"THE GOLDEN MAIDEN"
The theatrical criticism of the _Daily Wire_ was always printed on page
4; the more important news on page 6, over the leaf.
It was for this reason that Hampson, the editor of the _Christian
Friend_, never saw the news from Wales, and realized nothing of the
stupendous happenings there until the extraordinary events of the same
night in London.
He had arrived at his office for a long day's work. Among his letters
was one from a young man who, it appeared, had but lately arrived in the
metropolis to fill a situation as clerk in a big mercantile house.
Hampson had inaugurated a special feature in the paper. It was a sort of
"advice bureau," and already he knew that he had been able to help
hundreds of people in this way.
The letter from the clerk, obviously a Christian man who desired to live
a godly life, but was puzzled by the newness and strangeness of the
modern Babylon, in especial asked one question. He had been invited by
one of his fellows to attend a theatrical performance at one of the
"musical comedy" houses. Although he knew nothing of theatres, save that
there was a strong prejudice against them among his own people in the
country, he had declined the invitation. The result had been that he had
endured a good deal of ridicule, and when asked to state his reasons for
refusal, had been unable to do so. Now he asked the editor's opinion
upon the whole matter.
The question was one that Hampson had never thoroughly gone into. He had
certainly a low opinion of the calling of an actor or actress. He
believed the body to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and therefore
thought it wrong to nightly paint that body and expose its grace and
beauty to the gaze of every one. It was years, however, since he himself
had entered the doors of a theatre. While he was thinking the matter
out, and wondering what answer he should make to the inquirer, his eye
happened to fall upon the _Daily Wire_, which lay open on the desk
beside him.
He took up the paper and read the criticism of the new play at the
Frivolity--read it with very different feelings to those which animated
Sir Augustus Kirwan on the evening of the same day.
If this was what the theatre was coming to, then let all decent men and
women keep out of such places!
Yet he was a cautious man, and one who was averse to hasty judgments. He
had, moreover, a strict love of truth, and an intense dislike for
hearsay evidence. An idea struck him. He would himself go and see this
play at the Frivolity! If it were really licentious and improper, he
knew that it could not harm him personally. It would disgust him, but
that was all. On the other hand, the critic might have exaggerated, or
he might even have had some personal spite against the management of the
theatre. Dramatic critics sometimes wrote plays themselves, and these
plays were rejected! Such things had been. And it would be a good thing
that his readers should have the impression of a cool and unbiassed mind
upon a subject which was not without importance in the life of the
modern Christian in London.
Accordingly he wrote a brief note to the business manager of the
theatre, explaining exactly why he wished to see the play, and asking if
a seat was to be had. This he sent round by a boy, with instructions
that if there was a vacant seat he should purchase it for him.
In an hour the lad returned. He brought a courteous note from the
manager, enclosing the coupon for a seat, marked "complimentary," and
returning Hampson's ten-and-sixpence.
During the rest of the day the editor was very hard at work, and had no
time to read any more news. The story of the strange doings upon the
mountains in Wales, therefore, escaped him entirely.
He had heard nothing from Joseph, even yet, nor had he seen Mary Lys
since they had climbed to the roof of St. Paul's Cathedral together. At
that time, when both of them were filled with doubt and anxiety about
Lluellyn and Joseph, they had seen the august symbol of the world's
salvation painted on the sky. Through the terrible fog that hung over
the Babylon of our times the crimson Cross had shone.
The curious circumstance had brought comfort and relief to both of
them. It might be that they were sentimental, superstitious.
Yet God moves in a mysterious way, and who were they to say that the
Father had not sent them a message from on high?
Miracle is not dead yet, whatever the materialists may say. Ask a
captain of the Salvation Army if Mary Magdalene does not still come to
the foot of the Cross! Ask the head of the Church Army if a thief is
never converted at almost the last moment in his evil career! Ask an
Anglican priest, a Congregationalist minister--a Roman Catholic
priest,--for their experiences of death-beds!
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.
Standing in the midst of them was one who, in face and form, seemed to
be none else but Our Lord Himself!
Hampson knew that voice. Even as it pealed out he rose, staggered, and
sank back into the arms of the man next to him. He did not know that Sir
Thomas was pointing with outstretched arm to the figure of a woman who
stood among the surrounding group in the box. He hardly heard the young
baronet's agonized cry of "Mary! Mary!"
