The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

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She ended abruptly, and then there was another long pause.

Angelica's mind was alive to everything--to the rustle of summer foliage
far below; to the beauty of the woman before her, to the power of her
presence, to the absolute integrity which was so impressive in all she
said, to her high-bred simplicity, to the grace of her attitude at that
moment as she sat with an elbow on the arm of her chair, covering her eyes
with, one white hand; to the tearless turmoil in her own breast, the sense
of suffering not to be relieved, the hopeless ache. Was there any way of
escape from herself? Her conscience whispered one. But was there only one?
The struggle of the last few days had recommenced; was it to go on like
this forever and ever, over and over again? What a prospect! And, oh! to
be able to end it! somehow! anyhow! Oh, for the courage to choose! but she
must choose, she knew that; Aunt Fulda was right, her hour had come. The
momentous question had been asked, and it must be answered once for all.
If she should refuse to take the hand held out to help her now, where
would she drift to eventually? Should she end by consorting with people
like--and she thought of an odious woman; or come to be talked of at
clubs, named lightly by low men--and she thought of some specimens of that
class. But why should she arrive at any decision? Why should she feel
compelled to adopt a settled plan of action? Why could she not go on as
she had done hitherto? Was there really no standing still? Were people
really rising or sinking always, doing good or evil? Why, no, for what
harm had she done? Quick, answering to the question with a pang, the rush
of recollection caught her, and again the vow, made, and forgotten for the
moment, as soon as made, burned in her heart: "Israfil! Israfil! only
forgive me, and I will be true."

She did not wait to think again. The mere repetition was a renewal of her
vow, and in the act she had unconsciously decided.

Slipping from her chair to the ground, she laid her head on Lady Fulda's
lap.

"I wish I could be sure of myself," she said, sighing deeply. "You must
help me, Aunt Fulda."

"Now the dear Lord help you," was the soft reply.

And almost at the same moment, the city clocks began to strike, and they
both raised their heads involuntarily, waiting for the chime.

It rang at last with a new significance for Angelica. The hour was over
which had been her hour; a chapter of her life had closed with it forever;
and when she looked up then, she found herself in another world, wherein
she would walk henceforth with other eyes to better purpose.

CHAPTER VIII.

Angelica drove back to Ilverthorpe alone directly after dinner, and went
straight to bed. She slept from ten o'clock that night, till the next
morning, and awoke to the consciousness that the light of day was garish,
that she herself was an insignificant trifle on the face of the earth, and
that everything was unsatisfactory.

"Now, had I been the heroine of a story," she said to herself, "it would
have been left to the reader's imagination to suppose that I remained
forever in the state of blissful exaltation up to which Aunt Fulda wound
me by her eloquence yesterday. Here I am already, however--with my
intentions still set fair, I believe--but in spirit, oh, so flat! a siphon
of soda-water from which the gas has escaped. Well, I suppose it must be
recharged, that is all. Oh, dear! I _am_ so tired. Just five minutes
more, Angelica dear, take five minutes more!" She closed her eyes. "I'm
glad I'm the mistress and not the maid--am I though? Poor Elizabeth! It
spoils my comfort just to think of her always obliged to be up and
dressed--with a racking headache, perhaps, hardly able to rise, but forced
to drag herself up somehow nevertheless to wait upon worthless selfish me.
Live for others"--Here, however, thought halted, grew confused, ceased
altogether for an imperceptible interval, and was then succeeded by vivid
dreams. She fancied that she had wavered in her new resolutions, and gone
back to her old idea. If the conditions of life were different, _she_
would be different, in spirit and in truth, instead of only in outward
seeming as now appeared to be the case. She was doing no good in the world;
her days were steeped in idleness; her life was being wasted. Surely it
would be a creditable thing for her to take her violin, and make it what
it was intended to be, a delight to thousands. Such genius as hers was
never meant for the benefit of a little circle only, but for the world at
large, and all she wanted was to fulfil the end and object of her being by
going to work. She said so to Mr. Kilroy, and he made no objection, which,
surprised her, for always hitherto he had expressed himself strongly on
the subject even to the extent of losing his temper on one occasion. Now,
however, he heard her in silence, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and
when she had said her say he uttered not a word, but just rose from his
seat with a deep sigh--almost a groan--and a look of weariness and
perplexity in his eyes that smote her to the heart, and slowly left the
room.

