A Merciful Divorce. A story of society, etc

Front matter

PRINTED BY SP0TTI3W00DE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON $ JJfotg of JJociefe ITS SPORTS, FUNCTIONS, AND FAILINGS^ 15 V F. W. MAUDE SECOND THOUSAND LONDON TRISCHLER & COMPANY 18 NEW BRIDGE STREET, BLACKPRIARS, E.C. 1891 All rights reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER pA01, I. ' THE CENTRE OF CIVILISATION ' . . . . 1 II. 'A NECESSARY SACRIFICE' 12 III. ' DRIFTING TO LEEWARD ' . . . .24 IV. A QUORN FRIDAY 37 V. OLD-FASHIONED CRITICS 46 VI. LADY DROYSTON'S BALL 5g VII. MATCH-MAKING 68 VIII. THE MELTON RACES 80 IX. OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE 94 X. ' ON WITH THE NEW ' 108 XI. THE GOOD THINGS OF THIS WORLD .... 120 XII. THE SHOE BEGINS TO PINCH 127 XIII. ARTHUR, THE MARPLOT 132 XIV. AN EXCITING ASCOT . . .... 144 XV. THE FALL ARRESTED . . .... 156 XVI. ARTHUR'S ENDEAVOURS 164 XVII. FINANCIAL DISASTER. 169 XVIII.

A LULL IN THE STORM VI A MERCIFUL DLVORCE CHAPTER PAQE XIX. AN OBJECTIONABLE PRESENT 183 XX. DEEPER AND DEEPER 189 XXI. A GAME OF BACCARAT 196 XXII. A PROFITABLE ELOPEMENT 208 XXIII. PADDY'S ACCIDENT 221 XXIV. A GENEROUS CONQUEROR 228 XXV. TRIED BY FIRE 245 XXVI. NEMESIS 256 XXVII. AT LAST

Chapter I

In the great world, which being interpreted Meaneth the west or worst end of the city, And about twice two thousand people bred — By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed, And look down on the universe with pity. Byron. The air was alive with the fulness of the spring, and echoed to the gay greetings of hundreds of rich healthy folk assembled together, in clothes which had not yet lost their freshness or interest, chatting with pleasurable anticipation of the joys of the season that had just com menced. It was an unusually warm evening in May, and the chairs around the Achilles Statue were nearly all occupied by smart people, or those who wished to be thought smart. These last, the recorders and re porters of Fashion's law, able to indicate to a nicety the hour when self-respecting members of society must show themselves in the park and the precise locality B A MERCLFUL DLVORCE 2 where it is imperative to sit — as incapable of being seen there between 3 and 5 p.m. as of sitting by the Row when the luminaries around whom they revolve are seated by the Achilles.

Of such gay imitative insects is the crowd largely composed, toiling hard without thought of strike, though the hours are long 'and tire wage small and intermittent, to fulfil the customs they have carefully noted, talking of the right topics, reading the right books, using the correct slang, gushing over the fashionable reprobates, denouncing and insult ing unfashionable saints. A most trivial and unreal set of people, who will pass and be forgotten; who, indeed, forfeited all right to be remembered when they turned their backs on that station in life in which they were meant to have been respectable features, and came here to try and be taken for what they are not, to imitate those whom analysis would prove unworthy of imitation, although about them clings a faint aroma of the good old times before gentlemen and gentlewomen bound themselves captive to the golden chariot-wheels of Plutocracy.

If you look below the surface there are curious elements in the crowd that sits around ' the Achilles ' this bright May evening, elements that should be irreconcilable. Like the statue under whose shadow it sits, the crowd will not bear scrutiny. It, too, has flaws in its hollow frame, and is an ungainly, inartistic burlesque of what should be a dignified and effective reality — an unnatural conglomeration of items that should be mutually repellent. Look at that charming refined woman sitting with her two children and talk ing cordially with a shrewd, atrabilious-faced man. It is Lady A. — well-bred, well educated — who sjtares neither time nor money in trying to assuage the flood of misery ; a consistent conscientious worker for social reform, an affectionate mother, an honoured wife, a deeply religious woman.

