Eddie pushed back his chair and got up.
"Miss Kennedy," he said, "I’ve some more books for you--if you’ll come
and get them."
"All right!" she answered carelessly.
He hesitated a moment, as if he were about to speak; then he went on
up-stairs into his room, leaving the door open so that he could watch
the lighted hall. He saw his mother go by, into her own room; then he
heard the sound of the piano down-stairs--Polly’s familiar touch.
"I suppose she’ll stay down there--jabbering!" he said to himself,
jealous, hurt beyond measure. "When _he_ comes, with his damned swagger,
of course she has no further use for--for study and improvement. She’ll
forget all about coming!"
He couldn’t read, himself. He sat facing the door, restless, miserable.
There came to his mind so many stories he had read, operas he had heard,
with the tragic rivalry of brothers for their theme. And wasn’t he the
very prototype of the good brother; the one who is always wronged by
the reckless, handsome one--by Vincent? He thrust the thought away.
Damned nonsense! No one was in love with any one else in this house!
He recognized an old and most unworthy adversary in this jealousy,
something which he had tried for years to combat. It was the most
convincing proof of Eddie’s greatness of soul that he did so struggle
with this envy, and that he did not hate his brother. He had every
possible reason for doing so. He had the memory of years and years of
injuries and injustices; he had seen this brother always exalted above
him, always held up to him as an example of all the social virtues.
"If you’d only try to be more like Vincent!" his mother used to sigh.
Eddie couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t in any sort of way
ingratiate himself. He wasn’t liked. His goodness itself was perhaps the
chief thing against him.
"I never worry about Eddie," Mrs. Russell had often said in his hearing.
"He’s perfectly safe." And he knew that this was a most unattractive
thing to be.
He had never got on with Vincent. There was only two years’ difference
between them, and Eddie had never been able to make even this apparent.
He was smaller, he developed much more slowly, he never could obtain any
of the prestige due to him as the elder. Eddie, at nineteen, had been
nothing but a somewhat priggish and very shy school-boy, while Vincent,
at seventeen, was a young man.
It must not be imagined, however, that Eddie was in any way subservient
to his brother. For the most part, they were quite indifferent to each
other. They very rarely met; they went to different schools, and Eddie
spent his holidays with his mother and Vincent with his father. When
their father died, and they were once more under one roof, with their
mother, they had separate friends, separate interests.
When anything did bring them together, they fought. Eddie had more than
once been sent rolling in the dirt by his bigger brother; and in spite
of the tradition that the normal boy loves the fellow who pummels him
most heartily, this didn’t breed affection in Eddie’s heart. He resented
it. He was fiendishly proud and sensitive, and he couldn’t forget such
outrages.
He had fleeting visions of certain miserable moments--visions of the
triumphant and exuberant Vincent, of being taken to see Vincent
graduated with honours, to hear him read a valedictory poem he had
written, to see him surrounded, overwhelmed with admiration, of watching
him win races, play in tennis tournaments and amateur theatricals, of
hearing him sing. It seemed to him that he had spent a great part of his
youth sitting beside his mother and watching Vincent show off.
There were facets to Vincent’s nature which he never regarded or
attempted to comprehend. This poetic stuff, for instance. He had heard
Vincent recite from his work, but he hadn’t seen much in it for
admiration. He had simply taken for granted what every one told him,
that his brother was a poet. It had never occurred to him that there
were grades of poets.
There was something mysterious at which he merely guessed, a side to his
brother too amazing and unpleasant to contemplate. Eddie, with his rigid
self-discipline, his ceaseless struggle to perfect himself, could in no
way comprehend the laxity, the facile debauchery, the equally facile
repentance, of an ill-balanced and self-indulgent soul. He had more than
once fancied he heard his brother weeping and groaning, sometimes shut
in with his mother, sometimes with Polly; but when he actually saw
him--big, strong, insolent, forever bragging of his manhood--he couldn’t
believe it. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of hysterical weakness with
this conquering creature. He imagined it must be merely some expression
of the poetic temperament.
No, this victorious brother was without blemish; he had become in
Eddie’s eyes a rival of quite fantastic perfection. He was handsome, he
was strong, he was fascinating, he was a poet; he had every
accomplishment, every charm. He was not to be withstood.
And, just as he was reflecting, he saw Angelica go by the door,
absolutely oblivious of him, without so much as turning her head. He
heard her door close; he waited, but he knew it was of no use. She had
forgotten him!