The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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"O Israfil! Israfil!" she moaned when she thought of it. There had always
been food, and wine too, for that other hungry "Boy," food and wine which
the Tenor rarely touched--she remembered that now. To see the "Boy" eat
and be happy was all he asked, and if hunger pinched him, he filled his
pipe and smoked till the craving ceased. She saw it all now. But why had
she never suspected it, she who was rolling in wealth? His face was wan
enough at times, and worn to that expression of sadness which comes of
privation, but the reason had never cost her a thought. And it was all for
her--or for "him" whom he believed to be near and dear to her. No one else
had ever sacrificed anything for her sake, no one else had ever cared for
her as he had cared, no one else would ever again. Oh, hateful deception!
She threw herself down on her knees once more.

"O Israfil! Israfil!" she cried, "only forgive me, and I will be true!
only forgive me, and I will be true!"

It was trying to rain outside. The wind swept down the Close in little
gusts, and dashed cold drops against the window pane, and in the intervals
sprays of the honeysuckle and clematis tapped on the glass, and the leaves
rustled. This roused her. She had heard them rustle like that on many a
moonlight night--with what a different significance! And he also used to
listen to them, and had told her that often when he was alone at night and
tired, they had sounded like voices whispering, and had comforted him, for
they had always said pleasant things. Oh, gentle loving heart, to which
the very leaves spoke peace, so spiritually perfect was it! And these were
the same creepers to which he had listened, these that tapped now
disconsolately, and this was his empty chair--but where was he? he who was
tender for the tiniest living thing--who had thought and cared for
everyone but himself. What was the end of it all? How had he been
rewarded? His hearth was cold, his little house deserted, and the wind and
the rain swept over his lonely grave.

She went to the window and opened it. She would go to his grave--she would
find him.

While she stood on the landing stage at the watergate waiting for the flat
ferry boat, which happened to be on the farther side of the narrow river,
to be poled across to her, the Tenor's little chorister boy came up and
waited too. He had a rustic posy in his hand, but there was no holiday air
in his manner; on the contrary, he seemed unnaturally subdued for a boy,
and Angelica somehow knew who he was, and conjectured that his errand was
the same as her own. If so he would show her the way.

The child seemed unconscious of her presence. He stepped into the boat
before her, and they stood side by side during the crossing, but his eyes
were fixed on the water and he took no notice of her. On the other side of
the landing when they reached it was a narrow lane, a mere pathway,
between a high wall on the one hand and a high hedge on the other, which
led up a steep hill to a road, on the other side of which was a cemetery.
The child followed this path, and then Angelica knew that she had been
right in her conjecture, and had only to follow him. He led her quite
across the cemetery to a quiet corner where was an open grassy space away
from the other graves. Two sides of it were sheltered by great horse
chestnuts, old and umbrageous, and from where she stood she caught a
glimpse of the city below, of the cathedral spire appearing above the
trees, of Morne in the same direction, a crest of masonry crowning the
wooded steep, and, on the other side, the country stretching away into a
dim blue hazy distance. It was a lovely spot, and she felt with a jealous
pang that the care of others had found it for him. In life or death it was
all the same; he owed her nothing.

The grass was trampled about the grave; there must have been quite a
concourse of people there the day before. It was covered with floral
tokens, wreaths and crosses, with anchors of hope and hearts of love,
pathetic symbols at such a time.

But was he really there under all that? If she dug down deep should she
find him?

The little chorister boy had gone straight to the grave and dropped on his
knees beside it. He looked at the lovely hothouse flowers and then glanced
ruefully at his own humble offering--sweetwilliam chiefly, snapdragon,
stocks, and nasturtium. But he laid it there with the rest, and Angelica's
heart was wrung anew as she thought of the tender pleasure this loving act
of the child would have been to the Tenor. Yet her eyes were dry.

The boy pressed the flowers on the grave as if he would nestle them closer
to his friend, and then all at once as he patted the cold clay his lip
trembled, his chest heaved with sobs, his eyes overflowed with tears, and
his face was puckered with grief.

Having accomplished his errand, he got up from the ground, slapped his
knees to knock the clay off them, and, still sniffing and sobbing, walked
back the way he had come in sturdy dejection.

All that was womanly in Angelica went out to the poor little fellow. She
would like to have comforted him, but what could she say or do? Alas!
alas! a woman who cannot comfort a child, what sort of a woman is she?

