The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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"You'll let your friends know you're not very well, sir," the housekeeper
suggested.

"Those letters"--indicating the ones she held in her hand--"are to tell
them."

The woman seeing to whom the letters were addressed, and hearing the Tenor
talk in an off-hand way about his manservant as if he had been accustomed
to the luxury all his life, feared for a moment that his mind was affected;
but then some of those wild surmises as to whom and what he might be,
which were rife all over the ancient city when he first arrived, recurred
to her, and there slipped from her unawares the remark: "Well, they always
said you was _somebody_, and to look at you one might suppose you was
a dook or a markis, sir, but I won't make so bold as to ask."

The Tenor smiled, "I am afraid I am only a Tenor with an abominable cold,"
he rejoined good-naturedly. "I really think I must nurse it a little. When
I have seen the dean, I shall go to bed."

"You'll see the doctor first," she muttered decisively as she took up the
tray and withdrew.

The Tenor overheard her, but was past making any objection. He had managed
to take the tea, and, eased by the grateful warmth, he sank into another
heavy doze from which the arrival of the doctor roused him. It was evening
then.

He made an effort to rise in his courteous way to receive the doctor, was
sorry to trouble him for anything so trifling as a cold, would not have
troubled him in fact had not his officious old housekeeper taken the law
into her hands; but now that he had come was very glad to see him;
singers, as the doctor knew, being fidgety about their throats; and really
--with a smile--even a cold was important when it threatened one's means
of livelihood.

The doctor responded cheerfully to these cheerful platitudes, but he was
listening and observing all the time. Then he took out a stethoscope in
two pieces, and as he screwed them together he asked:

"Been wet lately?"

"Well, yes," the Tenor answered--"something of that kind."

"And you did not change immediately?"

"N-no, now I think of it, not for hours. In fact, I believe my things
dried on me."

"Ah-h-h!" shaking his head. "And you'd been living rather low before that,
perhaps? (Just let me take your temperature.) I should say that you had
got a little down--below par, you know, eh?"'

"Well, perhaps," the Tenor acknowledged.

"Humph." The doctor glanced at his clinical thermometer. "You have a
temperature, young man. Now let me--" he applied the stethoscope. "I am
afraid you are in for a bad dose," he said after a careful examination. "I
wish you had sent for me twenty-four hours sooner. These things should be
taken in time. And it is marvellous how you have kept about so long. But
now go to bed at once. Keep yourself warm, and the temperature as even as
possible. It is all a matter of nursing; but I'll save--" he had been
going to say "your life" but changed the phrase--"your voice, never fear!"

The Tenor smiled: "Pneumonia, I suppose?" he said interrogatively.

"I am sorry to say it is," the doctor answered as he rose to depart; "and
double pneumonia, to boot. I'll send you something to take at once"--and
he hurried away before the housekeeper had time to speak to him.

When the medicine arrived, however, she had the satisfaction of
administering a dose to her master, and she begged at the same time that
she might be allowed to stay in the house that night in case he wanted
anything, but this the Tenor would not hear of. He did not think he should
want anything--(he could think of nothing unfortunately but the risk of
mentioning Angelica's name). She might come a little earlier in the
morning and get him some tea; probably he would be glad of some then, He
was not going to get up in the morning, he really meant to take care of
himself. The housekeeper coaxed, but in vain. There was no place for her
to sleep in comfort, no bell to summon her, and as to sitting up all night
that was out of the question; who would do her work in the morning? There
would be plenty of people to look after him to-morrow. One night could
make no difference.

Had she heard the doctor's orders she would have disobeyed her master, but
as it was his manner imposed upon her, he spoke so confidently; and
accordingly she left the house at the usual hour, to the Tenor's great
relief.

When she had gone he was seized with an attack of haemoptysis, and after he
had recovered from that sufficiently he went to bed--or rather he found
himself there, not knowing quite how it had come to pass, for the disease
had made rapid progress in the last few hours, and he now suffered
acutely, his temperature was higher, and the terrible sense of suffocation
continued to increase.

It was at this time that the dean, in his comfortable easy-chair, looked
up from the Tenor's note, and said to his wife deprecatingly: "He is ill,
it seems, and wishes to see me. Do you think I need go to-night?"

"No, my dear, _certainly_ not," was the emphatic reply. "There cannot
be much the matter with him. I saw him out only yesterday or the day
before. And at all events it will do in the morning. You must consider
yourself."

