NOT WELCOME.
They visited long that evening, and Joyce slept late the next day. When
she arose Ellen hastened to inform her that Lucy Hapgood had telephoned
to ask when she might call and talk with her a few moments, and that Mr.
Dalton was below, waiting for a certain architect's drawing Joyce had
wished him to see, but would not let her be disturbed till she awoke of
her own accord.
"I told him, if 'twas just a drawin' that I'd bring the pile of 'em, and
let him pick out what he wanted, seeing he was in a hurry," explained
Ellen, "but he seemed to think he'd better wait till you come, so I let
him. But I was bound I wouldn't wake you up, if he stayed all day!"
"Thank you, Ellen, but never fear to waken me when he--or any one--is
waiting. Has he been here long?"
"No, only ten minutes or so, and he's got that album 'ts got your
pictures ranged along ever sence you was a baby. I guess he'll git
along. What shall I 'phone that Hapgood girl?"
"Ask her to come in an hour from now, if she can. Oh, is that my new
house-gown? You have it all finished, and how pretty it is! Had I better
put it on?"
"That's what 'twas made for, wa'n't it? Of course!"
Ellen, herself, adjusted its lace and ribbons, then watched Joyce's
descent to the lower floor with approving eyes.
"There ain't many 'twould make her look so well on so little, that's
certain. But then again there ain't many that needs so little to make
'em look well, so I guess it's a stand-off. And she's always pleased
with what I do, and that's comforting," she remarked to the balustrade.
George Dalton stepped forward to meet his employer with extended hand,
and did not immediately resign the fingers committed to his clasp.
"I felt that I nearly walked you to death yesterday," he observed
apologetically, "and ought to assure myself of your health this morning.
You look very fresh and beau--and ready for anything."
"Oh, I am; though I was up half the night in addition, which explains my
laziness this morning. I suppose you know who has come?"
"No, I've not heard. Mr. Barrington hasn't ventured into the wilds, has
he? Or that other lawyer, Mr. West?"
"No." Joyce shook her head, shrinking unaccountably from making the
simple statement, and wishing Ellen had been more communicative with the
visitor. "It's Madame Bonnivel's son, the naval officer, Leon."
"Oh!"
The little exclamation was prolonged, and something seemed to die out of
the young man's face. To her own disgusted surprise she felt herself
trembling and flushing. How silly it all was! The manager stepped back
stiffly, and picked up his soft hat from the chair upon which he had
carelessly tossed it when he came bravely in, a few moments since,
feeling himself an assured and welcome guest. As he regained it the old,
stern manner, almost forgotten of late, fell over him like a mantle.
"This Bonnivel has been in the war, has he?"
"No, not in active service. They have been kept cruising between Florida
and Key West, on guard duty. His ship is the 'Terror'?"
"Ah!"
He looked at her, trying to remember where that name had come up before.
Then it appeared to him in a flash.
"Why, that's where Lozcoski served?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And you tried to question him about the captain's name."
"You see, I wanted to make sure that he was on that ship. His forgetting
seemed to make it doubtful."
"But is this Bonnivel captain?"
"Oh, no indeed, only lieutenant of the engineering corps. He is quite
young."
He looked at her blankly, and felt himself Methuselah in his
thirty-fourth year. He could not think of another question to ask, so,
fingering his hat in awkward fashion, turned slowly as if to leave, his
errand quite forgotten.
Joyce felt the chill that had come over him, but could not see how to
dispel it. There seemed nothing to say, though there had been a thousand
things yesterday. How stupid she must seem!
"I--I'm expecting Lucy," she brought out finally, catching at this straw
of a subject gladly. "I wonder what she can want to see me about so
particularly."
"Did you tell her she was to be subp[oe]naed as witness for the
prosecution?" he asked, trying to be business-like.
"No, I didn't. I'm afraid it will trouble her greatly."
"Doubtless." His manner dropped into listlessness, and by slow stages he
now reached the door. He would have been out of it in a second when a
quick tap on the other, which opened into a side corridor, was followed
by the entrance of Camille, with her brother in tow.
"Are you up at last?" she cried gaily. "We've been waiting hours for
you--oh, good morning, Mr. Dalton."
That gentleman bowed stiffly from the doorway, and Joyce with an effort,
drew herself together.
"Good morning, Camille! Leon, this is Mr. Dalton, of whom you have heard
so much in my letters. You will scarcely need to scrape acquaintance.
What's on the docket this morning, Gypsy?"
Leon had advanced smilingly, with extended hand, prepared to fully like
the man who had been such an able assistant to Joyce. But the sudden
consciousness that it was only as her employee that this young officer
had thought of him, and Joyce's own outspoken declaration as to the
correspondence between them, stung George Dalton to the quick.
He was not versed in the ways of society, and this insecurity left him
helpless how to act in such an emergency. To ignore it never occurred to
him; he could only resent it. He bowed too low to see Leon's extended
hand, and saying frostily, "I am honored to meet you, sir!" turned on
his heel and stalked out with no further word.
"The coolness of him!" cried Camille, indignantly, while her brother's
dark eyes turned astonishedly from one to the other.
"Was I to blame? What ailed him anyhow?" he asked quickly.
"Just a lack of good manners," returned Camille in a disgusted tone.
"One never knows where such people will break out next."
Joyce felt something flare up so hotly within her that she had to turn
away, so that neither might notice her deep chagrin. She changed the
subject entirely by her next remark, and Dalton's name was not again
mentioned.
But when Camille proposed the drive the two had planned, Joyce found
Lucy's promised call a sufficient excuse to decline going. Her neighbors
would not be so easily put off, however.