Presently she found herself standing beside the river looking up to the
iron bridge that crossed it with one long span. There were trees on one
side of the bridge, and old houses piled up on the other picturesquely.
Israfil had noticed them the last time they rowed down the river. The
evening was closing in. The sky was deepening from gray to indigo. There
was one bright star above the bridge. But why had she come here? She had
not come to see a bridge with one great star above it! nor to watch a
sullen river slipping by--unless, indeed--She bent over the water, peering
into it. She remembered that after the first plunge there had been no
great pain--and even if there had been, what was physical pain compared to
this terrible heartache, this dreadful remorse, an incurable malady of the
mind which would make life a burden to her forevermore, if she had the
patience to live? Patience and Angelica! What an impossible association of
ideas! Her face relaxed at the humour of it, and it was with a smile that
she turned to gather her summer drapery about her, bending sideways to
reach back to the train of her dress, as the insane fashion of tight
skirts, which were then in vogue, necessitated. In the act, however, she
became aware of someone hastening after her, and the next moment a soft
white hand grasped her arm and drew her back.

"Angelica! how can you stand so near the edge in this uncertain light? I
really thought you would lose your balance and fall in."

It was Lady Fulda who spoke, uttering the words in an irritated, almost
angry tone, as mothers do when they relieve their own feelings by scolding
and shaking a child that has escaped with a bruise from some danger to
life and limb. But that was all she ever said on the subject, and
consequently Angelica never knew if she had guessed her intention or only
been startled by her seeming carelessness, as she professed to be. The
sudden impulse passed from Angelica, as is the way with morbid impulses,
the moment she ceased to be alone. The first word was sufficient to take
her out of herself, to recall her to her normal state, and to readjust her
view of life, setting it back to the proper focus. But still she looked
out at the world from a low level, if healthy; a dull, dead level, the
mean temperature of which was chilly, while the atmosphere threatened to
vary only from stagnant apathy to boisterous discontent, positive,
hopeless, and unconcealed.

Moved by common consent, the two ladies turned from the river, and walked
on slowly together and in silence. The feeling uppermost in Angelica's
mind was one of resentment. Her aunt had appeared in the same unexpected
manner at the outset of her acquaintance with the Tenor, and she objected
to her reappearance now, at the conclusion. It was like an incident in a
melodrama, the arrival of the good influence--it was absurd; if she had
done it on purpose, it would have been impertinent.

The entrance to Ilverthorpe was only a few hundred yards from where they
had met, and they had now reached a postern which led into the grounds.
Angelica opened it with a latchkey and then stood to let her aunt pass
through before her.

"I suppose you will come in," she said ungraciously.

But Lady Fulda forgave the discourtesy, and the two walked on together up
to the house--passing, while their road lay through the park, under old
forest trees that swayed continually in a rising gale; and somewhat
buffeted by the wind till they came to a narrow path sheltered by rows of
tall shrubs, on the thick foliage of which the rain, which had fallen at
intervals during the day, had collected, and now splashed in their faces
or fell in wetting drops upon their dresses as the bushes, struck by the
heavy gusts, swayed to and fro.

Angelica, whose nervous system was peculiarly susceptible to discomfort of
the kind, felt more wretched than ever. She thought of the desolate grave
with mud-splashed, bedraggled flowers upon it and of the golden head and
beautiful calm face beneath; thought of him as we are apt to think of our
dead at first, imagining them still sentient, aware of the horror of their
position, crushed into their narrow beds with a terrible weight of earth
upon them, left out alone in the cold, uncomforted and uncared for, while
those they loved and trusted most recline in easy chairs round blazing
fires, talking forgetfully. Something like this flashed through Angelica's
mind, and a cry as of acute pain escaped from her unawares.

Her companion's features contracted for a moment, but otherwise she made
no sign of having heard.

They had not exchanged a word since they had entered the grounds, but now
the gentle Lady Fulda began again--with some trepidation, however, for
Angelica's manner continued to be chilling, not to say repellent, and she
could not tell how her advances would be received.

"I was looking for you," she said.

"For me?" raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. I went to his house this afternoon and heard from the housekeeper
that a young lady had been there, and I felt sure from the description
and--and likelihood--that it must be you. She said you had been wholly
unprepared for the dreadful news, and it had been a great shock to you.
And I thought you would probably go to see his grave. It is always one's
first impulse. And I was going to look for you there when I saw you in the
distance on the towing path."