And the man she is talking to ? He is Lord B., a reprobate, a coward, whose wife divorced him for the worst sort of cruelty, whose servants hate him, a man of demoniacal cleverness, who goes about seeking whom he may dishonour without risking another thrashing ; a contemptible opponent, a venomous enemy, a fatal friend. And Lady A. greets him with pleasure. Why ? Look a little further. That tall man, with the strong, well-bred face, is Mr. C. He comes of one of the best families in England. For hundreds of years back the name he bears has been written in letters of glory on the pages of English history. Statesmen, generals, eminent divines, a race that has loved the people and whom the people love ; and this is no un worthy scion of the honoured line. He is one of the foremost men in the House of Commons.

He is respected and admired by both parties for his unselfish patriotism and his great abilities. Surely if any man by taste, by breeding, by the independence that is his from great wealth and position is likely to choose his B DLVORCE 4 intimates carefully it is Mr. C. But who is that with whom he is walking arm-in-arm ? That is Zermah, the German Jewish financier, the inaugurator of more bubble companies, the cause of more commercial disaster, than any living man ; who is always dancing in the narrow stretch of Tom Tiddler's ground that lies between City morality and the domain of the criminal law ; who a short time since committed the blunder of bringing an action for libel against a journal that had dubbed him ' swindler,' and had the mortifi cation of having to pay the costs of the trial, the jury agreeing that his method of transacting business had earned him the title.

And this is the man with whom Mr. C. walks arm-in-arm in the park, and with whom he shares a house at Newmarket. Why ? Mr. C, not being addicted to cant, would probably shrug his shoulders and answer, ' He is probably a blackguard, but his chef is excellent.' Not a very cogent reason for the last scion of an honoured house to fraternise and shield with his patronage a glorified pickpocket, but better than the canting ' Oh ! we must not be uncharitable,' of the society moralist when the heinousness of the offences of such as Lord B. and Zermah are forced upon their notice. ' Charity ' ! my hypocritical friends, you pollute the word by usinc it in such a sense. Charity does not consist of turnincr a blind eye to sin that flaunts in the noonday of pub licity, in conniving at that sin by favouring the offender with the hand of your daughter, by shooting on his moors or dancing at her ball.

If ' Charity ' is the motto you would blazon on your shield, prove your consistency by helpful sympathy for the victims of Lord B.'s viciousness and Zermah's cupidity. ' Charity ' has a hollow ring when it is paid for with excellent dinners and costly entertainments. ' Charity ' thinketh no evil, but you think even more evil than there is, and yet you condone it. Can you plead the excuse of a moral code so broad and lax that there is room for all offenders ? No ! You give lip-service to the beautiful Christian code of ethics; you profess yourself scandalised that those who do not acquiesce in the dogmas of your religion should be allowed to legislate for you ; and yet, if he be rich enough, and understand how to spend his wealth for the gratification of your senses, a man may break the Christian Decalogue, aye, and even the eleventh commandment, ' Thou shalt not be found out,' and command your company and approval.

The fault is not in the code of morality you profess. That is austerely beautiful enough in all conscience. The fault is not even in your own lives. Many of you are far better in actual conduct than you pretend to be. The fault is that you will not enforce against the rich and the fashionable even the lowest of moral codes ; that you fathers will introduce your sons to men whom you know to be dishonest and immoral ; that you mothers throw your daughters into the society of women as shameless and mercenary (and with less excuse) as the wretched outcasts who earn a precarious livelihood on the streets of our great towns. And yet you wonder at the cynical pessimistic sentiments that fall from the lips of your son, who not long since was a frank, enthusiastic schoolboy, and your daughter, who till she came out was as pure-minded and optimistic as a young girl should be.

