Part 10

Mrs. Mayfair Smartly had been married three or four years before she became really “somebody.” Her husband, Major Mayfair Smartly, was a typical cavalry officer—a tall, well-built man, of the Anglo-Saxon breed, who would lead a forlorn hope or ride a steeplechase with equal readiness and self-possession, a man who loved luxury and ease, but would be dangerous in the face of an enemy. As it happened, however, all his military service had been peaceful, and even in India he had never had the chance of serving on one of the periodical punitive expeditions, for his wife did not let him stay there long enough. She did not like India, it injured her complexion, so she insisted on his exchanging into a regiment at home. He never refused her anything, and, after all, “there is no place like home”; so, having exhausted all the complimentary adjectives of the reporters of the local Indian papers, and furnished as much _gup_ for Simla and Calcutta coteries as propriety would permit, pretty Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, accompanied by her husband, bade farewell to Indian society, and sighing for new fields to conquer, made for London.

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Major Mayfair Smartly’s new regiment was stationed at Aldershot, therefore his wife arranged that she should take an elegant flat in Mayfair, and that he should come up to town constantly, attend her at any dinners, receptions, or balls to which she might be going, and return to Aldershot by the early morning train in time for parade. She was soon in the very whirl of Society, and her pretty face and ready wit were attracting attention; but her actual fame as a beauty dated, I think, from one afternoon at Hurlingham. She had been presented at the last drawing-room, and an illustrious personage had made special inquiries about her on account of her good looks. This fact had, of course, reached her, and gladdened her immeasurably, and she was, therefore, in no way surprised when at Hurlingham that afternoon she received a gracious intimation of the Prince’s desire to make her acquaintance. The presentation took place in the presence of a representative Society gathering, and for the rest of the afternoon she was honoured of royalty.

After that eventful day, people began to speak of “the new beauty”; the photographers invited her to sit to them, which she did in every instance, and the journalists began to take particular note of her doings, and of her clothes. Henceforth Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was a social notability; her presence could lend distinction to any party, and her custom could make the fortune of any dressmaker, for she knew how to dress.

This may sound trivial and frivolous, but I am not one of those who profess to think lightly of women for paying much attention to their dress. I have invariably found that those women who really understand the art of dress, who know what to wear and how and when to wear it, possess taste and intelligence of a more refined order than those who regard costume in the light of mere clothing, and who not only reveal no appreciation of a woman’s obligation to look her best at all times, but affect to treat dress altogether as a subject fit only for the attention of frivolous minds. Charles Lamb said he hated a man who swallowed his food affecting not to know what he was eating. He suspected his taste in higher matters. So, when I hear a woman-of-the-world say she does not care how she looks, or what she wears, I feel pretty sure she is a woman of no taste, in spite of possibly much intellectual pretension, and that she is lacking in personal charm. When a woman says she leaves her costume to her dressmaker, I know that she has no mind of her own, no invention, no resource, no sense of the fitness of things, and that, however beautiful a gown her dressmaker may provide her with, she herself is sure to wear some incongruous hat or cloak, gloves or shoes, which will disturb the harmony of her appearance, and so assert her own ignorance.

Now, Mrs. Mayfair Smartly did none of these things; she was an artist in the matter of attire, and her personal charm was thereby all the greater. There be painters, musicians, and poets who may be as daringly original as they will in their compositions, and yet one not only feels that they are absolutely right, but that their innovations must become precedents. So it was with Mrs. Mayfair Smartly. She could dare to dress in styles that had not yet received the authority of the fashion-plates, and so infallibly right was she always that Fashion was bound to follow her. That Mrs. Mayfair Smartly wore such a colour, such a material, or such a design, was sufficient to ensure its general adoption by those who wished to dress well. In fashion, therefore, she was a leader rather than a follower, and, oh, how she was envied while she was admired.

But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was not one of those stolid and superior human beings who can bear success with equanimity. It intoxicated her. She was “a very woman,” and she loved to be admired. It may have been very vain on her part, but nothing delighted her so much as to read or hear praise of her beauty, her dress, or her talk. She went everywhere, because wherever she went she won fresh admiration. In Society everybody knew her, of course, but she would tire herself to death sooner than miss any reception where she felt that she might shine, while she would never miss the Park, the “private views,” the opera, or the fashionable cricket-matches, or race-meetings. For at these she would always be a centre of attraction, and people would crowd about her, and those who knew her not would ask who she was, and those who knew her would gladly show their knowledge; and much admiration would call forth much envious deprecation, which was a sign of her power, for no success is won without provoking envy.

