Hence the Divorce Court, after some years of suspicion, has gradually come to be looked upon as one of the sacred institutions of the country. And, speaking generally, those who make use of its facilities, however much certain of the more strait-laced may frown, are considered by society at large to have done a thing which is surprisingly right and often enviable. The result at any rate is that the number of the divorced increases year by year, and that a lady whose failings have been established against her by a judicial decree, may be quite sure of a hand of ardent sympathisers of both sexes, amongst whom she can hold her head as high as her inclination prompts her without exciting a larger number of spiteful comments than are allotted to her immaculate and undecreed sisters. She may not have been able to abide the question of the Counsel who cross-examined her, but she is certainly free, even in a wider sense than before. She may not, perhaps, stand on so lofty a social pinnacle as the merely-separated lady whose husband still lives, and to whose male friends the fact that she in practically husbandless, and at the same time disabled from marriage, gives a delightful sense both of zest and security. On the other hand, the separated lady must be to a certain extent circumspect, lest she should place a weapon for further punishment in the hands of her husband. But to the Divorcée all things apparently, are permitted.
When she left the Court in which, to use her own words, "all her budding hopes had been crushed by the triumph of injustice," the beautiful Divorcée (for in order to be truly typical the Divorcée is necessarily beautiful) might have proceeded immediately to plant them afresh in the old soil. The various gentlemen who had sustained their reputation as men of honour by tampering on her behalf and on their own, with the strict letter of the truth, naturally felt that the boldness of their denials entitled them to her lasting regard, and showed themselves ready to aid her with their counsel. But, though she never ceased to protest her innocence of all that had been laid to her charge and proved against her, she was sufficiently sensible to give them to understand that for a time, at least, her path in the world would be easier if they ceased to accompany her. They accepted the sentence of banishment with a good grace, knowing perfectly well that it was not for long. The Divorcée then withdrew from the flaming placards of the daily papers, on which she had figured during the past week, and betook herself to the seclusion of her bijou residence in the heart of the most fashionable quarter. Here she pondered for a short time upon the doubtful unkindness of fate which had deprived her of a husband whom she despised, and of a home which his presence had made insupportable. But she soon roused herself to face her new lack of responsibility, and to enjoy it. At first, she moved cautiously. There were numerous sympathisers who urged her to defy the world, such as it is, and to show herself everywhere entirely careless of what people might say. Such conduct might possibly have been successful, but the Divorcée foresaw a possible risk to her reputation, and abstained. She began, therefore, by making her public appearances infrequent. In company with the devoted widow, whose evidence had almost saved her from an adverse verdict, she arranged placid tea-parties at which the casual observer might have imagined that the rules of social decorum were more strictly enforced than in the household of an archbishop. Inquiry, however, might have revealed the fact that a large proportion of the ladies present at these gatherings had either shaken off the matrimonial shackles, or proposed to do so, whether as plaintiffs or as defendants, whenever a favourable opportunity presented itself. The men, too, who were, after a time, admitted to these staid feasts, were not altogether archiepiscopal, though they behaved as they were dressed, quite irreproachably. To counter-balance them to some extent, the Divorcée determined to secure the presence and the countenance of a clergyman.
After some search, she discovered one who was enthusiastic, deficient in worldly knowledge, and susceptible. To him she related her own private version of her wrongs, which she seasoned with quite a pretty flow of tears. The amiable cleric yielded without a struggle, and readily placed at her service the protection of his white tie. Thus strengthened, she moved forward a little further. She revisited theatres; she was heard of at Clubs; she shone again at dinner-parties, and in a year or so had organised for herself a social circle which entirely satisfied her desires. Sometimes she even allowed herself to dabble in good works. She was accused of having written a religious poem for a serious Magazine; but all that was ever proved against her was, that a remarkable series of articles on The Homes of the Poor bore traces of a style that was said to be hers. Evil tongues still whispered in corners, and cynics were heard to scoff occasionally; but the larger world, which abhors cynics, and only believes what is good, began to smile upon her. She did not appear to value its smiles,—but they were useful. Whenever London tired her, she flitted to Paris, or to the Riviera, or even to Egypt or Algiers. She subscribed to charities, and acted in Amateur Theatricals. Finally, she married a gentleman who was believed by his friends to be a poet, and who certainly qualified for the title by the romance he had woven about her. With him she lived for many years a poetic and untrammelled existence, and, when she died, many dowagers sent wreaths as tokens of their sorrow at the loss of an admirable woman.
VERSES FOR A VIOLINIST.
"The violin has now fairly taken its place as an instrument for girls."—Daily News.
In old days of Art the painter much applause would surely win,
When he showed us Saint Cecilia playing on the violin.
I've no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;