THE PAGANS

By

Arlo Bates

The web of our life is a mingled yarn, good and ill together. _All's Well That Ends Well_; iv--3

DEDICATION. 

To those who would be Pagans, did any such organizationexist, I take pleasure in offering this attempt to picture a phaseof life which they know. 

 She answered, "cast thy rosary on the ground; bind on thy shoulder the thread of paganism; throw stones at the glass of piety; and quaff from a full goblet. " _Persian Religious Hymn. _

CONTENTS. 

I. SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGEII. THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHTIII. THE SHOT OF ACCIDENTIV. AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUTV. THE BITTER PASTVI. A BOND OF AIRVII. IN WAY OF TASTEVIII. THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVEIX. VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSEX. O, WICKED WIT AND GIFTXI. WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKEDXII. WHAT TIME SHE CHANTEDXIII. THE ASSAY OF ARTXIV. THIS IS NOT A BOONXV. 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFULXVI. CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTHXVII. THIS "WOULD" CHANGESXVIII. BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISEXIX. NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERSXX. THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVEDXXI. HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTHXXII. UPON A CHURCH-BENCHXXIII. HEART-SICK WITH THOUGHT, XXIV. IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING, XXV. THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME, XXVI. THERE BEGINS CONFUSION, XXVII. WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE, XXVIII. LIKE COVERED FIRE, XXIX. A NECESSARY EVIL, XXX. HOW CHANCES MOCK, XXXI. HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY, XXXII. A SYMPATHY OF WOE, XXXIII. A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN, XXXIV. HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY, XXXV. PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP, XXXVI. AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND, XXXVII. FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL AND EVER. 

PAGANS

I. 

SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE. Measure for Measure, v--i. 

A fine, drizzling rain was striking against the windows of a cosy thirdfloor sitting-room, obscuring what in pleasant weather was a finedistant view of the Charles river. The apartment was evidently that ofa woman, as numerous details of arrangement and articles of feminineuse suggested; and quite as evidently it was the home of a person oftaste and refinement, and of one, too, who had traveled. 

Arthur Fenton, a slender young artist, with elegant figure and deep seteyes, was lounging in an easy chair in an attitude well calculated toshow to advantage his graceful outlines. For occupation he was turningover a portfolio of sketches, whose authorship was indicated by theattitude of the lady seated near by. 

She was a woman of commanding presence, with full lips, whoseexpression was contradicted by the almost haughty carriage of her finehead and the keen glance of her eye, which indicated too much characterfor the mere pleasure-seeker. Her hair was of a rich chestnut, and shewore a dress of steel gray cashmere, relieved at the throat by a knotof pale orange, which harmonized admirably with her clear complexion. She watched her companion as if secretly anxious for his good opinionof her drawings, yet too proud to betray any feeling in the matter. He, for his part, turned them over with seeming listlessness, breaking outnow and then with some abrupt remark. 

"Yes, " he said suddenly, after a ten minutes' silence, "I'm going to bemarried at once. It will be 'a marriage in the bush, ' as the Suabianscall an impecunious match, since neither of us has any money; and I, atleast, haven't so great a superfluity of brains that in thisintelligent age of the world I am ever likely to make much by sellingmyself; and that is the only way any body gets any money nowadays. "

"I hardly think you'd be willing to sell, " his companion answered, "nomatter how good the market. "

"There's where you are wrong, " he answered, looking up with a suddenfrown, "the worst thing about me is that with sufficient inducement--oreven merely from the temptation of an especially good opportunity--Ishould sell myself body and soul to the Philistines. "

"One would hardly fancy it, from the way you talk of Peter Calvin andhis followers. "

"Oh, as to that, " retorted the artist, "don't you see that judiciousopposition increases my market value when I am ready to sell? If Icould only be sufficiently prominent in my antagonism, I mightabsolutely fix my own price. "

The lady made no answer, but regarded him more intently than ever. 

"That's a good thing, " he broke out again, holding up a drawing. "Whydon't you do that in marble, or better still, in bronze?"

"I am putting it up in clay, " she answered. "I thought I had shown itto you. It is to be fired as my first experiment in a big piece ofterra-cotta. That is the first sketch; I think I have improved uponit. "

It was the study for a bas-relief representing the months, twelvecharacteristic figures running forward with the utmost speed. Giftsdropped from their hands as they ran; from the fingers of June fellflowers, from those of August and September ripened fruits, upon whichNovember and December trampled ruthlessly. January, in his haste, overturned an altar against which February stumbles. 

"It is melancholy enough, " Fenton observed, regarding it closely. "Howmelancholy every thing is now-a-days?"

"To a man about to be married?" she asked, with a fine smile. 

"Oh, always to me. The fact that I am going to be married does notprevent my still being myself. "

"Unfortunately not, " she returned, with a faint suspicion of sarcasm inher tone. "You pique yourself upon being somber. "

"I dare say, " answered he, a trifle petulantly. "Pain has become ahabit with me; discontent is about the only luxury I can afford, heavenknows!"

"Unless it is gorgeous cravats. "

"Oh, that, " Fenton said, putting his hand to the blue and gold tie athis throat. "I'm trying to furbish up my old body and decrepit heartagainst my nuptials, so I invested fifty cents in this tie. "

"You couldn't have done it cheaper, " remarked she; "though, perhaps, "she added dryly, "it is all the rejuvenation is worth. "

Fenton smiled grimly and again applied himself to the examination ofthe drawings, while the other looked out at the rain. 

"Boston has more climate, and that far worse, " she remarked, "than anyother known locality. "

"Does that mean that you are going to Herman's this afternoon?" askedFenton. 

"I should have gone this morning if you had not insisted upon mywasting my time simply because you had determined to waste yours. "

Fenton laughed. 

"You are frank to a guest, " he said. "I wished to be congratulated onmy marriage. "

"I shall not congratulate you, " she answered. "You are spoiled. Thewomen have petted you too much. "

"According to the old fairy tale all goes well with the man of whom thewomen are fond. "

"I remember, " she said. "I always pitied their wives. "

"I shall treat Edith well. "

"You are too good-natured not to, I suppose; especially when you lookforward to your marriage with such rapture. "

"But, Helen, have I ever pretended to believe in marriage? Marriage isa crime! Think of the wretched folly of those who talk of the holinessof love's being protected by the sanctities of marriage. If love isholy, let it have way; if it is not, all the sacraments priests candevise cannot sanctify it. "

"Then why, Arthur, do you marry at all?"

"Because marriage is a necessary evil as society is at presentconstituted. "

"But, " Helen said slowly, "you who pretend to have so little regard forsociety--"

"Ah, there it is, " he interrupted. "Man is gregarious by instinct; hemust do as his fellows do. He must submit to the most absurd_convenances_ of his fellowmen, as one sheep jumps where anotherdid though the bar be taken away. If he were strong enough to standalone he might take conventions by the throat and be a god!"

His outburst was too vehement and sudden not to come from someunderlying current of deep feeling, rather than from the presentconversation. He had risen while speaking, his head thrown back, hiseyes sparkling. His companion regarded him with admiration, notunmixed, however, with amusement. 

"And you, " she said, "choose to call yourself a man withoutenthusiasms. "

"Yes, " replied he, smiling and regaining his seat, "I am a man withoutenthusiasms. "

"That is the cleverest thing you ever said, " Helen continued, musingly. "And so we understand you intend to be ruled by conventionality andmarry?"

"Precisely; it would be unjust to Edith to even talk to her of myviews. "

"I should hope so!" exclaimed his hostess. "But you will at least haveher to yourself, and that pays for every thing. "

"Oh, _peutêtre!_" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well awarethat the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond oftalking to resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "_peutêtre_, though I never believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in yourline; you still have faith in it. "

"Oh, I do, " she rejoined quickly; "and so would you if you were inlove. You'd be content to be on a rock in the mid ocean if she werethere. "

"Love on a desert island, " returned the young man, smilingsignificantly; "Oh, _le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxième jour, cen'est pas si bon; le troisième jour--mon Dieu, mais comment ons'ennuie!_"

"No, no, no, " Helen broke in impetuously. "Good, always! Always, always, or never!"

Fenton threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter. 

 "'Twere errant folly to presume, Love's flame could burn and not consume, "

he sang, going off again into peals of laughter. "Good by, _monamie_; oh, _mais comment on s'en--_"

"Stop, " interrupted she. "I'll have no more blasphemy. "

"Good-by, then, " he said, picking up his hat. 

"You may as well stay to lunch, " his hostess said rising. 

"No, " returned he. "I must go and write to Edith. "

And off he went, humming:

 "'Twere errant folly to presume Love's flame could burn and not consume. "

II. 

THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. Measure for Measure; iv--i. 

As many of the Boston clocks as ever permitted themselves so far tobreak through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper, had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group ofmen seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of thesitting-rooms of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up. Indeed, the room was so pleasant and warm, with its artisticallycombined colors, its good pictures and glowing grates, and the stormoutside raged so savagely, beating its wind and sleet against thewindows, that a reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was onlynatural, and there would be little room for surprise should the menconclude to remain where they were until daylight. 

The conversation, carried on amid clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke andwith potations, not excessive but comfortably frequent, was quiet andunflagging, possessing, for the most part, that mellow quality which isseldom 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-mindedto appreciate any thing else. "

"And that makes it the most poorly paid of all the professions, " wasthe retort of Fred Rangely, who was lounging in a big easy chair;"except literature, that is. Even sin is said to get death for itswage, and that is something. "

"Virtue may be an inestimable prize for any thing you newspaper men cantell. It is not a commodity you are used to handling. "

"Literature has little to do with virtue, it is true, " was theresponse. "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 aphilosophical puff of his cigar. "Or what people call iniquity; thougha truer definition would be nature. "

"Painting occupies itself with iniquity in its models, " Rangely saidlazily. "I heard to-day--"

"No scandals, " interrupted Grant Herman, good humoredly. "You are goingto tell the story about Flackerman, I know. "

The speaker was the most noticeable man in the group. Tom Bently, anartist, was a tall, swarthy fellow with thin black beard, stubble-likehair, and a gypsyish look. Next came Fred Rangely, an author of somereputation, of whom his friends expected great things, rather short instature, thick-set, and with a good-tempered, intelligent face. Fenton's appearance has already been touched upon; he was of elegantfigure, with a face intellectual, high-bred, but marred by a suspicionof superciliousness. Amid these friends, Herman gained something bycontrast with each and naturally became the center of the group. Thisprominence was partly due to his figure, of large mold, finely formedand firmly knit, carrying always an air of restful strength andcomposure which made itself felt in whatever company he found himself. His head, although not out of proportion with his fine shoulders andtrunk, was somewhat massive, a fact which was emphasized a little bythe profusion of his locks, now plentifully sprinkled with gray. Hisface was indicative of much character, the lips firm and full, the eyeslarge and dark, now serious under their heavy brows and now twinklingwith contagious merriment. 

"It isn't every model you can talk scandal about, " chuckled Bently, inreply to Herman's remark. "We had a devilishly pretty fuss in NickFeatherstone's studio the other day. Nick found his match in the newmodel. "

"What new model?" inquired Fenton, arranging himself into an effectivepose before the fire. 

"Do you remember the picture of an Italian girl that Tom Demming sentto the Academy exhibition two years ago? A homely face with lots ofcharacter in it, and a splendid pose?"

"You mean the one he called _Marietta?_ It was well done, if Iremember. "

"Oh, stunningly. That's the girl. She's just landed, and Demming gaveher 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 canmake all sorts of things out of. Rollins made a sketch of her head thatis stunning; a lovely thing; and it looked like her too. Then herfigure is perfect, and what is more, she knows how to pose. She meetsan idea half way, you know, and hits the expression wonderfully. Shehas given me points for my picture every time she has been at thestudio. "

"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 ofthe water?"

To Arthur Fenton's keen perception there seemed more feeling in thetone than an inquiry into the affairs of a stranger would be likely toevoke, but he gave the matter no especial thought. 

"Yes, " he echoed lightly, "what is she here for? There is no art inthis country. New York is the home of barbarism and Boston ofPhilistinism; while Cincinnati is a chromo imitation of both. She'dbetter have staid abroad. "

"Your remark is true, Arthur, " Bently laughed, "if it isn't veryrelevant. What people in this country want isn't art at all, but whatsome Great Panjandrum or other abroad has labeled art. They don't knowwhat is good. "

"That is so true, " was the retort, "that I almost wonder they don't buyyour pictures, Tom. "

"But why does the girl come to America?" persisted Herman, with a fainttrace 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 whatails a woman anyhow. Probably she has a lover over here somewhere. "

Herman made no reply save by an involuntary lowering of his heavybrows, and Rangely brought the conversation back to its starting-pointby asking:

"But what about Nick Featherstone?"

"Oh, Nick? Well, Nick tried to kiss her yesterday, and she offered tostab him with some sort of a devilish dagger arrangement she carriesabout 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 hisbreast, staring into the fire. 

"They had a scene that wouldn't have done discredit to a first-classopera-bouffe company, " Bently went on, laughing at the remembrance. 

"Nick was fool enough to hollo to somebody in the next room, and theresult was that we all came trooping in like a chorus. It was absurdenough. "

And he laughed afresh. 

"But the girl?" persisted Grant Herman, not removing his gaze from thefire. "How did she take it?"

"Oh, she was as calm and cold as you please. She gathered herselftogether and went off without any fuss. "

"I wish when you are done with her, you'd send her round to me, " Hermanrejoined. "I want a model for a figure, and if I remember her, she'lldo 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 abottle here, and I do hate an alcoholic soliloquy. "

But the movement for departure was general, and in a few moments morethe members of the company were wending their individual ways homewardthrough the pelting rain. 

III. 

THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT. Othello; iv. --i. 

The sun shone brightly in at the windows of a little bare studio nextmorning, as if to atone for the gloom of the darkness and storm of thenight. 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 thebright day. Pinned to the wall was an improved sketch of the bas-reliefwhose design had attracted Fenton's notice in her portfolio, whilebefore the artist stood a copy in clay, upon which she was working withthose mysterious touches which to the uninitiated are mere meaninglessdabs, yet under which the figures were growing into sightliness andbeauty. 

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 theinvitation. 

He carried in his arms a large vase, about whose sides green and goldendragons coiled themselves in fantastic relief. 

"Your vase came from the kiln, " he said, "and I knew you would want tosee 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, andapproaching him eagerly. "I was sure there wouldn't be a head or a tailleft by the time the poor monsters came out of the fiery furnace. Whata splendid color that back is! And that golden fin is gorgeous. "

"Yes, Mrs. Greyson, " Herman said, "you have produced a veritabledragon's brood this time. I can almost hear them hiss. "

"Do you know, " she responded, smoothing the glittering shapes with halfchary touches. "I should not be wholly willing to have the vase in myroom at night. They might, you know, come to life and go gliding aboutin a ghastly way. "

"I always wondered, " the sculptor observed, "that Eve had the courageto talk with the serpent. Do you suppose she squealed when she sawhim?"

"Oh, no, she probably divined that mischief was brewing, and thatcontented her. "

Herman had set the vase where all its gorgeous hues were brought out bythe sun, which sparkled and danced upon every spine and scale of thewrithing monsters. He walked away from it to observe the effect at agreater distance. 

"There is no pleasure like that of creating, " he said. "Man is a godwhen he can look on his work and pronounce it good. "

"Which is seldom, " she returned, "unless in the one instant after itscompletion when we still see what we intended rather than what we havemade. "

"It is fortunate our work cannot rise up to reproach us for the widedifference between our intents and our performances. Fancy one of mystatues taking me to task because it hasn't the glory it had in mybrain. "

"It is on that account, " Mrs. Greyson said smiling, "that I fancyGalatea must have been most uncomfortable to live with. WheneverPygmalion found fault, she had always the retort ready: 'At least I amexactly what you chose to make me. ' Poor Pygmalion!"

"It was no more true than in the case of every man that marries; we allbow down to ideals, I suppose. Except, " he added with a littlehesitation, "myself, of course. "

The words were somewhat awkward in the hesitating accent which gavethem a suggestiveness at which the faintest of flushes mounted to hercheek. She bent her observations more closely on the vase. 

"It is fired so much better than the last miserable failure, " observedshe, going to a shelf and reaching after a dusty vase, massive andfantastic, which had been ruined in the kiln. 

"Let me help you, " Herman said. 

But she had already loosened the vase, which proved heavier than sheexpected, and it was only by darting forward, and throwing his armsabout her, that the sculptor was enabled to save her from a severeblow. 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 fora brief instant, held her in his strong clasp. It was an accident whichto 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 andstepped back, He bent over the fragments of the vase that she might notsee his face, and by so doing, as he reflected afterward, he failed toperceive what was her expression. He straightened himself with animpetuous movement, and came a step nearer. 

"How can you be so careless?" he demanded, almost with irritation. "Itmight have killed you. "

"I did not remember that it was so heavy, " she returned, a little paleand panting. "Do you think I was trying to pull it on my head? I amvery much obliged, though. You have saved me a heavy blow at least. There is not much left of that unlucky vase. It was alwaysill-starred. "

"All's well that ends well, " returned the sculptor, sufficientlyrecovering his self-control to speak lightly; "only don't run such arisk another time. "

"Oh, I assure you, " she replied, "I do not make my vases either tobreak my head or to be broken themselves. I shall take better care ofthis 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 orexultation, and the tone in which she spoke was equally difficult ofinterpretation. She seemed determined, however, to fall into no snaresof speech; she smiled upon the sculptor with a glance at once radiantand perplexing. 

She turned towards the new vase and began slowly to whirl themodeling-stand upon which Herman had placed it. A thousand reflectionsdanced and flickered about the little room as it revolved in thesunlight, glowing and glittering like the sparkles from a carcanet ofjewels. The fiery monsters seemed to twine and coil in living motion asthe light shone upon their emerald and golden scales and bristlingspines. 

"I wonder if Eve's serpent was so splendid, " Mrs. Greyson laughed, twirling the stand yet faster upon its pivot. "Would I do for MotherEve, do you think?"

"If the power to tempt a man be the test, " he retorted with an oddbrusqueness quite disproportionate to the apparent lightness of theoccasion, the dark blood mantling his face, "there can be no doubt ofit. "

A swift change came over her at his words. She left the vase and standabruptly. She flushed crimson then grew pale and looked about her witha half frightened glance, as if uncertain which way to turn. Themovement 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 abruptlyand quitted the room. 

IV. 

AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT. Henry VIII. ; i. --3. 

"In the first place, " said Edith Caldwell brightly, "you know, Arthur, that I ought not to be in Boston at all, when I have so much to see toat home; and in the second place Aunt Calvin is shocked at theunconventionality of my being seen any where in public after thewedding cards are out; but I was determined to see this picture. I sawit when he had just begun it in Paris, you know, three years ago. "

"As for being seen, " Arthur Fenton returned, "we certainly shall neverbe seen here. The Art Museum is the most solitary place in the city;and as for conventionalities, why, the wedding is so quiet and so faroff that I think nobody here even realizes that the stupendous event isimminent at all. "

"Oh, but I do, " Edith said, laughing and clasping her hands with apretty gesture of mock despair. "I feel that the day of my bondage isadvancing with unfaltering tread, like the day of doom. "

"Then you should do as I do by the day of doom, disbelieve in italtogether until it comes. "

"It is of no use. Even disbelief will not alter the almanac, as you'llfind when the day of doom swoops down on you. "

They were sitting upon one of the hard benches in the picture-galleryof the Art Museum before an important work just sent over from Europeby its American purchaser. The afternoon light was beginning to be alittle dim, and Edith was troubled with the consciousness that theerrands which had brought her for the day to Boston were far from beingaccomplished. It was pleasant to linger, however, especially as thismight be the last tranquil day she should pass with Arthur before theirmarriage. 

She rose from her seat and crossed to the picture of Milletrepresenting a peasant girl with a distaff of flax in her hand. Fentonsat a moment looking after his betrothed, critically though fondly, then with a deliberate movement he left his seat and followed her. 

"Think of the distance between this country and that picture, " heremarked, regarding the beautiful canvas. "Art in America is simply anirreclaimable mendicant that stands on the street corners and holds outthe catch-penny hand of a beggar. "

"Oh, no, " Miss Caldwell replied, turning her clear glance to his, "thatis only an impostor that pretends to be art. The real goddess has hertemples here. "

"Yes, " returned he, with a laugh that covered a sneer, "but not in theway you mean. "

A shadow passed over her face; she turned a wistful glance towards him. 

"I cannot understand, Arthur, " she said, "why you speak so bitterlyabout art here. Of course, all great men are apt to be misunderstood atfirst, but you--"

"I am over estimated, " he interrupted, inly vexed at having given theconversation this turn. "It is only for the sake of talking, _mapetite_. Don't mind it. "

"But, Arthur, " she persisted, "I want to say something. Uncle Petertalks as if you sided with the artists here who--who--"

She was wholly at a loss to phrase what she wished to say, both becauseher ideas were rather vague and because she feared lest she mightoffend her lover by talking upon a subject which he had markedlyavoided. He made now a fresh effort to divert the talk into a newchannel. 

"Never mind the artists, " he said, "we really must go. Besides, you areonly in town for a day and it is no use to attempt the discussion ofquestions which involve the entire order of the universe. I promisedMrs. Calvin I'd bring you back in half-an-hour, and we've been heretwice that time already. "

He ran on brightly and rapidly, leading the way out of the gallery anddown the stairs, and she followed with a suspicion of shadow upon herface as if the subject of which she had spoken was one of realimportance to her. 

"Come in and see the jolly old Pasht, " Arthur suggested, as theydescended the wide staircase. 

She acquiesced by turning with him into the room devoted to the Waycollection of Egyptian antiquities, in the center of which stands asomewhat mutilated granite statue of the goddess Pasht, the cat-headeddeity, referred to the time of Amenophis III, about 1500 B. C. Calm, impassive and saturnine the goddess sits, holding the sign of life withlifeless fingers in as unconscious mockery now as when the symbol wasplaced within the stony grasp by some unrecorded sculptor dead morethan thirty centuries ago. All that it has looked upon, all theshifting scenes and varied lands upon which have gazed those sightlesseyes, have left no record on that emotionless face, whose lips stillkeep unchanged their faint smile beneath which lurks a sneer. 

Arthur and Edith stood before it, as a pair of Egyptian lovers may havestood long ago, and for a time regarded it in silence, each moved in away, though very differently, as their temperaments differed. 

"It is the patron saint of our Pagans, " the artist said at length. "Howmuch the old creature knows, if she only chose to tell. She could giveus more genuine wisdom than we shall hear in our whole lives, if shewould but condescend to speak. "

"Wisdom always knows the value of silence, " Edith returned smiling. 

"But Pasht belies her sex by not being a communicative party, " was hercompanion's reply; "although communicativeness was never acharacteristic of the gods. "

"No irreverence, sir, " Edith said with an air of mock authority, "evenfor these dethroned deities. What were the attributes of yourcat-headed goddess?"

"Oh, various things. Pasht means, I believe, the devouring one, and shehas another name signifying 'she who kindles a fire. ' She was thegoddess of war and of libraries, and the 'mistress of thought. ' A sortof Egyptian Minerva, I suppose. "

"Violence and wisdom always seemed to me a strange combination, " Edithsaid thoughtfully, regarding the stone image intently, as if to dragfrom its cold lips a solution of the difficulty. 

"You overlook the destructive power of words; besides, the sword or thetongue, what does it matter? Life is always a conflict, and it is ofminor importance what the weapons are. It is appropriate enough forthis dilapidated, but eminently respectable female to be thefigure-head of a society like the Pagans where we fight with words butmay come to blows any time. "

He spoke gayly, pleased with having put entirely out of theconversation the unpleasant subject of his relations to her uncle, Mr. Peter Calvin, upon which Edith had touched. But he who talks with awoman must expect the unexpected, and as they turned away from thestatue of Pasht, and walked towards the street where the carriage waswaiting, Miss Caldwell abruptly brought the matter up again by asking:

"But why are you artists opposed to Uncle Peter, Arthur? What is the--"

"The Pagans, _ma belle_" he interrupted coolly, quite as if hewere answering her question, although in reality nothing was furtherfrom his intention, "isn't really a society at all. It is only the nameby which we've taken to calling a knot of fellows who meet once a monthin each other's studios. We are all St. Filipe men, but we've noorganization as a club. " "Well?" Edith asked, as he paused; evidentlypuzzled to discover any connection between her question and his reply. 

"And you, " her betrothed responded, tucking her into the carriage andsurreptitiously kissing her hand, "are the loveliest of your sex. I'llcome to take you to the depot at six, you know. Good-by. "

He closed the carriage door, watched her drive off, and then went hisown way. 

V. 

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 aseal 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 tolimit its membership to seven; no especial principles beyond anunformulated although by no means unexpressed antagonism againstPhilistinism. Fenton had suggested Pasht as a sort of _dea mater_, and had furnished the seal bearing the image of that goddess which itwas customary to use upon the notifications of meetings; and for therest there was nothing definite to distinguish this group of earnestand sometimes fiery young men from any other. They doubtless said agreat many foolish things, but they did so many wise ones that itseemed but reasonable to assume that there must be some grains ofwisdom mingled with whatever dross was to be found in their speech. 

Their views were extreme enough. Fenton was fond of maintainingastounding propositions, using the club much as Dr. Oliver WendellHolmes once privately said Wendell Phillips does the community, "to trythe strength of extravagant theories;" and none of the Pagans wererestrained by any conventionality from a free expression of opinion. 

It was on the afternoon of the day fixed for the Pagan meeting whenHelen Greyson took her way across the Common and through the businessportion of the city to the building down by the wharves where were thestudios of Herman and his pupils. It was feebly raining, the weatherhaving been decidedly whimsical all that week, and the clouds rolled inragged, sullen masses overhead. Helen felt the gloom of the day as avague depression which she endeavored in vain to shake off, andhastened towards her studio, hoping to be able to lose herself in herwork. 

Picking her steps among the piles of fire-brick and terra-cotta whichlumbered the yard and the long shed skirting the building, which was aterra-cotta manufactory, she let herself in at a side door and wentdirectly to her studio. 

Removing the wet cloths from her bas-relief, she stood for a momentstudying it, and then investing herself in a great apron, set busily towork upon one of the fleeting figures in the composition. 

She had scarcely begun when as often before a heavy step was heard uponthe stair without, a tap sounded lightly upon her door, and, in answerto her invitation, Grant Herman entered. 

He, too, had evidently been working in clay, of which his loose blousebore abundant marks. A paper cap, not unlike that of a pastry-cook inan English picture, was stuck a little aslant over his iron gray locks, giving him a certain roguish air, with which the occasional twinkle inhis eye harmonized well. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Greyson, " he said in his hearty voice, and thenstood for a moment looking over her shoulder at her work in silence. 

"Do you think the movement of that figure too violent?" his pupilasked, turning to look up at him, and noticing for the first time thatdespite the saucy pose of his cap, the sculptor was evidently not inthe best of spirits. 

"No, " returned he, rather absently. "But you must have less agitationin the robe; it is merely hurried now, not swift. Lengthen and simplifythose 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, andwithout thought she said, involuntarily:

"You have a new ring!"

"Yes, " returned Herman, flushing; "or rather a very old one. It is anintaglio that the artist Hoffmeir--I have told you of our friendship inRome--gave me one Christmas. I returned it to him when I left Rome, andat 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 theexquisite delicacy of its workmanship. She inquired something of itsorigin and probable age, and then dropped it from her attention, savethat, being a woman, she wondered a little what was the personalbearing of this token, and whether the sculptor's sadness arose fromthe awakening of memories connected with it. 

"It must seem like a token from the grave, " she said, "coming as itdoes, so long after Hoffmeir's death. "

"It does, " the other replied, soberly; "but it brought a message withit. Oh, the wretchedness of hearing a voice from the dead, to whom youcan 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, havingnever before seen him so deeply moved. 

"I am afraid, " she ventured, hesitatingly, "that what I said seemedintrusive, though of course it was not meant to be. "

"It did not seem so; but I am out of sorts this afternoon. I have sentmy 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 lowerhalf of the window overlooking the water, and stood gazing out at avessel lying beside the wharf beneath. Mrs. Greyson laid down hermodeling tools, disturbed by the other's disquiet, and wondering howbest to distract his attention from himself. Her glance rovedinquiringly about the little room, noting every cast upon the dingywalls, bits of sculptured foliage, architectural forms, and portions ofthe 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, "Inever 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 theother 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 outthings. The fact is that Hoffmeir and I quarreled over a girl. We wereboth in love with her, like two young fools as we were; but she'dpromised to marry me, and--it was a deal better that she didn't, too. Ithought he tried to take her from me. Now I know I was wrong, and thatFritz was as high-souled as a god in the matter; but then I sent himback his ring, and broke off with him and her too. I was a fiery youngfool in those days, " he added, with a sad and bitter smile, "a youngfool. "

"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 shedo?"

"Oh, the girl, " he repeated, turning away again and directing his gazeout of the window; "what would you expect her to do? She was only apeasant; and though I was honest enough then, I outgrew that fevercenturies ago. "

"Yes, you did, " returned Helen, with gentle persistence, "but what didshe 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 Hermanthat she involuntarily looked up quickly at him, and perhaps he noticedthe action. 

It was evident that some deep pain had provoked the expression, yet hadfound no relief in the rough words. The sculptor turned toward hiscompanion as if to speak. Then slowly his eyes fell, and he saidfirmly, if a little stiffly:

"I believe I do her injustice. If she ever loved a man she was one whowould love him always. "

He left the little room without more words, his firm, even treadsounding down the uncarpeted stairs until the door of his own studiowas heard to close after him. Mrs. Greyson stood before her claywondering, and then, sinking into a chair, sat so long absorbed inthought that the short daylight faded about her and she was forced togive up further work that day. Replacing the wet cloth with which herbas-relief had been covered, she prepared to return home. As she passedthe door of Herman's studio the sculptor opened it. 

"I do not know, " he said, extending his hand, "what made me so rudethis afternoon. I am a bear of a fellow, but I had meant to treat youwell. "

He had fully recovered his composure, but his evident desire to effacethe impression he had made naturally rendered it more lasting inHelen'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 studioearlier in the afternoon, she would perhaps have wondered less at hisdisturbance. 

In response to the sculptor's request made at the Club when Ninitta'sname was first mentioned, Bently, when the girl finished posing forhim, sent her to the sculptor's studio. 

She came a day or two later than Bently had directed her, nothastening, although for six years she had shaped her entire life to theend of meeting Grant Herman. She came into the studio as calmly and asquietly as if it were some familiar place which she had left butyesterday, and she greeted the sculptor with as even and musical toneas in the old Roman days when as yet nothing had occurred to stir herpeaceful bosom. 

For his part the man stood and looked at her in silence. Even when aghost from the past has appeared at his especial summons, one seldomsees it unmoved, and Herman was conscious that his heart beat morequickly, that he breathed more heavily as Ninitta let fall behind herthe rug _portière_ and came towards him through the studio. 

She had a dark, homely face, only redeemed from positive ugliness byher deep, expressive eyes. Her figure was superb; rather slender, litheand sinewy, but without an angle or thin curve. Like Diana, she waslong limbed, so that she seemed taller than she really was. The sweepof neck and shoulder was exquisite, and her simple dress was admirablyadapted to display the lines of her supple form. As she walked down thestudio, setting her feet firmly and carrying her head with fine poise, Grant Herman felt the ghost of an old passion stir in his heart. 

"How do you do?" he composedly answered her greeting. "You haveimproved since I saw you last. "

"Thank you, " she said, in a rich voice with strong but pleasant accent. "I have had time. "

"But improvement is not always a question of time, " returned he. "Lookat me. "

"You have grown old, " Ninitta commented, regarding him keenly. "You aregray now. "

"Yes, " retorted the other lightly, "I am an old man. " It is really avery long time since you posed for me in my little den at Rome. "

"You remember those days perhaps, sometimes?" she said, dropping thelong lashes over her eyes. 

A shadow passed over Herman's high brow. 

"Is one likely to forget such days?" he demanded. "Is one likely toforget how love may be turned to treachery and--"

"Pardon, " the woman interrupted with dignity. "I did not come to bereproached, _eccelenza_. You have not forgotten Signor Hoffmeir?"

"No, " he answered, with a deepening frown. "I have not forgotten theman who pretended to be my friend and proved it by stealing mybetrothed. "

"It is well that you have not forgotten, " Ninitta went on calmly, butearnestly, "for I have a message from him. He charged me when he wasdying, " she added, crossing herself, "to give it to you with my ownhands. I have been waiting for all these years, but now I am free of mypromise. "

Herman took the packet she extended toward him, and turned abruptlyaway. Ninitta seated herself in one of the tall easy chairs, removedher hat, and began a leisurely survey of the place. The sounds from thewharf outside, the cries of the sailors, the creaking of the cordageand the ships came softened and mellowed like the daylight into thewide, dim studio, giving a certain sense of remoteness by the contrastthey suggested between the silence within and the stir of the worldwithout. For all her outward calm, Ninitta's heart was beating hotly, and she longed with a great yearning for a touch from the hand of thesilent man before her; for a word of kindness from his lips. Shewatched him furtively, under cover of looking at a cast of Celini'sPerseus upon a bracket above his head, as he stood reading the letterfrom Hoffmeir. 

"Why did you not bring this to me before?" the sculptor asked atlength, turning towards her. "It is six years now. "

"Have I been able to shape my life?" returned Ninitta. "I have followedyou to Florence, to Paris; you came to America. I followed you to NewYork; you were here. I have never ceased trying to reach you. It wasnot easy for me to cross half the world alone and without help; with nofriends, no money; with nothing. "

"But you have been in Boston a couple of months. "

"Yes, " she said quietly, looking up into his face. "But you knew it. Iwaited for you to send for me. "

"I have only known it a week, " was the sculptor's reply. "Do you knowwhat was in Hoffmeir's letter?"

"His ring; the one you wore in Rome. "

"But do you know what he wrote?"

"No, " she answered. "How should I?"

Her questioner looked at her a moment in silence. She put up her headproudly with an involuntary response to the questioning which hissilence implied, and met his eyes unflinchingly. Yet he put his thoughtinto words. 

"It is seven years since I saw you, " he said at length. 

"It is seven years, " she echoed. 

"In seven years a great deal may happen, " continued he, still regardingher closely. 

"Much, much has happened, " she returned, still meeting his gaze withoutshrinking. 

"Are you married?" he asked, with a certain abruptness which to acareful observer might have indicated that the question cost him aneffort. 