Angelica preserved her ungracious silence, but her attention was attracted
by the way in which her aunt spoke of the Tenor in regard to herself,
apparently as if she had known of their intimacy. Lady Fulda resumed,
however, before Angelica had asked herself how this could be.

"I am afraid you will think me a very meddling person," she said, speaking
to her young niece with the respect and unassuming diffidence of high
breeding and good feeling; "but perhaps you know--how one fancies that one
can do something--or say something--or that one ought to try to. I believe
it is a comfort to one's self to be allowed to try."

"Yes," Angelica assented, thinking of her desire to help the child, and
thawing with interest at this expression of an experience similar to her
own. "I felt something of that--a while ago."

They had reached the house by this time, and Angelica ushered her aunt in,
then led her to the drawing room where she herself usually sat, the one
that opened onto the terrace. This was the sheltered side of the house
that day, and the windows stood wide, open, making the room as fresh as
the outer air. They sat themselves down at one of them from which they
could see the tops of trees swaying immediately beneath, and further off
the river, then the green upland terminating in a distance of wooded
hills.

"I always think this is prettier than the view from Morne, although not so
fine," Lady Fulda remarked tentatively. She was a little afraid of the way
in which Angelica in her present mood might receive any observation of
hers, however inoffensive. She had been looking out of the window when she
spoke, but the silence which followed caused her to turn and look at
Angelica. The latter had risen for some purpose--she could not remember
what--and now stood staring before her in a dazed way.

"I am afraid you are not well, dear," Lady Fulda said, taking her hand
affectionately.

"Oh, I am well enough," Angelica answered, almost snatching her hand away,
and making a great effort to control another tempest of tears which
threatened to overwhelm her. "But don't--don't expect me to be polite--or
anything--to-day. You don't know--" She took a turn up and down the room,
and then the trouble of her mind betrayed her. "O Aunt Fulda!" she
exclaimed, clasping her hands, and wringing them, "I have done such a
dreadful thing!"

"I know," was the unexpected rejoinder.

Angelica's hands dropped, and she stared at her aunt, her thoughts taking
a new departure under the shock of this surprise. "Did he tell you?" she
demanded.

"No," Lady Fulda stammered. "I saw you with him--several times. At first I
thought it was Diavolo, and I did not wonder, he is so naughty--or rather
he used to be. But when I asked with whom he was staying, everybody was
amazed, and maintained that he had not been in the neighbourhood at all.
So I wrote to him at Sandhurst, and his reply convinced me that I must
have been mistaken. Then I began to suspect. In fact I was sure--"

Lady Fulda spoke nervously, and with her accustomed simplicity, but
Angelica felt the fascination of the singular womanly power which her aunt
exercised, and resented it.

"Is that all!" she said defiantly. "Why didn't you interfere?"

"For one thing, because I did not like to."

"Why?"

"On your account."

"Did you know I was deceiving him?"

"Yes--or you would not have been with him under such circumstances," Lady
Fulda rejoined; "and then--I thought, upon the whole, it was better not to
interfere"--she broke off, recurring once more to Angelica's question. "I
was sure he would find you out sooner or later, and then I knew he would
do what was right; and in the meantime the companionship of such a man
under any circumstances was good for you."

"You seem to know him very well."

"Yes," Lady Fulda answered. "He was at the University with your Uncle
Dawne and George Galbraith. They were great friends, and used to come to
the castle a good deal at that time, but eventually Julian's visits had to
be discontinued."

Lady Fulda coloured painfully as she made this last statement, and
Angelica, always apt to put two and two together, instantly inserted this
last fragment into an imperfect story she possessed of a love affair and
disappointment of her aunt's, and made the tale complete.

She had heard that

...never maiden glow'd,
But that was in her earlier maidenhood,
With such a fervent flame of human love,
Which being rudely blunted glanced and shot
Only to holy things; to prayer and praise
She gave herself, to fast and alms.

They must have been about the same age, Angelica reflected, as she
examined the lineless perfection of Lady Fulda's face, and then there
glanced through her mind a vision of what might have been--what ought to
have been as it seemed to her: "But why should he have been banished from
the castle because you cared for him?" she asked point blank.

