A soiree was held at a new and fashionable Art Gallery, the shining
lights alike of Fame and Fashion were streaming in at the doors, and
spreading themselves through the rooms, when Sylvester Riddell sprang
out of a hansom cab, and mounted the steps, glancing about him at the
various celebrities as he passed, exchanging greetings with his friends,
and watching secretly for one face.
"Iris" had just made its appearance before the public. Sylvester, at
present, was suffering from a fit of depression as to its merits, and
was disposed to think that it would be an utter failure. His father's
criticisms rang in his ears, and were echoed by his own understanding,
and he had felt himself so unable to decide as to the hero's final fate,
that he had left the poem unfinished, calling it "_Iris, as far as
Manifested_" and had taken leave of Amelot, still straining after the
mystic vision.
Some of his friends told him that this indefiniteness was far more
artistic than a commonplace conclusion, but he knew that his father
would never grant that imagination could result in vagueness. He did
not think himself that it could, but for him the story of Iris was still
incomplete, and he could not decide on its outcome. Lucian was off to
the Rocky Mountains; and the interest of Sylvester's life had consisted
in picking up reports as to the success of the new beauty.
He was engaged as art critic to a very select and enlightened journal,
hence his presence to-night, and he made his way at once to the portrait
of the "Hon. Amethyst Haredale, by --," and so encountered several of
his acquaintance, all looking and criticising, for the picture was much
talked of, and was painted by a rising artist. It represented Amethyst
in a simple white dress, showing the long soft curves of her neck and
arms, her ideal perfection of form and feature. The head was slightly
turned over the shoulder, and the eyes looked out at the spectators,
with the mystical far-away look which Sylvester had caught in their
depths, even in the first freshness of her happy girlhood. It was
somewhat faintly coloured, less blooming than the original.
"Miss Haredale is more of a flesh and blood beauty than that," said one
of the young men; "I don't see that she looks visionary at all, but as
if she enjoyed herself immensely."
"That is altogether too etherealised," said another, "and misses the
young lady of fashion!"
"It's a lovely picture," said a third, "like a statue with a soul--
Galatea, possibly."
"Yes,--I say, just look,"--said the first. "It's ideal beauty--look at
the sweep of her throat and shoulder." And he continued to call
attention to the "points" of the picture, with perfectly legitimate and
artistic enthusiasm, but to the distraction of Sylvester, who, on being
appealed to as "a lucky fellow who knew her at home in the country,"
replied sharply and untruly, that the picture did not strike him as a
good likeness of Miss Haredale at all.
"No?" said another voice, as Mr Oliver Carisbrooke came up, and joined
the group. "I saw her once last year--though I had not the pleasure of
an introduction. I should have thought it like her then. But she is
altered. Ah, Mr Sylvester Riddell, let me claim our slight
acquaintance. Like every one else, I am admiring your poem."
Sylvester ought to have been gratified, and was obliged to be civil; but
his nerves were all on edge, and something in Mr Carisbrooke's tone
jarred on him.
He glanced round at the brilliant throng, noticed the Prime Minister and
the leader of the Opposition apparently comparing notes as to each
other's portraits, saw the artist, who had painted Miss Haredale, stop
and speak to a new novelist, whose book was on every one's table; and
then, down the room, behind her mother, came Amethyst herself, flashing
as suddenly on his vision as when first he had seen her in the
drawing-room at Cleverley, with the jewels on her neck, and the happy
light in her eyes.
She looked happy and eager now, the fatal amethysts were once more
clasped round her throat and shining in her hair; her dress was of some
faint indescribable tint that harmonised with the jewels, it hung in
soft, simple folds. She carried some quaint rare orchids in her hand.
Her dress was noticeable, as well as her person, and it seemed to
Sylvester that she came like a queen with her court, for she was with a
large party, who all made for the portrait, near which Sylvester stood.
