TWINS
Next morning, Clarice and her brother were at breakfast together in a
cheerful little octagon-shaped room, all enamelled white panels,
delicately painted wreaths of flowers and profuse gilding. More snow
had fallen during the night, and through the tall, narrow windows
could be seen a spotless world, almost as white as the breakfast-room
itself. But a cheerful fire of oak logs blazing in the brass basket,
where the bluish tiles took the smoke, and in the centre of the
apartment a round table, large enough for two, was covered with dainty
linen upon which stood a silver service, delicate china, and many
appetizing dishes. Clarice was a notable housekeeper, and knowing that
Ferdinand was fond of a good breakfast, used her best endeavours to
provide him with the toothsome food he loved. And this was somewhat in
the nature of a bribe.
"By jove!" said the young man, attacking a devilled kidney, "Jerce's
housekeeper doesn't feed me like this."
"Then why don't you come down here oftener, Ferdy, and allow me to
feed you," suggested Clarice, artfully, and filled him another cup of
hot fragrant coffee.
"What rot--as if I could. Jerce keeps me at work, I can tell you. I
scarcely have a minute to myself."
"And the minutes you have are given to other people than your sister,"
said Clarice, dryly.
"Ho! ho!" Ferdinand chuckled. "Jealous of Prudence."
"No! I should like to see you married to Prudence. She would keep you
in order."
"Bosh! Jerce does that."
"I doubt it, after what he told me last night."
Knife and fork fell from Ferdinand's hands, and his rosy complexion
became as white as the snow out of doors. "Wh-a-t--what--did he tell
you?" he quavered, while Clarice looked at him, astonished.
"Only that you are a trifle wild," she hastened to explain. "Why
should you look so alarmed?"
"I'm--I'm not alarmed," denied Baird, and absently wiped his forehead
with his napkin. "That is, of course if Jerce talks about my being
wild to you, and you speak to Prudence, she'll give me the go-by, like
a shot. Prudence is awfully jealous."
"I'm not in the habit of telling tales," said Clarice, dryly.
"Jerce is, then. Why can't he hold his tongue?"
"Is what he says true?"
"I don't exactly know what he did say," said Ferdinand, irritably, and
pushed back his plate. "You've spoilt my breakfast. I don't like
shocks."
"Why should you receive a shock from my very simple observation?"
"Because--well, because of Prudence. I'm fond of Prudence, and I don't
want her to know that I--well, that I--enjoy myself."
Clarice tried to catch his eye, so as to see if he was speaking the
truth, but Ferdinand evaded her gaze, and rising, went to the
fireplace, where he lighted a cigarette. The girl remained seated
where she was, resting her elbows on the table, and with a frown
knitting her brow. Ferdy was so weak, that she always feared lest his
weakness should land him in trouble. Moreover, he was not truthful,
when anything was to be gained by telling a falsehood. His confused
manner showed that he had something to hide; but, she reflected
bitterly, that to ply him with questions, would only make his
recording angel take to shorthand, so rapidly would the lies pour out.
Ferdy, leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, admired his own handsome
face in the round mirror, and furtively glanced at the reflection
of his sister. The twins were wonderfully alike, and wonderfully
good-looking, but Clarice, strange to say, was the more manly of the
two. That is her manner was more masculine and decisive, her mouth was
firmer, and she had the squarer chin. With his rosy oval face, his
Grecian nose, his full lips, and soft brown hair, which lay in silky
waves on his white forehead, Ferdinand was much too pretty for a man.
He possessed a slim, shapely figure, and wore the smartest of clothes
with an aristocratic air. Curiously enough, considering his delicate
looks, he was an excellent athlete, and also had proved his bravery
more than once, when in the Wild Waste Lands at the Back of Beyond,
whither he had gone a year previously on a tramp steamer. From that
wild excursion he had returned brown and healthy, and full of life;
but within twenty-four hours, Clarice, who had rejoiced at the
apparently virile change, knew that Ferdy was as weak and wavering as
ever. He was a weed to voyage with every current, a feather to be
wafted hither and thither, on every breath of wind.
"I should have been the man," said Clarice, suddenly rising, and
placing her hands on her hips with a throw-back of her shoulders.
"Eh--er--what's that you say?" asked Ferdy, absently.
His sister came to where he stood, and placed her face beside his. "I
should have been the man, and you the woman," she declared, as they
looked at their delicate, youthful faces in the mirror. "You and I are
alike, Ferdy, but there is a difference."
"If we are alike, how can there be a difference?" asked the wise
youth, pettishly.
"Can't you see? I can. Look at my chin, and at your own. Gaze into my
eyes, see the firmness of my lips. There's a dash of the man in me,
Ferdy, and much of the woman about you."
