THE new shop which bore the name of Miss Beatrice Bell stood so far up
the Kingsland Road, beyond the canal, that you might have said it was in
Dalston, and none would have dared offer contradiction. A happy
situation, in that the shop found itself able to at once keep touch with
the superior classes of Hoxton and with the middle classes of Dalston; a
distinction being made in the two windows, so that Hoxton lady clients on
entering turned instinctively to the left counter, whilst those from
Dalston turned to the right. Beatrice Bell, grown to a tall,
self-possessed young woman, still in slight mourning for her mother, had
the nightly companionship of little Miss Threepenny, and assistance by
day from the perky ’Tilderann, whose enthusiasm for the business was
equalled by her intolerance of anything likely to interfere with
achievement of these ends; her mistress’s habit of buying evening
newspapers whenever the placards shouted anything about the Delar
expedition, of making customers wait while she read the telegraphic
accounts nervously, constituted a weakness that made ’Tilderann groan.
But for these occasional lapses Beatrice Bell had become a shrewd,
business-like woman, not only reaching the high standard set by her
assistant, but sometimes exceeding it, and extorting from that young
woman gracious compliment. It was indeed worth watching to see and hear
Miss Bell deal with some lady of Hoxton who having ideas of her own in
regard to a new hat, insisted upon explaining them in detail. The young
proprietress of the establishment would listen with perfect calm whilst
the client described the kind of hat which represented her heart’s
desire; when she had finished, Miss Bell would say icily, “I quite
understand what you mean, but,” here a slight shrug of the shoulders,
“they are no longer worn.” Upon which the lady customer could only
ejaculate a confused and abashed “Ho!” and request that something that
was being worn should be taken from the window and exhibited to her.
Beatrice Bell, her hands clasped behind her, taking the air at the
doorway of her shop, and bowing to acquaintances in the swift crowd of
young women hurrying northward to their tea, glanced up and down the busy
road with its sailing trams and jerking ’buses. The hour was seven; the
sky still light with a juvenile moon that seemed, with the impatience of
youth, to have come out too early. Dashing young blades of shopkeepers
also taking the air at their doorways, caught sight of the white-speckled
blouse, and bowed to her, and noting with pain her distant
acknowledgment, declared to each other that Miss Bell would stand an
infinitely better chance of getting married were she less reserved in
manner, a drawback which had already cheated her of more than one
invitation to Epping Forest on early-closing day. “For,” said Mr.
Libbis, the tobacconist, to his friend at the second-hand shop, “she may
be as ’aughty as she likes, but after all, mind you, she’s only a girl.”
Opposite, a boy pasted on the boards outside the newspaper shop a new
placard: “Brave conduct at Delar.” She ran across the road to buy a copy
of the newspaper; before she returned a customer came to the Hoxton side
of the shop demanding something stylish at one-and-eleven. ’Tilderann
fenced with her pending the return of her mistress.
“It occurred to me, looking in the glass,” said the woman confidentially,
“that I wanted smartenin’ up. It may be only me fancy, but it struck me
I was beginning to look old. What d’you think?”
“Depends what you call old,” replied ’Tilderann. “Sure you can’t run to
more than one-and-eleven?”
“Eight year ago, or a trifle more,” said the woman, reminiscently, “I was
as light-’earted a young woman as you’d ’ave found in all ’Oxton, if
you’d searched for a month. I was really the rarest one for making jokes
that you ever ’eard of before my ’usband, Bat Miller, had to go away.”
“Emigrated?” asked ’Tilderann, glancing between the hats and bonnets for
her mistress.
“He were away,” said Mrs. Miller, evasively, “for a matter of four or
five year. And when I went to meet him, believe me or not, he was as
stand-offish in his manner as he could he.”
“That’s like ’em,” said ’Tilderann. “These bonnets at four-and-three are
all the go just now.”
“Quite ’igh and mighty if you please,” went on Mrs. Miller aggrievedly.
“And I firmly believe that if I hadn’t had on my best mantle he’d have
gone off again, goodness knows where. As it was, I persuaded him to
settle down, and we’ve got on as well as can be expected; only that now
and again, when we have a few words, he says something very satirical
about the old days in Ely Place.”
“Here she is!” said ’Tilderann. “Come on, Miss! ’Ere’s a customer been
waiting for howers.”
