His eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly--intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but Paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed.

"A Bolshevist, sure enough," he thought.

A familiar landscape outside attracted his attention.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," he thought. "Yes, there's the road ...

and there's the lower bridge.... I hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there. I'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see."

At the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him. Paul stood for a few minutes on the platform, unrecognized, unheeded, jostled by the throng.

"The prodigal son returns," he sighed, and slowly crossed the square....

Late in the afternoon a tired figure made its way along the river below the factory. The banks were high, but where the stream turned, a small gra.s.s-covered cove had been hollowed out by the edge of the water.

"This is the best of all," thought Paul after he had climbed down the bank and, sinking upon the gra.s.s, he lay with his face to the sun, as he had so often lain when he was a boy, dreaming those golden dreams of youth which are the heritage of us all.

"I was a fool to come," he told himself. "I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...."

For where he had hoped to find pleasure, he had found little but bitterness. The sight of the house on the hill, the factory in the hollow below the dam, even the faces which he had recognized had given him a feeling of sadness, of punishment--a feeling which only an outcast can know to the full--an outcast who returns to the scene of his home after many years, unrecognized, unwanted, afraid almost to speak for fear he will betray himself....

For a long time Paul lay there, sometimes staring up at the sky, sometimes half turning to look up the river where he could catch a glimpse of the factory grounds and, farther up, the high cascade of water falling over the dam--the bridge just above it....

Gradually a sense of rest, of relaxation took possession of him. "This is the best of all," he sighed, "but I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...."

The sun shone on his face.... His eyes closed....

When he opened them again it was dark.

"First time I've slept like that for years," he said, sitting up and stretching. Around him the gra.s.s was wet with dew. "Must be getting late," he thought. "I'd better get under shelter."

On the bridge above the dam he saw the headlights of a car slowly moving.

In the centre it stopped and the lights went out.

"That's funny," he thought. "Something the matter with his wires, maybe."

He stood up, idly watching. After a few minutes the lights switched on again and the car began to move forward. Behind it appeared the approaching lights of a second machine.

"That first car doesn't want to be seen," thought Paul. At each end of the bridge was an arc lamp. As the first car pa.s.sed under the light, he caught a glimpse of it--a grey touring car, evidently capable of speed.

Paul didn't think of this again until he was near the place where he had decided to pa.s.s the night. At the corner of the street ahead of him a grey car stopped and three men got out--his blonde companion of the train among them, conspicuous both on account of his height and his beard.

"That's the same car," thought Paul, watching it roll away; and frowning as he thought of his Russian acquaintance of the morning he uneasily added, "I wonder what they were doing on that bridge...."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

The next morning Wally was a little better.

He was still unconscious, but thanks to the surgeon his breathing was less laboured and he was resting more quietly. Mary had stayed with Helen overnight, and more than once it had occurred to her that even as it requires darkness to bring out the beauty of the stars, so in the shadow of overhanging disaster, Helen's better qualities came into view and shone with unexpected radiance.

"I know..." thought Mary. "It's partly because she's sorry, and partly because she's busy, too. She's doing the most useful work she ever did in her life, and it's helping her as much as it's helping him--"

They had a day nurse, but Helen had insisted upon doing the night work herself. There were sedatives to be given, bandages to be kept moist.

Mary wanted to stay up, too, but Helen didn't like that.

"I want to feel that I'm doing something for him--all myself," she said, and with a quivering lip she added, "Oh, Mary... If he ever gets over this...!"

And in the morning, to their great joy, the doctor p.r.o.nounced him a little better. Mary would have stayed longer, but that was the day when the labour leaders were to visit the factory; so after hearing the physician's good report, she started for the office.

At ten o'clock she telephoned Helen who told her that Wally had just fallen off into his first quiet sleep.

"I'm going to get some sleep myself, now, if I can," she added. "The nurse has promised to call me when he wakes."

Mary breathed easier, for some deep instinct told her that Wally would come through it all right. She was still smiling with satisfaction when Joe of the Plumed Hair came in with three cards, the dignity of his manner attesting to the importance of the names.

"All right, Joe, send them in," she said. "And I wish you'd find Mr.

Forbes and Mr. Woodward, and tell them I would like to see them."

"Mr. Woodward hasn't come down yet, but I guess I know where Mr. Forbes is--"

He disappeared and returned with the three callers.

Mary arose and bowed as they introduced themselves, meanwhile studying them with tranquil attentiveness.

"The judge was right," she told herself. "I like them." And when they sat down, there was already a friendly spirit in the air.

"This is a wonderful work you are doing here, Miss Spencer," said one.

"You think so?" she asked. "You mean for the women to be making bearings?"

"Yes. Weren't you surprised yourself when your idea worked out so well?"

"But it wasn't my idea," she said. "It was worked out in the war--oh, ever so much further than we have gone here. We are only making bearings, but when the war was on, women made rifles and cartridges and sh.e.l.ls, cameras and lenses, telescopes, binoculars and aeroplanes. I can't begin to tell you the things they made--every part from the tiniest screws as big as the end of this pin--to rough castings. They did designing, and drafting, and moulding, and soldering, and machining, and carpentering, and electrical work--even the most unlikely things--things you would never think of--like ship-building, for instance!

"Ship-building! Imagine!" she continued.

"Why, one of the members of the British Board of Munitions said that if the war had lasted a few months longer, he could have guaranteed to build a battleship from keel to crow's-nest--with all its machinery and equipment--all its arms and ammunition--everything on it--entirely by woman's labour!

"So, you see, I can't very well get conceited about what we are doing here--although, of course, I am proud of it, too, in a way--"

She stopped then, afraid they would think she was gossipy--and she let them talk for a while. The conversation turned to her last advertis.e.m.e.nt.

"Are you sure your figures are right?" asked one. "Are you sure your women workers are turning out bearings so much cheaper than the men did?"

"They are not my figures," she told them. "They are taken from an audit by a firm of public accountants."