He heard only that awful accusing thunder--
"WOE UNTO YOU, SAMARIA!"
There was an extraordinary silence in the theatre, such a silence as the
Frivolity had probably never known before in the whole of its
disreputable career.
The members of the orchestra dropped their instruments, and the gay
music died away with a frightened wail. Mimi Addington stopped suddenly
in her abominable song. No member of the vast audience made a single
sound. The silence of fear, swift, astonished fear, lay over all the
theatre.
Who was this man?
Joseph was, of course, in modern dress. But the long, dark cloak he
wore, Lluellyn's cloak, which Mary had given him, a veritable mantle of
Elijah, robbed the fact of any modern significance.
The frightened people in the theatre only saw come suddenly and
mysteriously among them one who was the image and similitude of Christ
Himself. It was as though He stood there.
The voice thrilled them through and through. In all their lives no
single one of them had ever heard a voice like this.
There were those who had, at one time or another, listened to great and
popular preachers, famous political orators. But none of these had
spoken with such a voice. All were thrilled by it, stirred and moved to
the depths of their being. And there were some among the crowd in whose
hearts the knowledge and love of God were only dormant, and not yet
dead.
These few trembled exceedingly, for they recognized the voice with their
spiritual, if not with their material ears.
Whoever this man might be--and the marvellous resemblance blazed out as
it were into the theatre--whoever he might be, the Holy Ghost was
speaking through his mouth!
The whole audience seemed turned to stone. Such a thing had never been
known before. The big, uniformed attendants who would have hustled out
an ordinary intruder or brawler almost before the audience had had time
to realize what was taking place, now stood motionless and silent.
"Behold, a whirlwind of the Lord is gone forth in fury, even a grievous
whirlwind. It shall fall grievously upon the head of the wicked."
In the terrible music and menace of its warning, the voice cleft the air
like a great sword. The people in the theatre cowered like a field of
corn when the wind blows over it. Every face grew pale, and in the
slight pause and breathless silence which followed Joseph's words, quick
ears could distinguish a curious sound--or, rather, the intimation of a
sound. It was as though muffled drums were sounding an enormous
distance away, so far and faint that the listener feels that, after all,
he may be mistaken, and there is nothing.
It was the beating of many human hearts.
Joseph came forward into the full view of every one. His arm was
outstretched, the marvellous eyes were full of a mystical fire and
inspiration.
"This is a home of abominations," he cried, "the lust of the flesh, the
pride of the eye. There!"--he went on with unutterable scorn, pointing
to Mimi Addington, with a sudden movement--"there is the priestess of
evil whom you have assembled to worship. Her body is fair. It was the
gift of God. Her voice is beautiful, she is subtle and skilled--these
are also the gifts of the Most High. But she has abused and degraded
these gifts. With her voice she has sung the songs of damnation, and
chanted the music of hell. She has led many astray. There are homes in
England desolate because of her. She has destroyed the peace of many
homes. She has poured poison into the minds of the innocent and young,
calling them to evil pleasure, and by her words leading them to think of
the flowery paths of sin. She has caused many to stumble and offend, and
unless she cast herself upon the infinite mercy of God, it were better
that a millstone were put about her neck and she were cast into the
sea."
The voice of the man with the message ceased for a moment.
There was a low sigh, though every one in the theatre heard it, and the
wretched girl sank in a tumbled heap of senseless glitter and finery
upon the floor.
A universal shudder of fear swept through the huge, brilliant building,
a cumulative gasp of dismay--the material voice of many consciences
awaking from sleep!
But no one moved to help the fallen actress, her companions on the stage
stood absolutely still, not a man in the orchestra or the auditorium
moved.
Then, with a swift movement, the accuser bent forward and pointed to the
rows of sleek, well-groomed young men in the stalls.
"And you!" he cried, his voice more stern and menacing than
before,--"you who sit nightly at the feast of sin, what of you? Young
and strong, your youth and strength are given you to serve the Lord. But
you have made your lives an abomination, you bow down to foul idols,
your doings stink in the nostrils of the just. I am come here to say to
you that surely the Lord will smite you and humble you. You shall be as
an oak that fadeth. Repent before it is too late. Seek God, and turn to
Him. Do this and be saved. For you young men of London are even as the
rulers in Sodom, and those who were set over Gomorrah. You have come in
vanity, and you will depart in darkness, and your names shall be covered
with darkness, and you shall be utterly consumed."
