Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (13 page)

 
          
 
"If we could but attract some
patrons," Mrs. Kirby said with a little sigh when they had returned to the
parlor. "There is a probability we could buy the house next door, give
more girls a chance. Oh, we have some very kind and charitable people who
remember us from time to time, but only three assist us regularly. Now that you
have seen our life,
Miss Lane
, do you think you can show it to others by the aid of your pen?"

 
          
 
"Oh, yes!" Hester's eagerness had
grown with every new project Mrs. Kirby had revealed. She could write such a
story as would bring the patrons Mrs. Kirby needed—certainly she could.

 
          
 
And back in her boarding house, write she did.
Perhaps this was far too long, she thought, troubled, as the sheets covered by
the careful penmanship her father had demanded piled up. But also perhaps Miss
Scrimshaw would find it of such importance that she would make two rather than
one article of it.

 
          
 
Her lamp had to be trimmed when she finished
and there were ink stains on her fingers, even one on her cheek where she had
brushed aside a wandering wisp of hair. She looked at her watch—it was a
quarter to
twelve
! Now she
realized that her back ached and her fingers had so stiffened around her pen
that she had to rub them. But the story was finished—all of it. And inside
herself she was certain that it was the best thing she had ever written.

 
          
 
She was still certain of that the following
morning when she gathered all her sheets of paper and folded them into an
improvised envelope she tied carefully together. And she hardly waited to choke
down her meager breakfast before she was off to the office of The British Lady.

 
          
 
Her manuscript was accepted with a gesture not
far from disdain by the ruler of the outer office and she was waved to the
bench while it was carried within. She waited, leaning forward in the hard seat.
The first flare of the enthusiasm that had been with her ebbed as
time
passed. Then there was the sharp ping of the bell from
the inner room. The woman at the outer desk answered it and reappeared to
motion to Hester. She was smiling sourly as she watched the girl pass into Miss
Scrimshaw's private sanctuary.

 
          
 
"So ..." The editor of The British
Lady had leaned back in her chair to stare at Hester as if the girl were as
strange and unpleasant a sight as some Hester herself had seen on her ventures
into that other London. The sheets she had brought in were no longer in a neat
pile—several had been crumpled as with a very angry hand and at least two had
been torn across. "What do you mean by bringing this—and expecting a
respectable publication to even consider it?"

 
          
 
There was flaming anger in Miss Scrimshaw's
voice. Her broad countenance was fast turning a dusky red and her eyes bored
into Hester as though she were something as dirty as the street.

 
          
 
"Muck!
Miss
Scrimshaw's beringed hand turned into a fist and she brought it down with
punishing vigor on the remains of the manuscript.
"Filth!"

 
          
 
As Miss Scrimshaw's fist came down, Hester
felt her temper rise.

 
          
 
Somehow she managed to control the level of
her voice, but not the words that came unbidden from her tongue. "You call
this muck? All I have set down is simple truth. If what I wrote is filth, it's
because what I saw was filthy. I think it high time your readers' eyes were
opened—"

 
          
 
Again Agatha Scrimshaw's fist slammed down on
the desktop; this time as interruption rather than indictment.

 
          
 
"That's enough, gel!" Apparently her
anger had ebbed as Hester's flowed, and she spoke firmly but without
ill-temper. "D'ye
take
me for an utter fool? I'm
far from blind to reality, and far more willing to face it than most. But it's
my readers whose opinions I echo. One look at this rubbish and they'll call for
their smelling salts; a second look and they'll cancel their
subscriptions."

           
 
Hester leaned forward. "But at least they
would be given the opportunity to see."

 
          
 
"And so might you, gel.
An opportunity to see the inside of a British gaol."

 
          
 
"Surely you're not serious?"

 
          
 
"This is." Miss Scrimshaw tapped the
tattered sheets on the desk before her. "The implication that Mr. Morton
intended to sell his own daughter is highly distasteful. Worse still, since you
possess and present no proof of this allegation, it could lead to a suit for
libel."

 
          
 
"But gaol . . . ?"

