“It was because he asked us to be kind to you,” she went on, “that me and
mother took the trouble to look after you of an evening. It’s kept you
out of mischief.”
“I suppose you’re aware that he’s marrying you for the sake of your
money.”
“Don’t think he is,” she replied. “I haven’t got any.”
“But you will have?”
“No!”
I must say this for myself: that I kept wonderfully calm, considering the
trying nature of the circumstances. It appeared that, although her
mother’s name showed over the dairy, she was only the manager, working at
a salary. I pointed out that this should have been mentioned to me
before. She answered that Edward was acquainted with the fact, and there
existed no reason why the information should be communicated to me.
I saw the uselessness of arguing the point, and left her to make her way
home alone, congratulating myself on a narrow escape.
That night I wrote a rather clever letter to my brother Edward, the
wording of which gave me trouble, but brought satisfaction; my only fear
was that he might not have the intelligence to read between the lines. I
said that I felt sure Lily Charlesworth would grow up to be the woman her
mother was; he would no doubt be as happy as he deserved to be; I trusted
it would be many weeks ere he discovered the mistake he had made. For
myself, I had long since decided to remain a bachelor; I hinted that the
courage of the family appeared to have centred itself in him. Begged him
to convey my best regards to my mother, and to express my regret that, on
his marriage, I could not see my way to offering her a home.
Edward sent no answer to this, and he forwarded no invitation to the
wedding. I should not have accepted it; indeed, I had drafted out a
satirical reply, but I do think he might have sent me a card. I
transferred my custom to a dairy in Brompton Road; and, at about that
period, I spoke to a young lady in Hyde Park, mentioning that it was a
fine evening, and that the days were drawing in.
I may say at once this lady became my wife. It is unnecessary also that
I should delay the information that her account of relatives, of her
position in society, and of herself, given to me during the days of
courtship, differed to a considerable extent from the details proffered
during our honeymoon at Littlehampton, and this made it easy for me to
explain that one or two exaggerations had somehow crept into the
particulars which I had furnished concerning myself. For one day, after
this, we exchanged no word with each other; and I have since been
inclined to wish that she, at any rate, had continued this policy of
silence, for, later on, she made remarks which (as I believe I pointed
out at the time) proved her to be wanting in that fine and glorious
attribute of women—the ability to forgive and forget.
“Suppose we must make the best of it,” she said, “but I can foresee that
the best won’t be very good. And if ever I allow a day to go by without
reminding you of what a bounder you are, then you can assume that I am
going off my head.”
She must have begun at once, for I remember that when I had struck some
items off the bill, and settled with the Littlehampton boarding-house,
the landlady told me that she had never found herself making such a
mistake in the whole course of her existence: when we first arrived in
the cab, she could have sworn we had not been married long; on
retrospection she perceived that we had been man and wife for at least
ten years. I told her we should never by any chance patronise her
boarding-house again, and she said this assurance robbed the future of
half its terrors. No doubt she thought she had had the last word, but
she little knew the kind of man she was dealing with; I got the better of
her later by recommending some of my economical friends to go there.
I mention all this because the incident is typical of others which
happened at about this time. At office I detected a disposition on the
part of the firm to promote younger men over my head, and, when I
insisted on knowing the reason, they fenced with me for some time.
“Fact is,” said one of the partners at last, “you show no interest in
your work.”
“Make it worth my while, sir.”
“We’re paying you your full value. You wouldn’t get more for your
services anywhere else.”
“I doubt that, sir.”
“Quite easy for you to test the truth of the statement,” snapped the
partner.
“I suppose,” I retorted, “that means you can do without me!”
“It means we are ready to try.”
I told the wife when I reached home, and, after she had expressed some
opinions concerning my conduct, she said that my best plan would be to
write to my brother Edward, and ask him to use his influence in obtaining
for me a new berth. I told her plainly that I would rather cease work
for ever than feel myself under any obligation to him. When, after
replying to several advertisements, it became clear that some exceptional
step would have to be taken, I submitted an alternative for her
consideration. To show what a difficult woman she was to deal with (and
to throw a light on much that happened afterwards), I wish to record that
she went into one of her fits of temper, calling me everything but my
proper name. Using diplomacy, I went away for a day or two, and on my
return she told me she had decided to act upon my suggestion.
