VIII.
Death is never fully realized until he is an actual presence; and Otis Greenough’s sudden demise before their eyes and almost under, if not by, their own hands, solemnized and terrified the mob, and brought the strikers to a sense of the desperate pass to which they had come.
The members of the Labor Union laid their grievances aside for the time, and paid every mark of respect to the old agent now that he had passed beyond the recognition of it. A sudden fit of apoplexy had blotted out his choleric and intolerant behavior, and left only the remembrance that he had been their head for many years.
But when he had been laid away in the new cemetery on Shepard Hill, the smouldering embers of discord began again to break forth into hot flames of prejudice and passion.
Geoffrey Burnham and John Villard were consulting together in the mill office the day after the funeral, when the door opened and the owner of the mills walked in.
“I have come,” she said, in answer to their ill-concealed surprise, “to talk over the situation of the strike. I want the mills re-opened.”
“We shall be only too happy to comply with your wishes, Miss Shepard,” said Burnham, placing a chair in a comfortable light for her. “Upon what terms do you propose it?”
“I want to compromise,” she answered, “and give them a better chance than they have ever had. It may take us some time to decide on the exact terms. Would it be better, do you think,”—she unconsciously turned to Villard—“to take them back on the old terms, re-instate them precisely as they were, and then go on and make our changes?”
“That would hardly do,” he replied. “Experience has proved them very jealous of new methods, and unwilling to consent to untried theories. If we yield everything they demand now, we shall establish a bad precedent; eh, Burnham?”
“Decidedly, and we shall meet with oppositionif we undertake any changes. If there is to be a remodeling of the old system, it had better come now.”
“There must be a remodeling, it seems to me,” urged Salome. “Dear Mr. Greenough acted wisely, so far as he could, no doubt; but I feel that the time is come to make decided changes here. Perhaps I am not very clear in regard to them, even in my own mind. But I have some idea of what I want, and I shall be glad to have you both state your convictions and objections, if you have them, relating to everything I propose.”
“It will be no light matter,” said Burnham, “to select a plan and perfect it at once. It must be a work of time and much thought. Still, what is your idea?”
“I want to put the relations between us and the employes,” Salome went on, “on a better footing—an ethical basis, if you like the term. We must combine the question ‘Will it pay?’ with a higher one, ‘Is it right?’”
The two men looked at each other. Burnham bit his lip.
“I do not propose to promise the people an era of absolute prosperity and uninterruptedprogress, and let them take it as a blind destiny without exertion or sacrifice or patriotism on their part. I want to teach them to be healthy, intelligent, and virtuous citizens, and to expect from us the treatment such citizens deserve. I believe that such a course is for the pecuniary interests of the mill, as well as for theirs. I have heard enough of the conflicting interests of labor and capital; and on the other hand I do not believe in the twaddle that proclaims them one. I believe they are reciprocal, and that we must take that idea as fundamental.”
“You propose a radical change, I fear.” Geoffrey Burnham’s tone held a new respect for this woman whom he had believed wrapped up in the toils of worldly and shallow aims.
“Yes, I may as well own it; I do,” assented Salome. “Among my grandfather’s manuscripts, I came across, the other day, these sentences: ‘I would like to prove my luminous ideal of what a superintendent may be among his people. I would like to live long enough to show the world that the spirit of the Crucified may rule in a cotton-mill as fully as in the life of a saint.’ That sentence, gentlemen,must speak for me. In those words lies the germ of my plan of action.”
Silence followed her. Geoffrey Burnham told himself that a new era must be dawning,—the era foreshadowing the millennium, since she who held the power could so bravely avow her intentions to make the Shawsheen Mills an experiment in what he called Christian socialism. But John Villard, after a moment, rose and extended his hand to Salome.
“I pledge my hearty co-operation,” he said, “and thank God for the opportunity to prove what a cotton-mill may become by the new Christian political economy.”
“Thank you,” said Salome. “And now let us see just what the strikers demand, and how far we can grant their wishes.”
John Villard produced the paper which had been presented on the first day of the strike, and placed it in Salome’s hands. It was the first time she had seen it. She read it through very carefully.
“It seems to me there was no need of these long months of idleness,” she commented, when she had finished the paper. “Now, let us see. First, they demand recognition, asthe Shawsheen Labor Union. I think we may yield that point, safely enough.”
“Without modification?” inquired Geoffrey Burnham.
“Why not?”
“They will take advantage of us. They will dictate and become arbitrary. The Labor Union grows by what it feeds on. It will become an elephant on our hands.”
“Not if they have something better to take its place,” said Salome. “I am fully persuaded that they will meet us half-way, if we give them a union that is better than theirs. Let their union alone for the present.”
