AN ARTISTIC EVENING.
"The Society for the Improvement of Art" was one of the favourite
fads of the day, and will no doubt hold its own till some newer "fad"
comes to the front, and then it will fall to pieces. It was organized
by three or four enthusiasts, who said there was a great deal of
latent artistic talent in England which needed development, and they
proposed to let everybody, who thought he or she could draw, have an
exhibition once a year. Every picture sent in was hung on the walls of
their saloon, and some queer things figured there. Unappreciated
geniuses with the talents, as they thought, of Michael Angelo, sent in
hideous productions, which were enough to send a painter of any
knowledge whatever crazy, such was the crudity of the drawing. Some of
the pictures were done in a firm, precise manner, as if they were the
productions of very young people, and finished by the Governess;
others had a dashing, sketchy appearance, as if they had been done in
half an-hour, a not unlikely thing; but here and there were some
really pretty sketches that were admired. Yet the whole effect of
these walls, disfigured in such a manner, was depressing in the
extreme. The fact was, the Society for the Improvement of Art was a
collection of amiable idiots, who made their mad project an excuse for
having evenings when everybody who was anybody went.
On this evening, therefore, the rooms were crowded with all sorts of
queer people; some who thought themselves clever, but were not, and
tried to make up for their lack of brains by assuming extraordinary
costumes; others, who were dressed in the height of fashion only came
because everyone else was there; and critics, actors, artists, and
literary men all jostled one another in the crowd, and laughed to
scorn the feeble efforts of the Society to find hidden talent. There
was weak tea, and thin bread-and-butter, and everybody, when they were
not looking at the pictures--which was seldom--talked scandal and
abused their friends, so it was all very delightful and amusing.
At least Monteith found it so, as he leaned against the wall, and
listened to Foster's cynical comments on all who passed along, mostly
friends of his own; but, after all, what is the use of having friends
if one can't abuse them?
"You see that bald-headed old chap there?" said Signor Asmodeus
Foster, who was about to unroof his friends' houses for the benefit of
the Australian, "the one with the gaunt female beside him--she was his
daughter's governess, and married him by force; she bullies the life
out of him, and if he but look at another woman--a thing, by the way,
the old scamp is very fond of doing--he catches it when he gets home.
That pretty little woman in white is Lady Aspasia, who was not as good
as she might be--once--but now she's married and gives good dinners,
so Society doesn't rake up her little failures in the past. We are a
very generous people when there's money in the question. That young
dandy, with the simper and the eye-glass, is Bertie Hardup, who a year
ago had not a shilling--his face was his fortune, and a mighty nice
income it brought him, for he married Miss McNab, the Scotch heiress,
who has red hair and a long pedigree; he doesn't care a fig about her,
and keeps Musidora, of the Frivolity, out of McNab's money. By Jove,
my dear fellow, all these people have their skeletons, and if they
could only become visible, you'd see every one of them attended by a
bony figure like those in the Dance of Death."
"Rather a ghastly assemblage," said Ronald, absently.
"Not at all," replied his companion; "bless you, we love our
skeletons, and, in the middle of the night, take them out and discuss
our private affairs with them; then we lock them up in the little dark
cupboards again, and only hear the faint rattle of their bones during
the day."
Ronald laughed.
"You are cynical!"
"The fault of the world my dear boy. I would like to go through life
keeping all my youthful illusions, but the world won t let me--it
has destroyed all my dreams of honour and honesty one by one
till--pouf!--it has made me as disbelieving as St. Thomas."
"What strange people are here," said Ronald, looking at the restless
crowd.
"Yes!--the dresses are eccentric, are they not?--but that is part of
our trade in London; if one cannot be famous--well, the greatest idiot
can make himself conspicuous. Let us walk through the rooms to find
Mrs. Taunton, or we'll miss her."