And then an almost incredible thing occurred. The terrible voice began a
series of _personal_ accusations, as if indeed the hidden secrets of the
hearts of those who heard him were indeed laid bare, some supernatural
instinct had raised the curtain that hung before many evil lives.
"There sits one among you"--so in each case Joseph began, though no name
was ever mentioned. But one by one those faultlessly dressed men of
London's wealthy pleasure brigade were stricken down as by spears. So
terrible a scene was without parallel in experience. Terrible stories
were revealed, black deeds sprang suddenly to light, and gradually a low
moaning sound began to fill the theatre, a deep and dreadful
accompaniment to the pealing voice of one who seemed to be the Man of
Sorrows Himself.
Suddenly a woman, somewhere in the back of the pit, began to shriek
horribly. In a second more the whole theatre was in a turmoil. Agonized
groans and cries of heartrending shame and sorrow grew into a piercing
cacophony of sound, drowning the preacher's voice, and seeming to rend
the very walls with its unutterable mournfulness and despair.
Then, it was never discovered how or why, though the point was ever
afterwards debated, every single light in the theatre went out.
Through the darkness, and the sudden calm which this added fear induced
for a moment, the mighty voice was heard, tolling like a great bell,
with its burden of "Repent! Repent! Repent!"
There was, however, no physical panic. No one was bodily injured. When
light was at length restored, it was seen that the strange figure, with
its little accompanying band of followers, had utterly disappeared. The
curtain had fallen and hidden the stage, the place where Joseph had
stood was dark and empty; every one was standing and shaking with fear,
and white faces were turned to faces whiter still, asking each other
what this thing might mean.
With hardly a sound, the huge audience poured silently out of the
Frivolity. People who, a few short hours before, had passed within the
doors light-hearted, smiling, and eagerly expectant of the mischievous
nonsense they had come to see, now moved with drawn faces and hanging
heads. Lips were clenched with resolve, or still trembled and muttered
in fear. Cheeks were red with terrible shame or blanched with agony. Out
they came like a procession of ghosts, and--London was just the same!
It was obvious that no inkling of what was going on in the Frivolity
Theatre had penetrated to the outside world.
Shaftesbury Avenue blazed with light as usual. Crowds--but how different
to this one!--poured from the other playhouses. The street was full of
cabs and carriages, the roar of late traffic, the hoarse shouts of
newsboys selling the last edition of the evening papers. The great
restaurants--Trocadero, Criterion, Monico--were hung with huge
arc-lamps, turning the night into wan and feverish day. Round about
Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street everything was precisely the same as
it had been. Was it all a dream? the late audience of the Frivolity were
asking each other.
The question was not answered in words. Suffering eyes and stricken
faces told their own tale.
Hampson, the journalist, was full of a wonder and awe for which there
was no name. He had recognized Joseph at once, a changed--marvellously
changed--Joseph, but his old friend still.
The whole thing had come upon him like a thunderclap, for it must be
remembered that he had not seen the report in the _Daily Wire_, and knew
nothing of the occurrences in Wales.
The extraordinary transformation of his friend, the supernatural power
of his words, the enormous hypnotic power of them--what did all these
things betoken?
He stood motionless, just opposite to the door of the Eccentric Club,
careless of the crowd that passed and jostled him, lost in a startled
dream.
Then he felt some one touch his arm, and, looking up quickly, saw that
the young man who had sat by him in the theatre, and whom he had heard
addressed as Sir Thomas Ducaine, was accosting him.
The baronet's face was white and frightened, and he seemed oblivious of
all ordinary conventions.
"I say," he began, in a curiously high-pitched and nervous voice, "what
does it all mean? You were sitting next to me, you know. And there was a
girl I know well--very well indeed--with that man; but I thought she was
in Wales--"
He broke off short, realizing that he was speaking to a total stranger.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but I am unstrung, as I fancy most
of us are to-night who have been to the Frivolity."
He lifted his hat mechanically, and was about to move away.