“Sorry,” remarked Beatrice Bell, panting. Her pretty face was crimson
with excitement; she hugged a pink halfpenny journal to her breast.
“Something at about one-and-eleven, Miss,” said Mrs. Miller respectfully.
“Not too quiet and not too loud, and something that’ll suit my features.”
Miss Bell, trembling oddly, went up the wooden steps and brought down a
box containing black hats.
“Anything special, Miss, in the evening paper?” asked Mrs. Bat Miller
ingratiatingly.
“Yes,” said Beatrice, panting.
“I of’en ’ave a look at the playcards,” said Mrs. Miller; “they give me
about as much information as I want. Are these the newest shape in this
box?”
“Look at the corner of the box,” said Miss Bell, endeavouring to regain
her usual composure. “That’ll tell you, ‘Chapeaux de Paris.’”
“Sounds all right,” agreed Mrs. Miller. “I was saying to your young lady
here that I’ve been making up my mind to take more trouble about me
personal appearance. Otherwise, it’s likely enough Miller’ll be getting
tired of me again, and then there’ll be more trouble. How would you
advise me to have this trimmed, Miss, if it isn’t troubling you too
much?”
Beatrice Bell gave advice in a hurried way as though pressed with more
urgent affairs, and anxious to see her customer depart. Mrs. Miller did
go, after reciting some more of her personal history; when she had gone
Miss Bell took the evening paper from her waistbelt and sat down behind
the counter. She had scarcely done so when the bell of the door rang and
a tall young woman came in, dressed in a tailor-made costume, which
caused ’Tilderann to gasp with admiration.
“Will you,” she said pleasantly to that amazed girl, “give the driver
this half-crown and tell him not to wait?” She turned brightly to the
young proprietress. “You are Miss Bell, are you not? My name is Mrs.
Myddleton West.”
“One moment,” said Miss Bell trembling, “till the girl comes back, and
we’ll go into the shop parlour.”
“You have read the evening paper I see.”
“I’ve got it certainly, ma’am,” replied the agitated young woman, “but as
to reading it, why my eyes get so full the moment I begin that I can’t
get on with it very fast.”
“I have a letter from my dear husband,” said Mrs. Myddleton West proudly,
“from my dear husband giving fuller particulars.”
“And you’ve come straight here?”
’Tilderann returning, flushed with victory because she had compounded
with the cabman for two shillings and two pence, and therefore able to
refund the sum of fourpence, was commanded to look after the shop, and
Miss Bell conducted her visitor into the small room at the back.
’Tilderann, noting with regret that the door closed carefully, found
compensation in serving across the counter imaginary bonnets to imaginary
wives of society millionaires at the price of fifty guineas per bonnet.
“Is this Robert Lancaster?” asked Mrs. West in her pleasant way. She
took up a photograph of a brown-faced sailor lad, clean shaven, with a
humorous mouth and bare neck.
“That’s my Bobbie,” said Beatrice Bell with pride. “Won’t you take the
easy chair, ma’am? It’s been quite a lovely summer, hasn’t it? I
suppose we shall soon have autumn upon us if we’re not careful, and—Oh,”
she cried, interrupting herself. “What is the use of me pretending to be
calm when I’m all of a tremble!”
“Now you must sit down,” this with a kindly authoritativeness, “sit down
here close to me, and I am going to read to you the letter from my
husband, which arrived only this evening.”
“From Delar?” asked the girl, seating herself obediently on a hassock.
“From Delar.”
“How could you let your husband go away, ma’am?”
“I don’t think I can,” said Mrs. West, “again.” She found the letter and
took the thin sheets carefully from the envelope. “But I felt that I
ought not to be selfish all through my life.”
“Weren’t you the sister who looked after Bobbie in the hospital, ma’am?”
Mrs. West nodded and smoothed out the sheets of note paper. “I wasn’t
quite sure whether Mr. West wouldn’t go and marry some one else,
considering—I s’pose I’ve no business to say so—but considering the way
you kept putting him off.”
“I took care,” said Mrs. Myddleton West quickly, “that he should not do
anything so absurd. Shall I begin the letter?”
“If you please, ma’am,” said Beatrice Bell, looking up respectfully.
Mrs. Myddleton West commenced.
“My dearest, ever dearest,” she stopped. “I don’t think I need trouble
you with the first page at all,” she said with some confusion.
