him for once, and was startled
from his reverie by the unexpected apparition; but he did not alter his
position or make any sign. The Boy preferred to come and go like that,
ungreeted and unquestioned, and the Tenor of course humoured this harmless
peculiarity with the rest.

The Boy sauntered in now in a casual way, arranged his hair at a mirror,
threw himself into an armchair, leant back, crossed his legs, folded both
hands on his hat, which lie held on his knee, and looked at the Tenor
lazily.

In the little pause that followed, the Tenor glanced at his book again,
and then he closed it.

"Israfil," the Boy said suddenly, leaning forward to look at the book, as
if to make sure, and speaking in an awestruck voice--"is that the
_Bible_ you were reading?"

Any evidence of the Tenor's simple piety, which was neither concealed nor
displayed, because it was in no way affected but quite natural to him, and
he was, therefore, unconscious of it, had a peculiar effect upon the Boy.
It seemed to shock him. But whether it made him feel ashamed or not, it is
impossible to say. Sometimes, the first effect over, he would remain
thoughtful, as if subdued by it; but at others it appeared to have
irritated him, and made him aggressively cynical.

To-night he was all subdued.

"You believe it, Israfil, don't you?" he said. "'He watching' is a fact
for you?"

The Tenor did not answer, except by folding his hands upon his book again,
and looking at the Boy.

"Now, _I_ don't believe a word of it," the latter pursued, "but it
makes me feel. I have my moments. The Bible is a wonderful book. I open it
sometimes, and read it haphazard. I did last night, and came upon--oh,
Israfil, the grand simplicity of it all! the wonderful solemn earnestness!
It brought me to my knees, and made me hold up my hands; but I could not
pray. I heard the chime, though, that night. It sounded insistent. It
seemed to assert itself in a new way. It was as if it spoke to me alone,
and I felt a strange sense of something pending--something for which I
shall have to answer. 'He watching.' Yes. I feel all that.
But"--dejectedly--"one feels so much more than one knows; and when I want
to know, I am never satisfied. Trying to find the little we know amongst
the lot that we feel is a veritable search for mignonette seeds in sand."

The Tenor continued silent and thoughtful for a time. "But do you never
pray, dear Boy?" he said at last.

The Boy shook his head.

"_Did_ you never?"

"Oh, yes,"--more cheerfully. "I used to believe in all the bogies at one
time."

"I am afraid you have been brought under some bad influence, then. Tell
me, who was it?"

"Angelica," said the boy.

"Oh, Boy! your sister!"

"Ah, you don't know that young lady!" the Boy rejoined, with his cynical
chuckle. "She is very fascinating, I allow; but always, in her
conversation, 'the serpent hisses where the sweet bird sings.'"

The Tenor toyed with the cover of his book, and was silent.

After a time the Boy spoke diffidently. "But do _you_ pray, Israfil?"
he asked.

"Yes," the Tenor answered. "I try to make prayer the attitude of my mind
always--I mean I try to be, and to do, and to think nothing that I could
not make a subject of prayer at any time. But I do not think that a direct
petition is the only or best way to pray. It seems to me that it is in a
certain attitude of mind we find the highest form of prayer, a reverential
attitude toward all things good and beautiful, by which we attain to an
inexpressible tenderness, that enemy of evil emotions, and also to rest
and peace and a great deep solemn joy which is permanent."

"I don't think I ever knew a man before who prayed regularly," the Boy
observed thoughtfully, rising as he spoke, and standing with his hat on:
"except the clergy, I suppose. But then that is their profession, and so
one thinks nothing of it. But I wonder if many men of the world pray? I
suppose they have to give up everything that makes life pleasant before
they can conscientiously begin."

"Far from it," said the Tenor, smiling. "But you are going early! Aren't
you hungry?"

The Boy grinned as if the insinuation were flattering. "No, I am not
hungry," he answered. "I dined at home to-night for a wonder, and when I
do that I don't generally want any more for some time. By home I mean at
my grandad's, where they always have seven or eight courses, and I can't
resist any of them. I lose my self respect, but satisfy my voracity, which
has the effect of improving the greediness out of my mind. But I am in a
hurry this evening, and I have already outstayed my time. I only came in
for a moment to ask you if you are to sing to-morrow?"

The Tenor nodded.

"In that case I am to beg you for 'Waft her, Angels.' Angelica ventures to
make the request. Good-night!"

The words were scarcely spoken, and his flying footsteps were still
audible as he ran lightly up the Close, when the cathedral clock began to
strike. There was only one emphatic throb of the iron tongue, followed by
a long reverberation, and then came the chime.

The Tenor, who had risen, stood listening, with upturned face, until the
end.

But the chime failed of its effect for once. There was something weary and
enigmatical in the old worn strain. Hitherto, it had always been a comfort
and an assurance to him, but to-night, for the first time, it was fraught
with some portentous meaning. Was there any cause for alarm in what was
happening? any reason for fear that should make it merciful to prepare him
with migivings? It was no new thing for the Tenor to be asked to sing
something special, and he tried to think such a request, although it came
from Angelica--if indeed it came from her, and was not a fabrication of
the Boy's--was a whim as trifling as the rest. But even if it were,
trifles, as all the world knows, are not to be despised. Someone has said
already that they made up the sum of life, and it may also be observed
that the hand of death is weighted by them.

CHAPTER XII.

