WAITING FOR THE TRAIN.
It was a hard day for Joyce. Luncheon was late at Mr. Barrington's, and
the purchases she must make took her far and near. It seemed impossible
to get through for the 5.13 train; but she was somewhat astonished to
find herself rushing from counter to counter, and eagerly consulting her
little watch for fear she should miss it.
"But what if I do?" she asked herself. "I told them not to hurry dinner,
and I can be at home soon after seven by the next train. What's the use
in making myself ill by scrambling about like this?"
Yet, despite all arguing, as the moments fled her eagerness increased,
and though she would not say, even to her own soul, "It is because
George Dalton is taking that train," still something did say it within
her, in utter disregard of her own proud disclaiming of any such motive.
She even neglected one or two quite important purchases of her own, so
that she might board a car for the distant depot with a minute or two of
leeway, as she calculated.
But we have all heard about those plans that "go agley."
To her impatience the delays seemed endless, and she fairly
anathematized herself, because she had not run a block or two to a
cab-stand, and bidden one race the distance for double fare. Great
trucks seemed determined to appropriate the rails and ignore all
signals. At one place a jam of traffic stopped them entirely for a
space. At a certain railway crossing they had to wait before the gates,
Joyce in an ill-concealed agony of impatience, while a long freight
train steamed slowly by. She felt half tempted to spring out and walk,
then calmed herself with a contemptuous,
"How silly! I can take the next train. It will be tedious waiting, and
no wonder I dread it, but I can buy something at the news-stand to
read."
She scarcely waited for her car to stop when opposite the long, massive
stone building, and, rushing through the great, ever-swinging doors, she
traversed the office corridors with rapid tread, her hands too full of
packages to consult her watch. But twisting her head to see the round
clock, just above the entrance, with its great brass weights ponderously
doling off the time, in plain view, she started with dismay, for its
hands remorselessly pointed to fourteen minutes past five. One minute
late. It was too provoking! She felt the tears close, and dashed on down
the long steps leading to the passenger gates, at the risk of falling
full length. She hoped against hope that some unprecedented event might
have delayed the train. But as she sped along beside the cruel steel
netting that shut her from the railway tracks, she realized that she was
baffled. The one she was interested in was already pulling out from the
end of the long depot. She could see it through the lace-work of steel,
and knew every hope was gone. She must calm herself and wait. But she
could not refrain from watching it a moment, with hungry eyes, pressed
like a child's against the barrier. It was carrying George home, and she
was left behind! She felt like a deserted waif, and looked it. Somebody,
watching the little pantomime from behind a baggage truck not far away,
read in the gaze almost more than he dared to believe.
"Her disappointment is not on your account, you booby!" he told himself
frankly. "Don't be an idiot."
Joyce turned sadly, wearily, towards the waiting-room.
Her drooping figure, so unlike her usual erect and joyous bearing,
proclaimed her dejection, as well as fatigue.
She felt utterly spent.
She had not reached the room when a hand lightly touched her shoulder.
She turned quickly to meet George Dalton's smiling gaze, and her own
face amply reflected his gladness. As he saw it a new expression leaped
to his eyes. They were brilliant--were they triumphant, too? But he
controlled himself to speak in an even, sensible tone.
"Let me take your packages. You are loaded down."
"Oh, it is you?" cried Joyce, catching her breath. "You didn't take the
train then? Were you late, too?"
"I couldn't seem to get away, somehow," he answered with nonchalance,
heaping the packages up methodically on one arm, and avoiding her
glance. "But we've plenty of time for the next," laughing mischievously.
"Can you stand it to wait an hour?"
"I'll have to, won't I?" But she did not look oppressed by the
anticipation, he could see.
"We'll try and mitigate its horrors," he remarked as they slowly mounted
the stairs. "I'll secure the best rocker the room affords, and all the
periodicals on the stand, if you say so."
"Oh, must I read?" she cried naively. "I thought we might talk,
perhaps."
He looked away suddenly. He dare not meet her softened gaze just then.
