Salome Shepard, reformer

by Helen M. Winslow

This letter, as might have been expected, only served to fan the smouldering embers of discord. It was taken at once to the quarters of the new Union, and angrily discussed. A stormy meeting was held that evening, and scores of new members were added to the organization, all unanimously agreeing, not only to keep away from the mills themselves, but to prevent other operatives from entering them. The trouble which might have been met at the outset and subdued by candid discussion and a fair acknowledgment on each side of the claims of the other, was changed into a barricade of danger between labor and capital over which a battle was to be fought, involving money and credit and losses on one side, and daily bread for two thousand people on the other.

“Come,” said Otis Greenough, emerging from his “den” after the committee had left the office. “I want you, Villard, and you, too, Burnham,” he added, turning to the other superintendent, “to go with me this evening, to the owner of these mills, and lay before her the proceedings of the day, and our reasons for taking a firm stand. Although, precious little difference it will make with her, I imagine, how many strikes we have, until her income is affected! Will you be so good as to state, Villard, what you are smiling at.”

“I was thinking, sir, that it is a queer state of affairs, when a person owning large and influential mills like these, need not know of the strike or be consulted with regard to it, until it is half over,” answered Villard. He had no fear of the agent, with whom he was a favorite, in spite of his seeming harshness. “It seems to me, if I were a young woman, with unlimited leisure and wealth, I should care to know something of so tremendous an interest as the Shawsheen Mills represent—that is, if I owned them.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the agent, “that shows how much of a ladies’ man you are, John. Much you know about the things that interest and amuse the young ladies. By Jove! I should laugh to see the daughter of Floyd Shepard meddling with the details of the great business he left her. She could discuss French and Italian literature, or the different schools of music and art, by the hour, and fairly inundate you with a flood of learning; but when it comes to mills—why, she don’t know a loom from a spinning-jenny—and don’t want to. I’m only going up there as a matter of form. As for advice, she knows I wouldn’t take it, even if she has any to offer. But courtesy—proper courtesy,” and Otis Greenough drew himself up to his fullest height, “and the respect we owe her as the owner of this property, demand that we go there this evening. I will call for you in my carriage at half-past seven.”

And, so saying, he left the office.

“I reckon the old man is about right,” said Burnham, when they were alone. “Miss Shepard knows no more about the practical affairs of her mill, than that little white kitten over there does. She’ll meet us with a listless, half-bored air, pretending to listen to the statements of our chief, and all the time be wishing us at the antipodes.”

“Do you know,” interrupted John Villard, locking the door to the office as they left it together, “I’ve very little patience with women of that sort. Think, with her youth and health and money, what a directing, reforming force in bringing together the conflicting interests of labor and capital she might be! Great Heavens! I wish I had her opportunity. I’d make something of it.”

“Oh, you are too Utopian,” replied Burnham. “It is fortunate she isn’t that kind. We should be overwhelmed with Schemes for the Amelioration of the Condition of This, That, and The Other Thing, until there would be nothing left but bankruptcy for all of us. No. I want no reformers in petticoats at the head of the Shawsheen Mills. But here I am at my street. Good-bye, till evening.”

Salome Shepard passed a dull afternoon. Although a young woman of resources she found herself in no mood to enjoy any of them after lunch. The newest volume of essays seemed insufferably dull, and she turned for relief to the latest novel; but, in spite of the fact that this book was talked about throughout the country, she soon threw it aside with a wearied air and sat gazing into the blazing hickory fire.

Strange! but the red-hot coals formed themselves into a group against the dull back-log like the groups of miserable, excited men and women of the morning against a background of rain and fog and muddy streets. It was an uncomfortable picture, and she rose suddenly, and, going into the music-room, seated herself at the piano. Chopin’s Nocturnes stood open on the rack, but she tossed them aside and began some stormy Liszt music, breaking off when half done and going to the window.