THE case of my brother Edward is typical of many, and I set the facts
down here, partly as reminder to myself, mainly for the information of
the public. I said once, when in the company of some other bright
spirits, that the pupils of yesterday are the teachers of to-morrow, by
which remark I meant to convey that we learn in our youth, and in our
middle age become, in turn, the instructors. Poor Edward had the same
advantages that came to me in school days, the very same advantages. Our
mother consulted us in turn; I, the elder, decided, without hesitation,
to go into the City; Edward, a year later, suggested that he should go
into an engineering place at Wandsworth, on the other side of the river.
“No, no,” I said when I reached home that night. “This won’t do at all.
Choose a refined occupation. We don’t want all Fulham to think that the
sweeps are continually coming in and going out of the house. We may have
our faults, but no one can say that we haven’t always worn a clean
collar.”
“I’ll keep mine for Sundays,” remarked Edward.
“Mother,” I went on, “please let it be understood that this is a matter
which concerns me to some extent. Supposing I wished to bring home a
friend from Bucklersbury, and supposing that just as I opened the front
gate Edward came along. How should I be able to explain—”
“Say,” suggested Edward, “that I was going in for Christy Minstrel
business in my spare time. Say I was just off to St. James’s Hall.”
“I place my veto on the scheme.”
“You can place whatever you like,” he retorted, “and it won’t make any
difference.”
“Very well,” I said, “very well. In that case I consider myself relieved
of all responsibility. I’ve done with it. Only, mind this, don’t come
to me in after years—”
“I promise that.”
“And complain that I omitted to give you advice. Mother, you’re a
witness.”
I put my silk hat on and went out of the house. I have always been
willing to give people the benefit of my counsel, but the moment I find
they cease to be receptive I—to use a vulgarism—dry up.
I discovered a certain amount of satisfaction in observing that events
shaped somewhat in accordance with my prophecy. So soon as my voice
settled down I was asked to join a Choral Union in Walham Green; and on
the second evening, as I escorted two ladies in the direction of their
home, I met Edward—Edward on the way from work, and presenting the
appearance of a half-caste nigger. He raised his cap, and I had to
explain to my companions that he was a lad to whom my people had been
able to show some kindness, taking him in hand when he was quite young.
Unfortunately, one of the ladies knew him, and knew his name, and I found
it advisable not to go to any more rehearsals of “The Wreck of the
_Hesperus_.” Months afterwards, when I had left home and was living in
lodgings owing to a dispute with mother about coming home late at night,
he and some of his fellow-workmen arrived at the offices in Bucklersbury
to fit up the electric light, which had then just come in, and I had to
take an early opportunity of mentioning to him, privately, that if he
claimed relationship with me he would be doing the very worst turn that a
man could do to another.
“See you hanged first!” said Edward, taking his coat off to begin work.
I turned cold at the sight of his shirt-sleeves of flannel.
“That makes it necessary that I should appeal to your better instincts.
I implore you, Edward, to remember that the ties of relationship can
exist, but need not—”
“I mean,” he explained, “that I’ll see you hanged first before I confess
to any one here that you are a brother of mine. Providing, of
course”—here he threw back his head and laughed in a loud, common
way—“providing the Governor of Newgate allows me to be present at the
ceremony.”
I felt greatly relieved at this, but now and again, while the work was
going on in the office, Edward gave me a start by talking in an audible
voice to the other workmen about his relatives, and I knew he did this
purposely. What I feared was that his companions might speak to him by
his surname; it proved reassuring to find that they called him Teddy. On
the night they finished the work, I happened to be staying overtime, and,
taking him aside, I tried to talk pleasantly to him, asking how he
progressed in the new business to which he had transferred himself, and
pointing out that a rolling stone gathered no moss, but he seemed quite
off-hand in his manner. I offered him sixpence that he might go out and
get a drink. He said that I had better keep it and buy something to put
in my face; he added that I appeared to be spending all my money on
clothes, and expressed doubts whether I had enough to eat.
“Pardon me, Edward,” I said, “you are now trespassing on grounds that do
not belong to you.”
“A family weakness,” he remarked. “Good-night, old man! Good luck to
you!”
“Edward,” I said, “it is not luck which counts in this world, but rather
a steady, dogged determination to do one’s duty; a persistent effort to
keep one’s position in society; to mingle, so far as possible, with those
of a superior station in life.”
“Do you know what I think of you?” he interrupted sharply. “You’re
nothing more nor less than— Perhaps I’d better not say what I was going
to say. After all, we’re brothers.”
