The Jekyll Legacy

  "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.

  Fortune favored her further in that Mrs. Carruthers was presently absent from the premises, having presumably elected to spend the night with a married daughter in the distant wilds of Richmond. Her landlady's absence obviated the necessity of Hester inventing an excuse for her own excursion or the clothing she intended to wear for both comfort and protective coloration.

  The only obstacle that remained to be surmounted was the one to which she descended—the Underground itself. Hester had never given thought to nor set eyes upon this marvelous yet menacing miracle of modern engineering. But she gave quite a bit of thought to it once she set foot in the tunnel beneath the teeming streets. Thanks to her shabby outfit no one paid particular heed, but she observed others closely in order to emulate their progress from stairwell to platform to train.

  It was there, and amidst the rush and roar of the journey that followed, that Hester again reminded herself that what she had longed for had come to pass; she really was in London. Not only in, but under, hurtling through howling darkness along with the company of clerks, costers, students, soldiers en route to the Tower, shopkeepers wearing bowlers. There were only a few females, most of them boasting less shabby outfits than her own. Apparently, as was the case with the omnibuses, a silent covenant conferred immunity from unwelcome masculine attentions while traveling via Underground. Had these same women ventured to traverse the streets above as lone pedestrians, they would easily have risked being accosted.

  Certainly, despit
e the startlement resulting from sound and motion, this mode of transport was infinitely more preferable. Of course, members of the gentry would eschew the sooty, odorous Underground completely; glancing around, Hester decided there were no subscribers to The British Lady aboard. Ladies did not travel unaccompanied at night, even by private carriage here in London.

  Here in London, What would Father have to say about that? Hester mused. He, who had so shielded her from the present-day pitfalls of the world, had himself been imprisoned in the past. What his personal past may have consisted of still remained a mystery; but whether he began life in London as Lane or Jekyll, he had left it long ago. He would never have ridden the Underground, for at the time of his departure it did not exist, nor for that matter was there a Salvation Army. But there was now, and after a noisy and jolting arrival at Mansion House Station, Hester emerged upon the street and consulted her mental map before starting off toward the organization's headquarters.

  Lights were brighter and vehicular traffic more abundant here; passersby better dressed and more mannerly. Were they not, Hester was confident that her present appearance would still be such as to put off mashers. As it was, she gave only a portion of her attention to her surroundings, for a portion of her mind still busied itself with thoughts of Father. What would he think of his dutiful—and deliberately downtrodden—daughter if he could have seen her clad in this unseemly fashion as she ran her risky errand the other evening? What would he say to her repeating the masquerade tonight? How might he respond to the gibes of Miss Agatha Scrimshaw?

  The mere notion brought a smile to Hester's face. Then, as she rounded the corner into Queen Victoria Street, there was no opportunity for further fancy. Her destination rose before her.

  Hester had scarcely expected the headquarters to be quite that impressive. Located across from the British and Foreign Bible Society, the building at 101 Queen Victoria Street had formerly been the property of a billiard club. Since its acquisition by the Salvation Army, an adjoining unit had been given over to a Uniform and Book Department, but the larger five-story structure housed a ground-floor meeting hall and a variety of offices above.

  If the sight of the headquarters' exterior was a surprise, its interior held others yet to come. The first proved to be the j paucity of attendees straggling alone or in pairs as Hester I entered the edifice. There was nothing remarkable about those she observed; in the main they represented much the same types as had her fellow travelers on the Underground. It was just that somehow she had anticipated being part of a larger turnout. Her second surprise came upon glancing upward at the large wall clock in the outer corridor just before the stairway which rose to the floor above. The time was scarce past seven-thirty. She had not reckoned with the swiftness of her passage here. But her unexpectedly early arrival did account for why there were as yet so few others moving along toward the entrance to the meeting hall beyond.

  Thus, minor surprises easily gave way to simple explanations. But now as Hester set off down the corridor she was startled by the sound of a voice from above.

  "Miss Lane—!"

  The sudden greeting echoed from above and its source, now descending the stairway, was another surprise; this one explicable only as coincidence. Hester recognized Captain Ellison and returned her smile as she approached.

  Tonight the lady was in full uniform and, as Hester was pleased to observe, looked little the worse for wear despite the telltale evidence of recent contusion that remained. "What a pleasure to welcome you here," the captain said. "But why did you not inform me of your coming?"

  "It was a last-minute decision," Hester told her.

  Captain Ellison nodded. "I'm delighted to see you. Miss Kirby has already told me of your visit. She was most pleased by your interest."

  "Will she be attending tonight?"

  "I think not. You must remember she serves as a volunteer rather than an enlistee in our ranks. And as I'm sure you noted, there is overmuch to command her energies." Captain Ellison had consulted the wall clock while speaking. "It is customary to convene our meetings at ten past the hour, to ensure sufficient time for latecomers to be seated. If you're willing to undertake the stairs, I would afford you at least a fleeting glimpse of our premises."

