SOME ENCOUNTERS.
Joyce watched him a moment, fascinated. Presently he drew a long breath,
and the tense features relaxed. He seemed gathering himself, together,
and after a short interval of silence, during which she pretended to be
absorbed in the crowd which was streaming through the door, he said in a
low, husky voice:
"Say 'm, if you don't mind, and seeing's your ma is right here"--he
referred to Madame Bonnivel who was slowly approaching on Mr. Dalton's
arm--"I guess I'd better git out o' this crowd and go home, I ain't
feeling very well and--good-night!"
He slipped aside without more ado, ducked his shock head, and, before
she had time to collect her surprised senses, had melted away in the
thinning swirls of humanity, and was gone.
"What! Deserted already?" laughed Mr. Dalton with malicious
satisfaction, as he caught the expression on her face; but, softening
instantly, he added, "Well, you're lucky! What I had expected was that
you would never be rid of him till he had talked you bl--" He checked
the word on his lips, remembering, his companion's affliction.
She laughed out merrily.
"How can one talk another blind? We should say deaf, I think. The blind
always enjoy the merry clatter of tongues. Why did he leave, Joyce?"
"I don't just understand. He didn't feel well, he said."
"Oh, you overpowered him, Miss Lavillotte! He is not used to beauty and
grandeur. I am a little afraid of it myself!" His own audacity, which
surprised himself it was so unlike him, made George Dalton color like a
girl, and he fairly shrank behind the Madame's tall figure to conceal
his rising color. But Joyce did not notice. She was so intent on what
she had just seen, as to be oblivious now. She took the dear lady's arm
with a delightful sense of security, and observed in as matter-of-fact a
way as she could assume:
"We'll have to wait, anyhow, for the people seem actually ravenous, poor
things! I drew back to let them by, and thought we would go home----"
"No, you can come," cried Larry, bustling up to them. "Everybody is
seated and I've found some extra chairs and a retired corner for you
ladies, where you can see without being seen. Dalton and I will wait on
you. Follow me."
He led them across a screened corner and seated them within one of the
eating-rooms, nearly hidden behind the well-heaped table, which had been
pushed back into an angle of the wall. As Joyce looked about her the
Pole was nearly opposite, and sat gorging the large sandwich, handed him
upon his plate, in a greedy manner that fairly horrified her. There was
something animal-like, ghoulish even, in his clutching haste; yet it was
pitiable, too.
"Mr. Dalton," she asked, "who is that man?"
He followed the guarded glance of her eye and looked a moment with a
perplexed frown.
"I really can't tell," he said at length. "Yet it seems as if I ought to
know, too. I hardly think he's one of our men, unless he has come very
lately. He isn't exactly what you'd call a beauty; is he, Miss
Lavillotte?"
"Far from it. He looks as if he had suffered awfully, don't you think?"
"Oh possibly--suffering, or sin--one can scarcely tell which it may be
at a glance. I'll step and get you the cream and sugar, Mrs. Bonnivel."
Joyce continued to watch the man furtively, neglecting her own food.
Every time the sandwiches went by he snatched at them, gulping down his
coffee, between whiles, in great hot swallows that made his dreadful
eyes stand out still more than was natural. Used as the attendants were
to irregularities in this non-etiquetical company, they showed their
disgust plainly at his boorishness. Two of them stopped a moment near
Joyce's corner, to discuss him in no measured terms. One said,
"Not another thing does he get here, the brute! If he thinks we're
keeping a free lunch counter for the likes of him he's mistaken. He
hasn't got common decency."
Joyce saw him clear the last crumb from his plate, and glance furtively
to and fro from under his bent brows, with a movement that filled her
with disgust and pity.
"The poor wretch is starving!" she thought. "The sight and smell of food
drive him wild. Where can he have been?"
Even as she was thinking this there was a general movement, and he too
rose from his place with the rest. Cup in hand, he neared the table as
if to deposit it there before leaving; but his eyes were on a
half-emptied tray of the sandwiches just placed there, and as he stooped
to set down the cup he made a quick movement, and scooped up a little
heap of the slices into the hollow of his hands, from which they slid
into a coat pocket with dextrous suddenness. Some one stepped forward
with an exclamation at which, with one bound, he sprang between the
Madame and Joyce, dodged behind the screen, and when the attendant
reached it, had disappeared. The latter turned back with a crestfallen
air.
"Did you see that?" he cried excitedly. "I never saw such a hog!"
Joyce rose, and touched him lightly on the arm.
"I think it's hardly worth making a fuss about," she said gently. "He
seemed very hungry--starving, indeed. There's plenty of everything,
isn't there?"
"Oh, yes, but it makes me mad to be so imposed on! I don't believe the
fellow belongs here, anyhow."
"He looked like a sailor to me," she observed thoughtfully.
"Umph! Like a jail-bird I should say, Miss. Will I bring you some more
coffee now?"
"No, nothing more, thank you. Just kindly take my cup."