Lady Fulda's confusion increased. "That was not the reason," she faltered,
making a brave effort to confide in Angelica in the hope of winning the
latter's confidence in return. "There was a dreadful mistake. Your
grandfather thought he was paying attention to me, and spoke to him about
it, telling him I should not be allowed to marry--beneath me; and Julian
said, not meaning any affront to me,--never dreaming that I cared,--that
he had not intended to ask me, which made my father angry and
unreasonable, and he scolded me because he had made a mistake. Men do
that, dear, you know; they have so little sense of justice and
self-control. And I had little self-control in those days, either. And I
retorted and told my father he had spoilt my life, for I thought it would
have been different if he had not interfered. However, I don't know"; she
sighed regretfully, "But when such absolute uncertainty prevailed it was
impossible to say that Julian was beneath me by birth, and as to position--
But, there"--she broke off, "of course he never came amongst us any
more."

"Otherwise I should have known him all my life," Angelica exclaimed, "and
there would have been none of this misery."

They had returned to their seats, and she sat now frowning for some
seconds, then asked her aunt: "Does Uncle Dawne know--did you tell him
about my escapade?"

"No."

"You are a singularly reticent person."

"I am a singularly sore-hearted one," Lady Fulda answered, "and very full
of remorse, for I think now--I might have done something to prevent--" she
stammered.

"The final catastrophe," Angelica concluded. "Then you are laying his
death at my door?"

"Oh, no; Heaven forbid!" her aunt protested.

A long pause ensued, which was broken by Lady Fulda rising.

"It is time I returned," she said. "Come back with me to Morne. It will be
less miserable for you than staying here alone to-night."

Angelica looked up at her for a second or two with a perfectly blank
countenance, then rose slowly. "How do you propose to return?" she asked.

"I had not thought of that--I left the carriage in Morningquest," Lady
Fulda answered.

"Really, Aunt Fulda," Angelica snapped, then rang the bell impatiently;
"you can't walk back to Morningquest, and be in time for dinner at the
castle also, I should think. The carriage immediately," this was to the
man who had answered the bell.

"You will accompany me?" Lady Fulda meekly pleaded.

"I suppose so," was the ungracious rejoinder--"that is if you will decide
for me, I am tired of action. I just want to drift."

"Come, then," said Lady Fulda kindly.

CHAPTER VI.

"I am tired of action, I just want to drift. I am tired of action, I just
want to drift," this was the new refrain which set itself as an
accompaniment to Angelica's thoughts. She was tired of thinking too, but
thought ran on, an inexhaustible stream; and the more passive she became
to the will of others outwardly, the more active was her mind.

She leant back languidly in the carriage beside her aunt as they drove
together through the city to Morne, and remained silent the whole time,
and motionless, all but her eyes, which roved incessantly from object to
object while she inwardly rendered an account to herself of each, and of
her own state of mind; keeping up disjointed comments, quotations, and
reflections consciously, but without power to check the flow.

There were a few blessed moments of oblivion caused by the bustle of their
departure from the house, then Angelica looked up, and instantly her
intellect awoke. They were driving down the avenue--"The green leaves
rustle overhead," was the first impression that formulated itself into
words. "The carriage wheels roll rhythmically. Every faculty is on the
alert. There is something unaccustomed in the aspect of things--things
familiar--this once familiar scene. A new point of view; the change is in
me. We used to ride down that lane. Blackberries. The day I found a worm
in one. Ugh! Diavolo, Diavolo--no longer in touch--a hundred thousand
miles away--what does it matter? I am tired of action; I just want to
drift. I am tired of action; I just want to drift, just want to
drift--drifting now to Morne--a restful place; but I shall drift from
thence again. Whither? Better be steered--no, though. I am not a wooden
ship to be steered, but a human soul with a sacred individuality to be
preserved, and the grand right of private judgment. What happens when such
ennobling privileges are sacrificed? Demon worship--grandpapa.

