The Pagans | Page 9

of our friendship in
Rome--gave me one Christmas. I returned it to him when I left Rome,
and at his death he in turn sent it back to me."
"But Hoffmeir has been dead several years."
"More than six; but the ring has just come into my hands."
The intaglio was a dark sard beautifully cut with the head of Minerva,
and Mrs. Greyson's artistic instincts were keenly alive to the exquisite
delicacy of its workmanship. She inquired something of its origin and
probable age, and then dropped it from her attention, save that, being a
woman, she wondered a little what was the personal bearing of this
token, and whether the sculptor's sadness arose from the awakening of
memories connected with it.
"It must seem like a token from the grave," she said, "coming as it does,
so long after Hoffmeir's death."
"It does," the other replied, soberly; "but it brought a message with it.
Oh, the wretchedness of hearing a voice from the dead, to whom you
can send no answer!"
The burst of emotion with which he said this was very unusual, and
Mrs. Greyson regarded him with perhaps as much surprise as sympathy,
having never before seen him so deeply moved.
"I am afraid," she ventured, hesitatingly, "that what I said seemed
intrusive, though of course it was not meant to be."
"It did not seem so; but I am out of sorts this afternoon. I have sent my
model away because I am too much unstrung to work."
"I hope nothing bad has happened," said Helen, quickly.
"No, nothing; it's only this message from dear old Hoffmeir."
He walked away and pulled aside the curtain which screened the lower
half of the window overlooking the water, and stood gazing out at a
vessel lying beside the wharf beneath. Mrs. Greyson laid down her
modeling tools, disturbed by the other's disquiet, and wondering how
best to distract his attention from himself. Her glance roved inquiringly
about the little room, noting every cast upon the dingy walls, bits of
sculptured foliage, architectural forms, and portions of the human
figure. Then her gaze rested an instant upon her own work, and from
that turned toward the robust form by the window.
"Come, Mr. Herman," she said at length, in a tone half jesting, "I never
saw you so somber."

"It is not that Hoffmeir is dead, poor fellow!" Herman replied,
answering her unspoken question. "I'd made up my mind to endure that,
and any man with his over-sensitive temperament is better off on the
other side of the grass than this any day. I may as well tell you, Mrs.
Greyson, though as a rule I do not find much comfort in blurting out
things. The fact is that Hoffmeir and I quarreled over a girl. We were
both in love with her, like two young fools as we were; but she'd
promised to marry me, and--it was a deal better that she didn't, too. I
thought he tried to take her from me. Now I know I was wrong, and
that Fritz was as high-souled as a god in the matter; but then I sent him
back his ring, and broke off with him and her too. I was a fiery young
fool in those days," he added, with a sad and bitter smile, "a young
fool."
"And was it never explained?"
"Never until to-day. He was far too proud a man to call me back."
"But the girl?" queried Helen, with increasing eagerness. "What did she
do?"
"Oh, the girl," he repeated, turning away again and directing his gaze
out of the window; "what would you expect her to do? She was only a
peasant; and though I was honest enough then, I outgrew that fever
centuries ago."
"Yes, you did," returned Helen, with gentle persistence, "but what did
she do?"
"What do women usually do when they break with one lover? Get
another, I suppose!"
The words were so hard and coarse to come from a man like Grant
Herman that she involuntarily looked up quickly at him, and perhaps he
noticed the action.
It was evident that some deep pain had provoked the expression, yet
had found no relief in the rough words. The sculptor turned toward his
companion as if to speak. Then slowly his eyes fell, and he said firmly,
if a little stiffly:
"I believe I do her injustice. If she ever loved a man she was one who
would love him always."
He left the little room without more words, his firm, even tread
sounding down the uncarpeted stairs until the door of his own studio
was heard to close after him. Mrs. Greyson stood before her clay

wondering, and then, sinking into a chair, sat so long absorbed in
thought that