"No, " Ninitta returned simply; "how could I be when I was betrothed toyou?"

"But that was broken off--"

The sentence stuck in his throat; and he wondered that he could havebegun it. He wondered, too, how he could even have doubted the faith ofthe woman before him; and most of all he wondered if he had ever reallyloved her. He had an irritating consciousness that something wasexpected of him which he was unwilling to give; some sign oftenderness, some caress such as befitted the reconciliation of loverslong separated by misunderstanding and blinding jealousy. He felt as ifhe were falling below the demands of the occasion, most annoying ofsensations to the masculine mind. But an important interview can withdifficulty be changed from the key in which it is begun, and even hadhis feelings prompted a display of tenderness, he felt that it wouldseem abrupt and forced. He waited for Ninitta to speak. 

"Yes, " she said, after a moment, as he did not continue, "it was brokenoff, but Signor Hoffmeir said that was because you did not understand, and that everything would be as it had been when you got his letter. "

A sad hopelessness began to appear in her eyes; she had of old been tooaccustomed to submit to her lover's will to assume the initiative now, despite the development and strength which time had given to hercharacter. The sculptor did not dream how her heart throbbed beneathher quiet demeanor, but he was too sensitive not to be touched by theunconscious appeal of her voice and look. 

Seven years before, an enthusiastic student in Rome, he had loved orbelieved he loved, the peasant girl Ninitta, whom he had found in anexcursion to Capri and induced to come to the Eternal City as a model. 

Too honorable to betray her, he had meant to make the model his wife, and was betrothed to her with a solemnity of which he was keenlyreminded to-day by the ring which she still wore upon her finger. Circumstances had convinced him, however, that Ninitta was deceivinghim, and that she preferred the artist Hoffmeir, his best friend. Tobreak off both engagement and friendship without listening to a wordof explanation, to leave Rome and Italy, were comparatively easy for apassionate man stung to the quick by a double treachery. To forget wasmore difficult, and although a thousand times had Herman assuredhimself that he had extinguished the last spark of emotion concerningthis episode, the faintest breath of an old memory was still sufficientto rekindle some seemingly dead ember. To-day, holding in his hand theletter from his lost friend which removed all his doubts, he saw thatinstead of being injured he had himself been cruel and unjust; he feltthe full anguish of having committed an irreparable fault. We mayoutlive our past; its sorrows we may forget, its wrongs we may forgive, we may even smile at its crushed hopes, ambitions and loves withscarcely a tinge of bitterness; but that which we have been stings usever with the burning pain of an undying remorse. It is not what wehave done which awakens our deepest self-scorn; it is the fact that wewere this which made it possible for us to do it. To feel that he hadbeen capable of the cruelty of abandoning his betrothed and of woundinghis closest friend, merely from a groundless suspicion, was to GrantHerman a pain never to be wholly outlived. 

Nor was he without a teasing pain, through a less noble trait in hisnature, from the consciousness that he had loved Ninitta. Once thefires of love have burned out, any mortal is apt to be lost in amazedwonderment how they were ever kindled; and that it was hard for GrantHerman, at thirty-five, to understand how Grant Herman, attwenty-seven, could have adored an Italian peasant model is not sowithout precedent as to be wholly incomprehensible. 

Ninitta had been a good girl, his thoughts ran, was doubtless so still;her figure was enchanting, he would have been no sculptor had he failedto appreciate that; he had been a boy, a foolish youngster to bedizzied by a rushing of the blood to his head; but to make her his wifenow----

"Ninitta, " he said, suddenly, breaking off from his thoughts intowords, "I am not well to-day: come to-morrow. Are you comfortablysettled in town? Do you need money?"

"No, " she answered, rising, "I do not want money. "

She went slowly down the studio without further word, only turning backas she passed Bently's picture for which she had posed, and which hadbeen brought for the meeting of the Pagans. 

"You have seen, " she said, "I am able to earn. I have learned muchwhile I was bringing you that letter. Across the world is a long way. No; I have no need of money. "

VII. 

IN WAY OF TASTE. Troilus and Cressida; iii. --3. 

Grant Herman's studio, in which the Pagans met that night, was inits way no less unique than the company there gathered. It was agreat, misshapen place, narrow, half a hundred feet long, anddisproportionately high, with undressed brick walls and cement floor. The upper half of one of the end walls was taken up with large windows, before which were drawn dingy curtains. Here and there about the placewere scattered modeling stands, water tanks mounted upon rude tripods, casts, and the usual lumber of a sculptor's studio; while upon thewalls were stuck pictures, sketches, and reproductions in all sorts ofcapricious groupings. 

In one corner a flight of stairs led to a gallery high up against thewall, over the rude railing of which looked the heads of a couple oflegless statues. From this gallery the stairs continued to ascend untila door near the roof was reached, leading to unknown regions well up inthe building behind which the studio had been built as an afterthought. On shelves were confusedly disposed dusty bits of bronze, plaster, coarse pottery and rare glass; things valueless and things beyond pricestanding in careless fellowship. A canvas of Corot looked down upon agrotesque, grimacing Japanese idol, a beautiful bronze reproduction ofa vase by Michael Angelo stood shoulder to shoulder with a bean-potfull of tobacco; a crumpled cravat was thrown carelessly over the armof a dancing faun, while a cluster of Barye's matchless animals wereapparently making their way with great difficulty through a collectionof pipes, broken modeling tools, faded flowers and loose papers. Everywhere it was evident that the studio of Herman differed from heaven inat least its first law. 

Quite in keeping with the picturesque, richly stored room, was thegroup of men walking about the place or seated near the rough tableupon which refreshments were placed. On this table were a couple ofsplendid punch-bowls of antique cut glass, which, if not full now, hadunmistakable marks of having been so earlier in the evening. A coarsedish of yellow earthen ware beside them held an ample supply ofbiscuits, and was in turn flanked by a couple of plates of cheese. Fruit, beer, and tobacco in various forms, with abundant glasses andpipes, completed the furnishing of the board, upon which a newspapersupplied the place of a cloth. 

Tom Bently's long, shapely limbs were disposed in a big easy-chair bythe table, his tongue being just now employed in one of his notinfrequent harangues upon art, his remarks being plentifully spicedwith profanity. 

"Whatever crazy ideas on art, " Bently was saying, "aren't good for anything else have to be put into a book. The surest recommendation in artcircles is getting out a book or giving a rubbishy lecture. Every womanwho has painted a few bunches of flowers or daubed a little pottery, writes a book to tell how she did it; as if it were the mostastonishing thing in the world. "

"Women are very like hens, " interpolated Fenton; "they always cacklemost over the smallest egg. "

"If any one of the crew, " continued Bently, "could appreciate afiftieth part of the suggestions in a single sketch of an old master, she might have something to write about. "

"But then she would know enough to keep still, " said Rangely. 

"Oh, a woman never knows enough to keep still, " Bently retorted. "It isdamned amusing to hear the average American----"

A chorus of protestations arose. 

"We'll have nothing about the 'Average American, ' Bently!"

"Start somebody else on his hobby, " suggested Ainsworth; "that's theonly way to choke Bently off. Where's Fenton? I never knew him quietfor so long in my life. "

Arthur had been watching his companions and smoking in silence. Hesmiled brilliantly at Ainsworth's challenge. 

"I'm overwhelmed by Bently's oaths, " he said. "He outdoes himselfto-night. "

"When it comes time for Tom's epitaph, " observed Rangely, "I shallsuggest that it be a dash. "

"Why do you swear so?" inquired Ainsworth. "Don't you think it inexecrable taste?"

"Taste?" laughed Bently. "Yes; it's so far above all taste as to be a--sight higher and bigger. "

"I make a distinction, " Herman put in good naturedly, "between swearingand blasphemy; and Tom never blasphemes. His cursing is all in theinterest of the highest virtues. "

"Profanity is like smoking, " added Tom. "Every thing depends upon howyou do it. The English, for instance, smoke for the brutality of thething; they never have any of the French _finesse, _ and theirsmoking is nothing less than a crime. But as the Arabs smoke it is oneof the loftiest virtues; there's something godlike about it. 

"It is from smoking, " Fenton chimed in, "that the Orientals learned howto treat women; for a woman is like tobacco, the aroma should beenjoyed and the ashes thrown away. "

"By George!" exclaimed one of the Pagans, moved by some rarecompunction to remember that he had a wife at home, "that's infamous, Arthur. "

"It is my belief, " observed Ainsworth deliberately, "that Fenton liesawake nights to invent beastly things to say about women, and when hegets something that he thinks is smart he throws it into theconversation any where, without the slightest regard to whether it fitsor not. "

"What makes you so bitter against women?" asked Bently. 

"Yes, " added Rangely, with mock deprecation. "Why do you want toannihilate the sex? What harm have women ever done to you?"

"Oh, " retorted the artist, "it is on theoretical principles, purely. Iadore that masculine ideal which man calls woman, but only finds in hisbrain. The highest on earth is reached only by the absolute eliminationof the feminine. Ah! man is at his best in war, " he went on, hisattitude becoming less studied and more forcible, as he allowed hisintellectual interest to overpower his vanity; "there he is allmasculine; man without the limitations that the presence of womanimposes upon him. There woman is ignored, and even if she has been thecause of the war--and to be the cause of war is woman's noblestprerogative!--she is for the time being as completely forgotten as ifshe had never existed. She slips into oblivion as does the horn of grogwhich gives his courage. "

Fenton was in a mood when he fancied he was talking well, a convictionwhich was not always an accurate measure of the real worth of hisremarks. He delighted in presenting half truths in forciblephraseology, relishing the taste of an epigram quite without referenceto its verity. He amused himself and his friends with talk more or lessbrilliant, of which no one knew better than himself the fallacy, butwhose cleverness atoned with him for all defects. The intellectualexcitement of giving free rein to his fancy and his tongue wasdangerously pleasant to Arthur, who often more than half convincedhimself of the verity of his extravagant theories, and oftener stillinvolved himself in their defense by yielding to the mere whim ofphrasing them effectively. 

"You are on your high horse to-night, Fenton, " cried Rangely, "you makeno more of a metaphor than a racer of a hurdle. "

"Don't stop him, " Ainsworth said. "Let him run the course out now he'son the track. "

"When man comes into his kingdom, " Fenton broke out again, too fullyaroused to mind the banter, yet with a sort of double consciousnessenjoying the absurdity of the whole conversation, "when man comes intohis kingdom, when we get to the perfection of the race, there will beno women. The ultimate man will be masculine--men, only men; gloriouslyand eternally masculine!" "But how will the race perpetuate itself?"asked Tom in as matter of fact a tone as he might have inquired thetime of day. 

"Perpetuate itself!" blazed the other. "The race will not need toperpetuate itself. The world will be peopled with gods! When once womenare gone the race will have become immortal!"

A shout of mingled applause and derision greeted this outburst, amidwhich Fenton threw himself back in a lounging chair and lighted a freshcigar. He was intoxicated with himself, and few draughts are moredangerous. 

"Take to the lecture platform, Fenton, " jeered Ainsworth. "You'll makeyour mark in the world yet. "

"I wonder you stopped at immortality, " remarked Fred Rangely. "Youusually go on to dispose of the future state. "

"Impossible, " retorted the artist, "for you never heard me say Ibelieved in one. "

"That's a fact, " confessed the other, "but you insist so emphaticallythat women have no moral sense that your philosophy certainly woulddispose of them if it allow any future state. "

"For my part, " declared Herman, "I've heard Fenton talk nonsense aslong as I want to; let's look at the pictures. "

An informal exhibition had been arranged, consisting of pictures loanedby friends, and including several by members of the club. The mostimportant of the latter was a gypsy which Bently had just completed, and which exhibited that artist's defects and excellences in theemphatic manner usual with his productions. The _motif_ was betterthan the _technique_, but Bently's splendid feeling for colorsomehow carried him through, and made the picture not only striking butrich and suggestive. 

"If you could learn to draw, Tom, " Fenton said, as they stood lookingat it, "you'd be the biggest man in America. "

"Is that the new model you were talking about?" asked Rangely. 

"Yes, " Bently answered. "Isn't she a stunner?"

"I thought that shoulder was something new, " put in Fenton. "The girlposes well; trust a woman with shoulders like that to know how todisplay them. "

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Grant Herman in sudden and rare irritation, "can you never have done slurring at women? Didn't you have a mother?In heaven's name let some woman escape your tongue for her sake!"

Such an outburst from their host produced a profound sensation upon thePagans. The most tolerant of men, he was accustomed to listen to theirwholesale denunciations of all things with a good natured smile, contenting himself with a calm contradiction now and then. Proverbialfor his patience and good temper, he produced the greater sensation nowwhen he gave vent to his anger upon a subject which not only Fenton butevery guest present usually considered fair game. 

"I'm sorry I vexed you, Herman, " Fenton said, turning to him after amoment's silence, "but however much I've abused women, you never heardme blackguard a woman in your life. "

"You are right, " the sculptor replied, catching the other's slenderhand in his stalwart grasp. "I beg your pardon. I'm out of sorts, Isuppose, or I shouldn't be quarreling like a Christian. Let's brew anew bowl and drink to Pagan harmony. "

VIII. 

THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVE. Two Gentlemen of Verona; ii. --7. 

After the Pagans had separated that night Fred Rangely lingered inHerman's studio. 

The sculptor somehow found it possible to be more frank with Rangelythan with any other of his companions, and although there was adifference of some half a dozen in the count of their years, andperhaps more in their ages as measured by experiences, Herman's strongbut naturally stormy nature found much pleasure in the calm philosophyof his friend. 

Scarcely were the two men alone, when Rangely turned to his host anddemanded abruptly:

"Now, I want to know, Grant, what in the devil is the matter with youto-night? What set you out to pitch into Fenton so?"

Herman poured out a glass of wine and swallowed it before replying. 

"Because I am a damned idiot!" he retorted savagely. "I'm all shakenup, Fred; and the worst of it is that I don't see any way out of thesnare I'm in. "

"It isn't real trouble, I hope. "

"Isn't it! By Jove!" cried the sculptor, "the more honest a man is inthis world the worse off he is. If I hadn't had a conscience when I wasa young fellow, I should be all right now. Who is it--Fenton?--that isalways saying that he asks forgiveness for his virtues and thanks thegods for every vice he can cultivate?"

"Well, " Rangely remarked, filling a pipe, and curiously surveying hiscompanion, who was raging up and down the studio, "you don't seem to bein an especially cheerful and enlivening frame of mind; that's a fact. If a fellow can be of any help, call on; if not, at least try to takeit a little more gently for the sake of your friends. "

"Do any thing?" retorted the other. "No; there's nothing to be done. I'm a fool. "

"Even that disease has been remedied before now, " Rangely said coolly;"though usually experience and time are necessary to the cure. "

"I'll tell you the whole story, " Herman exclaimed, flinging himselfinto a chair. "It is all simple enough. It is always simple enough totangle things up so that Lucifer himself cannot unsnarl them. When Iwas in Rome I was in love--crazily, gushingly in love, you understand, like a big schoolboy--with a girl I found in Capri. She was a goodlittle thing, with a figure like Helen's; that's what did the businessfor me. I coaxed her to Rome to be my model, and then that infernalconscience of mine made me ask her to marry me. I could have done anything I liked with her; I knew that; she had nobody to look after herbut a half sister who paid about as much attention to her as if she hadbeen a grasshopper. But the infernal New England Puritanism in my bloodwouldn't let me hurt her. "

"And somebody else wasn't so scrupulous?" asked the listener as hisfriend paused in his story. 

"You think so?" returned Herman eagerly. "Then I wasn't so unutterablya scoundrel for thinking so, too, was I? I did doubt her; I had reasonto. She posed for a friend of mine, a painter; you know, of course--Hang it! What's the use of going into all the details. I was poor as achurch mouse or she shouldn't have done it at all, even for him. Thegist of the story is that I was jealous and flew out at both of them, and left Rome in a rage!"

The two men sat in silence for some moments. Rangely puffed vigorouslyat his pipe, while his companion stared savagely into the shadows inthe further end of the studio. Neither looked at the other; the hearerappreciated too well the shame-facedness by which these unusualconfidences must be accompanied. From some distant steeple a clock wasfaintly heard striking two. 

"And to-day, " Herman at length began again in an altered voice, "to-dayshe came here. She has followed me all these years, going throughheaven knows what experiences and hardships, to bring me the proof thatI was a madman blinded by groundless jealousy, and that instead ofbeing wronged I cursedly abused both her and poor dead old Hoffmeir. "

Again there came an interval of silence. A lamp flickered and went outwith a muffled sound. The thoughts of both men were of that formlesscharacter scarcely to be distinguished from emotions; on the one handsad and remorseful, on the other sympathetic and pitiful. 

"Well?" Rangely ventured after a time. 

"But what shall I do?" demanded Herman. "I cannot marry her. "

"No, of course not. She cannot expect it after banging about theworld. "

"Oh, it isn't that, " the other said hastily. "She is as good and aspure as when I left her; at least I believe so. And she does expectit. "

"She does expect it!" echoed his friend. "Ah!"

The reception of a confidence is a most delicate ordeal through whichfew people come unscathed. Rare individuals are born with the readysympathies, quick apprehension, and exquisite tact needful; but thevast majority are sure to wound their friends if the latter everventure to approach with their armor of reticence laid wholly aside. 

Although perhaps not the ideal confidant, Rangely was sympathetic andpossessed of at least sufficient discretion to avoid comment until heknew the whole situation and was sure that his opinion was desired. Hewas still unable fully to understand his friend's agitation, the taskof disposing of an old sweetheart in so inferior a position notappearing to his easy-going nature a matter sufficiently difficult towarrant so deep disquiet. 

Precisely the clew that he needed the sculptor had not given, but hewas endeavoring to overcome his repugnance to disclosing his mostsecret feelings. Every word cost him an effort, but he went on with asavage sense of doing penance by the self-inflicted torture. 

"Yes, " he repeated, "she expects it. Why shouldn't she, poor thing? Shehas not changed, and she does not understand that I may have altered. "

"And you have?"

Grant Herman looked up and down the great studio, now growing duskyfrom the burning out of candles here and there. An antique lamp whichwas lighted only on special occasions stood where the breeze came to itfrom the high window, and the flame, wind-swept, smoked and flared. Through the silence the listener's ear could detect a faint sound ofthe tide washing against the piles of the wharf outside. 

The sculptor started up suddenly and stood firmly, throwing back hissplendid head and shoulders, and looking straight into the eyes of hisfriend. 

"Yes, " he said in a clear, low voice. "I have changed. I---There issome one else. "

"Life, " remarked Rangely, with seeming irrelevancy, "life is afallacy. "

"I'd like to be honorable, " Herman continued, "but how can I? It isimpossible to be honest to both her and myself. If I hadn't had anyscruples, then---Bah! What a beast I am! Poor Ninitta. "

Still Rangely smoked in silence, and the sculptor went on again. 

"It has always been my creed that when a man has allowed a woman tolove him--much more, made her love him, as I did--he is a black-heartedknave to let a change in himself wreck her happiness. Now I am put tothe test. "

"And the other one?" asked Rangely. "Does she know that you care forher?"

"I have never said so to her. Heaven only knows how much she feels byintuition. A man always fancies that the woman he loves can tell. "

"That may depend something on how often you see her. " "I see hernearly every day. She is my pupil. "

"Mrs. Greyson?"

"Yes, " Herman said, a little defiantly, as if now the secret was toldhe challenged the right of another man to share it. 

"Is she a widow?"

"Yes, " the other answered, with no perceptible pause, and yet betweenthe question and his reply had come to him the swift remembrance thathe really knew nothing of his pupil's life or history, and had simplytaken it for granted that her husband was not living. "Arthur Fentonbrought her here, " he added, rather thinking aloud than answering anypoint of Rangely's query. "He was an old friend of her husband. "

"But what will you do with the other?"

Instead of replying Herman got up from the seat into which he had flunghimself, and went about the studio putting out the lights. 

"Go home, " he said with a whimsical smile. "I'm sure I don't know whatwe are talking about at this time of the morning. As for what I shalldo--Well, time will show; I am as ignorant as yourself on the subject. "

IX. 

VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE. Comedy of Errors; ii. --i. 

It suited Fenton's whim next morning to dine with Mrs. Greyson. He hadestablished the habit of dropping in when he chose, always sure of awelcome, and always sure, too, of a listener to the tirades in which hewas fond of indulging. If Helen did not always accord him agreement, she at least gave attention, and he cared rather to talk than toconvince. 

His aesthetic taste, moreover, was gratified by the pretty breakfasttable; and he was not without a subtle sense of pleasure in the beautyand harmonious dress of his hostess, who possessed the rare charm ofcontriving to be always well attired. This morning she wore a gown ofrusset cashmere with here and there knots of dull gold ribbon, whichtint formed a pleasing link between the stuff and the color of herclear skin. 

"It is good of you to come, " she said, as she poured his coffee. "Thereare so few days left before you will have married a wife and cannotcome. I shall miss you very much. "

"Why do you persist in talking in that way?"

Fenton returned. "I'm not going out of the country or out of the world. You could not take a more absolute farewell if I were about to becremated. "

"You do not know, " replied she, smiling. "However, I am glad you are tobe married. It will do you good. You need a wife, if you do dreadmatrimony so much. "

"It is abominable, " he observed deliberately, "to talk as I do. Ofcourse I do not mind what you choose to think of me; or rather I amsure you will not misunderstand. "

"I do not, " Mrs. Greyson interpolated significantly. 

 "But it seems a reflection upon Miss Caldwell, " he continued, answering her interruption only by a grimace, "for me to discourse ofmarriage just as I do. It isn't because I'm not fond of her. It is myprotest against the absurd and false way in which society regardsmarriage; in a word against marriage itself. "

Mrs. Greyson understood Arthur Fenton as well as any woman canunderstand a man who is her friend. Her friendship softened theharshness of her judgments, but she could not be blind to his vanity, his constant efforts at self-deception, and so far as she was inpossession of the facts, she reasoned correctly in regard to hisapproaching marriage. 

"No, " she said calmly, "it isn't even that. You talk partly for thesake of saying things that sound effective, and partly because you aremorbid from over introspection. If you were vicious, I should say youdid it as an atonement. Many people would not understand you, but asI do, it is harmless for you to talk to me. "

"Introspective? Of course. Can any body help being that in this age?And as for being morbid--it all depends upon definitions. I try to behonest with myself. "

"The subtlest form of hypocrisy, " she answered, "often consists in whatwe call being honest with ourselves. I gave that up long ago. You arenot honest with yourself about this marriage. If you don't wish tomarry Miss Caldwell, who forces you to do so?"

"Forces me to? Good heavens! I do wish to marry her. Of course I don'tever expect to be perfectly happy. In this inexplicable world naturesthat demand that every thing shall be explained must necessarily remainunsatisfied. Still, I'd take a little more coffee as a palliation of mylot, if you please. "

"It is well you are to marry, " observed Helen, refilling his cup. "You've concentrated your attention upon yourself too long. "

"But I am afraid of poverty. If I find some old Boston duffer with alot of money, and can fool him into admiring the frame of one of mypictures, he may buy it, and I can pay the butcher, the baker and thegas man for a week. If I can't, I must daub the canvas a little higherand try the same game in New York, and--"

"Rubbish!" she interrupted. "The difficulty is, you are tooself-indulgent. You are too much afraid of the little discomforts. "

"No, " he answered; "men--at least sensitive men--do not suffer so muchfrom the discomforts of poverty as from its indignities. "

"If--" began Helen; but without finishing, she rose from the table, went to the window and stood looking out. 

Fenton watched her idly, knowing perfectly that the woman before himwas capable of sacrificing for him all the little income which washer's; and he wondered, as men will, how deep her feeling for him hadreally become, and whether it had ever passed that mysterious andundefinable line which separates love from friendship. 

Helen had often endeavored to assist the artist out of some financialdifficulty by buying one of his unsellable pictures, a pretext which hehad the grace to put aside by refusing to sell, sometimes sending heras a gift precisely the work for which he could most easily find apurchaser. There was continually a silent struggle, more or lessconsciously carried on between the two, although seldom appearing uponthe surface. Too much Fenton's friend not to be pained by hisweaknesses, Helen was stung to the quick by a certain insinceritywhich she often detected alike beneath his raillery and his cynicism. Too noble to yield to any belief in a friend's unworthiness withoutresistance, she suffered anew whenever his words seemed to ring false, and now there were tears in her eyes as she looked out into the sunnystreet. She pressed them firmly back, however, and turned a calm facetowards her guest, who sat playing with his spoon and watching her witha half troubled, half amused expression. 

"I've composed my epitaph, " he said irrelevantly. "Will you pleasecompose my monument. "

"Oh, willingly. But it will be necessary to know the epitaph, so thatthe monument may express the same sentiment. "

"I shall have no name, " Arthur returned. "Only-- _L'homme est mort. Soit_. How does that strike you?"

"Ah, " she cried impulsively, "how does any thing strike me? You play atbeing wretched as sentimental school girls do, when in their case it isslate pencils and pickled limes and in your case it is vanity. If youwere half as miserable as you pretend, you'd have blown your brains outlong ago, or deemed yourself the veriest craven alive. I've no patiencewith such attitudinizing. "

"You are partly right, " he admitted, "but do any of us find the savorof life so sweet as to make it worth while?"

Something in his voice, a ring of what might be pity in his tone, humiliated Helen. She suspected that he thought her outburst arose froma too great fondness for himself, for grief at parting and at givinghim up to another. She struggled to regain her calmness; she felt theimpossibility of contradicting the belief which she was sure existed inhis mind; she was conscious that to say, "I do not love you, " wouldappear to him proof incontrovertible that the reverse was true. Herthroat contracted painfully and she cast down her eyes lest the tearsin them should be seen. 

"The Caffres, " Fenton continued, after an instant's pause, "are said tobe so fond of sugar that they will eat a handful of sand rather thanlose a grain or two that has fallen to the ground; it seems to me lifeis the sand and joy in the proportion of the sugar. I'm not willing totake the sand, and I protest against it. There is no morality in it. "

"There is no morality in any thing but death, " Helen returned drearily. 

"Death!" echoed Fenton. "Do you call that moral! Death that crushes theemotions, that kills the passions, that pollutes the flesh; the monsterwhich debauches all that is sacred in the physical, that degrades tothe level of the lowest all that is high in the intellectual--is thisyour idea of the moral? The coarsest rioting of sensual life is sacredbeside it. Death moral? _Mon Dieu_, Helen, how you do abuseterms!"

Fenton was continually treading upon the dangerous edge between pathosand bathos, between impressiveness and absurdity. Had he not possessedextremely sensitive perceptions which enabled him to judge swiftly andexactly of the effect of his declamations, and the keenest sense of theludicrous that helped him to turn into ridicule whatever could not bemade to pass for earnest, much of his extravagant talk would haveexcited amusement and, not impossibly, contempt, instead of producingthe half serious effect he desired. He could impart a vast air ofsincerity to his speech, moreover, and could even for the moment besincere. In the present case his earnest and real feeling saved thisoutburst from the somewhat theatrical air which the words might easilyhave had if spoken at all artificially. 

"The history of mankind, " went on the artist, in a sort of two-foldconsciousness, deeply feeling on the one hand what he was saying, buton the other endeavoring to direct the conversation to generalities inwhich would be lost the dangerous personal remarks which threatened, "the whole history of mankind is a protest against death as an insult, an outrage. All religions are only mankind's defiance of death more orless largely phrased. "

"No, " Helen said. "Not our defiance; our confession of a craven fear. Iam afraid of death. I don't dare take my life. "

"We are talking, " responded her companion, in his turn leaving thetable and approaching the window, "like a couple of unmitigated ghouls. I acknowledge your right to put aside your life if it bores you; manhas at least that one inalienable right. But why should you? Art isleft still. "

"Art, " she repeated with profound sadness; "yes, but a woman is nevercontent with abstractions. She demands something more definite. And, bythe way, Will came to see me yesterday. "

"Yes! What did he want?"

"He said he only came to see how I was. I think he recognizes that nowhe has come from Europe our secret is sure to leak out soon, and islooking the ground over to see how it is best to behave. He was veryentertaining; I never enjoyed him more thoroughly. "

"He's a model husband, " Fenton observed thoughtfully. "As well as youlike each other, I'll be hanged if I can see why you don't live likeother people. "

"It is precisely because we don't live like other people, " was thereply, "that we do like each other so well. We are the best of friends;we were the worst possible husband and wife. I hated him officially, and---There! Why must you bring all that up again? Let the dead pastbury its dead. "

"But the past won't bury its dead. It sits over their corpses like apersistent resurrectionist, in a fashion which is irresistiblydisheartening. Did it never strike you, by the way, what a drollcaricature might be made on that line? Time as a decrepit old sexton, you know. "

"So few people can joke on those subjects that it would appeal to avery limited audience, I'm afraid. "

"Oh, that's true of every thing that is good for any thing. "

"Unfortunately the converse is not true, for every thing appealing to asmall audience is by no means good. "

"Not even marriage?"

"Still harping on matrimony, " said Helen, laughing. "What will you doafter the knot is really tied? You speak in the mournful tone of onewho reads _'Lasciate ogni speranza'_ upon his wedding horseshoe. "

"Oh, not quite, " he laughed back, "for after marriage a man can alwaysamuse himself, you know, by looking at any woman he may meet andfancying how much worse off he might be if he had married her insteadof his wife. "

"Well, " Helen remarked, turning, "your conversation is amusing anddoubtless deeply instructive, but I must go to the studio. Mybas-relief will hardly complete itself, I suppose, and I've a splendidoffer for it, to decorate a house in Milton. It is to be paneled intothe side of an oak stairway at the back of the main hall. Isn't thatfine?"

X. 

O, WICKED WIT AND GIFT. Hamlet; i. --5. 

Anomalies are doubtless as truly the product of law as results whoselogic is evident, and the strange relations between Mrs. Greyson andher husband were therefore to be considered the outcome of fixed causesfrom which no other result was possible. 

Married when scarcely more than a girl, shy, undeveloped and ignorantof the world, Helen came from a secluded life, which had been prettyequally divided between the library of her dead father and the woodssurrounding the country village where she lived. She had never evenfancied that she loved Dr. Ashton; but she had married him as she wouldhave obeyed any other command of the stern aunt who had presidedseverely over her orphaned childhood. He, half-a-dozen years hersenior, had been enamored of her wonderful beauty and modestintellectuality; and, being accustomed always to gratify the impulse ofthe moment, he had married her with a precipitancy as characteristic asit was reckless. It was owing to a certain mutual scorn ofconventionalities that Helen and her husband at length decided toseparate. Without the aid of the law and without scandal, they settledback into single liberty, the wife taking again her father's name. Theyhad spent their married life abroad, where Dr. Ashton had remaineduntil a short time previous to the opening of our story, and as neitherhusband nor wife had been in their single life known in Boston, and asHelen was chary of new acquaintances, their relations had thus farremained undiscovered. Helen, at least, recognized how improbable itwas that this secrecy would long remain inviolate, but she went quietlyon her way, letting events take their own course. 

Arthur Fenton was an old friend of her husband whom Helen had met inEurope, but had known intimately only during her Boston life. She hadfound him sympathetic, responsive and entertaining, and as any lonelywoman clings to the companionship of an appreciative man, she had clungto the friendship and comradeship of the artist. 

Going across the Common towards the studio on this sunny morning, whenthe air was brisk and bracing, the naked trees clearly and delicatelydefined against the sky, Helen's thoughts went back to her past; to hershy, secluded girlhood, to the years of her married life, and to theway in which she had been living since she and her husband parted. Shereflected with a smile, half pity, half contempt, of the proud, reticent girl who had pored over books and drawings in the musty, deserted library at home, almost wondering if she were the same being. She looked from the Joy Street mall across the hollow which holds theFrog Pond, the most charming view on the Common, yet not even thegolden sparkle of the water or the beautiful line of the slope beyondcould chase from her mind the picture of the high, dim old room, linedto the ceiling with book-shelves, dingy and dusty from neglect. Sheseemed to hear still the weird tapping of the beech-tree boughs againstthe tall narrow windows, and still to smell odor of old leather; sheremembered vividly the dull dizziness that came from stooping too longover some volume too heavy to hold, above which, half lying upon thecarpetless floor, she had bent with drooping golden curls. Sheremembered, too, the remoteness of the real world from the ideal spherein which her fancy placed her; how unimportant and unsubstantial to herhad appeared the events of daily life as compared with the incidents ofthe world the old books in the musty library opened to her. The life ofthese magic tomes was the real, and that humdrum state through whichher visible pathway lay was the dream. To the imaginative girl, halfchild, half poet, her marriage had prospectively seemed merely anaccident of the trivial outside existence which surrounded withoutpenetrating her true being; and the sharpness of the rude awakeningfrom this childish misconception still pierced the woman's proud soul. 

No woman recalls her childhood without regret, and despite thephilosophy she had cultivated, Helen felt a deep sadness as the olddays, somber and dull though they had been, rose before her. Shehurried her step a little as if to escape her past, when a pleasantvoice at her elbow said:

"Good morning, Helen. Upon what wickedness are you bent now. You go toofast to be on a good errand. "

"Good morning, Will, " she answered, without turning, for the voicebrought the speaker before her mental vision as plainly as her eyescould have done. "I was just thinking of you, and of the days when youfound me at home. "

"Yes, " responded Dr. Ashton, "what were you thinking of them?"

"Nothing very pleasant, " she answered with a sigh. "What a gorgeous dayit is. Arthur has been breakfasting with me. "

"Arthur is going to be married, " remarked her companion good humoredly. "I've just been out to buy him a wedding present. "

"What is it?"

"Oh, something he chose himself. It is not safe to tell you, though. "

"Haven't I proved my discretion?" Helen said lightly. "I thought thatby this time you'd be willing to trust me with your most deadlysecrets. "

"This is a deadly secret, indeed, " he returned, taking from his pocketa small morocco case. 

"Oh, jewelry, " Helen said, with an accent of disappointment. "I shouldnever have suspected you of such commonplaceness, Will. "

"Not jewelry; a jewel, " retorted Dr. Ashton, opening the case anddisplaying a tiny vial. 

"Will!" Helen exclaimed, stopping suddenly and catching her husband bythe arm, "you won't give him that?"

