He did not go to the studio for a month, but though he remained with her
the poor girl profited little by his company. He smoked countless
cigarettes, in spite of the fact that he had doctor's bills to look
forward to. In the long winter evenings he read books that he fetched
from the library while the blizzards and storms swept round the window,
and the next day his duties stared him in the face. He dreamed before
the stove, his cigarette between his fingers, and Molly watched him; but
Rainsford, when he came, did not find her any more alone.
Finally, in the last Sunday of January, after the noon dinner, she
fetched him his coat and muffler.
"I can't let you stay home any more like this, Tony," she told him.
"Take your things and go to the studio; I'm sure you're dying to, and
don't hurry back. I'm feeling fine."
He caught her suggestion with an eagerness that made her bite her lip;
she kept her face from him lest he should see her disappointment. He
exclaimed joyously--
"Why, I reckon you're right, Molly. I _will_ go for awhile. I'll work
all the better for the holiday."
He might have said "sacrifice."
As he got into his things he asked her: "You're sure you'll not need
anything, Molly? You think it's all right for me to go?"
She assured him she would rest and sleep, and that the woman "below
stairs" would come up if she wanted anything. He mustn't hurry.
He took the studio key. He was gone, his uneven step echoed on the
narrow stairs. She listened till it died away.
Fairfax before his panel during the afternoon worked as though Fate were
at his heels. When he came in the room was bitter cold, and it took the
big fire he built long to make the shed inhabitable; but no sooner had
the chill left the air, and he unwrapped his plaster, than a score of
ideas came beating upon him like emancipated ghosts and shades, and he
saw the forms, though the faces were still veiled. He sang and whistled,
he declaimed aloud as the clay he mixed softened and rolled under his
fingers.... It let him shape it, its magic was under his thumb, its
plasticity, its response fascinated the sculptor. He tried now with the
intensity of his being to fix his conception for the gate of Death and
Eternal Life. He had already made his drawing for the new scaffolding,
and it would take him two Sundays to build it up. Falutini would help
him.
It seemed strange to work without Molly sitting in her corner. He
wondered how long the daylight would last; he had three months still
until spring; that meant twelve Sundays. He thought of Molly's
approaching illness, and a shadow crossed his face. Why had he come back
only to tempt and tantalize himself with freedom and the joy of
creation?
Sunday-Albany outside was as tranquil as the tomb, and scarcely a
footstep passed under his window. The snow lay light upon the
window-ledge and the roof, and as the room grew warmer the cordial light
fell upon him as he worked, and a sense of the right to labour, the
right to be free, made him take heart and inspired his hand. He began
the sketch of his group on a large scale.
As he bent over his board the snow without shifted rustling from the
roof, and the slipping, feathery shower fell gleaming before his window;
the sound made him glance up and back towards the door. As he did so he
recalled, with the artist's vivid vision, the form of his wife, as she
had stood in the opened door, her arm along the panel, in the attitude
of waiting and parting.
"By Jove!" he murmured, gazing as though it were reality. Half
wondering, but with assurance, he indicated what he recalled, and was
drawing in rapidly, absorbed in his idea, when some one struck the door
harshly from without, and Rainsford called him.
Fairfax started, threw down his pencil, and seized his hat and
muffler--he worked in his overcoat because he was cold--to follow the
man who had come to fetch him in haste.