So the dean stayed at home to lay up a lifelong regret for himself, but
not with an easy conscience. He had a sort of feeling that it would be
well to go, which his dislike to turning out on a raw night like that
would not have outweighed without his wife's word in the scale.

Nothing was being done to relieve the Tenor. There were no medicines
regularly administered, no soothing drinks for him, no equable
temperature, no boiling water to keep the atmosphere moist with steam, the
common necessaries of such a case; all these the Tenor, knowing his
danger, had composedly foregone lest perchance in a moment of delirium he
should mention a lady's name; and that he had had the foresight to do so
was a cause of earnest thanksgiving to him when every breath of cold air
began to stab like a knife through his lungs, and his senses wandered away
for lengths of time which he could not compute, and he became conscious
that he was uttering his thoughts aloud in spite of himself.

"It is not so very long till morning," he found himself saying once. "I
will just lie still and bear it till then. I am drowsy enough--and in the
morning--" but now all at once he asked himself, was there to be any more
morning for him?

He was too healthy-minded to long for death, and too broken-hearted to
shrink from it. His first feeling, however, when he realized the near
prospect was nothing but a kind of mild surprise that it should be near,
and even this was instantly dismissed. No more morning for him meant
little leisure to think of her, and here he hastened to fold his hands and
bow his golden head: "Lord, Lord," he entreated in the midst of his
martyrdom, "make her a good woman yet." The bells above him broke in upon
his prayer. "Amen" and "amen," they seemed to say; and then the chime,
full-fraught for him with promise, rang its constant message out, and as
he listened his heart expanded with hope, his last earthly sorrow slipped
away from him, and his soul relied upon the certainty that his final
supplication was not in vain.

After this he was conscious of nothing but his own sufferings for a
little. Then there came a blank; and next he thought he was singing. He
heard his own marvellous voice and wondered at it, and he remembered that
once before he had had the same experiences, but when or where he could
not recall. Now, he would fain have stopped; for every note was a dagger
in his breast, yet he found himself forced to sing till at last the pain
aroused him.

When full consciousness returned, a terrible thirst devoured him. What
would he not have given for a drink!--something to drink, and someone to
bring it to him.

What made him think of his mother just then? Where was his mother? It was
just as well, perhaps, she should not be there to see him suffer.

He had never a bitter thought in his mind about any person or thing, nor
did he dream of bemoaning the cruel fate which left him now at his death,
as at his birth, deserted. What he did think of were the many kind people
who would have been only too glad to come to his assistance had they but
known his need.

But the torment of thirst increased upon him.

He thought of the dear Lord in _his_ agony of thirst, and bore it for
a time. Then he remembered that there must be water in the room. With
great difficulty he got up to get it for himself. His face was haggard and
drawn by this time, and there were great black circles round his sunken
eyes, but the expression of strength and sweetness had been intensified if
anything, and he never looked more beautiful than then.

It seemed like a day's journey to the washstand. He reached it at last,
however, reached it and grasped the carafe--with such a feeling of relief
and thankfulness! Alas! it was empty. So also was the jug. The woman had
forgotten for once to fill them, and there was not a drop of water to
moisten his lips.

Tears came at this, and he sank into a chair. It was hard, and he was much
exhausted, but still there was no reproach upon his lips. Presently he
found himself in bed again with his pillows arranged so as to prop him up.
The struggle for breath was awful, and he could not lie down. He had only
to fight for a little longer, however, then suddenly the worst was over.
And at the same moment, as it seemed to him, the chime rang out again
triumphantly; and almost immediately afterward his first friend and foster
father, the rough collier, grasped his hand. But he had scarcely greeted
him when his second friend arrived, and bending over him called him as of
old, "Julian, my dear, dear boy!" This reminded the Tenor. "Where
_is_ the Boy?" he said, "Is the window open? It is time he came."

"Israfil, I am here," was the soft response. The Tenor's face became
radiant. All whom he had ever cared for were present with him, coming as
he called them--even the dean, who was kneeling now beside his bed
murmuring accustomed prayers. "What happiness!" The Tenor murmured. "I was
so sorrowful this afternoon, and now! A happy death! a happy death! Ah,
Boy, do you not see that he gives us our heart's desire? He slumbers not,
nor sleeps," and the Tenor's face shone.

Then the chime was ringing again, and now it never ceased for him. He had
sunk into the last dreamy lethargy from which only the clash of the bells
above roused him hour by hour during the few that remained; but all sense
of time was over; the hours were one; and so the beloved music accompanied
him till his spirit rose enraptured to the glory of the Beatific Vision
itself.

