At precisely half-past eight o’clock, on a grey February morning, two
amiable-looking, middle-aged gentlemen left a medium-sized house of
comfortable appearance, in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, and commenced
a walk undertaken by them daily, in the interests of health, with the
exception of Sundays, public holidays and a fortnight in August. There
was sufficient resemblance between the two to proclaim them brothers–at
first sight, indeed, they might have been taken for twins. They were
both about five feet five inches in height, they both had kindly, if
somewhat insignificant faces, shrewd grey eyes, and tight, firm lips.
Their names were Stephen and George Henry Underwood, and their ages
respectively fifty-one and forty-eight. There were many who professed to
be unable to tell them apart, and the differences between them were, in
fact, scarcely noticeable. Stephen’s brown moustache was, perhaps, a
little scantier than his brother’s and the obtruding note of grey was
more obvious; the hair around his ears was a little more grizzled and
there was a trifle less colour in his somewhat thinner cheeks. Otherwise
the likeness between them was almost remarkable. They both wore
broad-toed shoes, hand-sewn to order by a bootmaker in a remote alley
situated in one of the backwaters of the City, dark business suits of
unfashionable cut, differing only slightly in pattern and material,
collars of antiquated shape, inoffensive ties and black bowler hats.
They avoided in their attire both the flamboyant splendours of the
professional City man and the sporting note affected by the stockbroker
and his mate. They were City merchants, and they desired to dress as
such.
They went through their usual little programme as they turned the corner
of the street into the broader thoroughfare. George Henry looked up at
the skies and down at his furled umbrella. They spoke always first of
the weather.
“The rain will keep off, I think,” George Henry remarked, glancing from
his umbrella to the sky.
“I hope so,” was the amiable reply. “There are plenty of clouds about,
but they seem high.”
“I wonder,” George Henry surmised, “at what hour Mr. Duncan will send us
the balance sheet.”
“He promised it by midday,” his brother reminded him. “If you have not
returned from Mincing Lane, I shall not, of course, open it until you
come.”
“The result,” George Henry observed a little nervously, “cannot fail to
be satisfactory.”
“There is no doubt whatever about that,” Stephen agreed. “We have been
very fortunate, George Henry.”
“Very fortunate indeed, Stephen.”
They walked steadily on until they reached the Park, which they crossed
diagonally. They traversed Portland Place and the upper part of Regent
Street. At Oxford Street they descended into the Tube and reached their
offices in Basinghall Street as the clock was striking ten. The premises
themselves were not imposing, but there was a suggestion of opulence in
the spacious but murky warehouses behind. As they passed through the
clerks’ office they both raised their hats and said good morning, a
greeting which was at once returned by three capable-looking clerks, a
cashier, a manager and an office boy. Stephen glanced at one empty
stool and frowned.
“Harold is late again, I see,” he remarked as, arrived at their inner
office, they divested themselves of their coats and hats.
George Henry sighed.
“I fear that his heart is not in the business,” he said. “However, we
must make allowances. He is young, very young.”
“I am inclined to wish,” Stephen continued, “that his father had chosen
some other avocation for him. However, as it was his wish that he should
enter this business, we must do our best, George Henry. If he does not
settle down soon I should suggest that we send him out for a visit to
one of our Burmese properties.”
“He will probably find fewer distractions there,” George Henry agreed.
Stephen was seated now before an immense pile of correspondence. His
eyes glittered with anticipatory interest. He divided the pile neatly,
and passed half across to his brother.
“It is hard to realize what distractions there can be to compare with
those offered by the ramifications of a business such as ours,” he
observed.
“The boy is young,” George Henry murmured tolerantly. “You must remember
that we are getting to be old fogies, Stephen.”
“Old fogies! Rubbish!” was the indignant denial. “You are only
forty-eight, George Henry. You are a young man.”
“And you,” George Henry rejoined with spirit, “are only three years
older. That is no difference at all. Three years do not count. We are
practically of the same age. And as to being old fogies—-“
George Henry broke off in his speech and glanced for a moment out of the
window. His thoughts travelled back along the course of his exceedingly
well-ordered life, a life conducted with the utmost propriety, with the
most rigorous monotony of good conduct. He had committed no foolish
actions, he had never once been conscious of any desire to look into the
land of adventure which lay somewhere on the westward side of that line
drawn between Hampstead and the City. He was satisfied–perfectly
satisfied–and yet, he was passing middle age, he was certainly becoming
an old fogy. He suddenly recollected his task. Pencil in hand, he dealt
with his pile of correspondence, making notes in the margin of each
letter. As soon as they had finished their piles, they exchanged them.
There was scarcely a comment made, each was always satisfied with his
brother’s decision. When they had come to an end, George Henry rose to
his feet, took up his hat, put on his overcoat, drew on his gloves and
departed for Mincing Lane. Stephen sent for his manager, his cashier,
and his typist in turn. The business ran like a well-oiled machine.
At twelve o’clock, George Henry returned from Mincing Lane. Upon the
desk in front of Stephen was a long legal envelope, inscribed with the
name of the firm.
“The balance sheet has arrived from Mr. Duncan,” Stephen announced.
