At six o'clock, Harold Carnegie returned from the office. He, too, had
been thinking all day of Isabel Walters, and the moment he got home he
went 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 words
dimly transferred to the paper in the blotting-book. They were in
Ernest's handwriting, and he was quite sure the four first words read,
"My dear Miss Walters." Then Ernest had already been beforehand with
him, after all! But not by a fortnight: that was one good point; not
this time by a fortnight! He would be even with him yet; he would catch
up this anticipatory twin-brother of his, by force or fraud, rather than
let him steal away Isabel Walters from him once and for ever. "All's
fair in love and war," he muttered to himself, taking up the
blotting-book carefully, and tearing out the tell-tale leaf in a
furtive fashion. "Thank Heaven, Ernest writes a thick black hand, the
same as I do; and I shall probably be able to read it by holding it up
to the light." In his own soul Harold Carnegie loathed himself for such
an act of petty meanness; but he did it; with love and jealousy goading
him on, and the fear of his own twin-brother stinging him madly, he did
it; remorsefully and shamefacedly, but still did it.
He took the page up to his own bedroom, and held it up to the
window-pane. Blurred and indistinct, the words nevertheless came out
legibly in patches here and there, so that with a little patient
deciphering Harold could spell out the sense of both letters, though
they crossed one another obliquely at a slight angle. "Very brief and
casual acquaintance ... Montagus' steam-launch expedition up the river
from Surbiton to-morrow ... am going and am particularly anxious to meet
you ... this favour of you...." "So that's his plan, is it?" Harold said
to 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 at
half-past two.' Aha, I thought so! Checkmate, Mr. Ernest, checkmate: a
scholar'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 the
South-Western at 2.10. But to-morrow's the first of the month; the new
time-tables come into force; I've got one and looked it out already. The
South-Western now leaves at 2.4, three minutes before Mr. Ernest's train
arrives at Clapham Junction. I have him now, I have him now, depend upon
it. 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 Aunt
Portlebury'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, and
war you shall have it. I thank thee, friend, for teaching me that word.
Rivals now, you said; yes, rivals. 'Dolus an virtus, quis in hoste
requirat?' Why, that comes out of the passage about Androgeos! An omen,
a good omen. There's nothing like war for quickening the intelligence. I
haven't looked at a Virgil since I was in the sixth form; and yet the
line 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 a
conscience), Harold Carnegie dressed hastily for dinner, and went down
quickly in a state of feverish excitement. Dinner passed off grimly
enough. He knew Ernest had written to Isabel; and Ernest guessed from
the other's excited, triumphant manner (though he tried hard to
dissemble the note of triumph in it) that Harold must have written
too--perhaps forestalling him by a direct proposal. In a dim way Mrs.
Carnegie guessed vaguely that some coldness had arisen between her two
boys, the first time for many years; and so she held her peace for the
most part, or talked in asides to Nellie Holt and her daughter. The
conversation was therefore chiefly delegated to Mr. Carnegie himself,
who discoursed with much animation about the iniquitous nature of the
new act for reducing costs in actions for the recovery of small debts--a
subject calculated to arouse the keenest interest in the minds of Nellie
and Edie.
Next morning, Harold Carnegie started for the office with prospective
victory elate in his very step, and yet with the consciousness of his
own mean action grinding him down to the pavement as he walked along it.
What a dirty, petty, dishonourable subterfuge! and still he would go
through with it. What a self-degrading bit of treachery! and yet he
would carry it out. "Pater," he said, as he walked along, "I mean to
take a holiday this afternoon. I'm going to the Montagus' water-party."
"Very inconvenient, Harold, my boy; 'Wilkins _versus_ the Great Northern
Railway Company' coming on for hearing; and, besides, Ernest's going
there too. They won't want a pair of you, will they?"
"Can't help it, Pater," Harold answered. "I have particular business at
Surbiton, much more important to me than 'Wilkins versus the Great
Northern Railway Company.'"
His father looked at him keenly. "Ha!" he said, "a lady in the case, is
there? Very well, my boy, if you must you must, and that's the end of
it. A young man in love never does make an efficient lawyer. Get it over
quickly, pray; get it over quickly, that's all I beg of you."
