Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (11 page)

 
          
 
Down the street they overtook and passed the
flying squad of constabulary, but Prothore paid them no heed. His attention was
directed toward her, and when the sound of pounding feet diminished in the
distance he was the first to speak.

 
          
 
"Allow me to apologize,
Miss Lane
. My arrival was delayed by the necessity of
circling back from the far corner where the gathering took place, and then
determining which of the various routes of departure you and your companions
might have chosen."

 
          
 
Then he knew she had been at the street
meeting! But what was he doing there?

 
          
 
It was a question she dearly wished to broach;
instead she chose another. "You gave the cabby the address of my lodgings.
May I ask where you obtained it?"

 
          
 
Even as she spoke the answer was apparent, and
now, adjusting the somewhat battered bulk of the brown paper parcel on her lap,
she voiced it. "Miss Scrimshaw, I suppose?"

 
          
 
"Your supposition is correct."

 
          
 
"Did she volunteer the information or did
you ask?" She strove to make the query seem casual, but his reply would
explain much.

 
          
 
"That is a matter of little moment,"
Prothore answered. "Enough to say I am relieved you left the meeting when
you did. Had you remained, the consequences might have been highly
unpleasant."

 
          
 
"What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"That squad of City constables you saw.
Have you given thought to account for their appearance?"

 
          
 
Hester nodded. "I imagine some nearby resident
summoned them to apprehend the miscreants attacking Mrs. Kirby's home."

 
          
 
"In that, I fear, you are quite mistaken.
They were summoned, no doubt, but not by a neighbor. It would be the owner of
that public house who sent round for them, and they were on their way to
disperse the forces of Holy Willie."

 
          
 
"Who?"

 
          
 
"A popular nickname for
William Booth, self-styled general of the Salvation Army."

 
          
 
It was the first time, Hester realized, that
she had seen Albert Prothore smile. And she didn't care for the thought she
sensed behind it. I warned you to keep out of this, his smile was saying. I
told you so.

 
          
 
If she divined his thought correctly, there
would be reason enough for the ebb of her sense of gratitude and its
replacement by a rising tide of resentment.

 
          
 
Now the smile vanished, to be replaced by an
equally unwelcome look of stern sobriety as he spoke in the tones of a
lecturer.
Father's look.
But he's not my father!

 
          
 
Hester strove to keep her composure but the
effort cost her distraction; only an occasional word registered clearly, though
the import of the whole was unmistakable. He was pointing out to her in his
supercilious way the folly in which she had been engaged—and that he required
her solemn word she would abandon this "nonsense."

 
          
 
To make him cease his badgering she nodded at
intervals. Perhaps he was right, inasmuch as she would not venture into any of
those darkened ways at night again. But she would not forfeit her resolve to
gather knowledge, to write such an article as would reveal what horrors lay
waiting in the tangled, twisting lanes of a city esteemed the best in the
civilized world.

 
          
 
If half of its dwellers were as blind and
self-assured as this cold and conceited young man who finally handed her down
at the door of her lodging house
,,
she did not wonder
that such horrors continued to exist.

 
          
 
And invade her dreams.

 
          
 
Hester awoke twice during the night and sat up
in the icy cold of her room, looking to the door and half expecting that some
of those ruffians like Morton would emerge from her dreams and burst their way
in. It was still only faintly gray out when she settled herself tightly in the
covers on her lumpy bed and tried to think in the sensible pattern on which she
had always prided herself.

 
          
 
She accepted the fact that she could not write
about the riot—and she had seen only a fraction of that. But there was another
subject, one that any womanly hearted reader would understand.

 
          
 
Surely the story of Mrs. Kirby and Sallie
would serve to demonstrate the message she determined to convey concerning the
importance of the Army. Rescuing young girls from such brutes as Morton and his
friends, teaching them a' better way of life, finding them homes and work away
from filth and danger—all could be told, must be told.

 
          
 
The only difficulty was that she didn't know
enough. She would have to go back, find Captain Ellison, and obtain, through
her, a proper introduction to Mrs. Kirby.

 
          
 
But how to traverse those hidden lanes and
noisome streets, even in daylight, was the problem to be faced. She had had no
way of learning the route there in last night's dark, and certainly she could
not discover the address through Mr. Prothore—as if there were even any
addresses in such kennels!