"Why not? I promised him long ago that I'd get it for him, and heparticularly asked for it as a wedding gift. "

"Oh, Will; don't do it! He'll use it sometime when he's blue; he'll----"

"Nonsense, " responded the physician, restoring the case to his pocket. "I've diagnosed his case perfectly. He isn't very robust, he'sinfernally sensitive, and he's no end morbid. He fancies he may want tokill himself, and I dare say he will have leanings that way. Most of usdo. He has wanted to a good many times before now, and he is likely toagain, but he won't do it. He's too soft-hearted. He might get up steamenough as far as courage goes, but he'd never forget other people andtheir opinion. He couldn't bear to hurt others, and still less could hebear the idea of their blaming him. He is precisely the man who cannottake his own life. "

"But what puts it into his head just now? Why should he marry if hedreads it so?"

"It is all of a piece with his morbidness. He is really in love withMiss Caldwell, I think, but he has brooded over the matter as he broodsover every thing, and seeing the uncertain nature of matrimony, he likea wise man provides for contingencies. There may be something behindthat I don't know of, but I think not. He'll feel easier if he hasthis, and I am honestly doing him a favor, if it isn't in the way hethinks. "

"I do not know, " persisted Helen, "but I do wish you wouldn't do it. How would his bride feel if she knew?"

"I don't know her, " Dr. Ashton returned coolly, "so of course I can'ttell how sensible she is; but in any case I can trust Arthur'sdiscretion. "

"She's orthodox, " said Helen, "or, no, I think she is not so bad asthat; but she would regard the idea of suicide as unspeakably wicked. At least I think so; I never saw her but once. Oh, I do hate to haveArthur marry her. It's dreadful!"

"Of course; it's dreadful to think of any man's marrying, for thatmatter, " he returned with a smile, "but he is a man who was sure to doit sooner or later. "

"He's a man of so much principle, " Helen mused, half aloud. 

"Principle, " sneered her companion laughingly, "principle is onlyformulated policy. "

"I am dreadfully tired of epigrams, " sighed Helen as they walked downWest street. "Whether Arthur learned the habit of you or you of him Idon't know; but the pair of you are enough to corrupt all Boston. I dowish you'd give me that case. I'm sure I need it far more than Arthurdoes. He's going to be married, his pictures are praised and arebeginning to sell, he has life before him and every thing to live for, while I have nothing. "

"Life is before you, too, " answered her husband gravely, putting hishand upon her arm to prevent her flying under the wheels of a carriagewhich in her absorption she had not noticed. "Look here, Helen; itwouldn't be any better if Arthur wanted to marry you. You are toomelancholy alone without having him to push you deeper into the sloughof despond. "

"You are mistaken, Will, " was the quiet response. "I am fond of Arthur, very fond, indeed; but not in that way. I am a fool to grieve about hismarriage; I own that, though after all I've lived through I ought to betoo hardened to care. But you must acknowledge that it isn't verypleasant for me to see him deliberately going away to marry a woman whowould consider me a Bohemian, and very likely anything but respectable, because you and I choose to be comfortable apart instead of miserabletogether. If I were not so utterly alone in the world, losing a friendwould not be so great a matter, perhaps; but he is all I have now, Will. "

"It is hard, old lady; that's a fact. I wish I could straighten thingsout for you, but I don't see how I can. "

"No, " Helen said drearily, "nobody can. "

XI. 

WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED. Comedy of Errors; i. --I. 

Upon entering the small studio where her bas-relief stood, Helen foundHerman there before her. He had removed the wet cloths from the clayand was examining the work with close attention. 

"You need a model for this figure, " he said, indicating the month ofMay. "You must take that turn of the shoulder from nothing but life. "

Helen came and stood beside him, looking at the work. The instinct ofthe artist for the moment superseded all other feelings in her mind, and she forgot alike her own troubles and the ill-omened gift withwhich her husband purposed remembering the nuptials of her friend. 

The figure of May of which Herman spoke was that of a beautiful younggirl casting backward a wistful look at the fallen flowers which shehad dropped but might not stay to gather up again. The splendidmovement of the youthful figure, thrown forward in her running, butwith one shoulder turned toward the spectator, so that the upperportion of the beautiful bosom was seen, formed one of the finestdetails of the composition. 

"Yes, " the sculptor said again, "you must have a model for that, and Ihave one coming this morning. To be honest, I came up here hoping you'dneed her. I believe she is a good girl, and I do not like the idea ofher being about among the studios. "

He went on to speak of the figure, adding suggestions of treatment, feeling and posing; and as he talked he was conscious of needlesslyprolonging the conversation for the mere pleasure of being near thiswoman, and of secretly cherishing some vague feeling that not onlywould Ninitta be safe under Mrs. Greyson's guardianship, but that somesolution of the complexities in which he found himself involved wouldresult from bringing together the two women so closely connected withhis life. 

He went away into his own studio at length, but Helen had scarcely gotfairly to work before he reappeared with Ninitta. 

Ninitta was much the same in outward appearance as upon the previousday, but between this morning's mental state and that of yesterdaythere was a great gulf. The Italian's character was a strange if notwholly unique mixture of simplicity and worldly wisdom. All herexperiences, her life as a model in various parts of the world, herhardships and successes, while teaching her only too sharply thefollies and vices of mankind, had never for an instant shaken her faithin Grant Herman. He was her god. It is even doubtful if any thing hecould have done would have destroyed her belief in his integrity andnobility of soul. When he left her, she acquiesced, it is true, butwith a wild passion of anguish. She knew he misjudged, but she chose tophrase it to herself that he was deceived; his rashness andhot-headedness were to her only so many fresh evidences of hisgreatness of character. She was not the first woman who has vaguely feltthat unreasoning jealousy and passion are admirable or evenessential attributes of virility, and who has worshiped a man as muchfor his faults as for his virtues. 

To the dream of meeting Herman with the proofs that he had beendeceived, Ninitta had clung unyieldingly through the dreary years sincethe death of Hoffmeir, who had been kind to her for the sake of hisshattered friendship with Herman, and for the sake, too, of his ownhopeless love for herself. It was from mingled shyness and pride thatNinitta had waited for a summons from the sculptor after she hadreached Boston; but when she had at last gone to his studio it was withkeen emotion. She had not considered that both herself and her old-timelover had changed in the seven years of separation. She had notreflected that believing her false he could not but have endeavored toforget her. She could not know that contact with the world, if it hadnot made him ashamed of his youthful enthusiasm, had at least showedhim how the marriage he had contemplated would have appeared in theeyes of worldly wisdom, and had so educated him that reason was lesshelpless before passion than of old. 

But to-day Ninitta was a different woman, changed by the agony of anight into which had been compressed the bitterness of years. She hadbeen too sharply wounded at being greeted by a hand-shake in place ofthe too well remembered kisses, with commonplace kind inquiries insteadof an embrace, not to realize at least how entirely the relationsbetween herself and Herman were changed. She did not understand thealteration, it is true. To do that would have required not only aknowledge of facts of which she could have no cognizance, but farkeener powers of reason than were centered in Ninitta's shapely head. Only of one thing she was sure; there the instinct of her sex stood herin good stead. She was convinced that some other woman had won thesculptor's love from her. When she came into Helen's studio thismorning she watched sharply for some token which should show her therelations in which the two artists stood to each other; but she coulddetect nothing significant. Mrs. Greyson was intent only upon her work, and whatever the sculptor may have felt at the meeting of Helen andNinitta, he made no outward sign. 

The model showed a quickness of comprehension in taking the poserequired, and the shoulder she bared was of so exquisite mold thatHelen's keenest artistic powers were aroused. Ninitta understood theart of posing as a painter knows the use of brush and colors; she hadfor it an inborn capacity impossible except in the child of an artland. Moved by the inspiration of that most beautiful bust, Mrs. Greyson worked enthusiastically, scarcely noticing when her master leftthe room, an indication of indifference which the model did not fail tonote. 

XII. 

WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED. Hamlet; iv. --7. 

It was February, and the night but one before the day fixed for ArthurFenton's marriage. He was spending the evening with Mrs. Greyson, andit chanced that Grant Herman and Fred Rangely were also there. Thesculptor went seldom to the house of his pupil, and when he did visither, he satisfied some fine, secret delicacy by taking always a friendwith him. Helen was sufficiently Bohemian or sufficiently unworldly tocare little if people criticised her way of living. She had inherited asmall property which made her comfortable and independent; and shedeclined being hampered by a chaperon. 

"My art is my chaperon, " she wrote to an elderly relative who wished tocome to Boston and matronize her. "A woman who is daring enough to bean artist is regarded as bold enough to take care of herself, Isuppose. At least nobody troubles me, and I ask nothing more. "

On the present occasion Arthur Fenton asked leave to light his cigar, and although Herman felt this something of a profanation, it was notlong before he and Rangely added their wreaths to the smoke garlandswhich hung upon the air, and had not the hostess become somewhataccustomed to tobacco in foreign _ateliers, _ it is to be doubtedif she could have complacently endured the fumes which arose. 

All subjects of heaven and earth came drifting into the talk, and atlength something evoked from Rangely his opinion of Emerson. 

"Emerson was great, " he said, "Emerson often recalled Goethe inGoethe's cooler and more intellectual moods; but Emerson lacked theloftiness of vice; he was eternally narrow. "

"'The loftiness of vice, '" echoed the hostess. "What does that mean? Itsounds vicious enough. "

"Emerson, " Rangely returned, "knew only half of life. He never had anyconception of the passionate longing for vice _per se;_ thethrill, the glow which comes to some men at the splendid caress of sinin her most horrible shape. Do you see what I mean? He couldn't imaginethe ecstasy that may lie in mere foulness. "

"No, " replied Helen, "I'm afraid I don't quite see. Though I am sure Iought to be shocked. Do you mean that he should have been vicious?"

"Certainly not; but it was his limitation not to be tempted; not to beable to project himself into a personality which riots in wickednessfar more intensely than a saint follows righteousness. "

"If you mean that he could not have been wicked if he tried, that, Iown, was in a sense a limitation. "

"Yes; and a fatal one. No man can be wholly great who understands onlyone half of human impulses. "

"But what do you mean by wickedness?" demanded Herman, a littlecombatively. 

"Oh, " laughed Rangely, "I'm not to be entrapped into givingmetaphysical and theological definitions. I mean what we are expectedto call wickedness, conventionally speaking. I've an old cad of aparson in my new play and I am trying to decide if it will do to havehim advocate a grand scheme for reforming the world by reversingdefinitions and calling those things men choose to do virtues, anddubbing whatever man detests, vices. "

"That is rather more clever than orthodox, " Helen laughed. "How is yourplay getting on, Mr. Rangely?"

"Oh, fairish, thank you. The trouble is that the drama went out offashion long ago. First they replaced it by dresses and scenery, butnow every thing has given way to souvenir programmes; so I've got towrite up to a souvenir or I sha'n't make any thing out of the play. "

"I hoped you were above such mercenary considerations. "

"I am trying to make myself so, " he retorted. "I think about threesuccessful plays would be tonic enough to bring my conscience up toproper art levels. "

Herman had taken little part in this colloquy, smoking in silence, andregarding his companions. Fenton had thus far been even more quiet, scarcely contributing a word to the conversation; and the sculptor'sthoughts turned upon the handsome young fellow, sitting in one of hisfavorite twisted attitudes in a German chair, his beardless face palerthan usual, though a red spot glowed in either cheek, and his dilatedpupils betrayed his excitement. He was smoking steadily, but withlittle apparent knowledge of either his cigar or his surroundings. 

"Upon my word, " mused Herman. "A cheerful looking man for a bridegroomhe is. If he were going to the scaffold he could hardly seem moremelancholy. What in the world is the matter with him? I wonder if hehas been dragged into a marriage he doesn't like. How Mrs. Greysonwatches him. "

Helen was indeed watching Fenton closely, although to a less keenobserver than Herman her surveillance would hardly have been apparent. She, too, was thinking of Fenton's downcast air, and knowing him moreintimately than did the sculptor, she reasoned less doubtfully, although perhaps not more accurately than the latter concerning whatwas passing in the mind of her silent friend. 

"He surely loves Miss Caldwell, " she thought, "but he is so foolish. Heis thinking now that he will never meet these comrades again as anunhampered man. He feels just now all he is giving up. I should likehim better to remember what he is gaining. Are all men inherentlyselfish, I wonder. It is well for Miss Caldwell's peace of mind thatshe cannot see him now. Perhaps when he is with her he sees only theother side; I am sure I hope so. "

She turned away with a sigh, and saw Herman looking at her. Their eyesmet in one of those brief glances of intelligence which serve as finefibers to knit people together. 

The conversation soon turned upon the opinion a certain critic hadexpressed concerning a picture then on exhibition. 

"Bah!" cried Fenton suddenly; "what does he know about art?--he isbow-legged!"

"Hallo!" exclaimed Rangely, "have you waked up? I thought we were safefrom you for the whole evening. "

"It is never safe to count on his silence, " Herman said. "He hasprobably been meditating some stinging epigram against woman. We shallhave something wild directly. "

"No; I've nothing to say against women now, " Arthur returned, rising, "for I want Mrs. Greyson to sing. I wish you'd stop poisoning the airwith those confounded cigarettes, Fred. The use of cigarettes degradessmoking to the level of the small vices, and I object to it onprinciple. "

He opened the piano as he spoke, and without demur Helen allowed him tolead her to the instrument. 

"If you do not mind, " she said a little diffidently, turning to herguests after she had seated herself, "I should like to have the gaslowered a trifle. It may seem a little sentimental, but I do not liketo be looked at too keenly when I sing. "

The flames of the gas jets were dimmed, and Helen struck a few softchords. Herman listened intently. He had heard Fenton praise Mrs. Greyson's singing, but he was entirely unprepared for what was to come, and he never forgot the thrill of that experience. 

An unpretending, flowing prelude; then suddenly the tones of thesinger. 

Helen's voice was a rich, fibrous mezzo-soprano; and the music shesang, half chant, half melody, was evidently an improvisation. Thewords were the exquisite song which opens Shelley's _Hellas:_

I strew these opiate flowersOn thy restless pillow, --They were plucked from Orient bowers, By the Indian billow. Be thy sleepCalm and deep, Like theirs who fell; not ours who weep. 

Away, unlovely dreams!Away, false shapes of sleep!

Be his, as Heaven seems, Clear and bright and deep!Soft as love and calm as death, Sweet as summer night without a breath. 

Sleep! sleep! My song is ladenWith the soul of slumber;It was sung by a Samian maidenWhose lover was of the numberWho now keepThat calm sleepWhence none may wake; where none shall weep. 

I touch thy temples pale!I breathe my soul on thee!And could my prayers avail, All my joy should beDead, and I would live to weep, So thou might'st win one hour of quiet sleep!

It is difficult to convey the effect of this song upon its hearers. Thestrangeness, the unconventionality of the recitative, the wonderful, sad beauty of the poem, the dim light through which Helen's vibrating, passionate voice thrilled, all helped to impress the hearers. There wasa personal quality about the chant which made it seem like a directappeal from the singer to the heart of each listener. It came to eachas a spontaneous outflowing of the singer's innermost self; aconfidence made in mystic wise, sacred and inviolable, and setting himhonored by receiving it forever from the common multitude of men. Itwas an appeal to some unspoken and unspeakable bond of fealty, whichmade the pulses throb and great emotions stir in the breast. Beforehearing one would be stubbornly incredulous of the possibility of hisbeing so deeply affected; afterward he would remember how he had beenmoved with wonder and longing. 

Especially was Grant Herman much moved. Thoughts came into his mind ofthe old minstrels chanting to their harps; he seemed to hear Sapphosinging again in the gardens of Mytilene; this was the woman he loved, and he felt himself as never before surrounded palpably by herpresence. The improvisation was a part of herself as no other musiccould have been; and in some subtle, sensuous way, the lover seemed forthe moment to be one with his beloved. His eyes filled with tears in asort of ecstasy, and he shrank back into the shadow lest some of hisfriends should detect the glad, salt drops which no eyes but hers had aright to see. 

XIII. 

THE GREAT ASSAY OF ART. Macbeth; iv. --3. 

A hush followed the conclusion of Mrs. Greyson's song. 

No one wished to speak what all felt, and when the silence was broken, it was with talk of the poet rather than of the singer. To the singingthey came only by slow degrees, and over it, when at length theiradmiration found speech, they passed lightly. 

One thing which seemed to be effected by the music was the awakening ofFenton from his gloomy reverie. He began to talk in his mostextravagant and whimsical style, answering every question instantly, ifwith no especial care concerning the relevancy of his replies. 

"What nonsense it is, " he exclaimed, "to talk of any man's originatingany thing. Why, when even Adam couldn't be made without material, whatare we, his descendants, that we should hope to create? The authors ofthis old wisdom that we revamp to-day copied somebody further back, andthose in turn put down what the masses felt; collected the foam whichgathered on the yeasty waves of their age. Every truth comes to thepeople first if they could only recognize it when it comes. It isevolved by the friction of the masses, just as a fire is set by therubbing together of tree-boughs in primeval forests, and the duskyredman incontinently roasted in his uncontaminated innocence. Thelonger I live the less faith I have that a man evolves any thing fromhis inner consciousness. Fancies are only the lies of the mendaciousbrain, which perceives one thing and declares to us another. "

"Go slow, Fenton, " interrupted Herman, "you know our poor wits are aptto be dazzled by too much brilliancy. "

"The age, " Fenton rattled on, "blooms once into a great man as an aloeinto a crown of bloom. "

"Right in there, " broke in Rangely, who longed for a share in theconversation, "just consider how necessary it is that every artproducer shall be in sympathy with the human life about him. That heshould take the best wherever it is to be found. There's a miserablesentiment about shutting one's self up in some dark corner, andproducing some tremendous thing. Don't you know how many New York andBoston artists have gone to Europe and hermetically sealed themselvesup somewhere to ferment into greatness like a jug of cider turning intovinegar in a farmer's cellar?"

"That's what made Hunt such a big fellow, " Herman interposed; "becausehe took the good wherever it offered. "

"But that depends upon whether a man goes direct to Nature forinspiration, " declared Fenton, "or sets himself to get a living byfilching the good things his neighbors have won from her. "

"Hunt did go to nature; that is just where he was great. "

"I think, " said Fred, laughingly, "that you will appreciate the mood inwhich I once wrote a preface. I planned a great metaphysical andphilosophical work--I was a good deal younger than I am now--and thepreface was to be, 'As to the originality of these ideas, I havenothing more to say than that I do not remember that they have everbeen printed with my name on the title-page. ' Of course, after thatdeclaration, I felt at liberty to take any thing I wanted from anywhere; but, unluckily, my book never got beyond the preface. "

"I'm glad you had the sense to stop there, " declared Arthur. "I forgivethe preface, but I could never have forgiven the book. "

Helen rose from her seat at the piano and turned up the gas a little. The effect for which the light had been lowered was secured, and it wasbetter, she recognized, to give to her singing a certain isolation, which must be done before the conversation became so general that thechange from gloom to light would not be noticed. 

She wore that evening a gray silk with black lace, a slight turningaway showing the whiteness of her beautiful throat. Her jewels werecats'-eyes. 

"Do you wear your cats'-eyes in honor of the cat-headed deity of thePagans, Mrs. Greyson?" Rangely asked, as she paused near his chair, watching a burner which seemed disposed to flicker. 

"No, " returned she, smiling. "I am no follower of your Pasht; a goddessof 'winged-words' attracts me less than a deity whose province is thesacred sphere of silence. My dress is of Mr. Fenton's designing. He isdeeply versed in the subject of clothes. I even suspect him of beingthe true author of _'Sartor Resartus. '_"

"That brings up my pet abomination, " Fenton observed, with emphasis. "Ido hate Carlyle. I've even lain awake nights to think how I'd like topound his head. The self-conceited, self-centered, self-adoring oldhumbug! He was the sham _par excellence_ of the nineteenthcentury, this century of shams. "

"It's something to be at the top of the heap in anything, " interpolatedHerman, "even in shams. "

"The trouble with Carlyle, " Fenton continued, "besides his enormousegotism, was that he never got beyond the whim that the truth issomething absolute. He could not abide the idea that it is merely arelative thing and must be treated as such. If he'd got above the massof cloudy vapor he called truth, he might have gained a glimpse of realsunlight; but his aggressive self-conceit clogged his wings. Don't yourecognize that a lie is often truer than the truth?" he ran on, sittingup in his chair and speaking more rapidly; "that where the truth willoften produce an erroneous impression, a lie will convey a correct one?that to be true to the spirit it is often necessary to violate theletter?"

"Your patron saint should be the god of falsehood, " Helen said lightly. "I fear your allegiance to Pasht is not very sincere. "

"Ah! but it is, " retorted he, quickly. "My allegiance is to the goddessof 'winged words'; to the glorious mother of fictitious speech; toPasht, the goddess of splendid, golden lying. A lie is only the truthagreeably and effectively told. _Vive la fausseté!_"

"Doubtless each interprets Pasht's attributes according to his ownlight, " Herman observed, a little grimly. 

He was only half-pleased with Fenton's badinage. But the latter, apparently, did not feel the thrust. 

"Let him alone, " Helen said, "he believes in nothing; he is a genuinePagan. "

"You are wrong in your idea, " was Fenton's swift reply. "A true Paganmust have a belief in some god to take from his shoulders the burden ofpersonal responsibility, or he cannot be joyous as a Pagan should. However, to-night I make myself believe that I believe something, so itcomes to much the same thing. "

Helen turned and looked at him, attracted by some subtle quality in hisvoice. 

He was sitting sidewise in his chair, holding an ivory paper-knife inhis slender fingers. His cheeks burned, his eyes were bright, his lipsred. He had shaken off the depression which oppressed him earlier inthe evening. An air of joyous, quivering excitement pervaded him. Hethrew up his head with a characteristic gesture, and looked about himlike one who has conquered in some desperate conflict. 

"Come, " the hostess said, wondering in what inward struggle he had comeoff victor; "you promised to assist me with the coffee. I make no boastof my house or my hospitality, gentlemen, " she added, with a charmingglance around, "but I warn you in advance that not to admire my coffeeis to lose my friendship forever. "

In answer to her ring, a servant brought in a small mortar and a prettylittle bowl of whole coffee, delicately browned, and scarcely cold fromits roasting. Arthur, who seemed acquainted with Mrs. Greyson's methodsof procedure, began to pound the berries, roasted to perfect crispness, in the ebony mortar, reducing them to an almost impalpable powder, which diffused upon the air the entrancing odor dear to the nostrils ofall artists. 

The servant meantime had provided tiny cups, a little copper ibrik andan alcohol lamp over which simmered a vessel of boiling water. 

"Coffee should be prepared only over coals of perfumed wood, " Helenremarked as she measured into the ibrik the small spoonful of coffeedust designed for a single cup. "But alcohol is the next best thing, itburns with such a supernatural flame. "

She put into the ibrik a measure of boiling water, rested it an instantover the flame to restore the heat lost in the cooler copper, and thenpoured the beverage into the egg-shell cup destined for it. 

"To my master first, " she said, presenting the steaming cup to Herman, who received it much as one might a gift from the skies. "I learned mycoffee making, " she continued, "from an old Arab at Cairo, who used tosay that it was one of the only two things in life worth doing, theother being the duties of religion; and it therefore should beperfectly done. "

"It is simply divine, " the sculptor said. "I have never really tastedcoffee before. Only if it is made like this your Arab might have saidthere was but one thing in life, for this becomes a religious duty. "One by one with equal care were prepared cups for the others, who wereneither slow nor perfunctory in their endorsement of the sculptor'spraise. 

XIV. 

THIS IS NOT A BOON. Othello; iii. --3. 

 "'I strew these opiate flowers On thy restless pillow;'"

Hummed Grant Herman to himself, taking his lonely way down the dim anddingy streets leading to the wharves where he had his abode:

 "'I strew these opiate flowers--'

Oh, what a woman she is! She might be Brunhilde, or she might be BurdHelen;

 'I strew these--'

I wonder what she had to say to Fenton that she made him stay. Confoundthat fellow! I'm not more than half sure that I'm fond of him; though Ican't bring myself fairly and squarely to dislike him. But I wish hedidn't know Mrs. Greyson quite so well; he's going to be married, too. I wonder how he came to know her, any how. It is strange she doesn'twear black if she is a widow. I'd like to learn something more definiteabout her, but Fenton's the only one who would be likely to know, and Icertainly will not ask him. I suppose he is there yet, lounging in somesort of an outlandish shape. "

Arthur was indeed still in Helen's parlor, and in as crooked anattitude as a man ever compassed. He had so managed to dispose ofhimself over three chairs as to give the general effect of having beensuddenly arrested in the midst of an acrobatic feat of unusualdifficulty, and with a cigar in his long, nervous fingers, was watchingMrs. Greyson, who occupied herself in tidying the room a little. 

"We have been too good friends, " she said, "to say good-by in public. The old days have been pleasant, and it is hard to give them up. "

"You have insisted upon it that they are gone forever, " he returned, "until I almost begin to believe you. But it is no matter. _Che saràsarà_. "

"Yes; _che sarà sarà_, " she echoed. "But now are you willing to dome a favor? I haven't asked many of you. "

"You certainly deserve that I should say yes without a quibble, "replied Fenton, "but your air is so serious that I do not dare run therisk; so I will merely answer, --I would like to do you a favor if Imay. "

She came and sat down near him, a beautiful woman, flushed and tender. It arose perhaps from the delicate sensitiveness of both that they hadalways instinctively avoided those chance contacts which between loversbecome so significant, confining themselves to rare hand-shakes atmeeting and parting; and it may be that their very scrupulousness inthis matter proves how near they had been to more emotional relationsthan those of simple friendship. Now when Helen laid her hand upon herfriend's arm it marked an earnestness which showed how much she feltwhat she was about to say. 

"I want you to give me something that Will gave you the other day. "

Fenton's first feeling was one of annoyance, but this was quicklyreplaced by a desire to fathom the motives which prompted her request. 

"How did you know of it?" he asked. 

"By divination, " she answered, with a faint smile. "Will you give it tome?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I ask you. "

"To go back to that, then, why do you ask me?"

"Because I cannot bear to think of your going to be married with thatin your possession. Because it is cruel for you so to wrong MissCaldwell as to marry her while you find it possible to think it maylead you to--to use that. How can you do it! You know I've no sympathywith those who call it cowardly to take one's life. I think we've aright to do that sometimes, perhaps. But it is cowardly to many a womanwith the deliberate idea of escaping her if you are not happy; ofdeserting her after you have inextricably involved her life in yours. You've no right to do that if you mean to make it a tragedy. "

"She is involved in my life already, " he returned gravely; "and it is atragedy. But I am not so wholly selfish as you assume. Honestly, Helen, it is for her sake as much, at least, as my own that I wanted thatvial. It is all like a scene in _The City of Dreadful Night_. Icannot be sure that I may not have to kill myself for her happiness. Heaven knows I have not found myself so good company as to have verystrong reasons to suppose that any body else will. "

"No, " Helen said. "That is sophistry. I am a woman and I have been awife. I know what I say. You have no right to marry any woman and allowthe existence of such a possibility. It may not be logic, but it istrue. "

"But she will not know. "

"She may not know, but she will feel. You are too finely strung not todiscover to a delicate ear any discord, no matter how hard you try toconceal it; and the ear of a woman who loves is sensitive to theslightest changes. No, Arthur, if you have any love for her, anyfriendship for me, any respect for yourself, give me that vial. "

He made no answer to her appeal for a moment, although she clasped hisarm more tightly and looked beseechingly into his face. It was one ofthose moments when he gave way to his best impulses; when he indulgedin the pleasure of letting his higher nature vibrate in response toappeals addressed to it, and for the instant tasted the intoxicatingpleasure of conscious virtue. He turned to scrutinize her more closely. 

"But what would you do with it, Helen?"

She started a little. She had not been without a half-formed thoughtthat she should be glad to have the deadly gift with its power of swiftoblivion in her possession, although until now she had scarcely beenconscious of it. But she saw that some suspicion of this was present inArthur's mind, and must be allayed before she could hope to accomplishher purpose. 

"You are wrong, " she said quickly. "It is for your own sake that I wantyou to give it up. I will do whatever you like with it. I pledge you myword that I will never use it myself. "

He still made no movement to surrender the vial, but she held out herhand. 

"Come, " she pleaded. "I appeal to your best self. For the sake of yourmother, Arthur, --you have told me you could refuse her nothing sheasked, and she would surely ask this if she were alive and knew. Giveit to me. "

He slowly drew from some inner pocket the little morocco case and heldit in both hands looking at it. 

"It is a comfort to me, " he said. "It means an end of every thing. Itmeans annihilation; it means getting rid of this nightmare ofexistence. I can remember when I dreaded the idea of annihilation, butI have come to feel that it is the only good to be desired. To be donewith every thing and to forget every thing! Don't you see, Helen; Ishould never be satisfied with any thing short of omnipotence andomniscience, and annihilation is the only refuge for a nature likethat. I want to be everything; to feel the joy of the conqueror and yetnot miss the keen, fine pang of the conquered--Lowell says itsomewhere; to be

 'Both maiden and lover'--

I forget it--'bee and clover, you know; to be the 'red slayer' and 'theslain' both. Do you wonder I want to keep this?"

A feeling of helplessness and hopelessness came over Helen. Only halfconsciously she spoke a thought aloud:

"You are half mad from introspection. "

He turned upon her a quizzical smile. 

"I dare say, " said he. "It isn't a comfortable process either. If a manhas lived twenty-five years, Helen, and has not so entangled his lifein a web of circumstances that no power will ever be able toextricate it, he may consider his first quarter century of existence asuccess. "

He spoke with a bitter good humor not uncommon with him, and hebelieved himself sincere. He even mentally applauded himself for thejustness of the sentiment, and was not untouched with pity for a beingin whom such sadness was possible. It may have been this secretcomplacency that Helen detected in his face and fancied it a sign ofrelenting. She put out her hand and took hold of the morocco case. Arthur did not release his hold, yet neither did his grasp tighten, andshe drew the dangerous gift out of his fingers. 

She sprang up and locked it away in a cabinet. 

"There!" she exclaimed, standing before him in a sudden revulsion offeeling, her face flushed and her eyes shining. "Now I will tell youwhat I think of you. I think you mean to be good to others, but--"

"You always think better of me than I deserve, " he interrupted; "atleast you treat me better. "

"That does not necessarily indicate any leniency of judgment, " retortedHelen. "I think you are self-centered, and morbid; and if marriagedoesn't reform you, I give you up, for nothing will. Suffering is onlyan effect, the cause is sensibility; and you keep yourself abnormallysensitive by having yourself always upon the vivisection table. "

She turned and walked away from him. Her emotion was getting beyond hercontrol. Her friendships were keen with the intensity of her passionatenature; she had not passed through this struggle lightly, and perhapsthe victory unnerved her more than defeat would have done. On his parthe endeavored to turn every thing off as usual with a jest. 

"Have I told you Bently's latest?" he began. "He--"

"It is of no use, " she said, returning to him, tears overflowing hereyes. "You cannot help my making a spectacle of myself; and you hadbetter go. Oh, Arthur, I hope so much for you; I do so hope forhappiness coming to you out of this marriage; but I shall be solonely. "

Her voice broke despite her effort. She came nearer, she hesitated aninstant; then she bent over and kissed his forehead. A hot tearsplashed upon his hand. 

"There, " she said. "Good night, and good-by. When you come back youwill see what a fine steady old lady I have become. "

He got on to his feet, confused, troubled, pitying her profoundly andcommiserating himself upon the awkwardness of the situation. He triedto frame some sentence which might bridge the distance that seemedsuddenly to have opened between them. Like a farewell, a renunciationor a dedication, that kiss impressed upon him a certain remoteness newand oppressive. 

"Bah!" he broke off. "I can say nothing, Helen. I have thus far servedin an already sufficiently unhappy world only to make people moremiserable still. I'm not worth a faintest regret. Good-night. If I canever serve you--Good-by!"

XV. 

'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL. Othello; i--3. 

Helen's first conscious sensation next morning was a feeling of loss, which resolved itself into a deep sadness when she was fairly awake andrealized that Arthur had gone. She had not Considered how much hiscompanionship and friendliness had been to her until now, when she feltthem lost. A woman so lonely yet so affectionate as Helen could notspare from her life a friend so dear as Fenton had been without beingmuch moved. So strong had been her attachment, and so intimate had beenthe acquaintance between herself and Arthur, that Dr. Ashton hadbelieved his wife to love the artist; but Helen, closely questioningher heart, was able to assure herself that warm as had been her regardfor Fenton, he had never awakened in her bosom a single thrill of love. She was sad this morning with the sorrow of a broken friendship, not ofa blighted passion. 

She sighed deeply, the sigh of one but too well accustomed to life'sdisappointments, and arose the determination to lose herself in herwork, and to shake off if possible the sadness which seemed to paralyzeher energies and enervate her whole being. 

The gown which she had worn upon the previous evening lay over a chair, giving out, as she lifted it, an odor of tobacco smoke. Some remarkmade by Grant Herman about the fumes which had filled the little parlorcame into her mind, giving a new current to her thoughts. Sheunconsciously fell to thinking of the sculptor, and, by a naturalconnection of ideas, of Ninitta, who was still nominally posing forher. 

Partly from interest in the girl herself and partly from the perceptionthat it pleased her master to have the Italian remain with her, she hadretained Ninitta, although the bas-relief was so far advanced that themodel was hardly needed. She had even set herself, by those unobtrusiveways at the command of gracious women, to win the girl's confidence, not so much for the sake of hearing her story as to give the waif sostrangely cast in her path the feeling that the friendship she sosorely needed was within her reach. It had resulted, however, in herhearing Ninitta's history. Many women have no idea of returningkindness save by unreserved confidence, and although Ninitta wasperhaps scarcely to be reckoned among these extremists, she yet foundso much comfort in pouring out her sorrows to one who could bothsympathize and appreciate, that little by little the whole pathetictale was told. 

"I did not understand, " Ninitta said once in her broken English, "whenhe left Rome. It was as if somebody had taken my life away somehow. Icouldn't make it seem that I was really alive all the same, though Iknew it could not be his fault. He would not have done it if he hadknown. You do not believe he would have left me if he had known thetruth?"

"No, " Helen answered. "He could not have left you if he had known. Itwas because he was hurt so much, and that could only be because heloved you so much. "

"He loved me so much, " poor Ninitta repeated murmuringly, "he loved meso much. "

And all that day she followed Helen with wistful eyes, as if she longedto hear her say again those precious words. 

