THE STORM OF LONDON
CHAPTER I
The Earl of Somerville was coming out of the Agricultural Hall and just stepping into his brougham, when a few drops of rain began to fall and a distant clap of thunder was heard. But it would no doubt be over in a few minutes; only a passing shower which would dispel the clouds, clear the leaden atmosphere, and in no way interfere with the midnight picnic to which Lord Somerville was going.
The day had been oppressively hot, and although it was only the second of May, one might have easily believed it to be the month of July. It was fortunate, for several entertainments were organised in that early period of the London Season—theatricals and bazaars, private and public, were announced for every day of the first weeks in May, for the benefit of soldiers’ widows, East-End sufferers and West-End vanities. In fact, never had Londoners’ hearts beaten more passionately for the sorrows and miseries of their fellow-creatures than at the present moment; and it would have been a pity had the charitable efforts of Society leaders been chilled by cutting east winds or drenching downpours of rain. The picnic to which the Earl was going, was to be held in Richmond Park, by torchlight, between midnight and the early hours of the morning. All Society was to be there. The Duchess of Southdown was to take a prominent part in the entertainment. Object lessons in rat catching were to be the chief attraction, as fashionable women had been chosen to take the parts of the rats, and to be chased, hunted, and finally caught by smart men of Society. Great fun was expected from this novel game, and the Upper Ten looked forward to that picnic with excitement. Before this nocturnal episode, there was to be a Tournament at Islington’s Agricultural Hall. “London, by Day and by Night,” was to be represented, in all its graphic aspects, by amateur artists of the Upper Ten, who were always ready to give their services for such a good cause as the S.P.G. But then Society is invariably ready to enter the lists where combatants fight for a noble cause, and it is never seen to shirk ridicule or notoriety, but on the contrary to expose the inefficiencies of its members to the gaping eyes of an ignorant public.
“By God!” exclaimed Lord Somerville as he leaned back on the cushions of his brougham, “I never realised the brutal ferocity of London life until I saw its nocturnal Bacchanals synthesised within so many square feet.”
He passed in review, in his mind’s eye, what he had seen:—Lady Carlton in the leading part of the wildest of street rovers, cigarette in her mouth, reeling from one side of the pavement to the other, nudging this one, thrusting her cigarette under the nose of another, pulling the beard of a stolid policeman, vociferating at the cab drivers. Lord Somerville had seen a good deal of what these women were trying to impersonate, but he never remembered having blushed so deeply, nor of having been so conscious of shame, as he felt that night. But this was only the beginning of the show. The last tableau was most striking. The front of the houses, represented by painted scenery, suddenly rolled off as by enchantment, and there, in view of a breathless public, were to be seen the interiors of gambling houses, massage establishments, night clubs—you can guess the rest! This final scene was all pantomimic, and although not one word was spoken, still, the despair of the man who sees his gold raked away on the green baize, the heartrending bargains of human flesh for a few hours of oblivion, were vivid pictures which left very few shreds of illusions in the minds of a dumbfounded audience. Then came the grand finale of hurry and skurry between the police and the gamblers and night revellers of all sorts; and this was a triumph of mise-en-scène and animation. To make it still more realistic, the Countess of Lundy had elected to appear in a night wrap, as two constables made a raid on the so-called massage establishment. But what a night wrap! The Earl smiled as he recalled the masterpiece in which Doucet of Paris had surpassed himself, revealing with subtle suggestiveness the lissome shape of arms and legs, and full curves of the breast through a foam of white lace and chiffon. As he sat in the darkness of his brougham, he closed his eyes and saw the Countess as she had stood in front of the footlights, unblushingly courting the approval of her public; and he still heard in his ears the furious applause of London Society gathered that night in Islington Hall. What had most struck this leader of fashion was the total ignorance in which one class of well-fed, well-protected human beings lived of all miseries that unshielded thousands have to bear. He thought of the many women on whom he daily called, dined with, joked with; how many possessed that ferocious glance of the pleasure-seeker, the audacious stare of the flesh hunter; but he had never noticed in any of these fearless women of his world the slightest slackening of tyranny, nor had he ever noticed, for one moment even, the pathetic humility of the hunted-down street angler, which is after all her one redeeming feature in that erotic tragedy.
Evidently the performance had been a decided success, and would doubtless be a pecuniary triumph. The Bishop of Sunbury, seated near the Earl at the show, had largely expatiated on the good of rummaging into the puddle of London sewers, as he called it in his clerical language. It was by diving deep into the mud that one could drag out one’s erring brothers and sisters, and by bringing London face to face with its social problems one was able to grapple with the enemy—sin. At least, so thought the Bishop, and he endeavoured to persuade the Earl, which was a more difficult task than he believed. The prelate, holding Lord Somerville by one of his waistcoat buttons, had tried to make him appreciate Society’s unselfishness. “My dear Lord Somerville, we hear all about the frivolity of our privileged classes; much is said against them—too much, I fear, is written against the callousness of fashionable women; but I assure you, it is unjust. Many of these sisters of ours, who have to-night moved the public to enthusiasm, have themselves their burden to bear, and many have wept bitter tears over some lost one in Africa. Well, to quote one of them: as you know, the Countess of Lundy—who personified the matron of one of these disgraceful establishments—has last week lost her cherished brother (poor fellow, he died of wounds); but there you see her at her post of duty.”
“More shame on her,” had murmured the Earl, but the Bishop did not hear, or would not, and had walked away.
“By God!”—and the Earl brought down his fist on his knee—“these women have made me see to what depth a woman can sink. And I am going to another of these exhibitions—I am heartily sick of it all.” As he was putting down a window to tell his coachman to turn back to Selby House, the brougham suddenly stopped, and a torrent of rain came through the open window.
“By Jove, Marshall, it is pouring.”