THE WORKS AND WORKMEN.
It would not be best to attempt a detailed description of the Early
Glass Works, lest the subject prove so interesting we forget our story.
There are few industries so fascinating to watch, or even to read about,
as that of glass-blowing, and on this inspection morning Joyce had to
keep reminding herself that she had come, primarily, to study the
workmen and not the process, so absorbed did she frequently become in
the latter.
The Early Works made a specialty of flint-glass crystal, and cut and
engraved ware for domestic and ornamental use, also of the finer
qualities of shades for lamps and chandeliers. As Joyce lingered again
and again to watch the swift and graceful shaping of the molten
substance, while airy stem or globe were blown into being by the breath
of man, to be afterwards carved into exquisite designs upon the
emery-wheel, or graven against the spindle, all with a dexterity that
seemed simply marvelous to her ignorance, she decided in her own mind
that a master at glass working was not an artisan, but an artist.
Mr. Dalton seemed amused at her child-like delight, and tried to explain
all she observed in language not too technical for her comprehension.
But often she became too absorbed to question, or even listen, at which
times he stood silently by, watching with open admiration her fair,
expressive face.
Dalton was, in a sense, a self-made man, having begun as stoker of one
of the annealing furnaces when both he and the Works were young. He had
climbed steadily, serving his apprenticeship in each department, and
studying at a night-school, when such were in operation, until the
sudden demise of Mr. Early had lifted him from the position of foreman
to that of manager, by right of a thorough understanding of the
business. He was a plain thoughtful-seeing man, in his thirties, who
showed by his terse speech, practical manner, and business garb that he
had no intention of forgetting his work-a-day life in his present
elevation. Perhaps he had never so keenly felt how entirely it had been
a work-a-day life until this morning.
After a time Joyce ceased to feel dazed over the dull roar of the
furnaces, the flash and glow of the fiery masses of molten glass as
lifted from the pots, the absorbing sight of the blowing, rolling,
clipping, joining, cutting, and engraving, and the precision and silence
of the white-aproned, sometimes mask-protected workmen. She could begin
to notice individuals and study faces.
She stopped, finally, close by the marver of a young man--boy she called
him to herself--the precision of whose workmanship was that of a
machine. He was shaping a slender, long-stemmed, pitcher-like vase made
in three parts, foot, body and handle, afterwards joining them in one
exquisitely fine whole, after the manner of the Clichy crystal ware. He
was a remarkable looking being, she thought, divided between studying
his face and admiring his workmanship. Though somewhat deformed, with a
curving back and high shoulders, the face that crowned this misshapen
figure might have been the original of one of those intaglios of Venice,
which seem to reproduce all that is refined and choice in human
features. He had the broad brow, delicate, sensitive nose, curved and
mobile lips, and the square, slightly cleft chin that make up an almost
perfect outline. Yet the large dark eyes bore an expression of such
hopelessness, such unyouthful gravity, that the whole face seemed
gloomed over, as when a heavy cloud shuts out the brilliant sunshine of
an August day. He did not deign so much as a glance towards the
visitors, but like an automaton blew the graceful bulb, shaped it upon
his marver, with a light, skilful blow detached it from his
blowing-iron, received from his assistant the foot and joined the two,
with a dextrous twist and turn shaped the slender handle and added that,
all the time keeping his "divining-rod" (as Joyce named it to herself)
turning, rolling, advancing, receding, as if it were some inspired wand,
impelled to create the absolutely beautiful in form and finish. As they
slowly passed on Joyce breathed out involuntarily,
"Poor boy! He seems too sad even to wish for anything."
Dalton gave her a quick, keen glance.
"You have guessed it, Miss Lavillotte. He's got where he doesn't care.
He is one of our finest workmen, and a good fellow, but he is so
unsocial and gloomy the other boys all shun him."
"Do you know his story?" asked Joyce with interest.
"Why, yes, I know something of him. It isn't much of a story, though,"
laughing a little. "We don't go much into romancing here. He had a twin
brother that was as handsome as he in the face, and straight and tall
into the bargain; in fact, as fine a fellow as you'll see in a
century--and he shot him last year."