“Very well,” I said; “but why not have agreed to it at first? However,
it’s satisfactory to see that you have come to your senses. Perhaps
another time that we have a difference of opinion—”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I can’t trust you,” I said severely. “These promises of yours mean
nothing.”
“I assure you it won’t happen again.”
“We will leave it at that,” I said. “What it all amounts to is this:
that you are willing to go back to your former occupation as lady’s-maid
in a family.”
“That’s it!”
“In which capacity you will be able to earn enough to keep the home
going.”
“What home?”
“This home.”
“Oh, no!” said my wife. “Oh, dear me, no! I shall earn enough to keep
myself going, but I shan’t bother about you. Understand that, once for
all.”
“Do you mean to look me in the face—”
“Sha’n’t allow you a penny,” she declared. “And if you find out where
I’m engaged, and call round and begin kicking up a row—”
“What then?”
“I shall simply come back again,” she announced deliberately, “and make
you keep me.”
It must have been in consequence of this blow, administered by one who
had sworn to love, honour, and obey me, that I began to lose heart. I
went into a single room, on the other side of the water, and for a time
became interested in political life, devoting myself more particularly to
the Sugar Bounty Question. To my astonishment, I found that my brother
Edward was paying some attention to a constituency in South London; as I
remarked, rather cleverly, he appeared to have succeeded in the world as
much as I deserved to do. It became my duty at one of his meetings to
put a few searching questions to him. Some of his supporters objected,
and cried out to me: “Who are you; who are you?” I shouted back that the
candidate could give the information if he cared to do so.
“Oh, yes,” said Edward; “he is my brother.”
I spoke to him after the meeting, and he introduced me to a slim,
good-looking woman—his wife. I remarked, in her presence, that he
appeared to have found out Miss Charlesworth, as I had done; he replied
that he had not only found her out, but that he had married her. My
amazed look caused Mrs. Edward to declare she had rarely received such a
genuine compliment, and that it more than repaid her for the course of
persistent exercise on which she had engaged. She added they had made
efforts to discover me—I knew how much to believe of that—and exhibited
surprise on hearing that I was married.
“We particularly wanted to find you,” remarked my brother Edward, “about
six months ago.”
“Let me see,” I said. “Where was I six months ago? Busy, I expect.
What did you want me for?”
“Mother died.”
“Wish I’d known,” I said. “I would have sent a wreath. Got a
cigarette?”
He turned away rather sharply, and then turned to me again. “She wanted
to see you,” he remarked. And they both gave their attention to some one
else.
It occurred to me afterwards that they perhaps expected me to show more
signs of distress; if I had thought this at the time I could have obliged
them. But that trifling detail makes no excuse whatever for Edward’s
subsequent conduct towards me, conduct which has compelled me to write
this account of his behaviour. I put it briefly, and I wish to add that
I put it truthfully; there may have been times in my career when it has
been necessary to step with care beyond the confines of exactitude, but,
in regard to this matter, I am telling you nothing that can be
contradicted.
I wrote to him, you must know, immediately after the meeting, and offered
to stop my opposition to his candidature, and to help him, heart, body,
and soul, if he would allow me—say, two pounds a week. He replied
curtly. I did not apply to him again for quite ten days, and then I
wrote saying that, although he could not see his way to accepting my
first proposition, perhaps he could let me have a loan. I said I was
temporarily out of a situation, and that several excellent offers were
being made to me.
To keep myself to the truth, I am bound to say that I obtained from him,
at various times, amounts which, totted up, would come to a respectable
figure.
Mark what follows.
This morning—this very morning—I receive a letter. Headed “House of
Commons.”
“I find,” he writes, “that for some years past you have done no work of a
creditable nature. I am always willing to help those who are making some
effort to earn a living, but I do nothing for the indolent. I can give
you no further assistance until you obtain work and show some clear
intention of sticking to it.”
Apart from the wording of the letter—inexcusable in one who had equal
educational advantages with myself—I desire to point out the callousness
of its tone; the disregard of family ties. I leave the matter for the
world to judge. In the meanwhile, if you know of any one who can be
persuaded to assist by spontaneous gifts, I shall not only be saved the
necessity of looking for employment, but I shall be enabled to write a
sharp, stinging note to my brother Edward.