V.

Meanwhile, at Clapham Junction, Ernest Carnegie had arrived three

minutes too late for the Surbiton train, and had been forced to wait for

the 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 have

missed the chance of showing her guests round Lady Portlebury's gardens.

So he settled himself down comfortably in the snug corner of his

first-class carriage, and ran down by the later train in perfect

confidence that he would find the steam launch waiting.

"No, sir, they've gone up the river in the launch, sir," said the man

who opened the door for him; "and, I beg pardon, sir, but I thought you

were one of the party."

In a moment Ernest's fancy, quickened by his jealousy, jumped

instinctively 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--same

ribbon as this one?"

"Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. Well, indeed, I should have said it was

yourself, sir; but I suppose it was the other Mr. Carnegie."

"It was!" Ernest answered between his clenched teeth, almost

inarticulate with anger. "It was he. Not a doubt of it. Harold! I see it

all. The treachery--the base treachery! How long have they been gone, I

say? 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 played

him this abominable, disgraceful trick! The meanness of it! The deceit

of it! The petty spying and letter-opening of it! For somehow or

other--inconceivable how--Harold must have opened his brother's letters.

And then, quick as lightning, for those two brains jumped together, the

thought of the blotting-book flashed across Ernest's mind. Why, he had

noticed this morning that a page was gone out of it. He must have read

the letters. And then the trains! Harold always got a time-table on the

first of each month, with his cursed methodical lawyer ways. And he had

never told him about the change of service. The dirty low trick! The

mean trick! Even to think of it made Ernest Carnegie sick at heart and

bitterly indignant.

In a minute he saw it all and thought it all out. Why did he--how did

he? 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 worked

itself out within his traitorous brain. How? Ah, how? That was the

bitterest, the most horrible, the deadliest part of it all. Ernest

Carnegie knew, because he felt in his own inmost soul that, had he been

put in the same circumstances, he would himself have done exactly as

Harold had done.

Yes, exactly in every respect. Harold must have seen the words in the

blotting-book, "My dear Miss Walters"--Ernest remembered how thickly and

blackly he had written--must have seen those words; and in their present

condition, either of the twins, jealous, angry, suspicious, half driven

by envy of one another out of their moral senses, would have torn out

the page then and there and read it all. He, too, would have kept

silence about the train; he would have gone down to Surbiton; he would

have proposed to Isabel Walters; he would have done in everything

exactly as he knew Harold must have done it; but that did not make his

anger and loathing for his brother any the weaker. On the contrary, it

only made them all the more terrible. His consciousness of his own equal

potential meanness roused his rage against Harold to a white heat. He

would have done the same himself, no doubt; yes; but Harold, the mean,

successful, actually accomplishing villain--Harold had really gone down

and done it all in positive fact and reality.

Flushing scarlet and blanching white alternately with the fierceness of

his anger, Ernest Carnegie turned down, all on fire, to the river's

edge. Should he take a boat and row up after them to prevent the

supplanter at least from proposing to Isabel unopposed? That would at

any rate give him something to do--muscular work for his arms, if

nothing 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 of

him, and no oarsman could catch up with it now by any possibility. So he

walked about up and down near the river, chafing in soul and nursing his

wrath against Harold for three long weary hours. And all that time

Harold, false-hearted, fair-spoken, mean-spirited Harold, was enjoying

himself and playing the gallant to Isabel Walters!

Minute by minute the hours wore away, and with every minute Ernest's

indignation grew deeper and deeper. At last he heard the snort of the

steam-launch ploughing its way lustily down the river, and he stood on

the bank waiting for the guilty Harold to disembark.

As Harold stepped from the launch, and gave his hand to Isabel, he saw

the white and bloodless face of his brother looking up at him

contemptuously and coldly from beside the landing. Harold passed ashore

and close by him, but Ernest never spoke a word. He only looked a moment

at 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 keep

your appointment. Your brother came, and he has been beforehand with

you." 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 hands

and 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, livid

with anger, found his voice at last.

"Harold Carnegie," he said, in a low husky tone, "you are a mean

intercepter of other men's letters; a sneaking supplanter of other men's

appointments; a cur and a traitor whom I don't wish any longer to

associate with. I know what you have done, and I know how you have done

it. You have kept my engagement with Isabel Walters by reading the

impression of my notes on the blotting-book. You are unfit for a

gentleman 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 your

treachery until it was forced upon me. This is the last time I shall

ever speak to you."

Harold looked at him again, this time perhaps with a tinge of remorse in

his 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't

call 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, trembling

with conscious humiliation and self-reproach. But he did not attempt to

make the only atonement in his power by giving up Isabel Walters. That

would have been too much for human nature.