THE STORY OF MY TWIN UNCLES.
“My brother and I were marvellously like. Very few of our friends, none
of them with certainty, could name either of us apart--or even together.
Only two persons knew absolutely which either of us was, and those two
were ourselves. Our mother certainly did not--at least without seeing one
or other of our backs. Even we ourselves have each made the blunder
occasionally of calling the other by the wrong name. Our
indistinguishableness was the source of ever-recurring mistake, of
constant amusement, of frequent bewilderment, and sometimes of annoyance
in the family. I once heard my father say to a friend, that God had never
made two things alike, except his twins. We two enjoyed the fun of it so
much, that we did our best to increase the confusions resulting from our
resemblance. We did not lie, but we dodged and pretended, questioned and
looked mysterious, till I verily believe the person concerned, having in
himself so vague an idea of our individuality, not unfrequently forgot
which he had blamed, or which he had wanted, and became hopelessly
muddled.
“A man might well have started the question what good could lie in the
existence of a duality in which the appearance was, if not exactly, yet
so nearly identical, that no one but my brother or myself could have
pointed out definite differences; but it could have been started only by
an outsider: my brother and I had no doubt concerning the advantage of a
duality in which each was the other's double; the fact was to us a never
ceasing source of delight. Each seemed to the other created such,
expressly that he might love him as a special, individual property of his
own. It was as if the image of Narcissus had risen bodily out of the
watery mirror, to be what it had before but seemed. It was as if we had
been made two, that each might love himself, and yet not be selfish.
“We were almost always together, but sometimes we got into individual
scrapes, when--which will appear to some incredible--the one accused
always accepted punishment without denial or subterfuge or attempt to
perplex: it was all one which was the culprit, and which should be the
sufferer. Nor did this indistinction work badly: that the other was just
as likely to suffer as the doer of the wrong, wrought rather as a
deterrent. The mode of behaviour may have had its origin in the
instinctive perception of the impossibility of proving innocence; but had
we, loving as we did, been capable of truthfully accusing each other, I
think we should have been capable of lying also. The delight of existence
lay, embodied and objective to each, in the existence of the other.
“At school we learned the same things, and only long after did any
differences in taste begin to develop themselves.
“Our brother, elder by five years, who would succeed to the property, had
the education my father thought would best fit him for the management of
land. We twins were trained to be lawyer and doctor--I the doctor.
“We went to college together, and shared the same rooms.
“Having finished our separate courses, our father sent us to a German
university: he would not have us insular!
“There we did not work hard, nor was hard work required of us. We went
out a good deal in the evenings, for the students that lived at home in
the town were hospitable. We seemed to be rather popular, owing probably
to our singular likeness, which we found was regarded as a serious
disadvantage. The reason of this opinion we never could find, flattering
ourselves indeed that what it typified gave us each double the base and
double the strength.
“We had all our friends in common. Every friend to one of us was a friend
to both. If one met man or woman he was pleased with, he never rested
until the other knew that man or woman also. Our delight in our friends
must have been greater than that of other men, because of the constant
sharing.
“Our all but identity of form, our inseparability, our unanimity, and our
mutual devotion, were often, although we did not know it, a subject of
talk in the social gatherings of the place. It was more than once or
twice openly mooted--what, in the chances of life, would be likeliest to
strain the bond that united us. Not a few agreed that a terrible
catastrophe might almost be expected from what they considered such an
unnatural relation.
“I think you must already be able to foresee from what the first
difference between us would arise: discord itself was rooted in the very
unison--for unison it was, not harmony--of our tastes and instincts; and
will now begin to understand why it was so difficult, indeed impossible
for me, not to have a secret from my little one.
“Among the persons we met in the home-circles of our fellow-students,
appeared by and by an English lady--a young widow, they said, though
little in her dress or carriage suggested widowhood. We met her again and
again. Each thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but
neither was much interested in her at first. Nor do I believe either
would, of himself, ever have been. Our likings and dislikings always
hitherto had gone together, and, left to themselves, would have done so
always, I believe; whence it seems probable that, left to ourselves, we
should also have found, when required, a common strength of abnegation.