Ronald, nothing loth, went off with his Mentor, and could not help
laughing at the curiously dressed people he saw. One lady was arrayed
in black velvet, trimmed with silver, and looked like a first-class
coffin; while another in white, with large red rosettes down the front
of her dress, had such square shoulders that she resembled nothing so
much as a chest of drawers. Here and there were some pretty girls, but
the general impression Ronald had was disappointment at the appearance
of the ladies.
"They're so deucedly ugly," he said in disgust.
"Yes, they can't make their faces up properly," observed Foster,
putting on his eye-glass; "they're all like very badly painted
pictures--but that's a pretty woman over there."
"Yes, by gad, she is," replied Ronald critically; "who is she?"
"The lady we are in search of--Mrs. Taunton--come, and I'll introduce
you to her."
So Foster, followed by Ronald, pushed his way through the crowd
towards Mrs. Taunton, who was standing with her husband, a tall
round-shouldered man to whom she was talking in a vivacious manner. A
very charming lady she was--small, fair-haired, and wonderfully bright
and quick in her conversation and actions. Her face was wreathed with
smiles, but during a pause in the conversation it was in repose for a
moment, and then Ronald detected a shade of latent melancholy which
reminded him somewhat of the sombre expression of his dead friend's
face.
"How do you do, Mrs. Taunton?" said Foster, when he reached her side;
"I have not seen you for at least--let me see--a hundred years!"
"If that is the case," replied the little lady, laughing, "you must
have the gift of immortality, for you don't look a day older."
"Nor you a minute," said Foster, with a bow. "Permit me to introduce
to you my friend, Mr. Monteith; he is come from the wilds of Australia
to see if civilization is an improvement on savagery."
"Welcome to London, Mr. Monteith," said Mrs. Taunton, putting out her
hand with a sunny smile; "I hope we shall be able to make your stay
pleasant."
"I'm sure of that," answered Ronald, heartily, "in such company it
would be foolish not to enjoy myself."
"What! they know how to make compliments in Australia?"
"When they have a worthy object," with a bow.
"Another! really, Mr. Monteith, you are a Sir Charles Grandison.'
"I hope not," broke in Foster, who had been talking to Mr. Taunton;
"he was a prig,--wouldn't be tolerated now-a-days; but then,"
shrugging his shoulders, "how could you expect a linen-draper to
conceive a gentleman? It would be easier to make a silk purse out a
sow's ear."
"Poor Richardson," said the lady, with an amused look, "how severe you
are on him. Mr. Monteith, pardon my rudeness; let me introduce to you
my husband."
The artist bowed, and shook Ronald by the hand, but said nothing. He
was a man of few words, and so left his wife to do most of the
talking--a task to which she was fully equal.
"Now then," said Mrs. Taunton, when the introduction had been
effected, "Mr. Foster, you can talk art, law, and scandal to my
husband, while Mr. Monteith escorts me through the room in order to
improve his mind."
Ronald, of course, was delighted, and they strolled off, leaving the
lawyer in deep conversation with the artist over a divorce case which
was then being published _in extenso_ in the newspapers.
What charming conversationalists some women are! They are as happy in
their talk as in their letter-writing; and Mrs. Taunton was a most
delightful cicerone; with all Foster's knowledge and wit, but without
his cynicism. Cynicism, like garlic, should only be used in
moderation, and Ronald found Mrs. Taunton's bright, rapid talk rather
a relief after the pessimistic views of his friend, the lawyer. The
lady seemed to know everyone--stopped every now and then to talk to
people, and, after leaving them, kept up a running fire of
conversation about their oddities, which amused the Australian very
much.
"How you do seize on people's weak points!" he said, laughing.
"Of course," she replied, "I'm a woman, and have the instinct of the
sex."
"Likewise the charms."
"Mr. Monteith, I cannot allow you to pay me any more compliments
to-night; but you may call to-morrow at four, if you like, and I shall
be prepared for your gallantry."
"I should like it above all things," he said, seriously.
"Why, how grave your face is! I shall have to call you the knight of
the rueful countenance. Is anything the matter?"
"I don't know; there might be."
"What an ambiguous reply!" she said, glancing at him curiously. "Are
you a spiritualist? Have you had an intimation that all is not right
in the other worlds?"