Hampson recollected a fact which he had hitherto forgotten. Sir Thomas
had called out "Mary!" when the mysterious party of strangers had first
appeared in the box.
"You mean Miss Lys?" he said.
The young man with great possessions stopped dead.
"You know her?" he said, in accents of extreme surprise. "Then you know
who the--the man was, too? At first I thought--oh, a mad
thought!--because of the extraordinary resemblance!"
He was still a little incoherent, and unable to speak the thoughts that
were rushing through his startled brain. With shaking hand, he took out
a gold cigarette-case and tried to light one of the little white tubes.
A tall policeman came up to them.
"You must move on, if you please, gentlemen," he said. "The pavements
must be kept clear at this time of night."
"Look here," Sir Thomas said to Hampson, "my name is Ducaine--Sir Thomas
Ducaine. You know something of all this--you know Miss Lys. I want to
talk to you. I must talk to you, sir! Now, I live only a few yards from
here, my house is in Piccadilly. Won't you come and spend an hour or two
with me? It would be a great kindness. I'm sure you want some supper,
too, after all this terrible excitement."
Hampson made up his mind immediately. He was attracted to the
fresh-looking, strong-faced young man. He liked what he had said about
the leprous play, before Joseph's appearance. And he also was terribly
bewildered, and needed human companionship and talk. Moreover, he was
faint with hunger--the emotions he had endured had robbed his blood of
all his strength, and his brain had burnt up the vital force within him.
He would go with Sir Thomas.
"I thank you!" he said, noting with surprise how thin and tired his own
voice was. "I shall be glad to come. My name is Hampson, and I am the
editor of a weekly newspaper."
"We will go at once," Sir Thomas answered, and crossing the Circus, the
strangely assorted pair walked rapidly down Piccadilly.
They had traversed about a third of that street of clubs and mansions
when the baronet stopped at the massive door of a large bow-windowed
house, opened it with a tiny Bramah key, and Hampson found himself, for
the first time in his life, in the house of a wealthy and fashionable
young gentleman of London.
A silent manservant took their coats, and the host led the way to a
small room, which opened into the hall at the further end of it. Here
another and older man was waiting--the butler, evidently. A small round
table was laid for supper with dainty richness. A mass of hothouse
violets stood in a silver bowl in the centre; there were tall
hock-glasses of Venetian ware, purple also; and the table-cloth and
serviettes were fringed with purple.
"Bring some supper at once, please!" Sir Thomas said. "Something light,
Mr. Hampson? Oh, very well! Some _consommé_, _Bryce_, some devilled
oysters--yes, and an omelette afterwards. That will do."
"And the wine, Sir Thomas?"
"Oh, bring some hock and seltzer!"
The man withdrew.
"Excuse me one moment, Mr. Hampson," the baronet said. "I am expecting a
rather important telegram. If it has arrived, they will have put it in
the library. I will go and see."
He hurried out of the room. Hampson looked round him. The walls were
panelled in white, and priceless old sporting prints, full of vivid
color and movement, had been let into the panels. A great couch, covered
in blue linen, with broad white stripes, was drawn up to the cosy fire,
and on the tiger skin which served as a hearthrug a little Japanese
spaniel was lying asleep. In a moment or two Sir Thomas returned. He had
changed his evening coat for a smoking-jacket of quilted satin, and wore
a pair of straw-woven Italian slippers upon his feet.
"Supper won't be a moment," he said, sinking down upon the couch. "I
have trained all my people to be quick. But if you are not too tired,
will you tell me, or begin to tell me, what you know? This means more to
me than you can possibly imagine."
"How shall I begin?"
"Who is that man who appeared in the theatre, and swayed and held it
with the force of his words?"
"He is named Joseph Bethune," Hampson answered, "and he is a great
personal friend of my own."
"And why was Miss Lys with him? And what do you know of her?"
With perfect frankness Hampson explained how Mary had saved his life. He
told of the strange occurrences in connection with Joseph's accident,
recovery, and journey to Wales.
"Miss Lys, I know," Hampson said, "was greatly impressed by Joseph and
the occurrences connected with him. Only three days ago I met her, and
we talked about him. She had not heard from her brother, with whom
Joseph was staying. I had not heard from Joseph, either, for several
weeks. We were both distressed."
