Part 5

Salome Shepard never looked handsomer, or smiled more sweetly, than she did when she uttered the last sentence, and closed the door behind her, leaving her two completely astonished hearers standing in the middle of the office.

“Whe-e-w!” ejaculated Geoffrey Burnham, after a little. “How does that strike you? The Shawsheen Mills run by a ‘female woman,’ as A. Ward would put it! And, by George! we are expected to stay and work,—under a woman!”

John Villard broke into a peal of laughter. “It’s awfully funny at first,” he said, calming down again. “But, after all, why not? She isn’t the empty-headed, aimless creature we thought her. She’s read and studied, and has some very sound notions.”

“But, Villard—a woman-agent!” gasped Burnham. “We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole state.”

“Let them laugh,” answered Villard. “They laugh best who laugh last. And with her notions, her thirst for further knowledge, her enthusiasm, and, above all, her money, the Shawsheen Mills will be in a position at the end of a few years to do the laughing, while those who laugh at us now will set to studying our methods and come to us for advice.”

“But she knows nothing of the practical part of mill-economy,” objected Burnham. “The mills will go to rack and ruin. Jove! Old Mr. Greenough would turn over in his grave if he could have heard her as she stopped in the door and said: ‘I propose to be my own agent.’ A woman!”

“I know,” replied Villard, “that it will seem odd, and perhaps uncomfortably so, at first, to acknowledge her as head. But, after all, she does not propose to dictate as to the business itself.”

“She will,” interrupted Burnham. “Women always do. She will jump at conclusions, mistake her inferences for logical deductions and the wisdom which comes only with experience, and, after the first month, will know more than we do. I know women. They are impulsive and illogical; and they can’t subvert nature and become good business men.”

“No; but they may prove good business women,” was Villard’s answer. “We do not know, yet, what she can or what she will do. I believe she will be willing to leave the details of the business to us yet, for a long time. She is not a conceited woman; and although she has the faculty common to her sex of making some surprising jumps at conclusions, I do not believe her to be obstinate about them. She proposes to make a study of the business, and realizes that this is a work of years. And, besides, what will save the mills is this: she has an extended plan in manuscript of her grandfather’s scheme for making this an ideal institution. If she is willing to leave the business to us for the present, and is capable of adapting Newbern Shepard’s theories of years ago to the needs of to-day, we are all right, Jeff; and a new era is about to begin for the Shawsheen Mills.”

“I only hope we may like it,” assented Burnham doubtfully. “And now for the conference with the Labor Union.”

IX.

Marion Shaw was one of those women whose lives are a constant giving of their best, with no thought of return. We have all seen such women. From the self-sacrificing maiden aunt in the humblest home, up to the Florence Nightingales and Dorothea Dixes of the world, they are God’s angels, everywhere, to suffering humanity.

Marion Shaw and Salome Shepard had been in boarding-school together; and although the former had been left from the start to support herself and her widowed mother, the friendship between the two girls had never abated.

Marion’s mother had died a year before, and something material had dropped out of life for the girl. Grief and the solitude which ensued after her mother’s death told upon her constitution; and when Salome’s letter of invitation reached her, it was like a boon from Heaven. She threw up her situation in Madame Blanc’s private school and went to Shepardtown, arriving there late in the evening, before Salome’s visit to the counting-room.

When the latter came home they settled cosily in Salome’s room for an “old-time talk,” such as they had enjoyed as girls.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were tired to death with that interminable teaching?” asked Salome. “I should have had you come to me long ago. You are as pale as a ghost.”

“Oh, I’m all right now,” answered Marion, who never cared to talk of herself. “Tell me about the strike here. I read of it in a Boston newspaper, when it came on, and again when Mr. Greenough died. But, after the fashion of newspapers with regard to anything you care particularly to follow up, they dropped the subject the minute one’s interest was roused. And your letter was so meager! Yes, it was. You only write the barest details, and not too many of them. Is the strike ended?”

