Fairfax took Molly Shannon's presence for granted, accepted her
services, obeyed her docilely and thanked her with his smile which
regained its old radiance as he grew stronger. Lying shaven, with his
hair cut at last--for she had listened to his pleading and sent for a
barber--in clean sheets and jacket, he looked boyish and thin, and to
the Irish girl he was beautiful. She kept her eyes from him for fear
that he should see her passion and her adoration, and she effaced
herself in the nurse, the mother, the sister, in the angel.
Sure, she hadn't sent word to any one. How should she? Sorry an idea she
had where he came from or who were his folks.
"I am glad. I wouldn't have worried my mother."
And answering the question that was bounding in Molly's heart, he said--
"There's no one else to frighten or to reassure. I must write to my
mother to-day."
As he said this he remembered that he would be obliged to tell her of
little Gardiner, and the blood rose to his cheek, a spasm seized his
heart, and his past rushed over him and smote him like a great wave.
Molly sat sewing in the window, mending his shirts, the light outlining
her form and her head like a red flower. He covered his face with his
hand and a smothered groan escaped him, and he fell back on the pillow.
Molly ran to him, terrified: "a relapse," that's what it was. The doctor
had warned her.
"God in heaven!" she cried, and knowing nothing better to do, she put
her arms round him as if he had been a boy. She saw the tears trickle
through his thin hands that in his idleness had grown white, though the
dark ridges around the broken nails were blackened still.
Fairfax quickly regained his control and made the girl go back to her
work. After a little he said--
"Who's been paying for all these medicines, and so forth?"
"Lord love ye, that's nothing to cry about."
"There is money in my vest pocket, Molly; get it, will you?"
She found a roll of bills. There were twenty dollars.
She exclaimed--
"That's riches! I've only spent the inside of a five-dollar bill."
"And the doctor?"
"Oh, he'll wait. He's used to waiting in Nut Street."
Fairfax fingered the money. "And your work at Sheedy's?"
Molly stood by the bed, his shirt in her hand, her brass thimble on one
finger, a bib apron over her bosom.
"Don't bother."
"You've lost your place, Molly; given it up to take care of me."
She took a few stitches, the colour high in her face, and with a rare
sensitiveness understood that she must not let Antony see her sacrifice,
that she must not put her responsibility on Fairfax. She met his eyes
candidly.
"If you go on like this, you'll be back again worse nor ye were.
Sheedy's afther me ivery day at the dure there, waitin' till I'm free
again. He is that. Meanwhile he's payin' me full time. He is that. He'll
keep me me place!"
She lied sweetly, serenely, and when the look of relief crept over
Fairfax's face, she endured it as humble women in love endure, when
their natures are sweet and honey-like and their hearts are pure gold.
She took the five dollars he paid her back. He was too delicate in
sentiment to offer her more, and he watched her, his hands idly on the
sheets.
"I reckon Joe Mead's got another fireman, Molly?"
"Ah, no," she laughed, "Joe's been here every day to see when you would
be working, and when Joe don't come the other felly comes to see when
you'll let _him_ off!"
Life, then, was going on out there in the yards. He heard the shriek of
the engines, the fine voices of the whistles, and the square of his
sunny window framed the outer day. People were going on journeys, people
were coming home. He had come back, and little Gardiner....
"Sit down," he said brusquely to the girl who stood at his side; "sit
down, for God's sake, and talk to me; tell me something, anything, or I
shall go crazy again."