to getting married and things like that. But I don’t want you to think I’m proud of it. I don’t want to tell you either, unless you are feeling friendly towards me, so I’ll instruct Tom Mitchell accordingly. Anyhow, there it is. Love from Lizzie. Villa Soleil, Menton.’
John laughed as he crammed the letter back into his pocket without folding it. Mrs Doctor Bonnet. Love from Lizzie. The same old sixpence, he said to himself in glee; the same old sixpence!
In his first exuberance he wrote her the letter of invitation and gummed down the flap of the envelope before he rememberd that her new-made husband might be dead by this time. He checked himself. It was indecent to be so overjoyed if Lizzie were a widow. Yet he could not feel grief-stricken; her being a widow was the best thing that could happen; it would set her free to come home. He tore up that letter, however, and wrote another. When that was in its envelope he took it out at the last minute and added as a postscript: ‘Do come.’ Then he went out to post it himself. Before he slid it into the letterbox he looked again at the superscription, ‘Frau Doktor Mütze’, and grinned like a boy.
Now that the letter was posted he realized how much of himself had gone into it. His heart had not stirred in such secret delight since Lizzie’s disappearance – not even on his wedding-day. Something hidden very deep seemed to have come alive again. He felt like whistling, and he had not whistled for fifteen years, he dared say, yes, fifteen years at least.
I must have been growing old, thought John. That was what growing old meant, saving up one’s energy, no whistling or running or jumping. There was a flight of stone steps leading up to his own front door; he took them in two strides and paused at the top to reflect that Lizzie would certainly push him down again if she were there. What were steps for!
II
Mabel was feeling pettish. For days John had been mooning about as if bewitched, shutting himself up all evening and either looking at her as if she were not there or evading her irritably whenever he came out of the study. One might as well be married to a log. It was a pity John was so old.
Their marital relationship had been well regulated during the two years of their marriage. After John’s first ardours were over she had escaped his embraces except on Sunday mornings when they lay longer in bed. These Sunday- morning embraces now had the sanction of tradition, and Mabel sometimes wondered if John kept them up because they were a tradition. It was a pity John was so old. A woman so well made as she was should have a husband to match her.
She looked up resentfully from her magazine as John came in.
‘Are you going to change?’ she asked.
‘Won’t take me a minute,’ said John, balancing himself on his toes before the fire.
He would break it to her after dinner, he was thinking.
‘You’re growing fat, John. Must do something to take down your tummy.’
‘Am I?’ John looked down at his waistcoat and fingered his beard. Mabel noted with satisfaction that he seemed dashed.
‘Do I look very old, Mabel?’ he asked in a surprisingly humble tone. Mabel’s possessiveness reasserted itself.
‘No, you don’t, darling; you look very dignified, but not old. A little less on the tummy would be an improvement, though.’
‘I’ll do exercises every morning,’ decided John. He still lingered, however, and then brought out the question which had been troubling him.
‘Should I shave my beard off, Mabel, do you think?’
Mabel was astounded. She had never seen him without a beard.
‘I don’t know what you’d look like without it!’ she cried. ‘Oh no, darling. It gives you such a distinguished look.’
John went upstairs to change and as he looked in the glass he could hear Lizzie saying: ‘Saves you washing your neck, doesn’t it?’
He laughed out loud.
If he took off his beard, Mabel was thinking downstairs, I might as well be married to anybody.
She gazed idly at an illustration to the story she was reading. The hero and heroine were standing clasped in each other’s arms, a typical magazine embrace, with the woman swaying backwards and the man masterfully overtopping her. She had a hand on each of his shoulders, pushing him away; when the inevitable kiss came she would enjoy it with a good conscience because of this show of resistance. Mabel’s eye lingered on the picture. It came into her mind that the hero’s shoulders were like Hector’s, and although startled, even shocked, she felt for an infinitesimal space of time that it would be thrilling to stem her hands against Hector’s broad shoulders and push him away with all her strength.
During dinner and afterwards John and Mabel were more talkative than usual. Perhaps they were each trying to atone to the other for a secret feeling of guilt. John found it easy, at any rate, to confess all, or nearly all, of what was in his heart. Mabel, apparently, had nothing to confess.
TWO
On looking at them one could never have told that Hector and John Shand were half-brothers. John resembled his Highland mother; with his big frame and his reddish fair beard he might have been a viking from the Western Isles. Hector was like the Shands; his wrists and ankles were small and sinewy, his hands and feet small and beautifully shaped; he had a swarthy skin, black hair and dark hazel eyes, so quick in movement and expression that he seemed to be always on the watch. For his size he had uncommonly broad shoulders, and whether it was the shoulders or the nervous hands or the quick, ready eye that endeared him to women he was, at any rate, extremely attractive to them.
His mother, a delicate, submissive woman, had died shortly after he was born, and he was brought up by Janet Shand, who expended upon him in double measure the affection she felt for his father, sharpened at times to a keen edge of anxiety lest he should grow up to resemble his father morally as well as physically. Janet could never rid herself of the knowledge that the Shand men were sexually unbridled; even her own brother had given her a queer feeling; she could not look at him without remembering how often he was reported to lie with women in the town. It was indeed difficult to think of anything but bodily appetites when one met Charlie Shand.
Thus the atmosphere in which Hector Shand grew up was, one might say, heavily charged with sex between the two poles of Janet’s anxious abhorrence of the subject and Charlie Shand’s open devotion to it. Before the boy was twelve his father had become so dissolute that he was a byword in the town. Shamed to the soul, young Hector found little comfort in the thought of his mother, for his Aunt Janet always spoke of her with contemptuous pity as of a poor spiritless thing, who was no wife for Charlie. Hector became convinced that his heredity was tainted; he became fatalistic about it; he persuaded himself that John had escaped the curse only because he had a different kind of mother, and he resented his half-brother’s robust superiority.
Nor did school help him to escape from his fatalistic preoccupation. Examinations made his stomach queasy with nervousness. Everything that he knew ebbed out of his mind when he was ordered to set it down, and his increasing nervous tension in the ordeal invariably discharged itself in a way which made him miserable and strengthened his sense of inborn guilt. In every bodily activity, in every game he played, he had a lightning correspondence between his body and his brain, but the mere sight of ink and paper was enough to paralyse it. A problem in arithmetic, which, given real bricks, he would have solved, became