"I cannot tell you what it was like in Paris, " she said at anothertime. "In Rome they all knew me. They knew I was betrothed, and no oneever troubled me. But in Paris it was different. Oh, I hate Paris! Andit was so cruel that he was not there. It was so dreadful that heshould be on the other side of that horrible sea!"

The girl was so self-forgetful in these revelations, she spoke alwayswith such an unshaken faith in Herman and was so free from any thoughtof blaming him, that Helen could not but be touched. She soothed poorNinitta as well as she was able, having power to promise nothing, seeing no way out of the entanglement, yet at least showing to thelonely Italian that her woman's heart bled for her sorrow if she mightnot alleviate it. Sometimes she felt like going to the sculptor andentreating him to take pity upon the girl who so adoringly loved him. Once when the model had told her how just as she had saved by long, painful economy, nearly money enough to pay the passage to America itwas stolen and she was forced to begin the slow process over again, Helen impulsively left her studio and found herself on the verythreshold of Herman's door before she realized what she had been aboutto do. By what authority was she to interfere in a matter like this? IfNinitta loved the sculptor who had long ago ceased to return heraffection, could matters be helped by an unloving marriage? It was notfor her, moreover, to give unasked her advice to such a man as she knewGrant Herman to be. If he consulted her, she reflected, she mightpresent the pathetic, touching story which Ninitta had told her, butshe had plainly no pretext for forcing her feelings upon her masterunsought. 

She turned and went slowly up the stairs toward her little room; butsuddenly she paused. She had all at once become conscious that shedesired eagerly to know the nature of the sculptor's feelings towardhis old love. Why, she asked herself, was she so interested in whatafter all did not personally concern her. A quick emotion, almost toovague to be called a thought, made her cheek flame. 

"No, no, " she said half aloud. "It is only that I am touched byNinitta's sadness. It is nothing more. "

But her breath came more quickly, and it was with difficulty that uponre-entering her studio she assumed a quiet mien, lest her model shouldguess at her unfulfilled errand. 

On the morning following the meeting of the Pagans at her rooms, Helenwas alone in her studio. She had told Ninitta she should be late andthe latter was therefore tardy in arriving. Mrs. Greyson uncovered herbas-relief, now rapidly nearing completion, and stood before it, examining critically its merits and defects. A familiar step in thepassage, a tap at the door, and Grant Herman joined her. 

"You look as fresh as ever this morning, " he said. "I feared that theentertaining of such a company of Bohemians would have tired you out. "

"No, indeed, " she returned. "I am of far too much endurance to be wornout by any thing of that sort. I have a drop of Bohemian blood in myveins myself, I think, and I like to meet men as men--when they aresimply good fellows together, I mean. A woman usually sees men in anattitude of either deference or defense, and there is somethinginspiriting to her in being occasionally received as a comrade. "

"There are few women who can be received so, " returned Herman. "Isuppose it requires both an especial temperament and especialexperiences to render a woman capable of being a comrade to men. "

The talk drifted away to general and indifferent subjects, broken hereand there by allusions and criticisms relating to the Flight of theMonths, and not infrequently dropping into brief silences. One of theseHerman broke by saying abruptly:

"You do not know how your song has haunted me all night. I have beensaying over and over to myself

 'I strew these opiate flowers On thy restless pillow. '

And, indeed, I longed for some such soporific myself before morning. Your coffee or your song, or--yourself, "--he hesitated over the lastword--kept me very effectually awake. "

"It must have been the coffee; there was little potency in either ofthe other causes. "

"There is much, " he returned resolutely, advancing a step nearer. "Mrs. Greyson, I have not wasted the night. I have thought out a great manythings; the first and chief being in regard to yourself. "

His tone, the piercing glow of his eyes, warned Helen what was coming. She thought of Ninitta, and retreated a step. 

"It is true, " the sculptor continued, as if answering the doubt impliedby her movement, "that I--"

The door opened softly and Ninitta came in. 

His outstretched hand dropped; the words died upon his lips. He turnedfrom one woman to the other an appealing look of hopeless sadness andleft the studio in silence. 

It was characteristic of Helen's generosity that her first thoughtshould be of the pain which Ninitta must feel. One glance at the modelwas sufficient to show that the Italian had comprehended enough of theinterrupted scene to be made wretched; but it did not then occur toMrs. Greyson that to Ninitta's jealous soul, unsuspicious of Herman, the only explanation of a fondness between the sculptor and his pupillay in an effort on the part of the latter to win from the model herrightful and long betrothed lover. 

XVI. 

CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH. As You Like It; i. --2. 

Grant Herman sat in his studio in the gathering twilight thinkinggloomily. However little Mrs. Greyson suspected the tumult which wouldbe aroused in Ninitta's breast by the misadventure of the morning, thesculptor was too well aware of the Italian's passionate nature not todread the consequences of the jealousy she was sure to feel. He knew, moreover, that Ninitta's rage would vent itself not upon him but uponHelen, and he wondered how best to avert the danger that threatened. 

He debated with himself, too, how much he owed to the girl who gave herlife up so unreservedly to him. His old love--"call it rather mereboyish passion, " he-thought scornfully--was long since dead beyondhope; yet the devotion which it had awakened in Ninitta burned on assteadily as ever. Had he now a right to repulse the love he had himselfcalled into being; to throw aside the fondness he had himself fosteredand which he had once prized above measure. 

"No, " he thought, "a thousand times no. A man must be a villain whowould not marry a girl under such circumstances. I am hers; the factthat I have changed is my misfortune, not her fault. If I have anymanliness about me, I won't let things go on in this way any longer. I'll marry Ninitta. It is the smallest reparation I can make for thelong years of pain I have caused her. There is no other course for me. 

"But I do not love her, and a woman, they say, always instinctivelyfeels it when a man's heart is not hers. Nonsense! That is only acowardly excuse. At least Ninitta would never be troubled. She has notknown so much love that she can draw very sharp comparisons. No; shewill be satisfied; and I--well, if a man is such a devilish fool as Ihave been, it remains for him to pay the penalty. Oh, if youth onlyknew!"

He sighed deeply and began to walk up and down the studio, in which thedusk was gathering thickly. A last faint gleam from a window high inthe riverward wall fell upon one of the mutilated goddesses in thegallery. Herman looked up, contemplating the phantom-like headgloomily. Something in its pose, or perhaps more truly something in hisown mind, suggested a faint likeness to Helen, as if it were her ghostlooking down from some far height upon the conflict of his soul. 

"Ah!" he cried hotly to himself. "And she? How can I give up the hopeof winning her? What was a boy's foolish fancy to the passion of aman--and for such a woman! She is half goddess. No, no; I cannot do it. I cannot marry this Italian peasant, this model that has who knows whathistory! I will not; I owe something to myself, to my art. What is thesimple happiness of Ninitta to my art? I should be a fool to ignore howmuch more to the world my own well-being is worth than is hers; andwhat could I not do with the inspiration of the other! Oh, my God!"

The darkness grew. The phantom faded imperceptibly away. He was leftalone in the darkness to fight out his battle. He marched with greatstrides, avoiding obstacles by a certain sixth sense born of constantfamiliarity with the place. He fought manfully, persuading himself thathis scruples were as idle as air, remnants of the long since outgrownsuperstitions of his childhood. He defiantly claimed the right to betrue to his powers, to his genius, rather than to an empirical standarderected by narrow moralists. He should be thankful that he had escapedentangling his life by that absurd marriage in Rome seven years ago, and that he was now free to win a wife worthy Of himself and of hisart. 

Yet he cut through all the meshes of logic he had himself been weaving, by striking his strong hands together there in the dark, and cryingaloud, his voice startling him in the stillness:

"My God! What a poltroon I have become! Shall I cast on others theburden of my own mistakes?"

And seizing hat and cloak he left the studio, taking his way towardsthe narrow street where Ninitta lodged, hastening to ask her to marryhim before his resolution faltered. 

XVII. 

THIS "WOULD" CHANGES. Hamlet; iv. --7. 

Herman found Ninitta alone in the attic which served her for a home inthis bleak northern city, so far and so different from her own sunnyCapri. 

Bare and half furnished as was the room, the girl had contrived toimpart to it a certain air which removed it from the common-place. Abit of flimsy drapery, begged from some studio, hung over one of thewindows; a rude print of the Madonna was pinned to the wall, and underit, on the wooden table, was a bunch of withered flowers. They wereroses which Helen had given Ninitta, and the Italian, returning homethat day, had in her jealous rage thrown them to the floor and trampledupon them. Then remembering that they had been offered to the Madonna, she had been seized with a superstitious fear, and carefully restoringthe battered flowers, had eagerly vowed a fresh bunch to the HolyMother if she might be forgiven this sacrilege. 

But the most beautiful article in the room was a cast of a woman'sshoulder. It had been modeled by Herman in the earliest days of hisacquaintance with Ninitta, when she had been still only his model andnot his betrothed. He was touched as he looked at it now. Yellow withtime and soiled by its various journeyings, it still preserved unmarredits lovely shape, exquisite curve melting into exquisite curve assoftly and sweetly as in those glowing days when he had molded it underthe sky of Italy. 

He looked from the cast to Ninitta. He had only seen her at the studio, and he experienced a faint feeling of surprise at detecting a subtledifference in her here at home. It was nothing so tangible that hecould have told by what means he received the impression, yet it wassufficiently definite to make him lose something of the freedom withwhich he had always addressed her. She was no longer simply the model, she was an Italian woman in her own home. 

The years during which they had been separated had formed andstrengthened Ninitta's character. If Herman had not before noted thealteration, it was due in part to his pre-occupation and in part to theforce of old habit which made her manner toward him much the same asformerly. To-night he began to appreciate the change in her, and hefelt the awkwardness which always results from the discovery that wemust adapt ourselves to a modified condition in a friend. 

On her side Ninitta was naturally surprised at seeing the sculptor. Shehad come to regard as hopeless all speculations upon his intentions, and she had waited patiently until he should choose to show her favor, tacitly acknowledging his right to do whatever should be his goodpleasure. Had he come at any time and said, "Ninitta, I am here tomarry you, " she would gladly but quietly have made ready to followwhere he chose to lead, even to the world's end. Equally, had he said, "Ninitta, I have come to say good-by; you will never see me again, " shewould have acquiesced without a murmur, and then, perhaps, have takenher own life. As long as it was his simple wish, uninfluenced by thewill of another, she would never have questioned. 

Now, however, all passive acquiescence was at an end. Since the scenein Helen's studio, Ninitta had an object upon which to expend all herenergies, and she even almost forgot to love Herman in the intensity ofher sudden jealous hatred of Mrs. Greyson. Yesterday Grant Herman wouldhave found a woman not unlike the Ninitta of old times, tender, loving, pathetically submissive; today he was confronted by a fury, onlyrestrained by the respect for his presence born of long habit. 

"Good evening!" he said gently, as he entered, his mood softened by thestruggle through which he had passed in his studio. 

"Good evening!" she answered defiantly, in Italian. "So you are notwith her!"

"What!" he exclaimed. 

He had been wholly unprepared for this outburst, and for the instantwas too surprised to at all understand it. 

A sudden rage seemed to seize Ninitta, which swept away all barriers ofrestraint. 

"_Si_, _si_, _si_, " she cried, "I am not blind! What ifyou are my betrothed, when this woman comes to entrap you, to bewitchyou with an evil eye, to steal your soul! Yes, yes; you are not withher to-night as you were last night. Did I not see you myself come outof her house?"

"Stop!" he said in his most commanding tone, but without anger. 

The calmness and decision of the manner arrested her. She sank backinto a chair, regarding him with defiant eyes. 

"So you have followed me, " continued Herman, speaking with painfulslowness, so that every word seemed to poor Ninitta to fall upon herlike a curse; "so you have played the spy upon me. Ah!"

As he looked at her she began to cower. She shrank back in her seat, putting up her hands to shield her face from his gaze. 

"Yet I meant to marry you, " he said, half to himself, although stilladdressing her. "I came to-night to say, 'Come, Ninitta, let us take upthe broken romance that a cruel mistake interrupted there in Rome. ' Ihad long ago outgrown my old fancy, but I meant to be true to mypromise to you. I meant to give up even my ambition for your sake; tomake your life happy and secure. And this is your trust in me! If youreally loved me, to track me like a thief would have been impossible toyou. And where have you learned this trick of playing the spy?" he wenton with growing wrath, becoming more and more cruel with every word. "It is a relic of your Paris life, I fancy. It is hardly a resource towhich a good girl would be driven. I at least believed you when youtold me you had been true to me. "

He spoke rapidly, aggressively. The fact that he was outraging his owninstincts in beating with bitter words the girl who bowed before himwith drooping head and disheveled hair made him but the more harsh. Tofall from the height of self-sacrifice into a pool of vulgar intrigue!Bah! His disgust at himself for ever having known this woman seemed toogreat to be borne. 

Yet under all his passionate protest and repulsion he was consciousthat he doubted what he was himself saying with so much vehemence; thathe secretly believed Ninitta to be true and pure, and that to herItalian blood, to her peasant nurture, was due the espionage in whichshe had been self-betrayed. The sting of conscience, too, in theknowledge that the model's jealousy of Helen was well founded, thehumiliation of finding his feelings and motives discovered, increasedhis irritation. He felt a base desire to stab and humiliate Ninitta, but for whom he might be free to win the one woman he had ever loved;and the more his denunciations recoiled to hurt himself, the moreeagerly he poured them out, as in some moods of mental anguish onefinds relief in the pain of self-inflicted physical hurts. 

"Yes, " he said, more and more completely abandoning control of himself;"yes, this tells sufficiently what you have learned in Paris. "

"Oh, no, no, no!" she cried, flinging herself at his feet and grovelingthere. "No, no! For the love of the Virgin, signor, not that! I havebeen good. Oh, for the love of God, signor! For the love of God!"

She was shaken by the storm of sobs in which her words ended. She gothold of his feet and refused to rise when he attempted to lift her. Herlong hair, escaped from its stilletto, fell about her face. Even inthis agitated moment the sculptor in Grant Herman noted with a sharp, aesthetic pleasure the beautiful curves of her neck and shoulders. 

"Pity, " she went on between her agonized sobs. "Oh, forgive me! I willdo any thing you wish. I will go away and leave you. "

He stooped and raised her by main force, yet tenderly. 

"There, there, Ninitta, " he said, "I was wrong. I do believe you are agood girl; but you should not have played the spy. "

He soothed her as well as he was able, her violence spending itself inpassionate tears. She drew herself away from him, and sat down again inthe chair she had been occupying. She put up her hands to her head, twisting the loose tresses into a great coil. The sleeve of her dress, unfastened in her agitation, fell back from her rounded arm. The superblines of her figure were displayed by her attitude. Her face, flushedwith weeping and lighted by the still tear-wet eyes, if not beautiful, was appealing and pitiful. Some fiber touched of old vibrated anew inhis being. He made a step forward. 

"Ninitta, " he said, "I came to-night to ask you to marry me at once; tofulfill the promise I made you so long ago. "

The words and the tone both were tender, but he had said those samewords in anger just before. 

"But you do not love me, " she responded, her arms dropping patheticallyinto her lap. "You have said it. "

"But I was angry, " answered Herman, for the moment almost believingthat his old love was re-awakened. "I did not mean you to believe it. "

"If you do love me, " she said, a new look coming into her eyes, "youwill promise me never to see her again. "

He started back as if from a blow. His frail dream of passion wasshattered like a bubble at her words. A wave of bitter self-contemptthat its existence had been possible swept over him. The blood surgedinto his cheeks. Ninitta saw the flush and her eye kindled. 

"Promise me, " she repeated. "It is little for love to ask. It is myright. "

With instinctive feminine guile she leaned towards him in an attitudeso beautiful, so appealing that even now he was moved. But with thisemotion came, too, a subtle if now fainter sense of degradation that hewas susceptible to this dangerous fascination, with a painfulconsciousness of how wide a moral gulf had opened between them by theanger and vulgar jealousy which Ninitta displayed. It is notimpossible, too, that his instinctive clinging to Helen was a strongerpower than he knew; while still through all his mingled emotions ranthe resolve he had made to give himself up to his old betrothed. 

"No, " he said; yet as he moved slowly towards the door he had the airof a man who still deliberates. 

She threw herself back in her seat with a touching gesture of despair, but also with a gleam of malice in her eyes, which he, turning with hishand upon the latch, caught and understood. 

"No, " he repeated with final decision. "No, no!"

XVIII. 

BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE. Love's Labor's Lost; ii. --I. 

Fenton had returned to Boston with his bride, but as yet Helen had notseen him. One morning late in March, however, he came to call. 

"I could not come before, " he said after the first greeting, "'I havemarried a wife, ' and the amount of arrangement and adjustment impliedin that statement is simply astounding. "

"I am glad to see you at last, " she returned. "And your wife, is shewell?"

"My wife, " replied he, with a little hesitancy over the unfamiliarterm, "is well. Cannot you come to see us before that dreadfulreception through which I am to be dragged? I'd like you to know Edithin a different way from the crowd. "

Helen crossed the room and sat down in her favorite chair by thewindow. 

"He ought to understand, " was her thought. "Why cannot he see that itis impossible for his wife and me to harmonize. We have no commonground. "

"I shall be glad to, " she said aloud, inwardly shrinking at the need ofspeaking disingenuously to one with whom she had so long been uponterms of frankness. "I will come very soon; to-day or to-morrow. To-day, though, I must go and see my bas-relief. It is all ready to becut for the furnace; I only want to take a last look at it, to be surethat every thing is right. If it will not bore you, " she added, alittle hesitatingly, "you might come too; it is your last chance tofind fault to any advantage, for any changes must be made at once. "

"I'd like to go, " answered her friend, looking at his watch, "if I canget back to luncheon. Yes, there's plenty of time. "

"Benedick, the married man, " laughed Helen. "That I should ever live tosee this air of domesticity!"

They crossed the Common, chatting idly, and both conscious that thefrankness of their old intercourse was somehow lacking; that it wasnecessary to begin a new adjustment upon a basis different from theformer one. They talked upon indifferent subjects, of what had occurredduring the three weeks of Arthur's absence, playing the part ofamiability without pleasure, endeavoring to simulate the old relationswhich no longer had real existence. 

"Oh, Arthur, " Helen laughed, suddenly, "let's not go on in this way!Let us quarrel, or something. Say a wicked epigram; do any thing, only don't be so eminently amiable!"

"My head is as empty of ideas, " he returned laughing, in his turn, "asis a modern title-page of punctuation points. Besides, Edith hasforbidden wicked epigrams. "

"Does she therefore suppose she can suppress them?"

"Oh, I don't know, " responded Fenton, good-humoredly. "I am not in asepigrammatic a frame of mind as I was. "

"'Tis a good sign. "

"Yes; a sign I am growing inane and respectable. "

"I can imagine you one about as easily as the other. "

"That is bitter-sweet; a compliment and a flout. "

"If I had said that, " Helen observed, smiling, "you would haveretorted, with a look of gloomy solemnity, that most things in life arebitter-sweet; unless, indeed, you felt called upon to phrase it that ithad the advantage of most earthly matters by not being wholly bitter. "

"Was I ever guilty of such commonplace attempts at epigrams as that?"returned Arthur. "If so it is certainly a good thing that I have givenup repartee for matrimony. "

"Oh, that is brilliant beside many of your attempts, I assure you. Andas for your giving them up--I reserve my decision. "

"You shall see, skeptic, " he said lightly. "I expect to change the faceof the whole world if necessary. "

"It is a common error of ardent temperaments, " she returned pleasantly, but with evident sincerity, "to assume that a state of feeling canchange the world. "

"But I must, I will, " he began eagerly. Then the light died out of hisface and he ended with a shrug. 

Helen put up her hand with an impulsive gesture, as if about to speak. 

Then letting her arms fall by her side, she turned to unlock the studiodoor, which by this time they had reached. 

The bas-relief was still shrouded in its damp envelopes, which Helencarefully removed, keeping Fenton away, that he might first see thework as a whole, and not lose its legitimate effect by catchingfragmentary glimpses as it was uncovered. When at last it was fullydisclosed, she called him to her as she stood before it. 

"By Jove! That's stunning!" he exclaimed, after an instant's pause, which gave him time to see it fairly. "Helen, you have outdoneyourself! That figure is simply superb. I hadn't an idea you would comeout so well. I'm wonderfully proud of you. "

"You are more amiable than ever, " she responded; but her flushed cheekshowed that she was touched by his earnest praise. "For that figure Ihave to thank Ninitta's posing. She is an inspiration. "

"But Ninitta did not inspire that splendid head, " observed Arthur, pointing with his cane at the December, "and you evidently did that_con amore_. By Jove! It's Grant Herman, as I live!"

As he spoke he turned and saw Ninitta on the threshold. 

"Shall you want me to-day?" the latter asked of Helen. 

"What made that girl look so savage?" Fenton questioned as the doorclosed behind the model. 

"She perhaps chooses to be jealous of me, " Helen replied composedly. 

"_Elle a peutêtre raison_. "

"Perhaps. "

"You say that too calmly by half, " was his gay response. "Yet as everywork a woman does has a man for its end--I learned that from theclassics; Penelope, you know, and even washwoman Nausicaä--I suppose itis fair to assume this had. Only who is the man?"

Helen flushed slightly. She recalled the ambition with which she hadbegun this work, to make the man beside her praise its completion; andshe was conscious that before she finished it was the praise of Hermanfor which she strove. 

"It is filthy lucre that inspires me, " she replied steadily. "I need noother incentive. "

They walked about the studio, talking of the bas-relief as seen fromdifferent points; of how it was to be cut for firing; and on the safeground of art they forgot all personal constraints, until the strikingof a clock aroused Fenton to a sense of the flight of time. 

"I must go, " he said. "I am no end glad I came. The truth is I am notvery well acquainted with this married man, and it is comfortable toslip back occasionally into a familiar bachelor mood. However, " hecontinued with his brightest smile, "I like the Benedick far betterthan I should ever have dreamed possible; and his wife is charming. AndI want to say, too, " he added, "that I have a thousand times thankedyou for taking that vial before I went to be married. I'm in a spasm ofvirtuousness just now, and it is pleasant to remember that I did nothave it that day. "

They went down stairs and out into the soft, spring-like day, sauntering homeward in a happy and accordant mood. Arthur urged Helen'sgoing home to lunch with himself and Edith, but to Helen the morningwas far too precious to be ended in a possibly inharmonious meetingwith Mrs. Fenton. 

And that afternoon Herman sent for Mrs. Greyson in all haste. Ninittahad vented her jealous rage upon the bas-relief, destroying the head ofDecember which she heard Fenton say must have been done _conamore_, and the beautiful May for which she herself had posed. 

XIX. 

NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS. Romeo and Juliet; ii. --4. 

Mrs. Fenton's wedding reception was largely attended. However stronglythe artist might savor of Bohemianism, his wife was connected withcertain prominent Philistines, and he had exhibited a most remarkablereadiness to have them present in force. 

"Into the camp of Philistia itself, " muttered Rangely to Bently, asthey elbowed their way through the crowd. "By the great horn spoon, ifthere isn't Peter Calvin! Arthur calls him the Great Boston Art Greek. That ever I should live to see the humbug under Fenton's roof-tree!"

"Pshaw!" returned Bently with an oath. "What a set of rubbishy old fobsand dowagers there is here anyway. Is this the kind of people Fentonmeans to know?"

"Means to know, " echoed Rangely. "He's got to go down on his marrowbones to get them to consent to know him. They patronize art, and thatmeans that they snub artists. "

"Humph!" exclaimed Bently. "Is he sycophant enough to do that?"

"That's as you look at it. His wife probably decides the matter forhim. She very naturally likes to know what she would call 'nicepeople. ' How those women chatter! I wonder what they find to talkabout. "

"Not necessarily any thing. They always talk all the same whetherthey've any thing to say or not. "

"How much of life is wasted in enduring people for whom one does notcare, " philosophized Rangely, looking over the throng which filled tooverflowing the Fentons' somewhat limited rooms. "Ah! There is Dr. Ashton. How do you do, Doctor?"

"As well as could be expected, " the Doctor answered, "in thisantiquated assembly. "

"Oh, Boston is only an antiquarian society, " laughed Rangely, "andthese old tabbies are all honorary members. By Jove, though, there aresome awfully pretty girls here. "

"I've observed that Boston girls are apt to be pretty when they givetheir minds to it, " remarked Bently. "Not when they wander round withHomer under one arm and Virgil under the other and dyspepsia in thestomach, but when they are deliberately frivolous. "

The throng separated them at this moment, and Dr. Ashton went in searchof host and hostess. Arthur caught sight of his tall figure, and made asign at once of recognition and summons. Struggling between a youngEpiscopal clergyman and a corpulent old lady, Dr. Ashton made his waywith difficulty to the spot where his friend was standing. 

"You are the most married man I know, Arthur, " was his greeting. "Brigham Young wasn't a circumstance. I have been half an hour crossingthe room. "

"Dr. Ashton, Edith; my wife, Will, " was the only reply Fenton made, unless one could interpret the quizzical glance he bestowed upon hisfriend. 

"I feel already acquainted with you, " was Mrs. Fenton's remark, "I haveheard of you so often. My husband has spoken to me so much of hisfriends that it is hard for me to realize that I do not know themmyself. "

"You have been very little in Boston, I believe, " Dr. Ashton said, looking at her in a sudden surprise at remembering that he had seen herface before. 

"Very little, " replied she, "I have been abroad a great part of my lifeand--"

New claims upon her attention ended the conversation with that charmingabruptness characteristic of such an occasion, and the Doctor was leftto elbow his way out of the crush, with the sense of having done allthat would be required of him. He found a corner where he could watchthe hostess and fell to wondering whether Mrs. Fenton in her turnremembered their previous meeting. 

Edith Fenton was a slender, nun-like woman, too pale, with a smile ofwonderful attractiveness. "A woman to wear lilies, " was the way GrantHerman put it afterward; a remark which conveyed well the purity of herface. Her ease of manner showed familiarity with the conventionalitiesof life, yet in some vague way she seemed removed from the people bywhom she was to-day surrounded. 

"She has been brought up in the old narrow ways, " Dr. Ashton reflected, "but there are great possibilities about her. She'll either be themaking of Fenton or send him to the dogs. She will scarcely find muchroom in her house for many of his former friends, I fancy. "

He stood watching the people and amusing himself with cynicalspeculations until he saw Grant Herman's great figure among the guests. He knew him but slightly and looked at him with an indifference which acouple of hours later he regretted. Herman cared little for theformalities of the occasion, and very likely might have gone awaywithout even being presented to the hostess had not Fred Rangely takenhim in charge and brought him safely through that ceremony. Now thesculptor was looking for Mrs. Greyson, of whom he soon caught sight, when he began making his way towards her. She however perceived him, and with the feeling that she could not bear to meet him in public justat this time, she evaded him by slipping into the window where herhusband was ensconced. 

"Take me out of this, please, " she said, "I am tired. "

He gave her his arm without speaking, and together they made their wayfrom the room. 

"I want to talk to you, " he remarked easily. "Mayn't I walk home withyou?"

When she was ready they went together out into the starlit streets. Neither spoke at first, each carrying on a train of thought to whichthe other could have no adequate clew. 

"Who is Arthur's wife?" Dr. Ashton asked at length. "I know she was aMiss Caldwell, that she came from Providence, and that she has been anorphan so short a time that they had a perfectly quiet wedding; butthat is the extent of my knowledge. Is she an artist?"

"An amateur, " answered Helen. "She studied in Paris. He met her there. She is a relative, I forget just how far or near, of Peter Calvin. Sheseems to me an icicle. Think of Arthur's marrying a _religieuse_!"

"What is his game, I wonder, " said her companion thoughtfully. "Do youknow when she was in Paris? Was it when we were there. "

"Let me see, " Helen responded, with a mental calculation. "Yes; shemust have been there the last year we were. Why? Did you ever meether?"

"Perhaps, " was the careless reply. 

They reached Helen's door as he spoke. 

"Come in, " she said. "Fortunately I can make you a salad. It is a longtime since we had a _petit souper_ together. I have, too, something to say to you. "

He followed her to the pretty parlor, and sat idly chatting while shemade her preparations for the supper. 

XX. 

THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED. Merchant of Venice; iii. --2. 

It was a dainty little table to which Helen invited her husband whenevery thing was ready. The china was of odd bits picked up here andthere abroad, and it was now disposed with an artist's eye for colorand grouping. A tall bottle of Rhine wine had come from some mysteriousnook, and beside it were a pair of fine old German glasses, frail asbubbles. 

"I have always to offer my guests Rhine wine, " Helen said, "for I've noglasses for any thing else. Arthur is ungracious enough to object. Hedoes not like white wine as you do. "

"I do like it, " her guest answered, drawing the cork, "and so doesArthur, only he does not know it. He has somewhere stumbled upon thewhim of pretending not to, and he can deceive himself more completelythan any other man I ever saw. Rhine wine is the most poetic ofbeverages. It should go down like oil and only leave a fragrance like apoet's dream behind it. "

"That is quite a rhapsody for you, Will; only your cool tone gives it acertain cynical flavor. "

"I mean all I say, I assure you. Champagne is vulgar. It is the drinkof self-made snobs and cads who wish to pass for men of the world; butRhine wine is the drink for poets and artists. "

"I am delighted to hear you defend it; it is very good of you, when Ihappen to know you are not fond of it. It is a graceful return for myinhospitality in not giving you your favorite Burgundy, but I haven't adrop. "

"Oh, don't mind the wine! I came to see you, " Dr. Ashton said, with hisdelightful smile. "How droll it was to see Arthur to-day. Do you thinkhe has really persuaded himself he is in love with his wife?"

"Arthur has great adaptability, " Helen returned. "I think he believeshe is in love. I'm sure I hope you'll not feel it your duty to tell himhe isn't. "

"I'm not Mephistopheles, " answered Dr. Ashton, smiling, and watchingappreciatively as she made the salad. 

Mrs. Greyson had dressed carefully for the reception from which she hadjust come, and her cream-colored cashmere, with soft old thread lace, and a bunch of amber-hued roses at the throat, became her as only adress chosen by an artist could. It fell away from her exquisite arms, and from among the lace rose her beautiful neck, the stuff of her gownsetting off the lovely texture of her skin to perfection. 

"I must not ruin my best attire, " she said lightly, gathering it up. "Now Ninitta has spoiled my bas-relief, it may be long before I getmore. I owe you a good deal, Will, for letting me study modeling inParis. "

"It was pure selfishness, " he returned good-humoredly. "I wanted tokeep you busy so that I might go my own way. But what about yourbas-relief? Who spoiled it? Who is Ninitta, and what has she againstyou?"

"That is what I wanted to tell you. "

She did not speak again for a moment, seemingly intent upon the exactmeasurement of the ingredients of her salad. In reality she wasconsidering how best to present what she had to say. She mentally ranover the points she wished to make, becoming thereby conscious that shehad herself come to no definite conclusions upon the topic she wasabout to discuss. She looked furtively at her husband, noting hisattitude, his expression, and whatever her past experience enabled herto construe into indications of his mood. As well and as long as shehad known this man, she was still ignorant of the key to his nature--that feeling or motive which, touched in an ultimate appeal, wouldalways insure a response. Conscience is the fruit of the tree ofexperience, and, taken in this sense, every man must be possessed of aconscience, which by its inner voice re-enforces any pleading whichcoincides with its dictates. What was the nature of her husband'sinward monitor Helen had never been able to discover and at this momentshe realized keenly her ignorance. 

"Will, " she said earnestly, laying down her salad-fork and spoon, "Ithink it is wrong for us to live as we do. "

He shrugged his shoulders, looking at her curiously. 

"I cannot flatter myself that you care to return to the olduncomfortableness. "

She flushed warmly, with a keen pang of mingled pain and indignation. 

"No, " she replied. "No; never that. It is not for ourselves, but forothers. "

"Others! Fenton?"

She flushed more deeply still. 

"I have told you already that you are mistaken about my regard forArthur. It was not he I meant. "

She served her guest, and sat playing nervously with her fork as he ateand praised the salad. 

"Mr. Herman sent for me the other afternoon, " she began again, forcingherself to speak calmly. "My model Ninitta is very fond of him, andchose to be jealous of his praise of my work. It might have all goneover without an outburst, I suppose, if she had not had her attentioncalled to the fact that I had modeled his head for December. Why shehad never happened to notice it I don't know; she was in the studioconstantly. "

"Not when he was there?" queried Dr. Ashton, holding up his graceful, antique wine-glass and admiring it. 

"No, not when he was there, " repeated his wife. "She had pounded offthe head when he sent for me with a mallet she had picked up in hisstudio. I never saw him in such a rage. She was gone when I got there. She didn't make any attempt to conceal it. She came stalkingmelodramatically into his studio with the mallet and laid it down. 'There, ' said she, 'now kill me. I have broken her work. ' It was like afashion magazine story. He thought at first she had gone mad. "

"So she had. Women are always insane when they are jealous. I wish Ihad Arthur's knack at epigram, and I'd make that sound original. "

"He says he was very harsh, " Helen continued, "though I fancy he couldnot be quite that in any circumstances. It was very hard, " she addedwith a sigh. "It was like looking at a dead child to see my best workruined. It was really a part of myself. "

"But can't it be repaired? It was in the clay, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I fear for my exhausted enthusiasm. I can never do it as itwas before. My poor, unlucky December. "

She toyed with her glass absently, apparently for the moment forgettingher companion, who continued his supper with no less relish thanbefore. He watched her keenly, however, fully aware that there was moreto be told. He was a man too accustomed to follow any desire or indulgeany whim not to notice appreciatively, as he had noticed many timesbefore, how beautiful were the curves of his wife's arms and throat, and with what grace her head was poised. He had once defined a liberalman as one who could appreciate his own wife, and he would have beenfar more insensible than he was, if, with this beautiful woman beforehim he had not been, judged by his own standard, extremely liberal. 

"And this has what to do with the question of our relations beingknown?" he asked. 

She started from her reverie, the red again showing faintly in hercheek. 

"It is hardly fair, " she answered in a tone softer and lower than thatin which she had been speaking, "to tell you all that Mr. Herman said. He wishes to marry me. "

"And you wish you were free to have it so?"

There was once more a pause. Helen busied herself in an elaboratearrangement of the torn lettuce leaves upon her plate, seeminglyconcentrating all her thoughts upon forming them into an intricatefigure. 