"We will do whatever you wish," he said in a steady tone, after a
minute. "Now, let's see."
They had reached the room, and he took a calm survey of it, in all its
details. Then he marched up to a small urchin who, with much effort, was
rocking a large chair to and fro, his chubby legs just reaching to the
edge of its broad seat.
"I'm afraid you are working too hard, my son," he remarked blandly.
"Just take these pennies, and drop them in the slot of that machine over
in the farthest corner--see? There's no knowing what will drop out in
return."
"I know!" cried the youth all agrin. "It's butter-scotch, or gum. I've
seed that kind before."
He toddled briskly off with the handful of pennies and Dalton drew the
vacated chair into a quiet nook, where the light fell softly and the
crowd did not gather.
"Follow! Follow!" he called in a low tone over his shoulder, and,
smiling happily, Joyce obeyed.
He seated her, heaped her many parcels on a convenient marble slab near
by, then stood and looked at her a moment.
"I think you'll do," he observed in a whimsical tone, "but there's one
thing more."
"Yes, a chair for you," she returned eagerly.
His bronzed cheek took on a perceptible tinge of red.
"Thank you! I would not mind sitting on the floor, I think--just there,"
and his tan toe lightly touched a spot just beyond the edge of her gown.
"But, for custom's sake, I'll find a chair. We are not Turks, you see."
He strode away quite out of sight, but after some time returned,
dragging an arm chair over the tiling. In his other hand he gingerly
held a quaint little Indian basket, gaily stained, and inwoven with
sweet-scented grass. It was heaped with great yellow peaches, each with
a crimson cheek, while, flung carelessly among them, were clusters of
grapes in their perfection, purple-blue and whitish-green, promising
rare sweetness and flavor.
"They were the best I could find, but scarcely good enough for you," he
remarked deprecatingly, as he placed the basket in her hand.
"Oh, beautiful! What delicious fruit! And where did you ever find such a
pretty, fragrant basket?"
"Have you never noticed the old squaw, who sits mutely amid her wares
near the traffic gate? She declared this her choicest creation, her
masterpiece, indeed. I am so glad you admire it!"
"The whole thing is lovely. It makes me hungry to look at this fruit,
and yet it seems too pretty, just as it is, to spoil by dipping into
it."
He laughed and, selecting the largest peach of all, began to pare it
with his own pocket-knife, making a plate and napkin of his newspaper.
With careful slowness he pared and stoned and quartered it, then handed
her the segments on a bit of the paper torn from a clean spot.
"Such immense pains!" she laughed, as she received the offering.
"It is very little I can do for you," he murmured in return, and looked
off through the window, though nothing but an expanse of unlighted brick
wall could be found beyond.
Joyce did not answer. She ate her fruit slowly, as if luxuriating in its
taste. Presently she looked up.
"And won't you eat any of my peaches?" she asked archly, with a
lingering emphasis on the "my."
"Indeed I will!" reaching with eager haste for the one she offered.
She had selected the finest one left and, as his fingers touched it, she
clung to it an instant.
"So you _will_ take a peach from me?" she said, with an odd expression;
"Especially after being the one to secure it to me."
"Oh yes, with pleasure."
"I'm glad your pride has limits," laughing and flushing a little. "Some
people are proud over everything."
"I am proud over seeing you enjoy my little gift."
"And I am proud over being the recipient of your gift, which strikes me
as not being so 'little' as you seem to think it. After all, this matter
of giving and taking should be very simple; don't you see? The
surcharged cloud pours its electricity into the empty one, and both are
equalized. But has the full cloud any more to boast of than the other?"
He smiled.
"I think I never saw any one so ingenious in pleas for the sharing
system. Possibly, if you were the empty cloud you would feel
differently."
"I hope not. I think it takes a larger nature to receive nobly than to
give nobly."
"So do I. It takes a nature so great few men have attained to it," he
said quickly. "I acknowledge that I have not."
"'A fault confessed is half redressed'," murmured Joyce.
