The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories Page 9

  _THE TWO CARNEGIES._

  I.

  "Harold," said Ernest Carnegie to his twin-brother at breakfast onemorning, "have you got a tooth aching slightly to-day?"

  "Yes, by Jove, I have!" Harold answered, laying down the _Times_, andlooking across the table with interest to his brother; "which one wasyours?"

  "The third from the canine on the upper left side," Ernest repliedquickly. "And yours?"

  "Let me see. This is the canine, isn't it? One, two, three; yes. Thesame, of course. It's really a very singular coincidence. How about thetime? Was that as usual?"

  "I'll tell you in a minute. Mine came on the day of the Guthries' hop. Iwas down at Brighton that morning. What date? Let me think; why, the9th, I'm certain. To-day's what, mother?"

  "The 23rd," said Harold, glancing for confirmation at the paper. "Thelaw works itself out once more as regularly as if by machinery. I'm justa fortnight later than you, Ernest, as always."

  Ernest drummed upon the table with his finger for a minute. "I'm afraidyou'll have it rather badly to-day, Harold," he said, after a pause."Mine got unbearable towards midday, and if I hadn't had it looked toin the afternoon, I couldn't have danced a single dance to save my lifethat evening. I advise you to go round to the dentist's immediately, andtry to get it stopped before it goes any further."

  Harold finished his cup of coffee, and looked out of the window blanklyat the fog outside. "It's an awful thought," he said at last, "thisliving, as we two do, by clockwork! Everybody else lives exactly thesame way, but they don't have their attention called to it, as we do.Just to think that from the day you and I were born, Ernest, it waswritten in the very fabric of our constitutions that when we weretwenty-three years and five months old, the third molar in our upperleft jaws should begin to fail us! It's really appalling in itsunanswerable physical fatalism, when ones comes to think upon it."

  "So I said to myself at the Guthries', the morning it began to give me atwinge," said Ernest, in the self-same tone. "It seemed to me such aterrible idea that in a fortnight's time, as certain as the sun, thevery same tooth in your head would begin to go, as the one that wasgoing in mine. It's too appalling, really."

  "But do you actually mean to say," asked pretty little Nellie Holt, thevisitor, newly come the day before from Cheshire, "that whenever one ofyou gets a toothache, the other one gets a toothache in the same tooth afortnight later?"

  "Not a toothache only," Ernest answered--he was studying for his degreeas a physician, and took this department upon himself as by right--"butevery other disease or ailment whatsoever. We're like two clocks woundup to strike at fixed moments; only, we're not wound up to strikeexactly together. I'm fourteen days in advance of Harold, so to speak,and whatever happens to me to-day will happen to him, in allprobability, exactly a fortnight later."

  "How very extraordinary!" said Nellie, looking quickly, from onehandsome clear-cut face to its exact counterpart in the other. "And yetnot so extraordinary, after all,--when one comes to think how very muchalike you both are."

  "Ah, that's not all," said Ernest, slowly; "it's something that goes agood deal deeper than that, Miss Holt. Consider that every one of us isborn with a certain fixed and recognizable constitution, which weinherit from our fathers and mothers. In us, from our birth upward, arethe seeds of certain diseases, the possibilities of certain actions andachievements. One man is born with hereditary consumption; another manwith hereditary scrofula; a third with hereditary genius or hereditarydrunkenness, each equally innate in the very threads and strands of hissystem. And it's all bound to come out, sooner or later, in its own dueand appointed time. Here's a fellow whose father had gout at forty: he'sborn with such a constitution that, as the hands on his life-dial reachforty, out comes the gout in his feet, wherever he may be, as certain asfate. It's horrible to think of, but it's the truth, and there's no goodin disguising it."

  Nellie Holt shuddered slightly. "What a dreadful materialistic creed,Mr. Carnegie," she said, looking at him with a half-frightened air."It's almost as bad as Mohammedan fatalism."

  "No, not so bad as that," Ernest Carnegie answered; "not nearly so badas that. The Oriental belief holds that powers above you compel yourlife against your will: we modern scientific thinkers only hold thatyour own inborn constitution determines your whole life for you, willincluded. But whether we like it or dislike it, Miss Holt, there are thefacts, and nobody can deny them. If you'd lived with a twin-sister, asHarold and I have lived together for twenty-three years, you'd see thatthe clocks go as they are set, with fixed and predestined regularity.Twins, you know, are almost exactly alike in all things, and in theabsolute coincidence of their constitutions you can see the inexorablemarch of disease, and the inexorable unfolding of the predeterminedlife-history far better than in any other conceivable case. I'm ascientific man myself, you see, and I have such an opportunity ofwatching it all as no other man ever yet had before me."

  "My dear," said Mrs. Carnegie, the mother, from the head of the table,"you've no idea how curiously their two lives have always resembled oneother. When they were babies, they were so much alike that we had to tiered and blue ribbons round their necks to distinguish them. Ernest wasred and Harold blue--no, Ernest was blue and Harold red: at least, I'mnot quite certain which way it was, but I know we have a note of it inthe family Bible, for Mr. Carnegie made it at the time for fear weshould get confused between them when we were bathing them. So we putthe ribbons on the moment they were christened, and never took them bothoff together for a second, even to bathe them, so as to preventaccidents. Well, do you know, dear, from the time they were babies, theywere always alike in everything; but Ernest was always a fortnightbefore Harold. He said "Mamma" one day, and just a fortnight laterHarold said the very same word. Then Ernest said "sugar," and so didHarold in another fortnight. Ernest began to toddle a fortnight theearliest. They took the whooping cough and the measles in the sameorder; and they cut all their teeth so, too, the same teeth first oneach side, and just at a fortnight's distance from one another. It'sreally quite an extraordinary coincidence."

  "The real difficulty would be," said Harold, "to find anything in whichwe didn't exactly resemble one another. Well, now I must be off to thishorrid office with the Pater. Are you ready, Pater? I'll call in atEstwood's in the course of the morning, Ernest, and tell him to lookafter my teeth. I don't want to miss the Balfours' party this evening.Curious that we should be going to a party this evening too. _That_isn't fated in our constitutions, anyhow, is it, Ernest? Good morning,Miss Holt; the first waltz, remember. Come along, Pater." And he wentout, followed immediately by his father.

  "I must be going too," said Ernest, looking at his watch; "I have anappointment with Dowson at Guy's at half-past ten--a very interestingcase: hereditary cataract; three brothers, all of them get it, each ashe reaches twelve years old, and Dowson has performed the operation ontwo, and is going to perform it on the other this very day. Goodmorning, Miss Holt; the second waltz for me; you won't forget, willyou?"

  "How awfully alike they really are, Mrs. Carnegie," said Nellie, as theywere left alone. "I'm sure I shall never be able to tell them apart. Idon't even know their names yet. The one that has just gone out, the onethat's going to be a doctor--that's Mr. Harold, isn't it?"

