Fairfax himself made many cruel Siberian journeys and voyages through
hellish tropics, on his own narrow bed in the hall room overlooking the
New York Central yards. He had something close to pneumonia and turned
and cried out on his bed, too small for his big form, and in his
delirium he kicked away the footboard. His uncle's house, which he had
left as brusquely this time as before, haunted him in his mind troubled
by sickness. He cried out that it was a cursed place and that Gardiner
had been killed by neglect, and that he shook the dust of New York from
his feet. From wild blue eyes that flamed under his hair grown long, he
stared into the space peopled by delirium and called his solitary
attendant "Bella," and begged her to come away with him before it was
too late, for, as many sick people seem to be, he was travelling. In his
case he journeyed back to his boarding-house and laid his visions down
and waked up in the same old world that had treated him badly, but which
he was not ready to leave.
It was a sunny, brilliant January day. The snow had frozen on his window
and the light played upon gleaming bands, and through the dingy yellow
shade the sunlight came determinedly. On the table by his bedside were
his medicines and milk, and he was covered by counterpanes lent by the
other lodgers.
He felt the perspiration pour off him as his mind found its balance, and
he saw how weak he was; but though it hurt him to breathe, he could do
so, and the crisis was past. He had fallen on his bed when he came from
New York and here he had remained. He wet his cracked lips, said
"Water," and from behind him, where she had been sitting, a girl came
and held a glass to his lips. Fairfax drank, closed his eyes, made no
sign of recognition, for he knew Molly Shannon. She wiped the sweat from
his brow and face tenderly, and though her hand had not trembled before
in her ministrations, it trembled now. Her heart was beating with
gratitude for she knew he was saved. She gave him milk and brandy, after
a few moments, then sat down to her work. Fairfax, speaking each word
distinctly, said--
"I reckon I've been pretty sick, haven't I?"
"You're all right now, Misther Fairfax."
He smiled faintly. He was indifferent, very weak, but he felt a kind of
mild happiness steal over him as he lay there, a sense of being looked
after, cared for, and of having beaten the enemy which had clutched his
throat and chest. He heard the voices of Molly and the doctor, heard her
pretty Irish accent, half-opened his eyes and saw her hat and plaid
red-and-black shawl hanging by the window. The plaid danced before his
eyes, became a signal flag, and, watching it, he drowsed and then fell
into the profound sleep which means recovery.