Читать книгу Man of Strife - Grove Wilson - Страница 8

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HE sat on an ottoman at her feet. It had been one of her good days. The fiend that gnawed, destructively, at her stomach, had momentarily quieted himself. They had talked of her trip East. She was going, Clarence had said, in a few days. She was without enthusiasm. “If you and Clarence think it best,” she said. Her tone was neither hopeless nor expectant. How much she knew of her real condition, it was impossible to guess. The lump had worried her until they told her it was an enlargement of the pancreatic gland. Did she credit their statement? They never knew.

She was running her hand through Bruce’s tangled hair.

“What are you thinking, mother?”

“Of how bright you were as a baby—I mean how good-natured. I was happy before you were born. It was one of your father’s best periods. They said that was the reason.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No one in the world could be kinder or more considerate than he.... Just then he had given up carrying his knife. That always frightened me, though it went on for years.... We had a comfortable Ohio log cabin. It was a good house—you needn’t be ashamed of your birthplace.”

“I’m not, foolish.... Tell me more about the knife. Why did father carry it?”

“Sometime, not now.... It started before I knew him. There were people in Virginia who hated him. Everyone did hate him—unless they loved him ...”

“Did many love him?”

“I’m trying to think. It seems as though everyone did, but of course they didn’t. But no one was indifferent.... He couldn’t have endured that ... I suppose he was vain. Some men are.”

“Now, now, you needn’t rub it in.” The kind hand went on combing his hair and she smiled at him.

“I remember Osborne. That was while you were a baby. He came and talked to me. He was a rich farmer. He told me, weeping, that he would do anything in the world for your father—anything. If he would stop drinking. That was all he asked. ‘The rest will take care of itself,’ he said. He thought your father a great surgeon. Others thought so too.... Well, I mean, John Osborne loved him. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“I wonder why, mother.... Mother, did John Osborne love you?”

“Oh, dear, no. I think he rather resented me; as though he felt he could have managed your father if I hadn’t been there in the way—a useless liability.”

“I don’t think much of John Osborne, then.”

The room was pleasantly warm, the motion of her hand lulled him, his taut nerves relaxed, and he leaned comfortably against her knee. He forgot that right at his elbow were a hundred worries—the office with its ceaseless demand that the news be covered; his brother, unimaginative, stricken with a sense of duty; his wife, querulous in her condition of semi-invalid, brooding upon herself as forsaken, misunderstood. Forgot, even, that he was sitting at the feet of a dying mother.

“Your good nature lasted a long time.”

“It’s all gone now.”

“Your play was broken off suddenly.... It was so easy to amuse you. A pair of scissors and some paper and you’d sit for an hour, contentedly cutting away.... I wonder what on earth you thought you were doing. No one could ever guess. Your father was sure it meant you’d be a surgeon.”

“I’m still at it. You should see me at the office. It meant I’d be a City Editor and add a paste pot to the scissors and paper.”

“I thought it was only the child’s instinct to destroy, but your Aunt Mary said it was the instinct to be free—that you were cutting a way out.... That sounded far-fetched then but now I don’t know....”

“Nonsense. It was only the crude rhythm of the moving blades and the falling paper that interested me. I’d have been just as keenly amused by a swinging pendulum....” The hand had ceased its caressing motion and was lying still on the arm of her chair. “But you’re tired, mother. It’s time for bed.”

“Yes, I’ve been up all day. I felt so well.”

“Now, you’re not to do that. You know the doctor said——”

“Oh, I’ve had enough of doctors in my time. I know how much attention to pay to them. But I am tired. Will you stay or——”

“No, Cora’s alone.”

“Oh, then, you’ve stayed too long. You’ll come over tomorrow if you’re not too tired? You look tired all the time lately. You’re worried. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. And don’t worry about Cora. She’s young and well. See that she walks. Don’t let her stay in doors and be an invalid. She’ll need her strength.... I guess that’s enough advice for one time. Good-night.”

She held his face between her hands, peering into his troubled eyes.

“You seem like a baby tonight. Helpless, a little pain in its tummy and no way of telling what’s wrong. Don’t try to tell. You’ll be easier. There must be a wise Doctor somewhere who doesn’t need words.”