But in the present case, our feelings were not left to themselves; the
lady gave the initiative, and the dividing regard was born in the one,
and had time to establish itself, ere the provoking influence was brought
to bear on the other.
“Within the last few years I have had a visit from an old companion of
the period. I daresay you will remember the German gentleman who amused
you with the funny way in which he pronounced certain words--one of the
truest-hearted and truest-tongued men I have ever known: he gave me much
unexpected insight into the evil affair. He had learned certain things
from a sister, the knowledge of which, old as the story they concerned by
that time was, chiefly moved his coming to England to find me.
“One evening, he told me, when a number of the ladies we were in the
habit of meeting happened to be together without any gentleman present,
the talk turned, half in a philosophical, half in a gossipy spirit, upon
the consequences that might follow, should two men, bound in such strange
fashion as my brother and I, fall in love with the same woman--a thing
not merely possible, but to be expected. The talk, my friend said, was
full of a certain speculative sort of metaphysics which, in the present
state of human development, is far from healthy, both because of our
incompleteness, and because we are too near to what we seem to know, to
judge it aright. One lady was present--a lady by us more admired and
trusted than any of the rest--who alone declared a conviction that love
of no woman would ever separate us, provided the one fell in love first,
and the other knew the fact before he saw the lady. For, she said, no
jealousy would in that case be roused; and the relation of the brother to
his brother and sister would be so close as to satisfy his heart. In a
few days probably he too would fall in love, and his lady in like manner
be received by his brother, when they would form a square impregnable
to attack. The theory was a good one, and worthy of realization. But,
alas, the Prince of the Power of the Air was already present in force,
in the heart of the English widow! Young in years, but old in pride
and self-confidence, she smiled at the notion of our advocate. She said
that the idea of any such friendship between men was nonsense; that she
knew more about men than some present could be expected to know: their
love was but a matter of custom and use; the moment self took part in
the play, it would burst; it was but a bubble-company! As for love
proper--she meant the love between man and woman--its law was the
opposite to that of friendship; its birth and continuance depended on the
parties _not_ getting accustomed to each other; the less they knew each
other, the more they would love each other.
“Upon this followed much confused talk, during which the English lady
declared nothing easier than to prove friendship, or the love of
brothers, the kind of thing she had said.
“Most of the company believed the young widow but talking to show off;
while not a few felt that they desired no nearer acquaintance with one
whose words, whatever might be her thoughts, degraded humanity. The
circle was very speedily broken into two segments, one that liked the
English lady, and one that almost hated her.
“From that moment, the English widow set before her the devil-victory of
alienating two hearts that loved each other--and she gained it for a
time--until Death proved stronger than the Devil. People said we could
not be parted: _she_ would part us! She began with my brother. To tell
how I know that she began with him, I should have to tell how she began
with me, and that I cannot do; for, little one, I dare not let the tale
of the treacheries of a bad woman toward an unsuspecting youth, enter
your ears. Suffice it to say, such a woman has well studied those regions
of a man's nature into which, being less divine, the devil in her can
easier find entrance. There, she knows him better than he knows himself;
and makes use of her knowledge, not to elevate, but to degrade him. She
fills him with herself, and her animal influences. She gets into his
self-consciousness beside himself, by means of his self-love. Through the
ever open funnel of his self-greed, she pours in flattery. By
depreciation of others, she hints admiration of himself. By the slightest
motion of a finger, of an eyelid, of her person, she will pay him a
homage of which first he cannot, then he will not, then he dares not
doubt the truth. Not such a woman only, but almost any silly woman, may
speedily make the most ordinary, and hitherto modest youth, imagine
himself the peak of creation, the triumph of the Deity. No man alive is
beyond the danger of imagining himself exceptional among men: if such as
think well of themselves were right in so doing, truly the world were ill
worth God's making! He is the wisest who has learned to 'be naught
awhile!' The silly soul becomes so full of his tempter, and of himself in
and through her, that he loses interest in all else, cares for nobody but
her, prizes nothing but her regard, broods upon nothing but her favours,
looks forward to nothing but again her presence and further favours. God
is nowhere; fellow-man in the way like a buzzing fly--else no more to be
regarded than a speck of dust neither upon his person nor his garment.
