Concerning Sally Part 48

"No," Sally spoke earnestly. "Don't. I'd rather not. I prefer to walk.

And, Everett, I'd rather you wouldn't go with me. I want to take this walk alone."

Everett was surprised. It was rather a shock to find that he wasn't wanted.

"Oh," he said coldly. "Very well. I hope you will have a most pleasant walk to--wherever you are going."

Sally's heart was too tender. Everett seemed hurt, and she didn't like to feel that she had hurt him. "I am going to Fisherman's Cove," she said.

"Fisherman's Cove! But you know that will take you through the heart of milltown."

"Yes, but the mills aren't out. I'll come back early."

"It's not a way for a girl to choose."

Sally smiled. "I'll be all right, I think."

Everett shrugged his shoulders. "You'd much better let me drive you.

We can go to the Cove as well as elsewhere."

Sally shook her head gently.

"As you please," he said; and he shrugged again and turned away.

Sally looked after him for a moment. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "Now I've offended him--mortally, I suppose. But it doesn't matter. I was forgetting. Nothing really matters." It didn't matter. It might be better if she had offended him mortally if he would stay offended.

So Sally put aside all thoughts of Everett and resumed her walk. She had no great difficulty in putting aside thoughts of him. I do not know what her thoughts were, as she walked on towards the Cove, but it is safe to say that they were not of Everett. She must have been thinking pretty deeply of something, for she took her way unconsciously and without seeing where she was going; and she pa.s.sed the few people that she met without seeing them or being conscious that they were there. Walking so, like one asleep, she came to the end of that street, where it runs into River Street.

River Street is a dirty street. Its best friends could not say more for it. The reason is not far to seek; and a part of that reason is that, for many years--say sixty years or even seventy--it has served for a residence street for the same cla.s.s of people. Residence street is perhaps rather a high-sounding name for it. You may use any other words that you like better, for River Street, from the point where Sally entered it to within a half-dozen blocks of the centre of the town, was, for long years, the one place where certain people lived.

It was so wholly given up to those people that it was known as Fayal; and Fayal had a reputation which was not altogether savory. The inhabitants of this local Fayal were, in the old days, sailors, and sailors of the roughest sort; with crimps and sharks and women of several kinds, and an occasional overlord. There were no mills to speak of, twenty-five years ago, at this end of the town. When the mills began to come, the inhabitants of Fayal--at least, some of them--sent for their friends from the islands, and the friends, in turn, sent for their families; the old sailor cla.s.s, the rough men with gold hoops in their ears, gradually died off and the reputation of River Street improved. Like the street itself, it is not yet altogether savory.

At River Street, Sally began to find herself among the tenements, for Fayal had lain in the other direction and the old River Street had faded out, right here, into the remains of a country road which ended at the beach, not half a mile beyond. There was no country road now, and the less said about this particular part of the beach the better.

Sally paused for an instant and looked about her. From this point on, River Street was a continuous row of tenements, very neat and tidy tenements, no doubt, at a distance. There was no gleam in that same distance which betokened the Cove, only the neat and tidy tenements, horribly neat and tidy. Sally felt a sinking of the heart or somewhere about that region, although I believe it is not the heart that sinks.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, under her breath. "I had forgotten that it was so forlorn. I will hurry through it. I wish I could shut my eyes, as Patty does, but I suppose I shall need to see."

So she hurried along, past the rows of tenements, past the few women that she met and past the small children playing in the street. The women paid no attention to her, being intent upon their own business and having enough of it to keep them well occupied. She pa.s.sed a mill, with its throbbing of looms and its clattering and clicking of spindles. The long rows of windows were just beginning to be lighted as she pa.s.sed. She went on, past more tenements, less closely set, and past another mill. The windows of this second mill were already lighted, and the same throbbing and clattering came faintly to her ears. In front of this mill was a broad street, almost a square, and beyond the street an open lot,--I had almost said a field, but it lacked one essential to being a field,--evidently used by the population, old and young, as a playground. This lot was surrounded by the remains of an old stone wall, a relic of the better days, when it had been a field. Now, there was no vestige of vegetation; no living thing. A pig would have died of starvation in that lot. Both street and lot were covered with frozen mud and dirty snow, and a film of repulsive dirt, that would not wash off, coated the old stones of the wall. The whole place filled Sally with disgust. If these mills had to be somewhere, why must they put them here? Why must they? Weren't there other places, without robbing--

