Norton, Andre - Novel 39

by The Jekyll Legacy (v1. 0)

  Fists ceased to hammer as the big man turned, staring down from the stoop. When his red-rimmed eyes focused on the woman below, his stare became a glare.

  "'Oo the 'ell are you?"

  "Captain Ellison of the Salvation Army." She peered up at the burly figure. "Are you Mr. Morton?"

  "Jus' plain 'Sid' will do me. Naht to say it's any o' yer bloody business."

  Beside her his mates greeted Morton's response with alcoholic appreciation, but the captain didn't share their laughter. "I fear it is my business," she replied. "You are committing a public disturbance on private property. I happen to know that this is the residence of Mrs. Gertrude Kirby."

  "Is it, now?" The big man put his hands on his hips. "An' I 'appens ter know Mrs.-bloody-Kirby 'as me daughrter Sal-lie 'id away someplace inside."

  "I assure you Sallie will come to no harm in her care." The captain's voice was level. "Indeed, she was taken into custody to ensure her safety."

  "Never you mind 'er safety!" The big man's hands left his hips and balled into fists. "I'm 'er father. I 'ave me rights."

  "The right to abuse her body? The right to sell her in white slavery?"

  "Yer a bloody liar!" Now the glaring eyes were directed at the figures of Sid Morton's companions. "'Oo's been blab-bin'?"

  Both of his mates shook their heads in vigorous denial.

  As Hester watched she was conscious that other heads were present, silhouetted against the light as they peered from the windows and doorways of dwellings surrounding the Kirby home. But while others watched, none ventured to move. It was only Captain Ellison who started forward.

  "For the last time," she said, "I demand that you desist."

  "Demand, is it?" As the bonneted woman started to mount the stoop, the big man's fists rose. "Stand clear 'o me, yah bleedin' cow!"

  For a moment it seemed to Hester that time stood still and that what she perceived was a picture fixed forever within its frame. Now she noted particulars that had escaped previous attention; although drapes had been drawn, those covering the first-story windows above were slightly parted, so as to reveal the presence of watchers within. Hester had a fleeting impression of eyes widened in terror, half-opened mouths ovaled in anxiety. At the same instant she was conscious of color; the play of light and shadow against the burly man's contorted countenance, the raw redness of his knuckled fist upraised to strike.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the moment passed, and the fist started to descend. Now everything was happening at once as though time moved at a gallop in compensation for its momentary standstill.

  The fist swung down, Captain Ellison swerved to dodge the blow, Hester tore free of Fred's restraining grasp. The big man bawled a curse, Captain Ellison stood her ground, and ignoring Fred's frantic cry of warning, Hester ran forward across the pavement.

  Again the captain moved, but not in time to avoid the glancing impact of the fist, which sent her reeling back, bonnet askew. A growl emerged from deep within Sid Morton's throat, the growl of a beast aroused by the sight of blood. He started down the steps, right arm rising to swing and strike again.

  Captain Ellison neither fled nor flinched, but her lips moved in a murmur. "May the Lord have mercy—"

  Whatever the Lord's intentions may have been, Hester felt no mercy in her heart. But there was strength in her stride as she came abreast of the captain, strength in her own arm as she raised it, gripping the wrapped parcel to strike the big man across the side of his face.

  His grimace and outcry were more the product of astonishment than of pain. "Scuzzy slut!" He started forward again, both fists balled. "I'll learn yeh—"

  But his words were scarcely audible amidst the sudden surge of sound from opposite ends of the street beyond; hooves from the right, running footsteps from the left. The latter was by far the louder, and now the big man's mates sought and saw its source.

  "Run fer it, Sid!" the coster shouted. "'Ere come the rozzers!"

  Turning to the right, he set a good example that his leather-aproned companion lost no time in following. Sid Morton hesitated, head cocked left. The thud of feet grew louder as a half-dozen uniformed City constables appeared, helmets bobbing as they ran.

  Sid Morton too invoked the Lord. "Jesus!" he muttered. Without so much as a further glance at the two women, he darted after his chums.

  Hester moved to Captain Ellison's side, peering at her solicitously. "Has he hurt you?"

  "No harm done." The captain adjusted her bonnet. Her lips moved but Hester heard no sound.

  Then a hand closed about her left arm.

  Surprised at the touch, Hester was even more startled as she glanced up into the face of Albert Prothore.

  His lips too were moving, and now she heard as he tipped his hat to Captain Ellison and addressed her.

  "I am taking Miss Lane to her lodgings,” he said. "If you wish to be escorted elsewhere—"

  The captain shook her head. "No, thank you. I shall be quite all right." She turned, light fanning her from the doorway, which was opening above and behind her. "You see? We'll be admitted to the house now that the bullies are gone." She started forward. "Perhaps you'd join me—"

  Hester's lips parted, but before she could reply, her unexpected companion spoke for her. "I'm sorry. The cab is waiting."

  Albert Prothore's grip was surprisingly strong; it tightened as he swung Hester around and guided her toward the hansom at the curb.

  Now she understood why she had heard hoofbeats; what she did not understand was the reason for young Mr. Prothore's timely appearance.

  There was no opportunity to reflect upon it at the moment. Prothore bustled her quickly into the cab, shouted to the cabby, then climbed in and closed the door as they started off. Hester had only time for a hasty glance as they pulled away, assuring herself that Captain Ellison had entered the house, its door closing behind her.

  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.

  Chapter 9

  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."