"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 G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ddess 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 a.s.sume 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 ma.s.ses 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 coa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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.

VI.

A BOND OF AIR.

Troilus and Cressida; i.--3.

Had Helen been present at the scene which took place in Herman's studio earlier in the afternoon, she would perhaps have wondered less at his disturbance.