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 p. 206continually 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.
p. 207I 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 p. 208appeal 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.
p. 209“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 p. 210fairly 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 p. 211was 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 p. 212feeling 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 p. 213on 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 Edwa............