"I make his life a burden to him," she said to herself. "I can do nothing
right. I wish I was dead. I do." And then she followed him to the library.

He was sitting at his writing table with his arms folded upon it, and his
face bowed down and hidden on them, and he did not move when she entered.

The deep dejection of his attitude frightened her. She hastened to him,
knelt down beside him, and putting her arms round his neck drew him toward
her; and then he looked at her, trying to smile, but a more miserable face
she had never beheld.

"O Daddy, Daddy," she cried remorsefully, "I didn't mean to vex you. I'll
never play in public as long as I live--there! I promise you."

"I don't wish you to make rash promises," he answered hoarsely. "But if
you could care for me a little--"

"Daddy--_dear_--I do care for you. I do, indeed," she protested. "I
like to know you are here. I like to be able to come to you when--whenever
I like. I cannot do without you. If anything happened to you--"

The shock of such a dreadful possibility awoke her. She was less refreshed
than she had been when she first opened her eyes that morning, but she
sprang out of bed in an instant. The blinds were up and the windows open
as usual; the sun had spun round to the south, and now streamed hotly in,
making her feel belated.

"Elizabeth!" she called, then went to the bell and rang it, standing a
moment when she had done so, and looking down as if to consider the
blurred reflection of her bare white feet on the polished floor; but only
for an instant, for the paramount feeling that possessed her was one of
extreme haste. The painful impression of that dream was still vividly
present with her, and she wanted to do _something,/i> but what precisely
she did not wait to ask herself. As soon as she was dressed, one duty
after another presented itself as usual, and, equally as usual with her in
her own house, was carefully performed, so that she was fully occupied
until lunch time, but after lunch she ordered the carriage, and drove into
Morningquest to do some shopping for the household. This task
accomplished, she intended to return, but as she passed the station the
recollection of the dream, of her husband's bowed head, of the utter
misery in his face when he looked up at her, of the pain in his voice when
he spoke, and the effort he made in his kindly way to control it, so that
he might not hurt her with an implied reproach when he said, "If you could
care for me a little--" Dear Daddy! always so tender for her! always so
kindly forbearing! What o'clock was it? The London express would go out in
five minutes. It was the train he had gone by himself last time. How could
she let him go alone? Stop at the station, write a line to
Elizabeth--"Please pack up my things, and follow me to town immediately."
Get me a ticket, quick! Here is the train. In. Off. Thank Heaven!

Angelica threw herself back in the centre seat of the compartment, and
closed her eyes. The hurry and excitement of action suited her; her lips
were smiling, and her cheeks were flushed. There was a young man seated
opposite to her who stared so persistently that at last she became aware
of his admiring gaze and immediately despised him, although why she should
despise him for admiring her she could not have told. When he had left the
carriage, a charming-looking old Quaker lady, who was then the only other
passenger, addressed Angelica in the quaint grammar of her sect. "Art thee
travelling alone, dear child?"

"Yes," Angelica answered, with the affable smile and intonation for which
the Heavenly Twins were noted.

"Doubtless there are plenty of friends to meet thee at thy journey's end,"
the lady suggested, responding sympathetically to Angelica's pleasantness.

"Plenty," said Angelica--"not to mention my husband," When she had said it
she felt proud for the first time since her marriage because she had a
husband.

"Ah!" the lady ejaculated, somewhat sadly. "Well," she added, betraying
her thought, "in these sad days the sooner a young girl has the strong arm
of a good man to protect her the better." Then she folded her hands and
turned her placid face to the window.

Angelica looked at her for a little, wondering at the delicate pink and
white of her withered cheek, and becoming aware of a tune at the same time
set to the words _A good man! A good man!_ by the thundering
throbbing crank as they sped along. Daddy was a good man--_suppose she
lost him?_ Nobody belonged to her as he did--_suppose she lost
him?_ There was nobody else in the world to whom she could go by right
as she was going to him, nobody else in whom she had such perfect
confidence, nobody on whose devotion to herself she could rely as she did
on his; she was all the world to him. _A good man! A good man!
Suppose--suppose she lost him?_

The sudden dread gripped her heart painfully. It was not death she feared,
but that worse loss, a change in his affection. He was a simple, upright,
honourable man--what would he say if he knew? But need he ever know? The
question was answered as soon as asked, for Angelica felt in her heart
that she could bear to lose him and live alone better than be beside him
with that invisible barrier of a deception always between them to keep
them apart. It was a need of her nature to be known for what she was
exactly to those with whom she lived.

