Death does not always make the deepest graves. His art was buried
deepest of all, and there was just one interest in his life, and that
was not his wife. He was kind to her, but if he had beaten her she would
have kissed his hand; she could not have loved him better. Her life was
"just wrapped round him." He treated her as a lady, and he was a
gentleman. Her manners were always soft and gentle, coming from a sweet
good heart. She grew thinner, and her pride in him and her love for him
and her humility made Molly Fairfax beautiful. There was a great deal of
cruelty in the marriage and in their mating. It was no one's fault, and
the woman suffered the most. Their rooms were in a white frame building
with green blinds, one of the old wooden houses that remained long in
Albany. It did not overlook the yards, for Fairfax wanted a new horizon.
From her window, Molly could see the docks, the river, the night and day
boats as they anchored, and she had time to watch and know them all.
Nothing in his working life or in his associations coarsened Antony
Fairfax; it would have been better for him had it done so. She was not
married to an engineer, but to a gentleman, and he was as chivalrous to
her as though she had been the woman of his dreams; but she spent much
of the time weeping and hiding the traces from him, and in the evenings,
when he came home to the meal that she prepared each day with a greater
skill and care, sometimes after greeting her he would not break the
silence throughout the evening, and he did not dream that he had
forgotten her. His new express engine became his life. He drove her,
cared for her, oiled and tended her with art and passion. There were no
bad notes against him at the office. His records were excellent, and
Rainsford had the satisfaction of knowing that the man whom he had
recommended was in the right place. The irony of it all was that his
marrying Molly Shannon did not bring him peace, although it
tranquillized him, and kept part of his nature silent. He had meditated
as he drove his engine, facing the miles before him as the machine ate
them up, and these miles began to take him into other countries. There
was a far-awayness in the heavens to him now, and as he used to glance
up at the telegraph wires and poles they became to him masts and
riggings of vessels putting out to sea, and from his own window of his
little tenement apartment of two bedrooms and a kitchen, he watched the
old river boats and the scows and the turtle-like canal boats that
hugged the shore, and they became vessels whose bows had kissed ports
whose names were thrilling, and in the nest he had made his own,
thinking to rest there, his growing wings began to unprison and the nest
to be too small. There was no intoxication in the speed of his
locomotive to him, and he felt a grave sense of power as he regulated
and slowed and accelerated, and the smooth response of his locomotive
delighted him. She flew to his hand, and the speed gave him joy.
At lunch time Falutini had told him of Italy, and the glow and the
glamour, the cypress and the pines, the azure skies, olive and grape
vines brought their enchantment around Fairfax, until No. 111 stood in
an enchanted country, and not under the shed with whirling snows or
blinding American glare without. He exchanged ideas with Rainsford. The
agent became his friend, and one Sunday Fairfax led him into the Delavan
House, and George Washington nearly broke his neck and spilled the soup
on the shoulder of the uninteresting patron he was at the moment
serving, in his endeavour to get across the floor to Antony.
"Yas, _sah_, Mistah Kunnell Fairfax, sah! Mighty glad to see yo', and
the Capting?--Hyah in de window?"
"Rainsford," said the young man, "isn't it queer? I feel at home here.
This dingy hotel and this smiling old nigger, they are joys to me--joys.
To this very table I have brought my own bitter food to eat and bitter
water to drink, and half forgotten their tastes as I have eaten the
Delavan fare, and been cheered by this faithful old darkey. Perhaps all
the chaps round here aren't millionaires or Depuysters, but there are no
railroad men such as I am lunching here, and I breathe again."
The two ate their tomato soup with relish. Poor Molly was an indifferent
cook, and the food at Rainsford's hash-house was horrible.
"Don't come here often now, Fairfax, do you?"
"Every Sunday."
"_Really?_ And do you bring Mrs. Fairfax?"
"No," frowned the young man, "and I wonder you ask. Don't you understand
that this is my holiday? God knows I earn it."
Rainsford finished his soup. The plate was whisked away, was briskly
replaced by a quantity of small dishes containing everything on the bill
of fare from chicken to pot-pie, and as Rainsford meditated upon the
outlay, he said--
"She's a gentle, lovely creature, Fairfax. I don't wonder you were
charmed by her. She has a heart and a soul."
Fairfax stared. "Why when did you see her?"
He had never referred to his wife since the day he had announced his
marriage to his chief.
"She came on the day of the blizzard to the office to bring a parcel for
you. She wanted me to send it up the line by the Limited to catch you at
Utica."
"My knit waistcoat," nodded Fairfax. "I remember. It saved my getting a
chill. I had clean forgotten it. She's a good girl."
Rainsford chose amongst the specimens of food.
"She is a sweet woman."
Here George Washington brought Fairfax the Sunday morning _Tribune_, and
folded it before his gentleman and presented it almost on his knees.
"Let me git ye a teenty weenty bit mo' salid, Kunnell?"
