Fairfax, used to the Southern climate, found no fault with the heat of
summer, bone-racking and blood-boiling though it was; but, remembering
his past experience of winds and snow in January, he wondered how winter
would seem in the yards, endured in the cab of the engine, but his toil
had now toughened him, roughened him, and strengthened his heart of
steel. November, with its Indian summer smoothness, with its fine,
glorious light that glowed over West Albany, passed, and the year went
out in beauty and December followed, still windless and mild. But that
was the last touch of mercy. January rushed down upon them, fierce,
tempestuous, and up and down the yards, from his window, Fairfax watched
the whirling shrouds of snow sweep over the ground, cover the tracks,
and through the veil the lights flickered like candles that the snuffers
of the storm were vainly trying to extinguish. He put on an extra
flannel shirt under his red shirt; he buttoned his vest high, got into
his coat, jammed his hat on fiercely and shook himself like a reluctant
dog before going to his work. Under his window he could hear the
soughing of the wind and it sucked under the door; he was sure that he
would never be warm here again.
"Jove!" he thought, "there will be two inches of snow inside my window
when I get back at midnight." He drove his razor into the crack to
stiffen the casement, and took an old flannel shirt and laid it along
the ledge. As he did so the storm blew a whirl of snow across the pane.
"Siberia," he muttered to himself; "don't talk to me about Russia. This
is far enough North for me!"
He could not have said why the thought of the children came, but its
spirit came back to him. For months he had fiercely thrust out every
memory of the children, but to-night, as the wind struck him, he thought
of their games and the last time they had played that romping sport
together. Like a warm garment to shield him against the cold he was just
going to fight, he seemed to feel Bella's arms around his neck as they
had clung whilst he rushed with her through the hall. It was just a year
ago that he had arrived in the unfriendly city of his kinsmen, and as he
thought of them, going down the narrow dark stairs of the shanty hotel,
strangely enough it was not the icy welcome that he remembered, but
Bella--Bella in her corner with her book, Bella with her bright red
dress, Bella with her dancing eyes and her eager face.
"You've got an awfully light smile, Cousin Antony."
The door of the hotel eating-room was open and dimly lighted. Kenny and
his wife were talking before the stove. They heard their lodger's
step--a unique step in the house--and the woman, who would have gone
down on her knees and blacked his big boot and the smaller boot, called
out to him--
"Ah, don't yez go out unless ye have a cup of hot coffee, Misther
Fairfax. It's biting cold. Come on in now."
Kenny's was a temperance hotel, obliged to be by the railroad. There
were two others in the room besides the landlady and Kenny: Sanders and
Molly Shannon. They sat together by the stove. As Fairfax came in Molly
drew her chair away from the engineer. Fairfax accepted gratefully Mrs.
Kenny's suggestion of hot coffee, and while she busied herself in
getting it for him, he sat down.
"Running out at eight, Sanders?"
"You bet," said the other shortly. "New York Central don't change its
schedule for the weather."
Sanders was suspicious regarding Fairfax and the girl, not that the
fireman paid the least attention to Molly Shannon, but she had changed
in her attitude to all her old friends since the new-comer first drank a
cup of coffee in Sheedy's. Sanders had asked Molly to marry him every
Sunday since spring, and he firmly believed that if he had begun his
demands the Sunday before Fairfax appeared, the girl would be Mrs.
Sanders now.
Molly wore a red merino dress. According to the fashion of the time it
fitted her closely like a glove. Its lines revealed every curve of her
young, shapely figure, and the red dress stopped short at the dazzling
whiteness of her neck. Her skin and colouring were Irish, coral-like and
pure. Her hair was auburn and the vivid tint of her costume was an
unfortunate contrast; but her grey eyes with black flecks in them and
long black lashes, her piquant nose and dimples, brought back the
artistic mistake, as the French say. She was too girlish, too young, too
pretty not to score high above her dreadful dress.
Fairfax, who knew why he did not eat at the coffee-house any more,
looked at the reason, and the artist in him and the man simultaneously
regarded the Irish girl.
"Somebody's got on a new frock," he said. "Did you make it, Miss Molly?"
"Sure," she answered, without lifting her eyes, and went all red from
her dress to her hair.
Fairfax drank the hot coffee and felt the warmth at his heart. He heard
Sanders say under his breath--
"Why, I bet you could make anything, Molly, you're so smart. Now I have
a rip in my coat here; if Mrs. Kenny has a needle will you be a good
girl and mend it?"
And Fairfax heard her say, "Sanders, leave me be."
Since Sanders had cooled to him, Fairfax took special pains to be
friendly, for his pride shrank against having any jars here in these
quarters. He could not bear the idea of a disagreement with these people
with whom he was playing a false part. He took out a couple of excellent
cigars from his waistcoat and gave one to Kenny, who stood picking his
teeth in the doorway.
"Thank you, Mister Fairfax. For a felly who don't smoke, ye smoke the
best cigars."
Sanders refused shortly, and as the whistle of an engine was heard above
the fierce cry of the storm, he rose. He took the eight o'clock express
from Albany to New York. He left all his work to his fireman, jumping on
his locomotive at the last moment, always hanging round Molly Shannon
till she shook him off like a burr. Fairfax put the discarded cigar
back in his pocket. He was not due for some twenty minutes at the
engine-house, and Sanders, gloomily considering his rival, was certain
that Fairfax intended remaining behind with the girl. Indeed, Antony's
impulse to do just this thing was strong. He was tempted to take
Sanders' chair and sit down by Molly. She remained quietly, her eyes
downcast, twisting her handkerchief, which she rolled and unrolled. Mrs.
Kenny cleared away the dishes, her husband lit his cigar and beamed.
Sanders got his hat off the hook, put on his coat slowly, the cloud
black on his face. Fairfax wanted to make the girl lift her eyes to him,
he wanted to look into those grey eyes with the little black flecks
along the iris. As the language of the street went, Molly was crazy
about him. He wanted to feel the sensation that her lifted lashes and
her Irish eyes would bring. Temptations are all of one kind; there are
no different kinds. What they are and where they lead depends upon the
person to whom they come.
"Good-night," said Sanders, shortly. "Give up the door, Kenny, will you?
You're not a ghost."
"I'm going with you, Sanders," Fairfax said; "hold on a bit."
Sanders' heart bounded and his whole expression changed. He growled--
"What are you going for? You're not due. It's cold as hell down in the
yards."
Fairfax was looking at Molly and instinctively she raised her head and
her eyes.
"Better give this cigar to your fireman, Sandy," Fairfax said to him as
the two men buttoned up their coats and bent against the January wind.
"All right," muttered the other graciously, "give it over here. Ain't
this the deuce of a night?"
The wind went down Sandy's throat and neither man spoke again. They
parted at the yards, and Sanders went across the track where his fireman
waited for him on his engine, and Fairfax went to the engine-house and
found his legitimate mistress, his steel and iron friend, with whom he
was not forbidden by common-sense to play.