Suddenly, as he said this, Hampson started. He remembered the great
fiery cross that he and Mary had seen hanging over London from the top
of St Paul's Cathedral.
Why should he keep back anything? he thought; and in short, graphic
sentences he described this marvel also.
Sir Thomas was intensely interested. His face was grave and set, his
eyes wide with wonder.
"Of course, I knew Miss Lys had a brother in Wales," he said. "I know
her very well. But she has never said anything to me of this man Joseph,
whom she sent to stay with him. What you have told me is extraordinary.
Frankly, I could not have believed in all of it had I not been present
at the theatre to-night. But I still fail to establish any connection
between Joseph in Wales with Lluellyn Lys and Miss Lys with Joseph at
the theatre."
"And I am as much in the dark as you are," Hampson answered.
While they had been speaking, the butler had been superintending the
movements of a footman who was bringing in the soup and the chafing-dish
with the oysters. Now he came up to his master, carrying a silver tray,
upon which was a folded newspaper.
"I am sorry, Sir Thomas," he said, "but I could not help overhearing
part of what you and this gentleman were saying. You were mentioning
some names which made me think that you could not have seen the paper
to-day, sir."
"Why, what d'you mean, Bryce?" Sir Thomas asked, in amazement.
The butler took the paper, opened it, pointed to a column, and said:
"The name 'Joseph' and Mr. Lys, sir. Mr. Lys is dead, sir. It's all
here, in a special telegram to the _Daily Wire_."
Sir Thomas jumped up from his seat, seized the paper, and spread it out
upon the supper-table.
Hampson rose also, and together the two men read the account of the
doings in Wales with eyes that were nearly starting out of their heads.
The butler and the footman had meanwhile discreetly withdrawn.
Sir Thomas was the first to break the silence. He read less quickly than
the practised journalist, but he was not long in supplying the
connecting links of the strange story.
He raised his hand to his head, with a weary and dejected movement.
"It is beyond me," he said. "Since chance has thrown us together, and
you have been so frank with me, I will be equally so with you. I, Mr.
Hampson, have long had hopes that Mary Lys would be my wife."
As they sat down to supper, probably even in London, that city of
marvels, no couple more unlike could have been found anywhere together
at that midnight hour. The one was a millionaire, rich even in this age
of huge fortunes. He was young, goodly to look upon, in perfect health,
and a universal favorite in society.
The man who confronted him was unknown, of humble origin, frail body,
and regarded himself as abnormally lucky to be earning four hundred
pounds a year by constant, highly specialized toil, and the exercise of
a keen and nimble intelligence.
Yet on this night, at any rate, chance--or may we not say rather the
exercise of the Supreme Will?--had brought them together in the
strangest circumstances and under the strangest conditions. Moreover,
unlike as they were in temperament, position and way of thought, both
were drawn to each other. They had become friends at once, and they were
aware of the fact.
For the first few minutes of the meal there was silence. Hampson was
physically sick and faint. His whole body cried out for food and
nourishment. He did not know that the _consommé_ he was enjoying was a
_consommé_ of clear turtle, but almost immediately strength began to
return to him. He was not an absolute teetotaller, though it was only on
the rarest occasions that he touched intoxicants. So to-night, though he
partook sparingly of a simple glass of golden hock, he was unaware that
it was the cuvée of '94, from the famous vineyard of Wauloh Landskrona.
Sir Thomas broke the silence.
"We have been strangely brought together," he said, "and by forces which
I do not pretend to analyse or understand. But I can trust you, I know,
and I am going to tell you something of my life."
He paused and frowned, as if thinking deeply. Then he began again--
"I have known Mary Lys for a long time," he said slowly and with some
difficulty, "and I have loved her deeply almost from the first. To me
she is the most precious thing on earth. She is far, far above me--that
I know; but, nevertheless, a great love gives courage, and I dared to
tell her of mine. I think--indeed, I am sure--that she cares for me. But
there has always been a great barrier between us, and one which has
seemed insurmountable. It seems more so than ever now, after what I have
learnt to-night. I have always been unable to believe in Christianity.
It means nothing to me. It is a beautiful fable, that is all. And I
cannot pretend, Mr. Hampson--I would not if I could. To gain the woman I
love for my wife I would do anything except live a lie. No union
founded on a fundamental deceit can be a happy one. If I pretended to
believe I should never know a moment's peace. Mary would soon find it
out by that marvellous sixth sense of hers, and both our lives would be
ruined beyond recall."
