One evening in January, Salome and Marion went over early to Newbern
Shepard Hall. Marion’s duties called her there every evening, and she
was seldom unaccompanied by her friend.
The success of Salome’s schemes for the interest of the working-girls
seemed already assured. Although the Hall had been open but little more
than two months, classes in dressmaking and millinery and in domestic
science were already established, and were well attended. Some girls
there were, it is true, who felt that, after working all day, they were
entitled to an idle evening, or to the right of amusing themselves after
their own fashion. But plenty of young women had been found to open the
classes, and the number was steadily increasing. No strong measures had
been taken to induce these girls to join. Marion had talked with some of
them individually, at first, and found a few who, half skeptically, had
consented to try the dressmaking class, as an experiment. Then the
announcement was made that a class would be opened on a certain night,
and twenty-six girls were present. Instruction in sewing, cutting and
fitting was given free to any woman connected with the Shawsheen Mills.
As the girls had been paying exorbitant prices for having cheap material
poorly made up, and as Salome had provided instructors from the best
dressmaking establishment Shepardtown afforded, the girls were not slow
to see the benefit that would come to them.
The young wives of operatives, too, women with houses and children to
care for, then began to avail themselves of the privileges which the
class afforded. So that, on this January evening, there were over a
hundred and fifty women in the classes, and another room had been opened
to them on the ground floor.
It was the same with other classes. At first, the young women had joined
with the older ones in “pooh-poohing” the cooking and housekeeping
lectures and demonstrations. The idea that they and their mothers did
not know how to cook, and that Salome, who knew absolutely nothing of
such matters, essayed to teach them, was a most distasteful one. But
when they found that a celebrated teacher was to come out twice a week
from Boston, and give demonstrations in the model class-rooms below, and
that a graduate of the Boston Cooking School had been engaged to take
charge of the lessons every evening, they, the young married women from
the cottages, especially, dropped in from curiosity; and although they
had come to scoff, they remained to cook. In short, they had become
deeply interested in the new ways of housekeeping, and were surprised
and delighted to find a way of making their few dollars go farther and
procure a better and more healthful living. Consequently, these classes,
too, were full, although the older matrons did not yet give up their
prejudices.
Among the girls who had not yet joined the classes, there were many who
sat quietly in their own rooms or in the large reading-rooms, and
enjoyed the current magazines and papers, or gossiped quietly and
harmlessly about the fashions and each other—not altogether unlike women
of higher pretensions. It was astonishing, even to Salome, who had, from
the first, believed in her girls, how few of them went out on the
streets at night.
“It is not astonishing to me,” said Marion, that January evening, in
reply to a remark from her friend to this effect. “The girls are tired
at night and are only too glad to have a pleasant, light and
steam-heated place to stay in. Their rooms at the old boardinghouses
were cold, barren and dismal. In winter weather they could not sit in
them, and the so-called parlor was not much better. When I was at Mme.
Blanc’s one of her servant girls went wrong. I shall never forget
something she said. When Madame heard of it, she sent for the girl and
asked her, bitterly, what had made her bring such a scandalous thing
upon a select house like hers. I was in her room at the time. The poor
girl looked up at Mme. Blanc and said, ‘O, ma’am, you’re awful
particular about where your young ladies spend their evenings,—girls
that you’re paid for looking after. But us servant girls—how did you
look after us? You didn’t allow us a light in our own rooms, or to speak
above a whisper in the kitchen, or seem to think we was human beings at
all. What else could we do, but go out on the street when we wanted a
bit of freedom? And once, on the street, ma’am, girls like us ain’t
never safe. If you’d looked out for me, ma’am, and treated me as well as
you treat your own dog or cat, it would never have happened.’ Poor
Madame was overcome entirely, and the girl left her white with rage. But
she looked after her servants more closely afterward, and kept them in
at night in warm rooms. I don’t believe our girls want to do
wrong,—especially if we make it comfortable for them to do right.”
On the young men’s side, things had gone equally well. There was a class
of them who, like their fathers before them, were sturdy, honest and
faithful. It was a small class, but upon these John Villard depended to
counteract the influence of the lower foreign element that had crept in;
and to the pride of these he appealed, both directly and indirectly, in
his efforts to establish a better social atmosphere among the
operatives.
With a few of these to begin with, he had opened an evening school on
the other wing of the Hall; and, as in the case of the women’s classes,
it had increased in numbers and interest from the start. The overseers,
almost to a man, gladly availed themselves of its opportunities for the
education that the true American always feels the need for; and they,
with the better class of men from the looms and mules, set the example
for others to follow.
No better man for the work could have been chosen than John Villard. He
had come up under much the same conditions that governed them. He had
begun on the lowest round, and worked up to the position he now
occupied, by hard work and the closest application to business. This
fact, together with his attitude toward them during the strike, had made
him a favorite with nearly every man on the works. They felt that they
could place the utmost confidence in Villard; and in the Shawsheen
Mills, as everywhere, a rugged sincerity and honesty of purpose carried
a weight that even the most unstable felt.