“Shall we examine it together?”
“It would be advisable to do so,” George Henry agreed, taking off his
coat and hat without undue haste.
It was Stephen who, by immemorial custom, cut open the sealed flap of
the envelope and George Henry who stood by his side. They turned over
the rustling pages and glanced at the figures announced as the final
result with joint and breathless awe.
“We are millionaires,” George Henry murmured.
“With a few thousands to the good. Our profits for last year, even after
depreciating the Burmese properties, amount to one hundred and thirty
thousand pounds.”
“Incredible!”
“It is nevertheless true. The firm of Duncan and Company are the most
careful accountants in the City. There is no possibility of any
mistake.”
The brothers looked at one another with the shamefaced air of schoolboys
convicted of a misdemeanour. They were shrewd men of business and hard
workers, but wealth such as this was almost beyond their desires.
“After all,” George Henry, who was the optimist of the firm, pointed out
hopefully, “we are only half a millionaire–I mean we are only a
millionaire between us.”
“It is impossible to escape from the fact,” Stephen groaned, “that we
are worth exactly five hundred and three thousand pounds each.”
There was an awkward silence. The possession of such a sum was without
doubt criminal. George Henry peered once more into the envelope.
“Here is a letter from Mr. Duncan,” he announced.
“Read it,” his brother begged.
George Henry adjusted with precision a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses
upon his nose, cleared his throat and read:
17 Throgmorton Street,
February 9.
DEAR SIRS,
I enclose your annual balance sheet, upon which I will make no
comment save to offer you–shall I say my wondering
congratulations? Your stock in trade and securities have been
depreciated to the fullest extent, and a sum of twenty thousand
pounds for charities included in the profit and loss account.
I feel that the time has now arrived when it is my duty to
forward to you the enclosed letter, left in my care by your
late father, with instructions to pass it on to you under
certain contingencies which have now arisen. I feel sure that
you will do your best to realize your obligations in the
matter.
Sincerely,
THEODORE DUNCAN.
“A letter from our father,” Stephen murmured, gazing at the envelope.
“It is certainly his handwriting,” George Henry declared.
They lingered for a moment over it, as one does over a communication
from the dead. Then Stephen reverently cut the flap of the envelope and
withdrew the enclosure. He read out its contents in a low tone:
MY DEAR SONS,
I am leaving you a business which, barring any great changes in
the commercial world, seems to me likely to make you both, in a
very short time, exceedingly rich men. I send you a few words
of advice, begging you to avoid a certain mistake into which I
feel that my perhaps too frugal habits have led me. You know
the conditions under which you spent your boyhood–pleasant, I
trust, but governed all the time by the most rigid economy. Up
to these last days I believe I am correct in saying that I have
never drawn from the business more than fifteen hundred pounds
a year. I have had no expensive tastes to gratify, our
charities are fixed by an ancient deed of partnership, and I
have been happiest in the modest way of living to which I have
been accustomed. Of late, however, I have seriously questioned
the wisdom, the policy and the integrity of living upon the
twentieth part of one’s income. I have been convinced of a new
truth. It is the duty of the man enjoying a large measure of
prosperity to spend a reasonable proportion of his earnings.
I charge you, therefore, Stephen and George Henry, without
waste or ostentation, yet with a certain lavishness, to
disseminate amongst your fellow creatures a considerable
portion of the income which I feel will accrue to you. Avoid
the Stock Exchange or gambling upon horses. Do not speculate in
any way unless the result of such speculation is likely to
bring definite good to a deserving fellow creature. Without
undue extravagance, try to find pleasures the gratification of
which demands the spending of money. The art of spending is as
difficult as the art of saving. I beg you both to cultivate it,
so that, if your wealth should at any time become known to the
world, you will avoid the, to me, entirely opprobrious epithet
of “miser.”
These are my last words to you, my sons, and I conclude with
all love.
Your affectionate father,
STEPHEN UNDERWOOD.
Stephen laid down the letter.
“This is most disconcerting,” he declared.
“A thunderbolt!” George Henry faltered.
“Our dear father must have arrived at these views quite late in life,”
Stephen ruminated. “I see that the letter is dated only a week or two
before his death. It is a very serious charge that he lays upon us.”
“Very serious indeed,” George Henry assented in a tone of abject misery.
As men confronted with an unexpected crisis, they stood looking at each
other helplessly. George Henry waited, as was his custom, for his
brother’s initiative.
“The charge upon us is one that we must accept,” the latter declared
firmly. “We must spend more money.”
“A great deal more,” George Henry echoed.
“We must change the whole routine of our life and our habits,” Stephen
continued dolefully.
“Entirely,” his brother acquiesced with kindred dejection.
The senior partner in the firm of Underwood Brothers took down a small
bowler hat from its peg and handed a similar article of apparel to his
brother.
“We will begin with luncheon,” he declared firmly.
The healthy colour faded from George Henry’s cheeks. He was momentarily
aghast.
“You mean that we are not to lunch at Prosser’s?” he exclaimed.
“Certainly not,” was the firm reply. “We will lunch–at the ‘Milan’.”
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