The Turn of the Tide Part 23

There was still that haunting reproach in his eyes whenever they met hers.

Frank was expecting her, and only a peculiar tightening of his lips betrayed his disquietude as he turned to his desk and pressed the b.u.t.ton that would summon McGinnis to the office.

"Miss Kendall would like to go over one of the mills," he said quietly, as the young man entered, in response to his ring. "Perhaps you will be her escort."

Margaret gave her guardian a grateful look as she left the office. She thought she knew just how much the calm acceptance of the situation had cost him, and she appreciated his unflinching determination to give her actions the sanction of his apparent consent. It was for this that she gave him the grateful glance--but he did not see it. His head was turned away.

"And what shall I show you?" asked McGinnis, as the office door closed behind them.

"Everything you can," returned Margaret; "everything! But particularly the children."

From the first deafening click-clack of the rattling machines she drew back in consternation.

"They don't work there--the children!" she cried.

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.

"I am going down to Patty's," she said, a little hurriedly, to Mrs.

Merideth, when breakfast was over. "I got some names and addresses of the mill children yesterday from Mr. McGinnis; and I shall ask Patty to go with me to see them. I want to talk with the parents."

"But, my dear, you don't know what you are doing," protested Mrs.

Merideth. "They are so rough--those people. Miss Alby, our visiting home missionary, told me only last week how dreadful they were--so rude and intemperate and--and ill-odored. She has been among them. She knows."

"Yes; but don't you see?--those are the very people that need help, then," returned Margaret, wearily. "They don't know what they are doing to their little children, and I must tell them. I _must_ tell them. I shall have Patty with me. Don't worry." And Mrs. Merideth could only sigh and sigh again, and hurry away up-stairs to devise an altogether more delightful plan for the winter months than any that had yet been proposed--a plan so overwhelmingly delightful that Margaret could not help being interested. Of one thing, however, Mrs. Merideth was certain--if there was a place distant enough to silence the roar of the mills in Margaret's ears, that place should be chosen if it were Egypt itself.

Patty Durgin hesitated visibly when Margaret told her what she wanted to do, until Margaret exclaimed in surprise, and with a little reproach in her voice:

"Why, Patty, don't you want to help me?"

"Yes, yes; you don't understand," protested Patty. "It ain't that. I want ter do it all. If you have money for 'em, let me give it to 'em."

Margaret was silent. Her eyes were still hurt, still rebellious.

"I--I don't want you ter see them," stammered Patty, then. "I don't want you ter feel so--so bad."

Margaret's face cleared.

"Oh, but I'm feeling bad now," she a.s.serted cheerily; "and after I see them I'll feel better. I want to talk to them; don't you see? They don't realize what they are doing to their children to let them work so, and I am going to tell them."

Patty sighed.

"Ye don't understand," she began, then stopped, her eyes on the determined young face opposite. "All right, I'll go," she finished, but she shivered a little as she spoke.

And they did go, not only on that day, but on the next and the next.

Margaret almost forgot the mills, so filled was her vision with drunken men, untidy women, wretched babies, and cheerless homes.

Sometimes her presence and her questions were resented, and always they were looked upon with distrust. Her money, if she gave that, was welcome, usually; but her remonstrances and her warnings fell upon deaf, if not angry, ears. And then Margaret perceived why Patty had said she did not understand--there was no such thing as making a successful appeal to the parents. She might have spared herself the effort.

Sometimes she did not understand the words of the dark-browed men and the slovenly women--there were many nationalities among the operatives--but always she understood their black looks and their almost threatening gestures. Occasionally, to be sure, she found a sick woman or a discouraged man who welcomed her warmly, and who listened to her and agreed with what she had to say; but with them there was always the excuse of poverty--though their Sue and Bess and Teddy might not earn but twenty, thirty, forty cents a day; yet that twenty, thirty, and forty cents would buy meat and bread, and meant all the difference between a full and an empty stomach, perhaps, for every member of the family, at times.

Margaret did what she could. She spent her time and her money without stint, and went from house to house untiringly. She summoned young McGinnis to her aid, and arranged for a monster Christmas tree to be placed in the largest hall in town; and she herself ordered the books, toys, candies, and games for it, besides the candles and tinsel stars to make it a vision of delight to the weary little eyes all unaccustomed to such glory. And yet, to Margaret it seemed that nothing that she did counted in the least against the much there was to be done. It was as if a child with a teaspoon and a bowl of sand were set to filling up a big chasm: her spoonful of sand had not even struck bottom in that pit of horror!

CHAPTER x.x.x

The house-party at Hilcrest was not an entire success that Christmas.

Even the guests felt a subtle something in the air that was not conducive to ease; while Mrs. Merideth and her brothers were plainly fighting a losing contest against a restlessness that sent a haunting fear to their eyes.

Margaret, though scrupulously careful to show every attention to the guests that courtesy demanded, was strangely quiet, and not at all like the merry, high-spirited girl that most of them knew. Brandon, who was again at the house, sought her out one day, and said low in her ear:

"If it were June and not December, and if we were out in the auto instead of here by the fire, I'm wondering; would I need to--watch out for those brakes?"

The girl winced.

"No, no," she cried; "never! I think I should simply crawl for fear that under the wheels somewhere would be a child, a dog, a chicken, or even a helpless worm--something that moved and that I might hurt. There is already so much--suffering!"

Brandon laughed uneasily and drew back, a puzzled frown on his face. He had not meant that she should take his jest so seriously.

It was on the day after New Year's, when all the guests had gone, that Margaret once more said to her guardian that she wished to speak to him, and on business. Frank Spencer told himself that he was used to this sort of thing now, and that he was resigned to the inevitable; but his eyes were troubled, and his lips were close-shut as he motioned the girl to precede him into the den.

"I thought I ought to tell you," she began, plunging into her subject with an abruptness that betrayed her nervousness, "I thought I ought to tell you at once that I--I cannot go with you when you all go away next week."