CHAPTER XXXI
If you can imagine a smiling, dreamy-eyed bombshell that explodes in silence, aimed at men's minds instead of their bodies, rocking fixed ideas upon their foundations and shaking innumerable old notions upon their pedestals until it is hard to tell whether or not they are going to fall, perhaps you can get an idea of the first effect of Mary's advertisement. Wherever skilled workmen gathered together her announcement was discussed, and nowhere with greater interest than in her own home town.
"Seems to me this thing may spread," said a thoughtful looking striker in Repetti's pool-room. "Looks to me as though we had started something that's going to be powerful hard to stop."
"What makes you think it's going to spread?" asked another.
"Stands to reason. If women can make bearings cheaper than men, the other bearing companies have got to hire women, too, or else go out of business. And you can bet your life they won't go out of business without giving the other thing a try."
"Hang it all, there ought to be a law against women working," said a third.
"You mean working for wages?"
"Sure I mean working for wages."
"How are you going to pass a law like that when women can vote?" impatiently demanded a fourth.
"Bill's right," said another. "We've started something here that's going to be hard to stop."
"And the next thing you know," continued Bill, looking more thoughtful than ever, "some manufacturer in another line of business—say automobiles—is going to get the idea of cutting his costs and lowering his prices—and pretty soon you'll see women making automobiles, too. You can go to sleep at some of those tools in a motor shop. Pie for the ladies!"
"What are us men going to do after a while?" complained another. "Wash the dishes? Or sweep the streets? Or what?"
"Search me. I guess it'll come out all right in the end; but, believe me, we certainly pulled a bonehead play when we went on strike because of those four women."
"I was against it from the first, myself," said another.
"So was I. I voted against the strike."
"So did I!"
"So did I!"
It was a conversation that would have pleased Mary if she could have heard it, especially when it became apparent that those who had caused the strike were becoming so hard to find. But however much they might now regret the first cause, the effect was growing more irresistible with every passing hour.
It began to remind Mary of the dikes in Holland.
For centuries, working unconsciously more often than not, men had built walls that kept women out of certain industries.
Then through their own strike, the men at New Bethel had made a small hole in the wall—and the women had started to trickle through. With the growth of the strike, the gap in the wall had widened and deepened. More and more women were pouring through, with untold millions behind them, a flowing flood of power that was beginning to make Mary feel solemn. Like William the Thoughtful, she, too, saw that she had started something which was going to be hard to stop….
All over the country, women had been watching for the outcome of her experiment, and when the last announcement appeared, a stream of letters and inquiries poured upon her desk…. The reporters returned in greater strength than ever…. It sometimes seemed to Mary that the whole dike was beginning to crack…. Even Jove must have felt a sense of awe when he saw the effect of his first thunderbolt….
"If they would only go slowly," she uneasily told herself, "it would be all right. But if they go too fast…"
She made a helpless gesture—again the gesture of those who have started something which they can't stop—but just before she went home that evening she received a telegram which relieved the tension.
"May we confer with you Monday at your office regarding situation at New
Bethel?"
That was the telegram. It was signed by three leaders of labour—the same men, Mary remembered, whom Judge Cutler had seen when he had visited headquarters.
"Splendid men, all of them," she remembered him reporting. "I'm sure you'd like them, Mary."
"Perhaps they'll be able to help," she told herself. "Anyhow, I'm not going to worry any more until I have seen them."
That night, after dinner, two callers appeared at the house on the hill.
The first was Helen.
Dinner was hardly over when Mary saw her smart coupé turn in to the garage. A minute later Helen ran up the steps, a travelling bag in her hand. She kissed her cousin twice, quotation marks of affection which enclosed the whisper, "Do you mind if I stay all night?"
"Of course I don't," said Mary, laughing at her earnestness. "What's the matter? Wally out of town?"
"Oh, don't talk to me about Wally! … No; he isn't out of town. That's why I'm here…. Can I have my old room?"
She was down again soon, her eyes brighter than they should have been, her manner so high strung that it wasn't far from being flighty. As though to avoid conversation, she seated herself at the piano and played her most brilliant pieces.
"I think you might tell me," said Mary, in the first lull.
"I told you long ago. Men are fools! But if he thinks he can bully me—!"
"Who?"
"Wally!" Mary's exclamation of surprise was drowned in the ballet from Coppelia. "I don't allow any man to worry me!" said Helen over her shoulder.
"But, Helen—don't you think it's just possible—that you've been worrying him?"
A crashing series of chords was her only answer. In the middle of a run
Helen topped and swung around on the bench.
"Talking about worrying people," she said. "What's the matter with Burdon down at the office lately? What have you been doing to him?"
"Helen! What a thing to say!"
"Well, that's how it started, if you want to know! I was trying to cheer him up a little … and Wally thought he saw more than he did…."
For a feverish minute she resumed Delibes' dance, but couldn't finish it.
She rose, half stumbling, blinded by her tears and Mary comforted her.
"Now, go and get your bag, dear," she said at last, "and I'll go home with you, and stay all night if you like."
But Helen wouldn't have that.
"No," she said, "I'm going to stay here a few days. I told my maid where she could find me—but I made her promise not to tell Wally till morning—and I'm not going back till he comes for me."
"I wonder what he saw…" Mary kept thinking. "Poor Wally!" And then more gently, "Poor Helen! … It's just as I've always said."
Mary was a long time going to sleep that night, thinking of Helen, and
Wally and Burdon.
Yes, Helen was right about Burdon. Something was evidently worrying him. For the last few days she had noticed how irritable he was, how drawn he looked.
"I do believe he's in trouble of some sort," she sighed. "And he looks so reckless, too. I'm glad that Wally did speak to Helen. He isn't safe." And again the thought recurring, "I wonder what Wally saw…."
A sound from the lawn beneath her window stopped her. At first she thought she was dreaming—but no, it was a mandolin being played on muted strings. She stole to the window. In the shadow stood a figure and at the first subdued note of his song, Mary knew who it was.
"Soft o'er the fountain
Ling'ring falls the southern moon—"
"If that isn't Wally all over," thought Mary. "He thinks Helen's here, and he wants to make up."
But how did he know Helen was there? And why was he singing so sadly, so plaintively just underneath Mary's window? Another possibility came to her mind and she was still wondering what to do when Helen came in, even as she had come in that night so long ago when Wally had sung Juanita before.
"Wait till morning! He'll hear from me!" said Helen in indignation.
Wally's song was growing fainter. He had evidently turned and was walking toward the driveway. A minute later the rumble of a car was heard.
"If he thinks he can talk to me the way he did," said Helen, more indignant than before, "and then come around here like that—serenading you—!"
"Oh, Helen, don't," said Mary, trembling. "…I think he was saying good-bye…. Wait till I put the light on…."
The distress in her voice cheeked Helen's anger, and a moment later the two cousins were staring at each other, two tragic figures suddenly uncovered from the mantle of light.
"I won't go back to my room; I'll stay here," whispered Helen at last.
"Don't fret, Mary; he won't do anything."
It was a long time, though, before Mary could stop trembling, but an hour later when the telephone bell began ringing downstairs, she found that her old habit of calmness had fallen on her again.
"I'll answer it," she said to Helen. "Don't cry now. I'm sure it's nothing."
But when she returned in a few minutes, Helen only needed one glance to tell her how far it was from being nothing.
"Your maid," said Mary, hurrying to her dresser. "Wally's car ran into the Bar Harbor express at the crossing near the club…. He's terribly hurt, but the doctor says there's just a chance…. You run and dress now, as quickly as you can…. I have a key to the garage…."