Читать книгу Man of Strife - Grove Wilson - Страница 5

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IT was no use. He could not escape. He had a hundred things to do, and strained nerves drove him at copy or assignment book with frenzy—an unaccomplishing frenzy. There sat his uncle, discolored nose, ragged moustache, bald head, reeking with stupid prosperity. There sat his brother, with sleek black hair, face slightly twisted, an imperfection in the iris of the left eye, bloated, fairly, with a sense of duty.

“If you get a minute, Bruce, Uncle George wants to talk to you.” The words had come from the twisted mouth.

“I know, I know. I’ve got a thousand things to do. No matter.... What is it, Uncle George!”

Uncle George took his cigar out of his mouth and drew his chair closer to the big glass-topped desk.

“Clarence has been talking to me about sending your mother East to some ...”

“Yes. He saw a fool over by the University who pumped him full. Fake cancer cure. Nonsense.”

Clarence flushed, outraged, indignant. “I suppose you’d rather just see her lie there and die.”

“Infinitely, infinitely. Send her a thousand miles away to be tortured by a bunch of quacks? Never.”

In Clarence, duty grew dominant; he became heroic with its conception. “All right. If you won’t agree to that, I’ll tell her what’s the matter with her and let her decide.”

A crushing blackness enveloped Bruce. Grotesque passions, blacker than blackness, crowded upon him. His nerves shrieked in their agony. Rage was impotent. He could not hate, could not sufficiently and enduringly hate, this creature, this man, this brother. Because of an affection, nursed by years, he must control his rage, must subdue even his horror. Slowly the blackness lifted, the roar of the office came back. Opposite him sat his brother, firm, secure in his enlargement of duty. A hard, stubborn, mediocre mind he had. Bruce knew by experience that he would keep his word—he would carry his dreadful message to the stricken mother. There was no escape; he had known from the first that there would be no escape. Dully he yielded.

“All right. Do what you like.” Then he could not hold back the cry, “It’s a mistake. You’ll torture her to no purpose and shorten her life. You’re blind, bigoted fools. But I consent, I consent. I’m as bad as you are. We’re all God damned fools.”

The discolored nose, the ragged moustache, the bald head, that characterized for Bruce the small prosperous uncle, withdrew themselves. Clarence lingered, his twisted face lighted with a smile of triumph. He must sound a pæan of victory: “I’m glad you’re sensible. You’ll be glad too, when mother comes back cured.”

“Good God, how can any one be such an idiot! Get out. Go on; do your dirty work.”