“I know what you mean, ma’am. Start where he begins to speak of Bobbie.”
It appeared that Bobbie came in about the middle of the second sheet.
The war correspondent out at Delar had intuitively written on one side of
the paper only, and Trixie Bell noted this deplorable want of economy,
but West’s small handwriting managed to convey a good long letter.
“You remember our young friend Bobbie Lancaster. The lad, now a sailor
attached to H.M.S. _Pompous_, is on the launch where I am writing, and he
did this afternoon an act of quiet bravery which ought, I think, to make
his country feel that the trouble it took to make a man of him was not
wasted. I am sending an account of the incident to my journal by the
post which takes this letter to you, but you will care to have fuller
particulars. How I wish that the mail were also taking me to the arms—”
“That,” said Mrs. West, “is, of course, merely by the way.”
“Skip a few lines,” suggested Trixie, her chin resting upon her hands,
“but don’t leave out more than you’re obliged.”
The trail of the story was re-discovered.
“But touching Lancaster! We left H.M.S. _Pompous_ and steamed up a broad
smelly river, bordered by mangrove trees with long weeping branches, and
approached the town of Delar. Delar is nothing like a town, but a mere
collection of whitewashed huts around a large circular hut, where that
genial person, the king of Delar, has hitherto lived. It was in this
central hut that he caused to be massacred the Englishmen who, at his
request, came some months since to confer with him on the subject of
trade; our expedition is, as you know, intended to prove to him that such
tactics are not only unbusinesslike, but positively rude. This lesson
will be taught him by our marines when they land to-morrow, and I have
little doubt but that they will do it effectively. I was talking to the
Intelligence Officer when Lancaster came up hurriedly, and, saluting,
said that the Admiral wished to see the other officer at once. The
Intelligence man hurried below, and Lancaster and I had two minutes’
chat. He has grown a fine strong fellow, with honesty in both eyes, and
muscular arms tattooed with the word ‘Trix.’”
“The dear boy!” burst out Miss Bell.
“We talked of the old days, and he said that he only cared to think of
Hoxton now because his sweetheart lived there.”
“You might read that part again, ma’am.”
“He talked of the old days, and he said that he only cared to think of
Hoxton now because his sweetheart lived there.”
The girl gasped.
“Fancy his talking about me,” she said delightedly, “all that distance
off. Go on, ma’am.”
“Whilst we were talking, commotion began on shore. Men were running up
and down; boats were launched, the Intelligence Officer and the Admiral,
escorted by four marines and four sailors, prepared to leave. Some
whistling and giving of orders; the steamer slowed and stopped. The
Admiral, I may tell you, is a big-bearded fellow, daring, and very
popular with the officers and the men, but on board the _Pompous_, just
before we left, there had been general agreement that he had done a risky
and almost a foolhardy thing in agreeing to a palaver with some of the
king’s supporters. The officers knew that his idea was to punish the
king and the king only; whereas the officers desired to punish everybody.
If you had seen the mutilated body of an English gentleman bound upon
what is called a crucifixion tree near the king’s hut, I think, dear, you
would have agreed with the officers.
“Not being allowed to go on shore, I give most of the rest as recounted
to me by my friend the Intelligence Officer. The Admiral and his escort
descended into the boats and were rowed ashore by the natives; Robert
Lancaster was one of the bluejackets. At the shore they were received
with great courtesy by the king’s chief ministers; the king, as we knew,
had scuttled off inland on receiving news of our approach. With
exceeding ceremony the Admiral and his escort found themselves conducted
to the king’s compound, the while on the launch our Maxim stood ready to
rake the town on the least sign of treachery. At each door of the king’s
house lay a woman’s dead body. This, it was explained, had been done to
prevent the arrival of the English; a precaution on the part of the king
that had proved singularly unsuccessful. In the palaver house, a long
half-roofed building with a bronze serpent at the entrance, and inside,
seats of dry red mud, the Admiral took up position, and through the
interpreter addressed the chiefs; Robert Lancaster being, as I am told,
one of the men stationed behind the Admiral and his officers. Standing
at a rough table the Admiral said that the great White Queen was angry
because of the infamous massacre of her children; as a good mother she
had determined to avenge their murder. But though the great White Queen
was powerful, she was also just, she wished to punish only those
responsible. Wherefore the king was to be pursued and captured and dealt
with severely, but those of the natives who were friendly would not be
hurt, and would, indeed, be under British protection.”
