The Angel

One and all will tell you that God rules the world still, the Holy Spirit yet broods upon the waters.

Hampson returned to his rooms in Bloomsbury. After a simple dinner, during which Butler's Analogy was propped up against the water-bottle, he changed into evening clothes and walked down to the Frivolity Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue.

The long curve of that street of theatres was thronged with carriages, motor broughams, and cabs. Beautifully-dressed women with filmy lace mantillas over their shining hair, attended by well-groomed men in opera hats and white cashmere scarves, descended from the vehicles and entered this or that theatre. The whole place blazed with light.

The great arc-lamps shone on the posters and the marble façades crowned with their huge electric advertisements. The smart restaurants of Piccadilly, Regent Street, and the Haymarket were pouring out their guests at this hour when all the plays were beginning.

The London world of pleasure was awake in all its material splendor, luxury and sin. The candle was alight, the gaudy moths fluttering around it.

A man and woman descended from a hansom just as Hampson arrived under the portico of the theatre, the woman so covered with jewels that these alone, to say nothing of her general manner and appearance, sufficiently indicated her class.

Hampson shuddered as he gave his hat and coat to an attendant, and walked down the softly carpeted corridor through the warm, perfumed air to the stalls.

The theatre was very full. On all sides wealth and luxury displayed themselves in unbounded profusion. But this was an audience nearly every member of which was devoted to folly, idle amusement, and worse. Hampson saw vice stamped upon the faces all round him, vice or stupidity, and carelessness.

Immediately upon his left, however, there was a young man, sleek and immaculately dressed, who had a somewhat stronger face than many of the young fellows there. There was a certain strength about the jaw and poise of the head, an honesty in the blue eyes which the journalist noticed at once.

Hampson sighed. Doubtless this young man was only just entering in upon the life of pleasure and sin. He was not quite a slave yet – his soul not irrevocably stained. But some day he would become like the curious old-young men who sat all round, men with pointed ears, heavy eyes that only brightened when they saw a pretty girl, mouths curved into listless and weary boredom.

What a brigade they were, these rich and vicious young fools who supported the Frivolity! Night after night they sat in their accustomed stall while the actresses danced, and postured upon the other side of the footlights – solemn, vacuous, and pitiable.

Two men bent over from their seats, and one of them touched the fresh-looking young man by Hampson's side upon the shoulder.

The journalist heard names being exchanged – the first speaker was introducing a friend. From this he discovered who his companion was – Sir Thomas Ducaine. The name was quite familiar. The young baronet owned an enormous property in Whitechapel. Some of the foulest and most fetid dens in Europe belonged to him. Filth and misery, gaunt hunger, and black crime crawled through hideous alleys, and slunk in and out of horrible places which were his.

Probably there was not a property owner in England who was responsible for the degradation of his fellow-creatures as this well-groomed young man in the stalls of the Frivolity Theatre. Hampson knew – none better. Had not he and Joseph starved in one of this man's attics? Yet, he reflected, probably Sir Thomas knew nothing whatever of the dreadful places from which he drew his vast revenues, had never visited them, never would visit them.

The passing thoughts of those dark days in Whitechapel sent the editor's mind with painful wonder to his absent friend and his mysterious silence, and a deep depression was beginning to steal over him when the orchestra concluded the overture and the curtain rose.

Always methodical, and with a great power of concentration, Hampson banished all other thoughts, and gave his undivided attention to the play he had come to criticise.

The scene showed the interior of a great London bar, a smart West End establishment. It was crowded with young men in shining silk hats, dove-colored trousers, and fashionably-cut grey frock-coats. They were leaning over the counter, which ran down one side of the stage, and flirting with half a dozen girls dressed as barmaids. The scene was brilliant with light and color, accurate in every detail, and, indeed, a triumph of the scene-painter's art.

After a moment or two the barmaids burst into a chorus. The music was bright and tuneful, composed with real skill and sense of melody. Hampson, who had a good ear, and was himself an amateur musician, recognized the fact at once. But the words were incredibly vulgar and stupid, a glorification of drink, by the aid of which all troubles – and doubtless decency and duty also – might be easily forgotten.

The whole thing was nauseating, utterly disgusting, to Hampson. He blushed even, and looked round him to see how the people took it. With a sad wonder he saw smiles and appreciative gestures on every side. "The grins of the lost," he thought bitterly, and then remembered that far greater sinners than any of these fools had power to be, had yet been redeemed by the saving power of the red wounds of Christ.