"I shall get it over, I promise you," Harold answered, "this very
afternoon."
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 very
sudden." But as Harold volunteered no further information, Mr. Carnegie,
who was a shrewd man of the world, held it good policy to ask him
nothing more about it for the present; and so they walked on the rest of
the way to the father's office in unbroken silence.
At one o'clock, Harold shut up his desk at the office and ran down to
Surbiton. At Clapham Junction he kept a sharp look-out for Ernest, but
Ernest was not there. Clearly, as Harold anticipated, he hadn't learnt
the alteration in the time-tables, and wouldn't reach Clapham Junction
till the train for Surbiton had started.
At Surbiton, Harold pushed on arrangements as quickly as possible, and
managed to get the party off before Ernest arrived upon the scene. Mrs.
Montagu, seeing "one of the young Carnegies" duly to hand, and never
having attempted to discriminate between them in any way, was perfectly
happy at the prospect of getting landed at Lady Portlebury's without
any minute investigation of the intricate question of Christian names.
The Montagus were _nouveaux riches_ in the very act of pushing
themselves into fashionable society; and a chance of invading the
Portlebury lawn was extremely welcome to them upon any terms whatsoever.
Isabel Walters was looking charming. A light morning dress became her
even better than the dark red satin of the night before last; and she
smiled at Harold with the smile of a mutual confidence when she took his
hand, in a way that made his heart throb fast within him. From that
moment 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 and
brilliantly he talked all the way up to Portlebury Lodge! Everybody
listened to him; he was the life and soul of the party. Isabel felt more
flattered than ever at his marked attention. He was the doctor, wasn't
he? No, the lawyer. Well, really, how impossible it was to distinguish
and remember them. And so well connected, too. If he were to propose to
her, now, she could afford to be so condescending to Amy Balfour.
At Lady Portlebury's lawn the steam-launch halted, and Harold managed to
get Isabel alone among the walks, while his aunt escorted the main body
of visitors thus thrust upon her hands over the conservatories. Eager
and hasty, now, he lost no time in making the best of the situation.
"I guessed as much, of course, from your letter, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel
said, playing with her fan with downcast eyes, as he pressed his offer
upon her; "and I really didn't know whether it was right of me to come
here without showing it to mamma and asking her advice about it. But I'm
quite sure I oughtn't to give you an answer at once, because I've seen
so 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 short
acquaintance."
"No, no, Miss Walters," Harold said quickly. "For Heaven's sake, give me
an answer now, I beg of you--I implore you. I must have an answer at
once, immediately. If you can't love me at first sight, for my own
sake--as I loved you the moment I saw you--you can never, never, never
love me! Doubt and hesitation are impossible in true love. Now, or
refuse me for ever! Surely you must know in your own heart whether you
can love me or not; if your heart tells you that you can, then trust
it--trust it--don't argue and reason with it, but say at once you will
make 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 love
you. I like you very much; won't that do for the present? Why are you in
such a hurry for an answer? Why can't you give me a week or two to
decide in?"
"Because," said Harold, desperately, "if I give you a week my brother
will ask you, and perhaps you will marry him instead of me. He's always
before me in everything, and I'm afraid he'll be before me in this. Say
you'll have me, Miss Walters--oh, do say you'll have me, and save me
from the misery of a week's suspense!"
"But, Mr. Carnegie, how can I say anything when I haven't yet made up my
own 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. "You
won't find any difference at all between us, if you come to know us; and
then perhaps you'll be induced to marry my brother. But you know this
much already, that here am I, begging and pleading before you this very
minute, 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 that
Isabel Walters, already strongly prepossessed in his favour, could
resist 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," he
cried 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, though
she brushed it away hastily. "Yes," she said gently; "I will be yours. I
think--I think--I feel sure I can love you."
Harold took her ungloved hand tenderly in his, and drew a ring off her
finger. "Before I give you mine," he said, "you will let me take this
one? I want it for a keepsake and a memorial."