Part 41 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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.