influences that recent events had left behind them, and resume at will the thoughtlessness and hilarity of ordinary life.
Still, however, Mr Langley persisted in doing the honours of his table, in proceeding doggedly through all the festive ceremonies of the hour, until the ladies rose and retired. Then, after looking at his watch, he beckoned to one of his sons to take his place; and quietly left the room. He only stopped once, as he crossed the hall, to ask news of his daughter from one of the servants. The reply was, that she had had a hysterical fit; that the medical attendant of the family had been sent for; and that since his arrival she had become more composed. When the man had spoken, Mr Langley made no remark, but proceeded at once to the library. He locked the door behind him, as soon as he entered the room.
Mr Streatfield was already waiting there—he was seated at the table, endeavouring to maintain an appearance of composure, by mechanically turning over the leaves of the books before him. Mr Langley drew a chair near him; and in low, but very firm tones, began the conversation thus:
“I have given you two hours, Sir, to collect yourself, to consider your position fully—I presume, therefore, that you are now prepared to favour me with an explanation of your conduct at my table, to-day.”
“What explanation can I make?—what can I say, or think of this most terrible of fatalities?” exclaimed Mr Streatfield, speaking faintly and confusedly; and still not looking up—“There has been an unexampled error committed!—a fatal mistake, which I could never have anticipated, and over which I had no control!”
“Enough, sir, of the language of romance,” interrupted Mr Langley, coldly; “I am neither of an age nor a disposition to appreciate it. I come here to ask plain questions honestly, and I insist, as my right, on receiving answers in the same spirit. You, Mr Streatfield, sought an introduction to me—you professed attached to my daughter Jane—your proposals were (I fear unhappily for us) accepted—your wedding-day was fixed—and now, after all this, when you happen to observe my daughter’s twin-sister sitting opposite to you—”
“Her twin-sister!” exclaimed Mr Streatfield; and his trembling hand crumpled the leaves of the book, which he still held while he spoke. “Why is it, intimate as I have been with your family, that I now know for the first time that Miss Jane Langley has a twin-sister?”
“Do you descend, sir, to a subterfuge, when I ask you for an explanation?” returned Mr Langley, angrily. “You must have heard, over and over again, that my children, Jane and Clara, were twins.”
“On my word and honour, I declare that—”
“Spare me all appeals to your word or your honour, sir; I am beginning to doubt both.”
“I will not make the unhappy situation in which we are all placed, still worse, by answering your last words, as I might, at other times, feel inclined to answer them,” said Mr Streatfield, assuming a calmer demeanour than he had hitherto displayed. “I tell you the truth, when I tell you that, before to-day, I never knew that any of your children were twins. Your daughter, Jane, has frequently spoken to me of her absent sister, Clara, but never spoke of her as her twin-sister. Until to-day, I have had no opportunity of discovering the truth; for until to-day, I have never met Miss Clara Langley since I saw her in the balcony of the house in St. James’s Street. The only one of your children who was never present during my intercourse with your family, in London, was your daughter Clara—the daughter whom I now know, for the first time, as the young lady who really arrested my attention on my way to the levée—whose affections it was really my object to win in seeking an introduction to you. To me, the resemblance between the twin-sisters has been a fatal resemblance; the long absence of one, a fatal absence.”
There was a momentary pause, as Mr Streatfield sadly and calmly pronounced the last words. Mr Langley appeared to be absorbed in thought. At length he proceeded, speaking to himself:
“It is strange! I remember that Clara left London on the day of the levée, to set out on a visit to her aunt; and only returned here two days since, to be present at her sister’s marriage. Well, sir,” he continued, addressing Mr Streatfield, “granting what you say, granting that we all mentioned my absent daughter to you, as we are accustomed to mention her among ourselves, simply as “Clara,” you have still not excused your conduct in my eyes. Remarkable as the resemblance is between the sisters, more remarkable even, I am willing to admit, than the resemblance usually is between twins, there is yet a difference, which, slight, indescribable though it may be, is nevertheless discernible to all their relations and to all their friends. How is it that you, who represent yourself as so vividly impressed by your first sight of my daughter Clara, did not discover the error when you were introduced to her sister Jane, as the lady who had so much attracted you?”
“You forget, sir,” rejoined Mr Streatfield, “that I have never beheld the sisters together until to-day. Though both were in the balcony when I first looked up at it, it was Miss Clara Langley alone who attracted my attention. Had I only received the smallest hint that the absent sister of Miss Jane Langley was her twin-sister, I would have seen her, at any sacrifice, before making my proposals. For it is my duty to confess to you, Mr Langley (with the candour which is your undoubted due), that when I was first introduced to your daughter Jane, I felt an unaccountable impression that she was the same as, and yet different from, the lady whom I had seen in the balcony. Soon, however, this impression wore off. Under the circumstances, could I regard it as anything but a mere caprice, a lover’s wayward fancy? I dismissed it from my mind; it ceased to affect me, until to-day, when I first discovered that it was a warning which I had most unhappily disregarded; that a terrible error had been committed, for which no one of us was to blame, but which was fraught with misery, undeserved misery, to us all!”
“These, Mr Streatfield, are explanations which may satisfy you,” said Mr Langley, in a milder tone, “but they cannot satisfy me; they will not satisfy the world. You have repudiated, in the most public and most abrupt manner, an engagement, in the fulfilment of which the honour and the happiness of my family are concerned. You have given me reasons for your conduct, it is true; but will those reasons restore to my daughter the tranquility which she has lost, perhaps for ever? Will they stop the whisperings of calumny? Will they carry conviction to those strangers to me, or enemies of mine, whose pleasure it may be to disbelieve them? You have placed both yourself and me, sir, in a position of embarrassment—nay, a position of danger and disgrace, from which the strongest reasons and the best excuses cannot extricate us.”
“I entreat you to believe,” replied Mr Streatfield, “that I deplore from my heart the error—the fault, if you will—of which I have been unconsciously guilty. I implore your pardon, both for what I said and did at your table to-day; but I cannot do more. I cannot and I dare not pronounce the marriage vows to your daughter, with my lips, when I know that neither my conscience nor my heart can ratify them. The commonest justice, and the commonest respect towards a young lady who deserves both, and more than both, from every one who approaches her, strengthen me to persevere in the only course which it is consistent with honour and integrity for me to take.”
“You appear to forget,” said Mr Langley, “that it is not merely your own honour, but the honour of others, that is to be considered in the course of conduct which you are now to pursue.”
“I have by no means forgotten what is due to you,” continued Mr Streatfield, “or what responsibilities I have incurred from the nature of my intercourse with your family. Do I put too much trust in your forbearance, if I now assure you, candidly and unreservedly, that I still place all my hopes of happiness in the prospect of becoming connected by marriage with a daughter of yours? Miss Clara Langley—”
Here the speaker paused. His position was becoming a delicate and a dangerous one; but he made no effort to withdraw from it. Almost bewildered by the pressing and perilous emergency