 
          
 
Suddenly Hester remembered the packet of
material the captain had given her for reading. She had thrown it at Morton as
a weapon, but she had a memory of—

 
          
 
Hester got out of bed and padded through the
cold room to where the clothes she had worn during her adventure lay in a most
unseemly huddle on the floor. For she had not hung away or smoothed anything as
she got to bed the night before—her main anxiety at that time being not to
attract the attention of Mrs. Carruthers.

 
          
 
Yes, she was right, there was a bundle of
muddied papers thrust into the pocket of her skirt—where she had pushed them
even as Prothore had whirled her up and away. The outer sheets were soggy and
she peeled them free, throwing them into the fireplace where Dorry had not yet
lit the scant fire.

 
          
 
There were two at the core that were still
clean enough to be legible and those she eagerly spread out. Fortune certainly
smiled upon her, as one dealt with the work for women and children. Hurriedly
Hester ran a finger down one column of smudged print to the next. And, there it
was: The Haven—Mrs. Kirby.

 
          
 
Hester hurried to the better light of the
window, not stopping to light either candle or lamp, and read.

 
          
 
A haven, indeed.
Girls from ten to fourteen—and sometimes younger—taken from
homeless street wandering, protected from abusive parents, or orphans given
shelter and a chance for the future.
They were fed, clothed and housed,
taught housekeeping, the use of the needle, simple cooking, and then placed as
serving maids in safe and respectable houses. Not many could be so rescued, of
course. Hester surmised that Mrs. Kirby could hardly have managed more than the
scooping of a single drop from the sea of misery. But that it was being done at
all surely was a beginning.

 
          
 
She found words coming into her head, the
enthusiasm for writing a truly moving appeal combined with the explanation of
what was being done. For such a goodly cause there must be backing to be found
and backing could be raised by just such accounts as she was going to write.
So, Mr. Prothore, we shall see, we shall certainly see!

 
          
 
Of course all she had to write could not be
learned secondhand from the leaflet. She must go back to that house, brave
again what might lie in wait along those dreadful streets, meet with Mrs.
Kirby,
talk
with the girls. Hester clapped the top
closed on her inkwell, fitted her pen into the box, and sat for a moment
considering ways and means of doing just that. Without Fred's guidance she
would never find the way by herself. And to find Fred—he must have run at the appearance
of the police—would be almost as impossible.

 
          
 
The police . . . Hester considered them. But
her meeting with Inspector Newcomen had sorely shaken her belief in the police,
and Prothore's statement concerning their hostile connection with the Army was
an added warning. No, she dared not ask aid from the police. There remained
only the Army and she was still concerning over Captain Ellison.

 
          
 
Once more she went down the list of services
that appeared on the crumpled leaflet, and there she discovered an address that
seemed possible—that of a workroom set up where women could earn something of a
living doing coarse sewing.

 
          
 
There was also a note mentioning that the
workroom accepted castoff clothing—anything that could be used to help provide
for the completely indigent. She could appear there, perhaps as a lady's maid
or housemaid, inquiring for her mistress's benefit just what donations were
most needed . . . Hester nodded to herself. She drew her map of London from her
shabby writing case and began to study it carefully, starting with the portion
that she knew a little and striving to trace a way toward the address given in
the leaflet.

 
          
 
She could take one of the horse buses; she
would just have to use some of her sadly dwindling store of money for that
purpose.

 
          
 
Money—she had faced the lack of it all her
life. The household in
Canada
had been run sparsely and tightly on very
small sums. But at least she had not had to worry about a home or enough plain
food to keep her. What she had left was so very little! For one moment the
memory of Mr. Utterson crossed her mind.

 
          
 
She could not think of herself as Miss Jekyll.
Nor dare she weave any daydreams about a possible fortune, though she would
settle right now for a very meager competence, perhaps to be reckoned only in
shillings.

 
          
 
Miss Scrimshaw had not made any offers of
payment in advance and Hester felt that the editor would look very much askance
at any suggestion of such. No, she would have to gamble again on her own skill
with the pen. Sighing, she separated a couple of small coins and forced herself
to think that these would only be temporarily away from her purse.