And this terrible disintegration of life rises out of the most wonderful,
mysterious, beautiful, and profound relation in humanity! Its roots go
down into the very deeps of God, and out of its foliage creeps the old
serpent, and the worm that never dies! Out of it steams the horror of
corruption, wrapt in whose living death a man cries out that God himself
can do nothing for him. It is but the natural result of his making the
loveliest of God's gifts into his God, and worshipping and serving the
creature more than the creator. Oh my child, it is a terrible thing to
be! Except he knows God the saviour, man stands face to face with a
torturing enigma, hopeless of solution!
“The woman sought and found the enemy, my false self, in the house of my
life. To that she gave herself, as if she gave herself to me. Oh, how she
made me love her!--if that be love which is a deification of self, the
foul worship of one's own paltry being!--and that when most it seems
swallowed up and lost! No, it is not love! Does love make ashamed? The
memories of it may be full of pain, but can the soul ever turn from love
with sick contempt? That which at length is loathed, can never have been
loved!
“Of my brother she would speak as of a poor creature not for a moment to
be compared with myself. How I could have believed her true when she
spoke thus, knowing that in the mirror I could not have told myself from
my brother, knowing also that our minds, tastes, and faculties bore as
strong a resemblance as our bodies, I cannot tell, but she fooled me to a
fool through the indwelling folly of my self-love. At other times,
wishing to tighten the bonds of my thraldom that she might the better
work her evil end, proving herself a powerful devil, she would rouse my
jealousy by some sign of strong admiration of Edmund. She must have acted
the same way with my brother. I saw him enslaved just as I--knew we were
faring alike--knew the very thoughts as well as feelings in his heart,
and instead of being consumed with sorrow, chuckled at the _knowledge_
that _I_ was the favoured one! I suspect now that she showed him more
favour than myself, and taught him to put on the look of the hopeless
one. I fancied I caught at times a covert flash in his eye: he knew what
he knew! If so, poor Edmund, thou hadst the worst of it every way!
“Shall I ever get her kisses off my lips, her poison out of my brain!
From my heart, her image was burned in a moment, as utterly as if by
years of hell!
“The estrangement between us was sudden; there were degrees only in the
widening of it. First came embarrassment at meeting. Then all commerce of
wish, thought, and speculation, ended. There was no more merrymaking
jugglery with identity; each was himself only, and for himself alone.
Gone was all brother-gladness. We avoided each other more and more. When
we must meet, we made haste to part. Heaven was gone from home. Each yet
felt the same way toward the other, but it was the way of repelling, not
drawing. When we passed in the street, it was with a look that said, or
at least meant--'You are my brother! I don't want you!' We ceased even to
nod to each other. Still in our separation we could not separate. Each
took a room in another part of the town, but under the same pseudonym.
Our common lodging was first deserted, then formally given up by each.
Always what one did, that did the other, though no longer intending to
act in consort with him. He could not help it though he tried, for the
other tried also, and did the same thing. One of us might for months have
played the part of both without detection--especially if it had been
understood that we had parted company; but I think it was never
suspected, although now we were rarely for a moment together, and still
more rarely spoke. A few weeks sufficed to bring us to the verge of
madness.
“To this day I doubt if the woman, our common disease, knew the one of us
from the other. That in any part of her being there was the least
approach to a genuine womanly interest in either of us, I do not believe.
I am very sure she never cared for me. Preference I cannot think
possible; she could not, it seems to me, have felt anything for one of us
without feeling the same for both; I do not see how, with all she knew of
us, we could have made two impressions upon her moral sensorium.
“It was at length the height of summer, and every one sought change of
scene and air. It was time for us to go home; but I wrote to my father,
and got longer leave.”
“I wrote too,” interposed my uncle Edmund at this point of the story,
when my own uncle was telling it that evening in Paris.
“The day after the date of his answer to my letter, my father died. But
Edmund and I were already on our way, by different routes, to the
mountain-village whither the lady had preceded us; and having, in our
infatuation, left no address, my brother never saw the letter announcing
our loss, and I not for months.
