Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 January 1889 — MY BROTHER HENRY. [ARTICLE]

MY BROTHER HENRY.

At first sight it may not, perhaps, seem quite the thing il-.nt I should lie hilarious lunar.s : 1 h v:- p : 1:,:-/ liad 111 courage to kill m; !m; !.-v Henry. For some time, however . ..ry had he annoying me. !Stri k’y - nr, I never had a brother Henry. 3i ,s j ,s- idle -n months since 1 began to no!;: o . ' - that there was such a person. I: ->• - about in this way: I have a friend named Kelt'e, who, like myseif, lives in ..on ion. His house is so conveniently situated that I can go there and hack in one day. About a year and a half ago I wa- at Keltic’s, and lie remarked that.he met a man the day before who knew my brother Henry. Not having a brother Henry, i fell that there must he a mistake somewhere, so I suggested that Keltic’s friend had gone wrong in the name. My only brother, 1 pointed out with the sauvitv of manner that makes me a general favorite, was called Alexander. “Yes,’ said Keltib, “but he spoke of Alexander also.” Even this did not convince me that I had a brother Henry, and I asked Keltic the name of his friend. Scudamour was the name and the gentleman had met my brothers Alexander and Henry some six years previously in Paris. When I heard this i probably frowned, for then I knew who my brother Henry was. Strange through it may seem. I was my own brother Henry. I distinctly remembered meeting this man Scudamour at Paris .during the time that I and Alexander were there for a week’s pleasure and quarreled every day. I explained this to Keltie, and there, for the time being, the matter rested. I had, however, by no means, heard the last of Henry. Several times afterward I "beard from various persons that Scudamour wanted to meet me because he knew my brother Henry. At last we did meet at a Bohemian supper party at Furnival’s inn, and almost as soon as he saw me Scudamour asked where Henry was now. This was precisely what I had feared. lam a man who always looks like a hoy. There are few persons of my age in London who retain their boyish appearance as long as I have done; indeed, that is the curse of my life. Though lam approaching the age of 30, I pass for 20; and I have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity when I said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine, There was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour’s remark that when he had the pleasure of meeting Henry, he must have been about the age that I had now reached. All would have been well had I explained the real state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately for myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to sriYbody about anything. When I ring for my boots and my servant thinks I want a glass of water ,1 clrink the water and remain indoors. Much, then, did I dread a discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when he heard that I was Henry (my Christian name is Thomas), and his comments on my youthful appearance. Besides, I was at that moment carving a tough fowl, and, as I learned to carve from a hand-book, I can make no progress unless I keep muttering to myself, “Cut from Ato B, taking care to pass along the line C D., and sever the wing K from the body at the point F.” There was no likelihood of my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest way to get rid of him seemed to he to humor lnm. I therefore told him that my brother Henry was in India, married and doing well. “Remember me to Henry when you write to him,” was Scudamour’s last remark to me that evening, i A few weeks later some one tapped me on the shoulder in Oxford street. It was Scudamour. “Heard from Henry?” he asked. I said I had heard by the last mail. “Anything particular in the letter?” 1 felt that it would not do to say that there was nothing particular in a letter which had come all the way from Ird , 'i, so I hinted that Henry had had trouble with his wife. By this I meant that her health was bad, but he took it up in another way, and I did not set him rfi-ht. “,Ali, ah!” he said, shaking his head sagaciously, “I’m sorry to hear that. Poor Henry!” “Poor old boy!” was all I could think of replying. “How about the t hiklren?” Scudamour asked. “Oh, the children,” I said, with what Ithought {iresence of mind, “are coming to Engand.” “To stay with Alexander?” he asked; for Alexander is a married man. My answer was that Alexander was expecting them by the middle of next month; and eventually Scudamour went , away muttering ‘ ‘Poor Henry I”

aax a unruTii o» oo »»c uict amo word of Henry getting leave of absence?” Scudamour asked. I replied shortly that Henry had gone to live in Bombay and would not be home for years, lie saw that 1 was brusque, so what does he do but draw me aside for a quiet explana tion. “I suppose,” he said, “that you are annoyed because I told Keltie that Henry’s wife had run away from him. The fact is, 1 did it for your good. You see I happened to make a remark to Keltie about your brother Henry, and he said that there was no such person. “Of course I laughed at that and pointed out not only that I had the pleasure of Henry's acquaintance but that you and I had a talk abo’.t ihe old fellow evejry time we met. ‘Well,’ Koltie said, ‘this is a most remarkable thiug for Tom,’(meaning you)‘said to me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, that Alexander was lus oniy brother ’ I saw that Keltie resented your concealing the existence of your brother Henry from him, so 1 thought the most friendly thing I could do was to tell him that your reticence was doubtless due to the fact that Henry’s private affairs were troubling you. Naturally in tlie circumstances you did not want to talk about Henry. 1 shook Scudamour by the band, telling him that he had acted judiciously, but il I could have stabbed him quietly at thutmoment I dare say I should have done it. I did not see Scudamour again for a long time, for 1 took caiVto keep out ot his way; but I heard flr.snfc-om aim and then of him. One day nu» saying that his nephew was gob g TT Bombay and if I would be so good as to give the youth an introduction to my.brother Henrv? ne also asked ru to dine w'h him and his nephew 1 declined the honor, but I sent the no \v a note of in troduction to Henrv. The ne t I heard of Scudamour was i r< m aeitie. ‘ ‘ way,” said Keltie, “Scudamour is in i,danburgh at present.” 1 trembled, for Ediu ourgh is where Alexander lives. “What has taken him there?” I a-ked, with assumed carelessness. Keltie believed it was business. “But,” he added, “ocudamour asked me to tell you that he meant to call on Alexander, as he was anxious to see Henry’s children.” A few days afterward I had a telegram from Alexander, who generally uses this means of communication when lie corresponds with me. ‘ Do you know a man Scudamour? reply,” was what Alexander said I thought of that, we had met a man by that name yhen we were in Paris; but, on the whole, /replied boldly; “Know no one of name bf Scudamour.” About two months ago I passed Scudamour in Regent street, and lie did not recognize me. This I cquld have borne if there had been no morgof Henry; but I knew that Scudamour was now '/telling everybody about Henry's wife. By and by I got a letter from an old friend of Alexander asking me if there was any truth in a report that Alexander was going to Bombay. Soon after Alexander wrote to me to say that he had been told by several persons that I was going to Bombay. In short, I saw that the time had come for killing Henry. So I told Keltie that Henry had died of fever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure to tell Scudamour, who had always been interested in the deceased’s welfare. The other day Keltie told me that he had communicated the sad intelligence to Soudamour. “How did he take it?” I asked. “Well,” Keltie said, reluctantly, “he told me that when he was up in Edinburgh he did not get on well with Alexander. But he expressed great curiosity as to Henry’s children.” “Ah,” I said, “the children were both drowned in the Forth; a sad affair—we can’t bear to talk of it ” lam not likely to see much of Scudamour again, nor is Alexander. Scudamour now goes about saying that Henry was the only one of us he really liked.