We see one another once or twice under
exceptionally deceptive circumstances; we are struck at first sight with
something that attracts us on either side; we find the attraction is
mutual; we flounder at once into a declaration of undying attachment; we
get married, and on the whole we generally find we were right after all,
in spite of our precipitancy, and we live happily ever afterwards. So
it was not really very surprising that Isabel Walters, getting such a
note from one of the two handsome young Mr. Carnegies, should have been
in some doubt which of the two identicals it actually was, and yet
should have felt indefinitely pleased and flattered at the implied
attention. 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 first
last night, and which the one she danced with second. She decided in her
own mind that it would be better for her to go to the Montagus' picnic
to-morrow, but to say nothing about it to her mother. "Mamma wouldn't
understand the letter," she said to herself complacently; "she's so
conventional; and when I come back to-morrow I can tell her one of the
young Carnegies was there, and that he proposed to me. She need never
know there was any appointment." IV. 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."