Ellen had a judicial turn of mind, as her school-master had once
said of her. She was able to look at matters from more than one
stand-point, but she reasoned with a New Testament clearness of
impartiality. She was capable of uncompromising severity, since she
brought such a clear light of youth and childhood to bear upon even
those things which needed shadows for their true revelation.
Everything was for her either black or white. She had not lived long
enough, perhaps she never would, for a comprehension of half-tones.
The situation to her mind was perfectly simple, and she viewed it
with a candor which was at once terrible and cruel, for it involved
cruelty not only to Robert but to herself. She said to herself, here
was this rich man, this man with accumulation of wealth, not one
dollar of which he had earned himself, either by his hands or his
brains, but which had been heaped up for his uncle by the heart and
back breaking toil of all these poor men and women; and now he was
going to abuse his power of capital, his power to take the bread out
of their mouths entirely, by taking it out in part. He was going to
reduce their wages, he was deliberately going to cause privation,
and even suffering where there were large families. She felt the
most unqualified dissent and indignation, and all the love which she
had for the man only intensified it. Love, with a girl like this,
tended to clearness of vision instead of blindness. She judged him
as she would have judged herself. As she stood working at her
machine, stitching linings to vamps, she kept a sharply listening
ear for what went on about her, but there was very little to hear
after work had fairly commenced and the great place was in full hum.
The demand of labor was so imperative that the laborers themselves
were merged in it; they ceased to be for the time, and, instead of
living, they became parts of the struggle for life. A man hustling
as if the world were at stake to get his part of a shoe finished as
soon as another man, so as not to clog and balk the whole system,
had no time for rebellion. He was in the whirlpool which was
mightier than himself and his revolt. After all, a man is a small
and helpless factor before his own needs. For a time those whirring
machines, which had been evolved in the first place from the brains
of men, and partook in a manner of both the spirit and the grosser
elements of existence, its higher qualities and its sordid
mechanism, like man himself, had the best of it. The swart arms of
the workmen flew at their appointed tasks, they fed those
unsatisfied maws, the factory vibrated with the heavy thud of the
cutting-machines like a pulse, the racks with shoes in different
stages of completion trundled from one department to another,
propelled by men with tense arms and doggedly bent heads.
Ellen worked with the rest, but she was one of the few whose brain
could travel faster than her hands. She thought as she worked, for
her muscles did not retard her mind. She was composed of two
motions, one within the other, and the central motion was so swift
that it seemed still.
Ed Flynn came down the room and bent over her.
"Good-morning," he said. He was too gayly confident to be entirely
respectful, but he had always a timidity of bearing which sat oddly
upon him before Ellen. He looked half boldly, half wistfully at her
fair face, and challenged her with gay eyes, which had in their
depths a covert seriousness.
Ellen stood between Abby Atkins and Sadie Peel at her work. Sadie
Peel turned on the foreman coquettishly and said, "You'd better go
an' talk to Mamie Brady, she's got on a new blue bow on her red
hair. Why don't you give her some better work than tying those old
shoes? Here she's been workin' in this shop two years. You needn't
come shinin' round Ellen an' me! We don't want you."
Flynn colored angrily and shot a vicious glance at the girl.
"It's a pretty hard storm," he said to Ellen, as if the other girl
had not spoken.
"You needn't pretend you don't hear me, Ed Flynn," called out the
girl. Her cheap finery was in full force that morning, not a lock of
her brown hair was unstudied in its arrangement, and she was as
conscious of her pose before her machine as if she had been on the
stage. She knew just how her slender waist and the graceful slope of
her shoulders appeared to the foreman, and her voice, in spite of
its gay rallying and audacity, was wheedling.
Flynn caught hold of her shoulders, round and graceful under her
flannel blouse, and shook her, half in anger, half in weakness.
"You shut up, you witch," said he. Then he turned to Ellen again,
and his whole manner and expression changed.
"I'm sorry about that new list," he said, very low, in her ear.
Ellen never looked at him, and did not make a motion as if she
heard.
"It's a hard storm," the foreman said again, almost appealingly.
"Yes, it is very hard," replied Ellen, slipping another shoe under
the needles.
"What on earth ails you this morning, Ellen Brewster?" Sadie Peel
said to her, when the foreman had gone. "You look queer and act
queer."
"Ellen ain't in the habit of joking with Ed Flynn," said Abby
Atkins, on the other side, with sarcastic emphasis.
"My, don't you feel big!" sneered Sadie Peel. There was always a
jarring inconsequence about this girl, she was so delicately pretty
and refined in appearance, her ribbons were so profuse and cheap,
and her manners were so recklessly coarse.
Ellen said nothing, but worked steadily.
"Mame Brady's just gone on Ed Flynn, and he goes with her just
enough to keep her hangin', and I don't believe he means to marry
her, and I think it's mean," said Sadie Peel.
"She ought to have more sense than to take any stock in him," said
Abby.
"She ain't the only one," said Sadie. "Nellie Stone in the office
has been daft over him since she's been there, and he don't look at
her. I don't see what there is about Ed Flynn, for my part."
"I don't," said Abby, dryly.
"Well, I don't know. He's pretty good-looking," said Sadie Peel,
"and he's got a sort of a way with him." All the time the girl was
talking her heart was aching. The foreman had paid her some little
attention, which she had taken seriously, but nobody except her
father had known it, or known when he had fallen off. Sometimes
Flynn, meeting the father's gaze as he passed him at his work at the
cutting-bench, used to waver involuntarily, though he asked himself
with perfect good faith what was it all about, for he had done the
girl no harm. He felt more guilty concerning Mamie Brady.