He noticed, however, and with some degree of relief, that this ode to drunkenness did not apparently interest or amuse the young man on his left. Sir Thomas Ducaine neither smiled nor showed any sign of appreciation.

Sordid dialogue, prefatory to the thin story of the plot, began. The topical slang that fast and foolish people use was introduced with sickening reiteration.

This, and much more which it is not necessary to detail, formed the first scene – a short one – and preparatory to the real action of the play.

The thing went on. Hampson lay back in his softly-padded chair with a set, impassive face. He was well dressed; his evening suit had been built by a good tailor, and outwardly there was nothing to distinguish him from any other of these "lovers of the drama." But as he listened to this or that doubtful joke and double entendre, marked this or that dance or pose, realized the skill of each cold and calculated appeal to the baser senses and passions, his heart was sick to death within him.

He saw how nearly every one of the young men who surrounded him was known to this or that girl in the chorus. Swift glances or smiles flashed backwards and forwards from stalls to stage. The whole thing was an enormous, smoothly-running mechanism of evil! A great house of ill-fame! It was just that, no more nor less than that!

The curtain fell on a peculiarly suggestive scene at the end of Act II, fell amid a roar of applause and laughter. It was so arranged that the curtain descended hurriedly, as if to hide something that could not be witnessed.

For five or six minutes this dirty wickedness was over. Nearly every one got up and left his seat to go to the bar and take refreshment.

Hampson did not move, nor did Sir Thomas Ducaine, though the two men behind asked him to accompany them to the buffet.

He happened to turn, and saw Hampson's face.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, with an entire disregard of the usual convention which binds his class. "Excuse me, but you seem rather sick of this."

"It's abominable!" Hampson answered, in a sudden burst of anger. "I never go to the theatre, so I suppose I'm behind the times. But I really shouldn't have thought that several hundreds of apparently decent people would have come to see this sort of thing."

"I'm very much of your opinion," the young man replied, "and I don't think I like it any better than you do. I never was fond of filth. But I just strolled in because I'd nothing much better to do."

He sighed, and, turning from Hampson, stood up and began to survey the house.

"Nothing better to do!" The words stung the journalist, and made him shudder when he thought of Whitechapel. This young, kindly, and obviously nice-minded man, had nothing better to do than to "drop in" at the Frivolity!

Dear God! Nothing better to do!

The electric bell whirred. Men began to make their way back to their seats, expectation was alight in most of the faces – faces somewhat flushed now with brandy-and-soda; eyes brighter now in anticipation of the opening scene of Act III!

This was the second night of the play, yet already the opening of Act III was being talked of all over London.

Mimi Addington was surpassing herself.

Mimi was the heroine, par excellence, of all the picture-postcards. Errand-boys whistled her songs, and told each other stories about her in whispers. The front pages of the foul "sporting" papers which depended upon their obscenity for their circulation were never without constant mention of the girl's name.

Young, lovely, talented – with the terrible cleverness that one must suppose the evil angels of Satan have – she stood almost alone in her success and evil. She was a popular idol, though there were some who knew the woman as she was – a high-priestess of degradation, a public preacher of all that is debased and low!

Hampson knew. He did not watch the life in which she shone like a red star. It was far alien from his own, utterly separate from the lives of all Christian people. But he was a man in the world, and he could not escape the popular knowledge.

As the curtain went up once more he set his teeth and sent up a wordless prayer to God that his mind might not be influenced or soiled, that the Almighty would bring the woman to repentance and cause the scourge to cease.

She came upon the scene. There was a thunder of hands – even a few loud cries of welcome pierced the mad applause. Yes, she was beautiful – very beautiful indeed. And there was charm also. It was not a mere soulless loveliness of face and form.

After the first verse of the song, there was a momentary pause while the orchestra played the symphony on muted strings.

Then she began again, beautiful and seductive as a siren, with a voice like a mellow flute. The lights were lowered in the auditorium. It was well, for many folk, even amid that gay and worldly audience, grew hot and flushed.

As the last triumphant notes of the song trilled through the theatre an extraordinary thing happened.

A deep trumpet voice rang through the house. The voice of a man, deep, musical and terrible – a voice that cleft the brain like a sword.

The lights leapt up once more, and all the vast audience, with a shudder of fear, turned to look at the face and form of him who had spoken.

Standing in the stage-box, surrounded by a group of sombre figures, a man was visible in the view of all.

Something went through the theatre like a chill wind. The music of the band died away in a mournful wail.

There were a few frightened shouts, and then came a deep, breathless silence.