Part 7

“Oh, I do,” said Salome, “I’ve seen too much of them, myself, this summer. At first, I was appalled by the absolute lack of common knowledge among the average girls. But there are a few, I know, who have already improved the slight advantages they’ve had; and these few I shall rely on to help me by their influence in raising the rest; the ‘little leaven,’ you know. It seems to me, that only by raising the intellectual condition, and the educational aspiration, can we hope to accomplish anything of permanent value to the mills.”

“That is the only way,” was Villard’s response. “And, Miss Shepard,” he said, hurriedly, for the others had already scattered through the girls’ wing, leaving them alone, “I want to say that, as I believe you have found the only true solution to the main questions of the labor problem, I pledge myself to heartily sustain you in every way. You have only to command me, and I am ready.”

Why did Salome turn away to hide the vivid blush that suddenly swept over her face?

“I am sure of that,” she said, presently, with an effort, “I have counted on you from the first. I shall try, by my own personal efforts, to help the factory girls. But I shall depend on you, and you alone, to manage the young men.”

“I shall not fail you,” was all he said, as Salome locked the door of the hall behind them, and they went over the girl’s wing to find the others.

The bedrooms on this wing were like those on the other side. There were ample closets and plenty of light and air and window space. The rooms were not spacious, but they were complete in every respect, and a vast improvement on anything the Shawsheen mill-girls had ever seen.

“I did not want large rooms,” said Salome; “I think it is better to put not more than two girls in a room. I shall put two single beds in each, and fit up the rooms with everything necessary for comfort; then I shall insist that the girls keep their own rooms in the best of order. Oh, you’ll see what a disciplinarian I shall be!”

The third floor was entirely given up to bedrooms, the two wings being entirely separated from each other by the upper portion of the hall which extended to the top of the dome. Every part of the building was beautifully finished, well-lighted, and planned for general, practical convenience.

“There, if I never do anything else,” said Salome, after they had come out of the place, and stood looking back at it, “I shall feel that I have raised a suitable monument to old Newbern Shepard. I believe, if he could have lived until now, that he would have done the same thing himself—only better.”

“He couldn’t, Miss Shepard,” said Villard. “It is absolutely perfect.”

“Yes,” admitted Burnham, “it is. But do you realize, Miss Shepard, what an elephant you’ve got on your hands? It’s going to be a fearful tax on your mind and strength to keep it up, and to carry out half you’ve planned.”

“Well, what were health and strength given me for?” Salome asked, with the abruptness which sometimes characterized her.

“Most young women find a solution to that question without running an eleemosynary institution,” was Burnham’s mental comment; but he said nothing.

“I expect to see my happiest days while I have the care of this establishment. I’m sure I never was so happy as I’ve been for the past six months. Now, I must finish this great house. I shall need all the suggestions and practical aid you can each give me, especially about the libraries and reading-rooms. As to the selection of books, I’m going to begin with a comparative few. Will you two gentlemen come up to the house to-morrow night, prepared to help make out a suitable list?”

“You forget that I have to go to New York to-morrow,” said Burnham. “But Villard can go; and I can help afterwards, you know.”

“As soon as we get everything in readiness,” pursued Salome, “we will have a formal opening. We’ll have music and something good to eat, and a little talking, and perhaps a dance to close with.” Salome looked wickedly at her aunt, but the latter paid no heed. “Remember your promise, Mr. Villard.”

“I shall not be the one to forget it,” he answered.

They separated very soon, Salome and her aunt and Marion taking the architect home with them, and Burnham and Villard going back to the mills.

But all through the afternoon, and all through the watches of the night, one sentence repeated itself to John Villard’s heart, comforting and helping him, strangely: “I have counted on you from the first.”

XIII.

It was Halloween when the new building was formally opened. Up to that time, only a few privileged persons were allowed to enter its sacred portals; but every one connected with the Shawsheen Mills was invited to be present at the opening.

On the hill, back of the mills, stood one hundred new cottages, each costing from fifteen to twenty-five hundred dollars, and all ready for occupancy; but as yet none of the mill-hands had seen the inside of one of them.

It had been a work of no small magnitude to find a suitable matron for the Newbern Shepard Hall. But, finally, the widow of a former physician in Shepardtown, a woman of excellent character and judgment, and with some experience as matron of a young ladies’ school, was secured and duly installed in the two pleasant rooms set apart for her in the girls’ wing.

John Villard had relieved Salome’s mind of another perplexity, by offering to take up permanent quarters for himself in the young men’s side; for, although she had felt the necessity of such an arrangement, she had not liked to ask him to give up what she rightly guessed were more congenial apartments in a quiet corner of the town. But he felt that his influence would be needed at the Hall, and that he could do the work which he hoped to do much better, if he were in the midst of the young men whom he wished to interest in many ways. And before Halloween, he was comfortably settled in two rooms at the Hall.

