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I had hoped Pompey's estate would bring some out in you. But I should have known it's the Makimmon blood; you are the son of your father. I knew your grandfather too, a man that fairly insulted opportunity." "We've never been storekeepers." "Never kept much of anything, have you, any of you? You can call it what you've a mind to, liberality or shiftlessness. But there's nothing saved by names.
Gordon Makimmon started forward with a rasping oath, but, before he could reach the ground, General Jackson had propelled himself to the fringe of humanity. He made a last, convulsive effort to rise, his jaws snapped.... A short, iron bar descended upon his head. Gordon's face became instantly, irrevocably, the shrunken face of an old man.
The buggy, badly hitched, bumped against the flank of the horse, twisted over exposed boulders, brought up suddenly in the gutters cut diagonally by the spring torrents. Gordon Makimmon forgot everything else in the sole desire to get Lettice safely to their house. He endeavored, by shifting her position, to reduce the jarring of the uneven progress.
It created in him an animosity which, as he turned from the window, noted almost with relief faint lines about her mouth, the sinking of her color. She was sitting with her eyes shut, the sewing neglected in her lap, and did not see Mrs. Caley standing in the doorway. The woman's gaze lingered for a moment, with an unmasked, burning contempt, upon Gordon Makimmon, then swept on to the girl.
The Bugle says I let out money to cover up the railway deal, but that'd be no better than giving it to stop the sight of the blind. God A'mighty! this transportation business you're only whining about now was laid out five years ago, the company's agents have driven in and out twenty times...." "Let him have it!" "Spite yourselves!" Gordon Makimmon cried; "it's all that's left for you."
The other, a young man with a sodden countenance discolored by old purplish bruises, wore a misfitting suit that drew across heavy, bowed shoulders, thick, powerful arms. He regarded Gordon Makimmon with no light dawning upon his lowering face; no greeting disturbed the dark, hard line of his mouth.
Makimmon!" she cried; "there's just no one we'd rather see than you. Step right out, and Alexander'll take your horse. He's only at the back of the house.... Alec!" she called; "Alec, what do you suppose? here's Mr. Makimmon." Alexander Crandall quickly appeared, in a hide apron covered with curlings of wood.
The cold sharpened; the sky, toward evening, glittered like an emerald; the earth was black, it resembled a ball of iron spinning in the diffused green radiance of a dayless and glacial void. The stream before the Makimmon dwelling moved without a sound under banked ledges of ice.
Gordon Makimmon stood at the end of the porch, morosely ill at ease: the memories of Clare as a girl, as a woman going about and performing the duties of their home, the dignity of his sense of loss and sorrow, had vanished before this public ceremony; they had sunk to perfunctory, conventional emotions before the glib flood of the paid eulogist, the facile emotion of the women.
Some days after the Vibards' arrival Gordon Makimmon was standing by the stable door, in the crisp flood of midday, when an ungainly young man strode about the corner of the dwelling and approached him. "You're Makimmon," he half queried, half asserted. "I'm Edgar Crandall, Alexander's brother." He took off his hat, and passed his hand in a quick gesture across his brow.
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