What Rainsford procured for him in the Saturday holidays was worth the
weight of its hours in gold. This, with Sundays, gave him two working
days, and no lover went more eagerly to his mistress than Antony to the
barracks where he toiled and dreamed. He began with too mad enthusiasm,
lacking the patience to wait until his conceptions ripened. He roughly
made his studies for an Angel of the Resurrection, inspired by the
figure in the West Albany Cemetery. As he progressed he was conscious
that his hand had been idle, as far as his art was concerned, too long;
his fingers were blunted and awkward, and many an hour he paced his shed
in agony of soul, conscious of his lack of technique. He was too
engrossed to be aware of the passing months, but autumn came again with
its wonderful haze, veiling death, decay and destruction, and Fairfax
found himself but little more advanced than in May, when he had shut
himself in his studio, a happy man.
He grew moody and tried to keep his despair from his wife, for not the
least of his unrest was caused by the knowledge that he was selfish with
her for the sake of his art. By October he had destroyed a hundred
little figures, crushed his abortive efforts to bits, and made a clean
sweep of six months' work and stood among the ruins. He never in these
moments thought of his wife as a comforter, having never opened his
heart to her regarding his art. He shrank from giving her entrance into
his sanctuaries. He was alone in his crisis of artistic infecundity.
On this Sunday morning he left his studio early, turned the key and
walked up Eagle Street toward the church he had not entered since he was
married. Led by discontent and by a hope that beneath the altar in his
old place he might find peace and possibly hear a voice which would tell
him as every creator must be told--HOW. He listened to the music and to
the Litany, the rich, full voices singing their grave, solemn pagan
appeal; but the sensuous ecstasy left Fairfax indifferent and cold.
To-day there were no visions around the altar through whose high windows
came the autumn glory staining the chancel like the Grail. His glance
wandered to the opposite side of the church where in the front pew were
the young scholars of Canon's School, a bevy of girls; and he thought
with a pang of Bella. She wouldn't be little Bella Carew much longer,
for she was nearly sixteen, charming little Bella. He thought of the
statue he had made and which had been so wantonly destroyed, and with
this came the feeling that everything he touched had been warped and
distorted. Ashamed of this point of view, he sighed and rose with the
others at the Creed. He repeated it with conviction, and at the words,
"Resurrection and the Life Everlasting," he dwelt upon "Everlasting
Life" as though he would draw from the expression such consolation as
should make him belittle the transient show with its mass of failures
and unhappy things, and render immortal only that in him which was still
aspiring, still his highest. He was glad to see instead of the curate a
man with a red hood mount the pulpit steps, and he knew it was the Canon
himself. With a new interest in his mind he sat erect.
For the first time since he had come to the North a man whom he could
revere and admire stood before him. The Canon's clear-cut heavenly face,
his gracious voice, his outstretched hand as he blessed his people, made
an agreeable impression on the young man out of his element, nearly
shipwrecked and entirely alone. It occurred to him to speak to the Canon
after service; but what should he say? What appeal could he make? He was
an engineer married to a Roman Catholic woman of the other class, too
poor a specimen of his own class to remain in it. Since his marriage he
had felt degraded in society, out of place. If the Canon had advice to
give him, it would be to shut up his studio and devote himself to his
wife.
He wandered slowly out of the building amongst the others into the
golden autumn day, and the music of the organ rolled after him like a
rich blessing. He waited to let the line of schoolgirls pass him, and
all of a sudden as he looked at them their ranks broke, he heard a cry,
an exclamation, and a call--
"_Cousin Antony!_"
Before she could be prevented she had flown to him. Not throwing herself
against him in the old mad sweetness of her impulsive nature,--both
pretty gloved hands were held out to him and her upturned face lifted
all sparkle and brilliance, her red lips parted. "Oh, Cousin Antony!"
Both Fairfax's hands held hers.
"Quick!" she cried, "before Miss Jackson comes out. Where do you live?
When will you come to see me? But you can't come! We're not allowed to
have gentlemen callers! When can I come to see you? Dear Cousin Antony,
how glad I am!"
"Bella!" he murmured, and gazed at her.
The rank-and-file of schoolgirls, giggling, outraged and diverted,
passed them by, and the stiff teachers were the last to appear from the
church.
"Tell me," Bella repeated, "where do you live? I'll write you. I've
composed tons of letters, but I forgot the number in Nut Street. Here's
Miss Jackson, the horrid thing! Hurry, Cousin Antony."
He said, "Forty, Canal Street," and wondered why he had told her.
Miss Jackson and Miss Teeter passed the two, and were so absorbed in
discussing the text of the sermon that neither saw Mistress Bella Carew.
"I'm safe," she cried, "the old cats! The girls will never tell--they're
all too sweet. But I must go; I'll just say I've dropped my Prayer-book.
There, you take it!"
And she was gone.
Antony stood staring at the flitting figure as Bella ran after the
others down the steps like an autumn leaf blown by a light wind. She
wore a brown dress down to her boot tops (her boots too were brown with
bows at the tops); her little brown gloves had held his hand in what had
been the warmest, friendliest clasp imaginable. She wore a brown hat
with a plume in it that drooped and dangled, and Antony had looked into
her brown eyes and seen their bright affection once more.
Well, he had known that she was going to be like this! Not quite,
though; no man ever knows what a woman can be, will be, or ever is. He
felt fifty years old as he walked down the steps and turned towards
Canal Street to the door he had fastened four hours before on his
formless visions.