“Well, I think it is pretty bad,” replied Risley.
“Well, suppose you had to bear that, at least for those you loved, and—and—” said the young man, lamely.
Risley remained silent, waiting.
“If I had been my uncle instead of myself I should simply have shut down with no ado,” said Robert, presently, in an angry, argumentative voice.
“I suppose you would; and as it was?”
“As it was, I thought I would give them a chance. Good God, Risley, I have been running the factory at a loss for a month as it is. With this new wage-list I should no more than make expenses, if I did that. What was it to me? I did it to keep them in some sort of work. As for myself, I would much rather have shut down and done with it, but I tried to keep it running on their account, poor devils, and now I am execrated for it, and they have deliberately refused what little I could offer.”
“Did you explain all this to the committee?” asked Risley.
“Explain? No! I told them my course was founded upon strict business principles, and was as much for their good as for mine. They understood. They know how hard the times are. Why, it was only last week that Weeks & McLaughlin failed, and that meant a heavy loss. I didn't explain.” Then Robert hesitated and colored. “I have just explained to her,” he said, with a curious hang of his head, like a boy, “and if my explanation was met in the same fashion by the others in the factory I might as well have addressed the north wind. They are all alike; they are a different race. We cannot help them, and they cannot help themselves, because they are themselves.”
“You mean by her, Ellen Brewster?” Risley said.
Robert nodded gloomily.