You put it down to the fact that they have grown indifferent about going to church. You mistake effect for cause. It is not irregular attendance at Divine worship that makes the children of this genera tion what they are. It is the life they lead, the people whose friendship they are expected to court, the style of conversation they are taught to emulate, that makes those who have intellectual sincerity or sense of humour feel church no place for them. ' Right,' ' wrong,' what meaning have they for the majority of those who sit by the Achilles Statue this bright May evening ? ' Right.' Why, everything is right if you are shameless enough to carry it off with a brazen face as eccentricity, or rich enough to atone for it by entertaining society, and, if your offence has been very public, advertising the amount of ' the insurance against fire ' you have contributed to the funds of some fashionable charity. ' Wrong.' Why, wrong means to commit these same offences if you have sufficient conscience left to be ashamed of them, or have not wealth sufficient to buy the latitudinarian verdict : ' Oh ! he is really very kind hearted, and his parties are most amusing, and his shooting excellent, and his horse is favourite for the Derby.' It is a mad world, my masters.

How long will it last ? There are some who think that the strong arms of blind suffering Samson are already round the golden pillars that support the roof which shelters so much that is neither admirable nor useful. Vogue la galere, what ever the future ; Plutocracy is the order of the day, and the days grow stale with constant frivolity. Wealth, however, cannot be imputed to Arthur Gerrardine as a handicap in the race for righteousness or as the reason of his popularity. The only son of Sir Patrick Gerrardine (an old soldier of considerable repute, a baronet with no private means except such as could be wrung from Irish tenant farmers), ten years in a smart cavalry regiment had not tended to the increase of his fortune. Financially he had been the earthen pot among the brazen vessels for several years.

He had tried to do as others in his regiment did : to ride his own hunters ; to have a neat stud of polo ponies ; to see something of a more harmful but not less expensive side of life which necessitates jewellery bills and considerable expenditure on such trifles as theatre tickets, dinners at smart restaurants, flowers. But the credit even of the most popular man in the regiment, the best' rider in the army, will fail after a year or two if no cash on account is forthcoming. Arthur Gerrardine went through what is called a financial crisis ; Sir Patrick stormed at his son's extravagance, paid his bills, and was as proud of the young man's pluck and good looks as ever. Nevertheless another mortgage had to be raised on the already urdened Irish estates, and the gallant old soldier had to deprive himself of many accustomed luxuries to allow Arthur sufficient to keep him in the regiment.

Luckily at this period the regiment was ordered on active service, and for four or five years Arthur was able to find scope for his restless energies and courage in fighting the enemies of his country. In the various Afghan and Egyptian campaigns he acquired wounds, honours, and the reputation of being equally daring, adroit, and successful. A feat of reckless daring saved the life of his brother officer, Lord Broadacres, an old Eton friend, and won Arthur the Victoria Cross. It was owing to his quick eye for country that in a campaign on the northern boundaries of India the treachery of a guide was discovered and the army saved from being led into an ambush. The men of his troop were always better provided, more comfortable, than their fellows. So that when Arthur hurried home from the Soudan on hearing of his father's serious illness his old reputation of a reckless, handsome scapegrace had been merged in the more honourable fame of a brilliant and successful soldier.

His father partially recovered, and Arthur Gerrardine, relieved from his duties by the sick-bed, at first showed symptoms of resuming his old method of London life. Suddenly there came another change : the horses he had just bought were sold, and for some months the wild spirits with whom he had been accustomed to A MERCLFUL DIVORCE 9 assort saw little of him. To the surprise of his friends, Arthur had settled down to read hard for the Staff College examination. Even in the intervals of his studies the racecourse and the polo ground knew him not. Wonderful as it might seem to his compeers, Arthur was bent on utilising his time and saving his money. He passed through the Staff College with flying colours and began to attract the grave consideration of his seniors as a man likely to do great things if oppor tunity offered.