"The old duke sat in his velvet cap in a carved oak chair in the oriel
room--nonsense! And Aunt Fulda. As passive as a cow. Is she though? Is
Angelica as passive as a cow for all that she's so still? Poor Daddy!
Drudging at the House just now, not thinking of me. I hope not. Do I hope
not? No, he belongs to me, and--I _do_ care for him. The kind eyes,
the kind caress, the kind thought, 'Angelica, dear'--O Daddy! I'm sorry I
tormented you--sorry, sorry--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--O
Israfil! 'Dead, dead, long dead, and my heart is a handful of dust.' The
horses' hoofs beat out the measure of my misery. The green leaves rustle
overhead. The air is delicious after the rain. The dust is laid. Only this
afternoon, I went to see him; what was I thinking of? Can I bring him back
again? Never again! Never again! Only this afternoon, but time is not
measured by minutes. Time is measured by the consciousness of it. 'He's
dead, miss--haven't you heard? and buried yesterday.' 'Dead, dead, long
dead--'

"The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,
The best conditioned and unwearied spirit
In doing courtesies.

"On through the dim rich city. A pretty girl and poor. Do you envy me, my
dear? Stare at me hard. I am a rich lady, you see, asked everywhere:

"The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.

"The Palace--poor Edith! Here we are at the Castle Hill--and that idiot
Aunt Fulda has forgotten her carriage. Shall I remind her? There is still
time to turn back. No, don't trouble yourself. 'Let them alone and they'll
come home.' I wish I had no memory. It is a perfect nuisance to have to
think in inverted commas all the time. And Shakespeare is the greatest
bore of all. The whole of life could be set to his expressions--that
cannot be quite right; what I mean is the whole of life could be expressed
in his words. Diavolo and I tried once to talk Shakespeare for a whole
day. I made the game. But Diavolo could remember nothing but 'To be or not
to be,' which went no way at all when he tried to live on it, so he said
Shakespeare was rot and I pulled his hair--I wish I could stop
thinking--suspend my thoughts--The pine woods:

"From the top of the upright pine
The snowlumps fall with a thud,
Come from where the sunbeams shine
To lie in the heart of the mud--

"The heart of the mud, the heart of the mud--Oh, for oblivion!
Nirvana--'The Dewdrop slips into the shining sea'--We're slipping into the
courtyard of the castle. How many weary women, women waiting, happy women,
despairing women, thoughtful women, thoughtless women, have those rows of
winking windows eyed as they entered? Women are much more interesting than
men--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--"

"Angelica!" Lady Fulda exclaimed as they drew up at the door, "I've left
the carriage in Morningquest!"

"Yes, I know," said Angelica.

"My dear child, why didn't you remind me?"

Angelica shrugged her shoulders. "Let them alone and they'll come home,"
recurred to her, and then: "I must be more gracious. Aunt
Fulda"--aloud--"who are here?"

"Your Uncle Dawne--"

"And Co., I suppose!" Angelica concluded derisively.

"Your Aunt Claudia and her friend are also here," Lady Fulda corrected her
with dignity.

"Not exactly a successful attempt to be gracious," Angelica's thoughts ran
on. "Ah, well! What does it matter? Live and let live, forget and forgive--
forgetting _is_ forgiving, and everyone forgets"--and then again
_piano_--"The lonely grave, the lonely grave."

At dinner she sat beside her grandfather; her uncle being opposite, silent
and serious as usual. But they were all subdued that night except the old
duke, who, unaware of any cause for their painful preoccupation, and glad
to see Angelica, who roused him as a rule with her wonderful spirits,
chatted inconsequently. But Angelica's unnatural quietude could not escape
the attention of the rest of the party, and inquiring glances were
directed to Lady Fulda, in the calm of whose passionless demeanour,
however, there was no consciousness of anything unusual to be read; and of
course no questions were asked.

In the drawing room, after dinner, Angelica sat on a velvet cushion at her
uncle's feet, and rested her head against his knee. Close beside her there
was a long narrow mirror let into the wall of the room like a panel, and
in this she could see herself and him reflected. At first she turned from
the group impatiently; but presently she looked again, and began to study
her uncle's appearance with conscious deliberation. It was as if she had
never seen him before and was receiving a first impression.

Lord Dawne was one of those men who make one think of another and more
picturesque age. He would have looked natural in black velvet and point
lace. He was about five and thirty at that time, to judge by his
appearance--tall, well-made, and strong with the slim strength of a race
horse, ail superfluous flesh and bone bred out of him. His skin was dark,
clear, and colourless; his hair black, wavy, and abundant; his eyes deep
blue, a contrast inherited from an Irish mother, "A Spanish hidalgo in
appearance," Angelica decided at this point.