“No, but I hope it will be before night,” Salome replied. “I’ve given orders this morning that a compromise be made at once. Yes, don’t stare at me, please. Why shouldn’t I give orders? They’re my mills.”

“I’m not staring. It’s vulgar to stare, and the lady professors at Mme. Blanc’s fashionable boarding-school do not stare. Why, it would be as much as their position is worth!” retorted Marion. “Yes, they’re your mills, I suppose, and a handsome piece of property they are too, in the eyes of poor me, who own only the clothes on my back. But, pardon me, dear, it does seem a little odd to hear Salome Shepard, the most exclusive and the most fashionable girl at school, talk about giving orders in a cotton-mill. You’re not getting strong-minded, are you, dear?”

“If to begin to take an active interest in two thousand souls, who are dependent upon my money and the business interests it represents, is to become strong-minded, I’m afraid I shall have to plead guilty.” Salome looked narrowly at her friend. Possibly she had mistaken her, and their sympathies were farther apart than she had hoped.

“Bless you!” responded Marion heartily, “I’m strong-minded myself; want to vote and all that. Don’t believe intemperance and lots of other evils will ever be subdued in this country, until women have something to say, and say it through the ballot-box. It is not so very dreadful when you once get on to that platform, is it?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of voting particularly,” Salome hastened to answer. “I don’t really think I want that. But I do want to do something for my people.”

“And you’ll find,” retorted Marion, “before you’ve gone very far, that if you had the power of legislation, you could help them ten times as well.”

“Possibly,” Salome answered, doubtfully. “But, Marion, there are so many things absolutely necessary to be done for the Shawsheen operatives. If you could see them and the homes they live in, the temptations to which they are exposed, the poverty in which they live!”

“And you propose to go to work among them,—to reform them?”

“Yes, God helping me; them and the factory system together. Behold me,” said Salome, rising to her full height, and putting on a mock-tragic air: “Behold and see: Salome Shepard, Reformer. That’s my platform.”

“Salome, dear, what do you mean?” Mrs. Soule had just come in. “Don’t mind her, Marion, she delights in hearing herself talk like a suffrage leader, lately. I don’t approve of it, as she knows; but I can only wait for the mood to pass.”

“Which it never will, aunty dear,” Salome hastened to say. “So long as I live and am in a condition to work for the people who need substantial and material aid, as these people do, my life will be devoted to their service. I cannot go on living the aimless, indifferent life which has been mine ever since I left school. I must have some active interest, or I shall stagnate, or, worse still, settle into a cold, hard, selfish woman of the world. Unfortunately I was born with a heart; unfortunately for your ideal of the proper young lady of the period, I was born with a conscience, and this conscience tells me that my fortune was given me only in trust. It is not mine for selfish enjoyment alone; it is mine to make the world better and happier and purer.”

“And you are going to work among those miserable drunken operatives,” said her aunt coldly, “whose sordid lives, and ungrateful hearts, the whole of them, are not worth the effort of even one month of your life, even if you were at all a capable woman of affairs, a woman of judgment and discretion, a woman of sound business sense,—which you are not.”

“Yes, ‘among the drunken miserable operatives,’” replied Salome, ignoring the latter part of her aunt’s speech. “Among those sordid lives and ungrateful hearts, that were worth the Christ’s dying, and for whom He worked, living.”

“You don’t think of joining the Salvation Army, I hope?” exclaimed her aunt, quite beside herself at this new development of her niece’s purposes.

Salome laughed.

“I shall hardly have the time, aunty. I’ve accepted a position at the Shawsheen Mills.”

“A position?” gasped Mrs. Soule. “Oh, Salome! Who offered you—who _dared_ offer you a _position_?”

“The fair owner of the mills offered it,” answered Salome, enjoying the situation to its fullest extent. “And I accepted, aunty. Marion, in me you see the agent of the Shawsheen Mills!”

Marion Shaw rose and clasped her friend closely to her bosom. She admired her splendid courage and avowed principles, and honored this woman, with money and leisure at her command, who was willing and anxious to devote her life to service for others. But not so Mrs. Soule.