It was just at the dawn, when the Boy was wont to leave him, that,
according to his ancient faith, the dear-earned wings were given him, the
angel guardian led him, and the true and beautiful pure spirit was
welcomed by its kindred into everlasting joy.

CHAPTER V.

When Angelica heard those dreadful words: "He's dead, miss, didn't you
know? and buried yesterday"--her jaw dropped, and for a moment she felt
the solid earth reel beneath her. The colour left her face and returned to
it, red chasing white as one breath follows another, and she glared at the
woman. For her first indignant thought was that she was being insulted
with a falsehood. The thing was impossible; he could not be dead.

"And buried yesterday," the woman repeated.

"I don't believe you," Angelica exclaimed, stamping her foot imperiously.

The woman drew herself up, gave one indignant look, then turned her back,
and walked into the house.

Angelica ran down the passage after her, and grasped her arm. "I beg your
pardon," she said. "But, oh, do tell me--do make me understand, for I
cannot believe it! I cannot believe it!"

The woman pushed open the sitting room door, and led her in.

"Was you a friend of his, miss--or ma'am?" she asked.

"I am Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe," Angelica answered.

"Yes, I was a friend of his. I cared for him greatly. It is only a few
days since I saw him alive and well. Oh! it isn't true, it isn't true!"
she broke off, wringing her hands. "I cannot believe it!"

The woman sat down, threw her apron back over her face, and rocked herself
to and fro.

Angelica, dazed and dry-eyed, stared at her stupidly. The shock had
stunned her.

Presently the woman recovered herself, and seeing the lady's stony face,
forgot her own trouble for the moment, and hastened to help her.

"I don't wonder you're took-to, my lady," she said. "It's bin a awful blow
to a many, a awful blow. Oh! I never thought when they used to come and
see him here in their fine carriages and with their servants and their
horses and that as it was anything but the music brought 'em--tho', mind
you, he was as easy with them as they, with him. Oh, dear! Oh dear!"

Angelica's lips were so parched she could hardly articulate, "Tell me,"
she gasped, "tell me all. I cannot understand."

The woman fetched her some water. "Lie back a bit in this chair, ma'am,"
she said, "and I'll just tell you. It'll come easier when you know. When
one knows, it helps a body. You see, ma'am, it was this way"--and then she
poured forth the narrative of those last sad days, omitting no detail, and
Angelica listened, dry-eyed at first, but presently she was seized upon by
the pitifulness of it all, and then, like scattered raindrops that precede
a heavy shower, the great tears gathered in her eyes and slowly
overflowed, forerunners of a storm which burst at last in deep convulsive
sobs that rent her, so that her suffering body came to the relief of her
mind.

"I wanted to stay with 'im that last night and see to 'im," the
housekeeper proceeded, "for the doctor's very words to me was, when I went
to fetch 'im, before ever 'e had come to see what was the matter, 'e ses,
knowing me for a many years, 'e ses, 'You'll look after 'im well, I'm
sure, Mrs. Jenkins,' 'e ses, and I answered, 'Yes, sir, please God, I
will,' for I felt as something was 'anging over me then, I did, tho'
little I knowed what it was. And I did my best to persuade 'im to let me
stay that night and, nurse 'im, but 'e wouldn't hear of it; 'e said there
wasn't no need; and what with the way 'e 'ad as you didn't like to go agin
'im in nothing, and what with 'is bein' so cheerful like, 'e imposed upon
me, so I went away. Oh, it's been a bad business"--shaking her head
disconsolately--"a bad business! To think of 'im bein' alone that night
without a soul near 'im, and it 'is last on earth. He'd not 'ave let a dog
die so, 'e wouldn't."

Angelica's sobs redoubled.

