THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT.
Othello; iv.--i.
The sun shone brightly in at the windows of a little bare studio next
morning, as if to atone for the gloom of the darkness and storm of the
night. The Midas touch of its rays fell upon the hair of Helen Greyson,
turning its wavy locks into gold as she softly sang over her modeling.
She seemed to find in her work a joy which accorded well with the
bright day. Pinned to the wall was an improved sketch of the bas-relief
whose design had attracted Fenton's notice in her portfolio, while
before the artist stood a copy in clay, upon which she was working with
those mysterious touches which to the uninitiated are mere meaningless
dabs, yet under which the figures were growing into sightliness and
beauty.
Suddenly her song was interrupted by the sound of footsteps without,
followed by a tap upon her door.
"Come," she called; and Grant Herman entered in response to the
invitation.
He carried in his arms a large vase, about whose sides green and golden
dragons coiled themselves in fantastic relief.
"Your vase came from the kiln," he said, "and I knew you would want to
see it at once. It is the most successful firing they have done here."
"Oh, I am so glad," she returned, laying down her modeling tools, and
approaching him eagerly. "I was sure there wouldn't be a head or a tail
left by the time the poor monsters came out of the fiery furnace. What
a splendid color that back is! And that golden fin is gorgeous."
"Yes, Mrs. Greyson," Herman said, "you have produced a veritable
dragon's brood this time. I can almost hear them hiss."
"Do you know," she responded, smoothing the glittering shapes with half
chary touches. "I should not be wholly willing to have the vase in my
room at night. They might, you know, come to life and go gliding about
in a ghastly way."
"I always wondered," the sculptor observed, "that Eve had the courage
to talk with the serpent. Do you suppose she squealed when she saw
him?"
"Oh, no, she probably divined that mischief was brewing, and that
contented her."
Herman had set the vase where all its gorgeous hues were brought out by
the sun, which sparkled and danced upon every spine and scale of the
writhing monsters. He walked away from it to observe the effect at a
greater distance.
"There is no pleasure like that of creating," he said. "Man is a god
when he can look on his work and pronounce it good."
"Which is seldom," she returned, "unless in the one instant after its
completion when we still see what we intended rather than what we have
made."
"It is fortunate our work cannot rise up to reproach us for the wide
difference between our intents and our performances. Fancy one of my
statues taking me to task because it hasn't the glory it had in my
brain."
"It is on that account," Mrs. Greyson said smiling, "that I fancy
Galatea must have been most uncomfortable to live with. Whenever
Pygmalion found fault, she had always the retort ready: 'At least I am
exactly what you chose to make me.' Poor Pygmalion!"
"It was no more true than in the case of every man that marries; we all
bow down to ideals, I suppose. Except," he added with a little
hesitation, "myself, of course."
The words were somewhat awkward in the hesitating accent which gave
them a suggestiveness at which the faintest of flushes mounted to her
cheek. She bent her observations more closely on the vase.
"It is fired so much better than the last miserable failure," observed
she, going to a shelf and reaching after a dusty vase, massive and
fantastic, which had been ruined in the kiln.
"Let me help you," Herman said.
But she had already loosened the vase, which proved heavier than she
expected, and it was only by darting forward, and throwing his arms
about her, that the sculptor was enabled to save her from a severe
blow. The vase fell crashing to the floor, breaking into heavy shards,
rattling the windows and the casts upon the wall by the concussion.
An exclamation escaped him. He had drawn Mrs. Greyson backward, and for
a brief instant, held her in his strong clasp. It was an accident which
to mere acquaintances might mean nothing; to lovers, every thing.
Herman was for a moment pale with the fear that Helen might be injured;
then the hot blood surged into his cheeks as he released his hold and
stepped back, He bent over the fragments of the vase that she might not
see his face, and by so doing, as he reflected afterward, he failed to
perceive what was her expression. He straightened himself with an
impetuous movement, and came a step nearer.
"How can you be so careless?" he demanded, almost with irritation. "It
might have killed you."
"I did not remember that it was so heavy," she returned, a little pale
and panting. "Do you think I was trying to pull it on my head? I am
very much obliged, though. You have saved me a heavy blow at least.
There is not much left of that unlucky vase. It was always
ill-starred."
"All's well that ends well," returned the sculptor, sufficiently
recovering his self-control to speak lightly; "only don't run such a
risk another time."
"Oh, I assure you," she replied, "I do not make my vases either to
break my head or to be broken themselves. I shall take better care of
this one, you may be confident."
"I was more concerned for yourself than for the vase."
"For myself it really does not so much matter."
"It is scarcely kind to your friends to say so."
"Oh,--my friends!"
Over her face came an inexplicable expression, which might be gloom or
exultation, and the tone in which she spoke was equally difficult of
interpretation. She seemed determined, however, to fall into no snares
of speech; she smiled upon the sculptor with a glance at once radiant
and perplexing.
She turned towards the new vase and began slowly to whirl the
modeling-stand upon which Herman had placed it. A thousand reflections
danced and flickered about the little room as it revolved in the
sunlight, glowing and glittering like the sparkles from a carcanet of
jewels. The fiery monsters seemed to twine and coil in living motion as
the light shone upon their emerald and golden scales and bristling
spines.
"I wonder if Eve's serpent was so splendid," Mrs. Greyson laughed,
twirling the stand yet faster upon its pivot. "Would I do for Mother
Eve, do you think?"
"If the power to tempt a man be the test," he retorted with an odd
brusqueness quite disproportionate to the apparent lightness of the
occasion, the dark blood mantling his face, "there can be no doubt of
it."
A swift change came over her at his words. She left the vase and stand
abruptly. She flushed crimson then grew pale and looked about her with
a half frightened glance, as if uncertain which way to turn. The
movement touched her companion as no words could have done.
"I beg your pardon," he muttered.
And with a still deeper flush on his swarthy cheek he turned abruptly
and quitted the room.