The Pagans | Page 5

OF ACCIDENT. Othello; iv.--i.
The sun shone brightly in at the windows of a little bare studio next
morning, as if to atone for the gloom of the darkness and storm of the
night. The Midas touch of its rays fell upon the hair of Helen Greyson,
turning its wavy locks into gold as she softly sang over her modeling.
She seemed to find in her work a joy which accorded well with the
bright day. Pinned to the wall was an improved sketch of the bas-relief
whose design had attracted Fenton's notice in her portfolio, while

before the artist stood a copy in clay, upon which she was working with
those mysterious touches which to the uninitiated are mere meaningless
dabs, yet under which the figures were growing into sightliness and
beauty.
Suddenly her song was interrupted by the sound of footsteps without,
followed by a tap upon her door.
"Come," she called; and Grant Herman entered in response to the
invitation.
He carried in his arms a large vase, about whose sides green and golden
dragons coiled themselves in fantastic relief.
"Your vase came from the kiln," he said, "and I knew you would want
to see it at once. It is the most successful firing they have done here."
"Oh, I am so glad," she returned, laying down her modeling tools, and
approaching him eagerly. "I was sure there wouldn't be a head or a tail
left by the time the poor monsters came out of the fiery furnace. What a
splendid color that back is! And that golden fin is gorgeous."
"Yes, Mrs. Greyson," Herman said, "you have produced a veritable
dragon's brood this time. I can almost hear them hiss."
"Do you know," she responded, smoothing the glittering shapes with
half chary touches. "I should not be wholly willing to have the vase in
my room at night. They might, you know, come to life and go gliding
about in a ghastly way."
"I always wondered," the sculptor observed, "that Eve had the courage
to talk with the serpent. Do you suppose she squealed when she saw
him?"
"Oh, no, she probably divined that mischief was brewing, and that
contented her."
Herman had set the vase where all its gorgeous hues were brought out
by the sun, which sparkled and danced upon every spine and scale of
the writhing monsters. He walked away from it to observe the effect at
a greater distance.
"There is no pleasure like that of creating," he said. "Man is a god when
he can look on his work and pronounce it good."
"Which is seldom," she returned, "unless in the one instant after its
completion when we still see what we intended rather than what we
have made."
"It is fortunate our work cannot rise up to reproach us for the wide

difference between our intents and our performances. Fancy one of my
statues taking me to task because it hasn't the glory it had in my brain."
"It is on that account," Mrs. Greyson said smiling, "that I fancy Galatea
must have been most uncomfortable to live with. Whenever Pygmalion
found fault, she had always the retort ready: 'At least I am exactly what
you chose to make me.' Poor Pygmalion!"
"It was no more true than in the case of every man that marries; we all
bow down to ideals, I suppose. Except," he added with a little
hesitation, "myself, of course."
The words were somewhat awkward in the hesitating accent which
gave them a suggestiveness at which the faintest of flushes mounted to
her cheek. She bent her observations more closely on the vase.
"It is fired so much better than the last miserable failure," observed she,
going to a shelf and reaching after a dusty vase, massive and fantastic,
which had been ruined in the kiln.
"Let me help you," Herman said.
But she had already loosened the vase, which proved heavier than she
expected, and it was only by darting forward, and throwing his arms
about her, that the sculptor was enabled to save her from a severe blow.
The vase fell crashing to the floor, breaking into heavy shards, rattling
the windows and the casts upon the wall by the concussion.
An exclamation escaped him. He had drawn Mrs. Greyson backward,
and for a brief instant, held her in his strong clasp. It was an accident
which to mere acquaintances might mean nothing; to lovers, every
thing. Herman was for a moment pale with the fear that Helen might be
injured; then the hot blood surged into his cheeks as he released his
hold and stepped back, He bent over the fragments of the vase that she
might not see his face, and by so doing, as he reflected afterward, he
failed to perceive what