She applied a delicate mull and lace handkerchief to her eyes, and wept to think to what an end had come her years of training; her careful watch, that Salome should never, by any chance, come in contact with a lower world; her life-long aim to make of Salome the perfect being prescribed by her somewhat limited and narrowed rules of ladyhood.

She begged; she pleaded; she argued; she threatened; she resorted to ridicule; but Salome stood firm, and now laughingly and then earnestly defended the course she had taken.

“It’s of no use, aunty, as you see, for us to argue the case. I do not forget all your kindness and love for me; but I must choose for myself,” she said, finally. “I am old enough to decide questions of right and wrong. Hereafter we will not argue any more. I must do this; you must submit; and that is all there is about it. Now, let’s make up and be friends,” and she bent down and kissed her aunt on both cheeks, as she used to do when she was a little girl.

“You, a child of Cora de Bourdillon’s!” murmured her aunt, softening a little.

“Cora de Bourdillon was my mother,” said Salome. “But before and above all else, Newbern Shepard was my grandfather. I am like him. I must be like him. And you must submit to the laws of heredity.”

So there was never any more prolonged discussion between them. Salome’s nature being so much the stronger, kind-hearted, weak Mrs. Soule could not oppose her further. But many times, in after years, was she heard to deplore the fact that Cora de Bourdillon’s child was so thorough-going an epitome of Newbern Shepard.

“A good man,” she would say. “A perfectly honest and well-meaning man; but not like Us!”

X.

Early that evening Geoffrey Burnham and John Villard were announced. Mrs. Soule and Salome were alone in the parlors when they came in, but Marion was sent for.

“And you’ve brought good news?” asked Salome. “They’ve consented to go to work again?”

“Of course,” Burnham replied. “They were only too glad to meet us on any sort of terms.”

“Wait till my friend comes down,” said Salome. “She is interested, and will want to hear the details. Oh, here she is. Miss Shaw, allow me to present my two confrères (and teachers as well), Mr. Burnham and Mr. Villard.”

“And so it is really settled?” Salome asked, “and the mills are to be opened again?”

“Monday morning, if you like,” replied Burnham, “or earlier. But to-day is Wednesday, and there are many things to be done where the mills have stood idle for months.”

“I’m so glad,” returned Salome.

“There is hearty rejoicing throughout the corporation,” said Villard. “I was coming through there to-night and met a couple of little boys with bundles of groceries in their arms. The smallest looked up and smiled. ‘We’re going to have a good supper of meat and potato to-night,’ he said. ‘The mills are going to open and pa’s got work.’ I asked him how long since he had had meat, and he said not since Christmas; and even then he only had a turkey’s wing that somebody gave him.”

“Poor boy! Tell me about your conference with the Labor Union.”

“It passed off smoothly,” Villard went on. “Burnham told him we came from you, and were prepared to make terms with them. We only saw the committee you know, and they are to lay our terms before the Union to-night; but there is no doubt that they will accept. They are really very sensible and shrewd, those fellows on the committee, eh, Burnham?”

“Remarkably,” replied the first superintendent. “I didn’t know we had such intelligent men.”

“But it is our business to know it,” Villard returned, and Salome nodded her head. “We laid our plans before them, and told them that we would concede all their wishes, except about the machinery of course. And one of their own number spoke up promptly and said it was hot-headed bigotry on their part that had made them stick for the removal of the frames. And that most of them, even the Lancaster spinners, had come to see that every improvement to the mills meant an improvement of their condition. Then the secretary wanted to know if they were to be allowed to exist as a Union. Burnham told them that you were taking a great interest in the management of the mills; and that we all believe that no harm can come of their organizing themselves into an association, provided they were willing to be reasonable, and to confer with us before taking extreme measures again. He begged them to believe that you are their friend, and want them all to have a fair chance. And he ended by assuring them that we, as superintendents, fully concurred with you; and that he hoped they would be willing to start on a new basis, and to consider our interests as they expect and desire us to remember theirs. Burnham did himself proud, Miss Shepard, and I could see they were a good deal affected by his conduct.”