“A few weeks more, and our elder brother, who had always been delicate,
followed our father. This also remained for a time unknown to me. My
mother had died many years before, and we had now scarce a relation in
the world. Martha Moon is the nearest relative you and I have. Besides
her and you, there were left therefore of the family but myself and your
uncle Edmund--both absorbed in the same worthless woman.
“At the village there were two hostelries. I thought my brother would go
to the better; he thought I would go to the better; so we met at the
worse! I remember a sort of grin on his face when we saw each other, and
have no doubt the same grin was on mine. We always did the same thing,
just as of old. The next morning we set out, I need hardly say each by
himself, to find the lady.
“She had rented a small chalet on the banks of a swift mountain-stream,
and thither, for a week or so, we went every day, often encountering. The
efforts we made to avoid each other being similar and simultaneous, they
oftener resulted in our meeting. When one did nothing, the other
generally did nothing also, and when one schemed, the other also schemed,
and similarly. Thus what had been the greatest pleasure of our peculiar
relation, our mental and moral resemblance, namely, became a large factor
in our mutual hate. For with self-loathing shame, and a misery that makes
me curse the day I was born, I confess that for a time I hated the
brother of my heart; and I have but too good ground for believing that he
also hated me!”
“I did! I did!” cried uncle Edmund, when my own uncle, in his verbal
narrative, mentioned his belief that his brother hated him; whereupon
uncle Edward turned to me, saying--
“Is it not terrible, my little one, that out of a passion called by the
same name with that which binds you and John Day, the hellish smoke of
such a hate should arise! God must understand it! that is a comfort: in
vain I seek to sound it. Even then I knew that I dwelt in an evil house.
Amid the highest of such hopes as the woman roused in me, I scented the
vapours of the pit. I was haunted by the dim shape of the coming hour
when I should hate the woman that enthralled me, more than ever I had
loved her. The greater sinner I am, that I yet yielded her dominion over
me. I was the willing slave of a woman who sought nothing but the
consciousness of power; who, to the indulgence of that vilest of
passions, would sacrifice the lives, the loves, the very souls of men!
She lived to separate, where Jesus died to make one! How weak and
unworthy was I to be caught in her snares! how wicked and vile not to
tear myself loose! The woman whose touch would defile the Pharisee, is
pure beside such a woman!”
I return to his manuscript.
“The lady must have had plenty of money, and she loved company and show;
I cannot but think, therefore, that she had her design in choosing such a
solitary place: its loveliness would subserve her intent of enthralling
thoroughly heart and soul and brain of the fools she had in her toils. I
doubt, however, if the fools were alive to any beauty but hers, if they
were not dead to the wavings of God's garment about them. Was I ever
truly aware of the presence of those peaks that dwelt alone with their
whiteness in the desert of the sky--awfully alone--of the world, but not
with the world? I think we saw nothing save with our bodily eyes, and
very little with them; for we were blinded by a passion fitter to wander
the halls of Eblis, than the palaces of God.
“The chalet stood in a little valley, high in the mountains, whose
surface was gently undulating, with here and there the rocks breaking
through its rich-flowering meadows. Down the middle of it ran the deep
swift stream, swift with the weight of its fullness, as well as the steep
slope of its descent. It was not more than seven or eight feet across,
but a great body of water went rushing along its deep course. About a
quarter of a mile from the chalet, it reached the first of a series of
falls of moderate height and slope, after which it divided into a number
of channels, mostly shallow, in a wide pebbly torrent-bed. These, a
little lower down, reunited into a narrower and yet swifter stream--a
small fierce river, which presently, at one reckless bound, shot into the
air, to tumble to a valley a thousand feet below, shattered into spray as
it fell.
“The chalet stood alone. The village was at no great distance, but not a
house was visible from any of its windows. It had no garden. The meadow,
one blaze of colour, softened by the green of the mingling grass, came up
to its wooden walls, and stretched from them down to the rocky bank of
the river, in many parts to the very water's-edge. The chalet stood like
a yellow rock in a green sea. The meadow was the drawing-room where the
lady generally received us.
