Margaret did not sleep well in her lavender-scented sheets that night.
Always she heard the roar and the click-clack of the mills, and
everywhere she saw the weary little workers with their closely-bound
skirts, and their strained, anxious faces.
She came down to breakfast with dark circles under her eyes, and she ate
almost nothing, to the great, though silent, distress of the family.
The Spencers were alone now. There would be no more guests for a week,
then would come a merry half-dozen for the Christmas holidays. New
Year's was the signal for a general breaking up. The family seldom
stayed at Hilcrest long after that, though the house was not quite
closed, being always in readiness for the brothers when either one or
both came down for a week's business.
It was always more or less of a debatable question--just where the family
should go. There was the town house in New York, frequently opened for a
month or two of gaiety; and there were the allurements of some Southern
resort, or of a trip abroad, to be considered. Sometimes it was merely a
succession of visits that occupied the first few weeks after New Year's,
particularly for Mrs. Merideth and Ned; and sometimes it was only a
quiet rest under some sunny sky entirely away from Society with a
capital S. The time was drawing near now for the annual change, and the
family were discussing the various possibilities when Margaret came into
the breakfast-room. They appealed to her at once, and asked her opinion
and advice--but without avail. There seemed to be not one plan that
interested her to the point of possessing either merits or demerits.
"I am going down to Patty's," she said, a little hurriedly, to Mrs.
Merideth, when breakfast was over. "I got some names and addresses of
the mill children yesterday from Mr. McGinnis; and I shall ask Patty to
go with me to see them. I want to talk with the parents."
"But, my dear, you don't know what you are doing," protested Mrs.
Merideth. "They are so rough--those people. Miss Alby, our visiting home
missionary, told me only last week how dreadful they were--so rude and
intemperate and--and ill-odored. She has been among them. She knows."
"Yes; but don't you see?--those are the very people that need help,
then," returned Margaret, wearily. "They don't know what they are doing
to their little children, and I must tell them. I _must_ tell them. I
shall have Patty with me. Don't worry." And Mrs. Merideth could only
sigh and sigh again, and hurry away up-stairs to devise an altogether
more delightful plan for the winter months than any that had yet been
proposed--a plan so overwhelmingly delightful that Margaret could not
help being interested. Of one thing, however, Mrs. Merideth was
certain--if there was a place distant enough to silence the roar of the
mills in Margaret's ears, that place should be chosen if it were Egypt
itself.
Patty Durgin hesitated visibly when Margaret told her what she wanted to
do, until Margaret exclaimed in surprise, and with a little reproach in
her voice:
"Why, Patty, don't you want to help me?"
"Yes, yes; you don't understand," protested Patty. "It ain't that. I
want ter do it all. If you have money for 'em, let me give it to 'em."
Margaret was silent. Her eyes were still hurt, still rebellious.
"I--I don't want you ter see them," stammered Patty, then. "I don't want
you ter feel so--so bad."
Margaret's face cleared.
"Oh, but I'm feeling bad now," she asserted cheerily; "and after I see
them I'll feel better. I want to talk to them; don't you see? They don't
realize what they are doing to their children to let them work so, and I
am going to tell them."
Patty sighed.
"Ye don't understand," she began, then stopped, her eyes on the
determined young face opposite. "All right, I'll go," she finished, but
she shivered a little as she spoke.
And they did go, not only on that day, but on the next and the next.
Margaret almost forgot the mills, so filled was her vision with drunken
men, untidy women, wretched babies, and cheerless homes.
Sometimes her presence and her questions were resented, and always they
were looked upon with distrust. Her money, if she gave that, was
welcome, usually; but her remonstrances and her warnings fell upon deaf,
if not angry, ears. And then Margaret perceived why Patty had said she
did not understand--there was no such thing as making a successful appeal
to the parents. She might have spared herself the effort.
Sometimes she did not understand the words of the dark-browed men and
the slovenly women--there were many nationalities among the
operatives--but always she understood their black looks and their almost
threatening gestures. Occasionally, to be sure, she found a sick woman
or a discouraged man who welcomed her warmly, and who listened to her
and agreed with what she had to say; but with them there was always the
excuse of poverty--though their Sue and Bess and Teddy might not earn but
twenty, thirty, forty cents a day; yet that twenty, thirty, and forty
cents would buy meat and bread, and meant all the difference between a
full and an empty stomach, perhaps, for every member of the family, at
times.
Margaret did what she could. She spent her time and her money without
stint, and went from house to house untiringly. She summoned young
McGinnis to her aid, and arranged for a monster Christmas tree to be
placed in the largest hall in town; and she herself ordered the books,
toys, candies, and games for it, besides the candles and tinsel stars to
make it a vision of delight to the weary little eyes all unaccustomed to
such glory. And yet, to Margaret it seemed that nothing that she did
counted in the least against the much there was to be done. It was as if
a child with a teaspoon and a bowl of sand were set to filling up a big
chasm: her spoonful of sand had not even struck bottom in that pit of
horror!