From the window he watched her fly up the street like a scarlet bird,
and realized what a child she was still, and, whereas he had felt a
hundred that day at church, he now felt as old as the ancient Egyptians,
as the Sphinx, a Sage in suffering and knowledge of life, beside his
cousin. He called her little, but she was tall and slender, standing as
high as his shoulder.
He turned heavily about to his room which the night now filled. The
street lamps were lit, and their frail glimmer flickered in, like the
fingers of a ghost. His money was nearly gone. There was the expense of
casting his work in plaster, the packing and shipping of the bas-relief.
He lit his lamp, and, as he adjusted the green shade, under which Molly
had used to sit and sew, he saw on the table the roll of bills which
Rainsford had offered to him that morning. He picked up the money with a
smile.
"Poor old Rainsford, dear old chap. He was determined, wasn't he?"
Fairfax wrapped up the heavy roll of money, marked it with Rainsford's
name, and stood musing on his friend's failing health, his passion for
Molly, and the fruitless, vanishing story that ended, as all seemed to
end for him, in death. Suddenly, over his intense feelings, came the
need of nourishment, and he wanted to escape from the room where he had
been caged all day.
At the Delavan, George Washington welcomed him with delight.
"Yo' dun forgit yo' ol' friends, Massa' Kunnell Fairfax, sah. Yo doan
favour dis ol' nigger any moh."
Fairfax told him that he was an expensive luxury, and enjoyed his quiet
meal and his cigar, took a walk in a different direction from Canal
Street, and at ten o'clock returned to find a boy waiting at the door
with a note, whistling and staring up and down the street, waiting for
the gentleman to whom he was to deliver his note in person.
Fairfax went in with his letter, knowing before he opened it that
Rainsford had something grave to tell him. He sat down in Molly's chair,
around which the Presence had gathered and brooded until the young man's
soul had seemed engulfed in the shadow of Death.
"MY DEAR TONY,
"When you read this letter, it will be of no use to come to me.
Don't come. I said my final word to you to-day when I went to make
my will and testament. You will discover on your table all my
fortune. It counts up to a thousand dollars. I have a feeling that
it may help you to success. You know what a failure I have been. I
should have been one right along. Now that I have found out that a
mortal disease is upon me, my last spurt of courage is gone. When I
stood before your work to-day, Tony, it was a benediction to me.
Although I had fully decided to _go out_, I should have gone
hopelessly; now there is something grand to me in the retreat. The
uplift and the solemnity of the far horizon charm me, and though I
open the door for myself and have no right to any claim for mercy,
nevertheless I think that I shall find it there, and I am going
through the open door. God bless you, Fairfax. Don't let the
incidents of your life in Albany cloud what I believe will be a
great career.
"THOMAS RAINSFORD."