 
          
 
"My apologies,
Miss Lane
.
Since you speak our language, I tend to
forget your foreign origin. But it would seem to me that even in the wilds of
Canada
the exploits of W. T. Stead would not be
altogether unknown."

 
          
 
Hester shook her head. "I have never
heard that name. Was he someone like Sallie Morton's father?"

 
          
 
For a moment there actually seemed to be a
gleam of mirth in Agatha Scrimshaw's eyes; if so, it was quickly suppressed.
"Quite the opposite.
Mr. Stead was interested in
buying, not selling."

 
          
 
"I understand. You are speaking of what
they call a procurer."

 
          
 
"Stead was called far worse before they
finished with him." Again the glint of mirth in Miss Scrimshaw's eyes, but
there was no hint of it in her voice. "Actually, Stead was a member of my
profession, the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, no less. A highly successful
journal, which, aided by proper puffery, he hoped might soar even higher. To
this end he sought to prove his contention that a young girl,
virgo
intacto, could be purchased here in
London
for as little as five guineas.

 
          
 
"I shall spare you the sordid details;
suffice to say that he made good on his word but only ill came from it in the
end. Even the Booth family—yes, I speak of the Salvation Army leadership—became
involved in the lawsuit that followed.

 
          
 
But it was Stead himself who was convicted and
imprisoned two years ago. Granted, the sentence was short and served in
comparative comfort, but I have no desire to follow his example. I much prefer
remaining here in my private dungeon, with my own dragon to guard it."

 
          
 
Hester spoke quickly. "I had no
idea—"

 
          
 
"I fear quite the opposite," Agatha
Scrimshaw said. "You have far too many
ideas,
and
all of 'em wrong." Her sigh was sonorous. "That nephew of mine is an
insufferable prig, and a bore to boot, but for once in his life Albert was
right. I had no business entrusting you with a mission you were incapable of
performing."

 
          
 
"But I can perform it," Hester told
her, "now that I understand your requirements."

 
          
 
Once again choler was coloring Miss
Scrimshaw's cheeks. "You understand nothing," she replied, "And
my only requirement is that you remove yourself and your—your offensive
material from these premises." Pudgy hands scrabbled with the torn and
crumpled litter of sheets on the desktop before her.

 
          
 
Before it could be gathered and proffered,
Hester rose, shaking her head. "Please do not trouble yourself. I have no
further need of these pages, thank you." She turned on her heel to avert
the likelihood that her expression might reveal what her words strove to conceal.
"Good day, Miss Scrimshaw. I appreciate your consideration."

 
          
 
Then she was over the threshold, forestalling
the possibility of a reply. Ignoring the baleful glance of the dragon guarding
the editorial dungeon, she hastened her footsteps; only upon reaching the
street did the energy of her anger ebb.

 
          
 
The chill that numbed her came not from
autumnal air but from within. Indeed, there was more than a hint of sunlight
shafting its way through the scattering of clouds above. But now that same
sunshine offered no solace. Not from the chill within, nor from the muck and
filth of the streets surrounding her.

 
          
 
Muck and filth.
That's what Miss Scrimshaw thought of the work in which she had taken such
pride. Verbal rejection was enough of a burden to bear without the added
indignity of physical attack upon the manuscript itself. What gave that
woman—that ogress—the right to destroy another's property, and with it,
another's dignity as well?

 
          
 
The question echoed as Hester elbowed her way
through crowded streets, together with the recollection of Miss Scrimshaw's
answer. The facts were clear enough; publishing an article such as hers
entailed the risk of litigation and, if one
were
judged guilty, of fine and imprisonment. What Hester found unclear was the
intensity of Miss Scrimshaw's anger and vituperation.
Unless,
of course, the childish outburst masked a fear of endangering herself and the
prestige of her position.

 
          
 
Muck and filth.
Was
her work really that bad?

 
          
 
But she hadn't said that. All of her temper
tantrum, all of her name-calling, had been directed at the content of the
article, the subject matter rather than the style.