Her flippancy displeased him, knowing the importance of the matter in
question.
"Mrs. Taunton," he said, gravely, looking down at the little figure
from his tall height, "I was introduced to you for a purpose, and I am
going to take a liberty."
Mrs. Taunton looked a little frightened, and wondered if her
good-looking cavalier were mad. He guessed her thoughts.
"Don't be afraid, I am in my senses,"
"Then he must be in love with me," thought Mrs. Taunton, in dismay at
this eccentric young man; but his next remark caused her to alter her
mind.
"You have a brother?" he said, abruptly.
"Yes," she replied, rather puzzled, "I have one brother. I think he is
out in Australia. Why," a sudden light breaking in on her, "have you
met him?"
"I think so."
"What is he doing?" she asked, eagerly.
Ronald parried the question.
"I don't know," he replied; "but I'll tell you all about him
to-morrow."
"Is he ill, or in trouble?" she said, quickly. "Please tell me,
because I am very--very fond of him."
"Mrs. Taunton," he said, quietly, "I am come here for a purpose."
"Which concerns my brother?"
"Yes. Believe me, I do not ask out of idle curiosity, but will you
answer my questions?"
Mrs. Taunton thought a moment.
"It's all so curious," she said, nervously, "but Mr. Foster, who
introduced you, is an old friend of mine,"--after a pause, "yes, I
will answer your questions."
He led her to a seat and took one beside her, then began to talk.
"Your brother's name is Leopold Verschoyle?"
"Yes."
"He was married in Malta seven years ago?"
"He was."
"And a year afterwards separated from his wife?"
"He did."
"And then?" hesitatingly.
"Oh, do not be afraid," she said, coldly; "he fell in love with
another woman, and there was a divorce case."
"Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor."
"You seem to know all about it," replied the lady, a little
astonished. "He went to Australia with Miss Macgregor, and since then
I have heard nothing about him. What became of them?"
"He married her."
"Oh!" drawing down the corners of her mouth, "then she is his wife now
I presume?"
"No; she is dead!"
"Dead! Then my brother is coming back to England?"
"That I cannot tell you till I call on you, to-morrow."
"What do you want me to do?"
"To show me your brother's portrait--have you one?"
"Yes; only one. Taken just before he left for Malta."
"Good. Then I will call to-morrow at four o'clock."
"And then?" rising and taking Monteith's arm.
"I will tell you everything," he replied.
"About what?"
"That depends on--to-morrow."
"You are a most mysterious man," said Mrs. Taunton, in a vexed tone,
as he took her back to her husband; "you arouse my curiosity, and then
refuse to gratify it--but tell me at least one thing--is my brother
well?"
Ronald hesitated. He dare not tell her that her brother--if Ventin
indeed, were her brother--was dead so he equivocated.
"I think so," he replied, hurriedly.
"Then I will wait for your promised revelation to-morrow;" and, with a
smile, she left him, and went back to her husband, who was still
talking to Foster.
"Take me home, George," said Mrs. Taunton, touching her husband's arm;
"I am tired."
"Yes, you look pale, my dear," he answered, giving her his arm; "we'd
better go at once."
Foster glanced keenly at her and then at Ronald, who, however, shook
his head.
"Good night, Mr. Foster," said Mrs. Taunton, giving him her hand; "you
are to call on me to-morrow at four, with Mr. Monteith?"
"I will not fail," he replied, with a smile; and taking her husband's
arm she moved away, and was soon lost among the crowd.
When she disappeared, Gerald turned to the Australian, quickly.
"Well?"
"I asked her about her brother," said Monteith, quietly; "and her
story corresponds in every particular with that of Ventin."
"Then you think Verschoyle is Ventin?"
"Yes, I think so; but I will be certain to-morrow."
"Oh! in what way?"
"Mrs. Taunton is going to show me her brother's portrait."
"And then?"
"Well," observed Monteith, "if it is Ventin as I suspect, I think it
will be the beginning of the end."