"I fear," Hampson answered sadly, "that there are many people who
profess and call themselves Christians who would have no such scruples,
Sir Thomas. They do you honor."
"Oh, no," the baronet answered. "It's temperament with me, that's all.
Well, again and again I have returned to the attack, but it has been
useless. Nothing will move her. However much she loved me, so she
stated, she would never marry me unless I gave up everything and
followed Christ. Those were her very words. And that I cannot do, for
Christ is nothing to me, and does not touch my heart at all. I can't
believe in Him. It is an impossibility. And I am rich, very rich. I love
my life; I am fond of beautiful things; I shrink from pain and sorrow
and poverty. And yet I don't think I am a bad man, as men go. I have no
particular vices. When you saw me at that filthy play to-night it was
quite an accident. I hate that sort of thing; the life that the
Frivolity type of man leads is absolutely disgusting to me. I felt
unhappy and bored; it happened that I had no engagement to-night, and I
turned into the first place I came to, without a thought. But Mary wants
me to give up everything and work among the poor--as a very poor man
myself. How can I give it up--my houses, estates, my yacht, and
pictures, all the things that make life pleasant? I can't do it! And
now, after to-night, Mary will be further away from me than ever."
He spoke with grief and despair in his fresh, young voice. Obviously he
was deeply stirred and moved. But there was doubt in his voice also. He
seemed to be talking in order to convince himself. There was a struggle
going on within his mind.
"What a wonderful man your friend Joseph must be," he said suddenly.
"There cannot be any one else like him in the world. There seems
something almost supernatural about him--only, of course, the
supernatural does not exist."
Then Hampson spoke.
"I know that you will believe what I am going to tell you," he said
quietly. "First, I must say a few words about myself. All my thinking
life--since I was a very young man--I have been a convinced Christian.
Even in the darkest hours my faith has not wavered, whatever my sins and
errors may have been. Joseph, on the contrary, has been as convinced an
atheist as you say that you yourself are. A hundred times in my hearing
he has derided Jesus Christ and mocked at God. He threw up a great
career at Cambridge because he felt it his duty to express his
convictions in public. Only a few weeks ago he was exactly of the same
way of thinking. To-night you heard him sway and move hundreds of sinful
men and women directly inspired by God. Like a prophet of old--even as
Jesus Himself--he preached the truth in the places of the ungodly. You,
yourself, were profoundly stirred. Now, I ask you, what does this
mean?"
Sir Thomas had been gazing at his guest with deep interest and wonder.
"You startle me, sir," he said. "You overwhelm me with what you tell me.
I must believe you. I do indeed! But what had changed him? Tell me
that!"
"The power of the Holy Ghost," said the journalist.
There was a silence.
Sir Thomas leant back in his chair with an abstracted gaze. He had eaten
nothing, though his guest, wiser than he, had made a sufficient and
recuperative meal.
The little Japanese spaniel rose from his sleep before the glowing fire,
and put his nose into his master's hand. Sir Thomas stroked the tiny
creature absently.
"The Holy Ghost?" he said, fixing his eyes upon Hampson. "What is that?
Who can say?"
"The Holy Ghost, proceeding from the Father and the Son, is of one
substance, majesty, and glory with the Father and the Son, very and
eternal God."
"I would," the young man said, with great sadness--"would that the Holy
Ghost would come to me also."
He had hardly finished the sentence--probably the first prayer he had
ever made since he lisped "Our Father" at his mother's knee--when the
door opened, and the butler entered the room.
"A note, Sir Thomas," the man said. "A note from Miss Lys. The bearer
awaits an answer."
The young man took the note with trembling fingers and tore it open.
This was what he read:--
"I saw you in the theatre to-night, and I knew that you were
disturbed about me. Have no fear. I am writing this from my aunt's
house, where I went immediately when we left the theatre. But I
want you to come and see me here to-morrow, quite early. Would ten
o'clock be too soon? I have something of the highest importance to
say to you. Send back an answer to say that you can come. I have
been here for an hour, and I have been thinking of you the whole
time. I have a premonition about you--a happy one!
"MARY."