THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.
Measure for Measure; iv--i.
As many of the Boston clocks as ever permitted themselves so far to
break through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper,
had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group of
men seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of the
sitting-rooms of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up.
Indeed, the room was so pleasant and warm, with its artistically
combined colors, its good pictures and glowing grates, and the storm
outside raged so savagely, beating its wind and sleet against the
windows, that a reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was only
natural, and there would be little room for surprise should the men
conclude to remain where they were until daylight.
The conversation, carried on amid clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke and
with potations, not excessive but comfortably frequent, was quiet and
unflagging, possessing, for the most part, that mellow quality which is
seldom attained before the small hours and the third cigar.
"Yes, virtue has to be its own reward," Tom Bently was saying lightly,
"for, don't you see, the people who practice it are too narrow-minded
to appreciate any thing else."
"And that makes it the most poorly paid of all the professions," was
the retort of Fred Rangely, who was lounging in a big easy chair;
"except literature, that is. Even sin is said to get death for its
wage, and that is something."
"Virtue may be an inestimable prize for any thing you newspaper men can
tell. It is not a commodity you are used to handling."
"Literature has little to do with virtue, it is true," was the
response. "Who would read a novel about virtuous people, for instance?
I'd as soon study the catechism."
"How art has to occupy itself with iniquity," Fenton observed with a
philosophical puff of his cigar. "Or what people call iniquity; though
a truer definition would be nature."
"Painting occupies itself with iniquity in its models," Rangely said
lazily. "I heard to-day--"
"No scandals," interrupted Grant Herman, good humoredly. "You are going
to tell the story about Flackerman, I know."
The speaker was the most noticeable man in the group. Tom Bently, an
artist, was a tall, swarthy fellow with thin black beard, stubble-like
hair, and a gypsyish look. Next came Fred Rangely, an author of some
reputation, of whom his friends expected great things, rather short in
stature, thick-set, and with a good-tempered, intelligent face.
Fenton's appearance has already been touched upon; he was of elegant
figure, with a face intellectual, high-bred, but marred by a suspicion
of superciliousness. Amid these friends, Herman gained something by
contrast with each and naturally became the center of the group. This
prominence was partly due to his figure, of large mold, finely formed
and firmly knit, carrying always an air of restful strength and
composure which made itself felt in whatever company he found himself.
His head, although not out of proportion with his fine shoulders and
trunk, was somewhat massive, a fact which was emphasized a little by
the profusion of his locks, now plentifully sprinkled with gray. His
face was indicative of much character, the lips firm and full, the eyes
large and dark, now serious under their heavy brows and now twinkling
with contagious merriment.
"It isn't every model you can talk scandal about," chuckled Bently, in
reply to Herman's remark. "We had a devilishly pretty fuss in Nick
Featherstone's studio the other day. Nick found his match in the new
model."
"What new model?" inquired Fenton, arranging himself into an effective
pose before the fire.
"Do you remember the picture of an Italian girl that Tom Demming sent
to the Academy exhibition two years ago? A homely face with lots of
character in it, and a splendid pose?"
"You mean the one he called _Marietta?_ It was well done, if I
remember."
"Oh, stunningly. That's the girl. She's just landed, and Demming gave
her letters to me. She's a staving good model!"
"But she isn't pretty."
"No; but she is suggestive. She has one of those faces that you can
make all sorts of things out of. Rollins made a sketch of her head that
is stunning; a lovely thing; and it looked like her too. Then her
figure is perfect, and what is more, she knows how to pose. She meets
an idea half way, you know, and hits the expression wonderfully. She
has given me points for my picture every time she has been at the
studio."
"Is her name Ninitta?" Grant Herman asked.
"Yes; do you know any thing about her?"
"I think I've seen her in Rome. But what is she doing on this side of
the water?"
To Arthur Fenton's keen perception there seemed more feeling in the
tone than an inquiry into the affairs of a stranger would be likely to
evoke, but he gave the matter no especial thought.
"Yes," he echoed lightly, "what is she here for? There is no art in
this country. New York is the home of barbarism and Boston of
Philistinism; while Cincinnati is a chromo imitation of both. She'd
better have staid abroad."
"Your remark is true, Arthur," Bently laughed, "if it isn't very
relevant. What people in this country want isn't art at all, but what
some Great Panjandrum or other abroad has labeled art. They don't know
what is good."
"That is so true," was the retort, "that I almost wonder they don't buy
your pictures, Tom."
"But why does the girl come to America?" persisted Herman, with a faint
trace of irritation in his tone. "She could do far better at home."
"Oh, Demming wrote that she was bound to come. You can never tell what
ails a woman anyhow. Probably she has a lover over here somewhere."
Herman made no reply save by an involuntary lowering of his heavy
brows, and Rangely brought the conversation back to its starting-point
by asking:
"But what about Nick Featherstone?"
"Oh, Nick? Well, Nick tried to kiss her yesterday, and she offered to
stab him with some sort of a devilish dagger arrangement she carries
about like an opera heroine."
"Featherstone is always a strong temptation to an honest man's boot,"
growled Herman out of his beard, as he sat with his head sunk upon his
breast, staring into the fire.
"They had a scene that wouldn't have done discredit to a first-class
opera-bouffe company," Bently went on, laughing at the remembrance.
"Nick was fool enough to hollo to somebody in the next room, and the
result was that we all came trooping in like a chorus. It was absurd
enough."
And he laughed afresh.
"But the girl?" persisted Grant Herman, not removing his gaze from the
fire. "How did she take it?"
"Oh, she was as calm and cold as you please. She gathered herself
together and went off without any fuss."
"I wish when you are done with her, you'd send her round to me," Herman
rejoined. "I want a model for a figure, and if I remember her, she'll
do capitally."
He rose as he spoke, with the air of a man who intends going home.
"By the way," Fenton said to him, "isn't the Pagan night next week?
Don't you have it this month?"
"Yes; you'll get your invitations sometime or other. Good night all."
"Oh, don't break good company," Rangely remonstrated. "I have half a
bottle here, and I do hate an alcoholic soliloquy."
But the movement for departure was general, and in a few moments more
the members of the company were wending their individual ways homeward
through the pelting rain.