And what was the meaning of this sudden reform, this strenuous industry in reckless, pleasure-loving Arthur Gerrardine ? He had fallen passionately in love with his beautiful second cousin, Edith Trevor, and it was rumoured that the young lady's heart, hitherto untouched, had been surrendered at discretion to the handsome Irish soldier. ' This is sheer midsummer madness, my dear boy,' said Lord Horton, an old friend of his father's. ' Why, what are you and Edith going to live on — and you've neither of you been brought up to live on nothing — besides, when my old friend goes you'll be worse rather than better off.' ' I dare say it's foolish, sir, but I can't help it ; besides, with Edith to work for I can do more than I have in the past. I've never really put my shoulder to the wheel till now.' ' Well, well, I'm not fool enough to argue with a young man in love.

Besides, there's many a slip between the cup and the lip, and you are not married yet. What does Lady Mary [the young lady's mother] say to all this nonsense ? ' ' She won't hear of there being any formal engagement.' ' Ah, sensible woman, sensible woman ! ' and Lord Horton had stumped away for fear of being tempted by his young favourite into some expression of sympathy. But on this particular May evening Arthur Gerrar dine was in high spirits, for it had been hinted to him that if he chose to apply for a certain appointment soon to become vacant his application would be favourably considered, and that very morning he had received a note from Edith asking him to meet her in the park. The cousins were not allowed to meet often, so to Arthur was the double joy of seeing his lady-love and having good news to tell her.

No wonder his heart felt light within him, and as Lord Broadacres said, ' Why, old fellow, you look quite in the old form, fit as a fiddle, less down on your luck than you have for a long time. By Jove! that's a nice team of Browne's.' And so criticising the horses and exchanging friendly greetings with many friends, the two soldiers wended their way through the crowd towards the Achilles. Lord Broadacres did most of the talking. Gerrardine's eyes roved anxiously in search of a well-known figure. Presently he espied those he sought, and, cutting his friend short in an eloquent account of the best run of the past season, made his way towards a little group of two ladies and a gentleman sitting somewhat apart from the crowd. ' Well, I'm blest ! Arthur used to care for sport, but since he lost his head about that pretty cousin, Lord ! ' And Broadacres, casting a fearful glance in case any ambitious mother might be bearing down on -him, turned in search of some companion sensible enough to prefer sport to women.

Chapter II

Now in May Fair, of course, in the fair month of May, When life is abundant and busy and gay, When the markets of London are noisy about Young ladies and strawberries, ' only just out ' — Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves, And young ladies on sale for the strawberry leaves. Owen Meredith. No wonder Arthur Gerrardine's heart beat quick as he approached the little group he had been seeking for. He was what his friend Broadacres would have desig nated a ' cool hand.' But even the most imperturbable young gentleman of this generation that prides itself on hiding its feelings, especially its good feelings, might hold himself excused under the circumstances for some inward emotion. The handsome faded woman is Lady Mary Trevor, Edith's mother — mother, also, of several sons. In her youth she had been a great beauty, but she had taken her stock in trade to a bad market, having insisted, to the chagrin of her relations, on marrying shiftless, impecunious Jack Trevor, of the ' Blues.' But in twenty-five years of married life, with an extravagant husband, expensive children, and the necessity of keeping up appear ances—that terrible millstone round the neck of gen teel poverty — she had become somewhat sceptical of the wisdom of marrying for love.

The elderly gentleman with grey whiskers and benevolent massive face is Sir James Carthage, a great City potentate, a munificent subscriber to the funds of the Liberal party. Although he sits for a Radical borough, he has strong convictions as to the sanctity of property, and hopes to be made a peer when his party returns to power. He is one of the golden makeweights in our curious political system. And the third member of the group, Edith Trevor ? No wonder among the self-satisfied, over-indulged, flattered youth of the day she had made havoc. She had just that mixture of charm and mystery that fixes the male attention. A good talker herself, with a genius for striking sparks out of the dullest companions, men found her interesting, fascinating ; but when they tried to pass the portals that divide friendship from love they were gently but firmly repelled.

