Concerning Sally

by William John Hopkins

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 passed 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 class 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 class, 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 passed 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 passed. 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 shore 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 shore given to the mills, and not a single feeble voice had been raised to prevent. They had seen the mills stretch forth surreptitious, grasping hands and take unto themselves pieces of their beautiful old shore 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 shore 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 shore. 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 shore. 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 passed 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.