It was past midnight when Antony rushed out of the Forty-second Street
station into a blizzard of sleet and snow. He stood a second looking up
and down Madison Avenue, searching vainly for a car. There were no cabs
at the station, there was nothing in sight but the blinding storm, and
he began on foot to battle his way with the elements. It had been
snowing in New York for twelve hours. The same fierce challenge met him
that he had received the year before, and he pushed his way through the
dim streets where the storm veils wrapped the gas lamps like shrouds. He
had been on duty since six that morning, except for a few hours in the
afternoon. Every now and then he had to stop for breath and to shake the
weight of snow off his collar. He was white as wool. The houses on
either side were dark with a stray light here and there, but he knew
that farther on he should find one house lit with the light that burns
for watchers. He glowed like a gladiator, panted like a runner, and he
reached the door and leaned for breath and waited for an answer to his
ring. Like a gladiator! How he had mouthed Spartacus for them! He could
see the dancing eyes, and little Gardiner touched the muscles of his
arm.
"Feel mine, Cousin Antony."
Heart of steel! Well, he would need it now.
The door was opened, he never knew by whom, and a silence met him that
was profound after the voices of the storm. He stamped his feet and
shook off the drift from without, threw off his coat, caked thick and
fairly rattling with its burden, threw off his hat, heavy and dripping,
and as he was, his heart of steel beating in him like a tender human
heart, he limped up the quiet stairs. Even then he noticed that there
were signs of a feast in the house. It should have been the annual
dinner of Mr. Carew. The odours of flowers that had died were sickening
in the heat. Smilax twisted around the balustrade of the stairs met his
work-stained hand that trembled in the leaves. On the second floor, some
one, he was not clear, but afterwards he thought it must have been Miss
Eulalie, met him and took him in.
In the feeble sick-room light, grouped a few people whose forms and
faces go to make part of the sombre pictures of watchers; that group in
which at some time or other each inhabitant of the world takes his
place. There was one kneeling figure; the others stood round the bed.
The little bark, quite big enough to carry such a small freight thus far
on the voyage, was nearly into port.
Bella lay close to her little brother, her dark hair and dress the only
shadow on the white bed covers. Gardiner's hair was brushed back from
his brow, he looked older, but still very small to go so far alone.
Gardiner was travelling, travelling--climbing steep mountains, white
with snow, and his breath came in short laboured sighs, fast, fast--it
was the only sound in the room. Bella had not left his side for hours,
her cheek pressed the pillow by his restless head. Her tears had fallen
and dried, fallen and dried. Bella alone knew what Gardiner tried to
say. His faltering words, his halting English, were familiar to the
sister and she interpreted to the others, to whom Gardiner, too small to
reach them, had never been very near. Twenty times the kneeling figure
had asked--
"What does he say, Bella? What does he want?"
"He thinks it is a game," the little sister said; "he says it's cold, he
says he wants Cousin Antony."
Since his summons, when Gardiner found that he must gird his little
loins for the journey, his mind had gone to the big cousin who had so
triumphantly carried him over the imaginary steeps.
From the door, where he had been standing on the edge of the group, a
tall figure in a red flannel shirt came forward, bent down, and before
any one knew that he had come, or who he was, he was speaking to the
sick child.
"Gardiner, little cousin, here's your old cousin Antony come back."
Gardiner was travelling hard, but his head stopped its restless turning.
He looked up into the beloved face, whose smile shone on him and lit his
dark journey. Gardiner tried to answer the brightness of that smile, he
tried to hold out his little arms. In a sob Bella whispered--
"He wants Cousin Antony to carry him."
Without removing his look of tender brightness from the traveller's
face, Fairfax murmured--
"I reckon I'll take him in my arms, Aunt Caroline."
And as the steepest, coldest place came in sight to little Gardiner, he
was lifted in a warm embrace. He opened his eyes upon Antony's and with
a radiant look gave up the painful climbing to the rescuer.