Many a gilded butterfly, forgetting for a moment his chivalrous theory that marriageable girls should be kept at arms' lengths, in the glamour of Edith Trevor's society, in the bedevil ment of her beautiful eyes, had slunk from her presence with sorely wounded self-love, condemning her as heart less and cold. But even whilst they condemned they doubted. 'Heartless' she could not be, for many tales were rife of how she had tended the sick and DLVORCE 14 helped the distressed. ' Cold ' scarcely with that splendid physique, the deep, lithe figure, the round, strong neck, the mouth delicately sensuous, the throbbing pulse that sent the blood coursing under the creamy skin. The face was inscrutable, singularly under control for a girl of twenty-one, especially to day, but not passionless. ' If ever that girl is thoroughly stirred there'll be the devil to pay,' Lord Horton, an experienced critic of many generations of women, had said.

The next few years of Edith Trevor's life will show whether the old cynic's judgment be correct. As Gerrardine approached, Lady Mary said in a significant tone, ' Edith, here comes Arthur.' If possible the girl turned a shade paler than usual, but she did not break off what she was saying to Sir James Carthage. Arthur having secured a chair, for a few moments the four talked on indifferent topics. Presently Lady Mary expressed a desire to inspect Sir James's team, which was waiting in the road that leads from Hyde Park Corner to the Serpentine. 'Won't you come, too, Miss Edith, and you, Gerrardine ? I am trying a new leader from Toynbee, about which I should like your opinion,' said the Baronet. 'Thanks, no, Sir James. I'll see the browns another day. Now I am lazy and mean to sit here and talk to Arthur.

You got my note ? ' she con tinued when the older couple had departed. ' Yes, I was glad. I have great news to tell you. What made Cousin Mary relent, and let me have a chance of a few words with you ? ' ' Mother isn't hard-hearted, she is only — wise. But what's your news ? ' ' Edith dear, I have been offered the Military Secretaryship in . It is an excellent appointment, there is a good house attached to it, and it is always a stepping-stone to still better billets. Of course we shall not be rich, but one way or another we shall have about a thousand a year, plenty of perquisites, and plenty of holidays. May I insist upon coming to an understanding with your people ? ' ' Take me for a walk, I can't sit still ; I also have news. That is why mother let me send for you, Arthur,' she continued as they strolled away from the crowd. ' Can you possibly raise seven thousand pounds ? ' ' No, dear, I can't. Why, what is wrong ? ' ' Because that is the precise price I am willing to sell myself for to you during the next forty-eight hours — to anybody else the price is much higher.' ' My God, Edith ! what do you mean ?

You love me — you have promised to marry me. For more than a year I have been trying to make myself a little less unworthy of you, toiling hard to secure a comfortable home, a decent income. Don't you remember, dear, that night on the river last year ? You have not regretted all you said then ? Have I not fulfilled my promise ? ' ' I remember all — I wish I did not. All the mad joy I have felt in loving you— all my pride in what you have done for my sake— makes my duty cruelly hard. And yet— God help me— I must give you up.' ' You mean that you are tired of me — that your courage has failed at the prospect of being a poor gentleman's wife— that some dazzling offer from a rich parvenu has been too much for your ambition. Jewels, carriages, a fine house in London — are you going to give me up for these, Edith?

I thought you were made of better stuff.' ' Unjust ! but you do not believe what you say. Arthur, you know me better than to think me capable of being bribed. You know that I am not like other girls, that my love is no trivial preference, no tepid liking born of flattered vanity and the world's approval. You know, dear, how passionately I have loved you — that I would have followed you anywhere — that I would have married you against my people's wishes — holding the world well lost for your sake. Do you suppose I suffer nothing in giving yrou up ? ' ' Forgive me if I was unkind. The shock has been rather sudden and you give me no explanation. Are the promise and joy of our lives to be nipped in the bud ? Dear, the bonds that bind us are not to be lightly broken. You love me, Edith, you have given yourself to me.

You can never be anybody else's. You will be mine in heart always — you are too good a woman to marry one man still passionately lovincr another.' DLVORCE 17 ' Don't make it too hard, Arthur, don't make it too hard ! Curse me— hate me — condemn me as selfish and fickle — but don't frighten me from my duty by invoking the spectre that guards the path I must tread. The one thing that make3 me hesitate is my dread of myself. Other people may think me proud, cold, an iceberg. You know better, dear. But, if I thought I should not honourably fulfil my share of the contract, not even to save the honour of my family would I sell myself.' ' Explain why the bargain is necessary — why your life and mine are to be sacrificed on the altar of your family's pride. I have a right to know — to protest if the reason is insufficient.' ' Mother will hate me for telling you, but you have a right to know.

