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George’s Wife
by
Black Andy’s face showed no lightening of its gloom as he spoke, but there was a firing-up of the black eyes, and the woman with the knitting felt that–for whatever reason–he was purposely irritating his father.
“The devil was in her heels and in her tongue,” Andy continued. “With her big mouth, red hair, and little eyes she’d have made anybody laugh. I laughed.”
“You laughed!” snapped out his father, with a sneer.
Black Andy’s eyes half closed with a morose look, then he went on: “Yes, I laughed at Cassy. While she was out here at Lumley’s getting cured, accordin’ to the doctor’s orders, things seemed to get a move on in the West. But it didn’t suit professing Christians like you, dad.” He jerked his head toward the old man and drew the spittoon near with his feet.
“The West hasn’t been any worse off since she left,” snarled the old man.
“Well, she took George with her,” grimly retorted Black Andy.
Abel Baragar’s heart had been warmer toward his dead son George than to any one else in the world. George had been as fair of face and hair as Andrew was dark, as cheerful and amusing as Andrew was gloomy and dispiriting, as agile and dexterous of mind and body as his brother was slow and angular, as emotional and warm-hearted as the other was phlegmatic and sour–or so it seemed to the father and to nearly all others.
In those old days they had not been very well off. The railway was not completed, and the West had not begun “to move.” The old man had bought and sold land and cattle and horses, always living on a narrow margin of safety, but in the hope that one day the choice bits of land he was shepherding here and there would take a leap up in value; and his judgment had been right. His prosperity had all come since George went away with Cassy Mavor. His anger at George had been the more acute, because the thing happened at a time when his affairs were on the edge of a precipice. He had won through it, but only by the merest shave, and it had all left him with a bad spot in his heart, in spite of his “having religion.” Whenever he remembered George he instinctively thought of those black days when a Land and Cattle Syndicate was crowding him over the edge into the chasm of failure, and came so near doing it. A few thousand dollars less to put up here and there, and he would have been ruined; his blood became hotter whenever he thought of it. He had had to fight the worst of it through alone, for George, who had been useful as a kind of buyer and seller, who was ever all things to all men, and ready with quip and jest, and not a little uncertain as to truth–to which the old man shut his eyes when there was a “deal” on–had, in the end, been of no use at all, and had seemed to go to pieces just when he was most needed. His father had put it all down to Cassy Mavor, who had unsettled things since she had come to Lumley’s, and, being a man of very few ideas, he cherished those he had with an exaggerated care. Prosperity had not softened him; it had given him an arrogance unduly emphasized by a reputation for rigid virtue and honesty. The indirect attack which Andrew now made on George’s memory roused him to anger, as much because it seemed to challenge his own judgment as cast a slight on the name of the boy whom he had cast off, yet who had a firmer hold on his heart than any human being ever had. It had only been pride which had prevented him from making it up with George before it was too late; but, all the more, he was set against the woman who “kicked up her heels for a living”; and, all the more, he resented Black Andy, who, in his own grim way, had managed to remain a partner with him in their present prosperity, and had done so little for it.