  "Oh no, dear," Mrs. Carnegie answered, putting her arm round Nellie'swaist affectionately, "that's Ernest. Harold's the lawyer. You'll soonlearn the difference between them. You can tell Ernest easily, becausehe usually wears a horrid thing for a scarf-pin, an ivory skull andcross-bones: he wears it, he says, just to distinguish himprofessionally from Harold. Indeed, that was partly why Mr. Carnegie wasso anxious that Harold should go into his own office; so as to make adistinction of profession between them. If Harold had followed his ownbent, he would have been a doctor too; they're both full of what theycall physiological ideas--dreadful things, I think them. But Mr.Carnegie thought as they were so very much alike already we ought to dosomething to give them some individuality, as he says: for
if they wereboth to be doctors or both solicitors, you know, there'd really be noknowing them apart, even for ourselves; and I assure you, my dear, asit is now even they're exactly like one person."

  "Are they as alike in character, then, as they are in face?" askedNellie.

  "Alike in character! My dear, they're absolutely identical. Whatever theone thinks, or says, or does, the other thinks, says, and does at thesame time, independently. Why, once Ernest went over to Paris for aweek's holiday, while Harold went on some law business of his father'sto Brussels. Would you believe it, when they came back they'd each got apresent for the other. Ernest had seen a particular Indian silvercigar-case in a shop on the Boulevards, and he brought it home as asurprise for Harold. Well, Harold had bought an exactly similar one inthe Montagne de la Cour, and brought it home as a surprise for Ernest.And what was odder still, each of them had had the other's initialsengraved upon the back in some sort of heathenish Oriental characters."

  "How very queer," said Nellie. "And yet they seem very fond of oneanother. As a rule, one's always told that people who are exactly alikein character somehow don't get on together."

  "My dear child, they're absolutely inseparable. Their devotion to oneanother's quite unlimited. You see they've been brought up together,played together, sympathized with one another in all their troubles andailments, and are sure of a response from each other about everything.It was the greatest trouble of their lives when Mr. Carnegie decidedthat Harold must become a solicitor for the sake of the practice. Theycouldn't bear at first to be separated all day; and when they got homein the evening, Ernest from the hospital and Harold from the office,they met almost like a pair of lovers. They've talked together abouttheir work so much that Harold knows almost as much medicine now asErnest, while Ernest's quite at home, his father declares, in 'Benjaminon Sales,' and 'Chitty on Contract.' It's quite delightful to see howfond they are of one another."

  At five o'clock Ernest Carnegie returned from his hospital. He broughttwo little bunches of flowers with him--some lilies of the valley and acarnation--and he handed them with a smile, one to his sister and one topretty little Nellie. "I thought you'd like them for this evening, MissHolt," he said. "I chose a carnation on purpose, because I fancied itwould suit your hair."

  "Oh, Ernest," said his sister, "you ought to have got a red camelia.That's the proper thing for a brunette like Nellie."

  "Nonsense, Edie," Ernest answered, "I hate camelias. Ugliest flowersout: so stiff and artificial. One might as well wear a starchy gauzething from the milliner's."

  "I'm so glad you brought Nellie Holt a flower. She's a sweet girl,Ernest, isn't she?" said Mrs. Carnegie a minute or two later, as Edieand Nelly ran upstairs. "I wish either of you two boys could take afancy to a nice girl like her, now."

  "My dear mother," Ernest answered, turning up his eyes appealingly. "Alittle empty-headed, pink-and-white thing like that! I don't know whatHarold thinks, but she'd never do for me, at any rate. Very pretty tolook at, very timid to talk to, very nice and shrinking, and all thatkind of thing, I grant you; but nothing in her. Whenever I marry, Ishall marry a real live woman, not a dainty piece of delicate emptydrapery."

  At six o'clock, Mr. Carnegie and Harold came in from the office. Haroldcarried in his hand two little button-hole bouquets, of a few whitelilies and a carnation. "Miss Holt," he said, as he entered thedrawing-room, "I've brought you and Edie a flower to wear at theBalfours' this evening. This is for you, Edie, with the pale pink; thedark will suit Miss Holt's hair best."

  Edie looked at Ernest, and smiled significantly. "Why didn't you get uscamelias, Harold?" she asked, with a faint touch of mischief in hertone.

  "Camelias! My dear girl, what a question! I gave Miss Holt credit forbetter taste than liking camelias. Beastly things, as stiff andconventional as dahlias or sunflowers. You might just as well have a waxrose from an artificial flower-maker while you are about it."

  Edie laughed and looked at Nellie. "See here," she said, taking upErnest's bunches from the little specimen vases where she had put themto keep them fresh in water, "somebody else has thought of the flowersalready."

  Harold laughed, too, a little uneasily. "Aha," he said, "I see Ernesthas been beforehand with me as usual. I'm always a day too late. Itseems to me I'm the Esau of this duet, and Ernest's the Jacob. Well,Miss Holt, you must take the will for the deed; and after all, one willdo for your dress and the other for your hair, won't they?"

  "Harold," said his father, as they went upstairs together to dress fordinner, "Nellie Holt's a very nice girl, and I've reason to believe--youknow I don't judge these matters without documentary evidence--I havereason to believe that she'll come into the greater part of old StanleyHolt's money. She's his favourite niece, and she benefits largely, as Ihappen to know, under his will. _Verbum sap._, my dear boy; she's apretty girl, and has sweet manners. In my opinion, she'd make----"

  "My dear Pater," Harold exclaimed, interrupting him, "for Heaven's sakedon't say so. Pretty enough, I grant you; and no doubt old StanleyHolt's money would be a very nice thing in its way; but just seriouslyconsider now, if you were a young man yourself, what on earth could yousee in Nellie Holt to attract your love or admiration? Why, she shrinksand blushes every time she speaks to you. No, no, whenever I marry Ishould like to marry a girl of some presence and some character."

  "Well, well," said his father, pausing a second at his bedroom door,"perhaps if she don't suit you, Harold, she'll suit Ernest."

  "I should have thought, Pater, you knew us two better than that by thistime."

  "But, my dear Harold, you can't both marry the same woman!"

  "No, we can't, Pater, but it's my opinion we shall both fall unanimouslyin love with her, at any rate, whenever we happen to see her."

  II.

  The Balfours were very rich people--city people; "something in thestockbroking or bankruptcy line, I believe," Ernest Carnegie told NellyHolt succinctly as they drove round in the brougham with his sister; andtheir dance was of the finest modern moneyed fashion. "Positively reekswith Peruvian bonds and Deferred Egyptians, doesn't it?" said Harold, asthey went up the big open staircase and through the choice exoticflowers on the landing. "Old Balfour has so much money, they say, thatif he tries his hardest he can't spend his day's income in thetwenty-four hours. He had a good hard try at it once. Prince of Wales orsomebody came to a concert for some sort of public purpose--hospital, orsomething--and old B. got the whole thing up on the tallest possiblescale of expenditure. Spent a week in preparation. Had in dozens ofpowdered footmen; ordered palms and orange-trees in boxes from Nice;hung electric lights all over the drawing-room; offered Pattalini andGoldoni three times as much for their services as the total receipts forthe charity were worth; and at the end of it all he called in a crackaccountant to reckon up the cost of the entertainment. Well, he found,with all his efforts, he'd positively lived fifty pounds within hisweek's income. Extraordinary, isn't it?"

