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.”

I threw up my hands with a gesture of sympathy.

“You poor, silly girl!” I said. “What ever has induced you to think that?”

“Your brother Edward.”I turned away from her.

“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.