With a relief which she did not attempt to hide from herself, Margaret
saw the male members of the family at Hilcrest leave early the next
morning on a trip from which they could not return until the next day;
and with a reluctance which she could not hide from either herself or
Mrs. Merideth, she said that afternoon:
"Mr. McGinnis is coming to see me this evening, Aunt Della. I sent for
him. You know I am interested in the children at the mills, and I wanted
to ask him some questions."
Mrs. Merideth was dumb with dismay. For some days Margaret's apparent
inactivity had lulled her into a feeling of security. And now, with her
brothers away, the blow which they had so dreaded for weeks had
fallen--McGinnis was coming. Summoning all her strength, Mrs. Merideth
finally managed to murmur a faint remonstrance that Margaret should
trouble herself over a matter that could not be helped; then with an
earnest request that Margaret should not commit herself to any foolish
promises, she fled to her own room, fearful lest, in her perturbation,
she should say something which she would afterward regret.
When Miss Kendall came down-stairs at eight o'clock that night she found
waiting for her in the drawing-room--into which McGinnis had been shown
by her express orders--a young man whose dress, attitude, and expression
radiated impersonality and business, in spite of his sumptuous
surroundings.
In directing that the young man should be shown into the drawing-room
instead of into the more informal library or living-room, Margaret had
vaguely intended to convey to him the impression that he was a
highly-prized friend, and as such was entitled to all honor; but she had
scarcely looked into the cold gray eyes, or touched the half-reluctantly
extended fingers before she knew that all such efforts had been without
avail. The young man had not come to pay a visit: he was an employee who
had obeyed the command of one in authority.
McGinnis stood just inside the door, hat in hand. His face was white,
and his jaw stern-set. His manner was quiet, and his voice when he spoke
was steady. There was nothing about him to tell the girl--who was vainly
trying to thaw the stiff frigidity of his reserve--that he had spent all
day and half the night in lashing himself into just this manner that so
displeased her.
"You sent for me?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," smiled the girl. "And doesn't your conscience prick you, sir,
because I _had_ to send for you, when you should have come long ago of
your own accord to see me?" she demanded playfully, motioning him to a
seat. Then, before he could reply, she went on hurriedly: "I wanted to
see you very much. By something that Mr. Spencer said the other evening
I suspected that you were interested in the children who work in the
mills--particularly interested. And--you are?"
"Yes, much interested."
"And you know them--lots of them? You know their parents, and how they
live?"
"Yes, I know them well--too well." He added the last softly, almost
involuntarily.
The girl heard, and threw a quick look of sympathy into his eyes.
"Good! You are just the one I want, then," she cried. "And you will help
me; won't you?"
McGinnis hesitated. An eager light had leaped to his eyes. For a moment
he dared not speak lest his voice break through the lines of stern
control he had set for it.
"I shall be glad to give you any help I can," he said at last, steadily;
"but Mr. Spencer, of course, knows----" he paused, leaving his sentence
unfinished.
"But that is exactly it," interposed Margaret, earnestly. "Mr. Spencer
does not know--at least, he does not know personally about the mill
people, I mean. He told me long ago that you stood between him and them,
and had for a long time. It is you who must tell me."
"Very well, I will do my best. Just what--do you want to know?"
"Everything. And I want not only to be told, but to see for myself. I
want you to take me through the mills, and afterward I want to visit
some of the houses where the children live."
"Miss Kendall!" The distressed consternation in the man's voice was
unmistakable.
"Is it so bad as that?" questioned the girl. "You don't want me to see
all these things? All the more reason why I should, then! If conditions
are bad, help is needed; but before help can be effectual, or even given
at all, the conditions must be understood. That is what I mean to
do--understand the conditions. How many children are there employed in
the mills, please?"
McGinnis hesitated.
"Well, there are some--hundreds," he acknowledged. "Of course many of
them are twelve and fourteen and fifteen, and that is bad enough; but
there are others younger. You see the age limit of this state is lower
than some. Many parents bring their children here to live, so that they
can put them into the mills."
Margaret shuddered.
"Then it is true, as Patty said. There are children there nine and ten
years old!"
"Yes, even younger than that, I fear. Only last week I turned away a man
who brought a puny little thing with a request for work. He swore she
was twelve. I'd hate to tell you how old--or rather, how young, she
really looked. I sent him home with a few remarks which I hope he will
remember. She was only one, however, out of many. I am not always able
to do what I would like to do in such cases--I am not the only man at the
mills. You must realize that."
"Yes, I realize it, and I understand why you can't always do what you
wish. But just suppose you tell me now some of the things you would like
to do--if you could." And she smiled encouragement straight into his eyes
until in spite of his stern resolve he forgot himself and his
surroundings, and began to talk.
Robert McGinnis was no silver-tongued orator, but he knew his subject,
and his heart was in it. For long months he had been battling alone
against the evils that had little by little filled his soul with horror.
Accustomed heretofore only to rebuffs and angry denunciations of his
"officious meddling," he now suddenly found a tenderly sympathetic ear
eagerly awaiting his story, and a pair of luminous blue eyes already
glistening with unshed tears.
No wonder McGinnis talked, and talked well. He seemed to be speaking to
the Maggie of long ago--the little girl who stood ready and anxious to
"divvy up" with all the world. Then suddenly his eyes fell on the rich
folds of the girl's dress, and on the velvety pile of the rug beneath
her feet.
"I have said too much," he broke off sharply, springing to his feet. "I
forgot myself."
"On the contrary you have not said half enough," declared the girl,
rising too; "and I mean to go over the mills at once, if you'll be so
good as to take me. I'll let you know when. And come to see me again,
please--without being sent for," she suggested merrily, adding with a
pretty touch of earnestness: "We are a committee of two; and to do good
work the committee must meet!"
McGinnis never knew exactly how he got home that night. The earth was
beneath him, but he did not seem to touch it. The sky was above him--he
was nearer that. But, in spite of this nearness, the stars seemed dim--he
was thinking of the light in a pair of glorious blue eyes.
McGinnis told himself that it was because of his mill people--this
elation that possessed him. He was grateful that they had found a
friend. He did not ask himself later whether it was also because of his
mill people that he sat up until far into the morning, with his eyes
dreamily fixed on the note in his hand signed, "Margaret Kendall."