The train drew up at the terminus, and the moment she moved she was again
conscious of that terrible feeling of haste which had beset her more or
less the whole day long.

"No one to meet thee?" the Quaker lady said.

"No, I am not expected," Angelica answered, with her hand on the handle of
the door. "I am a bad wife in a state of repentance, going to give a good
husband an unpleasant surprise." She sprang from the carriage, hastened
across the platform, and got into a hansom, telling the man to drive
"quick! quick!"

On arriving at the house she entered unannounced, after some little
opposition from a new manservant who did not know her by sight, and was
evidently inclined to believe her to be an impostor bent on pillage. This
check on the threshold caused her to feel deeply humiliated.

Her husband happened to be crossing the hall at the time, but he went on
without noticing the arrival at the door, and she followed him to his
study. Unconscious of her presence, he passed into the room before her
with a heavy step, and as she noted this it seemed to her that she saw him
now for the first time as he really was--of good figure and quiet
undemonstrative manners; faultlessly dressed; distinguished in appearance,
upon the whole, if not actually handsome; a man of position and means,
accustomed to social consideration as was evident by his bearing; and not
old as she was wont to think him--what difference did twenty years make at
_their_ respective ages? No, not old, but--unhappy, and lonely, for
if she did not care to be with him who would? Her heart smote her, and she
stepped forward impetuously, anxious above everything to make amends.

"Daddy!" she gasped, grasping his arm.

Startled, Mr. Kilroy turned round, and looked down into her face
incredulously.

"Is it you--Angelica?" he faltered. "Is anything the matter, dear?" Then
suddenly his whole being changed. A glad light came into his eyes, making
him look years younger, and he was about to take her in his arms, but she
coldly repulsed him, acting on one of two impulses, the other being to
respond, to cling close to him, to say something loving.

"There is nothing the matter," she began. "I thought I should like to come
back to you--at least"--recollecting herself--"that isn't true. But I do
wish I had never separated myself from you in any way. I do wish I had
been different." And she threw herself into a low, easy, leather-lined
armchair, and leant back, looking up to him with appealing eyes.

Mr, Kilroy's pride and affection made him nicely observant of any change
in Angelica, but still he was at a loss to understand this new freak, and
her manner alarmed him.

"I am afraid you are not well," he said anxiously.

She sat up restlessly, then threw herself back in the chair once more, and
lay there with her chin on her chest, in an utterly dejected attitude, not
looking up even when she spoke. "Oh, I am well, thank you," she said,
"quite well."

"Then something has annoyed you," he went on kindly. "Tell me what it is,
dear child. I am the proper person to come to when things go wrong, you
know. So tell me all about it. I--I--" he hesitated. She so often snubbed
any demonstration of affection that he shrank from expressing what he
felt, but another look at her convinced him that there was little chance
of a rebuff to-day. He remained at a safe distance, however, taking a
chair that stood beside an oval table near to which he happened to be
standing.