Baird dropped into an armchair and kicked his long legs in the air
with a light laugh. "I suppose you say that, because I'm like you."
"You aren't like me. I wish you were."
"Come, now--your face and mine. Where's the difference?"
"In the points I have named," she replied, quickly. "I am not talking
of the physical, Ferdy. I know you are brave enough, dear, and can
hold your own with anyone, where fighting is concerned."
"I should jolly well think I could," muttered Baird, bending his arm
and feeling his muscle. "I've never been licked in a fight yet."
"But," went on Clarice, with emphasis, "it's your nature I talk of.
You are so weak--so very, very weak."
"I'm not," snapped Ferdy, flushing. "I always have my own way."
"Ah, that's obstinacy, not strength. Because a person said no, you
would say yes, and vice-versa. But you are the prey of your own
passions, Ferdy. You deny yourself nothing."
"Why should I?"
"Because it is by denial--by self-denial, that we make ourselves
strong, Ferdy. Why, any woman could twist you round her finger."
"Any woman can twist any man, you mean. If you bring the sex question
into the matter, Clarice, I admit that man is the weaker vessel. A
woman can do what she likes with a man. Women rule the world, and why
they should bother about this suffragette business, beats me."
"All men can't be twisted by women, Ferdy. Dr. Jerce, for instance."
"Pooh. He's so wrapped up in medicine and science that he hates the
sex--your sex, I mean."
"I don't think so," said Clarice, recalling a scene on the previous
night. "Dr. Jerce is a man like other men in that way, only he is
sufficiently strong to hold his own with women."
"I say," cried Ferdy, restlessly, "what's all this chatter about?"
"About you, if you'll only listen," said his sister, looking down at
the weak frowning face. "I'm worried about you, Ferdy. When you were
here with me, I could manage you, but since you came back from that
trip a year ago, and went in for medicine, you have changed for the
worse."
"I don't see that," said Baird, sulkily.
"I do. There are lines on your face, which should not be there at your
age. Look at the black circles under your eyes. You're getting the
look of a man who stops up night after night, and you do."
"Who says that?"
"Dr. Jerce says it. You don't attend to your work, he says. You are
always at music-halls; you take more drink than is good for you; you
gamble above what you can afford, and I dare say that you make love to
all manner of women."
"Oh, I say, you shouldn't say that last."
"Because I'm a girl--an unmarried woman," flashed out Clarice. "What
rubbish! I'll say what I think to you, who are my only brother and my
twin. Do you think that I am going to see you ruin yourself with wine
and women and cards, simply because there are things a girl is not
supposed to know? I am twenty-three. I have had endless responsibility
since Uncle Henry took ill, so I am quite able to speak out and to
save you if possible."
Ferdinand rose and flung his cigarette into the fire. "I won't have
you talk like that to me," he declared, his voice thick with anger. "I
am a man, and you are a woman."
"The reverse, I think," retorted Clarice, bitterly.
"You have got far too high an opinion of yourself," foamed Ferdy,
kicking the logs angrily, "and when Uncle Henry dies, I'll show you
who is to be master here."
Clarice ignored the latter part of this speech. "Why do you suggest
that Uncle Henry may die?"
"He's ill--he can't last long," stammered Ferdy, evasively.
"How do you know? How does Dr. Jerce know? He told me himself that he
could not understand this strange illness, and could not say whether
Uncle Henry would live or die. Do you call yourself more clever than
Dr. Jerce?"
"I have studied medicine, and--"
"For twelve months, and what you call study, I call pursuit of
pleasure. You are wasting your life, and there is no one to stand
between you and ruin, but me. I dare not tell Uncle Henry what Dr.
Jerce reported to me, as his health is too delicate to stand shocks."
"You can tell him what you like," mumbled Ferdy, knowing very well
that he was safe in giving the permission.
"I shall tell him nothing, but," added Clarice, with emphasis, "I'll
tell Prudence, if you don't mend."
Ferdy clenched his hands and his eyes flashed.
"Prudence won't believe one word of what you say," he declared,
angrily. "She loves me, as I love her, and--"
"Do you love her?" asked Clarice, sharply, and Ferdinand recoiled
before the look in her eyes. "Dr. Jerce--"
"What has he dared to say?"
"Nothing more than what I have told you," said the girl, "but no man
who is behaving as you are, can possibly love a woman truly."
"Oh, bother, leave these sort of things alone. You are a girl, and you
don't understand. As to Jerce, he has his own secrets."