  Hester was willing, the stairs were undertaken, and the resultant glimpses—though fleeting, indeed—proved rewarding. Hester had not been prepared for the degree to which the Salvation Army was organized, or the broad scope of its activities. Even at this hour many of the offices on the upper floors were still occupied; she remarked upon the fact that work was apparently continued around the clock.

  "And around the world," said Captain Ellison. "We are establishing a foothold internationally as quickly as funds permit and our training centers increase the ranks. But it is from here most activities are directed, including publication of prayer books and song sheets."

  Standing now in a large office on the top story, Hester glanced at the half-dozen uniformed figures huddled over individual desks. "These people seem truly dedicated," she said.

  The captain smiled. "It takes a great deal of dedication to write material for our newspaper, The War Cry, and then run back and forth with it between here and our printing presses in the basement."

  These last words were uttered against a musical counterpoint emanating from below. She paused, then nodded quickly. "The program is starting. We'd best be on our way."

  Their descent terminated, they made their progress along the ground-floor corridor to the large meeting hall beyond the entranceway. Here another surprise awaited Hester, the place had now been filled almost to capacity. Captain Ellison spied and escorted her to an unoccupied seat at the end of the very last row.

  "I trust you will be comfortable here," she said.

  "Yes, thank you. But I was hoping you'd join me."

  "Perhaps later, once my duties upstairs permit."

  The captain moved away, leaving Hester to survey her surroundings. The auditorium's stage was broad, its illumination bright, its orchestra pit commodious. The assemblage of musicians occupying this area more than tripled the number she'd seen—and heard—on the street the other evening. They were, in addition, better uniformed and far more accomplished performers. Hester did not recognize the melody they were playing, but the militant overtones issuing from the brass section identified the selection as a Salvation Army hymn.

  Transferring her gaze to the audience, Hester beheld an unusual sight. The early arrivals she had noted were predominantly female and almost entirely members of the working class. But during the interval she had spent upstairs, their ranks had been swelled by a sizable number of more prosperous citizens. None, she fancied, would necessarily be numbered amongst Lady Ames's acquaintances, but dress and decorum indicated a status far superior to their surroundings. And it was indeed curious to see gentility seated cheek by jowl with those who could easily pass as their household servants.

  For a moment Hester felt a twinge of regret over her own choice of garments; no need to play the slattern here. Then her pang passed as she reminded herself that the majority of the well-dressed women in this audience must have come by cab or carriage, accompanied by male escorts. No, she had good reason to wear what she did, and in the end it was a matter of little consequence. What really mattered was her reason for being here.

  ". . . And now, without further ado, our chief of staff, William Bramwell Booth."

  Hester blinked. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she had observed nothing of what had been going on once the music ceased. The jaunty little woman wearing her regulation uniform and bonnet stood center-stage, already concluding an introduction. Now, as she glanced to her right, an imposing figure advanced toward her to the accompaniment of applause from the audience.

  So this was Bramwell Booth! Hester had not expected the son of the Army's founder to be so imposing a figure. But the bearded man had the flashing eyes and imperious presence of one born to command.

  Now it was his voice that com
manded. His subject was the plight of the homeless, and as he spoke Hester matched his words with her own recollections of what she had seen the other evening.

  "When I journey afield in the service of the Army, residents of small communities often greet me with questions concerning our problems here in London.

  " ‘Is it true,' they ask, 'that people actually live there in the street?'

  "'Some live,' I tell them, 'and some die.'"

  Bramwell Booth nodded. "We are told that the East End alone harbors a population of close to a million. A hundred thousand or more have no fixed abode. Is it then surprising that many of them perish?

  "As some of you doubtless know, there are lodging houses offering shelter to both men and women, provided they can pay. Some have a common kitchen to which food can be brought and prepared, though few can afford such luxury. The usual price of a bed for a night is eightpence for double, fourpence for single, tuppence for the rope."

  Scattered murmurs rose from the audience, and Booth nodded quickly. "There may be fifty or more beds situated in one large room. For those who cannot afford to rent one, a rope is stretched across the end of the room to lean upon and sleep in a standing position. Provided the unfortunate can sustain the expense of such a privilege."

  Again the murmur, which, Hester now observed, came from the more fashionably attired members of the audience.

  Local residents seemed already well acquainted with the hard facts of hard lives, facts that Bramwell Booth was offering now.

  ". . . All life is hard here. Merely to exist in these surroundings is something of a miracle. More than half of the children born in the East End are dead before they reach five years of age. If you could but see the filth and foulness within the walls of those tottering tenements—where often a dozen or more poor souls of both sexes and all ages are penned together, living in the same single room."

  Booth paused, nodding. "I am well aware that some of you have seen such sights, and if so, there is no necessity for me to discourse further upon examples of misery and distress. But those who have come here this evening for a first visit—whether stirred by charitable inclination or mere idle curiosity—I say to you, the time is upon us. The time to march forward, to march swiftly, to march victoriously against the foe. Hunger, illness, the ignorance of youth and the infirmities of age, these are mortal adversaries, aided by their tireless allies whose names are Avarice and Corruption. But the greatest enemy of all is Indifference."