It was neither Lady Haredale's way to resent the past, nor to slight an
unprofitable acquaintance; and, though Sylvester stepped aside, feeling
acutely that she had a right to refuse to know him, she paused and said
quite sweetly,--
"Why, it's young Mr Riddell! How do you do? And how is our dear old
Rector, and your aunt? Amethyst--Una--Mr Sylvester Riddell is here!"
What could be sweeter? Sylvester's friends were envious, as Amethyst
turned away from the tall foreigner to whom she had been speaking, and
gave her hand to Sylvester, courteously, but without the slightest
effusion. She was perfectly at her ease, but he felt that she did not
mean to be cordial, while he coloured and looked embarrassed, as he
answered, and Lady Haredale asked him to dinner for the next day. "So
lucky that we are dining at home." He accepted of course, and Lady
Haredale went on talking to him; whether from mere purposeless
geniality, or from a "wish to tease"--as the nursery poem has it--the
other men in attendance, he could not tell. The young lady remained
passive. She stood still, and gave words when they were demanded of
her, "as if they had been flowers from her bouquet," thought the
poetical Sylvester. When Sir Richard Grattan asked her to come and look
at a landscape which he thought of buying, and to give her opinion on
it, she went at once, and studied the picture, appraising its merits,
and appearing genuinely to forget herself in admiring it. That was like
the old Amethyst, but the action was noted, and conclusions drawn by
every bystander. The odds were certainly with Sir Richard Grattan.
Sylvester managed to stand about within sight, and more or less within
hearing.
"The advantage of modern pictures," said Sir Richard Grattan, "is that
one knows their real value. `Old Masters' are a mere swindle. I don't
believe even the experts can tell if they're genuine."
"I like modern landscapes--they are so real," said Amethyst.
"There is a picture by Titian, as you call him, in my house in Rome,"
said Prince Pontresina in delicate careful English, "which was painted
for my ancestor by the master himself, and we possess his receipt for
the money that was paid to him."
"Oh, that is interesting! I should like to see Titian's handwriting,"
said Amethyst with enthusiasm.
"If I have ever the privilege of showing that precious heirloom to Miss
Haredale, the moment for which it has been preserved for ages will have
come. I can then destroy it," said the prince.
"Then, since you like this picture, I shall add it to the landscapes by
modern artists with which I am filling the dining-room at Merrifield
House," said Sir Richard. "I have secured the refusal of it. You think
it good, Miss Haredale."
Amethyst stood between the two men, and glanced from one to the other,
from the pale, finely-finished prince, like one of his own old pictures,
to the florid, substantial baronet, who seemed to carry his prosperity
written on his face.
Was she really weighing their merits in the balance? Or was she amusing
herself with their pretensions, like any little suburban belle with a
pair of rival partners, playing a common game with exceptionally
splendid playthings?
It did not occur to the miserable Sylvester that she was actuated by
another motive, that she was showing the man who had once misjudged and
injured her, how little harm he had been able to do; that the person she
was chiefly conscious of was himself. He only felt that he had lost
Iris, in seeing Amethyst.
She plunged into a discussion on the respective merits of ancient and
modern art, in which Sylvester perceived that she talked with skill, and
pulled both her admirers out of their depths. Suddenly she paused,
looked across the room, with attention suddenly caught, turned to Sir
Richard Grattan, and said--
"I should like to find my sister now. Will you take me to her?"
Una, dressed in pale yellow, with some large delicate daffodils on her
shoulder, rather like a pale daffodil herself in her fragile
slenderness, was not without admirers, but she had little attention to
spare for them. To her, at any rate, the sight of Sylvester recalled
the most miserable hours of her life; and, with a self-absorption and
want of appreciation only possible to early youth, the thought of the
conservatory at Loseby, of the pond in the wood at Cleverley, blotted
out alike the brilliant people and the beautiful pictures now before her
eyes. In her excuse, it may be said that she was very tired, her head
and back were aching. Standing was a painful effort, so she sat down on
a bench, near the rest of her party, and lost herself in wondering,
whether the wretched impulse that had once driven her to plunge into the
cold muddy pool from which Sylvester had rescued her, had been the
unpardonable sin that she often felt it to be. How hateful were the
memories of that childish delusion and folly! Her life, since then, had
indeed become new.