 
          
 
Now she reexamined the elements of Miss
Scrimshaw's anger in a new light. As an editor she had requested Hester to
attend and report upon a meeting of the Salvation Army. It had been Hester's
own decision to ignore that request in favor of writing something entirely
different, something that might offend its readers and carry with it the
additional risk of an action for libel. Given her temperament, Agatha
Scrimshaw's actions and reactions seemed less extreme in this context. Face up
to it, Hester told
herself
, it was your own lack of
judgment that brought you to this pass. ^Could she better that judgment now to
redeem herself?

 
          
 
By the time she reached her room the question
seemed academic. Given her present plight, it was worth the attempt, for she
had nothing to lose.

 
          
 
Pen sharpened and resolve steeled, Hester
busied herself with setting down notes and observations pertinent to the street
meeting
she
and Captain Ellison had attended the other
evening before their hasty departure. If only she had remained to witness the
arrival of the police! Then indeed she would have a story to tell, an account
of an actual event with which Miss Scrimshaw could find no grounds for
complaint.

 
          
 
Hester sighed and put down her pen. The irony
of the other night's decision was not lost upon her. Yet she admitted that even
if she had possessed foreknowledge of the consequences, her choice would have
remained the same. Saving that unfortunate child was of far greater importance
than losing a journalistic assignment. And if Agatha Scrimshaw and the readers
of her periodical couldn't see as much, then their lorgnettes were sadly in
need of polishing.

 
          
 
Hester sniffed, both in
acknowledgment
of the cold enveloping the room and in reproof of her own self-righteousness. A
holier-than-thou attitude was not going to help her compose the article she had
in mind, nor would the skimpy notes she'd set down here. Descriptions of band
instruments and uniforms were all very well, but scarcely enough to warrant
notice in the pages of The British Lady.

 
          
 
Hester recalled what Captain Ellison said
about the large Army indoor meetings at various halls located in and around
London
. She had mentioned that prayer meetings
were held daily at
noon
in the headquarters of the Salvation Army
itself. Recently, evening meetings had been added as well, featuring
appearances by high-ranking members of the Army or the more prominent amongst
their supporters. As a matter of fact, it was precisely that sort Hester had
anticipated attending, until Captain Ellison led her down the garden path with
her talk of first becoming familiar with street gatherings.

 
          
 
Now there was no reason to be put off from her
purpose. She could still attend such a meeting tomorrow
noon
, or for that matter, this very evening.
Yes, tonight would be by far the better choice, given the likelihood of larger
crowds and more important speakers. Hester rose and crossed to the window,
peering at the prospect beyond. Sunlight had been usurped by shadow, but there
seemed no indication of oncoming fog at the moment; the same shabby attire she
had donned the other evening would probably suffice to protect her, both
against cold and unwelcome attention.

 
          
 
Unfortunately, her problems stretched far
beyond the mere matter of dress; they extended all the way to
101 Queen Victoria Street
.

 
          
 
Knowing the address of the Salvation Army's
headquarters was one thing, but reaching it was quite another. By now Hester
had managed to ascertain the cab rates here within the city—the cost of
traveling by hansom was a shilling for the first three miles and sixpence for
each mile thereafter. Omnibus fares might entail up to sixpence each way;
Hester was not certain of the exact amount. But she didn't feel up to making
another lengthy journey on foot.

 
          
 
Once again Hester had recourse to her map of
London
. How many times had she consulted it
before? And how many times had she failed to notice what she now observed?
There, plain as day even in this dimming twilight, were the tiny scattered
black squares marking the individual sites of Underground stations.

 
          
 
Bringing light to her aid, Hester managed to
locate a station only a few squares distant from Mrs. Carruthers's
establishment. And yes, there was a Mansion House station close to
Queen Victoria Street
itself.

 
          
 
Hester waited patiently for high tea—she vowed
not to be cheated out of what little additional nourishment it offered— then
found an opportunity to have a word with Dorry. And it was the maid who
furnished her with the information she required; the welcome word that travel
by Underground cost only tuppence.