“That, Edward,” I said, in my quiet way, turning to go, so that it might
finish the discussion—“that is a fact which I sometimes find it difficult
to realise.”
“You needn’t try,” he retorted.
On reflection, I perceived that, disturbing as this argument had been,
there was no reason to allow it to cause regret, for it meant a final
breaking up of friendship, and enabled me to find good plea for not
acknowledging his existence should we ever meet again. Moreover,
increases had been stopped in the office, and it appeared likely that I
might remain at £110 a year for a time. Unless I could find some one of
a fairly attractive appearance, with a little money of her own, it would
inconvenience me greatly to contribute anything towards the support of my
mother. This difference of opinion with Edward provided me with a good
answer if ever the application should be made. “After what Edward
remarked to me some time ago,” I should say, “I must decline to have
anything to do with domestic expenses. He is living in the house: let
him provide the sums necessary for the upkeep of the establishment.” As
it proved, no necessity existed for this statement, because they very
wisely refrained from making any appeal.
I heard of Edward occasionally by the medium of Miss Charlesworth; she
also brought me news of my mother. I was living then in Jubilee Place,
and Miss Charlesworth’s people kept a large dairy in King’s Road,
Chelsea. I called in sometimes on my way home for a couple of fresh
eggs. Eggs can be carried in the pocket without observation, and, if
folk are careful not to crowd, without damage, whilst other eatables have
to be conveyed in a parcel. I had strong objections to be seen carrying
a package of any kind.
Miss Charlesworth took music-lessons from my mother in the old days when
there was not much money about, and I always spoke pleasantly when I
called at the dairy, answering her when she asked whether there was
anything special in the evening papers; I talked to her across the
milk-pans, if I could spare the time, about Gilbert and Sullivan’s new
play at the “Savoy.” Her mother beamed through the glass half of the
door at the back, and on one occasion asked me to step in and have a bite
of supper. I declined the first invitation, and this caused Miss
Charlesworth’s mother to become exceedingly anxious that I should honour
them with my company.
“Fix your own evening,” urged the old lady: “we’re plain people, but we
always keep a good table.”
I found that, in the interests of economy, the plan, once started,
answered very well. At first, when Miss Charlesworth’s mother found that
I walked into the shop-parlour nearly every night at supper-time, she
exhibited signs of impatience, putting an extra plate down with a bang,
and throwing a thick tumbler towards me with the word:
“Catch!”
But the attentions I paid to her plump daughter mollified her, and she
always cried when I sang “The Anchor’s Weighed.” From Lily—one could but
smile at the ludicrous inappropriateness of the name—I heard that my
brother Edward had been foolhardy enough to start an electric light
business on his own account; and, in spite of the differences that had
taken place between us, I could not help feeling annoyed that he had
omitted to ask my advice before taking such a step. It would be of no
advantage to me for people to find the name of my brother in the list of
bankruptcies.
I can never understand how it was that I allowed myself to be imposed
upon by the Charlesworths. In the City at that time I had the reputation
of being as keen as any one in the office, where my own interests were
concerned; there were complaints that I shirked some of my duties, and
that I often shifted responsibility from my own shoulders, but no one
ever accused me of being a fool. These two women at the dairy-shop in
King’s Road, as nearly as possible, took me in. It hurt me very much
afterwards to think of the time I had wasted. If I took Lily
Charlesworth to one place of interest, I took her to a dozen; the
National Gallery on a free day, the Tower, the outside of the Lyceum
Theatre, the South Kensington Museum—any man, young at the time, and in
receipt of a stationary income can fill in the list. Now and again she
wanted to talk about my brother Edward; I changed the subject adroitly,
for I could not trust my temper where he was concerned. It was near the
Albert Memorial one evening (she had seen it before, but, as I said, it
could do her no harm to see it again) that I directed conversation to the
subject of profits made on milk and cream; the discussion began at a
quarter past seven, and the information I obtained was satisfactory
enough to induce me, at twenty minutes to eight, to make a definitely
worded offer.
“Very kind of you to ask me,” she said nervously, “but I think my answer
must be ‘No.’”
“Come, come,” I said pleasantly, “there’s no occasion for all this
coyness. We’re friends.”
“Yes,” she said rapidly, “friends. That’s just it. And there’s no
reason why we shouldn’t go on being friends. But nothing more, please.”
“That,” I remarked, “if you will allow me to say so, Lily, verges on
stupidity. I dare say you feel that you are not worthy of me.”
“It isn’t that.”
“May, I ask what other reason can possibly exist?”
“There are several.”
“Give me one,” I insisted.
“I think,” she said deliberately—“I rather think I am going to marry your
brother Edward.”