“I am now,” said young Mrs. Myddleton West gravely, “coming to the very
serious part of the letter.”
“May I hold your ’and, ma’am?” asked the girl. For answer she found her
right hand taken instantly with a quiet matronly manner that gave her
confidence.
“As the Admiral spoke and the interpreter repeated each sentence, the
ministers listened with attention and with plain signs of agreement. The
younger men rose from the red mud seats and pressed forward. They began
to speak confusedly; the Admiral held up his hand for order. One of the
younger men smashed a square of looking-glass on the floor; at the same
moment Robert Lancaster flung himself suddenly on a muscular black youth
who had risen from the ground close to the Admiral, unseen by others of
the escort. The blade intended for the Admiral’s back caught in the
fleshy part of Lancaster’s arm; a swift struggle ensued between the two
before the others realized what was happening. A sharp revolver shot
from one of the officers settled the murderous young black; Lancaster
sucked at his own wound, spat, stepped calmly back to his place.”
“Now, now!” protested the wife of Myddleton West, breaking off tearfully,
“you mustn’t cry, dear.”
“I know,” sobbed Miss Bell.
“The others shared his composure; the Admiral himself never lost
self-possession for a moment. He concluded the palaver as though nothing
of moment had happened; went out of the house with his escort and down to
the shore and re-embarked. Arrived here on the launch, the Admiral sent
for Bobbie.
“‘What is your name, my lad?’
“‘Robert Lancaster, sir, of the _Pompous_.’
“‘Are you hurt, much?’
“‘Nothing to brag about, sir.’
“‘Do you know that you saved my life?’
“‘Well, sir,’ said Bobbie with great respect, ‘I’m not sorry to have paid
back a bit of what I owe.’
“‘Mr. West,’ remarked the Admiral, turning to me, ‘let the English people
know something about this. I will look after the lad, but you, too, can
do something.’
“The doctor tells me that the blade was poisoned at the tip—”
Beatrice Bell’s hand tightened her hold, and the white speckled blouse
stilled for a moment.
“And that Lancaster’s smartness and resource alone saved the wound from
becoming dangerous. Lancaster wants you to call on his sweetheart and
tell her all about it, because for a few weeks he will not be able to
write. I shall be home, my dearest, in less than a month, and when I see
you—”
“That is all about Bobbie,” said Mrs. Myddleton West, stopping. “What do
you think of it all, dear?”
“I could no more,” declared Miss Bell, “explain to you what I think,
ma’am, than I could fly. I’m too thankful to talk much.” The girl
looked wistfully at the sheets of rustling note paper. “You’d think I’d
got impudence,” she said hesitatingly, “if I told you, though, what I’ve
got in my mind.”
“Tell me!”
“Why, I was just thinkin’ how annoyed you’d be if I was to ask you to
give me the part that concerns—that concerns my Bobbie.”
Far from showing annoyance, Mrs. West cheerfully ordered the production
of scissors; ’Tilderann being called, responded so promptly that
suspicious persons might have guessed she had become tired of serving
imaginary customers, and had been trying to listen at the doorway.
Having brought the scissors, ’Tilderann was sent back again to look after
the shop. Then the two women bent their heads near to each other, and
dividing the letter carefully, judiciously, and very lovingly, the shares
were allotted.
“My dear,” said Mrs. West rising, “come and see me at the address on this
envelope to-morrow evening, and let us talk it all over quietly. Come to
dinner.”
“Me?” asked the astonished girl. “Me at dinner in Kensington?”
“I insist upon it.”
“I’m a good talker,” stammered Miss Bell, “in—in an ord’nary way, but
just now—I only wish my friend Miss Threepenny was here.”
A call from ’Tilderann.
“But some day me and Bobbie will be able to tell you how much—” She bent
her head to her friend’s hand impulsively. Young Mrs. West kissed her on
the cheek.
“Lot of use anybody bawling ‘Shop,’” said ’Tilderann at the doorway
ironically, “when no one don’t take no notice. Why, you’re crying!
Whatever’s the matter, Miss?”
“Matter?” repeated Miss Beatrice Bell with indignation. “Do you think I
should cry if there was anything really the matter?”
* * * * *
THE END.
* * * * *
* * * * *
PRINTED AT GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. EDEN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL,
LONDON. E.C.