He turned on his heel to leave the room, but Clarice swiftly placed
herself in his way. "Now, what do you mean by that?" she asked,
wondering if Jerce had related the scene of the previous night in
order to enlist Ferdy on his side to forward his suit.
"Well," mumbled the young man, pausing and fishing out another
cigarette from mere habit, "there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you
about the row. Jerce never said I wasn't to."
"What row--as you call it?"
"I don't know what else you would call it," retorted Ferdy, who had
regained his good humour, with the shallow capacity of his nature. "I
don't know who that chap in grey can be, but Jerce knows. And what's
more, I believe he hunted him out last night. I was going to town with
Jerce and he said that I could stop down here for a couple of days. If
he wasn't after that grey chap, why didn't he want my company?"
Clarice listened to all this with a puzzled expression. "I don't
understand a word you're talking about," she said, tartly; "what grey
man--what row?"
"Well," drawled Baird, lighting his cigarette, and strolling back to
his seat, "it's like this." And he related all that had taken place on
the terrace, and described the man with the criss-cross scar on his
face, ending up with a few comments of his own. "And Jerce must know
the chap, for he wouldn't let me go for the police. Oh, Jerce has his
secrets, and if a chap has to knock him down and go through his
pockets, those secrets ain't respectable--that's all I have to say. A
nice chap Jerce is, to talk of my being wild, when he's old enough to
know better, and has larks like this."
"Why don't you tell him so?" asked Clarice, sarcastically.
"Oh, it's none of my business," replied Ferdy, airily. All the same
his delicate colour came and went in a way which showed Clarice that
he was afraid of Dr. Jerce. And very rightly, too, considering their
relative ages and different positions in the world.
"It's a strange thing," said Clarice, thoughtfully, kilting up her
dress and resting one slender foot on the fender. "I wonder Dr. Jerce
didn't speak of the matter."
"Oh, he wants you to have a good opinion of him, so doesn't give away
his little wickednesses."
"Ferdy!" said Miss Baird, sharply, for his flippant tone jarred on
her, "you have no right to speak like this of Dr. Jerce. Everyone who
knows him, is aware that his character is of the highest. He is
charitable and attends to poor people in some London slum for nothing.
No one can breathe a word against him. A man like Dr. Jerce would not
hold the position he does, or expect to be knighted, unless his
reputation and life were spotless. However, there's an easy way of
learning the truth. Dr. Jerce is coming down again to-morrow to
consult with Dr. Wentworth over Uncle Henry's case; I'll tell him what
you say!"
"No! no!" This time Ferdinand went quite white and spoke with dry
lips. "You'll only get me into a row. I dare say Jerce is all right. I
never heard anyone speak of him save with the highest praise, and he
has been a good friend to me. I don't want to quarrel with him."
"There is no need that you should do so, Ferdy. All I mean to ask Dr.
Jerce is, why the man assaulted him and went through his pockets."
"He says that he doesn't know," said Ferdy gruffly.
"You say that he knows the man?"
"He might--that is, I think so. Anyhow, he wouldn't let me go for the
police, so it looks as though he didn't want a public row. But you'd
better not say anything, Clarice. Jerce may get his back up at my
telling you. He'd row me. I don't want that. Jerce is a brick, you
know, Clarry. He's lent me money when Uncle Henry kept me short."
Remembering the hopes expressed by the doctor, Clarice was vastly
indignant at this revelation, and faced her weak twin with clenched
hands. "How dare you borrow money from Dr. Jerce?" she said, and her
eyes flashed. "Uncle Henry gives you all you want."
"He doesn't," said Ferdy, sulkily. "He allows me next to nothing. I
call him a skinflint. What's two hundred a year?"
"Very good pocket-money. He pays your bills, keeps you for nothing,
and gives you four pounds a week to waste. Yet with all that, you
borrow from Dr. Jerce. How much have you had?"
"That's my business."
"Mine also. Tell me, or I'll tell Uncle Henry."
"Only a few hundreds," snarled Ferdy, reluctantly.
"A few hundreds!" Clarice sank into her seat and looked at Ferdy with
consternation. "And how on earth have you spent so much, in addition
to your own income?"
"Money will go," lamented Ferdy. "Whenever I break a pound, I never
have any left within the hour."
"You'll bring disgrace on us some day," said Clarice, with a pained
look. "Why didn't you come to me?"
"You're so high and mighty. You wouldn't have understood."
"I understand this much, that Dr. Jerce is the last man I should wish
you to have money from."
"I thought you liked him."
"I did--I do, and I respect him. All the same, I wish you hadn't
borrowed from him." Ferdinand rose and kicked the logs again in his
petulant fashion. "I must have money somehow to enjoy myself."