“I am covered with blushes,” declared Burnham. “Spare my modesty.”

“Blushing must be a novel sensation to you,” retorted Villard. “The leaders shook hands with us when we came away and thanked us for what we had said, assuring us that they would be ready to enter the mills again at once. And a different spirit is evident to-night, all through the corporation.”

“Don’t be too sanguine,” interrupted Burnham. “We’re not through the woods yet. And there are several ends to be achieved before the millennium dawns.”

“I should like,” said Salome, “if it will not bore you too much, to outline the general plan I have formed for raising the condition of things at the mills.”

“Nothing would give us greater pleasure than such a proof of your confidence,” replied Burnham.

“And we can assure you beforehand,” said Villard, “of our hearty co-operation.”

No one but Salome noticed that her aunt had quietly slipped away when she spoke of her plan. Mrs. Soule did not care to hear Salome “talk shop.”

“In the first place,” Salome began, “are the mills all they should be? Are they well lighted, aired and drained? Is the machinery such as to benefit both the operators and the business interests of the mills?”

“No, they are not quite up to modern standards,” Villard replied, promptly.

“I don’t know,” pursued Burnham, “but they are quite as good as the average. There are many worse mills than the Shawsheen.”

“That isn’t the point,” Salome replied. “Are there any better? Or are they capable of improvement?”

“Well, yes, if you don’t consider expense,” assented Burnham.

“Are they well-lighted? Are their sanitary conditions good?”

“They are very well-lighted indeed,” said Villard; “your grandfather built much in advance of his time, and the mills are all light and strong. But they need better ventilation in cold weather; and, as you know, sanitary science in Newbern Shepard’s day was hardly up to modern demands.”

“I propose putting in the best drainage system we can find. I propose bath-rooms, wash-rooms and elevators.”

“Good!” said both her superintendents.

“As for machinery, you will know what is needed there. We want the latest improved methods of doing our work. It will not do for us to be behind the times, or the world will laugh at our philanthropic efforts. The standard of the mills must be as high now as it was in my grandfather’s day. Nothing but the best of goods, made after the most approved modern methods, must go out from us. Otherwise the world will say we are visionary and lack good business sense.”

“That is true,” assented Burnham. “The business must not suffer.”

“At the same time, I want the mills made so pleasant and comfortable that our operatives will prefer them to any other, knowing that we propose to consult their interests and happiness in little things, as we desire that they shall consult ours in great. Then their homes. Those old rickety tenement houses must be abolished from the face of the earth.”

“Hear, hear,” cried Villard, “they have long been an eyesore to me.”

“They are a disgrace to us,” was Salome’s emphatic answer.

“But you can’t do that all at once,” said Burnham. “That is something that will take time.”

“It is April now,” said Salome. “I propose to begin at once on new houses for the operatives. They will have to stay where they are for the summer, but by cold weather I mean that every one of them shall be in new quarters.”

“Whew!” said Burnham; “you _are_ a woman of business, Miss Shepard. But you will have your hands full this year to build new houses for two thousand people.”

“It can be done though,” Villard replied. “There are plenty of carpenters and builders to be had. What kind of tenements do you propose?”

“I have not fully decided. At first I thought of having single cottages for every family, with a tiny plot of land for each. But sometimes I wonder if some of the plans for model tenement houses would not be more feasible. What do you think?”

“There are advantages in both,” said Burnham. “It is doubtful if many of the operatives would appreciate a whole house, or take good care of one. On the other hand, the best tenement house system in the world has its drawbacks.”

“In a country-place where there is room enough, as there is here,” advised Villard, “it seems to me that the single cottage system is the better. Each family can then have a certain privacy, impossible to the tenement house system. They can soon be educated up to caring for their places, and, I think, will soon come to take pride in them. They may not pay, at first; but they will serve a higher purpose. I have thought it would be a fine thing,—in the Utopia of which I have often dreamed,—if, connected with such a factory as this, could be built some substantial, inexpensive cottages which could be sold to the working-men with families, on very easy terms. Let them occupy them as tenants, for instance, until their rentals amount to a certain sum—say two hundred dollars,—unless they have been fortunate enough to have saved that amount, which they can pay down, and then let them take a deed of the place and give us a mortgage. Pardon me, Miss Shepard, I am only supposing a case.”