"_Is_ pride a fault?" he asked quickly.
"Isn't it? According to the Bible it's a large one, almost a crime." Her
laughing eyes sought his, and she continued, "Now, I haven't a particle
of pride. I've eaten one peach and I want another. Moreover, I want it
pared and quartered."
They were almost as isolated in their little corner as if in a nook of
the woods. The crowds surged to and fro, and its units were "but as
trees walking" to their oblivious eyes. Joyce was discovering new depths
in George Dalton's nature. He was a thinker, and as his thinking had
grown out of contact with men, rather than from grubbing in books, it
was often of a unique and picturesque kind.
He saw the ludicrous in everything, and, with all his practicality,
there was a strain of romance so fresh and young mingled with it, that
it made a boy of him whenever he was dominated by it. He was the boy
to-night, and as he leaned towards Joyce, talking in an undertone, his
eye bright, his laughter frequent, his manner full of respectful
friendliness, she forgot that he had ever seemed hard, cold, and given
over to business alone.
At length the call of a train at some distant doorway startled Joyce,
and she glanced around.
"Isn't that our train he's calling? It can't be! But I'm afraid it is."
Each consulted a watch, and looked guiltily at the other.
"It has been very short," said Joyce involuntarily.
"And very sweet!" added George below his breath. "Well, come on, little
parcels. One-two-three-four--have I got them all? Why--what is it?"
The girl's face had a piteous look as it was turned to his.
"I had forgotten it all--the Hapgoods, Lozcoski, poor Nate! We were as
easy as if there were no trouble anywhere. It all rushed over me once
more, and I felt, for the instant, that I could never bear it again. But
you will help me? You'll understand now, and not think me foolish and
crazy, as you sometimes do?"
"Do I? I did not know it. I'll stand by you in everything, never fear!
Come, child, or we'll miss this train, too."
She preceded him without a word, and he was glad to keep quite behind
for a little, for when he remembered how he had called her "child" his
face was hot with embarrassment. He had never forgotten before. Had she
noticed? Her face told him nothing.
As they hurried out through the gates and down the platform to their
waiting train, the passengers were descending from another, just
arrived. Hastily crossing this tide transversely two men, arm in arm,
passed them close in the busy throng.
There was a familiar look about one of them, Joyce thought, as she had
just a side glimpse while hurrying by. But, absorbed in her own haste,
she did not notice particularly. George stopped short and turned for an
instant, then kept on just behind her. He had recognized Nate, and knew
him to be in charge of an officer, doubtless being conveyed to the
county jail. He had not expected this event till morning, and had meant,
himself, to prepare the poor fellow for it. Saddened and angry that the
man had been so summarily dealt with, Dalton's face took on its sternest
look, which Joyce caught as they seated themselves.
Not knowing its cause, she was startled and chagrined at the change.
What had she said, or done, to cause it?
Silently ruminating amid the sweet experiences of the day she failed to
find any clue, till he at length said, with a sigh.
"I have something to tell you. I thought at first I would keep it to
myself, but I'd rather tell you, myself, than have you hear it
elsewhere. They've taken poor Nate away. Did you notice, just now----"
"Was that he--with the tall man arm in arm? And was the tall man an
officer?"
George nodded to both questions.
"Yes, I'm sorry to say."
"Oh, poor Nate. He will be heart broken. Why couldn't they have left him
there? Till after the funeral at least. Oh, my friend, we have been too
thoughtless to-day! Our people at home have been suffering."
"And, had you been the sufferer, would you begrudge others a bit of
joy?"
"No, no, indeed!"
"Then why be self-reproachful now? We have done what we could for them,
and that is all even they could ask. We will not spoil the day with
regrets, or self-upbraidings, now."
He spoke in a deep voice, and added hesitantly, after a moment,
"I have not had so much happiness, myself, but that I am greedy of it.
This day will stand out from all the days of my life. On it you, Joyce
Lavillotte, called me, George Dalton, friend!"