The Pagans by Arlo Bates

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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 organization
exist, I take pleasure in offering this attempt to picture a phase
of 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 MARRIAGE
II. THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
III. THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT
IV. AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT
V. THE BITTER PAST
VI. A BOND OF AIR
VII. IN WAY OF TASTE
VIII. THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVE
IX. VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE
X. O, WICKED WIT AND GIFT
XI. WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED
XII. WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED
XIII. THE ASSAY OF ART
XIV. THIS IS NOT A BOON
XV. 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL
XVI. CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH
XVII. THIS "WOULD" CHANGES
XVIII. BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE
XIX. NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS
XX. THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED
XXI. HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH
XXII. UPON A CHURCH-BENCH
XXIII. 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 third
floor sitting-room, obscuring what in pleasant weather was a fine
distant view of the Charles river. The apartment was evidently that of
a woman, as numerous details of arrangement and articles of feminine
use suggested; and quite as evidently it was the home of a person of
taste and refinement, and of one, too, who had traveled.

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

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

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

"I hardly think you'd be willing to sell," his companion answered, "no
matter how good the market."

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

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

"Oh, as to that," retorted the artist, "don't you see that judicious
opposition increases my market value when I am ready to sell? If I
could only be sufficiently prominent in my antagonism, I might
absolutely 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. "Why
don'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 it
to you. It is to be fired as my first experiment in a big piece of
terra-cotta. That is the first sketch; I think I have improved upon
it."

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

"It is melancholy enough," Fenton observed, regarding it closely. "How
melancholy 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 not
prevent my still being myself."

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

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

"Unless it is gorgeous cravats."

"Oh, that," Fenton said, putting his hand to the blue and gold tie at
his throat. "I'm trying to furbish up my old body and decrepit heart
against 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 of
the drawings, while the other looked out at the rain.

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

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

"I should have gone this morning if you had not insisted upon my
wasting 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 on
my marriage."

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

"According to the old fairy tale all goes well with the man of whom the
women 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 look
forward to your marriage with such rapture."

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

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

"Because marriage is a necessary evil as society is at present
constituted."

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

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

His outburst was too vehement and sudden not to come from some
underlying current of deep feeling, rather than from the present
conversation. He had risen while speaking, his head thrown back, his
eyes sparkling. His companion regarded him with admiration, not
unmixed, however, with amusement.

"And you," she said, "choose to call yourself a man without
enthusiasms."

"Yes," replied he, smiling and regaining his seat, "I am a man without
enthusiasms."

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

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

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

"Oh, _peutetre!_" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well aware
that the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond of
talking to resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "_peutetre_,
though I never believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in your
line; you still have faith in it."

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

"Love on a desert island," returned the young man, smiling
significantly; "Oh, _le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxieme jour, ce
n'est pas si bon; le troisieme jour--mon Dieu, mais comment on
s'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, _mon
amie_; 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 to
break through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper,
had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group of
men seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of the
sitting-rooms of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up.
Indeed, the room was so pleasant and warm, with its artistically
combined colors, its good pictures and glowing grates, and the storm
outside raged so savagely, beating its wind and sleet against the
windows, that a reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was only
natural, and there would be little room for surprise should the men
conclude to remain where they were until daylight.

The conversation, carried on amid clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke and
with potations, not excessive but comfortably frequent, was quiet and
unflagging, possessing, for the most part, that mellow quality which is
seldom 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-minded
to appreciate any thing else."

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

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

"Literature has little to do with virtue, it is true," was the
response. "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 a
philosophical puff of his cigar. "Or what people call iniquity; though
a truer definition would be nature."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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 of
the water?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what about Nick Featherstone?"

"Oh, Nick? Well, Nick tried to kiss her yesterday, and she offered to
stab him with some sort of a devilish dagger arrangement she carries
about 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 his
breast, staring into the fire.

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

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

And he laughed afresh.

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

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

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

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

III.

THE SHOT 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 was her expression. He straightened himself with an
impetuous movement, and came a step nearer.

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

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

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

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

She turned towards the new vase and began slowly to whirl the
modeling-stand upon which Herman had placed it. A thousand reflections
danced and flickered about the little room as it revolved in the
sunlight, glowing and glittering like the sparkles from a carcanet of
jewels. The fiery monsters seemed to twine and coil in living motion as
the light shone upon their emerald and golden scales and bristling
spines.

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

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

A swift change came over her at his words. She left the vase and stand
abruptly. She flushed crimson then grew pale and looked about her with
a half frightened glance, as if uncertain which way to turn. The
movement 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 abruptly
and 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 to
at home; and in the second place Aunt Calvin is shocked at the
unconventionality of my being seen any where in public after the
wedding cards are out; but I was determined to see this picture. I saw
it when he had just begun it in Paris, you know, three years ago."

"As for being seen," Arthur Fenton returned, "we certainly shall never
be 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 far
off that I think nobody here even realizes that the stupendous event is
imminent at all."

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