THE BITTER PAST.
All's Well that Ends Well; v.--3.
"The Pagans: Friday, Jan. 17.
Pipes, pictures and punch.
GRANT HERMAN."
Such was the invitation received one day by each of the Pagans, under a
seal bearing the impress of the goddess Pasht.
There is little that need be added to Fenton's account of the Pagans.
The society had no organization beyond a rule to meet each month and to
limit its membership to seven; no especial principles beyond an
unformulated although by no means unexpressed antagonism against
Philistinism. Fenton had suggested Pasht as a sort of _dea mater_,
and had furnished the seal bearing the image of that goddess which it
was customary to use upon the notifications of meetings; and for the
rest there was nothing definite to distinguish this group of earnest
and sometimes fiery young men from any other. They doubtless said a
great many foolish things, but they did so many wise ones that it
seemed but reasonable to assume that there must be some grains of
wisdom mingled with whatever dross was to be found in their speech.
Their views were extreme enough. Fenton was fond of maintaining
astounding propositions, using the club much as Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes once privately said Wendell Phillips does the community, "to try
the strength of extravagant theories;" and none of the Pagans were
restrained by any conventionality from a free expression of opinion.
It was on the afternoon of the day fixed for the Pagan meeting when
Helen Greyson took her way across the Common and through the business
portion of the city to the building down by the wharves where were the
studios of Herman and his pupils. It was feebly raining, the weather
having been decidedly whimsical all that week, and the clouds rolled in
ragged, sullen masses overhead. Helen felt the gloom of the day as a
vague depression which she endeavored in vain to shake off, and
hastened towards her studio, hoping to be able to lose herself in her
work.
Picking her steps among the piles of fire-brick and terra-cotta which
lumbered the yard and the long shed skirting the building, which was a
terra-cotta manufactory, she let herself in at a side door and went
directly to her studio.
Removing the wet cloths from her bas-relief, she stood for a moment
studying it, and then investing herself in a great apron, set busily to
work upon one of the fleeting figures in the composition.
She had scarcely begun when as often before a heavy step was heard upon
the stair without, a tap sounded lightly upon her door, and, in answer
to her invitation, Grant Herman entered.
He, too, had evidently been working in clay, of which his loose blouse
bore abundant marks. A paper cap, not unlike that of a pastry-cook in
an English picture, was stuck a little aslant over his iron gray locks,
giving him a certain roguish air, with which the occasional twinkle in
his eye harmonized well.
"Good morning, Mrs. Greyson," he said in his hearty voice, and then
stood for a moment looking over her shoulder at her work in silence.
"Do you think the movement of that figure too violent?" his pupil
asked, turning to look up at him, and noticing for the first time that
despite the saucy pose of his cap, the sculptor was evidently not in
the best of spirits.
"No," returned he, rather absently. "But you must have less agitation
in the robe; it is merely hurried now, not swift. Lengthen and simplify
those folds--so."
As he indicated the desired curves with his nervous fingers, Mrs.
Greyson's quick eye caught sight of a striking ring upon his hand, and
without thought she said, involuntarily:
"You have a new ring!"
"Yes," returned Herman, flushing; "or rather a very old one. It is an
intaglio that the artist Hoffmeir--I have told you of our friendship in
Rome--gave me one Christmas. I returned it to him when I left Rome, and
at his death he in turn sent it back to me."
"But Hoffmeir has been dead several years."
"More than six; but the ring has just come into my hands."
The intaglio was a dark sard beautifully cut with the head of Minerva,
and Mrs. Greyson's artistic instincts were keenly alive to the
exquisite delicacy of its workmanship. She inquired something of its
origin and probable age, and then dropped it from her attention, save
that, being a woman, she wondered a little what was the personal
bearing of this token, and whether the sculptor's sadness arose from
the awakening of memories connected with it.
"It must seem like a token from the grave," she said, "coming as it
does, so long after Hoffmeir's death."
"It does," the other replied, soberly; "but it brought a message with
it. Oh, the wretchedness of hearing a voice from the dead, to whom you
can send no answer!"
The burst of emotion with which he said this was very unusual, and Mrs.
Greyson regarded him with perhaps as much surprise as sympathy, having
never before seen him so deeply moved.
"I am afraid," she ventured, hesitatingly, "that what I said seemed
intrusive, though of course it was not meant to be."
"It did not seem so; but I am out of sorts this afternoon. I have sent
my model away because I am too much unstrung to work."
"I hope nothing bad has happened," said Helen, quickly.
"No, nothing; it's only this message from dear old Hoffmeir."
He walked away and pulled aside the curtain which screened the lower
half of the window overlooking the water, and stood gazing out at a
vessel lying beside the wharf beneath. Mrs. Greyson laid down her
modeling tools, disturbed by the other's disquiet, and wondering how
best to distract his attention from himself. Her glance roved
inquiringly about the little room, noting every cast upon the dingy
walls, bits of sculptured foliage, architectural forms, and portions of
the human figure. Then her gaze rested an instant upon her own work,
and from that turned toward the robust form by the window.
"Come, Mr. Herman," she said at length, in a tone half jesting, "I
never saw you so somber."
"It is not that Hoffmeir is dead, poor fellow!" Herman replied,
answering her unspoken question. "I'd made up my mind to endure that,
and any man with his over-sensitive temperament is better off on the
other side of the grass than this any day. I may as well tell you, Mrs.
Greyson, though as a rule I do not find much comfort in blurting out
things. The fact is that Hoffmeir and I quarreled over a girl. We were
both in love with her, like two young fools as we were; but she'd
promised to marry me, and--it was a deal better that she didn't, too. I
thought he tried to take her from me. Now I know I was wrong, and that
Fritz was as high-souled as a god in the matter; but then I sent him
back his ring, and broke off with him and her too. I was a fiery young
fool in those days," he added, with a sad and bitter smile, "a young
fool."
"And was it never explained?"
"Never until to-day. He was far too proud a man to call me back."
"But the girl?" queried Helen, with increasing eagerness. "What did she
do?"
"Oh, the girl," he repeated, turning away again and directing his gaze
out of the window; "what would you expect her to do? She was only a
peasant; and though I was honest enough then, I outgrew that fever
centuries ago."
"Yes, you did," returned Helen, with gentle persistence, "but what did
she do?"
"What do women usually do when they break with one lover? Get another,
I suppose!"
The words were so hard and coarse to come from a man like Grant Herman
that she involuntarily looked up quickly at him, and perhaps he noticed
the action.
It was evident that some deep pain had provoked the expression, yet had
found no relief in the rough words. The sculptor turned toward his
companion as if to speak. Then slowly his eyes fell, and he said
firmly, if a little stiffly:
"I believe I do her injustice. If she ever loved a man she was one who
would love him always."
He left the little room without more words, his firm, even tread
sounding down the uncarpeted stairs until the door of his own studio
was heard to close after him. Mrs. Greyson stood before her clay
wondering, and then, sinking into a chair, sat so long absorbed in
thought that the short daylight faded about her and she was forced to
give up further work that day. Replacing the wet cloth with which her
bas-relief had been covered, she prepared to return home. As she passed
the door of Herman's studio the sculptor opened it.
"I do not know," he said, extending his hand, "what made me so rude
this afternoon. I am a bear of a fellow, but I had meant to treat you
well."
He had fully recovered his composure, but his evident desire to efface
the impression he had made naturally rendered it more lasting in
Helen's mind.