"Will, " she said, suddenly, lifting her eyes and leaning towards him, "I do not know how to make you understand. I haven't succeeded so wellin my attempts thus far in life as to be very sanguine of doing it now. You do not know how ashamed and contemptible I felt for being party tothe deception that made it possible for him to speak so to me. He wasso honest, so earnest; he was so unconscious of the barriers betweenus. I felt that I had done him such an irreparable wrong by concealingthe truth. He had a right to know that I am a married woman. "

"Did you tell him?"

"No; but I must. I want to be free from the promise we made to eachother. "

"It all comes, " returned her husband without any show of irritation, "from my telling Fenton. "

"I cannot see what that has to do with it. I like the absence fromquestioning, the avoidance of gossip, as much as you can; but it makesme feel as if I were a living lie to have Mr. Herman bringing hishonest love to me to be met only by deception. It is cruel and it iswrong. "

"That depends entirely upon how you define wrong, " retorted Dr. Ashtoncoolly. "I do not see why it is wrong for me to decline to sacrifice myconvenience to Mr. Herman's sentiment. But without going into thequestion of metaphysics, let us look at the matter reasonably. Do youlove Mr. Herman?"

Notwithstanding the studied nonchalance of his tone, a glance into hiseyes might have shown Helen how much importance he attached to heranswer. A woman is peculiarly dangerous when she is telling one manthat another loves her. The masculine greed of possession is aroused bythe mere thought of a possible rival, and Dr. Ashton was conscious atthis moment of a kindling desire himself to win Helen's love, which heknew perfectly well had never been his. 

"That is not at all relevant, " was her reply, her eyes downcast. "Thequestion of honesty is enough now. At least I respect Mr. Herman, and Imust treat him squarely, as you would say. You have always told me tobe 'a square fellow, ' you know, " she added, raising her glance with afaint smile. 

"But if you tell him, " said her husband, with a subtle tinge ofimpatience in his tone, "others must know. You can't go on letting oneafter another into the secret without its soon becoming publicproperty. "

"Why not then?" she responded. "I wonder we have been able to keep itso long. It is sure to be known now you have come home. I do not meanto proclaim it upon the housetops; but to let it work out if it will. What harm can it do?"

"It will harm me. My life is not so secluded as yours is, Helen, Itwill make things confoundedly awkward. I shall have to go about givingendless explanations. Besides, here is Arthur's wife. I particularlydon't want her to know. "

"Why not? It is precisely that I was coming to. She seems to feel farmore kindly to me than I should have supposed possible. I can't lie toher, Will. She has already asked me questions about my past life hardto answer. I want to tell her, so that we may have an honest basis forour friendship. I don't want to lose my hold on her. "

"Nor on Arthur, " acquiesced he gravely. "It is for that reason that Isay you had better not tell her. I usually know what I am saying, do Inot? I tell you it is for your own sake that I warn you to be quiet. Arthur isn't going to be held in the leash very long by that piece ofchina-ware piety, and it is to you he will naturally turn for sympathy. Don't spoil your chance of his friendship by breaking with her yet. "

"Will, " his wife said, with a glitter in her eyes he knew of old, "sometimes you talk like a very fiend incarnate. "

"That, " he replied rising, "is precisely what I am. There are a fewrare, but fairly well authenticated cases on record, Helen, where a manunder stress of circumstances, has been able to keep his own counsel;women without a confidant go mad. For your own sake you'd better trustme, now that Arthur isn't available; so I'll come and see you again. Iam obliged to you for this jolly little supper. Your salads always wereperfection. I'd like to stay and have you make me some coffee, but Ihave an engagement at twelve. Good-night. "

XXI. 

HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH. Two Gentlemen of Verona; iv. --2. 

When Grant Herman attempted to speak with Mrs. Greyson at the Fenton'sreception, he had more in view than simply the desire of being near thewoman he loved. He was full of trouble and bewilderment, andinstinctively turned toward her for aid and sympathy. 

The scene between himself and Helen, to which the latter had alluded inher conversation with Dr. Ashton, was of far deeper import than herwords might have seemed to imply. In the first shock of discoveringthat her work was broken she had been so overcome, that although shestruggled bravely to conceal her feelings, she had excited thesculptor's keenest pity; and it not unnaturally followed that inattempting to express his sympathy he found himself telling his lovebefore he was aware. He had determined to be silent upon this subject. Uncertain what were Helen's feelings towards him and restrained by asense of loyalty to the bond which united him to Ninitta, he hadresolved to bury his love in his own breast, at least until time gavehim opportunity of honorably declaring it. Now circumstances betrayedhim into an avowal of his passion; and he was not without the indignantfeeling that Ninitta's act had freed him from all obligations to her. It might have required an ingenious casuist to arrive logically at theconclusion that an injury which the Italian had done to anotherreleased him from his plighted word, but the person injured was thewoman he loved, and he blindly felt that Ninitta had struck at himselfthrough his most sensitive feelings. He renounced all the fealty towhich he had been held by a sense of honor, and he now poured out toHelen the full tide of his passionate love. 

The sculptor was not a man to be lightly moved, but it is these calm, grave natures that once aroused are most irresistible. His passionateoutburst took Helen unaware; she scarcely knew what she did, and shebecame suddenly aware of a truth so overwhelming that every thing elsefaded into insignificance beside it. 

"I love you!" he cried out; and at the word she first knew, with apoignant pang of mingled bliss and anguish, that she too loved him. 

It seemed to her that some power above her own volition ruled her, asin moments of high excitement the body sometimes appears to declare itsindependence of the will, and to act wholly by its own decisions. Shewas aware that she raised her eyes to his, although she would havegiven much to avoid his glance; and she knew that it was from what heread there that he took courage to fold her in his embrace. 

Yet with his arms about her and his piercing kisses upon her face, Helen felt as if sinking helplessly into a mighty ocean; as if allstruggles must be unavailing, and she could only yield to theresistless love which engulfed her. 

From this first feeling of powerlessness, however, her strong naturesprang with a sharp recoil. She was too noble to surrender without astruggle. She would not even think whether she loved this man; thatmight be considered upon some safe vantage ground; now all energy mustbe concentrated upon escaping from the deadly peril in which she foundherself. 

Helen had freed herself as far as she was able from the marriage bondwhich had so galled her, and she was glad to forget that such a tie hadever existed, but she yet remembered that she was still a wife, and thekiss of a man not her husband overwhelmed her with shudderinghumiliation and fear. She struggled from her lover's embrace with suchan expression of terror upon her face, that he started back amazed andgrieved. 

He began to stammer confused words of contrition, of sorrow, of love, and of supplication. 

"How could you!" she gasped. "Oh, leave me!"

There came into her excited mind a way of escape, upon which, eventhough it brought with it a sense of baseness, she seized in despair. 

"Ninitta, " she said. "Ninitta!"

He gave her a look of pain which went to her very heart. He did notmove or answer, but his whole soul seemed to look through his dark eyesin pitiful appeal. 

"Go, " she continued, but in a hurried voice which betrayed heragitation. "Leave me now. Oh, I cannot bear it!"

And crushed with pain and shame, she buried her face in her hands andburst into tears. 

Herman made a step towards her, but instantly she recovered herself, looking up with swimming eyes and lips that quivered despite her utmosteffort. 

"No, " she said, "do not touch me. You must go. I cannot bear anotherword. Forgive me, " she went on rapidly, as he hesitated, still withthose appealing eyes fixed upon her. "Oh, forgive me, but go. "

He turned slowly and moved towards the door. The broken bas-relief, with its beautiful mutilated figure caught his eye, and seemed again toremind him that he had at last a right to speak to Helen, unhampered bythe thought of Ninitta. He looked back as if he would even now disobeyher and plead his love anew. But her eyes refused his prayer before itcould be uttered. He lingered still an instant. 

"I cannot go, " he broke out suddenly. "I love you! I must stay! I mustat least have an answer. Do you think a man could kiss you once andthen leave you like this?"

She shivered as if she felt anew his passionate embrace and shrank fromit. She threw her glance about as to discover some means of escape. Thegesture, the look, overwhelmed him with sudden remorse. He trustedhimself not for a single backward look now, but rushed out of thestudio, leaving her sitting there like the princess of the fairy talewho overcame the genii only by recourse to immortal fire which consumedher also. 

Alone in his studio the sculptor strode up and down, struggling withthe emotion which mastered him. He debated with himself whether Helenloved him or not; yet the more carefully he recalled his interview withher, the more impossible he found it to determine. But hope pluckedcourage out of this very uncertainty, and clung to the belief that hadnot Helen in her heart some affection for him, she could not have beenso touched. 

But what of Ninitta? He threw back his head and walked down the studio, his steps sounding sharply upon the hard cement floor. What of Ninitta?He had absurdly dallied with his supposed obligations to her longenough. Now, at least, after this outrage, he repeated to himself, hewas free. He was at liberty now--if indeed he had not always been--toconsider what he owed to himself; what to the woman he loved. 

He recalled the hot words he had spoken to the model earlier in theafternoon when the anger of discovery was fresh upon him, and he felt apang of self-reproach. He could not but know how poignant to Ninittamust be the grief of giving him up, although he assured himself that inthe long years of separation she must have become accustomed to livewithout him, and that her grief would be rather fancied than real. Yethe was too tender-hearted to be wholly at ease after all his reasoning. He at last started out to find Ninitta, perhaps to comfort her, perhapsto cast her off forever. At least to come to some definite conclusionof their doubtful relations. 

But Ninitta was not to be found. She was not in her attic; nor did shereturn that night, nor the next day, nor yet the following; and it wasto tell of the model's disappearance, and to ask aid in tracing her, that Herman had wished to speak to Helen at the Fenton's reception. 

XXII. 

UPON A CHURCH BENCH. Much Ado about Nothing; iii. --3. 

Herman did not see Helen for several days after the reception, but shecame down to the studio Sunday afternoon to begin the repairing of hermutilated bas-relief. The sculptor heard her step pass his door, andfelt a thrill at the sound for which he had longingly waited everywaking hour since he had heard Helen go out upon the night of Ninitta'sdisappearance. 

He waited what seemed to him a long time, forcing himself to performcertain trifling things needful in the studio, yet Mrs. Greyson hadonly been able to get fairly to work before she heard his footstep, andthen his tap upon her door. 

He entered the studio almost hesitatingly, and after the usualgreetings stood looking gravely at the disfigured clay. 

"I began to think you were never coming to restore it, " he remarked, breaking at last the silence. 

"I could not bear to touch it, " she returned, not caring to confessthat she had also wished to avoid him until time should have restoredhis usual self-control. "But I determined yesterday to begin thismorning, only strangely enough I went to church for the first timesince I came from Europe. "

"Ah!" returned Herman smiling. "I often go to church when I am not toobusy. "

"I hardly supposed that a Pagan was guilty of going to any church wherehe could not worship Pasht. "

"One can worship whatever deity he pleases in whatever temple, Isuppose, " was his rejoinder. "I'm catholic in my tastes. I do not somuch mind what people worship, if they are only sincere about it. "

"It must be a great comfort to believe every thing, if one only could. "

"There is often danger, " he observed, "that we assume it to be aweakness to believe any thing. "

"It is, I'm afraid, " replied she, turning her face from him andseemingly intent upon her modeling. 

"At least we believe in work, " Herman answered, "else we are notartists. You certainly find joy and support in your art. "

"Yes, " Helen said with a sigh; "but I fancy the joy of creation, greatas it is, can never be so satisfying to a woman as to a man. It ishumiliating to confess--or it is presumptuous to boast, I am not surewhich--but a woman is never so fully an artist as a man. He is in greatmoments all artist; but a woman is never able to lay herself aside evenin her most imaginative moods. "

"I cannot think you wholly right, " her master returned smiling; "but togo back a little, at least faith is woman's peculiar province andprerogative. We seem nowadays to pride ourselves upon being superior tobelief in any thing; but it is really a poor enough hypocrisy. If wereally believed nothing, should we ever give up a single selfish desireor combat any impulse that seizes us. For my part, I am glad to findmen better than their professions. But this, " he added with his genialsmile, "is more of a sermon, very likely, than you heard at church. "

"I at least agree with it better than the one I heard at church thismorning. The preacher patronized the Deity so that he shocked me. "

"That troubles me at church, " Herman assented; "preachers are soirreverent. "

Helen stepped back to observe the effects of the work she was doing. 

"Do you think, " she ventured, "that it would be possible for me toinduce Ninitta to pose again for the May? If I told her that I am notangry, that I understand, and that----"

"But Ninitta is gone!" exclaimed the sculptor, suddenly recalled topresent difficulties. "I have not been able to find her since the dayshe did this. "

"Gone!" echoed Helen in dismay; "and you cannot find her?"

Herman related in detail the steps he had taken to trace Ninitta, allof which had thus far proved unavailing. He had endeavored to avoidpublicity, but he already began to fear that it would be necessary tocall detectives to his aid. 

"Not yet, " Helen said. "Let me try first. Have you seen Mr. Fenton?"

"No; why? I have been very cautious. I have told nobody but FredRangely. "

Helen reflected a moment. Her woman's instinct told her that it was notlikely Ninitta would put any great distance between herself and thesculptor. The model could have but few acquaintances in the city, andas she would need support it seemed probable she might try posing forsome of the artists. As this thought crossed her mind, Helen rememberedthat Ninitta had promised to pose for Fenton when no longer wanted forthe has-relief. It was therefore possible that Fenton might knowsomething of the whereabouts of the missing girl; and in any case Helenhad been so used to consulting the artist in any perplexity, that itwas but natural for her thoughts to turn to him now. 

"Let me try, " she repeated. "It will be less likely to excite talk if Ilook for her; she was my model. Trust the search to me for a day ortwo. "

He was only too glad to do so; glad to be released from the burden ofanxiety, as by virtue of some subtle faith in Mrs. Greyson he was; gladof any thing in which he might obey her; glad above all of any bond ofcommon interest which might draw them nearer to each other, even if itwere search for the woman who stood between them. 

On her way homeward Helen went into Studio Building, but before she hadclimbed half way to Fenton's room, she encountered Dr. Ashton. 

"It is of no use, " was his greeting. "He isn't in. His wife hasprobably taken him to church. "

"He was at church this morning, " Helen answered, putting her hand intothe one Dr. Ashton extended. "I saw him. "

"Did you go to church? What a lark. "

"It was rather a lark, " she assented; "only I got wretchedly bluebefore the service was done. "

"What church was it? Mrs. Fenton looks as if she'd poise dizzily onhigh church altitudes like the angel on St. Angelo. "

"So she does; she goes to the Nativity. "

"How did Arthur look?"

"Amused at first; then bored; then cross; and finally, when the sermonwas well under way, indignant. "

"And his wife?"

"His wife, Will, " Helen said with a sudden enthusiasm, "looked like asaint. She really believes all these fables. I wish I did. "

"It will be some fun to watch Arthur's conversion and backsliding, " Dr. Ashton observed, "if he really gets far enough along to be able tobackslide. Where are you going?"

"To see Arthur. I have an errand. "

"Do you object to my walking with you?" he asked with a deference rareenough to attract her notice. 

The sun was setting, and the trees on the Common, as yet showing butfaintest signs of coming buds, stood out against the saffron sky. Thelong shadows stretched softly over the dull ground, while every slightprominence was gilded and transfigured by the golden glow which floodedfrom the west. The atmosphere had that peculiar brilliancycharacteristic of the season, while the cool and bracing air was fullof that champagne-like exhilaration in which lies at once thefascination and the fatality of the New England climate. 

It was some time before either broke the silence. 

"How I wish, " at length began Helen wistfully. 

"That shows, " spoke her husband, as she left the sentence unfinished, "that you are still under forty. When you have quadrupled your decadesyou'll thank your stars for deliverances and ask for nothing more. "

"When I get to that stage, then, " she returned, "I'll take poison. "

"Is that a hint?"

"Life is bad enough now, " she continued without heeding theinterruption, "but better a bitter savor than none at all. "

"You should devote yourself to cultivating the approval of conscienceas I do. I only do what I think to be right, you know. "

"But think right whatever you do. "

"Not quite that, " returned the Doctor with a laugh, "but the approvalof my conscience--or of my reason, which stands in its place--isnecessary to my happiness, so I change my principles whenever my actsdon't accord with them. "

"So do a great many persons, " she responded; "perhaps most of us, forthat matter, only we are seldom honest enough to own it. "

"By the way, " queried her companion, as they approached herdestination, "how came Mrs. Fenton so quickly domesticated at theChurch of the Nativity?"

"There is a young man there--a deacon or a monk; I never know thesehigh church terms; they are usually faded out pieces of Romanism--thatonce wrote an article which enjoyed the honor of being interred in thePrinceton Review when her uncle was one of its editors. "

They reached the doorsteps and Dr. Ashton said good-by. Then he turnedback. 

"By the by, " he said. "I walked up with you to make you invite me tosupper again. I enjoyed the last time very much. "

"Did you?" returned his wife, rather carelessly. "Come to-morrow--no, not until Thursday night. "

"Very well. I am to dine here then, and I'll come and give you anaccount of my visit. "

XXIII. 

HEART-SICK WITH THOUGHT. Two Gentlemen of Verona; i. --I. 

The Fentons were just going to dinner when Helen arrived, and she waspersuaded to dine with them. She was not without some curiosity toobserve her friend in his new relations, and she also found herselfattracted by Edith, although the two women had apparently little incommon. 

The talk at dinner flowed on easily enough, Arthur conversing in thestrain which of old Helen had been pleased to call "amiable, " and whichfretted her by being conventional and not wholly sincere. She liked theartist best when he spoke without restraint, even though she might notagree with his extravagances and often detected a trace ofartificiality in his clever epigrams. It seemed to her that the wholetendency of Edith's influence upon her husband was towards restraint, yet she could not be sure whether the ultimate result upon Fenton'scharacter might not be beneficial. 

"It depends upon Arthur himself, " Helen mused. "If he is strong enoughto endure the struggle of adapting his honest belief to her honestbelief, he will be the better for it. I hope his love of ease will notmake him evade the difficulty. It never used to occur to me how littleI really know Arthur, so that I cannot tell how this will be. "

When the host was enjoying his after dinner cigar, which by especialindulgence upon the part of Edith he was allowed to smoke in theparlor, Helen disclosed the object of her visit. 

"Do you remember, " she asked, "that model who posed for my May, and wasto come to you next week?"

"Ninitta? Of course. What of her?"

"That is precisely what I wish to find out, " she responded. "She haschanged her address, and I thought it possible you might know somethingof her whereabouts. "

"I have not seen her since the morning when she came into your studio. Doesn't Herman know?"

"The truth is, " Helen said slowly, weighing her words with regard totheir effect upon Edith, "that she has run away, and we do not knowwhat has become of her. She went off in a rage, and I am troubled abouther. "

"Is she the Italian you spoke of, Arthur?" interrupted Mrs. Fenton inher soft voice. "What is she like?"

"Yes; a black-haired, splendidly shaped girl with piercing black eyes. "

"I think I know where she is, " Edith said quietly. 

"You?" the others asked in one breath. 

"You see, " Mrs. Fenton explained, turning towards Helen, "I have maderather a plunge into charity work. Of course I meant to do something, but I hardly expected to begin quite so soon. But Mr. Candish is myrector, and he came for me yesterday to go to an Italian family thatcannot speak English well. The children have just been put into ourschools, but they have not advanced very far as yet. Their teacherasked Mr. Candish to do something for them; they are wretchedly poor. Iwish you could see the place, Mrs. Greyson. Eight people in a room notso large as this, and such poverty as you could hardly imagine. Yetthese people had taken in another. The mother goes about selling fruit, and she happened to speak to this girl that I think is Ninitta in herown language one night. The girl had been wandering about in the cold, not knowing where to go, and I suppose the sound of her own tonguetouched her heart. Poor thing; she would not speak a word to me. Howstrange that I should chance to find her. "

"Thank heaven she is safe, " was Helen's inward exclamation. Aloud shesaid: "But what is she doing?"

"Nothing, " Edith answered. "She seems to have had a little money, sothat she can pay the family something, and she has helped to take careof the children. They are Catholics, naturally, and not in Mr. Candish's parish; but they do not seem to have much religion of anykind, and keep clear of the priest for some reason. "

"My wife will know more of the North End in a month, " Arthur observedwith an effort at good humor which did not wholly conceal from Helen atrace of annoyance, "than I should in six years. I wonder she can bearto go into such dirty places. Of course philanthropy is all very well, but I'd rather take it after it has been disinfected. "

The bitterness in his tone jarred upon Helen. She felt a pang at hisevident dissatisfaction with his wife's views, his want of harmony withhis new surroundings. 

"Arthur must be disciplined, " Mrs. Fenton said, smiling fondly. "If heonce learns that the secret of being happy lies in helping others, he'll be unselfish from mere selfishness, if from nothing else. "

"Happy!" Helen exclaimed involuntarily. "Does one ever expect to behappy nowadays? Happiness went out of fashion with our grandmothers'bonnets. "

"In this world, " Edith answered, without any trace in her voice of thereproof which Helen half expected, "perhaps you are right. The age istoo restless and skeptical for happiness here; but that makes me longthe more for it hereafter. "

"But even in a future life, " returned Helen, "I can hardly expect to behappy, since I shall still be myself. "

"Happiness, " was Mrs. Fenton's reply, "is a question of harmony withsurroundings, is it not? And your surroundings in the other life may besuch that you cannot but be happy. "

"No more theology, please, " interposed Arthur. "You forget, Edith, thatI have been to church to-day, and too much piety at once might impairmy spiritual digestion forever. "

A perception that the flippancy of his tone shocked his wife, madeHelen turn the conversation again to Ninitta, arranging to go with Mrs. Fenton in the morning to find the missing girl. 

They fell into silence after this, the twilight deepening until onlythe glow of the fire lighted the room. Edith went to the piano andplayed a bit of Mozart, wandering off then into the hymn-tunes whichshe loved and which were familiar in all orthodox homes of the lastgeneration: plaintive _Olmutz_ and stately _Geneva_, aspiring_Amsterdam_ and resonant _St. Martin's_, placid _Boylston_ and grand_Hamburg, Nuremburg, Benevento, Turner_ and _Old Hundred_; the tunesof our fathers, the melodies which embody the spirit of the old timeNew England Sabbath, a day heavy, constrained and narrow, it may be;but, too, a day calm, unworldly and pure. 

Arthur's cigar was finished, and he had fallen into a deep reverie, looking into the coals. He recalled his conversations with Helen beforehis marriage. He wondered whether his acquiescence in the limitationsof his present condition, his yielding to his wife's social andreligious views, was an advance or a deterioration. These pious tunesjarred upon his mood, and he was glad when his wife left theinstrument. His Bohemian instinct stirred within him, and taunted theease-loving quality of his nature which put him in subjection to thatwhich he believed no more now than in the days when he was the mostsharp-spoken of the Pagans. A wave of disgust and self-loathing sweptover him. He turned abruptly in the dusk toward Helen. 

"Sing to us, " he said. "Edith has never heard you. "

But Helen had been moved by the melodies, which came to her as an echofrom her childhood. She understood the half-peremptory accent inArthur's voice to which she had so often yielded, but to which shewould not now submit. 

"No, " she answered. "How can you ask me. My barbaric chant would bewholly out of keeping here. Some other time I shall be glad to sing forMrs. Fenton; now I must go home. "

XXIV. 

IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING. I. Henry IV. ; v. --I. 

Notwithstanding her previous visit, Mrs. Fenton found it no easy matterto guide Helen to the place where Ninitta had taken refuge. 

The poorer classes of foreigners in any city are led by similarity oflanguage and occupations to gather into neighborhoods according totheir nationality, and the Italians are especially clannish. Thefruit-venders and organ-grinders form separate colonies, eachdistinguished by the peculiarities incident to the calling of itsinhabitants, the crooked courts in the fruit-sellers' neighborhoodbeing chiefly marked to outward observance by the number of two-wheeledhand-carts which, out of business hours, are crowded together there. 

Ninitta was found in a room tolerably clean for that portion of thecity, the old fruit woman who was its mistress having retained more ofthe tidiness of thrifty peasant ancestors than most of her class. Oneroom was made to accommodate the mother and seven children, and duringthe absence of the former from home the premises were left in charge ofa girl just entering her teens, who, when Helen and Edith reached theplace, was engaged in preparing the family dinner of maccaroni. Theyounger members of the family had just returned from school, and werenoisily clamoring for their share, and all together relating theincidents of the day. 

Upon a bed in one corner lay the object of their search, her faceflushed, her hair disordered, her eyes wild and vacant. To allappearances she was in a high fever, and she took no heed of Edith, whoapproached the bed and spoke to her. At the sound of Mrs. Greyson'svoice, however, the sick girl gave a cry and raised herself into asitting posture. 

"No, no!" she exclaimed in Italian, excitedly, "I will not! I willnot!"

Helen drew off her gloves and sat down upon the dingy bed besideNinitta, regarding her with pitying eyes. 

"You shall not, " she answered, in the girl's own language. "You need donothing but what you choose. "

The soft tone seemed to calm Ninitta. She allowed Helen to arrange thesoiled and crumpled pillows, and yielded when her self-constitutednurse wished her to lie down again. The latter procured a bowl ofwater, and with her handkerchief bathed the sick girl's face, soothingher with womanly touches which waked in Edith a new feeling of sympathyand tenderness. Mrs. Greyson's white fingers, contrasting strongly withthe Italian's clear dark skin, smoothed the tangled hair from the hotforehead, and all the while her rich, pure voice murmured comfortingwords, of little meaning in themselves, perhaps, but sweet with thesympathy and womanhood which spoke through them. 

Edith meanwhile was not idle. She applied herself to hushing theboisterous children, and to bringing something like quiet out of thetumult of the crowded room. She assisted the girl with her maccaroni, gravely listening to the principles which governed its equitabledistribution, with her own hands giving the grimy little children theshare belonging to each. An air of comfort seemed to come over thefrowsy room after Edith had quietly set a chair straight here, pickedup something from the floor there, and arranged the ragged shade at thewindow. Even the little Italians, half barbarians as they were, feltthe change, and were more subdued. 

Ninitta, too, was calmed and soothed, and, with Helen's cool hand uponher hot brow, she sank presently into a drowse. 

"Mrs. Fenton, " Helen whispered, fanning her sleeping patient, "Ninittacannot remain here. I must take her home with me. I think she hadbetter run the risk of being moved than to be ill in this crowdedroom. "

"But, " remonstrated Edith, somewhat aghast at this summary procedure, "you do not even know what is the matter with her. "

"No, " Helen returned lightly, "but I shall probably discover. "

"Not by finding it something contagious, I hope, " her friend said, laying her hand upon Mrs. Greyson's forehead with a slight, caressingtouch. 

"Can you get me a hack?" Helen asked of the girl who kept the house. 

But the girl had no idea how to obtain one of those vehicles, which shehad been accustomed to see driving about with a certain awe, butwithout the hope of ever being able to do more than admire them from adistance, unless, indeed, she should have the great good fortune ofgoing to a funeral, when perhaps she might even ride in one, as didlittle Sally McMann of the next court, when her mother died. Mrs. Fenton therefore went herself for the carriage, finding remonstrance invain to change her companion's decision. 

During her absence Ninitta awakened, and, while seeming more rational, was less quiet than before. She repulsed her visitor with angry looksand muttered defiance. Knowing perfectly well the cause of the girl'sagitation, Helen knew, also, that it was best to go directly to theroot of the matter, and she did so unshrinkingly. 

"You are wrong, " she said in Ninitta's ear. "It is you he loves. Youare to go home with me because he wishes it. "

At first the sick girl seemed to gather no meaning from these words, but as Helen repeated the assurance again and again, in differentphrases and with Herman's name, she became passive, as if she at leastcaught the spirit if not the actual significance. 

Mrs. Fenton had some difficulty in finding a carriage, and by the timeshe returned Ninitta had yielded herself submissively to Helen'sguidance. 

Mrs. Greyson saw that her charge was carefully protected against thecold, a matter which the mildness of the day rendered easy, and, supported by the two ladies, the model was able to walk down stairs tothe carriage. 

During the drive homeward Helen lay back thinking hotly, and flushedwith excitement. Ninitta sank into a doze, and Mrs. Fenton sat lookingat her friend with the air of one who has discovered in an acquaintancecharacteristics before wholly unsuspected. She hesitated a little, andthen, mastering her shyness, she bent forward and kissed Helen's hand. 

The other submitted in silence. Indeed, the exaltation of her moodseemed to lift her above her surroundings so that she felt a strangeremoteness from her companion. Yet she was conscious of a vague twingeof annoyance at Edith's act, although she could neither have excusednor defined the feeling. Mrs. Fenton not infrequently aroused in her acurious mingling of attraction and repulsion; and it was under theinfluence of the latter that she answered brusquely her friend's nextremark. 

"How did you quiet Ninitta?" Edith asked. 

"By telling her lies, " returned Helen wearily and laconically. 

"What!"

"She is in no condition to be dealt with rationally, " continued Mrs. Greyson, in a tone explanatory, but in no way defensive, "so I saidwhatever would soothe her. "

Edith sat in silent dismay. Apparently the woman before her, by whosegenerous self-forgetfulness she had been touched, was perfectlyuntroubled by the idea of speaking a falsehood, a state of mind soutterly beyond Edith's experience as to be incomprehensible to her. Shecould not bring herself to remonstrate, but it pained her that suchphilanthropy should be stained by what she considered so wrong. 

Mrs. Fenton was perhaps equally mistaken in her opinion of Helen'sregard for truth and of her philanthropy. Mrs. Greyson had a deeprepugnance to falsehood, and Arthur Fenton had often good-humoredlyjeered at what he called her Puritanic scrupulousness in this respect. On an occasion such as at present, however, the use of an untruth wouldcause her not even a second thought, her reason so strongly supportingher course as even to overcome her instincts; a fact which a moralistmight deplore but which still remains a fact. 

Her philanthropy, upon the other hand, although seeming to Edith sodisinterested, was largely instigated by a desire to aid Grant Herman. Just what she wished or expected him to do, she could not have told, her actions being no more regulated by strict logic than those of mostwomen; but she felt that it was the office of friendship to see, ifpossible, that no harm came to the Italian through the jealousy whichboth herself and Herman knew to be but too well founded. She determinedto take Ninitta home and do for her all that was necessary, in orderthat the sculptor be spared the remorse which would pursue him if harmcame to his old betrothed. She was not without a secret feeling, moreover, scarcely acknowledged to herself, that she owed somereparation to the girl whose lover's heart she had won, no matter howundesignedly. 

Reaching home, she got Ninitta to bed and sent for Dr. Ashton. Then shedispatched a note to Grant Herman, saying:

"Ninitta is with me; give yourself no uneasiness. "

XXV. 

THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME. 

Measure for Measure; iv. --4. 

Ninitta's illness proved after all very slight. So slight, indeed, thatDr. Ashton, calling in on his way to dine with the Fentons Thursdayevening, found her gone. She had insisted upon returning to her attic, although Helen had not allowed her to depart without promising not toabscond a second time. 

Ninitta was grateful to Mrs. Greyson with all the ardor of herpassionate southern heart. She did not, it is true, understand therelations between Herman and Helen, but even her jealousy was lost inthe gratitude she felt for the beautiful woman who had cared for her, and it is not unlikely saved her from a dangerous illness. It did notseem possible to the undisciplined Italian, versed only in crude, simple emotions, that a woman who was her rival could treat her withtenderness. She accepted Helen's kindness as indisputable proof thatthe latter did not love the sculptor, a conclusion which the premisesscarcely warranted. She volunteered to pose again, and Mrs. Greyson, thinking it well to keep the girl under her influence, and desiring areturn to at least the semblance of the peaceful existence precedingthe stormy episode just ended, eagerly accepted this offer, onlystipulating that the model should undertake nothing until she wasreally well able. 

"I shall come back to supper, " Dr. Ashton said, as he left his wife. "Ihave half a mind not to go to Fenton's; only it amuses me to watch thefellow's degeneration. "

"It never amuses me to watch any degradation, " she returned gravely. "How do you know he is degenerating? If you mean by following his wife, why, they may be right after all, and what we call superstition theveriest truth. "

"Of course, " answered he. "I never pretended to administer theexclusive mysteries of truth; but it is always a degradation to yieldto personal influence at the expense of conviction. Arthur is as muchof a heathen to-day as he ever was, only he is too fond of comfort tohave the courage of his opinions. "

Helen sighed. 

"Truth to me, " she said thoughtfully, "is whatever one sincerelybelieves; I cannot conceive of any other standard. One man's truth isoften another's falsehood. "

"You are as dull as a preface to-night, Helen; what carking care isgnawing at your vitals?"

"Nothing in particular. A certain melancholy is befitting a widow, youknow, and that's what I am supposed to be. "

"On the contrary there is a certain vivacity about the word widow to mymind. "

"Your experience has been wider than mine. I am aware that I am toomuch given to vast moral reflections, but you provoke them. "

"I am sorry to provoke you, " he said gayly. "Forgive me before suppertime; who knows what rich experiences I may have between now and then. Good-by. "

As he walked toward his appointment, could Dr. Ashton's vision havereached to the house whither he was going, he would have seen ArthurFenton and his wife sitting together before an open fire awaiting theirguest. The artist was showing Edith a portfolio of sketches by foreignpainters, which he had brought from his studio. 

"What a strange uncanny thing this is, " he remarked, holding one up. "It is just like Frontier; I never saw any thing more characteristic. Iwonder you got so few of his tricks, Edith, while you studied withhim. "

"He always repelled me. I was afraid of him. Where did you get thissketch?"

"Dr. Ashton gave it to me. "

"Dr. Ashton!"

"Yes; when he was in Paris, both he and his wife were intimate withFrontier. Or at least Will was. "

"Oh, Arthur!"

She leaned forward in her chair, her always pale face assuming a newpallor. Laying her hand upon her husband's, she asked in a quick, excited manner:

"Do you know how Frontier died?"

"I know he died suddenly; now you speak of it, I have an idea it was acase of _felo de se_. You know I was in Munich at the time. "

"Arthur, " Edith said earnestly, "I have never told even you; but I sawFrontier die. I had a pass-key to his studio, and his private roomswere just behind it. That night I went in on my way from dinner--UnclePeter and I had been dining together, and I left him at the door withthe carriage--after a study I'd forgotten. We were going to Rome thenext morning, and I didn't want to leave it. The picture was at thefurther end of the studio, and as I went down the room I heard voicesand saw that Frontier's door was open. He sat at a table with a tinywine-glass in his hand. A man who stood back to me said, just as I camewithin hearing: 'It is none of my affair, and I shall not interfere;but you'll allow me to advise you not to be rash. ' I could not hearFrontier's answer, partly because I paid no attention, of course neversuspecting the truth. But as I went towards my easel, Frontier, hearingthe noise, I suppose, and afraid of being interrupted, caught up theglass and drank what was in it. The other man sprang forward just intime to catch him as he fell back, and it suddenly came over me that hewas taking poison. I cried out and ran into the room, but it seemedonly an instant before it vas all over. Oh, it was terrible, Arthur, terrible!"