The evening came, clear and cold; such an evening as only the last of October can give. The building was brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, and decorated with flags and evergreen. Outside, Chinese lanterns and bunting lined both sides of the walk up to the main entrance, and helped to give it a holiday air. A band of street-musicians, who happened to be in town, had been engaged and were stationed in front of the building, where their tolerably harmonious strains gave just as much pleasure to the not over-critical audience that was fast assembling, as Thomas’ or Seidl’s men could have afforded them.

Inside, Salome waited impatiently. Without any premeditated plan, Villard and Burnham placed her and Marion, with Mrs. Soule in the background—for she “declined to be introduced to these persons”—in the center of the library; and forming themselves into a reception committee, they drafted into service a few of the best-appearing young men, who presented every comer to the owner of the mills and her friend. After giving each one a cordial welcome and hand-shake, Salome told them they were free to inspect the new building as they pleased; and, consequently, every mill-hand, accompanied by every other member of his or her family, went critically over the wonderful new building, which seemed to their unaccustomed eyes a structure of unwonted magnificence, and furnished in a most luxurious style.

It had been fitted up inexpensively, but with the utmost good taste. No carpets were on the floors, but American rugs abounded wherever they had seemed necessary. The library furniture was of plain, substantial oak, like the heavy woodwork of the room. Throughout the rest of the house, bedrooms, dining-rooms, and class-rooms were furnished with strong, neat, ash furniture. There were a few good engravings on the walls of the principal rooms, and the bookcases were about half-filled with literature of a harmless and interesting, if light quality. They had all agreed it would not be best to fill the shelves at first, but to watch the popular taste and to “leave room for improvement,” as Marion said.

The operatives were simply astonished at what they saw. Some were even yet incredulous, and whispered that they would not be willing nor able to live in such a place; but many of the girls’ eyes brightened as they inspected their new quarters, and showed a determination, on the part of their owners, to come in for some of the good times they saw in store. It is doubtful if even the lowest ones there did not feel a new self-respect creeping up in their hearts. Dress may not make the man, but surroundings often do the woman.

By half-past eight the stream of people stopped pouring through the big front doors. Everybody had come in, shaken hands with Salome and Marion, and passed along, scattering themselves over the building.

“Now let’s get every one into the hall, above,” said Salome, “and have a little talking and some music.”

It was some little time before the crowd of visitors could be gathered in one place, but after a while the hall was well filled, and the musicians installed in their place. The sound of the band, indoors, proved an effectual summons for the stragglers. For the first time, Salome, on the platform, faced a surging, eager crowd of her own people in Newbern Shepard Hall.

She had wanted one of her two “faithful henchmen” to take the lead to-night; but they had each refused, saying she was better fitted than they; that it was eminently her own affair and not theirs, and that the success of the opening depended on her alone. The last argument was enough, and, much to Mrs. Soule’s horror at seeing “Cora de Bourdillon’s daughter” in such a plight, Salome presided over her first meeting,—“exactly as if she were one of those ‘woman’s rights women.’”

When the musicians had finished, Salome stepped forward, and not without some inward quaking, made her first speech.

It was an occasion the Shawsheen Mill hands never forgot. Salome, always well and appropriately dressed, had not slighted them by refusing to appear at her best. She wore a white China silk costume, rightly thinking her young people would be readily reached by the gospel of good clothes. Her gown was simply made, but fitted exquisitely her well-proportioned figure. Neck and wrists were finished with beautiful old point lace, and she did not scorn to wear her grandmother’s diamonds.

Her attractive appearance, her cordial and interested manner, and her winning voice had pleaded her cause with the critical operatives before she had uttered a half-dozen sentences. Her sincerity and earnestness went straight to their sensibilities, and, before she had suspected it, every heart in the room was hers.

“My dear friends,” she began, “I never made a speech in my life, and cannot now. I never stood on a platform before; and only my interest in every one of you brings me here to-night. I only want to say that this building, which you see now for the first time, and which I hope will prove a happy home for many of you, is built to my grandfather’s memory. Some who are present to-night remember him and love him still, I hope.”

Here several gray-haired men in the audience nodded their heads, and one was heard to mutter, “Ay, ay, we do.”

“If he had lived, I think everything in the factory would have been different. Your lives would have been different; and mine, too, perhaps. For one thing, I don’t believe you and I would have grown up strangers to each other. You know, by this time, I am sure, that I have a glorious plan for making the Shawsheen Mills the best on earth.