  "Very extraordinary indeed," said Nellie, "if it's quite true, youknow."

  "You owe me the first waltz," Harold said, without noticing thereservation. "Don't forget it, please, Miss Holt."

  "I say, Balfour," Ernest Carnegie observed to the son of the house,shortly after they had entered the ballroom, "who's that beautiful talldark girl over there? No, not the pink one, that other girl behind herin the deep red satin."

  "She? oh, she's nothing in particular," Harry Balfour answeredcarelessly (the girl in pink was worth eighty thousand, and her figurecast into the shade all her neighbours in Harry Balfour's arithmeticaleyes). "Her name's Walters, Isabel Walters, daughter of a lawyerfellow--no offence meant to your profession, Carnegie. Let me see: you_are_ the lawyer, aren't you? No knowing you two fellows apart, youknow, especially when you've got white ties on."

  "No, I'm not the lawyer fellow," Ernest answered quietly; "I'm thedoctor fellow. But it doesn't at all matter; we're used to it. Would youmind introducing me to Miss Walters?"

  "Certainly not. Come along.
I believe she's a very nice girl in her way,you know, and dances capitally; but not exactly in our set, you see; notexactly in our set."

  "I should have guessed as much to look at her," Ernest answered, with afaint undertone of sarcasm in his voice that was quite thrown away uponHarry Balfour. And he walked across the room after his host to askIsabel Walters for the first waltz.

  "Tall," he thought to himself as he looked at her: "dark, fine face,beautiful figure, large eyes; makes her own dresses; strange sort ofperson to meet at the Balfours' dances."

  Isabel Walters danced admirably. Isabel Walters talked cleverly. IsabelWalters had a character and an individuality of her own. In five minutesshe had told Ernest Carnegie that she was the Poor Relation, and in thatquality she was asked once yearly to one of the Balfours' LessDistinguished dances. "This is a Less Distinguished," she said quickly;"but I suppose you go to the More Distinguished too?"

  "On the contrary," Ernest answered, laughing; "though I didn't know thenature of the difference before, I've no doubt that I have to thank thefact of my being Less Distinguished myself for the pleasure of meetingyou here this evening."

  Isabel smiled quietly. "It's a family distinction only," she said. "Ofcourse the Balfours wouldn't like the people they ask to know it. But wealways notice the difference ourselves. My mother, you know, was thefirst Mrs. Balfour's half-sister. But in those days, I need hardly tellyou, Mr. Balfour hadn't begun to do great things in Grand TrunkPreferences. Do you know anything about Grand Trunk Preferences?"

  "Absolutely nothing," Ernest replied. "But, to come down to a morepractical question: Are you engaged for the next Lancers?"

  "A square dance. Oh, why a square dance? I hate square dances."

  "I like them," said Ernest. "You can talk better."

  "And yet you waltz capitally. As a rule, I notice the men who likesquare dances are the sticks who can't waltz without upsetting one. No,I'm not engaged for the next Lancers. Yes, with pleasure."

  Ernest went off to claim little Nellie Holt from his brother.

  "By Jove, Ernest," Harold said, as he met him again a little later inthe evening, "that's a lovely girl you were dancing with just now. Whois she?"

  "A Miss Walters," Ernest answered drily.

  "I'll go and get introduced to her," Harold went on, looking at hisbrother with a searching glance. "She's the finest girl in the room, andI should like to dance with her."

  "You think so?" said Ernest. And he turned away a little coldly to joina group of loungers by the doorway.

  "This is not _our_ Lancers yet, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, as Haroldstalked up to her with her cousin by his side. "Ours is number seven."

  "I'm not the same Mr. Carnegie," Harold said, smiling, "though I see Ineed no introduction now. I'm number seven's brother, and I've come toask whether I may have the pleasure of dancing number six with you."

  Isabel looked up at him in doubt. "You are joking, surely," she said."You danced with me just now, the first waltz."

  "You see my brother over by the door," Harold answered. "But we're quiteaccustomed to be taken for one another. Pray don't apologize; we're usedto it."

  Before the end of the evening Isabel Walters had danced three times withErnest Carnegie, and twice with Harold. Before the end of the evening,too, Ernest and Harold were both at once deeply in love with her. Shewas not perhaps what most men would call a lovable girl; but she washandsome, clever, dashing, and decidedly original. Now, to both theCarnegies alike, there was no quality in a woman so admirable asindividuality. Perhaps it was their own absolute identity of tastes andemotions that made them prize the possession of a distinct personalityby others so highly; but in any case, there was no denying the fact thatthey were both head over ears in love with Isabel Walters.

  "She's a splendid girl, Edie," said Harold, as he went down with hissister to the cab in which he was to take her home; "a splendid girl;just the sort of girl I should like to marry."

  "Not so nice by half as Nellie Holt," said Edie simply. "But there,brothers never do marry the girls their sisters want them to."

  "Very unreasonable of the brothers, no doubt," Harold replied, with aslight curl of his lip: "but possibly explicable upon the ground that aman prefers choosing a wife who'll suit himself to choosing one who'llsuit his sisters."

  "Mother," said Ernest, as he took her down to the brougham, with littleNellie Holt on his other arm, "that's a splendid girl, that IsabelWalters. I haven't met such a nice girl as that for a long time."

  "I know a great many nicer," his mother answered, glancing halfunconsciously towards Nellie, "but boys never do marry as their parentswould wish them."

  "They do not, mother dear," said Ernest quietly. "It's a strange fact,but I dare say it's partly dependent upon the general principle that aman is more anxious to live happily with his own wife than to provide amodel daughter-in-law for his father and mother."

  "Isabel," Mrs. Walters said to her daughter, as they took their seats inthe cab that was waiting for them at the door, "what on earth did youmean by dancing five times in one evening with that young man with thelight moustache? And who on earth is he, tell me?"

  "He's two people, mamma," Isabel answered seriously; "and I danced threetimes with one of him, and twice with the other, I believe; at least sohe told me. His name's Carnegie, and half of him's called Ernest and theother half Harold, though which I danced with which time I'm sure Ican't tell you. He's a pair of twins, in fact, one a doctor and one alawyer; and he talks just the same sort of talk in either case, and isan extremely nice young man altogether. I really like him immensely."

  "Carnegie!" said Mrs. Walters, turning the name over carefully. "Twoyoung Carnegies! How very remarkable! I remember somebody was speakingto me about them, and saying they were absolutely indistinguishable.Not sons of Mr. Carnegie, your uncle's solicitor, are they?"

  "Yes; so Harry Balfour told me."

  "Then, Isabel, they're very well off, I understand. I hope people won'tthink you danced five times in the evening with only one of them. Theyought to wear some distinctive coat or something to preventmisapprehensions. Which do you like best, the lawyer or the doctor?"

  "I like them both exactly the same, mamma. There isn't any difference atall between them, to like one of them better than the other for. Theyboth seem very pleasant and very clever. And as I haven't yet discoveredwhich is which, and didn't know from one time to another which I wasdancing with, I can't possibly tell you which I prefer of twoidenticals. And as to coats, mamma, you know you couldn't expect one ofthem to wear a grey tweed suit in a ballroom, just to show he isn't theother one."

