d
harmed herself to do him good. He was reading his books on mechanics, a
little later he was going to night school when his hours changed; he was
going to study engineering; he had his yard ambitions, the only ones he
permitted himself to have.

It was four o'clock of the winter afternoon, and the sunset left its red
over the sky. Through his little window he saw the smoke of a locomotive
rise in a milky column, cradle and flow and melt away. The ringing of
the bells, the crying note of the whistles, had become musical to
Fairfax.

There was no reason why he should not marry the Irish girl who doled out
coffee to railroad hands.... Was there none? The figure of his mother
rose before him, beautiful, proud, ambitious Mrs. Fairfax. She was
waiting for his brilliant success, she was waiting to crown him when he
should bring his triumphs home. The ugly yards blurred before his eyes,
he almost fancied that a spray of jasmine blew across the pane.

He would write--

"Mother, I have married an Irish girl, a loving, honest creature who
saved my life and lost her own good name doing so. It was my duty,
mother, wasn't it? I am not striving for name or fame; I don't know what
art means any more. I am a day labourer, a common fireman on an engine
in the Albany yards--that's the truth, mother."

"Good heavens!" He turned brusquely from the window, paced his room a
few times, limping up and down it, the lame jackdaw, the crippled bird
in his cage, and his heart swelled in his breast. No--he could not do
it. The Pride that had led him here and forced him to make his way in
spite of fate, the Pride that kept him here would not let him. He had
ambitions then? He was not then dead to fame? Where were those dreams?
Let them come to him and inspire him now. He recalled the choir-master of
St. Angel's church. He could get a job to sing in St. Angel's if he
pleased. He would run away to Albany. He had run away from New York; now
he would run from Nut Street like a cad and save his Pride. He would
leave the girl with the broken arm, the coffee-house door shut against
her, to shift for herself, because he was a gentleman. Alongside the
window he had hung up his coat and hat, and they recalled to him her
things as they had hung there. There had been something dove-like and
dear in her presence in his room of sickness. His Pride! He could hear
his old Mammy say--

"Massa Tony, chile, you' pride's gwine to lead yo thru black waters some