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.

“I’m glad you’re going to do something for the children,” said Marion.

“If you don’t succeed in improving things in this generation much, you

will in the next, if you educate the children.”

“That is what I propose to do,” said Salome. “They must have better

schools than they ever had.”

“And be compelled to attend them,” interposed Burnham.

“Oh, there are so many things to be done. It will take years to get

everything in working order.”

“You have laid out a beautiful scheme, Miss Shepard,” remarked Geoffrey

Burnham, “and in most respects a practical one. But you must not be too

sanguine. These people are ignorant,—fairly steeped in ignorance. They

are jealous, too, and doubtless will mistrust your motives, and believe

you have some selfish reason behind all your endeavor.”

“I have,” laughed Salome. “I want my mills to be models, and my people

to be the best, most skilled, most intelligent, and most progressive

community in America.”

“Bravo!” said Villard. “So do I.”

“I am not so sanguine as you may think,” Salome went on. “I know they

are ignorant. How should they be anything else? All their lives they’ve

been used as we use the machines in the factory,—to make good cloth, and

plenty of money. Nobody has thought of their welfare, or cared what they

did, or thought, or became, when working-hours were over. How do we know

what sort of men they are, or what capabilities they possess? I read

somewhere, only the other day, that there may still be Fichtes tending

geese, and Robert Burns’ toiling on the farm; that there may be, yet,

successors of William Dean Howells at the type-forms, of T. B. Aldrich

at the book-keeper’s desk, of Mark Twain at the pilot-wheel. We have no

right to keep them back. But this writer went on to say, that the world

has less need of them, even, than of those who cannot aspire to thrive

outside the shop, and who go to their daily toil knowing that their

highest hope must be not to get ‘out of a job’ and not to have their

wages cut. I don’t suppose they will, at once, appreciate our efforts to

better their condition. Possibly they will oppose us at first; but we

can have no better task to perform than to make them prosperous,

contented and joyous in their work. And by making a man of the

operative, I fully believe we shall bring material prosperity to the

mills.”

“But the expense,” urged Burnham. “Have you calculated that? I doubt if

the mills could stand so heavy a burden all at once.”

“I have calculated the expense,” Salome answered him. “And what cannot

be done from the yearly profits of the mills, I will do myself.”

“We shall be eagerly watched by the whole manufacturing world,” said

Burnham.

“So much the better,” added Villard. “It is time somebody set the

example. If we succeed in carrying out all these plans, and keep the

mills on a paying basis as well, it will be the beginning of a mighty

reform in the working-man’s world. I believe we can succeed.”

“You will be called quixotic and all sorts of pleasant things, Salome,”

said her friend Marion.

“The beginner in any reform is always called a crank, if nothing worse,”

replied Salome. “If I chose to build a million-dollar castle to live in

myself; if I preferred to dress in cloth of gold and silver; if I

insisted upon eating off solid gold dishes; or even if I were to endow a

church or a female college, the world would admire and praise me, and

say these things are a rich woman’s prerogative. If I choose instead to

spend my fortune on the Shawsheen Mills, and elevate by its judicious

expenditure two thousand operatives for whom I ought to feel morally and

socially responsible, the world will probably wonder and call me

quixotic. Christ Himself was called a fanatic. Most people to-day, if

they voiced their real sentiments, would wonder that He could be so

democratic as to die for the whole world, ignorant, uncultivated,

detestable sinners, and all.”

One of those silences fell upon the room, that always follows the

mention of Christ’s name in a conversation not strictly “religious” in

character. Marion was admiring the courage of her friend; Burnham was

rather taken aback at this fearless reference to a Being whom he seldom

heard mentioned outside the churches; and Villard was surprised and

delighted with this unworldly woman of the world, and her avowal of

principles and hopes and wishes which he had cherished for years. He was

the first to speak.

“You must have done some hard thinking,—and a good deal of reading, in

the past six months.”

“Yes,” answered Salome. “I have. I have read everything I could think or

hear of, on subjects bearing on this case; and I have lain awake many a

night, since it was really borne in upon me that I have something to do

here, planning my work. But the greater part of the credit, if there is

any, in my plans, lies with my grandfather. He thought out many of these

things, years ago; I have simply adapted his theories to our modern

times and conditions.”