  In the passage at the Carnegies', Ernest and Harold stopped one moment,candle in hand, to compare notes with one another before turning intotheir bedrooms. There was an odd constraint about their manner to eachother that they had never felt before during their twenty-three years oflife together.

  "Well?" said Ernest, inquiringly, looking in a hesitating way at hisbrother.

  "Well?" Harold echoed, in the same tone.

  "What did you think of it all, Harold?"

  "I think, Ernest, I shall propose to Miss Walters."

  There was a moment's silence, and a black look gathered slowly on ErnestCarnegie's brow. Then he said very deliberately, "You are in a greathurry coming to conclusions, Harold. You've seen very little of her yet;and remember, it was I who first discovered her!"

  Harold glanced at him angrily and half contemptuously.

  "_You_ discovered her first!" he said. "Yes, and you are alwaysbeforehand with me; but you shall not be beforehand with me this time. Ishall propose to her at once, to prevent your anticipating me. So nowyou know my intentions plainly, and you can govern yourselfaccordingly."

  Ernest looked back at him with a long look from head to foot.

  "It is war then," he said, "Harold; war, you will have it? We arerivals?"

  "Yes, rivals," Harold answered; "and war to the knife if so you wishit."

  "War?"

&nb
sp; "War!"

  "Good night, Harold."

  "Good night, Ernest."

  And they turned in to their bedrooms, in anger with one another, for thefirst time since they had quarrelled in boyish fashion over tops andmarbles years ago together.

  III.

  That night the two Carnegies slept very little. They were both in love,very seriously in love; and anybody who has ever been in the samecondition must have noticed that the symptoms, which may have been verymoderate or undecided during the course of the evening, become rapidlymore pronounced and violent as you lie awake in the solitude of yourchamber through the night watches. But more than that, they had bothbegun to feel simultaneously the stab of jealousy. Each of them had beenvery much taken indeed by Isabel Walters; still, if they had seen nochance of a rival looming in the distance, they might have been contentto wait a little, to see a little more of her, to make quite sure oftheir own affection before plunging headlong into a declaration. Afterall, it's very absurd to ask a girl to be your companion for life on thestrength of an acquaintanceship which has extended over the timeoccupied by three dances in a single evening. But then, thought each,there was the chance of Ernest's proposing to her, or of Harold'sproposing to her, before I do. That idea made precipitancy positivelyimperative; and by the next morning each of the young men had fully madeup his mind to take the first opportunity of asking Isabella Walters tobe his wife.

  Breakfast passed off very silently, neither of the twins speaking muchto one another; but nobody noticed their reticence much; for the morningafter the occasional orgy or dance is apt to prove a very limp affairindeed in professional homes, where dances are not of nightlyoccurrence. After breakfast, Harold went off quickly to the office, andErnest, having bespoken a holiday at the hospital, joined his sister andNellie Holt in the library.

  "Do you know, Ernest," Edie said to him, mindful of her last night'sconversation with her other brother, "I really believe Harold has fallendesperately in love at first sight with that tall Miss Walters."

  "I can easily believe it," Ernest answered testily; "she's very handsomeand very clever."

  Edie raised her eyebrows a little. "But it's awfully foolish, Ernest, tofall in love blindfold in that way, isn't it now?" she said, with asearching look at her brother. "He can't possibly know what sort of agirl she really is from half an hour's conversation in a ballroom."

  "For my part, I don't at all agree with you, Edie," said Ernest, in hiscoldest manner. "I don't believe there's any right way of falling inlove except at first sight. If a girl is going to please you, she oughtto please you instantaneously and instinctively; at least, so I think.It isn't a thing to be thought about and reasoned about, but a thing tobe felt and apprehended intuitively. I couldn't reason myself intomarrying a girl, and what's more, I don't want to."

  He sat down to the table, took out a sheet or two of initialednotepaper, and began writing a couple of letters. One of them, which hemarked "Private" in the corner, ran as follows:--

  "MY DEAR MISS WALTERS,

  "Perhaps you will think it very odd of me to venture upon writing to you on the strength of such a very brief and casual acquaintance as that begun last night; but I have a particular reason for doing so, which I think I can justify to you when I see you. You mentioned to me that you were asked to the Montagus' steam-launch expedition up the river from Surbiton to-morrow; but I understood you to say you did not intend to accept the invitation. I write now to beg of you to be there, as I am going, and I am particularly anxious to meet you and have a little conversation with you on a subject of importance. I know you are not a very conventional person, and therefore I think you will excuse me for asking this favour of you. Please don't take the trouble to write in reply; but answer by going to the Montagus', and I shall then be able to explain this very queer letter. In haste,

  "Yours very truly, "ERNEST CARNEGIE."

  He read this note two or three times over to himself, looking not verywell satisfied with its contents; and then at last, with the air of aman who determines to plunge and stake all upon a single venture, hefolded it up and put it in its envelope. "It'll mystify her a little, nodoubt," he thought to himself; "and being a woman, she'll be naturallyanxious to unravel the mystery. But of course she'll know I mean to makeher an offer, and perhaps she'll think me a perfect idiot for not doingit outright, instead of beating about the bush in this incomprehensiblefashion. However, it's too cold-blooded, proposing to a girl on paper; Ivery much prefer the _viva voce_ system. It's only till to-morrow; and Idoubt if Harold will manage to be beforehand with me in that time. He'llbe deep in business all morning, and have no leisure to think about her.Anyhow, all's fair in love and war; he said it should be war; and I'lltry to steal a march upon him, for all his lawyer's quibbles andquiddits."

  He took another sheet from his blotting-book, and wrote a second note,much more rapidly than the first one. It ran after this fashion--

  "DEAR MRS. MONTAGU,--

  "Will you think it very rude of me if I ask you to let me be one of your party on your expedition up the river to-morrow? I heard of it from your son Algernon last night at the Balfours', and I happen to be _very_ anxious to meet one of the ladies you have invited. Now, I know you're kindness itself to all your young friends in all these little matters, and I'm sure you won't be angry with me for so coolly inviting myself. If I hadn't felt perfect confidence in your invariable goodness, I wouldn't have ventured to do so. Please don't answer unless you've no room for me, but expect me to turn up at half-past two.

  "Yours very sincerely, "ERNEST CARNEGIE.

  "P.S.--We might call at Lady Portlebury's lawn, and look over the conservatories."

  "Now, that's bold, but judicious," Ernest said to himself, admiringly,as he held the letter at arm's-length, after blotting it. "She mighthave been angry at my inviting myself, though I don't think she wouldbe; but I'm sure she'll be only too delighted if I offer to take herguests over Aunt Portlebury's conservatories. The postscript's a strokeof genius. What a fuss these people will make, even over the widow of astupid old cavalry officer, because her husband happens to have beenknighted. It's all the better that she's a widow, indeed. The deliciousvagueness of the title 'Lady' is certainly one of its chiefrecommendations. Sir Antony being out of the way, Mrs. Montagu's guestscan't really tell but that poor dear old Aunt Portlebury may be a reallive Countess." And he folded his second letter up with the fullsatisfaction of an approving conscience.