“I am with you there,” said Villard. “It devolves upon us to change its character into something that shall be, at least, as helpful as theywantto make this one.”
“Next, the ten-hour system,” pursued Salome, who was not yet ready to discuss the improved union. “Certainly there can be no possible objection against granting this clause?”
“Certainly not,” said Burnham, feeling himself appealed to.
“‘The new frames must be taken out andthe mules replaced, with a written agreement that no more of the obnoxious machinery shall be added for five years.’ That seems rather arbitrary. How is it, Mr. Villard?”
“It is arbitrary,” he responded. “The frames must be retained. We must be allowed to adopt improved machines and methods, or where shall we be in this age of competition? But I think there will be little trouble with the men, if I am allowed to approach them in the right way. Anyhow, I will try.”
“Do so,” was the reply. “Make them see that improved methods are for their interest as much as for ours. As to the wage-section—were their wages actually cut down?”
“Yes,” replied both men.
“That must not be allowed,” said Salome. “The mills were paying a handsome profit when this was done, weren’t they?”
“They were,” said Villard. “Better than for a year before.”
“Give them their old pay, with the understanding that wages will be increased when work is heavier. I propose to myself a wild scheme of profit-sharing, or a sliding scale of wages, in the future.”
“Good,” cried Villard. “The very thing I’ve been wanting to try. I believe in it heartily. But where did you get the idea of it?”
“Oh, I’ve been reading all the practical articles I could find on political economy, as applied to mills and factories, for some months,” Salome replied, “and I have evolved some queer theories, I fear; but I propose to give them a fair trial, unless you pronounce them too visionary. I am glad you approve of profit-sharing. And you, Mr. Burnham?”
“I approve of making the experiment,” said the more cautious superintendent. “I do not jump at conclusions. Nevertheless, the idea, though new, looks practicable, and I should like to see it tried.”
“They have already tried it in one or two places where it is proving a great success, I believe,” said Salome. “You know the experiment was tried as long ago as 1831, when Mr. John S. Vandeleur put it into effect successfully in County Clare, Ireland. The Paris and Orleans Railway Company began to share profit with its employes in 1844, and the Maison Leclaire, I think, two years before, both ofwhich have proved very successful. I do not see why we cannot adopt it.”
“We can,” asserted Villard, confidently. “It is already being tried on a small scale by several firms in this country. Why should not we join the procession?”
“What are you going to do about the demand for weekly wages?” asked Burnham.
“What objections are there?” Salome asked.
“It will entail extra expense for clerks and book-keepers,” responded Burnham. “That seems unnecessary.”
“The men claim that they have to depend in great measure on the credit system at the stores,” explained Villard. “Their wages coming only once a month, they get short of money. If sickness or other additional expense comes upon them, they are often seriously inconvenienced by lack of their rightful wages. Again, if they are able to put a little money in the savings-bank, why should they not have the benefit of the interest that accrues through the month, rather than we? The money is theirs.”
“On the other hand,” interrupted Burnham, “those men whose first duty, on being paid off,seems to lie in getting gloriously drunk, would have the opportunity just four times as often.”
“We have a work to do in that direction,” said Salome in a pained voice. “In a sense we are our brother’s keepers. I half believe that the solution of the temperance question is largely in the control of the employers of labor; and that the secondary, and often the primary, causes of intemperance are bad and unwholesome food, which create a craving for drink; bad company, which tempts it; squalid houses, which drive men forth for cheerfulness; and the want of more comfortable places of resort which leaves them no refuge but the saloons. It is in our power to remedy all these evils. Give them good sanitation, well-ventilated houses, comfortable homes, and reading-rooms, and coffee-parlors, and only the most depraved will be tempted by the low saloons.”
“But, Miss Shepard, surely you do not propose all these things?” and Geoffrey Burnham looked his astonishment.
“Why not?” was the terse reply.
“Where will your profits come in? You cannot afford it.”
Salome smiled. Her money was her own. Why should she not use it as she pleased?
“No. For the first year or two I shall not pocket an immense profit; that is true,” she assented. “But I am not likely to come to want. And Newbern Shepard’s mills must be put on the basis where he desired, above all things, to see them during his lifetime. He planned a noble scheme. It is my birthright and my duty to carry it into effect. It will cost me something to get the mills where they must be; but it will pay in the end. Of that I feel sure.”
“You are quite right,” said John Villard. “What may we not hope for when the condition of the working-people shall receive that concentrated attention which has hitherto been devoted to the more favored ranks? When charity, which has, for ages past, done so much mischief, shall learn to do good? When the countless pulpits of our country, which have always been so active in preaching Catholicism or Anglicism, Calvinism or Armenianism, and all other isms, shall preach pure and simple Christianity? When, by a healthy environment of the toiling masses, and the exercise ofhygienic sense and science, mankind shall be healthy and free from questionable instincts and morbidly exaggerated appetites? I tell you, we cannot even approach an estimate of the extent to which every improvement, social, moral or material, reacts on the nation’s ethical and intellectual progress, and the prosperity of her industries.”