“One lovely evening, I strolled out of the hostelry, and went walking up
the road that led to the village of Auerbach, so named from the stream
and the meadow I have described. The moon was up, and promised the
loveliest night. I was in no haste, for the lady had, in our common
hearing, said, she was going to pass that night with a friend, in a town
some ten miles away. I dawdled along therefore, thinking only to greet
the place, walk with the stream, and lie in the meadow, sacred with the
shadow of her demonian presence. Quit of the restless hope of seeing her,
I found myself taking some little pleasure in the things about me, and
spent two hours on the way, amid the sound of rushing water, now
swelling, now sinking, all the time.
“It had not crossed me to wonder where my brother might be. I banished
the thought of him as often as it intruded. Not able to help meeting, we
had almost given up avoiding each other; but when we met, our desire was
to part. I do not know that, apart, we had ever yet felt actual hate,
either to the other.
“The road led through the village. It was asleep. I remember a gleam in
just one of the houses. The moonlight seemed to have drowned all the
lamps of the world. I came to the stream, rushing cold from its far-off
glacier-mother, crossed it, and went down the bank opposite the chalet: I
had taken a fancy to see it from that side. Glittering and glancing under
the moon, the wild little river rushed joyous to its fearful fall. A
short distance away, it was even now falling--falling from off the face
of the world! This moment it was falling from my very feet into the
void--falling, falling, unupheld, down, down, through the moonlight, to
the ghastly rock-foot below!
“The chalet seemed deserted. With the same woefully desolate look, it
constantly comes back in my dreams. I went farther down the valley. The
full-rushing stream went with me like a dog. It made no murmur, only a
low gurgle as it shot along. It seemed to draw me with it to its last
leap. As I looked at its swiftness, I thought how hard it would be to get
out of. The swiftness of it comes to me yet in my dreams.
“I came to a familiar rock, which, part of the bank whereon I walked,
rose some six or seven feet above the meadow, just opposite a little
hollow where the lady oftenest sat. Two were on the grass together, one a
lady seated, the other a man, with his head in the lady's lap. I gave a
leap as if a bullet had gone through my heart, then instinctively drew
back behind the rock. There I came to myself, and began to take courage.
She had gone away for the night: it could not be she! I peeped. The man
had raised his head, and was leaning on his elbow. It was Edmund, I was
certain! She stooped and kissed him. I scrambled to the top of the rock,
and sprang across the stream, which ran below me like a flooded millrace.
Would to God I had missed the bank, and been swept to the great fall! I
was careless, and when I lighted, I fell. Her clear mocking laugh rang
through the air, and echoed from the scoop of some still mountain. When I
rose, they were on their feet.
“'Quite a chamois-spring!' remarked the lady with derision.
“She saw the last moment was come. Neither of us two spoke.
“'I told you,' she said, 'neither of you was to trouble me to-night: you
have paid no regard to my wish for quiet! It is time the foolery should
end! I am weary of it. A woman cannot marry a double man--or half a man
either--without at least being able to tell which is which of the two
halves!'
“She ended with a toneless laugh, in which my brother joined. She turned
upon him with a pitiless mockery which, I see now, must have left in his
mind the conviction that she had been but making game of him; while I
never doubted myself the dupe. Not once had she received me as I now saw
her: though the night was warm, her deshabille was yet a somewhat
prodigal unmasking of her beauty to the moon! The conviction in each of
us was, that she and the other were laughing at him.
“We locked in a deadly struggle, with what object I cannot tell. I do not
believe either of us had an object. It was a mere blind conflict of
pointless enmity, in which each cared but to overpower the other. Which
first laid hold, which, if either, began to drag, I have not a suspicion.
The next thing I know is, we were in the water, each in the grasp of the
other, now rolling, now sweeping, now tumbling along, in deadly embrace.
“The shock of the ice-cold water, and the sense of our danger, brought me
to myself. I let my brother go, but he clutched me still. Down we shot
together toward the sheer descent. Already we seemed falling. The terror
of it over-mastered me. It was not the crash I feared, but the stayless
rush through the whistling emptiness. In the agony of my despair, I
pushed him from me with all my strength, striking at him a fierce, wild,
aimless blow--the only blow struck in the wrestle. His hold relaxed. I
remember nothing more.”
