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...."