“But you are taking us entirely away from the question in hand,” said Geoffrey Burnham, “which was, shall we grant the demand for weekly wages?”
“Not so far away as you seem to think,” retorted Villard. “The questions of sanitation and morality affect them, and us too, as well as the question of weekly wages. As for the latter, I am in favor of trying it on.”
“So am I,” said Salome. “I am in favor of trying every new method until we can know positively which are the best ones.”
“With modifications,” said Burnham, smiling at her vehemence. “I don’t exactly approve of the weekly system, but the majority are against me, and I may as well cast my vote with yours. Shall we send for their committee,then, and offer them all concessions, except those relating to the spinning frames?”
“Yes, I should do so,” said Salome, “and prepare to open the mills at once, provided they decide to accept our terms.”
“That is practically decided already,” laughed Burnham, “by our accepting theirs. Villard, you may negotiate with them about the frames. They are inclined to listen to you better than to me, for some reason.”
“They know I’ve been in their place,” said Villard. “That makes all the difference in the world to them. They think I understand their side of the question; that is all.”
“Then you will confer with them immediately?” said Salome, rising to go. “And will you make all necessary preparations to open the mills? And then will you confer with me?”
“Most certainly, Miss Shepard.” Geoffrey Burnham spoke for both of them. “But—I beg your pardon, you have not spoken of a new agent. We must have one, you know. I trust you have made some wise selection?”
“I am prepared to surprise you,” Salome replied, buttoning her glove. “You two men will oblige me by transacting all necessary businessfor the present, in your positions of first and second superintendents, and by looking closely after the thousand details which I do not yet understand. Meanwhile, I shall come to the office every day and, with your co-operation and kind help, shall learn the business. I have too many schemes for the general improvement of the Shawsheen Mills and its operatives, to trust the mills in the hands of a stranger. I propose to be my own agent. Good-morning.”
Salome Shepard never looked handsomer, or smiled more sweetly, than she did when she uttered the last sentence, and closed the door behind her, leaving her two completely astonished hearers standing in the middle of the office.
“Whe-e-w!” ejaculated Geoffrey Burnham, after a little. “How does that strike you? The Shawsheen Mills run by a ‘female woman,’ as A. Ward would put it! And, by George! we are expected to stay and work,—under a woman!”
John Villard broke into a peal of laughter. “It’s awfully funny at first,” he said, calming down again. “But, after all, why not?She isn’t the empty-headed, aimless creature we thought her. She’s read and studied, and has some very sound notions.”
“But, Villard—a woman-agent!” gasped Burnham. “We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole state.”
“Let them laugh,” answered Villard. “They laugh best who laugh last. And with her notions, her thirst for further knowledge, her enthusiasm, and, above all, her money, the Shawsheen Mills will be in a position at the end of a few years to do the laughing, while those who laugh at us now will set to studying our methods and come to us for advice.”
“But she knows nothing of the practical part of mill-economy,” objected Burnham. “The mills will go to rack and ruin. Jove! Old Mr. Greenough would turn over in his grave if he could have heard her as she stopped in the door and said: ‘I propose to be my own agent.’ A woman!”
“I know,” replied Villard, “that it will seem odd, and perhaps uncomfortably so, at first, to acknowledge her as head. But, after all, she does not propose to dictate as to the business itself.”
“She will,” interrupted Burnham. “Women always do. She will jump at conclusions, mistake her inferences for logical deductions and the wisdom which comes only with experience, and, after the first month, will know more than we do. I know women. They are impulsive and illogical; and they can’t subvert nature and become good business men.”
“No; but they may prove good business women,” was Villard’s answer. “We do not know, yet, what she can or what she will do. I believe she will be willing to leave the details of the business to us yet, for a long time. She is not a conceited woman; and although she has the faculty common to her sex of making some surprising jumps at conclusions, I do not believe her to be obstinate about them. She proposes to make a study of the business, and realizes that this is a work of years. And, besides, what will save the mills is this: she has an extended plan in manuscript of her grandfather’s scheme for making this an ideal institution. If she is willing to leave the business to us for the present, and is capable of adapting Newbern Shepard’s theories of years ago to the needs of to-day, we are allright, Jeff; and a new era is about to begin for the Shawsheen Mills.”
“I only hope we may like it,” assented Burnham doubtfully. “And now for the conference with the Labor Union.”