ONE OF TWINS A LETTER FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE MORTIMER BARR

You ask me if in my experience as one of a pair of twins I ever observed anything unaccountable by the natural laws with which we have acquaintance.  As to that you shall judge; perhaps we have not all acquaintance with the same natural laws.  You may know some that I do not, and what is to me unaccountable may be very clear to you.

You knew my brother John—­that is, you knew him when you knew that I was not present; but neither you nor, I believe, any human being could distinguish between him and me if we chose to seem alike.  Our parents could not; ours is the only instance of which I have any knowledge of so close resemblance as that.  I speak of my brother John, but I am not at all sure that his name was not Henry and mine John.  We were regularly christened, but afterward, in the very act of tattooing us with small distinguishing marks, the operator lost his reckoning; and although I bear upon my forearm a small “H” and he bore a “J,” it is by no means certain that the letters ought not to have been transposed.  During our boyhood our parents tried to distinguish us more obviously by our clothing and other simple devices, but we would so frequently exchange suits and otherwise circumvent the enemy that they abandoned all such ineffectual attempts, and during all the years that we lived together at home everybody recognized the difficulty of the situation and made the best of it by calling us both “Jehnry.”  I have often wondered at my father’s forbearance in not branding us conspicuously upon our unworthy brows, but as we were tolerably good boys and used our power of embarrassment and annoyance with commendable moderation, we escaped the iron.  My father was, in fact, a singularly good-natured man, and I think quietly enjoyed nature’s practical joke.

Soon after we had come to California, and settled at San Jose (where the only good fortune that awaited us was our meeting with so kind a friend as you) the family, as you know, was broken up by the death of both my parents in the same week.  My father died insolvent and the homestead was sacrificed to pay his debts.  My sisters returned to relatives in the East, but owing to your kindness John and I, then twenty-two years of age, obtained employment in San Francisco, in different quarters of the town.  Circumstances did not permit us to live together, and we saw each other infrequently, sometimes not oftener than once a week.  As we had few acquaintances in common, the fact of our extraordinary likeness was little known.  I come now to the matter of your inquiry.

One day soon after we had come to this city I was walking down Market street late in the afternoon, when I was accosted by a well-dressed man of middle age, who after greeting me cordially said:  “Stevens, I know, of course, that you do not go out much, but I have told my wife about you, and she would be glad to see you at the house.  I have a notion, too, that my girls are worth knowing.  Suppose you come out to-morrow at six and dine with us, en famille; and then if the ladies can’t amuse you afterward I’ll stand in with a few games of billiards.”

This was said with so bright a smile and so engaging a manner that I had not the heart to refuse, and although I had never seen the man in my life I promptly replied:  “You are very good, sir, and it will give me great pleasure to accept the invitation.  Please present my compliments to Mrs. Margovan and ask her to expect me.”

With a shake of the hand and a pleasant parting word the man passed on.  That he had mistaken me for my brother was plain enough.  That was an error to which I was accustomed and which it was not my habit to rectify unless the matter seemed important.  But how had I known that this man’s name was Margovan?  It certainly is not a name that one would apply to a man at random, with a probability that it would be right.  In point of fact, the name was as strange to me as the man.

The next morning I hastened to where my brother was employed and met him coming out of the office with a number of bills that he was to collect.  I told him how I had “committed” him and added that if he didn’t care to keep the engagement I should be delighted to continue the impersonation.

“That’s queer,” he said thoughtfully.  “Margovan is the only man in the office here whom I know well and like.  When he came in this morning and we had passed the usual greetings some singular impulse prompted me to say:  ’Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Margovan, but I neglected to ask your address.’  I got the address, but what under the sun I was to do with it, I did not know until now.  It’s good of you to offer to take the consequence of your impudence, but I’ll eat that dinner myself, if you please.”

He ate a number of dinners at the same place—­more than were good for him, I may add without disparaging their quality; for he fell in love with Miss Margovan, proposed marriage to her and was heartlessly accepted.

Several weeks after I had been informed of the engagement, but before it had been convenient for me to make the acquaintance of the young woman and her family, I met one day on Kearney street a handsome but somewhat dissipated-looking man whom something prompted me to follow and watch, which I did without any scruple whatever.  He turned up Geary street and followed it until he came to Union square.  There he looked at his watch, then entered the square.  He loitered about the paths for some time, evidently waiting for someone.  Presently he was joined by a fashionably dressed and beautiful young woman and the two walked away up Stockton street, I following.  I now felt the necessity of extreme caution, for although the girl was a stranger it seemed to me that she would recognize me at a glance.  They made several turns from one street to another and finally, after both had taken a hasty look all about—­which I narrowly evaded by stepping into a doorway—­they entered a house of which I do not care to state the location.  Its location was better than its character.

I protest that my action in playing the spy upon these two strangers was without assignable motive.  It was one of which I might or might not be ashamed, according to my estimate of the character of the person finding it out.  As an essential part of a narrative educed by your question it is related here without hesitancy or shame.

A week later John took me to the house of his prospective father-in-law, and in Miss Margovan, as you have already surmised, but to my profound astonishment, I recognized the heroine of that discreditable adventure.  A gloriously beautiful heroine of a discreditable adventure I must in justice admit that she was; but that fact has only this importance:  her beauty was such a surprise to me that it cast a doubt upon her identity with the young woman I had seen before; how could the marvelous fascination of her face have failed to strike me at that time?  But no—­there was no possibility of error; the difference was due to costume, light and general surroundings.

John and I passed the evening at the house, enduring, with the fortitude of long experience, such delicate enough banter as our likeness naturally suggested.  When the young lady and I were left alone for a few minutes I looked her squarely in the face and said with sudden gravity: 

“You, too, Miss Margovan, have a double:  I saw her last Tuesday afternoon in Union square.”