Sally broke off. She had been almost talking aloud to herself in fierce rebellion. Mills! Mills! Nothing but mills! They had taken up every foot of the sh.o.r.e in Whitby except what was occupied by the wharves. What were the people thinking of, that they suffered it? They had seen foot after foot, mile after mile, of sh.o.r.e given to the mills, and not a single feeble voice had been raised to prevent. They had seen the mills stretch forth surrept.i.tious, grasping hands and take unto themselves pieces of their beautiful old sh.o.r.e road, a quarter of a mile at a time. That road had been unequaled for beauty, thirty years before. Sally had heard Patty speak of it often, mourning its loss. She, herself, had seen great stretches of that sh.o.r.e taken by the mills within the past ten years, and she had not known enough to speak or even to care. The people were mill-mad--or sleeping.

Well--and Sally sighed--a haughty spirit before destruction; just before it, she hoped. A thousand times rather the few hardened sailor-men in their place than that horde everywhere.

It is to be feared that Sally was getting excited; and it is to be feared that she was not truly democratic. Well, she was not and she never pretended to be. What of it? She never pretended to be what she was not. And as she thought these thoughts, she came out from behind the third mill and gave a little gasp of delight. There lay Fisherman's Cove, its frozen surface saffron and blue and crimson; and the clouds above golden and saffron and crimson, with lavender and purple in the shadows. The sun had just gone down behind another mill on the opposite sh.o.r.e. Sally stumbled on--she didn't dare take her eyes off that--but she stumbled on, as fast as she could, past the few scattered tenements which lay between her and the open road, and she sat down on a great stone that was part of the old sea-wall. For at this point the road ran close to the waters of the Cove, and the beach, with its load of broken ice, was at her feet. And she sighed again and sat there, watching, and a great peace fell upon her spirit and she was content.

Sally gazed, first at the sky and then at the ice of the Cove; and the golden lights upon the clouds changed to saffron and the saffron to crimson and the purple deepened. In the ice, the green which had lingered in places changed to blue and the blue to indigo and the saffron and crimson darkened and were gone. Ah! This was worth while.

Was anything else worth while? What did she care, sitting there, for schools or mills or anything, indeed, but sitting there and gazing?

She half turned and looked out into the bay where sky and water meet.

She could not tell which was water and which was sky, for both had become a dull slate-blue. She looked again at the Cove. The color had gone, but there was a faint silvery light from a young moon which hung above the mill on the opposite sh.o.r.e. And from the windows of the mill shone other lights. These mills were rather picturesque at night and at a distance; they were rather pretty--of a kind. Sally did not care for that kind. The greater the distance, the more picturesque they were. Sally laughed to herself at the thought. Her laugh was gay enough and it would have done her mother's heart good to hear it. She was content; so content that she took no heed of the time, but she sat there until the young moon had sunk, in its turn, almost to the mill, and she roused herself and found that she was cold, which was not strange. And it was too late for a girl to be going past the mills; which was not strange either. If she was going, she had better be about it. So she got up from the great stone, took a last long look at the fast-darkening sky, shivered and started back, at a good pace, along the road.

She pa.s.sed the last mill and, as she came to the corner of the fence, she heard the roar of many feet coming out. They burst through the doorway and she heard them pattering on the frozen mud behind her. But it was dark and she was well ahead.

At the second mill, the one of the broad square and the open lot, she saw the crowd of mill-hands pouring out of the gate as she approached.

The crowd swelled and overflowed the sidewalk and then the street and poured over the wall into the lot, slowly, like some huge stream of mola.s.ses. As Sally continued on her way, she met this human stream coming toward her; but it divided before her and closed behind her, letting her through slowly. They are a peaceable, law-abiding set, for the most part, but the mill lays its heavy hand upon them. The older ones among them went stolidly to their kennels; but a few of the mill-girls looked after Sally and made quite audible remarks about her and giggled and laughed and nudged the men. And the men--the young men--looked back at her and thought--but I don't know what they thought. I only know that two of them, of mixed race, turned and followed on after her.

Sally was not aware that she was being followed, but many of the mill-girls were, and the giggling and the laughter grew, until Sally turned to see the cause. Having seen, she did not change her pace, but pursued her way steadily without again looking back or seeming to know of her two followers. The crowd ahead, going north, and the crowd behind her, going south, were well separated by this time, and there was a wide s.p.a.ce between them. In this s.p.a.ce were only Sally and the two men, now close behind her, and a few stragglers. In this way they went on for some distance, while the crowd ahead gradually melted away into the tenements on either side; and they were within a few blocks of the corner where Sally would turn off of River Street. The street was not well lighted and it was deserted.