“Not by tearing down mills and building new and more elegant ones; not alone by making costly improvements; but by having—and mind, this is the only way it can be done,—by having the best and most conscientious and intelligent class of operatives in this country,—and that will mean, of course, in the world. Now, you all know I cannot do this alone; every one of you has a part in carrying out this plan of mine. And unless you all agree to help, it will fail. Don’t think I want you to do any impossible thing. I only want every one of you to be the best and do the best you possibly can. You and I are going to have some splendid times in the future. We’re going to get better acquainted with each other. We are going to become real friends. On your part, you are going to deserve my good opinion and my honest friendship; on my part, I’m going to deserve your confidence and trust and love; and between us we are going to show the people of Massachusetts that a cotton-factory can become something more than a great machine to grind out yards and yards of unbleached sheeting; and that its operatives can become something better and greater than so many smaller wheels in the machinery. We will show that a factory community may be, and is, a prosperous, happy, contented and intelligent people.”

Some of the young men could contain themselves no longer, and broke into enthusiastic applause as Salome uttered the last sentiment. Villard chuckled secretly as he observed that the leaders in it were the heads of the committees in the recent strike.

“I’m so glad you agree with me,” said Salome heartily, when the noise had subsided. “Now, I want to tell you about this house. The rooms are all ready for occupancy. I think there are accommodations for all who care to come. You are to leave the old boardinghouses on the corporation, and I shall have them taken down at once. The price of board will remain the same as at the old houses. The reading-rooms are ready, the library is yours, and we shall soon find means of entertainment and work, which will keep us all contented, I hope. Mr. Villard will occupy rooms on this floor, and the matron, whom I will shortly present to you, will be on the girls’ wing. There will be but few rules, and those, I trust, not irksome. I cannot imagine that any one will not be willing to obey them. The new houses on the hill are all ready for the families on the corporation to move into. A few of the larger and better houses are to be let at an increased rental; but most of them will be let at the old rates. We have a plan, by which any one who wants to, may, after a little, buy a house and pay for it by monthly installments, just the same as you pay rent. But I will not go into details. Mr. Fales will be at the first cottage on the hill, and you can all make arrangements with him at any time after to-morrow morning. Now I have talked too long, I know, and am going to stop. I want to have you hear what Mr. Burnham and Mr. Villard have to say; but first we must have some music.”

If Salome could have read the trembling waves of sympathy and reverence which were already vibrating from the hearts of the young people whom she had addressed, she would not have sat down with the feeling of self-distrust and failure which followed her speech. The experience, the very atmosphere, was unique in the history of industrial experiments.

The two superintendents followed the band with speeches that were characteristic of each. Burnham’s, witty and tinged with sarcasm, but friendly and cordial enough; and Villard’s, strong with earnest purpose and full of brotherly love. The matron, Mrs. French, was presented, also, and her few remarks won a friendly recognition among the young folks; and then Salome announced that the meeting would adjourn to the dining-rooms in the basement.

More refined audiences than hers have not been slow to exchange an atmosphere of sentiment and intellectuality for one of prosaic salads and cold meats, and more fanciful ices and coffee; and the Shawsheen operatives were soon encountering a more æsthetic collation, it is probable, than had ever been served them before. But as it was a bountiful one, they acted well their part and found no fault.

The crowning delight of the evening came afterward. The young men were asked to lend a hand, and soon the floor was cleared in the large hall, and word was circulated through the house that the evening’s entertainment would close with dancing. Nothing could have gone so far toward convincing the mill-hands that Salome had meant what she said, than this concession to their social rights, unless it was the fact that she, herself,—the haughty, aristocratic daughter of Floyd Shepard, whom they had looked upon with envy not unmixed with hatred,—that she should lead the dance with the younger superintendent. An orchestra of three pieces was selected from the band of musicians, and Marion and Salome, by turns, furnished the piano accompaniment. Salome claimed her promise from Villard and danced merrily, not only the first figure but several others. Mrs. Soule was too much overcome by all she had seen and heard to endure this, and was taken home; but the others staid until the midnight hour tolled, and the dancers had all bidden good-night to their newly-developed friends and gone home enthusiastic in their praise of the new order of things in the mill _régime_, and, especially, of the woman who was opening to them the wider doors of opportunity.

XIV.

John Villard passed a wakeful night in his new rooms at Newbern Shepard Hall. A strange and unwonted feeling had taken possession of him; one which he was slow to recognize, but which cried loudly to him of his folly and presumption, even while it refused to be put off.

After that first dance, Salome had paused by an open window and he had stood idly watching her. Suddenly a tremendous desire to clasp her in his arms, to hold her close, to demand her full surrender, swept over him. So sudden and strong was the passion, that it was with difficulty that he kept from seizing the soft hand which lay dangerously near on the window-sill. So over-mastering was it, that he dared not stay or even speak. He turned on his heel and went out under the quiet stars, alone.