She turned her head idly to look for Amethyst, and suddenly her heart
stopped beating, and then began to throb with suffocating violence. Two
figures detached themselves from the crowd, and came towards her mother.
One was an insignificant little lady, sumptuously dressed, the other, a
tall man with stiff moustaches and bold outlooking eyes.
"Why, it's Tony!" exclaimed Lady Haredale, "and Mrs Fowler too! Why,
it's ages since we met! What a pleasure! How are you? when did you
come to town?"
"Only last week; we have been abroad. My wife was intending to call,"
said Major Fowler.
"So glad to see you! Why, the little girls will be charmed! Here's one
of your old playmates. You know, Mrs Fowler, he was always the
children's friend--Una."
Una rose and came forward, holding out her hand.
"How d'ye do?" she said, coolly.
Major Fowler fairly started. His mental vision of Una was so different
from the reality.
"Really," he said, "I should never have known her."
"No, I've grown so much," said Una, with the languid drawl that was
sufficiently familiar. "Ah, here's Amethyst."
Amethyst, feeling as if her namesake jewels burnt into her neck and
arms, gave a cold, gracious greeting.
"You'll dine with us to-morrow, quite without ceremony?" said Lady
Haredale. "We are in Eaton Square, you know, taking the girls out. I
like it as much as they do."
Mrs Fowler accepted the invitation, Miss Haredale and the rest of the
party came up and were introduced, and then they all walked round
together, looking at the people and the pictures. Sylvester, quite
unable to keep at a distance, was glad to join Mr Carisbrooke and
follow in their wake.
Amethyst kept Una by her side, and Major Fowler walked with them.
Sylvester caught echoes of his voice in familiar tones, which called up
before him the white-robed girl in the sunny garden at Loseby, the
mystery and the misery of that fatal afternoon, when the clouds had
gathered round his fair ideal, and when his hateful share in her fate
had been forced on him.
He was noticed himself. His tall angular figure, marked features, and
fine, restless eyes were striking, and suited the author of `Iris,' in
the opinion of the literary set which was prepared to admire it, and he
had his own little success on his hands, and had to reply to remarks and
congratulations, which just then seemed a mere interruption to his eager
watch. He caught the remarks too of the passing crowd, the wonder if
Sir Richard Grattan was the accepted one, the questions as to who Major
Fowler might be. He had not been seen before with the beauty. Then a
laugh, and Charles Haredale was pointed out "as a reformed character,"
with his heiress, and Sylvester, startled, glanced at his companion.
Was he really throwing his nice little niece into the arms of such a man
as he must know young Haredale to be?
Mr Oliver Carisbrooke walked calmly on, without apparently hearing the
remark. He had large, and peculiarly bright eyes, which now followed
Sylvester's, and were fixed on Amethyst's graceful head. Then he turned
and looked at his companion.
"She will not be satisfied. She shines in these rainbow tints, but they
will not be enough for her," he said, rather sentimentally.
Sylvester was startled, held for a moment by the curious gaze fixed on
him, but he resented it.
"If you are speaking of Miss Haredale," he said, "I do not see what a
young lady can desire more. This sort of success is, I suppose, what
women desire."
"Ah," said Mr Carisbrooke dryly, "ah, Mr Riddell, you keep your soul
for your poem, not for real life. You write of passion, you don't
believe in it."
He moved away before Sylvester could reply, and made his way into the
group round Amethyst. Sylvester had no excuse for following him, and
presently saw that he had engaged her attention, and was talking to her
with earnestness. She turned her head, and Sylvester perceived that she
was attentive, interested, and presently a bystander remarked--
"Miss Haredale is looking like her picture."