CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE BEAUTY.

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."