Fairfax unfolded the _Tribune_ leisurely. "Bring some ice-cream, George,
and some good cigars, and a little old brandy. Yes, Rainsford, it isn't
poison."
Fairfax read attentively, and his companion watched him patiently, his
own face lightened by the companionship of the younger man. Fairfax
glanced at the headlines of the _Tribune_, said "By George!" under his
breath, and bent over the paper. His face underwent a transformation; he
grew pale, read fixedly, then laughed, said "By George!" again, folded
the paper up and put it in his pocket.
The ice-cream was brought and described as "_Panillapolitan_ cream,
sah," and Fairfax lit a cigar and puffed it fast and then said
suddenly--
"Do you know what hate is, Rainsford? I reckon you don't. Your face
doesn't bear any traces of it."
"Yes, Fairfax," said the other, "I know what it is--it's a disease which
means battle, murder, and sudden death."
The young man took the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, and
Rainsford was surprised to see his hands tremble, the beautiful clever
hands with the stained finger ends and the clean, beautiful palm.
Falutini did more work than Fairfax now. He slaved for his master.
"Read that, Rainsford." He tapped a headline with his forefinger. "It
sounds like an event."
THE UNVEILING OF THE ABYDOS SPHINX IN CENTRAL PARK
CEDERSHOLM'S WONDERFUL PEDESTAL.
THE DIFFICULT TRANSPORTATION OF THE EGYPTIAN
MONUMENT FROM THE PORT TO THE PARK.
UNVEILING TO TAKE PLACE NEXT SATURDAY.
The article went on to speak of the dignified marble support, and hinted
at four prehistoric creatures in bronze which were supposed to be the
masterpieces of modern sculpture.
Rainsford read it through. "Very interesting. An event, as you say,
Tony. Cedersholm has made himself a great reputation."
"_Damn him!_" breathed the engineer. His heart was beating wildly, he
felt a suffocation in his breast. A torrent of feeling swept up in him.
No words could say what a storm and a tempest the notice caused.
"Jealous," Rainsford thought. "Cedersholm has all that poor Fairfax
desires."
Overcome by the memories the headlines recalled, overcome by his anger
and the injustice, Fairfax's face grew white.
"Take a little more coffee, Kunnell," said George Washington at his
elbow.
"No." Antony repulsed him rudely. "Did you read it all, Rainsford?"
"I think so. I dare say this will bring Cedersholm close on a hundred
thousand dollars."
"It will pave his way to hell one day, Rainsford," said the engineer,
leaning across the table. "It will indeed! Why, it is a monument of
injustice and dishonour. Do you know what that Sphinx rests on,
Rainsford, do you know?"
For a moment the railroad agent thought his friend had lost his senses
brooding over his discarded art, his spoiled life.
"Four huge prehistoric creatures," Rainsford read mildly.
Fairfax's lips trembled. "It rests on a man's heart and soul, on his
flesh and blood, on his bleeding wounds, Rainsford. I worked in
Cedersholm's studio, I slaved for him night and day for eighteen months.
I spilled my youth and heart's blood there, I did indeed." His face
working, he tapped his friend's arm with his hand. "I made the moulds
for those beasts. I cast them in bronze, right there in his studio.
Every inch of them is mine, Rainsford, mine. By ... you can't take it
in, of course, you don't believe me, nobody would believe me, that's why
I can do nothing, can't say anything, or I'd be arrested as a lunatic.
But Cedersholm's fame in this instance is mine, and he has stolen it
from me and shut me out like a whipped dog. He thinks I am poor and
unbefriended, and he knows that I have no case. Why, he's a _hound_,
Rainsford, the meanest hound on the face of the earth."
Rainsford soothed his friend, but Fairfax's voice was low with passion,
no one could overhear its intense tone.
"Don't for a moment think I have lost my senses. If you don't believe
me, give me a pencil and paper and I'll sketch you what I mean."
Rainsford was very much impressed and startled. "If what you say is
true," he murmured.
And Fairfax, who had regained some of his control--he knew better than
any one the futility of his miserable adventure--exclaimed--
"Oh, it's true enough; but there is nothing to do about it. Cedersholm
knows that better than any one else."
He sat back, and his face grew dark and heavy with its brooding. His
companion watched him helplessly, only half convinced of the truth of
the statement. Fairfax lifted his eyes and naively exclaimed--
"Isn't it cruel, Rainsford? You speak of failures; did you ever see such
a useless one as this? Cedersholm and his beasts which they say right
here are the best things in modern sculpture, and me with my engine and
my--" He stopped. "Give me the bill," he called to George Washington.
The old darkey, used as he was to his gentleman's moods, found this one
stranger than usual.
"Anythin' wrong with the dinner, Kunnell?" he asked tremulously. "Very
sorry, Capting. Fust time yo'--"
Fairfax put the money in his hand. "All right, George," he assured
kindly, "your dinner's all right--don't worry. Good-bye." And he did not
say as he usually did, "See you next Sunday." For he had determined to
go down to New York for the unveiling of the monument.