“SALLERY.”

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2568, 31 July 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

“SALLERY.”

(By Richard Whiteing, author of “No. 5, John Street,” etc.) The. man in his shirt sleeves, wheeling the handcart, entered the rural cyclists’ rest in a kind of* triumph, though such a man and such a vehicle are fairly common objects of the roadside. The latter was but a general dealer’s truck, the other was a young fellow who seemed addicted to odd jobbing, yet whose smartness of bearing spoke of thwarted hopes of the military career. Ho was evidently outward bound from London, but that was nothing out of the way. The unwonted challenge to curiosity was the something alive that stirred under the shawl and jacket that covered his load. For, when his back was turned, and the children were free to peep under the inverted washing basket that served as a sunshade for his burden, they saw a face.

It was the face of a young woman, quite comely to look upon as it lay theie, with the well brushed hair and the neatness of .simple finery about the throat that showed some ether woman’s care. Only it was pallid to the last degree, and slightly drawn with weariness, if not with pain, whilst its transparency of blue veins formed quite a pattern on the closed lids. ' The young man reappeared in a moment, wiping liis lips with the back of his hand, Jess perhaps for table manners than to hide the distortions of a wry face. Then, after a “come out of it” to the children, which caused all but the boldest to.-fall back at “least half a yard, he bent over the recumbent figure. ; “Try something,’ he urged, “jest to yet your whistle—lemonade.” The girl—she was hardly, more-—open-ed her eyes, smiled gratefully at him, shook her head. \ 1 “I’m doin’ ginger beer this journey,’’ he said: “I can’t ’xac’ly recommend it, but I’m no judge.” She tried to laugh, and actually achieved a smile, tliat was all tho sweeter because it was so faint.

“I don’t. w ; ':nt_ nothin’; thank yor4ll the same.” ■ - “3c;on ’ome,” he said, “I’ve asked the way and we Vo goin’ by the short cut.” 7 “’Ow good you are-—and me a utter stranger!” “Well, I was goin’ to put it the other way, I ain’t seen the country for years as I’ve seen it to-day: It’s a lesson for a chap like me to see the stuff growin’ in the fields. What a lot of room it takes to' make a ioad for a markit cart —seems likft a waste of ground.” “I wish I wasn’t so ’eavy.”

“I wish you was ’eavier, but they’ll soon set that right for yer —at ’ome.” She shbok her head again, evidently for thoughts, and with that a tsar fell that was already trembling on the verge of the lid. “I know what I’m goin’ ’ome for.” “And I ain’t a goin’ to ask yer, bekos I know what you’re goin’ to say, and I don’t want ye.r to say it agin. Make me low sperrited; it really d The laugh that she had struggled for came this time. “I’m vy,y ongrateful, an’ I know it, an’ I won’t do it again.” “You’re very weak, that’s what’s the matter with you, an’ nothin’ else. But the fresh air, an’ the sunshine, and the ole mother’ll soon set that right. Take my tip—ncx’ week you’ll be dancin’ on the green.”

“Yes, that’s me,” she said in a low tone that bespoke rather acquiescence than conviction. “Soon get well after I see tho green fields.” “Why shouldn’t you see ’em now, I’ve seen ’em for the last two mije, nothin’ else, and the flowers a top o’ that, aiid the birds skylarkin’ in the trees. Why shouldn’t yen sit up for a bit. What a. fool I’ve bin ! Pretty sort of nuss for a hinvakd. ’Ere, 'o.d ’ard.”

He raised her gently, laid the basket at her back, and settled her up generally as well as he could. “There, ’ow’s that? Why you’re in a harm chair now! What price them things in the hedges yonder! Wish 1 knowed their names.”

“We used to call ’em ’quake grass,’ and ‘cats’ tails’ when I was a kid.” It was a very simple story as far as it had gone. “Pickles” —such was her professional name, derived in the primitive way from her calling, was a country-bred girl, who had come to work in a London jam factory, and had lived on her capital of strength till she was struck down by fever. Then came in due course the hospital, the turning point of the malady, the beginning of convalescence, interrupted by the necessity of turning out cf the crowded ward to make room for more pressing cases. The institution was not to blame; nothing in the rate of growth in relief could overtake the rate of growth in suffering. The reaction — more than physical—set in when tho girl lying alone in her dismal back bedroom in tho tenement house, felt sure she was: going to die.