  When Isabel Walters received Ernest Carnegie's mysterious note, she wascertainly mystified by it as he had expected, and also not a littlegratified. He meant to propose to her, that was certain; and there wasnever a woman in the whole world who was not flattered by a handsomeyoung man's marked attentions. It was a very queer letter, no doubt; butit had been written skilfully enough to suit the particular personalityof Isabel Walters: for Ernest Carnegie was a keen judge of character,and he flattered himself that he knew how to adapt his correspondence tothe particular temperament of the persons he happened to be addressing.And though Isabel had no very distinct idea of what the two Carnegieswere severally like (it could hardly have been much more distinct if shehad known them both intimately), she felt they were two verygood-looking, agreeable young men, and she was not particularly averseto the attentions of either. After all, upon what straws we all usuallyhang our love-making! We see one another once or twice underexceptionally deceptive circumstances; we are struck at first sight withsomething that attracts us on either side; we find the attraction ismutual; we flounder at once into a declaration of undying attachment; weget married, and on the whole we generally find we were right after all,in spite of our precipitancy, and we live happily ever afterwards. Soit was not really very surprising that Isabel Walters, getting such anote from one of the two handsome young Mr. Carnegies, should have beenin some doubt which of the two identicals it actually was, and yetshould h
ave felt indefinitely pleased and flattered at the impliedattention. Which was Ernest and which Harold could only mean to her,when she came to think on it, which was the one she danced with firstlast night, and which the one she danced with second. She decided in herown mind that it would be better for her to go to the Montagus' picnicto-morrow, but to say nothing about it to her mother. "Mamma wouldn'tunderstand the letter," she said to herself complacently; "she's soconventional; and when I come back to-morrow I can tell her one of theyoung Carnegies was there, and that he proposed to me. She need neverknow there was any appointment."

  IV.

  At six o'clock, Harold Carnegie returned from the office. He, too, hadbeen thinking all day of Isabel Walters, and the moment he got home hewent into the library to write a short note to her, before Ernest had,as usual, forestalled him. As he did so he happened to see a few wordsdimly transferred to the paper in the blotting-book. They were inErnest's handwriting, and he was quite sure the four first words read,"My dear Miss Walters." Then Ernest had already been beforehand withhim, after all! But not by a fortnight: that was one good point; notthis time by a fortnight! He would be even with him yet; he would catchup this anticipatory twin-brother of his, by force or fraud, rather thanlet him steal away Isabel Walters from him once and for ever. "All'sfair in love and war," he muttered to himself, taking up theblotting-book carefully, and tearing out the tell-tale leaf in afurtive fashion. "Thank Heaven, Ernest writes a thick black hand, thesame as I do; and I shall probably be able to read it by holding it upto the light." In his own soul Harold Carnegie loathed himself for suchan act of petty meanness; but he did it; with love and jealousy goadinghim on, and the fear of his own twin-brother stinging him madly, he didit; remorsefully and shamefacedly, but still did it.

  He took the page up to his own bedroom, and held it up to thewindow-pane. Blurred and indistinct, the words nevertheless came outlegibly in patches here and there, so that with a little patientdeciphering Harold could spell out the sense of both letters, thoughthey crossed one another obliquely at a slight angle. "Very brief andcasual acquaintance ... Montagus' steam-launch expedition up the riverfrom Surbiton to-morrow ... am going and am particularly anxious to meetyou ... this favour of you...." "So that's his plan, is it?" Harold saidto himself. "Softly, softly, Mr. Ernest, I think I can checkmate you!What's this in the one to Mrs. Montagu? 'Expect me to turn up athalf-past two.' Aha, I thought so! Checkmate, Mr. Ernest, checkmate: ascholar's mate for you! He'll be at the hospital till half-past one;then he'll take the train to Clapham Junction, expecting to catch theSouth-Western at 2.10. But to-morrow's the first of the month; the newtime-tables come into force; I've got one and looked it out already. TheSouth-Western now leaves at 2.4, three minutes before Mr. Ernest's trainarrives at Clapham Junction. I have him now, I have him now, depend uponit. I'll go down instead of him. I'll get the party under way at once.I'll monopolize Isabel, pretty Isabel. I'll find my opportunity at AuntPortlebury's, and Ernest won't get down to Surbiton till the 2.50 train.Then he'll find his bird flown already. Aha! that'll make him angry.Checkmate, my young friend, checkmate. You said it should be war, andwar you shall have it. I thank thee, friend, for teaching me that word.Rivals now, you said; yes, rivals. 'Dolus an virtus, quis in hosterequirat?' Why, that comes out of the passage about Androgeos! An omen,a good omen. There's nothing like war for quickening the intelligence. Ihaven't looked at a Virgil since I was in the sixth form; and yet theline comes back to me now, after five years, as pat as the Catechism."

  Chuckling to himself at the fraud to stifle conscience (for he had aconscience), Harold Carnegie dressed hastily for dinner, and went downquickly in a state of feverish excitement. Dinner passed off grimlyenough. He knew Ernest had written to Isabel; and Ernest guessed fromthe other's excited, triumphant manner (though he tried hard todissemble the note of triumph in it) that Harold must have writtentoo--perhaps forestalling him by a direct proposal. In a dim way Mrs.Carnegie guessed vaguely that some coldness had arisen between her twoboys, the first time for many years; and so she held her peace for themost part, or talked in asides to Nellie Holt and her daughter. Theconversation was therefore chiefly delegated to Mr. Carnegie himself,who discoursed with much animation about the iniquitous nature of thenew act for reducing costs in actions for the recovery of small debts--asubject calculated to arouse the keenest interest in the minds of Nellieand Edie.

  Next morning, Harold Carnegie started for the office with prospectivevictory elate in his very step, and yet with the consciousness of hisown mean action grinding him down to the pavement as he walked along it.What a dirty, petty, dishonourable subterfuge! and still he would gothrough with it. What a self-degrading bit of treachery! and yet hewould carry it out. "Pater," he said, as he walked along, "I mean totake a holiday this afternoon. I'm going to the Montagus' water-party."

  "Very inconvenient, Harold, my boy; 'Wilkins _versus_ the Great NorthernRailway Company' coming on for hearing; and, besides, Ernest's goingthere too. They won't want a pair of you, will they?"

  "Can't help it, Pater," Harold answered. "I have particular business atSurbiton, much more important to me than 'Wilkins versus the GreatNorthern Railway Company.'"

  His father looked at him keenly. "Ha!" he said, "a lady in the case, isthere? Very well, my boy, if you must you must, and that's the end ofit. A young man in love never does make an efficient lawyer. Get it overquickly, pray; get it over quickly, that's all I beg of you."

  "I shall get it over, I promise you," Harold answered, "this veryafternoon."

  The father whistled. "Whew," he said, "that's sharp work, too, Harold,isn't it? You haven't even told me her name yet. This is really verysudden." But as Harold volunteered no further information, Mr. Carnegie,who was a shrewd man of the world, held it good policy to ask himnothing more about it for the present; and so they walked on the rest ofthe way to the father's office in unbroken silence.

