Joyces Investments | Page 9

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