“And quite a supposable one,” said Salome, her eyes glowing. “Why can’t it be done?”

“Doubtful if any of them would burden themselves with a debt like that,” demurred Burnham.

“I think they would,” Villard responded. “The desire for a home of one’s own is an instinct which is implanted in every human breast. If the steadier, more sensible men of the mills could be induced to try it, it would soon become the ambition of all the younger ones to own their homes. I am sure the overseers, at least, would like to try it. So many of our operatives live in a hand-to-mouth fashion, never saving anything. Let them see that what they pay for rent will be credited to them; that they are actually saving that money, and they will, for the most part, gladly fall in with the scheme. And when a man begins to save up money, and to feel that he is worth something, his self-respect increases and ambition makes a man of him. I tell you, I believe the thing could be done here, and the condition of our working-men be vastly improved by it.”

“We will, at least, make the experiment,” said Salome earnestly. “At first a wild dream came to me of building model tenement houses and practically giving them the rent. But I soon came to see that it would be better for them to pay what they could afford for improved conditions.”

“That would be far wiser,” said Villard. “To make them objects of charity would be to lower their condition in the long run.”

“Then I have a plan for the girls,” Salome went on. “So many of them live in those dreadful boardinghouses. I’ve been into one, and I wonder how any girl can keep her self-respect and live there. I am going to build a large building, which shall have plenty of light, airy bedrooms, prettily and inexpensively furnished; so that a girl may feel that she has a cosy little spot somewhere on earth of her very own. I am going to have model bath-rooms and a large, cheerful dining-room. There will be a matron to the establishment who will be like a mother to the girls; not one who will care nothing whether her girls are sober and respectable, or miserable and besotted, so long as they pay. This woman will win the confidence of the girls, and lead them into habits of personal cleanliness and common sense; she will take an interest in their little personal affairs, and advise them kindly and judiciously. In short, she will make a home for them in the truest sense of the word.”

“You will have to have her made to order, Salome,” interrupted Marion from the sofa where she had been an interested listener. “Such paragons do not exist.”

“And would scarcely be appreciated by the average factory girl if they did,” added Burnham, smiling at Marion.

“I shall have a large and pleasant parlor with a piano and a comfortable reading-room,” Salome continued, as though not hearing; “I don’t suppose the girls, judging from what I hear and see of them, will care much for reading at first; but if I put plenty of light, healthful literature in their way, with illustrated books and good pictures on the walls, they will gradually come to like them. And then, there must be weekly entertainments, and perhaps a hall.”

“And what about the young men?” inquired Villard. “Are you going to leave our sex out in the cold?”

“Yes, if you educate the girls so much above them, what are the young fellows to do?”

“They shall have such a boarding-house too,” said Salome, “only we’ll call them Unions. I hate the name boarding-house, and I should think they would; and then, by and by, there are still other schemes in my mind. There are children, plenty of them, on the corporation. They are poor, sickly, unkempt, uncared-for. All this must be changed.”

“That will come, I think,” said Burnham, “with their improved conditions and surroundings. It is unhealthful where they now are. Shall you build the new houses there?”

“Oh, no, I forgot to say,” answered Salome, “that we must put up their new quarters on the hill, the other side of the mills. It is much pleasanter up there, and a far more healthful locality. Work on them can begin right away. Will you find me the proper man to undertake the building of the houses, Mr. Villard?”

John Villard’s heart fairly burned with enthusiasm. This was a project he had long cherished, although he had been entirely without means or prospect of ever being able to carry it out.

“You may be sure I will do my best,” he answered.

“And we will reserve the power of directing and planning the buildings ourselves,” she added.