"Shot him?" Joyce recoiled in horror.
"Yes, accidentally of course. Their father had been a soldier in the
civil war, and in some way the rifle he carried, with his name and the
date scratched on the trigger-plate, was sent to the boys by a comrade
after his death. Dan, there, was handling it, supposing it unloaded as
usual, when it went off and shot his brother, who was leaning over him,
right through the heart. That's all."
"_All!_" Joyce breathed the word with a meaning, practical George Dalton
scarcely understood, and they proceeded in silence.
One other of the workers attracted the girl, as instantly, and partially
distracted her thoughts from Dan. This was a girl with a peculiar face;
not handsome. Joyce could only think of one descriptive word--high.
Pale, with dark coloring in hair and eyes, she seemed somehow remote,
lifted above the common life about her, like one living in a world of
her own. She, too, seemed absorbed in her work of engraving, and did not
for an instant remove her eyes from her delicate task, as she slowly
turned and pressed the globe against the spindle, working out the
pattern etched in the film covering its surface. But Joyce asked no
questions about her as they passed on.
"Now for the homes," she said, after the long tour of the buildings was
completed. "How can we gain entrance without seeming to intrude? Had we
better all try to go? It will seem like a regular incursion, won't it?"
Mr. Dalton smiled.
"If you could let me out, I'd be grateful. I've a big day's work laid
out on the time-books and accounts, for to-morrow's pay-day. But of
course, if you need me----"
"No, no. It has been very good of you to give us so much time. If I were
only an agent, now, and had something to sell----"
"'Twouldn't be a bad scheme, Miss Lavillotte, in case you really want to
see them as they are. If you had some new-fangled baking dish, or a
story paper, or----"
Joyce looked up with a flashing glance, and turned to Ellen, who
received the notice with a sniff and a restrained smile.
"You have one, Ellen. We bought it on the train, It's full of pictures
and short stories."
"Yes 'm, I've got it. You left it on the seat and I picked it up."
"And now your frugality is to be rewarded. But wouldn't it be prying,
Mr. Dalton?"
"Possibly. But wouldn't it be, anyway? I gather you have some good
reason for wishing to see these people at home."
"I have. I want to know just how and where to help them best, but I hate
to act in an underhanded way. And yet, if the paper would serve to give
me entrance I'd try not to prevaricate in the least."
"I think you may be trusted, Miss Lavillotte."
"Ellen, will you stay here in the office while I try it alone?"
"If you tell me to I s'pose I must, but I think it's a wild-goose chase
anyhow," was the disapproving answer. "I can tell you what you'll find
well enough," sniffing disgustedly, "and that is babies, bad smells,
dirt, and scolding. I've been there afore!"
Joyce laughed gaily.
"Give me the story paper, Ellen. I'm going to find all those things,
surely, but more--much more, as you'll see in time," and, snatching the
sheet from her maid's reluctant hand, she was off with a merry look back
at the two, who watched her till she had rounded the corner of the great
building and disappeared.
"It's a queer streak!" muttered Dalton, as he turned back into the
little office room, which had never looked so dim and dingy before. "For
a girl that's rich and handsome----"
"Don't see what there is so queer in being good!" returned Ellen
belligerently. "Just 'cause she's got a heart and sense beyond her years
folks calls her a freak. Of course it cuts, but she only laughs and goes
on just the same's ever. I get so mad, sometimes, I'd like to stomp on
'em, but she just looks at me smiling brave-like, with her lips
twitching a bit, and says, 'Never mind so long's we're surely right,'
and then I can't say a word."
Dalton looked at her reflectively. He was not used to women, and it
struck him, once or twice, that this elderly companion would have liked
to dictate to her young mistress, had the latter allowed it. So, not
feeling quite sure of his ground, he remarked vaguely,
"I suppose a girl like that would be naturally wilful--having everything
heart could wish. But----"
"Well then, I'll let you know she isn't," snapped Miss Dover. "Wilful
indeed!" and seating herself with resentful suddenness she glared at him
till he was glad to bury himself in his books, and try to forget the
excitements of the morning in figures.