But it is not possible to sustain the reputation of a Society beauty and leader of fashion without much expenditure of money, and, truth to tell, though in comfortable circumstances, Major Mayfair Smartly was by no means wealthy. What he lacked in wealth, however, he made up in lavish generosity and devotion to his wife. He felt that such a beautiful and charming woman deserved to have her own way in everything; and since she had been good enough to marry him, who had nothing but his good-humour and his stalwart figure, which looked so well in uniform, to recommend him, the least he could do would be to give her all she asked. So he began to sell out stock when her monetary demands far exceeded his income; and so by rapid degrees he encroached upon his principal.

But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, though very practical in the pursuit of pleasure and admiration, was as innocent as a child in the matter of money. She needed it, and her husband supplied it, but it never occurred to her that to pay for the present it was necessary to draw upon the future—that, in fact, her husband’s income could not expand in proportion to her extravagances. She lived in a fashionable set, and she was not only bound to do as others did, but her fame as a Society beauty demanded that she should do more. She felt that she needed more dresses, more bonnets, and more diamonds, because she was not plain Mrs. Smartly, but the “beautiful Mrs. Mayfair Smartly.” Society expected to see her always in new costumes and she could not disappoint Society. But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly could not dress as she dressed, and live as luxuriantly as she lived, on her husband’s income. So she acquired a habit of accumulating debts, and assuming an innocent surprise when the amounts were brought to her notice by requests for immediate payment. And the Major had to begin to borrow money; for he was too good-natured to suggest to his wife that she should moderate her expenditure, and too considerate to trouble her with such a sordid detail as his financial position.

In the meanwhile she went on as usual, the smartest of the smart, appearing in costumes and jewellery which a princess might have envied, driving in a turn-out that an empress would not have scorned, and living as expensively and pleasantly as ever. But kind friends, who knew that the Major was not a millionaire, began to wonder where all the money came from; and then people began to say unkind things about Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, to couple her name with, not one, but half a dozen wealthy “lords and gentlemen,” who were each and all trusty friends of her husband. This was a scandalous shame, for never was woman more impervious to that kind of temptation; and, after all, Major Mayfair Smartly used to come up from Aldershot nearly every evening, escort his wife to many places, and never interfere with her at any, so that she was really quite fond of him. And a capital fellow he was, except that he erred perhaps on the side of excessive amiability. This it was that brought him to his ruin. He was too amiable, too fond of his wife to take her extravagance in hand, and curb it with a strong rein. Besides, he could spend a pretty penny or two on his own account.

So the crash came at last, and it was quite a surprise to poor Mrs. Mayfair Smartly. She was amazed, she could not understand it at all. Why had her husband never told her about it? He treated her like a child, whereas, had he realised that she was a woman, and told her of the financial crisis at hand in their household, she would willingly have made several retrenchments. But now it was too late. Major Mayfair Smartly was obliged to sell out from the army, and sell up the elegant flat in Mayfair. Then he and his wife retired from Society. The beautiful Mrs. Mayfair Smartly no longer figured in the Society journals or the photographers’ shop-windows. Worth’s knew her no more, and she began to entertain an absolute affection for individual dresses because she wore them—those that she had not sold—so frequently.

They buried themselves in the country, and she tried to convince herself that she liked rural life. He did, because she was part of it to him—all that he knew of it—and he would have liked existence in Timbuctoo if she had only shared it with him. Now, too, he was relieved of those tiring journeys to Aldershot after balls and receptions, and he had his beloved wife all to himself.

But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was not born for country life, and she felt that she was stagnating. If she could not live in London, in her old set, she would make a set for herself; and if the small remnant of her husband’s income would not support them both in the Metropolis, she must make some money herself. There are many fields of usefulness and profit open to ladies nowadays, she would essay one of them. She knew Society, its ways and persons, why should she not make use of her knowledge, and become a Society journalist? Why should she not write racy sketches of people she had met during her meteoric social career? Few women knew more of dress than she, or had more taste; why should she, then, not employ her pen to impart some of her ideas upon the gentle art of dressing well?

