It was eight o’clock and the picketing for the day was done, when Grant reached his office.
“Well,” said Fenn, who had Violet’s notes before him, “it’s considerably better than a dog fall. They haven’t a smelter at work. Two shafts are working with about a third of a force, and we feel they are bluffing. The glass works 555furnaces are cold. The cement mills are dead. They beat up the Italians pretty badly over in the Park.”
The Times issued a noon extra to tell of the incident in front of the smelter, and expatiated upon the Messianic myth. A tirade against Grant Adams in black-faced type three columns wide occupied the center of the first page of the extra, and in Harvey people began to believe that he was the “Mad Mullah” that the Times said he was.
When Dr. Nesbit drove his electric home that noon, he found his daughter waiting for him. She stood on the front porch, with a small valise beside her. She was dressed in white and her youthful skin, fresh lips, glowing eyes and heightened color made her seem younger than the woman of forty that she was. Her father saw in her face the burning purpose to serve which had come to indicate her moments of decision. The Doctor had grown used to that look of decision and he knew that it was in some way related to South Harvey and the strike. For during her years of work in the Valley, its interests had grown to dominate her life. But the Valley and its interests had unfolded her soul to its widest reach, to its profoundest depths. And in her features were blazoned, at times, all the love and joy and strength that her life had gathered. These were the times when she wore what her father called “the Valley look.” She had “the Valley look” in her face that day when she stood waiting for her father with the valise beside her–a beautiful woman.
“Father–now don’t stop me, dear. I’m going to Grant. Mother will be home in a few days. I’ve told Lila to stay with Martha Morton when you are not here. It’s always secure and tranquil up here, you know. But I’m going down in the Valley. I’m going to the strike.”
“Going to the strike?” repeated her father.
“Yes,” she answered, turning her earnest eyes upon him as she spoke. “It’s the first duty I have on earth–to be with my people in this crisis. All these years they have borne me up; have renewed my faith; they have given me courage. Now is my turn, father. Where they go, I go also.” She smiled gently and added, “I’m going to Grant.”
556She took her father’s hands. “Father–Oh, my good friend–you understand me–Grant and me?–don’t you? Every man in the crisis of his life needs a woman. I’ve been reading about Grant in the papers. I can see what really has happened. But he doesn’t understand how what they say happens, for the next few days or weeks or months, while this strike is on, is of vastly more importance than what really happens. He lacks perspective on himself. A woman, if she is a worthy friend–gives that to a man. I’m going to Grant–to my good friend, father, and stand with him–very close, and very true, I hope!”
Trouble moved over the Doctor’s face in a cloud. “I don’t know about Grant, Laura,” he said. “All this Messiah and Prince of Peace tomfoolery–and–”
“Why, you know it never happened, don’t you, father? You know Grant is not a fool–nor mad?”