For answer he pointed to a little girl not far away. She was standing on a stool, that she might reach her work. Her face was thin and drawn looking, with deep shadows under her eyes, and little hollows where the roses should have been in her cheeks. Her hair was braided and wound tightly about her small head, though at the temples and behind her ears it kinked into rebellious curls that showed what it would like to do if it had a chance. Her ragged little skirts were bound round and round with a stout cord so that the hungry jaws of the machine might not snap at any flying fold or tatter. She did not look up as Margaret paused beside her. She dared not. Her eyes were glued to the whizzing, whirring, clattering thing before her, watching for broken threads or loose ends, the neglect of which might bring down upon her head a snarling reprimand from “de boss” of her department.
Margaret learned many things during the next two hours. Conversation was not easy in the clattering din, but some few things her guide explained, and a word or two spoke volumes sometimes.
She saw what it meant to be a “doffer,” a “reeler,” a “silk-twister.” She saw what it might mean if the tiny hand that thrust the empty bobbin over the buzzing spindle-point should slip or lose its skill. She saw a little maid of twelve who earned two whole dollars a week, and she saw a smaller girl of ten who, McGinnis said, was with her sister the only support of an invalid mother at home. She saw more, much more, until her mind refused to grasp details and the whole scene became one blurred vision of horror.
Later, after a brief rest—she had insisted upon staying—she saw the “day-shift” swarm out into the chill December night, and the “night-shift” come shivering in to take their places; and she grew faint and sick when she saw among them the scores of puny little forms with tired-looking faces and dragging feet.
“And they’re only beginning!” she moaned, as McGinnis hurried her away. “And they’ve got to work all night—all night!”
CHAPTER XXIX
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.