She trained her great gray eyes upon me for a moment, but her glance was a trifle less steady than my own and she withdrew it, fixing it on the tip of her shoe.

“Was she very like me?” she asked, with an indifference which I thought a little overdone.

“So like,” said I, “that I greatly admired her, and being unwilling to lose sight of her I confess that I followed her until—­Miss Margovan, are you sure that you understand?”

She was now pale, but entirely calm.  She again raised her eyes to mine, with a look that did not falter.

“What do you wish me to do?” she asked.  “You need not fear to name your terms.  I accept them.”

It was plain, even in the brief time given me for reflection, that in dealing with this girl ordinary methods would not do, and ordinary exactions were needless.

“Miss Margovan,” I said, doubtless with something of the compassion in my voice that I had in my heart, “it is impossible not to think you the victim of some horrible compulsion.  Rather than impose new embarrassments upon you I would prefer to aid you to regain your freedom.”

She shook her head, sadly and hopelessly, and I continued, with agitation: 

“Your beauty unnerves me.  I am disarmed by your frankness and your distress.  If you are free to act upon conscience you will, I believe, do what you conceive to be best; if you are not—­well, Heaven help us all!  You have nothing to fear from me but such opposition to this marriage as I can try to justify on—­on other grounds.”

These were not my exact words, but that was the sense of them, as nearly as my sudden and conflicting emotions permitted me to express it.  I rose and left her without another look at her, met the others as they reentered the room and said, as calmly as I could:  “I have been bidding Miss Margovan good evening; it is later than I thought.”

John decided to go with me.  In the street he asked if I had observed anything singular in Julia’s manner.

“I thought her ill,” I replied; “that is why I left.”  Nothing more was said.

The next evening I came late to my lodgings.  The events of the previous evening had made me nervous and ill; I had tried to cure myself and attain to clear thinking by walking in the open air, but I was oppressed with a horrible presentiment of evil—­a presentiment which I could not formulate.  It was a chill, foggy night; my clothing and hair were damp and I shook with cold.  In my dressing-gown and slippers before a blazing grate of coals I was even more uncomfortable.  I no longer shivered but shuddered—­there is a difference.  The dread of some impending calamity was so strong and dispiriting that I tried to drive it away by inviting a real sorrow—­ tried to dispel the conception of a terrible future by substituting the memory of a painful past.  I recalled the death of my parents and endeavored to fix my mind upon the last sad scenes at their bedsides and their graves.  It all seemed vague and unreal, as having occurred ages ago and to another person.  Suddenly, striking through my thought and parting it as a tense cord is parted by the stroke of steel—­I can think of no other comparison—­I heard a sharp cry as of one in mortal agony!  The voice was that of my brother and seemed to come from the street outside my window.  I sprang to the window and threw it open.  A street lamp directly opposite threw a wan and ghastly light upon the wet pavement and the fronts of the houses.  A single policeman, with upturned collar, was leaning against a gatepost, quietly smoking a cigar.  No one else was in sight.  I closed the window and pulled down the shade, seated myself before the fire and tried to fix my mind upon my surroundings.  By way of assisting, by performance of some familiar act, I looked at my watch; it marked half-past eleven.  Again I heard that awful cry!  It seemed in the room—­at my side.  I was frightened and for some moments had not the power to move.  A few minutes later—­I have no recollection of the intermediate time—­I found myself hurrying along an unfamiliar street as fast as I could walk.  I did not know where I was, nor whither I was going, but presently sprang up the steps of a house before which were two or three carriages and in which were moving lights and a subdued confusion of voices.  It was the house of Mr. Margovan.

You know, good friend, what had occurred there.  In one chamber lay Julia Margovan, hours dead by poison; in another John Stevens, bleeding from a pistol wound in the chest, inflicted by his own hand.  As I burst into the room, pushed aside the physicians and laid my hand upon his forehead he unclosed his eyes, stared blankly, closed them slowly and died without a sign.

I knew no more until six weeks afterward, when I had been nursed back to life by your own saintly wife in your own beautiful home.  All of that you know, but what you do not know is this—­which, however, has no bearing upon the subject of your psychological researches—­at least not upon that branch of them in which, with a delicacy and consideration all your own, you have asked for less assistance than I think I have given you: 

One moonlight night several years afterward I was passing through Union square.  The hour was late and the square deserted.  Certain memories of the past naturally came into my mind as I came to the spot where I had once witnessed that fateful assignation, and with that unaccountable perversity which prompts us to dwell upon thoughts of the most painful character I seated myself upon one of the benches to indulge them.  A man entered the square and came along the walk toward me.  His hands were clasped behind him, his head was bowed; he seemed to observe nothing.  As he approached the shadow in which I sat I recognized him as the man whom I had seen meet Julia Margovan years before at that spot.  But he was terribly altered—­gray, worn and haggard.  Dissipation and vice were in evidence in every look; illness was no less apparent.  His clothing was in disorder, his hair fell across his forehead in a derangement which was at once uncanny and picturesque.  He looked fitter for restraint than liberty—­the restraint of a hospital.

With no defined purpose I rose and confronted him.  He raised his head and looked me full in the face.  I have no words to describe the ghastly change that came over his own; it was a look of unspeakable terror—­he thought himself eye to eye with a ghost.  But he was a courageous man.  “Damn you, John Stevens!” he cried, and lifting his trembling arm he dashed his fist feebly at my face and fell headlong upon the gravel as I walked away.

Somebody found him there, stone-dead.  Nothing more is known of him, not even his name.  To know of a man that he is dead should be enough.