IX.
Marion Shaw was one of those women whose lives are a constant giving of their best, with no thought of return. We have all seen such women. From the self-sacrificing maiden aunt in the humblest home, up to the Florence Nightingales and Dorothea Dixes of the world, they are God’s angels, everywhere, to suffering humanity.
Marion Shaw and Salome Shepard had been in boarding-school together; and although the former had been left from the start to support herself and her widowed mother, the friendship between the two girls had never abated.
Marion’s mother had died a year before, and something material had dropped out of life for the girl. Grief and the solitude which ensued after her mother’s death told upon her constitution; and when Salome’s letter of invitation reached her, it was like a boon from Heaven. She threw up her situation in Madame Blanc’s private school and went to Shepardtown, arriving there late in the evening, before Salome’s visit to the counting-room.
When the latter came home they settled cosily in Salome’s room for an “old-time talk,” such as they had enjoyed as girls.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were tired to death with that interminable teaching?” asked Salome. “I should have had you come to me long ago. You are as pale as a ghost.”
“Oh, I’m all right now,” answered Marion, who never cared to talk of herself. “Tell me about the strike here. I read of it in a Boston newspaper, when it came on, and again when Mr. Greenough died. But, after the fashion of newspapers with regard to anything you care particularly to follow up, they dropped the subject the minute one’s interest was roused. And your letter was so meager! Yes, it was. You only write the barest details, and not too many of them. Is the strike ended?”
“No, but I hope it will be before night,” Salome replied. “I’ve given orders this morning that a compromise be made at once. Yes, don’t stare at me, please. Why shouldn’t I give orders? They’re my mills.”
“I’m not staring. It’s vulgar to stare, and the lady professors at Mme. Blanc’s fashionable boarding-school do not stare. Why, it would be as much as their position is worth!” retorted Marion. “Yes, they’re your mills, I suppose, and a handsome piece of property they are too, in the eyes of poor me, who own only the clothes on my back. But, pardon me, dear, it does seem a little odd to hear Salome Shepard, the most exclusive and the most fashionable girl at school, talk about giving orders in a cotton-mill. You’re not getting strong-minded, are you, dear?”
“If to begin to take an active interest in two thousand souls, who are dependent upon my money and the business interests it represents, is to become strong-minded, I’m afraid I shall have to plead guilty.” Salome looked narrowly at her friend. Possibly she had mistaken her, and their sympathies were farther apart than she had hoped.