 
          
 
What she had planned she determined to carry
through. And so after what seemed to her a very lengthy journey she arrived at
the decrepit old building that had been appropriated by the Army. The woman in
the outer room wore the blue jersey and the black bonnet of the corps, but
manifestly was of a far different type than the captain. Her speech was coarse
in tone, far from Mrs. Ellison's cultured voice, but she smiled when Hester
voiced her concern for the attack of the night before. After she asked about
the captain the woman became very cordial.

 
          
 
"Yes, ma'am.
She's right 'ere now. Come in." She switched open a panel of the counter
behind which she had been standing and ushered Hester, past baskets and boxes
heaped with tangles of what looked to be dirty and stained clothing, into an
inner room.

 
          
 
Two long tables ran the length of the room.
Benches on either side provided seating for a number of women, before each of
whom was placed a mug and a chipped plate on which rested a bun. Their work had
been laid to one side and the conversation was now rising louder by the moment.

 
          
 
Captain Ellison sat at the end of one table
overseeing a pair of very large jugs from which arose steam and the smell of
strong tea. She glanced up as Hester came in. There was a pad of bandage on the
captain's left temple and she did not wear her bonnet. However, when she saw
the girl she smiled and arose hurriedly to cross the room.

 
          
 
"My dear
Miss Lane
!"
Both of her hands reached out to seize
Hester's. "Then we did not lose your interest after all. That was a most
discouraging introduction to our work—"

 
          
 
Hester interrupted to ask about her hurt and
was assured that it was really very well cared for. Then in a rush—for she had
longed so all day to speak with someone about her plan she could no longer
control herself—Hester explained what had brought her there.

 
          
 
Captain Ellison led her to the top of the
table, and one of the seamstresses moved a little aside to give her room on the
bench, another swiftly supplied a mug of the steaming tea.

 
          
 
To Hester's surprise the captain did not seem
happily excited at her promise to write about Mrs. Kirby's establishment.
Instead she hesitated for a long moment while Hester sipped the rapidly cooling
tea, putting the mug down hurriedly, its bitterness very distasteful to her.

 
          
 
"My dear
Miss Lane
, what you propose has merit, but it must be
handled carefully. Many of the stories of the girls Gertrude Kirfly shelters
would be unbelievable to the gently reared ladies who read The British Lady. I
think you would be well advised to write generally and not attempt to use any
real stories. On the other hand, Gertrude's shelter, while not officially
connected with the Army, has done very much good and has already attracted
support from some who would perhaps not have given it directly to us. We are
not," she said, smiling a little lopsidedly because of the bandage,
"greatly liked or even recognized for good in many quarters, you know. For
example"—her smile was gone and instead there was a frown of righteous
anger on her face—"the police—those who themselves do not or will not
venture into sections where we go—are firmly against much we do—"

 
          
 
"Why?" demanded Hester.

 
          
 
"One of the worst curses for these
people, one that sends a man and his family into the deepest degradation and
poverty, is that of drink. Many of our Army
are
those
who have managed to tear themselves free from that blackness and now fight to
save others. There are on the other hand many in positions of authority, even
high authority, in this country whose personal fortunes are founded on the
selling of strong drink. They have no reason to wish that their incomes be
lessened. We continue to
fight,
they continue to
oppose us—first by inflaming those poor wretches who are already lost to drink.
And, because they can wield influence in many places, also by
the very force of the law, which is intended for the protection of all.
Major Wenthly is even now showing the secretary of a
member
of Parliament just how we are in battle. Unfortunately, the whole of our
difficulties cannot be made plain during one short visit and those who come are
sometimes already prejudiced against us. It is the thinking of such visitors
that is reflected often in the public print. And
even a
suggestion
of some of the other problems we face are never spoken about
in the world the readers of The British Lady inhabit."

 
          
 
"But surely the work with the girls
..." Hester was completely amazed at such a warning.

 
          
 
"Yes, that is of great value. And if you
handle your story well,
Miss Lane
, you might even attract some patrons for Mrs. Kirby's work. But do not
associate your account too strongly with the Army. Now, you wish to visit with
Mrs. Kirby and meet her girls. That can be arranged. Mattie—"

 
          
 
She raised her voice and one of the
seamstresses at the end of the table arose and bobbed her capped head in
answer.