The Tenor happened to be entering the cathedral next day for the afternoon
service just as Angelica was being handed from a carriage by a singular
looking man who wore _pince-nez_, was clean shaven, and had an
immense head of hair. Angelica very evidently called the attention of this
gentleman to the Tenor as he passed, and the latter heard the "Ach!" of
satisfaction to which the stranger gave utterance when he had adjusted his
_pince-nez_ with undisguised interest, and taken the Tenor in.

The latter felt that he had seen the man before, and while he was putting
on his surplice he remembered who he was, an _impresario_, well-known
by sight to regular opera goers and musicians generally. Having
established his identity, the reason of his presence there that afternoon
was at once apparent. The Tenor had been requested to sing a solo which
was admirably calculated to display the range and flexibility of his voice
to the best advantage, and the _impresario_ had been brought to hear
him. The mountain had come to Mahomet.

The Tenor never sang better than upon that occasion, and he had scarcely
reached his cottage after the service was over, when the _impresario_
burst in upon him, having, in his eagerness, omitted the ceremony of
knocking. He seized the Tenor's hand, exclaiming in broken English:--"Oh,
my tear froind, you are an ideal!" Then he flung his hat on the floor, and
curvetted about the room, alternately rubbing his hands and running his
fingers upward through his luxuriant hair till it stood on end all over
his head. "And have I found you?" he cried sentimentally, apostrophising
the ceiling. "Oh, have I found you? What a _Lohengrin!_ Ach Gott! it
is the prince himself. Boat"--and he stopped prancing in order to point
his long forefinger at the Tenor's chest--"boat you are an actor born, my
froind! You was the _Prince of Devotion_ himself jus' now. You do
that part as if you feel him too! Why"--jerking his head towards the
cathedral with a gesture which signified that if he had not seen the thing
himself he never could have believed it--"why, you loose yourself in there
kompletely!" Then he asked the Tenor to sing again, which the Tenor did,
being careful, however, not to give his excitable visitor too much lest
the intoxicating draught should bring on a fit.

The music-mad-one had come to make the Tenor golden offers, and he did not
leave him now until the Tenor had agreed to accept them.

The dean came in by chance in time to witness the conclusion of the
bargain, adding by his congratulations and good wishes to the Tenor's own
belief that such an opportunity was not to be lost. The drawings the Tenor
had been doing for the dean were all but finished now, and it was arranged
that the Tenor should enter upon his new engagement in one month's time.

When he found himself alone at last and could think the matter over, he
was thoroughly content with what he had done. There could be no doubt now
as to whose wish it was that he should go and make a name for himself; and
he felt sure that the step he was about to take would not lead to the
separation he dreaded, but rather to the union for which he might at last
without presumption; after such encouragement, venture to hope.

CHAPTER XIII.

A few nights after the Tenor had signed the agreement the Boy burst in
upon him, exclaiming in guttural accents: "Oh, my tear froind! have I
found you?" Then he threw his hat on the floor and began to prance up and
down, waving his hands ecstatically.

The Tenor picked up a cushion and threw it at him. "You wretched Boy!" he
said laughing. "Who told you he did that?"

"Oh, my _dear_ Israfil!" the Boy replied. "Why on earth do you ask
who _told_ me? You must know by this time, and if you don't you
should, that genius does not require to be told. Given the man and the
circumstances, and we'll tell you exactly what he'll do, don't you know,"
and the Boy showed his teeth.

But the Tenor was not convinced. "Knowing your patience and zeal when
engaged in the pursuit of knowledge--I think that was the euphemism you
employed the last time you had to apologize for the unscrupulous
indulgence of your boundless curiosity," the Tenor, standing with his back
to the Boy, observed with easy deliberation, as he filled and lighted a
pipe, "I have little doubt that you assisted at the interview from some
safe coigne of 'vantage--to borrow another of your pet-expressions--perhaps
from the closet under the stairs there--"

"Or from behind the sofa," the Boy suggested, with that enigmatical grin
of his which the Tenor disliked, perhaps because it was enigmatical, "Like
my new suit, Israfil?" he demanded in exactly the same tone. He had on a
spotless flannel boating suit, with a silk handkerchief of many colours,
knotted picturesquely round his neck.

"It's too new," said the Tenor. "It looks as if you'd got it for private
theatricals, and taken great care of it."

The Boy laughed, and then, assuming another character, he began to
remonstrate with himself playfully in the Tenor's voice.

"Boy, will you never be more manly?" and "Don't mock, Boy!" and "Boy, you
have no soul!" and "Oh, Boy, you're not high-minded." Then he did a love
scene between the Tenor and Angelica. The Tenor tried to stop this last
performance, but he only made matters worse, for the Boy argued the
question out in Angelica's voice, taking the part of "dear Claude"--he
still insisted that his name was Claude--and ending with: "Dear Israfil,
we are so happy ourselves, I think Claude should have a little latitude
to-night. He studies so hard, poor boy, he deserves some indulgence."

When this amusement ceased to divert him, he announced his intention of
going on the stage, of not going home till morning, and of being rowed
down the river in the meantime.

"But where will you get a boat at this time of night?" the Tenor objected.

"You're not a man of much imagination," said the Boy, "or you wouldn't
have asked such a question. How do you suppose I come every night, after
all the world is barred and bolted out of your sacred Close, and the
alternative lies between the porter at the postern, whom you know I shun,
and the water-gate?"