It was a happy thought, and Mrs. Mayfair Smartly has returned to town to regard Society from a new point of view. She is now the critic instead of the criticised. The necessity to live has impelled her to industry, and though she would sooner be spending her days in luxurious ease, which is really in accordance with her disposition, she devotes herself assiduously to work. She always had a ready pen, and now she writes clever stories and articles, and, continuing to dress fashionably and harmoniously, though less expensively, she preserves her reputation as a “smart” woman, though it is now many seasons since she was the much-talked-about Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, the beauty of the season.

_THE GAMBLING WOMAN_

Mrs. Hazard is a very charming and interesting woman; she is affectionately attached to her husband—a good, amiable, honest man, who denies her nothing; she is the mother of some sweet little children, and the mistress of an elegant household. She entertains a good deal of very congenial society, and every one agrees that she is an admirable hostess, her manners being engaging, and her powers of conversation decidedly above the average, with one specially remarkable quality, the power of concentration. Indeed, Mrs. Hazard has apparently all the domestic and worldly advantages generally regarded as conducive to a woman’s happiness; yet she is never content. She is a confirmed gambler, and her life is one of continuous restlessness. The passion for play dominates all her finer feelings, and every other interest becomes subordinate when the excitement of gambling takes possession of her nature.

She is no avaricious person, who is lured to the gaming table by the greed of gain, but she goes there to drain excitement to the dregs, as drunkard’s drink brandy. She sets little value on money in the ordinary way, for her husband is in easy circumstances, and can give her all that she can reasonably require for her expenditure, and she spends it freely and with little heed. But money which she stakes upon the turn of a card, the cast of a die, the chances of roulette, or the speed of a race-horse, she hoards like a miser, gathering and seeking to increase her winnings with the avarice of a usurer. She gambles for gambling’s sake, and the money is part of the game. It is the excitement of risk and suspense that she craves for, and while she is under its spell she concentrates every intellectual and emotional faculty upon it. Hence, of course, Monte Carlo is her Mecca, and her pilgrimages thither are frequent.

Mrs. Hazard does not take her children with her when she goes to the Riviera. She leaves them at home with her husband, who cannot often absent himself from the City, and, when he does, prefers salubrious Eastbourne to seductive Monte Carlo. He hates gambling of all kinds, he never plays cards or bets, and he rigorously avoids speculating on the Stock Exchange, although he is frequently told a “good thing” by his friends who are “in the swim.” That his wife is a gambler, therefore, is a bitter grief to him, and he watches her craving for excitement with uneasiness, but, beyond an occasional persuasive protest, he never reproaches her. He thinks she will tire of it, but it has become part of her nature—it will never be eradicated—nor does her husband quite know how far the passion for play has absorbed her, or to what extent she indulges it. As a matter of fact, it has become so necessary to her, that when she cannot manage to go to Monte Carlo, she runs over to convenient Boulogne for a day or two, and there she spends her entire time at the Casino, at the _Petits Chevaux_, and only leaves the green table to go into the baccarat room beyond, where she varies her gambling excitement. She is generally a lucky player, but even when she loses she is just as intense in her pursuit of the nervous tension of suspense while the horses are going round, or the cards are being dealt. That is what feeds her craving, not the gaining of gold, but the pulsating sense of risk and the ecstasy of expectation.

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Sometimes she takes her family during the summer months to Boulogne, since her husband can run over there every now and then, when he can tear himself from the calls of business, and his longing to see his wife and children will not be gainsaid. But does he find her playing with their little ones on the sands? No, she kisses them in the morning, and bids the nurse and governess look carefully after them, and let them enjoy themselves, and she sees no more of them that day, unless, perhaps, when she returns to the hotel to change her dress for the evening. Nevertheless, she is intensely fond of her children, and if one should have ever so slight an ailment she will be beside herself with anxiety, send for the doctor two or three times a day, and never leave the child’s bedside, while she will lavish caresses upon her. But so long as the children are well and enjoying themselves on the seashore or in the gardens, she gives no heed to them during the day, her mind being absorbed by the question whether the nine will turn up at baccarat, or else whether the horse she has put her money on will be a winning one. It is not as exciting at Boulogne as at Monte Carlo, but it is a substitute, and it helps to keep up that feverish heat her nature needs to sustain it.