At this point of the verbal narrative, my uncle Edmund again spoke.
“You never struck me, Ed,” he cried; “or if you did, I was already
senseless. I remember nothing of the water.”
“When I came to myself,” the manuscript goes on, “I was lying in a pebbly
shoal. The moon was aloft in heaven. I was cold to the heart, cold to the
marrow of my bones. I could move neither hand nor foot, and thought I was
dead. By slow degrees a little power came back, and I managed at length,
after much agonizing effort, to get up on my feet--only to fall again.
After several such failures, I found myself capable of dragging myself
along like a serpent, and so got out of the water, and on the next
endeavour was able to stand. I had forgotten everything; but when my eyes
fell on the darting torrent, I remembered all--not as a fact, but as a
terrible dream from which I thanked heaven I had come awake.
“But as I tottered along, I came slowly to myself, and a fearful doubt
awoke. If it was a dream, where had I dreamt it? How had I come to wake
where I found myself? How had the dream turned real about me? Where was I
last in my remembrance? Where was my brother? Where was the lady in the
moonlight? No, it was not a dream! If my brother had not got out of the
water, I was his murderer! I had struck him!--Oh, the horror of it! If
only I could stop dreaming it--three times almost every night!”
Again uncle Edmund interposed--not altogether logically:
“I tell you, I don't believe you struck me, Ed! And you must remember,
neither of us would have got out if you hadn't!”
“You might have let me go!” said the other.
“On the way down the Degenfall, perhaps!” rejoined uncle Edmund. “--I
believe it was that blow brought me to my senses, and made me get out!”
“Thank you, Ed!” said uncle Edward.
Once more I write from the manuscript.
“I said to myself he _must_ have got out! It could not be that I had
drowned my own brother! Such a ghastly thing could not have been
permitted! It was too terrible to be possible!
“How, then, had we been living the last few months? What brothers had we
been? Had we been loving one another? Had I been a neighbour to my
nearest? Had I been a brother to my twin? Was not murder the natural
outcome of it all? He that loveth not his brother is a murderer! If so,
where the good of saving me from being in deed what I was in nature? I
had cast off my brother for a treacherous woman! My very thought sickened
within me.
“My soul seemed to grow luminous, and understand everything. I saw my
whole behaviour as it was. The scales fell from my inward eyes, and there
came a sudden, total, and absolute revulsion in my conscious self--like
what takes place, I presume, at the day of judgment, when the God in
every man sits in judgment upon the man. Had the gate of heaven stood
wide open, neither angel with flaming sword, nor Peter with the keys to
dispute my entrance, I would have turned away from it, and sought the
deepest hell. I loathed the woman and myself; in my heart the sealed
fountain of old affection had broken out, and flooded it.
“All the time this thinking went on, I was crawling slowly up the endless
river toward the chalet, driven by a hope inconsistent with what I knew
of my brother. What I felt, he, if he were alive, must be feeling also:
how then could I say to myself that I should find him with her? It was
the last dying hope that I had not killed him that thus fooled me. 'She
will be warming him in her bosom!' I said. But at the very touch, the
idea turned and presented its opposite pole. 'Good God!' I cried in my
heart, 'how shall I compass his deliverance? Better he lay at the bottom
of the fall, than lived to be devoured by that serpent of hell! I will go
straight to the den of the monster, and demand my brother!'”
But to see the eyes of uncle Edmund at this point of the story!
“At last I approached the chalet. All was still. A handkerchief lay on
the grass, white in the moonlight. I went up to it, hoping to find it my
brother's. It was the lady's. I flung it from me like a filthy rag.
“What was the passion worth which in a moment could die so utterly!
“I turned to the house. I would tear him from her: he was mine, not hers!
“My wits were nigh gone. I thought the moonlight was dissolving the
chalet, that the two within might escape me. I held it fast with my eyes.
The moon drew back: she only possessed and filled it! No; the moon was
too pure: she but shone reflected from the windows; she would not go in!
_I_ would go in! I was Justice! The woman was a thief! She had broken
into the house of life, and was stealing!