She covered her agitated face with her hands, as if to shut out thevision which rose before her. Her husband sat in silent astonishment, aconviction growing in his mind of whom the other witness of Frontier'sdeath must have been. 

"Arthur, " Edith broke out suddenly, "that man was no better than amurderer. He let Frontier kill himself. When I cried out, 'Oh, whydidn't you stop him!' he said as coolly as if I had asked the mosttrivial question, 'Why should I? What right had I to interfere?' It wasterrible! He seemed to me a perfect fiend!"

"It was--who was it?" demanded her husband, a name almost escaping himin his excitement. 

"It was Dr. Ashton; the man who is coming to sit down at your tableto-night. Arthur, I cannot meet him! I knew when he came to ourreception that I had seen him before, but I could not tell where. Thereis his ring now. Let me get by you!"

"But where are you going?" Fenton asked in amazement. 

"To my room. Any where to get out of his way. "

"But what shall I tell him?"

"The truth; that I will not sit down to eat with a murderer. "

She vanished from the room, leaving her husband alone. Dr. Ashton'sstep was already upon the stair, and however keenly Mrs. Fenton mightfeel the wickedness of the Doctor in not preventing Frontier'sself-destruction, the action was too strictly in accord with Arthur'sown views to allow of his condemning it. His friend found him in astate of confusion which instantly connected itself in the guest's mindwith the non-appearance of Edith, an impression which was strengthenedby the lameness of the excuses tendered for her absence. Dr. Ashton notunnaturally concluded that he had just escaped stumbling upon a familyquarrel. He accepted whatever his host chose to say, and the twoproceeded rather gloomily to dinner. 

In Arthur's mind there sprang an irritation against both his wife andhis friend. His instincts were all protective, that term includingcomfort as well as self-preservation. He was intensely annoyed at hiswife's attitude, and began to vent his spleen in cynical speeches, which since his marriage had been rare with him. 

"Christian grace, " he declared, "is exactly like milk; excellent andnourishing while it is fresh, but hard to get pure, and even then sureto sour. "

"Say something more original if you are cross, Arthur, " observed hisfriend good humoredly. "What is the matter? Is it a new rug or aJapanese bronze you are dying for?"

"Hang rugs and bronzes, " retorted Arthur, with a vicious determinationto be ill-natured. "If I can get the necessities of life, I am lucky. "

"Nonsense, " was the reply. "It isn't that. The lack of the necessitiesof life makes a man sad; it is the lack of luxuries that makes himcynical. "

Dr. Ashton was perfectly right in his inward comment that Fenton wassecretly regretting his marriage. This was the thought that filledArthur's mind. It was true he had had no absolute disagreement with hiswife, although it is not impossible that it might have come to this, had a delay in the guest's arrival allowed time. But it filled thehusband with an unreasoning rage that Edith presumed to establish sostrict a code of morals. He felt that her position as his wife demandedmore conformity to his standards. Why need she trouble herself aboutthat which did not concern her, and sit in such lofty judgment upon themorals of her neighbors? Did she propose keeping Dr. Ashton'sconscience as well as her own--and his? Certainly those whom thehusband found worthy his friendship it ill became the wife tostigmatize and avoid. He sat moodily tearing his fish in pieces insteadof eating; for the moment wholly forgetting his duty as host. 

"If you'll pardon my mentioning it, " Dr. Ashton said at length, "youare about as cheerful company as a death's head. You are so melancholythat I am tempted to fling in your face one of my old epigrams; thatlove is a gay young bachelor who can never be persuaded to marry andsettle down. "

The other laughed and made an effort to shake off his gloom; but withso little success that his guest resolved to escape at the earliestmoment possible. Something in Fenton's forced talk, however, attractedDr. Ashton's attention. 

"My wife was a pupil of Frontier. "

The simple phrase, which had escaped Arthur's lips because it had beenin his mind not to allude to this fact, might have gone unnoticed hadnot the speaker himself so strongly felt the shock of disclosure as toshow sudden confusion. The whole matter was at once clear to Dr. Ashton, who having recognized Edith at the reception, had been preparedfor identification in his own turn. 

"So that, " he observed calmly, "is the reason Mrs. Fenton does not dinewith us to-night. I knew she was sure to recognize me sooner or later;but as I had no motive for concealing this matter, on the other hand Ihad no reason for recalling so unpleasant a circumstance to her mind. "

There was a pause of a moment, and then the Doctor continued:

"I think Frontier was rather foolish. I told him so. A charming littleHungarian girl of whom he was fond, had left him to follow the fortunesof a Polish Count, or something of the sort. I do not see why a manshould kill himself for so trifling a thing as a woman; but if he choseto, I am not one of those officious persons who feel justified ininterfering with any private act they don't happen to approve. Icertainly should resent such impertinent intrusion into my ownaffairs. "

"And I, " assented Arthur doggedly; "but my wife----"

"Certainly; I understand. Mrs. Fenton says hard things of me because Iwould not rob poor Frontier of what little comfort he could get fromdying. Very well; I will not offend her by my presence. Only she issetting herself a hard task in attempting to treat people according totheir conservatism. In these days the sheep and goats have come to beso much alike in appearance, that I scarcely see how a mere mortal isto distinguish between them. My own case I settle for her by avoidingher house. "

"But this is my house, " protested Arthur, intensely chagrined. 

"No, " his guest replied, still smiling and moving toward the door. "Itis the nest you have built for your love and your--regeneration! Goodnight. "

XXVI. 

THERE BEGINS CONFUSION. I Henry VI. ; iv. --i. 

Alone in her own room, Edith relieved her overwrought feelings by aburst of tears, brief, indeed, but bitter. Like her husband, she feltthat this incident, although not assuming the guise of a quarrel, wasan opening wedge in the unity of their affection. Unlike Arthur, however, she thought of it with self-reproach and misgiving. She didnot for an instant consider the possibility of having taken a differentposition in regard to Dr. Ashton, yet in a womanly, illogical way, shefelt that she should have learned her husband's wishes before sovehemently declaring her own views. 

She heard the artist and his guest go in to dinner, and the thoughtflashed upon her that this was the first time her husband had dinedwithout her since their marriage. She wondered if he remembered it, and, remembering, regretted. She longed for companionship, for somefriend into whose sympathetic ear she could pour her story, from whomshe might ask advice. She reflected sadly how far she was removed fromher intimate friends. Of her new acquaintances many had been most kindto her, but towards none of them, not even to her relatives, had shebeen so strongly drawn as to wish now to go to them for confidence andsympathy; unless, came a second thought, it were Mrs. Greyson. She wasa widow, Edith reflected, and had evidently suffered much, while thestrength of her character was evident from her dealing with the Italiangirl. It would be no disloyalty to go to her; there had been no wordsspoken between husband and wife which could not be told a friend, andEdith felt that she needed the advice of a woman more versed in theintricacies of life than herself. 

She dressed herself for walking, and slipped noiselessly out of thehouse. 

Mrs. Greyson was at dinner, and was naturally surprised at seeing hercaller, but she had both too much tact and too much breeding to askexplanations. 

"I do hope you have not dined, " she said. "I am so much alone that itis a perfect delight to me to have company. My dinner is a little likea picnic, but if you will only consider how great a favor you are doingme by sharing it, the consciousness of philanthropy ought to make itpalatable. "

Neither lady mentioned Arthur, although his name was uppermost in thethoughts of both. They sat down together in Helen's tiny dining-room, and served by her only maid, had a charming meal. The hostess exertedherself to entertain her guest, wisely judging that what Edith said incalmness she would be far less likely to regret than words uttered inthe unguarded moments of her excitement. She told Mrs. Fenton storiesof her studio life both in Boston and abroad, she led Edith on to speakof her own travels and experiences, until the latter almost forgot thatshe was dining in one house and her husband in another. It was notuntil the coffee was reached, coffee made as only Helen could make it, that the subject of the visit was really broached. 

"How is Mr. Fenton?" Helen asked deliberately, believing the time hadcome for such a question. 

The face of the other fell. She experienced a pang at the consciousnessof having been gay and happy, forgetful of her husband and her trouble. 

"He is well, " she answered falteringly. 

"Why did you not bring him with you?" continued Mrs. Greyson lightly, yet with a secret determination to know the cause of her guest'sevident disturbance. 

"He did not know I was coming, " Edith responded in a low voice. "Thatis what I came to talk about. I thought you might understand; but itinvolves a third person, and perhaps I ought not to tell you. I amsure, though, " she went on, gaining confidence now that the ice wasbroken, "that I can trust you. A friend of Arthur's came to dineto-night, and just as the door-bell rang, I found him to be the man Ionce saw commit murder in Paris. "

"Murder!" exclaimed Helen, turning white. "Commit murder?"

"Consent to it, " corrected Edith, unconsciously a little pleased tohave produced so great an effect upon her usually self-possessedfriend. "He looked on while Frontier took poison, without trying toprevent him. "

"But that, " Mrs. Greyson said slowly, "is hardly the same thing asmurder. "

"It is quite as bad, " Edith protested earnestly. "It makes me shudderto think of his dining alone with Arthur at this moment. Who knows whatmight happen!"

"Nothing tragic, I think, " Helen replied smiling. "He does not go aboutwith pistols in his belt, I suppose. '

"It is awful to me, " Edith continued, with increasing excitement, toomuch stirred to notice the sarcasm. "I told Arthur I could not sit downwith a murderer, and just at that moment we heard his step, and I ranaway upstairs; and then I felt dreadfully, and I came to you. "

"I thank you for your confidence. But what do you mean to do? What willArthur tell him?"

"The truth, I hope. "

"He is scarcely likely to say to the guest he has himself invited thatyou think him a murderer, " answered her friend, smiling again, "and Iam not sure that he would even look at this quite so severely as youdo. "

"How else can he look at it?" demanded Edith. "How else can any onelook at it? Isn't it murder to take human life, and if one does notprevent suicide when he might, isn't it the same as if he did ithimself?"

"We will not get into a discussion, " Helen replied gently. "I feelabout it as you do; though I believe very differently. But I seeperfectly well how a man might be strictly honest in thinking that itwas the privilege of any human being to lay aside his life when he isweary of it; and I do not presume to condemn others for feeling what Ionly think I believe. "

"Think you believe!" cried the other in horror. "You do not think youbelieve that murder is right?"

"Assuredly not; but as there are so many related points upon which wedo not agree, would it not be better to talk of this particular casethan of general belief?"

"But it is impossible for any one to believe as you say, " persistedEdith; "simply impossible. No one can believe that wrong is right. "

"But each has his own standard. "

Against this Edith protested, but Helen returned no answer. Sheregretted being involved in such a debate, and resolved to let thediscussion go no further. They sat in silence a moment, and then Edithagain spoke. 

"I do not know what to do, " she said. "Of course Arthur cannot knowthat man any longer. You were in Paris at the time Frontier died, wereyou not? Did you ever know----"

She broke off suddenly, remembering that she had not intendeddisclosing the name of her guest. 

"Dr. Ashton?" Helen returned, fixing her eyes upon her companion, andunconsciously speaking with a deliberation which gave especial weightto her words. "Yes; I know him. We went to Paris together. "

"Together! Was he a friend of your husband? How did you know whom Imeant?"

There was no perceptible pause before Helen answered; but meanwhile shedetermined to throw aside all concealment. She could no longer standbefore Arthur Fenton's wife with the humiliation of even a tacitdeception between them. She felt a spirit of defiance rising withinher. Who was this woman that she assumed the right to judge them all bystandards for whose narrowness only contempt was possible! At least shewould rise above all conventional prejudices, and no longer tacitlyask, as by silence she had done, exemption from the harsh judgments ofMrs. Fenton's creed. 

Helen was too womanly not to shrink from this disclosure, and she hadbeen too thoroughly educated in the faith by which Edith lived not tounderstand just how her life would appear seen through the latter'sbelief. Disconnected with a question relating to the marriage relationand by implication casting reflection upon her delicacy and even purityof life as a woman separated from her lawful husband, Helen could havemet with dispassionate reasoning whatever assault Edith made upon her. This point was too vital, it touched too closely the core of herwoman's nature, and although she retained perfectly her self-control, there was a pulse of passion in her voice when she spoke. 

"Dr. Ashton, " she said unflinchingly, "is my husband. "

"What?" cried Edith. 

"We have not found it convenient to live together, " Helen continued, with increasing calmness, a faint tinge of contempt creeping into hervoice, "and so since my return from Europe I have taken my mother'sname to avoid gossip. Dr. Ashton and I are very good friends still. "

"And did Mr. Fenton know this?" asked the other, very pale. 

"Certainly; although you understand that it is not a matter which wediscuss with the world at large. I pass, I believe, as a widow; thoughI have never done or said any thing to give color to that idea. "

It is doubtful if Helen fully comprehended the effect of these wordsupon her guest. Every fiber of Edith's being tingled. All her mostsacred principles seemed outraged. She in some remote way felt, moreover, as if to hear without protest so lax notions of theresponsibilities of marriage was to stain her womanhood and dim theluster of her modesty. 

"How dared he introduce you to me?" she cried. "You are the wife of amurderer and you defend his crime; you pretend to be a widow, youignore your marriage----"

"Stop, " the hostess said with dignity. "We need not go over the ground. Mr. Fenton made us acquainted, I presume, because he agrees with me inseeing nothing wrong in my position, however unconventional it may be. You will see that if I had been ashamed of the fact I could easily havekept it from your knowledge. "

But Edith made her no answer. She was too much overwhelmed by thevarious emotions which the disclosure of the evening had aroused. 

Edith was, from Helen's point of view, fatally narrow, it is true; butthe latter might have reflected that the limitations of her friend'svision were the faiths of the Christian world, and that her tenacityarose not from obstinacy but sincerity. It is an age when belief anddoubt are brought face to face so sharply that the shock disturbs byits jar the most ordinary affairs of life. 

Edith was pure, high minded, simple souled, and for the rest she washonest and earnest. Her creeds were vitalized by the warm fervor withwhich she clung to them, and what more could be demanded of her?

She quitted the dining-room, and soon Helen heard the outer door closebehind her. The night gathered, and the lonely woman left behind satlong in sad reverie, until the door was again opened to admit Dr. Ashton. 

XXVII. 

WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE. Hamlet; i. --2. 

Dr. Ashton came in too full of his own interview with Arthur to noticeparticularly if his wife showed signs of agitation. 

"My dear, " he said, throwing himself into a chair, "it is at once oneof the latest and the wisest of my reflections that you had betterconsider a newly married man as an entire stranger and form hisacquaintance quite from the foundation, wholly unbiased by any notionyou had of him as a bachelor. "

"His wife, " responded Helen quietly, "has been dining with me, so Iunderstand something of the situation. But how did Arthur behave?"

"Like any husband who does not care to quarrel with his wife even whenhe disapproves of her. It is upon that principle that matrimonialfelicity depends. Do you say Mrs. Fenton has been here?"

"Yes; she came to me for sympathy and I administered it by telling herthat I am your wife. "

"The devil! I beg your pardon; but, Helen, it was precisely because Iknew she was sure to remember this Frontier scrape that I wanted hernot to know. She will be very hard on you. "

"Christianity is always hard, " returned she; "but what difference doesit make; it was only a question of time. She is sweet and pure andgood, Will, but her religion holds her in bands stronger than steel. Icouldn't long keep step with one in chains. It might as well come nowas any time. "

Her husband looked at her with evident interest not unmixed withadmiration. 

"She provokes me to do and to say childish things, " Helen continued, "just to shock her. I told her bluntly the other day that I had beentelling a falsehood, and she had the impertinence to look shocked. I amnot sure that I did not go so far as to say I 'lied, ' a word thathardly holds the place in English that it did in the good days of Mrs. Opie. She would have been reconciled if I had said I told what I hopedwas true. "

"I should have told her, " laughed Dr. Ashton, "that I only used truthas the Egyptians used straw in bricks, the smallest possible quantitythat will hold the rest together. "

"I cannot see why Arthur married her, " Helen said musingly. 

"Oh, as to that, an idle man will fall in love with any pretty womanwho will snub him. "

"But Arthur isn't idle, and she doesn't snub him. "

"Very well; he married her because he fell in love for no reason butthe weakness of our sex. "

"Love seems generally to be regarded by the masculine mind in the lightof a weakness. "

"Isn't it?" her husband returned. "Love is the condition of desiringthe impossible, and if that is not a weakness, what becomes of logic?"

"I am tired of logic, " she said, rising abruptly. "I am tired of everything. Let us have supper. I want a glass of wine. I am sure I tried tobe kind to Mrs. Fenton. I would have helped her if I could; but howcould I assist her unless she chose to let me, and that, too, knowingwho I am. "

"I never knew you to be other than kind, " was the grave reply, whichbrought to Helen's cheek a faint flush of pleasure. 

The servant came in with supper, and the slender glasses were filledwith Rhine wine. 

"I could not help thinking, " Dr. Ashton said, lifting his glass, --"Idrink to your very good health, my dear--I could not help thinking ofmy wedding gift to Arthur, that he asked me for it, I mean. "

"I thought of it, too, when his wife told me the story. It is well shedoes not know that of you. "

"Oh, it wouldn't matter, " he said carelessly. "She couldn't feel agreater horror of me than she does already. Do you see the mark of Cainon my forehead, Helen?"

"Isn't it droll, " she returned, with a smile half pensive, halfhumorous, "to feel ourselves suddenly tried by new standards and foundso wanting. I am not sure but dramatic propriety demands that I shouldpoison Mrs. Fenton. I have that vial, you know. "

"Did you notice the inscription on the vial?"

"No; is there one?"

"See for yourself, " he answered, refilling his glass. 

She rose from the table and brought from a small cabinet the moroccocase, unopened since Arthur had given it to her. A certain dread anddistaste had prevented her examining it. Now she sat down again in herplace, a beautiful woman, with the light falling upon her from above, shining upon her golden hair, and bringing out the hues of her sea-bluedress. Her husband watched her as she held the case a moment in herdelicate, firm fingers before unclasping it. He had learned withinthese last weeks that his old love for Helen had re-awakened; or moretruly that a new affection had been born. The knowledge had come to himthrough thinking upon the relations between Helen and Arthur and inspeculating concerning her feeling for Grant Herman, and it had been inhis mind when he described love as the desire for the impossible. Hehad determined to speak his passion, but as he looked at his wifesitting within arm's length yet as remote as if half the world laybetween them, he hesitated. Helen unclasped the case and lifted thetiny cut-glass vial from its velvet bed. 

"How extravagant you were in your vial, " she said, involuntarilylifting it to her nostrils. 

"Don't!" Dr. Ashton exclaimed, leaning forward suddenly. 

"Is it so deadly as that!" she asked in some dismay, holding it off. 

"It is simply pure prussic acid, " he replied. "But it might be looselystopped. "

She examined carefully the minute writing engraved upon the glass. 

"'Death foils the gods, '" she read. "Is it one of your ownwickednesses, Will?" "I don't know. By the way, we might send it toMrs. Fenton now as a souvenir of the two desirable acquaintances shehas lost. "

"What a brood of vipers she must think us, Will. I think it ispathetic, probably; but I cannot help being amused. It is rather an oddsensation to find that instead of being the harmless, insignificantbody I have always supposed, I am really a hardened and abandonedreprobate. "

"Oh, I've always known it, but I did not tell you for fear ofdestroying your peace of mind. "

"I'm afraid, " sighed Helen, rather absently, "that--if you don't mindthe slang--Arthur has an elephant on his hands. "

"Yes, " assented the other, "himself. "

She laughed musically, toying with the little cut-glass vial. 

"How familiarity takes away the dread of any thing, " she remarked. "Webecome accustomed to any thing; and, while I dare say it is theshallowest of sophistry, that ought to be an argument in favor of thetheory that vice and fearfulness are alike only strangeness. "

"That is rather a sophistical bit of logic; so perfectly so that itought to be theology. Excuse me, but could you let me have a morsel ofcheese. "

"There does not seem to be any for you to have, " she said, glancingover the table. 

"Isn't there, " returned he, as carelessly as if he had not noted thatfact. "It is of no consequence. "

"Oh, I can easily get it; I suppose Hannah forgot it. "

She restored the vial to its place, laying the closed case by herplate, and left the room. The instant the door closed behind her, Dr. Ashton reached across the table, possessed himself of the vial, returning the case to its former position. His wife turned just outsidethe door, and came back with a meaning smile to take up the empty caseand lock it again in the cabinet. 

"I cannot trust you, " she remarked with a smile; "you are too eager tofoil the gods. "

He smiled in return, holding his wine-glass up to the light. 

"There is more where that came from, " he said. "You forget myprofession. "

"Of what are you musing so intently?" Helen queried, half an hourlater, while, the supper being ended, her husband was enjoying hiscigar. 

"Of two things which I have to communicate. One is a folly and theother--or perhaps I should say each--is a misfortune. "

"The folly, " returned she, "I forgive; the misfortune I regret. Whatare they?" "I am glad you forgive the folly. That gives me boldness totell it. I have fallen in love. "

"You, Will! With whom?"

"That is the madness of it. With my wife. "

"Will!"

"It is the truth, " he went on, half whimsically, but with a certainring of earnestness in his tone. "I acknowledge the madness, the poortaste of a man's falling in love with his own wife, but the factstubbornly remains. I have been in love with you for a long time, but Istood back for Arthur like a good fellow. "

"I never was in love with Arthur, " she interrupted. 

"It is no matter, " he continued. "The question is, can't you get up agrain of grace for me, old lady?"

He leaned over the table, his dark eyes shining as she had never seenthem before. She was fascinated by his gaze; she felt as if the groundwere slipping from beneath her feet, and as though he were casting uponher an evil spell. A wave of despair swept over her. Must she againsubmit to his power; were the old days of bitter bondage to return; wasshe nothing but a puppet to his will?

In this extremity a memory saved her. Unable to withdraw her gaze fromher husband's face, there came to her suddenly the look in the eyes ofGrant Herman that day when he told her his love. The blood surged toher cheeks, but her calmness returned. 

"It is of no use, Will, " she said with gentle firmness. "All that ispast forever between us. We had better not speak of it, " she addedwistfully. "I have so few friends that I cannot bear to lose any one ofthem. "

"My folly is then my misfortune, " he responded, with no appearance ofdiminished good humor. "It is the pleasure of the gods to torment me; Isuppose it amuses them. The old Romans were only aping them in theirblood-thirsty sports, and I fancy that is the secret of theirdeification, for nothing seems so much to the liking of the gods as totorment humanity. "

The evident endeavor which the speaker made to appear flippant and athis ease showed her how deeply he was moved. His wife felt this withoutfully reasoning it out, and the consciousness that this self-controlledman was so stirred awoke in her a strange and powerful excitement. Sheturned a shade paler, as she looked silently down into her wine-glass. Her own life had been too sad for her not to feel some emotion at hiswords. She strove to repress the thoughts which made her bosom swelland heave, yet it was from them her words came when she broke thesilence. 

"It is bitterest to find one's self mistaken. To find that our gods areonly clay like the rest of humanity. I could forgive a friend forneglect, abuse or any cruelty; but I could never forgive him forfalling below my ideal of him. "

"You do not mean me, " he returned placidly, "for of me you never had anideal; but waiving that for a moment, I should like to tell you of mysecond misfortune--if it isn't to be reckoned a blessing. "

She looked at him without speaking. If this disclosure were but arepetition in varied form of the other, she had no wish to help him putit into words. Yet even as this thought passed through her mind, shefancied she had detected in his tone some new gravity. 

"I've discovered, " continued Dr. Ashton, with the same light manner hehad used throughout the interview, "that I have a cancer gayly but withgrim persistency developing under my arm. "

"Oh, Will, " Helen cried, clasping her hands, "you are not in earnest!"

"I assure you it is a very earnest matter with me, and has been forsome time. I might have an operation, I suppose, if it were worthwhile; though it is so near the heart that it would be uncomfortablyrisky. "

Helen became suddenly calm. The color faded slowly from her cheeks, andher husband, watching her narrowly, saw her beautiful lips assume a newexpression of firmness and determination. She unconsciously lifted herhead into a more erect carnage. Her eyes were moist and full offeeling. Slowly in her mind formed a resolve, and with a full knowledgeof the renunciation of self which it involved, she called up all thenobility of her soul to aid her in living up to it. Creeds were littleto this woman, yet her life was formed upon the principles which giveto creeds their stability, and by which the moral is removed from theanimal. 

"Will, " she at length said, slowly and gravely, "could it not bearranged for me to live with you? You did not tell me you were fond ofme without having thought out the possibilities. "

"I should have hesitated to ask so much, " was his reply, "even of yourlove; I shall certainly not take it of your pity. "

"My pity?" she murmured, not raising her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You know. You cannot think me so dull as not to see that your proffercomes not from affection, but from generosity. I thank you, but I willaccept no sacrifices. "

He rose as he spoke, and put out his hand. 

"I must be going, " he said in an indifferent tone. "I have letters towrite that must be mailed by midnight. I am not more than half as bad, Helen, as you have always persisted in thinking. I never made veryprofound pretensions, but I've treated every body squarely from my ownpoint of view. If they have regarded my blessings as curses, it wasn'tmy fault, and I am not sufficiently hypocritical to pretend that Ithink it was. Good night. "

He gave her hand a warmer and more lingering pressure than usual. 

"I've had a very pleasant evening, " he added, "despite the admixture oftruth. Young people don't like any bitters, but we old, shatteredwrecks need a dash of it in the wine of life to help digestion. Goodnight. "

XXVIII. 

LIKE COVERED FIRE. Much Ado about Nothing; iii. --I. 

That night marked an epoch in the married life of Arthur and EdithFenton. 

The results of matrimony upon character are for the most part slow andhardly perceptible, yet even so not without certain well-defined stagesby which their progression forces itself into recognition; and infervid temperaments like that of the artist, any change is sure to berapid, and marked by sharp and sudden crises. 

Edith returned from Helen with her soul in a tumult. Grant Herman haddescribed more than her face when he applied to her the epithetnun-like. It was a source of perpetual wonderment to many of herfriends that such a girl could be so strongly attracted by ArthurFenton; but those who knew his marvelous flexibility, the unconscioushypocrisy with which he adapted himself to any nature with which hecame in contact, and on the other hand his fascinating manner, at oncebrilliant and sympathetic, felt Edith's love to be the perfectlynatural consequence. She believed him to be what she wished, and he, without conscious deceit, became for the time being what she believedhim to be. 

It was a theory of Dr. Ashton's that what Arthur Fenton became was sopurely a question of environment as to leave the artist all butirresponsible. This fatalistic view he had laid before his wife withsome detail, at once explaining and defending his position. 

"If a chameleon is put upon a black tree, " he said on one occasion whenthe matter was under discussion, "you have really no right to blame himfor becoming black too; it is simply his nature. If Arthur is like thatit isn't his fault. He wasn't consulted, I fancy, about how he shouldbe made at all. He is self-indulgent, and if a point hurts him heglides away from it. He cannot help it. "

"There is something in what you say, " Helen had reluctantly assented, "but I think you put it far too strongly. "

"Oh, very likely, " was the careless reply. "His strongest instinct, though, is to escape pain. We are none of us better than ourinstincts. "

To such a decision as this, had she heard it, Edith, too religious toacknowledge any thing tending towards fatalism, would not for a momenthave agreed; yet it embodied a truth destined to cause her deepestsorrow, and which was gradually forcing itself upon her. Already, although they had been married so few weeks, even her love-blinded eyescould not but perceive much in her husband which shocked and painedher. She had not considered deeply enough, never having had theexperience which would have taught her the need of considering, howgreat was the gulf between her moral standpoint and that of herbetrothed. He had seemed so yielding that she had failed to perceivethat his compliances were merely outward, and left his mental attitudeunchanged. Now when it became necessary, as in every wedded life itmust sooner or later, for her to appeal to his ultimate moral belief, she was startled to find nothing with which she was in sympathy. Acynic--or, indeed, her husband himself--would have assured her that itwas, after all, a question of standards merely, and that difference ofjudgment was natural and inevitable, and that measured by his ownconvictions Arthur was quite well enough. Her answer to such aproposition would have been that there was but one standard, and thatwhat differed from that were not moral principles at all, but excusesfor immoral obliquity. 

Outwardly, it is true, there was little in her husband's life of whichEdith could complain. He accompanied her to church, and if he quizzedthe preacher after returning home, she was ready to excuse this as thenatural result of a keen appreciation of the ludicrous. He allowed herto do as she chose in the matter of charity work, and he even refrainedfrom going to his studio on Sunday, a sacrifice whose magnitude she hadno means of estimating, and which she therefore thought would becontinuous. It was when some ethical question arose between them thatEdith was disquieted, feeling sometimes as if she were looking intoblack deeps of immorality. The principles which to her were mostsacred, were to him light subjects upon which, she was well aware, onlyher presence prevented his jesting. The most obvious laws of rectitudewere but thistle-down before the whirlwind of his subversive theories;and Edith found argument impossible with one who denied her everypremise. 

His old acquaintances found in Arthur Fenton a change more subtle butnone the less distasteful. It was a trait of his nature to assume thecharacter he was half unconsciously acting, as a player may between thescenes still feel the personality he is simulating upon the stage; andthere was about Fenton when he came in contact with the Pagans, a vagueair of remonstrance and disapproval, even when he was as bold as everin his own cynical utterances. 

"An expression of virtuous indignation isn't becoming in you, Fenton, "Rangely said to him one day. "Especially in a discussion which youstarted yourself by the most shocking piece of wickedness I everheard. "

And among all the Pagans there existed a yet unspoken feeling thatFenton was ceasing to be one of them. 

On returning from Helen's, Edith found her husband still engaged withDr. Ashton, but as soon as the latter had gone Arthur came to her room. 

"Well, " he said, sinking leisurely into a chair. "Do you feel anymilder? Have you had your dinner?"

"Yes, " she returned, not leaving her seat on the opposite side of theroom. "I have been dining with Mrs. Ashton. "

"What!" cried Arthur, as if a bomb had exploded at his feet. Then hesank back into his languid position. "So she has told you, " he remarkedcarelessly. 

"Yes, she has told me. Did you know, Arthur, when you brought ustogether, that she was living under a false name, and under falsepretenses?"

"I knew certainly, " replied her husband with a coolness that marked hisinward irritation, "that her legal name was Ashton. I have still tolearn that she is living under false pretenses. "

"Is it not false, " retorted Edith, with difficulty controlling hervoice, her indignation increasing with every word, "to pass as widow, to live separated from her husband?"

"Oh, false? Why, in your stiff, conventional definition of the wordthat calls the letter every thing, the spirit nothing, I dare say it isfalse; but what of that? She has a right to do as she pleases, has shenot?"

Edith drew herself back in her chair and looked at him across the dimlylighted chamber. It is but justice to her husband to consider that hecould not dream of the anguish she suffered. It was, as he so oftensaid, a question of standards. By his, she was narrow, uncharitable, even bigoted; tried by the code of more orthodox circles she was simplyhigh-minded, true and noble in her devotion to principle. She wasneither bigoted nor prudish, however the alien circumstances in whichshe was placed made her appear so. To her it was a vital question ofright and purity of which Arthur disposed with such contemptuouslightness. True as the sunlight herself, no pang could be more bitterthan the knowledge that the truth was not sacred to the man she loved. Her husband's words pierced her like a dagger. It was some minutesbefore she answered him. He rose moodily, lit a cigar at the gas jetand sat down again before she broke the silence. 

"Arthur, " she said in a voice which was sad and full of the solemnityof deep feeling, "have you no regard for truth?"

"Truth!" retorted he. "To go back to Pilate's conundrum, 'What istruth?' If you mean a strict and fantastic adherence to facts and tostiff conventional rules, no, I haven't the slightest regard for truth. If you mean the eternal verities as a man's own nature and the occasioninterpret them, yes, I have the highest. "

"But that is only a confusion of words, Arthur. What do you mean by'eternal verities' if not adherence to facts? The eternal veritiescannot be whatever it pleases any one to say. Doesn't all humanintercourse depend upon faith in one another that we will adhere tofacts? Even if you do not look at the right and the wrong, there aresurely reasons enough why the truth should be sacred. "

Her husband whiffed his cigar, idly blowing a succession of gracefulrings. 

"You are quite a metaphysician. Did you have a pleasant dinner?"

"But, Arthur, " Edith persisted, ignoring his attempt to break away, according to his habit, from a discussion which did not please him, "but, Arthur, do you think it right for Mrs. Greyson--Mrs. Ashton, Imean, to live so?"

"Right? Oh, that is the same old question in another shape. Mr. Candishwill answer all those theological riddles; it is his business to. Theydon't interest me. "

He threw away his half smoked cigar, dusted his coat sleeve of a strayfleck of ash, settled his cravat before the glass, and humming a tunewalked towards his wife, his hands clasped behind him. 

"We do not agree, Edith, " he said with cold deliberation, "and unlessyou broaden your views, I am afraid we never shall. You are a dozendecades behind the day, and are foolish enough to take all your churchteaches you in earnest. Religion should no more be taken without saltthan radishes. The church inculcates it to excuse its own existence, but you certainly are reasonable enough to outgrow this old-fashionedPuritanism. "

"Arthur, " was her answer, "we do not agree, and if you wait for me tocome to your standards, I am afraid you are right in saying that wenever shall; and, indeed, I hope you are right. It makes me moreunhappy than you can think, " she continued, her eyes swimming withbitter tears, "that we are so far apart on what I must believe to bevital points; on truths which I believe, Arthur, with my whole soul--asyou would, too, had you not carefully educated yourself into a doubtwhich cannot make you better or happier. "

She had risen as she spoke, and stood facing him, her pure, pale faceconfronting his with a look of pathos which touched him despitehimself. She came a step nearer, and put her arms about his neck. 

"Oh, Arthur!" she pleaded, "I love you, and how can I help mourningthat you wrong your better nature; that you resist the impulses of yourown best self?"

He yielded to her caresses in silence. He remembered that Helen hadused this same phrase. 

