In the little room they used as parlour-kitchen and which to one of the
inhabitants at least was lovely, Fairfax found Molly sitting by the
window through which the spring light fell. The evening was warm. Molly
wore a print dress, and in her bodice he saw that she had thrust a spray
of pink geranium from the window-boxes that Antony had made and filled
for her. Nothing that had claim to beauty failed to touch his senses,
and he saw the charm of the picture in the pale spring light. He had
softly turned the door-handle, and as there was a hand-organ playing
without and Molly listening to the music, he entered without her hearing
him.
"Is it yourself?" she exclaimed, startled. "You're home early, Tony."
He told her that he had come to take her for a little walk, and as she
moved out of the light and came toward him, he thought he knew what
Rainsford had meant. She was thin and yet not thin. The roundness had
gone from her cheeks, and there was a mild sadness in her eyes.
Reproached and impatient, suffering as keenly as she, he was
nevertheless too kind of heart and nature not to feel the tragedy of her
life. He drew her to him and kissed her. She made no response, and
feeling her a dead weight he found that as he held her she had fainted
away. He laid her on the bed, loosened her dress, and bathed her icy
temples. Before she regained consciousness he saw her pallor, and that
she had greatly changed. He was very gentle and tender with her when she
came to herself; and, holding her, said--
"Molly, why didn't you tell me, dear? Why didn't you tell me?"
She had thought he would be angry with her.
He exclaimed, hurt: "Am I such a brute to you, Molly?"
Ah, no; not that. But two was all he could look out for.
He kneeled, supporting her. Oh, if he could only be glad of it, then she
would be happy. She'd not let it disturb him. It would be sure to be
beautiful and have his eyes and hair.
He listened, touched. There was a mystery, a beauty in her voice with
its rich cadence, her trembling breath, her fast beating pulse, her
excitement. Below in the street the organ played, "Gallagher's Daughter
Belle," then changed to--ah, how could he bear it!--"My Old Kentucky
Home." Tears sprang to his eyes. Motherhood was sacred to him. Was he to
have a son? Was he to be a father? He must make her happy, this modest,
undemanding girl whom he had made woman and a wife. He kissed her and
she clung to him, daring to whisper something of her adoration and her
gratitude.
When after supper he stood with her in the window and looked out over
the river where the anchored steamers were in port for over Sunday, and
the May sunset covered the crude brick buildings with a garment of
glory, he was astonished to find that the stone at his heart which had
lain there so long was rolled a little away. He picked up the geranium
which Molly had worn at her breast and which had fallen when she
fainted, and put it in his button-hole. It was crushed and sweet. Molly
whispered that he would kill her with goodness, and that "she was heart
happy."
"Are you, really?" he asked her eagerly. "Then we'll have old Rainsford
to supper, and you must tell him so!"