Fairfax and His Pride Part 31

On the contrary, Fairfax thought so. He leaned forward eagerly, and Rainsford, watching him, saw a transfigured man.

"Death," said the engineer, "has taken everything from me. Life has given me nothing, old man. I have a feeling that perhaps now, through this, I may regain what I have lost.... I long to take my chance."

The other exclaimed sympathetically, "My dear fellow, you must take it by all means."

Fairfax remained thoughtful a moment, then asked almost appealingly----

"Why, how can I do so? Such an effort would cost my living, _her_ living, the renting of a place to work in...." As he watched Rainsford's face his eyes kindled.

"I offered to lend you money once, Tony," recalled his friend, "and I wish to G.o.d you'd taken the loan then, because just at present--"

The Utter Failure raised his near-sighted eyes, and the look of disappointment on the bright countenance of the engineer cut him to the heart.

"Never mind." Fairfax's voice was forced in its cheerfulness. "Something or other will turn up, I shall work Sundays and half-days, and I reckon I can put it through. I am bound to," he finished ardently, "just bound to."

Rainsford said musingly, "I made a little investment, but it went to pot. I hoped--I'm always hoping--but the money didn't double itself."

The engineer didn't hear him. He was already thinking how he could transform his kitchen into a studio, although it had an east light. Just here Rainsford leaned over and put his hand on Antony's sleeve. "I want to say a word to you about your wife. I don't think she's very well."

"Molly?" answered his companion calmly. "She's all right. She has a mighty fine const.i.tution, and I never heard her complain. When did you see her, Rainsford?" He frowned.

"Sat.u.r.day, when you were in New York. You forgot to send your pa.s.s-book, and I went for it myself."

"Well?" queried Antony. "What then?"

"Mrs. Fairfax gave me the book, and I stopped to speak with her for a few moments. I find her very much changed."

The light died from the young man's illumined face where his visions had kindled a sacred fire. The realities of life blotted it out.

"I'm not able to give Molly any distractions, that you know."

"She doesn't want them, Tony." Rainsford looked kindly and affectionately, almost tenderly, at him, and repeated gently: "She doesn't want amus.e.m.e.nt, Tony."

And Fairfax threw up his head with a sort of despair on his face--

"My G.o.d, Rainsford," he murmured, "what can I do?"

"I'm afraid she's breaking her heart," said the older man. "Poor little woman!"

CHAPTER XXVII

In the little room they used as parlour-kitchen and which to one of the inhabitants at least was lovely, Fairfax found Molly sitting by the window through which the spring light fell. The evening was warm. Molly wore a print dress, and in her bodice he saw that she had thrust a spray of pink geranium from the window-boxes that Antony had made and filled for her. Nothing that had claim to beauty failed to touch his senses, and he saw the charm of the picture in the pale spring light. He had softly turned the door-handle, and as there was a hand-organ playing without and Molly listening to the music, he entered without her hearing him.

"Is it yourself?" she exclaimed, startled. "You're home early, Tony."

He told her that he had come to take her for a little walk, and as she moved out of the light and came toward him, he thought he knew what Rainsford had meant. She was thin and yet not thin. The roundness had gone from her cheeks, and there was a mild sadness in her eyes.

Reproached and impatient, suffering as keenly as she, he was nevertheless too kind of heart and nature not to feel the tragedy of her life. He drew her to him and kissed her. She made no response, and feeling her a dead weight he found that as he held her she had fainted away. He laid her on the bed, loosened her dress, and bathed her icy temples. Before she regained consciousness he saw her pallor, and that she had greatly changed. He was very gentle and tender with her when she came to herself; and, holding her, said--

"Molly, why didn't you tell me, dear? Why didn't you tell me?"

She had thought he would be angry with her.

He exclaimed, hurt: "Am I such a brute to you, Molly?"

Ah, no; not that. But two was all he could look out for.

He kneeled, supporting her. Oh, if he could only be glad of it, then she would be happy. She'd not let it disturb him. It would be sure to be beautiful and have his eyes and hair.

He listened, touched. There was a mystery, a beauty in her voice with its rich cadence, her trembling breath, her fast beating pulse, her excitement. Below in the street the organ played, "Gallagher's Daughter Belle," then changed to--ah, how could he bear it!--"My Old Kentucky Home." Tears sprang to his eyes. Motherhood was sacred to him. Was he to have a son? Was he to be a father? He must make her happy, this modest, undemanding girl whom he had made woman and a wife. He kissed her and she clung to him, daring to whisper something of her adoration and her grat.i.tude.

When after supper he stood with her in the window and looked out over the river where the anch.o.r.ed steamers were in port for over Sunday, and the May sunset covered the crude brick buildings with a garment of glory, he was astonished to find that the stone at his heart which had lain there so long was rolled a little away. He picked up the geranium which Molly had worn at her breast and which had fallen when she fainted, and put it in his b.u.t.ton-hole. It was crushed and sweet. Molly whispered that he would kill her with goodness, and that "she was heart happy."

"Are you, really?" he asked her eagerly. "Then we'll have old Rainsford to supper, and you must tell him so!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

Fairfax, stirred as he had been to the depths by his visit to New York, awake again to the voices of his visions, could give but little of himself to his home life or to his work. The greatest proof of his kindly heart was that he did not let Molly see his irritation or his agony of discontent. If he were only nothing but an engineer with an Irish wife! Why, why, was he otherwise? In his useless rebellion the visions came and told him why--told him that to be born as he was, gifted as he was, was the most glorious thing and the most suffering thing in the world.

To the agent who had accepted the Fairfax hospitality and come to supper, Tony said--

"To ease my soul, Peter, I want to tell you of something I did."

Molly had washed the dishes and put them away, and, with a delicate appreciation of her husband's wish to be alone with his friend, went into the next room.

"After mother died my old n.i.g.g.e.r mammy in New Orleans sent me a packet of little things. I could never open the parcel until the other day.

Amongst the treasures was a diamond ring, Rainsford, one I had seen her wear when I was a little boy. I took it to a jeweller on Market Street, and he told me it was worth a thousand dollars."

Here Tony remained silent so long that his companion said--

"That's a lot of money, Tony."

"Well, it came to me," said the young man simply, "like a gift from her.

I asked them to lend me five hundred dollars on it for a year. It seems that it's a peculiarly fine stone, and they didn't hesitate."

Rainsford was smoking a peaceful pipe, and he held the bowl affectionately in his hand, his attention fixed on the blond young man sitting in the full light of the evening. The night was warm, Fairfax was in snowy shirt-sleeves, his bright hair cropped close revealed the beautiful lines of his head; he was a powerful man, clean in habits of body and mind, and his expression as he talked was brilliant and fascinating, his eyes profound and blue. Around his knees he clasped the hands that drove an engine and ached to model in plaster and clay. His big shoe was a deformity, otherwise he was superb.

"I've taken a studio, Rainsford," he smiled. "t.i.to Falutini found it for me. It is a shed next to the lime-kiln in Ca.n.a.l Street. I've got my material and I'm going to begin my work for the California compet.i.tion."

The older, to whom enthusiasm was as past a joy as success was a dim possibility, said thoughtfully--

"When will you work?"