"Women always appeal to one's best self, " he commented inly, with amental shrug, "which means a man's inclination to do whatever a womanasks of him. "

But he kissed his wife's lips, and said, tolerantly:

"We will talk it over some other time, my dear. We are both tiredto-night. But you are right, I suppose, as you always are. "

And she loosened her arms from his neck, recognizing that he had puther appeal aside and waived the whole matter. 

XXIX. 

A NECESSARY EVIL. Julius Caesar; ii. --2. 

At the St. Filipe Club, somewhere in the small hours of that samenight, half-a-dozen members were lingering. One was at the piano, recalling snatches from various composers, the air being clouded alikewith music and smoke wreaths. 

"I think you fellows are hard on Fenton, " the musician protested, inresponse to some remark of Ainsworth's. "I don't see what he's done tomake you all so down on him. "

"It isn't any thing that he has done, " Tom Bently replied, "it is whathe has become. He has developed an entirely new side of his nature, anda deucedly unpleasant one, too. "

"I always had a mental reservation on Fenton, " remarked another. "Hewas always insisting that his soul was his own, don't you know; andwhen a man keeps that up I always conclude that he has his privatedoubts on the subject; or if he hasn't, I have. "

"That's about the case with all the musical rowing we've been havingfor the last year or two; every musician has been in a fever lest heshould be thought to be truckling to somebody. "

"What rubbish all this concert business is, " remarked Tom. "In Boston aconcert interests a little _clique_ of people, and another bigger_clique_ pretend to be interested. The nonsense that is talkedabout music here is nauseating. The public doesn't really care anything about it. In Boston a concert is given in Music Hall; but inParis it is given in the whole city. It is an event there, not atrifling incident. "

"What do you know about music?" retorted the player, clashing a furiousdiscord with his elbow as he turned towards the speaker. "I'll attendto you presently. Now I want to know about Fenton. What has he donethat you are all blackguarding him?"

"I think he's got a creed, " said Ainsworth, scowling and smilingtogether, according to his wont. "I hate to charge a man with any thingso black, but I think Fenton's wife has made him take a creed, and apretty damned narrow one at that. "

"By Jove!" the musician observed, solemnly. "It's too bad. Fenton is amighty bright fellow, and no end obliging. "

"If it's only a creed, " swore Bently, "what's all this fuss about?Every body has a creed, hasn't he? A man's temperament is his creed. "

"It isn't his having a creed that I object to, " remarked Grant Herman;"it is the question of his sincerity that troubles me. If he has takenup some collection of dogmas merely to please his wife--who seems avery sweet, quiet body--that is of course against him; but if hebelieves it, I don't see why we should object. "

"Believes it!" sniffed Ainsworth, in great contempt. "That is worsethan any thing I've said. I don't think Fenton is quite such an idiotas that comes to. The idea of his believing in Puritanism! Oh, goodLord!"

"Puritanism, " Bently threw in irrelevantly, and because he liked thesound of it, "Puritanism is the preliminary rottenness of New England. If he is struck with that by all means let him go; the further thebetter. "

"Isn't it his night for the Pagans this month?" somebody inquired. 

"Yes, " returned Bently, "but I took the liberty of going to him andasking if he would let me take it this turn. I hope you fellows don'tmind. " The talk thus flowed on in a desultory fashion amid everthickening clouds of tobacco smoke, and Grant Herman, sitting for themost part quiet, had a whimsical idea in looking at hishalf-extinguished cigar. Certain excellent cigars, his thoughts ran, have a way of burning sluggishly about the middle, and without actuallygoing out, yet need to be relighted; and in the same way a man's lifegoes on better for the kindling flame of a fresh attachment in middlelife. He fell into reverie, thinking of Helen and of Ninitta. He hadnot seen the Italian since her flight, but from Mrs. Greyson he hadlearned the story of the finding and recovery of the fugitive; and hisheart kindled with gratitude toward the woman who had preventedconsequences which he should have fruitlessly regretted. He became soabsorbed in his thoughts that only the entrance of Fred Rangely arousedhim. 

"Hallo, Rangely, " the new comer was greeted, "where do you come from atthis time of night?"

"Oh, from the office of the Daily Day-before-yesterday. I had anarticle in, and I wanted to read the proof. I can stand any thing inthe world better than I can endure a compositor's blunders. Do any ofyou know Dr. Ashton?"

"I do, " somebody answered. "What of him?"

"Rather clever fellow, wasn't he?"

"Why, yes; I think he is. He's rather odd sometimes. What about him?"

"Dead. "

"Nonsense! I saw him myself not three hours ago, posting a letter inthe box opposite his office. "

"He is dead, though. Heart disease. They just got the news at the_Advertiser_ office. "

"Where was he?"

"In his office. The night porter of the building heard him fall againstthe door. They say he must have died without a struggle. "

XXX. 

HOW CHANCES MOCK. II Henry IV. ; in. --I. 

Early on the following forenoon Helen took her way to the studio. Shewas in unusually good spirits that day, for no especial reason that shecould have told, although indeed it is possible that the prospect ofmeeting Grant Herman may have subtly contributed to the buoyancy of hermood. 

She walked briskly through the bracing morning across the Common, hermind full of bright fancies. A thin column of smoke arose from thechimney of the lodge in the deer-park, rising straight in the clearair, and cheerfully suggestive that some tiny family, not too large forthe building, were at breakfast within. It might even be the deerthemselves; and Helen smiled at her whim, almost laughing outright as apicture arose of a matronly doe preparing coffee, while a solemn bucksat in his easy chair before the fire, reading his morning paper andnow and then glancing at his wife over his spectacles. 

In this joyous mood she came to the studio. A sudden thought dartedthrough her mind, with no apparent connection, of the talk of the nightprevious, and for an instant her face clouded; but the exhilaration ofthe morning and the reaction from the sad, overstrained state in whichher husband had left her, both helped her to throw off all mournfulthoughts. Ninitta had not arrived, and Mrs. Greyson busied herselfabout the bas-relief, preparing for work. Suddenly the tap of GrantHerman sounded upon her door. 

"Good morning, " he said, entering in response to her invitation. "Iknew by your step that you were in good spirits, and it gave me so muchpleasure to think you were glad to be back, that I had to come up. "

"I am in good spirits, " she returned. "It is such a glorious morning, and Ninitta has kept me away from my work long enough for me to be veryglad to return to it. "

"What of Ninitta?" he asked, a shadow coming over his fine face. "Sheis not still with you?"

"No, but she is coming to pose this morning, though I hardly think sheis strong enough. "

The sculptor took in his hands a bit of clay and began nervously tomodel it into various shapes. 

"Why did you take her home, Mrs. Greyson?" he asked after a moment'ssilence. 

"Because she needed me, " Helen answered. "And besides, " she addedhesitatingly, "I thought you would like her to be under my care. "

"Did you?" he returned eagerly. "I was more grateful to you than youwould let me tell you! I--"

He broke off abruptly as if determined to keep himself from anydangerous demonstrativeness. 

"Come into my studio a moment, " said he, throwing down the clay heheld. "I have something to show you. "

Helen followed willingly, glad to avoid the chance of their beinginterrupted by the arrival of Ninitta, whose jealousy might easily bearoused again. The sculptor led the way through a couple of chambers, bringing her out at the top of the stairs leading down in the corner ofhis studio. The morning sun shone in through the window far up in theside wall, tinged to rich colors by the stained glass which Herman hadset there. The statues and casts looked in the light coming from abovethem, as if they had just emerged from garments of shadows which yetlay fallen about their feet. Helen uttered an exclamation ofadmiration. 

"How charming the studio is in this light, " she said. "It is likelooking down into a ghost world. "

"It is a ghost world, " was the response. "It has long been haunted, butI had not supposed that any eyes but my own saw the wraiths which dwellhere. "

The vibratory quality in his voice warned her not to answer. She feltthat she stood upon the brink of a significant interview, yet shelacked the resolution to turn back. 

She descended the first flight of steps into the gallery, the sculptorfollowing closely. She could not have defined to herself what shewished or intended. Somewhat paradoxically she wished to escape fromHerman, yet had she fled she would have been unhappy had he notpursued. Nothing is more contradictory than a nascent passion, and, indeed, the tenderness of any woman for a man is not very profound ifunmixed with some desire to escape from him. 

All sorts of artistic rubbish had accumulated in the little gallery;broken casts, fragments of statues and vases, pieces of time discoloredmarble, and the thousand objects which make up the _débris_ of asculptor's studio. A bit of warm colored though faded tapestry hungdustily over the railing of the little balcony, making thewhite-plaster goddess appear doubly wan. Against it stood a smallantique altar, around whose base a train of garland-bearing Cupidsdanced in immortal glee. 

"How lovely, " Mrs. Greyson said eagerly. "I never saw this altarbefore. Where did you get it, and why is it hidden up here?"

"I picked it up in Rome, years ago, " Herman returned, a trifleshamefacedly. "It came from somewhere in Greece. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes; but why is it hidden here?" she repeated. 

"The truth is that when I was young and romantic, I bought that altar--it is a Hymeneal altar, they say--and said I would pour a libation uponit at my marriage; a sentimental and heathenish notion enough. "

He paused a moment, a certain hesitancy showing itself more and moredefinitely in his manner. He glanced at his companion, then looked awayinto the ghost world below. Her heart was beating quickly. She castdown her eyes, her hand, the whiter by contrast with the discoloredmarble, resting upon the altar. 

"When I left Rome, " he resumed, "I could not quite make up my mind toleave it behind; so I had it boxed up and sent home. It has been boxedup ever since until--until recently. "

However determined Helen might be to avoid dangerous topics, she wasyet a woman, and she had in her heart a strong yearning towards thesculptor which could hardly be repressed. Before she had considered towhat the question might lead, she asked:

"And recently?"

"Recently, " re-echoed he, regaining his composure, "I took it out andmeant it to stand down in the corner there to remind me. "

He pointed as he spoke, down into the studio below, still dim, sincethe screens covered the large windows. Her glance followed his motionin an abstracted, impersonal way. 

"To remind you?" she in turn echoed. 

"To remind me, " he took up the words again, "that I am like other men, and that life is at best an aspiration; at worst a despair. "

She understood the intimation of his words, but it seemed not to touchher. She did not flush or start, but regarded abstractedly the jocundCupids. Then she raised her eyes to his face. 

"But you removed it here. "

"Yes, " he said. "Our friend Fenton once said that there is in thisworld only one good, into which all others resolve themselves--theamelioration of life. The reminder, with all its suggestiveness, wastoo poignant; I ameliorated my life by putting it up here out ofsight. "

She did not question him further, but, gathering up her dress, turnedand went down the next flight of stairs, which brought her to a landingeight or ten feet from the floor of the studio. There she turned againand looked back at him descending. She almost seemed to herself not tospeak, yet by some inward volition her lips formed the words:

"Hope is only a bubble, yet it rims with rainbows whatever we seemirrored in it. "

"Yes?" he returned, inquiringly. 

"I was only thinking, " replied she, continuing her descent, "that it isworth some pains to keep the bubble unbroken as long as possible. "

"But facts are such achromatic glasses. "

To this she made no answer, and together they moved towards a modelingstand upon which stood something covered with wet cloths. These thesculptor carefully removed. 

A perfectly nude male figure was disclosed, exquisitely modeled, andof superb proportions. It lay upon a hillock, about which fragments ofbroken weapons and the torn ground indicated a recent battle. The headand limbs of the figure drooped down the sides of the mound, fallingwith the limpness of death. About the noble, lifeless head were bentand broken stalks of poppies, ridden down by the horses, yet not whollydestroyed. 

Herman and Mrs. Greyson stood in silence looking at the figure, thepathos of the work so penetrating Helen that the tears gathered in hereyes. 

"What do you call it?" she asked, struggling to regain composure. 

Her companion pulled away the cloth, which still lay against thepedestal, and she saw the words:

 "I strew these opiate flowers Round thy restless pillow. "

Again she was silent. Perplexity, regret, and, more keenly than all, adelicious exultation, overcame her. She stole a half-glance up into theface of the tall form beside her. 

"But he is dead, " she murmured at length. 

"It seems so, " he assented. 

She turned and faced him, a sudden paleness making her very lips white. 

"I have no right to let you show me this, " she cried, in a voicethrilling with emotion. "My husband is alive. I never pretended to lovehim, but I am his wife. You must have seen him with Arthur Fenton--Dr. Ashton. "

"Dr. Ashton!" he echoed, in bewilderment. "Your husband? Dr. Ashton, Teuton's friend?"

"Yes, " replied she, her eyes falling, and her breast beginning toheave. "I had promised not to tell; but it was not right. I should havetold you, but I could not bear--Oh, " she cried, breaking off hersentence abruptly, "if you despise me it is only my due!"

"Despise you! As if it were possible! But don't you know? Haven't youbeen told?"

"Know? Been told?" demanded Helen, in alarm. "What is it?"

"Haven't you seen the morning paper, even?"

"No. What was in it? Has any thing happened to Dr. Ashton?"

"Yes, " Herman said slowly, wondering in a baffled way if 'it waspossible to soften the blow. "He is dead. "

"Dead!"

Her cry rang out sharply in the dim studio, over that clay figure of alifeless warrior. 

A cry of horror, of pain, and, too, of remorse. There was in it nothingof love, only that nameless fear that death brings, and still morethat groundless self-reproach which sensitive natures must feel whenconfronted by the irremediable--as if some blame must be taken for theacts of fate. Imaginative natures never quite shake off theresponsibility of the inevitable, and Helen began instinctively toquestion herself. The scene of the previous night came before her. Ought she to have yielded to the love which had called her, lateaftermath of a blighted wedded life? At least when her husband spoke ofhis suffering she might more strongly--A sudden thought pierced herlike a knife. 

"How did he die?" she questioned breathlessly. 

"Of heart disease. "

So then the world would not know the truth, if what she feared weretruth. 

"I will go home, " she said. "Please tell Ninitta. "

When she reached her rooms she found a letter, addressed in Dr. Ashton's hand, which the penny-post had left for her after she had goneout in the morning. It contained only an impression in wax whichresembled a large seal. With hot eyes she bent over it, making nothingof its reversed letters. Then, with a sudden thought, she held itbefore the glass, seeing in the mirror the words, which read backwards, like the life of him whose last act had been their forming:

 "DEATH FOILS THE GODS. "

XXXI. 

HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --1. 

"Edith, " Arthur Fenton said, looking up from his paper at breakfastthat morning, "Dr. Ashton is dead. "

"Dead!" she exclaimed. 

Her husband's indifferent tone shocked her. She was not without anunphrased feeling that death was so sacred or at least so solemn asubject that it should be treated with reverence. Any jesting upon itmade her cringe, and the light mention of it seemed to her almostimmoral. 

"So the paper says, " replied he; and he read aloud the paragraphcontaining the announcement of Dr, Ashton's sudden death from heartdisease. "It is too bad, " he commented. "He was a mighty smart fellowand square as a brick. I wonder what made him do it now. "

"Made him do what?" she asked. "How strangely you talk. Made him die?"

"Yes; that's what I meant. I knew he had a trouble which would probablymake him do it sooner or later, but I'd no idea it would come so soon. "

"Arthur, what do you mean, " Edith repeated, the tears coming into hereyes. "I don't like to hear you speak of death so--so--flippantly. "

"Flippantly, my dear?" returned he. "I'm sure I don't know why youshould use that word. If a man takes his life, why shouldn't I speak ofit, --to you, that is; of course I should not in public. "

"Takes his life!" she cried. "Do you mean--"

"Of course I know nothing about it, " her husband replied as coolly asever, and watching sharply the effect of his words; "but I presume Willtook poison, poor old fellow. "

She sank back in her chair, white and trembling. 

"It is what might have been expected, " she said. "It almost seems as ifProvidence measured to him the portion of poor Frontier. "

"Providence is noted for close observance of the _lex talionis_"sneered Arthur, "but Dr. Ashton didn't believe in the existence of thatfunctionary, so it really ought to have passed him by. It wouldcertainly have been more dignified. "

"But, oh!" she cried out, apparently not hearing or not heeding hislast words, "into what sort of a world have you brought me, Arthur? Areall your friends so desperate that they think only of taking their ownlives? Have they no faith, no hope, no beyond? I feel as if it were alla dreadful nightmare! It cannot be you alone, for Mrs. Greyson and Dr. Ashton--Oh, Arthur, where has religion, where has morality gone? Oh, Icannot understand it! I cannot bear it!"

She laid her bowed head on her arms upon the pretty breakfast table, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Her husband looked at her withintense irritation, and an inward curse that he had ever married her. He sipped his coffee; he noted with admiration the rich, glowing huesof the dull blue bowl of nasturtiums which adorned the table. 

"There, Edith, " he said at length, "it is rather idle to cry over thesins of your neighbors. According to your creed each of us has enoughof his own derelictions to answer for, without going abroad for thingsto repent. As for religion, I suppose girls who do Kensington work willuse it for decorative purposes for some time to come, but thinkingpeople long ago outgrew such folly. In regard to my friends, it is alla question of standards, as I've said no end of times. From my point ofview they are very sensible people, and you a little bigot. GrantHerman believes some pious nonsense, though he has too good taste toobtrude it, and I dare say Bently and Rangely have their superstitions. There are probably ten thousand people in this good city of Boston--andfor aught I know a hundred thousand--who believe, or, if you like, disbelieve, as I do. "

"It cannot be true, " was Edith's reply. "But if it is so, it is too sadto think of. "

"Why, I suspect, " Arthur continued lightly, "that the Pagans regard meas too orthodox lately, though you'd hardly agree with them. "

She made no reply, and Arthur continued his breakfast in silence. Thesun shone in at the windows, the soft coal fire sputtered in the grate, and to all appearance the room was full of cheerfulness. Edith leanedher head upon her hand and reflected sadly. She resolved that herhusband should be weaned from the Pagans, if that were within herpower. She seemed to herself to relinquish joy in life, and to devoteherself wholly to duty. 

The entrance of a servant with the morning letters interrupted furtherconversation, until Arthur tossed his wife a letter which Dr. Ashtonhad mailed at the same time he posted the missive which Helen receivedlater in the day. 

"There, you see, " Fenton remarked. "Of course I show it to you inconfidence. "

The room swam before Edith as she read, but she forced herself to beoutwardly calm, as she ran her eye over this note:

DEAR ARTHUR:--

I've a strong presentiment--and although I disbelieve in presentiments, mine generally come true--that in about half an hour my obituary willbe in order. Certain easily foreseen contingencies have determined meto give it up. I shall never have a better chance to make my exitdramatically, and you've often assured me that that is the chief thingto consider in this connection. I've contemplated such a possibilitylong enough to have my affairs in order, and doubtless your wife willhave a mass or two said for the repose of my soul. If you ever have achance to do Helen a good turn, you may regard it as a personal favorto my ghost to do it. I've left you my Diaz as a sort of propitiatorysop. 

Yours, of course, as ever, W. A. 

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur!" Edith sobbed, breaking down again. "It is awful!It is just as he always talked. It is as light as if he were going outto drive. "

"Naturally, " was the response. "If you fancy Will would cry baby atdeath, you knew him far from as well as I did. How strange it is tothink of his being in the past tense, poor fellow. It was clever of himto leave me his Diaz; I always coveted it. "

In the face of this, what was there for Edith to say. She was simplynumbed to silence, and horror at her husband for the time deadened allsense of the shock of Dr. Ashton's death. It was not until later in theday that she was able to think of Helen. 

"But, Arthur, " she said then, "Mrs. Greyson?"

"Well; what of Mrs. Greyson?"

"I am going to see her. "

"After your last night's indignation?"

"I may have been wrong, " Mrs. Fenton said bravely, "I may have beenhard. I realize every day how little I am able to judge for otherpeople. Perhaps I am narrow, as you say. At least now her husband isdead I can show her my sympathy; and since I know more of him, it doesnot seem so strange that she left him. "

"They left each other, " he responded to these contradictory words. "Butwhat can you say? The consolations of religion will hardly beavailable, and Helen never pretended to love Ashton?"

His tone wounded her, but she answered without a change of countenance:

"The death of the man who has been her husband can never be indifferentto any true woman. I shall not force her to listen to any religion shedoes not wish to hear. "

XXXII. 

A SYMPATHY OF WOE. Titus Andronicus; iii. --I. 

"I am afraid you will think me intrusive, " was Edith's hesitatinggreeting to Helen, "but I could not help coming. I thought you mightfeel lonely. "

Helen looked at her for a moment with wistful eyes and trembling lips:then she crossed swiftly to where her friend stood and kissed her. Andnever could these two be so wholly separated or estranged again as toefface the memory of all the meaning that this caress conveyed. Theword which Edith had used had been most happily chosen. Her woman'sinstinct divined the loneliness which overwhelmed the widow, and thisproof of her sympathy was the passport to Mrs. Greyson's heart. Loneliness was the feeling of which Helen was most of all conscious. The death of even an indifferent acquaintance often may seem todesolate the earth from its simple irremediableness, and much more doesthe removal of one near to us make the world appear half a void. 

Helen had been sitting alone before Edith came, reviewing her past anddrearily speculating of her future. She went over the days of herwedded life; her innocent, introspective childhood, in which she haddreamed and read, dwelling in a world apart; alone but for the idealcreations of her books or her own quick fancy. She had married knowingas little of life or of love, as when, a lonely child, she had spelledout the tale of Prince Camaralzaman, and wondered what the divinepassion really was, or if indeed it had existence, outside of fairylore. 

The torch of death throws its glare backward, and its funeral lightshowed many a past long since forgotten, but now revealed with new anddistorting vividness. Helen remembered the baby which had lived butlong enough to open its eyes with a smile that seemed of recognition, and then faded back into the unknown whence it had come. A throb oftenderness for the dead father moved the mother's heart as she thoughtof her baby, so little time hers, and so long asleep under themarguerites of a grave over the sea. She had suffered much from theselfishness, the dominant self-will, the distorted views of life of Dr. Ashton; and these things she even now could not forget; but, too, shethought of him as the father of her child, her baby ever dear andliving in memory. 

She reflected, too, of the men she had known, and especially of ArthurFenton. Her nature had need of some one upon whom to expend itstreasures, and she realized that had she not felt in the artist acertain insincerity, he might have awakened her love. He had beenappreciative, sympathetic, brilliant; and, too, he had called largelyupon her patience and forbearance, than which there is no surer way towin a generous woman's affection. Yet always some note rang false toher fine ear, and to the weakness of his nature she had never beenwholly blind, although not until his marriage had given him a certaindistance had she realized how deep and unsparing her knowledge of himreally was. 

Of Grant Herman she would not think. Thoughts of him arose again andagain in her mind, but she resolutely put them down. Some secret stirof mingled pain and joy told her too well that the sculptor hadawakened the first love of her life. But at least with her husband, however unloved, lying yet unburied, she would not dwell upon thepassion of another. 

She took Edith's hand, and the two women sat down side by side, shedding tears together, rather from a sense of the general woe andbitterness of life than for poignant grief for the present calamity. Itwas not much they said at first. Neither was of the talkative order ofwomen, finding comfort in the mere utterance of words. They grewtogether, sustained by giving and receiving tenderness, and eachtacitly asking and according forgiveness for unfriendly feelings in thepast. It is probable, too, that Edith, heavy with the disappointmentsof her married life, found relief in being able to weep unrestrainedly, even though the true source of her tears was not the obvious one. 

"I never loved him, " Helen said of her husband. "After we separated webecame friends, rather because of a common past when we were bothstrangers here, than from any fitness for each other. But he was oncemy husband. "

Her friend pressed her hand in silence. 

"We had a child, " Helen spoke again; "a little daughter. She only livedone day. If she had not gone it might have been different. At least weshould have kept on together. My poor little baby!"

Edith's eyes were full of tears, as she answered softly:

"I hope you will let me say that I believe she is waiting for you somewhere. "

"She must be, " the mother responded quickly. "Whatever one doubts, onemust surely believe that. I could not lose her! She is mine, whereverin the universe she may be. "

"Yes, " was all Edith ventured in reply. "I am sure of it. "

They gave no heed to the fading day, but sat with clasped hands untiltwilight had gathered, and it occurred at last to Mrs. Fenton that herhusband and dinner must be awaiting her. Helen had been telling of herplans. 

"I shall go abroad, " she said, "I want to study in Rome; I want to meetgreat men; to be influenced by great works. I have been thinking of itfor a long time, and now it seems as if some ties that held me here arebroken, for we often obey claims which we yet deny. And besides, " sheadded, in a lower tone, "it is a flight from temptation. I am in dangerhere. "

"In danger?" Edith asked wonderingly. 

"Only from myself, " was the reply, "but that peril is sufficientlyimminent to make me afraid. "

Edith questioned no further, and to the true import of these words shehad no clue. She looked at her friend a moment inquiringly andmusingly, but as Helen did not continue, she rose to go. 

"I must get home now, " she said, in a tone so tender that it seemed tobeg pardon for this abandonment. "Arthur is waiting for me and hisdinner; and if he doesn't get the latter at least, I won't answer forthe consequences. Mr. Calvin was with him when I came away. "

"Mr. Peter Calvin!" exclaimed the other, in some surprise. 

"Yes; he has bought one of Arthur's pictures, and he wants Arthur topropose him at the St. Filipe Club, I believe. "

She spoke in perfect ignorance of the tumult her words excited in herhearer's mind. Long after Edith was gone Helen sat looking out into thedarkening sky and thinking of Arthur Fenton. She had heard him talk toooften about Mr. Peter Calvin not to know what was implied by this newfriendship. Mr. Peter Calvin had been for years the head and front ofBoston Philistinism in art. He had been the patron of subservientartists; the chairman of committees for the purchase of public statues;an elegant writer upon such live and timely topics as _PlasterCasting among the Egyptians, Notes upon Abyssinian Statues_, whilehis monograph upon the question, _What Was the Original Cost of theVenus de Milo?_ had by his flatterers been pronounced themasterpiece of all known art essays for power and critical research. His was a prominent name upon the covers of dilettante art journals; itwas he who effectually crushed young and too daringly independentartists; who repressed impertinent originality; who headed the hosts ofconventionality against individuality or genius which held itself abovethe established canons of antiquated tradition. He was the High Priestof Boston conservatism; the presiding genius of Philistia; and untilthe St. Filipe Club entered a protest against him by refusing to admithim to membership, his power had scarcely received a blow. 

Tom Bently always insisted, with much profanity, that Mr. Peter Calvinwas a joke. 

"He writes with tremendous pomposity, " Tom would say, "and he is in noend of societies for molly-coddling art. He goes on, too, about theplaster casts at that hospital for decrepit gods, the Art Museum, as ifhis whole soul was in the plaster barrels of the Greeks. But bless yoursoul! It's only his little joke. He doesn't really mean any thing byit. He's only a stupendous joke himself. "

The Pagans, so far as they were to be regarded as an entity, represented the protest of the artistic soul against shams. They stoodfor sincerity above everything; for utter honesty in art, in life, inmanners and morals alike. To them Philistinism was the substitution ofconvention for conviction. For the spirit of imitation, of blindsubservience to authority, the Pagans had no tolerance. While they heldthemselves always open to conviction, they refused assent to any thingwhich was offered them _ex cathedra_; they devoted themselves toart with a passion of enthusiasm which was in itself the highestexpression of their principles. That they seemed often iconoclastic wasin reality less the result of their hatred of authority than theprevalence of unreasoning, and therefore by their standards necessarilyinsincere, adherence to established formulae. Dogmas they hated, notbecause they were popularly received, but because although they hadbeen vital realities to their originators, they had become in time merelifeless forms, held in reverence by blind devotees long after the soulhad gone out of them. 

In art especially the Pagans demanded the most absolute surrender ofself to truth; and it should be added that they defined truth exactlyas Helen did, "that which one sincerely believes. " They had nocondemnation too severe or sweeping for the artist who worshipped thegolden gods of Philistia by following popular conventions at theexpense of his honest art ideals. It is not impossible that theycarried this feeling to extremes sometimes, suspecting every thingwhich was stamped with popular approval, but in the main at least theirstandard was of the highest and their lives conformed well to it. Measured by the creeds they rejected, they might often enough be foundwanting; tried by their own, there had never been an apostate amongthem until the defection of Fenton. 

No one had been more bitter and outspoken in his condemnation of Mr. Calvin and of what he represented than Arthur Fenton. Many a time hehad entertained Helen with stories of the presumption and the ignoranceof this man whom now he was receiving into his friendship, or, moreproperly, in whose train of sycophants he had taken his place. 

Helen could not forgive him. Leaving dinner untasted, she sat withburning cheeks in the darkness, mourning over the apostacy of the manwho had been her warmest friend. 

XXXIII. 

A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --1. 

Dr. Ashton had been in his grave several weeks. Life had gone on muchas usual in Boston, with the bickerings of small souls the gapingimitations of the mob, the carping of the self-appointed critics, andthe earnest endeavor of the honest and inspired workers, who leaven thelump of modern civilization. 

Among the Pagans the nomination of Mr. Calvin to the St. Filipe Club byArthur Fenton had been received with a bitterness born of a feeling ofoutraged confidence. They were to-night to meet in Tom Bently's studio, and Fenton, who had no intention of being present, was yet keenlyconscious of what the talk there concerning him would be. He was glumand moody at dinner, and Edith, who knew that this was Pagan night, watched him wistfully. She hoped to win him away from friends andacquaintances who seemed to her dangerous. Perfectly honest and readyto lay down her life for her husband, she was yet urging him into pathswhich he felt it to be degradation to walk, since they led him awayfrom sincerity. She had no means of knowing how his sudden championshipof Mr. Calvin was regarded. Her own relations to art had been those ofpretty amateurishness. She had been bred to believe in conventionality, and the flavor of Bohemianism alarmed and repelled her. 

To-night she had put on her most becoming dress, she had ordered thedinner with especial reference to her husband's tastes, and she exertedherself to be as entertaining and attractive as lay in her power. Sheeven allowed herself the innocent ruse of delaying dinner a little, that it might be later before Arthur could be ready to go out; and whenthe answer to her timid hope that he was to be at home that evening, was in the affirmative, her foolish, tender heart fluttered withdelighted hope that she was influencing him to shake off his irregularassociations. 

He was rather gloomy and silent all the evening, brooding of thePagans, from whose meetings he had never before been absent, and ofHelen, and what she would think. Edith tried all her arts and wiles tomake him forget the pleasure he was losing, and she partly succeeded, since her attentions and endearments chimed in with the train ofthought by which he was endeavoring to prove to his own satisfactionthat he was the most virtuous of men, and that his swearing allegianceto Philistinism, was a noble example of a transgressor willing toconfess and abjure his faults. He accepted his wife's attentions aseminently fitting under the circumstances, and could he have forgottenthe Pagans and Helen, he might almost have been comfortable. More thanonce in the old days he had found it hard to face Mrs. Greyson's cleareyes, which saw so readily through shams, and now while he was able towork himself into a defensive attitude towards all others of his oldfriends, he felt a horrible humiliation in the consciousness that Helenwas sure to know of his course and to understand all its weakness. 

It occurred to him, too, that Helen had avoided him of late. Since thedeath of Dr. Ashton, he had scarcely seen her, although she was oftenwith his wife. He knew from Edith that she was soon to go abroad, andhe wondered if the wish to escape him had any share in bringing her tothis decision. 

He tormented himself with speculations and memories until he couldendure it no longer. He must have comfort; his wounded self-sufficiencycraved the balm of approval, and although he was contemptuouslyconscious of his own weakness, he turned to Edith to seek admirationand praise. 

"So you are glad that I am not going to the Pagans to-night, " he saidto her, as they sat before the fire, for the evening was damp andchilly. 

"Very glad, " she answered, leaving her chair to come and sit upon a lowhassock by his knee. "It was so good of you. "

She made a beautiful picture as she sat there, her long dress ofcardinal and stone gray silk gathered in waves about her, theElizabethan ruffle setting off her shapely head and slender neck, whilethe soft, yellow old lace showed how clear was the tone of her skin. Her pure, sweet face, with its appealing dark eyes, was turned upwardto her husband's, in an expression at once wistful and full of love. Edith had always a highbred air, and to-night her attitude andexpression added the one charm of warmth and softness needed to makeher most lovely and moving. 

"You doubtless have some excellent reason, " remarked Arthur smilingdown on her. 

"I am afraid of them; they are in arms against every thing that isacknowledged to be good. "

"And yet they are the most honest men I ever knew, " he returned, halfmusing, and with a little pleased sense of his magnanimity in sayingthis at a moment when they were probably abusing him. 

"I don't know, Arthur. Perhaps they may be honest, but I am sure it isnot good for you to be with them. They are so sure that their falseviews of life are true. "

The little sting in the implication that he was not able to resist theinfluence which had surrounded him was forgotten in the satisfactoryview which his wife took of the real value of the judgments of thePagans. He knew how little she understood them. With every premise uponwhich her conclusions were founded he disagreed, yet he said to himselfthat Edith was right; that the Pagans were quite too infallible aboutevery thing. They would have him grope along poor and unknown, heargued with himself, simply for the sake of standing in the position ofchronic rebuke to established authorities; with only now and then achance to get a hearing upon what they assumed to be the true theory ofart. What they believed--ah! there after all was the weakness of thewhole. What ground had they for their belief? Did he himself reallybelieve any thing, or had he a right to assert in any matter a positiveconviction? And even if they or he asserted never so strongly, whatsort of a test of truth was that? After all the Philistines, theCalvins, were as likely to be right as were a set of discontented ifnot disappointed artists; men whose natures would never allow them tobe satisfied with any existing state of things, since it wouldinevitably differ from their dreamy ideals. And it was certainly truethat the weight of authority and of numbers was with the Philistines. 

"Perhaps you are right, Edith, " he said aloud. "I hope so at least, forthey are probably indignant enough with me. "

"With you? Why?"

"Oh, they choose to think I went over to Philistia when I proposed Mr. Calvin for the St. Filipe. I'm sure I don't see why I haven't a rightto propose whom I please. "

"But Mr. Calvin, Arthur, " responded Edith, who regarded that gentlemanas one of the art gods of Boston. "I should think any body would beproud to propose him. Why, he is one of the most distinguished men inthe city. "

Her husband did not answer for a moment. He looked into the fire andwatched his inner consciousness adapt itself to this view of the case, which than himself no one had condemned more bitterly. Yet it was thetheory upon which it was necessary to rest did he expect to arrive atany comfort in the course of supporting Mr. Calvin, which he hadalready pursued so far that retreat was impossible. Yes, he assuredhimself, he could even accept this. And why not? Did not common opinionconfirm it; and however much common opinion might be sneered at, it wassurely the voice of the common sense of the world. 