  At one o'clock, Harold shut up his desk at the office and ran down toSurbiton. At Clapham Junction he kept a sharp look-out for Ernest, butErnest was not there. Clearly, as Harold anticipated, he hadn't learntthe alteration in the time-tables, and wouldn't reach Clapham Junctiontill the train for Surbiton had started.

  At Surbiton, Harold pushed on arrangements as quickly as possible, andmanaged to get the party off before Ernest arrived upon the scene. Mrs.Montagu, seeing "one of the young Carnegies" duly to hand, and neverhaving attempted to discriminate between them in any way, was perfectlyhappy at the prospect of getting landed at Lady Portlebury's withoutany minute investigation of the intricate question of Christian names.The Montagus were _nouveaux riches_ in the very act of pushingthemselves into fashionable society; and a chance of invading thePortlebury lawn was extremely welcome to them upon any terms whatsoever.

  Isabel Walters was looking charming. A light morning dress became hereven better than the dark red satin of the night before last; and shesmiled at Harold with the smile of a mutual confidence when she took hishand, in a way that made his heart throb fast within him. From thatmoment forward, he forgot Ernest and the unworthy trick he was playing,and thought wholly and solely of Isabel Walters.

  What a handsome young man he was, really, and how cleverly andbrilliantly he talked all the way up to Portlebury Lodge! Everybodylistened to him; he was the life and soul of the party. Isabel felt moreflattered than ever at his marked attention. He was the doctor, wasn'the? No, the lawyer. Well, really, how impossible it was to distinguishand remember them. And so well connected, too. If he were to propose toher, now, she could afford to be so condescending to Amy Balfour.

  At Lady Portlebury's lawn the steam-launch halted, and Harold managed toget Isabel alone among the walks, while his aunt escorted the main bodyof visitors thus thrust upon her hands over the conservatories. Eagerand hasty, now, he lost no time in making the best of the situation.

  "I guessed as much, of course, from your letter, Mr. Carnegie," Isabelsaid, playing with her fan with downcast eyes, as he pressed his offerupon her; "and I
really didn't know whether it was right of me to comehere without showing it to mamma and asking her advice about it. But I'mquite sure I oughtn't to give you an answer at once, because I've seenso very little of you. Let us leave the question open for a little.It's asking so much to ask one for a definite reply on such a very shortacquaintance."

  "No, no, Miss Walters," Harold said quickly. "For Heaven's sake, give mean answer now, I beg of you--I implore you. I must have an answer atonce, immediately. If you can't love me at first sight, for my ownsake--as I loved you the moment I saw you--you can never, never, neverlove me! Doubt and hesitation are impossible in true love. Now, orrefuse me for ever! Surely you must know in your own heart whether youcan love me or not; if your heart tells you that you can, then trustit--trust it--don't argue and reason with it, but say at once you willmake me happy for ever."

  "Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, lifting her eyes for a moment, "I do think,perhaps--I don't know--but perhaps, after a little while, I could loveyou. I like you very much; won't that do for the present? Why are you insuch a hurry for an answer? Why can't you give me a week or two todecide in?"

  "Because," said Harold, desperately, "if I give you a week my brotherwill ask you, and perhaps you will marry him instead of me. He's alwaysbefore me in everything, and I'm afraid he'll be before me in this. Sayyou'll have me, Miss Walters--oh, do say you'll have me, and save mefrom the misery of a week's suspense!"

  "But, Mr. Carnegie, how can I say anything when I haven't yet made up myown mind about it? Why, I hardly know you yet from your brother."

  "Ah, that's just it," Harold cried, in a voice of positive pain. "Youwon't find any difference at all between us, if you come to know us; andthen perhaps you'll be induced to marry my brother. But you know thismuch already, that here am I, begging and pleading before you this veryminute, and surely you won't send me away with my prayer unanswered!"

  There was such a look of genuine anguish and passion in his face thatIsabel Walters, already strongly prepossessed in his favour, couldresist no longer. She bent her head a little, and whispered very softly,"I will promise, Mr. Carnegie; I will promise."

  Harold seized her hand eagerly, and covered it with kisses. "Isabel," hecried in a fever of joy, "you have promised. You are mine--mine--mine.You are mine, now and for ever!"

  Isabel bowed her head, and felt a tear standing dimly in her eye, thoughshe brushed it away hastily. "Yes," she said gently; "I will be yours. Ithink--I think--I feel sure I can love you."

  Harold took her ungloved hand tenderly in his, and drew a ring off herfinger. "Before I give you mine," he said, "you will let me take thisone? I want it for a keepsake and a memorial."

  Isabel whispered, "Yes."

  Harold drew another ring from his pocket and slipped it softly on herthird finger. Isabel saw by the glitter that there was a diamond in it.Harold had bought it the day before for that very purpose. Then he tookfrom a small box a plain gold locket, with the letter H raised on it. "Iwant you to wear this," he said, "as a keepsake for me."

  "But why H?" Isabel asked him, looking a little puzzled. "Your name'sErnest, isn't it?"

  Harold smiled as well as he was able. "How absurd it is!" he said, withan effort at gaiety. "This ridiculous similarity pursues us everywhere.No, my name's Harold."

  Isabel stood for a moment surprised and hesitating. She really hardlyknew for the second which brother she ought to consider herself engagedto. "Then it wasn't you who wrote to me?" she said, with a tone of somesurprise and a little start of astonishment.

  "No, I certainly didn't write to you; but I came here to-day expectingto see you, and meaning to ask you to be my wife. I learned from mybrother ("there can be no falsehood in putting it that way," he thoughtvainly to himself) that you were to be here; and I determined to seizethe opportunity. Ernest meant to have come, too, but I believe he musthave lost the train at Clapham Junction." That was all literally true,and yet it sounded simple and plausible enough.

  Isabel looked at him with a puzzled look, and felt almost compelled tolaugh, the situation was so supremely ridiculous. It took a moment tothink it all out rationally. Yet, after all, though the letter came fromthe other brother, Ernest, it was this particular brother, Harold, shehad been talking to and admiring all the day; it was this particularbrother, Harold, who had gained her consent, and whom she had promisedto love and to marry. And at that moment it would have been doing IsabelWalters an injustice not to admit that in her own soul she did then andthere really love Harold Carnegie.

  "Harold," she said slowly, as she took the locket and hung it round herneck, "Harold. Yes, now I know. Then, Harold Carnegie, I shall take yourlocket and wear it always as a keepsake from you." And she looked up athim with a smile in which there was something more than mere passingcoquettish fancy. You see, he was really terribly in earnest; and thevery fact that he should have been so anxious to anticipate his brother,and should have anticipated him successfully, made her woman's heart goforth toward him instinctively. As Harold himself said, he was therebodily present before her; while Ernest, the writer of the mysteriousletter, was nothing more to her in reality than a name and a shadow.Harold had asked her, and won her; and she was ready to love and cleaveto Harold from that day forth for that very reason. What woman of themall has a better reason to give in the last resort for the faith that isin her?

  V.

  Meanwhile, at Clapham Junction, Ernest Carnegie had arrived threeminutes too late for the Surbiton train, and had been forced to wait forthe 2.40. Of that he thought little: they would wait for him, he knew,if they waited an hour; for Mrs. Montagu would not for worlds havemissed the chance of showing her guests round Lady Portlebury's gardens.So he settled himself down comfortably in the snug corner of hisfirst-class carriage, and ran down by the later train in perfectconfidence that he would find the steam launch waiting.