Yes, she was going to die: there could be no doubt about that, and all she wanted was' to die in the village nestling among the Hertfordshire Hills in which she was born—to die under her mother's roof.

She was not- uneared for in the slum. Neighbors were kind to “Pickles most of them knew her by no other name, but the satisfaction of her wish to go home was beyond them, as it involved a journey by road, and an ambulance bed. Even that might have been managed if they had known how to set about it, but they did not. The network of charitable effort was as incomprehensible to them as a Bradshaw’s guide. Then “Sallery,” the wheeler oi ihs barrow, whose pseudonym was lure a corruption of the name of a vegetab.e of which he was inordinately fond —got up a boxing match for her benefit among a few friends, and realised by it some seventeen shillings and sixpence, aiul two black eves. He was not a boxer by profession, but he had cheerfully stood punishment in the cause of charity in a set to with a local celebrity, which was the chief feature of the entertainment. His trade was simply that of a handy man. He boat carpets, cleaned windows, looked alter an office or two, and was in steady work. The benefit fund was inadequate, for tlie bruises bad no marketable value. Sallery wag heard confessing as much at tho door of her room to the woman who opened it to his knock. He had never seen the patient in his life; she "was a pore gal “on her rippers,” that was enough for him, for he had been that way himself. But he had not come to confess failure. “Wheel ’cr down myself, Saturday afternoon, and eh a nice it,” was his .next happy thought. “I know where I can git a nice little conveyance for ’arf a dollar out an’ ’ome.”

■ “It’s high on fifteen mile,” Availed a A 7 oice from the bed. “Can’t be done with a pair of arms. Lot me die ’ere. ’ “Round at ten o’clock Saturday,” said Sallery, cutting short the discussion of ways and means. “Ere s the gate money for the benefit. Bring ’or up to time, and you’ll find me at tho door.”

And so it ay as settled, in spite of another Avail from the bed. The court gathered to see her off. One. lent a mattress to make her comfortable, another a pillow, a third a shawl, and Sallery, his jacket for her feet. And now, here they were, on tho road again at the beginning of their second lap, Avith five. minutes of their journey to the good, and Avith Sallery stepping out in fine style, and Avatching his charge, as she lay in a half doze. . It Avas all delight how in the landscape —scampering rabbits from the burrows, the hum of bees, meadow sweet, mallow, and poppy going strong, walnut and, mulberry leaf in the plantations, SAA’cetbriar in the cottage porches, AA'ith the dog rose. The girl opened hci cyos at last, and then kept them open,

though, considering the beauty of the setting, the charioteer had perhaps more than his duo share of lier regard. It was but natural, after all. The message of the whole scene Avas beauty cf one kind or other; and in that lino

how cou d you beat tho goodness of Sallery? In other respects, however, he could hardly enter into comparison with the glories, of nature. But he was straight—his services in the militia had done that for him—and strong. Could she over forget, the girl thought, how ho had lifted her “like a babby,” and put her to rights with a hand as tender as the hand of a nurse? The sense of happiness that Avas gradua.ly stealing over her would have been imperfect without the evidence of his strength. She was in powerful custody : it was all right. “What a load you got!” she said at last.

It was her first essay in what might be called conversation, and, though it was not much to the purpose, it Avas music to Saliery’s ears.

“Ah, you’re right there, on’y they wouldn’t ’xactly reckon it a load in the street trade. It’s what you might call ’.arf load—plenty to look at, and nothin’ to wheel. Like ‘ail a bloAvin’ and a growin’,’ Avhen they takes the flowers round. Why you ain’t in it beside bannaners, for all they look like nothin’ one by one. “Lor’ there’s the half way ’ouse,” she said at tho next halt. It’s a sight for sore eyes. I ain’t seen the place for four year. ’Ow it’s changed: why there’s another name over the bootmaker’s shop. An’ another pest office. My!”