He looked down at his wife, who looked back smiling proudly. Herealized how pure, how tender, how true she was. He knew, too, that shewas daily and hourly weaving about him bands which held him captive tobeliefs which though true to her were the veriest falsehoods to him;and that only his love of ease, his fatal complaisance, prevented hisrending these cords as did Samson the new ropes of the Philistines. Herealized that he was sacrificing his manhood, that he was bartering hisconvictions for flattery and ease by allying himself to Calvin and hisfollowing. He recalled Helen's remark that what is called being honestwith one's self is often the subtlest form of hypocrisy, and he did notspare himself a single pang of self-humiliation and contempt; and then, when he was full to the throat with self-loathing, he let his sensuous, self-loving nature devise excuse and soothe his wounded vanity. 

He looked into the fire with a smile of mingled bitterness andcomplacency, half ashamed, half amused at the view which introspectiongave him. 

But whenever into his musings came the thought of Helen it rankled likea poisoned barb. For he secretly believed that Helen loved him, andalthough if a man humiliates himself in the eyes of the woman he lovesit is as bitter as death; yet to prove unworthy in the sight of her whohopelessly loves him, contains a more subtly envenomed shaft, whichwounds that most sensitive spot in a sensuous man's nature--his vanity. 

XXXIV. 

HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --I. 

That evening Helen too sat at home, alone and full of resistlessthoughts. 

She had put the finishing touches to the _Flight of the Months_, completing the work with scarcely less success than at first, and inthree days she was to sail for Europe. She had not allowed Dr. Ashton'sdeath to interrupt her work, the necessity of avoiding unpleasantgossip which would be provoked by the disclosure of her relations withthe dead man, being sufficient reason why she should not change heroutward life. She quietly and rapidly completed the preparations fordeparture, and already the feeling of severance from familiar scenescast its sadness over her. 

Leaving the studio to-day, she had gone down to speak with Herman, whomshe wished to take the responsibility of the firing of the bas-relief. When she had finished this errand she turned to a figure in terra-cottawhose freshness showed that it had but recently come from the kiln. 

"What is this?" she asked. "I have never seen it. "

"It is a Pasht, " the sculptor returned. "I modeled it as a weddingpresent for Arthur Fenton, but luckily I did not get it done in time. "

"Why 'luckily?'"

"Because I should be sorry to have given him any thing so closelyconnected with the Pagans, as things have turned out. "

Helen did not need to ask explanations of these words, although she didnot know how complete the breach between Fenton and his former friendshad become. 

"I am glad I am going away, " she exclaimed with a sigh. 

"Going away?" he echoed, dropping his modeling tools. 

"Yes, I sail Saturday. "

She spoke with perfect composure, yet her glance was averted. She waspainfully conscious of having concealed the fact from him until thismoment. 

He came towards her, his eyes fixed upon her face. 

"What does this mean?" he demanded, almost fiercely. "Why do you go?"

"I mean to study in Rome, " she replied faintly. "I always told you thatI hoped to go some day. "

"But why do you go now? Why have you concealed it from me? Are youafraid of my--of my love? If any one must go it should be I; I have noright to drive you away. "

"You are not driving me away; I--it is better that I should go. "

"But why go now? Now you are free, and I have a right to claim you. "

"No, " Helen said in a voice suddenly firm, but which yet showed herinward agitation, "no; there is Ninitta. I have suffered too muchmyself to be willing to try to come to happiness over any woman'sheart. It is better that I should go. "

"Ninitta!" Herman burst out. "She has no claim; she will not even care;she--"

"No, " interrupted Helen, laying her hand upon his arm. "You cannot saythat; you know it is not true. You can see as well as I that Ninitta ispining her life out over your neglect. We are not free to break herheart when you yourself taught her to love. "

"I have never been unkind to her, " he said, a little defiantly; "exceptperhaps when she acted like a mad woman and broke your figures. "

"In love, " returned Helen, smiling faintly, and glad to take refuge ingeneralities, "sins of commission, as compared with the deadly sin ofomission, are mere venial offenses. It is not what you have done, butwhat you have left undone. "

"But what can I do? I cannot force myself to love her?"

"You have made her love you. "

"But I outgrew her centuries ago. "

"The price of growth is always to outgrow, " replied Helen. 

She was struggling hard to keep the conversation away from dangerouslevels. She felt that she must seem heartless, but none the less shewent on bravely. 

"And after all what is outgrowing? It is a question of moods, of--"

But her courage failed her. Her voice trembled, she turned away fromhim and walked down the studio, stopping here and there as if toexamine a cast or a figure, invisible through the tears which welled upin her eyes. The sculptor followed close behind her, until she put herhand upon the great Oran rug which hung before the door. 

"Then you leave me, " he broke out bitterly. "You make Ninitta a pretextfor escaping me. You might have told me that you did not care for me. Iwould not have molested you. "

She turned to him suddenly, and he was startled by the whiteness of herface, for she was pale to the very lips. 

"Do you think it is easy for me to go, " she cried passionately, "togive you up when I love you! You should help me, not make it harder. Isn't it better to part now while we have nothing to regret than tolive with a wrong between us?"

"But what wrong will be between us? Surely that boyish mistake need notblight both our lives. "

"Can we help it?" she asked sadly. 

"We will help it! Are we merely puppets then, to be bandied abouthelplessly? I told her I loved her; it is no longer true, and why isthe pledge that followed binding?"

"It is not simply that you gave her your word, " Helen returned, struggling bravely with herself; "it is that you made her love you, andthat obligation you can never shake off. Oh, it is because you are toonoble to take a woman's love and then trample upon it, that I loveyou--that you fill my heart. "

She poured out the words, her eyes blazing, her splendid form dilated, her arms involuntarily extended towards him. He took her into hisembrace; not hastily, not wildly; but with a slow, irresistible movementthat had in it something of solemnity. He showered kisses upon herhair, her forehead, her lips; he pressed her to his bosom as if hewould absorb her into himself. 

"My darling, my darling, " he said, in a hoarse, fiery whisper, "Icannot give you up! Think how lonely I am; how I love you!"

She put up her face and kissed him with a long, clinging kiss; then shefreed herself from his arms. They stood face to face, her eyesappealing, until his glance fell before hers. 

"Yes, " he said in a voice so low that she bent forward to listen, "yes;you must be right. "

"I am right, " she responded sadly, "I have fought against it too muchnot to be sure of that. "

"It is an odd way of proving my love for you to give you up, " continuedHerman, with a new accent of bitterness in his voice. "Oh, the folly ofthat boyish passion!"

He strode away from her, as she leaned panting against a modelingstand. The darkness was gathering so rapidly that when he turned backhis face came out of the gloom like a surprise. 

"My reward, " he said, "must be that you love me; but that very rewardmakes it harder to deserve it. I am sure that we would be wiser andhappier if we had no scruples to hamper us. "

"But we have, " was her response; "to take your own words, we are notmere puppets. "

Again he walked away from her, and for a few moments there was no soundbut that of his heavy footsteps, which seemed to make the silence moresolemn and penetrating. 

"I will do whatever you ask, " he burst out suddenly. "I will even marryher if you wish. "

"I ask nothing. It is not I but your convictions you should follow. Iam not even able to advise. Your own instincts are better and noblerthan any thing I can say to you. " She stopped and choked back a sob. "Oh, Grant, it is so hard!" she cried. 

She had never used that name before, and it so thrilled him with joyand pain that he made an impulsive movement as if once more to take herin his arms; but she lifted her hand with a gesture of negation. 

"I have been tempted as well as you, " she continued, "I have said tomyself a thousand times that love justified all, and that thesetheories were too fine spun. I could not keep the thought of you downeven when I first knew I was a widow, and I said over and over tomyself that now no one stood between us. I knew it was no use, but Ilay awake in the night and tried to prove to myself that Ninitta had noclaim, --but, oh! you are too much to me for me to be willing that youshould do what we both know is wrong and cruel. I can endure anythingbetter than that you should not always be my ideal; and I should hatemyself if I tempted you to wrong. "

"What I am, " he said brokenly, moved most of all by the tears upon hercheeks, "is nothing. You have beaten this temptation, not I; I wouldhave done any thing if you had encouraged me. I am a very ordinarymortal, Helen, when one really knows my littleness. "

She smiled through her tears at him. 

"You shall not abuse yourself;" she replied. "I will not have it. "

There was not much further said between them. They remained togetheruntil the dusk filled the studio, and it looked again like aghost-world as on the morning they two had come into it to see the deadform modeled in red clay. Perhaps it was upon this remembrance that atlength Mrs. Greyson said:

"Will you give me, before I go to Europe, that figure you showed me?"

"I will give you any thing you ask, " he answered; "I wish I might addmyself. Is it right, " he added, with sudden fire, "for me to tie myselfto that model girl? Am I worth nothing better than that?"

"You are worth the best woman on earth; but--oh I cannot argue it, butI feel it; I am sure that it cannot be right to deny the claim whichyou yourself gave her, Grant. I know by myself what it would be to loseyou. "

"But she is not the woman you are. Her feelings are those of anignorant peasant; she--"

Helen laid her fingers lightly upon his lips. 

"No, " she said, "don't go on. We have said it all once. You are tryingto out-argue your own convictions. I must go now. It is almost darkalready. "

She took a step or two towards the door and again laid her hand uponthe rug _portiêre_. Then as by a common impulse they turnedtowards each other, and once more she was locked in his embrace. 

And to-night, sitting alone in the dark, with dilated eyes, Helen feltstill the ecstasy of that moment, but murmured to herself:

"It must not be again; I will not see him alone. "

XXXV. 

PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP. Othello; ii. --I. 

Tom Bently's studio that night was a sight well worth seeing. 

Tom had two rooms in Studio Building, opening into each other byfolding doors, which were never known to be shut. The walls were hungwith old French tapestry, its rich, soft colors harmonizing exquisitelywith some dull-red velvet draperies from Venice. Bits of armor, some ofthem very splendid, were disposed here and there, while a wealth of_bric-à-brac_ enriched every nook and corner. In the doorway hungan old altar-lamp of silver, with a cup of ruby glass, and from variouspoints depended other lamps of Moresque and antique shapes. A pair oftall brass flambeau-stands, spoil of a Belgian cathedral sacked acouple of centuries ago, upheld the heaviest candles Tom had been ableto find, which smoked and flared most picturesquely. 

Bently had traveled widely, every where picking up graceful andartistic trifles--stuffs from Algiers; rugs from Persia and Turkey;weapons from Tripoli and India and Tunis; musical instruments fromEgypt and Spain; antiques from Greece and Germany and Italy; andpottery from every where. His studio was the envy of all his brotherartists, although he himself growled about it profanely, declaring thathe had so much rubbish about him that he could not work, yetnevertheless declining to part with a single object. 

"I ought to clear the place out, " he would say. "My pictures aregetting to look like advertisements of an old clo' shop, and if a mandoesn't change all his properties every year, the sapient critics sayhe has become mannered. But I can't let them go; or rather they won'tlet me go; they hang on like barnacles to an old hulk. "

The Pagans were six that night, Fenton's place being unfilled. Thedelinquency of the absent artist was a good deal commented upon, yetalways as if an effort were made to keep the subject out of theconversation. It came up again and again, and that not unnaturally, since it was necessarily in every man's thoughts. 

"He's a mellifluous coward, now isn't he?" Bently remarked, with hisusual picturesque disregard of the conventional use of words. "Theaverage American couldn't have been more sneaking. "

"He was always afraid of the rough grain of life, " Rangely responded. "I always told him he was a born coward. He could never serve any causethat wouldn't give him a uniform of broadcloth. But he was born forsomething better than tagging after Calvin and his tribe, heavenknows. "

"Bah!" went on Bently, "the bad taste of it! I could get over everything else, but the bad taste of proving a sneak, and giving up everything worth while. "

Somebody threw in a quotation from Browning's _Lost Leader_, andthen Grant Herman, trying to turn the conversation, took up Bently'sremark. 

"You're right, Tom, " he said, "in your view of taste. Taste issublimated morality. It is the appreciation of the proportion andfitness of all things in the universe, and of course it is above simplemorality, for that is founded upon a partial view. Taste is theuniversal, where a system of morals is the local. "

"Can't you say that of art?" asked Rangely. "I should think art is theuniversal, where religion is the provincial. A religion expresses theneeds and the aspirations of a race or a country, while art embodiesthe aspirations and attributes of humanity. "

"Good!" Bently responded. "That is better than I should have said it, but it's my belief, all the same. There are so few people who haveimagination enough even to understand what one means by saying that artis the only thing in the world worth living for. Why, art is thesupreme expression of humanity; the apotheosis of all the best there isin the race. "

"I don't see that, " objected another. "Isn't religion the expression ofthe longings of the soul, or whatever there is in us we call soul? Ican't say it well, but it seems to me you talk of religions, notreligion. "

"People seldom take the trouble to make that distinction. He whoattacks any of the religions is generally set down as striking atreligion itself. "

"Religion, " returned Bently, "is the expression of fear, and nothingelse, if you sift it to the bottom. Knowledge kills so-called religionas surely as it does those lower forms of belief which it is nowadaysthe fashion to dub superstition. It is precisely the same feeling thatbuilds churches and that rhymes the country hag's charms. Fairies andsaints are double and twisted cousins, after all. "

"But religion, " persisted the German, "is more than the expression offear; it is the embodiment of the aspirations of mankind; of theinstinct and desire for worship. "

"For worshipping something, " amended Tom. "That is the same thingdifferently phrased. "

"No, it isn't, either. To yearn for the higher is not to show that wefear it, but that we long to grow like it. It is a confession ofincompleteness, of weakness, I grant you; but a thousand times no toyour calling it fear. "

"I confess to having been hasty, and modify my words so far as to say;an expression of fear or weakness. "

"Is there then any shame in acknowledging weakness?" demanded theGerman, pushing him as hard as he was able. "It certainly is honest. "

"Is there any shame to formulating fear?" retorted the other, deftlyevading him. 

"Then see how religion always appeals to art to help out its ultimateexpression, " observed Rangely. 

"And how it has failed, " added Bently, "when it has not had art to helpit. Puritanism tried to get on without art, and where is Puritanism?You couldn't find a trace of it, if it hadn't come down on itsmarrow-bones and begged art to build its churches, compose its music, and regulate its rituals. "

"It is no more fair to say that, " objected another Pagan, doggedly, "than to say that art has gone to religion for help. Their accounts arepretty evenly balanced. "

"Nonsense!" Rangely returned. "Art has never gained by being religious, but by being art; but religion owes its hold largely to the help arthas given it. "

"And it has paid its debts by blackguarding art from every pulpit ithas builded for it. "

"As Fenton used to say, " Ainsworth remarked, "art has been used as thesugar-coating to the bitter pill of religion. "

"Oh, Fenton again, " Bently exclaimed impatiently. "What did you bringhim up for? Who the devil would have thought Fenton would have turnedout so?"

"I can tell you a piece of news, " said Rangely. "The Election Committeeblackballed Calvin this afternoon. "

"Good!" cried they all; and some body added: "But Fenton said he'dresign if Calvin wasn't elected. "

"Resign, " echoed Rangely, "I guess he'll have to. He's been sent toCoventry by half the Club now for that Graves affair. "

"The Graves affair?" some one queried. "What's that? What else has hebeen doing? If a man starts to go to the devil, it does seem as if henever could get ahead fast enough. "

"Miss Graves was going to buy one of Flackerman's pictures, and heavenknows he needs the money; and Fenton, who has always pretended to beFlack's friend, talked her into taking one of his instead; or rather hegot Calvin to go to her and do it. It was a stunning Flackerman, too;and we were all rejoicing over his luck. "

"I would not be too ready to believe that story, " Grant Herman said. "Idon't think Fenton's gone utterly to the bad all at once. He's livingexpensively, they say, and possibly he let Calvin go to Miss Graves;but I don't believe Arthur ever originated that sneaking scheme, and Ishouldn't be surprised if he never knew the rights of the case. "

"He's done what so many artists have been bullied into doing before, "Ainsworth observed. "If he has sold his birthright for a mess ofpottage, that is precisely what the patrons of art in this countrydemand that every man shall do who comes here. I could tell you of adozen good fellows who've been spoiled in that way. I am far enoughoutside to look on in an unbiased way; but they treat us architects inthe same fashion. Lots of the most rubbishy and conventional men wehave, started out to be fair and work from conviction; and they simplyhad the choice between subservience and starvation, and cases of thechoice of death from starvation haven't been over plenty. "

"Oh, a man is known by the tailor he keeps, " threw in Rangely;"especially if he doesn't pay him. "

"It's all a game of cut-throat, " Bently remarked philosophically; "artand business alike. "

"I should hate to have my throat cut, " observed the German Pagan in amatter of fact tone; "it must let a dreadful draught into the system. "

"Oh, if you were beheaded, " cried Rangely, "you'd turn into a capitalbeer fountain, so your friends would find some consolation, even inyour loss. "

A diversion was caused here by the production of a splendid Japanesepunch-bowl, supported upon a teakwood stand. In it the host proceededto brew a potent and steaming mixture, whose fragrance must havedelighted the jocund gods of jollity and laughter. Tom was notoriousfor being chronically in pecuniary difficulties, but he was alwaysadding to his collection of _bibelots_, and he never was known tolack the means of concocting a glorious punch. 

"Ye gods!" exclaimed Ainsworth, "how good that smells. It almostovercomes the general mustiness of Tom's den here, which usually hasall the odors of the Ghetto from which his things are dragged. "

"Casper is intoxicated already with the mere fumes, " retorted Bentlygood humoredly. "He's bound to fill a drunkard's grave sooner orlater. "

"No; I never shall, " chuckled the other. "I'm altogether too goodnatured to crowd the drunkard out. "

This sally was received with applause, and the glasses being filled, the usual toasts to the goddess Pasht and to art were drank. 

"And to our seven, " went on Herman, holding up his glass, and going onwith the formula they had, half unconsciously, fallen into the habit ofusing, although they made no pretense of having a ritual. 

But he set his glass down untasted, suddenly remembering that theirranks were broken, and the others followed his example. 

"The difference between religion and art, " broke out Rangely, hurriedly, to cover the awkward silence which followed, "is thatreligion is a matter of tradition, of convention; it rests uponauthority, while art springs from inner conviction. "

"Sophistry, " retorted the German, picking up the gauntlet; "there havebeen a good many things said here to-night which sound well but won'tstand fire. It is precisely for following conventions in art that weblame Fenton. "

"And that proves my point. "

"No, it doesn't; there's as much art that depends upon tradition asthere is religion. "

"No, " replied Rangely. "In so far as art gets its inspiration fromfossil tradition it is lifeless and indeed ceases to be art. Religionpresupposes something exterior; while art is the outgrowth of theindividual's own mind, the best expression of his inner strength. "

"Religion, " Herman threw in, "demands the existence of the unknown; artonly the existence of the inexpressible. "

"Yet art devotes itself to expression. "

"Yes, but more to suggesting. It phrases the possible so as to suggestthat which is above and beyond expression, yet toward which it helpsthe emotions and the imagination. I think a man's soul a matter of verylittle moment as compared to his imagination, and it is because artministers to the latter that I place it above religion. "

The talk was diverted here by some laughing remark which led on to atrain of gay badinage. The German tried to bring the conversation backto serious levels, but in vain. 

"Oh, what fustian we've given ourselves up to to-night, " laughedRangely. 

"It amuses me to hear you fellows discuss religion, " Tom Bentlyobserved. "You wander round the subject as aimlessly as the young womenin the first half hour of a Harvard symphony concert. "

"Never you mind, Bently, " rejoined Ainsworth. "You are sure of comingout all right; the gods are bound to protect humbug, for on it dependstheir own existence. "

They drifted in little groups to different parts of the studio, admiring this or that bit of grace or beauty. Then the German, who wasa professional musician, tuned an old mandolin with which a Venetianlover some star-lit night centuries ago, may have serenaded his lovedone from his gondola; and to its trembling accompaniment sang a quaintchansonette, his Teutonic accent making havoc among its liquid Italiansyllables. Then Rangely possessed himself of a strange Africaninstrument, a crooked gourd, hollowed and strung with twisted treefibers, and joined to the notes of the mandolin, its weird, cicada-likeharshness. The duet moved Bently to clear a miscellaneous collection ofarticles from the lid of a spinnet of the time of Louis XIV. , uponwhich be-powdered and be-patched dames, long forgotten, had strummedpretty little tinkling tunes, while all about them othermarionette-like ladies and gallants played at little tinkling loves, aspretty and as empty. 

The three instruments, so strangely matched, went off together in avariety of music, imparting to every thing an uncanny, ghostly flavor, as if these airs came in wild echoes from the shores of some dead past. 

"Oh, stop that, " Herman cried, at last. "It's too melancholy. Yourinstruments are all dead; and it's no use trying to get live music outof them. "

For reply the German led off in a drearisome minor folk-tune, Rangelyand Bently improvising their parts with some skill, albeit not alwayswith perfect harmony. 

"Ye Gods!" cried Ainsworth, seizing the mandolin out of the player'sgrasp. "Is this a Hottentot funeral? Here, Fred, give me thatdiabolical gourd; it is haunted by the soul of a Caffre medicine man. "

"I say, fellows, " spoke Rangely, as the din subsided, "I move we makethis a funeral, by breaking up the Pagans. Of course there is nothingto hinder our meeting round at each other's places whenever we want to;but we've either got to turn Fenton out or break up. I, for one, amcoward enough to prefer to break up. "

"So say I, " said Herman. "When once a circle like this is broken, thereis an end of it. It can't be patched together. "

They looked at each other in silence a moment. To disband seemed likean acknowledgment of defeat. Many another band of ardent souls hasknown the feeling, with its dreary ache, although it oftener happensthat a circle of this kind disappears by the gradual dropping away ofits numbers one by one rather than that its members are brought face toface with the necessity of owning that its existence had resulted infailure. Whatever their faults and extravagances, whatever their errorsand intolerance, they were sincere, self sacrificing and ardent beyondthe men who made up the world about them; a group of eager lovers oftruth and art who had been drawn together by mutual aims andenthusiasms. Their fierceness had been in defense of honesty andsincerity, their disinterestedness was attested by the fact that anyone of them might have made his peace with Philistia and been rewardedfor his complaisance had he so chosen. Doubtless they had their faultsand foibles, yet their comradeship, in its essential purport had beentrue and noble. 

They in no wise abandoned their aims in agreeing with the propositionto disband, but about their fellowship had been a certain un-phrasedtenderness, at which, if put in word, any one of them might havescoffed, yet which nevertheless they all felt strongly in their secrethearts, and all were conscious that after this defection of Fenton, thecircle could never be perfect again. They did not discuss the matternow, but in the interval of silence each acknowledged to himself thatto disband was best; and briefly each gave his assent; all soberly, some almost gruffly. 

And so it came about that the goddess Pasht lost her last band offollowers, and the Pagans assembled no more forever. 

XXXVI. 

AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND. Merchant of Venice; v. --2. 

"Very likely you cannot see it, " Arthur Fenton said, striking in thebackground of a portrait with vicious roughness. "Women and brutesdiffer from men in lacking reason; if you were logical you'd see. "

"See that you are right in selling your convictions for patronage, "Helen returned gravely, ignoring the insult. "Then I am glad I am notlogical. "

"If you choose to put it that way, " he retorted doggedly, "I must stillsay yes. "

It was Friday morning, and Helen was to sail the next day. She had cometo Fenton's studio to bid him good-by, knowing that they should havethat to say which could not be freely spoken before Edith, and yet notchoosing to have him come to her own house without his wife. 

"Poverty, " he went on aggressively, "is nature's protest againstcivilization, and still more against art. I am bound to fight nature onher own ground, am I not?"

"If I were a little more orthodox, " she replied, "I might quoteScripture upon life's being some thing more than meat. Oh, Arthur, whatis the use of all this fencing? All that is asked of you is to behonest; and to be honest the life of an artist in America to-day mustbe a protest against dominant Philistinism; nobody has everacknowledged that oftener or more emphatically than you have. "

"But the artists, " returned he, not meeting her eyes, "are tooself-centered. Look at the Pagans; what efforts have they ever made towin society? Society is ready enough to take them in. "

"Arthur! Is it you who say that? To quote yourself against yourself, 'every work of art is an effort to conquer Philistinism. ' Patronageseems already to have sucked the life out of you. "

"You may say what you like, " Fenton remarked defensively; "you cannotmake me angry. "

"That may be your misfortune, " rejoined she sadly, "but I fear it isyour fault. "

"The sin of a thing, " he said, putting down his brushes impatiently, "oftener consists in regarding it as a sin than in the thing itself. "

He went to the round window, for his studio was high up in thebuilding, and removed the Japanese umbrella which served as its screen. He threw himself upon a pile of cushions, regarding darkly the tops ofthe trees in the Old Granary burying-ground opposite. 

"_Que voulez-vous_?" he demanded coolly, after a moment's silence. "You are unreasonable; you always are. I must live. I don't know whyyou have a right to object to that. I have married a wife who is wellconnected, and I always meant to make her connections help me, Philistines or not. Even the godly Israelites made a virtue of spoilingthe Egyptians. "

"But that was in departing from their country. "

"We won't argue, " the artist declared sulkily. "Argument is onlydisputing about definitions, and we should never agree. I don't expectyou to think I'm right. As a matter of fact I have my doubts myself. You might at least allow me the satisfaction of humbugging myself if Iam able. "

She regarded him sadly. The chance remarks about Edith's relativesseemed to throw a new and sinister light upon the reasons of hismarriage. She wondered if she had not been mistaken in following herimpulse to come here, and whether words could effect any thing. 

"But Edith?" she said at length, and as if half to herself; "does nother honesty rebuke you? Don't you feel unworthy of her?"

"Well, and if her severe virtue does repel me?" he asked, a hard lookcoming into his face, "am I to blame for that also?"

"You are speaking of your wife!"

"_C'est vrai_" with a shrug, "but the one lie I never tell to orof any woman is that my passion for her will be eternal, and I am longago tired of Edith. Her innocence bores me. She urges me, too, to doprecisely the things you condemn. And after all what is my crime?Simply that I am following the intelligence of the majority instead ofbeing governed by the growls of the discontented minority, any one ofwhom would be glad of the chance to follow my example. "

"It is not with whom you side, " Helen answered. "It is the simplequestion of having the courage of your convictions. The dry rot ofhypocrisy is ruining you. I can see Peter Calvin's smirk in every brushmark of your canvas there!"

For reply he threw a brush at the picture upon the easel. Then he satupright in his cushions and faced her. 

"Well, " he ejaculated, half-angrily, half bitterly, "you are right. Youcannot scorn me half as much as I scorn myself, and have ever since Iasked Edith Caldwell to marry me. I meant then to make my peace withthe Philistines!"

He sprang to his feet impetuously and shook himself as if to shake offsome disgusting touch. 

"I like a comfortable home at the West End, " he continued impetuously, "far better than I do dreary bachelor lodgings, now here, now there. Iprefer faring sumptuously every day, to dining in an attic. Whateverelse may be said of that terrible Calvin--my God! Helen, how I wouldlike to choke him!--he certainly has plenty of money, and he patronizesme beautifully. "

He walked up to the easel and regarded the half-finished portraitcontemptuously. 

"Honesty, " he began again with cool irony, "is doubtless a charmingthing for digestive purposes, but it is a luxury too expensive for me. The gods in this country bid for shams, and shams I purpose givingthem. I am not sure I shall not go into chromos eventually. I don'tenjoy this especially, but after all that is a mere matter ofstandards, and I have resolved to change mine, so that I shall end byenjoying or even honoring my eminently respectable self. As for art, she is a jade that can't give her lovers even a fire to sit by whilethey woo her. I'm sorry for her, but I don't see clearly how I can helpher by sitting down to starve in her company; so I've made friends withthe mammon of unrighteousness--you see my orthodox education was notwholly lost upon me! _Voila tout!_ Honesty, I say, is for the mostpart cant, and at any rate only a relative term. I prefer substantialgood. If you despise me, _tant pis pour_--one of us; whichever youchoose. "

He spoke defiantly, but faltered a little at the last words. She roseas he finished. 

"Good-by, " she said. "You have taught me forever to distrust my ownjudgments, for I had mistaken you for a man! I am sorry that I haveever known you. You lower my respect for all the race. "

"But I acknowledge my faults. "

"Acknowledge!" she retorted in disdain. "What of that? Acknowledgmentis not reparation, though many try to make it so. "

She walked towards the door, but he reached it first and laid his handupon the latch. 

"You are going away, " he said. "Who knows when we shall ever meetagain. At least remember that I condemn myself as sharply as you can. "

"That is the degradation of it, " was her retort, her eyes blazing athim. "If you could plead ignorance, I could pity you. "

"Edith is a saint, " he went on, not heeding, "but her good is my evil. I do not plead it as an excuse; I have and I want no excuse: but it istrue that temptation could come to me in no shape so insidious asthrough her sincerity. "

"Then you will be honest!" pleaded Helen. 

"I do not say that. I think I shall go on as I am; but I have changedmy idea of my epitaph. It shall be only the word 'Pardon. '"

"Your old one was better, " she retorted stingingly, "and better thaneither would be a blank! Let me pass!"

XXXVII. 

FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL AND EVER. Richard II. ; ii. --2. 

The outward bound steamer was almost ready to sail, and all the bustleattendant upon departure of an ocean craft eddied about three peoplewho stood in a half-sheltered nook upon the wharf. They were sayinglittle. Both Grant Herman and Ninitta kept their eyes fixed upon Helen, while her glance was cast to the ground, save when she raised her headin speaking. 

The Italian from time to time took Helen's hand in hers and kissed itfondly. 

"I pray the Madonna for you every night, " she whispered in her nativetongue, "that she will give you a safe voyage. "

The sculptor watched all that went on about them, waiting with someinward impatience for the moment when the duty of escorting Mrs. Greyson on board would give him an opportunity of being a moment alonewith her. 

"We shall miss you much, " he said, feeling that any thing would bebetter than the silence which hedged them in amid the noisy bustle ofthe throng. "We shall not soon fill your place, shall we, Ninitta?"

He did not listen to the eager answer; his eyes were fixed upon Helen'sface, and for her alone he had ears. 

"Yes, " he said again with nervous platitude, when once more they hadlapsed into the silence he found it so hard to bear; "neither my wifenor myself has any friend to take your place. "

Some faint accent in the tone in which he referred to his three hours'bride made the widow look up suddenly. To the question in her eyes hisglance gave no answer, and for the moment a feeling of despair overcameher. Had she given him up only to the end that his life should bemiserable; had she forced him into a marriage whose bonds would galland chafe him with more deadly and festering wounds as time went on?

But all these questionings Helen had answered with stern bravery duringthe sad wakeful nights and lonely days just past. She had firstconvinced herself that it was right that Herman should redeem hisold-time pledge to Ninitta, and after that she forced herself to thebitterer task of realizing that when time had obliterated somewhat theclearness of her own image in the sculptor's heart, something of hisold affection for the Italian might be rekindled in his generous, warmnature, always tenderly chivalrous towards woman, and sure to provedoubly so to one dependent upon him. It was hard, but Helenunflinchingly analyzed the nature of her lover, and while she could notbelieve that he would ever feel for his wife the grand passion whichshe had herself inspired in his breast, she saw for him a tranquilfuture in which his wife's devotion would be met with enduring, evenwith increasing affection, which if not love, would be so like it thatNinitta, at least, would never distinguish; and in which her husbandwould find comfort and warmth, if not fire and aspiration. 

She had a harder struggle when the thought came to her, "Have I not ledhim into the one thing he most dreads and despises, an act ofinsincerity? Can a loveless marriage be honest?" But she answered herdoubting heart; "No; he has told Ninitta that he does not love her asof old, and he is not deceiving her. It is my own selfishness that putsthis thought into my mind. " It may be that Helen was wrong, for theinfluence of her Puritan training had left a strong impress upon hermoral sense in a regard for the sanctity of a pledge, especially to itsspirit rather than its letter, so deep as to be almost morbid; yet atleast she was self sacrificing and never more truly consistent than inthe seeming inconsistency of urging this marriage. 

"Come, " was Herman's word, almost a command, when the crowd upon thesteamer's deck began definitely to separate into those who were to goand those who remained. "You must go aboard. Ninitta, stand just whereyou are until I come back. I will be gone only an instant. "

Helen turned and kissed Ninitta, a sharp pang stabbing her very soul, as the thought came to her: "He will love her; she is his wife, and hewill learn to love her!" Then she put her arm upon Herman's in silence. 

She had been alternately desiring and fearing this moment, until herexcitement was almost beyond control. The sculptor led her on board thesteamer, and together they descended to the saloon. Every body was ondeck except the servants, and without difficulty a nook was found wherethe two were alone. 

"Well, " he said, breaking the silence with a voice full of emotion, "itis done, and we are parted as far as the earth is wide. "

"No, " she answered, clasping his hands in hers. "With a broken faithbetween us we should have been separated; now we are truly together, nomatter how many oceans part us. It is hard; it is hard; but I know itmust be right. "

He bent forward to kiss her. 

"No, " she said, drawing back. "Your kisses belong to your wife, now. Ihave no right even to your thought. But I cannot help telling you, nowwe are parting, how much it is to me to love you. It is hard to leaveyou, Grant, to give you up; but now I understand that it is better tolove, even if we are not together, even though we may not belong toeach other. And I cannot but find comfort in thinking that you will notforget me. "

"But if hereafter, " he began eagerly, but before the words were utteredhe realized what they implied, and a hot flush of shame tinged hischeek. "No, " he said, "I cannot think of the future. "

She put up her hand with a gesture of appeal. The bell of the steamersounded out sharply upon the air. 

"No, " she said. "We must say good-by with no reservations, no hopes, even with no prayers. It is simply and absolutely good-by. And oh!" sheadded, her voice breaking a little, "I do so hope for your happiness, though I must not share it. "

He wrung her hand and left her. Once he halted, as if to return, buther gesture gave him so absolute a farewell that he went on. His wifeawaited him where he had left her. She slipped her arm through his. 

"I am so glad you have come back, " she said in her soft Italian, lifting to his a face full of trust and love; "I was so lonely andafraid without you. "

He was touched with a tender pity as he looked into her eyes. When hewithdrew his glance the steamer was moving, and he saw Helen leaningover the rail. She waved her hand, and as the ship glided away, downthe harbor, these two, so separated, yet so united, clung together bytheir glances until distance shut them from each other's sight. 

FINIS.