Why had she been
so careless? She knew he was like a crazy man when he was angry.
She had more than once taken that gun away from him and held it,
when he was angry with other people. Once it had gone off while
they were struggling over it. She was never afraid. But, when
she knew him, why hadn't she been more careful? Didn't she have
all summer before her to love Emil Bergson in, without taking such
chances? Probably she had met the Smirka boy, too, down there in
the orchard. He didn't care. She could have met all the men on the
Divide there, and welcome, if only she hadn't brought this horror
on him.
There was a wrench in Frank's mind. He did not honestly believe that
of her. He knew that he was doing her wrong. He stopped his horse
to admit this to himself the more directly, to think it out the more
clearly. He knew that he was to blame. For three years he had been
trying to break her spirit. She had a way of making the best of
things that seemed to him a sentimental affectation. He wanted his
wife to resent that he was wasting his best years among these stupid
and unappreciative people; but she had seemed to find the people
quite good enough.
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