"But I couldn't rest, ma'am," the woman went on, "The whole night through
I kep awaking up and thinking of 'im, and I 'eard every hour strike, till
at last I couldn't stand it no longer, and I just got up and came to see
'ow 'e was. I'd 'a' bin less tired if I'd a sat up all night with 'im. And
I came 'ere, and as soon as I opened the door, ma'am, there!" she threw
her hands before her--"I knew there was something! For the smell that met
me in the passage, it was just for all the world like fresh turned clay.
But still I didn't think. It wasn't till afterward, that I knowed it was
'is grave. And I went upstairs, ma'am, not imaginin' nothin' neither, and
tapped at 'is door, and 'e didn't answer, so I opens it softly, and ses:
''Ow are you this mornin', sir?' I ses, quite softly like, in a whisper,
for fear of wakin' 'im if 'e should be asleep. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I
needn't 'a' bin so careful! And I ses it agin: 'Ow are you, sir, this
mornin'?': I ses: 'I 'ope you 'ad a good night,' I ses; but still 'e
didn't answer, and some'ow it struck me, ma'am, that the 'ouse was very
quiet--it seemed kind of unnatural still, if you understand. So, just
without knowin' why like, I pushed the door open"--showing, how she did it
with her hands--"little by little, bit by bit, all for fear of disturbing
'im, till at last I steps in, makin' no noise--Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" She
threw her apron up over her face again, and rocked herself as she stood.
"And there 'e was, ma'am," she resumed huskily, "propped up by pillows in
the bed so as to be almost sittin', and the top one was a great broad
pillow, very white, for 'e was always most pertic'lar about such things,
and 'ad 'em all of the very best. And 'is face was turned away from me as
I came in, ma'am, so that I only saw it sidewise, and just at first I
thought 'e was asleep--very sound." She wiped her eyes with her apron, and
shook her head several times. "And there's a little window to 'is room
what slides along instead of openin' up," she proceeded when she had
recovered herself sufficiently, "with small panes, and outside there's
roses and honeysucklers, what made shadows that flickered, for the mornin'
was gusty though bright, and they deceived me. I thought 'e was breathin'
natural. But while I stood there the sun shone in and just touched the
edges of 'is 'air, ma'am, and it looked for all the world like a crown of
gold against the white pillows, it did, indeed--eh! ma'am, I don't wonder
you take on!" This emphatically upon a fresh outburst of uncontrollable
grief from Angelica. "For I ses to myself, when the light fell on 'is face
strong like that, 'It's the face of a angel,' I ses--but there!" raising
her hands palms outward, slowly, and bringing them down to her knees
again--"I can't tell you! But 'is lips were just a little parted, ma'am,
with a sort o' look on 'em, not a smile, you understand, but just a look
that sweet as made you feel like smilin' yourself! and 'is skin that
transapparent you'd 'ave expected to see through it; but that didn't make
me think nothin', for it was always so--as clear as your own, ma'am, if
you'll excuse the liberty; and some folks said it was because he was a
great lord in disguise, for such do 'ave fine skins; and some said it was
because 'e was so good, but I think it was both myself. But 'owever,
ma'am, seein' 'e slept so sound, I made bold to creep in a little nearer,
for 'e was a picter!" shaking her head solemnly--"an' I was just thinkin'
what a proud woman 'is mother would be if she was me to see 'im at that
moment an' 'im so beautiful, when, ma'am"--but here her voice broke, and
it was some seconds before she could add--"you might 'a' 'eard me scream
at the cathedral. And after I 'ad screamed I'd 'a' given untold gold not
to 'a' done it. For it seemed a sin to make a noise, and 'im so still.
And, oh! ma'am, 'e'd bin dyin' the 'ole o' that last afternoon an' I never
suspected 'e'd more nor a cold, though I knew it was bad. An' 'e'd bin
alone the 'ole o' that blessed night a dyin', an' sensible they say to the
last, an' not a soul to give 'im so much as a drink, an' the thirst awful,
so I'm told. An' 'e'd been up to try an' get one for 'imself, for the
bottle off the washstand was lyin' on the floor as if he'd dropped it out
of 'is 'and--'e'd got up to get a drink for 'imself," she repeated
impressively, "an' 'im dyin', ma'am, and _there wasn't a drop o' water
there_. I knowed it--I knowed it the moment I see that bottle on the
floor. I'd forgot to bring up any before I left the day before, though I
ses to myself when I did the room in the mornin'--'I must fetch that water
at once,' and never thought of it again from that moment."

"Oh, this is dreadful! dreadful!" Angelica moaned.