It is at Monte Carlo, however, that Mrs. Hazard really feels the full expansive joy of living. There she breathes excitement in the air, there she vents the full passion of her nature. The gaming tables at Monte Carlo appear to her the proper sphere of her life. The wonderful blue skies of the Riviera, the exquisite colour of the scenery, the beautiful exuberance of the flowers, the light and gaiety of the careless life, the variety of character and nationality that is lured to the sunny, seductive South—all this has little meaning for her except as an adjunct to the passionate pleasure of play. That draws her to Monte Carlo with the irresistible force of a magnet. When she first arrives she perceives that the sky is blue, but afterwards it might be yellow or red for all she would know from ocular observation. She knows that the gaming table is green; but for the sky and the flowers she simply feels that they are beautiful, for she is intoxicated with the atmosphere of the place. All else but the tables is a kind of sensation in a dream—the tables alone are distinct and tangible. She is sensibly conscious that the rest exists, but she gives no thought to it. If, as she dresses herself in the morning, she looks out of the windows at the beautiful “blue deep” of the sky, it is only with a sense of gladness that another day of delicious excitement has dawned, and her thoughts are not concerned with the beauty of the earth and the sky in that land of sunshine and flowers, but with the chances of the table, the hazards of a “system,” and the calculation of gains and losses.

And the sweet, peaceful moonlight resting over the place, cut by the dark shadows of the tall, straight palms and the eucalyptus-trees—does its gentle enchantment fall upon her soul after the excitements of the day? No, it only whispers fresh awakenings of the gambling fever in her, as she mentally recapitulates all the incidents of the day’s play. But you must see her at the tables! There she sits, a picturesque figure in the midst of a motley, _bizarre_ group of gamblers gathered around the table, all eager and intense, most of them maintaining a deliberate coolness, but all linked by a common passion, the chance of gain. She was at the doors of the Casino before noon, so as to secure her seat, waiting amid a crowd which comprised some of the gambling scum of Monte Carlo as well as illustrious members of our own nobility. Then as she went in, she made straight for the cloak-room, that she might leave her wrap there and get a numbered ticket in exchange. She was very eager about this, reading the number excitedly, for Mrs. Hazard, like most gamblers, is superstitious, and her present superstition is to place her stakes upon the numbers on the roulette table corresponding with those on her cloak-ticket. She feels that her luck to-day depends upon this, just as on another day, perhaps, she will only play when a certain _croupier_ is officiating, believing that he alone will bring her good fortune.

Mrs. Hazard is a plunger, and she generally commences operations with about fifty louis, so that her winnings are proportionately large, and the stake is substantial enough to make the excitement keen. Once she has placed her pieces, nothing else has any interest for her. She gives herself up, body and soul, to the play. She knows nothing that goes on around her. She takes no cognisance of the heartburnings, the awful anxieties, or the intense pleasures that may reveal themselves in the faces of other players. She only notices the _croupier_ and the table. Some hopeless young man might have just lost the last penny of his inheritance, and, unable to face ruin might be leaving her side with despair on his face and desolation in his heart, to seek the shameful death of the suicide. Another might have squandered a fortune he held in trust for others—perhaps helpless children—and, having swerved from the path of honesty, be doomed henceforth to a life of fraud and degrading adventure. A wretched wife and mother might have played her last stake, and thus lost her only chance of redeeming her wrecked fortune and her husband’s credit, except at the price of her honour; and these unhappy creatures might go their hopeless ways, as others, sanguine or desperate, come and fill their places; but Mrs. Hazard does not heed them. They have no existence for her, though at any other time her heart would bleed for them, and she would talk of them with deep womanly sympathy; now she only watches the numbers, and the little roulette ball, and her gold pieces.

All the time she is playing, people come and go, and crowd around—people of all kinds, and of every nationality, the Russian prince, the English “milord,” the French _déclassée_, the German baron, the American millionaire, and the Italian tenor; but they might all be dummies for the notice she takes of them—and yet Mrs. Hazard is really fond of studying character and types. A famous and beautiful English actress stands perhaps just opposite to her, one who is proverbially lucky at the tables, and a crowd of onlookers gather round merely to watch her play, finding her infinitely more interesting when all her sensibilities are actually involved in the chances of the roulette, than when simulating the passions of a dramatic heroine. But though Mrs. Hazard is devoted to the pleasures of the theatre, and generally evinces the greatest interest in the personalities of the stage, she now remains quite unconcerned as to the proximity of this distinguished artist, whose very costume even would at any other time be an object of lively interest to her. While the gaming fever is upon her she is as one under a spell. She is as separate from her normal self as the opium-eater when the drug is working upon him.