Newspapers and magazines were piled up on the table, and these he pushed
aside, making room for his right forearm to rest on the cool mahogany, on
the polished surface of which he kept up a continual nervous telick-telick
with the ends of his finger nails as he spoke. "If you do not come to me
for everything you want, to whom will you go?" he inquired, lamely if
pleasantly, being perturbed by the effort he was making to conceal his
uneasiness and assume a cheerful demeanour both at once. "And there is
nothing I would not do for you, as you know, I am sure." He tapped a few
times on the table. "In fact, I should be only too glad if you would give
me the opportunity"--tap, tap, tap--"a little oftener, you know"--tap,
tap, tap. "What I want to say is, I should like you to consult me and, eh,
to ask me, and all that sort of thing, if you want anything"--advice he
had been going to add, but modestly changed the word--"money, for
instance." And now his countenance cleared. He thought he had accidentally
discovered the difficulty. "I expect you have been running into debt, eh?"
He spoke quite playfully, so greatly was he relieved to think it was only
that; "and you have been thinking of me as a sort of stern parent, eh? who
would storm and all that sort of thing. But, my dear child, you mustn't do
that. You should never forget 'with all my worldly goods I thee endow.' I
assure you, ever since I uttered those words, I have felt that I held the
property, in trust for you and--" he had been going to add our children,
but sighed instead. "I have, I know, remonstrated with you when I thought
you unduly extravagant. I could not conscientiously countenance undue
extravagance in so young a wife; but still I hope you have never had to
complain of any want of liberality on my part in--in anything. In fact,
what is the good of money to me if you do not care to spend it? Come, now,
how much is it this time? Just tell me and have done with it, and then we
will go somewhere, or make plans, and 'have a good time,' as the Americans
call it. I have a better box than usual for you at the opera this year--I
think I told you. And I never lend it to anybody. I like to keep it empty
for you in case you care to go at any time. And I have season tickets,
see"--he got up and rummaged in a drawer until he found them--"for
everything, I almost think. I go sometimes myself just to see what is
going on, you know, and if it is the sort of thing you would like, so as
to know what to take you to when you come. And I accept all the nice
invitations for you, conditionally, of course. I say if you are in town at
the time, and I hope you may be (which is true enough always), you will be
happy to go, or words to that effect. So you see there is plenty for you
to do at any time in the way of amusement. I am always making
arrangements, it is like getting ready to welcome you. When I am answering
invitations or doing the theatres I feel quite as if I expected you. It is
childish, perhaps, but it makes something to look forward to, and when I
am busy preparing for you, somehow the days do not seem so blank."

Angelica felt something rise in her throat, but she neither spoke nor
moved.

"Or we might go to Paris," he proceeded tentatively. "Shall we? I could
pair with someone till the end of the session. We might go anywhere, in
fact, and I should enjoy a holiday if--if you would accompany me." He
looked at her with a smile, but the intermittent telick, telick, telick of
his nervous drumming on the table told that he was far from feeling all
the confidence he assumed. For in truth Angelica's attitude alarmed him
more and more. On other occasions, when he had tried to be more than
usually kind and indulgent, she had always called him a nice old thing or
made some such affable if somewhat patronizing acknowledgment, even when
she was out of temper; but now, finding that he was waiting for an answer,
she just looked up at him once, then fixed her eyes on the ground again,
and spoke at last in a voice so hopeless and toneless that he would not
have recognized it.

"I think I have only just this moment learnt to appreciate you," she said.
"I used to accept all your kind attentions as merely my due, but I know
now how little I deserve them, and I wish I could be different. I wish I
could repay you. I wish I could undo the past and begin all over
again--begin by loving you as a wife should. You are ten thousand times
too good for me. Yet I _have_ cared for you in a way," she protested;
"not a kind way, perhaps, but still I have relied upon you--upon your
friendship. I have felt a sense of security in the certainty of your
affection for me--and presumed upon it. O Daddy! why have you let me do as
I like?"

Mr. Kilroy's face became rigid, and the fingers with which he had kept up
that intermittent tapping on the table turned cold.

"What do you mean, Angelica?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you in earnest? Have
you done--anything--or are you only tormenting me? If you are--it is hard,
you know. I do care for you; I always have done; and I have never ceased
to look forward to a time when you would love me too. God help me if you
have come to tell me that that time will never come."

Again that lump rose in Angelica's throat. A horrible form of emotion had
seized upon her: "I had better tell you and get it over," she said,
speaking in hurried gasps, and sitting up, but not looking at him. "You
will care less when you know exactly. You will see then that I am not
worth a thought. I am suffering horribly. I want to _shriek_." She
tore her jacket open, and threw her hat on the floor. "What a relief. I
was suffocating. I don't know where to begin." She looked up at him, then
stopped short, frightened by the drawn and haggard look in his face, and
tranquillised too, forgetting herself in the effort to think of something
to say to relieve him. "But you do know all about it," she added, speaking
more naturally than she had done yet. "I told you--"

"Told me _what_?"

"About--about--you thought I was inventing it--that story--about the Tenor
and the Boy."

Mr. Kilroy curved his fingers together and held them up over the table for
a moment as if he were about to tap upon it again, and it was as if he had
asked a question.