Sallery, deliberately avoiding.the half way house as too much of a trial for virtuous endeavor, now entered a cake shop, and returned in a few minutes with a cup of tea and a small scaffolding of sponge cakes. “No ’urry,” be said, “we got. lots of time in ’and.” They Avere welcome to her, a 7;.- she ate and drank Avith relish, while he safl on the edge of the barrow, and watched every mouthful as tenderly as a nursing bird. “What arO you going to : ave yourself?” she asked. “Plenty o’ time for that. You ain’t goin’ to leave that last one. It's considered bad luck in sponge cakes." “Not till you ’ave something for yourself.” Thus urged he produced a substantial packet of bread and cheese from -one pocket of his coat, and a small bottle of beer from another, and settled down to his meal. In that form, it had occurred to him, while packing for the journey, beer might be positively genteel:;

“Another cup o’ tear”’ “Nothin’ more. So ’appy. so ’appy 110 w!” ;g. .

She fumbled for her purse, and offer ed him sixpence as he took back and plate. a “Who're yer gettn’ at?” said Sallery.

When next she stirred si c was in her mother’s arms at the gate of home. She Avas expected; the neighbors gathered round; and soon she Avas well enough to tell the tale of her journey. With this, of course, there Avas a cry for Sallery, with more than one offer of lodging for the night. But lie Avas nowhere to be found, and there Avas no trace of him save for the report that, as soon as he had leit her in safe keeping, he had set off on his return journey to the cry, “I'll step it llOAV.” It was a great disappointment for all, and almost a relapse for the girl. The Avorst of it Avas there was no Avriting to thank him. “Mr Sallery, London,”. AA'Ould hardly have been enough; and it- Avas impossible to carry it further than that, for he Avas as unknown to her before the journey as she had been to him.

A Aveek passed, and there Avas no trace of Sallery until the folloAving Saturday, Avlien an urchin came as the bearer of a message to the cottage door. He had been told to say that “a party” Avould be glad to knoAv lioav “.that party”'was getting on, and that he (the party of the first part) would be Avaiting to hear at the corner of the lane.

The girl flew out to find her preserver in a state of smartness that betokened Sunday best. He Avas not oven dusty, for this time he had come down by train, and Avalked over from the neighboring station. No need to ask now after lier bodily health. The air and the quiet had done wonders, and she Avas able ,to drag him almost by main force towards the garden gate. Sallery made a feeble resistance, and Avas understood to murmur something about not wishing to intrude. “None of your larks this time,” was all she vouchsafed in reply. It was a levee after that. The neighbors crowded in to overwhelm him Avith thanks, and the bashful Sallery found himself, to his utter consternation, the hero of the hour, Avhile “Pickles” stood by to prevent his escape, and her mother made preparations for tea. Saliery’s longest speech in recognition of these attentions Avas. “Pore people got to bo pals to one another Avhat do you think?” When quiet Avas restored, and the time came for Sallery to take his leave, lie timidly ventured the request that the girl. Avould see him to the station. “It’ll be company like,” he said—“if you feel you’re up to it. Her eyes flashed. “Do I look a 5 if 1 couldn’t Avalk a mile?” and she faced him in all the strength of her restored health, and her,restored happiness. It was impossible to deny it; yet somehow it seemed a sore ment. “You won’t want me f angm’about no more,” he said sheepish:.,. She took the matter in her own 1 amis uoaa 7 , as she saw she. would have to do. “No not ’angin’ about; you ain’t quite the sort, I don’t- flunk, foi a ’anger on.”

iit puzzled him. It might Evan ono thing and it might mean another. Yet somehow she was delighted t-o see that he took it the wrong way, and that ho seemed troubled to have to take it. “Go on jumpin’; it shows you are gettin’ well, though I ain’t goin’ to say that it don’t huH.” “What do you mean?’’ “AVell last week you couldn’t have sarced a feller back for nuts. ’Gpose it’s the country hair.” “Jest where you’re wrong.” “What is it then ?” “It’s you,” she slid, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up into his honest eyes. v The parson’s elork I daresay learned both their real names in due course. I never did.