In the days when she had held aloof from the mill, and the superintendents scarcely ever saw her, Geoffrey Burnham had regarded her as “something too bright and good for human nature’s daily food,” looking upon her as immensely above him, socially speaking. But now that she had become familiarly associated with them in the daily affairs and interests of the mill, Burnham thought of her as having entered the field of good comradeship, and felt that friendly, if not exactly equal, terms existed between them.

With John Villard it was different. He had begun by looking with a certain degree of scorn upon a woman who held tremendous interests so lightly as she had done in the old days. He had felt for her all the contempt a man who does not know them—a man with serious purposes—may feel for the irresponsible butterflies he imagines society-girls to be. With her deeper interest in the side of life which interested him, and her efforts to raise the standard of the mills, her realization of what to him was a sacred object in life and her devotion to it, his thought of her had changed.

With him, familiar every-day contact had not made of her a comrade, in the ordinary sense of the word. Her beauty and refinement, together with the consciousness which never left his sensitive soul, that it was her wealth and her generosity which made the new conditions possible,—these things only served to raise her to a pedestal where she stood, forever apart from the rest of the universe,—a woman to be revered and worshiped; not a woman to be aspired to.

Suddenly, he found himself in love with her. The tide of feeling which swept over him was one that no man could mistake. It was not enough that he might worship her on her pedestal, with a devotion silent and unknown. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted her eyes to droop before his glance—not to look at him in the steady fashion he knew so well. He wanted to feel her heart beating against his. He wanted to kiss her.

“Poor fool!” he told himself, a hundred times that night. “As if she would even look at me—a poor factory-boy, self-educated, self-trained, and—yes, self-conceited!”

He remembered his youth; how poor he had been; how he had studied by moonlight to save the expense of a candle; how he had worked all through his boyhood in a cotton-mill, that he might help his older sister to support their mother; how, after his mother had died and his sister married, he had remained poor and alone and almost friendless; how little he had seen and known of women; how utterly lacking he was in all the graces of society and the refinements that he supposed to come from outward polish only; in short, how utterly at variance with her tastes and interests and aims his life had been.

He remembered her life of luxury, of travel, of careful training, and the indulgence of cultivated, æsthetic tastes. What was he, that he should dare to even think of her? What but a presumptuous fool, that he should dream of touching even her frail, white hand? And yet, her eyes had drooped when they met his that day, when they all went over the Hall together. Stay—what did it mean? Did she?—could she feel?—but, no. He was a presumptuous idiot to think of it.

He paced the floor for an hour. Then he lit a cigar and, under its peaceful influences, he tried again to fix his mind on the mills, on the changed condition of things, on anything,—but her. Still, constantly, over and over, her tall, white-robed figure took shape in the curling wreaths of vapor, and he fell to dreaming what it would be like to have a happy home of his own, with her as its center and joy.

Again, he was exasperated with himself and called himself hard names. He threw away the half-smoked weed and resolutely prepared for bed; but only to toss wearily about, combating himself on the old grounds until the dawn, pushing its way through the crevices of his blinds, told him to rise and set his face again toward the workaday world. It was the first time that hard-working, earnest, practical John Villard had ever passed a sleepless night.

He had hardly seen how he was to bear the daily contact with Salome, after that. He was too modest and too honest with himself to dream that there might be any hope for him. He had, at one time during the night, thought of leaving the mills, and going away to try a new and easier life than this promised to be. Then he called himself a coward and remembered her words:

“I have depended on you from the first,” and he determined to stay, cost what it might. Besides, all his hopes and interests were with the Shawsheen workers. No: he could not leave them, he could not leave her now.

So he went forth in the morning, unchanged in outward appearance, and yet, stronger and better for this first grand fight with himself. And he met her with his usual deferential bow and smile when, by and by, she came to the office for her usual morning’s study of business affairs.

It was unanimously agreed that the opening of the Hall had been a grand success. The mill-hands, themselves, seemed to feel the new attitude into which they had suddenly stepped, and were already brighter and more hopeful.

On her way to the mills, Salome had met a young overseer, who was hurrying in to town for something. She greeted him pleasantly, calling him by name, when, to her surprise, he stopped.

“I’d like to thank you, Miss Shepard,” the burly young fellow began, “for what you are doing for us. If all the employers took the interest in their operatives as you do in us, we’d want no more Unions, and there’d be no more strikes. I’m thinking you’ve got ahead of the rest of us on the labor question, and found the right answer to it.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” Salome answered, with a glow at her heart which no speech from a man of the world had ever produced. “I want to find it, if I haven’t yet. But, you know it doesn’t depend on me alone. I may try, as hard as I can, but if you people don’t co-operate with me, I’m helpless. I want to depend on you, Mr. Brady.”