"It was all true," Angelica proceeded, "all that I told you. But there was
more."

Mr. Kilroy uttered a low exclamation, and hung his head as if in shame.
The colour had fled from his face, leaving it ghastly gray for a moment
like that of a dead man. Angelica half rose to go to him, fearing he would
faint, but he had recovered before she could carry out her intention. She
looked at him compassionately. She would have given her life to be able to
spare him now, but it was too late, and there was nothing for it but to go
on and get it over.

"You remember the picture I had painted--'Music'?" Mr. Kilroy made a
gesture of assent. "That was his portrait."

"I always understood it was an ideal singer,"

"An _idealized_ singer was what I said; but it was not even that, as
you would have seen for yourself if you had ever gone to the cathedral. It
is a good likeness, nothing more,"

"And you had yourself put into a picture with a common tenor, and
exhibited to all the world'"

"Yes, and all the world thought it a great condescension. But he did not
consent to it, or sit for it. He objected to the picture as strongly as
you do. He was not a _common_ tenor at all. He was an old and
intimate friend of Uncle Dawne's and Dr. Galbraith's. They all--all our
people--knew him. He was often at Morne before you came to Ilverthorpe;
but I did not know it myself until afterward."

"Afterward?" he questioned.

"I had better go on from where I left off," she replied, her confidence
returning. "I told you about the accident on the river, and his finding
out who I was, and his contempt for me; and I told you I desired most
sincerely to win his respect, and you advised me to go to him and
endeavour to do so. Well, I went." She paused, and Mr. Kilroy looked hard
at her; his face was flushed now. "And he was dead," she gasped.

Mr. Kilroy seemed bewildered. "I don't understand," he exclaimed.

"I told you there was more, and that was it--that was all. He was dead,"
she repeated.

Mr. Kilroy drew a deep breath, and leant back in his chair. "I am ashamed
to say I feel relieved," he began, as if speaking to himself; "yet I
scarcely know what I expected." He looked down thoughtfully at his own
hand as it lay upon the table. He wanted to say something more, but his
mind moved slowly, and no words came at first. He was obliged to make a
great effort to collect himself, and in the interval he resumed that
irregular tapping upon the table. It maddened Angelica, who found herself
forced to watch and wait for the recurrence of the sound.

"Let me tell you, though--let me finish the story," she exclaimed, at last
unable to bear it any longer; and then she gave him every detail of her
doings since last they parted.

Mr. Kilroy let his hand drop on the table, and listened without looking at
her. "And that is all?" he said, when she had finished. "I mean--have you
really told me all, Angelica?"

She met his eyes fearlessly, and there was something in her face,
something innocent, an unsuspicious look of inquiry such as a child
assumes when it waits to be questioned which would have made him ashamed
of a degrading doubt had he entertained one.

"You were not--you did not care for him?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed with most perfect and reassuring candour, "I
cared for him. Of course I cared for him. Haven't I told you? No one could
know such a man and not care for him."

"Thank God!" he said softly, with tremulous lips. "It would have broken my
heart if he had not been such a man."

The words brought down upon him one of Angelica's tornado-tempests of
unreasonable wrath. "Are you insinuating that my good conduct depended
upon his good character?" she demanded. "Are you no better than those
hateful French people who have no conception of anything unusual in a
woman that does not end in gross impropriety of conduct; and fill their
books with nothing else?"

Mr. Kilroy's face flushed. "Such an unworthy suspicion would never have
occurred to me in connection with yourself," he said. "At the risk of
appearing ungenerous, I must call your attention to the fact that it is
you yourself who have been the first to allude to the bare possibility of
such a thing. For my own part, if you chose to travel round the world
alone with a man, at night or at any other time that suited your
convenience, I should be content to know that you were doing so,
especially if it amused you, such is my perfect confidence in your
integrity, and in the discretion with which you choose your friends."

"I beg your pardon, forgive me!" Angelica humbly ejaculated. "You shame me
by a delicacy which I can only respect and admire in you. I cannot imitate
it; it is beyond me."

"I owe _you_ an apology," he answered. "I should have spoken plainly.
It was your feelings--your heart, not your conduct, that I suspected. You
have never pretended to love me-to be in love with me, and your Tenor was
a younger man, and more attractive."