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." Isabel whispered, "Yes." Harold drew another ring from his pocket and slipped it softly on her
third finger. Isabel saw by the glitter that there was a diamond in it. Harold had bought it the day before for that very purpose. Then he took
from a small box a plain gold locket, with the letter H raised on it. "I
want you to wear this," he said, "as a keepsake for me." "But why H?" Isabel asked him, looking a little puzzled. "Your name's
Ernest, isn't it?" Harold smiled as well as he was able. "How absurd it is!" he said, with
an effort at gaiety. "This ridiculous similarity pursues us everywhere. No, my name's Harold." Isabel stood for a moment surprised and hesitating. She really hardly
knew for the second which brother she ought to consider herself engaged
to. "Then it wasn't you who wrote to me?" she said, with a tone of some
surprise and a little start of astonishment. "No, I certainly didn't write to you; but I came here to-day expecting
to see you, and meaning to ask you to be my wife. I learned from my
brother ("there can be no falsehood in putting it that way," he thought
vainly to himself) that you were to be here; and I determined to seize
the opportunity. Ernest meant to have come, too, but I believe he must
have lost the train at Clapham Junction." That was all literally true,
and yet it sounded simple and plausible enough. Isabel looked at him with a puzzled look, and felt almost compelled to
laugh, the situation was so supremely ridiculous. It took a moment to
think it all out rationally.