Geoffrey Burnham turned away full of anger that a flourishing business should be destroyed by one man’s obstinacy. John Villard went back to the silent looms, full of righteous indignation, not only at the total disregard of practical business interests, but at the want of humanity and philanthropy and Christian charity, which by his subordinate position he must seem to countenance.
Weeks lengthened themselves into months, and still the Shawsheen Mills were closed.
Salome Shepard, after spending the holiday season with friends in New York, came home, satiated with social success, and a little tired of the endless pursuit of pleasure. Still the mills lay idle and Otis Greenough refused to talk any more with her on the subject of the strike. And the terms of her father’s will held her powerless, even had she chosen to exercise her authority.
But she chafed under the knowledge that two thousand people, who were in a sense dependent upon her for their daily bread, were out of work in the midst of a hard winter.
One day she went to walk down among the people who were suffering, now, for a principle.
She was amazed at the gaunt, hungry look of the old men; and self-accused at the pinched and wan faces of the few children who played in the narrow streets. Unthinking, she had put on a seal-skin cloak. It was a cold day, and furs, to her, were only a natural accompaniment to the frosts of winter.
But going down the uncared-for side-walk, she rebuked herself, noting the single shawl and calico dress of an old woman who was wearily making her way a few paces in front of her. Presently the woman stopped, seized with a paroxysm of coughing.
Salome came up with her, and looked into the white face, which told of hard times.
“Madam,” she said, respectfully, “can I be of any assistance to you? Shall I not help you home?”
Her tone and manner were exactly the same she would have used to any of her aunt’s friends. It did not occur to her to be patronizing or condescending.