  "No, sir, they've gone up the river in the launch, sir," said the manwho opened the door for him; "and, I beg pardon, sir, but I thought youwere one of the party."

  In a moment Ernest's fancy, quickened by his jealousy, jumpedinstinctively at the true meaning of the man's mistake. "What," he said,"was there a gentleman very like me, in a grey coat and straw hat--sameribbon as this one?"

  "Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. Well, indeed, I should have said it wasyourself, sir; but I suppose it was the other Mr. Carnegie."

  "It was!" Ernest answered between his clenched teeth, almostinarticulate with anger. "It was he. Not a doubt of it. Harold! I see itall. The treachery--the base treachery! How long have they been gone, Isay? How long, eh?"

  "About half an hour, sir; they went up towards Henley, sir."

  Ernest Carnegie turned aside, reeling with wrath and indignation.That his brother, his own familiar twin-brother, should have playedhim this abominable, disgraceful trick! The meanness of it! The deceitof it! The petty spying and letter-opening of it! For somehow orother--inconceivable how--Harold must have opened his brother's letters.And then, quick as lightning, for those two brains jumped together, thethought of the blotting-book flashed across Ernest's mind. Why, he hadnoticed this morning that a page was gone out of it. He must have readthe letters. And then the trains! Harold always got a time-table on thefirst of each month, with his cursed methodical lawyer ways. And he hadnever told him about the change of service. The dirty low trick! Themean trick! Even to think of it made Ernest Carnegie sick at heart andbitterly indignant.

  In a minute he saw it all and thought it all out. Why did he--how didhe? Why, he knew as clearly as if he could read Harold's thoughts,exactly how the whole vile plot had first risen upon him, and workeditself out within his traitorous brain. How? Ah, how? That was thebitterest, the most horrible, the deadliest part of it all. ErnestCarnegie knew, because he felt in his own inmost soul that, had he beenput in the same circumstances, he would himself have done exactly asHarold had done.

  Yes, exactly in every respect. Harold must have seen the words in theblotting-book, "My dear Miss Walters"--Ernest remembered how th
ickly andblackly he had written--must have seen those words; and in their presentcondition, either of the twins, jealous, angry, suspicious, half drivenby envy of one another out of their moral senses, would have torn outthe page then and there and read it all. He, too, would have keptsilence about the train; he would have gone down to Surbiton; he wouldhave proposed to Isabel Walters; he would have done in everythingexactly as he knew Harold must have done it; but that did not make hisanger and loathing for his brother any the weaker. On the contrary, itonly made them all the more terrible. His consciousness of his own equalpotential meanness roused his rage against Harold to a white heat. Hewould have done the same himself, no doubt; yes; but Harold, the mean,successful, actually accomplishing villain--Harold had really gone downand done it all in positive fact and reality.

  Flushing scarlet and blanching white alternately with the fierceness ofhis anger, Ernest Carnegie turned down, all on fire, to the river'sedge. Should he take a boat and row up after them to prevent thesupplanter at least from proposing to Isabel unopposed? That would atany rate give him something to do--muscular work for his arms, ifnothing else, to counteract the fire within him; but on second thoughts,no, it would be quite useless. The steam launch had had a good start ofhim, and no oarsman could catch up with it now by any possibility. So hewalked about up and down near the river, chafing in soul and nursing hiswrath against Harold for three long weary hours. And all that timeHarold, false-hearted, fair-spoken, mean-spirited Harold, was enjoyinghimself and playing the gallant to Isabel Walters!

  Minute by minute the hours wore away, and with every minute Ernest'sindignation grew deeper and deeper. At last he heard the snort of thesteam-launch ploughing its way lustily down the river, and he stood onthe bank waiting for the guilty Harold to disembark.

  As Harold stepped from the launch, and gave his hand to Isabel, he sawthe white and bloodless face of his brother looking up at himcontemptuously and coldly from beside the landing. Harold passed ashoreand close by him, but Ernest never spoke a word. He only looked a momentat Isabel, and said to her with enforced calmness, "You got my letter,Miss Walters?"

  Isabel, hardly comprehending the real solemnity of the occasion,answered with a light smile, "I did, Mr. Carnegie, but you didn't keepyour appointment. Your brother came, and he has been beforehand withyou." And she touched his hand lightly and went on to join her hostess.

  Still Ernest Carnegie said nothing, but walked on, as black as night,beside his brother. Neither spoke a word; but after the shaking of handsand farewells were over, both turned together to the railway station.The carriage was crowded, and so Ernest still held his tongue.

  At last, when they reached home and stood in the passage together,Ernest looked at his brother with a look of withering scorn, and, lividwith anger, found his voice at last.

  "Harold Carnegie," he said, in a low husky tone, "you are a meanintercepter of other men's letters; a sneaking supplanter of other men'sappointments; a cur and a traitor whom I don't wish any longer toassociate with. I know what you have done, and I know how you have doneit. You have kept my engagement with Isabel Walters by reading theimpression of my notes on the blotting-book. You are unfit for agentleman to speak to, and I cast you off, now and for ever."

  Harold looked at him defiantly, but said never a word.

  "Harold Carnegie," Ernest said again, "I could hardly believe yourtreachery until it was forced upon me. This is the last time I shallever speak to you."

  Harold looked at him again, this time perhaps with a tinge of remorse inhis expression, and said nothing but, "Oh, Ernest."

  Ernest made a gesture with his hands as though he would repel him."Don't come near me," he said; "Harold Carnegie, don't touch me! Don'tcall me by my name! I will have nothing more to say or do with you."

  Harold turned away in dead silence, and went to his own room, tremblingwith conscious humiliation and self-reproach. But he did not attempt tomake the only atonement in his power by giving up Isabel Walters. Thatwould have been too much for human nature.

  VI.

  When Harold Carnegie was finally married to Isabel Walters, Erneststopped away from the wedding, and would have nothing whatever to sayeither to bride or bridegroom. He would leave his unnatural brother, hesaid, solely and entirely to the punishment of his own guiltyconscience.

  Still, he couldn't rest quiet in his father's house after Harold wasgone, so he took himself small rooms near the hospital, and there helived his lonely life entirely by himself, a solitary man, broodingmiserably over his own wrongs and Harold's treachery. There was only onesingle woman in the world, he said, with whom he could ever have beenreally happy--Isabel Walters: and Harold had stolen Isabel Walters awayfrom him by the basest treason. Once he could have loved Isabel, and heronly; now, because she was Harold's wife, he bitterly hated her. Yes,hated her! With a deadly hatred he hated both of them.