“I stood for a moment looking up at her window. There was neither motion
nor sound. Was she gone away, and my brother with her? Could she be in
bed and asleep, after seeing us swept down the river to the Degenfall!
Could he be with her and at rest, believing me dashed to pieces? I must
be resolved! The door was not bolted; I stole up the stair to her
chamber. The door of it was wide open. I entered, and stood. The moon
filled the tiny room with a clear, sharp-edged, pale-yellow light. She
lay asleep, lovely to look at as an angel of God. Her hair, part of it
thrown across the top-rail of the little iron bed, streamed out on each
side over the pillow, and in the midst of it lay her face, a radiant isle
in a dark sea. I stood and gazed. Fascinated by her beauty? God forbid! I
was fascinated by the awful incongruity between that face, pure as the
moonlight, and the charnel-house that lay unseen behind it. She was to
me, henceforth, not a woman, but a live Death. I had no sense of
sacredness, such as always in the chamber even of a little girl. How
should I? It was no chamber; it was a den. She was no woman, but a female
monster. I stood and gazed.
“My presence was more potent than I knew. She opened her eyes--opened
them straight into mine. All the colour sank away out of her face, and it
stiffened to that of a corpse. With the staring eyes of one strangled,
she lay as motionless as I stood. I moved not an inch, spoke not a word,
drew not a step nearer, retreated not a hair's-breadth. Motion was taken
from me. Was it hate that fixed my eyes on hers, and turned my limbs into
marble? It certainly was not love, but neither was it hate.
“Agony had been burrowing in me like a mole; the half of what I felt I
have not told you: I came to find my brother, and found only, in a sweet
sleep, the woman who had just killed him. The bewilderment, of it all,
with my long insensibility and wet garments, had taken from me either the
power of motion or of volition, I do not know which: speechless in the
moonlight, I must have looked to the wretched woman both ghostly and
ghastly.
“Two or three long moments she gazed with those horror-struck eyes; then
a frightful shriek broke from her drawn, death-like lips. She who could
sleep after turning love into hate, life into death, would have fled into
hell to escape the eyes of the dead! Insensibility is not courage. Wake
in the scornfullest mortal the conviction that one of the disembodied
stands before him, and he will shiver like an aspen-leaf. Scream followed
scream. Volition or strength, whichever it was that had left me,
returned. I backed from the room, went noiseless from the house, and
fled, as if she had been the ghost, and I the mortal. Would I had been
the spectre for which she took me!”
Here uncle Edward again spoke.
“Small wonder she screamed, the wretch!” he cried: “that was her second
dose of the horrible that night! You found the door unbolted because I
had been there before you. I too entered her room, and saw her asleep as
you describe. I went close to her bedside, and cried out, 'Where is my
brother?' She woke, and fainted, and I left her.”
“Then,” said I, “when she came to herself, thinking she had had a bad
dream, she rearranged her hair, and went to sleep again!”
“Just so, I daresay, little one!” answered uncle Edward.
“I had not yet begun to think what I should do, when I found myself at
our little inn,” the manuscript continues. “No idea of danger to myself
awoke in my mind, nor was there any cause to heed such an idea, had it
come. Nobody there knew the one from the other of us. Not many would know
there were two of us. Any one who saw me twice, might well think he had
seen us both. If my brother's body were found in the valley stream, it
was not likely to be recognized, or to be indeed recognizable. The only
one who could tell what happened at the top of the fall, would hardly
volunteer information. But, while I knew myself my brother's murderer, I
thought no more of these sheltering facts than I did of danger. I made it
no secret that my brother had gone over the fall. I went to the foot of
the cataract, thence to search and inquire all down the stream, but no
one had heard of any dead body being found. They told me that the poor
gentleman must, before morning, have been far on his way to the Danube.
“Giving up the quest in despair, I resigned myself to a torture which has
hitherto come no nearer expending itself than the consuming fire of God.
“I dared not carry home the terrible news, which must either involve me
in lying, or elicit such confession as would multiply tenfold my father's
anguish, and was in utter perplexity what to do, when it occurred to me
that I ought to inquire after letters at the lodging where last we had
lived together. Then first I learned that both my father and my elder
brother, your father, little one, were dead.