The lecture-hall was usually packed at the weekly entertainment which
Salome provided, and a new feeling of content and self-respect had begun
to permeate the mills. Make a man who has been looked upon as a mere
machine feel that he is estimated at something near the worth which
every human being feels in his heart that he is entitled to, and you
have done much to raise him to a higher social standard. For the first
time since old Newbern Shepard’s day, the mill-hands began to feel a
just pride in being individual American citizens. Unconsciously, both
men and women were setting their faces toward the higher standards which
Villard by his life, and Salome by her newly awakened energy, had set
for them.
At the mills, affairs were on a most flourishing basis. The Shawsheen
brand of cloth was too well known to allow of a few months shutdown of
the mills making any difference in the law of demand. Orders had
increased, even while the mills were closed, and they had been worked to
their utmost capacity ever since they had opened. Never had the
Shawsheen Mills been more prosperous than at the beginning of January,
or their future looked brighter.
When Villard had opened his evening school he invited Burnham to
co-operate with him; but the latter had put him off without a definite
reply, and not until the afternoon of the day referred to in the
beginning of this chapter had Villard asked him whether or not he might
count on his assistance. Burnham occasionally looked in at the Hall of
an evening, but Villard had begun to suspect that this was principally
for the purpose of seeing Marion Shaw.
“Well, to tell the truth,” Burnham finally admitted, “I’ve no taste for
this sort of thing. Oh, yes; it’s a good scheme, and seems to be working
first-rate; but I’m not the right fellow for the place. I don’t like
philanthropic work, never did, never shall. I work hard enough during
the day. I need rest and freedom at night.”
Villard smiled.
“And I suppose I don’t do anything day-times and need this sort of thing
as recreation and intellectual stimulus?” His tone was sarcastic, for he
had little patience with selfishness in any form.
“No, not that,” said Burnham. “You work hard enough—too hard, in fact.
But all this is more in your line. You’re like Miss Shepard; you’re both
of you happier working yourselves to death for others. Now, I’m not
built on that plan. I’ve no faculty for teaching, and I’m sure that my
well-meant efforts to meet the men half-way are looked upon by them as
condescension on my part.”
He waited an instant for Villard to speak, but no answer came.
“I can’t help it. I wasn’t born to the manor, so to speak. I didn’t come
up from the ranks, as you know. I suppose they’d believe in me more, if
I had. But you know that my father put me under Mr. Greenough to learn
the business, only after I had graduated from college and fooled away a
year in Europe. I sometimes doubt if I’m not out of place in this mill
as it is run nowadays.”
“Oh, no, not that,” put in Villard hastily. “You’re too good a business
man. We couldn’t spare you.”
“I can see how it’s all coming out,” Burnham continued, as if he had not
heard Villard. “You two” (Villard’s heart jumped at the words) “will go
on and make a model institution of the Shawsheen Mills. I should doubt
if you made a profitable one, only that I know you’ve got a mighty good
business head on your shoulders; and, I say, the way Miss Shepard is
developing is a caution to us men. I’d no idea she’d take such a
practical turn, or learn the details so readily. Oh, I can see where
it’s going to end. She’ll be the recognized head and you’ll be her first
assistant. As for me, I sha’n’t be in it. I shall have resigned.”
“Jeff!” It was only occasionally that these two called each other by
their boyhood names.
“Yes, I don’t think I should care to have it known that I worked under a
woman, much as I admire and respect Miss Shepard. There’d be no other
way, unless I married her!”
Villard turned pale with sudden, inward rage, but he said nothing.
“Don’t think I’d have much chance there, though,” Burnham went on
lightly. “You’re more her style. And you’re both so much wrapped up in
good works that you’ve no time for faith in each other, beyond what you
waste in philanthropic effort. Miss Shepard don’t seem to be the
marrying kind. I don’t believe she ever thinks of a man unless he has
the merit of being an operative in the mills.”
“And since you’re bent on discussing matrimonial matters,” observed
Villard, with sarcasm, “how about Miss Shaw? And when are the
wedding-cards to be issued?”
Burnham shook the ashes from his cigar and looked at his watch
critically.
“Marion Shaw is a fine girl,” he said. “She’s the right kind of woman to
tie to; but”—and Burnham took up his hat to go out—“I’m not the marrying
kind either.”
So Villard had come to understand that he must take care of his evening
school as best he could alone.
Robert Fales had settled in Shepardtown. There were to be more cottages
built in the spring, and to him Salome had alone confided her plan of
erecting a new church which should be named for her grandfather. When
the evening school began to grow, he went to Villard and offered his
services as assistant, and had proved a most valuable one.