  Months went by slowly for Ernest Carnegie, in the dull drudgery of hishopeless professional life, for he cared nothing now for ambition oradvancement; he lived wholly in the past, nursing his wrath, anddevouring his own soul in angry regretfulness. Months went by, and atlast Harold's wife gave birth to a baby--a boy, the exact image of hisfather and his uncle. Harold looked at the child in the nurse's arms,and said remorsefully, "We will call him Ernest. It is all we can donow, Isabel. We will call him Ernest, after my dear lost brother." Sothey called him Ernest, in the faint hope that his uncle's heart mightrelent a little; and Harold wrote a letter full of deep and bitterpenitence to his brother, piteously begging his forgiveness for thegrievous wrong he had wickedly and deliberately done him. But Erneststill nursed his righteous wrath silently in his own bosom, and tore upthe letter into a thousand fragments, unanswered.

  When the baby was five months old, Edie Carnegie came round hurriedlyone morning to Ernest's lodgings near the hospital. "Ernest, Ernest,"she cried, running up the stairs in great haste, "we want you to comeround and see Harold. We're afraid he's very ill. Don't say you won'tcome and see him!"

  Ernest Carnegie listened and smiled grimly. "Very ill," he muttered,with a dreadful gleam in his eyes. "Very ill, is he? and I have hadnothing the matter with me! How curious! Very ill! I ought to have hadthe same illness a fortnight ago. Ha, ha! The cycle is broken! Theclocks have ceased to strike together! His marriage has altered the runof his constitution--mine remains the same steady striker as ever. Ithought it would! I thought it would! Perhaps he'll die, now, the mean,miserable traitor!"

  Edie Carnegie looked at him in undisguised horror. "Oh, Ernest," shecried, with the utmost dismay; "your own brother! Your own brother!Surely you'll come and see him, and tell us what's the matter."

  "Yes, I'll come and see him," Ernest answered, unmoved, taking up hishat. "I'll come and see him, and find out what's the matter." But therewas an awful air of malicious triumph in his tone, which perfectlyhorrified his trembling sister.

  When Ernest reached his brother's house, he went at once to Harold'sbedside, and without a word of introduction or recognition he beganinquiring into the nature of his symptoms, exactly as he would have donewith any unknown and ordinary patient. Harold told him them all, simplyand straightforwardly, without any more preface than he would have usedwith any other doctor. When Ernest had finished his diagnosis, he leanedback carelessly in his easy chair, folded his arms sternly, and said ina perfectly cold, clear, remorseless voice, "Ah, I thought so; yes, yes,I thought so. It's a serious functional disorder of the heart; andthere's very little hope indeed that you'll ever recover from it. Nohope at all, I may say; no hope at all, I'm certain. The thing has beencreeping upon you, creeping upon you, evidently, for a year past, and ithas gone too far now to leave the faintest hope of ultimate recovery."

  Isabel burst into tears at the words--calmly spoken as though they wereperfectly indifferent to both speaker and hearers; but Harold only roseup fiercely in the bed, and cried in a tone of the most imploring agony,"Oh, Ernest, Ernest, if I must die, for Heaven's sake, before I die, sayyou forgive me, do say
, do say you forgive me. Oh, Ernest, dear Ernest,dear brother Ernest, for the sake of our long, happy friendship, for thesake of the days when we loved one another with a love passing the loveof women, do, do say you will at last forgive me."

  Ernest rose and fumbled nervously for a second with the edge of his hat."Harold Carnegie," he said at last, in a voice trembling withexcitement, "I can never forgive you. You acted a mean, dirty part, andI can never forgive you. Heaven may, perhaps it will; but as for me, Ican never, never, never forgive you!"

  Harold fell back feebly and wearily upon the pillows. "Ernest, Ernest,"he cried, gasping, "you might forgive me! you ought to forgive me! youmust forgive me! and I'll tell you why. I didn't want to say it, but nowyou force me. I know it as well as if I'd seen you do it. In my place, Iknow to a certainty, Ernest, you'd have done exactly as I did. ErnestCarnegie, you can't look me straight in the face and tell me that youwouldn't have acted exactly as I did."

  That terrible unspoken truth, long known, but never confessed, even tohimself, struck like a knife on Ernest's heart. He raised his hatblindly, and walked with unsteady steps out of the sick-room. At thatmoment, his own conscience smote him with awful vividness. Looking intothe inmost recesses of his angry heart, he felt with a shudder thatHarold had spoken the simple truth, and he dared not lie bycontradicting him. In Harold's place he would have done exactly asHarold did! And that was just what made his deathless anger burn all themore fiercely and fervidly against his brother!

  Groping his way down the stairs alone in a stunned and dazzled fashion,Ernest Carnegie went home in his agony to his lonely lodgings, and satthere solitary with his own tempestuous thoughts for the nexteight-and-forty hours. He did not undress or lie down to sleep, thoughhe dozed a little at times uneasily in his big arm-chair; he did not eator drink much; he merely paced up and down his room feverishly, and senthis boy round at intervals of an hour or two to know how the doctorthought Mr. Harold Carnegie was getting on. The boy returned every timewith uniformly worse and worse reports. Ernest rubbed his hands inhorrid exultation: "Ah," he said to himself, eagerly, "he will die! hewill die! he will pay the penalty of his dirty treachery! He has broughtit all upon himself by marrying that wicked woman! He deserves it everybit for his mean conduct."

  On the third morning, Edie came round again, this time with her mother.Both had tears in their eyes, and they implored Ernest with sobs andentreaties to come round and see Harold once more before he died. Haroldwas raving and crying for him in his weakness and delirium. But Ernestwas like adamant. He would not go to see him, he said, not if they wentdown bodily on their knees before him.

  At midday, the boy went again, and stayed a little longer than usual.When he returned, he brought back word that Mr. Harold Carnegie had diedjust as the clock was striking the hour. Ernest listened with a look ofterror and dismay, and then broke down into a terrible fit of sobbingand weeping. When Edie came round a little later to tell him that allwas over, she found him crying like a child in his own easy chair, andmuttering to himself in a broken fashion how dearly he and Harold hadloved one another years ago, when they were both happy childrentogether.

  Edie took him round to his brother's house, and there, over the deaf andblind face that lay cold upon the pillows, he cried the cry that hewould not cry over his living, imploring brother. "Oh, Harold, Harold,"he groaned in his broken agony, "I forgive you, I forgive you. I toosinned as you did. What you would do, I would do. It was bound up inboth our natures. In your place I would have done as you did. But nowthe curse of Cain is upon me! A worse curse than Cain's is upon me! Ihave more than killed my brother!"

  For a day or two Ernest went back, heart-broken, to his father's house,and slept once more in the old room where he used to sleep so long, nextdoor to Harold's. At the end of three days, he woke once from one of hisshort snatches of sleep with a strange fluttering feeling in his leftside. He knew in a moment what it was. It was the same disease thatHarold had died of.

  "Thank Heaven!" he said to himself eagerly, "thank Heaven, thank Heavenfor that! Then I didn't wholly kill him! His blood isn't all upon mypoor unhappy head. After all, his marriage didn't quite upset theharmony of the two clocks; it only made the slower one catch up for awhile and pass the faster. I'm a fortnight later in striking than Haroldthis time; that's all. In three days more the clock will run down, and Ishall die as he did."

  And, true to time, in three days more, as the clock struck twelve,Ernest Carnegie died as his brother Harold had done before him, with theagonized cry for forgiveness trembling on his fevered lips--who knowswhether answered or unanswered?