“The sense of guilt had not destroyed in me the sense of duty. I did not
care what became of the property, but I did care for my brother's child,
and the interests of her succession.
“Your father had all his life been delicate, and had suffered not a
little. When your mother died, about a year after their marriage, leaving
us you, it soon grew plain to see that, while he loved you dearly, and
was yet more friendly to all about him than before, his heart had given
up the world. When I knew he was gone, I shed more tears over him than I
had yet shed over my twin: the worm that never dies made my brain too hot
to weep much for Edmund. Then first I saw that my elder brother had been
a brother indeed; and that we twins had never been real to each other. I
saw what nothing but self-loathing would ever have brought me to see,
that my love to Edmund had not been profound: while a man is himself
shallow, how should his love be deep! I saw that we had each loved our
elder brother in a truer and better fashion than we had loved each other.
One of the chief active bonds between us had been fun; another, habit;
and another, constitutional resemblance--not one of them strong.
Underneath were bonds far stronger, but they had never come into
conscious play; no strain had reached them. They were there, I say; for
wherever is the poorest flower of love, it is there in virtue of the
perfect root of love; and love's root must one day blossom into love's
perfect rose. My chief consolation under the burden of my guilt is, that
I love my brother since I killed him, far more than I loved him when we
were all to each other. Had we never quarrelled, and were he alive, I
should not be loving him thus!
“That we shall meet again, and live in the devotion of a far deeper love,
I feel in the very heart of my soul. That it is my miserable need that
has wrought in me this confidence, is no argument against the confidence.
As misery alone sees miracles, so is there many a truth into which misery
alone can enter. My little one, do not pity your uncle much; I have
learned to lift up my heart to God. I look to him who is the saviour of
men to deliver me from blood-guiltiness--to lead me into my brother's
pardon, and enable me somehow to make up to him for the wrong I did him.
“Some would think I ought to give myself up to justice. But I felt and
feel that I owe my brother reparation, not my country the opportunity of
retribution. It cannot be demanded of me to pretermit, because of my
crime, the duty more strongly required of me because of the crime. Must I
not use my best endeavour to turn aside its evil consequences from
others? Was I, were it even for the cleansing of my vile soul, to leave
the child of my brother alone with a property exposing her to the
machinations of prowling selfishness! Would it atone for the wrong of
depriving her of one uncle, to take the other from her, and so leave her
defenceless with a burden she could not carry? Must I take so-called
justice on myself at her expense--to the oppression, darkening, and
endangering of her life? Were I accused, I would tell the truth; but I
would not volunteer a phantasmal atonement. What comfort would it be to
my brother that I was hanged? Let the punishment God pleased come upon
me, I said; as far as lay in me, I would live for my brother's child! I
have lived for her.
“But I am, and have been, and shall, I trust, throughout my earthly time,
and what time thereafter may be needful, always be in Purgatory. I should
tremble at the thought of coming out of it a moment ere it had done its
part.
“One day, after my return home, as I unpacked a portmanteau, my fingers
slipped into the pocket of a waistcoat, and came upon something which,
when I brought it to the light, proved a large ruby. A pang went to my
heart. I looked at the waistcoat, and found it the one I had worn that
terrible night: the ruby was the stone of the ring Edmund always wore. It
must have been loose, and had got there in our struggle. Every now and
then I am drawn to look at it. At first I saw in it only the blood; now I
see the light also. The moon of hope rises higher as the sun of life
approaches the horizon.
“I was never questioned about the death of my twin brother. One, of two
so like, must seem enough. Our resemblance, I believe, was a bore, which
the teasing use we made of it aggravated; therefore the fact that there
was no longer a pair of us, could not be regarded as cause for regret,
and things quickly settled down to the state in which you so long knew
them. If there be one with a suspicion of the terrible truth, it is
cousin Martha.
“You will not be surprised that you should never have heard of your uncle
Edmund.
“I dare not ask you, my child, not to love me less; for perhaps you ought
to do so. If you do, I have my consolation in the fact that my little one
cannot make me love _her_ less.”
Thus ended the manuscript, signed with my uncle's name and address in
full, and directed to me at the bottom of the last page.