Lyddie

Betsy’s eyes blazed. “At ten? I led out my w

hole floor—running all the way. It was the most exciting day of my life!”

“It does no good to rebel against authority.”

“Well, it does me good. I’m sick of being a sniveling wage slave.” Betsy picked up her botany book again as though closing the discussion.

“I mean it’s … it’s unladylike and … and against the Scriptures.” Amelia’s voice was shaking as she spoke.

“Against the Bible to fight injustice? Oh, come now, Amelia. I think you’ve got the wrong book at that church of yours.”

Lyddie looked from one angry face to the other. She cared nothing for being a lady or being religious. She was making far more money than she ever had at home in Vermont or was ever likely to. Why couldn’t people just live and let live?

The clang of the curfew bell quieted the argument but not Lyddie’s anxiety.

13

Speed Up

Lyddie could not keep the silly song out of her head. It clacked and whistled along with the machinery.

Oh! I cannot be a slave,

I will not be a slave …

She wasn’t a slave. She was a free woman of the state of Vermont, earning her own way in the world. Whatever Diana, or even Betsy, might think, she, Lyddie, was far less a slave than most any girl she knew of. They mustn’t spoil it for her with their petitions and turnouts. They mustn’t meddle with the system and bring it all clanging down to ruin.

She liked Diana, really she did, yet she found herself avoiding her friend as though radicalism were something catching, like diptheria. She knew Mr. Marsden was beginning to keep track of the girls who stopped by Diana’s looms. She could see him watching and taking mental note.

When Diana came her way, Lyddie could feel herself stiffening up. And when Diana invited her to one of the Tuesday night meetings, Lyddie said “No!” so fiercely that she scared herself. Diana didn’t ask again. It ain’t about you, Lyddie wanted to say. It’s me. I just want to go home. Please understand, Diana, it ain’t about you.

The ten-hour people were putting out a weekly newspaper, The Voice of Industry. Lyddie tried to keep her eyes from straying toward the copies of the weekly, which were thrown with seeming carelessness on the parlor table. Then one night after supper she and Amelia came upstairs to find Betsy chortling over the paper in their bedroom.

“Here!” she said, holding it out to Lyddie. “Read this! Those plucky women are going after the legislature now!”

Lyddie recoiled as though someone had offered her the hot end of a poker.

“Oh Lyddie,” Betsy said. “Don’t be afraid to read something you might not agree with.”

“Leave Lyddie alone, Betsy. You’ll only get her into trouble.”

“Never fret, Amelia. Our Lyddie loves money too much to risk trouble.”

Lyddie flushed furiously. She was worried about the money, but she wished Betsy wouldn’t put it like that. She wanted to explain to them—to justify herself. Maybe if she told them about the bear—about how close her family’d come to moving to the poor farm. Maybe if she told them about Charlie—how bright he was and how she knew he could do as good at college as Betsy’s stuckup brother. Only Charlie wasn’t at Harvard. He was sweeping chaff off a mill floor. And little Agnes had gone to God. She shuddered and held her peace. It might sound like cowardly excuses when the words were formed. But it didn’t matter if they understood or not. As much as she admired Diana, she wouldn’t be tricked by her, or even by Betsy, to joining any protest. Just another year or two and she could go home—home free. I got to write Mama, she thought. I got to tell her how hard I’m working to pay off the debt.

Dear Mother,

I was made quite sad by your letter telling of my sister Agnes’s death. I am consern that you are not taking proper care of your health. I have enclose one dollar. Please get yourself and little Rachel good food and if possible a warm shawl for the winter. I will send more next payday. I try to save for the debt, but you must tell me how much it is exakly. And do I send it direct to Mr. Wescott or to some bank? I am well. I work hard.

Your loving daughter,

Lydia Worthen

She checked her spelling in Oliver. The grammar as well. She felt a little thrill of pride. She knew she was improving in her writing. Not that her mother would be able to tell, but Charlie would. She took a second sheet to begin a letter to him, then hesitated, suddenly shy. It had been so long. She hardly knew what to say. I must go to see him soon as my year is up, she thought. I’ll lose touch. Or—he’ll forget me. She jerked her head to loosen the thought. Charlie would no more forget her than the snow would forget to fall on Camel’s Hump Mountain. But she should write. He might think she had forgotten him.

Dear Charlie,

No, “Dear Charles.” (He was nearly a man now and might not like a pet name.)