Ellen worked on, with her fingers flying and her forehead tense with
thought. The chatter of the girls ceased. They were too busy to keep
it up. The hum of work continued. Once Ellen knew, although she did
not see him, by some subtle disturbance of the atmosphere, a little
commotion which was perfectly silent, that Robert Lloyd had entered
the room. She knew when he passed her, and she worked more swiftly
than ever. After he had gone out there was a curiously inarticulate
sound like a low growl of purely animal dissent over the room; a
word of blasphemy sounded above the din of the machines. Then all
went on as before until the noon whistle blew.
Even then there was not so much discussion as might have been
expected. Robert, since the storm was so heavy, remained in the
office, and sent a boy out for a light luncheon, and the foremen
were much in evidence. There was always an uncertainty about their
sentiments, occupying as they did a position half-way between
employer and employés; and then, too, they were not affected by the
cut in wages. The sentiments of the unaffected are always a matter
of suspicion to those who suffer themselves. There were grumblings
carried on in a low key behind Flynn's back, but the atmosphere for
the most part was one of depression. Ellen ate her luncheon with
Maria and Abby. Willy Jones came up timidly when they were nearly
finished, feeling his way with a remark about the storm, which was
increasing.
"All the cars are tied up," he said, "and the noon train isn't in."
He leaned, with a curious effort at concealment from them all and
himself, upon the corner of the bench near Abby. Then a young man
passed them, with such an air of tragedy and such a dead-white face
that they all stared after him.
"What in the world ails you, Ben Simmons?" called out Sadie Peel.
But he did not act as if he heard. He crossed vehemently to the
other side of the room, and stood at a window, looking out at the
fierce white slant of the storm.
"What in creation ails him?" cried Sadie Peel.
"I guess I know," Willy Jones volunteered, timidly.
"What?"
"He was going to get married, and this cut in his wages is going to
put a stop to it. I heard him say so this morning."
"Married! Who to?" asked Sadie Peel.
"Floretta Vining."
"My land!" cried Sadie Peel. "So she did take up with him after the
school-teacher went away. I always said she would. I always knew
Edward Harris wouldn't marry her, and I always said Ben Simmons
would get her if he hung on long enough. Floretta was bound to marry
somebody; she wasn't going to wind up an old maid; and if she
couldn't get one, she'd take another. I suppose Ben has got that
sick sister of his to do for since her father died, and thinks he
can't get married with any less pay. Floretta won't make a very
cheap wife. She's bound to have things whether or no, and Ben 'ain't
never earned so much as some. He's awful steady, but he's slow as
cold molasses, and he won't let his sister suffer for no Floretta."
"That's so; I don't believe he would," said Abby. "What any man in
his senses wants a doll like that for enough to look as if he was
dead when he's got to put off marrying her!"
"That's because you ain't a man, Abby Atkins," said Sadie Peel. "All
the men think of is looks, and little fine airs and graces."
"It seems as if they might get along," ventured Willy Jones, "as if
they might do with less for a while."
Then Ellen turned to him unexpectedly. "There's no use in talking
about doing with less when every single cent has to count," said
she, sternly. "Ben Simmons has his taxes and insurance, and a steady
doctor's bill for his sister, and medicines to buy. He can't have
laid up a cent, for he's slow, though he's a good workman. You can't
do with less when you haven't any more than enough."
"That's so," said Abby. Then she turned a tender, conciliating,
indulgent gaze on the young man at her side. "If I were Floretta
Vining," said she, "and if Ellen were, we would go without things,
and never know it. We'd go to work; but Floretta, she's different.
We went to school with Floretta Vining."
"Floretta Vining is dreadful fond of men, but she wouldn't go
without a yard of ribbon for one if he was dying," said Sadie Peel,
conclusively. "It's awful hard on Ben Simmons, and no mistake."
"What?" said Amos Lee, coming up.
"Oh, what's hard on all of us? What's the use of asking?" said the
girl, with a bitter coquetry. "I shouldn't think any man with
horse-sense would ask what's hard on us when he's seen the ornaments
tacked up all over the shop this morning."
"That's so," said Lee, with a glance over his shoulder. Flynn was at
the other end of the room. Granville Joy, Dixon, and one or two
other men were sauntering up. For a second the little group looked
at one another.
"What are you going to do?" asked Ellen, in a low voice, which had
an intonation that caused the others to start.
"I know what I'll do, if I can get enough to back me," cried Lee, in
a loud voice.
"Hush up!" said Sadie Peel. Then her father came along smiling his
imperturbable smile on his wide face, which had a Slavonic cast,
although he was New England born and bred. He looked from one to the
other without saying a word.
"We're deciding whether to strike or not, father," said Sadie, in a
flippant manner. She raised a hand and adjusted a stray lock of hair
as she spoke, then she straightened her ribbon stock. Her father
said nothing, but his face assumed a stolidity of expression.
"I know what I'll do," proclaimed Amos Lee again.
"Hush up!" cried Sadie Peel again, with a giggle. "Here's Ed Flynn."
And the foreman came sauntering up as the one-o'clock whistle blew,
and the workers sprang to their posts of work.