"How absurd, Joyce! 'Phone her to come later, can't you? We'll be back
by two or three o'clock. You know Leon's furlough only lasts a
fortnight."
"But it may be a grave matter with Lucy. Have you told Leon of our
tragic happenings, here? I believe I have not written them?" giving him
a quick glance.
"No, you haven't--nor anything else. I began to think you had dropped me
from your list, Joyce."
"I have been so busy. No, I must not put Lucy off just for my own
pleasure."
"And ours." Leon was studying her face with a thoughtful expression on
his own. She seemed unreal to him, somehow.
"Oh, I shall claim all the rest of your day. I want you all to come over
for dinner to-night, down to Dodo. You won't disappoint me?"
"I don't know," pouted Camille, unappeased.
"Well, I do," said Leon heartily, still oblivious to currents and
counter-currents. "I shall come at any rate, and I doubt not the rest
will come trailing after. Perhaps, Joyce, you won't refuse a drive alone
with me, to-morrow?"
"We will see."
"I know you have plenty of calls upon your time, but I won't keep you
long. Will you go?"
He looked straight into her eyes with the old commanding manner, which
she had never been able to resist. She smiled and murmured "Yes," but,
to her own dazed surprise, her whole soul roused up to whisper
emphatically "_No!_"
And she did not go, after all. When Lucy appeared it was to beg with
tears that she might be taken to see poor Nate, and Joyce gladly
promised all that she desired. Her pride once broken down, Lucy sobbed
and cried in an abandon of sorrow, letting her childish heart lie bare
beneath Joyce's tender gaze. The latter told the child she could not
leave that day on account of the dinner-party, but would be ready early
in the morning for the first train.
"I will have to excuse myself to Leon," she thought with an odd
lightening at her heart.
And then, as the vision of his fine face and figure, his grace of
manner, his joyous frankness and charm of conversation, rose before her,
a wave of astonishment, almost of protest, swept over her till the tears
rose in her eyes. What had so changed her that she should be glad to
avoid her old friend?
The dinner, as Camille remarked once or twice, was a strictly family
affair. Mrs. Phelps, who happened in on an errand just as they were
gathering, so reported it at her own tea-table, soon afterwards, with
glowing comments on the "handsome young officer" who had just come home.
Her nephew listened without replying, and did not finish his second
delicate muffin, though she had baked them herself with the expectation
that he would dispose of several, as was his custom. She noticed, but
set it down to some unknown bother over business, and wondered whether
there had been trouble with any of the furnaces, or if some order had
been returned on his hands. She knew too much to ask, though. It was
never easy to question George, even in his most relaxed moods. Joyce was
about the only one who had ever attempted it successfully.
The meal over, he wandered outside, and stood with his hands in his
pockets, looking aimlessly around him, with a feeling of wonder mingled
with his sense of desolation. It had never occurred to him, before, to
find time hanging heavily on his hands, to wonder what he should do
next. Work had always driven him, and even after his special hours were
over, there were countless duties for the manager. Then, it was always
such a delight to find a few moments for reading, where he had so little
leisure that a lull was seized with avidity.
But to-night the very thought of bills, or books, disgusted him! He
turned sharply away from the factory, and, avoiding the knoll at the
other end of town, struck out for the open country. It happened to be
the road Dan so often traveled, though George did not know that. He
found its scenes entirely new, had he noticed them. He was not a man who
found much time for country strolls.
It was not yet dark, and the pink glow of a fine sunset still lingered
in the air, which was soft and still. The first frosts had tinged the
outermost leaves of the maples, and the sumach was brilliant in the
hedges, yet the bulk of the foliage was still green, for in that
locality winter held off, sometimes, until December ushered him in. The
green of the trees, vivified by the late rains, thrown out against this
rosy sky, was as satisfying as the odor of flowering currant in the
early spring. It made one love the world. The dust was beaten down into
smooth swirls in the road, and the footpath, worn in the sod alongside,
felt hard as cement under his leather soles. The silence and beauty of
it all soothed him, and the rhythm of his own tramp, tramp, steadied his
nerves and relieved the tension at his throat. He began to relax from
jaw to instep, and presently found himself softly whistling one of the
late coon songs, with its quaint "rag-time," which had caught his ear
and held his memory ever since he had heard it, a week or two ago.
At a certain place the footpath broke and mingled with others. Glancing
up and around, he saw a wood at his side, and just here a cattle-gate in
the rail fence, through which a herd had evidently passed, not long
since, to be milked and housed in the home barn for the night. The gate
was left carelessly open, as if it did not matter now, and, lured by the
dark interior, he slipped in.
It took a nimble winding in and out to avoid tree-roots, underbrush, and
marshy tracts, till at length he came to an open glade by a small
stream. It impressed him how regularly the trees grew about this glade.
They seemed trimmed up just so high, like a hedge. After a moment's
thought, he discovered the reason. The trimming was done by the cattle,
and the length of their stretched necks determined the height of the
trimming. A gardener with clippers could not have made a neater job of
it.
Pleased with the beauty of the spot, he lingered some time. Nature's
charm was almost an unknown quantity to him, but it held him in close
bonds to-night. After a while, as it darkened, he rose from the fallen
log upon which he had been sitting, and began to follow the little
stream, still wrapped in far-away thoughts. The twilight had settled
into a night that was moonless, but had that luminosity often seen on
clear nights in late autumn. He could see all about him, even in the
wood. As he reached another somewhat open space, coming upon it silently
from behind a thick growth of underbrush, with only the narrow cow-path
to cut it, a sound arrested him, and, lying flat on the ground, he saw
the figure of a man. The sound was a groan.