The men came up, one on either side of Sally, and one of them said something to her, too vile to be recorded. Sally kept her eyes straight ahead and she thought rapidly. She was not exactly frightened, but she was thinking what she had better do. It would do little good to scream. The outcome of such a course was doubtful and, besides, Sally was not the kind of a girl who screams easily or at all. She meditated fighting. She could have put up a good fight; but there were two of the men and they would have been pleased with a fight, two men against one girl. What else was there for her to do?

She could run, and she could run well; so well that there was an even chance, perhaps, that she could run faster and last longer than those mill-trained men. Eight or ten years of the mill do not help a man's lungs much or his morals. The dust, you know,--it seems to get into their morals as well as into their lungs. If only she didn't have skirts to bother her; but her skirt was neither tight nor very long.

The man repeated his vile speech; and Sally darted away, gathering her skirts as she ran.

The men had been taken by surprise, but they put out after her as fast as they could, laughing. This was sport; and although laughter is not recommended for runners, they managed to gain a little at first. After that first burst, they ceased to gain, but they held their own, and the chase sped merrily along River Street, a scant five yards separating the hunters from their quarry. Sally reached her corner and turned off of River Street, pa.s.sing under the light of a street lamp as she made the turn. Coming down that street was a man. Sally did not see very well, for he was not in the full light and, besides, her eyes were full of tears because of her running. But the man gave a start and an exclamation and he began to run and he ran into those men like a locomotive, and he swung at one of them and hit him and knocked him into the middle of the street, so that he landed on the back of his neck in the roadway and lay limp and still. The other would have run away, but the man caught him around the neck with his left hand and cast him as far as his fellow, rolling over and over.

"d.a.m.n you!" he cried low. "No, you don't. d.a.m.n you!"

Doubtless he was forgiven that cry, even as Sally forgave it. She had stopped and was leaning against a fence. When she saw the men go into the street, one after the other, she gave a quick chuckle of delight.

She may have been a little hysterical. It would not have been strange.

The second man who had been so summarily cast into the road was rising slowly, muttering and half sobbing. The first man continued to lie limp and still, and the man who had cast him there advanced slowly toward him; upon which that other ceased beating the dust from his clothes and edged away, muttering more loudly threats and vituperations. The man continued to advance, but he raised his head into the full light from the street lamp and he laughed shortly.

"You'd better be off," he said. "Get out, and hurry about it."

Sally saw his face well enough in the dim light and she knew the voice. She had not really needed to recognize either, for she knew well enough, in her heart, who it was that had come to her aid in the nick of time. She chuckled again with delight, then drew a shivering breath and gave a sob. There was no doubt about it, Sally was hysterical. She knew that she was and she stifled the sob in her throat. She despised hysterics. And she laughed a little because she couldn't help it, and she went to him.

He was kneeling in the road and he had the man's head upon one knee and was feeling him gently. He raised his head as she came near.

"I can't tell whether I have hurt him or not. It's awkward. We can't leave him lying here in the street, although he deserves no better treatment. I wish I had a horse here. You don't happen to know of one, do you, Sally?"

"N--no," she answered slowly, "not near here. I suppose I could get Sawny, if you would wait."

Fox laughed. "I don't want to ask Everett for Sawny."

"Neither do I." The sound of a horse's hoofs came to them faintly.

"There's one now. I'll run to the corner and stop him." And, before Fox could make any reply, she was off, running.

The sound of the horse's hoofs stopped and presently came on, down the street.

"h.e.l.lo!" cried a voice. "Is that Doctor Sanderson? What can I do?"

"It's Eugene Spencer, Fox," remarked Sally, getting out. "Wasn't that luck?"

"Yes," said Jane, "wasn't it? Shall I take Sally home?"

Fox and Sally both preferred that he should take the man.

"I hate to ask you to take him out to my hospital," said Fox apologetically, "but I don't know of anything better. I'll telephone them before you can get there, and I'll be out within an hour. I don't think he's seriously hurt."

So they bundled the man in, and Jane drove off, rather crestfallen.

For his part, he thought that he ought to take Sally home first, at least. The man still lurking in the shadows hurled vile epithets and obscenities and ran after Jane.