Part 63 (2/2)
”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 gla.s.s works furnaces 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.”
She 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?”
”Oh, I suppose so, Laura--but he approximates both at times,” piped the father raspingly.
”Father--listen here--listen to me, dear. I know Grant--I've known him always. This is what is the matter with Grant. I don't think one act in all his life was based on a selfish or an ulterior motive. He has spent his life lavishly for others. He has given himself without let or hindrance for his ideals--he gave up power and personal glory--all for this cause of labor. He has been maimed and broken for it--has failed for it; and now you see what clouds are gathering above him--and I must go to him. I must be with him.”
”But for what good, Laura?” asked her father impatiently.
”For my own soul's good and glory, dear,” she answered solemnly. ”To live my faith; to stand by the people with whom I have cast my lot; to share the great joy that I know is in Grant's heart--the joy of serving; to triumph in his failure if it comes to that!--to be happy--with him, as I know him no matter what chance and circ.u.mstance surround him.
Oh--father--”
She looked up with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes and clasped his hand tightly while she cried: ”I must go--Oh, bless me as I go--” And the father kissed her forehead.
An hour later, while Grant Adams, in his office, was giving directions for the afternoon parade a white-clad figure brightened the doorway.
”Well, Grant, I have come to serve,” she smiled, ”under you.”
He turned and rose and took her hands in his one flinty hand and said quietly: ”We need you--we need you badly right this minute.”
She answered, ”Very well, then--I'm ready!”
”Well, go out and work--talk peace, don't let them fight, hold the line calm and we'll win,” he said.
She started away and he cried after her, ”Come to Belgian Hall to-night--we may need you there. The strike committee and the leader of each seven will be there. It will be a war council.”
Out to the works went Laura Van Dorn. Mounted policemen or mounted deputies or mounted militiamen stood at every gate. As the strike-breakers came out they were surrounded by the officers of the law, who marched away with the strangers. The strikers followed, calling upon their fellow workers, stretching out pleading arms to them and at corners where the strikers were gathered in any considerable numbers, the guards rode into the crowd waving their whips. At a corner near the Park a woman stepped from the crowd and cried to the officers:
”That's my boy in there--I've got a right to talk to him.”
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