This evening Salome looked in upon them, and asked Villard if he could
give her a few moments after the class.
“I shall be very glad,” he replied. “I have been working up the idea you
spoke about the other day, and wanted to talk with you about it.”
“The profit-sharing scheme?” asked Salome. “That’s just what I wanted to
speak of. It seems to me we ought, now, at the beginning of the year, to
get it into manageable shape, and tell the men, so that they may know
what to expect. I will be in the reception-room when your class is
through.”
Much as Villard was interested in his work the remaining hour dragged a
little. The prospect of a quiet _tête-à-tête_ with Salome, even on so
unromantic a subject as profit-sharing, was too alluring.
But, at last, he found himself face to face with her, and for a few
moments forgot all else in the pleasure of listening to her voice and
watching the curve of her chin and mobile lips, as she talked of
immaterial things.
“And now, what kind of a plan have you formulated as to the
profit-sharing?” she asked, after a little.
“Profits—oh, yes,” said Villard, suddenly brought to himself. “I have
examined all the accounts of such experiments in foreign countries, and
tried to remember the differing conditions and better wages here. I have
prepared a rough draft of a circular which I thought perhaps you might
like to send out among the hands. Do you want to see it?”
“Of course,” was the answer.
“I don’t pretend it is complete, you know,” he went on, drawing a folded
paper from his inner pocket. “It is only an abstract, but—here it is.”
“Read it to me, please,” said Salome.
He would rather have had her read it, while he watched her face; but he
complied.
“For some time past,” the circular read, “the subject of co-operation in
some form has been considered by the Shawsheen Mills. Believing that
capital and labor are interdependent and their interests identical, it
has been decided to adopt some plan by which the laborer may obtain a
share of the product in proportion to the profits of the scheme, at the
same time guaranteeing his wages against the time of loss.
“It is now proposed, therefore, to divide a sum among the Shawsheen
employes, each year in which there are surplus profits, over and above
wages earned.
“Understand, that before anything can be set apart for this purpose,
wages must be paid, interest must be paid, and a fair profit on capital
must be paid. In addition to this, an additional amount must be set
aside to make good the wear and tear of buildings and machinery, and to
strengthen reserve funds against a time of depression.
“Ordinarily, the sum above all these amounts must be small, and must
differ, of course, with the fluctuations of the market, the depression
of trade, and the wear of machinery from year to year. It will be
readily seen, also, that the sum to be divided will be enlarged by extra
care and attention on the part of employes. Every weaver who makes a
mis-pick, every burler who slights her work, every spinner who makes a
needless knot; in short, every person who makes an unnecessary waste of
any kind, makes the amount to be divided smaller, by making a loss to
the concern; and, on the other hand, if every person in the mill attends
to the little savings, the wool-washers saving every scrap of wool, the
spinners making less waste, the weavers weaving up the whole bobbin, and
so on through all the branches, a great saving can be made which will
effectually increase the sum to be divided; and it will be for the
direct interest of every employe to exercise such increased care and
diligence.
“The mode of distributing this bonus will be by making a dividend of so
much per cent. upon the wages earned by each person. If, after all
contingencies are provided for, there is not enough left to make a
dividend of one per cent., no dividend will be made for that year. In
case of a dividend it will be paid on and after the first day of May in
each year to all employes who have been in employ at the Shawsheen Mills
for at least seven months during the year, and shall not have been
discharged for drunken or disorderly conduct. The amount of wages earned
during the year preceding the first of April shall be the amount upon
which the bonus for each individual shall be computed.
“The profit for the present year, if there be a dividend, will be paid
on or after the first day of May. Let every person connected with the
mills work so faithfully, making every effort toward a wise economy,
that the first dividend shall be an encouraging one.”
John Villard stopped reading the circular and looked across at Salome.
She was regarding him with a fixed look of admiration and reverence,
such as a good woman feels for but one man in a lifetime. For an instant
his pulses leaped; but he was too modest a man to believe in his own
good fortune.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.
His words brought her to herself. Her expression faded to one of mere
brightness, and became less frankly honest.
“I think it capital,” she said. “I do not see how it can be improved.
Will you let me take it home and consider it?”
“Of course,” he assented. “You know I do not pretend it is perfect. But
it seems to me we risk nothing in trying it.”
Salome rose to go and reached out her hand for the manuscript. Some
pieces had fallen on the table and in gathering them up, their hands
brushed against each other.
An electric thrill shot through the frame of each. Salome stood,
blushing and sweet, suddenly conscious that a crucial moment in her life
had come. Had Villard but spoken, had he but clasped the hand that still
remained near his!
But, ever depreciating himself and knowing absolutely nothing of the
heart of woman, he turned abruptly away, bringing Salome back to herself
with a hasty “good-evening.” And then he strode away to the outer air,
asking himself, savagely, why he was so weak and boyish because a pretty
woman happened to touch his hand.