"You have four pounds a week."
"What's that--I want fifty. And after all, it's my own money. When we
come of age in two years we each have two thousand a year. I don't see
why Uncle Henry should grudge me cash in the way he does. If you don't
want to spend it, I do. And what's more," cried Ferdy, working himself
into a rage, "I'm going to."
"You shan't spend Dr. Jerce's money," said Clarice, and her mouth shut
firmly, while her eyes glittered like steel.
"How can you stop me from getting it?" scoffed Fred, uneasily. "I can
ask him to refuse you more. Dr. Jerce will do anything for me."
Ferdy scowled. "I know that," he said, moodily.
"He hinted that he was in love with you. If you were only a decent
sort, Clarry, you would marry him and help me. He's got heaps of tin,
and you'd be Lady Jerce some day, you know."
"Oh!" said Clarice, and her voice was as hard as her eyes, "did Dr.
Jerce ask you to speak to me?"
"No! no, on my honour he didn't; but he hinted that he'd like you to
be his wife. I never said anything."
"Not even that I am engaged to Anthony Ackworth."
Ferdy looked up in genuine surprise. "Oh, by Jove, you ain't!"
"Yes, I am. He asked me to become his wife only six days ago. I
consented, and we are engaged. Uncle Henry knows, and I intended to
tell you later. I thought you might have guessed. Apparently you did
not, being so wrapped up in yourself. I'm glad of that, as I want to
tell Dr. Jerce myself. You would only bungle the matter."
"Ackworth's only a gunner chap," muttered Ferdinand, in dismay. "You
had much better marry Jerce. He could help me, you know."
"With more money, I suppose."
"Well, not exactly that," confessed Ferdy, with an engaging air of
candour, "though I shouldn't mind asking him for a fiver, if I were
hard up, which I generally am. But when I become a doctor, Jerce could
retire and hand over his patients to me, you know. Oh, there are lots
of ways in which he could be useful to me, if you are nice to him. If
you ain't, he may cut up rough, and Jerce isn't pleasant when he's in
a rage, I can tell you."
"Oh!" said Clarice, contemptuously, "so to please you, I am to marry a
man old enough to be my father."
"He's only fifty-five, and rich, and he'll have a title soon."
"So will Anthony, if it comes to that. His father is a baronet."
"A poor baronet," sneered Ferdy, with emphasis. "I'll have two
thousand a year of my own when I am twenty-five," said the girl,
ignoring the speech, "and Anthony has his pay and an allowance from
his father. We will be able to live very comfortably on what we can
get. Besides, Uncle Henry likes Anthony, and is delighted that I
should marry him. As to Dr. Jerce--" she hesitated.
"What about him?" murmured Baird, nervously.
"I'll inform him of my engagement, when he comes down again. Also,
I'll ask him about this row, as you call it, and request him to refuse
you more money."
"You'll ruin me," gasped Ferdinand, on whose forehead the drops of
perspiration were standing thickly.
"In what way?"
"Jerce will chuck me. He can be a beast when he likes."
"Let him be a beast," said Clarice, impatiently, "although I think you
exaggerate. He'll say nothing. He has no right to say anything."
"Clarice!" He caught her hands. "For my sake you must marry Jerce."
The girl released herself, angrily. "What do you mean by that?"
"Jerce could help me so much," said Ferdy, feebly.
"Is that all?" asked Clarice, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on
the weak, handsome face of her brother.
"Of course--of course," he replied, testily. "What else could there
be, you stupid girl?"
"I don't know," she said, coldly, "but I do know, Ferdy, that you
never by any chance tell the whole truth. You always keep something
back, and that makes it difficult to know how to advise you."
"I don't ask for advice."
"No," she answered, bitterly, "you ask for a sacrifice which in your
egotistic eyes is no sacrifice. And you are keeping something back
from me. What reason have you to be afraid of Dr. Jerce?"
"I have no reason. I never said that I was afraid."
"And yet----"
"And yet--and yet," he broke in, snappishly, "you are making a
mountain out of a mole-hill. I only suggest that you should marry--"
"Marry a man I don't love. My word is passed to Anthony."
"Clarice?"
The girl pushed him aside and opened the door. "That is enough. Go
your own silly way, but don't ask me to come with you."
"Ah! You are always selfish."
"Always," said Clarice, sadly, and thinking of the many small
sacrifices she had made for the fool before her, "therefore, I marry
the man I love!" and she hastened from the room, unwilling to break
down before one who would take such emotion as a sign of yielding.
Ferdy, left alone, kicked over the breakfast table, and vented his
rage on the furniture generally. The room was quite a wreck by the
time his feelings were completely relieved.