Larry came up to them, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Whew! but I'm used up. Aren't you ready to go home, mother? And you
Joyce--do you want to stay all night? If I can once get you safely out
of this, I shall be glad!"
"Safely out--why do you speak like that, Larry?"
"Then you haven't heard anything here?" looking from one to the other,
surprisedly.
"Nothing save what you are hearing now, the clatter of many tongues and
plates. Why, my son?"
"Oh! nothing, only there has just been a pretty sharp scrimmage outside.
That ugly-looking fellow I had to rebuke for rudeness, out here, was
pushing his way to the outer door in the way he seems to affect, when he
ran plump into an old party--let's see, they said his name was Murphy, I
think, or something like that--and of a sudden--well! they sprang at
each others' throats like a couple of tigers. They were right in the
midst of it, and every one too astonished to move, when in came a couple
of the city police, gave one look, and in a trice had my ugly man thrown
down and were putting on the bracelets. It seems, the fellow's an
escaped convict, and has been hiding around here in the woods for weeks.
He must have been so nearly starved as to lose all caution before coming
to so public a place. I can't understand it, myself, but I presume he
would have escaped unmolested, only for the fight. Dalton," turning to
the manager who had just returned from his prolonged absence, "what does
it all mean, anyhow? I suppose you saw the fracas?"
"No, I got there just as it was all over, and I can't tell you much
about it. They've taken the man away, and Murfree, too. The latter is
pretty badly used up and can't talk. That was as savage a brute as I
ever saw!"
"He was a desperate man," said Joyce, still feeling the stirrings of
pity. "He was nearly starved to death, and there was something awful
between him and that Murfree--I could see that."
"You could?" The manager gave her a wondering glance.
"Are you very observing? No one seems to know any reason for his
springing upon Murfree so."
"There _was_ a reason," persisted Joyce. "They had met before, I'm
certain. Come, ma mère, let's go home."
"You are tired, child. Yes, we will go at once. It must be late."
Joyce's tone had expressed more than weariness, and Madame Bonnivel's
heart ached for her disappointment and chagrin. She took the girl's hand
and drew her along.
"Larry, you'll stay with Mr. Dalton and help preserve order! Gilbert can
accompany us."
"Oh, if I must," shrugging his shoulders. "But I feel that a motion for
all to adjourn would be in order; don't you, Dalton?"
"All right! We'll clear the rooms in no time."
Joyce stopped him with an uplifted hand.
"They must go when and as they choose. It is _their_ party. Please don't
interfere in the least. Come Madame, we can slip out unnoticed. Nobody
needs us here."
The two stepped briskly on, and Dalton, watching Joyce, shook his head
ruefully, then turned to Larry.
"It's too bad she's just as she is. It means a lot of heartbreaks and
disappointments. Pity women can't take the world as it is."
"Well, perhaps--provided they don't leave it as it is. I am inclined to
believe it's that kind of woman who is responsible for the fact that the
world does grow better as the centuries pass. And those who know Joyce
Lavillotte would scarcely care to change her."
"No, no; nor I! It was of herself I was thinking. She's got to suffer
so. One hates to see a person take a cloud for something tangible and
keep falling off, to be bruised and beaten. If she could always
soar--but the falls will come."
He sighed, and Larry laughed.
"She'd rather bear the falls than never soar. Let her alone!"
"Oh, of course; it's all one can do. But--it hurts."
The last words were in a whisper, so lost on Larry, who had just turned
to speak with the phonograph exhibitor now making ready to depart.
Meanwhile, the Madame and Joyce had hastily gathered up their wraps, and
were waiting an instant in the hall till Gilbert could make his way to
them from the corner out of which they had beckoned him, (nothing loth,
for he was half asleep,) when Rachel passed them quickly, her own wrap
on her arm. She looked flushed and animated. Her cold, indifferent mask
seemed to have fallen from her face. Her mother was awaiting her, the
sleeping baby folded in her shawl.
"Well, d'ye have a good time?" she asked, as the daughter joined her.
"So good I can hardly believe it's real, mother!" was the glad answer.
Then, catching sight of the ladies near by, she bowed slightly, with a
shy smile at Joyce.
"Good-night," she said softly, flushing a little. "Are you going, too?
It's been fine, hasn't it?"
In her surprised pleasure Joyce forgot to answer, except with a vigorous
nod and smile, but in an instant she whispered in a brightening tone,
"It was Rachel, ma mère. Did you hear?"
"Yes, I did. I could hear the joy in her tone, too. It has been a good
time for many, I know, and gladness will soften the hardest and coldest,
Joyce. Don't falter because wrong must still be, daughter. People have
to be educated in enjoyment as well as in anything else. It may not be
one of the first, or best, things in life, but it has its uses, and they
are many. My Joyce is not working for appreciation, nor for praise, but
just to better these who have become peculiarly her own people. Let us
be patient, dear."
And Joyce, though bruised and worn, was not quite beaten, though the
evening had been so far from realizing her anticipations. Lucy and
Rachel had been pleased, at least. That was something!