"Eh!" the woman ejaculated sympathetically. "And the 'ardest part of it
was the way they came when it was too late. Everybody. An' me, 'eaven
forgive me, thinkin' 'im out o' 'is mind when 'e wrote to 'em an' said
they was 'is friends. There was 'is lordship the Markis o' Dawne, and 'is
two sisters, an' that other great lady what is with 'em so much. An' they
didn't say much any of 'em except 'er, but she wept an' wrung 'er 'ands,
and blamed 'erself and everybody for lettin' the master 'ave 'is own way
an' leaving 'im, as it seems it was 'is wish to be left, alone with some
trouble 'e 'ad. But they 'ad come to see 'im, too, Dr. Galbraith and the
Markis 'ad, many times, for I let 'em in myself, an' never thought nothin'
of it in the way of their bein' friends of 'is, I thought they came about
the music. Eh!" she repeated, "they didn't say much, any of 'em, but you
could see, you could see! An' the dean came, an' you should 'a' 'eard 'm!
full o' remorse, 'e was, ma'am, for not 'avin 'come the night before,
though 'e was asked. An' they all went upstairs to see 'm, an' 'im lyin'
there so quiet and all indifferent to their grief, yet with such a look of
peace upon 'is face! It was sweet and it was sad too; for all the world as
if 'e'd bin 'urt cruel by somebody in 'is feelin's but 'ad forgiven 'em,
an' then bin glad to go."

"Israfil! Israfil!" the wretched Angelica moaned aloud. She could picture
the scene. Her Aunt Fulda, prayerful but tearless, only able to sorrow as
saints and angels do; Ideala with her great human heart torn, weeping and
wailing and wringing her hands; Aunt Claudia, hard of aspect and soft of
heart, stealthily wiping her tears as if ashamed of them; Uncle Dawne
sitting with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands; and
Dr. Galbraith standing beside the bed looking down on the marble calm of
the dead with a face as still, but pained in expression--Angelica knew
them all so well, it was easy for her imagination to set them before her
in characteristic attitudes at such a time; and she was not surprised to
find that they had been friends of his although no hint of the fact had
ever reached her. They were a loyal set in that little circle, and could
keep counsel among themselves, as she knew; an example which she herself
would have followed as a matter of course under similar circumstances, so
surely does the force of early associations impel us instinctively to act
on the principles which we have been accustomed to see those about us
habitually pursue.

"An' they covered 'im with flowers, an' one or other of those great ladies
in the plainest black dresses with nothin' except just white linen collar
an' cuffs, stayed with 'im day an' night till they took 'im to 'is long
'ome yesterday," the woman concluded.

Then there was a long silence, broken only by Angelica's heavy sobs.

"Can't I do nothin' for you, ma'am?" the housekeeper asked at last.

"Yes," Angelica answered; "leave me alone awhile."

And the woman had tact enough to obey.

Then Angelica got up, and went and knelt by the Tenor's empty chair, and
laid her cheek against the cold cushion.

"It isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true," she wailed again and again,
but it was long before she could think at all; and her dry eyes ached, for
she had no more tears to shed.

Presently she became aware of a withered rose in the hollow between the
seat of the chair and the back. She knew it must be one of those she had
thrown at him that night, perhaps the one he had carelessly twirled in his
hand while they talked, now and then inhaling its perfume as he listened,
watching her with quiet eyes.

"Dead! dead!" she whispered, pressing the dry petals to her lips.

Then she looked about her.

The light of day, falling on a scene which was familiar only by the
subdued light of a lamp, produced an effect as of chill and bareness. She
noticed worn places in the carpet, and a certain shabbiness from constant
use in everything, which had not been visible at night, and now affected
her in an inexpressibly dreary way. There was very little difference
really, and yet there was _some_ change which, as she perceived it,
began gradually to bring the great change home to her. There was the empty
chair, first relic in importance and saddest in significance. There were
his pipes neatly arranged on a little fretwork rack which hung where bell
handles are usually put beside the fireplace. She remembered having seen
him replace one of them the last time she was there, and now she went over
and touched its cold stem, and her heart swelled. The stand of ferns and
flowers which he had arranged with such infinite pains to please the "Boy"
stood in its accustomed place, but ferns and flowers alike were dead or
drooping in their pots, untended and uncared for, and some had been taken
away altogether, leaving gaps on the stand, behind which the common grate,
empty, and rusted from disuse, appeared.

There was dust on her violin case, and dust on his grand piano--her violin
which he kept so carefully. She opened the violin case expecting to find
the instrument ruined by water. But no! it lay there snugly on its velvet
cushion without a scratch on its polished surface or an injured string.
She understood. And perhaps it had been one of his last conscious acts to
put it right for her. He was always doing something for her, always. They
said now that his income had been insufficient, or that he gave too much
away, and that the malady had been rendered hopeless from the first by his
weakness for want of food. The woman who waited on him had told her so.
"He'd feed that chorister brat what come every morning," she said, "in a
way that was shameful, but his own breakfast has been dry bread and
coffee, without neither sugar nor milk, for many and many a day--and his
dinner an ounce of meat at noon, with never a bite nor sup to speak of at
tea, as often as not."