The shameful secret will be safe with you, and I cannot bear that you should think ill of me — think that I have given up all our hopes of happiness without sufficient cause. Unless you help me I cannot go through with my bargain. The story is hackneyed and unoriginal. You know how madly sanguine my father was that Episode would win "The Guineas." He wanted money to pay his debts. He backed the horse heavily. He lost. He used trust-money not his own to pay, hoping to be able to replace it within a few hours. He has been unable to do so. I must get 7,000Z. by the day after to-morrow or the family will be disgraced — mother, the boys, all c DLVORCE 18 of us. Arthur dear, what is my duty ? What would you do if you were in my place ? ' 'Is there no alternative? There must be other ways for your people to raise 7,000/. than by selling you.

For a man like your father, are two lives like ours to be wrecked ? Think of all you have been in my life. Think of all you have allowed me to be in yours. Have you counted all that it means, all the pain, all the risk, all the degradation ? ' ' I have tried to find an alternative. There is none. You know, dear, I am not the woman to give up her lover if she could help it. Pain of course — there is pain. It seems the law of our being. With my eyes open I must put pleasure out of my life. Degradation ? What 's the sacrifice of a girl's ideal, of a girl's self-respect, weighed against the honour of the whole family ? Risk ? You know, Arthur, that if I bind myself up in this hateful contract I will fulfil my part. If I can give up you, dear, there is no risk to me from any other man. And you, you will help me.

This must be good-bye, Arthur — good-bye to the golden days when we loved each other.' ' You are right, I suppose. I am a selfish brute to try and make your task intolerable. If I were in your place I should have come to the same decision. Even at the cost of our chances of happiness people like you and me must stand by our family, by our class — must not give the enemy cause to blaspheme. Forgive me Edith darling, if I did not realise this at once. It has DIVORCE 19 come rather suddenly, this cruel termination of the best chapter in our lives. Only half an hour ago I was so happy — and now ! ' As they walked back towards the Achilles Statue Arthur asked, ' Is Carthage to be my successful rival ? ' ' Yes. He will do if we can come to a clear under standing about my price. He told mother he would like to marry me, and he is not likely to make the life intolerable by asking any profession of strong affection on my part.

He wants to purchase a hostess worthy of his house. I want 1 ,0001. down. Am I honestly worth the price, Arthur ? ' ' That's his look out. If a man wears a costly gem he must take the risk as well as the glory. From your point of view the justice of the bargain, the virtue of the marriage, is immaterial. You have decided to sell yourself. Nothing matters if the price is forthcoming.' ' It will matter very much whether I can respect my husband and he will respect me. It will make my task easier. Don't be unkind, dear,' said Edith wearily. ' Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you. Edith, may I come and see you to-morrow to say good-bye ? After that I will swear to keep out of your way. It will be best.' ' Do not ask it, dear. This must be good-bye. If I were to see you like that to-morrow I believe I should break down.

Good-bye.' c ' You must have your way. I don't want to make your task more hateful than necessary. But, oh ! my darling, my darling, it is hard not to hold you once more in my arms. Will the sun ever shine for me again as it has in the past, I wonder ? Can there ever come again light into our lives, or shall we have to drag them out in cheerless, passionless shadows and restraints ? God bless you ! Good-bye.' They shook hands. They were close now to where Lady Mary and Sir James were sitting. The mother saw that her beautiful girl was white to the lips, and that the young man was much perturbed. What a well matched couple they were. For a moment in the glow of pity the embers of old romantic feelings flickered up. But in an instant it gave place to the dismal retrospect — the result of her own love marriage and the disgrace that overhung the family. ' Edith dear,' she called, ' Sir James very kindly suggested driving us home.